#does she know. does she know she is alive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starkeymeow · 3 days ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-five, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, training day 2&3, a peak at plutarch, plotting, a bit of rafe and y/n content, peeta !! all platonic btw

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

later that night, your entire body aches. your shoulders pull like they’ve been strung too tight and used as weapons, and your knuckles are a little bruised.

the bathroom mirror’s foggy with the shower you just took, and you’re standing at the sink brushing your teeth while rafe sits on the counter next to you, legs hanging, arms braced behind him as he leans back and watches.

he doesn’t say much at first. he just listens as you ramble through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“so johanna, right—” you pause to spit, “—we go into it thinking it’s just a warm-up, but she’s like . . . elbowing me like we’re in a bar fight. and then finnick’s off to the side like, ‘use your hips, not your face’, which by the way, i didn’t even know he knew how to fight without his trident—”

you glance over, brush hanging from your mouth.

rafe just grins, head tilted as he watches your reflection in the mirror. he doesn’t get half of what you’re saying. the foam muffles most of it and your words come out tangled, but he likes the sound of your voice anyway.

you rinse, sigh, then lean forward to wipe your mouth on the towel.

“anyway. i nearly took her head off at one point. kind of proud of that.”

rafe laughs a little under his breath, but then he quiets, gaze dropping to the floor.

“we need to talk to katniss,” he says. “make her trust us. get her to think about an alliance.”

you pause, and your eyes flick to him in the mirror. he’s still looking at the ground, like he doesn’t want to look up yet.

“did you talk to her at all today?” he asks.

you think about it as you chew the inside of your cheek. “unless you count her trying to kill me and you in a simulation . . . then no, not really.”

rafe finally looks up, scrunches his face in that way he does when he’s frustrated but can’t argue with the facts. he scratches the back of his buzzed head, groaning softly.

you pull open the bathroom drawer, digging for something, and lean against the sink next to him. “we’ve still got two more training days. we can figure something out.”

“yeah, and she still hates the capitol and we look like their mutts,” rafe mutters, “i mean, i doubt she’s just gonna shake hands ‘n hug it out with us because we smiled at her.”

you glance at him. “what about peeta?”

rafe makes a face. “what about him?”

“i don’t know. maybe we talk to him, see if he can help. he’s clearly close to her.”

he narrows his eyes. “you think he’d go for that?”

you shrug, “maybe. if we play it right. not fake or anything. just . . be honest, ‘n careful.”

he watches you for a second, then nods once, “could work.”

“or it could blow up in our faces.”

“also true.”

you’re both quiet for a minute. and you don’t say it out loud, but you both know it’s your best shot.

she needs to trust you, at least enough to keep you alive. or at least long enough for the plan to work. and if she doesn’t, you’ll be dead before you get the chance to try.

“okay, but let’s say peeta’s not interested,” you continue, grabbing a hair tie off the counter and wrapping it around your wrist. “what’s our backup?”

rafe stretches his legs out a little, thinking. “we could impress them in training tomorrow, get katniss to see we’re not threats.”

you toss the towel you were holding into the laundry bin, brushing your hands off before stepping over to him. his eyes follow you with that little awareness he always has.

you move to stand between his legs and rest your hands gently on his sweatpants. your palms start to slide up and down slowly, grounding yourself in the feel of him, in the way his muscles shift slightly under your thumbs.

“so we need to give her a reason,” you say softly, looking up into his eyes. “not just to team up, but to trust us. us specifically. everyone else is gunning for her to be allies, too, whether they’re in on the plan or not.”

“so you want to tell her the truth?” he asks.

“no,” you say immediately. then you hesitate. “maybe . . . like not the plan, just enough about us to let her know we’re not capitol pets.”

rafe’s jaw ticks slightly, and his hand comes up to rest lightly on your waist, fingers curling there. “we’d have to be careful. say too much and it’s dangerous.”

“say too little and she won’t buy it.”

his eyes scan yours. “you think she’d really team up with us?”

“i think,” you say quietly, “she’s more like me than anyone else in that gym, i feel like.”

his thumb brushes absentmindedly at your side. “yeah?”

you nod. “and if that’s true then she’ll know we’re not lying. she’ll feel it.”

rafe leans down a little, forehead nearly touching yours, “guess we better make her feel it then.”

you smile’s small, but your eyes don’t lose that focus. you’re thinking a thousand moves ahead. you let your hands smooth along his thighs again, slower now.

you lean in just enough to whisper, ��then tomorro—” you barely finish saying it before rafe leans in and kisses you, probably to get your mind off of all the plan-talk, just for the night.

it’s slow, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need a reason. his hands settle at your hips and your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt. you just kiss him back without thinking, just breathing him in.

he pulls back slightly, not far, just enough to slide his hand behind him and bring something around between the two of you. your lotion.

you blink, “. . . seriously?”

he grins, holding it right in front of your face like it’s a trophy. “you always forget.”

you give him a look, but you still reach down, grab the hem of your shirt, and tug it over your head. your back faces him now, bare under the low lights of your bathroom.

your thorns have been healed for years, but they still press under your skin like a memory that doesn’t wanna go away.

you gather your hair and sweep it to one shoulder as you hear him hop down behind you. he untwists the containers lid and scoops some lotion into his hands, then sets it aside.

his palms smooth gently across your back slowly. you close your eyes and melt under his touch. his thumbs sweep in small circles along your lower back, around the curve of your spine, staying mindful of each thorn. you swear he maps them every night like it’s the first time.

he doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. and when he’s finished, you turn back around to face him again, letting your shirt hang loosely in your hand. rafe’s gaze flicks downward instinctively, but then he lifts his eyes again, meeting yours.

“we have to get out,” you murmur. “someday. right?”

his eyes linger on you. there’s so much in his silence. you step up on your toes and kiss him again, but it’s gentle, like a promise, then you pull your shirt back on.

you wake up the next morning feeling like death’s counting backward.

it’s day two. another tick off the clock. another step closer to the arena, but you try not to think about it.

rafe’s already up. you catch sight of his figure in the kitchen, mid-conversation with brutus. you don’t say anything. you just wash your face and tie your hair back, eat whatever they put in front of you. cassaline talks too chipper and you nod along until it’s over. you aren’t rude, you just keep your focus elsewhere. that’s how you survive mornings like this. by not really being in them.

when you make it to the training center, you don’t even wait for rafe. you split off early, deciding to duck into one of the side survival rooms, just to get away from the crowded floor for a while. you let your fingers run along the wall absentmindedly before entering a room, then you stop.

at the back of the room, crouched over a bench with a tray of paints beside him, is peeta mellark.

he doesn’t notice you right away. his focus is fixed on his arm, paint streaking across his skin in long strokes with different shades, muted tones of gray and green and brown that start blending against each other. he’s camouflaging himself. or practicing, anyway.

you rub your palms against your leggings. your heart flutters, not because you’re nervous, but because you recognize the opportunity. it’s peeta mellark, sweetheart of the capitol, katniss’s other half, and more importantly, your in.

he glances up when he hears someone come in, expecting maybe a trainer or someone from an outlying district like him. his face changes slightly when he sees you. not in shock, but more like surprise. like he didn’t expect you of all people to walk up to him.

“hi,” you say, stepping closer.

he gives you a small smile, “hey.”

you peer down at his arm. “that’s amazing.”

he glances down like he forgot he was even doing something. “thanks,” he says, brushing his thumb along the inside of his wrist to blend one of the darker patches.

“so you did this?” you ask, even though the answer’s obvious. peeta doesn’t comment on how dumb the question sounds. he just shrugs a little, nods.

you crouch beside the bench, angling yourself to see the tray of paints. “how’d you even figure out how to blend into your surroundings like that?”

peeta dips his brush into one of the colors. “my mom always wanted me to be a baker so i used to decorate cakes for customers,” he says. “you learn a lot about color and detail that way.”

you raise your eyebrows, impressed. “so if you wanted to, you could probably disappear in this room.”

“i could try,” he says, still not quite looking at you.

you nod, looking up at him, “show me.”

he tilts his head, amused by the challenge, and then moves without saying a word. he presses his arm against the table again and smears a bit more color onto his exposed skin, runs a few lines across his fingers and forearm, and angles it to follow the pattern on the marbled surface. you blink, and suddenly, it’s like he’s gone if you’re far enough.

he’s right there. but the color, the way he’s blended himself into the countertop, it’s nearly flawless.

you exhale through your nose, a smile tugging at your mouth. “you’re good at that.”

“yeah, well. it’s not much.”

you shake your head slowly. “i mean it. most of us just throw knives or punch things. you make it . . .” your voice softens, “quiet . . . in here.”

peeta peers at you now. there’s something a little hesitant in the way he looks, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. you aren’t.

his cheeks flush the faintest bit. “guess someone has to balance it out.”

you smile. “someone like you, then?”

he chuckles, ducking his head a little. “i think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in here.”

you tilt your head, watching him. “you’d think more people would be saying nice things to the golden boy of twelve.”

“you’d be surprised.”

you don’t push it or try to steer the conversation, but when he sits back down and starts repainting another patch on his arm, you quietly lean against the table beside him, resting your elbows on the surface, staying close.

something about the quiet around you both makes him lean back a little against the table, brush still between his fingers as he glances sideways at you.

you tilt your head slightly and murmur, “katniss is lucky to have you, you know.”

his gaze drops immediately to the floor, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. it’s small, almost like he’s trying not to acknowledge it, but it’s there. you raise your brows.

“what?” you ask, amused. “did i say something wrong?”

“no,” he says, quietly, rubbing his thumb over a patch of dry paint on his wrist. “it’s just . . . weird hearing you say that. it’s kind of surreal.”

you blink, letting out a light laugh. “what?”

“i . . .” he starts, “i used to watch your interviews, back when you won ‘cause they’d play your highlight reels all the time on tv. it was hard not to.”

your eyebrows lift a little. “seriously?”

he nods, sheepish. “the closest i’d ever come to you was when you came to twelve on your victory tour. i was there, in middle of the square with my brothers. i think it was snowing that day.”

you pause, then narrow your eyes at him like you’re trying to remember. “that was, what, seven years ago?”

he chuckles. “yeah.”

you glance at him, doing the math in your head. “how old were you?”

“ten,” he says with a wince.

you laugh again, “so you had a crush on me.”

he throws you a playful look. “it was more like . . . admiration.”

“sure,” you drawl, teasing him. “i’m sure every ten-year-old bakes a loaf of bread and imagines handing it to their favorite victor in the cold.”

“i would’ve,” he says, matter-of-fact, and for a moment, it’s quiet. you’re still smiling, but something about the honesty in his voice makes your heart soften. not in a romantic way, this isn’t that, but it’s still sweet. and it’s real. it’s something that belongs to a version of peeta that isn’t shaped by war or reaping bowls or televised deaths.

you reach over and nudge his free arm with your own. “well,” you say, “i guess it’s nice to know i made an impression.”

he smirks and glances up at you, and you see it now, why katniss trusts him. why even the capitol leans into his smile. then you shift just a little.

“and katniss?” you ask, the tone of your voice dipping slightly. you try to sound more genuine.

he looks over, and you watch the change in his face, the way his smile doesn’t really fall, but it freezes.

you continue before he can answer. “i’m sorry,” you say. “about all of this. about the quell.” you aren’t totally sure if it’s gotten to a point where they do love each other but everyone around you has practically assumed it’s all for show. but soulmates or not, the story was forced, and maybe there’s a chance it isn’t as forced now.

peeta looks away for a beat. his jaw tightens slightly, but then he nods. “thanks,” he says quietly. “it’s . . . been a lot.”

you don't push or don’t ask for more. instead, you just sit with it. then you offer him a softer smile. “for what it’s worth,” you say, taking a few steps toward the exit, “i think you’re stronger than people realize.”

he meets your eyes.

you pause once you’re a few paces away, spinning around on your heel to face him again. peeta’s still sitting there, paint drying across his arm, his brush loosely gripped in one hand. you tilt your head at him.

“come with me, we can train together,” you ask, waving your hand toward you. “we could spar. i’ll show you the ropes in case you’ll need it.”

he blinks, eyebrows lifting slightly. “in case i’ll need it?”

“you never know when you’ll need it in there.” you nod toward the main gym. “come on, baker boy. it’s time to show me what you got.”

his smile grows, surprised but not unwilling. “i should probably wash this off first.”

you’re already walking backward. “i’ll be on the mat.”

peeta watches you go, then looks down at the paint on his hands. he stands, a quiet laugh to himself, before turning toward the sinks.

you’ve got him hooked so far. not just to the plan, but to you. this is good.

you turn from peeta with a grin still stretched across your face, your fingers tap lightly at your side. but just as you reach the mouth of the door that opens into the training center, your gaze lifts.

you don’t know why, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s just a flicker of something in your periphery, but your eyes catch on the high glass window embedded in the gym wall. the gamemaker room, where they sit and analyze. your body stiffens before you can stop it.

they’re always watching, but there’s only one figure at the front right now.

plutarch heavensbee, who haymitch mentioned before is going to help you. finnick knows more about him than anyone though.

he’s seated with one elbow propped against the table, hand resting near his mouth like he’s thinking too hard for someone practically watching people play. but he’s not watching the room anymore. he’s watching you.

you freeze mid-step, just long enough to feel the tension in your shoulders. he doesn’t blink or flinch, but when you make eye contact, something shifts behind his gaze.

you narrow your eyes just a little. he looks normal, like not particularly threatening, like he could blend in anywhere. but you know better. haymitch’s words from days ago still echo in the back of your mind—we’re not the only ones. you didn’t know what to expect. but now here he is.

you give the smallest nod, just enough to acknowledge. it wouldn’t raise eyebrows to anyone else, but you watch how the corner of his mouth twitches in return. not a smile, exactly, but the shape of satisfaction. maybe even approval.

you turn again, breath steady, feet carrying you back into the main space. you're already scanning for rafe. you’ve got work to do. and now, you know someone else is watching your back.

your eyes scan quickly, searching for him. he’s usually standing at the maces like it’s his second home but he's not there. your steps start to slow as your gaze keeps moving, slipping toward the back of the gym, around the climbing structures and racks of knives. still nothing.

you press your hands to your hips, sighing under your breath. of course the one time you actually need to find him he’s decided to go rogue. you stay planted in the center for a second longer, eyes trailing across the room—

then a hand comes to your shoulder.

you whip around fast, already grabbing for whatever you don’t have on you, instincts kicking in before you even think, but the moment you see his face and his crooked smirk, that small arch of amusement in his brow, you exhale all at once.

rafe’s standing a little too close to be casual, but not enough to raise suspicion. you don’t realize you’re staring until he murmurs low under his breath, “relax. it’s just me.”

“you scared the shit out of me,” you say.

his smile deepens, then he leans in just a little closer, “i talked to her.”

you blink. “katniss?”

he nods, eyes flicking toward the rest of the gym before landing on yours again. “yeah. it wasn’t a long conversation. stubborn as hell, like haymitch said. i don’t think she likes eye contact, but . . . i think i got through to her a bit.”

you stare at him for a second, brows lifting in quiet shock before your hand instinctively reaches out, fingers curling around the sleeve of his arm.

“that’s perfect,” you say softly. “i literally just talked to peeta.”

his head tilts. “just now?”

“like— seconds ago. i’m gonna teach him hand-to-hand.”

you can see the shift in his expression instantly. he’s not annoyed or angry, but he’s amused. amused in that boyish, you’re mine sort of way that he doesn’t even try to hide. he tries to keep it subtle, keeps his lips pressed together like he’s thinking, but you see the corners turn up as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“oh,” he says slowly, “so you and lover boy are training together now?”

your head tilts with a grin already forming, and your grip on his arm drops only so you can place both palms against his chest and push him back half a step. “don’t start.”

he just laughs and grins wider now, his hands coming up briefly like he’s surrendering but it’s all in that teasing glint in his eyes. like i’m just saying. you shake your head but don’t say anything else.

then, over his shoulder, you catch sight of peeta stepping away from the camo station. he wipes his hands off against a towel slung over his shoulder, glancing around the gym before his gaze lands on you again.

your eyes flick back to rafe. “i’ll come find you after,” you promise.

he nods once, doesn’t stop looking at you, so you find his hand again, yours slipping into his naturally, fingers fitting between his for a few lingering seconds as you start to walk away.

“just try not to end up somewhere i can’t follow, a’right?” he says. “stay within reach today.”

you slide your arm across his until the tips of your fingers are the last thing touching. and still, you feel his eyes follow you.

you don’t look back until you’re almost to peeta. when you do, he’s still standing in the same spot, watching.

you smirk to yourself, then wink at him over your shoulder. peeta doesn’t notice. he’s already heading toward the mat. and just like that, you follow him.

by day three, you’ve found a rhythm. it’s not one you asked for, but one you’ve stopped resisting.

you walk into the gym before your escort or stylists can find something to fuss about, already tugging on your sleeve to fix where it’s twisted around your wrist again. rafe’s a few steps behind you, running a hand across his buzzed hair, yawning into his shoulder.

peeta’s easy to spot. he’s already got weights in his grip. you stop beside him, nodding toward the stack of plates.

“you wanna touch up on your fight skills again today?” you ask.

peeta grins as he reracks his bar. “thought i’d teach you something today.”

you raise a brow, shifting your weight onto one hip, curious. “oh yeah?”

he reaches over to grab a towel, swipes it across the back of his neck. “try sitting still for five minutes. we’ll start there.”

you snort. “i’d rather fight you again.”

he just nods toward one of the nearby survival rooms. “come on. you survived the arena, you can survive patience.”

your smirk widens, just slightly. you wave a lazy hand in the air, calling behind you, “i’ll be around,” to rafe without looking back. peeta glances at rafe too before following you.

across the gym, rafe’s gripping a barbell, his elbows flaring as he presses up again and again. he watches you go with peeta out of the corner of his eye, not really focusing on his own movement.

“that’s new,” finnick says behind him a few minutes later.

rafe exhales hard and racks the bar, turning to find finnick standing a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed, eyes flickering toward the room you and peeta disappeared into.

“what?” rafe asks like he didn’t hear it even though he definitely did.

finnick doesn’t bother repeating himself. “you okay with that?”

rafe bends to grab his water bottle. “with what? peeta?”

finnick gives a half shrug, the kind that says you know exactly what i mean.

rafe unscrews the cap, drinks, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “it’s strategy.”

“sure it is.”

“it is.” rafe levels him with a look. “we need katniss. peeta’s our in. it’s working.”

finnick watches him, head tilted slightly, like he’s checking for cracks in a wall. “so you’re not bothered?”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. his hands stay gripping his water bottle, but his eyes have already drifted to the far end of the gym where you and peeta are.

you’re sitting now, elbows resting on your knees as you let peeta lean in, holding a small brush between his fingers. his hand comes up to your face without hesitation, and for once, you don’t flinch.

it surprises you. you can see it in the way your brows lift slightly, but you don’t move away. rafe’s watching all of it.

peeta smiles as he sweeps a faint streak of earthy green pigment under your jaw. “you’d be good at this if you slowed down,” he murmurs.

you snort softly. “sure. when have i ever done that?”

he leans back, expression amused, and offers you the brush which you take. your attempt is nothing like his. it’s messier, less thought-out. he doesn’t flinch either. he just blinks at you with that same easy gaze.

across the gym, rafe’s jaw flexes just once. he speaks without looking back at finnick, “if it means she gets out of this alive, i’ll let her charm every last person in this damn place.”

there’s a pause.

“she doesn’t even have to try,” finnick says finally. “that’s the thing.”

rafe exhales through his nose, but doesn’t say anything. then he picks the barbell back up.

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luna-loveboop · 2 days ago

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HYLIA IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR MAJORA WHAT IN THE NAME OF COWS

FJBDJFFJDBDJDJDJFJFJF YOU EVER SEE THE WORST TAKE-

HYLIA. SINCE THIS IS APPARENTLY UNCLEAR. IS A GOOD GUY. SHE'S A GODDESS WHO TRIES TO HELP. SHE DOESN'T SEND THE EVILS THEIR WAY, ALL SHE DOES IS TRY AND HELP STOP IT BC SHE'S A GODDESS WHO LIKES MORTALS & PROTECTS THE TRIFORCE. HYLIA IS NOT. AND I REPEAT NOT. IN ANY WAY COMPARABLE TO IRL RELIGIONS. SHE IS NOT MANIPULATIVELY TWISTING THE STRINGS BEHIND LIFE. SHE IS A BLESSED BUMBLE BEE BUMBLING AROUND FREAKING!!! HELPING!!!!! SHE'S NOT TRYING TO KILL THEM. SHE DOESN'T SEND EVILS AT THE HEROS.

ALL SHE DID RE:SKSW WAS MAKE A PLAN WITH GIVING A LIL HERO BOY A SWORD AND HER SOUL IN A MORTAL TO STOP ONE (1) EVIL. IT'S NOT HER FAULT IT KEPT COMING BACK. AND IT'S NOT THE MORTAL'S FAULT EITHER. IT IS SOLELY THE FAULT OF THE ENEMIES LET'S SAY THE ONES WHO STAB THE GOOD GUYS BLAME THEM.

AT THE END SHE GOES BACK TO HER GODDESSEY 'PLACE BEYOND TIME' RE:FI AND CONTINUES TRYING TO HELP FROM THERE. SUCH AS IN BOTW, WHERE SHE GIVES WILD HEART CONTAINERS AND STAMINA VESSELS AFTER HE DIES TO HELP HIM GET HIS STRENGTH BACK. SHE TRIES TO REACH OUT TO ZELDA VIA A DREAM RE:HERDIARY AND IF THAT FAIL DOESN'T PROVE SHE WASN'T IN CONTROL OR DELIBERTY IGNORING ZELDA IDK WHAT WILL. GAH!!

AND BOTW AND SKSW WERE NEVER MONOTHEISTIC- SKSW MENTIONED THE OTHER GODDESSES INVOLVED WITH TRIFORCE, AND ARE WE JUST GONNA CONTINUE TO IGNORE ZELDA'S LITERAL EXPLANATION IN A MAIN MEMORY ABOUT THE GODDESS LANAYRU GIVING DECREES ABOUT HER MOUNTAIN?? THE OTHER GODS DO APPEAR IN BOTW AS WELL AND IT'S NOT SUBTLE. WILD'S ONE OF THE MOST EDUCATED ABOUT RELIGION BC HIS WORLD HAS IT ALL AND IF YOU THINK HE RESENTS HYLIA WHEN HE PRAYS TO HER CONSTANTLY AND TRADES FOR LIFE AND STRENGTH FJDBDJDBXHBDHDGDGZHDHHS!!!!!

HYLIA IS NOT SENDING EVIL THEIR WAY BUT SOLELY TRYING TO HELP FIGHT IT SHE ROCKETED HER SOUL DOWN TO THE MORTAL WORLD TO HELP- SHE WILLINGLY WENT THROUGH PUBERTY TO HELP THAT LIL HERO GUY SHE CHOSE BC SHE WHAT? WANTED TO KEEP MORTALS ALIVE??? OH HOW DARE

HYLIA IS NOT TRYING TO KILL THE HEROS THAT MAKE-ME-CRY-ONION-OF-AN-OPINION IS WRONG HOLY MOLY

AND WHERE DOES THE IDEA THAT HYLIA IS IN CONTROL OF THESE THINGS COME FROM? SHE IS NEVER PORTRAYED AS ALL POWERFUL OR ALL KNOWING- DID YOU MISS THE PART WHERE SHE NEEDED HELP FROM PRE-TEENS AND TEENAGERS

HYLIA IS NOT IN CONTROL AND SAYING SHE'S TRYING TO OFF THE LINKS OR HAS ILL INTENT TOWARDS THEM IS INCORRECT- THERE ARE OTHER GODS TOO YA KNOW!!! BAD ONES AS WELL THE LEGEND OF ZELDA HAS A POLYTHEISTIC RELIGION LOOK IT UP. HYLIA DIDN'T SEND THE MOON AFTER TIME SHE WASN'T TRYING TO KILL HIM THAT WAS THE BAD GOD THAT WAS MAJORA

THANK YOU FOR READING, THIS IS CALLED MY FRIENDS TOLD ME TO STOP HOLDING BACK FROM POSTING WHEN I DON'T FEEL WELL AND I HAD A LONG DAY TODAY AT THE DENTIST AND WORK AND DRIVING FOR FOUR HOURS AND GAAHHHHH

SO SEEING SOMEONE SAY HYLIA SENT THE MOON TO TRY AND KILL TIME MADE ME LOSE IT. I'M SORRY FOR SCREAMING AND I'M STILL POSTING THIS BUT IF IT'S TOO MEAN OR CROSSING THE LINE SOCIALLY LMK AND I'LL DELETE THIS

HOWEVER!!!!!!

I ALWAYS WANT TO HEAR OTHERS THOUGHTS AND STUFF SO I AM REQUESTING THAT ALL RESPONSES TO THIS POST IF YOU WANNA DEBATE BE IN ALL CAPS AND OVERLY-AGGRESSIVELY PHRASED. NO EXCEPTIONS!!!! (UNLESS YOU FEEL LIKE IT YOU DO YOU.)

>:(

#LINKEDUNIVERSE #LINKED UNIVERSE #LOZ #ZELDA #SKSW #<DONT COME AT ME ABOUT TAGS THOSE ARE ALL RELEVANT #HYLIA #<THAT ONE TOO #FHHXVZHFFNOBXJDJZXHFBD #I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY WITH GOOD THINGS #>:((((

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sabrinasopposite · 14 hours ago

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manchild; chapter one: star-crossed lovers.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 4.539

previous chapter: pilot.

chapter one: star-crossed-lovers.

Star-crossed lovers—two souls dancing out of sync with time, doomed not by lack of love but by the cruel spin of fate’s vinyl. They’re like old records: scratched, warped, yet still sacred. You place the needle down knowing full well the song won’t play clean. But you do it anyway, because the music—their music—moves you. It’s warm, crackling, alive. You close your eyes and sway with it, pretending the static is part of the rhythm. Pretending the skips don’t mean something deeper. You live inside the moment, hips brushing in the amber light, thinking maybe the scratches will smooth out if you just believe hard enough.

But they don’t. They grow—longer, louder, more jagged. And eventually, the music stutters into silence. That’s how it goes for star-crossed lovers. They know. They always know. But they dance anyway, pretending the needle isn’t worn down to its last groove. The end always comes, like the final chord of a love song you didn’t want to end.

Anakin didn’t believe in the cracks beneath their love—he was spinning in it, blind and golden. Padmé was his sunshine wrapped in honeyed tones, like the kind of light that streams through old blinds in a fresh new 60s film reel, flickering but warm. To him, love was a two-tone reel, black and white, simple as yes or no—until she walked in and turned it technicolor. Suddenly, love wasn’t monochrome. It was brass and velvet, vinyl and wildfire. It hissed and burned like analog warmth, like a love letter written on the back of a concert ticket.

He saw her for the first time in the high school hallway, and that was it. Game over. Like flipping a switch on a lava lamp—everything suddenly slower, dreamier, alive in that hazy amber glow. He didn’t want to look at anyone else again. His mind spun on one track: Padmé. She became the daylight bleeding through closed curtains, the echo of a slow jam playing in the back of his mind, endless, looping.

She was the melody. He was the listener. And together, they made a love too beautiful—and too broken—to last.

At first, it was only glances—fleeting, electric stares between the white swan and the greaser. Padmé was delicate, almost ethereal, like she had stepped out of a dream scored by Tchaikovsky. She moved with the grace of Swan Lake, the kind of girl who looked like Odette in the golden hour—petite, soft, wrapped in light. Everyone at school adored her. She wasn’t loud about it, never needed to be. Padmé had that quiet kind of magic—the kind that made people feel safe. She spoke gently, like a needle touching vinyl, and she listened—really listened—with those doe-brown eyes that made you forget what you were even trying to say.

And then there was Anakin—the greaser who wore his leather like armor. He had the look: slicked-back hair that tried to hide the curls fighting to break free, cigarette tucked behind his ear, boots always scuffed from chasing after something. He walked like he was on fire, like he couldn’t sit still even if he wanted to. And maybe he didn’t. He was all motion, all heat—until his eyes found Padmé. And then everything else went quiet.

The thing about Anakin is—he felt. He really felt. Not in halves, but in tidal waves. It was all or nothing, heart and soul wide open, and if you ever saw him look at Padmé, you’d understand. It was all right there in his eyes: a storm, a sonnet, a slow-burning song only she could hear.

And Padmé fell, slowly but surely, into the blue of his gaze. Fell like a needle dropping into a groove, like soft rain on still water.

Their love story played out like one of those perfectly structured Audrey Hepburn films—charming, wistful, full of little highs and soft heartbreaks, and a kind of ending that’s more bittersweet cigarette smoke than clean resolution. They had their moments—kisses stolen between bookshelves, whispered like secrets. Anakin ditching football practice just to sit in the back of her debate tournaments, grinning like a rebel with no cause but her. Sharing a strawberry milkshake at the diner on 5th, because Padmé swore strawberries tasted like summer.

But their favorite place, the one that belonged to just them, was the lake outside of town. A hidden corner of the world, quiet and still. Just rippling water, the buzz of cicadas, and two hearts tangled in something that felt like forever—even if it couldn’t be. That lake saw everything: laughter, silence, the kind of talks that pull the soul out through the mouth. It was a secret world, untouched by the noise of high school halls or rumors or expectations.

Their love was soft. Secret. Sacred. And for a time, it made Anakin feel whole—like he was more than the image he projected, more than the bad boy with the smoke and the shadows. With Padmé, he found the stillness in himself. The quiet hum beneath the chaos.

But then like destiny of star-crossed lovers are it fell into heartbreak.

It was sudden. Like a needle slipping off the groove mid-song—no warning, just silence. A hush where melody used to live. One morning, it all just… shifted. Anakin thought Padmé had simply decided. That she’d opened her eyes, exhaled, and said: There’s no more love here. No fight. No crescendo. Just a quiet ending, like turning off the radio in the middle of a favorite track.

In his mind, he was a song she didn’t want to hear anymore. Too loud. Too rough. Out of tune.

He imagined her brushing past their memories like old records in a dusty crate—pausing for a second, then moving on to something softer. Something easier.

But the truth lived in a different verse. Padmé felt trapped in a loop—like a track stuck replaying, never moving forward. She loved him. God, she did. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere along the way, she’d started changing him, pressing pause on the parts of him that burned too bright. He wasn’t the same Anakin anymore—not the wild spark in the leather jacket, not the firecracker with the soft soul behind sharp edges. He was quieter. Dimmed. She feared she had turned the volume down on his spirit, that their love had softened his roar into a whisper.

And that terrified her. Not because she didn’t love him. But because she did. So much that she questioned whether that love was hurting the very thing she had fallen for in the first place.

Padmé began to wonder if their love, as beautiful as it had been, was built on a dream too fragile to last outside the slow-motion world they had created. She was afraid she had made him forget who Anakin Skywalker was. And what scared her most wasn’t the silence, but the possibility that she had become it.

Love can feel like salvation—until it starts to feel like erasure.

It was a pain Anakin carried from spring into summer—quiet, heavy, and constant. Like a song stuck on repeat in the back of his head. The strawberries that once tasted like sunshine and kisses now crumbled on his tongue like dust. Bitterness where there used to be sweetness. It wasn’t summer without Padmé. It was heat without warmth. Days without light.

Now he found himself slouched in his beat-up ’68 Dodge Charger, the kind of car that rattled like a broken jukebox and smelled like gasoline and old leather. It was a piece of junk—but it was his junk. The one place that still felt like him. But even there, in that creaking cocoon of rust and memory, he wasn’t alone.

She sat in the passenger seat. A girl who screamed like a Cherry Bomb track—loud, reckless, all glitter and gasoline. Heels kicked up on the dashboard like she owned the whole damn universe, cigarettes tucked into the lace of her bra like secrets she didn’t care to hide. Her curly hair was a wild halo, half-tamed by wind, half-ruined by intention. She wore cherry-red lip gloss like war paint, smeared and daring, and she laughed too loud at nothing at all.

She was a storm in lipstick. A beautiful mess. But she wasn’t Padmé.

She didn’t listen with deer-soft eyes. She didn’t speak like violins. She didn’t know that Anakin used to skip football to watch a girl argue about foreign policy like it mattered more than the moon.

This girl was a distraction. A firework that burst too fast. And Anakin sat beside her, the vinyl seat hot against his skin, wondering how you could feel so empty with so much noise around you.

The engine rumbled beneath him, and for a second, he imagined driving until the map gave up.

But no matter how far he went, the ghost of strawberries and library kisses still followed him.

Y/N stared out the window, the night sky velvet-dark and peppered with stars. Fleetwood Mac played low on the car stereo, all golden harmonies and heartbreak—Dreams, probably. It gave the night a hazy, summer-glow kind of nostalgia. She turned her head back toward Anakin, voice cutting through the soft music with a sarcastic bite.

“How is this car even still in one piece? It’s a total piece of junk.”

Anakin shrugged, casual, leaning back into the cracked leather seat like he was in some James Dean dream.

“Hey, she may be old, but she’s got character.”

Y/N smirked. “Just like her moody owner,” she muttered under her breath, pulling a slightly crushed cigarette from the edge of her bra like it was nothing. It bent a little at the filter, but she didn’t care—if it lit, it worked. She slid it between her glossy lips, cherry red and defiant, and fished a lighter from her pocket. One flick. One inhale. Heaven in smoke form.

Anakin let out a chuckle, the kind that curled at the edges. “Moody? That’s a new one. And watch it, princess. Don’t make me kick you out.” His voice had that teasing edge, all low and amused, but his eyes flicked to her—briefly—fondly. He didn’t mind the smoking. Hell, half the burn marks on the seats were his.

Y/N raised a brow, the window down, the breeze catching her curls and tossing them like wild waves. She didn’t fix them. The mess was part of the vibe. The cigarette dangled from her lips as she replied, cool and sharp. “Don’t call me princess. I don’t like it.” She blew out a stream of smoke. “Skyguy.”

Anakin turned to her slowly, one eyebrow arched, lips twitching at the nickname. “Skyguy? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Y/N gave a lazy shrug, her lips curling around the cigarette with effortless defiance.

“If you get to mock me with princess, then I get to call you Skyguy.” She flipped the visor mirror down and angled it toward her face, examining herself with casual vanity. She still looked good—smudged eyeliner, windblown curls, a little cherry lip gloss that hadn’t faded even after the drag. Her fingers ran through her bangs in a practiced motion, not to fix them, just to feel something steady.

And for a moment—between the soft crackle of the Fleetwood Mac song on the radio, the sweet haze of smoke, the hum of summer air drifting through rolled-down windows, and the glow of the dash lights—the car filled with something more than sound.

A silence that was warm, electric. Not quite love, but something that could almost pretend to be. Just for the night.

Anakin rolled his eyes, but this time there was no bite in it—just a smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Fair enough, princess.” He shot her a sideways glance, but his eyes didn’t stop there. They found her reflection in the rearview mirror—angled just enough to catch her humming softly to the radio, hair wild, eyes unreadable.

She looked like a Fleetwood Mac vinyl left out in the sun—worn, beautiful, and golden around the edges. Maybe even a little bit of The Runaways in the way she lit her cigarette like it was rebellion.

She was a strange blend of contradictions—like if Michelle Phillips and Dolly Parton had somehow been written into a Stevie Nicks lyric. Stardust and cigarette ash.

But she wasn’t Brigitte Bardot—not like Padmé was. Padmé had been soft blush and delicate gold. She was sunrise on porcelain.

Y/N was a different kind of light— She was red. Unapologetic. Loud. Messy in all the ways that felt alive.

Anakin glanced over at her again—just for a moment. She was mouthing the lyrics now, eyes half-closed, lost in the music. Her voice barely audible over the radio, but the rhythm was there. The presence. Like she belonged to this night. To this car. To this version of him—the one that didn’t ache quite so hard when he stopped thinking.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was music. It was breath. It was everything unspoken between two people who didn’t need the words—Not yet.

Y/N flicked her cigarette out the window, the glowing tip vanishing into the night like a dying star. She turned her head slowly, eyes landing on Anakin, her heels still propped on the dash like she owned the car and the road ahead. “You know what you need to do about Padmé?”

Anakin’s brow rose, a flicker of suspicion lighting his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, knuckles pale under the neon dash glow. “What’s this? Advice from the heartbreak queen herself?” His voice curled with sarcasm, but there was something else behind it—genuine curiosity, like he wanted her to say something that made sense of the mess.

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a low chuckle. “You’re hilarious—really—but no. I’m serious. Maybe… make her jealous. Simple as that.” She turned to him fully now, her gaze lingering on the curve of his jaw, the shadow under his cheekbone.

Anakin cocked his head slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Make her jealous? And how exactly do you propose I do that?”

Y/N gave a nonchalant shrug, her lips curling into that soft grin she wore like armor. Chaos was her element—drama, her native tongue. Life made more sense to her in motion, in sparks and friction. “Easy. Get a girl. Kiss her in front of Padmé. Give her a taste of her own medicine. Do what she does to you.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed, jaw tensing as he mulled over the idea. “Get a girl, just like that? And kiss her to get a reaction? Don’t you think that’s a little… petty?”

Y/N’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Damn. You must really love her. I figured a guy like you wouldn’t think twice.”

Anakin exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead like it held all the answers he didn’t have. “I do love her. But I’m not gonna use someone else to get to her. That’s not fair to the girl, and honestly? That’s not who I am.”

Y/N nodded, quiet for once. Her brows pulled together slightly, almost like she respected it—but it frustrated her too.

“Damn, lover boy. Guess I’m too used to people who only move when there’s fire under their feet.” She tapped her cigarette-free fingers rhythmically against the car door. “Still, sometimes things need a little… turbulence. Some spice. Otherwise? Padmé’s never gonna flinch. She’s got you locked in place, and you just keep standing there.”

Anakin’s grip on the wheel tightened again, his voice lower now—quieter, but firmer. “I don’t need to burn down a house just to see if someone cares I was in it. If she doesn’t see me when I’m standing right in front of her… maybe she never did.”

Y/N didn’t have a comeback for that right away. She just stared out the window, wind in her hair, the stereo humming something sad and slow. And for a brief second, she wondered if maybe being the chaos wasn’t always the solution.

Sometimes, heartbreak doesn’t need more fire. Just a mirror.

But that didn’t matter to Y/N. Her head was full of noise—loudness, wildness, the kind that never quieted. She groaned, slouching forward a little, letting her cigarette-stained voice fill the space between them. “God, Skyguy.” She leaned closer, her gaze searching his profile, lit in sharp angles by the passing streetlights. “Do you even want Padmé?”

Anakin’s features softened, just barely. His eyes stayed locked on the road, but something in his voice cracked, low and honest. “Of course I want Padmé. She’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Y/N watched him for a second longer, then offered a soft, dangerous grin—the kind that always meant trouble. “Then make her jealous.” Her words came like a dare, like they were dipped in lipstick and gasoline.

Anakin turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her. His eyes flicked with both irritation and curiosity. “That’s your big idea. Wouldn’t that just make me look… desperate? Pathetic? Also I still think it is pretty petty.”

Y/N laughed—loud, unapologetic, full of smoke and summer heat. “Not when she sees you’ve moved on. Not when she thinks you did. Drives you insane, doesn’t it? Seeing her with Clovis?”She said his name like a curse, something cheap and plastic. “Maybe,” she added, voice slower now, more deliberate, “maybe she just wants to see if you still care.”

Anakin’s jaw tensed, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. His eyes narrowed at the highway ahead, like he could somehow outrun the ache. “You think she’s doing this with Clovis just to get a reaction out of me?”

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “I think love makes people do twisted things. Especially when they’re scared.”

There was silence again. Not comfortable this time—tense, stretched thin across the dashboard like fog on glass.

And maybe, just maybe, Anakin was starting to realize that love wasn’t always roses and movie endings. Sometimes, it was games and glances. Sometimes, it was war dressed up in nostalgia.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to hide her grin, but it still slipped out like lipstick smudging into a smile. “I’m making you an offer.”

Anakin raised a brow, eyes narrowing slightly with that trademark mix of suspicion and sarcasm. “An offer, huh? This should be interesting.”

Y/N placed her hand dramatically over her chest, mock sincerity coating her words like cherry lip gloss. “We fake date.” Simple. Chaotic. So very her. “I help you make Padmé jealous,” she added, then sighed like the drama exhausted her. “And… you help me get rid of my spring fling— okay, maybe ex.” Her tone turned annoyed, like the memory itself was a stain.

Anakin blinked, stunned. “Fake date? You’re serious?” He turned to look at her, confusion swirling with something like fascination. “And help you ditch your ex-fling? What kind of mess are you in?”

Y/N flipped her blowout hair with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t matter— okay, fine, I was trying to be in my ‘I’m trying to be normal’ phase, and Jett just… appeared.” Another dismissive shake. “Whatever. Point is, I’m the perfect decoy. You won’t hurt anyone. You’ll just make Padmé jealous and win her back. Boom.”

Anakin scoffed, his voice dipped in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this. So I fake date you, make Padmé jealous, and in return I get to help you ghost some spoiled prep boy?”

He tilted his head. “This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Correction,” Y/N said quickly, waving a finger. “You help me get rid of him. He’s a total rich kid freak. Weird as hell.”

Anakin shot her a look. “A rich kid? Seriously? You were hooking up with a rich kid?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like a slut, Skyguy.”

He smirked. “Well, princess, hard not to when you’re out here collecting side quests like it’s the ‘Summer of Love.’”

She groaned, but the grin on her face gave her away. “Does it matter now? No. So… you in or what?”

Anakin gave her a once-over, the kind that lasted just a little too long. “Fake dating you? It still sounds like a bad idea with great lighting.”

Y/N crossed her arms, giving him a mock-scandalized look. “Excuse me, I am very much girlfriend material.” She struck a pose, half-serious, half-satire. Even she cringed a little.

Anakin couldn’t help it—he laughed, raising an eyebrow. “Oh really? And what makes you so confident in that assessment?”

She waved a hand over herself like a Vanna White of chaos. “Hello? Does your fake girlfriend look this hot?” Then she saw her neighborhood up ahead and dropped the act. “Whatever, Skyguy. Think about it.”

Anakin side-eyed her. “Your ego is massive, you know that? You’re definitely not humble.”

Y/N gave him a glare, but it was playful. “You breathe ego.”

Anakin grinned. “At least I have some humility. You? You’re just looks and sass and wild energy.”

She scoffed. “Whatever. I’m not the one with rage issues.”

They were pulling onto her street now. That little cul-de-sac in suburban Arizona that always looked dipped in desert gold. Her house hadn’t changed—it was all warm browns and sunset oranges, cozy but missing that spark. Like a 60s postcard someone left in the sun too long.

Anakin gave her a sideways glance. “Well, at least I don’t think the world revolves around me.”

Y/N just chuckled. Words like that didn’t dent her—she was made of too much smoke and glitter.

“Why not?” she said, shrugging. “Makes life more fun.”

Anakin snorted. “Fun? More like a headache.” His eyes lingered on the house. “Is Bail not home?”

Bail Organa was more than a stepdad. He was the man who stepped in when no one else did, who loved Sharon Y/L/N like she hung the moon, and when she vanished, he stayed. He kept his promise to stay for Y/N. But some stories like that are sacred to Y/N, and that only to her.

Y/N followed Anakin’s gaze to the darkened house, then turned back to him, her voice dipped in teasing velvet. “Why? Wanna come inside?”

Anakin quirked a brow. “Tempting offer,” he smirked. “But I’ve got a feeling Bail would not approve of you inviting boys in past curfew.” He joked with a sense of tease.

Y/N scoffed and swung her legs down from the dash, still smirking as she opened the car door. “Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, I don’t hook up with boys who mope.”

Anakin smirks, unable to resist her playful jab. “Oh, so I’m a sad boy now, huh? And here I thought I had that classic brooding vibe going for me.” He glances out the window toward her, his voice dripping with sarcastic charm.

Y/N slams the car door, the sound echoing briefly in the quiet street, then leans against the window, her face lit by the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “I’m sorry to shatter your little delusion, Skyguy, but deep down you know I’m right,” she grins, tilting her head just slightly. “But hey—drama and jealousy? Kind of my favorite things.” The offer still hung between them, as thin and tempting as cigarette smoke.

Anakin raises a brow, skeptical but clearly tempted. “You really think this’ll work? The fake dating, the jealousy plan?”

Y/N pulls out her last cigarette of the night, lights it with a flick of her thumb, then exhales slowly, lazily. “Yeah, why not? It’s hot.” She lets the sarcasm hang for a second, then adds with a softer tone, “If she gets jealous… then maybe she’s not over you.”

Anakin leans back, her words digging under his skin like old vinyl static. “But what if it backfires? What if Padmé just… moves on? Like it’s nothing?”

Y/N shrugs, blowing a stream of smoke into the night. “Then at least you’ll know. And maybe it’s time you learn to let go anyway.” She offers him the cigarette between her fingers. No strings, just smoke and silence.

Anakin takes it, hesitates, then draws in a breath. The taste is familiar, bitter and grounding.

“It’s not easy letting go. Not when it’s been two years and suddenly she’s with someone like Clovis.”

Y/N watches him quietly, her expression unreadable, calm like still water. She knew all about letting go. She just didn’t wear it on her sleeve anymore. She pats the window with both palms, then pushes away from the car. “Think about it, Skyguy,” she says with a half-smile.

“And hey—if you’re gonna fake date someone, might as well be someone hot, right?”

Anakin smirks, while pulling a drag of the cigarette. “You mean you?”

Y/N glances around with a faux-confused face. “I don’t see anyone else here,” she tosses over her shoulder, a teasing wink. Then she softens, walking backward toward her porch.

“Anyway, thanks for the ride. Try showing up to some parties sometime instead of rotting in that smelly car… or your dark, tragic little room.”

Anakin rolls his eyes. “Hilarious, Princess. And for the record, my car doesn’t smell.”

Y/N calls out behind her. “Whatever!” She kicks off her heels mid-walk, barefoot now on the concrete path. Her hips swing like a girl who owns every inch of herself.

Anakin watches her, gaze lingering longer than it should. “Get a grip, Skywalker,” he mutters as he shifts into gear, driving off into the desert-dark road.

Y/N watches his taillights vanish, then lets out a quiet chuckle to herself. She never thought they’d even talk again—let alone laugh. They used to ignore each other in the school hallways like ghosts. But somehow, tonight, the silence between them had felt less like absence and more like… recognition.

Inside, the house was still and warm. She poured herself a glass of water, the kitchen dim except for a soft light over the sink. Her eyes drifted to the picture hanging in the hallway: Sharon.

Her mother.

The photo always got her—same curls, same eyes, same fire-in-the-smile. Sharon looked radiant, caught in a moment beside Bail, laughing, alive. Five years gone now. Y/N was thirteen when it happened. And truthfully, a piece of her never came back after that day.

Letting go… She was good at it. At least, that’s what she told herself.

But deep down, it wasn’t about letting go. It was about carrying ghosts so close to your heart they started to feel like home.

It was her own star-crossed kind of grief—Y/N and her mother. Forever tangled in the same storm.

💋hi everyone! WOW thank u for the incredible feedback for the pilot! because of that, here is the first real chapter. a little bit of an inside what type of role padmé will play in anakins life. and whoop? a bit of y/n story time?

💋taglist; @blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl

💋playlist: dreams - fleetwood mac, moon river - audrey hepburn and don't smile - sabrina carpenter

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kys02 · 2 days ago

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SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 5 OF TADC.

Hey everyone! It took me a bit of time to process what happened and piece together a possible timeline of events.

In this post, I’m mostly talking about Jax, but I’ll touch on other characters too, because everyone is always connected.

We’re breaking down episode 5 - and how it even got to this point.

What do we know?

From the flashback and Ragatha’s words, it’s clear: Jax used to have a friend. Thanks to Gooseworx, we know his name - Ribbit.

Most likely, Jax, Ribbit, and Ragatha were close. And it seems like Jax trusted Ribbit, until he abstracted.

After that, everything changes.

Jax’s emotional reaction: He starts acting like he doesn’t care.

Classic avoidant attachment:

“If I trust someone, they’ll disappear - and I’ll be hurt again.”

From this comes a mindset: better to be a jerk than to be vulnerable. He shuts down, distances himself, becomes snarky and mocking - building a persona opposite of the Raghata “good guy.”

That’s when his bond with Ragatha starts to fall apart too. Not an open conflict, but a buildup of resentment and guilt.

Ragatha chooses the “be nice” path - helping, caring, saving. This has become her way of coping with grief. Taking care of everyone to prevent this from happening again. Jax goes the opposite way - he’s biting, aggressive, and openly indifferent.

Enter Pomni

And this is where it gets interesting.

If Jax believes “don’t get attached or you’ll suffer,” why does he suddenly get close to Pomni?

Because he can’t stand being completely alone. He denies his need for connection, but it’s still alive. (NOT in a romantic way!)

And here’s Pomni. New. Vulnerable. Untangled from their old trauma. It’s easier with her. She doesn’t know Ragatha, or the rest of the circus.

He gravitates toward her - and instantly hates himself for it. As soon as Jax feels himself opening up, he runs to a joke.

But how does Ragata cope with this?

He starts “playing” the friend around Pomni in front of Ragatha.

Not because he wants to be nice. But because there’s an unresolved issue.

He still hasn’t forgiven Ragatha for what happened with Ribbit. Maybe he blames her. Maybe himself.

Maybe both. But the pain is still there.

Pomni becomes the battlefield. Jax says “I’m her friend” - not for Pomni, but for Ragatha.

He wants to show: “My way is better. I’m honest, not pretending to be nice. And people still get close to me.” Unlike Ragatha, who he sees as fake.

And here’s the kicker: Pomni was originally going to be a frog - just like Ribbit.

She becomes a symbolic replacement.

Whether consciously or not — Jax repeats the same path.

Only this time, he wants to win. He wants it to work out. He wants Ragatha to see: look, I can do it, without your ‘niceness’.

But he’s still afraid. So he keeps playing the game. This isn’t a fight for friendship - it’s a fight for moral superiority.

He’s competing with Ragatha. Not because she’s an enemy. But because they’re two sides of the same coin.

She hides anger behind a smile. He hides care behind sarcasm.

And when he says in front of her: “Pomni and I are friends!” - he wants to shatter her perfect image. Make her feel what it’s like to be left out.

The way he once felt with Ribbit. It’s a toxic dynamic. And Pomni - isn’t the goal, she’s the tool.

She ends up between two “parents” pulling her in opposite directions.

And it’s awful. But she’s not to blame.

This is a buried, unresolved conflict between Jax and Ragatha.

Why don’t they just talk?

Because to talk - you have to be vulnerable. And that’s what Jax is afraid of.

He’d have to admit: “I care.”

And that means tearing off the mask. Admitting weakness. He’s not ready. So instead of a conversation - we get theater. And in between - Pomni, who never asked to be part of this.

That’s about it!

If you have your own thoughts on this, I’d love to hear them! I’ll be breaking down a bunch of smaller (and not-so-small) moments from this episode later. But this felt like the most important one for now.

Thanks for reading! 💜

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc theory #tadc jax #gooseworx #jax the rabbit #tadc ep 5 #tadc episode 5 #jax

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omniphilic · 2 days ago

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Oh my god I am so interested in milf readers’ dynamic with amber after she finds out abt the affair . If you’re taking requests i would love to see this, esp if reader has a child w Mark . Lord the teaa

Y’all are so locked in to MILF reader ruining her relationship with Amber so bad it makes me laugh 😭😭

She forgot something in the kitchen. Must’ve been about fifteen seconds since she reached the end of the hall before she remembered and doubled back.

But fifteen seconds? Mark can do a lot in that kind of time.

In fifteen seconds he’s slotted himself behind you at the counter, hands on your hips and groin pressed to you as he whispers something in your ear he certainly doesn’t need to be all up on you to say. You’re not stopping him either, coming to greet the hand on his waist with a palm just as eager. She can’t believe her eyes.

Truly gut wrenching, really, seeing Mark so comfortable with you in that moment. Light conversation dots the air that feels more natural than any she’s ever had with Mark, to the point where she almost feels like she’s intruding.

It’s honestly terrible. There’s nothing you can do or say because by the time you turn around she’s already gone. She isn’t going to argue with Mark about anything—his betrayal doesn’t hurt a fraction as bad as yours does, and there would probably be a screaming match shortly after she takes off. It’s mostly her tearing you a new asshole. You’re a home wrecking slut and Amber really thinks you should know that.

Mark is a piece of shit but that’s a donkey for another day, I feel like she is more okay with letting him go but would probably dress him down, maybe. Not the night she finds you two, but some time after she’s had time to gather her thoughts.

Mark knows a war’s coming cause Amber doesn’t talk to him for three days straight.

It’s not an argument, not really. I don't know if anyone gets a dressing down worse than you—I'm sure she'd have a very tear-eyed conversation with Mark lambasting him, but the betrayal between the two of you is more real and more tangible than anything.

Amber would go low to no contact with reader if her and Mark got openly romantically involved. It’s good Amber's already gone upstate and met her new boyfriend, who she’d likely confide in about the whole situation with Mark.

I think the relationship is incredibly dividing. Like Amber lowkey gets ostracized because William would see where she’s coming from but still wanna shoot the shit with Mark; Eve would be more likely to hold Mark accountable but probably still talk to him here and there. She’d be open to reconciliation MAYBE but only because she expects your little ‘fling’ to crash and burn sooner rather than later.

It doesn’t help that you are kind of fucking awesome—that makes the whole thing way more complicated, but still, everyone agrees it was super fucked up.

But you two seem so happy together, too. Amber has you and Mark blocked on every social platform known to man because she cannot stand seeing you two kissing over anniversary cakes, or about your breakfast in Paris that ended with dinner in Rome. She wouldn't care about what you guys were doing, but if you two ended up having a kid together I don't think she'd be in contact with it.

Amber is just gone from you. I don't think you'd be the type to raise her entirely emotionally dependent on you, and once the situation comes to this point it's just kind of... over?

I can't see Amber really wanting to go see her sibling, unless the sibling has grown sentient enough to know what Mark and Reader did to Amber—to which the little one is going to revile you or... get over it, because without you two it's not like they'd be alive! So...

It's a whole thing, I think.

#mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible x you #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson #invincible imagine #invincible #☆ mommy lover mark

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froggiewrites · 12 hours ago

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Ties That Bind (3)

Pairing: Zoro x Reader

SFW

Summary: You have spent your entire life preparing to meet your soulmate. Even with the words inked on your skin, you could never have imagined how badly your other half would hurt you, nor how much you'd want him anyway. Content: GN!Reader, Angst, Soulmate AU, Imprisonment, Medieval AU, Yearning, Unwanted Soulmates, Eventual Happy Ending, Starvation, Isolation Word Count: 3k

You don’t sleep that night. You expected losing the weight of your secret would allow you to sleep peacefully for once, without dreams of what could be or what has been. And you suppose it was almost true: you don’t have those dreams. Instead you stare at the ceiling, the shadows beginning to twist before your eyes, turning to something sinister. The faces of those you’ve killed, or worse, his face.

Haunting your sleep and terrorizing your waking hours wasn’t enough. Now he is twisted into every thought, every action, every fiber of your being.

When you try to close your eyes, the image only grows more clear: the betrayal on his face, the clear hurt, the exact moment he decided you were cruel, unlovable. Mistook your mercy for something sinister. The exact moment he saw rejection and decided to reject you in turn.

You had no right to be hurt by that. He had no right to be hurt in the first place, considering who he is and what he’s done. But knowing that doesn’t fill the gaping hole in your chest.

You wonder if he would have done the same, if he were in your position. If he would have chosen to suffer in silence instead of sharing the burden. You like to imagine he would, that you’re both people who would choose sacrifice if it meant protecting someone you might have one day loved, even if you never got the chance. But you have to imagine, because you don’t know him. You’ll never get the chance to know him. You can imagine him kind or cruel or anything in between in your head but it will never change the reality that your shared burden does not make him any less of a stranger to you.

So why are you grieving what could have been? Perhaps this weight in your chest is the love you were meant to have, trapped and rotting in your ribcage. Your mother once told you she never had to worry about you, because your destined love was also a promise from the universe that you would live to see it. She never thought your destiny could be compressed, a lifetime of love and loss shoved into only a few short months, or less, depending on when your execution is scheduled. You’re so full you feel like you could burst, tenderness and yearning and pain intermixing and pressing against your skin, begging to be let out.

Instead of allowing the feelings to overwhelm you, to let yourself lose what little dignity and sanity you have left, you simply let go of them. Of everything you have ever felt or ever will. You breathe in the stale air, and breathe out every smile you were destined to give, every tear you would have shed, every bit of heat that would have boiled your blood. You do this until you are nothing more than a shell, no more alive than the stone beneath you.

You do not know how much time passes. You would almost call it peaceful, but that implies a serenity to this that simply isn’t there. More accurately, it is easier. Easier than letting yourself feel it, easier than grappling with it. It is some chunk of time, be it minutes or hours, that you do not have to spend thinking about your own impending doom.

You only come back to yourself again once you hear the soft sound of footsteps at the end of the hall: one of your regular guards, here to ensure you didn’t die in the middle of the night. He never speaks to you, simply taps the bars to get your attention, but every single morning he gives you a soft, pitying smile. It’s one of the only things you’re able to count on here, the comfort of routine.

Your shoulders have relaxed, your breathing slowing. The next day has come, and nothing has changed. The grief has left you, at least for now, leaving exhaustion in its place. At least you know how to handle this, something that has plagued you your entire life.

You think you get an hour of sleep, maybe two. Not enough to feel rested, but enough that your vision begins to clear, that the shadows on the wall have turned back to just shadows instead of haunted specters.

You allow yourself to keep your eyes closed, to keep enjoying the feeling next to peace that retreating gives you. The thoughts aren’t as quiet this time, a traitorous part of your brain wondering about and picturing the world outside. How is your homeland now? Are you being hailed as a hero who sacrificed themselves for the cause, or a failure who should have fought to the end?

You imagine the looks on your parents’ faces once they learn of your fate. Anyone else would allow the grief to consume them, collapse in on themselves knowing their child would never be returned to them. But your parents have known this was coming for a long time: while the form may be a surprise, your death was destined from birth. They knew you would die young.

You wonder if they’re preparing your grave. As horrible as you have been treated in life, you imagine your body will be returned someday in some exchange of corpses for burial. They don’t happen often, but a general’s death isn’t exactly common. As brutal as the battlefield is, the nobility love to pretend war is a gentleman’s game, and a gentleman would return a body to a grieving family. No need to speak of how the body came into their possession.

Are your friends toasting in your memory? Are the young nobles who sought your hand mourning the loss of their potential spouse? Or are they already beginning to forget you, finding a new young hero to pine after?

Somehow, you don’t mind being forgotten. It sounds peaceful, almost, to simply live your life and be done with it. And sure, you’ll miss your friends’ smiles, the warmth of a hug from your father and of your mother’s hand on your cheek, but you enjoyed it the best you could. There’s nothing wrong with finally resting, both in body and spirit. You don’t want to haunt anyone.

The peace doesn’t last long. The Commander refuses to leave you alone for a single day, now that he knows. He’s back the moment the sun rises (or so you assume), waking you up with heavy steps and heavier breathing, like he sprinted down here the moment he got the chance.

He stops and starts a few times, cutting off his words at the first syllable, ensuring they never actually get to leave his mouth. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen a man more disheveled, especially not one of his station. It would almost be funny to see, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“This is bullshit,” he finally seethes, like you’ve done something to him. Like he’s the trapped animal here.

“Oh?” You murmur sleepily, brushing your hair out of your face. You sit up, and you try not to notice the way his eyes follow the movement, drinking you in. The anger flaring in them doesn’t subside, competing with a strange hunger. You wonder if this is how he looks at an enemy or a lover. Perhaps to him there isn’t much of a difference.

“I never wanted you,” he spits, dripping with venom. “I never asked for this.”

As if you did? Begged the universe to be graced with his presence, if only for a few short moments? But god, it has to be someone’s fault, doesn’t it always?

A few months ago, before all of this, you would have screamed and cried, begging him not to say that. Not to twist the knife. Not to deny destiny, to deny you. Not to spit in the face of the life you may have had together, no matter how rocky the start was destined to be. But now, broken, beaten, defeated, you can only say one thing. “I know.”

He pauses a moment, confusion washing over him. He was looking for a fight, of course. It seems to be the only thing he knows how to do. “You…know?”

“I always knew. You marked me with it from the day I was born, Commander. I always knew there was never a happy ending waiting for me. You made sure of that.”

He has the gall to look guilty. He tries to push past it, embrace his rage, but it’s written all over his face. He wanted a quick jab, a provocation, not a true wound. But with all the power he has over you, he still can’t choose how you feel. You’re surprised by the contemplative silence that follows, before he quietly asks, “What…were your words?”

You sigh. He doesn’t even remember saying them. Of course not. How many lives has he threatened to end? You were just one of many. You can go back to that, if he only accepts your mercy and moves on. “It doesn’t matter.”

It does matter, of course it does, but saying them aloud will reopen a wound you’ve been trying to close your entire life. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve spoken them, always in hushed tones to horrified reactions. You try to not look down when you’re changing out of fear of glimpsing them. He can’t just pry them from your mouth, rip you apart again.

He huffs in frustration again, baring his teeth. “If it doesn’t matter then why won’t you say them?”

You finally snap. “Because hearing them once was hard enough! You’ve done enough to me, so just leave me the hell alone! What else could you possibly want from me?”

“What I’ve done? What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You stayed silent for weeks, just to keep this from me!”

You bark out a laugh. “Oh, you blame me for not wanting to talk to the man who fucking stabbed me?”

He flinches again. He doesn’t seem used to not having solid ground to stand on, and he’s floundering.

“You should let me rot in peace, Commander. It’d be better for both of us.” You let yourself fall back into your small reeking cot, turning away from him. It’s a few minutes before you hear the door slamming down the hall.

What a nightmare of a man.

A few hours pass, lonely and long, as you’ve quickly become accustomed to. You count the number of stones that make up the cobblestone floor of your cell (sixty-five, not including those that go past the bars and into the hallway, which you cannot reasonably include as yours), try to imagine what kind of day it is outside (sunny but deceptively cold, with a chilly breeze that sends a shiver down your spine), and play tic tac toe with yourself, tracing letters in the air as you try to see which of your hands wins more (unsurprisingly, they tie).

Your cell is left unattended for an unusually long time: before you were under near constant guard, with soldiers changing out about every four hours or so. Maybe they’ve decided you aren’t worth taking up as much manpower, or maybe they aren’t as worried about you dying in your sleep instead of in front of an audience, because you don’t see anyone after your usual man leaves sometime in the morning. He actually peeks into your cell before he leaves, brown eyes shining with pity as he gazes at you. He doesn’t say anything, as usual, but he lingers for a moment before sighing and slowly making his way down the hall.

You aren’t brought breakfast, but that isn’t unusual. On your best days you get two meals, on some you get none. And considering how badly you’ve pissed off the Commander, you imagine you can’t expect a meal for a while. Maybe you’ll get one today, just to make sure you don’t drop dead before he can come back to scream at you again. Or maybe he’ll keep them away for just long enough that you start to fear they’re never coming back, until you’re weak enough that you’ll say whatever it is he wants you to. He clearly wants something from you, whether it be military secrets or payment for your shared unfortunate fate. If he can’t fight fate, he can at least make you suffer in its place.

You’re delighted when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. It must be your guard coming with a meal, a routine you’ve become used to despite how infrequent it’s becoming. You can’t hide your displeasure when instead of the sweet brunette man you’ve to expect, you find yourself face to face with the Commander instead.

His anger seems to have subsided for the moment, leaving confusion in its place. It’s almost unsettling, seeing such a confident man looking so lost. He places it in front of you with the same caution someone might use while feeding a starving tiger. He snatches his hands back through the bars before you can even begin to reach for it.

“I’m not going to bite you, Commander.” You scoop up the bowl immediately, stuffing a large steaming spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth. It’s bland, but on an empty stomach it tastes like heaven.

He grunts, before quietly saying, “I still can’t remember.” He sounds angry. Not quite with you, but not quite with himself either. With the circumstances, maybe.

You sigh. “Of course you don’t. It didn’t matter to you. It was just talk.” It wasn’t just talk, you know. He wanted you dead, and was disappointed he couldn’t make it happen. But that will haunt him for the rest of his life, and you’d much rather rest peacefully once you’re gone.

He stares at you, face unreadable. “Did they hurt you?”

You chuckle, despite yourself. The lie comes easily. “Not more than the sword.”

He huffs. “You aren’t even taking this seriously.”

“I’ve just accepted it, Commander. I suggest you do the same.”

“Maybe I would have already, if you hadn’t taken the choice away from me.” Ah, the anger’s directed toward you again.

“You want to talk about choices, Commander? About freedom?” Your hands wrap around the bars separating you. “I don’t think that’s a debate you want to start. You don’t strike me as a man who likes to lose.” You can’t help the cruel smile that starts to make its way across your lips, the satisfaction you feel at the rage beginning to flicker out of his eyes. You’ve never liked to lose either.

He clenches his jaw, his hands reaching just above yours, his thick fingers wrapping around the metal. You can almost feel his warmth through the centimeters separating you. You’re so close, it would only take the smallest movement to bridge the gap between you. “That wasn’t personal. This has nothing to do with our circumstances.”

“It has everything to do with it, Commander. What did you expect me to do? Run out of my cell and into your arms? Beg you to save me from the prison you put me in?”

“I expected you to try!”

“Why should I try with a man who hates me? Who wants me dead?”

“Hates you? We didn’t know each other!” He clenches against the bars so tightly you swear you can hear them creak. He leans forward, close enough you can feel his breath upon your face. Close enough you could kiss him if you wanted to. You don’t, you tell yourself, as a traitorous part of you memorizes the shape of his lips to dream of later.

“Do you think that matters? Do you think you can look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t mean it? That if I had bled out on that battlefield that you’d regret it?” You grip the bars tighter to prevent yourself from grabbing his hands and pulling him as close as you can.

He’s silent. His stare is so intense it threatens to burn a hole through you, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. When he looks at you, everything else seems to fall away for a moment, your blood rushing in your ears as the world falls quiet, as though it too is holding its breath, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“I would have remembered you,” he finally whispers. He says it with something almost bordering tenderness, and you have to bite your cheek to stop tears from threatening to spill over your lashes.

“That’s not what I asked,” you murmur, unable to keep the bite in your voice.

“I know,” he admits, “But that's all I can offer.” There’s something resembling regret in his tone.

“That doesn’t make it enough.” You wilt, head leaning forward unconsciously. It’s only when you make contact that you realize you’ve pressed your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

“I know,” he says again, lashes brushing against yours as he blinks. “But I offer it all the same.”

It was easier when he was cruel. You know that he will be again, that this moment will pass and you two will spend another day screaming at each other, exchanging verbal blows that neither of you know if you mean. But in this moment he is soft, eyes warm as they stare into yours, and you can’t bring yourself to bring back up your defenses.

He doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves. Neither do you. Anything else would bring you back into conflict, and neither one of you wants to be the one to shatter the peace. Two warriors choosing, for once, to stay their blades.

You sit for a few minutes, cheeks pressed against the cool bars, and you could swear that when you close your eyes you still feel him just an inch away, close enough to touch once again.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @eggrollforyou @hank88999 @lala27715 @kyllium @nerium21 @praline357 @fangeekkk @loserclub22 @starchild-unnamed @bethleeham @whitelaxe @tiredpoetrybitch @fangirlbitch02 @angrybuttooshorttofightyou

#zoro x reader #one piece x reader #one piece #zoro x y/n #zoro x you #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #x reader #op #one piece angst

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artytaeh · 19 hours ago

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Sometimes I wonder how different Theo would be if it was his father who died when he was young, not his mother

☆ WHAT IF PHOENA WAS THE ONE WHO LIVED? ㄔ ִ ⭒

FOR STARTERS, THEODORE WOULDN'T BE the perfect stereotype of an avoidant attachment.

i believe he'd be happier too, perhaps not as ambitions and hardworking as he is. i headcanon theodore to stress tf out during exam season, given that the highest scores mean no problems at home. on the other hand, theo would be a little more confident too, since his intelligence and ease on the academic skill is overshadowed by the 'bare minimum' that a nott should display. being raised by phoena would bring theo to settle for medium-good grades, less anxiety and probably, theo would have landed on ravenclaw like his mother, since the pressure of being in slytherin wouldn't be there — i'm working on this topic on the childhood series i'm preparing for him.

the chances of theodore smoking would have decreased, too. at most, he'd smoke very, very discreetly — and much less than he does in 'canon'. phoena herself smoked those fancy cigarettes before putting an end to it, for the sake of being a good influence in theodore's life.

if phoena was alive and christian was dead, the family business would have passed to another of-age wizard from the direct bloodline, which would have made theo and phoena less rich, but still live very comfortably in london.

phoena would have totally taken the chance of travelling with theodore during school break, though. his italian roots wouldn't be erased with christian; phoena and theo would spend a month in italy, then another couple of weeks on a place of her choice. winter break is meant to be surrounded by family, although phoena would never impose on theo to participate on pureblood gatherings; some parties here and there to keep her company, but that's all.

i also think that the nott manor would've been the group's second house. in the original universe, draco opens his manor for all of his friends to spend the week, sometimes blaise too, depending on his mom's mood. but with phoena alive, she would have a blast seeing her teddy be just a boy with his best friends.

totally would bring them treats here and there. wouldn't let them throw parties, though, phoena treasures her peace and quiet to read. the friend that phoena would like the most would be mattheo and blaise.

mattheo, because she can see how much the two boys genuinely adore each other. in her eyes, friendship is a very precious thing, and she would know that they're each other's ride or die. blaise would be her favorite too, because she thinks that blaise is a genuinely good influence for her theo.

draco isn't a bad friend per se, but phoena was never fond of the way that narcissa pampered him too much. about lorenzo, well, phoena steals moments with him every so often — noticing how much of a motherly influence enzo needs, phoena sympathizes with him, and discreetly steps in to fulfill his starved inner child. even so, phoena knows that lorenzo is a little rotten to the core, hence why she prefers blaise and mattheo.

READING HABITS WOULD REMAIN THE SAME with phoena around, though. theodore and her would spend quality time like that; in comfortable silence in the growing collection that fills the manor's library, each one reading their own books. sometimes, phoena would encourage theo to rest his head on her shoulder, so that she can read and caress his hair at the same time.

i also headcanon that whenever they're away, because of hogwarts, she and theodore would exchange books. theo reads one, phoena reads another; then, they trade books, and exchange extra letters that are all about opinions, theories and criticism of the book they're currently reading.

it'd be even harder for theodore to date someone, though. it's not about his avoidance anymore; rather, theodore would choose very well the right girl to introduce to his mother. theo is terrified of his mother assuming him to be a playboy — not in the case of phoena being angry, but disappointed.

RELATED TO DEATH EATERS, phoena would have the urge to flee from england the moment that voldemort rises from the dead. even though christian is dead, no longer around to enforce his ideas onto theodore, he's still a nott; phoena knows that if she lingers around, it wouldn't take long for their family members to coerce theo onto taking the dark mark.

despite the danger, phoena would open her door to any friend of theodore's who struggles with family related things, especially dark mark related. if theodore went to school on that last catastrophic year, she'd ask blaise to keep an eye on her son — once again, as the wisest of the five.

heart in her hands, literally.

the chances of theodore getting the dark mark no longer are high due to being forced onto it, only if theo sees it as a trade to keep his mother away from the conflict or to not leave mattheo and draco completely helpless.

on PHOENA'S SIDE, i believe that her depression would have worsened during that first year without christian.

theodore's existence, however, is what pulls phoena out of the bottom of the well, slowly teaching her to be the cheerful self she once was in childhood, before christian consumed her heart painfully. the grief would remain, and she would have been haunted by happier what-ifs that would have never happened, even if christian rose from the dead.

phoena would be nostalgic, but happier.

certainly would spend the solitude of theodore's academic years reading, visiting a few cities here and there, but her introverted nature would only allow phoena a few acquaintances. at the same time, she'd become closer to her sister, possibly being 'adopted' by narcissa in the pureblood socialite and gatherings. the closest thing she'd have to a friend would be blaise's mother, ariadne zabini.

#╰୧ 🐚 talking with arty's askbox! ︶#phoena nott #theodore nott #alternative universe #hp fandom #slytherin boys #theodore nott childhood #theo nott

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imagine-darksiders · 3 days ago

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*eats a lollipop like you'd smoke a blunt*

Yooo, how would the makers react if through some hoodoo magic y/n got turned into a maker for day? Would they realize she's actually an adult woman?

Assuming they didn't know her to begin with.

Eideard: He's the first to realise you're not a maker because your soul is too young and too similar to that of a human's. But regardless, he would immediately try to bring you into the fold. You seem so lost, and confused, and he's nothing if not a soft-touch.

Karn: Would try his best to impress you. You're new, you don't know him or his reputation, so you're very susceptible to the receiving end of his clinginess. He just wants you to want to be his friend. He gets very sad when you turn back into a human and seemingly 'disappear' until he finds you and realises you're still alive. He's ecstatic. Now he can carry you on his shoulder while he goes on adventures. Oh this is much easier. A pocket-sized friend!

Thane: Suspicious, he hasn't seen you around town before. Hasn't even heard of you. Which village did you say you hail from? You look weak. Can barely swing a hammer... Maybe he can take you under his wing, tutor you a little until you find your place in Tri-Stone. Stonefather knows they could use some more warriors, what with Corruption spreading from the East.

Muria: Like Eideard, knows you're a human as soon as her magics pick up on your soul. She can also sense the residual effect of a powerful, demonic spell. She assures you not to worry, that the spell will wear off soon, and that you're welcome to seek refuge in Tri-Stone until it does, and even after, if you'd like.

Alya: Tries to set you up with her brother. Finally, there's a maker around here who isn't his sister, his parental figures, or Karn. She's clueless as to your nature, and barely registers that you seem utterly terrified of her when she first meets you.

Valus: Wants to hide himself deep in the Maker's forge and not come out until the attractive new maker has gone. He's painfully shy at the best of times, but you're manage to catch his eye, and it's like a crush at first sight. He makes you trinkets and gifts and just leaves them around the village for you to find, but you have no idea who they're from. He starts to suspect that there's more to you than meets the eye when your behaviour doesn't align with a typical maker's. He likes how strange you are, how different. His crush doesn't go away when you turn back into a human. If anything, it only gets worse.

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Makers

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freeluigihesbae · 3 days ago

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𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓴𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓹𝓽. 1

(2,396 words)

summary: You have a fear of water because a near-death experience you had as a child. Years after coming to terms with it, you let it out in front of people you thought you could trust. But they betray it, and now a trip to the beach is unfurling familiar horrors you never expected to feel again.

𝗍𝗐: 𝗒𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖺, 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇!

You looked in the mirror staring back at you on the wall.

This wasn’t what you wanted.

The beach terrified you. Partly because you were four when you first drowned and just barely made it out alive. It was the first memory you ever had of being a young kid.

Ever since then, you had out-right refused to learn how to swim. Parents even took you to a private swimming center where it would one-on-one without any judgement and a significantly shallower water. They thought it would be helpful for you to ease into it.

But no.

And if you thought it was just the memory of being four and almost dying, well, that wasn’t the entire story.

There were other circumstances which you didn’t really know whether you should be the one to blame or the people that made you question that.

Because you had kept this near-death experience a complete secret. Complete secret. And it wasn’t until your second year of uni that you felt comfortable enough around your friends to open up.

And you did it because they returned your smiles and texted you on their own volition. If you weren’t on campus they’d reach out and ask why. Movie night. Mall trips. Prank calls. Skipping classes. Crushing on professors regardless of gender and age. You did everything teenagers did. You were young, free, happy.

What a grave, ridiculous, naïve mitake.

“Alright so we all need to tell a secret. Basically, this is the confession booth but technically speaking, you could whip your dick out and it wouldn’t matter.” Your friend, Illiana is half-drunk but insisting upon everyone spilling their precious cargo for others and you figured, why not?

“Dude, that’s blasphemous.” An amused voice snorts beside you. Christian, ironically agnostic, but still evermore witty.

“That’s from a very subjective and colloquial perspective guy-named-after-a-religion.” Illiana shoots back and you let out a giggle along with everyone else watching the exchange.

“Is your only form of humor making phrases with hypothetical dashes in between?” Christian takes down another shot before Illiana rolls her eyes.

“Shut the fuck up.” She shakes her before talking. “Alright, here are the rules. Instead of drinking, because we have a long way home, if you don’t answer a question then you have to dunk your head in the water.” Your muscles at her proposition, but you didn’t really have any damning confessions. Didn’t necessarily have a crush either-

“Sadistic much?” A warm but amused voice speaks a few people away from you. Fuck, definitely rethinking that last thought because Mangione is fine.

Oops, he’s got a name. You mean, Luigi Mangione. The guy that you believe you’re totally lucky to have gotten to know and luckily, you can call your best friend.

“Hell yeah.” Before you can stop yourself, you’re grinning like an idiot, nearly half your body turned in his direction. He does the same holding out a hand to give a high five which you return.

Illiana gives you two suspicious glances from beside you. The silence is a bit awkward before you two separate and you realize that Illiana is looking straight at you.

Her eyes are squinted and her head is tilted a bit. The others whispering their own non-sense but she swallows and you’re not quite sure what to make of it.

Jealousy?

“Okay.” Illiana fixes her hair and you set your position on the floor, taking a glass of water down before you clear your throat. “Let’s begin.” You watch her from the side, waiting to see who she picks first.

“Ezekiel!” Illiana points her fingers and the dude practically moans. He’s close to blacking out and you figure Illiana picks on him first because he’s more vulnerable to spilling shit out that he wouldn’t want to, or at least would regret after his guaranteed hangover.

“Fuck man.” He rubs his eyes before propping himself up on his elbows. “W-What am I supposed to do dude?” He yawns before Illiana is quick to cut him off.

“Dumbass. You’re supposed to answer any question I ask. So—” Illiana clears her throat before leaning in. “What’s your dark secret you’re hiding from us?” Small cheers erupt from the side as you raise an eyebrow, intrigued to see what he says.

Ezekiel level Illiana with a is-this-all-you’ve-got stare before he rolls his eyes and thinks.

“Uh—” You have to hold a laugh at how cursory and uncaring his movements are.

“I don’t know.” He dips his head to the side before shooting it back up. Suddenly you see a glint in his eye.

“I had a threesome with Professor Cuddy and Marvin.”

Half-way through your drink, you choke. Alex, another good friend of yours, spits his drink out into Ezekiel’s face. Illiana’s jaw goes lax and Luigi grabs his hair before joining three others in yelling.

“WHAT?!” Everyone is going through a million different emotions but Ezekiel, the ever-loving little shit sits there smug.

“Dude they had the tightest cun—” “OH MY GOD!” Luigi stands up, covering his face before pacing the room and everyone breaks into laughter. Illiana looks to the side before giving you a what the fuck glance and you curl your lips, shaking your head before giggling quietly.

“I gave ‘em both a creampi—” “SHUT UP WE DON’T—” It’s Christian this time, holding out both of his hands, palms facing Ezekiel before he’s cackling like an idiot, and you realize by the end of this, your stomach might hurt.

“W-We should’ve kept you for last dude!” You slap your thigh, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. You still can’t believe that he slept with his physiology and neuroscience professor, respectively.

“We—I—I—I—” Luigi doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself before he’s sitting down. “I might have to voluntarily dunk my head in the water dude.” He lets out a chuckle before everyone settles down. You give a smile in his direction before resting back against the wall, waiting for who needs to go next.

Illiana is staring at you again, this time quite pointedly before she speaks.

“Your turn. Tell us something to top Ezekiel.” Illiana has a tight-lipped smile when she looks at you. You look around but before you can answer.

“Bro are you asking her to get kinky with me?” Ezekiel has a smug look on his face and before you know it, you’re playfully holding up the alcohol from the middle of the floor to throw on him.

“Get a fleshlight you perv!” You smile before setting the bottle down and laughing quietly.

“I-I don’t really have anything that’ll outdo—” you look at Ezekiel with a half-serious look to which he snorts before continuing, “our dear pornstar’s confession, but—” you take a deep breath, ignoring Ezekiel’s obnoxious sigh.

“I almost drowned when I was four and because of that, I never learned to swim.” You feel this strange weight getting lifted off of your chest after you speak, and unsurprisingly, the entire room is silent after you talk.

You look around, giving some knowing looks before sealing your lips and staring down.

“I feel like we’re witnessing a really emotionally complex porno right now.” Alex, uncrossing his legs, leans in and speaks quietly, like he’s incredibly invested in a homework assignment.

You furrow your eyebrows, feeling laughter bubble up but before that can happen, another friend of yours, Emily, pipes up.

“Hey Alex, maybe you and Ezekiel should get a room and jerk each othe—” “For the love of God—” Christian interrupts but he’s interrupted again by Ezekiel.

“Bitch you don’t even buh-leeve in him keep his name out of YO mouth!” And everyone is bursting into laughter, including yourself before it dies down and everyone is quiet again.

“Is it true?” Illiana pipes up, turning her head to look at you. Her expression is neutral and you take a second to glance at her before looking straight ahead of you and talking.

“Not shitting you. I was four, went into the ocean water, couldn’t swim and started drowning. It’s like a memory that’s, you know, ingrained into who I am. I almost felt the darkness in my vision taking over until a lifeguard pulled me out. Water scares the shit out me to this day.” You look at the bucket before chuckling and looking over at Emily.

And you don’t like the look she’s giving you. It’s mischievous and hinting at something…

Oh shit.

You don’t let the panic show.

“You—” You wag your finger before Illiana is nodding, smirking. She looks past your shoulder where Emily is sitting too.

Before it gets too far, you try to stand up but they both make you sit down. In nervous laughter, you try to reason with them.

“O-Okay guys—no—no—wait!” You feel them both pulling at you and that’s when two others, Ezekiel and Alex are also behind you within seconds, pushing you forward.

“G-GUYS N—” But before you can say anything, you feel painfully cold water engulfing your entire face, like it’s ready to suffocate you. Your brain short circuits, running through the memories of that ill-fated day as you struggle to differentiate between what’s real and what isn’t.

You push back, trying to escape but you can’t. You’re unable to hold your breath for any longer but the more you try, the harder everyone pushes down.

You scream into the water and before you can stop, you’re suddenly yanked out. Your head goes flying into the wall behind you, but the pain barely registers because your eyes go wide and you start shaking.

And then you sob. You sob so hard you think the students in the rooms below, next, and above you are going to wake up. Pain is engulfing your senses and you can’t really register what’s going on, but you feel yourself being lifted up and you scream, trying to get out of the grip before you open your eyes, breathing heavy and labored when you see Luigi, running past and down the stairs, kicking the door open.

You try to get words out but instead, you find them lodged in your throat and it’s like you learning to breathe again. Everything feels hard your body feels helpless let painfully tortured. You feel hard ground beneath you and that’s when you gather your senses before leaning back into the warmth of what you realize are Luigi’s hands.

“I-I’ve got you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He’s whispering into your hair and you realize the warmth of his breath is helping your forget the cold water droplets painting uncomfortable paths across your skin. Your teeth stop chattering as much and your breathing evens out as you let out a few deep sighs.

Luigi is still whispering apologies into your hair. Before you can say anything to him, you hear several footsteps pounding on the pavement behind you. Slowly, you push yourself up and out of Luigi’s grip to turn around. It’s Alex and Emily, concerned looks on their faces clearly laced with regret staring at you and Luigi.

“I-We—are you okay?” Alex’s voice is shaky and unsure and he probably knows he’s asking bullshit after pushing them to dunk your head. You stare at him, desperately wanting to throw insults but you don’t find enough heart to do it.

“Been better.” You opt for a concise yet sharp line to make your point. Emily looks like she wants to say something but her? No—she’s not getting anything from you. Luigi, from your peripheral vision, is staring daggers into them both, ushering them away.

You find the energy to stand up, Luigi quickly gets up before you as his arms wrap around and under your shoulders. You accept help before wringing the excess water out of your hair.

“Let me walk you home.” Luigi is quick to grab your arm as you start walking away. You stop, turning around before looking him in the eyes.

You stare and take in the way he’s look at you with desperation and concern. Like he witnessed a horror and another step you take, he might just lose you. It’s comforting to know he cares but you figure for the state of mind you have, it’s best if you deal with it alone and not add any delusions to your wet and panicked plate.

“It’s best if I go home alone.” He’s still clutching your forearm and you think he’ll let go, but instead, his grip only loosens.

“You have to promise me you’ll text me as soon as your home. And talk to me about how you’re feeling.” Luigi tilts his head down, leveling you with a serious look and you have half the mind to roll your eyes, but you don’t.

“I—” You don’t know how to deny that he’s feeling the same about you. “Alright. You got yourself a deal.” You give him a tiny smile after which he returns it. He lets go and you realize that you can leave, but you don’t.

And neither does he.

You both stand there, staring at each other. You wonder if he’s feeling the same. If he’s had the same question. If he’s looking for an answer.

After what seems like an eternity, you hear a few voices in the background, likely your friends calling out. A few others you knew from the part must’ve found out about what happened and it was the last thing you wanted happening. You slowly step back, eyes fluttering over to Luigi and he seems to understand.

As you’re stepping away, Luigi turns back to see if anyone is coming before taking two long strides and grabbing your hair to pull you in for a kiss.

Contrasting with his haste, he’s slow and deep. He leaves space for you to breathe while leaving you breathless. After a few second he steps away. Before you can speak, he leaves another peck before stepping back quickly.

Breathless, you want to ask him what it was. You want to jump into his arms.

But there’s too much to figure out.

“Text me. We’ll talk.” Luigi turns around and walks away. You look around, a bit lost mostly happy before you turn around and nod your head.

Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not so bad…

taglist (to be added, comment on my pinned blogpost): @poohkie90 @chariytz @iinfinitelimits @alotofsomething @lorelaisg1lmore @straw8berry @lolalothbrok @sdherself @madkohi

a/n: hi! i swore to myself that i WOULDN'T make this a multi-part fic but i just can't fucking help myself so this will be ended with a part 2 coming soon. this is for the anon request that i got ages ago so anon... i hope u see this ahh!!! i took some creative liberties from your original prompt so yes sdiufhdsjfkf giggling like a schoolgirl cause i hope u like this <3 also idk if anyone noticed i used the name cuddy from house m.d. because that woman can step all over me. OKAY BYE.

#luigi mangione #luigi #mangione #luigi fanfiction #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione x reader #angelluigi posts #free luigi #justice for luigi #luigi nicholas mangione #luigi mangione angst #uh #hi

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