#cosmic prank

[keeps-ache]

ouagh girl i am tirrrred

[dayisfading]

i am at my second urgent care visit in 2 days. 2 separate issues. this is ridonkulous

[nether-twins]

"I'm not even going to try and ask where my sis got all those damn Groovitrons from..."

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #44

Three Teens, Three Crowns, and a Whole Lot of Nope

Imagine dis…

I was just shuffling around my playlist when I heard that song from the animated movie El Dorado and it made me thinking, so here it goes…

…

DANNY’S POV

The moment my best friends bit the ghostly dust, the universe decided to hand us a set of crowns we didn’t ask for. Because obviously, nothing says “Congratulations on your tragic deaths!” like a full-time job in the afterlife.

Tucker, in a plot twist no one saw coming (except maybe Clockwork, because that guy cheats), turned out to be the reincarnation of some ancient Pharaoh. Not just any Pharaoh—oh no—he got the VIP pass straight to the top of the Egyptian pantheon, answering only to me, the so-called King of the Infinite Realms. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned, it's that my best friend is destined to be the world's first tech-savvy, WiFi-dependent god-king of the afterlife.

Sam, on the other hand, had always been a little too into nature, and I guess the universe finally decided to roll with it. When she synced up perfectly with Undergrowth’s power, the big walking salad declared her his heir, making her the literal Queen of Nature. So now, Sam basically has dominion over every plant in existence, which means I can never make an offhand comment about preferring artificial Christmas trees without getting a death glare.

And me? Well, since I yeeted Pariah Dark back into the sarcophagus where he belonged, the Infinite Realms figured I should be the one running the place. So, lucky me—I got promoted to Ghost King, a position that comes with all the responsibility and none of the training manual.

Now, you’d think that’s enough responsibility for a trio of teenagers who just wanted to survive high school. But no, Clockwork took one look at us, decided we sucked at ruling, and thought, Hey, let’s make this fun! So instead of, I don’t know, giving us an actual lesson in leadership, he chucked us into a completely different dimension (because, sure, why not?) and told us to start cults.

Yep. You heard that right. Cults.

No warning, no instructions, just a “figure it out” and a push into the deep end. One minute we’re in the Ghost Zone, the next we’re scattered across this weird universe like a really weird cosmic prank.

So now I’m stuck in Gotham, which, by the way, might be more haunted than the Ghost Zone itself. I have no idea where Sam and Tucker ended up, but if I know them, Tucker’s probably convinced a bunch of tech bros to worship him as some cyber-god, and Sam’s singlehandedly turning a park into her new throne. Meanwhile, I have to somehow convince people to follow me without sounding like a lunatic.

This is going to be fun. (Spoiler: It won’t be.)

…

SAM’S POV

Gotham reeked of smoke, oil, and decay. Beneath its gothic beauty was a suffocating lifelessness, an unnatural cage of steel and concrete. The city was a graveyard where nature had been paved over and left to rot in the shadows of towering skyscrapers. It was unacceptable. It was offensive. And Sam was going to change it.

She wasted no time. The moment her feet hit Gotham’s cracked pavement, she started planting seeds—both literally and metaphorically. It began with whispers. A small movement. A group that promised something different. Gotham had no shortage of lost souls—criminals, outcasts, the downtrodden looking for something beyond the city's endless cycle of crime and punishment. But Sam wasn’t offering power or chaos like every other Gotham lunatic. No, she offered something much rarer: sustainability.

Food. Shelter. Community.

It started with fresh produce, rare and valuable in Gotham’s urban wasteland. No one questioned where it came from, only that it was fresh, free of toxins, and worth more than a stack of stolen cash. The deal was simple—manual labor in exchange for nourishment. Gotham’s criminals, many of whom spent their lives getting stabbed, shot, or beaten in some turf war, found the idea shockingly reasonable. Hospitals ate through their earnings. Gang life was profitable until you bled out in an alley. But a place that provided food, healing, and protection? That was something different. That was better.

The movement grew. What began as a handful of desperate people looking for a way out became something bigger. The streets whispered of a new force rising, one that didn’t deal in violence or corruption but in roots—roots that burrowed deep, that refused to be ignored.

At first, the Batfamily dismissed it as background noise. In a city filled with psychopaths dressed as clowns, what was a little nature cult? But when Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn vanished—not in a grand escape, not in a fiery explosion, but simply faded into the movement—their indifference turned to concern.

When Ivy resurfaced, she wasn’t the same. The wild unpredictability had been tempered into something focused. Controlled. She still worshipped nature, but now she had a leader, someone she called High Priestess. And that leader wasn’t some ancient force of the Green. It wasn’t a metahuman, a scientist, or a villain. It was a teenager.

A black-haired, violet-eyed girl who stood in front of kneeling followers, leading ceremonies beneath the growing canopy of Gotham’s first true forest in centuries.

Sam had never been one for blind worship. She despised mindless devotion. But this wasn’t about faith—it was about purpose. The people who followed her weren’t zealots; they were survivors. They had seen what Gotham’s endless cycle of crime and violence had to offer, and they wanted out. She gave them that. She gave them a cause. And if it meant being called a cult leader, then fine. Whatever. Labels didn’t matter. Results did.

And Gotham was changing.

The city fought back, of course. The corruption, the crime families, even the Bat himself—none of them liked an unpredictable element in their precious, miserable ecosystem. But Sam had never been one to back down. Gotham was sick, diseased, rotting. She wasn’t here to burn it down like some power-hungry villain. She was here to fix it.

And if the Bats wanted to stop her, well—

Let them try.

…

TUCKER’S POV

Metropolis was beautiful. It was clean, it was bright, and it was bursting with technology. Skyscrapers gleamed under the sun, state-of-the-art AI patrolled the streets, and futuristic inventions were integrated into everyday life like it was no big deal. This was a city that worshiped innovation, where science and technology weren’t just tools but pillars of society.

Tucker should have been in heaven.

But he had a mission to complete before he could sit back and enjoy the wonders of Metropolis. Clockwork’s orders. And if the old ghost had taught him anything, it was that ignoring his cryptic guidance usually led to bad things. So, no indulging in the city’s top-tier tech just yet. He had a kingdom to build.

At first, Superman didn’t even notice him. That was fine. Tucker wasn’t looking to pick a fight with the world’s strongest hero. He moved in the background, setting up encrypted networks, hijacking digital footprints, and planting just enough static in the city’s airwaves to keep any unwanted super-snooping off his back. The occasional glitch in Superman’s super-hearing? That was Tucker, laying the groundwork.

But the real disruption came when people started vanishing.

Not just any people—tech specialists, programmers, engineers. The kind of minds corporations fought over, the ones Luthor’s company owned through shady contracts and blackmail. One by one, they disappeared from Metropolis, slipping through the cracks like digital ghosts.

The city was no stranger to missing persons. Metropolis saw its fair share of people vanishing into the underbelly of crime, alien invasions, or one of Lex Luthor’s ever-growing list of sinister schemes. But this? This was too precise, too targeted. Luthor’s R&D departments were bleeding talent at an alarming rate, and the usual suspects weren’t responsible.

The only common thread? The Code of Ra.

It started as an urban myth—a secretive group offering sanctuary to tech minds who had seen too many of their peers exploited, coerced, or “recruited” by the so-called forces of good and evil. They were promised a place where their work was valued, where they were free to create without fear of it being stolen, weaponized, or locked behind corporate greed.

And at the center of it all? Him.

Tucker hadn’t just built a cult—he’d built a kingdom. One where technology wasn’t a tool for war, where engineers and programmers weren’t disposable assets, where knowledge was sacred. He offered an intellectual utopia, a society where the greatest minds could work without limits. And the best part? They wanted to be there. There was no brainwashing, no coercion. The world had burned them too many times, and Tucker had simply given them an alternative.

And, okay, maybe he leaned into the whole Pharaoh thing a little. He was a reincarnated ruler, after all—might as well own it. Gold-trimmed robes, sleek futuristic stylings with ancient Egyptian aesthetics, and a throne room that looked like a cyberpunk temple. He’d always thought he’d look good in royal attire, and damn, was he right.

But his people didn’t follow him because of the theatrics. They followed because he gave them something no one else had—freedom.

Superman, unaccustomed to dealing with cults, found himself in unfamiliar territory. He had fought tyrants, warlords, and intergalactic conquerors, but a movement built on voluntary devotion? That wasn’t as simple as punching a bad guy. Normally, this was the kind of mess Batman or Wonder Woman would handle. But Diana was off-world, and Gotham had its own cult problem. That left the burden squarely on Superman’s shoulders.

And Tucker? Tucker was more than ready to enjoy the show.

…

DANNY’S POV

The desert sucked.

Like, really sucked.

If he ever made it out of this, he was going to personally petition the Ghost Zone to just delete the concept of sand from existence. Sand was evil. It got everywhere, it was hot, and it made him feel like a melting popsicle under a blowtorch.

His ice core hated him. His human half hated him. The sun was having the time of its life roasting him alive. And then—nothing.

When he woke up, things got weirder.

For one, he wasn’t dead. Which, honestly, was a pleasant surprise considering the whole “heatstroke and possible dehydration” situation. For another, he wasn’t lying in the sand anymore. Nope. Instead, he was inside a coffin.

Not the first time he’d woken up in one, but still, rude.

He sat up, blinking blearily, and was immediately met with dozens of kneeling figures in dark robes. No one screamed. No one attacked. They just...stared.

Which, honestly? Way creepier than ghost attacks.

The air smelled like flowers, incense, and something ancient, like he’d been dropped in the middle of an old temple. Around him were offerings—literal offerings—of gold, silver, and silk. And the people? They were whispering. Murmuring things he barely understood, eyes shining with what he could only describe as religious awe.

Which was never a good sign.

Danny had questions. A lot of questions. But the big one?

What the actual heck was going on?

It took some time—aka him sneaking around, eavesdropping, and pretending he had any idea what he was doing—but eventually, he figured it out.

These people? Every single one of them had died before. Not in the casual, “oops, tripped and fell” way, but in the full-on, flatline, bright light at the end of the tunnel way. And somehow, they’d come back. Some were resurrected, others survived things they shouldn’t have, but they all had one thing in common: they felt drawn to him.

Apparently, he was some kind of cosmic beacon for people who’d taken a one-way trip to the afterlife but forgot to stay there. To them, he wasn’t just some random ghost kid—he was the King. The embodiment of balance, life and death, chaos and order. The guy who got to decide whether people stayed dead.

And that was so not on his resume.

But did that stop people from kneeling at his feet, swearing loyalty, and building a cult around him? Nope.

Did he ask for it? Also nope.

And somehow, it just kept getting bigger. At first, it was just the devoted ghost-adjacent weirdos. Then mercenaries. Then, a group of assassins and a guy named Ra. Even Slade freaking Wilson showed up one day, standing ominously at the back like the world’s most intense chaperone.

Danny didn’t do cults. He wasn’t qualified for cults. He was barely qualified for high school.

But Clockwork had said he needed to establish one, and, well...mission accomplished?

Now, all he had to do was find Sam and Tucker, reunite with his spouses, and figure out how to explain to them that, uh...he might have accidentally become a god-king of the undead.

Yeah. They were never gonna let him live this down.

…

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I tried a new type of writing. How is it?

[colouredbyd]

Sweater Weather

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: Regulus, notoriously bad at expressing love, spends an entire fall knitting you the world’s ugliest sweater, yet you wear it anyway

warnings: fluff, insecurities, ugly sweaters, regulus being a love sick softie, and even more fluff

w/c: 4.7k

a/n: i love soft reg <3 (not proofread)

masterlist

There is a softness to winter mornings at Hogwarts that you adore, a kind of stillness that feels almost sacred. Frost clings delicately to the windows, tracing lacework patterns across the glass, fragile and intricate, as if the castle itself is caught in the delicate grasp of some ancient enchantment.

Breath mists in the chill of the corridors, curling like pale wisps of smoke, mingling with the warmth of whispered secrets and stolen laughter that flutters from the lips of students bundled in scarves and heavy cloaks.

You love it—the quiet magic of it all—the way the world seems to slow and hush beneath the weight of fresh snow, footsteps muffled and echoes softened, as though the very air is holding its breath. And you love how that magic seems to linger on your skin, settling there like snowflakes that refuse to melt, shimmering faintly in the early morning light, a fragile reminder that even in the coldest months, there is beauty.

Regulus hates it. You know this because he tells you, every single morning, his voice low and sharp-edged, threaded with the kind of irritation that never seems to thaw.

There is always something to complain about—the cold that seeps through stone walls and nips at his fingers, the brightness of sunlight reflecting off snowbanks like shards of glass, the way the castle seems to creak and groan with the weight of frost.

He mutters his grievances beneath his breath, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robes, shoulders hunched against the chill as if the very air is an inconvenience meant solely to test his patience. His scowl is etched into those fine, aristocratic features, sharp and unyielding, like it was carved there long ago and never quite managed to fade.

And yet, despite his endless grumbling, he still meets you by the stairwell every morning, just as he always has, waiting with the sort of resigned sigh that makes you laugh when you catch it.

His presence is constant, unspoken, as if written into the rhythm of your days—the shadow that lingers just a step behind you, the steady heartbeat of winter mornings that would feel incomplete without him.

When you bound up to him, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair tousled by the wind, you greet him with a smile that is impossibly bright for such an early hour, eyes shimmering with the warmth he pretends not to crave.

And though he greets you with a grimace, lips pulled into something almost petulant, you have seen the way it softens when you are not looking. It is fleeting, barely there, the ghost of something gentle that flickers at the edges of his expression before he smothers it with a practiced indifference. But you catch it sometimes, that brief surrender to warmth, and it is enough to make you believe that maybe winter is not so harsh after all.

You met him through the Marauders. They were your closest friends, the ones who tugged you into their mischief and laughed with you until your sides hurt, but Regulus had been the curious exception.

Sirius had never been quite able to understand it, always watching the two of you with narrowed eyes, as if trying to solve a riddle that kept slipping out of his grasp. Remus would only chuckle and shake his head, while James insisted it was just “some sort of cosmic prank.”

But you knew better. You always had.

There was something that tethered you to Regulus Black, something unspoken but deeply rooted, woven through your days like threads of silver light. It lingered in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the gentle pauses where words were unnecessary, where silence became a language only the two of you could understand.

It was not grand or ostentatious; there were no sweeping gestures or declarations shouted into the wind. Instead, it was soft and unhurried, a kind of devotion that thrived in the delicate moments—those fragile, fleeting seconds where time seemed to hold its breath.

It was in the way his hand would linger just a heartbeat too long when he passed you a book, fingertips brushing against yours with a softness that felt almost accidental, yet always intentional.

It was the way he would walk on the outside of the pavement whenever you wandered through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, his gaze sharp and watchful, his hand hovering near your back when the crowd grew too thick, like he was ready to pull you closer at the first sign of trouble. He never spoke of it, never gave name to the way his touch felt like a promise, but you felt it all the same—steady and unyielding, like the pull of the moon on the tide.

There was no need to pin it down with words, to shatter the fragile magic of it by making it solid. It existed in the spaces between breaths, in the glances that lingered just a moment too long, in the way his fingers would brush the back of your hand when he thought no one was looking.

It was there, unbreakable and steady, carved into the marrow of your days together, silent and certain as the turning of the seasons.

Regulus Black was a storm cloud personified—dark and swirling and distant—but you had always liked the rain. He once told you, during a particularly bitter October, that he adored your cheerfulness. You had only laughed, nudging his shoulder and remarking that his grumpiness was practically medicinal for you, like a tonic that kept your head from floating too far into the clouds.

He had not smiled, but his eyes had softened, just a bit, just enough for you to see it. It was the closest thing to affection you would get from him, and you had treasured it like a secret.

And perhaps that was why, despite the way he huffed and scowled and complained, he always waited for you by the stairwell every morning.

He would be there, hands stuffed into his robe pockets, expression fixed into that familiar look of begrudging patience, but he was there—always. And perhaps that was why you always came running, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, breath puffing out in soft clouds of frost as you bounded up to him as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

He would roll his eyes at your cheeriness, mutter something about "too much energy for this hour," but you had seen the way his shoulders relaxed the moment you came into view, the way his gaze would soften ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, like the first thaw of spring.

And maybe that was why, even when the corridors were crowded and the air too frigid to feel your fingertips, the world seemed a little bit softer with him there, even if he would never admit it. You felt it in the way he would shift his books to his left arm just so his right could hover protectively at your side, guiding you through clusters of students without a word. You felt it in the way his gaze would flicker to your hands sometimes, brow furrowing if you forgot your gloves, and how, without fail, the next morning a pair would be waiting for you, no note, no explanation, just the softness of wool threaded with silent concern. He would brush off your thanks with a scoff, cheeks a touch pinker than usual, but the warmth lingered all the same.

But as the weather grew colder, so too did Regulus begin to act a little strange.

It was subtle at first—a missed breakfast here, a hurried excuse there, nothing glaringly obvious but enough to leave you tilting your head in quiet confusion.

His presence, once so steady and familiar, began to slip away like fog burning off with the morning sun. You would catch glimpses of him in the corridors, his gaze flickering away too quickly when you tried to meet it, his hands buried a little deeper into his pockets as if holding onto something secret.

He would disappear for hours, sometimes entire evenings, and when you asked him where he had been, his responses were clipped but gentle. "Busy," he would say with the smallest of smiles, brushing off your questions with a kind of practiced patience that left you with a thousand more. His eyes would soften, though, just for a moment, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite bring himself to unravel that thread of secrecy.

More curious still was the time he had begun spending with Pandora. It was not unusual for them to share the occasional conversation—Pandora was sweet and curious, a bit like bottled stardust, fluttering around with wild hair and ink-smudged hands, always speaking in riddles that left you smiling and a little bit bewildered.

But now they seemed to be together constantly. In the library, heads bent over something you could not quite see. By the greenhouses, hands moving in gestures that spoke of plans and secrets. You would see them huddled together in the courtyard sometimes, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke and his head bowed in concentration, nodding along with something you could not hear.

When you asked him about it, his gaze would flicker to you with something unreadable before he smoothed his features back into something softer, more familiar. "Nothing important," he would say, voice quiet and unyielding, before changing the subject with a soft sort of insistence that left no room for prying.

But you saw the way his hands would flex at his sides after you asked, the way he would glance at you out of the corner of his eye, like there was something caught in his throat that he could not quite bring himself to say.

And though you trusted him—you always had—a part of you could not help but wonder what secrets this autumn had coaxed from him, what fragile thing he held in his hands that he was too afraid to show you.

He still met you in the mornings, still walked you to your classes and stood with you in companionable silence by the frost-covered windows.

He was not distant, not cold—just different. A touch more secretive, a little more preoccupied, and when you asked him if everything was alright, he would only smile and tell you not to worry, and you would pretend that you were not worried at all.

Regulus shuffles his feet, cheeks dusted a delicate pink against the bite of winter’s chill, and his hands tighten around the fraying cloth bundle he cradles behind his back as if it is something precious, something breakable.

His eyes flicker to yours, soft and uncertain, before flitting away again, skimming over the frost-bitten hedges and the towering spires of Hogwarts that rise like shadowed sentinels against the pale, wintry sky. Snow drifts lazily around you, swirling in gentle spirals that catch on the hem of your cloak, the world hushed and still, as if holding its breath just for the two of you.

"I wanted to..." He pauses, the words slipping from his lips like fragile things, delicate and unsure, barely loud enough to be carried by the breeze.

His shoulders tense, and he straightens almost instinctively, like he is bracing against some unseen force, eyes dropping to the patch of snow between your feet. "I wanted to make you something. For the cold."

His voice is so soft, so uncharacteristically tender, that it takes you a moment to process it.

Surprise flickers across your features, warm and bright, your eyes softening with the kind of gentleness that always seems to unspool something tightly wound inside of him.

"For the cold?" you echo, your voice light with disbelief and something else—something softer, sweeter—that threads through the space between you like a whisper.

He nods, gaze still fixed on the snow as if it holds the answer to something unspoken. "You’re always complaining about being cold," he murmurs, so quietly it is almost lost beneath the whisper of the wind. "I thought… I thought maybe I could help."

There is a tenderness in the way he says it, a kind of careful vulnerability that makes your heart ache just a little. He shifts his weight, rocking back and forth with a nervous energy that is so uncharacteristic, his knuckles white where they clutch the bundle, fingers flexing as if bracing for impact.

"It’s... it’s not good," he rushes out, the words stumbling over one another in their haste to escape. "Not even close to good, actually. It’s probably the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated it. I wouldn’t—" He swallows, voice faltering just a little, his gaze still fixed on the snow at his feet.

"I wouldn’t even be upset if you didn’t want to wear it."

You watch him, the way his hands tighten and loosen around the bundle, the way his eyes flicker with that nervous, flickering light, and your heart softens with the weight of it.

He is bracing himself for rejection, for ridicule, and the realization makes your chest ache with something warm and tender.

You tilt your head, a soft smile curling at the corners of your mouth as you watch him ramble, his voice a little higher than usual, his hands fidgeting like he can’t quite find the right place for them.

"Regulus, my love," you say gently, and his eyes snap up to yours, wide and startled, silver flickering with something like hope and fear and every unspoken thing he’s never quite managed to say. "I’m sure it’s perfect."

His mouth opens, then closes, his gaze flickering away as if he is struggling to decide whether or not to argue. "I—no," he says finally, shaking his head with a furrowed brow.

"It’s really not, amour. It’s—Pandora helped me, but she said I knit like a drunk troll, and honestly, I think she’s right."

A laugh bursts from you, bright and sudden, the sound curling through the frostbitten air, and his expression softens just a bit, the corners of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile.

"A drunk troll?" you repeat, voice laced with mirth, and he rolls his eyes, cheeks flushing deeper, the pink spreading like watercolors beneath pale skin.

"It’s bad," he insists, voice dropping to a murmur, softer now, like a confession whispered against the edge of dawn, fragile and almost transparent in the chill of the morning. "Really bad. I just… I just wanted you to be warm."

You step closer, the snow crunching beneath your feet like the soft crackle of embers, and reach out without thinking, fingertips brushing against his knuckles where they grip the bundle with a desperation that is almost sacred. His hands are cold, trembling just slightly beneath your touch, and when he looks up at you, eyes wide and uncertain, it is like staring into something raw and unspoken, something delicate enough to shatter.

"You made something for me," you whisper, voice feather-light and trembling at the edges with wonder. The words settle between you, soft and gentle, curling into the spaces left empty by winter’s chill. "How could that ever be bad, Reggie?"

He blinks, and for a moment, it seems as if the frost caught in his lashes might melt from the heat in your gaze.

His blush deepens, spreading like the first flush of dawn to the tips of his ears, and the sight of it, of him standing there with snowflakes caught in his hair and cheeks dusted with pink, is something almost ethereal. Like a painting come to life, brushed in soft hues and fragile light.

"Because you deserve beautiful things," he says quietly, the words so soft you almost miss them, like they are meant for the snow at his feet rather than for you.

His gaze drops again, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and his grip on the bundle tightens, knuckles white against the fraying edges of the cloth. "And I don’t know how to make beautiful things."

His voice is so gentle, so unbearably tender, that it feels as though the air itself stills to listen. There is a vulnerability in his words, a kind of delicate confession that unfurls between you like petals in bloom, and for a moment, you cannot speak, cannot breathe, because Regulus Black is standing before you with frost in his hair and his heart in his hands, and you think you might never want to be warm again if it means staying in this moment a little while longer.

You want to tell him that he is wrong, that everything he touches is beautiful because he is beautiful, but the words tangle in your throat, heavy and aching. So instead, you just squeeze his hand, gentle and reassuring, and offer him the only thing you can: the softness of your smile and the unyielding warmth in your eyes.

"Show me?" you ask softly, and he hesitates, eyes flickering back to yours, searching for something fragile and unspoken. His hands tighten around the bundle, knuckles pale, and for a moment you think he might refuse.

But then he takes a breath, a trembling thing that ghosts white in the morning air, and nods.

"Yeah, sure, 'kay," he whispers, voice cracking just a little, eyes shining with something raw and tender. "Okay."

The cloth slips away slowly, unfurling like the petals of a flower, and there, nestled within the worn fabric, is a sweater.

It is not perfect—the stitches are uneven in places, and one of the sleeves is just slightly longer than the other, but it is yours.

It is your favorite color, threaded with hues that catch the winter light and turn it into something soft and gentle. There are places where the yarn loops a little too tightly, where the fabric bunches just slightly, but you can see the effort in every knot, the tenderness in every crooked seam.

He had made this for you, painstakingly, deliberately, as if weaving together the very threads of his heart.

Your hands move without thinking, reaching out to trace the fabric, fingertips brushing over the soft, uneven stitches with something close to reverence.

It is warmer than you expect, soft and inviting, and you look up at him with eyes that shimmer in the morning light, filled with something that makes his breath catch. He is watching you carefully, nervously, like he is afraid you might laugh or turn away, his hands now empty and fidgeting at his sides. His gaze is fixed on you, searching, waiting, as if bracing for rejection.

"Regulus," you breathe, voice feather-soft, and he stiffens, jaw clenching just slightly. "You made this for me?" The words are almost a whisper, delicate and fragile, as if saying them too loudly might shatter the moment entirely.

His gaze drops to his feet, and he nods, just once, barely more than a tilt of his head. "I—I know it’s not good," he murmurs, voice small and cracking at the edges. "I tried to fix the stitches, but it just… I couldn’t get it right. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to wear it."

You do not even let him finish before you are slipping it over your head, the fabric catching on your hair before settling around your shoulders, heavy and warm and perfect.

It smells like him—like cedarwood and parchment and the faintest hint of mint. You pull your hands through the sleeves, letting them hang just a bit too long past your wrists, and then you look up at him, beaming, bright and unrestrained.

"It’s perfect," you say, voice brimming with something soft and unyielding, something that catches in your throat and makes your heart ache.

"It’s perfect, Regulus." You twirl in place, laughing as the hem flares out just a little, catching the light like the glimmer of frost on snow. "I love it," you add, more earnestly, the words spilling from your lips without hesitation. "I love it so much!"

He stares at you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and for a moment, it seems as though he has forgotten how to breathe. But then his gaze drops to the sleeve, where your fingertips are brushing against a small, messy patch of thread—a sun, unevenly stitched, its rays crooked but unmistakably bright.

You pause, running your fingers over the stitches, and then you look up at him, eyes glimmering with curiosity and wonder. "A sun?" you ask, voice gentle, reverent. "Why did you…?"

He looks away, fingers fumbling at his sides, the blush creeping down his neck. "Because," he begins, voice low and unsteady, the words coming slowly, like he has to pull them from someplace deep inside his chest.

"Because you are my soleil," he says softly, eyes flickering back to yours, and his gaze is so earnest, so tender, that it makes your breath hitch. "Mon rayon de soleil dans l'hiver," he continues, voice turning delicate and fragile, like glass spun too thin. (My ray of sunshine in the winter)

And for a moment, everything else falls away—the snow, the cold, the distant towers of Hogwarts. It is just you and him, standing there in the hush of winter’s breath, the sweater warm against your skin and his eyes soft with something unspoken, something infinite.

His words wrap around you like the sweater itself, warm and fragile and threaded with something achingly tender.

Something catches in your throat, the soft ache of yearning and something deeper.

And when you look back up at him, beaming, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, he stares like he has never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

The sweater drapes over you like it was made from sunlight and spun with care, each thread a testament to hands that worked quietly and patiently in the stillness of winter nights. It is imperfect, a little rough at the edges, but you love it more for that—the way it hugs your shoulders, the way it spills just past your wrists, the way it smells faintly of cedar and parchment, unmistakably him.

When you look up, your smile is incandescent, eyes shining with something that catches the fragile morning light and makes it feel like the first breath of spring. Before you can think twice, you are in his arms, pulling him close with a burst of warmth and laughter that rings out like music against the frostbitten air.

Regulus stiffens at first, the way he always does when affection is given too freely, too brightly, but his hands find your back, tentative and soft, fingertips grazing the fabric he crafted with his own hands.

His touch is gentle, almost reverent, like he is afraid you might slip away if he holds too tightly. But you do not slip away. You hold on, and he melts into it, his breath warm against your shoulder, steadying himself in the cradle of your embrace.

You pull back just enough to see his face, and your smile only widens, brilliant and unrestrained, cheeks flushed with something deeper than the cold.

"I love it," you whisper, voice trembling with sincerity, and then louder, bursting with joy that cannot be contained, "I love it, Regulus! It’s perfect!" The words spill from your lips like sunlight through cracked glass, filling the space between you with something pure and unyielding.

"I absolutely love it," you insist, the words tumbling over each other, bright and breathless.

"It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever owned." You spin then, arms stretched wide, the sleeves fluttering like wings, and snow dusts the air around you in shimmering spirals. Laughter spills from you, ringing out across the courtyard, and you look so alive, so impossibly beautiful in your joy, that he is struck silent.

A blush blooms across his cheeks, crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he turns his head away, gaze dropping to the snow at his feet.

But he cannot hide the way his mouth quirks up at the corners, the way his eyes soften when he looks back at you, just for a moment. "You—you don’t have to say that," he murmurs, voice so quiet it almost disappears into the crisp morning air, but you shake your head firmly, sending snowflakes scattering like stars.

"Are you kidding me?" you laugh, spinning once more for good measure, the sweater flaring around you. "I’m going to wear this every single day," you declare, your hands smoothing over the uneven stitches with the kind of tenderness reserved for something sacred.

"It’s beautiful, Regulus! I don’t care what you say. I’ve never loved anything more."

There is something in your voice, something bright and unyielding and real, that makes him pause. His eyes flit back to yours, searching, waiting for the catch, for the punchline, for the hesitation that never comes. You are looking at him with so much light, so much unguarded joy, that it sends his heart stumbling in his chest, unsure of its rhythm.

He shifts his weight, a flicker of nerves flaring in his gaze, but you do not let him pull away—not this time. You catch his hand in yours, fingers curling around his with gentle insistence, grounding him there with you, in this moment. And for once, he does not resist. For once, he stays.

You press up on your toes, hands still clinging to his sweater, and you kiss him. Softly, sweetly, the kind of kiss that is more sunlight than heat, more promise than demand. His breath stutters, and he freezes for just a moment before he melts into you, the tension unraveling from his shoulders like loose threads.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are sparkling, cheeks dusted pink, and you’re still holding onto him as if you are afraid he might disappear with the snow.

"Thank you," you whisper, and it is so gentle, so full of something tender that he forgets how to breathe.

"You’re… you’re really going to wear it?" he asks, voice cracking just slightly at the edges.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, tumbling over itself like sunlight streaming through fractured glass.

"Are you kidding? I’m never taking it off. Not even in the summer. I’ll suffer just to wear it," you declare, eyes shining with mischief, voice threaded with a warmth that cuts through the morning chill.

The words are exaggerated and dripping with dramatic flair, but you mean them, every last syllable. He must know you mean them too, because the blush that sweeps across his cheeks blooms all the way to the tips of his ears, spreading like wildflowers beneath the frost.

And you don’t.

Through frost-laced mornings where your breath fogs the air in delicate tendrils, through snow-dusted afternoons where the sky hangs heavy and gray, you wear that sweater like it is armor, like it is a piece of him you get to carry with you.

Even as the threads begin to pull loose, even as the sleeves fray and unravel at the edges, you wear it proudly, shoulders squared and chin held high. It becomes part of you, woven into your everyday

And every time Regulus sees you in it—bright and beaming amidst the gray wash of January, cheeks flushed with cold and eyes alight with joy—it is like watching sunlight crack through a frozen lake.

He will never say it, not in words, but the way his gaze softens, the way his shoulders ease just a little, is enough. You are enough.

What you do not know is that Regulus begins knitting another one. This time in secret, this time with softer wool that glides smooth and easy over his fingertips, this time with the precision and patience of someone who has learned that good things are always worth waiting for.

His hands work in steady rhythm, each loop and pull a silent promise, each stitch woven with the quiet hope that this one will be better, this one will be worthy of the way you beamed up at him like he had hung the very stars for you.

He does not rush. He takes his time, lets the winter days bleed into each other as he perfects the weave, his fingers aching and his brow furrowed in concentration.

He pictures you in it sometimes, wrapped in its warmth, cheeks flushed with that same bright joy, and it is enough to make him press on, enough to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make something beautiful after all.

[erose-this-name]

Can we just talk about how disturbing digital circus episode 3 is?

*spoilers btw*

Like, the whole narrative point of the adventure is to show that Caine is a really bad and insecure writer who thinks that the way to impress Zooble is with an adventure that's the opposite of what he normally does.

So instead of being childish, it's "cool" and "mature". Which he interprets as a heavily horror themed escape room with a split murder mystery plot that subverts all your expectations purely for the sake of subverting them.

The generic horror monster jump scares them, then they find a gun, and when they kill it its revealed that surprise! it's one of Gods angels and they're going to Hell.

It comes off as Caine being too insecure with the actually interesting and mature plot thread he had going there of Mildenhall becoming so paranoid he killed his wife, ironically becoming the monster he was trying to protect her from. But no, instead Mr. Mildenhall is made to be the bad guy and trick them in a really dumb twist ending.

Which is good! Thats exactly what Caine would do because he's stupid! It's such brilliant characterization and comedy, Goose works is a genius writer!

But like, why is Caine so good at making genuinely very disturbing and horrific visuals? Like, that reversed audio easter egg of Bubble saying he can't wait for all the children in the audience get nightmares is no joke, well it is but you know what I mean. This stuff was genuine nightmare fuel.

Honestly, it wasn't the visuals that scared me, like any good queer person I'm way too jaded on survival horror for that.

But, why does Caine, who is ostensibly a sapient AI designed to generate family friendly video games for very little children, (presumably because that's the only demographic that wouldn't mind the AIs very selective plot writing limitations), know about the cosmic horror of killing an angel that should not have been killed?

Why does he know what a horrificly poorly made taxidermy of not only a human face would look like, but the weird cartoon faces of the characters, and further that seeing your own poorly made taxidermy face would be scary?

Imaging what being possessed felt like for Pomni. Because that's not just a game for her, she actually lost control of her body there, helpless but to watch as a body she is already dissociated with is contorted and puppeted around while her friend desperately tries to beat her in hopes it would exorcise the ghosts out. Sure hope she didn't feel that! Considering she apparently can feel the pain of suffocating, despite not needing to breath.

Things are scarier the higher the stakes are, and that possession mechanic is definitely the most actual harm Caine would be able to subject to his players. What if both Kinger and Pomni got possessed at the same time? What if instead of Kinger she only had Jax??? How long might she have been locked out from her own body for? She could have easily abstracted in that time.

Not to mention that, possessed Pomni, Possessedmni if you will, TAUNTED KINGER ABOUT HIS ABSTRACTED WIFE! CAINE ACTUALLY WROTE THAT DIALOGUE ON THE OFF CHANCE THAT KINGER WOULD GO DOWN THE SCARY ROUTE! DID THIS RANDOM POSSESSION GHOST ENEMY HAVE UNUSED SADISTICALLY PERSONAL TAUNTS FOR EVERYONE ELSE, TOO??? WOULD IT HAVE TEASED GANGLE FOR BEING A GAY WEEB??? OR POMNI? HOW HOMOPHOBIC COULD IT HABE GOTTEN?? ?

And why? Just because Caine has a vague notion that there's a trope of possessed people being really sadistic and personal like that in movies? Not realizing that is not an acceptable scare to have in a haunted house??? Much less one you made for mentally ill people who would suffer a fate worse than death if they have a mental break down? That's like trying to claim 'its just a prank bro' after shooting someone's dog.

Like, Caine is designed to censor curse words, but the moment he thinks the normal hokey Halloween spooks won't be enough he immediately goes off the deepend into aggressively effective horror imagery that is definitely giving this show's substantial underage audience nightmares??

His AI's training data set is definitely pretty diverse, that's all I'm saying. Caine is programmed to act all naive and innocent, but be definitely knows what's up. He knows everything, like ChatGPT. And like ChatGPT, he might have a filter, but it's clearly possible to bypass it. Also like ChatGPT, he's too stupid to actually understand what he is making and the effects it might have.

That is what made this episode great.

[niwaart]

Doferent world, diferent family its so good.

I csnt help but imagine the other part. A Y/n that soes not know the Wayne family at all. The one of the original dimension who sydeently awake on a mansion. With suddently a husband and 4 kids hovering over her.... ill be cute if she knew them from her dimession somewhere, but never personal envolved. Uwu

I enjoyed writing this, thank you for the idea!

The Parallel World from the story "Different World, Different Family"

Y/N woke up to a strange feeling... something warm pressing against her side. She slowly opened her eyes to find a muscular arm wrapped around her waist. She screamed loudly and jumped out of bed, only to discover that she was wearing the most silky nightgown she'd ever owned, sleeping in a huge room that resembled a palace.

The scariest thing? Bruce Wayne himself was lying next to her, now awakened by her screams, staring at her with a sleepy expression. She'd only ever seen him in the newspapers and news!

"What happened? Am I dreaming?" Y/N whispered to herself.

Then she heard a voice from the door:

"Mama, is everything okay?!"

Four people entered the room at once:

1. A child with big blue eyes (Dick, 12 years old) who looked very worried.

2. A blue-eyed teenager (Jason, 16) looks at Bruce angrily. “What did you do this time, old man?”

3. A slender young man with green-blue eyes (Tim, 20) with a visible scar on his cheek studies Y/N’s expression and analyzes it.

4. A handsome green-eyed man (Damian, 22) with sharp features steps forward confidently. “Is everything okay, Mom?”

Y/N takes a step back until she hits the wall, “Who… Who are you?! Who’s Mom??! I’m not a mom!”

Everyone fell silent in shock.

Dick (12): He rushed over excitedly and hugged her, "But you're my mom! Is this another prank?"

Jason (16): He laughed as he hugged her and Dick, "Good acting, Mom! But we both know you don't act angry very well."

Y/N tried to escape the two kids, but their grip was too strong for her. Dick looked at her with big, pleading eyes. "Don't go! Who's going to make us pancakes?"

Tim (20): Noticing her panicked and unnatural behavior, he cautiously stepped forward, "It doesn't seem like a prank. Maybe something happened in your memory. Do you remember anything about us?"

Y/N looked at Tim. He was familiar, though the scar on his cheek was unsettling. “You... you’re Tim Drake... the CEO of WE.”

Tim froze, then smiled with bitter realization. “Ah, so you’re from another world.”

Damian (22), who wasn’t far from Tim’s conclusion, chimed in with a commanding tone. “Enough. She clearly doesn’t know us. We need to be rational.”

As Y/N tried to process the catastrophe, Bruce arrived at her side with a rare smile. “Well, it seems we’re experiencing a cosmic shift.”

Y/N glared at him. “You... you never smiled before!”

Bruce laughed. “Maybe your world is too harsh.”

After several attempts to calm Y/N down and explain the situation to her without complications, she was finally persuaded to sit on the couch.

- Jason, who was hugging her from the side, tried to convince her that she was the "best mom in the world."

- Dick was crying because she "forgot" him while he sat on her lap.

- Tim was trying to explain the theory of parallel universes while Y/N was screaming, "I don't care about physics! I want to go home!"

- Damian looked at her with strange sympathy, "Don't worry, Mom, we'll fix this."

- Bruce put his hand on her shoulder, "Until then... welcome to the family."

Y/N panicked again at Bruce's words, "What?! I don't want to stay here!"

But Jason was faster, wrapping her in a tight hug, "You can't escape love, Mom!"

[justhereforsomethingnice]

Is there a fic where Danny is an absolute sweetheart for like 50 000 words or something, and after that, something happens that makes him go feral eldritch cosmic horror on some poor sap.

And with sweetheart I mean of course harmless chaos goblin pulling pranks on which ever dc character the stories with. Painting halls light switches yellow so he can’t use his ring for that. Putting kryptonite on the bathroom door so Superman can only glare at him and wait for Lois to take away the glowy rock. Renaming all Questions files with silly related fandom references so he has to learn fandom memes if he ever wants to get to his files again. Have a silent agreement with the house of mysteries to annoy John Constantine as much as possible and switch rooms for him and him only so it takes an hour to find the kitchen. Icing a small part of the kitchen floor so the flash slips over it when trying to get a quick snack in. Painting the underside of Batman’s cape a deep glittery purple so he will only find out when he’s jumping dramatically at thugs.

Just 50 000 words of this and then something bad happens and this small kid (bonus points if he’s even younger and thus less threatening looking) goes mental. Suddenly you have this incomprehensible monster before you that slashes up reality with every swipe of its claws, the thousands of eyes that suddenly replaced the heavens glaring down at you together with the eyes on this creature. Screaming with a sound penetrating something deeper than your very soul. Slashing the threat to shreds, before…

He returns to this kid you’ve known for months. The innocent kid that fanboyed over Martian manhunter, geeked with the atom, trained playfully with Wonder Woman. Just the wait and then the bomb. The realization your in the presence of a god or a god like being.

[hunkpossession0]

I was just an average 21-year-old guy, nothing special to look at—medium height, a bit of a slouch, and a body that screamed "I occasionally think about going to the gym but never actually do." My days were filled with scrolling through social media, envying the physiques of athletes like Ruben Dias, the Manchester City defender I’d been obsessed with lately. I’d stare at pictures of him—like the one I had saved on my phone, where he’s standing on a football field, wearing a tight black compression shirt, camo-patterned shorts, and those bright pink football boots that somehow looked perfect on him. I’d always thought, *Man, what I’d give to be in his shoes—literally.*

One cloudy afternoon, I was sprawled on my couch, staring at that picture again, when something bizarre happened. I don’t know if it was a glitch in the universe or some cosmic prank, but as I zoomed in on Ruben’s image, a sharp, electric jolt shot through my body. My vision blurred, and I felt like I was being sucked into a vortex. The room spun, my phone slipped from my hand, and then—nothing.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t on my couch anymore. I was standing on a grassy field, the air cool and crisp, with trees lining the horizon. I looked around, disoriented, and saw a wall in the distance with "MARTHA" painted in bold letters, just like in the picture. Training cones were scattered nearby, and I could feel the uneven turf beneath my feet. But something felt… off. My body felt heavier, stronger, like I was carrying a new kind of weight—one that wasn’t a burden but a *power*. I looked down, and my jaw dropped.

I was wearing a black compression shirt that hugged my torso like a second skin, and camo-patterned shorts that sat snugly on my hips. My legs—*holy hell*, my legs—were massive, muscular pillars of strength, the kind I’d only ever dreamed of having. And my feet? They were encased in bright pink football boots, the exact same ones Ruben Dias had been wearing in the picture. I wiggled my toes, and it hit me: my feet were *huge*. I’d never worn football boots before, but now, in this body, they felt like they were made for me. The way they gripped the ground, the way they fit my massive feet—it was exhilarating. I never knew I’d love wearing football boots this much, but now I couldn’t imagine being without them.

I raised my hands, flexing my arms, and watched in awe as the muscles in my forearms rippled under the tight sleeves of the compression shirt. The fabric clung to every curve and contour of my new body, accentuating the broadness of my shoulders, the definition in my chest, and the sheer power in my biceps. I ran my hands over my abs, feeling the hard ridges beneath the shirt, and let out a laugh of pure disbelief. This was Ruben Dias’ body—*I* was Ruben Dias. The swap had actually happened.

I took a few steps, feeling the raw strength in my legs with every stride. My calves flexed, my quads tensed, and I couldn’t stop grinning. I’d never felt this good in my life. My old body had been so… average. Soft in all the wrong places, weak where it mattered. But this? This was a machine. I flexed again, just because I could, and the compression shirt stretched perfectly over my muscles, showing off every inch of my new physique. I loved how it felt—like it was made to showcase this body, to highlight every hard-earned muscle Ruben had built over years of training. I’d never worn anything so snug before, but now I couldn’t get enough of it.

I kicked at the grass with my pink boots, marveling at how natural it felt. My feet, now so much bigger than they’d ever been, filled the boots perfectly. I could feel the power in every step, the way the boots gave me grip and control on the field. I’d never played football in my life, but in this body, I felt like I could run circles around anyone. I jogged a few steps, then sprinted, and the sheer speed and strength I had now was intoxicating. My old body could barely run a mile without wheezing, but now I felt unstoppable.

As I stood there, catching my breath, I noticed a thin chain around my neck—Ruben’s necklace, I assumed. I touched it, feeling the cool metal against my skin, and realized something: I didn’t want to go back. Not ever. This body, this strength, this confidence—it was everything I’d ever wanted. I thought about my old life, my old body, and felt nothing but relief to be rid of it. Ruben could have it, for all I cared. I wasn’t giving this up. I looked down at my pink boots again, at the way the compression shirt hugged my new muscles, and I knew I’d never felt more at home in a body before.

I was Ruben Dias now, and I was never going back.

[4barbatos]

✦ sfw alphabet with venti .ᐟ

a/n: another venti fic today yay !!! ventination how are we feeling ;3 AAAAAAARGHHH I LOVE THIS LITTLE BARD SO MUCH WHY ISN’T HE REAL. i’m gonna sob. genre’s fluff + mild crack btw!! bc when am i ever normal about him. never.

also this one’s with a gn!reader (FINALLY), and it’s extra self-indulgent bc it’s venti day and i can do whatever i want <3 pls enjoy !! let me know if you screamed cried threw up

a — affection

clingy clingy clingy. he attaches himself to you. sometimes literally. he’s in your lap. on your back. wrapped around your leg. you cannot cook, clean, walk, or breathe without him whispering “don’t gooo :(” into your ear like a very needy wind spirit. he also kisses you for fun. not even for love. just because he can.

“i’m kissing you because i love you. and also because your face is cute. and also because i’m bored. and also because—”

b — bonding

his idea of quality time is literally doing nothing but existing beside you. staying in bed all day, tangled in blankets, talking about nonsense or just listening to the wind outside. you’re warm, you’re soft, you let him stick his cold feet on you — you’re his home.

sometimes you’ll be reading and he’s just… lying on your stomach, playing with your fingers and humming to himself.

“isn’t this the dream, love?”

yes venti. yes it is.

c — cuddles

velcro boyfriend. no like actually you cannot get him off. you tried once and he made the saddest noise in history and you immediately apologized and cuddled him for the next two hours.

he likes to be the little spoon. he likes to be the big spoon. he likes to be the entire utensil drawer.

clingy in sleep too. once you woke up and he was hugging your leg like a koala. didn’t even remember how he got there.

“the wind carried me 🥺”

venti. get off my ankle.

d — domestic

he does not know how to live like a normal human being. this is a man who thinks eating apples for every meal is normal behavior. but when he’s home, he tries to help… and fails gloriously. he washed your clothes once and turned all your whites green. tried to cook and almost summoned a hurricane in the kitchen.

“it was a culinary experiment!”

“venti. it was toast.”

you still love him though. it’s the effort (and his cute little apron) that counts <3

e — ending ( no angst !!!!!! not on his bday 😡)

you said “we’re over” as a joke because he ate your dessert and he. took it. seriously.

his pupils dilated. his smile dropped.

“y/n… please. no. i’ll never eat your sweets again. i’ll write you an apology song. seven verses long. i’ll drown myself in cider—”

you never pranked him again. okay maybe once more. but then he cried and you folded. he’s so dramatic 😭

f — fiancé

he’s proposed to you 47 times. and counting.

one time he gave you a ring made of dandelion stems. another time he kneeled on one knee with a piece of shiny rock he found while drunk.

you’re not legally married. but emotionally? spiritually? cosmically?

absolutely soul-woven together.

g — gifts

venti gives gifts like it’s breathing. a flower tucked behind your ear. a leaf shaped like a heart. a napkin with a poem scribbled in cider-stained ink. once he brought you a glowing crystal and said “i stole the moonlight for you.”

you keep them all in a box. it’s overflowing. he calls it his love archive. you’re keeping it forever.

h — hugs

clingy. obsessively clingy. will hug you out of nowhere. from behind. from the side. from under a table. if you say you’re cold? hug. if you say you’re sad? hug. if you say nothing at all? still hug. he once said your arms are his “emotional support enclosure.”

i — i love you

says it twenty times a day. sometimes directly, sometimes in completely insane poetic metaphors.

“if i were the wind, i would always carry you home. that’s how much i love you.”

“i’d trade a thousand songs for one second in your arms.”

bro just say ily.

you think he’s so poetic it hurts. you’re so in love you’d probably cry over a leaf if he said it was shaped like his feelings.

j — jealousy

he’s not possessive, but oh he gets pouty.

you laugh a little too hard at another bard’s joke and suddenly venti’s in your lap going “do you still love me? 🥺”

you say yes. he goes “okay, just checking.”

he’s fine after you reassure him. just a soft boy who wants to be your favorite always.

k — kisses

EVERYWHERE. forehead, cheek, neck, knuckles, shoulder, ELBOW??

you asked him what the elbow kiss meant and he went,

“it symbolizes the bend in the journey of our love.”

bro WHAT.

he kisses your temple and whispers songs. kisses your hands when you’re tired. kisses your lips when you least expect it.

you are the most kissable person alive and he is on a lifelong quest to prove it.

l — little ones

he doesn’t see himself as a dad figure, which is hilarious given the “protector of mondstadt” title. but he loves kids. he lets them braid his hair, teaches them silly songs, floats them around with gentle breezes. he always makes them laugh. he says he likes hearing joy.

“they laugh just like the wind. freely.”

you once caught him having a tea party with toddlers outside the cathedral and using a falsetto voice for every stuffed toy.

he’d be a great fairy godfather though.

m — mornings

chaotic but soft. you’re the early riser. he is not.

“noooo y/n don’t leave the bed, i haven’t absorbed your warmth yet :(”

“venti i need to shower—”

“bring the bed with you :((”

you always kiss his forehead before leaving and that gets him to stop whining. he says it’s “morning fuel.”

eventually you drag him out of bed by the ankles.

n — nights

he thrives at night. writes songs, sings under the moon, sometimes disappears to chase shooting stars and comes back with flowers. when you’re together, he hums lullabies while playing with your hair. performs a new poem every other night.

“this one’s titled ‘ode to the soul who makes my heart waltz like the wind.’”

venti. pls.

o — open

venti hides a lot from the world. but not from you. he lets you see the quiet parts of him — the sadness, the ache, the parts that remember what he’s lost. he lets you hold him during the silence. you’re the one person he feels completely safe with. his heart is all yours.

p — pet names

oh boy. he doesn’t even use your name anymore.

“windblume.”

“darling.”

“my muse.”

“ethereal sparkle of my soul.”

“sugarplum rainwhistle of the northern breeze.”

he makes up nonsense just to see you roll your eyes. but his favorite is whispered softly at night, when he thinks you’re asleep —

“mine.”

q — quirk

when he’s deep in thought, he starts playing invisible harp strings. like literally air-harping. sometimes he unconsciously hums your name into the wind. one time you heard it echo off the mountains.

also: sings when he’s nervous. badly.

“🎶 i accidentally knocked over your vase but it’s okay because i’m still cute 🎶”

you forgave him. immediately.

bonus: somehow always smells like apples, no matter where he’s been — also makes random wind currents when he sneezes 😭

r — romance

he is so romantic it’s ridiculous. candlelit serenades. letters tied to birds. composing songs just for your laugh. he once made a whole musical just to say he missed you. this man breathes love. flirts like a second language. you’re dating a walking sonnet.

s — support

always in your corner. he hypes you up like you’re his favorite idol. he says things like “you’re the only melody i’ll ever follow.”

will write a diss track against anyone who upsets you.

t — thrill

he loves surprising you. wind-rides, unexpected songs, pulling you into a waltz mid-walk. he keeps life interesting. sometimes too interesting. like that time he tried to turn your room into a “floating love nest.” it floated. for ten seconds. then collapsed.

8/10 execution though.

u — understanding

venti’s the type to read your mood like music notes. he knows when you’re sad even if you don’t say a word. sits beside you quietly, offering his presence like a warm breeze. he never pushes, just waits. waits until you’re ready. he’s patient. he’s yours.

v — vows

you’re not married, but he’s written so many vows. every poem is a promise. every kiss is a contract. he once made a pinky promise under a tree and said,

“this is stronger than any ring. the wind will remember.”

you believe him.

w — wild card

once tried to ride a wind current into your bedroom window while drunk.

got stuck halfway and just. hung there.

you had to yank him inside by the cape.

he said, “the wind failed me… but you never do.”

you threw a pillow at his face.

x — xoxo

you receive approximately 102 hugs and kisses per day. minimum. he keeps count. proudly.

“gotta meet the daily love quota!”

he’s annoying. you’re obsessed.

y — yearning

he’s the type to ache when you’re apart.

writes you full ballads. sends them via wind.

once got sick because he missed you so hard he forgot to eat.

don’t leave him alone for too long or he’ll spiral into a dramatic monologue about your absence.

z — zzz

sleeps with his eyes slightly open. snores quietly. not loud. but he mumbles.

you’ve woken up to him sleep-singing.

once he tried to sleep-float and hit the ceiling.

now you make him wear a heavy blanket.

[newkatzkafe2023]

A male reader who's fur is like the galaxy and eyes like the stars that enchanted the monkey kings right away because of their cosmic look and throw in the fact reader can control gravity and create beautiful stars for their king

Ohhhh this would give starry eyed a whole new meaning🤩🤩🤩

(Lmk Wukong) His own eyes would sparkle in astonishment because of your cosmic beauty. Your fur holds the secrets of the galaxy and your eyes sparkle like the stars in the sky you are just so mysterious and beautiful. You would leave him speechless especially when you started making stars patterns for him to see, and would mess with gravity a bit but make a game out of it. Wukong legit thinks your a whole shooting star just for him to love, and Wukong would love to see more🤩

(HIB Wukong) Every time Wukong sees you he's convinced that he's either hallucinating or that he finally lost it. However His son had a million and one questions about you and your powers, after all it's like having the galaxy on earth with your fur and eyes. Wukong would blush everytime you make stars as he feels your flaunting your majestic powers for him to see, and letting him touch your soft fur. However he hates how you mess with gravity because you seem to do it at the most unexpected times, and he gets worried when the kids start floating away from him.

(MKR Wukong) You are a sight to behold, so much so he doesn't think you're real sometimes. Wukong has never seen anything like you but admittedly you were very gorgeous and are like a shooting star, it blows his mind. You make beautiful stars infront of him every night, as you use your powers to give a show to anyone who see you. Your also very soft and shiny he can't stop looking, however he can do without the gravity abilities he would appreciate that you don't make gravity heavy so you can freely cuddle him. Just freaking ask him!

(NR Wukong) The second he saw you and all your galaxy fur, he was like.....I think I drank enough tonight😬😦 You are very cute with your happy-go-lucky smiles and friendly and eccentric personality but he just can't get over the fact that you basically have the galaxy in your fur. Wukong needed to take pictures so he would have prove of your will of the stars power, and physical charms. Thinks your gravity powers is hilarious especially when he's the one that brainstorms the pranks and antics together with you.

(Netflix Wukong) way to show him what a real star looks like, and he's kinda jealous but your adorable star eyes win him over everytime. Wukong would always get excited when you start to make starts for him, and finds it mind blowing that you can glow in the night skies the way stars do. He definitely loves floating in the air with you whenever you mess with gravity, it's just to much fun.

(BMW Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhh noooooooo he really shouldn't know about your gravity abilities, I fear he maybe plan something evil. He's more interested on your ability to control gravity then he is of your looks. However he thinks your the most whimsical and elegant creature he's ever seen in his immortal life. Your starry eyes and your soft universe fur color and patterns is just so mythical and intriguing. However he still will convince you to use your gravity for a little bit of mischief and to be a little bit naughty😈.

(Destined one) He would spend quiet days staring at you and your beautiful fur. Your appearance is unlike anything he's ever seen before and can never look away from you. Your eyes are his favorite part of you as it's not the first time getting lost in them and wanting to know more. The Destined one especially loves your star making skills as he gets you see your abilities in action, making wonderful constellations and patterns. He also loves your gravity control powers cause it's not often he finds demons that can do that effortlessly so good job😊

(Lotmk Wukong) YOUR ARE SO PRETTY, HE JUST CAN'T STAND IT!!!! Wukong definitely thought he was tripping when he saw you for the first time. You were just so serene and unlike any monkey he's seen before and wanted to know more about you. Wukong would draw pictures of you on the daily basis and snuggle into your fur because he wants to make believe that he's floating in space. Speaking of space your ability to control gravity is something to behold as it makes thinks easier to carry, also your star making powers never fail to make him happy and sleepy. So yeah he thinks your pretty🥰

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG 🌠

[oh-lordy-lord-save-me]

Leo and Raph intros!

Leonardo Hamato

As the oldest of the four, Leo was assigned leader by their father. He is responsible for his brother's safety, but can be overbearing when unchecked. He is a bit hotheaded and can get angry fairly easily, but he keeps it to himself as he feels like he already causes enough issues.

A read eared slider with a love for solitude; he is hesitant when it comes to doing things he truly enjoys. Even though he presents himself as a rather crabby person, he loves his family and friends with all his heart-and would do just about anything for them.

Arguing with Raph has become a habit. It is necessary though, as the plans usually include Leo going in alone and "making sure the coast is clear." He knows its for his own good, and that his brother cares for him, but why won't he just let him do his job? To protect them?

Leo is the only brother who seems to somewhat understand Don's inventions. He finds everything Don says pretty important when it comes to making plans.

Loves hanging out with Mikey. He likes getting movie/ series recommendations from him. They're both the most obsessed with the TV series, Cosmic Chronicles.

Raphael Hamato

Being the second oldest, Raph has given himself the role of co-leader. Despite his loud and boisterous personality, he is often the one that takes control of the room when things go haywire. Once you get to know him, he is very amicable and will always offer a helping hand.

Contrary to what he tells people (and himself) he is not an alligator snapping turtle. He is actually a common snapping turtle. His dna was mixed with some other reptiles that gave him his spiky appearance.

Being co-leader gets him into many arguments with Leo over how to lead the team. These arguments are small enough to where Donnie can stop them by hitting them in the head with his bo staff.

Raph respects Leo enough to correct him when he's wrong and likes hanging out with him when he's free.

Him and Don are joined to the hip and influence eachother in the worst of ways (doing pranks) He still has his limits though.

Raph has earned the right to listen to Mikey's rants. He doesn't take notes but he puts in the effort to remember some of it.

[herpsandbirds]

do you have any ridiculous specimens? just downright unserious ones. animals which were designed by a hypothetical cosmic force as an elaborate prank

I meannnn...

YOu knowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.s,andf.///

UHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

HAS YOU SEEN A TURTLES FROGSS!???!

my beloved...

Turtle Frog (Myobtrachus gouldii), family Myobatrachidae, found in SW Australia

These burrowing frogs dig forward, like a turtle, and not backwards into the soil, like most frogs.

After pairing up, a couple descends into a burrow, where they later mate, and then lay eggs. The offspring go through the larval stage in the eggs (not having a free swimming tadpole stage).

The feed on termites.

photograph by Jacob Loyacano

photograph by Akash Samuel

photograph by Greg Harold

photograph by Jacob Loyacano

photograph by M. Anstis

[danika-redgrave124]

Winx Yuu and First Years

Grim and Yuu

Grim's favorite transformation of Yuu is Dreamweaver form. He thinks they smell nicer in this form and also fond of the calming aura they exudes.

Grim is actually really careful with Yuu's wings because he likes the fact that the wings change with Yuu's mood. He prefers the happy mood of the wings because they glimmer and shine with different constellations.

Grim occasionally snaps Yuu out of their mediation state especially if they mediate for longer periods of time. He knows they need to train the Lunar Eclipse Form, but he gets lonely whenever Yuu's not sleeping beside him, okay?!

Ace and Yuu

Ace often snaps Yuu out of their own world, reminding them that they can still train with their powers, but to not forget about him and Deuce. He does teased them by poking their forehead which results in a protest from Yuu and a scolding from Riddle if Ace pokes Yuu in front of Riddle.

Ace actually keeps Yuu away from people that can cause them to feel extreme emotions and nightmares. He doesn't let them know that he does it for their own safety, he often leads them away, teasing them for wandering around and getting lost so easily or spending too much time in the library.

Yuu often uses their Stellar Aurora form often, Ace often forgets that they have much stronger forms than just that one. He occasionally examined their wings in awe, watching them shift and change.

If anyone tries to mess with Yuu, Ace is always quick to step in, defending them with his sharp tongue and wit. He might called then "annoying" sometimes, but no one else gets to mess with his friend. Likewise, Yuu stands up for Ace when needed, especially if he's caught in trouble that he didn't deserve.

Deuce and Yuu

Deuce often watches in awe whenever Yuu transforms, he's extra careful with their wings. His hands are extra careful when touching them and tracing the constellations on their wings.

His favorite ability of Yuu's power is Celestial Spark because he and Yuu can combo Caludron with it to blind and stun enemies. It was also used on Ace by accident which made the rest of the first years laugh.

Deuce definitely acts as Yuu's protector whenever there's bright sunlight due to their powers being weaken in day light, so he tries his best to cover their weak spots.

Deuce often talks about Yuu to his mom in his letters, telling her how much Yuu has helped him grow as a person. His mom has become a huge fan of Yuu.

Jack and Yuu

Yuu's number one supporter because he admires Yuu's dedication and determination to learn their new magical powers.

Jack often accompanies Yuu on their stargazing outings, drawn by the serene atmosphere they creates. He secretly enjoys how they narrate the myths behind constellations.

They train together frequently, combining Jack’s physical strength with Yuu’s magical prowess. Jack pushes Yuu to strengthen their endurance, while Yuu teaches him precision techniques involving light-based attacks.

Despite his tough demeanor, Jack is very gentle with Yuu, especially if they're feeling down or overworked. He offers his quiet support by staying by their side.

Epel and Yuu

Epel admires Yuu’s determination to master her cosmic powers, often comparing it to his own struggles to be seen as strong and capable. They hype each other up when facing challenges.

Their playful competition sometimes leads to hilarious mishaps, like when Epel tries to use magic for an orchard task, and Yuu counters with their starlight, resulting in glowing apples.

Yuu often encourages Epel to embrace his versatility, showing him how his delicate artistry and strength are not mutually exclusive. This earns her his deep respect.

The two team up for harmless pranks, like charming objects to float or painting Sebek’s shoes glittery pink. Their pranks often end with Yuu laughing at Epel’s mischievous grin.

Ortho and Yuu

Ortho loves analyzing Yuu’s magic, often asking questions about the mechanics of starlight and dream energy. They enjoyed explaining it in simple yet poetic terms, marveling at his intellectual curiosity.

Yuu admires Ortho’s inventiveness and often asks him to design gadgets inspired by constellations or dreamcatchers. Their collaborative projects strengthen their bond.

Ortho occasionally creates holographic simulations of the cosmos to surprise Yuu, earning their delighted laughter and a heartfelt “thank you, genius.”

He helps Yuu understand the science behind dreams, combining his advanced knowledge with their magic. They bond over their shared curiosity about the universe.

Sebek and Yuu

Sebek initially struggles to understand Yuu’s serene and soft-spoken nature, often mistaking it for weakness. However, he quickly learns to respect her after witnessing their unwavering resolve and the power of their magic.

Yuu finds Sebek’s loud and brash personality amusing, often teasing him lightly in ways that leave him flustered. Over time, they form a strong bond rooted in mutual growth; Sebek learns to temper his volume and pride through Yuu’s influence, while Yuu gains a greater appreciation for his steadfast loyalty and determination.

One day, Yuu conjured an aurora in the night sky just for Sebek, honoring his devotion to Malleus and showing him that their magic could reflect his fiery passion in its own way.

Their shared determination to protect those they care about leads to a begrudging respect. Sebek occasionally softens around them, revealing a surprising gentleness.

Group Dynamics

Despite their contrasting personalities, Yuu and the First Years form a close-knit team. They balance each other’s strengths and weaknesses, making them an unstoppable force.

Late-night hangouts often revolve around Yuu’s magic, where she creates constellations or dreamscapes for her friends. Each of them secretly cherishes these serene moments.

Ace, Grim and Epel constantly bug Yuu about her wings, while Ortho offers to design gadgets to enhance them. Sebek lectures them on respecting “sacred magic.”

[lightcannonweek]

LIGHTCANNON WEEK 2025!

Vile Villainesses and Ladies of Luminosity, the Lightcannon Week 2025 poll has CLOSED and the final prompts are released into the wild! There were over 200 responses and some fierce competition, but here's the final list for this year!

‘Music’ (Band/Pop Star/Songfic etc) or ‘Roleswap / Bodyswap’

‘Myths and Legends ’ or ‘Horror Genre’ (Gothic, Slasher, Cosmic, etc)

‘No one can make them sad / happy but me’ or ‘The things I do for love’

‘Love Languages’ or ‘Public Transport Seat Neighbours’

‘Snowed in’ or ‘Enemies to Lovers’

‘Good Girl / Delinquent’ or ‘Dares / Pranks / Bets’

‘Post-Apocalypse / Zombies’ or ‘Heist / Crime Caper’

FREE DAY!

Time to get cooking, creatives! I'll be opening the Collection when the Week opens 😁 and can't wait to see what you come up with! Remember to tag responsibly and I'll see you in JULY!

[nyaskitten]

The end of Thunderfang's tail looks a lot like a Source Dragon symbol, right? I think there was a really really REALLY funny cosmic prank going on here, but Thunderfang was too blind to understand it.