Typingfool - My Love, Mine, All Mine.

"What is it?" I asked. "The prophecy?"

"I’m sure it’s fine," she said in a small voice.

"What was the last line?"

Then she did something that really surprised me. She blinked back tears and put out her arms. I stepped forward and hugged her. Butterflies started turning my stomach into a mosh pit.

___

percabeth x taylor swift & pencap-poetry

Hi, do you happen to have a masterlist?

I recently stumbled upon your work and I love the way you wrote it.

Thanks in advance!

i have yet to make to make one. but you can check the tag; 'ziah writes🕯 ♥ thank you so much for your kind words, anon !! you made my day :)

reblog to give more people the chance for one last boop!

No place for Zionists. No place for baby killers.

to describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.

prints + merch + commission info

Absolutely devastating and infuriating updates from @myhanitizer - as the military has taken his father and brother hostage and has stripped them naked and is dragging them all through Gaza. This comes after the United States and Israel killed member after member of Hani's family. All of these things are atrocious war crimes.

@myhanitizer is a hero who has been committed to advocating and supporting the people of Gaza his entire life, and is a team member of @unrwausa. His family continues to suffer unjustly and it must stop.

Praying for his family who are martyrs from IOF airstrikes, his mama who stood over the rubble to protect her son's body from stray dogs, and his family members who have been abducted by the IOF, praying for their swift and safe return.

Praying for Hani.

ONE FOR ALL

being a performer in a concert hall and bumping into anakin skywalker. and you don't recognize him, perfect. you wouldn't need to anyway, it was another regular primeday for you and many of your fellow performers, why would you need to appeal to very, very attractive blonde in the throng?

then that's when you realize you bumped into the hero with no fear. in all his glory; dark jedi robes, and the flash of a lightsaber secured against his hip.

it takes a lot of courage for you not to fumble on your feet because something tells you, this isn't the last time you'll be seeing him.

and he—anakin,

anakin looks at you in a way that jedi council would, rest assured, disapprove. and it scares him. it wasn't the way you carried yourself throughout the performance, the way you apologized with a firm voice by bumping into him, it was your smile, and your voice. the wave of normalcy you omitted, one that feels so pleasant. so, incredibly like home—except the sand bit, everything in naboo seems to turn his beliefs around—that he couldn't help but ask obi-wan if these missions would happen more often.

obi-wan's expressions were unreadable, much to anakin's dismay.

A Thief's Only Enemy

(BASED ON OPLA!Nami) cross-posted on ao3 !!

Nami, the trees whisper. Its tangerine drops against the soil like a ripple in the sea. She remembers the wind passing by the orchard, the dots of tangerines in the horizon, the smell of citrus making every air she breathed worthed and sour. 

Her tongue catches the taste. Her words become citrus. 

Once and now, the trees would whisper her name. Nami, Nami, Nami— our daughter, look at the curiosity—She doesn’t know what that means. Quite frankly, Nami doesn’t recall a memory that whispered her name the way the tangerine trees would. She couldn’t remember what it had meant, what it had sounded like. She couldn’t remember the significance of names. Of course, the significance of names other than Mom, and Nojiko. 

Nojiko, who is her sister, (who isn’t her sister), whose skin reaches more than a tree’s roots, underneath the soil, nurturing and caring. Who had held her, who squeezed her tighter, closer, protectively when Belle-Mere had found them. 

Then, there was her mother, oh, sweet mother. Who had said “I just knew” undoubtedly, who had been the first one to answer her questions truthfully, who had left her knowing that she and Nojiko were loved. 

(This is what life first stole: her name. It is buried until Nojiko and Belle-Mere latches themselves in her heart. They make a home there. They pump her blood and provide for her. This is what life first stole: when the home is in flames and the trees rots—when her mother fell with her skull-cracked, blood spilling between the gaps of wood, the soil carries her sacrifice. The village carries her body, they dig beside a wide tree of tangerines, they place her there. She is buried there. With a piece of Nami and Nojiko ever-beating love for each other.)

You are my daughters, I will not deny that. Nami remembers, she remembers many things. She remembers Arlong’s stupid gun, his stupid smile. She remembers Nojiko’s spiteful look when she left with Arlong. She remembers the way her sister’s blue hair reflected the emotions she felt. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: the tranquillity and war of sisterhood. She thought of the consequences because her mother had told them to be as strong as boys, and that, if they survived, good times will come. Nami knew—you see, she was a thief, then and now, thievery is mixed up with trickery—that her village would not survive Arlong’s grasp. He is a fishmen, no human in their village could deny that they were scarred with his ever-growing laughter the moment he claimed them. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she would take back: sisterhood.)

Nojiko’s hair never went past its original length, she still looks like her sister: Nami’s sister. 

Arlong’s tattoo says otherwise. She would breathe in, her hands were bruised from labour. She used to love the lines that curve to make the islands, cartography offered newness other than the mundane shackles around her once soil-covered ankles. Nesh tears pickled her citrus-covered face, her hair would be dried. She would hug her chest, carry the weight of the knowledge she possessed. 

(This is what life stole from her: freedom. The ability to breathe the citrus air, or the raw wind against her skin. Of course, Nami would grow out those shackles, she knew, her mother had told her and Nojiko that their bodies were not meant to stay in this shape. She had known that she would not stay in this vessel of a tiny girl. Yet, she could not bring herself to hope. To hope that she would live one. This is what life stole from her: freedom. The freedom to make friends. The freedom to have ridiculous hope). 

Nami grew. She had to. For Coco Village. For Nojiko. For her mother. She had to. She learned how to keep her hair the same shape, she learned to observe the sky while slipping berries out of a stranger’s pockets. She learned the meaning of her name from a stolen book, how reflecting her eyes could be in the ocean. 

(This is what Nami stole from herself: a life surrounded with fishmen that would go after her, wherever she went. And she had all but herself to blame, the moment her foot made contact with the wooden floor, the moment she had blurted out that she wanted to join. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she thinks she would never get back: a life she calls her own.) 

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