#shell saucer

[lovecatcher]

shell cup and saucer by francfranc

[yorshie]

Oops my hand slipped

[paletapessoal]

Dagoty seashell, snail shell and swan porcelain cups and saucers ca. 1800-1815

[celtic-crossbow]

Write Love Letters Across Your Lips

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Alexandria

Warnings: Poorly written smut, p in v

Summary: Well, that wasn’t how the night was supposed to go, now was it?

A/N: This wasn’t even one of the 5 I already had started but it took my brain by storm.

They weren’t supposed to be home. 

Rick, Michonne, Carol…Oh, god! Carl and Judith. They were at a dinner. One you didn’t care to attend and, gauging from the eight inches currently pushing into you at an agonizingly slow but so pleasurably deep pace, Daryl didn’t attend either. 

You had never realized just how small the front closet was until the archer had heard the footsteps and voices on the porch, pulled you away from the wall, and crammed you both in there. There had been no time to separate, your legs firmly around his waist. No time to grab your clothes, he had kicked your pants in before closing the door. 

You gasped against his neck, thankful the coats hanging behind you were pillowing you when Daryl decided pumping into you faster was the way to go. You were speeding toward climax while you were certain he was currently just enjoying your suffering. 

As if to emphasize your point, he pressed you further against the clothing and you reached up to grab the pole holding the hangers just as he snaked a hand between you to press his thumb against your clit. Your chest pressed against his when you arched. He was quick to cover your mouth with his other hand, leaving you to pray the pole would hold with nothing else holding you to him but your trembling legs. 

“Ya gonna cum for me, girl?” He smiled against your throat, you could feel his teeth part for his tongue to taste your skin. You nodded shakily, eyes rolling back. 

“Let me just hang my coat and I’ll get the leftovers put away.” 

Oh god, Carol, no!

The door opened, thankfully just wide enough for Carol to see in, her eyes the size of saucers. Daryl had stilled, his palm nearly suffocating you to muffle the sounds of your panting. Your eyes pleaded with her to close the fucking door while Daryl gave her a shrug that was so nonchalant you made a mental note to punch him in the dick once you were finished with it. 

The surprise on her face faded into a smile and she mouthed ‘I knew it’ before tossing her jacket over Daryl’s head. The light faded with the click of the door. You clawed the coat away from his face as quietly as possible with one hand, praising whatever higher power there was that he chose to pick right back up where he left off. 

“Tired’a waitin’.” The circles he rubbed against your bundle of nerves picked up. The thrill of being seen, of knowing others could still catch you, must have set something off in the archer. He was pulsing inside you, chasing his own high while desperately coaxing yours from you. “Cum.”

The harsh whisper against the shell of your ear tipped you over the edge. Darkness exploded into colors as flames ignited in your veins, traveling out from where he was splitting you open. His fingers pressed harder into your cheek in a desperate attempt to keep you quiet while he silenced himself by sinking his teeth into your shoulder. He was still twitching within you when the world came back into focus, his hips thrusting lazily in order to ride out the last dregs of his own orgasm. 

Peeling his hand away from your mouth, you sought out his lips, hungrily tasting him while your head was still spinning. He sank back against the few jackets behind himself, shaking legs barely able to hold you both up now. 

“I wonder where Daryl and Y/N could possibly be?” Carol sing-songed from somewhere outside the door. 

If the woman had a dick, you’d punch her there too. 

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 3

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

It didn't matter. Not the any of the questions or their answers. Right now, Mihawk had to find you, to ascertain that you were safe—both from others and your own demons that he doubted you had buried as deeply as you intended to.

He made his way out of the base and through town in long, purposeful strides, scanning around the few storefronts amd vendors he passed to ensure you weren't still shopping for supplies.

And he slowed at the docks, his sharp eyes catching sight of you on the deck of your sloop, pacing.

Crossing and uncrossing your arms.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling to yourself.

Rushing a hand back through your hair and jumping in alarm when you knocked your tattered old hat from your head.

Tou stopped in your tracks and stared down at where it had landed for several long seconds, still as a statue...before picking it up and tossing it aggressively into the captain's cabin. Mihawk watched you lean your head against the wall next to the door for another long moment, before kicking at it and storming around the corner toward the small kitchen.

You clearly hadn't seen him, but he had seen enough to be more than a little concerned. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, pushing past a few Marines and civilians, with a sore suspicion of exactly where the vast majority of your scars had come from.

The door to the kitchen was cracked, and Mihawk saw you were leaned over the dish basin on the counter with your back to him.

Saw you, with the sleeve ofnyour white shirt rolled up nearly to your shoulder, draw the razor sharp edge of one of your daggers across your arm, just above your elbow, flinching and drawing in a sharp breath just before he reached you and grabbed your wrist. You cried out in alarm, dropping the dagger right into the empty basin, whirling around and backing into the countertop.

Your eyes locked onto his, wide as saucers, more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. In their depths swirled astonishment, pain, caution—and fear. Bold as you were, you had never once looked at him with fear in your eyes. Even the first time you had ever laid eyes on him, the first time you had approached him, you hadn't shown a single sign of being intimidated, which was not something he could say of many people at all.

But right now, you were like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, frozen stiff and utterly helpless.

Mihawk remained frozen for some time himself, not at all used to the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. He wanted to shout at you, demand to know what the hell you were thinking—to pull you tight enough against him to knock the wind out if you—to down enough wine to forget about this madness, however briefly.

His eyes flickered to the blood still pouring from the fresh wound in your arm, and shook himself mentally, settling for pulling you over to the small, rounded kitchen table by your wrist and pulling out a chair.

"Sit." He was careful to keep his tone level, to keep any sharp edge from piercing through the command. Still, you obeyed wordlessly, lowering your gaze to your knees and folding your hands together in your lap, your shoulders drooping from your stiffened posture into one of utter defeat. Your breathing was short and shallow as it left your lungs, broken by a small hitch in your throat when Mihawk knelt down and grabbed a clean rag from the handle of of a cabinet behind him pressing it against your arm, carefully wiping away the blood..

Another small hitch interrupted your breathing as he glanced under the rag and sighed. It wasn't deep enough to necessarily need stitches, but they would help far more than they would hurt. He lifted your oposite hand and placed it over the rag, subtly slipping your second dagger from your belt and sliding it quietly across the counter behind him. "Keep pressure on it."

Every move he made either caused you to jolt in brief alarm or your breath to catch in your throat. Mihawk kept himself focused on the wound itself for now, simultaneously trying to gain control of his thoughts and shove them away entirely.

To figure out how the hell to address the subject of you slicing open your own arm.

Why exactly you had done it.

What the hell had possessed you to—

No. No, this had to be handled carefully. Handled in a way Mihawk was entirely unaccustomed to handling things.

He pulled the other chair over alongside your own—effectively blocking your path to the door in the process, a precaution he considered necessary—and set down a first aid box he had found tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets and a nearly full bottle of what smelled like strong whiskey. He pulled down the damp rag he had slung over his shoulder, shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the oposite side of the table to avoid getting any blood on it, and sat down, pulling your hand and the blood-drenched rag away from the wound.

It was a clean cut, considering how sharp you kept your daggers, and that alone was good. He pulled the clean damp rag down that he had draped over his shoulder and set to wiping the drying blood away from around it, glancing toward your face. Your eyes were still turned down toward your lap, your hands trembling a little now as you folded them together.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head a little.

What an absolute mess this day had turned out to be.

"Are you angry?"

The sound of your voice very nearly made him jump—he paused with the rag just beneath the shallow gash, his eyes darting back up to your face. Your voice was so quiet he might have thought he imagined it, if not for the way you swallowed and averted your gaze further away, toward the table at your other side.

"No," he said after a moment, keeping his tone level. Calm. "A bit frustrated, perhaps." You bit your lip, and gave a short nod. "And...curious as to why."

You hesitated a moment, still biting your lip. Your hands squeezed together briefly in your lap while his gaze lingered on the subtle shifts in your expression, long enough that you glanced over and your eyes met briefly.

The pain and hopelessness in yours made you look years younger—perhaps like the fourteen year old girl that had witnessed the destruction of her home and the cold-blooded murder of the woman who raised her.

Mihawk turned his gaze back to your arm after a moment.

"How much did Garp tell you?" you asked quietly.

"Far more than I bargained for," he sighed. He paused when you grew tense for a moment, realizing immediately how his words could have been taken. "Not like that," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I simply wasn't expecting anything of that magnitude." You still remained tense as he finished cleaning the wound, and kept the rag pressed to it as he picked up the open bottle of liquor. He decided to steer the topic slightly away, to attempt to ease into the main issue at hand. "I'm honestly curious how you managed to survive escaping into the Grand Line on a dinghy."

You glanced over slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. Your hands shifted in your lap, gripping lightly at the hem ofnyour shorts.

"I was lucky," you said quietly. Shrugged your other shoulder. "I was able to procure enough rations to last for a week. It was a time of year where the waters were relatively calm in that particular part of the Grand Line. I woke up the seventh morning to find a merchant schooner hauling my boat in. They saw it was a Marine boat. Discussed taking me in until I blurted out what happened and they took pity. Let me work as a deckhand for room and board and safe passage. They were bound for Loguetown. I got off there, worked odd jobs around taverns and inns that were as far from Marine territory as possible. Saved up enough Berries to purchase a sloop and sustain a comfortable lifestyle over a couple years and set out on my own."

"The Marines wouldn't have bothered you regardless." Your eyes twitched in his direction, then back down to your hands. "As Garp so aptly put it, you'll remain off their radar 'as long as the correct people remain in power and you don't do anything stupid.'"

You scoffed quietly. "Did you tell him he was wasting his pity?"

"No," Mihawk said slowly, pulling the rag away from your arm as he lifted his gaze to look at you. Not yet, he decided. You were still too tense. Too combative. "Frankly, I stared at him like he was speaking another language until he elaborated." The corner of your lips twitched the slightest bit, and your tension eased a little amid a small sigh. He lifted the bottle over, and you glanced over at it. "This is going to—"

"I know," you said. You drew in a deep breath, shifting back in the chair a bit, and held your arm out. "Go ahead."

Mihawk lifted his eyebrows a bit, his eyes lingering on your face briefly. Passing down the length of your arm, the line of scars winding down the limb beneath your newest wound, wondering for a moment exactly how many times you had done this yourself.

Then he tilted the bottle, letting the strong alcohol pour over the inflamed cut. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes snapping shut in a grimace, tensing up and shaking for a moment. You held your other hand out, your eyes still closed, and he handed the bottle off to you, watching you take a deep swig of the amber liquor.

You drew in a deep breath as you set it heavily on the table, and let it out in a shaking sigh, laying your head back against the back of the chair.

Lifted it and took another drink, and he plucked it from your hand as you lowered it this time—too much and you would only succeed in thinning your blood and bleeding all over the damned place again. You didn't question it, letting the bottle slip easily out of your grasp, your hand falling back to your lap as you caught your breath. Mihawk leaned back to set it aside on the counter, keeping his eyes on you. You were a ticking time bomb right now—one wrong move, one wrong word, and you were going to go off. There was no avoiding it.

There wasn't much he could do beyond attempt to lessen the blow—or simply get it over with.

It took only a moment for Mihawk to choose the former. Once you lifted your head, still breathing a bit heavily, he stretched his arm across the back of your chair.

"Did you ever intend to mention you mention you were raised by one of the most notorious pirates in modern history?" he asked.

He was a little surprised when you shook your head no, your head drooping, your chest still rising and falling heavily. "I...try not to think about her much," you replied. The pain seemed to have had something of a sobering affect on you—you spoke a bit louder now, a bit more confidently. You swallowed swallowed, running a hand back over your hair, and you turned your head, leveling your eyes with his.

"My last memory of her is watching a vengeance-crazed Marine Admiral saw her head off of her shoulders with a bowie knife."

For a moment, Mihawk could do nothing but stare in your eyes—not moving, not breathing, absorbing the toneless quality of your quiet words, the pain and anger in your gaze. After a long moment, he lifted his hand and pinched at his temples, shaking his head and drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lifted his other hand to the back of your neck and pulled you in so your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"She wasn't a pirate when I knew her, anyway," you said quietly. "I knew she had been, but she never talked about it. Not around me, at least. I think she was trying to avoid glamorizing it so I wouldn't follow in her footsteps. I probably still would have. At least she's not here to be disappointed in me." You gave a slow sigh, the breath trembling a little as it left your lungs. "Though she likely would be here if I had just done what she said and stayed out of sight."

"Don't do that." He kept his voice low but his tone firm—you weren't doing yourself any favors if your were blaming yourself for something as heinous as that. You drew in a sharp breath, and let it out as another slow, trembling sigh, your shoulders tensing a little again. He lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around them. You had a tendency to bolt any time you started to get the least bit vulnerable, and he had no intention of letting you. Not this time. "And it's not worth hurting yourself over."

"Yes it is," you said sharply. You stil didn't lift your head, but he still tightened his hold around your shoulders, just to be sure. You cleared your throat, but it didn't quite hide the hitch in your breath. "She wouldn't tell me about any of her scars." You swallowed audibly, your voice breaking as you went on in a softer tone. "She...told me they were hers to bear. Not mine. That they were reminders of her regrets and mistakes she made. I...I guess I didn't understand until I got this one." You lifted your hand to your neck, the same place Garp had indicated earlier when Mihawk had asked him about your scars. "Every time I saw it in the mirror all I could see was her. Hear her telling that goddamned Marine son of a bitch that he could do whatever he wanted with her as long as they let me go."

Your breath came in short, controlled bursts, your knuckles white as you gripped at the hem of your shorts.

"I have to remind myself. Any time I lose. Get too confident or let my guard down. Any time I make a mistake." Another deep breath, trying and failing to harden your nerve, still shaking like a leaf. "I have to remind myself that *one* mistake and I could—I could lose everything all over again."

"God dammit..." he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand to your hair and briefly lowering his forehead to the crown of your hair. You had this so deep-seated into your mind, so firmly established that it was like a law to you. A code that you had no choice but to follow, that you had no choice but to suffer for every mistake you made and trap yourself within a web of regret just to keep yourself safe.

Mihawk lifted his head from over yours, and took your face in his hands to lift your head. You swallowed as your eyes met, and for a moment the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks made him freeze, made his chest ache, his own shoulders tense. You were on the verge of shattering like glass, and he didn't have any choice but to let it happen. He drew in a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto yours.

"You agreed," he said slowly, "some time ago, that you belong to me." You swallowed. "Which means that these..." He lowered one hand to your arm, and you tensed the same way you always did when his fingertips brushed across the column of scars extending down your soft skin, "...are not just yours. And that you're hurting more than just yourself— Don't," he added firmly when you clenched your eyes shut, your breath hitching, and you opened them again after a moment. "You learn from mistakes you've made and move on. You don't trap yourself inside them and live in misery." Your gaze fell from his as you bit down hard on your bottom lip, openly flinching when a whimper left you. "I personally have trouble believing that was what your grandmother intended for you when she gave her life to ensure you kept yours."

That was it—that was the straw that broke you. Your head fell, your eyes clenched shut, a torrent of tears falling from them. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him again, lowering his head over yours as your arms wrapped around his ribs so tightly that it was almost painful. You sobbed into crook of his neck like a child, broken apologies scattered between the sharp hitches in your breath, and he remained silent. Kept his own breathing slow and steady, cradling your head against his shoulder, letting you spill your heart in a way your solitary lifestyle had never allowed you to before.

Letting you calm down on your own terms, your tension slowly, slowly giving way until you were all but limp against him. Your breathing slowed until there was only an occasional hitch in your breath. It felt like hours had passed even though daylight still poured through the open door behind Mihawk,, casting his shadow over you while he combed his fingers through your hair.

"You won't be doing this again." You gave a small nod in agreement, not lifting your head.

"N...no stitches." He lifted his head a little at your quiet words, your voice hoarse. "This one has to scar." You sniffed, lifting your head finally and meeting his eyes. "I have to remember it so I never do it again."

He glanced down at the cut a couple inches above your elbow, and sighed. "Fine." He shifted his gaze back to your bloodshot eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your skin. "Fine. But never again."

You swallowed.

Nodded shortly, your eyes remaining firmly on his as you repeated the words back, your voice quiet, trembling, but unquestionable in its intensity.

"Never."

[dilftaroooo]

Ino craves you but you always liked to tease

★tags: ino is whipped yall + sub!ino + dom!reader + afab reader + fingering + mask kink + my first time writing for ino, so pls be g-gentle with me.

Takuma does what he’s told. If he’s ordered to stand, he’ll stand. If he’s ordered to jump, he’ll jump. If he’s ordered to sit on his knees and take the only front-row seat of you fingering your drooling pussy, then the seat is already taken.

“Don’t lick or touch until I tell you to.” Your tone refrains him from even thinking about stubbornly rebelling against you. There’s a hindrance in your blunt demeanor with each weak point you hit with languid digits, but it’s there regardless, still a looming overcast that darkens his view from brilliant sun rays. It rains ever so slightly but when it pours, he makes sure to cherish the wet taps draping across his skin.

He’s weak in this state, enough to mumble out a puny ‘yes ma’am’ that's barely a pitch louder than the sloshing of bodily wetness. You’re loud. And you’re dirtying the couch; it was a hand-me-down but his nostalgic memories are still engraved in that ragged cushion. That doesn’t make him no never mind though.

Consider it pleasurable torture because the growth between his legs ache with a sense of carnal urge, wanting to be freed from the confinements of fabric and kissed by weeping lips of sin to wash that disgruntled pain away. 

But that pain only grows as you continue to flick, probe, and pinch at every delicate inch of fragile skin while coffee brown hues gaze up in delight, dare he say, honored to witness a beauty as enticing as you. The fat around your thighs and tummy seems grabbable and the erect nubs on your chest begged to be sucked.

Saucers widen to plates as Takuma’s astonished eyes feed off of the display in front of him. He’s internally waiting for your word, your order to wrap his hungry lips around your hard clitoris and lap greedily along the path of your labia.

He’s ready to feel your fingers grip the roots of his locks once he graces you in eager swipes and rattles you with grunts that ring through your heated body, keens oozing from your lips like warm chocolate drizzling onto his awaiting tongue–he’s drooling like a wet dog. Perhaps from both your juicy cunt and that blatant chocolate simile.

With a look so desperate, you must’ve picked up his heavy pants because they were starting to sound pathetic to you.

“Taste me.” And with those words, Takuma could’ve sworn he heard an angel coo against the shell of his ear, he guesses those hushed prayers of you really have been heard!

He crawls tentatively like a newborn kitten, unsure of the world they’ve been born into. He wet his lips, not that it was needed since he’d been salivating this whole session, but call it a force of habit. 

If he couldn’t smell you before then he could now with how the tip of his nose traced the wisp of your pubic hairs that remained unshaven save from the light wax you’ve gotten on your bikini line. The soft scent of sweat provoked a moan from him and he couldn’t help but swoon over how his tongue would pick up each salty bead with shameless content. And he was close to doing so until-

“Stop.” Takuma halts. He believes he’s in the wrong for how your sternness cuts through the sexual tension in the room. “Clearly you’re forgetting something, lover boy.” It takes him a beat to recognize what it is until his eyes land on the black cotton of his mask, almost lying purposely beside you.

Upon putting it on, you hum in delight and spread your legs further. Takuma delves in. Though with the mask acting as a cruel barrier from the treasure he initially seeks, he remains happy to find that he can taste you on his tongue. Your cunt is savory and delectable that he seemingly can’t make any comparisons to anything he’s ever tried. It’s enough to make him want to shrivel into a heap of nothingness, enough to make him fight against an army of guns with the aid of a sword.

A sword that's dull and pertains no prowess but he’d be willing to take that slim chance at victory just for the sake of you.

You bring him to the lowest point of desire and yearning that even sucking your pussy through cotton fabric was enough for him to squirm.

He looks up at his obsession with love-stricken eyes. Eyes that say that he will love you and your pussy forever. And with you singing out to him like a whimsical canary, he’d make sure that his love is what he gives you until the day he’s deemed dead.

[adiluv]

omg omg going off your obsessed scara can you imagine how he'd react if you got with somebody???? boy would go crazy

❥ 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍. ˚⊹꒷

a continuation of this post.

796 words. modern au, obsessive fan behavior, stalking, suggestive, reader is not traveler, not edited.

superfan scaramouche who is initially ecstatic when your group's official accounts announce an upcoming tour within inazuma, hours that he could've—should've spend asleep instead being dedicated to scouring your accounts for venue announcements and pre-sale dates. he goes into a frenzy once the information drops, pulling all-nighters in order to secure tickets at every one of the concerts.

superfan scaramouche who has, as mentioned previously, seen you in person before—attending previous performances both within his home nation and travelling abroad to attend the tours that weren't. but, archons, he just can't control his excitement when it comes to you, having him acting as if it were his first concert.

the chance of seeing his favorite idol while going about his day-to-day, encountering you at all his favorite spots in the city, the possibility of something romantic... his delusional little mind just can't help but jump at it!

superfan scaramouche who personally visits each and every large hotel within inazuma city, convincing ꒰manipulating꒱ them into providing any information they have about exactly where you and your groupmates will be staying. he'll make sure that you, specifically, have the best room in the entire building—anonymously shelling out his own money for sake of upgrading you and you alone.

superfan scaramouche who lurks around your hotel in the same baggy clothing he'd used to disguise himself whilst meeting you, an ominous presence hidden in the crowd that can't help but unsettle you during attempts to go sightseeing before your first show. your nervous expressions are even more intoxicating in the snapshots he takes of you, tucked away in a corner of his room for personal viewing.

superfan scaramouche who has his delusions unceremoniously shattered when his lurking leads him into a bar, eyes wide as saucers and mouth agape as he watches you converse and—and kiss another man that approaches you! despite the stabbing feeling within his chest, he's left totally unable to act as the both of you—intoxicated—stumble out the doors, instead rushing home in tears and on the verge of a mental breakdown. he... doesn't sleep that night.

superfan scaramouche who eventually manages to convince himself that your betrayal is really nothing more than a one-night stand. after all, you certainly couldn't have been in your right mind꒰!꒱ allowing such an... insignificant pest to whisk you away. surely, you must've come to your senses by morning, felt so ashamed by your low standards that you'd come shamefully crawling back to your room.

... only to be proven wrong as he catches you sneaking out during the evening, face hidden beneath an oversized hoodie as you went to go entertain that miscreant yet again. he's in far worse spirits when he returns home, tearing his room apart and destroying half of his merch collection before coming to his senses.

superfan scaramouche who comes to regard this affair of yours as a mistake, even if you aren't exactly aware of it yet. nothing but a mar, if you will, on the perfection that comprises your very being. he's well versed in the dramas of the idol industry, knows well that agencies often exert total control over the lives of their idols. living beneath a ceo's thumb must get exhausting, he decides, a justifiable line of reasoning for this... act of rebellion. it's that worm's fault, really. taking advantage of somebody sweet as you—capitalizing on your naïvety.

superfan scaramouche who, as much as he doesn't want to, believes that there's merit in alerting your supervisors to your rendezvous. actions packaged under the guise of innocent concern, he emails photos of the two of you to your manager—intently eavesdropping on the commotion coming from the hotel that night. you cry until the early hours of morning, his heart aching with each muffled sob.

still, he feels no remorse for his actions, deeming your pain a necessary form of suffering. just like icarus, who flew too close to the sun, you too must learn not to play with fire—to avoid being burnt and falling from the sky.

superfan scaramouche who approaches you during one of your ꒰far more limited꒱ moments of downtime, pointing out the saddened look in your eyes and offering comfort when you vaguely detail your grievances. although there's something familiar about him and the words of praise that slip past his lips, the amount of fans you meet on a daily basis makes it impossible to place the connection—so you instead turn a blind eye and indulge in his comfort. he allows you to weep on his shoulder until your satisfied, the fabric moistened by your tears... revisited later that day.

"shh, shh... i know it hurts now, but really... this was all for the best."

i have a taglist, which you can sign up for here!

[skxllz]

“ ya’ know — alastor is a real commendable fella. ”

you brought your head out of the clouds with a twist of your neck towards rosie, only to see her sipping on her freshly poured tea that she had soured down with warm, tangy blood that was drained out of the gut of a demon not long ago.

beings as though you weren't one of the cannibals, but accepted it from being friends with the overlord, you tried your best not to cringe at the thought. it was hell after all. instead, you rose a brow at her, “ what do you mean? ”

she gave you one of her famous, cheshire smiles upon setting down the fine china onto a beautifully decorated saucer. “ I've seen the way you've been looking at ‘im, honey. it's as if ya’ mad — and knowing alastor, that sly demon, he probably did somethin’ to rustle ya’ feathers. ”

all you needed to do was look away to confirm her suspicions.

sighing, the cannabalist leaned forward and placed a hand among your shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. “ well... listen, dear. whatever he did, it's in due time that he makes up for it. you see, alastor is... he's rather difficult. ” seeing her deadpan made you crack a smile.

“ but - one thing I've learned, is that he can care for people, believe it or not. ” the look you sent her told her you weren't believing a word, but rosie smiled, holding up a finger, telling you to let her finish.

“ the guy's like’a brain teaser, ya’ hear. you got few cards you're dealt which are the very obvious traits of our dear friend — demon, overlord, scary, packs a pocket full of mannerisms. the rest is for you to figure out; cause, it's like the sayin’ goes, you can't always judge a book by its cover. ”

the words sunk into your brain like a long overdue lotion massage. the pricking of tingles that rosie's wisdom sent throughout your body was quite horrifying, but... perhaps an eye opener.

yes, alastor was terrifying. yes, alastor could be quite the blood-thirsty, aggrivating demon in his own way. but, you never really came to think, what if something else was hidden under all of the seemingly polite greetings? or the way he'd get angry, and scare the wits out of others within the hotel, but not necessarily take the stab of harming them?

he's had plenty of chances to stream broadcast after broadcast of demons throughout pentagram city over his infamous microphone, to where he could catch the mauling attention he enjoys grabbing. and yet, nothing.

it made you wonder, deep down, did he have an ounce of kindness within that bitter shell of a soul of his? even just a drop?

as you lift your head now to peer over at him, speaking with charlie, that permanent grin of his only stretching wider in reply to whatever they were discussing, your thoughts only wanderer further; why would rosie tell you this? you, of all people?

---

this was going to go somewhere with alastor and then I said fuck it, let's just have a small talk with rosie. she's so mother <3

[autistic-britta-perry]

Pac's letter to fit

translation attempt under the cut, corrections very much appreciated!

Hello Fit, I'm leaving you this letter because I didn't find you in the island, I assume you're having your beauty sleep... I wanted to tell you that I had a lot of fun in purgatory 2, I was in team Esquilos, I made a lot of new friends, I didn't win the tournament but I gained a new scar in my belly, Cellbit stabbed me, he seems to be completely out of control, be careful with him, it hurts a lot* but I think my life is not at risk :)

I also alert you that I saw Mike again.... Yes, MIKE!!!

CALMA CALMA CALMA Now it's time for the FOFOCA! He woke up after months in a coma, he still has eyes like saucers and he still seemed crazy, but less so, keep an eye on him. I remember when he said... he would break Ramon's shell, I know you're an excellent dad but I'm warning you so you keep your eyes open. I think I'll see you again right at the start of January, I hope you've had a great Christmas and wish you a Happy New Year! with love, PAC

*unsure about this part

[roxygen22]

Boats and Babies

"My Little Cocoa Bean" Series

Summary: The Wonka family takes a trip to the beach.

"You...what?!" you asked incredulously.

"I bought a boat!" Willy repeated gleefully. You stood in the kitchen frozen, mouth agape trying to process the information. He let you stand there a few awkward moments before he finally added with a snicker, "Just for the weekend."

"Don't you DO that to me, Willy Wonka!" You bopped him on the arm with the wooden spoon in your hand with your exaggeration of "do." He laughed and feigned hurt from your retaliation. "So you RENTED a boat. And what are you going to do with a boat, pray tell?"

"WE are going on an outing this weekend. Just the three of us. As much as I love the world of our own that we have carved out on land, I do sometimes miss the sea," his voice trailed off.

You loved the idea of getting out of town for a bit, enough to forgive his earlier prank. You and Willy hadn't taken a trip since Ben was born. The boy was finally big enough to handle some adventure and had been obsessed with boats as of late.

You spent the rest of the week gathering up what you would need for some fun in the sun with a toddler in tow. Willy mapped out a route to a beach far enough away for a fun boat ride but close enough not to require an overnight stay.

The day finally came to pack up the boat and launch. Ben clapped as the family walked to the docks. One of his favorite things to do lately was to look at the boats. You and Willy had kept your plans quiet from the boy.

"I have a surprise for you, Bean," Willy said as he knelt down to the boy's level. "How would you like to actually go for a ride on a boat?"

Ben looked up at you both with eyes as big as saucers. "Really?!" he shouted.

"Really!" Willy responded with equal excitement. You all walked a little further down the dock. "Here she is." He stepped down into the boat, then turned and gestured for Ben to come closer. Suddenly nervous, the boy attached himself to your leg.

Willy patiently held out his arms. "It's alright, Bean. I've got you." Timidly, Ben stepped closer and reached out to his father, who deftly scooped him up and set him down in the boat. Ben clung to Willy's shirt as the boat rocked. "Don't worry, son. You'll get your sea legs eventually. Now, let's get this lifejacket on you so I can help Mamma get our things into the boat."

Once he got the boy settled, Willy grabbed and stowed the bags, then offered you his hand. It had been a while since your last boat ride, so you felt a little shaky, too. You lost your balance slightly and fell back into Willy, who caught you by the elbows. "Well, hello there." He grinned down at you and waggled his eyebrows. More than six years together, and he was still a flirt.

As expected from a lifetime on the water, Willy was a natural at prepping and launching the boat. Soon, you were out on open water. Ben relaxed and took in the sights, though he kept a tight grip on your hand. You enjoyed the feeling of the wind in your hair, and when you closed your eyes, you felt like you were flying. You looked back at Willy with a huge smile and found him staring back at you with a content, dreamy smirk.

After an hour or so on the water, the beach appeared on the horizon. As you got closer, Willy jumped over the side to pull the boat to shore and help you both out. Restless from sitting, Ben immediately started running around, picking up shells. Willy cautioned him to stay out of the water until everything was unpacked.

You and Willy got everything set up quickly, complete with blanket for lounging and umbrella for shade. Once set, Willy ran after Ben, grabbed him from behind, and spun him around. The boy shrieked with glee as you all made your way to the water's edge.

Nothing prepared your heart for the sight of Willy wading in the shallows, pants rolled up and holding Ben's chubby little hand. They pointed and chattered about the little creatures in the tide pools as Willy recounted stories of the wide variety of animals he had seen on his voyages. Ben ran back and forth between Willy and you, bringing you shells and pebbles from his scavenging. When they moved on to build sand castles, you stepped away to prepare lunch.

"Alright, my boys. Time to eat!" you called. Willy grabbed up Ben by the waist and hoisted him onto his shoulders.

"Hi, Mamma," he waved from the towering height of his papa's frame as they got to the picnic blanket where you sat. Willy flipped the boy over before gently setting him down beside you.

"Hi, baby. Ready to eat?"

"Yeah! My tummy growly," he said before growling like a bear.

"Mine, too," Willy agreed, growling back.

The boys eagerly devoured the sandwiches you prepared. Exhausted and full, Ben quickly succumbed to the relaxing sounds of the waves hitting the shore and napped in the shade of the umbrella. Willy laid his head in your lap, and you couldn't help but card your fingers through his chocolate curls.

He looked up at you and smiled. "I love you. I love this," looking over at Ben. "I want more."

"Me, too."

Willy quickly propped himself up on an elbow to stare at you. "Really?!"

"You say that a lot, don't you, Mr. Wonka?"* You winked. "Really. I had already been giving it some thought, but seeing you today with Ben convinced me. For someone who was worried he wouldn't know what to do, you're awfully good at being a father."

"And you are the best mother," he replied as he lifted his hand to your cheek. You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes with a soft sigh.

"I always wanted a big family," he reminisced as he laid his head back down. "But I never thought it would be in the cards for me. Sometimes, when Mamma had to work and it was too quiet with just me on the boat, I wondered what it would be like to have siblings. That dream died with her until I found Noodle. I don't want Bean to ever be lonely like that."

A tear slipped from your cheek to his as you looked down into his greenish blue eyes. He had such a big heart and so much love to share.

Before you could respond, Ben started to stir, and Willy slipped back into dad mode. He rolled off your lap onto his belly to be level with the boy, chin resting on his forearms. Ben blinked the sleep from his eyes and smiled. "Hi, Papa."

"Hi, Bean. Ready for some more adventure? I think it's high time that I teach you how to swim." You watched the two run back to the water's edge, in awe of Willy's near boundless energy. You knew he'd have no trouble keeping up with another little one. Or two.

<><><>

MASTERLIST

*This is an inside joke from when the reader and Willy first met. Read Boxes for more context.

[to-proudly-go]

Obikin fic (Flexibility is very important, Padawan)

(I'm sorry I have no self-control)

*****

Anakin sobs, great hitching breaths shuddering inside his chest and his heart banging like a drum against his ribcage. “Master, I can’t do it!”

“Yes you can, dear one, you’re doing so well already,” Obi-Wan coos at him, his lips and beard grazing the shell of Anakin’s ear. His body is warm and heavy on Anakin’s back, pushing into him ever so gently–and unrelentingly. Anakin feels every bead of sweat trickling down his own neck acutely, points of relief from the furnace raging under his skin everywhere.

“It hurts, Obi-Wan, I can’t, I can’t–”

Anakin whines as Obi-Wan puts more of his weight on his back. His Master’s grip on his waist and shoulder is so tight, and he imagines that if he were to bring his tunic up right now, he’d see blooming bruises in the form of handprints on his skin.

“Just a little bit more, Anakin, you can take it, that’s a good boy–”

“Master–”

They both groan in ecstasy as Anakin’s fingertips finally reach his toes.

“What the kark is happening here?”

They both look up at the voice interrupting their bubble. Ahsoka stands in the entryway of her and Anakin's rooms, mouth agape and eyes as wide as saucers.

“Hello there, Ahsoka. I’m just helping Anakin stretch out his muscles. After spending a week in the healing halls, Healer Che said he might need help gaining back some of his lost mass and his flexibility,” Obi-Wan calmly explains as he finally stops pushing against Anakin’s back and sits back on his haunches. Anakin moans in relief and straightens out his aching spine from where he was almost parallel with his stretched out legs.

Ahsoka splutters. “But why is he crying? Skyguy, why are you crying?”

Anakin whimpers. “It hurts real bad, Snips. And Obi-Wan won’t listen to me!” He turns to glare at his Master with tears still shining on his cheeks. The bastard only rolls his eyes.

“Oh, stop being such a baby, Anakin. I put you through so much worse before.”

“But I was not recovering from an injury then!”

“And you’d be back to the Healers if we didn’t do this for at least ten minutes! Healer Che was very explicit in her instructions–”

Ahsoka just stares at them as they continue bickering, seemingly having forgotten that she was still in the room with them. She heaves a sigh heavenward and leaves them to it–they’ll take ages to stop anyway.

[bleachification]

aizen - moth to a flame pt. 2

+ aizen x reader

+ chapter two of this fic: moth to a flame << please read this first!

+ tybw spoilers below !!!

summary: war is looming and so are the ever-present memories of your ex-husband. aizen has officially turned his back on soul society and your marriage… at least that’s what you think. chance encounters with aizen amidst a century-worn war spark an internal battle that you aren’t sure you can win, and unconditional love and visceral hatred clash at the helm as you try to forget and move on—much to the dismay of your ex-husband, a man who, by every means, seems intent on winning you back.

“Are you ready?” Byakuya’s voice permeates your bedroom door and settles into the air alongside the scent you had just sprayed. The fragrance is all too familiar—deep vanilla with a subtle hint of smoked maple. Warm and intoxicating. 

Anyone who’s not a fool understands how unhealthy it is to keep and use your murdering, traitorous, son-of-a-bitch ex-husband’s cologne, but love has blinded you and made you foolish. 

You can’t help it. You can’t help the sense of safety and comfort the scent brings as it wraps itself around you, clinging like the last of a lifeline. You can’t help but freeze anytime you try to throw it out—hand directly over the bin, unable to let go and waiting for a drop that will never come. 

You can’t help the love you still hold for him… even as it eats away at you until nothing but a shell of your former self is left. 

“Yeah! Just… just give me a moment,” you call out in response after a pause of uneasy hesitation. You take a deep breath, allowing yourself a second of reprieve before you step out to meet the 6th Division Captain. 

When Byakuya asked you to accompany him to a formal dinner with the rest of the Gotei, you were stunned… to say the least. In fact, you didn’t even give him an answer until 48 hours later, when you had fully processed his request. When you finally accepted, the soft smile that split across his features was worth it, despite the reservations, you harboured in the back of your mind. 

When you gave him your answer, he thanked you… actually thanked you for agreeing to be his date. That gesture almost made you backtrack everything. It’s like you were almost toying with him—playing with his hope like a piper would the flute. 

Byakuya is kind, gentle, and patient. He cares for you in a way so pure and unblemished that you ache with the knowledge that you can’t give him what he wants—what he deserves. At least not while Aizen exists. 

You make your way to the door, shaking the swarming thoughts of Aizen away, and with a heavy breath, you open it to greet Byakuya. He stands before you, donned in all-white attire and carrying a small bouquet of roses in one hand. His eyes are wide as saucers as you step into his view. 

You crack a smile. “Good evening, Captain.”

————

The formal dinner turns into a party mid-way as alcohol gets passed around more frequently. Byakuya has gone off to talk to some clan elders about matters you don’t particularly care for. To sober up and escape the noise, you find yourself wandering the deepest part of the gardens until you come across a familiar bench. 

It sits facing a stunning pond, the water filled with otherworldly fauna and flora that decorate the glistening surface. Crickets tick in the nearby bushes, their sounds only overpowered by the gentle rushing sounds of the waterfall carved from the east bank. 

You take a seat and close your eyes, savouring the rare moment of peace. The night is young, and the air is gentle on your scorching skin—the effects of the alcohol in your system. It’s a relatively normal amount, but you get red, no matter the dosage. Just a drop and you could be used as a signal for oncoming traffic in the human world. 

Aizen used to tease you about it all the time, making stupid jokes that weren’t actually funny but made you laugh anyway. He’d give you a knowing smile, look right into your eyes and say—

“It’s a good thing my favourite colour is red.”

All of a sudden, the world stops. 

No. No. 

You turn and blink at Aizen standing before you, hair bright underneath the moonlight. He looks different, yet much too similar, all at the same time. 

This isn’t real, you think. So in your alcohol-induced haze, you decide that it isn’t. 

“Wow. Pretty accurate for a hallucination. What the hell was in that shot Retsu gave me?” You whisper the last part, just realizing how far from sobriety you are. 

Made-Up Aizen steps forward, inching closer until you’re less than three feet apart. “Hallucination? How much have you had to drink, love?”

Has his voice always been so gentle? So full of adoration?

You decide to humour Fake Aizen. “Hmm… three plus five plus eight minus six?”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement, hands folded behind his back as he watches you wiggle your fingers, trying to work out the numbers. There is less than four metres of space between you. 

You frown. “I think I did the math wrong. How many fingers is eleven?”

“Just a bit more than you have,” he replies softly. 

Not-Real Aizen smiles slightly at the sight of your pout and moves forward to drop down next to you on the stone bench. The two of you stare out at the water. The reflection of the stars is so vibrant on the pond’s surface that you’re tempted to scoop them up and count them in your hands. 1… 2… 3… until reality flows no longer and your problems fade into the weathers of passing time. Sadly, Problem #1 is currently sitting right next to you, eyes fixated on you as yours are on the fallen stars. 

“You’ve been busy,” he finally says, breaking the silence. 

You don’t take your eyes off the tranquil waters. A black swan glides across, light ripples following in its wake. “I could say the same for you, Dream Aizen.” 

He cocks an eyebrow at your name for him but doesn’t comment on it, instead deciding to play along. “You know how it is, reforming the world and such.”

You finally focus on him, slightly regretting it when you see how he looks at you—the same way he looked at you every day before the night that ruined everything. But you remember he isn’t real—just a cruel figment of your imagination and deepest desires. Perhaps that’s why you can converse with him; pretend everything is back to normal… pretend to be happy again. 

“No, I don’t. You see, I haven’t lost my mind. My balance and sobriety, maybe. But not this.” You knock on your head with your knuckles, only to wince at the contact. 

Not-Actually Aizen only sighs, dipping his head as he replies. “It’s a shame we aren’t in agreement yet.”

“Yet? That’s quite offensive,” you scoff. 

He tilts his head, amusement never straying from his features. “Oh? What is?”

“That you think I’d ever align myself with the likes of you. Offensive,” you affirm. 

The curve of his mouth only widens for a second before his usual mellow appearance replaces it. 

“We are meant to be together, _____. My plans won’t change that,” he assures. 

Irritation bubbles up at the insinuation—no matter what happens, you would never be desperate enough to be with a man who is so far beyond help. 

“My morals do. You know I’d never abandon those.”

“I know that you love me, and I love you. That you and I being on opposite sides—there’s no logic to that.” 

To that, you can only sigh and shake your head, the movement causing a strand of hair to fall in front of your face.

Not even a millisecond later, he leans forward. Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of your surroundings and of his eyes locked on yours. You look away, but that doesn’t deter him. 

He is close enough that his breath runs hot on the skin of your neck. The proximity has your head spinning faster than the speed of light—and your own breath hitches as his gaze catches yours again. For an illusion, the warmth of his body feels all too real, and the look he gives you, far-too intense. 

“Is that my cologne?” He murmurs, the question almost too low for you to make out. 

“I ran out of everything else,” you lie. 

“Why would you need… “He pauses and straightens a moment after as an inkling of realization settles in his mind. It causes his jaw to tense. 

His hand moves and takes a strand of your hair between his fingers. You should pull back, but something stops you and pushes you to lean closer. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s knowing he isn’t real. Maybe it’s the part of you that aches in his absence. 

“Are you here alone?” He then spots the accessory on your wrist. Turns out Byakuya also got a corsage to match the roses. “No, of course not.”

“I didn’t come with anyone,” you reply. The lie rolls off your tongue as easily as breathing. You have no reason to protect him from the truth. In fact, you should be lording it over him. Making it known that you’ve moved on—even if you haven’t. 

He blinks. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“Apparently, you’ve always been a great one,” you retort. 

He ignores that comment. You sniff—it was pretty clever. 

“Was it Captain Kyoraku? Someone from one of the noble clans? Tell me, _____. Who have you employed as my temporary replacement?” His fingers stay tangled in your hair, playing with the strands like he used to when lulling you to sleep. For some unfathomable reason, you let him. 

“My date is none of your concern.”

He cocks his head. “On the contrary. As your husband, anyone you are concerned with is my concern.”

You begin to protest. “Ex-husband—”

He interrupts you. “And as your husband, it is only right for me to inquire about your dalliances. So who is it?” A smirk plays on his lips, “Does he know you’re wearing another man’s cologne?”

You give up on trying to correct him. Aizen has always had a streak of stubbornness. “I know he’s mature enough not to care.”

Hallucinated Aizen pulls back from you, not too far, but with enough distance that you can breathe again. His hand, however, never leaves its spot next to your face, teasingly playing with your locks. 

Aizen couldn’t pull his hand away even if he wanted to, though that desire could never wane. As magnets are to each other, you are the same to Aizen—he craves your contact… your touch… your very existence bound to his own. You two are forces unexplained, only alive when together, and vessels of resistance when apart. 

To have spent all this time away from you has been torturous, certainly. But to find out another man is daring to claim what’s his? What will always be his? That insult has truly driven him mad. The calm facade he wears so intimately is on the verge of crumbling the longer he stares at that disgusting flower tied to your wrist. The thought of burning that wretched thing alongside the person who gave it to you, then whisking you far, far away, is overwhelmingly tempting. The only thing preventing Aizen from doing so is knowing he would lose you completely. 

“I won’t let that happen….”

“Hm? Did you say something?” You swear he did, but it was so quiet you missed it. 

With a shake of the head, he denies it and fully removes himself from your space, deciding instead to join you in observing the pond’s activities. Though skeptical, you choose to leave it alone. 

You close your eyes and relish the night breeze, only to peek at the man beside you after a few minutes of silence. Nature long forgotten, his eyes are transfixed on you, slowly scanning you up-and-down, as if committing the image of you to memory. 

After a moment, he speaks up, voices a little strained. “Ah… so you came with Byakuya. Safe choice. Though you were never one to play it safe.”

You blink, half in confusion, half in shock. “What? How did you…?”

“The rose. It’s from his gardens, is it not?”

Damn it. 

“I hate how smart you are,” you mumble. 

He smiles a bit at that. “You used to think my intelligence to be one of my greatest qualities.”

That damned, godforsaken smile. It ruins you completely. Every single time it graces his face, it fucking obliterates you. 

“I hate how smart you are and how kind you used to be,” you add. The sudden need to get everything out in the open takes hold of you. “I hate your lies and the pain you caused and will continue to cause.” 

He opens his mouth, maybe an apology on his tongue, but one that goes unheard as you interrupt and continue. 

“But most of all? I hate the fact that I can’t hate you… not even for a second, not ever,” you breathe, letting the truth sit between you, as heavy and deep as the blood on his hands.

Silence rings out, lingering for a few seconds too long for comfort. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet as he finally responds. “I know.”

You take a deep breath. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t move on. Doesn’t mean I can’t love someone else.”

His demeanour crumbles for a fraction of a second before his mask of indifference slips back into place. You’re able to catch it, though—Aizen is shaken. “You don’t mean that.”

“You chose your own path, Aizen, and the moment you stepped foot onto it, I was no longer a part of it—a part of you. You decided on a life that held no place for me.”

Your husband—ex-husband—flinches. A rare sight, if there ever was one. “Don’t. You will always be a part of me, and I you.”

Your gaze drops, as does your stomach. The heavier the topic delves, the heavier your heart sinks. “That’s only in the past.”

“We are not a thing of the past,” he states, tone even, despite how tightly he grips the side of the bench, hard enough that his veins surface and fingertips turn white. You ignore the part of you that wants to take his hand in your own and check for calluses—to take away his pain. 

“We are not a thing at all,” you stress. The tension rises, and you only serve to add fuel to the fire. “And we never will be again.”

Because of you. Because of the choice you made. 

He makes a disapproving noise but doesn’t comment on it further. Another few minutes of uncomfortable silence stretches until you decide to break it. 

“It’s strange,” you muse. 

“What is?”

The realization creeps up slowly, like paint dripping down an infinite canvas. “I’m almost certain I’m sobered up, yet you’re still here.”

Another beautiful, devastating smile from Aizen—the real Aizen. “Where else would I be other than with my love?”

You snort. “Off, god-knows-where, trying to take over the world?”

“It’s my off-day,” he jokes. You find no humour in it. 

You sigh, chin resting in your palm. “So, you’re real.”

For some reason, you aren’t freaked out. His presence, though unwarranted, has and will always bring a sense of comfort. That feeling is one you don’t think time itself could weather away. 

He sits his chin on the back of his folded hands, mirroring you. “And you’re still here. With me.”

“Which is exactly why I should get back to my date, and you should leave,” you note. The suggestion is logical. Rational. But it hurts nonetheless. 

“So soon, my love? The night is still young. Are you really that eager to get back to your date?”

There is no humour in your eyes as you reply: “Yes, I am.”

“I see.” If there’s a strain to his voice, you don’t notice. 

Without another word, Aizen stands and takes a step forward. You mentally gather yourself at the last second and let him go… for good this time. 

“Aizen?”

“Yes?’ The hint of hope in his voice does not go unnoticed, and it only makes what you say next much harder. 

“Don’t come back again. Especially not for me.”

Aizen barely reacts, only affording you a stiff nod and sad smile before he disappears without a second glance—so quietly you almost believe him to be an illusion again. 

----------

The next time Aizen is brought up is during Ywhach’s invasion of Soul Society. Shunsui is the one who speaks to you about releasing your ex—a means to turn the tides of war. The Sternritter are closing in much too close for comfort, so to have a winning chance… Shunsui knows what has to be done. Hell, you, in your adamant refusal and hesitation, know what has to be done. The “knowing” is the easy part. The “actually putting thoughts into action” part is what’s causing every nerve in your body to seize up and render you immobile.

“No, no, you can’t. Or I can’t—Shunsui, I haven’t seen him for….” Much too long.

The look Shunsui gives you makes your jaw clench—sunken eyes brimming with pity and remorse. “_____, you know I wouldn’t be suggesting this if there was any other option, but he is the only one who–”

“He is a criminal, or have you forgotten? He deserves to be locked up—to stay in his prison and rot beneath our feet,” you argue.

The words you spit are harsh, but the rising panic in your throat is harsher.

Shunsui doesn’t budge. “He is also our only chance of survival.”

What a laughable irony.

“He would stab our backs with the key we free him with.”

“Checks and balances, ______. There will be restrictions in place.”

“That won’t be enough,” you stress. 

But despite your best efforts, your argument falls on deaf ears. Shunsui made up his mind long before this conversation occurred. He only spoke to you out of courtesy. And perhaps a sense of guilt. 

“It will have to be,” he plainly states. 

The newly appointed Captain-Commander glides past you, the scent of his cologne wafting by as he moves to the door. With a slight tilt of his head, he opens it and gestures with an open palm. 

“Well? Are you coming or not?”

A seemingly innocent question, yet loaded with suffocating pressure. But as much as you despise the idea, you steel yourself and follow in Shunsui’s footsteps to the deepest level of Seireitei; Muken, home of the damned, and currently, the residence of your ex-husband. 

It isn’t long before you arrive at the heavy gates of the prison. The looming doors bring a grim sense of foreboding—a ticking time bomb that cannot be defused. 

Shunsui sets a warm hand on your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. In reassurance or apology, you aren’t sure. You ignore the gesture; the only thing on your mind is the anxiety bubbling up inside you, threatening to overflow. 

“Would you like me to go in first? Or with you?” Shunsui asks, sensing your unease. 

You shake your head. “That’s kind, but no. I’ll have more luck convincing him if I’m alone.”

He only nods before moving aside to let you in. 

The first thing you notice is the sheer cold that wraps around you like a blanket of pins and needles. It bores into your bones and seeps into your veins, chilling and paralyzing. It takes you a second to realize that feeling isn’t due to temperature. 

You’re scared. 

And you hate that fear more than you hate him. 

Not fear of Aizen, but fear what you’ll do when you see him… what you’ll feel. 

The gates close behind you with a soft yet heavy thud, encasing you in an echoing darkness that almost blinds you to the path to Aizen. Minutes of deep breaths later, you set a foot forward. Walking through Muken feels like wading through a pool of honey. Time seems to slow to an agonizing crawl as you continue across the darkness. It takes a lifetime and a half, but you finally reach your destination. 

And there he is. Sitting in all his glory, up on the throne he so desperately craved. Head held high, never to be lowered for anyone except you… once upon a time. Aizen shows no hint of surprise as you approach him, but you swear the corner of his visible eye crinkles. You almost blame it on the light, only to remember there’s barely any in the underground prison. 

Seals are strewed across his body, shackling every possible ounce of his power and freedom. You ignore the lump in your throat at the sight; the implication of that pain is something you’d like to leave untouched. 

“I’ve come to—“

“Ask for my help. Yes, I know, and yes, I’ll do it,” Aizen interrupts with his smooth baritone. 

You blink, surprise flitting across your features. “You will? I thought I’d have to fight tooth and nail to convince you.”

“Of course, I will. You asked. Captain Kyorakou’s idea, no doubt, but it worked nonetheless,” Aizen says, gaze never straying from yours. He takes you in, eyes adjusting to your beauty after months alone in a barren landscape, staring at nothing but concrete walls and a blackened void. 

“Then I guess my job here is done.” You turn to leave, ready to get the hell out, only to be stopped by his voice. 

“Wait. _____, wait. Let’s talk.”

You swallow back the nerves crawling up the back of your throat. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“On the contrary, we have so much to catch up on,” he replies. 

You whirl around to face him, nerves long gone, annoyance slipping in its place. “Like what, Aizen? Do you want to talk about how everyone and everything I care about is getting slaughtered and destroyed by the war ravaging my home? About how I am looking at my ex-husband chained up and sealed away to the furthest depths of Soul Society because he decided treason and power were more important than his family? Maybe, you’d like to talk about how every single morning, I wake up and find my world crumbling over and over again because of you. Because. You. Aren’t. There. Is that what you want to ‘catch up’ on?”

Aizen only stares, imperceptibly taken aback by your outburst. He opens his mouth to answer, but you aren’t finished. 

“You are the root of my misery. The bane of my existence.” You hold back the tears well enough, but your voice breaks near the end. “Please, Aizen. Our marriage. My trust. My heart. What else is left for you to break?”

The seals imposed on him make reading his reaction and body language difficult, but the tense pause before he answers is palpable in the freezing air. “You must understand. I do not regret many things, _____, but I do regret hurting you.”

A shake of your head is all you can muster through the simmering anger and cutting grief you find yourself drowning in. “I don’t have many regrets either, but do you know the one thing I wish I could take back more than anything?”

A rhetorical question—you’re both aware—but he answers nonetheless; he humours you. “What is it, my love?”

My love. That damned endearment, laced with affection and poison. “You. I regret ever meeting you.”

A beat of silence passes before Aizen softly murmurs: “I am sorry... if it means anything.” Whether he’s genuine or not, you don’t know, and frankly, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“It doesn’t. Not from you,” you sigh. Fatigue washes over you in numb waves. The urge to leave is overwhelming, so you square your shoulders and turn on your heel again. This time, he doesn’t try to stop you from going.

The war against the Sternritter was not without losses, and the effects of its devastation still echo over Seireitei even months later. Graves filled the desolate land—the final resting places for the fallen, many of whom you had known and cared for. Learning of your comrades’ deaths was a thousand fatal blows to the chest, but nothing could compare to the debilitating dread that sunk its claws into your bleeding heart when you saw Aizen hurt. In that horrible, paralyzing moment, only one thought ran through your mind:

He can’t die. He can’t die. He can’t die.

Like a broken record, that desperate mantra was the only thing you understood, and Aizen the only thing you knew. It took every fiber, every nerve, every optic in your body to restrain yourself from running over and shielding him from further harm. To protect him like he always used to protect you, like how you both vowed to on the day of your union. That moment shattered every doubt in your mind about where you stood with Aizen, and it is also the reason you don’t draw your sword at the sight of him in your home once more.

“Shunsui thought those restrictions could contain you,” you pause. He stands at your doorway, leaning against the frame and listening patiently as you continue. “I told him it wouldn’t be enough.”

A small smile graces his features—the special kind that only appears in your presence. “You do know me best, after all.”

“I thought that once. Until I found out I don’t really know you at all… don’t know who you are anymore,” you murmur.

Aizen steps closer and you find yourself doing the same. No more running, no more hiding. “Then let me remind you. I am your husband, _____. I am the man who will crawl to the ends of the earth and back if you ask it of me. I am the man who needs you more than I need to draw breath,” he whispers, voice so soft, you’re only able to make out what he’s saying because of how close he is.  

“Aizen, please…” You gently press against his chest, desperate to gain distance, but he doesn’t budge and envelopes your fingers with his hand. His skin is warm against yours—too warm…  and way too intoxicating.

“No. I won’t let you push me away again. I need you to listen–”

“I’ve been listening! I’ve been listening to the lies you’ve been spewing for the entirety of our relationship,” you exclaim, exasperated. You pull your hand free from his and it's not even a second later that you miss the contact.

Aizen’s gaze drops down to his empty hand for a split second before coming up to level yours. There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes that you can’t quite decipher. “I hid things from you, yes. But I never lied about our relationship. I pursued you because I desired you, and I married you because the rest of my life is you.”

You cannot breathe. The air around you is charged with something even more powerful than electricity and its drawing goosebumps along your arms and chills down your spine. Aizen continues, and…

Oh dear god, you can’t breathe.

  “If someone were to open up my soul, searching for fingerprints, they would only find yours. I love you. I have loved you for the better part of my life and I will love you even if you took a knife to my heart right now,” Aizen announces, the words escaping out his mouth in a passionate flurry.

He is so, so close. Close enough to touch, close enough to kiss…

You lift your gaze until his eyes meet yours. Something passes between you, and you throw every inhibition out the door.

“Please, _____. Say some—”

And then there was nothing. No sounds. No space. No hate. No love. Nothing between you except unspoken words and fractured memories.

Aizen’s lips move hungrily against yours, and you meet him with equal fervor. His hands are entangled in your hair and gently, but firmly, grasping the back of your neck, hot and searing on your skin. You reach out and grasp the sides of his face, tracing the contours of his jaw as you pull him even closer. The kiss is laden with the roughness and desperation of a dying love. Neither of you is willing to let it end, but you pull back anyway, mind swimming with a million jumbled emotions.

“Aizen—”

His eyelids droop and he steals another kiss while drunk off your presence. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“What?” You try not to get distracted by the slew of affection he’s showering you with, but it's immensely difficult.

“Aizen,” he sulks.

Is he pouting?

You almost let out a laugh. “Have all those years of lying muddled your brain? It’s your name, what else would I be calling you?”

“You used to call me Sosuke. Or husband.”

“I used to call you many things that are hardly appropriate now given the nature of our relationship,” you note.

Sosuke pulls a face, clearly displeased by your answer. “After what we just did, I think it is extremely appropriate.”

You fidget as anxiety starts its treacherous climb up the back of your throat. “Yeah, about that… this doesn’t mean everything is magically okay. It’s far from it, actually.”

You jump a little when you feel his head drop down to your shoulder, breath ghosting over the lines of your collarbone. “I know, but we can make it work. Always.”

“You’re just going to abandon your plans? Give up on taking over the world?” The disbelief in your tone must be obvious because Aizen straightens up and his usual serious demeanor slips back into place.

“I have decided to shift my priorities,” he assures.

“I still can’t trust you.” Your heart squeezes at the sight of Aizen flinching—just slightly, but the hurt is there.

“That is… alright. For now. I swear I will do everything in my power to gain it back—to show you that your trust in me will not be misplaced,” he promises.

  You swallow, unsure of where to go from here until Aizen steps back and pulls something out from underneath the folds of his clothes. The moonlight glints off of your ring, glimmering in the night. Your heart flips at the sight, you’ve missed it dearly.

“I want you to take this back,” he begins.

“I don’t think that is smart idea, I d—”

Your husband gently interrupts you: “Wait. I want you to keep this until I can regain your trust. If I can’t do it, then you are free to throw it into the nearest sea. If I can…” His lips curve into a beautiful smile. “Then I am never letting you take this off for the rest of our lives.”

Five seconds pass. Or twenty, you aren’t sure. The only perceivable thing to you right now is not time, but the thundering beats of your pulse as you make your decision.

You swear Aizen sighs in relief when you finally take the ring from his hand. To his displeasure, you slip it into your pocket instead of on your finger, but he doesn’t voice his disappointment.

“Okay. A second chance; that is all I can give you.”

Aizen wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against his body. You let him, his scent swirls around you, making you lightheaded. “I love you,” he whispers.

You can’t bring yourself to say it back—not yet, but he doesn’t push you to. For that, you are grateful. Nothing about this situation is rational, but love, in its truest form, does not exist within rationale. It exists within sense, within feeling, within the soul. It is rooted in what you cannot measure… in what you yearn for in your highest fantasies… and you? You will always and forever be what Aizen yearns for.

tags: @coralpeachcalm @starsilluminateourgalaxy​

[mod2amaryllis]

*slams table* that's it i'm posting nope thoughts

listen i'm not smart i'm not gonna talk about this like a smart person i'm gonna rant about it like the buzzy shell this movie left me

THIS MOVIE IS AS MUCH ABOUT GORDY AS IT IS ABOUT JEAN JACKET AND ALL THE ADULTS I SEE ACTING CONFUSED ABOUT THE WAY THEY WEAVE TOGETHER ARE KILLING MEEEEEEEE the existence of gordy's tragedy grounds the story in reality in a fucking harrowing way, chimps Have Done This, in Real Life, and they are From This Planet.

that said..................i'mgonnamostlytalkaboutjeanjacketok

stupidest take i've seen today is that OJ actually died and the shot at the end was Em's desperate imagination. fuck off no no you don't know how to watch movies you only know how to write messed up grimdark theories. NO. OJ's finally confrontation with Jean Jacket demonstrated how his knowledge of animal handling was so much more comprehensive than anyone else's, and that he and Em CAN live up to and even exceed the legacy of their family.

because Jean Jacket is written as a predatory animal, that's how OJ describes it. and we realize that avoiding eye contact is one way to keep yourself safe, but that way IS NOT A GUARANTEE, it absolutely would've slurped OJ and Lucky if not for the flag decoy. so knowing animals, knowing predators, knowing territorial behaviors, there is another way to handle a predator. the most dangerous way. which is showing absolute, inarguable control in the face of it. meeting its eyes and convincing it you are the bigger animal. dominating it.

when beautiful, terrible Jean Jacket unfurled and opened its REAL eye and flash flash flashed at OJ, instantly, INSTANTLY, i was like "that's a threat display." right??? am i wrong??? why else would it go so extra when it had been wrecking shop just fine as a saucer?? that was a threat display, Jean Jacket made itself as big as possible in the face of OJ, despite being totally capable of sucking him up at any time.

and finally, OJ looked right back. totally calm, totally motionless, totally prepared to die for his sister. at one point he says "if it's an animal it can be broken" because horses are territorial, horses are massive, horses are tough, and handling them is his craft. he was DOMINATINGGGG

for gordy, there were implied to be no animal handlers on set. there was no one who knew what to do. Jupe is not an animal handler, he's an actor with notions of being "chosen" to live and connect with these predators who appear to spare him. he survived a tragedy and profited off that spectacle his whole life. that doesn't mean he deserved his fate but that's the thing it's not about deserving it's not about being chosen it's not about fate it's about ANIMALS.

and ultimately, the only people who could exert any level of control over Jean Jacket were the financially struggling, less than glamorous, disrespected mother fucking animal handlers!!!!!!!!!!!!

[robthegoodfellow]

A Little Death Do Us Part

VANISHED from fandom to work on this thing. as usual it ballooned 🙃 warnings: necromancy, character death (hence the necromancy), dubcon (on account of the necromancy)

My entry for @bigbangharringrove with art I adore by LucaDoodleDoo who also served as cheerleader when I fell behind and suffered from near fatal narrative maximalism. Here's the first chapter, or read on AO3 💛 (3 chapters up, rest day by day)

Billy had been dead for four days when Steve finally made a breakthrough, muffled cracks as bones restitched and the crushed chest cavity filled, the rasp of rusted lungs expanding with breath. He waited, held his own breath like that would encourage another from the sorry test subject lying inert on the table.

The chest deflated, but only a little—his heart leapt as it rose again, an easier inhale, and Steve would have sobbed, except he had no air, could only manage an anguished choke. It wasn’t anguished, though, just pure exhausted relief, hope, after three nights without sleep, using every trick in the book to keep going, keep trying, not give up.

An ear twitched, then—the tail, the tip curling absent-mindedly.

Within minutes, Mews sat on his haunches, staring at Steve fixedly, even more fixedly than normal, before he’d been hit by that truck, but other than that, he seemed—fine? Fine! Even the sickly-sweet eau de rot was dissipating, ginger fur shedding the greasy dullness of decay.

So it took every ounce of self-control not to go haring off to the basement crypt and work his magic there, on the true intended recipient of his tireless trial and error.

Gods in hell, so many errors. And such a trial. One attempt had backfired so spectacularly that Mews had almost decomposed too far for restoration, crumbling before his eyes as Steve scrambled for the counter spell. Another had awoken the cat but hadn’t healed him, and also imbued him with a ravenous hunger for human flesh. The scratches that crosshatched Steve’s every limb had only just begun to scab under the bandages. He’d had to go for the bat that time, beating at the mangy monster like he was trying to win whack-a-mole at the fair, then gulped down every leftover antidote to zombie infection in the medicine cabinet he could find.

He'd been steadily working his way through the moldy copy of Untethered Netherworld: New Necromancies—several editions out of date, banned in every state but New Jersey—and he was running out of both spells and time. Reanimation for more nefarious purposes—raising undead armies and whatnot—had more wiggle room, but true revivification had to be performed within a week of the victim’s death, and the sooner the better.

He didn’t want a shell of Billy, something better off dead. He wanted Billy. Needed him back.

For that, he had to be patient, thorough; do this right. Follow the checklist. Consulting the items hastily scribbled on the back of a takeout menu, he frowned.

Responds when called.

Well, fuck. Did cats ever respond when called? Mews certainly hadn’t—and Steve still wasn’t sure whether that was due to aloof mulishness or because he maintained some preferred moniker that they weren’t privy to.

Nothing for it but to try, though.

“Mews?”

The cat blinked, swished his tail.

Good enough, Steve figured, checking it off. 

2. Reacts expectedly to stimuli.

Didn’t exactly have a toy mouse handy, but after rooting around in the junk drawer, he dug up one of those keychain laser pointers. Aimed it at the floor in front of the table, and… skittered it around.

Mews launched from his perch, paws extended—pounced on the zigzagging red and kept pouncing.

Another check. 

3. Craves appropriate sustenance.

What did cats even eat, aside from… cat food, which he’d neglected to restock. Tuna? Saucer of milk? Cartoons all seemed to think so.

“Stay here,” he said, though Mews had never been the kind of cat that talked. Locking the workroom behind him, he set off for the kitchen. Pantry had to have at least one can of Chicken of the Sea. 

.💀.

The thing was—Steve should’ve known Billy was possessed. Should’ve been able to tell right away. He’d slept next to that… thing at least two nights and hadn’t noticed. How hadn’t he noticed?

He’d kissed him and really been kissing it—wrote off the delayed response, a pause before the returning press, as simple distraction. Held him but really held it, and attributed the strange stiffness to stress, stroked the broad back until he slept—or seemed to.

Because while Steve slept, Billy had been a marionette wreaking havoc, his hijacker attacking at random, opportunistic, installing its brethren on behalf of its master.

On the third morning, the day before he died, when Steve had been watching coffee drip into the pot, the shatter of ceramic spun him round, disoriented. And Billy, eyes streaming, so blue, burning blue—he’d shoved his waiting mug off the center island, was gripping the counter, teeth gritted with effort.

“Go,” he’d grunted between clenched jaws. “Go.” His hand gripped the other mug—Steve’s—and his voice sharpened, urgent. “Run.”

Steve barely dodged it, the mug cracking into the cabinet by his head with far more force than humanly possible, and his childhood training had kicked in. For once, it paid to have been born to parents whose vigilance bordered on paranoid, always on guard against rival families, enemy estates.

He grabbed a kitchen knife, threw every chair in its way, and bolted for the door, slashing behind him as he fumbled with the locks. And ran. Because he trusted Billy with his life, implicitly, knew when a command was the kind performed without question—the tone, the bluntness, the context. It was how they’d survived as an unaffiliated pair, all these years.

But that also meant precious few allies to turn to in times of need. Billy’s sister wasn’t his first choice, but she lived closest, and fleeing on foot put proximity at a premium. To her credit, she’d tried—Steve didn’t fault her for her role in the outcome—Max had just placed her trust in the wrong people. In people that prioritized killing the thing in Billy, rather than saving Billy himself.

Of course, it didn’t help that Billy had been of the same mind.

Now that he’d found a means to bring him back, Steve could admit another reason he hadn’t closed his eyes longer than a blink since the moment Billy went slack: to avoid the endless replay projected behind his lids—of Billy standing between the girl and the monster, a conglomerate creature of melded prey, raw matter drained of humanity, remade into an ever-growing puppet of destruction.

He'd wrested control once more, like he had in the kitchen, long enough to speak the words to unmake the abomination—words he alone could know, unbeknownst to the puppeteer, as the son of a witch infamous for having contracted with a god of death so powerful none could speak its name and live. None could hear its name and live. And none knew it, save two, for a while. And then one. 

And then none.

Billy spoke it. Steve saw his lips shape unfamiliar words. For the sake of the girl. 

.💀.

A checkmark next to every item on the list—that’s what broke him, finally. Not the most dignified position, kneeling over a litterbox, scooping sandy nuggets into a trash bin while fighting tears of joy, suppressing hysterical, ecstatic laughter, but—Mews was a cat, just a normal cat again, to all appearances, which meant—

He could have Billy back. Had proven wrong every tutor who’d dismissed Steve’s lackluster abilities as beyond the help of instruction. Sufficiently motivated, he’d managed every spell he tried—so it wasn’t his fault he didn’t fully know what each spell would do. This was on his teachers for slouching on the job, handwaving him through his studies to collect a paycheck.

Closing the lid of the bin, Steve stood to wash his hands and swayed, so light-headed he would have toppled were it not for a steadying arm flung to the wall. He breathed slow, eyes closed—opened, and the room had stilled its spinning.

Even so—he needed sleep. If he attempted the most important magics of his life and fucked it up from fatigue, he’d endure the rest of his days tormented by curdling regret.

“Bed, Mews,” he called, out of habit.

They’d held out a week, after Dustin had entrusted them with Mews’ care while he was apprenticing with the bigwigs at Know Where Corporation for the summer. Mewsy prefers sleeping with a buddy, Dustin instructed, among a litany of other highly specific edicts. Well, I prefer fucking my husband without witnesses, Steve had replied, just to see him pull a face, and Billy had chirped, faux-innocent, Unless the price is right. Or unless plied with endless mournful meows and wide, shining, plaintive eyes, apparently, because in no time they had a mound of fur curled at their feet from dusk till dawn.

Despite his exhaustion, despite the comforting warmth of Mews that bled through the covers, despite the meditation exercise to clear his mind, Steve couldn’t drift off for hours, couldn’t stop the steady leak of tears that oozed from the corner of closed lids to his unwashed hair.

Because Billy’s side of the bed was an echoing void at his side, an emptiness cold and loud as an arctic gale. Now and then he nudged Mews with a foot just to hear him snuffle, like an anxious mother checking her silent newborn still breathed. 

Think of a wonderful thought, he heard—Billy’s voice, hushed and fond. And like he always did, Steve huffed, “Okay, Peter,” and finally sank into memories that didn’t stab at him the way they had for days.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself, and relaxed. By this time tomorrow, Billy would be whole and hale and back in his arms. He’d kiss him and hold him. Tell him he loved him.

Tomorrow.

Chapter 2

[kamiiri]

“How’s Jenny?” Lazlo asked. PT9 stood in silence for a long moment, staring up at the large saucer in front of him.

“The same,” he answered, his voice shaking. His wife—the living being he adored more than any other in the galaxy—once known for being talkative and cheerful, now seemed to be a shell of who she once was. Living in captivity, not being able to protect her family…it had taken a toll on her.

[conkers-thecosy]

Bagginshield-tober / Day 2 / Garden

Hi guys! Here's my offering for day two of the lovely @smolestboop's "Bagginshield-tober" prompt list 💛

You can also find these little snippets compiled into one fic on AO3

Bilbo is very sneaky in this one, but in the most embarrassingly fluffy way imaginable! Hope you guys enjoy!

~*~*~

“Perhaps some time in the garden would be nice today?”

Summer in the Shire was much warmer than Thorin was used to. Geographically speaking, Ered Luin wasn’t that far away -around three weeks of travel on a good pony- but the mountains were always bound to be cooler. The seasonal difference even across such a short distance was notable, particularly at this time of year

It was the height of August now, and even Bilbo, who seemed to revel in the warmth and sunshine of his home, was starting to show signs of discomfort. They had started leaving many of the windows open at night, and their bedroom doors ajar to help circulate some air. It did help some, particularly in the wee hours of the morning, but it meant that Thorin could hear the Hobbit shifting restlessly in his bed through the night, and his little whimpers and cries as he dreamt and recollected terrible things were even more difficult to ignore.

The guilt gnawed at Thorin, knowing he had put those fears in Bilbo, haunted by his own actions and regrets like a spectre every night, and hating himself for the damage he had caused. It ate at him, and between that, the heat, and his own nightmares, sleep was nigh on impossible. He would sit awake with the heat, then when he became tired enough to sleep, he would become alert at the sounds of Bilbo’s distress from the room next door. When the Hobbit eventually managed to settle himself, Thorin’s own nightmares would keep him from rest. Eventually he would just pass out as dawn was peeking its head above the horizon, but could only gather a few hours before the heat woke him once more. 

This morning, feeling wearier than he had since leaving Erebor in disgrace for the second time in his life, he found an equally exhausted Hobbit waiting in the kitchen for him. They spoke very little, but regarded one another carefully when each thought the other was not, and both failing abysmally. 

Thorin wondered what Bilbo saw. He wondered about that often, truth be told, but tried not to indulge in it too often, for fear of making himself melancholy. Bilbo saw much. More than almost anyone Thorin had ever met, and there was a part of the exiled king that made him wish perhaps he wasn’t quite so good at noticing so much. He found there was much of himself he would prefer the Hobbit didn’t see.

“Perhaps some time in the garden would be nice today?” Bilbo smiled at him from over the rim of his teacup, green eyes bright and knowing and kind. Far too kind. “There’s a little breeze about today, and I’d like to cut back the lavender bushes so I can dry some of the flowers. What do you think? Care to supervise?”

“I would be happy to assist,” Thorin corrected, unsure if he was being asked to help, or being given permission to laze about, but determined not to allow the latter. “Though I do not know which of your many plants are lavender.”

Bilbo sipped the last of his tea and replaced it in the saucer with a wink at Thorin that made his heart speed up a little. “The lavender coloured ones, of course!”

They finished their breakfast, washed the dishes together in companionable, if tired, quietness, then headed out to the back garden. It was a beautiful place, one Thorin had admired greatly when he first saw it - even though Bilbo had brushed aside his praise and admitted to keeping his neighbour, Hamfast Gamgee, as a gardener to tend it. He had been pleased to find the garden in good repair after they had returned to Bag End together, for all the rest of his home had been an empty, dusty shell until they had put it to rights and reclaimed as many of his belongings as possible.

As it turned out, the lavender was actually lavender coloured, and it wasn’t just a joke after all. The flowers were very pretty, tiny, delicate little clusters at the end of long, thin stalks that grew up from leafy little bushels. There were a great many honeybees interested in the flowers, though much smaller than the ones they had seen at Beorn’s, and given the strong scent of the plant, Thorin wasn’t all that surprised. 

“Now, you make sure and tell me if you start to get a headache,” Bilbo wagged a finger at him, looking stern. “I’m personally very fond of the scent, but there are many who have an adverse reaction, so don’t try and be tough about it.”

Thorin promised, and they began to cut back the long row of plants, taking the flower stems right down to the leaves and laying them in bundles along the grass verge. Bilbo chatted while they worked, explaining how he liked to dry the flowers and use them for little scented pillows, as his mother had always been fond of them. He said he would make her a fresh one every year, and since she had passed, he made one for himself, and as gifts instead.

Thorin could understand the appeal of such a thing, they really did smell wonderful. He was pleased to find he had no headache at all, only a lazy sort of contentment as they worked side by side in the sunshine. 

“I think that’s all of them,” Bilbo smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. “Shall we sit in the shade for a little while and take a break?”

The pair of them found a shady spot under a tree, and Bilbo laid back on the cool grass almost immediately. Thorin hesitated for only a moment, before he joined him too, though careful to keep a respectful distance between them. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have laid down at all, but it was very hot, and he had grown very calm and sleepy. So much so that it was all he could do not to close his eyes, the sound of the soft breeze rustling through the trees, and Bilbo humming very gently from beside him…

When he awoke, it was well into the afternoon, and he might have felt guilty or worried for wasting the day, if not for finding Bilbo curled up beside him, sleeping soundly. Thorin watched him for a long moment, resting so peacefully, and close enough that, though they weren’t touching, it would take only the smallest of movements to make it so. 

He felt much better for the sleep, it was true, but there was no rush to wake just yet. Bilbo clearly needed the rest, after all.