Youâve been following this blog under bog-rosmary, but all the worlds and stories we createâtheyâre ours together. So weâve decided to have one creative homeâjust the two of us.
One blog. Two persons. Co-authors. Still HL, and a whole bunch of other worlds.
For individual finds: @sepawstian and @buzinaaa
This post will become a full masterlist soon, but for now, itâs a little placeholder. In case anyone wonders why a couple of new faces popped up in your feed đ±
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My contribution to the @newyearnewsebinis event! A gift for @sepawstian and @buzinaaa. I hope you like this as much as I had fun writing it <3
Prompts:Â
1. To find a home of your own together with the person you love.
2. Sebastian lives in the 19th century. He doesnât have Ominis, but he does have Anne. After finishing Hogwarts, at about 20 years old, he either touches a magical artifact or meddles a bit too much with spells and ends up in the future, in the 21st century. There he meets Ominis and helps him gain sight through magic.
3. Gingerbread cookies.
We honestly donât have words for how grateful we are for this precious gift.
Little star, thank you so much for this completely unexpected miracle.
We never could have imagined that we would receive⊠such a beautiful and incredibly long story.âšâšâš
Many thanks to @merrietj for tagging us! The original tag game is here
"Fun tag game idea: say something that most of your followers wouldnât actually know"
Hmm. Since this blog belongs to two people, I think itâs only fair to say it like this.
We both have known each other for over eight years. And weâre absolutely happy about thatđ
@buzinaaa has an unfinished art education (at the level of an art school). đż
And @sepawstian has a completed musical education (which is why all his texts are filled with such love for music; seriously, I adore how gently and carefully he talks about it!) đ¶
But we both have university degrees in a completely different field.
no pressure tags: @cherryray-hl @vagrandeer and everyone who wants)
...well, we didnât see this coming either, but⊠Christmas, Dune, D&D and "What if" conversations? sure. no doubt.
New Year, New Sebinis | 2.1k | Full AO3 text
⊠based on @ombeodblack prompt ⊠|
The world is savoury.
The world is savoury: it smells of cinnamon, cardamom, and star anise.
The world is savoury: the spice clogs the nose, tickles the senses, teases, teases, teases, whipping up thoughts far removed from the living-room sofa, a warm blanket, and soft, careful embraces.
The world is savoury: it coils through the apartment with the scent of mulled wine, erases boundaries, and Christmas â meant to arrive any moment now â takes a step back. And another. And another.
âŠto give up the surname, to remain Sallow but not Gaunts, to be an Auror and a Ministry employee, a curse-breaker and an Unspeakable â it does not matter who to be, as long as together, to disappear on assignments and always come back, to argue and make up, to change, and change, and change again, but always â to stay together.
Not to return to manors and ancestral homes, but to have a small house for two, an apple orchard in the backyard, a swing beneath the trees, and perhaps a house-elf, in old age.
Not to have children of their own, but maybe â to adopt someone.
To look after Anneâs children from time to time, to bake pies and make savoury spices for Christmas, to get covered in flour, to read fairy tales and invent them together as they go.
Never to assume that life would turn out this way, but to be glad that they always remained together.
And when the Ministry and private commissions leave them, to teach preschoolers from Anneâs circle, and friends, and friends of friends, something useful from time to time.
Or music.
Or â a few times a week â to visit St Mungoâs and spend time with those who have lost their sight.
Alternative backstory | Sebastian, Garreth, Leander, Ominis | Complicated Relationships | 2.4 k | Full AO3 text
He remembers that evening, that night, with painful clarity. The way the wooden floorboards beneath him had already warmed, while Garreth sat on the bed. The way his own scattered feelings would not let him step closer, would not let him touch the one he loved so deeply â and had failed so profoundly. The way green eyes reddened with tears; the way freckled fingers opposite dug into the fabric of his trousers, clenching it tight, almost to a creak.
And later â with what bitterness, with what pain and aching longing â Garreth whispered:
âI love you, Sebastian. I do. But I canât love you for the both of us. I canât⊠I canât make you love yourself, take care of yourself, stop risking yourself for Anne or for me, no matter what I, or Anne, or Solomon might do. I canât, Sebastian.â
Hogwent Calendar | The Coldest Morning of the Year | Sebinis | AO3
Winter arrives without a sound, settling over Feldcroft in the night with a single breath.
Winter arrives late, like a guest whoâs grown tired on the road â yet from her very first step she commands the world with a mistressâs hand, ordering the cold to bite.
Winter arrives.
And Ominis wakes â sharply, with a jolt, as if someone has nudged him beneath the ribs. But Sebastian beside him is asleep.
As is the whole house; the space dozes under layers of silence and the occasional soft sigh.
Ominis canât understand what stirred him.
If only he had sight â he would see snow drifting slowly outside the window, surprisingly large flakes, soft, downy. If only he could see â the world is bright, bright, bright, almost like day.
But Ominisâs eyes hold only night, and he reaches carefully for his wand, whispering, Tempus.
Tempus answers in the same quiet whisper somewhere at the base of his skull:Â 3:15 AM.
Ominis sinks back into the pillow and exhales.
Goes still.
Draws in the air through his nose.
Opens his eyes wide.
The air hits him with the sharpness of a honed knife, the bite of strong alcohol, the mercilessness of a winter that has only just begun.
Ominis swallows, pushing the ache down his throat, and breathes out â softly â warming himself from inside.
His nose starts to chill, and he burrows deeper into the pillows, pulling the blanket tighter.
But beneath that blanket is Sebastian as well; they share one between them, and Ominisâs movement tugs Sebastian closer. He presses a hot â nearly searing â nose somewhere into Ominisâs shoulder, and Ominis canât help the uneven breath that escapes him.
It feels unbearably loud.
âWhaâs wrongâŠ?â Sebastian murmurs, sleepy, hoarse, quiet.
And Ominis answers in the same whisper.
âI donât know,â he says. âSomething woke meâŠâ
Sebastian stills â completely. Ominis feels his heat, his sudden attentive tension.
A few seconds later he relaxes.
âItâs all right,â he says.
âItâs just the night,â he says.
He pauses for a moment.
ââŠitâs snowing,â he adds â softer, far softer, almost on an exhale you could miss.
âSnowing, then,â Ominis echoes.
âSnowingâŠâ Sebastian repeats, and in his voice Ominis hears something inexplicably warm. He canât make sense of it.
âCold?â Sebastian asks when Ominis has already decided they wonât be talking anymore.
âNo,â Ominis blurts out immediately â in a whisper. And hides his nose in the blanket.
A quiet chuckle reaches him.
âSure,â comes from somewhere above his ear.
âSure,â Ominis grumbles back, barely audible.
Sebastian goes quiet. Huffs. Sighs.
âCome here,â he says.
Ominis doesnât know where here is supposed to be, but Sebastian pulls him in anyway â drawing him under his arm, slinging a leg over him, wrapping the blanket more tightly around them both.
âSleep,â he says. âItâs nowhere near morning.â
And Ominis wants to protest, but â his heart is beating too wildly somewhere up in his throat, and Sebastianâs arms are far too warm.
He falls asleep.
They are thirteen.
Snow settles slowly over Feldcroft.
Tomorrow theyâll say it was the coldest morning of the year.
October was rich in stories. Truly.
And, as it turns out, itâs easy to write when you have a map to follow â
or a little box to reach into blindly, pulling out a fragment that suddenly becomes a piece of a whole world.
We thought about it and decided: winter should be the same. âš
A gentler path. A small guide. Something to lean on.
31 tiny winter windows â to peek into, to open, to remember something old and discover something new.
We made this for ourselves.
But if youâd like to open the windows too â youâre welcome to. âš
[ james hugged sirius and introduced him as his sworn brother. he was lying. he had them three ]
He shields Peter when theyâre six and sneaking into the neighborâs garden for applesâbecause obviously those apples taste better than their own. And Mrs. Dorrâwho could possibly be afraid of that old grumpy witch, huh? Besides, itâs a challenge. And really, the fact that Peter catches his foot on a root and plows face-first into the dirt isnât Pettigrewâs fault. The apples⊠well, that was Jamesâs idea anyway, and he dutifully snuffles through the scolding that follows. He isnât angry with Peterâwhat else are friends for, after all? Especially when Pete sneaks into his yard despite being grounded and pulls two slices of almond and rhubarb pie from under his shirt.
âStole them while Mum wasnât looking,â Pete whispers, handing one over.
âYouâre the best friend in the whole world,â James whispers back, laughing as he stuffs the pie into his mouth.
They laugh and chatter for another half hour before the door to the veranda slams and he hears his fatherâs voice.
James instantly steps in front of Peter.
âRun!â he hisses.
Peter nods quickly and slips into the bushes.
James spins around with a grin bright enough to fool anyone.
Peter is warm, warm, warm.
For James, Peter tastes like apples on the summer veranda, like quaffle tosses over the fence when theyâd just turned five. Peter plays black in chess; James doesnât understand a thing about Mordred, but he frowns stubbornly, puffing and snorting in outrage every time Pete knocks down his queen. Peter, for James, is the best friend from that sun-drenched childhoodâthe voice of reason, the first unshattered nerve.
Some might call him cowardly; James just rolls up his sleeves and wades straight into the middle of a scuffle, proud even when he ends up with a black eye. It doesnât matterâthe bruise will fade in a weekâbut Peter is his first, most precious, childhood friend, and James will fight with him, for him, to the very end.
They would have become friends anyway: in another universe, with different names, under any arrangement of stars. James would have met them all, but PeterâPeter he would always meet first.
If James tortured a guitar, Sirius the microphone, and Remus the drums, Pete would be the one lifting a hand to his face, rolling up his metaphorical sleeves, giving their music that particular Marauder sound.
James could shout anything alongside Sirius forever, but a Friday-night football game in their favorite pub at the corner of Ninth and Seventh would have been their tradition since childhood.
They would have happened to each otherâwhether something happened, or nothing at all.
âŠBut the cards fell so that nothing of that sort ever did.
/ sometimes I find myself returning to this story over and over again
/ iâm so grateful we decided to start it
Sci-Fi // Mass Effect AU // WIP
The world, burned in a crimson agony, hadnât finished dying â it merely smoldered on the coals of its own aftermath.
Navigation, prediction, and comm systems destroyed in an instant. The AI burned down to zero. Trade routes between galaxies collapsed. No contact with his brother â deafening silence on all fronts. He could scream himself hoarse, but no one would hear. No one would come.
Might as well start believing again in those wild human stories â about a miraculous neurostimulant that could push the mind beyond its limits. Some really did believe in it. Ominis knew that for sure.
He would have rolled his eyes, if he werenât required to become something... less human. And if he had the time.
But time â was gone.
Silence deafened him, blinded him with its toothless, rotten grin of rumors and old transmissions â delayed for weeks now, or never arriving at all.
Their shared creation with Marvolo â their enterprise, their trade in information under the carefully hidden identity of the Shadow Broker, with Ominis presented as the Brokerâs âassistant AIâ sealed inside a humanoid interface â was falling into the Abyss.
It took Ominis tremendous control to hold it together. Enormous resources. Strength. Himself.
At times he even forgot he was human â his body worn thin, but accustomed to the schedule heâd forced upon it: sleep, food, or their absence.
And if he looked back, Ominis couldnât pinpoint the moment they stopped falling. When the world stopped slipping through their fingers. When, in the sea of slag, new secrets began to grow â and new rumors. When the station, suspended above one of some godforsaken planetâs moons, came alive again.
And the information â once again began to pay off.
Sometimes it happens: youâre supposed to carefully analyze causes, actions, and consequences â but instead, youâre holding a glass handed to you by an omnipresent engineer-genius who keeps trying to take you apart just to check how an AI could have survived. And you avert your eyes from another mercenary, who seems equally determined to drive you insane.
Garreth Weasley and Sebastian Sallow.
They responded to those names, never revealing their surnames â but Ominis knew them anyway. Somehow, they had ended up almost exactly where Christian and Marvolo once were.
They werenât friends. They werenât family. They didnât even know Ominis was human, but...
It took everything Ominis had not to break and trust them with the secret.
Control â the only thing that had saved him for so many years.
Control...
Control trembled on the edge of collapse, on the razorâs edge of his overstrained nervous system â on the edge of biotic flares bursting in his palms.
A bullet tore through two shredded shields â kinetic and biotic â grazing his temple, passing dangerously close to the built-in ocular implant module. Ominis felt the pulsing pain building in his head, the hot, sticky trail of blood across his face.
It shouldnât have mattered. He could, should, had to maintain control â over his abilities, over the situation â regardless of his state. And in general, he would have managed the aftermath, when the firefight was over and the conference room of that godforsaken planetary facility was filled with corpses â if not for one thing.
Sebastian.
Who was standing right beside him now, and Ominis could feel the weight of anotherâs gaze on him.
And in Sebastianâs presence, the perfect, exquisite, long-maintained legend of Ominis-the-AI â sealed inside a humanoid shell, the indifferent assistant of the mysterious Shadow Broker, Ominis-who-couldnât-be-flustered, Ominis-who-wasnât-human â all of it was collapsing into the void.
Because, obviously, blood was running down his face; biotics had saved them through the entire firefight; and biotics still coiled between his fingers, glowing blue, demanding recharge â and control, control, control.
Control that always threatened to fail around Sebastian.
Sebastian won. His vision, overloaded by the neural interface, flickered out.
Ominis doubled over, pressing his left wrist hard against the stabbing pain in his temple, fingers of his right hand clawing into the shredded surface of the table.
Kinktober 2025 | Free choice | Pre-care | AO3: eng
âI missed you,â he says, gently kissing Sebastian just below the ear, his lips brushing the skin ever so lightly.
He pulls back. Maintains an unreadable expression. Raises an eyebrow.
âAnd by the way, Mr. Sallow-Gaunt, after any business trip youâre required to undergo a thorough examination.â
âThorough, you say, Mr. Sallow-Gaunt?â Sebastian chuckles softly â Ominis hears it in his voice, and, just like through all the years theyâve lived together, it still stirs that same feeling of love in him.
Just like everything else about Sebastian, no matter how many difficult or heated moments theyâve been through, or how often theyâve argued.
âVery thorough,â Ominis practically mirrors his smile, reaching with his free hand to pull Sebastianâs cloak back.
...and if you listen closely, holding your breath, the silence breaks apart into a host of tiny sounds: the rustle of cars passing outside the window, the wind stirring the crowns of trees, the soft creak of old floorboards under their catâs paws, indistinct voices behind the wall â and the muffled, slightly faltering tune of a home piano somewhere a few floors above.
The heavy blanket nearly sinks him into the old, sagging couch, as does Sebastianâs leg thrown lazily across him, his soft breathing somewhere against Ominisâs bare shoulder. Ominis only smiles, trying to shift a little closer to the wall â careful not to wake his boyfriend, and at the same time to catch todayâs melody more clearly.
Sometimes it happens: the words just donât come together.
Or ratherâno, thatâs not quite right. Something catches you.
A drawing, a story, a conversation, a few offhanded words â they all leave something behind in you, tiny seeds that begin to sprout over time.
Thoughts swarm and overlap, the text gets rewritten again and again, its concept shifts, becomes something entirely different, and you keep thinking,
and thinking,
and t h i n k i n g â
nurturing the words through yourself.
But they donât grow.
The words slip through your fingers, the rhythm breaks, sentences split and double and grind against your teeth, sounding wrong â and you abandon them again, feeling trapped inside a loop.
âŠand only later, after a long time and miles of thought, you realize: sometimes you just have to let go.
Sometimes you have to let the words rest in your head, let the text be simple, not layered the way I always endlessly love.
Sometimes you have to accept that things break apart into separate stories â even if they steal their beginnings from one another.
And then, when your sprouted seeds turn out not to be one tree, but a small grove, you understand:
âŠhe finds Ominis in the back garden, in the apple orchard, amidst the dying blaze of autumn colors. November stands at the threshold: frost crunches beneath his boots, and the whole world seems to take on that crystal-clear, sharp transparency in which the essence of all things is laid bareâalong with the skeletons of the oldest nightmares.
And that old, unrootable love.
He finds Ominis there, on the hanging garden swing, wearing a shirt and vest, one leg tucked beneath him in a high dueling boot. In the careless cradle of his bent knee and the swingâs soft cushions, their cat is stretched out.
Sebastian finds him there: in the keen afterânoon light, with scattered sunspots across his face, his hair pulled back into a low tail, toying with a feather and their domesticated cat. And in that golden autumn glow, the ring on Ominisâs finger seems to tighten around Sebastianâs heart with renewed force.
Sebastian finds Ominis thereâwhere heâs always found him, all these years. Ominis feels him before he hears him and smiles, softly and sincerely, the way he smiles only for him.
If Only There Were Always Such Stillness After the Storms
Kinktober 2025 | Temporary/permanent marks | Sinbad!AU | Full AO3 text
The Sallow family perished tragically, swallowed by the southern winter storms.
Young Lady Anne Sallow survived by sheer miracle and was placed under the guardianship of Governor Solomon Sallow.
Ominisâtheir court Oracleâwas once himself cast ashore upon the islands by long winter tempests.
There are many mages in this world, but Oracles can be counted on one hand.
When the time comes, Solomon sends his niece together with Ominis to the heart of their island Empire, to attend the celebration of the Return of the Book of Life, hoping to strengthen the bonds between distant provinces.
Anne, fearing the many dangers ahead, begs Ominis to take her place as the heir, while she disguises herself as his court Oracle. Fortunately, few know their faces well enough to tell the difference.
Through a series of clerical mistakes, their deception succeedsâand everyone believes them to be who they claim to be.
Including Captain Sebastian, a pirate said to have stolen the Book of Life itselfâthe very man Ominis must now travel with, to prevent his escape, avert his execution, and return the Book to its rightful keepers.
