#i still have my childhood whimsy

[virrien]

yeeey !! i put stickers on my phone case !! yay !!

[shrimp1y]

As cute as satosugu's anime appearances are so far don't u guys think they kinda... is mischaracterizing them....

[guinevereslancelot]

fighting my friend's sad beige baby aesthetic by introducing the bold color of navy blue to the baby clothing for my baby shower gift 😌💙

[cleocatrablossy]

We’re just kids

We’re just kids

We’re just kids.

We are just kids.

We are supposed to just be kids.

Were we ever able to just be kids?

We weren’t ever given the chance to just be kids.

But we’re still just kids.

We shouldn’t have to deal with this.

Why the fuck are we dealing with this.

We’re just kids.

[yandere-wishes]

༻⋆Little Red Riding Hood You Know More Than You Should⋆༺

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Capitano recognizes your ancient name before he recognizes you. Ororon thinks it's about time to confess his feelings to his childhood friend. You just wanted to protect your homeland.

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere Behavior, Stalking, Possessiveness, Reader has a pyro vision.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ Tejano Blue By CAS

⋆ ˚｡⋆ Bless your heart, make you part of my life forever ~ CAS

.✦── °❀⋆ .🔥.⋆❀°── .✦

It had started with Ororon.

With the Chrysanthemum he delicately weaved into your hair.

Red red red like the vision that burns at your hip.

Red like the boy-heart you wished to carve out.

It had ended with the Capitano.

With verglas weaving across your arms from his most intimate touch.

Blue, blue, blue like the creature that claimed to know you.

Blue like the veins that harbor such a melancholy legacy.

The chipped wood of the basket pierces your palm, tiny splinters pricking at soft flesh. You don't fully register the twinge; the pain is too silken, too delicate. Instead, you tighten your fist around the wooden handle daring the splinters to puncture, to draw blood. At least then you'd have a reason to visit Ororon, a reason to pry open his door and interrupt his precious isolation.

You'd like to forget about him.

The ignorant boy with the mismatched eyes.

Leave him to rot in his secluded cabin.  

But it's all so hard to shake the saccharine memories of the all too lanky boy who used to hold your hand as you played hide and seek with Iktomisaurs in the forest.

Granny Itztli had requested ingredients for a ritual sermon taking place two moons from now. Nightshades and Quenepa Berrys and sand from the cost. "Have you talked to Ororon recently?" Granny asks, her brows furrowed in annoyance or worry or some other emotion too masked to fully read.  You shake your head, gingerly plucking the ingredients from your basket and sprawling them across the table. "He hasn't been returning any of my letters, or even answering the tribesman's requests for his vegetables. I swear if that boy-"

You can feel her anger slipping out, the tendrils of her powers lashing at the air, slithering across the walls. You gulp, grasp tightening once more against your basket's handle. The wood scraps at your skin grounding you as you let out a shaky breath. "I'll check on him for you granny," you blurt out trying to plaster a desperate smile across your face. Citlali's eyes soften as she looks at you taking in your taut stance. "I'd always wished for him to pick you as his bride." She mused hand waving the air as if to dispel her anger like smoke. "you'd have been the perfect wife for my foolish grandson, someone to keep an eye on him and his whimsy wills of inanity." She sighs ushering you to the door. "Still I suppose it's not too late."

You turn on your heels defiance ripe on your tongue. Ororon had once been a dear friend, a brother. And while the memories are wrapped in golden velvet and honey. You'd much rather pluck the nails from your fingers than marry that weirdo. But before the protest could be launched the door is solemnly slammed in your face.

You fasten the cloak along your neck, pull the hood over your head

before making your way to the lone cabin in the woods. Skipping along the broken road swinging your empty basket.

The cabin itself is petit and serene, a pretty little heap of wood and spray paint with its renowned vegetable garden stretching the whole diameter. "Ororon," you call out, surprised at how bitter his name tastes. Rotton, almost forgotten. "Ororon," you knock at the door.

Four knocks.

Four pounds.

All accompanied by the bitter name spilling from behind your teeth.

But there is no answer, nothing outside the peaceful lull of the breeze and the distant shrikes of Yumkasaurs.

Nothing.

Well, maybe it's for the best.

You'd have shown him your blistered palm should he have answered. Shown him the blood and silently prayed he'd hold your hand and bandage your wound with all the tenderness of an eight-year-old boy bandaging his best friend's bleeding knee.

It's only when you've started back on the road, heading towards the grand stadium, that you hear something—an icy omen whispering along the horizon. You look around, greeted by nothing but Natlan's nature. Slowly, you start to leave the path, trudging through grass and marching up the little hills, following the distant chill in the air.

What was it Granny always said about straying off the path?

Something about tragedy and trouble waiting beyond the trees.

Only this time, trouble -or rather tragedy- lays behind a set of rocks, half a mile from the cabin. That's when you finally see them. The chill in the air has grown harsher here, biting at your bare arms. You pull your hood further over your head, wrapping the rest of the cape around yourself in a bid for warmth. From the rock you've concealed yourself behind, you can hear two men speak.

Ororon stands before a man, no not a man. Such a human word could not describe the terrifying thing that loomed outside the sun's reach.

Your ears perk at the low timbre of his growl. The monster spews blasphemy, sacrilege, against your dear archon. Calling her a coward for not using the gnosis, calling her inept.

You feel his words cutting through you, lacrations running deep. Your body is on fire your vision boling by your side. What's worst is that Ororon listens, humming along in acknowledgment. You can taste the molten anger stinging the roof of your mouth, feel the embers burning your tongue. Your hand covers your mouth, nails sinking into your cheek to avoid permitting the frustration to break free and blowing your cover.

You turn swiftly, using the cover of rocks and trees to shadow your escape.

Desperately dashing for the path that'll lead you back to your village. Granny Itztli and the tribe leader must hear of this. They must know that Ororon has joined the Fatui and is planning to steal the Archon's gnosis.

The problem, however, may have been the red cape you'd draped yourself in, its bright color catching the wrong sun rays at the wrong time. Luminous enough to catch the captain's attention.

You feel the world slipping, sunlight giving way to a ghoulish purple glow. Your feet hit the battered pavement of the path, right before the world turns to black.

You scream just as something pulls you away...

You've been here before, several times in fact. This is the night kingdom or at least an astral realm within the night kingdom. Your body -your real body- is probably laying limp in the grass being licked by some saurian.

"(y/n), what are you doing here?" Ororon's voice is muffled, distant. A cloud scraping across the rougher edges of the sky. His ghastly apprehension hovers behind you, you can feel his chilled breath on your neck.

You try to speak, to answer. But the words never leave your mouth. You must remember that the shadow world has rules. That you can not move with your legs or speak with your tongue. You form the words like bubbles floating in the air. Waiting for them to pop, to unleash your voice amongst the gloom.

"I was looking for you, granny's worried. Apparently, you've disappeared."

His nails scrape at your neck. Fitting the delicate bones between the cusp of his palm. "But I'm right here" he whispers in your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Sorry, I wasn't there to greet you. I've been...busy".

"Ororon" The voice echoes across the cavern, loud and disturbing. You feel frost leak from every syllable. Your eyes widen as the black-clad monster marches forward body rigid embodying authority and discipline in every move.

Is this how everyone from Snezhnaya looks?

Taut and stiff and malicious?

Draped in furs and armor.

Ominous and cruel.

"This is my friend (y/n) we grew up together. Isn't she cute Capitano?" Ororon ends the statement with a mock peck to your neck. Despite its fleeting nature you still wince at the invasion.

You don't recall Ororon being so bold, so satirizing. Has the folly of the fatui bled into him? Rotted his essence and painted it anew?

"Get rid of her, we haven't the time to waste on such..." The man, no the nightmare. Stops in front of you. His bulky clothes remind you of the Tatankasaurs that roam the sandy southwest.

The captain's mask is sheer black. Murkey candance that hides his mysterious visage. But you notice the jerky way his head tilts down the way you can't escape the strange pierce of his unseable eyes.

"Do I know you" it's phrased as an order, a demnad.

Tell me what you are, what you're supposed to mean to me.

But there is no answer to greet it. Nothing apart from an unsteady silence. You can not know this ice-cold man. From behind you Ororon stiffens, "Do you know the captain." he asks, a silver of betrayal lacing his words. You only shake your head, narrowing your eyes to try and pry beyond the abyss of his mask.

Capitano's hand grips at your fingers pulling them up to his mask. Your heart stops as you see him bow his head, the cold of his helmet biting into your flesh. You hear the kiss like an arrow piercing the ever-looming eeriness of the night kingdom.

Capitano utters your name.

Rolls it around his mouth trying to savor the nostalgia.

Trying to crack open every syllabus and taste its familiarity.

"(y/n)..."

Your body lays limb amongst the grass, from atop the green hill Capitano observes your sleeping form. His eyes trace every curve and crevasse of your body jotting each detail to memory.

You look like so ethereal like this. Blood red amid the green and gold of the prairie. The humor of it all isn't lost on him after all he's partaken in more than his fair share of carnage. And that's exactly what you look like, a beautiful corpse laying in her puddle of blood. A macabre laceration layed upon Natlan's corse.

The sun beats down. Its rays too warm and treasonous.

It's only then that Capitano realizes where he's seen you before.

This exact scene, the blood pooling from beneath, the body lying amidst the grass, the sun blessing the slayed warrior in its light.

He knows you...

You don't remember waking up. Don't recall commanding your stiff muscles to move. Nor do you recall the first sight your wry eyes landed upon.

All you remember is running.

Blurred greens and reds of the scenery rushing by.

Granny must know of this.

The tribe must know of this.

Ororon is a traitor. A conspirator in a plot against Mavurika.

You're not quite sure why your heart stings when you think of this.

Your mouth is dry, ash coating your lips as Citlali glares down at you. Ororon's face flashes behind your eyes. You see him everywhere. Hear his gentle voice shushing you. Your ears are ringing, his voice whispering how much he's missed you, how much he wants you by his side once more.

Citlali says something, you think she's scolding you for traversing the pathway. She's gone in the next blink, essence lingering in a spinning room. Ororon kneels in front of you. No, not Ororon just some spectre wearing his face.

Or maybe it's his astral projection. Maybe he can't let you utter a word of what you saw.

"Just keep quiet darling. I promise this will all make sense soon." His fingers spark when they grace your cheek. Solid and spirit all at once. You try to touch his hand, to sink the sparks inside you, to feel Ororon once more. Instead, your finger collides with your own soft flesh.

The colors are chipping away.

Someone is calling your name.

Ororon or Citlali?

Maybe they've always been the same.

Why is the room spinning?

Why is it so dark...

You shouldn't be out. The sun is too harsh, merciless. You ring your palm across your basket's handle letting the friction rub the flesh raw.

Granny had warned you to stay inside. To avoid Ororon and whatever else you'd seen. But you can't let this go, the words may die upon your tongue but there must be evidence hidden somewhere. Evidence that you can present to the pyro archon, evidence that could save everything.

"Did you really miss me that much?" His voice is sharper than any arrow from his bow. Ororon stands blocking your path the captain hovering beside him.

Weren't you always told the path would be safe?

Capitano reaches out, metal fingers wrapping around your fragile wrist he pulls you to him, dark mask peering beyond you. Trying to piece you together. From behind you feel Ororon's lips sneaking up your neck. You scream, a shriveled sound. "Didn't you come all this way just to see us?" Ororon asks between open-mouthed kisses, you writher between their bodies desperate to escape. Tears flowed from your shiny eyes.

You're so pretty when you cry Ororon feels bad for admitting that. But he can't help but admire how innocent and helpless you look, trapped between two monsters.

It's only now that he notices your red hood is adorned with embroidered Chrysanthemum, for a moment Ororon thinks it has something to do with flowers he used to braid into your hair. Back when he'd been too young to fully understand destiny and you'd been too young to understand legacy.

"I came to find evidence of your betrayal." You spit, free hand reaching into your basket to try to find your ancient name. Tears trickle from your eyes as the captain leans closer. Your fingers finally graze the forged feather and you pry it out, holding it to your chest, feeling its power coursing through you.

Your elbow collides harshly with Ororon's rib, as he tumbles backward you gain enough space to sidekick the captain. Only for it to be blocked by his iron-clad hand. The metal makes your bones ring a sharp pain that leaves your leg numb.

"You bear an ancient name?" Capitano asks, skeptical. You roll your eyes despite your better judgment. Capitano releases your wrist, instead reaching out to try and grab your ancient name. In the millisecond of freedom, you stalk backward before sprinting back to the tribe. Your basket forgotten at the captain's feet.

"she bears the ancient name Ayizu," Ororon says, still clutching his side.

Capitano swallows the information. Letting the sharp edges nick at his throat. He'd had been uncertain before despite all the parallels.

But now the shock was rolling through him like lightning bolts. That's why you looked so familiar. Not only did you bare Ayizu's name but there was no doubt in Capitano's mind that you were one of his descendants.

The captain chuckles a mirthless noise. The irony feels like a blistering burn blooming upon his rotting flesh. "She's quite loyal." he begins, blacked gaze traveling to Ororon. "She'd make a valuable asset in our quest to save Natlan. Fetch her for me will you Ororon?" It's nothing less than an order one that Ororon may be a bit too keen on fulfilling.

"Oh and Ororon, we need to start you on a training agenda. I fear you are the most pathetic warrior Natlan has ever seen."

Ororon's eyes sunken before traversing up the captain's imposing form.

"Yes sir" he mumbles, biting his lips to avoid moaning at the deliciously sharp pain you've gifted him.

It's dark again,

You let the sharp wood of your basket cut into your palm. Relishing in the familiar feeling as blood mars the wooden handle. When did your basket return? You could have sworn you'd abandoned it with your attackers,

The path beneath your feet is cracked and broken. Smeared in ice and ectoplasm. Still, you walk forward into the abyss. There's nowhere else to go.

You expected them to be there. To see their towering forms amidst the darkness. Instead, you see them lounging between the blacked boulders.

Soldiers fresh from the fight. You don't enquire about their endeavors about the horrors you're sure they've inflected upon your land. But before you can fully walk past Capitano grabs your wrist and pulls you into his lap. "Stop" You struggle to break free, only for him to grab your chin and force your eyes onto his faceless visage. "So you're the descendent of my old friend? The inheritor of his noble name." You feel bile creeping up your throat. "Don't insult my ancestor, he'd never associate with the likes of you." you spite.

Capitano chuckles and signs, pulling his mask up a smidge to reveal decayed flesh. You gasp, an opportunity he ceases to pull you into a deep kiss, teeth biting and tearing at your soft lips, his holed tongue running over your teeth. You try to scream to cry, suffocating from the floral-scented rot. When the captain finally pulls back you run your fingers over pained lips smearing the blood across your cheek and chin.

"You should smile more" Ororon teases nipping at your ear until you wince, his hands move up and down your hips squeezing every so often. He's never been this bold before. You blame the Fatuis staring down at you. Blame the Outlander and his weird ways, somehow the irony is utterly lost on you.

"Please just let me go" you beg, your body is on fire your vision pulsing once more. "You're a captain surely you must understand why I'm so eager to protect my people from you?" Ororon laughs, littering your cheek with tiny kisses. "I understand," Capitano responds, his fingers dabbing your blood-covered lips. "I'm desperate to save Natlan too." He brings the red-coated digit to his mouth, sucking softly.

"We all want to protect Natlan" Ororon chips in. "That's why you should join us, honor your ancient name." You shake your head, almost as if you're shaking the nightmare away. "There is no honor in what you're doing."

You feel something around your neck. Metalic fingers wrapping tightly around your throat. Clutching tighter and tighter. With his other hand, the Captain removes his mask.

You scream...

The room is cold, freezing.

Your calloused palm squeezes trying to feel the handle of your wooden basket. When your nails only dig into your own skin, you awaken, head darting trying to find your precious basket.

It's on the table...

You don't have a table by your bed.

Beside you, someone tightens their hold on your waist pulling you into an icy stiff chest. Captiano's breath is cold, his voice gruff with sleep as he whispers little adorations into your ear. You're only now realizing Ororon lying in front of you, his lithe fingers playing with your neck.

No not your neck. There's something wrapped around your throat, no one the cold was unbearable, this "necklace" must be made of pure cyro. "You look so pretty like this." Ororon mumbles, daring to connect his lips to yours in a sheepish, sloppy attempt at a kiss. You wrangle your head to the side breaking the pathetic kiss. Behind you, you feel Capitano's chest rumble in laughter.

"Really Ororon must I teach you everything?" Capitano pushes Ororon's head roughly until his lips are on yours, "Open your mouth" he commands. To which both of you obey not knowing who he's referring to. Slowly Ororon permits his tongue to wander past your lips and into your mouth. Satisfied Capitano begins to suckle and kiss your neck, his sharp teeth effortlessly breaching skin.

"I know you don't believe me when I say, I'm here to save Natlan." Capitano whispers. "But I helped your Ancestor defend this land once, and I shall do it again." Capitano sits up stiffly, his hand on your shoulder using ice to keep you in place. "The war with the Abyss is starting soon. You'll be safe here while Ororon and I make the final preparations." He sighs fully turning to you.

For the first time, you see the rot and decay that has marred his once gorgeous face. You gulp, swallowing your screams, letting his words sink in like the ice chaining you. Capitano pulls himself from the bed, making his way to the door. Ororon gives you a final kiss before also retreating from the bed and going to stand by the captain.

"If we survive this, I don't intend to take you to Snezhnaya. Frankly, I don't think either of you could survive the cold." He jokes, and you notice it's the first time his serious icy facade has cracked. "You will be safe here with Ororon and I'll visit you as much as my duties permit." strange how his words almost, almost sounded like 'I love you' muttered in a foreign tongue enclosed in ice. Something impossible to thaw out.

"I'm sorry about this darling," Ororon mutters as he follows the captain out. "But we'll be back soon." He offers you a soft smile before closing the door. One that makes your heart melt. Instead of a kidnapper, you see the little boy who used to own your heart.

The door closes leaving you to bask in all the glory of your doom.

.✦── °❀⋆ .🔥.⋆❀°── .✦

Apologies this is definitely not my best work but I just wanted to get something out for these two. May end up writing something better later on.

💜Tags: @definitely-asexual-volcano @fujisworld @kudoaii @savsxz @fantasyhopperhea @misscoolisback123 @army-of-inspirited-onces @lorkai @lavandulawrites @kazudare @s1mppp @onceapirateprincess @lovelive-animequeen1029 @trashpandaperson @rhain-things @milktea-coffeelady

[kcokaine]

Yuzuki and Gojo are such a good match and besides Sukugo they’re my favorite. I imagine them having angry wife x obsessed husband dynamics. Honestly, do you think you’ll draw more of them? Your friend’s oc’s are always a pleasure to see

Yes absolutely haha. She is very "Im Yuzuki Gojo, Yo. Im the wife of Satoru Gojo, Yo. Yeah thats right" typa shit. She was basically trained to kill Gojo cuz her technique counters gojo perfectly. But they were childhood friends and despite being so brainwashed by her family throughout her life after they separated as teenagers, she still has liking for Gojo and manages to fall for him same as Gojo falls for her because she is the only fragment left from his childhood that actually made him experience childhood whimsy. Its very beautiful Also yeah i will most likely draw em more!

Here are some more silly doodles of them

PS gojo calls her Miss Eyebrows

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Tale of the Cursed Raven -- Author’s Notes & Afterthoughts

The full series:

Part 1 I Part 2I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I Part 6 I Part 7 I Part 8 | Part 9 I Part 10 I Part 11 I Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

Miss Raven sketch is by shimmeryspark!

Well, it’s been quite the journey but we’ve finally made it to the end of ✨ Raven’s origin saga ✨. It was such a wild experience to write it all and hear your feedback for each installment. I hope that you all enjoyed reading it as much as I loved creating it... and I hope that it sheds more light on why Raven is the way she is.

Now that the series is done, I’m feeling really nostalgic about it (maybe it’s Mis Raven’s enchanted inks working their magic on me)💦 so I wanted to relive the memories a little, and share some of the feelings, insights, and thoughts I had before, during, and after writing the saga.

If you’re interested in reading that, it’ll all be below the cut for your convenience.

“May those who accept their fate be granted happiness, may those who defy their fate be granted glory.” — Edel, Princess Tutu (2002)

The Origins

I’ve always loved stories—more specifically, fairy tales. When I was little, they’d always be on my mind. Actually, they still are to this very day. If I wasn’t reading them, I’d be watching them or thinking about them, making theories and spinning stories of my own.

I loved the fantastical elements, the whimsy of magic and talking animals, the witches and the monsters, the royals and the warriors that protected them... I loved it all. That childhood love of fairy tales followed me into adolescence and adulthood. That’s really where this all began.

Of course, I gravitated towards media that prominently featured elements of, or borrowed from, fairy tales. This would lead me to the rabbit hole that is Twisted Wonderland 😷 (you all knew this was coming). Due to the blank slate nature of the game’s protagonist, Yuu, TWST was ripe for an OC community to crop up.

I saw a lot of unique characters in the fandom, so I wanted to create a character too. However, no matter how hard I tried, I struggled to develop a “Yuu” that I was satisfied with. At times, I even felt uncomfortable because I felt I was either putting too much of myself into “Yuu”, or not enough. It was then that I realized I would have much more fun making a character based on a preexisting story. A theme, a concept—they’d all be pre-set for me, and I could let my imagination run wild from those.

I didn’t want to adapt a character from a Disney movie (say, the Mad Hatter or King Triton). While I had seen many cool interpretations made by other people, I didn’t want to limit myself to personalities and character traits that were already determined by the movies or stories for me. I started looking into fairy tales themselves, looking for a character or a concept vague enough for me to base my OC on—and I found it in the wording of a riddle from Alice in Wonderland.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

It captured the spirit of whimsy I wanted to evoke in the OC. Ah, but there's also an underlying sadness and dread to her character. It's mostly Alice in Wonderland with a whisper of Edgar Allen Poe.

And thus, Raven was born.

Tsunderes — but why???

At first glance, you might look at Raven and label her personality as “tsundere”. It’s a popular trope in Japanese media where a character that is initially cold and harsh shows or develops a warm, friendlier side over time. One problem that I’ve always had with the tsundere archetype is that the media that employ it rarely, if ever, explain the reasoning for why a character is a tsundere. More often than not, tsunderes are used to comedic effect nowadays, with the tsundere characters acting violent towards their supposed love interests—and that’s something that has never really sat well with me. I don’t think that’s necessarily good writing, but I won’t fault the people who do enjoy that kind of thing. I personally prefer it when we get to know the characters and the reasoning behind their personalities and decisions more. Character-driven storytelling is my jam.

Familiar of Zero’s Louise lacks the magical power to back up her noble lineage, and she has an inferiority complex as a result of that. Toradora’s Taiga has a complex family situation which has left her distrustful of others. When writing Raven, I didn’t want her to fall into the trap of “no explanation” tsundere. I wanted to outline a clear reason for why her personality is “hot and cold”, like Louise and Taiga. Even more than that, I wanted Raven’s reason to line up with the concepts of “freedom” and “expression” that tie with her bird and storytelling motifs.

And so, her story started taking shape in my head. (If you want to read more specifics on my thought process, I’d check out this post. I also talk more about the concepts behind her there.)

Her Magic

I wanted to tie in her personality and philosophy into her unique magic too. After all, it's a spell that defines who she is as an individual. In the beginning, Raven was excited about the prospect of writing, as it would help her comes to understand others--however, she struggles to come to grips with their emotions and keeps holding herself at a distance. Only when she empathizes with her characters and with the people around her does her unique magic come into fruition. With it, she can see into others' hearts and rewrite their feelings--that is, if her willpower and coaxing can convince them to.

I didn't want Raven to be a particularly gifted magic user; she's someone that had to work hard to come into her own. I think of her humanoid form as something still awkward and developing, which sometimes interferes with her spellcasting. What really makes Raven shine is her determination, and the strong imagination that pairs with it. All she truly lacks is the ambition and the confidence, things that I hoped would be honed at Night Raven College.

The Characters for the Series

Initially, I wanted to feature a much larger cast of characters. At some point, I was ambitious enough to think I could somehow include every NRC student in the plot... but thank goodness I realized that just wasn’t feasible. I saw the narrative mess that happened whenever a creative piece tried to get too many characters involved. It just made it hard to keep track of and care about anyone on an individual level. Sometimes, it also distracted from the central themes and conflict. Now, that’s not to say that Raven has never canonically engaged with other characters (because she definitely has)! It’s just that those interactions aren’t as important to this story, so I left them out of it.

In hindsight, I’m so glad that I kept the core cast (up to a certain point) small. That way, I could dedicate more of my time writing each of their individual thoughts and emotions. Raven remains the main character throughout, while Rook, Crowley, Jade, and, to some extent, Azul, Floyd, and Octa A, are secondary characters. Idia, Vil, Epel, the Fates, etc., are very much tertiary characters that showed up a few times total 😂 but they all played their parts and still contributed the overall story.

A character that was introduced in part 6 was the timid but well-meaning Octavinelle A-kun (whose name is Kon, like konbu, or Japense kelp). He was actually included as a gag character because I couldn’t think of someone from the main cast for the role he ended up filling. I unintentionally got attached to Kon and decided to bring him back later in the story, because I guess I like the irony of a mob character that lacks eyes having more screen time than two Dorm Leaders (Vil and Idia). I think the inclusion of Kon also really helped the themes of the story, because, in a meta way, he’s like Raven. He’s a “background character” who ended up having time in the spotlight (and even earned himself a small but dedicated fan following), which proves that it’s possible for Raven, who also sees herself as a “background character”, to ascend and become a “main character”.

Speaking of semi-original characters, I also had fun doing my interpretation of the Fates in part 10. I doubt that’s what they’re like in canon and watch TWST prove me wrong, but it was super fun to write regardless of that. I think my favorite thing about them was how they bicker when they’re out of the public eye, but it was also interesting to come up with their idol poses and phrases.

The cast noticeably expands around part 15, and that was a very purposeful move on my end. Raven has had her revelation then, as well as a stronger understanding of how her unique magic works. Art that point, the story shifts from Raven being on the outside looking in to the characters witnessing her tale unfold. It's to indicate that Raven has finally properly begun integrating herself with the stories that she has always isolated herself from. Characters that have previously had smaller roles before (Vil, Idia, Azul) return for a reprise and to add their own context to what's happening now, and the characters never previously mentioned (Lilia, Riddle, Kalim, Leona) give their perspectives as people who had no direct involvement. I wanted to show the shades of familiarity that they have with what Raven's been up to on her lonesome, and how these different kinds of relationships and points of view are all important when looking at a story.

I was very excited to introduce the Enchantress (Estella) as an onlooker that has a tenacious history with Lilia; she's an original character I've been working on and hiding in the shadows until her first appearance late in this saga. Estella is a very complex person, whom I would describe as a mix of the Enchantress (Beauty and the Beast), Giselle (in both Enchanted and Disenchanted), Isabela (Encanto), Frollo (The Hunchback of Notre Dame), Mother Gothel (Tangled) and Fairy Godmother (Shrek 2). She gives... "tough love", but often acts in morally self-righteous and self-important ways, believing that it is for the "own good" of the people she becomes entangled with. Sadly, I was not able to go into her own background and motives, but someday I'd really like to!

The Plot of the Series

There’s a lot that you don’t see that goes into writing. I went through several iterations of Tale of the Cursed Raven, especially with the rising action and climax. You should see my writing drafts--there’s no rhyme or reason to them! You might see some bullet points to show a sequence of events, but the rest of the document is just random lines or ideas I think would “sound cool” that I just scribbled down while on the bus or something.

When I write a story, I usually know how I want things to begin and how I want them to end, and I have trouble filling in everything that’s in between. I usually took large chunks of time between the release of each installment to review information from the previous part and make sure the continuity carried over to the part I was currently writing.

It was also common for me to write, rewrite, and rewrite the parts again several times over before I actually put it to the public. Sometimes I would almost be done with an installment, and I’d delete it all and start over because I thought of something much better. I’d be irritated with myself in the moment for wasting all that time and hard work, but I think it ended up working out.

sadibasudbad Okay, I want to talk about some of the plot points that I scrapped, because some of them were actually interesting... They just took the story nowhere or caused issues with other things I had planned, so I had to drop them 😅

After Jade’s betrayal is revealed in part 3, I was going to have Raven become Azul’s business rival. Not in the restaurant sense, but more like she would offer similar “wish fulfillment” services as Azul, mostly because she needs something to do to keep herself positive. Her services were going to be called “Fairy Godmothering” and involved sending wishes on slips of paper in little black boxes she placed all over campus. However, she’d probably need a lot of help or strong magic to make that happen, neither of which really applies to her. I guess the tradeoff would have been that Azul offers more but asks for a price, whereas Raven offers less but works for free. She’d write stories as kind of a “road map” or “plan” for how she would personally fulfill her a wish, as opposed to Azul’s contracts, and which required a mutual agreement to the terms. I also didn’t know where to take the story after this point was introduced, so it had to go.

Part 8 was originally going to open with Raven and Riddle having a tea party and catching up. Floyd was going to emerge from some rose bushes with Cater and Trey chasing after him 😂 and Floyd was going to kidnap Raven from there for the boat scene with Jade. Like I mentioned before, I decided to cut this out to keep the number of characters the story had relatively short. (Plus, I guess Floyd would have had to run a shorter distance to the lake if Raven was already in the forest area than if she were all the way in Heartslabyul?)

There was a large hiatus between part 10 and part 11, because a lot of rewrites had to happen for the latter half of the series. Part 11 in particular went through several different versions—one of which would involve Prince Rielle visiting NRC for a magift game and knocking Raven out cold with the frisbee. Because Raven didn’t remember the face of the “prince” that saved her from drowning when she was a bird, I was going to have her mistake Rielle as that “prince” (similar to how Eric mistook Ursula/Vanessa for Ariel). Djsbsjsbshs But I already took a huge chance by writing my interpretation of the Fates, so I didn’t want to also do my interpretation of Rielle in case TWST gives us more details about him later. Rielle is based on a Disney princess, so I thought it was more likely that he got more details revealed about him over of the Fates, and I didn’t want to make my series too reliant on headcanons or unconfirmed information about a character we haven’t even seen yet.

Finally (and this is the biggest change of all), parts 10 through 20 were originally going to be heavily focused on action and adventure. Raven was going leave NRC in search of the Enchantress (who originally cursed the Storyteller several years go) and ask her to lift the curse, and the Enchantress was going to send her on a series of heroic quests to prove that she is “worthy”. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought the scale was too grand 💦 At the end of the day, Raven is just a bird trying to be a normal human girl... and I wanted her development to be more of a traditional coming of age story instead of a literal hero’s journey where she confronts dragons and saves villages. Something more down-to-earth makes her more relatable, so I went with that route instead of the action-adventure one.

I don’t know if you noticed, but the saga happens alongside the events of the main story (as some main story events, such as Overblots, are referenced). The last 5ish parts happen around the transition from the Ignihyde arc to the Diasomnia arc, sooo... :)) You can think what you like about whether Raven’s happy ending is reality or a dream conjured up by Malleus~

I argued with myself a lot while writing the series, especially about the ending. I had a lot of my friends (and readers, too) telling me “you’d better not kill Raven” and “Raven and Jade should kiss and make up/date each other at the end” (some of which came true, some of which didn’t). I was so conflicted at the time because while I never intended to kill Raven, it was clear that my audience was expecting a perfect “happily ever after”... and I didn’t know if such a conclusion would fit the overall tone of the series. I think what I ended up doing was satisfactory, though. It’s happy, but not overly so, and it keeps the door open for future shenanigans in a light-hearted and hopeful way. I think leaving it open-ended like this suits the theme of the saga and Miss Raven's struggle to find her freedom.

Raven’s Growth and Development

Raven has come so far.

The saga here is written kind of like “oh, this is her main story”, but it’s meant to be supplemented by “vignettes” and “event stories” (ie all the side content of Raven which fleshes out her relationships with other characters). The idea is that all her experiences at NRC helped her to develop her own sense of self, and granted her the confidence to fly in the face of her own fate, which she was once so hopeless about. When I look back on the last few years, I’m amazed at how much of it there is, whether produced by myself, by friends, or by fans. It’s really humbling that I get to share this journey with you all.

Raven used to be scared and shy, a timid bird with little to no understanding of the world, or of the creatures in it. Then she picked up a quill, ink, and paper—and a whole new world opened up to her. Her story is one of how freedom of self expression and creative works can connect us not only with others, but with ourselves. Because of that, Raven was able to grow and become a much more mature person (with the support of her friends and family, of course)!

Just because the saga is over doesn’t mean Raven is suddenly perfect, though. She still very much struggles to be emotionally expressive and honest with her feelings of affection (since she has gone so long burying those), so she’s still got a long way to go in that regard 💦 She also has some lingering self-esteem issues that she’s got to work on. Raven’s always changing...! Always willing to learn! Jade and Rook, please help her—

When people read Tale of the Cursed Raven, I don’t want them to “just see it as a love story” or “TWST OC x TWST Boy” fanfiction 💦 because the focus isn’t just on romance, but on Raven discovering herself, and her voice, in a world that once confused and scared her. It’s not just a story about finding love, it’s also about a girl growing up, gaining confidence, finding new family and friends to support her... It’s a lot of things, and I feel that it’s doing the saga a disservice by calling it just a love story.

I’ve mentioned this a few times before, but while Raven is not meant to be a self-insert character, I feel that her struggles are very relatable and I hope that you, too, can see some part of yourself in her and her journey. A lot of the writing process involved me analyzing and coming to terms with difficult feelings, particularly ones of self-loathing, self-acceptance, coming to terms with emotions, and trying to find one’s place in a world that can be confusing and scary to navigate. I feel that writing Raven’s tale was able to help me through those tough times in my life. For that reason, this saga will always hold a lot of sentimental value to me.

So... What’s next?

There were originally plans for me to make a follow up/spin-off series where Octa A/Kon was the main character. The theme of that series was “even the unnoticed and ordinary can be noticed and extraordinary!” It was going to focus on Kon and his mob student friends (one from each dormitory), along with their struggles of being “noticed” (as they are often just one face in a sea of mob students) and “fitting in” with their respective dorm’s ideals. I think it would have been a series that resonated a lot with introverts and people who see themselves as “less than” others or as “not fitting in” with others’ expectations. I might still do this, but it would probably be another huge project that would take months of planning and revision.

Another idea I had was to write a series of stories that are just flashbacks of Raven’s life prior to Night Raven College, whether as a bird or whether as the Storyteller’s apprentice. I also considered writing in-depth about how the Storyteller was originally cursed, and about the Enchantress responsible for it. I would like to get into her backstory and her motivations for spinning the Storyteller’s curse to begin with. (Maybe I’ll do those as blog anniversary or follower milestone specials?) Some friends of mine also jokingly suggested I write a sequel series focused on Raven and her relationship with L*ONA 🤢 dfhlbahefvqoeuq Lots of ideas, lots of possibilities!

As for Raven, she’s definitely not going away just because her origin saga is done. She’s still the beloved poster child of this blog, so of course I want to continue writing about her! It’s just that she’ll be a little freer to speak her mind now that her curse has been lifted. After all, "the end" is just "the beginning" of another story!

I kind of feel like a proud parent, seeing my bird daughter growing up, making friends, finding love, and developing her own sense of agency and independence 😭 I’m excited to see where this next chapter of Raven’s life takes us.

Before I sign off, I’d like to thank you, dear readers, for following Miss Raven’s story until the very end. None of this would be possible without you!

[torusdove]

— You taste sweet, like honey

Pairings: Yuuji x reader, Kento x reader, Satoru x reader, Choso x reader & Yuuta x reader.

Description: types of kisses I believe they fit!

— Pinky promise! ˚｡ Itadori Yuuji.

In the heart of the small, neighbourhood middle school, Itadori and you were found running behind one another. The laughter of innocence surrounded you both as you basked in the warmth of the sun, your hand stretched in front of you as you tried to lay your hands on his body, tagging him to be it.

Spring had brought the subtle wind with her, filling the air with the sweet scent of the blooming flowers and pollen that seemed to be giving Itadori a hard time once in a while.

With sparkling eyes, you took one big step, pressing your palm against his back. You absolutely didn’t mean to do it, but gasped anyway when he tumbled over into the fresh field of grass. It took him a little before he burst into laughter, rolling onto his back as he watched you with the same spark twinkling in his eyes.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, chest heaving up and down through a small cough that itched up into his throat. Those stupid pollen.

“We should marry when we’re allll grown up!”

You couldn’t fight the mischievous grin that seemed to grow into your lips, giggling softly behind your tiny hand before you took a seat beside his face, knees probably covered in green when you’d get up. “You’re silly!”

“I am dead-serious!” His voice became louder, sitting upright as his eyes struck yours with a certain certainty, “We will have a biiig house with eleven cats and seven birds!”

Caught up in his whimsy, imaginary future, you couldn’t help but giggle even more, innocent eyes crinkling into two new moons while he watched you with a smile curled into his lips. “Okay, ‘dori, I promise we will!”

Without another word, he extended his pinky high up into the sky, waiting patiently until you seemed to be doing the same, “Pinky promise?” And with all of your teeth on display in a big smile, you linked your pinky with his, your fingers intertwined in a gesture that felt as significant as any wedding ring, “Pinky promise!”

With your childish promise made, Itadori leaned in, his little lips pressing gently against your cheek. The kiss was sweet, innocent even, filled with the purity of childhood affection. Yet, both of your faces were flushing red, laughter filling the air a second later when the silliness was no longer ignorable.

As the sun shone her brightest colours in the sky, you continued to play, hearts filled with the joy of friendship and the magic of youthful promises that, for a moment, felt as real as the world around you.

— Morning affection ˚｡ Nanami Kento.

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm hue across the bedroom. Your eyes carefully fluttered open, aware of the new day dawning upon the world while stirring around gently. The empty spot beside you told you enough to mourn your loss already: Kento was awake and ready to head to work.

Nevertheless, you did have the privilege of being met by his back, blazer neatly straightened and tight around his biceps, hands probably busy fixing his tie. The smile that curled upwards into your lips had won the battle, watching him silently.

When he turned around and locked eyes with you, you could swear you saw the corners of his eyes soften around the edges, walking way too quickly towards you. Bending down a bit, slightly towering over your frame, his lips found their comfort on your forehead.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, voice a gentle murmur. "’M sorry for waking you.” It was silly, the way he apologised for something that happened despite his quietness. So, with a soft smile, fully embracing his doting as the slumber still had a grasp around your wrist, you whispered, “Nonsense, Nami..”

As you felt him backing away, you debated whether to grasp his wrist and ask him to stay “for just five minutes longer”, but decided against it when he seemed at peace after giving you such a sweet goodbye.

Patting his chest softly, straightening his tie out just the tiniest bit, you watched him with a fond expression, “Gon’ miss you, Nami – hurry back home, ‘kay?”

With an amused grin, he nodded his head, letting his lips dip down to meet your forehead for a second time. You could feel his grin against your head, softly breaking out into a smile yourself.

“I will be back before you know it, sweetheart.” With that, he walked towards the bedroom door, glancing once more at your body being swallowed by the fluffy blankets. It may have been a brief moment for outsiders, but it warmed your body more than the blankets ever could. Watching him leave the room, you couldn’t help but sigh out contently, already counting down the seconds he’d come back home.

— Drowsy love ˚｡ Kamo Choso.

The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm ambience. Laying entwined in the comfort of your bed, the soft sheets cradled Choso and you like two warm arms. Both on the verge of sleep, but a gentle restlessness lingering in the air.

Your lips met lazily, a slow dance of affection. Eyes half-closed, you exchanged sweet, drowsy kisses, each one deepening the quiet intimacy between you. Fingertips traced gentle patterns on bare skin, a silent language of love spoken in the quiet of the night.

A contented sigh escaped as you parted from his lips, only to hear a whine coming from his lips in the hopes of gravitating back together. The world outside your bedroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the rhythmic exchange of sleepy kisses and the steady beating of your hearts.

The room filled with the soothing sounds of your shared breaths, creating a melody of quiet affection. The soft rustle of the sheets only echoed the tender moments between you even more, and in the hushed stillness, you continued your wordless exchange, savouring the sweetness of those sleepy kisses that spoke volumes about the love you held for one another.

— What were we waiting for? ˚｡ Gojo Satoru.

The room was bathed in a blue glow from the long-forgotten TV, a playlist playing in the background which neither of you paid any attention to. A low hum of laughter and music filled the air as Satoru and you, both slightly tipsy -rather, very much drunk-, found yourselves on the sofa in the middle of the shared living room.

Originally, you’d have shared this very same sofa with three other people: Suguru, Kento and Ieiri. However, with all three of them finding their way in life, the sofa only seemed familiar to your two figures.

With one last sip from your glass of wine, you let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes while a deep sigh spilt from your mouth. Satoru couldn’t help but mirror your body, letting his fall back in the same way, only with his head turned towards the side of your face.

Your hair was messy, not unkept, but dishevelled enough to be called messy. There was a soft, red glow blooming into your hot cheeks, darker than the usual shade of lipstick that adorned your chapped lips. He noticed the way your chest moved at a much slower pace: a lazy, deep breath followed by a -just as- lazy deep exhale. Your eyes were fluttered shut, eyelashes moving the slightest bit along with your eyes.

Your exams were finally over, and now you could relax.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to feel his eyes burning holes into your soul, but this time the heat felt more unbearable. Maybe your tolerance for alcohol wasn’t as high as you thought.

Or perhaps he was staring a little harder than normal.

There was no escaping his gaze, no escaping his strikingly clear eyes, even when you had convinced yourself that opening your own slowly, would maybe get the job done.

It wouldn’t.

His irises were coloured a fierce blue, a luminous glow of happiness and youthfulness sparkling within them. They burned fanatically, challenging the sun by showing off its brightness. They could devour the beauty of the rest of the world with ease, leaving you to question whether you had seen anything that would even come close to their beauty. Resting your cheek on the headrest, you finally let your eyes meet.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere hinted at unspoken feelings.

Your cheeks felt hot and your head was pounding, fingers quick to fidget with the rims of your nails to get your mind a little more focused. A slight buzz in the back of your mind had you feeling hazy, dozy even. It made you question whether or not your eyes were betraying you by observing his body leaning more towards yours.

You couldn’t speak of any betrayal when your eyes caught his lingering on your lips, a playful smile etching its way into the corners of his mouth. He never lost his childish playfulness, your strand of hair being twirled around his finger absentmindedly being proof of it.

The TV played a soft melody, creating a backdrop for the unspoken tension between you. A bubble of air seemed to have settled its claws into your trachea, your hand carefully finding its way to his knee.

Satoru had always been beautiful, had always had girls running after him ever since you had known him. And up to this very moment, you had never quite understood.

In turn, Satoru let his body shift closer, lightly nudging your thigh with his. The air buzzed with quiet anticipation as you shared a secret, drowsy smile, realizing that something unspoken lingered between you.

A shared moment of vulnerability passed between your gaze, each recognizing the unspoken feelings. His hand found your fidgeting ones, intertwining his fingers with yours until you had become completely still. The room seemed to fade away as both of you moved closer, drawn together by an undeniable magnetic force.

With a gentle touch, your free hand brushed a strand of white away from his face, your fingertips grazing his cheek. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken words, but in that shared moment of silence, you both understood. Without needing to say a word, your lips met in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke volumes about the connection you had discovered in the midst of a tipsy night.

— This isn't goodbye ˚｡ Okkotsu Yuuta.

The airport terminal was buzzing with the hum of conversations and the shuffle of hurried footsteps. Surrounded by the busy crowd, Yuuta and you stood facing each other, expressions a mix of anticipation, sadness and longing. With his bag packed and his luggage beside him, you couldn’t help but tear up, trying to hold them back by flashing him a wobbly smile.

"I guess it is finally time.." Yuuta said, his voice tinged with slight excitement but also reluctance as his eyes picked up on your own. Your usually bright whites had turned a pinkish colour, the sparkle within them also nowhere to be found.

Your head moved up and down, blinking back tears and swallowing the big lump that seemed to be stuck in your trachea, "You will have a great time."

Noticing your soft speech, and your shimmering eyes, Yuuta couldn’t stop his body from moving closer into your proximity, reaching for your hands and squeezing them softly in reassurance, “I will be back before you know it.”

There was no use in giving him any sort of rebuttal, nodding once more as your hands lightly squeezed him back. “I know,” you measly whispered out, “I am proud of you for coming this far.”

These were the last moments of the two of you being able to be this close to one another, and Yuuta seemed to realise that as well. Pressing his forehead against yours, he spoke even softer than before, eyes strikingly clear, “I promise I’ll come back. I’ll come back stronger and braver, for you.”

You couldn’t manage more than a small smile, eyes glistening in the bright airport lighting, “I will be here.” Yuuta’s thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear as gently as he could.

It didn’t take him long, but it did take him a handful of courage to do what he desperately wanted to do months ago. With his hands gently cupping your face, he pressed his lips, with utmost tenderness, against yours. Surely, you could categorise it as a bittersweet kiss, filled with the promise of return and the ache of separation.

However, as you watched him disappear into the crowd, becoming one with the sea of people, you couldn’t help but not think of this as a departure, but more so as a new beginning that just had to reach its starting point.

Author speaking: i love reading comments and quoted reblogs ;) take care!! <3

[starryevermore]

head full of petals: autumnal arrival interlude ✧ eris vanserra

head full of petals ✧ an eris vanserra anthology | ao3

pairing: eris vanserra x tamlin’s sister!fem!reader

series summary: it is not easy to be a female in prythian. it is even more difficult when you’re the daughter of a high lord. the expectations are great, and the punishments for failure are even greater. all you have known for your entire life is falling in line. yet, when you are expected to marry another, you choose to do something for yourself: run into the arms of your mate. or, a series of interconnected oneshots surrounding the life and times of eris vanserra and his blossom. 

chapter summary: in which you learn that autumn is not so different from spring.

word count: 1,378

chapter warnings?: a little fluff, references to beron’s cruelty, pet name (blossom), not proofread

You held on tightly to Eris as he readied to winnow you away from your childhood home. When Beron wasn’t looking, he sent you a reassuring smile. You steadied your breathing and leaned into your mate. Tamlin was making you promise to write—he was your only brother to see you off. Just him and your mother, Merry. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. But even if your face did not show it, the mating bond betrayed you. Eris sent reassurance down the bond, and something that might have felt like the beginnings of love. 

And then, just like that, you were gone. 

The Forest House was suffocatingly warm when you arrived. You felt faint and leaned more into Eris’s side. His brothers that had joined on this trip to Spring, Graham and Heath, slipped away as Beron turned to focus on you. Your chin lifted, trying not to shy away under his scrutinizing gaze.

“You may have the evening and tomorrow to adjust,” he said. Beron turned to Eris. “After that, you are responsible for ensuring she acclimates.”

“Yes, Father,” Eris said, voice tight. 

It felt odd to not say anything. Though you were certain Beron was the sort of male to think females should be rarely seen and never heard—after all, he was friends with Hamish—you couldn’t help but think that remaining silent would only make things worse. You offered a small smile, and said, “Thank you, High Lord, for the great kindness of allowing me to join my mate in this great Court. I look forward to being a member of such a distinguished family.”

That seemed to satisfy the High Lord. All you had to do was stroke an ego a little bit, and males like Beron were easily pleased. He said to Eris, “Keep her like that and we will have no issues with your mating bond.”

Eris gave a curt nod. It was not until Beron left the room that he finally relaxed. “I am sorry,” he said. 

“I am used to males like him.”

He looked pained as he said, “I hope that is not true.” He loosed a sigh, then continued, “We may go to my chambers for some respite, but we should attend dinner tonight. Beron may have seemed so gracious to give you time to adjust, yet he will expect us there.”

“Of course. Will we…be sharing your chambers?” you asked.

It would not be a surprise if he said yes. But you had never shared a room with anyone before, much less a male. Much less a mate. From your limited conversations with Eris, he did not seem the sort to force you into anything you were not willing to do. That did not make it any less strange. Eris felt your anxiety and squeezed your hand. 

“I do not trust you to be safe anywhere else. Beron and my brothers will not bother you there. Well, I suppose Lucien might turn up every now and again. If you indulge in his whimsy, he will leave eventually. He is not the sort of male to harm a female.”

The underlying message was clear. Lucien would not, but Eris could not make any promises about the other males in his family. “I understand.”

“Then let us go there now. There is more still I would like to tell you, blossom.”

Instead of walking, Eris winnowed you to his chambers. You wondered if it was for the ease, or if it was because Eris worried about you running into someone he’d rather you avoid. Was everything in Forest House a walking danger, or was he paranoid? Was it his mate instincts, or did he care for you more than the flirting earlier that day? 

Eris’s chambers were rather simple. Quaint, perhaps. He didn’t have many decorations, save for some little acorns and leaves and a stack of papers that almost looked like they were covered in children’s scribbles. You wondered how he would feel when your little knick knacks covered every knock and cranny. 

“This is the safest place for you to be in this house. The drawing room is alright, too, but I would prefer if you refrained from being there unless myself, my mother, or Lucien are present. Should you decide to be there alone and anyone comes in, please excuse yourself as quickly as you can.”

You raised a brow. “Is it truly so dangerous here?”

Eris’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “The males in my family like to break pretty things. Lucien, of course, is harmless, save for his relentless teasing. I don’t trust any of my other brothers.” Or Beron. Especially Beron. 

The air was becoming too tense, too serious. So you smiled and batted your eyelashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up before turning serious once more. At least you got Eris to smile for moment, though. “These are our chambers. You can do as you please here. Decorate it however you like. Paint the walls pink if it pleases you. I understand how…limiting your life will be here, but I would like for you to find a safe space within these four walls.” Eris nodded at the bed. “For your comfort, I will take the settee while you take the bed. At least until you are comfortable. While I am your mate, I don’t want you to think of me as the sort of male who will force you.”

You eyed the bed. It was bigger than your one in Spring. Perhaps the benefit of being an heir as opposed to the lowly daughter of a High Lord. “Your bed is large enough that we could lay on either side and never bother the other unless we so chose,” you said. “And I would hate for you to be uncomfortable in your own room. And…I might like to be held.”

Eris smiled appreciatively. “I will not do anything you do not wish me to do,” he said. He paused, searching your face. “But, if we ever do, I will begin taking a tonic. I will do everything I can to keep you safe here, but it is harder to make such guarantees if there are little ones around.”

Was there no end to Beron’s cruelty? You nodded. “Should I not be the one to take the tonic?”

“No.” Eris looked more serious than he ever had before. “If Beron found out, and I pray to the Mother that he never would, I would rather I take the punishment than you.”

He spat punishment like it was poison in his mouth. Mother above, there were a million things you wanted to ask. So many things about the Forest House, about his family, about what he had to endure. But you weren’t sure if you should, or if he could even answer. So, you closed the distance between you two and wrapped your arms around his middle. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the dull thump. thump. thump.

The door opened, and Eris was quick to wrap his arms around you, hold you closer. Tighter. You swiveled your head as best you could. A woman with long auburn hair and kind eyes stepped inside. Eris relaxed.

“I heard you found your mate,” Saffron said. Her eyes landed on you, and she smiled. As you pulled out of Eris’s arms, she said, “Oh, you’ve grown so much since I saw you last!”

When you were younger, Saffron would often come with Beron when he’d meet with your father. In recent decades, however, her presence was less frequent. She had changed, too, since you last saw her. While still kind, her eyes held a sort of pain, and the way she held her hands close to her chest made you wonder if she endured her own brand of Beron’s punishments. 

You smiled at her. “It’s nice to have another friendly face here.”

“You’ll soon be sick of my face. My son will be furious of how much time I spend with you,” Saffron said. “I always hoped one of my sons would be your mate. I’m glad it was Eris.”

You looked up at him, your soft smile becoming a grin. “So am I.”

[bimboothefool]

Reader was taken kidnapped by Wally and taken to his world. But what Wally didn't expect is that all the other characters would start to remember memories with the reader as a child and discover the truth of their colorful world.

( Now it's up to you to decide what will happen! Will they help the reader get back to the real world or will they become so attached to the reader that it would help Wally keep them there with them FOREVER. )

ℌ𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔶 ℑ’𝔪 ℌ𝔬𝔪𝔢

𝔗𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰: Kidnapping, Yandere Behavior (You know the drill keep this shit in fiction.), Stockholm Syndrome, Amnesia, Possessive Behavior, Wally manipulating the others, and Gaslighting

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯’𝔰 𝔏𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯: Thank you so much for this request and I apologize for taking so long so much came up, but regardless thanks for the request let’s jump right in!! Keep in mind it could either be read as platonic or romantic regardless spoiler alert they don’t see you grow up.

- Wally was surprised to see you after all these years. Same thing with the rest of the crew, your eyes are definitely different instead of that whimsy you’ve once held. You’re rather cautious, it still wows them how different you are now.

- Wally did believe for the time being that he’s the only one who truly remembers you and for a while that’s true. But once you’re in their world things started to change.

- Eddie and Frank are the first few to notice that you looked oddly familiar. When he asked specific questions about your childhood it started to click for him.

- Sally and Julie are shocked that you remembered the lines of a play or the rules of a game. They start to ask themselves the same questions why do you look so familiar yet different.

- Howdy, Poppy and Barnaby are a bit unnerved when you remember stuff like the residents orders or certain joke punchlines. Even certain recipe ingredients. How come you know those things.

- They all meet together to discuss the possibility of how they felt so familiar with you, but this is seemingly their first time meeting you. They all come to the conclusion that they’ve met you before. [Excluding Wally since he fully remembers you.]

- For a while they’re all happy to have you back, but you’re getting homesick. You constantly ask questions on how to get back to your world. But they’re not even sure if it’s possible.

- But only Wally knows a way in and out of their world and keeps it out of your grasp. He even starts manipulating the others.

- “We have them back, why let them go now? Don’t you all miss having our best friend?” He asked the others as they’re all conflicted. Sure they miss you and love you, but was keeping you here really right?

- This could go one of two ways. The first being they do buy into Wally’s twisted line of thinking, why go back to such a troubled and dangerous world? You can stay here and everyday is nothing, but joy and laughter.

- They’ll start gaslighting you into buying into this logic as well, which really freaks you out and you start lashing out. They see this as you throwing a tantrum.

- Another way this can go down, they aren’t sure and start asking you why you want to go home. And you explain that yeah your world isn’t perfect, but it’s still your home.

- Soon they all start talking about how to get you back home, out of Wally’s watchful eyes. You all start to unraveling and untying the mysteries of their world and Wally’s existence.

- Either way it’s ultimately up to you to really choose your own path on how things will play out.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoy my stuff please feel free to check out my other stories from other fandoms, along with reblogging and commenting on it! If you like my art and wanna commission me for some art, head over to my kofi!

[doe-prince]

I love Golden Shrike! I've had my own comic idea for about a decade now, but I'm wondering, for you, how long did it take you to be confident enough with your art to start your comics? had you attempted panels and backgrounds earlier and didn't put them out because you weren't happy with them yet? I'm almost done with my characters and writing but I'm worried I'm not good enough to actually start doing panels

(these are just my views and experiences! there's as many approaches as there's artists)

I was BAD when I started comics, but then I again I was a kid who didn't care if my bunny-cat-digimon comics weren't good enough, it was just fun to do. Which is what it should still be, fun and a fulfillment to you. I think the happiest an artisit can be is when they can draw like they have no audience.

My comics stopped in my teenhood when I actually wanted to make something good. I made so much groundwork but VERY rarely got to the actual page production because I thought everything should be perfect, but we all know there's no such thing. When I noticed all my attempts were doomed, I stopped making them for like ten years until I was zapped with Fuck It We Ball-mentality. And it's the best thing that has happened to me. Childhood whimsy. Make your own toys.

Did I make test pages for Golden Shrike before starting production? Well, the first page of the comic is a test page. And the second page. And the whole first chapter. I just never stopped. Not smart but it's what works for me. Starting these 'test pages' has kickstarted two bigger comics for me, Golden Shrike and Jet and Harley.

Sure I made couple of style tests for GS even though I had a clear visual vision from the start, but Jet and Harley I just started to draw without any real practice pieces, just based on couple of CSP brushes I wanted to use. This isn't very smart as you'll likely find out later that MAN, this style takes too much effort, but if you're unlike me and don't care so much for consistency, you can always simplify it on the fly. And even I've had to change it: I stopped shading after chapter 5, briefly used 3D assets in upcoming pages, now I'm gonna shrink the font a little. They're teeny tiny things for readers, but huge for me.

There's many comic authors who like to plan every little detail before getting to work, but it doesn't work for me so I can't say much about it. I have a skeleton to follow, but I fully flesh out each chapter one by one when I reach them with pages, because I like to revisit my old visions with fresh brains. When you actually get to work, you might realize some scenes aren't needed, or they'd be better changed. Don't be scared to crack some ribs off your story skeleton. Being too loyal to your old vision can often hinder you.

Starting production is the biggest monster in comic making, but after the first step you'll mow over it leaving it in your dust and create a baby you can be so proud of. I wish you, and everyone else on the cusp of their projects GOOD LUCK, HAVE FUN, LOVE YOUR WORK.

[metalomagnetic]

Hi metalo! How are you? Hope your injury is getting better.

I wanted to ask if you had any scenes for Cannis Major, where V sees Sirius making an effort to support or show care to V. Like when Sirius tried to make tea for him when he was pissed off. Or took him to Black Manor and shared his childhood with him and maybe any other time where Sirius is obviously in love and showing it (whether V realises it or not)

Unfortunately, my injury got worse, but now it's slowly getting better again. I don't know what beef life has with me, but I hope it gives me some relief, eventually.

Let me look in my folder of all the deleted Canis Major scenes! I'm pretty sure I wrote something about the tea scene! Please don't mind if it's rough, I struggle to edit properly today.

There it is! Hope you enjoy it, even if it is a bit whimsy.

***

When he enters the house, he hears loud banging from the kitchen; he just managed to get his anger under control, but it's awakening again when he goes to investigate and see the mess- no, the destruction- Sirius managed, and in such a short time, too.

Pots, pans, plates, thrown around everywhere. Even the cutlery drawer is open and ravaged.

It puts Voldemort on edge, that part of his brain that cannot stand disorder.

"What are you doing?"

Sirius kicks a cabinet with his foot, trying to close it. It won't, because he shoved too many things inside it.

"I'm making you tea," he barks. "But your furniture refuses to cooperate."

Voldemort's dark mood vanishes, on the spot. Suddenly, the mess doesn't make him want to strangle Sirius, but amuses him, instead.

He's most amused that Sirius thought a cup of tea would calm Voldemort's anger, as if he's a moody old grandmother only appeased by tea and jam.

Bellatrix is the same; when she notices he is tired, or displeased, she offers him tea. But even she has the good sense not to think of it when Voldemort is in a rage.

Yet the fact that Sirius attempted it, nevertheless, that he wanted to lighten Voldemort's mood...

And it's not because he fears Voldemort's anger, no. This isn't motivated by fear.

"Go on, then. Make tea."

He tries. It only makes Voldemort smile wider. He doesn't know why this makes him smile, this level of incompetence was never something to amuse him, but Sirius- well, everything looks good on Sirius, even failing to boil water.

Sirius is a talented portioneer, but somehow it doesn't translate to the kitchen, even if these skills usually overlap. Perhaps this is the first time he is actually using a stove, because it seems to confuse him greatly.

"Spoiled, rich brat," Voldemort mutters, but it's with fondness, instead of his usual disdain for purebloods raised in luxury, with house elves to serve their every need.

He takes pity on Sirius- and on his kitchen- so he takes over, removing Sirius from the stove before he burns down the house.

When he serves the tea, and he's done cleaning up, Sirius frowns at his cup.

"I don't understand how you make it so good."

He remembers Sirius claiming he isn't a fan of tea, unless it's spiked with alcohol. But that was long ago, when they only just met.

These days, Sirius never refuses when Voldemort offers, even if he only adds a splash of milk to it, and not an ounce of vodka.

"It's made with love," Voldemort drawls, and Sirius rolls his eyes.

He watches Sirius enjoy the beverage. Voldemort doesn't quite taste his own. Hasn't, in a long time, but he still enjoys it because at least it's hot, and it warms him, even if there's only a hint of flavour, like it's the case with everything he eats or drinks.

He finds himself wondering, in case Sirius would have managed brewing it, if Voldemort would have tasted something, then. If he'd have found it better, if some Sirius-like essence would have transferred to the tea, and made Voldemort actually taste it.

[bucca2]

Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod

König x high school sweetheart reader

3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.2k words

tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash

spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.

[PREV] [NEXT]

The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.

He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—

“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.

“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.

His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”

His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”

“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”

“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.

“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”

“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.

“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.

“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.

“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.

“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.

“Yes, mama,” he whispers.

That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)

He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”

“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.

He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.

“Is that why you wear the hood?”

“Hmm?”

“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”

“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”

“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”

“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”

She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.

“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”

“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”

“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”

“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”

“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”

She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.

He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.

“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”

“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”

That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.

“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You know what I look like, though.”

“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”

“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”

She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”

“You might not like what you see.”

“You said you didn’t look much different.”

“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”

He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.

He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.

“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”

She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.

He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.

Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.

For König, they’re the highlight of the job.

As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.

So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.

König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—

He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.

His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.

Hands-on.

He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.

In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.

That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.

That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.

“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.

Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”

König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“Drive yourself.”

“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”

He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.

He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.

That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.

Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?

He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.

The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.

Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.

The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.

Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.

He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.

He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.

But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.

He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.

It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.

He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.

He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.

His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.

He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.

It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.

It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.

“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.

“His loss.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.

She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”

There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.

“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.

“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.

It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.

“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

He scoffs. “Too late for that.”

“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.

“I want to help you.”

Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?

“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.

“I can listen to you, at least.”

They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).

But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.

“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”

Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?

“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”

“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.

“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”

“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”

“You have me.”

She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.

“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”

She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”

Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”

Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.

“For what?”

“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.

She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”

He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.

“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”

“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.

She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.

“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”

“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.

“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.

Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.

"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.

sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)

ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!

taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian

[squash1]

An essay on what makes Gansey, Gansey.

Go.

okay. strap in.

in this essay i will examine how, ultimately, what makes gansey, gansey is his experience with death at an early age and how that is fundamentally about a loss of childhood.

to understand what makes gansey, gansey you have to look at gansey’s two lives. gansey was born into a wealthy family — the kind of family that passes down names father to son and has buildings then built in that name. until gansey was 10, we can assume he fit into this affluent world without issue. little gansey was most likely a spoiled little rich kid — not a bad person but inherently out of touch because of the reality he was born into. when gansey dies the first time, it changes his perception of reality — he has an understanding of time and mortality that most adults don’t have never mind ten year olds. this first death is a representation of an early end to gansey’s childhood. he no longer easily fits into the wealthy, laid back world he was born into. we have to assume that until gansey went to stay with mallory, he was in DC with his parents trying to fit into their world but instead feeling intensely isolated and lonely. because even though gansey changed, his parents didn’t.

mallory is an important figure because of the time he represents in gansey’s life. we know from mallory that at 14 gansey struggled intensely with anxiety, that he hadn’t yet learned to present only his shiny gansey mask to the world. but instead of being dismissive, mallory showed gansey kindness and empathy — he was perhaps gansey’s first friend because sometimes delightfully weird old british men are exactly what a teenager needs. mallory helped gansey in his quest, but he also helped him to discover this new version of himself by making him feel not only safe but like there were other people beyond his parent’s world that would understand this pull and fascination he had.

understanding this backstory is key to understanding what makes gansey, gansey, because an intimate knowledge of death is what has produced this gansey that we meet in the raven boys. the gansey we meet is silly and strange and charming. he uses phrases like “hey, tiger” and drinks organic apple juice from the bottle, he has a favorite yellow sweater and is vocal about his love for it. and that’s just gansey, those are ganseyisms as i like to say. gansey has chosen to live his life with childlike wonder and whimsy because he lost that at an early age but doesn’t want to loose it forever. he has decided to embrace the weird, unknown parts of life. he is essentially reclaiming his time. he’s saying yes i know that there is death and darkness in the world, yes i have seen it first hand, yes i still feel it sometimes but i am going to live my life hopefully. gansey has carved out a life for himself in henrietta — a town that in and of itself makes him feel known, but also contains a piece of his old world in aglionby — and has slowly found people who fit, who feel right, who are 1,000 years old just like him. gansey has been lonely for a lot of his life but he found people who were lonely like he was lonely, that were looking for the something more just like he was looking for the something more. he is a compelling leader not because of money or status, but because his hope and quest and belief are real and made real because of gansey’s relationship to mortality. he has made it his mission to build a life he wants, even if it’s short, even if he’s scared. what makes gansey, gansey is his ability to choose hope anyway, to choose to live anyway.

if you made it this far, i love u

[miss-saytr]

I am grieving. But it’s healthy grieving. I am grieving my childhood.

The part of the brain that responds to nostalgia releases good feelings inside the mind, making you cling to the warmth of when you were safe and happy. The school I went to, the camps I went to, clubs, fairs, camps, play dates. The past is gone but it made me who I am today. Despite the fact that I can still engage in what makes me happy, what is “child-like” in nature, the whimsy, is not the same when you were a kid. Like eating chocolate ice cream as a kid vs when you’re an adult. When I was a kid I got chocolate ice cream because it was my favorite and it was yummy. As an adult I hesitate to get it and try a different flavor because of how many calories and sugar is in it, the poor people in the poor conditions that have to harvest chocolate, the forests destroyed and animals killed to get palm oil for a tasty treat.

Being home alone was the opportunity to do things you wouldn’t normally do, you could sneak in an adult show on television and jump on the bed. Being home alone now means continuing my cycle of habit without a change.

The fact this year’s summer was my last three month summer before I step into the cycle of work, before I have my last day of school ever, before I have to give up clubs and crafts and random dancing with the kids that got accepted into my college. I already even grieve my public high school years, taken away early by covid.

Time is irreversible.

[qtubbo]

it’s sad that the doozers were already predisposed to viewing sunny negatively. they don’t know how big of a deal it was for her to give foolish a crown within minutes of meeting him. antoine didn’t get a crown and phil still doesn’t have one. getting that from sunny is a huge show of trust and affection.

and the roles she assigns are basically just playing house. i remember so many little kids from my childhood who would love to get the role of family pet. the way she treated him was silly but it wasn’t intentionally mean.

i fully went through that stream thinking everyone was having fun and laughing along, then I go on twitter and see, I’m so glad leo hates sunny or else i’d have to deal with her annoying ********. How could they not enjoy the energy it was silly it was two kids beefing dramatically. Sunny really liked foolish from the get go, obviously enjoyed his presence and just wanted to have fun with him. They were happy with him cause he was treating them with respect and care without being overly questioning.

People see childish whimsy and think toddlers should die apparently.