no sugarcoating, you had been misplacing your panties for months now. it seemed like no matter how many you bought, your underwear drawer was always going through a drought.

your favourite cotton ones? gone. your sexy black lace pair? gone. the few g-strings you owned when you were feeling especially sultry? also gone.

you had just assumed that the dryer had been eating them, or that they had disappeared into some far corner of your closet somehow - never to be seen again.

the actual answer, was one that left you with a raise eyebrow - standing in the middle of your laundry room whilst holding a pair of your boyfriend’s jeans in your hands.

it had started simple. laundry had to get done, and toby was shitty at it (never letting clothes dry properly) so you took matters into your own hands. gathered up your dirty clothes, and his, and retreated to throw them all in the wash.

one of his pairs of jeans had a bulging back pocket, which you of course had to rifle through - because god help you if you washed another pack of cigarettes again.

but no, it wasn’t smokes. wasn’t rocks he had found in the forest either (your second guess) - it was… your panties. the lacy black pair you had thought you lost months ago, crumpled into a little ball, shoved deep into the back pocket of toby’s favourite jeans.

oh. alright. maybe should’ve considered that.

it wasn’t that toby gave off the vibes of a underwear drawer raider - but he also didn’t not give off those vibes.

‘Toby.’ you step out into the living room, dangling the flimsy fabric in the air - pinched between your fingers. ‘what’s this?’

‘uh, your u-underwear?’ you cant tell if he’s being oblivious on purpose.

‘yeah, my underwear. that I lost months ago. stuffed in the pocket of your pants.’ busted.

it clicks for him so quickly that it’s almost comical - the way his face pales, his eyes going wide and his shoulders tensing up. you’re not actually mad, but the sight of him like this - wide-eyed and panicked - is sort of cute.

and really, he should’ve probably tried to defend himself, but the only thing that ends up coming out of his idiot brain is;

‘you didn’t w-wash ‘em, did you?’

you wrinkle your nose, before letting out a disbelieving scoff and chucking the crumpled pair of undergarments at him.

‘fuckin’ gross, toby.’ then you’re turning on your heel.

but before you leave, you pause.

Lydia finds out that chocolate tastes better on Malia’s lips.

for @moths-in-hats 💙

"Power is a fickle thing. It's transcendent, imaginary and very much real.

The Lady Aphmau was no stranger to any of its forms, having attained and mastered Lordship, loyalty and even divinity.

In the days that I knew her, she maintained the position that power was a tool. A method deemed necessary if she wanted to protect her people, to save lives. A lesson she learned from the last High Priest of the O'Khasian church of the Matron, Zane Ro'meave.

Maybe this is why it ultimately consumed her, leaving naught but ash in its wake.

It makes one wonder, if power is something we hold or if it holds us."

It was nighttime on Mount Thanatos when Nerissa was closed in her tomb; she regretted not appreciating the last daylight she saw. As the stone lid of her casket was pushed into place, she savoured her last glimpses of light - and her last glimpse of the living. 

@maribat-calendar-events

Unlike usual, the atmosphere in the bakery was tense. Two sides had formed, on one end was Tom Dupain, on the other end was Damian Wayne. “Absolutely not. Marinette, you can’t date this boy, he’s not good enough for you.” He stood his ground on this issue as he looked at Damian again. It wasn’t the way Damian looked, it was the presence he gave off, of someone dangerous and violent. “You agree with me right, Sabine?”

“Oh I don’t know honey. Shouldn’t we let Marinette make her own choice on this?” She placed a comforting hand on his arm and then leaned up to whisper, “It’s not like anything’s set in stone. They’ll probably break up on their own.”

“Maman! I can hear you.” Marinette’s eyes blazed with indignation before shifting when she turned to address Damian. “I’m sorry about them. They’re just a bit over protective sometimes and I’m sure when they get to know you a bit better, they’ll see your good side.” She could barely look him in the eyes as she shuffled her feet.

Tom let out a big sigh, from the beginning he knew that nothing he said would have made a difference. “You're right, Marinette. But I’ve got my eyes on your Mister.” He glared at Damian.

“I would expect nothing less, sir. One should never be too careful when meeting someone for the first time.” Those were the first words Damian had said since the simple hello when greeting them earlier.

“Ok,” Marinette clapped her hands. “If we’re going to get to know each other better, I think the best way to do so would be games. Let’s go upstairs, a match of Ultimate Mecha Strike III is in order.”

“Honey, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sabine questioned. “We should pick something that’s a bit more fair for Damian. You know how your father gets about Mecha Strike.” Tom wasn’t listening, already heading upstairs, giddy with excitement to play his favorite game.

The thing about sunsets is they're always shifting, followed by a night and then a sunrise. They're not eternal, even on nights when they feel like it.

“Wouldn’t you love to have your face carved into the side of a cliff?”

Isildur laughs at his brother’s question, though he tilts his head and stares at the landscape, briefly imagining it.

“I guess so,” he shrugs. “But I would have to earn that honor, of course. And what could I ever do, to be worthy of monuments?”

“We don’t have to wait for others to recognize our greatness!” Anárion boasts. “Let’s grab some chisels.”