Not My Writing - Blog Posts

Hello my little knights!

I made this account to share the artwork I made for my Hollow Knight AU fan fiction Fade to Oblivion on AO3.

First I'd likd to share this old art work of my deutragonist Canitia in a wedding dress :D

If you're new here, feel free to check out the fan fiction yourself!

(In your mortal radi au) Does pk miss the white lady, did he go to the garden to see/serch her ?

I know that she isn't the most important character but still....

Does he even love her anymore ?

Mortal Radiance AU

These are some good questions, and they actually got me thinking a lot. I didn't really include the White Lady in my story or touch on her much. I did have one comic idea with her but it got cut to keep the story from veering off track.

Now that I'm done, though.... This is a very fascinating question.

(5 days later)

Slams paper on table

HEY SO I WROTE A THING

I am ill for weeks after I am pulled back into reality. Something about all my pieces not quite being together means I take longer to recover than She did. She tells me that it is fine, that I need to recover my strength so I can work. We still have many graves yet to dig. She will shoulder the burden for this little while.

I am told my children are informed of my new existence, though none have visited. And I do not leave to visit them. Two of them terrify me, though for vastly different reasons, and the thought of meeting again with my daughter troubles me.

When I can finally get out of bed without assistance, I do not go see her, however. I go see my Lady.

It is hard navigating without being everywhere at once. I know the path to my Lady's garden intimately, but the path is far more difficult than I recall. Greenpath, surely, has had no caretakers, so runs rampant with overgrowth. The thorns catch on my robe and tear at my skin.

I bleed something dark and smokey.

I try not to think about it too much.

My Lady's branches spill out above the entrance to her hideaway. The corpse of brave Dryya. Once a friend, now only a carcass decorating my Lady's garden. Old blood coats her blade and shell. Even in death, she seems stalwart.

I am stalling.

The White Lady stirs as I enter her chamber. Her eyes, once the purest blue eyes I have ever seen, are clouded now. She wears age like a shawl, it weighs on her shoulders and bunches up around her neck. Her face, once pale and youthful, now is tired and wrinkled. Yet, there is a beauty there of which I could never seem to word. A thousand poets could never do her justice. I should know, I have had them try.

"Child? Is that you again?" Her voice is as I recalled, and a sharp pain creases my soul. I will never again be able to call back to her.

She has bound herself, so I move forward until I am right under her. Still, her cloudy eyes do not recognize me at first, and I cannot blame her for it. Not for the first time, I wish the vessel had left me my voice. There are so many things I could say to her, so many words that now I will never be able to reach.

My Lady's eyes finally find my hollow sockets, and she gasps. It is a small thing, barely audible, but in the silence of our meeting I know to look for it. There is a moment between us of unspeakable agony.

"You." The Pale Queen finally breathes the world, and it breaks the aching quiet.

I put a hand on her bindings, 'Me' I wish I could say.

There are so many words I wish I could say. There is so much between us. Good and bad in equal measure. It has been years since we have been face to face, and I thought it would never again happen. I find myself unprepared for this moment.

She does not need my reply. My Lady knows me better than I know myself sometimes. She smiles, though it never quite reaches her eyes.

"You are smaller than I remember."

I laugh, as best I can laugh anyways. I point to her, and gesture that it is perhaps she who has grown taller. It takes her a moment to understand, but the chuckle I earn fills what is left of my soul with joy.

"Perhaps." She concedes, "I have grown much, and still have much to grow still."

Her eyes dim suddenly at that, and she looks around.

"Where is our child?" She asks at last, voice soft and weathered.

I tell her, as best I can, that I do not know. That I came to see her. I expect this to lift her spirits. It does not.

"Did you see this outcome?" She asks.

I pause for a moment. There is much to that question that I do not know. In part, it is hard to remember what it was like. How did I describe it to my daughter? Like a great root that I scuttled across, observing paths unseen to most.

I shake my head. It is too slow and uncertain for my own liking. But it is as much of the truth as I can muster.

There is a long silence that follows. I have gotten used to those, especially with Her. She rarely talks to me at all. So I wait for my Lady's response with all the patience that I have learned.

"Was it worth it?"

Her voice is so soft when she speaks, like it could crack under the gentlest of touches. Delicate, and heartbroken. With four words I can feel what little ground we shared start to shatter.

"Was any of this worth it, I wonder?" She continues, "I do not think I know anymore."

And there is a gap between us. An aching maw of a chasm that threatens to swallow us whole. I want to cross it. I want to reassure her that we had done our best, that we were not to blame.

Yet the words I was once so masterful with are gone now. The voice I would use to soothe and heal her pain now is no more. So there is silence.

Anything I would say to her would be a lie, anyways.

when susan sontag wrote “I must change my life so that I can live it, not wait for it”

Have I reblogged this before and expressed my undying, unconditional love for this fic? No? Well, now I'm here.

I love this idea so much and the characterization for Anakin(s). AND THE READER BEING A JEDI CONSULAR !! I don't see a lot of those out there, so, reading it is just refreshing. I absolutely adore the interactions between the characters (i.e: the sky's Anakin getting annoyed by long-haired Anakin, Sky's banter with her Anakin, Poor Obi-Wan being a professional Jedi, literally Sky's cluelessness, curiosity, and infatuation with long-haired Anakin).

I love, love this fanfiction so much; the amount of thought put to this? HELLO?? I especially love the writing style too! It's the perfect amount of action and emotions crafted together. I have something to enjoy and go to throughout the day, I'm smiling like a dog. Thank you for writing this! ♥

Another You (1)

an anakin skywalker/jedi consular!reader fic set during the clone wars

the pitch: best friends with anakin since he had joined the jedi order, you hadn’t expected to catch feelings for him, not that hard, at least. his intentions were clear — his heart already enraptured by the nubian senator, leaving you to ruminate about the prospect of letting go of not just him, but maybe everything. until another anakin shows up, and your — your universe’s anakin starts behaving strangely.

A/N: this is a gift for my padawan, @kaizsche! happy birthday, kai! i hope you enjoy this fic! i return from an unexpectedly long hiatus with a three-part fic and i hope that all my other readers enjoy this short-fic too! a note to all readers — there’s no y/n here, the reader’s nickname for the fic is sky. that’s all from my end! happy reading!

part one — and you are?

word count: 3, 380

part one | ... | ....

As a Consular, you were trained to study the deepest abyss of the Living and the shrouded myths of the Cosmic. Albeit well-trained with a lightsaber, being a Jedi meant forsaking weapons for words. Diplomacy over bloodshed. Knowledge, insights, and lessons instead of learning the different ways of besting war-mongering droids and bureaucrats.

You look back at the looming hallways of the Temple, letting out a sigh as you turn around to watch the warships meander above the setting skies through the windows. The sun used to shine brighter, you think, but perhaps it’s the shadows that don’t let the light reach the galaxy anymore.

A Nubian ship soars between where the indigo darkens the pale orange in the sky and another wave of longing and sorrow digs deeper into your heart.

It had been almost a standard week since the Five Hundred and First Legion had arrived for their monthly rotation to protect Coruscant.

“Let’s hope we make it a week and not get called back to bust some Seppies since the 501st seems to be the only competent one to get some wins.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that had tugged at your lips.

“Don’t let Obi-Wan hear you say that.”

A deep rumble of laughter had echoed through Anakin’s chest and he’d pulled you into his embrace. It hadn’t taken a Force-sensitive to sense the happiness spread through your body, or that the same happiness had made him glow in the sea of shadows drowning the Force. He smelled just like he always did — fuel, probably the one from Malastare, since the scent always tingled your skin, and kyber, his bond with the second crystal coursing through his year-old arm. The spark of the Force, you called it, the crystal accepting the machine as a part of him.

But there was something more. You stiffened, the soft, sweet scent making you sneeze, making you draw back and—

“Since when in the name of Maker did you start wearing nlorna fruit-scented perfume?”

His cheekbones immediately stained red, shock dripping from every inch of his face until the charm and delight took over for the damage control.

“Some reporter tried to get up too close while I was on my way to the Temple.”

You laughed it off, knowing very well the Chancellor had banned journalists to enter the Temple after an incident involving three women, two men, and a food fight in the barracks had ended with Commander Cody coming off with a sprained neck and handing nearly half of the 212th two days’ worth of time of cleaning the trooper barracks on Coruscant. There were admirers of General Kenobi and on the other hand, well, admirers even Kenobi couldn’t negotiate with.

Obviously, it wouldn’t take an idiot to know. Anakin had always confided everything to you. He’d considered you as the best of his friends — the point which had exactly been the problem for the past two years. But you knew he was keeping something. You knew it, and the realization of it had cracked through whatever strength you always mustered whenever he smiled at you with those blue eyes — always so tired. Ones that had come to no one else to you for caf, for stories about your mind-blowing inventions, always teasing you about the time you had created such a fluffy pillow for Master Yoda’s backaches that it had taken him the collective efforts of the Council to wake him up from his slumber. You had never known what had happened in Master Yoda’s chambers, but the Council had learned not to disturb the centuries-old master from his sleep ever since then.

Anakin would continue on and on, narrating the tales of his adventures across the galaxy, while you kept on wondering when he’d slip like he usually did and confirm your worst fears.

But you never got the chance. The war grew on, spreading its tentacles to the corners of the Outer Rim to the point where the once full hallways of the Temple had never been so desolate, so hollow and abandoned. Every attempt of studying the Force your meditation had ended up just easing the mighty power as it writhed under the screams of terror, of the losses of life and the constant blasts and booms of missiles and bombs.

Just when you wished for some peace in the Temple, word had spread of spies in the Senate. You had joined Anakin and Obi-Wan to watch another one of the Senate’s heated sessions. The Chancellor’s bony fingers extended across the air, his steel voice commanding Senator Orn Free-Taa to shut down his baseless arguing against Senator Organa. But the senator from Ryloth simply refused to back down, until another pod smoothly drifted to join the three, the air ringing with the determination and tranquility brought forth by none other than Padmé Amidala.

The bond between you and Anakin flared up, something so bright and looming, such beauty and danger filling your soul till it vanished with a spark. You looked at Anakin, who had been clapping with the surrounding senators, his radiant smile only and only for no one but the occupant of the Nubian pod.

For so long, you had wondered who it was he’d found, had been so desperate for an opportunity to see, maybe echo some made-up protest or remark that’d dull his interest and make him come back to you no matter how selfish it sounded. But it was hard for you to ignore the goodness in Padmé’s heart, her resilience easing the Force in a way you never could, no matter how much time you spent studying it, meditating to repair its cracks and tear apart the veins of darkness shrouding its light.

Anakin Skywalker had fallen in love, and it wasn’t you. It was someone else and you… you were simply too late.

You let out a sigh, watching the Nubian ship disappear between the tall skyscrapers of the ecumenopolis. The scrolls on your table rustle for your attention, and you heavy-heartedly oblige, going back to once again analyze another countermeasure against the Separatists, who were now rumored to have created some sort of machine that could decimate entire civilizations — a planet-killer, the informant had said, before being poisoned to death.

You set down the scrolls with a heavy thump. Ever since Padmé, Anakin hardly ever came to visit. Ever since this stupid rumor of the Separatists’ planet-killer, the governing body of the entire galaxy looked up to you for solutions, for answers. They had offered you a chunk of kyber crystal retrieved from Ilum stolen by the Separatists and then recovered by Master Yoda himself. They demanded a weapon, sharply silencing your idea of diplomacy.

You wished for Anakin to maybe visit you, to just… just forget the karking war for five freaking minutes and let his childhood lullabies lull you to a restful slumber. Instead, you were drilling your gaze on the kyber crystal covering under a massive rug, the strength of the Force humming within a wonder for your meditation, the crystal’s deathly blue glow the bane of your sleep.

But that was the point. Maybe just forget the war. It did seem never-ending; one day the Republic won, the Separatists in the other. There was simply no end in sight. The number of lives to save was steeply increasing, missing civilians and dead soldiers bruising the Republic’s morale. Your master had been one of the unfortunate Jedi to pass into the Cosmic Force on Geonosis. Some of the padawans you had formed friendships with were now soldiers scattered across the galaxy. The Council was too busy arguing about matters behind closed doors, matters in half of which you were indirectly involved in. Anakin was away most of the time, the Hero With No Fear too busy to worry about his best friend who had so foolishly violated her morals and had fallen in love with him.

Isn’t that what you had exactly trained yourself to avoid?

“It’ll pass.”

You scoff at your Master’s words ringing in your head. The anger simmering in your bones builds up to a crescendo, and makes its presence known with the shatter of your sensor arrays on the opposite wall. Glass shards litter your laboratory, blood trickling down the lines of your palms, your exhausted tears joining the red dripping on the floor.

A soft twang bends the air in the room and echoes through the Force. The hair on the back of the neck rises sharply, and you watch the kyber in bewilderment. The deathly blue behind the rug hums stronger. Your equipment breathes to life, and your teary eyes squint in confusion, rushing toward the kyber as an invisible force possesses your machinery to run diagnostics on its own.

The deathly blue turns as bright as the Coruscanti sun shining at the Core, lighting up the edges of the galaxy with a power rivaling the one you and so many others before you control. You shield your eyes, stumbling over boxes and books detailing advancements of the past. Your equipment spits electric sparks, and you cower behind your arms.

“Stop it—STOP!”

The glow dies, the light in your laboratory returning to just as it was before. You launch into a fit of coughs, waving your hands to disperse the smoke filling the lab. You tune your senses and reach out into the Force.

The wave of a horrifying scream slams into you, knocking you off your feet. You summon the Force again, hoping the mystical power can help you steady yourself. But you freefall toward the table of sharp-edged screws and bolts until you’re pulled forward headlong towards a figure.

You regain your balance, fingernails digging into a smooth fabric covering a rock-hard chest. A tendril of warmth and concern wraps around your Force signature, and you look up at your savior.

“Anakin!”

You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing him in, all of him— wait, was that cabbage and banthaweed? Oh, who in the maker gave a shit — was he alright? Was he—

Your train of thought crashed to a halt as you draw back, gazing at Anakin before you. Your heart rate accelerates to a speed you can’t bring yourself to control, and you pray to the Maker he doesn’t hear it.

He’d done something to his hair. It was longer now, falling just below his shoulder and partly tied back, streaks of light brown and grey near his temples. Loose shirts and trousers and softer tones of beige and brown had replaced his dark, billowing robes. Most of all, you’re aware of his stormy blue eyes roving over you, wide-eyed in absolute shock.

“Hi.”

There’s a strange breath in the greeting that escapes him, one that makes you gulp; his throat visibly bobs as he clenches his jaw. The movement makes you realize there are two feet between you and him. Two feet away from the thunderous storm that is always Anakin Skywalker.

To your surprise, there’s no storm raging before you, nothing but a serene sun shining bright, its warm tranquillity reminding you of the one time you and Anakin had snuck off-world to Naboo as padawans. He’d promised the summers there at the time were delightful, and true to his words, they really were.

You reach out, intertwining your fingers with his, and meet flesh instead of cold metal.

You yelp, harshly flinching backwards. Anakin’s eyebrows shoot up in concern and he raises both his hands in an attempt to placate you. You’re horrified as you see his right arm, no longer a prosthetic but actual flesh.

“Sky!”

A sharp voice rings through the dimly-lit hallways, footsteps running their way towards you, and Anakin Skywalker skids to a stop at the threshold of your laboratory.

“Sky, are you—”

He halts his question mid-way, acknowledging the presence of the man standing right beside you.

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two stunned men, before the Jedi-clad Anakin ignites his lightsaber, pointing the laser tip toward his long-haired double.

“Sky, get behind me.”

“Wha—” You whirl toward him with an indignant expression and your hands on your hips. “Do you think I’m incapable of defending myself?”

“No, I don’t—”

“On the contrary,” the long-haired Anakin speaks, his voice mellifluous and silvery, “I think not.”

You and Anakin pause in beginning another one of your bickering sessions, Anakin’s lightsaber still leveled against his double.

“Who in the hell are you?”

“Anakin Skywalker?” the long-haired Anakin answers again in the same tone, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “And you must be…”

“Anakin Skywalker,” says your Anakin, the height of his lightsaber inching slowly to the ground, utterly confused.

Shit.

“Well, this is interesting.”

The three of you swerve toward Obi-Wan standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he strokes his beard while Cody’s eyes are going to pop right off of his skull, witnessing one Anakin standing on each of your sides. Captain Rex, on the other hand, just aged a standard decade more with the lines appearing on his forehead.

“Stand down, Anakin. There’s no need for… that,” Obi-Wan ends rather admonishingly, though stunningly failing, still roiling from his possible lack of sleep — or the shock of seeing a copy of his former padawan.

Anakin’s lightsaber retracts into its hilt, and Obi-Wan turns to you.

“Consular Sky.”

Double shit.

“Are you alright?”

Oh, thank Maker—“Yes, Master Kenobi,” you nod fervently, not knowing whether you’re doing a good job of convincing Obi-Wan or yourself. “I’m completely fine, all thanks to Anakin.”

“It’s no problem, Sky.”

“You’re welcome.”

Anakin shoots a glare at, well, the long-haired Anakin, who shrugs with a relaxed raise of his eyebrows.

Obi-Wan looks like he’s about to faint right then and there, but the negotiator that he’s always been, he schools his expression just in time before anyone else can comment on it.

“Could you tell us what happened here, Sky?”

You look around your laboratory, trying to find an answer to the same question evidently ringing loud in everyone else’s minds.

Something along the lines of your nighttime reading pops up in your mind, and you cringe inwardly.

Double shit.

Obi-Wan’s expression settles into the one he’s always worn whenever he’s attending another one of the Council’s meetings.

Triple shit.

“Well, I don’t think I need to tell you where we’re going next, are we?”

“Which is the point here—”

The room’s attention turns back to the long-haired Anakin, eyes twinkling bright with the same softness as the time of his appearance.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Maker, he had to ask.

“From another universe, this version of Skywalker is?”

You grit your teeth and find the courage to nod.

Master Yoda grips his cane even tighter. Honestly, you really want to pity the old master, but Master Windu sits right next to him, clearly grouchy at being disturbed from the sleep he probably got after weeks and weeks of leading attack and rescue campaigns.

“How is this even possible?” Master Koon’s voice rumbles through his mask, sharp and alert despite the drowsiness emanating from a majority of the Jedi Council.

“Well, Master Koon, there’s the multiverse theory,” you speak, voice slightly quivering. “It’s clear our universe isn’t the only one that exists. There are thousands of worlds out there with billions and trillions of lifeforms. But they’re distantly separated from ours, just like all others. For all we know, they might have their own laws of physics, their own collections of stars and galaxies — that is, if stars and galaxies can exist in those universes,” you stop a nervous hiccup and continue. “—and maybe even their own intelligent civilizations.”

“Is this true, then?” Master Windu leans forward with his signature soul-scanning glare. “Are you truly from another universe? Or just another shapeshifter?”

All other Council members swerve their heads toward the long-haired Anakin standing on your right.

“I assure you, Master Windu,” the other Anakin shrugs lightly. “I am not from here. I—”

He takes a second to look around, his gaze turning distant.

“I will admit I have been here before, in the Temple, though this one does look incredibly different from the one I was raised and trained in.”

Several pairs of eyebrows shoot up in surprise, even Anakin’s, who stands just in the corner behind where Obi-Wan has himself perched on another one of the Council chairs.

Master Windu recovers from his internal heart attack and focuses his line of sight on you.

“How did this happen?”

“Honestly, even I’m not sure, Master Windu,” you admit. “I did nothing of any sort to the crystal, it just started to glow, and the next thing I know—”

“I’m here,” the other Anakin finishes, eyes twinkling in some sort of amused annoyance.

Master Yoda taps his cane, and the Council’s incoming deliberations surrender to silence.

“Will of the Force, it seems, that this Skywalker has been sent here. Aid us, harm us, know that, I do not.”

He flutters his eyes close for a brief second, tendrils of his power hesitantly coiling around you and the other — long-haired — Anakin before refocusing them on you.

“Consular—” you stiffen as Master Yoda blurts out your name. “—find a way to send this Skywalker to his home, your task it is. Help you, our Skywalker will. Lead Captain Rex and the Five-Oh-First, Master Kenobi will—”

Behind Obi-Wan, Anakin steps forward to protest.

“—Temporarily, till resolved, the situation is.”

Anakin stops to stand on your left, the slight touch from his elbow a sign of comfort and reassurance.

“Important I feel, it is, to send this Skywalker home. Stay longer, he must not. At war, we already are. Already upon us, the shadows of the Sith are.”

The long-haired Anakin’s eyebrows raise.

You sigh inwardly. I’ll explain it to you later.

He relaxes, and you turn toward your Anakin, who gazes at his counterpart with a strange mixture of suspicion and something along the lines of annoyance.

“Send him home quickly, you must, Consular,” Master Yoda speaks with an inspired urgency. “Terrible it will be, I sense if the Sith find him. Not just for Jedi, but for the Galaxy, also.”

Your Anakin moves closer, his fingertips brushing yours, a tingling sensation itching yours to touch his.

You focus your gaze on the masters before you and bow down with both Anakins, nodding towards Yoda and Windu.

“Master Kenobi will show our guest to his new quarters.”

Obi-Wan seems relieved at finally being allowed to stretch his legs as he strides over to the long-haired Anakin.

“Come along,” the master pauses before smiling in his wise and incredibly tired ways. “Anakin.”

The other Anakin offers a cordial nod and turns to you.

“I suppose I’ll be seeing you later.”

He poses it as a question of sorts. You don’t take time to dissect his intentions, having no energy to do so with the day’s certainly turbulent events and give him a nod.

“Thank you.”

Your eyes slightly twitch in alertness as he offers you a bright, albeit tired smile. Before you can respond or react, he’s already followed Obi-Wan to his quarters, having long disappeared around the nearby corner.

“Sky?”

Your Anakin puts his hand — the metal hand — on your shoulder.

You can practically feel the gears of his joints creaking to ensure his touch stays gentle, despite knowing very well he could easily crush your lung right now with the frustration nagging at his veins.

“It’s nothing, Anakin,” you answer before he can voice his worries out loud. “I’ll be fine—we better get some sleep, lots of work to do.”

Anakin nods, letting go of you with a soft smile. With a sweep of his robes, he walks out of the Council chambers.

You finally let out the breath you’d been holding; the image of both of their smiles filling your vision much clearer than they were supposed to.

Quadruple shit.

to be continued...

thank you so so much for reading! if you'd like to be added to the tag list, comment below! <33

gif credits to @nowadayz

cross-posted on AO3 <33

part one | ... | ....

My confession... someone tell Shinji to fuck me in front of the bathroom mirror already😫

nsfw. Smut. Not sure if you read this post but i got you 🩷

“Ye like that don't ya? Watchin’ yer greedy pussy swallow my cock? Hmmm?”, he hummed behind you, barely able to keep his own composure. It was damn hot to have a front row seat to his own fucking session. Shinji knew best how the visuals can mess with your head because he was pretty close to creaming your hole.

You let out some incoherent nonsense, unable to respond between your cascade of orgasms. Watching yourself getting fucked senselessly had you overstimulated to the point of no return.

“What was that, doll? Want a better view?”. And with that ‘misunderstanding’—he grabbed you by the thighs, lifted you off the floor and pulled your legs apart. He continued to hump you from behind, like an animal, balls slapping hard against your cheeks.

“Fuck doll. I needa cum. Too sexy”. He succumb to his own reflection and began shooting his seed.

Lush ribbons of cream filled your holes like an eclair, the excess stuffing spilled out from around the circumference of his girth. He held you close against his chest, warm sweaty bodies sticking together while cum continued to drip from where you two were connected.

“Shit. Babe. I know ya too fucked out but wanna try this again? Upside down this time?”

Shinji didn't last 5 minutes against gravity.

❀˖˚ ༘𐙚 Confections & Confessions

Shinji Hirako x gn!reader

Synopsis: You are the third seat of Squad 3, who just so happens to have a little crush on a certain blond captain from Squad 5. When you are reminded that his birthday is coming up, you decide—with a little push from your captain—to gift Shinji a handmade treat…

CW: sfw, set during TBTP, confessions, reader is a bit nervous and unsure of themself, Rose being #1 wingman, Shinji being Shinji at the end

WC: 4k

Notes: Happy Birthday, Shinji! 💞 I wanted to try something a little different here, and I got a little carried away with the plot. So, this came out longer than I had initially intended it to be.

Also, as an extra note! Correct me if I’m wrong, but I know birthdays weren’t really celebrated individually in Japan until after WWII—it was more of a New Year’s thing, I believe? I still tried to keep it accurate to the time, but since this is meant for Shinji’s birthday, we’ll have to suspend our disbelief a little here.

The rhythmic melody of your captain’s violin performance reaches your ears as you come up to his office to deliver a report. Just as you were about to open the door, you heard Lieutenant Iba’s yelling, cutting the music off. Chikane Iba was known for her stern demeanor and never hesitated in criticizing your captain, Rojuro ‘Rose’ Otoribashi.

Rose’s daily musical performance followed by Chikane’s verbal assault was a daily occurrence, one you had gotten used to as a member of the Third Division.

With a sigh, you prepare yourself mentally to face your lieutenant’s strict glare as you interrupt them. “I apologize for the interruption, Captain, Lieutenant. I have a report for you, sir.” You direct your attention to Rose.

“Good grief, perfect timing. Get this man to finally work on something.” The elder woman sighs sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. With a stabbing glare, she looks over at the blond pointedly. “I expect these to be completed when I return, and so help me, if I find you wasting away with these instruments instead, I’ll have more than just a few choice words for you.”

Even though her words aren’t directed at you, you can’t help but feel a foreboding sense of dread settle deep in your gut at her threatening tone. You nod timidly as she moves past you, exiting the office and leaving a thick silence in her wake that you could cut with your zanpakutō. You much prefer the sound of your captain’s music.

“I don’t know how you can keep testing her patience like that.” You comment offhandedly as you walk further into the office, coming up to Rose’s desk as he rises from his slumped position.

“As long as she doesn’t take my precious Candice away…” He sighs with a pained shudder, moving to pick up a stack of files on top of his desk. “And, I’m still captain at the end of the day.” He starts to rifle through the pages quickly, but not quick enough for your eyes to miss the words on the front page:

Joint Training Session: Squads 3 and 5.

You ignore the way your heart skips a beat, clearing your throat to direct his attention back to you, gesturing to the report in your hand in question.

“Ah, just set it there,” he points off to the side of his cluttered desk to another stack of papers. “This takes precedence.”

“Is that so?” You question casually, trying not to show how interested you really are. 

“Yes, well, considering we have this training session tomorrow…” he trails off, signing off on something.

“Oh, right. That’s tomorrow, huh.” There’s a feigned disinterest in your tone that causes Rose to glance at you with a knowing smile.

“You’re supposed to be there too, you know.”

“Of course.”

A brief moment of silence passes after your quick response as you stare at each other, Rose’s smile growing more as you start to waver.

“Ahh! Please stop staring at me like that!” You yell at him, irritated by his expression. You know what that look means, but you don’t want to admit it.

“Come now, there’s no need to be shy about having a crush. Shinji is-“

“I don’t have a crush on him!” You snap, cutting him off with a huff and feeling your face flush with warmth. This was not a conversation you were expecting to have so early in the morning.

“Ahh, a first love. You should be embracing it! In fact, a blossoming romance is-“

“Ok, I’ll be heading out now! I’ve done my job and delivered my report, captain. I suggest you finish your work before Lieutenant Iba comes back.” You interrupt once more, not wanting to hear his whole spiel that he was going to go on about.

You hear him call out your name as you head toward the door. “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“Right.” You sigh quietly, nervous about the day ahead and hoping that your captain wouldn’t say anything to embarrass you.

The following afternoon, you find yourself at the training grounds in the Fifth Division’s barracks, overseeing a small group of soul reapers from both Squad 3 and 5 as they train together. A few paces away, you can hear Chikane strictly direct the group in front of her, and you can’t help but feel sympathetic at the fearful looks on their faces.

To the other side, you spot Lieutenant Aizen as he politely instructs his group as they look to him in awe, blushes on their cheeks. Gin stands with him to help, the young prodigy making comments every now and then.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Rose sitting with Shinji, the two of them chatting as they sip on tea. Your group was closest to where they were, so you could faintly make out what they were saying as you stepped back to watch the soul reapers train in front of you.

“I’m tellin’ ya Rose, ya gotta be more sneaky with lazin’ around.” You hear Shinji express, your heart fluttering at the sound of his drawling voice. It had been a few days since you last saw him, and just the sound of him talking is enough to make you giddy with excitement.

“And how many times must I say that I’m not lazing around like you?”

“Sure, sure.” Shinji’s honey eyes meet yours, causing your gaze to flick away out of habit. 

Since when had you been staring at him? You hadn’t even noticed. The anxiety at having been caught staring has your heart racing, but you have to admit to yourself that it wasn’t just being noticed that had you feeling that way. The image of Shinji lounging in his seat stays in your mind; his long and glossy hair shimmering in the sunlight as it sways in the gentle spring breeze, an easy-going expression gracing his handsome features. You feel your cheeks warming, mentally kicking yourself to pull it together—you’re working, after all!

“That reminds me, though,” Rose’s gentle voice rings, his next few words catching your attention. “Your birthday is coming up next week, right?”

That's right! Shinji’s birthday was in just a few days. It had slipped your mind, what with work and all. You had wanted to do something for him, but you weren't quite sure what to do.

“Hm? Yeah, it is.”

“Do you have any plans?” Rose asks curiously, taking a sip from his steaming cup.

“Not really… Maybe I’ll just go out after work for some drinks. Like last year.” Shinji responds in a contemplative manner, tilting his head over at the other blond and reminding him of a shared memory they had.

“Hm, yeah, that was nice. That sake the bar owner offered you was delicious, wasn’t it?”

“It was, now I can’t wait…” Shinji sighs, clearly wanting another taste of the drink.

“So you’re not doing anything during the day, then?” Rose asks after a short pause, quite suspiciously, in your opinion.

“No? As if Sōsuke’ll let me!” Shinji says with a scowl, shooting a glare over at said lieutenant.

“When has that ever stopped you?” Rose deadpans.

Shinji ignores him, continuing on. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Rose glances in your direction, that knowing smile back on his lips. You pretend to ignore him, but he knows you heard. Shinji's perceptive eyes follow his line of sight to you, but before he can question Rose again, clearly not buying what he said, Rose changes the subject.

You can feel Shinji's lingering gaze on your back as you try your hardest to ignore it. You let out the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding when you heard him get drawn into the conversation with Rose.

You get lost in your thoughts again. You wished to go out with them to the bar, but you know better. It’s not like you could just show up uninvited, and even if you could, you’d feel way too awkward trying to join in. Maybe you could just slip a gift onto his desk at some point during the day? Yeah, you think that sounds like a good idea. But now you’re not sure what you should get him.

As you ponder and try to brainstorm, you hear someone politely call your name. When you glance up, you find one of the soul reapers in your training group looking at you with a concerned expression on his face.

“Oh! Sorry about that, I got lost in thought,” you laugh sheepishly, “Nice work, everyone! Let’s move on to the next exercise.”

Any remaining thoughts of gifts get pushed to the back of your head as you focus back on the training session in front of you. You can think about all that later tonight.

After spending the whole night agonizing over it, you find yourself in front of Rose in his office, desperate for help. You never thought you’d be asking him something like this, as your nerves eat away at your insides.

“What do you need?” He questions, saying your name, a curious look in his eyes as he watches you nervously fiddle with your fingers.

Fidgeting in your spot, you mumble out a reply, “I don’t know what to get him.”

“Get what for whom?” Your sharp eyes glare at him while he laughs heartily.

“I’m just kidding. I, for one, am proud that you are working up the courage to confess your feelings.”

“Woah! I never said anything about confessing!” You blush, trying to push the nerve-wracking thought away. That’s an entire hurdle you are not ready for—even if the idea is sort of exhilarating. “I just want to get him something nice, at the very least.”

Rose thinks it over for a second before offering, “How about you make him some namagashi like nerikiri? I know he enjoys having them on special occasions, especially when Ukitake invites us all over to that specialty tea shop he frequents.”

You consider it, but you’ve never made the traditional dessert before, let alone watched someone make it. So you find yourself a bit hesitant at the idea.

“Plus, if it came from you, I’m sure Shinji would be over the moon.”

You squint at him, trying to read his expression, but you can’t really tell what he meant by that. Or, it's more like you refuse to indulge in the idea that Shinji might like you like that. You don’t want to get your hopes up over nothing. So, you cast his latter statement aside as just flattery before focusing on the idea he brought up.

“I don’t know… I’ve never made anything like that before. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“I have a friend who owns a confectionery shop over in the food district. I can introduce you if you’d like.” He offers nicely with a patient smile.

You chew over his offer; if this friend of his could help you out, you think it’s not such a bad idea after all. At the end of the day, you trust Rose’s opinion, not only as your captain but as a friend.

“Ok. If you could, that would be great.”

“Perfect! We can swing by after work. I don’t want Chikane admonishing either of us for skipping the day.” He sighs heavily, and you nod in agreement.

After Rose had introduced you to his friend, you would stop by the confectionery shop every day after work to practice making the namagashi. You spent many hours agonizing away to create a perfectly designed and tasty sweet. The shopkeeper, a kind elderly gentleman, had even given you a premium tea blend to pair with the dessert after seeing how hard you had worked on it.

Today was the 10th of May, Shinji’s birthday, and you had just finished making the delicate sweet mere moments ago as you rushed to the Squad 5 barracks. The shopkeeper had drilled into you the fact that the soft dessert should ideally be eaten immediately, so you had practiced for this by estimating the shortest time it would take to get from one place to another. You had timed it perfectly so that you could place the gift on Shinji’s desk right before he came back with Aizen after a meeting that Rose had told you about. Your captain had kindly turned a blind eye and let you skip out on work to get his done.

Having made it to your destination in under five minutes, you do your best to sneak into the fifth’s barracks, moving quickly to the captain’s office and making sure not to jostle the neatly wrapped gift in your hands. You come face to face with the doors leading to said office and wait a moment, making sure no one is inside before inching your way into the quaint room.

Your nerves are getting to you, but before you can change your mind, you muster all of your courage and quickly move to Shinji’s desk to gently place the present down.

It’s like a weight has lifted off your shoulders when you release the bundle from your hands, all the tension from the past week washing away. You find yourself relieved to finally have achieved what you had practiced so hard on and planned to do.

Now that you’ve accomplished what you came to do, you take a moment to look around the room. While you had been there plenty of times before for work and the times Shinji had drawn you into conversation, you had never taken a moment to have a close look at the place before.

You know you shouldn’t, but something pulls at you to take a look at the shelves in the room. You find a simple comb next to a few bottles that look like they are filled with creams and oils for hair. You can’t help but smile softly and chuckle a bit at that; no wonder Shinji’s hair looks so luscious all the time. He's definitely the type to pay special attention and take care of it so well.

Suddenly, a deep voice breaks your quiet musing. “It looks like you have a visitor, Captain Hirako.”

With a start, you look behind you in alarm, spotting Aizen by the door. The color drains from your face and with dread you realize that you’ve been caught and have no escape out of this, knowing Shinji isn’t far behind.

“Huh? Who is it?” Shinji comes around the corner, his long hair and captain’s haori swaying behind him. His eyes land on your frozen form as the curiosity in them turns to surprise. It quickly shifts, though, to an amused expression as he stares at you. You look like a mouse caught between a cat and a wall.

“Oh? What do we have here? Rose sent ya for somethin’?” Comes Shinji’s immediate response, a playful tone slinking into his voice.

“Um, no, not quite.” You stammer out, mind trying to keep up with everything happening.

“It appears the third seat has brought a gift for you,” Aizen interjects, drawing attention over to Shinji’s desk, where the delicately wrapped nerikiri lay.

You can’t help but cast a quick glare Aizen’s way. Now you really don’t have an out for this.

“Oh? Ya got somethin’ for little ol’ me? How sweet of ya!” Shinji drawls as he saunters over to his desk to pick up the bundle. You feel your face heat up, embarrassed and flustered from the situation and his teasing tone. 

A beat of silence passes as you rack your brain, trying to come up with something to say. However, before you can decide on what, Shinji speaks once more.

“Hey Sōsuke. Didn’t ya mention you have to go pick up some stuff from Squad 1?”

“It was paperwork, not just ‘some stuff’, captain. But yes, I did.”

“Why don’tcha go along and do that now, then?”

“Captain, I think-“

“Go on now,” Shinji shoos him away. You stand awkwardly off to the side during the whole interaction, unsure of what to do.

Aizen sighs deeply before replying with a brief, “Yes, captain,” and with a nod of his head, the lieutenant leaves the room.

Now you’re left with Shinji. Alone. Having to explain your way out of this, casually, so that you don’t make a fool of yourself. Ugh, what are you going to do? This was not part of the plan! Why would Aizen draw attention to the gift, and why would you let yourself get distracted when you knew you hadn’t had much time?

Shinji breaks your thoughts as you chastise yourself. “So yer my secret admirer.”

“Huh?”

“I’m just messin’ with ya.” He assures with a chuckle, the teasing lilt in his voice never leaving as he takes hold of the wrapped gift sitting neatly on his desk.

You can hear your heart beating in your ears as he starts to unwrap the artfully tied cloth. “Let's see, what did ya get me?”

When he finally unravels the wrapping to reveal your handmade nerikiri, the wide grin he wears falters, morphing into a pleasant surprise. He stares at it for a few more seconds, noticing the rough edges on the soft treat before asking you, “Did ya make these yerself?”

“I did,” you answer nervously. “I made them in the shape of a daffodil,” you pause, hesitating before saying, “they remind me of you.”

You look away, feeling shy, but you end up missing the blush creeping up his neck and to his cheeks as he looks away as well, his hair hiding his face from you.

“That so…?” 

An awkward few seconds pass by before he straightens up, a wide and charming grin tugging on his lips as he glances back at you. “Well then, sweet pea, I’ll savor every last bite!”

Warmth rushes to your already flushed face at his use of the pet name as you try to respond. The butterflies fluttering away in your stomach don’t let up even as you watch him go to brew the tea that you had included with the treat. “Uh, I hope it’s to your liking.” 

“These’re great! So I’m sure I will, especially if they’re made by yer sweet hands, darlin'.” He flashes an attractive smirk your way.

He makes his way back over, two cups in his hand as he passes one over to you, gesturing for you to sit with him. He picks up the colorful sweet and takes a bite, letting out a delighted, “mmm,” before taking a sip of tea.

“It’s really good. Thanks, doll.”

“I’m glad you like it! Happy Birthday, Shinji.”

“Thanks,” he smiles brightly. However, you notice it drops slightly as it looks like he mulls something over. “Y’know? Wasn’t expectin’ fer ya to do somethin’ for me.” He gazes into your eyes, a perceptive look in his warm browns. “Why?”

“Well, I guess I got the little push that I needed, and I… guess I also wanted to…” You trail off, getting lost in his eyes as a sudden urge to tell him how you truly feel overwhelms you.

“You wanted to…?” He coaxes in a low tone, voice dropping to a hush.

“I wanted to tell you…”

Should you say it now? Should you tell him your feelings for him? That your eyes look for him in crowded rooms, that you look forward to the days when you get to work with his squad, in the chance that you can get a glimpse of? That you long to be near him, that you long to be with him at the end of the day.

You draw a deep breath, steeling yourself.

“I wanted to say that I like you. More than you could ever know.”

There’s a pause, the air thick with anticipation as you hold your breath, waiting to hear his response.

“Really? Say it again,” he whispers quietly.

“Wha-,” you stammer, but the genuine expression he wears has you repeating yourself, more confidently this time. “I said I like you.”

“Again.”

“I like you.”

“Again.” Ok, now he was just teasing you, a mischievous, cunning grin tugging on his features as he asks you again and again.

“Come on, that’s enough, don’t you think?” You pout, feeling all too flustered. Was he making fun of you? No, he wasn’t, you know better than that. Sure, he loved to make fun of Hiyori and tease those around him, but it was always in good fun, even if it didn’t always look that way with the freckled lieutenant. He would never want to intentionally hurt anyone he cared about; you knew that much from watching him for so long. It was one of his qualities that attracted you in the first place.

“You could say it a million times, and I don’t think I’d ever have enough. I wanna hear ya say it every damn day.”

Your heart flutters at his honest admission. “Don’t you think you’d get tired of hearing it that often?”

“I’d never get tired of hearin’ ya say that you like me! Would ya get tired of hearin’ me say it?” He retorts, questioning you in return.

You tilt your head curiously. Hold on, did you miss something? “I don’t recall hearing you say that you like me, though.”

A beat passes as he stares back at you before sheepishly scratching the back of his head. “Oh, that’s my bad, darlin’. I got all caught up in the moment that I forgot to say my piece.”

Shinji’s goofy grin drops as a more serious air surfaces around him. He faces you in earnest, placing a lithe hand on yours. 

“I like you too, y’know. Have for a while now,” he leans in closer to you, the crisp scent of his cologne invading your senses and drawing you closer to him. “Ya just made me the happiest man in the world right now.” He grins again, but it’s softer now, more tender as he confesses his feelings for you.

Your chest swells with a pleasant warmth, a sense of relief washing over you. The butterflies fluttering about inside you, not dancing out of nervousness now but from true joy.

“Really?” You ask quietly.

“Mhm,” he’s just a hairsbreadth away from you as he leans in closer, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Then say it again,” you whisper, his eyes flashing back to yours, a mirth glimmering in them before he chuckles lightly. 

“I like ya,” and just when his lips were about to press to yours, nearby chatter from outside his office causes you to pull back.

You clear your throat, “I should be heading back now.” You stand, dusting off your shihakushō. Shinji follows you, doing the same, albeit with a disgruntled look, clearly upset at having missed the chance to kiss you. 

“Headin’ back so soon?” He sighs, missing the way you chuckle quietly to yourself at his irritated grumbling.

“Yeah, well, lunch is already almost over, and it would be kind of awkward to have to explain everything to Lieutenant Aizen when he comes back. So...”

At the mention of his good-natured lieutenant, Shinji groans, tossing his head to the side. “Ugh, yer right.” He stares off into the distance for a second but before you can question him on it he’s speaking again.

“Thanks for all this.” He gestures to the empty box you had used for the nerikiri. “This is the best birthday present I could ever ask for.”

“I’m glad,” you smile sweetly. “Well, I hope you have fun with the others later tonight.”

“What’re ya sayin’?” He gives you a confused look, “Yer comin’ too!”

“Are you sure?”

”'Course I am, silly, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it!” He exclaims, making it clear that he wanted you there with him.

"Well then, I look forward to it!"

“Yer gonna make my birthday night even more special,” he voices suggestively, a teasing smirk quirking on his lips. "Plus, I want the other part of my gift." His eyes flicker down to your lips.

You’re so glad you ended up confessing, you think as you blush at his insinuation. You just know you aren’t going to hear the end of it when Rose finds out, telling you he was right.

Tagging @darthwhorecrux, Shinji wants you to make his night 😉

✦–professional slacker 🗣️ˎˊ˗ ——–——––--

平子 真子 - Shinji Hirako x reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: sfw // established relationship // Shinji hirako is on break day, so he can do whatever he wants with his princess.

------------- Break day for Captain Hirako means YOU aren't getting any moment of peace.

He’s lounging on the couch with you in his lap—legs spread, arms loose around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he hums some lazy jazz tune. You tried to get up to do literally anything, but nope. Not happening. Shinji has declared this a “no escape from boyfriend duty” kind of day.

“Where you goin’, huh?” he murmurs into your neck, pressing a kiss there and tugging you closer. “Break day means I finally get to harass my princess properly.”

“You mean smother,” you mumble, cheeks warm as his hands slide a little lower under your shirt.

“Tomato, tomahtoo,” he mutters, biting gently your shoulder. “You’re mine today, Name. That’s the rule.”

He ends up carrying you around the house like it’s a royal procession—on his back, in his arms, over the shoulder if you protests too much. He feeds you snacks with ridiculous “Say aaah~” antics, let you wear his big ah shirts, and insists you sit on his lap at all times—kitchen chairs, couch, bed, floor, doesn’t matter.

“You’re warm,” he tells you as an excuse, burying his face in your neck again. “Plus, your thighs are my emotional support pillows.”

if you try to tease him, maybe you'll get a pout —maybe—but it doesn’t last long when his hands are wrapped around you and he's whispering, “My pretty princess... always mine on days like this,”

random extra with ass groping 💔💔----

He’s got that shameless grin on his face - eyes half-lidded, voice low and full of mischief.

One hand stays tucked under his cheek like he’s all innocent, while the other? Firmly cupped over your ass, fingers splayed like it belongs there. Every now and then he gives it a lazy squeeze, like he's checking it’s still his. Spoiler: it is.

“Mmh… y’know,” he mumbles against your belly, lips brushing your skin, “for a princess, you’ve got one hell of a royal ass.”

You roll your eyes, though your breath catches a bit. “Shinji—”

“What?” he grins, lifting his head to look up at you with zero shame. “I’m just appreciating my monarchy.”

He props himself up, still lazily grabbing you, and presses a kiss just above your waistband. “C’mon, princess... after all the pampering, it’s only fair I give my thanks properly.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you laugh, swatting at him—but he only chuckles, letting his hand wander again.

“And yet... you still let me sleep in your lap like a spoiled mutt.”

“Because you are.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You say that like I won’t bite.”

You give him a look.

He smirks wider.

Yeah. You're cooked.

ART BY @ajuji_aju ON TWITE / X THZNK YOU IF YOU RED THIS FAR FAR

Tulips in Spring: a Magnus Archives Fanfic

Jon had thrown away godhood for him, like it hadn’t mattered.

Maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe Jon had just wanted the pain to end, and deification was something he had to step on to get there, like a stool to reach the top shelf.

Martin loved Jon. Jon loved him, and that meant they could fix this.

All Jon had to do was wake up.

Written for @seasons-in-the-archives' spring event. Takes place immediately after MAG 200.

AO3

------------------------

Cut the tether. Send them away.

He hadn’t thought he could.

Maybe we both die, but maybe not. Maybe everything works out, and we end up somewhere else.

One way or another, together. That was worth the risk.

Then he’d done the hard thing, the worst thing, the thing he’d warned himself he would have to do, and stabbed the one he loved.

The Web’s jury-rigged portal had taken them at once.

There’d been no time to process, no time to think, only to feel as they tore along the skein of pressure and speed, hurtled through the gaping wound between realities.

Martin hadn’t thought they’d wake up at all—never mind in some weird, brown field, three bodies under the moon.

Jon was bleeding, Jonah very dead, and Martin had not seen the tulips then.

It had been night, briskly cold under a star-choked sky. He had spotted a cabin and carried Jon there like he weighed nothing, shouting for help, bellowing himself into a hoarseness that would last for days.

The cabin was empty.

It was also unlocked, and Martin claimed it immediately as spoils of war.

#

There was power via solar panels. There was unlabeled canned food, and a… condition in the fridge of long-spoiled sustenance. None of that mattered.

The water ran clear and tasted fine, though it smelled of chlorine or something similar.

There was no phone. No television. No computer. That didn’t matter, either.

What mattered was the first aid kit under the bathroom sink.

Jon was alive, if unresponsive, and breathing sluggishly, but breathing, and his eyes were open and would not close, but they didn't move, so maybe he wasn’t seeing anything?

Was it like the apocalypse? Eyes open forever, not drying out, just spooky?

Didn’t matter.

The wound gaped like a mouth. Martin stitched, and cried, and thanked whatever goodness there was that he’d sewn so much in his teens.

Jon did not wake.

But he did not die, either.

#

Jon didn’t die.

And he didn’t die.

But Martin couldn’t get him to eat.

Maybe he still “ate” statements. Martin tried to recall ones he’d read before, but without the Eye’s power, he stumbled through them, forgot details, tripped over his own trailing thoughts.

It made no difference.

Jon didn’t die. After three days without infection, without things changing for the worse, without the Fears descending like ravenous wolves, Martin began to believe that Jon wouldn’t.

But he wouldn’t wake, either.

If only he’d wake up.

#

Martin was angry, after that.

The cabin sat in the center of a field, with only a distant blue line of hills to frame it.

He tripped over a handle in the backyard and so found the hidden door. Grass-covered, it opened with a hiss and ominous condensation.

Martin let it air out for a few hours before going in.

Face covered with a towel, he carried his anger down, and found enough supplies to keep them fed for years.

Longer, if Jon never ate again.

Worryingly, he also found packages labeled, RADIATION EXPOSURE: #1, #2, #3.

None were open. He did not open them. If they were going to die from radiation, it was probably already too late.

And maybe Martin wanted it to be.

Jon wouldn’t wake.

Jonah lay out in the field, rotting.

Martin had blood on his hands, and though he’d long washed it off, he could feel it there still.

He was angry.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough that Jonah was peacefully moldering, getting away with everything again, and Martin grabbed an axe and a shovel from this underground storage and took his anger outside.

It was time to dig a pit. It was time to make a mess.

Why worry when you could just make a hole really deep and drop in the pieces?

Why worry when you could chop the man at fault as many times as you wanted, and there was no one around to tell you, that’s enough?

Jonah wouldn’t feel it, but Martin told himself maybe he would. Told himself he was glad Jon had stabbed him, and had stabbed him a lot. Told himself maybe Jonah would know, that Hell was real just for him, that some cultures had it right, and damaging Jonah’s body would damage whatever opportunities arose in the afterlife.

Or maybe this was all there was, and Jonah was released into the ether.

Either way, dismembering the son of a bitch felt good.

Maybe, he thought as gore slicked his hands, Gertrude’d had the right idea, all along.

#

Sometimes, Jon breathed too fast.

Sometimes, Jon groaned, face tight as he shuddered.

Martin held him those times, rocked him, and cried.

He pleaded. Begged Jon to come back, or tell him what to do.

There were no signs given. Nothing changed, and those times, Martin felt more helpless than he ever had.

#

A month, and no one had come.

How did it feel? Good? Terrifying?

Abandoned?

Martin could no longer tell.

He yelled, sometimes. Yelled at Jon, though it was pointless.

Cried at him, too.

He found schoolbooks in the underground bunker (because that’s what it was), blank notebooks, and graphite pencils.

Martin tried not to think about the child who would have used them, and claimed the notebooks for himself.

He wrote and he journaled, and during one of these sessions, he realized he’d forgiven Jon.

Forgiven Jon for breaking his promise, for abandoning the plan they’d devised (okay, the others had devised, and Jon had never liked).

Forgiven him for spurning the Spider’s solution, the one Martin wanted to hear: that there was a magic button to turn the apocalypse off, and it wouldn’t cost anything to use.

Right. In hindsight, Martin felt sick that he’d believed it so quickly.

“I forgive you,” he’d whispered to Jon, and he had: even for swallowing godhood like a cyanide tooth, and in doing so, leaving Martin alone.

He felt like he’d skipped a couple stages of grief and landed in acceptance.

He was depressed, Martin wrote, the graphite smudging his hand. He told me how bad he felt, and that he had no hope, and I didn’t listen because it hurt to think of him suffering like that.

Martin’s breath came stuttered, and he furiously wiped at his tears.

He told me how bad it was. He sheltered me from it, but he couldn’t save himself. I feel stupid. Of course he decided to end everything. I should’ve seen it coming.

It was weirdly gratifying to sit in that and let it hurt, like punishment.

What if he had seen it coming?

He couldn’t have shielded Jon from the terrors of the world.

He couldn’t have “fixed” Jon’s depression, because depression didn’t work that way.

But he could have listened. Accepted. Even if he hadn’t liked what was said.

Here, in this quiet cabin in an empty world, Martin could see that if he had let himself feel the horror that was Jon’s every living moment, he would have seen it coming and absolutely been able to stop what Jon did.

It was a sobering thought. A terrible thought. A thought that made Martin want to go out and dig Jonah up so he could chop his bones some more.

Martin cried.

When he went to wash his hands, he was startled to find he’d rubbed graphite all over his face.

He looked bruised.

Fittingly, the words he’d smudged had stained him.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispered. They’d both wrecked things pretty handily, hadn’t they?

But that didn’t mean it was over.

Martin crawled back into bed like he’d crawled through the burned-flesh hole in his heart, and knew he still loved Jon.

Martin knew Jon loved him, too.

Jon had thrown away godhood for him, like it hadn’t mattered.

Maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe Jon had just wanted the pain to end, and deification was something he had to step on to get there, like a stool to reach the top shelf.

Jon loved him, and that meant they could fix this.

They could still make this work.

All Jon had to do was wake.[1] 

“I get it, Jon, all right?” said Martin. “I get it, and I’m sorry. Please wake up.”

Jon didn’t.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do it. Anything.” Martin held him tightly, trying to find his warmth and heartbeat reassuring, and not just byproducts of eternal sleep.

Jon would wake up. He had to. He had to.

Maybe Martin hadn’t skipped denial, after all.

#

Nights were cold. Martin gave in and used the fireplace, which he’d been hesitant to do because there were no trees anywhere, and the only wood he’d found was already in the hearth.

It turned out his worry was unnecessary. The weird brass lighter sparked to life, and the wood caught—but did not burn.

The fire blazed indigo, like something out of a science experiment. It gave off no smoke, but produced a lovely heat.

The wood stayed intact. Absolutely wild.

Martin decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. This world may have killed everyone in it, but at least they’d invented some nifty stuff before they died.

Stuff hadn’t saved them, though.

Martin tried not to think he and Jon wouldn’t make it, either. He would not think that.

He dared not.

Besides, he’d gotten used to unlabeled cans of savory mush, and his body digested it just fine. He was healthy. He was good.

Jon was healthy, too, if unconscious.

This was fine.

Jon would wake up any day now.

He must.

#

Spring came like a kiss, light and wet and sweet, and only when the fields began to bloom did Martin realize what all the brown things were.

Tulips.

This was clearly once a tended place, like Amsterdam, or something. The flowerbed stretched out from the front door in widening rows, as if the cabin had once spewed beauty.

He walked it; his best guess was three miles of flowers, and all were not, in fact, dead.

He was no gardener, and had no clue how long it had all lain fallow, but he figured he could give it a go.

After all, he knew by now that no one else was coming to do it.

There’d been no planes. Never a voice, or music. Not a motor, or smoke, or a distant, barking dog.

The bunker had tools, books on homesteading, and hermetically sealed seeds.

It also had bones.

He’d found them in the back. Three skeletons, each a little smaller than the other, like a family that had decided to lie down and die.

No flesh. No rot. No bugs. Whatever ended them had cleaned them well. He was grateful for that, at least.

Maybe this whole world really was dead.

It would explain why the Fears were so quiet.

He’d feltlonely the first weeks, but he’d been in full stage-two anger by then, and beat it back with rage and tantrums. It wasn’t the Lonely. It was just being alone.

Maybe the Fears were starving.

Or maybe they were all feeding off Jon, and he was trapped in an unending nightmare, unable to get free.

That thought made Martin afraid he was hurting him, keeping him alive. If maybe it would be kinder to…

Nope.

“You only have to stab your boyfriend once in your life, thank you very much,” he informed the tulip field. “I’ve already played that card.”

It was supposed to be funny, but it wasn’t, and Martin went back to the cabin and cried.

#

Martin buried the family’s bones in the flat, empty field. He didn’t know how else to thank them.

#

He spent a few precious days reading gardening books to Jon.

It felt like some kind of deal. He’d do this, coax the land back to life, and Jon would come back, too.

It didn’t really make sense, but neither did fire-baby messiahs or mannequins that talked, so who knew?

It couldn’t hurt to try.

#

Day after day, he trimmed old tulips, and dug up ones that were dead. Day after day, he cleared out space so the rows realigned, and transplanted the colors that bloomed in the wrong spot.

And day after day, he returned to Jon, and told him about the flowers, and about the poem he was writing. Then he bathed them both, ate some mush, and went to bed.

At least none of the cans were peaches.

Maybe he’d spent too much time in the Lonely to be right in the head, but… this wasn’t so bad.

Carrying Jon to the frankly enormous bathtub felt precious, like a rite. Kissing his scars, holding him in warm and bubbly water, felt like worship.

Sometimes, he sat in the tub with him.

He used the hot water to loosen Jon’s limbs so he could move them, bending his joints, lightly exercising his muscles. He’d learned to do that taking care of his mother, what felt like centuries ago. When Jon finally woke, after all, Martin wanted him well.

If Jon woke.

Often, in the bath, Martin told Jon how hard it was to be alone, and told him he was sorry.

Told him he forgave him for what he’d done.

Begged him to come back.

Jon still wouldn’t wake up.

#

The place he’d buried Jonah grew white tulips, and they were not in the correct row.

They were a cancerous blotch across yellow and red, startling like the scars Jon carried because of him.

Martin decided they’d stay: an ugly monument to the worst bastard he’d ever known.

#

Martin liked to brush Jon’s hair. “You’re not alone,” he told him as he worked the gray-black braid.

It had grown so damned fast; Martin had stopped trying to cut it, and instead just kept it neat, and his graying beard trimmed.

“Whatever’s hurting you in there, I’d chop that, too, if I could.” And he’d laughed. “I think you may have fallen in love with an axe-murderer.”

But if that were true, Jon was a knife-murderer, so it balanced out.

“Who are we, anymore?” Martin kissed Jon’s temple. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m not leaving.”

And: “I’m never leaving you.”

And: “I won’t give up. I love you, Jon.”

Martin liked to believe that Jon’s breathing calmed when he said that, and the time between groans grew longer.

#

By week fourteen, springtime was barreling toward summer, and Martin was pleased with his work.

The tulips fanned out from the cabin in vibrant waves, and in an odd sense, he felt like he’d accomplished something for the first time in his life.

Maybe he had. Every job he’d had was for his mother, to do what he had to do. Every hobby had been hidden, done in secret and embarrassing when found out.

But he’d done this without shame, and he had done it well.

It was good.

He hadn’t taken any tulips inside. In his head, he’d pictured Jon waking, gasping out the window at the cultivated love-note Martin had made for him, but maybe… maybe that wasn’t going to happen.

It was okay, if it didn’t. It hurt; but Martin loved Jon. If this was the rest of their life together, then this was the rest of their life.

In sickness and in health, he thought, and decided to bring the tulips to him.

He cut quite a few. Yellow, for hope. Red, for love. Pink, for luck.

He was pretty sure he’d gotten the floriography wrong, but his personal apocalyptic Google wasn’t functioning at the moment, so he did the best he could.

He trimmed them, placed them in a vase he’d found under the kitchen sink, and brought them to the bedside.

“I saw a bee today,” he said, putting the vase by Jon’s head. “First one. You’d think there’d be more, wouldn’t you? But there aren’t a lot of bugs. That’s only the third one I’ve seen.”

Jon didn’t answer, but his breathing was deep and steady.

“I know, right? Poor Annabelle’s spiders have got to all be starved by now.” He leaned over and smoothed Jon’s hair out of his face.

Jon was beautiful, he thought, scars and all.

“Maybe they’ve all starved,” he said, voice cracking. “I mean, it’s not like you’ve got enough fear to keep them going all by yourself, right?”

Nothing.

Martin swallowed and put his hand over Jon’s—always warm, softer than Martin’s. “I wish you could smell them. They’re lovely. It’s a shame nobody’s around to share them with. By which I mean you, you know.”

Jon merely breathed.

“Please don’t be suffering, Jon.” As he had every night since the Scottish safe house, he got into the bed and pulled Jon against him. “Please don’t. I need you. Don’t you know I need you?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d wept over Jon, helpless in a bed.

Martin wiped his eyes. “You know what? I think you should smell them.” He sat up, holding Jon close, and lay Jon’s cheek on his shoulder. Then, he reached for the vase.

Faces together, he brought the tulips near, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

Beautiful. Sort of spicy; almost citrusy. “They’re like some kind of lemony cousin, right?” he murmured, planting a kiss on his head. “Really refreshing.”

“It’s because of the eucalyptol and ocimene,” Jon said, and Martin damn near dropped the vase.

“Jon!”

Jon’s eyes had closed. His brow had knit, and he was breathing too fast. “Martin?”

“Jon!” Martin tossed the vase back onto the nightstand so fast that water sloshed all over. He was breathing fast, too, which made it hard to reply. “Jon!”

“You’re real?” Jon’s peek was fearful, as if he thought Martin might sprout sharp teeth and bite him.

Martin tried to say something intelligent, and instead, burst into tears.

“You’re real,” said Jon, and then they were both crying, and kissing, and clutching as if to merge into one.

“You’re awake!” Martin sobbed. “How? What happened?”

“They’re gone,” whispered Jon, who was trembling and weak and weeping. “It worked. I held on. It’s over, Martin. It’s over,” and that would have to be explained, but what with the crying and the kissing, it would take a good long while.

At some point, they knocked over the tulips, and they both managed to laugh as Martin cleaned up the spill.

#

They sat on the porch, sharing a blanket, and watched the moon descend the sky.

“You heard me?” said Martin.

“I heard everything you said,” Jon repeated, head on Martin’s shoulder. “You have no idea. It kept me sane, what you said.”

“I didn’t say nice things,” said Martin.

“But you said you-things. You were saying them, not any… nightmare-version of you they produced to make me let go. I don’t know if I could’ve hung on if I hadn’t heard you. If you hadn’t kept talking. You saved me.”

Martin swallowed. “From what?”

A gentle breeze wafted flowery scent over them like a prayer, and they both paused to take it in.

“When you tried to cut the tether and we fell through, they were unmoored from the world, but they were still connected to me because I survived.” Jon swallowed. “So when we came here, I had a choice.”

Martin groaned. “Please don’t tell me you could’ve let them go, and you didn’t.”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Not that it would in any way make up for what I’ve done.”

“You self-righteous idiot,” said Martin with frustrated affection, and kissed the side of his head. “Why did you do that?”

“I had to, Martin. This world isn’t empty,” said Jon, which was a surprise.

“It’s not?”

“No—though most of this continent is. At least it’s been cleaned since their great war; their technology is much better than ours. That’s why you aren’t dying from radiation poisoning.”

Martin shuddered.

“I couldn’t let the Fears loose here, Martin. Not on these people. They’d been through enough. I had to hang on.”

“So they were feeding off you,” Martin whispered. “For weeks and weeks.”

“It took billions of people to keep them alive, and I wasn’t enough,” Jon said, low and dark. “They starved to death, and it hurt.”

“It hurt you too, Jon!”

“I had to make them die,” said Jon with a viciousness Martin had never heard before, and hoped Jonah had in his final, bastard moments.

“They’re really gone?”

“They’re really gone. The Web was the last. Tried to trick me into letting her free.”

Martin swallowed. “You didn’t, though.”

“A manipulative fear, let loose in a world that already survived nuclear apocalypse? Of course I didn’t let her go.” Jon paused. “She said ‘good luck’ at the end. Like Jonah did. But… I almost think she actually meant it.”

“Ugh. Jonah said ‘good luck?’ What the hell?”

“Had to get the last word,” Jon sighed. “White tulips are an apology, by the way. I don’t know if it means anything, but there you are.”

“Bastard man is not forgiven,” Martin said warmly, and kissed him, and Jon laughed, and it was a good and grateful moment.

The breeze moved, but that was all; no traffic. No construction. No voices.

This really wasn’t so bad.

“If we do decide to travel, it’ll take weeks,” said Jon, “so we’d need to go stocked. Not to worry—there’s an underground garage you didn’t find, with a solar-powered vehicle, so we wouldn’t have to go on foot.”

“Jon,” said Martin, wary. “You still know an awful lot of things, for the Eye being dead.”

“Past things,” said Jon, and smiled. “Now, I don’t. I won’t know names, or traumas, or whether anyone means us good or ill. I’ll know absolutely nothing without learning it the old-fashioned way.”

Did that mean Jon would finally need to eat? “I found seeds. We can plant them. We can grow food that isn’t mush. We could just… stay,” Martin suggested. “At least for a while.”

“You know what? We could.” And Jon didn’t sound disappointed at all.

“We could. We did our part, Jon. We don’t have to go anywhere.”

“Nobody knows who we are here,” whispered Jon. “Nobody’s coming after us, or trying to make us do things, or seeking revenge. We’re free.”

Martin laughed, a shaky, too-much sound. “We’re free.”

“We’re free.” Jon turned his face to Martin’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry.”

“I know. And we’ve got all the time we need to talk about that later,” said Martin, because the sting was gone, and such sweetness had taken its place. “I forgive you, you know. This is what I wanted, if I’m honest. Just… us.”

“Just us,” Jon whispered. “We’ve got a proper second chance. Like those flowers, practically resurrected.”

“A little hard work is all they needed.”

“They needed you.” Jon kissed him, lidded and lingering. “So do I.”

“Making me blush, Sims.”

“Not nearly enough, Blackwood.” Jon touched his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Let’s stay out here a little longer? I’m afraid I’m going to wake up.”

Jon touched his lips. “This is real,” he said, and didn’t blink, and his eyes still weren’t fully human.

They were Jon’s eyes, though. That made them wonderful. Beloved, under the moon. (And Martin knew what his next poem was going to be about.)

Martin laughed again. “I can’t believe it. Everything worked out.”

“One way or another, together,” said Jon. “You didn’t give up on me. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“That’s never, ever going to happen,” Martin swore, and sealed it with a kiss.

They stayed until the moon sank low, and the breeze promised warm days and clear skies, and when they finally went to bed, they both knew they’d sleep well.

-----------------

NOTES:

Written for the "Spring in the Archives" event, centered around the general themes of rebirth, healing, growth, and also new beginnings.

Rebirth, healing, growth - they both need these things, and I knew Martin needed some time alone to find them.

I think I can safely say he did.

This truly is a happily-ever-after

Compromise

Okay, soooo… a lot happens in this one since I threw a few smaller fics in with it lmao… to sum it up as best I can (not necessarily in the following order), Flug gets BH to try sleeping (i blame @emily-emile for that), we learn more about that ‘summoner’ bullshit BH talked about forever ago,  //coughs awkwardly// there's some bad smut, your usual dose of angst and murder, Dem and 5.0.5. ’learn some things’, and Flug’s school days are talked about. Fun! //shot//

is there such thing as writing too much

if there is, i’m a prime example

NOW EXCUSE ME WHILE I JUST GO NOT WRITE SMUT EVER AGAIN (ORFORLIKE5FICSASDGHFJKHGF)

OH, ALSO, I HAD AN IDEA – SEX BITS WILL NOW BEGIN AND END WITH A ~ ~ ~ RATHER THAN THE USUAL ————- JUST SO YALL KNOW

Credit for the Souleater Flug AU goes to the lovely @paperhatcollection!

Previous works in chronological order: Hired, Don’t Try to Run, Lovestarved, Trial & Trust, Deeper Than Skin, A Small Solace, In Sickness and in Health, Benefit of the Doubt, Just Another Word I Never Learned to Pronounce, Merry (Late) Christmas

————-

“Did somebody beat you up? Who was it? Why didn’t you kill 'em? I'll kill 'em if you don’t!”

The prank she had planned long forgotten, Demencia had basically been interrogating Flug since she had spotted the bruises on his arms. 

“D-Demencia, I said it’s f-fine!” Flug insisted, scrambling to get his lab coat back on and cursing himself for taking it off in the first place. Granted, he hadn’t exactly expected her to suddenly drop down from the ceiling, but of course she would pick today of all days to be hiding in his room to start some sort of mischief. He would have preferred dealing with one of her crazy jokes than get stuck in this conversation… “It’s nothing serious! Don't worry about it!”

Skeptical eyes narrowing as the lizard hybrid leaned closer, Demencia rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “That right? What happened, then?”

“…. Uhh….” Flug’s gaze darted around the room as he tried to come up with an excuse, “Ahh… hm, well… you see, I waaasss…. walking….”

“….. Uh-huh.”

“Aaand…. I, uh… tripped?”

“You…. tripped.” Demencia’s eyes only squinted more. 

What a weak-ass excuse. For a genius, Flug sure couldn’t get himself to come up with something more believable. Under Demencia’s prying stare, he only got increasingly more nervous, staying quiet as she considered his words. Lightning strike him dead if he were to keep talking and screw himself over even more. Oh he has so messed up–

“Well, next time don’t be such a klutz!” Demencia said finally, giving her coworker a teasing prod to the ribs. “You think you’d know how to walk normal by now!”

Oh thank fucking god. Somebody should give this guy a medal for his achievement not to wheeze in relief in the face of Demencia not looking any further into it. “Ahahahahahaha, yeah, w-will do…" 

Keep reading

:3c