TEEHEE ! 🤭

moonwater is for the unlikely friends. those from different backgrounds but with the same yearn of love. the ones you don’t realise are together until you catch just one of regulus’ glimpses at remus; the soft chuckle remus lets out when regulus says something sarcastic. the soulmates that truly deserve their happy ending. <moonwater3

@mo0n-water

i love trans boy regulus headcanons but there’s something inside of me that violently screams ‘all pure blood families r homophobic and transphobic!!!’

and like… it’d only be pure blood families. every1 else in the wizarding world is chill with gay ppl but pure blood families hate those queers 👿👿 bcuz they’re ruining the blood lines or whatever

i am elliott smith

Hey! Can I request luke castellan x reader dating headcanons where reader is the daughter of hades and is like, pretty shy unless you know her well?

i am writing this RIGHT NOW give me 2 hours

Just wanted to draw Effie, ended up drawing some haymitch too lol

he really said

the owl house characters’ taste in music

luz:

this bitch listens to vocaloid, enough said

also mitski

she has the basic ass tik tok cosplayer music taste (mother mother, penelope scott, etc…)

but she was apart of the tøp, p!atd and mcr fan base so she has some good favs from those three

she also probably likes lemon demon

amity:

she’s an emo

she loves paramore and bikini kill, but only after post redemption arc

she also likes bjork and sophie because she’s got a superiority complex

she also really likes mcr but doesn’t want to admit it cause she thinks it’s cringe

artic monkeys

gus:

he LOVES taylor swift

fav swiftie

but i imagine he doesn’t like music that much and just listens to radio

likes ed sheeran😭

but also loves lady gaga???? and nicki minaj obvi

pretty basic music taste but his playlists get everyone hyped

willow:

hoizer.

she loves hoizer.

folklore and evermore stan, gus convinced her to listen to tswizzle and now she’s obsessed

loves phoebe bridgers, lorde and lana del rey

has the best but saddest music taste

when she’s given the aux on car trips amity sets up headspace for her as soon as ‘mirrorball’ comes on

mazzy star enthusiast

hunter:

midwestern emo fan 😭

the front bottoms, modern baseball, etc…

he lies in his bed at night and listens to twin sized mattress as he screams into his pillow

but he also really appreciates willow’s taste in music and loves ‘tolerate it’ because he needs therapy

strangely, he likes sza

‘kiss me more’ came on the radio one day and i couldn’t stop listening to it. his favourite songs are supermodel and drew barrymore

HE LOVES ELLIOT SMITH!!!

"Remember who the villain is" LIKE BESTIE AM I TRYING!!!

everyone hush this song is so younger luke ^^ - amoeba : clairo

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3