#the queens in question are..................

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

Megumi sighed shaking his head at this, even if he didn't want anything happening to him. Or worse; if she finds out. Though, it seems he said his answer.

"Um....well...Todo-san." Kisho goes to give him a nervous smile, "The type of woman I want to go for...is um." God..why does he feel that he is going to get beat up?

Fuck. He is going to crack.

"Someone that I truly cherish from the top and bottom of my heart. Because..." He shuts his eyes tightly. "I want someone who is kind, brave even if they aren't brave but pushes through, someone is strong but is okay with me protecting her, and um....someone I want to go on adventures with. So yeah...that's my type."

He said it.

Now it's up to Todo. He thinks of his answer yet he was thinking of the other one from before. How his arms remain crossed that he was thinking towards it.

What was his answer to this one?

"That......was...." that's when he grabs Kisho and started shaking him.

"A NORMAL ANSWER!? I THOUGHT THIS GIRL YOU WANTED WAS YOUR TRUE QUEEN OR PRINCESS!? WHAT SORT OF ANSWER IS THAT!?" He said now shaking him.

"TODO, NO!!" Megumi said trying to stop him while Hana sweatdrops.

"A WOMAN OF YOUR LOVE SHOULD BE ALWAYS FIRST! YOUR QUEEN! YOUR GODDESS! DO YOU EVEN LIKE THIS GIRL!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!? DX" he shouted.

~~AT the girls dorm building~~

The girls from the dorms heard.

"What was that?" Nobara asked seeing Miwa and Yuria sweatdrops. However, Miwa knew. "oh no...seems like Todo was asking that question again and didn't like the answer.." she said shaking her head.

"Hey Yuria? Wasn't Miko out shopping today to get some snacks for everyone?" Nobara was sweatdropping but Yuria blinks only for her to widen her eyes.

"Uh oh..."

Megumi gives a 'Yes he's serious just go with it' look hoping that Todo don't do anything because of the badger finds out, she would lose it herself. He didn't need another added to that list. It's bad enough Kinie and Sukuna lose it!

Todo waited for his answer with arms crossed.

"Well…I like black…raven-head, beautiful smile, fair skin, and uh? Amazing eyes that I want to look at for a long time! Skin that is vibrant that I can't look away." He begins. "Soft, warm, and uh…" He gulps a little as Eito is now perching on the railing.

"Hmmmmmm..." He was listening to this but keeps his eyes focused on Kisho. "Yes? Anything else?" Todo said.

"And uh…."

"Come on friend. You must have something else to add to this. You have to finish your answer!" Todo said.

"Is this really needed Todo-"

"YES! THE LAST ANSWER WAS SOMETHING I DIDN'T LIKE SO HIS OTHER ANSWER SHOULD BE GOOD!!"

[vbecker10]

Stop Saying it Like That

Pairing: Loki x female reader (Y/N)

Summary: Just a little blurb based off the meme below (from Loki:intotheowenverse), hope you like it 💚

"Loki, you need to stop saying it like that," you laugh, shaking your head as he opens the door to the small bakery for you.

He follows you out onto the street carrying a small box full of treats, "Saying what?"

You stop, clearing your throat so you can do your best impression of your boyfriend's accent, "Enjoy the next twenty-four hours."

The God of Mischief chuckles at your poor attempt, "Was that supposed to sound like me?"

"I sounded exactly like you," you answer with a wide smile despite knowing it wasn't even close.

"Look, that's not my point," laughing as you try to get the conversation back on track. "Its really creepy when you say it like that," you inform him.

He wraps his free arm around your waist and starts walking again, leading you back towards the Tower. "It was truly awful darling," Loki shakes his head with a smile.

"Creepy?" he raises an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

"Don't act like you have no idea what I'm talking about," you roll your eyes. "It literally sounds like a threat, like they only have twenty-four hours left to live or something."

He chuckles, "Trust me darling, when I threaten people they know." You sigh, trying to look annoyed but he bends to kiss your cheek and your smile slips free. "What would you prefer I say?" he asks genuinely curious.

"Just say 'have a good day'," you tell him.

"Y/N, that's the same thing," Loki states and you shake your head. Before you can argue back he presses his lips to yours to silence you. "Fine, I will try that next time," he agrees and you smile.

Loki walks with you in comfortable silence for two more blocks, his arm still around your waist, slowing his pace when he notices your attention is caught by the bouquets outside a flower shop. "See something you like?" he asks as you both stop in front of the colorful display of mixed flowers.

You smile, pointing to a bundle of your favorite flowers. Loki picks them up and you follow him into the shop where he pays the employee.

She hands Loki his change, he looks down at you briefly then back at the woman behind the counter. "Have a good day, mortal," he tells her with a wide smirk that causes the florist to let out a nervous laugh before thanking him quietly.

You walk back outside, your flowers in one hand and swat Loki's chest lightly in a joking manner. He chuckles, "What did I do wrong now? I told her to have a good day like you insisted."

"Mortal?" you tilt your head and look up at him.

"Would 'human' have been better?" he smiles.

You ignore his question, knowing he is only asking to see your reaction. "And the evil smirk, really?"

"Evil?" Loki let's go of your waist, putting his hand over his heart dramatically. "You wound me Y/N."

You laugh, reaching up to kiss his cheek when he tries to act as if he's offended. "You're cute when you're being annoying on purpose," you tell him and he chuckles, holding on to you again.

"I'm glad someone thinks so," he smiles.

"But stop talking to people when we go out," you add with a laugh.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did 💚💚 Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

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[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to the Fashion of 1940s

The 1940s was a time for great change in the world and in fashion. Marked by rationing and shortage of fabrics, the silhouette and availability of different cuts was limited so the women of the era turned to more fitted, shorter cuts.

Undergarments

The undergarments of the era were not as restrictive or complicated in WW2 as they were pre-WW1, but there were a lot of moving parts to the set-up.

Bra/Brassiere: Bras got shorter in the 1940s due to the rationing of fabric. They look much like they do today, made of light coloured fabrics and hooked with metal eyelets.

Panties/Knickers: The underwear. Elasticated underwear was around and actually exempt from rationing.

Girdle: The girdle rests on the lower torso, past the hips and were used for shaping as well as support.

Garters: Were worn at the top of the stocking just above the knee to hold the stocking in place.

Garter Belt: Was a belt worn around the waist and used to hold up the stockings and garters thanks to fastenings.

Slip: A slip is a light loose dress that is worn under another dress. It is long or short depending on the size of the dress you're wearing over it. The slip has slim straps and was usually plain though lace and embroidery were no uncommon. Most younger women favoured the half slip which was like another skirt.

Stockings: Stockings were worn over the lower legs, clipped and held in place by the garters. If your lady is lucky enough to have a friend on the black market, she might be lucky enough to have proper nylon tights. But if not, some ladies in this period dyed their legs with tea bags and drew the seam up the back of their legs to give the effect.

Outfits

Most women still wore skirts and dresses in the 1940s though some women switched to pants. Most of the outfits of the time followed a similar silhouette due to rationing: it was simple, unsophosticated, fitted, belted and hems remained just below the knee. A suit jacket and skirt combo was popular. Blouses and jumpers were also worn. Dresses were worn as well. Women would pair their outfit with accessories. They would always wear a hat outside and gloves.

Shoes

Shoes were effected by the war, with leather and rubber being limited. Most were brown, black or two two-tone shoes were popular. Oxford shoes, saddle shoes, loafers, court shoes, slingback were popular. These could be lace ups or have fastenings. Heels were usual, but rather short and stocky if worn in the day time. Most would be plain but some would have embellishments.

The Reality of the 1940s

With war on and rationing well underway, the question of clothes was always on the mind. Most women did not have a large wardrobe and with clothing coupons little help, most women made and made due. Hems would be let down, larger sizes cut down and a lot of clothing reused. Fabric choice was limited, silk and nylon were used for parachutes and military applications. Clothing rations were the only way to get new clothes in the war. The average person was entitled at first to 66 clothing coupons per year. But that only would buy an outfit of clothes not including the necessaries. And the number of ration coupons went down as the war went on, down to 36 coupons in 1945. It was illegal to transfer coupons but even despite this, in 1947 hundreds of women offered the future Queen Elizabeth II their rations for her wedding dress. The offer was declined but the government had to approve the release of extra coupons to the Princess. Women also turned to alternatives to create clothes especially wedding gowns even made them out of parachutes!

Make up and Hair

Make up and perfume was one of the many things that was rationed due to their chemical components such as glycerine. Women could access make up but due to rationing and many make up companies not having the ingredients or changing to more profitable and patriotic output, supplies were low. Women often turned to DIY, burnt cork for mascara and eyeliner, natural stains such as beetroot or cochineal for lipstick, crushed rose petals for blush, soot/charcoal for eyeliner, facemasks of egg white or oatmeal, beeswax for moisturiser and cold cream. As for hair women often turned to DIY to care and wash for their hair. Homemade shampoos were made from soap, vinegar and baking soda. Egg yolks were used for conditioner. Lemon juice was used to lighten hair. Olive oil was used to make hair shiny. Some popular hairstyles of the era:

Victory Rolls: This is the hairstyle you're probably thinking ofwhen you think of the 40s. It involves rolling the hair away from the face and rolling them at the top of the head.

Pin Curls: This is a hairstyle involving the curling and pinning of hair overnight got tight curls for the next day.

Pageboy: This is a shoulder-length style, curled at the ends

Waves: This style involves soft waves

Pompadours: The hairstyle involves the sweeping up of hair back from the face and sculpting it to be more voluminous.

Snoods: This is a sort of net worn over the hair, usually with a rat (a sort of device used to increase volume at the front of the hair)

Scarves: Were popular replacement for hats, used to cover their hair when going out.

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

I'm thinking again about how Bells Hells repeatedly insisted they had "no choice" but to release Predathos in the finale, when they very much did have a choice even as they felt it was the best of a series of bad options. They might not have liked the choice, but they did choose to go into the Hallowed Cage instead of doing something else. And the thing is, this refusal of their own agency is something they've done the whole time. One of their most aggravating traits as an adventuring party has been repeatedly asking everyone they come across (gods, world leaders, Predathos itself) what they want as a way to avoid choosing what to do for themselves, to the point that the Raven Queen eventually calls them out on it.

And the fact that the larger political and theological implications of the finale were carried out largely without Bells Hells only further highlights their lack of acknowledged agency. It was in conversations between Vax and Morrighan and Deanna with their respective deities that the implications of the gods becoming mortal where dealt with and the question of whether saving them was worth it was answered (yes they were worth saving, because everyone is). The logistics of what to do with the Ruidians who want to live on Exandria and the establishment of diplomatic relations with the moon were settled by Vox Machina and the Mighty Nein, with Bells Hells taking pretty much no part. Bells Hells lack of involvement in either of these series of conversations makes it feel like these events occurred outside of them despite being spurred entirely by their actions and choices.

But what really makes this stick out to me, is that I've written about characters who actively defer their own agency to external forces before in regards to Moc Weepe and Jonas Spahr of Midst. But where I think both of their arcs work and Bells Hells falls flat is the narrative of Midst acknowledges their deferral of agency and directly grapples with it. Learning to acknowledge that he is making choices and those choice have consequences that he needs to take responsibility for is a key component of Spahr's character arc, which climaxes with him finally making a decisive choice for himself. Weepe in contrast continues to deny his own agency even in the face of the woman he loves begging him to take some accountability (on her deathbed no less!) and this ultimately leads him to his ruin. Whereas with Bells Hells everything worked out just fine in the end despite all their waffling and refusal of responsibility without any consequences that would make them take a good long look at what they did, or bite them for choices they refuse to acknowledge that they made.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 6

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures, memory loss, hospitals, vomiting, blood and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lando felt like time was moving far too slowly.

He tried to keep himself occupied on the plane, but every moment felt like an eternity. His brain kept returning to thoughts of Lizzie, the words ‘multiple seizures’ running through his mind on a continuous loop.

He had never felt so out of his depth before. Racing? Sure. Even dealing with fans and the media? That was a walk in the park compared to the knot in his stomach now.

And worst of all, the not knowing was killing him.

He had no idea what Lizzie’s condition was truly like.

Was she not responding at all? Was she in a coma? Was she… was she even okay?

He barely managed to keep it together on the plane ride...The taxi ride from the airport to the hospital felt like an eternity. Lando fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his knee.

Every second felt like an hour. Every minute felt like a decade.

Finall, finally, the Royal Sussex Hospital loomed large, its white walls and rows of windows a stark contrast against the grey English sky. Even though it was May, the cold air was biting at his exposed skin.

As he went through the doors, his nostrils were immediately assaulted with the sterile, clinical scent of the hospital.

"Elizabeth Treshton?" he asked at the reception, Lizzie's full name feeling foreign on his tongue. Did anybody ever even call her that? Lizzie was the name she introduced herself with, Lizzie was what friends and family called her…hell, even all the fans on her instagram account seemed to have adopted that name. Elizabeth Treshton seemed solely to exist to be put on her books and that was it.  

The receptionist looked up at him with a small smile. "Yes, she's on the fourth floor. Room 404."

Lando's heart leapt into his throat. "Thank you."

He made his way to the elevator, his mind racing. Fourth floor. Room 404. Four was lucky. Right?

The elevator ride up to the fourth floor was excruciating.

The hum of the elevator’s motor and the faint music playing in the background felt like nails on a chalkboard to Lando’s already frayed nerves. When the doors finally slid open, he practically jumped out into the hallway.

404.

The room number was emblazoned on the sign next to a door partially cracked open.

Lando paused outside, taking one last deep breath to try and steel himself.

Standing outside her room, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to knock, introduce himself, or just stay quiet until the door magically opened. He debated for a moment, his hand hovering awkwardly for a moment before rapping lightly on the door.

There was no answer.

Silence filled the hall.

And then a voice called out, raspy and weary: "Come in."

Lando swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as a desert. With a shaky hand, he pushed the door open and took a single step into the room.

"You're...Lando Norris." His eyes immediately snapped to a man in his late 40s sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Lizzie's dad. There was no question about it. He looked just like her.

It was almost more as a statement than a question.

Lando, slightly taken aback, nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. Uh, I came as soon as I heard. Is she...okay?” It was a stupid question, as his gaze fell on Lizzie...dead asleep in the hospital bed.

He wasn't sure what he had expected...maybe more machine's connected to her. 

Granted, there were a few…her heartbeat was silently broadcasted to everybody in the room…there was an IV-Line in her hand…and there were also white bandages wrapped around her forearm. They were nearly the same white colour as her skin. 

Lizzie’s father nodded, a weary smile on his face. "She’s stable. Hasn’t seized in over a day. But she’s been in and out of consciousness a lot. Not very responsive when she is awake, but the doctors say that’s normal."

Lizzie’s father took a slow, appraising look at Lando, like he was trying to piece together the weirdest puzzle of his life. “I must admit, I expected pretty much anything, but not you, to be honest," he finally said drily. "Richard Treshton. Most people call me Rick."

Lando nodded, tearing his gaze away from Lizzie for just a moment. "Nice to meet you, Rick."

He felt acutely aware of the fact that Lizzie’s dad was sizing him up.

Rick leaned back in the chair, his gaze never leaving Lando’s face. "How do you know Lizzie?"

Lando felt a pang of nerves. "We, uh...we’re friends."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "Friend with the benefits sort of thing, or...?"

The blood rushed to his face. "We had two dates!" Lando blurted out. "We haven't...talked about...labels yet."

Rick raised the other eyebrow, now looking rather amused. "Ah, two dates then. I see. But not...dating."

Lando huffed out a breath. "We’re not not dating."

Rick chuckled, now looking thoroughly amused.. "Right. Not not dating. Clear as mud. Two dates, huh? But you’re already flying across the Atlantic to be here? Even though I am quite sure that there is some partying to be had in Miami?"

Lando felt his cheeks redden even further, but he held Rick’s gaze. “I care about her.” The words felt a little too raw, a little too real, and the weight of them hung in the air.

Rick regarded him for a few seconds. Then a small, tired smile appeared on his face. 

"You really do, don't you?"

Lando nodded, unable to find the words to respond. He did care about Lizzie. Deeply. 

"Just don’t make me regret letting you near her, okay?” Rick said with a sigh.

Lando nodded firmly. "I won’t. I promise."

Rick studied him for a beat, as if searching for any trace of dishonesty. Then he gestured to a chair next to the bed. “Sit. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

"Where's Mara?" Lando asked as he sat down, his eyes searching for the dog.

"I made Mara take Tasha out on a walk. She goes crazy when she is copped inside for two long."

Lando blinked twice. "You made the dog take Tasha out on a walk?"

Rick chuckled. "Technically, I told Tasha to take Mara on a walk, and she agreed. Tasha kept terrorising poor Lizzie everytime she woke…besides Mara was hard at work this week, she needed a break too….she was with Lizzie when the seizures started."

Lando sat down in the chair beside Lizzie's bed, trying to process everything he just heard. He had so many questions, but the one that was the most pressing on his mind was, "How did this happen? The seizures, I mean? Did something trigger them?"

Rick’s expression darkened. "She changed medications a few weeks ago. The new one didn't do a particular good job. Clearly." He sighed. "This is the worst it has been in...around 5 years," he said with a grimace. "Around the time Lizzie got Mara, we also found a combination of medications that minimized her seizures from every few days to every few weeks...This isn't normal for her," he told Lando seriously.

 "Yes, she has epilepsy, yes, she will always have to deal with it, but Lizzie is normally able to live a a mostly "normal" life most of the time. She hasn't been hospitalised like this since her school years."

Lando nodded, trying to wrap his head around everything Rick was saying. His gaze went down to Lizzie, so small and fragile against the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. He had only seen her mostly healthy and whole so far. Even that evening after the one seizure she had had, she had looked tired, but not…not like this. 

She had still been happy Lizzie who was snarky and witty and always ready to dish out a bit of playful banter.

This Lizzie was none of that.

She was pale and still, her face drawn and her body limp. Only the occasional twitch of her fingertips or flutter of her eyelashes indicated that she was still alive.

"Is this...going to happen again?" he asked weakly.

Rick’s expression was grave. "I hope not. Not to this extent, at least. She will have seizures in the future, but hopefully they won’t get this bad again.” He paused, studying Lando for a moment. "This is...a lot. I get it if you want to bail."

Lando’s head snapped up so quickly, it nearly gave him whiplash. "Bail?" he repeated vehemently. "You think I came all the way here to just bail?"

Rick shrugged a little. "No offence, kid, but you’re a world famous racecar driver. You’re known for being a party animal. This,” he gestured vaguely towards the bed where Lizzie lay, "is a whole nother level of commitment."

Lando bristled at that. “I am not afraid of commitment,” he snapped. “ I am not going to bail just because she’s ill.”

Rick just held his gaze for a moment, then chuckled. "You got a hell of backbone, kid. I see why she likes you."

Lando felt a small flicker of pride, but it was quickly overshadowed by worry. "How long do you think she'll be like this?" he asked, gesturing towards Lizzie. She looked so lifeless, so unresponsive.

"Ah, she'll wake up again in a few minutes and ask the same exact questions, she has been asking for the last 3 days," her father said drily. "Who won Miami?"

Lando’s jaw dropped. "Winning Miami is seriously the last thing on my mind right now," he said incredulously.

"Not on Lizzie's," Rick said with a laugh. At that moment, the door opened again. Mara ran into the room, tail wagging, immediately jumping up on the end of Lizzie's bed where there was a blanket waiting for her

Lando watched as Mara lay down on the blanket, head resting on her paws. She looked like she had settled in to stay. 

"You owe Mum 10 bucks, Uncle Rick" came the voice of a young women from the doorway. "Hi, I am Tasha."

Lando turned towards the doorway, taking in the young woman who had just entered. She was striking to look at, with shoulder-length blonde hair and bright green eyes. This must be Tasha. LIzzie's best friend.

"Hello," Lando said, surprised to find himself feeling a little tongue-tied for once. This young woman exuded a kind of confident energy that made him feel slightly...intimidated.

Tasha's gaze flickered over to Lizzie's form in the bed, her expression softening for a split second. Then she fixed Lando with a calculating look, head tilted to the side."Huh. So you are the Lando Norris."

Lando shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling under the spotlight. "Uh, yeah. That's me."

Tasha's gaze was scrutinising, like she was trying to peer straight into his soul. Then she grinned suddenly, her whole face lighting up. "Damn, Lizzie really wasn't kidding. You are pretty cute."

Lando blushed, caught off guard by how bluntly Tasha was speaking. "Uh...thanks, I guess?"

Tasha chuckled, clearly amused by his discomfort. “Relax. I’m not going to bite you. I just wanted to get a good look at the guy who’s snatched Lizzie’s heart.”

Lando’s blush deepened at that, his heart fluttering in his chest at the thought. He was saved of more interrogation by Mara perking up

Mara, who had previously laid still on the end of the bed, suddenly lifted her head, ears pricked. A low, quiet whine escaped her throat, and she turned her head towards Lizzie.

Lando followed Mara’s gaze to Lizzie’s face, where her eyes slowly fluttered open.

Her eyes were glassy and unfocussed, like she was trying to remember where she was. 

There was a beat of silence before Rick spoke up softly. "Hi, sweetheart."

Lizzie’s gaze slowly shifted, landing on her father. A small, confused frown pulled at her brows. "Dad?" she murmured, voice raspy. “Where...what…"

Rick shushed her gently, moving over to the bed. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re in the hospital. You’ve had a seizure.”

Lizzie’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Who won in Miami?" she croaked out.

"The race never actually started. The Miami Dolphins accidentally flooded the track, and now it’s an aquatic event," Tasha said brightly.

…at least Lando now knew what Rick had meant with Tasha kept terrorising Lizzie. 

Lizzie slowly turned her head towards Tasha, her eyes slightly unfocussed. For a second, she just stared at Tasha, as if trying to process her words.

"You made that up?" she finally said faintly questioningly.

Tasha grinned, completely unrepentant. "Yep. But the look on your face was so worth it. You looked like a baffled trout."

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of Lizzie's mouth.

It was the first sign of life on her face since Lando arrived. It wasn’t much, but it made him feel a tiny bit hopeful.

"I feel like a baffled trout," Lizzie mumbled slowly, "Where’s Mara?"

As if on cue, Mara let out a soft whine and shoved her head against Lizzie’s hand. Lizzie’s fingers automatically curled around her fur. "Hey girl," she murmured. 

She looked tired. And pale. And fragile. But still, in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing Lando had ever seen.

"So who's won Miami?" she asked, again.

"I did."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them

Lizzie looked up at him. For a second, she looked utterly baffled, like she was surprised to see him. Then recognition dawned in her eyes.

"Lando?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, unable to form words in that moment, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Her eyes flickered over him, taking in his tired, rumpled appearance. "You're here," she said, her voice filled with wonder.

Lando could only nod, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak. He felt the weight of Rick and Tasha's gaze on him, but he didn't register it. All he saw was Lizzie.

Lizzie’s hand was still buried in Mara's fur, fingers massaging the dog's head gently. Lando suddenly felt the need to touch her. To assure himself that she was really there.

He reached out, slowly, carefully, as if afraid she would disappear if he was too hasty. His hand hovered awkwardly above hers for a second, hesitating.

Lizzie's gaze flicked to his hovering hand, then back up at his face. There was a beat of silence, a loaded moment, a quiet invitation of sorts.

Lando hesitated for only a second longer, then carefully placed his hand on top of hers. Her skin was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips.

There was another beat of silence, the room heavy with tension. Then Lizzie turned her hand over, fingers intertwining with his. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt like everything. Lando exhaled shakily, squeezing her hand almost without intending to.

Lizzie's thumb rubbed over his knuckles gently, a soft and reassuring gesture. Lando was suddenly hyperaware of every detail about her. The warmth of her hand, the slight chapping on her lips, the circles under her eyes, the faint scent of hospital antiseptic on her skin.

"Either my brain is really scrambled, or you are actually here. Which one is it?"

Lando huffed out a quiet laugh. "I’m really here," he said softly. "Not just a figment of your imagination. I promise."

Lizzie’s eyes fluttered shut, relief and exhaustion warring for dominance on her face.

“You won?” She asked him, her voice slurring slightly.

Lando chuckled quietly, the noise bubbling up in his chest without his consent. "Yes, I won."

Her hand, intertwined with his, twitched slightly tighter at his words. "Really?" she repeated weakly.

"Really," Lando assured her softly. "Finished in first place."

He couldn't tell whether the emotions fluttering in his chest were joy or worry. Perhaps a strange mixture of both.

“I told you, you could do it,” she said simply.

Lando huffed out another laugh, the sound tinged with a hint of disbelief. "Yeah, you did. I should really start to listen to you more often."

Lizzie’s eyes flickered, fighting to remain open. She was losing her battle with sleep.

"You look tired," he said softly, rubbing the skin on the back of her hand with his thumb. "You should sleep."

Lizzie made a small, disgruntled noise. "Don’t wanna," she mumbled stubbornly.

"You need to," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You need to give your brain a chance to rest and recover."

Lizzie opened her mouth to protest, but a massive yawn cut her off, her protest coming out as another tired groan.

"See? Your body’s betraying you," Lando said with a smile, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. Lizzie huffed, her expression somewhere between annoyed and too exhausted to care.

Her eyes were fluttering closed, trying to stubbornly refuse rest. But the exhaustion was winning, it was blatantly obvious. Lando gave her hand a light squeeze, bringing her attention back. "You need to sleep," he repeated, his voice even more tender this time.

Lizzie huffed again, but it was a weak sound, lacking any real defiance. She was giving in. "Fine. I'll sleep," she mumbled, her voice slurring with exhaustion.

She shifted slightly on the bed, still clinging on to Lando's hand like it was a life line.

Lando gave her hand another gentle squeeze, a silent encouragement. Lizzie let out a soft sigh, her grip on his hand loosening slightly as sleep finally closed in on her.

Lando watched, his heart feeling both heavy and light in his chest. She looked so small and fragile against the hospital sheets.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered softly, not sure if she could even hear him. But her fingers twitched faintly, a last, desperate attempt to cling onto consciousness. Then, finally, her hand went slack in his, and her breathing leveled out into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Lando felt the tension ease from his body, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding escaping from between his lips. Lizzie was asleep, and it was the best state she could be in right now.

He looked up, suddenly remembering that they were not alone in the room. Rick was watching him silently, his gaze steady and observant.

Lando fidgeted under the scrutiny, his grip on Lizzie's hand unconsciously tightening. He'd almost forgotten about Rick and Tasha's presence, caught up in the intensity of the moment.

Tasha was watching him too, her expression hard to read. There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes, a glint that spoke of protective instincts.

"Relax, kid," Rick said, seeing Lando’s discomfort. "We’re not going to tear you apart."

Lando tried to suppress his nerves, but he felt very aware of the fact that he’s just held their daughter’s hand in front of them. "Yeah, I know," he managed to get out, his voice slightly shaky.

"Mara likes you, so I won't be too mean to you," Tasha said drily.

Lando let out a strangled laugh, feeling oddly reassured by Tasha's words. "Is...is that a good thing?" he asked tentatively.

Tasha rolled her eyes, but her expression was amused. "With Lizzie, it’s the highest form of approval you’re going to get."

[caracalla-dondus]

Suspicious Minds

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: A senator informs Geta about the rumors surrounding his wife

Author's Note: This fic consists of pieces I took out from a much longer fic I had written. After reading what I originally wrote I didn't really vibe with the whole thing and so I took out parts I liked best to create this fic. Idk if it's better or worse because things feel a bit rushed in this fic now and not as cohesive as before but it's good enough I think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was partly inspired by Fire & Blood where it says that some in court found Queen Rhaenys Targaryen suspicious because she spent time with bards and singers and they were sure she must be having an affair on Aegon I. Also the title is from the Elvis song of the same name because it popped into my head while writing this because it's similar to the plot lol.

~~~

The late afternoon sun streamed through the marble arches of the palace, casting shadows across the floor of the Emperor’s private chamber. Emperor Geta paced restlessly, his jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching. The rumors had come to him this morning, carried by a senator whose words had been carefully chosen, yet laced with venom.

“She is often seen in the company of poets and bards, my Emperor. Some say perhaps too often.”

The words echoed in Geta’s mind as he strode to the balcony. Below him, others strolled about, oblivious to the storm brewing in his heart. He had always known that his wife had a fondness for the arts. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. The way her eyes lit up when she heard the verses of a poem she thought was interesting, the soft smile that graced her lips during the final notes of a ballad. She was a woman of intelligence and charm. Perfect qualities to be his empress.

But now those very same qualities and interests had become the source of his unrest.

~

Geta finds his wife out in the garden. “I had hoped to speak with you my wife,” he said, his tone polite but firm. 

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer to him.

Geta studied her, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for some sign of guilt. But she looked as she always did, serene, composed, and beautiful. “There are whispers in the court,” he began slowly, “that your affection for music and poetry has extended beyond mere appreciation.”

His wife’s eyes widened, and then she laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t want to,” Geta admitted, his voice low. “But the court is not kind to a woman who spends her days surrounded by other men, no matter how innocent her intentions.”

Her smile faded, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Geta, these men are poets, musicians and artists. They speak to me about the soul, not the flesh. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But the thought of her laughter, her attention, her admiration being bestowed on another man gnawed at him. “Then why do others speak of you so?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Why do they say you adore Bacchus so much that you have embraced his indulgences?”

His wife stiffened, her hand falling away. “Do you question my virtue?” she asked, insulted that her husband would believe such nonsense about her.

“I question the company you keep!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.

She took a step back, her expression conveying her hurt and frustration. “You have always known who I am Geta. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the palace, just simply gossiping my day away. I find joy in the divine chaos of creation. If that makes me suspicious in the eyes of our court then so be it. But I will not apologize for things I did not do.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion. Geta clenched his fists, his anger warring with his love for her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer. “I do not wish to stifle you. But I cannot bear the thought of others questioning your loyalty or your love for me.”

His wife stepped closer, her gaze steady. “Then let me reassure you, my emperor. I am as sure of my love for you as I am about Sol bringing us the sun each morning. But if you doubt me, then tell me what must I do to prove myself?”

He sighed, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Let the poets and bards sing their songs without you for once. Let Bacchus have his revelry elsewhere.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “If it will ease your mind, my dear husband then I will stay.”

Geta pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to shield her from the whispers that sought to undermine them. But even as he held her, a shadow of doubt lingered, refusing to be banished entirely.

~

The grand halls of the palace echoed with the click of her delicate sandals against the marble floor. The weight of her husband’s arm on her shoulder was both reassuring and suffocating. For the past three days, Geta had not let her out of his sight. Where she went, he followed. Where he could not follow, he sent his guards to watch her every step. It was unlike him, and though his paranoia was silent, she could feel it in the way his fingers tightened around her arm, in the watchful, almost desperate glint in his eyes.

She had tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him of her loyalty, but it seemed no words could pierce through the suspicion that had taken hold of him.

During a feast, Geta watched his wife like a hawk as she entertained a visiting nobleman whose son had written a collection of poems. His wife listened to the man intently, her soft smile never wavering as the man recited a verse.

But Geta saw something else. He saw how the man’s eyes lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light up the room. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, his jaw tightening. Was it admiration? Was it mere courtesy? Or was there something more? The thoughts churned in his mind like a storm, dark and unrelenting.

When the man left, Geta wasted no time. He rose abruptly, crossing the room to where his wife stood.

“You enjoyed his company,” he said, his voice low but laced with accusation.

His wife blinked, startled by his tone. “He was reciting his son’s poetry, my dear husband. That’s all it was.”

“You smiled at him,” Geta pressed, his eyes narrowing. “You laughed.”

“Am I not allowed to smile and laugh?” she asked softly, though there was a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Must I always wear a sour expression to please you?”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “You are mine,” he said, his voice trembling - not with anger, but with something deeper, something more fragile. “Your smiles, your laughter, they belong to me and no one else.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the flicker of insecurity behind his harsh words. She reached up, covering his hand with her own. “And they are yours, Geta,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

His grip loosened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish. “I will not lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I cannot.”

~

For the next several days, Geta’s wife’s world shrank. Where she once wandered the gardens freely, now her husband walked beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. When she visited the library, he went with her. Her gatherings with poets and musicians were no more, replaced by dinners where Geta sat her beside him, his eyes never leaving her.

She tried to be understanding, but his constant scrutiny weighed heavily on her. One evening, as they sat together in their chambers, she finally spoke.

“Geta,” she began, her voice tentative. “Do you not trust me?”

He looked up from the goblet of wine in his hand, his expression guarded. “Of course I trust you, you are my wife,” he said after a long pause. “It is everyone else I do not trust.”

“You cannot keep watch over me forever,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “You are my wife,” he said firmly. “My empress. And I will not risk anyone else taking you from me.”

“Even if it means suffocating me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geta flinched, as if her words had struck him. He set the goblet down and rose to his feet, pacing the room. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I have enemies everywhere. We have enemies everywhere. They would use you against me. They would take you from me. Take your love away from me”

“Who could take me when I am yours in both heart and soul?” she asked, rising to stand before him.

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking, his carefully constructed armor of intimidation cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But the thought of losing you terrifies me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “Geta,” she said softly, “you will not lose me. I love you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

“I promise,” she said, though her heart ached at the desperation in his voice.

He pulled her into his arms again, holding her as if his life depended on it. She sighed softly, resting her head against his chest. She understood that his possessiveness was not born of cruelty, nor out of a need to stifle her but it was of a fear he could not truly voice, a fear he could not truly reconcile with, and it had consumed him.

And so she stayed, tethered to him by her love for him, hoping that soon his insecurities would ease and he would see that she was his, not because he demanded it, but because she chose it. But she was not sure how much she could take of this suffocating behavior. Of every move of hers and every interaction being heavily watched.

~

She rarely let her frustrations boil to the surface, but this time was different. As she sat across from her husband in their private chambers, the weight of the senator’s venomous words and their impact on her marriage gnawed at her patience. For days and days now, Geta’s suffocating possessiveness had taken over every aspect of her life, and she could no longer bear the thought that this rift between them had been instigated by a man seeking to undermine her, a man seeking to replace her.

She set down her goblet with a sharp clink, her hands trembling, not with fear, but with barely restrained annoyance and anger. “I’ve been thinking, my dear husband,” she began, her voice calm but carrying an obvious edge to it.

Geta glanced up from his seat, his brow furrowing slightly at her tone. “What is it?”

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic determination. “The senator who came to you with these baseless rumors. I believe he must be punished.”

Geta blinked, clearly surprised. “Punished? For what?”

“For daring to speak against me,” she replied, her voice firm, slightly exasperated that he did not already know what she spoke of. “For poisoning your mind with lies and causing this… this chaos between us. He sought to undermine your confidence in me, to cast doubt on my loyalty, to possibly destroy my reputation. That is not something we should let go unanswered.”

Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “You surprise me, wife. I thought you were above petty revenge. You have always counseled me against such rash decisions before”

“This is not petty, nor is it rash!” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “He sought to disgrace me, your wife, your empress. By doing so, he has disgraced you as well. How can you tolerate such audacity?”

Her words struck a nerve. Geta’s insecurities flared, his mind racing as he considered her argument. She was right. The senator’s insinuations had not only called his wife’s loyalty into question but had also implied that Geta was a weak ruler, unable to control his own household. The thought made his blood boil.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice low.

“Demote him. Remove him from his position. Let it be known that you will not tolerate slander against your Empress.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “And if others see this as an act of weakness? A sign that I am blinded by my love for you?”

“Let them see it as a warning,” she countered. “Let them know that your loyalty to your wife is unwavering and that you will not allow anyone to sow baseless discord in your court.”

Her words appealed to Geta’s pride, and she could see the gears turning in his mind. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. “Very well. The senator will be dealt with. I’ll ensure his removal will be public and soon.”

Relief washed over her, though a part of her felt dissatisfied about simply just having the senator removed from his position. The senator had meddled in her marriage, made her husband watch every move she made for days now, and he deserved to face more severe consequences for it. The senator has a daughter around her age, she felt certain the senator was likely hoping to get her pushed aside to potentially make way for his daughter to get close to Geta, for her to be the next Empress of Rome. Geta’s wife seethed silently at the thought of someone replacing her, of someone attempting to steal her position. She thought about paying Caracalla a visit and informing him of the treacherous senator in their midst. He would certainly give her the dramatic reaction she wants.

Geta rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand before her. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze softening. “You are right. I should never have allowed his words to poison my mind. You are my empress, my wife. No one will come between us again”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch and calming for a moment. “And I will always stand by your side Geta. But we must stand together, against anyone who seeks to divide us.”

Geta kissed her then, fierce and possessive, as if to reaffirm their bond. She let herself melt into the embrace, even as a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if she should push for more to be done about the senator. 

~~~~

reader can't take out her frustrations on Geta so she will take it out on the senator who started all of this instead lol

[genericpuff]

Are there any other LO-critical projects like LR?? Doesn’t have to be comics, I like fanfic(critic-fic?) too, I’ve been really interested in reading stuff like LR

Sure is! The list I have here are just the ones I know of, there are definitely more out there if you browse the #antiLO #lo critical tags or filter your searches on fanfic sites like AO3, but I hope this gives you a good start into finding more works that scratch that itch!

Lore Asgard (AO3) - Briefly in the original LO, Persephone jokes about running off to the Norse Pantheon; Lore Asgard is what would have happened if she actually went through with it.

Lore Mictlan (AO3) - Also plays with the question of "what if Persephone ran off to the Norse Pantheon", but instead she winds up in the realm of the Aztec gods.

Pomegranmints (AO3) - Re-imagines the plot of LO if Persephone and Minthe kissed instead of fighting over Hades ٩(♡ε♡)۶

Survive the Night (Tumblr) - Not sure how long this project is planned to be but it's basically a re-imagining of LO that further explores all the deeply-rooted issues of Hades and Minthe's relationship. Very tense and emotionally raw dialogue scenes, Minthe gets a lot more agency and character exploration here.

Desire for Peace (Webtoon) - Though it's an entirely unique work separate from LO (it's not a fan comic or retelling), the creator was compelled by a distaste towards modern Greek myth retellings to create their own Greek myth comic, starring Ares as the main protagonist. It has both beautiful and unique art, and it presents a writing style that isn't as watered down and simplified as so many popular commercial Greek myth retellings tend to be. The creator is very cool and has done an amazing job at creating a true Greek myth retelling comic, without all the bells and whistles and crutches of "modernizing" the stories.

Theia Mania - Also not at all related to LO, it's just a great comic series that covers all sorts of different myths and tales, but it's most famously known for its ongoing retelling of Hades and Persephone in Queen of the Dead. Like the creator of Desire for Peace, the creator of Theia Mania is someone who Gives a Shit™️ about the source material they're writing about and does a great job at both presenting the culture of Ancient Greece at the time (so again, no modern 2000's stuff here) but also putting some of their own unique twists on an old tale. And the best part? No Demeter scapegoating to be found here <3

Lore Valhalla (Youtube/Patreon) - A brief one-shot that remakes the first episode of Lore Olympus, but with Norse gods instead of Greek. This isn't an ongoing series, just a fun project that Youtuber Crown Obsidian challenged himself to make after he read (and did not particularly enjoy) Lore Olympus.

[somnus-lucis-caelum]

The Cetra had sealed Jenova away… and yet the Starscourge seemed to come back. Well, if they truly were one and the same. They had no proof of that yet. This ancient mosaic suggested it and that nagging feeling as if someone whispered into his ear…

A reflex in him called for him to withdraw his hands – they never were held like this. But, he did not. Not with Aerith. He just watched, a little surprised. A little in awe. She was so gentle to him. It was something Somnus seemed to have forgotten. He had not grown up without love, far from it. His parents loved him, his brother did. He had friends. And yet this kind of softness was something that had not existed in his life.

It was like the sweetest wine.

It calmed his frayed nerves. If it had been anyone else… the mention of the Queen possibly having checked upon things and maybe having an inkling about what the Starscourge truly was… it would have made Somnus furious.

Instead her kisses left him drunk on this feeling. Nodding. Agreeing with staying silent for now, gathering themselves and their questions first. There was no sense in just storming to the Queen… again.

And this was his first evening here, after all. Looking to the mosaic for another moment, Somnus realized how much bigger this all was. Bigger then him, than them.

The dust of decades or centuries laid upon it. What would another few days matter?

What if they were wrong after all?

Breathing out slowly, Somnus gave a more determined nod. His fingers turning and grasping for Aerith’s hand instead.

“Let us go back first. You promised me a peek into the kitchen before dinner, did you not?”, he tried to imitate their former teasing tones. It was a miserable little attempt and she would recognize that. Their minds both wandered far away from here, at the crashsite of a meteor long before their births, as they found their way back through the halls silently.

The guards at the doors must believe they were in quiet reverence at the artifactes and Cetran magic, unaware of the storms brewing underneath.

There already was a smell in the air, deliciously so. Comforting in a way that could manage to help and chase away dark thoughts for a moment. If Somnus was being honest, he really craved an ordinary meal once more badly. Their travel here had consisted of the usual road-food. Grilled meats of whatever they could hunt on the side were special. Otherwise a lot of dried bread.

“If I am not introduced to at least one new fruit or vegetable today, I will be silently but sorely disappointed, Aerith.”

Aerith's attention shifted back to Somnus. Those words had been a reflex, something that a person said out loud when they were still grappling with a problem bigger than them. She shifted from half-turned to fully stepping around to face him, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.

For the first time she was able to return the favour. She approached him, and she gently scooped up his hands, stilling them with a reassuring little squeeze.

"She knows." Aerith replied. "The location of... the one my ancestors sealed away," she carefully explained, dancing around the name now, "is the most guarded secret of our kingdom. Not even I knew where she had been sealed. It's too dangerous, if the wrong person got their hands on her..." it was better to not think about that. "I used to think she must be hidden in the ancient temple that shifts and attacks any who enter, but... if that sickness spread in Lucis when she fell, and if it is spreading again... she could be sealed inside the crater."

Her head tipped then. "Back in Lucis, after the daemon attack, my mother reassured me that the calamity was very much contained. Maybe... she has done something. She arrived home earlier than us, she had time to gather our armies, so... whose to say she hasn't done something to check on the seal?"

Aerith scooped his hands up higher, pressing a kiss to his knuckles on each hand, one after the other. "Surely we're not marching out tomorrow." She hoped, anyway. "Let's gather ourselves. We can think of questions together, and... voice our suspicion, clearly this time, without the shroud of panic and sorrow of the daemon attack."

[lexirosewrites]

For slick sunday

I am once again asking you to imagine Scream Queen O!Steve & horror fan A!Eddie,

except in this idea/AU Eddie is the co host of a horror podcast similar to Dead Meat but it's called (u guessed it) Corroded Coffin, Eddie hosts & A!Jeff co-hosts & O!Gareth mostly works with the sound while A!Chrissy & B!Felix (unnamed freak who apparently has a canon name but idc I like the name felix & using this name made me realize gender things so it has special meaning for me now) ANYWAY Chrissy & B!Felix mostly handle research

Well they talk about all horror not just movies, they discuss books & they discuss other podcasts & of course they discuss movies. Eddie & Chrissy are slasher fans through & through, Jeff is more for the supernatural stories, when Gareth comes on an episode very occasionally he's an unrepentant fan of elevated horror like The VVitch, meanwhile if felix is on an episode it's explicitly because they're talking about cosmic horror OR horror coming out of east asia (felix is a Junji Ito devotee, as am I & yes this is me projecting onto a fictional character)

WELL their podcast is fairly popular, they're considered Z-list celebrities within popular culture maybe D-list amongst horror fans, the Corroded Coffin podcast has gone on tours & done live shows. they've even established a small podcast network they call Hellfire Club & expanded to making more shows: chrissy & felix host a folklore podcast, Jeff & a new guest every week have discussions abt the new expression of horror abt being a marginalized identity (i.e. being a black person in a white supremacist society or being a beta woman/omega in an alpha centric patriarchal culture)

Then one day their business email gets an inquiry abt a new movie coming out in the next year & the executive producer wants to know if they'd be interested in a slight PR stunt/limited podcast series around this movie.

The producer in question is one Jim Hopper, a known name who's only ever produced action flicks, apparently he's dipping his toe into the horror space bc his daughter & step-son r huge fans of the genre & encouraged him to take on a script he'd normally ignore.

The movie is called Strange Times On Main Street & it follows an ensemble cast tht r meant to b the residents of a dwindling town in nowhere Indiana in the early 1980s, the horror factor comes in when the different characters start to see things tht might not b real but all seem connected to an individual who has terrorized the town for decades, culminating in a town hall meeting where they're told there's nothing tht can b done; so the situation dissolves into an eerily quiet mob tht ends up hunting down this person & the movie ends abruptly with this guy being executed in broad daylight practically in the middle of Main street.

They agree right away. The gimmick involves Eddie & Chrissy acting like the hosts of a true crime podcast who are "interviewing" the people of the town supposedly years after the incident. Everyone is excited because there r some big names involved in the movie, most notably the undisputed scream queen Steve Henderson who got half of his fame from working his way up from among stunt doubles on action movies so he's known to do his own stunts.

Well, it's a fantastic process & absolutely everyone has a wonderful time & Eddie sort of bumbles his way thru the episode w Steve (whose character is implied to have been the one to kill the supposed antagonist) but Steve finds it cute & gives Eddie his number.

The movie does well & wins not only a Screamy Award but an actual Oscar. Steve even wins the first Oscar of his career for best omega man in a leading role. He kisses his date before going up to give his speech, who's his date you ask? Eddie Munson host of popular podcast Corroded Coffin

They announce their wedding & mating a month after the awards show

horror meet cute🥰

[iwanderbecauseimlost]

Okay.

Something that brings all of us together is our love for Tolkien's work, and its spinoffs.

So, question: What got you into Tolkien?

I'll start.

When I was 12, my father urged me to read The Hobbit. So I did, and I was mesmerized by it, to the point where I'd stay up in the middle of the night to read it. I never got beyond that, though.

Two years ago, I decided to reread it, and I fell in love all over again with the story, characters, Tolkien's writing style, everything. So I decided to read The Lord of the Rings. I got the first book, read a couple of chapters.. and gave up. It was too verbose, too prosaic.

The next year, that is, a few months later, I tried my hand at it again. This time, I got through four chapters, but I still couldn't read the rest. Then.. I began crushing on a guy who'd read it, and so I grit my teeth and went for it. I read, and read, and this time, I found myself enjoying it. Bonus, the guy and I got into conversation.

After finally finishing the first book, I even started the second, and watched the first movie with my family. (By way of flirting I asked the guy whether he liked PJ's Trilogy, and he told me he "found them low budget" so that, um, ended. I'm no longer crushing on real people.)

I read the second, the third book, reread The Hobbit a third time, watched all the movies, and joined Tumblr. Then I got motivated to read The Silmarillion. I'm currently working on that, as well as my Tolkien collection.

Honestly, one thing that fuels my love for the work is all my lovely mutuals who I've gained through this love.

So.. no pressure tags: @gauntletgirlie @wowstrawberrycow @valar-did-me-wrong @balrogballs @ghost-of-morrowbright @gingeragenda @greenleaf4stuff @dragon--ashes @dwarveslikeshinythings @numenoria @onebillionblorbos @zaldritzosrose @varda-star-queen @the-bogginses-are-gay @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @daughterofthesunlands @princessfantaghiro and anyone else I've missed/wants to join.

[r0ttkins]

I gotta ask I REALLY REALLY gotta ask what's your imu design/how you think they look without the silhouette?

you caught me while packing on long trip with cool question so aaaaaaa Idk if mine is very normic or not, but i see them as some androgynous mix of a medieval queen and priest look, where cloth can cover whole body or be pinned behind head

[saebyeokbliss]

introducing my new series...

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

featuring the members of HOT DIVISION (핫 디비전) and their hot album, ROCKSTAR!

THE MEMBERS ARE AS FOLLOWS:

KIM JI-YEONG | LEAD SINGER— The chaotic heart of HOT DIVISION. Loud, reckless, and completely unfiltered, Ji-yeong thrives on the spotlight and knows exactly how to own a stage. Whether she’s belting out lyrics or making questionable life choices, she’s always the center of attention—and she loves it.

KANG SAE-BYEOK | LEAD GUITARIST — The definition of cool and effortless. Sae-byeok doesn’t waste words—she lets her guitar do the talking. Sharp-witted, observant, and dangerously good at making people weak with just a look. She plays like she was born with a guitar in her hands, and when she’s on stage, it’s impossible to look away.

KANG NO-EUL | DRUMMER — The calm in the storm. No-eul is the backbone of the band, keeping everything (and everyone) steady. She’s not one for theatrics, but when she plays, you feel it. Deadpan humor and an unmatched poker face make her the perfect counter to Ji-yeong’s chaos. Also, lowkey the most responsible one—though she won’t admit it.

HAN SE-MI | BASSIST — The ultimate hype queen. Se-mi is the glue that holds HOT DIVISION together, always bringing energy and laughter wherever she goes. She’s a menace on the bass and an even bigger menace off-stage—especially when it comes to teasing people (read: you). Loves fashion, loves fun, and loves stirring the pot.

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, late-night facetime calls, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

credits to @yenyu1s for se-mi’s last name :3

MASTERLIST

coming soon...

[billiesbabygirleilish]

Hey could you do one where the reader is the princess of whales and ran away to the states and soon right after her 18th birthday and and meet Billie at a Party and they have been dating for a while and Billie wants to meet the readers parents but the reader doesn’t want Billie to know that she is part of the Royal family because she scared that Billie won’t want to be with her anymore

an: ok this is crazy bc I STUDIED WELSH SOOOO yay for me. ALSO I really love the idea of royalty running away

Royal Escape

𓆩:¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨::¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨::¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨:𓆪

𓆩:¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨::¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨::¨༺✧ ♛ ✧༻¨:𓆪 The California sun felt good on your skin, a far cry from the grey skies of London you'd grown so accustomed to. Here, in LA, you were just you. No titles, no protocols, just you, chasing a life that felt… real.

And then there was Billie.

You met her at some industry party a few weeks after you'd turned eighteen, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and deafening bass. You, awkward and trying to look like you belonged, and Billie, effortlessly cool, her sleek black hair glowing under the strobing lights. You’d traded numbers, then texts, then dates at hole-in-the-wall diners and spontaneous drives down the Pacific Coast Highway. You fell hard, and you fell fast.

Now, six months later, you were perched on the edge of your couch, nervously picking at a loose thread. Billie was due any minute, bringing takeout from your favorite Thai place. The air crackled with anticipation, but also with a growing sense of dread.

"So," Billie said, setting the bags on the coffee table. "I was thinking… Maybe it's time."

You knew what she meant. She'd been dropping hints for weeks. "Time for what?" you asked, stalling.

"Time for me to meet your parents. I really dig you, you know? I wanna be a part of your life, all of it.” Her eyes, that mesmerizing shade of blue, searched yours.

Panic clenched your stomach. Your parents. The King and Queen. You could just imagine their reaction to Billie. Not that they were snobs, exactly, but they certainly had a… specific idea of who you should be with. And Billie, with her edgy style and unapologetic attitude, was the antithesis of that.

The truth was, you were petrified.

"It's just… complicated," you mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Billie frowned, her brow furrowing. "Complicated how?"

"They're… busy," you offered weakly, already hating yourself for lying. "Really busy. With work and stuff."

"Okay," Billie said slowly, her voice laced with uncertainty. "But eventually…?"

You swallowed hard. "Eventually," you promised, the word feeling like a lead weight in your mouth.

The next few weeks were a blur of anxiety and elaborate excuses. You constantly deflected Billie's casual mentions of meeting your parents. You concocted elaborate stories about fake family emergencies and international business trips. You even considered hiring actors to play them, but quickly dismissed the idea as too ridiculous, even for Hollywood.

But the weight of the secret was suffocating you. You loved Billie, and you hated that you were keeping such a fundamental part of your life from her. You just couldn't shake the fear that once she knew the truth, everything would change. She'd see you as Princess Y/N, not just you.

One evening, you were at Billie's house, sprawled on her living room floor, listening to records. The air was thick with the comforting smell of incense and old vinyl. Billie was humming along to the music, her eyes closed, her face relaxed.

You watched her, a wave of affection washing over you. This, this was what you wanted. This simple, genuine connection. And you knew you couldn't let fear ruin it.

"Billie," you said quietly, interrupting the music.

She opened her eyes, her expression soft and questioning. "Yeah?"

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding against your ribs. "There's something I need to tell you."

The words caught in your throat. You started, stopped, started again. Finally, you blurted it out.

"My parents… they're not just busy. They're… they're the King and Queen of England."

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Billie stared at you, her face blank. The silence stretched, agonizingly long.

"What?" she finally whispered, her voice barely audible.

You launched into a rambling explanation, your voice trembling. You told her about running away, about wanting a normal life, about being terrified of her reaction. You confessed your fears, your insecurities, your deep-seated belief that you weren't worthy of her.

When you finally finished, Billie just sat there, silent. You watched her, your stomach churning with dread. You had ruined everything.

Finally, she spoke. "So… you're a princess?"

You nodded, miserable.

Billie blinked. Then, a slow smile spread across her face. "That's… actually kinda badass."

You stared at her, dumbfounded. "Badass?"

"Yeah!" she exclaimed, sitting up. "Like, you ran away from royalty to live your own life? That's cool as hell."

You couldn't help but laugh, a shaky, relieved sound. "You're not… mad?"

"Mad? No way! A little surprised, sure. But mostly just impressed." She reached out and took your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours. "Look, I don't care if you're a princess, or a plumber, or a potato farmer. I like you for you. The you I know. The you who loves bad movies and sings off-key and steals all my hoodies."

You leaned forward and kissed her, pouring all your relief and gratitude into the kiss.

"So," Billie said when you finally broke apart, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Does this mean I get to wear a tiara when I meet your parents?"

You laughed again, feeling lighter than you had in months. "Maybe. But you have to promise to curtsy to the corgis."

The future was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, you felt hopeful. You were still a princess, yes, but you were also you. And you had Billie, who loved you for exactly who you were, tiara or no tiara. And that, you realized, was more valuable than any crown.

[snoozify]

Me and My Husband PT2

Milf Abby x Suburban Wife Reader

Warning: Abuse, Sexism, Smut (in later part), cussing, homophobia, Men being Men, child abuse, happy ending, substance abuse, cheating.

A/N: This fic is based off the song Me and My Husband by the Queen Mitski. 8k words.

tags: @glass-apothecary. @asothinking. @half-of-a-gay. @0h-basic. @antobooh

P1 P2 PT3

It’s been days since the kiss. Days filled with the weight of silence, of not knowing how to look at her, how to look at yourself. The memory of her lips—soft, fleeting, but searing—lingers in the back of your mind, always there. You try to bury it, to drown it in the routine of your daily life, but it keeps resurfacing, like a whisper that won’t go away.

Each time you see her, you look the other way, pretending not to notice her standing just across the street, pretending she’s not there, like she doesn’t occupy a space in your heart that you can’t shake. You feel guilty—so guilty. Not because you don’t know what to say to her, but because you wish you didn’t feel that way at all. You wish you could pretend like it didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter.

But it does. It matters more than anything, and that’s what scares you.

The first light of morning seeps into your room, slanting through the curtains, casting a faint glow across the floor. The quiet is thick, the kind of quiet that follows a night spent tangled in your own thoughts. You shift in the bed, blinking the sleep from your eyes as your mind refuses to quiet down. Your eyes drift to your husband, turned away from you, deep in sleep. His back rises and falls in an even rhythm, unaware of the turmoil swirling within you.

You stare at him for a long moment, searching for some kind of comfort, but it’s no use. There’s nothing there but the same distant emptiness that’s been there for months now, maybe even longer. His body takes up space in the bed, but it feels like there’s a thousand miles between you.

You shake your head, the exhaustion from the past few days weighing on you. You don’t even have the strength to keep pretending, to keep up the act. You want to slip away from this—away from him, away from the guilt that churns in your stomach every time you think about Abby.

You slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him. The cool floorboards press against the soles of your feet, sending a chill up your spine as you move toward the door. For a moment, you pause, casting a glance back at your husband’s sleeping form—his steady, rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside your chest. The weight of it all crashes over you, a tidal wave of guilt, confusion, and frustration, but you don’t let yourself linger. You can’t afford to. There’s no time for weakness, no time for any of this.

You let out a quiet sigh, closing the door softly behind you as you step into the hall. The house is still, eerily so, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of floorboards as you make your way down the hallway. The silence feels suffocating, a constant reminder of how far you’ve fallen from what you once hoped for, from what you once promised yourself.

You stop in front of the kids’ bedroom, hand hovering over the door handle. There’s a moment of hesitation as you draw in a breath. And then, with a quiet push, the door creaks open.

Your eyes immediately find Madison. She’s sitting up in bed, her small body curled into the softness of her blankets, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her face, still heavy with the remnants of slumber, lights up when she sees you, her lips forming a sleepy smile.

“Mornin’ momma,” she murmurs, pushing herself off the bed with a small groan, her tiny hand clutching the stuffed animal she’s never without. The worn edges of the fabric are familiar, comforting in a way you wish you could be for her.

Her eyes—half-lidded and still filled with the haze of sleep—search your face for something. Comfort. Reassurance. The answer to a question she doesn’t know how to ask yet. She doesn’t know how broken you feel, how fragile the thread holding you together is. All she knows is that she’s still her innocent, trusting self, believing that everything is okay.

Your heart aches as you look at her, at the way she clings to the safety of her stuffed bunny as if it can protect her from everything in the world. You want to believe that it can, want to believe that you can, but the weight of the day presses on you.

For a brief moment, you forget everything else the guilt, the confusion, the tension. You forget about the kiss that has turned your world upside down, the storm that’s been brewing inside you. All that matters is her. This small, precious part of your life.

You kneel down in front of her, letting your smile slip out even though it feels foreign on your face. You reach out, brushing her messy hair away from her face, the soft strands still damp with sleep.

“Morning, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice soft despite the storm brewing deep inside you. You kneel down to her level, your hands gently cupping her small shoulders, pulling her into a hug. Her tiny frame melts into yours, the warmth of her little body against you grounding you in a way you can’t explain. It’s a fleeting comfort, a moment of peace in the chaos, but for that heartbeat, you let it fill you.

The scent of her hair, faintly sweet and so familiar, clings to you as she leans against you, her small hands resting lightly on your back. The weight of everything falls away for just a second, and in that moment, she’s your world. The kiss that changes everything, the confusion in your heart none of it matters. Not when you’re holding her, when you feel her so close that her breath mingles with yours.

After a beat, you pull away reluctantly, though her little arms stay wrapped around you for just a moment longer, as if she knows something you’re not ready to admit. You smile softly, brushing her messy hair from her forehead, your fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Her face, still marked with the remnants of sleep, gazes up at you with wide eyes full of innocent curiosity.

“Can I help you clean, Momma?” she asks, her voice sweet and earnest, her words thick with the slowness of early mornings. The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re struck by how much she wants to help, to be part of something, to ease your burden in the way only a child can.

Her eyes search your face, her little brow furrowed as if she’s trying to figure out if you’ll let her. The innocence in her expression makes your heart ache—a gentle reminder of the simple world she’s still living in, unaware of the messiness that exists beyond it. It’s almost unfair, you think, that she should be forced into this too early.

You swallow the lump in your throat, forcing another smile, though it feels tight and hollow. “Not today, baby,” you say gently, stroking her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin under your fingers. “You just go sit at the table, okay? Let me take care of breakfast.”

She looks at you for a second, her brows furrowing slightly in quiet contemplation, as if she doesn’t quite understand why she can’t help. But then, with the same unwavering trust that only a child can have, she nods, the tip of her stuffed bunny still clutched tightly in her tiny hand.

“Okay, Momma,” she says, her voice small and soft. She gives you one last lingering look before turning to shuffle off toward the kitchen, her steps still clumsy with sleep.

You watch Madison as she trudges toward the kitchen, her little feet padding softly on the floor, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. There’s something so painfully normal about this moment, something that makes the chaos in your mind feel so foreign to the routine of this life you’ve built. It’s all so normal, so mundane, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you’re losing grip on it.

The clock is ticking louder in your ears as you move toward the kitchen, still caught in the weight of the moment with your daughter. You glance at the hallway mirror for just a second as you pass, catching a glimpse of yourself—tired eyes, hair slightly mussed from sleep, shoulders tense with the weight of everything unsaid, unresolved. It’s like staring at a stranger, someone who’s supposed to be in control, who’s supposed to know what to do. But you don’t. You can barely keep it together.

In the kitchen, the sunlight filters through the window, casting soft light on the countertops and the little chairs where your children sit. Madison is already at the table, her bunny still clutched tightly against her chest, and you can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. She’s so small, so innocent, and yet, here you are—holding it all inside, pretending that everything is fine.

“Momma, are we goin' to church today?” Madison asks, her tiny voice drifting over from the kitchen table. She peeks over the top of her chair, her big brown eyes already searching for reassurance. You pause for a moment, glancing up from where you’re pouring the orange juice, catching the innocence in her expression.

You smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yes, dear. After breakfast,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

As you pour her a glass of juice, you walk over to where she’s sitting and place it gently in front of her. She looks up at you with a soft smile, her fingers wrapping around the glass like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Thank you, Momma,” she says, her voice still thick with sleep, before her little hand caresses your cheek. You lean into it for just a moment, letting the softness of her touch remind you of something pure, something you’re desperately clinging to.

You return her smile, though it’s brief, and continue your movements—trying to keep the world at bay. You turn to finish preparing breakfast, the sizzling of the pan and the smell of eggs filling the air. But before you can focus, you feel small feet smacking against the floor. The sound is familiar, like the thudding of tiny hearts that always need something from you.

Suddenly, you feel a tiny arm wrap around your leg, a gentle, unrelenting pull that makes it hard to move. You look down, already knowing who it is without having to check.

“Jayden,” you say softly, your voice tinged with patience, but also a little exhaustion. “You need to let go of my leg so I can finish making breakfast.”

But he doesn’t listen. Instead, his little arms tighten around your leg as he looks up at you, his wide, pleading eyes silently asking to be picked up. You sigh quietly, the weight of the moment pressing against you.You bend down slightly, resting one hand on his small back, but you don’t pick him up just yet.

Before you can respond, you hear a soft giggle from behind you. You turn, and there’s Kimberly, already out of bed and standing next to Jayden, holding the glass Madison had been drinking from. She’s sipping from it with an exaggerated slowness, clearly enjoying the attention it brings. Her messy curls are sticking up in all directions, and her pajama pants are a little too big, trailing on the floor as she moves.

“Momma, she’s drinkin’ my juice!” Madison’s voice rings out, sharp and accusatory as she points at Kimberly, who is savoring the last of the orange juice in the cup that had once been hers. The three-year-old’s small hands wrap around the cup with exaggerated care, making sure she gets every last drop.

You turn toward Madison, catching her eye as you try to soothe the situation. “I’ll get you more, okay?” you say gently, your tone soft but firm. You know it’s a small issue, but you also know how big these moments feel to them. Madison’s face scrunches for a second before she nods, the hint of a frown still playing at the corners of her mouth. She then turns back to the table, her focus shifting from the juice to the task at hand.

You let out a quiet sigh, your eyes scanning the room—your kids, the mess, the dishes piling up in the sink, the sound of the ticking clock echoing louder with each passing second. Time is slipping away, and you feel like you’re falling behind, trying to keep up with a constant whirlwind of needs. The push and pull of duty—caring for them, tending to the house, getting everything in order—is a familiar rhythm, one you know well. But right now, it feels like more than you can keep up with.

You don’t have time to stop, though. You don’t have the luxury of slowing down. You move, you keep going—because that’s what you do. For them. For your kids.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, crouching down to scoop Jayden up into your arms as his soft whimper reaches your ears. His little face is scrunched in frustration, clearly wanting something that you can’t quite understand, but as soon as you pull him close, his small hands wrap around you, and his head presses into your shoulder. His warmth is like a balm, settling your restless heart for just a moment. You close your eyes, allowing yourself the briefest taste of peace as you feel the gentle rhythm of his breath against your skin. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough.

You pull yourself back into the present, gently placing Jayden back down on the floor. His small feet begin wiggling, eager to get to work on his own breakfast, his determination as strong as ever, even at his tender age.

“Can I help set the table, Momma?” Madison asks, her voice sweet, but you can hear the excitement bubbling in it as she looks up at you. Her eagerness to help, to be part of the action, is both endearing and distracting.

You smile softly, grateful for the momentary relief. “Yes, sweetie. Put the napkins on the table, please.” You try to keep your tone calm, to keep your voice from betraying the chaos that’s swirling just beneath the surface.

Madison’s face lights up, her eyes sparkling with joy as she hurries to grab the napkins. Her little feet patter against the floor, quick and purposeful as she scurries off, determined to help in whatever way she can. You turn back to finish breakfast, the sizzle of food on the stove a constant reminder that there’s no time to waste, no time to slow down.

Your husband’s heavy footsteps thud down the stairs, breaking the quiet of the house. He appears in the doorway, stretching as he yawns and looks around the kitchen. “Good mornin’,” he mutters, his voice low and groggy from sleep.

Madison, focused on the task of finishing up the table, doesn’t respond right away. She’s arranging the utensils and napkins, meticulously placing them in their spots. When she looks up and catches your eye, you give her a gentle smile and nod, signaling that it's okay to greet him.

“Good mornin’, Daddy,” she says finally, her voice soft but sweet as she carefully sets a fork down, her tiny fingers brushing the table’s surface.

Your husband nods, distracted, and without another word, he turns toward the door, heading outside to grab the morning paper. The cold air rushes in as the door opens, and the sharp click of it slamming shut causes a slight jolt in the room. You hear him muttering to himself as he shuffles through the paper. He doesn’t waste time before speaking, his tone irritated, the sharpness clear in his voice. “Hurry up, why don’t you? I don’t wanna be late to church.” The words hang in the air, heavy and impatient.

Before you can respond, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoes loudly throughout the house, a final punctuation to his command. The noise is too much for Nico, still in his crib. The sudden sound jolts him awake, and his wail rings out, cutting through the air with urgency.

You glance at your husband, hoping for some recognition, some shift in his expression. But his gaze never leaves the paper. He remains seated at the table, sifting through it as if nothing has happened. His eyes flicker toward Nico’s cry, and then he sighs, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You gonna shut that baby up?”

The words strike like a cold slap. You feel the frustration well up, but you swallow it down and manage a tight smile. “I’ll go do that, dear,” you reply, the words a mere formality, as you turn away to deal with the mess the morning has stirred up.

You walk down the hall and into the nursery, the sound of Nico’s cries getting louder the closer you get. As you open the door, the sight of him sitting up in his crib brings a mixture of exhaustion and tenderness. His tiny face, scrunched in discomfort, softens when he sees you. His cries instantly stop, and he breaks into a soft, happy giggle, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

The moment he giggles, your heart catches. He’s so small, so innocent, and so full of life that it feels like the weight of everything else can be pushed aside, if only for a second. You smile down at him, reaching into the crib to scoop him up, cradling him close. His warmth calms you, even if only for a moment, and you allow yourself to breathe deeply, letting go of the noise and tension of the house.

Breakfast is finally on the table, and the smell of it fills the air, but there’s little time for you to savor it. You sit at the table, holding Nico in your arms, spooning bits of soft cereal into his mouth as you try to keep him content. He gurgles and kicks his little legs, his tiny hands grasping at the spoon with more interest than his actual hunger. You smile down at him, but there’s no real time to enjoy the moment—there’s too much to do. The clock ticks away, each second pulling you closer to the time you need to leave.

Your husband finishes his breakfast quickly, pushing his chair back with a slight scrape of the legs on the floor. Without a word, he stands up, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and heads for the hallway, likely to get ready for church. The sound of his footsteps fades as he disappears into the bedroom, leaving the weight of the morning all on your shoulders.

You sigh softly, trying to focus on the task at hand. As Nico babbles happily in your arms, you turn your attention to the chaos at the table. Madison is finishing her last bite of toast, Kimberly is poking around at her bowl of cereal, and Jayden is already starting to squirm in his seat, clearly done with his food. You give them all a look, your smile warm but tinged with the exhaustion that’s been building all morning.

"Alright, let’s get you gremlins ready for church,” you say, your voice light despite the underlying tension. The kids look at you, their faces a mix of anticipation and the remnants of sleep. They all seem to know the drill by now—church means more clothes, more brushing, and a little less time to play.

Madison, always the helpful one, hops off her chair and starts gathering her things, ready to get dressed. Kimberly follows her lead, mimicking her older sister with enthusiasm, while Jayden, still too small to fully understand, just starts to wander around, his small feet pattering against the floor. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, even as you feel the weight of everything pressing in.

You gently place Nico back in his high chair, making sure he’s secure, before standing up and walking toward the kids' room to get them dressed. The day is already slipping through your fingers, but as always, you push forward, taking one step at a time.

Once the kids are dressed and ready, you finally slip away into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. The room is small, the air still carrying the faint scent of lavender soap and baby powder. For the first time this morning, you are alone. No tiny hands tugging at your clothes, no cries demanding your attention—just you and your reflection.

You take a deep breath, turning toward the mirror. Your dress is simple yet elegant, the fabric soft against your skin as you smooth it down over your hips. The color compliments your complexion, bringing a subtle warmth to your tired features. You reach up, your fingers slipping through the tight coils of your hair, adjusting a few stray curls that frame your face. No matter how much you try to tame them, they always have a mind of their own. Some days, you find it frustrating. Today, you don’t have the energy to care.

You take a step closer, examining the woman staring back at you. There’s exhaustion in your eyes, dark circles just barely concealed beneath a thin layer of makeup. You tilt your head slightly, searching for something beyond the weariness—something that still feels like you. But before you can dwell on it for too long, a voice slices through the brief moment of peace.

"Can you hurry up!" your husband’s voice rings from downstairs, sharp and impatient. The sound grates against your nerves, making your shoulders tense involuntarily.

You exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the sink for just a second longer before forcing yourself to let go. One last glance in the mirror, one final adjustment to your dress, and you step away. The moment of solitude is over. Time to go.

You step out of the bathroom and make your way into the living room, smoothing out your dress once more as you enter. The morning sunlight filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room, making the scene feel almost peaceful—almost.

Madison is the first to notice you. She turns from where she’s standing near the couch, her big, expressive eyes lighting up as she takes you in. A wide, toothy grin spreads across her little face as she hurries toward you, her small hands reaching for the fabric of your dress.

"You're beautiful, Momma," she says sweetly, tilting her head as if she’s admiring you like one of her storybook princesses.

Your heart swells at her words, a warmth spreading through you despite everything weighing you down. You crouch slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, baby," you murmur, brushing a stray curl away from her face.

Before you can savor the moment any longer, your husband strides toward the front door, his heavy footsteps echoing through the space. Without a word, he pulls it open, letting the morning air rush inside.

"Let's go," he says curtly, his voice lacking the warmth you just shared with your daughter.

You swallow down the sigh threatening to escape and straighten up. Turning back to your children, you gently herd them toward the door, checking to make sure their little shoes are on properly, their clothes are neat. Jayden clutches your hand tightly, his tiny fingers wrapping around yours like he’s afraid to let go. Kimberly trails just behind, still clutching a toy she refused to leave behind. And Nico, bundled in your arms, lets out a soft coo, entirely unaware of the tension surrounding you all.

With everyone gathered, you follow behind your husband, stepping outside into the bright morning light. The crisp air greets you as you carefully help the kids into the car, making sure seatbelts are fastened and little legs aren’t dangling awkwardly.

The ride to church is fast. Too fast. The silence in the car is thick, heavy uncomfortable in a way that makes your chest feel tight. No one says anything. Not Madison, who usually chatters about everything she sees out the window. Not Jayden, who often hums under his breath when he's content. Even Kimberly, your little mischief-maker, sits quietly, uncharacteristically subdued.

Your husband keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight. You stare out of the window, watching the world blur past, your own thoughts just as tangled as the curls on your head.

The church appears in the distance, its tall steeple standing against the sky like a quiet reminder of the place you’re heading a place of worship, of peace, of reflection. But as the car slows to a stop in the parking lot, you can’t shake the feeling that none of those things will come easy today.

"Welcome," the pastor greets warmly as you step inside with your children. His kind eyes sweep over your little ones, offering them a gentle nod before turning to the next family arriving behind you.

Your husband barely acknowledges the greeting, already walking off in another direction where to, you don’t know, and frankly, you don’t care. You exhale softly, adjusting Nico in your arms before scanning the room for an open seat.

You find one near the middle of the congregation and begin making your way toward it, guiding Madison, Jayden, and Kimberly along. But just as you step closer, your movements falter. Someone’s already sitting there.

Abby.

She’s leaning back slightly, her muscular frame relaxed in the wooden pew, her expression unreadable. Your breath catches for just a moment, your mind instantly flashing back—to the last time you saw her. The last time you spoke. The last time her lips were on yours.

You don’t say anything. You simply lower yourself into the seat beside her, placing a pacifier in Nico’s mouth to quiet his soft babbling. The warmth of Abby’s presence lingers at your side, almost palpable, yet neither of you move.

"Y/N," she finally says, turning toward you, her voice softer than you expected.

For the first time in days, you glance up at her really look at her. It’s brief, fleeting, but your eyes meet, and the unspoken weight of everything that has happened sits between you.

You don’t answer. Instead, you give her a small, polite smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Before she can say anything else, your husband appears beside you, settling into the pew with a heavy sigh. His presence feels like a shift in the air, pressing down, suffocating.

And that’s when the pastor begins his sermon.

Abby slides a folded piece of paper toward you, the slight rustle barely audible over the pastor’s voice. Your fingers hesitate before picking it up, unfolding it carefully beneath the shield of the table.

Are you gonna continue to ignore me?

The words are scrawled hastily, but they hit like a hammer to your chest.

You swallow, your grip tightening around the note as your eyes flick up to her. Abby doesn’t look away. She holds your gaze, her expression unreadable, but there’s something there—something expectant, something frustrated. She places a pencil in your hand, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second, sending a jolt up your arm.

You inhale sharply, turning your focus back to the paper. The weight of everything of the sermon, of your husband’s presence, of your children sitting beside you presses in on all sides. But still, your fingers move.

I don’t know, Abby.

You hand the paper back without looking at her.

There’s a pause, long enough for you to hear the scratch of the pencil as she rereads your words. You can feel her reaction before you see it—the way her body tenses ever so slightly, the way she shifts just a little away from you, like your words pushed her back.

You don’t turn. Instead, you stare ahead, eyes settling on Madison, who sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, the picture of a little lady in public, soaking in every word from the pastor. Meanwhile, Kimberly and Jayden fidget beside her, their tiny bodies struggling to keep still, feet kicking lightly against the pew.

Your husband's glare burns into the side of your face, his displeasure a silent but suffocating presence. You place a gentle hand on Jayden’s lap, shaking your head in a quiet warning. He stops immediately, Kimberly following suit, though the restless energy still hums beneath their tiny limbs.

Nico shifts in your arms, his small body pressing closer as he buries his face into your chest, his breathing slowing.

You exhale softly, rocking him just a little, grounding yourself in his warmth.

Beside you, Abby is still.

The note is gone.

But the words between you feel louder than ever.

Minutes pass, the weight of the sermon pressing down on you, but your mind is anywhere but the words being spoken. The steady hum of the pastor’s voice fades into the background as a gentle touch brushes against your arm. The warmth spreads across your skin, slow and deliberate, and for a second, you think you imagined it.

But then it happens again—soft, lingering.

Your breath hitches as you glance down, watching as Abby’s fingers trail featherlight along your forearm before she subtly intertwines her hand with yours. Her grip is firm yet careful, as if she’s testing how far she can go, how much you’ll allow.

She doesn’t look at you.

Her eyes remain ahead, fixed on the pastor, her expression unreadable. But her thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles against the back of your hand, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Your stomach twists.

You should pull away. Your husband is right beside you, just inches away, unaware of the way your fingers are slotting so easily between Abby’s. The air feels too thick, too dangerous, like one wrong move could bring the whole world crashing down around you.

But your heart is screaming something different.

You want this. You want her.

For the first time in a long time, something as simple as holding hands feels like breathing again, like being seen. Like being wanted.

But then Madison’s laughter echoes softly from the pew beside you, the sound pure and innocent as she giggles at something Kimberly whispers in her ear. Jayden kicks his feet against the bench, restless, while Nico sleeps soundly against your chest.

Your babies.

They need stability. They need a father.

Your throat tightens as guilt claws its way up, drowning out the desperate ache inside you.

But Abby? She doesn’t let go.

And when you finally turn your head, meeting her gaze, she’s already looking at you—her face bathed in soft, warm light filtering through the stained-glass windows. A quiet, knowing smile tugs at her lips, as if she already knows what you’re thinking.

As if she’s willing to wait.

The pastor’s voice shifts. It’s subtle at first, but you notice it immediately. The words coming from the pulpit are still about marriage, but there’s a sharp edge to them now, a condemnation of something unsaid, something hidden.

“Marriage, the sacred union between a man and a woman,” he begins, emphasizing each word as if he’s driving a point home. “A covenant made before God, one meant to reflect His love, His plan. Yet, we live in a world where many try to twist that meaning, where people think they can redefine love, change what’s holy to fit their desires, to suit their will.”

You feel your chest tighten. It’s not loud, but it’s there like a dark cloud forming in the room. You glance at Abby, whose hand is still gently resting on yours, and for a moment, you feel the weight of the pastor’s words sink in like an anchor. The tension in the air is palpable.

“Some people believe that love can exist outside of what God intended,” the pastor continues, his voice thick with disapproval. “That love can be shared between anyone, regardless of the bounds He set. But the truth remains: God’s word doesn’t change, and His truth is eternal.”

A quiet chill runs down your spine. The words are directed at you, at what you’ve been hiding, at the way Abby’s hand feels in yours, so natural, yet so wrong in this moment.

You try to focus on anything else, but the room feels suffocating. You hear the faint rustling of the papers your husband is flipping through, unaware of what’s happening around him, and for a moment, you wish you could disappear.

“There are those who take what is sacred and twist it into something unrecognizable, to fit their desires and pleasures,” the pastor’s voice rings out, almost louder now. “But don’t be deceived. What is unnatural cannot stand in God’s eyes. What is not meant to be will crumble under the weight of its sin.”

You feel a wave of panic surge through you. The pastor’s words sting, each one a direct hit to something deep within you. You want to pull your hand away from Abby’s, but the weight of the moment keeps you frozen in place. Your heart is racing, a knot of guilt tightening with each word. This isn’t just about faith or religion anymore it feels like an attack on who you are, on who you and Abby are together.

Abby’s hand moves slightly, as if sensing your hesitation, but neither of you speaks. The tension between you both is thick, but neither of you can break the silence. You don’t dare meet her eyes, terrified of the truth they might hold, terrified of what she might think if she sees the panic in yours.

The pastor’s voice grows louder as he delivers the final blow: “Do not let sin rule your heart, for those who fall into temptation will find that they’ve strayed too far to return. It may feel right in the moment, but it leads only to destruction. And those who partake in it, no matter how much they try to hide it or justify it, will be called to account for their actions.”

You slowly pull your hand away from Abby's, the loss of her touch like a cold breeze against your skin. Your fingers linger for a moment, but then you place your hand gently on Nico, cradling him in your arms as if that will make everything okay. The weight of the pastor’s words presses down on you like an invisible hand squeezing your chest, suffocating you with its intensity.

You glance up at Abby, and her eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of pain there, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. She doesn’t say anything, but the hurt in her expression is unmistakable. It's like the connection you had—something so simple, so natural—has been shattered in an instant. You look away, unable to meet her gaze, afraid of what you’ll see in her eyes, afraid of what she might think.

The pastor’s voice swells again, his words cutting through the tension that now clings to the air like smoke. You feel exposed, like a spotlight is shining down on you, pulling everything you’ve tried so hard to hide into the light. Your stomach twists into knots as you try to steady your breathing, but it’s no use. It feels like everyone can see the turmoil inside you, see the truth you’ve been hiding from your family, from your community. It’s all out there now, hanging like a dark cloud over your head.

Nico stirs in your arms, his small hands reaching up for you as if he can sense the shift in your mood. You rock him instinctively, your gaze fixed on your husband, who’s still completely absorbed in the service, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing right next to him. You want to scream, to shake him awake, but instead, you hold Nico tighter, hoping the physical act will somehow center you, make the world stop spinning for just a moment.

The pastor’s words continue to echo in your mind, louder now, as if they’re meant to be a reminder of the sin you’re entangled in. You can feel the weight of the judgment hanging in the air, suffocating any hope you had of escaping it. You glance down at your lap, wishing you could disappear, wishing you could erase the space between you and Abby, wishing you could undo everything that’s happened in the last few days.

But you can’t.

You glance at Abby again, and she’s looking ahead, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face carefully neutral, but you can’t shake the feeling that she’s fighting something too. The silence between you feels like it’s stretching on forever, thick with the unspoken. Your heart aches with a mix of guilt, longing, and confusion.

The sermon drones on, the words meaningless now, just background noise to the chaos that’s unraveling inside you. The damage has already been done. The secret you’ve been hiding, the bond between you and Abby, has been exposed, even if only to yourself. There’s no going back now

__________

The evening is thick with the hum of forced smiles and conversations you’re not really part of. Your husband’s church friends fill the house, laughing too loudly, clinking glasses, and pretending like everything is normal. But you know better. You know it’s all a façade, and the cracks are beginning to show. Abby is here, of course, a little too present in every corner of the room, her gaze never straying too far from yours. She’s holding a beer, her fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle as she watches you from the couch. Her face is tight with something—anger, frustration, maybe even hurt. You can’t tell, but you feel it, like an electric pulse connecting the two of you.

Nico is asleep in his crib, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air. Your other three kids are outside in the backyard, playing with the other children who came over. They’re lost in their own little world of laughter and shouts, and for a moment, you allow yourself to wish you could be as carefree as they are.

But instead, you're stuck playing this role. The perfect wife, the dutiful hostess, the one who smiles and serves.

“Y/N, get me another beer,” your husband’s voice cuts through the noise of the room, his tone sharp and demanding, as though he believes that’s the least you can do. You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy to.

You nod, giving a soft “Yes, dear,” and walk over to the kitchen, trying to move like it’s just another task, another thing on the endless list you’ve been given. You grab a beer from the fridge, your hands shaking slightly as you twist the cap off. The cold metal in your palm feels like a lifeline—something tangible you can hold onto, even as everything around you feels wrong.

You walk back into the living room, handing the beer to your husband without saying anything. He takes it without a second glance, already absorbed in a conversation with one of his friends. You should feel relief, but instead, it’s just another reminder of how little you matter here. He’s not even looking at you. Not really.

"I’m gonna get the chips from the pantry. I’ll be back," you say, your voice too bright, too forced. It’s a lie, but it’s the only way you can escape.

You don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk away before he can demand anything else. You move quickly, almost too quickly, towards the pantry. Your heart is pounding now, the quiet thud of it growing louder in your ears with every step. The last thing you want is to stay in that room, to be near Abby, to feel her eyes on you, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and things left unsaid.

When you slip into the pantry, you push the door closed softly behind you, the darkness offering a momentary escape from the chaos of the house. You rest against the shelves, taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. For a few seconds, you let the silence wrap around you, the stillness almost comforting. But then the reality of the situation crashes back down on you.

Abby. The way she’s been looking at you. The way her presence alone feels like a weight you can’t lift. You should have handled things differently. You should have said something. Done something. But all you can do now is hide, just a little longer. Just enough to breathe.

You wipe your hands on your dress, trying to shake off the nerves. You know you can’t stay in the pantry forever. You know you have to go back out there, back to your husband, back to the role you’ve been cast in. But for just a moment, you let yourself be still. You let the noise from the party fade away, as if this tiny space could give you a breath of freedom.

Until you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate steps approaching the door. Your heart skips a beat. The door opens, and Abby walks in, closing it behind her with a soft click. She stands there, taking up the small space between you and the shelves, her eyes not leaving yours.

Neither of you says anything at first. The silence is thick, almost oppressive. You both know exactly why you’re here, why you're in this cramped, dark space away from the prying eyes of the party, away from everything that’s been gnawing at you all evening. The tension that’s been simmering for hours finally finds its release, but it’s more suffocating than freeing.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” Abby says, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the quiet like a knife.

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. The words feel stuck in your throat, tangled in the mess of everything you’re feeling. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, refusing to look at her directly. Your eyes are locked on the rows of canned goods in front of you, as if they hold some kind of answer.

“I’ve been busy, Abby,” you say, your voice a little too defensive, a little too brittle.

Abby lets out a bitter laugh, a sound that’s not at all amused. Her gaze burns into your side, and you can feel the weight of it even without looking. “Busy? Really?” she says sarcastically, her tone dripping with disbelief. “Is that what you’re going with? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve been busy avoiding me, not just the damn chips.”

You wince, the words hitting harder than you’d like to admit. Her voice cuts through you��like she’s reading you, peeling back the layers you’ve been trying to hide behind. She knows. She knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Why are you doing this?” Abby continues, her voice quieter now, but there’s still a sharp edge to it. She takes a step forward, closing the distance between you two, though you don’t move. She doesn’t touch you, but her presence is almost too much to handle. “You can’t keep pretending, Y/N. Not with me, not with yourself.”

Your breath hitches. Her words rattle something deep inside of you, something you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. You know she’s right. You’ve been running from this, from her, for so long. But the world outside this pantry—the world with your husband, the role you’ve played for years feels like a trap you can’t escape from. Not yet.

“I’m not pretending,” you say, though you know it’s a lie. You’re pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re pretending to be someone your husband wants, someone your kids can rely on. Someone perfect. But when Abby looks at you like that, when she makes you feel seen, truly seen, you realize how far from perfect you really are.

“You are, though,” Abby replies, her voice softer now, but the pain in it cuts through you. “You’ve been pretending for so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to just be... to just feel.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, all you can hear is the faint sound of the party in the other room—the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses. It feels distant, like a world you don’t belong to anymore.

You want to respond, to say something, but the weight of it all crushes your chest. Abby’s still watching you, her gaze never wavering, waiting for you to answer. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, and if you move even a little bit, you’ll fall.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say, your voice trembling. The words feel foreign, like you’re speaking someone else’s truth. You wish you had more to give, more to offer, but all you feel is exhaustion.

“I want you to talk to me and stop avoiding me,” Abby says, her voice quiet yet firm, as she leans in closer, invading the small space between you both. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable but full of intent. “You’ve been weird since that kiss at my house.”

The words hit you like a wave. Your heart stutters in your chest, and suddenly, everything feels too much. The kiss, that kiss plays over and over in your mind, but hearing Abby bring it up like this only makes you tense up. You instinctively turn your head away from her, feeling the heat rise in your face.

Abby doesn’t let you off the hook. Without hesitation, she reaches forward, her fingers brushing gently against your chin. She tilts your face back to meet hers, her smirk soft but knowing. “If you’re feeling guilty about it, don’t,” she says, her voice low and almost soothing, like she’s trying to take the weight off your shoulders.

Her words land in the pit of your stomach, and for a brief second, it feels like time stops. You’ve been carrying this guilt, this feeling of what am I doing? for days now, but hearing her say it don’t feel guilty is like a brief moment of release. It’s as if she’s given you permission, even if you’re not entirely sure what that permission means.

You look up at her, your thoughts spinning. Abby’s gaze is steady, unflinching, but soft. She doesn’t look at you with judgment. Just understanding. A part of you wants to pull away, but the other part of you—the part that feels so exhausted from holding everything in—just wants to let go, to let her in.

You stand there, caught between two worlds—one where you're still clinging to the role of the perfect wife, and the other, where Abby's presence pulls you in directions you never thought you'd go. The tension crackles in the air, thick and palpable, and for a moment, you feel paralyzed. You want to speak, to let everything out, but the words are locked behind a wall in your throat. The silence stretches between you, suffocating, and it feels like the longer you stay silent, the harder it becomes to break the stillness.

Abby doesn't let the silence grow too long. She takes a small step closer, the space between you narrowing until you can feel the heat of her body radiating against yours. Her hand hovers near yours, just a breath away, as if she's waiting for you to make the first move, to close the gap, to break down the wall you've put between you two. It's a silent invitation, one that you feel deep in your bones, but you're not sure if you're ready to cross that line.

“I know this is hard,” Abby says, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the tension. It’s soft, but carries an edge of determination. “But you can’t keep running, Y/N. You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Pretending. The word hits you like a punch to the gut. That's exactly what you’ve been doing—pretending everything is fine, pretending that you can hold everything together while you're suffocating. You want to argue, to tell her that it’s not that simple, that it’s too complicated to walk away from everything you’ve built. But the words don't come. The weight of her words is enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I know it’s not easy,” Abby continues, her voice steady, but the quiet urgency behind it is clear. “But you deserve more. You deserve to be happy. And your kids deserve to see you happy too. They’re gonna grow up seeing the way you are, and they’ll start to think that this—” She gestures between you and  behind her, “—is normal. That this is okay.”

Her words lodge themselves in your heart. The thought of your children growing up, learning from you and believing this chaos is what love is supposed to look like, breaks you open in ways you didn’t think possible. You’ve always tried to protect them from it, tried to shield them from the anger, the cold distance, but Abby’s right. They’re learning from you. They’re watching everything, and if you don’t change, if you don’t do something, they’ll grow up thinking this is how relationships are supposed to be. That thought claws at you, making your chest ache with a mix of guilt and pain you can't escape.

“I don’t know how to leave,” you finally say, the words barely a whisper. Your voice trembles, and your hands begin to shake. “I don’t even know where to start.” The weight of everything presses down on you, suffocating. How do you walk away? How do you leave when you’ve spent so long trying to keep the facade intact?

Abby steps forward, her presence steady and calming. She reaches for your hand, her touch gentle, but firm. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, and it’s enough to make you pause, enough to make you feel like you’re not completely alone in this. “I’m here,” she says softly, her voice so much more than just words. “I’ll help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her words are a lifeline, but they bring a new kind of fear. What if you do this? What if you let go of everything you’ve known? Everything changes the moment you reach for her, the moment you accept her help. And yet, as much as you’re scared, there’s something inside you that’s telling you this might be the only way to breathe again. That you deserve more than what you've been settling for.

“I... I’ll think about it,” you whisper, your voice wavering, unsure but desperate for change.

The silence hangs in the air, but it’s different this time. It’s not the suffocating kind you’ve come to know; instead, it feels like the world is suspended, waiting for something to happen. There’s a shift between you and Abby, something unspoken but undeniable, and for a brief moment, everything feels still. You can almost hear the beating of your heart in your ears, drowning out the noise of the world outside.

And then, just as you begin to think you’re safe, as if you can breathe again and maybe just keep the world at bay for a little while longer, Abby steps forward. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing. She closes the distance between you with quiet certainty. Her hand reaches out, her fingers brushing your arm lightly, sending a wave of heat through you.

Without a single word, she leans in. The space between you shrinks, and then, her lips are against yours. The kiss starts soft gentle, like she’s testing the waters, unsure of how far you’ll let her go. But it doesn’t stay tentative for long. It deepens almost instantly, as though it was always meant to be this way, as though both of you have been waiting for this moment your whole lives. You can feel it—the raw urgency in the way she pulls you closer, the electricity that builds with every second.

Abby’s hand moves up to cup your face, her touch warm and steady, and suddenly, everything falls away. The walls you’ve built around yourself, the guilt, the fear, all of it crumbles. There’s no room for any of it now. It’s just the two of you in this moment, the weight of everything else fading to nothing. She kisses you with an intensity that steals your breath, a kiss that’s more than just a physical connection. It’s an unspoken promise, an understanding that says, I see you. I’m here.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself go. You let the world outside disappear, and you let Abby pull you deeper into the kiss, into this uncharted territory. The pull between you is magnetic, a force that feels both terrifying and liberating, and you let yourself surrender to it, not caring about the consequences. You feel seen for the first time in forever, like she’s holding you in a way no one else ever has.

When the kiss finally breaks, you’re left breathless, your chest rising and falling quickly as you try to regain some semblance of control. Abby pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours, her gaze soft but filled with something more, something that makes your heart race all over again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, her voice low and full of conviction.

You don’t need her to say anything more. At that moment, you know. You know that whatever happens next, whatever the future holds, you don’t have to face it alone. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you can breathe.

second part done the third part will be the final part so if you wanna be tagged let me know Ⓒ︎ seulszn

[refreshingly-original]

Okay, new idea. (This got bigger then I thought it would)

After surviving the Road, Lilia takes on an apprentice reader, who already knows tarot.

She thinks to test her skill and has her do a reading for her.

Her cards are clearly very cheap, misprinted (think image is wonky or partially missing) and of cats.

She thinks they’re a joke, a knock off to be sold for Halloween and says as such.

Reader pays it no mind, fully aware of Lilia’s view on the worlds take on witches, and continues with the reading.

Lilia decides to gift her a new deck, and they’re gorgeous, certainly not misprinted, but every time she see reader doing a reading for herself, or even Teen or Alice when they drop in for a visit, readers using her cat cards.

Lilia thinks she understands, slightly, why she uses them when she starts noticing the stray cats turning up at the back door and following reader around when they go out.

It doesn’t help that reader always toddles off when she sees a cat and goes to pat it. Lilia has lost her apprentice many times because of it and had to track them down.

Eventually, during dinner one night, where reader has a pregnant stray sleeping on her lap, Lilia asks why she still uses the cards.

The cards were a gag gift from her best friend who gave them to her for her sixteenth birthday. She got the cat ones because cats seem to flock to reader like she’s their queen.

Reader says that her friend had crossed out cups on a card and replaced it to say ‘Queen of Cats’.

They were the last gift she’d gotten from her best friend before she was just gone. (Whether she moved for whatever reasons or died is up to you)

And that’s why she still uses them for readings for people she cares about. Cause they’re scuffed to hell and back, but they’re her most important belonging.

Lilia figures out that reader was in love with her best friend and lets it go after that.

But as time goes by, and readers gets closer with the coven and Lilia, she starts using the deck that Lilia gave her for readings for Alice and teen, sometimes even Jen, never Agatha though, and Lilia is glad to see that reader is moving on from the heartbreak, but still says nothing.

It’s not until a year or so has gone since she started using Lilia’s deck on the coven that Lilia sees her doing a reading for herself with the deck she gave her.

That night, she asks for a reading.

Lilia pulls The Lovers and that’s how she realises that she might be in love with the girl.

Reader on the other hand starts teasing her about having a special someone, not realising it’s her. She does so for days afterwards, mentioning it whenever Lilia’s gaze seems to linger a little too long on someone.

“Ohh is that them? Cute.”

“I will hit you.”

“No you won’t. You love me too much.”

“Insufferable girl.”

When they meet up with the coven for dinner night at Agatha’s, reader tells them.

By shouting it from the front door.

“Lilia has a crush on someone!”

Everyone joins in on the questioning and teasing, but Lilia doesn’t miss the look Agatha gives her before glancing at reader.

She knows she’s going to be cornered by the other witch at some point and does her best to not be alone to avoid that.

It doesn’t work.

Agatha convinces Teen to help her get her alone and Lilia falls for it because she has a soft spot for him.

“So-“

“Leave it Harkness.”

“You going to tell her?”

���I’m leaving.”

“I’m almost certain she feels the same for you.”

Lilia ignores it and rejoins the coven, but it lingers in the back of her mind.

A month later, Lilia does her own reading and curses up a storm when she pulls The Lovers again.

Reader peaks over her shoulder and laughs, wrapping her in a hug.

“Maybe you should just tell them.”

“I’m too old for this, baby.”

“Evidently not.”

“Ugh.”

That night, reader also pulls The Lovers and realises what’s happening. At least for her. She realise nothing about Lilia. Oblivious as she is.

Que her bailing to bunk on Alice’s couch that night because ‘how could she move on so fast’ from her first love.

Lilia doesn’t find reader in the morning and tries calling her but it goes ignored. It’s not until Alice rings her and tells her that she’s staying with her for a while that Lilia relaxes. Though she’s still confused about why she’s gone, so she looks around her room, only to spot the spread on the table and of course comes to the conclusion it’s because reader figured out she has feelings for her.

She kind of goes numb for that day, only really focusing on her emotions after she closes up the shop and kinds of breaks down a bit.

She doesn’t open the shop for the next few days, and only answers the phone because she thinks it might be reader.

It’s not. It’s Alice telling her that reader will be staying another night.

Then it’s Jen checking in, because Alice called her and told her that somethings wrong with Lilia.

But of course Alice helps reader through it, pointing out that it’s been years and that it’s okay to fall in love again. After about a week, Alice convinces her to go and talk with Lilia, even promising to be there with her for support.

Jen of course has no problem breaking in to Lilia’s home after a few days of Lilia just hanging up on her as soon as she realises it’s not Alice with an update on reader, to talk some sense into her.

It ends up with them drinking. Jen only has two, but Lilia ends up drunk, so Jen has to take care of her.

Jen doesn’t realise that she sleeps on the Murphy bed and puts her in readers little room. Jen sleeps on the sofa. Shes going to have words with Lilia about not having a better sofa in the morning.

The following morning is when Alice and reader turn up, surprised to see Jen scrunched up on the sofa and no Lilia.

Reader heads up to her room to put her things away, only to stop and stare at Lilia who is silently crying in her bed.

She drops her shit and just crawls in with Lila and holds her.

“Please be real.”

“It’s real, Lilia.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[vbecker10]

No Stabbing!

Pairing: Loki x female reader (Y/N)

Summary: You ask Loki if he still stabs people when he's bored but the prince of Asgard is more curious about why you want to know.

Warnings: idk... vague mention of a terrible date and overly protective Loki (who doesn't love that? Lol)

A/N: Came up with this idea pretty randomly so hopefully it's good lol enjoy! 💚

"Loki, do you still stab people when you're bored?" you ask as you walk into the common room, interrupting a game of chess the two brothers are playing.

The younger prince stares up at you in confused silence, his attention shifting to his brother when Thor clears his throat.

"I'm sorry Y/N," Thor says politely. "Fury made it abundantly clear to my brother that stabbing people who irritate him is not something that will be tolerated while he is on probation."

"Oh... right," you mumble and look down at your shoes. "We'll never mind then," you turn to leave.

"Why do you ask?" Loki finally speaks when you've taken a few steps away from them.

"No reason," you respond quickly turning to face him.

"Y/N," Loki says in a slightly stern tone.

"My date tonight was awful. He was so handsy," you explain, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Handsy?" Thor repeats the unfamiliar term with a raised eyebrow. Loki looks at you and you can tell he's just as confused as his older brother.

You sigh and make a grabbing motion with both hands towards the princes.

"No stabbing!" Thor shouts at his younger brother as he gets up, knocking over the few remaining chess pieces.

Loki gets up quickly, his favorite dagger appearing in his hand with a green flourish. "You were with the new tech from Stark's team," the God of Mischief states, no hint of a question in his voice. You nod as he walks angrily past you into the hallway.

"I am simply going to talk to him," Loki insists, his pace not slowing.

"With your dagger," Thor rolls his eyes when he catches up.

Loki smirks, "Yes."

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