#OOPS DONT HATE ME

[sunlitsparks]

Mr Pigeon 72 from Season 4 of Miraculous reveals that Nathaniel has been akumatized into Evillustrator a total of 5 times. It's not clear whether that includes times he was re-transformed forcibly via Puppeteer or Gamer, but assuming those instances are not counted in the 5, that means there are 4 off-screen akumatizations following the Evillustrator episode, which we can assume to be his first akumatization.

Now what does a normal person do with free will? Exploit this knowledge, for fanfic purposes! 💖

Nathaniel army rise up, feed me with ideas! ❤️‍🔥

[rputthebottledown]

Young Finarfin & Earwen falling in love!

Yeah thats Findis and Lalwen watching… Finarfin will definitely get teased relentlessy haha

Different version with unblurred background and less distraction.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[gothwizardmagic]

god ok also gotta say as a choreographer, whoever did the superbowl choreo was a fucking GENIUS like. it manages to be so effective without ever being flashy or complicated & like. flashy & complicated are great but to do the basics this effectively is PHENOMENAL. the repeated motifs are so striking and so strong and so CLEAR in their meaning its PAINFULLY effective - the contrast of more relaxed dancers just vibin and having a good time at the beginning & end, when its just people being themselves vs. "what america wants" - disquieting, emotionless, rigid lines of soldiers throwing salutes while kendrick & sza are singing on stage in the middle, keeping the people entertained & distracted as the goose-stepping dancers circle like sharks

and thats not to even mention the SCALE - working with such crisp colour lines in such an ENORMOUS group is staggering to even fathom like. making sure all the reds are in the right place at the right time & you dont have someone who was a blue in one section but accidentally wound up in the white group somewhere in the shuffle....... the formations are UNBELIEVABLY complex & span such an enormous space, its mind blowing to think about. over a hundred dancers. over a HUNDRED people to keep track of at all times to make sure they're getting from one place to another in the right way at the right times in the right formations. over a HUNDRED.

the dancers executed FLAWLESSLY too - taking big steps and remaining PERFECTLY in line is incredibly hard & they made it look effortless. the amount of split-second transitions to nail and vibe-shifts to hit.... oh my god. also shot to the camerapeople who were working their asses off on those transitions just as much as kendrick & the dancers were

also thinking of scale like... arena choreography and stage/film choreography are VERY different things. on a stage or in a music video etc. you have ONE front. at most on a big stage the audience might wrap slightly around the sides but generally speaking, you're choreographing for the people or camera in front of you, and they're gonna have a pretty good view of your face the whole time. arenas are MASSIVE, and there are people on ALL SIDES. you can't pick A Front, you have to be entertaining people all around you simultaneously, which means completely rethinking how things are structured. you also can't rely on detail nearly as much, because the audience is Really far away. even if there are screens, you want to make sure that there's something to look at on the stage itself, so the audience doesn't feel like they're just watching a music video. it's still a live show & you want it to feel like one

so theres a balance to strike between giving the individual artist focus & acknowledging that they literally... can't face every direction at once. even if kendrick is facing away, there are always dancers doing something that'll be visually striking at a distance for the audience to enjoy. but at the same time because there ARE cameras, it also has to work for video & HAVE those detailed up-close elements, so the footage doesn't just look like a guy bopping around with people walking past him for the whole time. the most effective example i can think of is in peekaboo - the groups of white-clothed dancers in the X is visually strong from a distance - even if you can't see exactly what's going on, it's an interesting visual, whereas up close you have the strong music video feel of kendrick popping up out of nowhere; of all these different up close groups of dancers giving their full performance directly to one front while that front is rotating from one group to another, as opposed to the multiple surrounding fronts on the main stage. it transitions from an arena show to a music video (and then back when he walks out onto the main stage with that trail of dancers so the visual is most effective from above rather than up close) SO EFFORTLESSLY and makes absolutely brilliant use of the space

this is literally jsut stream of consciousness it could definitely all be phrased better & honestly i could keep talking for a Long time like i didnt even get in depth abt the use of colour in the costuming & the way every costume is slightly unique in the up close shots but when you pan out to the stadium they become lines of clones like. god i could go on!!!! i coudl go on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! its a masterpiece choreographically fr its elegant its communicative its mindbogglingly complex ive watched it five times now trying to absorb as much as i can

[bicatman]

i hate the "jason likes dogs" thing so much. i hated it when it was a headcanon, and i hated it more when it became canon.

dog bites/attacks happen more often in low income communities. dogs are more likely to attack children rather than adults. dogs are often used as guards for property and to keep out thieves. police canine units (nuff said).

jason lived in crime alley, he was a child who was homeless and squatting in an empty apartment building, and he was also stealing to get by (and hated cops.) ...but no correlation?? jason loves dogs???? what???

[noctunis]

it’s late.

the kind of late where the streetlamps have stopped humming and even the city feels emptied out, like everyone took a breath and held it.

sylus hasn’t spoken in hours. he’s working—tools spread out, visor glowing, sleeves rolled to the elbows. you sit nearby on his couch, curled up with a blanket and a book you haven’t turned a page in since he started soldering.

you watch the way his fingers move—precise, fast, careful. his jaw is tense. his eyes haven’t left the circuit board in over ten minutes.

you’re used to this version of him. focused. silent. the room fills with the smell of warm metal, the sharp scent of electricity.

you shift under the blanket.

he doesn’t look up, but the words tumble past his lips, almost mindlessly, “does it hurt?”

you blink. “what?”

“your shoulder. you keep adjusting it.”

you didn’t think he noticed. you didn’t even think you were doing it that much.

“a little,” you admit.

he sets the tool down. wipes his hands. turns to face you fully, visor retracting with a faint hiss.

“come here.”

you hesitate. “it’s not that bad.”

“i didn’t ask if it was.”

you walk to him anyway. you always do.

he gestures wordlessly for you to sit in front of him. when you do, his hands slide over your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle. he doesn’t say anything, but the way he moves—slow, careful, deliberate—feels like an apology.

you breathe out. the ache begins to melt under his touch.

“why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he asks.

“you were busy.”

“so?”

you laugh a little. “you act like i’m going to fall apart if you don’t immediately fix everything.”

“i act like i don’t want you hurting,” he corrects. “that’s different, sweetie.”

his voice is quiet. steady. like every word he says has already been weighed before he speaks it. even the pet name comes out like a hum, a low buzzing in his throat.

you turn your head slightly. “you’re always paying attention, huh?”

he doesn’t answer.

but then his hand drifts up. pauses just behind your neck. and he presses a kiss there—just once. light. absentminded, like he forgot himself.

you freeze.

he doesn’t.

“you don’t have to ask,” he murmurs, and his lips graze your skin again, softer this time. “just come to me.”

you sit there, grounded by his voice, by the weight of his presence, by the way he holds tension so close to his chest you only notice it when it disappears.

the soldering iron clicks off behind you.

the city stays quiet.

and sylus wraps his arms around your waist like nothing in the world could make him let go.

aaah.. feel like i should open reqs for lads . i’m actually intrigued with writing them . i have a caleb wip sitting in my drafts as we speak .. this is all meowie’s doing (◞‸◟)

[meamiki]

mira !!! :]

[yanderespamton78]

AJDJSOAJW I MADE MY SPAMTON PLUSH THE DEFRAG OUTFIT

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I'm so normal. About. This comicc

Yes

Defragmentation by @zarla-s go read it if you haven't rjkwsjdkdhkash

[cyberniix]

You need love, you need one, you need him.

(closeups under cut)

[acevity]

theyre in my head. forever. take some scraps

[destielwarmsthecocklesofmyheart]

…oops…

[tojosuggestionbox]

We are currently looking into procuring guard dogs for Tojo Any members who are experienced in the handling and training of guard dogs are encouraged to make contact with the main office.

[threestargirls]

the mentor’s yearbook ♡

[lots of love and ty to anyone who I bothered for faceclaims and quote ideas!!]

[shootingstarrfish]

DOES MY FAVORITE 33 YEAR OLD BOBBY GRILL (gender neutral) HAVE A JOB???????

yeah his job is being cute <3

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

They finally did it everybody they said the thing!!!!!!!

"How much do you love Charles Xavier?"

"HOW DARE YOU ASK ME SUCH A QUESTION???!!!??!!?!!??!!??!!!"

HE SAID THE THING !!!!!!!!!!