#this is supposed to be fluffy

[kaliforniahigh]

currently thinking of going on a nice long car ride with noah ... windows down, music blasting while you two sing along with not a care in the world ... maybe stopping at a diner on the side of the freeway and having an impromptu date ... i think that'd be so much fun!! 🩷

A long road trip with Noah where you visit small cities and get to know new people and eat food from cute little restaurants???? Please, this is the life!!!

You don't have a destination in mind, you just want to see new places, take pictures and enjoy each other's company.

You don't have a schedule to follow. You stop to eat when you feel like it. You sleep in the car or you pay for a room in a low-key sus hotel on the side of the road.

You have long conversations about anything and everything, and you swear this experience makes you know each other better than anything else.

[swifty-fox]

.2 seconds from being back on my armpit kink in Christmas fic

[hinamie]

shhhh

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[musubiki]

balor + ponytail (feat my farmer isa)

[moonlightcycle571]

All the Batkids have their own favourite Superhero (that’s not Batman), but it comes as a surprise when Damian says his favourite is Captain Marvel.

Captain Marvel, after being put on ‘Robin Watch’ after Batman had to disappear in the Watchtower for whatever reason: so … what do you like to do?

Damian, who vividly remembers Dick telling him to play nice or he’ll tell Batman about the 364 cats he’s fostered with Selina: I … like Cats

Captain Marvel, who has no idea what normal kids do: Oh, me too! My best friend is a talking cat!

Damian, intrigued: … elaborate

Captain Marvel, already showing Damian pictures of Tawny: This is Tawky Tawny, he’s a magic tiger that sometimes live in the Zoo! He’s also my best friend 🥰💕😍💕😍💖💗💗💗💗😍😊🎉😊😍😍

Damian, already calling Selina: I would like to meet this Tawky Tawny.

Later, Batman would start to panic when he couldn’t find Robin, but then would be shown a picture from Instagram of Robin, Catwoman and Captain Marvel in Fawcette Zoo, specifically the tiger cage hugging a massive Bengal Tiger, captioned “the most civilised tiger you will ever meet”. The next picture is a picture with the three of them having tea with said Tiger in a suit.

Bonus

Dick, Superman’s Number 1 fan: Oh please, he’s obviously the most like me! Captain Marvel and Superman look like they can be BROTHERS

Jason, forever a Wonder Woman Stan: HA, I heard that he WAS Wonder Woman’s Brother

Tim, hiding all his Cap merch: Oh yeah, he’s nothing like Red Tornado, so I’m good

Steph: why wasn’t I invited to the tea party …

Barbara and Alfred, tracking Captain down: Don’t worry, we’ll be invited to the next one

Cass, sensing something is off: … new … brother????

If you see Batman sulking in the corner, you saw wrong. If Batman sulks harder when he realises Barbara and Alfred figured out Captain Marvels identity before him and refuse to share… you’re a fucking liar.

Bonus

Flash: …

Captain Marvel: …

Flash: so when do we get to hug the magic kitty

Captain Marvel: FOR THE LOVE OF-

Tawny, not even a week later: ✨I’m so popular✨

[formerheroeswhoquittoolate]

headcanon that the smaller batkids steal the bigger ones' hoodies and jackets. and by "bigger ones" I mean literally anyone bigger than them.

jason gets the short end of the stick because dick and all his little siblings take his. tim's the only one bold enough to go for the leather jackets (well, and cass, but they're way too wide in the shoulders for her) but it's not uncommon to find dick or stephanie in a dark red or gray hoodie that smells of motor oil and gunpowder.

damian usually takes dick's hoodies, but they're very oversized on him. on the bright side, there are thumbholes in the sleeves of all dick's hoodies, so he can still use his hands. the thumbholes make them a hot commodity in the winter.

there is a tim-steph-cass jacket pipeline. steph steals tim's hoodies and cass takes them from steph. hence tim stealing jason's leather jackets -- steph won't take them, so he gets to hold on to them until jason realizes and takes them back. sometimes cass will also steal duke's hoodies, but she always returns them clean and neatly folded (unlike how it goes with the rest of the family, in which they are returned only under threat of blackmail or with long rounds of negotiation).

this is an extremely long-standing ring of jacket theft. you cannot leave a hoodie unattended in wayne manor. damian doesn't actually own any hoodies, and cass only owns one, because there's so many other people in the house to "borrow" one from. nowhere is safe. steph once broke into dick's apartment to steal his warm hoodie, the one with the fuzz on the inside.

but it goes the other way sometimes. jason leaves things in the pockets of his leather jackets for tim -- film for his camera, hand sanitizer, half-filled punch cards for local coffee shops with "drink water too, fucker" written on the back. cass will tuck little slips of paper in the cuffed sleeves when she leaves hoodies out. the notes don't say anything, but they have little smiley faces and hearts on them, and steph has taken to doing something similar with corny jokes. dick just straight-up leaves candy in the hoods of his jackets.

it's a game, it's a love language. it's simultaneously annoyance and affection. there's nothing like wearing a hoodie that's too big for you, that smells like your family, to make you feel safe.

[crystallinestars]

When He’s Sick

I imagine that when Aventurine falls sick, he tries to hide it or brush it off to not seem weak. He’s used to putting up an arrogant and smug act to hide his inner vulnerability, and nothing makes him as easily vulnerable as sickness. 

When you volunteer to take care of him, Aventurine will tease you for it. However, a part of him can’t help but be cautious about your intentions because he fears you’ll take advantage of him when he’s so weak. 

Little by little, you prove to him that your intentions are pure. You simply want to help him feel better with nothing in return. The concept of doing things selflessly is foreign to Aventurine, but once he feels the gentle touch of your palm against his forehead as you feel his temperature, he finds that he really appreciates it. 

While he’s sick, you treat him with more care than anyone had shown him before in his entire life. You cook him soup and bring him medicine, regularly change the towel on his forehead, and even fuss about how comfortable his pillow feels so he can get the best sleep. 

He’s never been taken care of in such a loving manner. He’s been trying to fill a void in his heart all these years with gambling and other material riches, but something as simple as being looked after when he’s at his most vulnerable filled that void more effectively than anything else. 

For this reason, Aventurine grows extremely attached to you while you nurse him back to health. He’ll use every trick in the book to get you to stay with him a little longer, asking you to sing or read him a story to fall asleep (even though he doesn’t need it), or pretending to feel too weak to eat so you’ll spoon-feed him his meals. 

He’ll try to act sick for as long as he can because he doesn’t want you to stop taking care of him. Once he’s gotten a taste of what real love is like, he wants more. You’ve worked your way into his black heart, and he won’t let you go.

[aratribow]

Jingnyan, aka the husband-replacement cat that renheng adopted

Sesame cake and rice dumpling are respectively called renyan and hengnyan btw and this shit has a whole ass au behind it (with a Mafia origin but that's not important)

I STAN jingnyan being the MOST affectionate nyan ever

Ps: this is renheng getting all the cuddles b4 the renheng-nyan invasion..which...doesn't bode very well for them

[musouie]

── .✦ 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐘

précis. levi washes your burdens away

contents: fluff, angst, non-sexual nudity, suggestive, reader and levi in a situationship, canon!au, comfort, afab!reader, 1.5kwc

When you return from a gruelling mission, bloodied and bruised, your knuckles bearing the scars of war, Levi does two things:

The first comes as if on instinct, a mere reflex, spewed from his lips without a thought and tumbling before he can stop it. “You smell like shit, soldier.” The comment is uttered evenly, void of any real bite, and closely followed by a sigh. A ragged, bone-weary, half-hearted thing that deflates his frame in a way being in the Underground never could.

And for some reason, it all makes you feel warm.

Perhaps it’s the way he says it, or perhaps it’s the way he chooses not to say anything else. Regardless, you take it and cradle it between your fingers, peel back the multitude of layers and recognise it for what it is: affection (dressed in barbed wire, one with spikes that have begun to wear.) 

The second, however, is something different altogether. This one feels like something that came from inside Levi, something that he had kept bottled up and sheltered, something that only you got a glimpse of. (It was often he gave you these glimpses of himself. None coherent or related to the last. You think you are finally beginning to put him together, to piece the enigmaticness of him —

— but then he turns and walks away.)

He glances at you over his shoulder, motioning with his chin for you to follow him, lips pulling into a line as yours tremble. 

(The puzzle pieces scatter, make a mess of themselves.) 

And with a part of you burning with curiosity and defeat, the other aflame with desperation, you find yourself following. You always do, ever the curious. “It’s in your blood,” he whispered to you one night, voice a muted wisp as you lay against his bare chest, damp and warm and clutching him close.

(He didn’t talk a lot — never talked a lot — when you were in his arms. It’s how you learnt to listen. Sometimes his admissions would come spilling, like those times where he’d drink just enough to get drunk. Or when he’d come back from a particularly hard mission, weary to his bones, his walls finally crumbling as he’d lie upon you —

— he would tell you everything. From his darkest desires, his brightest memories, his dreams, to his nightmares. All filled with you and you and you and you.)

When you make it to his quarters, sectioned off from the rest of the cadets’, you bite your lip and enter hesitantly, hands clenched into trembling fists by your sides, itching to reach out, itching to —

The door falls shut with a click that reverberates through you, bordering on deafening. You nearly miss what comes after. 

Nearly. 

“Strip.”

There is no teasing in his tone, no hint of endearment that, by now, you know only comes to the surface for you, and only if no one else is around to witness it. His back remains to you, and you are, momentarily, left blinking, stunned at the abruptness of the command.

You do not speak; neither does he.

Time presses you, moving relentlessly, budging when you don’t. It doesn’t stop at his request, nor does it hitch to indulge you. And his patience runs thin.

“Strip,” he repeats, turning to shoot you a withering glare. But his eyes are all wrong. Soft around the edges. 

A second of holding his gaze is all it takes for you to lower your own, bottom lip seeking comfort between your teeth. You swallow before peeling back a layer: gear. 

Then another, harder to remove than the first: your jacket; followed by your blouse (shredded around the edges, bearing holes in places it never used to, snarling rips running along the seams.)

They slip from your shoulders and pool behind you, the wood below creaking as you take a step forward, tugging your trousers by their cuffs, slipping a finger beneath the waistband before pushing them lower down your legs; boots discarded carelessly to the side.

He hisses at the mess.

When your eyes snap to his at the sound, he looks down between your legs pointedly, thin brow arching until you swallow around the lump in your throat. 

(Nothing has to be said; the silence is enough —

— it’s always enough.)

Bending at the knee and dragging air sharply through flared nostrils, you slip your underwear lower down your legs, working quickly with trembling fingers that could likely use a steadying hand (except you are alone, and his remain glued to the wooden railing behind him. Steady. Stable. As reliable as the rhythm with which he rises and falls on the swing of his blade.)

It trails down, following the movements of your hips, spreading open once they curve in the slightest, only to come together and tangle about your ankles.

“Everything,” he mutters, and you stare at the floorboards, toes curling within your socks, fidgeting nervously beneath his steady gaze.

Heat rises on the back of your neck, splotchy, uneven. Lingering until your body curls in an awkward shape — in an attempt to conceal your bits — and you pluck your socks off, followed by your cotton panties.

And —

— you’re bare before him. 

(You always are.)

“Come now,” he says gently.

(His eyes, however, burn.)

One small step becomes two, which transition into three, and suddenly, you are halfway there. Five strides until —

“To the tub,” he instructs, barely a whisper; barely anything at all, “before the water gets cold.”

You oblige until you slip into the porcelain of it, its temperature almost perfect as you melt into the water. Floating — drifting — lost to the tides. If the sight is enough to please him, however, Levi does not show it. His demeanour remains much the same: eerily calm, collected. Cautiously removed.

It persists as he strides, unhurried, towards you, grasping a washcloth from the tub’s rim and lathering it with soap. A fragrance so delicate wafts through the air — peony, lavender and a hint of vanilla — a fragrance so him, surrounding and enclosing on you until it threatens to seize your very lungs.

(The smell of death may cling to the backs of your teeth, or perhaps beneath your fingernails, buried too deep to dig out. But his tenderness washes it all away.

Now, you’ve made the water dirty. Filled it with grime.)

“Your arm, soldier.”

You robotically surrender it, offering the limb over the lip of the tub, palm facing up in supplication. In reverence.

His thin lips turn down as he inspects it, turns it over and clicks his tongue upon finding a bruise. Clicks again when he discovers a scratch.

The nudge comes as he soaps the inside of your wrist with soothing circular motions; spreading until it trickles up the valley of your forearm, leaving blossoms of white froth in its path. From the valley it divides into two, branching into streams that run parallel as they part ways around your bicep, clinging to the dips and curves of you.

“How do you feel?” He asks without meeting your gaze, focused, wholly, on massaging the inside of your elbow.

“Tired.”

It’s all you can give.

It’s as honest as it is ambiguous, laden with all the heaviness bearing down on your shoulders, dragging you down to the deepest depths of the waters, swallowing you.

But Levi nods, accepts it.

He brings the washcloth to your neck, following the swooping lines of your collarbones, the undersides of your jaw, its grooves. Your shoulders bear the marks of his touch, soon followed by the plains of your chest.

You’re so focused on watching his movements as he trails the cloth over you — from collarbone to shoulder, shoulder to the valley between your breasts — that you nearly miss what comes next.

“I...I’m glad you’re alright, soldier,” he mutters, a slip so sudden and small.

Like the flush tingeing his cheeks and the way it runs up his neck, or the furrow of his brow and the line between, ever prominent.

“I —” your voice, weak in its own right, nearly dies. Strangled in a web of muted hope. You shake yourself loose of its hold, “thank you, captain.”

The expression he flashes you is one of pain, or perhaps disappointment.

He doesn’t acknowledge your gratitude, only nods and drops his gaze to the nape of your neck, tracing the lines there with his gaze. A touch so soft and wistful it could never leave an imprint, doesn’t even burn.

And yet it does. Your chest feels ablaze, your flesh singed.

And it sears more as he brings the cloth to your face, cleaning your chin carefully, swiping away the flakes of blood from the jut of your cheekbones, beneath the curvature of your nose, the expanse of your eyelids.

This, too, is something intimate, has your heart stuttering and your breath stalling, has your face flaring with the heat only shame can bear, but no less welcoming than the rest of his careful ministrations.

From your forehead to the space behind your ear, an exuberance of bliss settles between your ribs. Latching on with pointed fingers that threaten to rip. It could hardly be called anything less.

You shudder out a long exhale as you relax back against the rim, the pads of his fingers trailing beneath your brows, brushing over your lids, again, and again, and again. Until your skin glides with ease, wet and soapy and clean.

The touch lingers. It lingers.

Until he goes still, and the cloth goes with him.

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[cabinette]

missed me?

[celestie0]

childhood friends to lovers with gojo.

warnings/tags. fluff & angst, sad ending

you two were five when he kisses ur cheek on the playground underneath the slide n you both thought that counted as a first kiss. u two were attached by the hip all throughout elementary school, i mean srs, your parents would even have joint parent teacher conferences bc there was just nothing the two of you wouldn't do together.

and then middle school came around, you joined the marching band n he joined the football team. he starts acting different around you, and it hurts. bc you two were best friends. you were always supposed to be best friends. he starts hanging out w the popular kids, and you find yourself walking home alone. summer before high school, he wants to hang out again, but you tell him you deserve better than that. and you two drift apart.

it's hard starting high school without him, watching him from afar during lunch in the cafeteria. he's with his table of phonies, acting like someone he's not, and you know because you've always known him. better than anyone else. you really wanna join the cheer team, since you've done gymnastics for a long time, but you've always been too afraid to tryout for the team. this time, you do, and you get in. now all of a sudden he wants to talk to you again, now that you're popular in high school and have earned a place on the field during his games. fuck that, you say to him, you threw away what we had just because i wasn't good enough for you to have by your side. you start dating his teammate, you two are nominated for prom queen & king, and he has to watch as you kiss someone else on stage when you win. someone that should've been him. he starts dating the cheer captain, just to show it off when he comes running to her after a winning game, kissing her right in front of you but he's not looking at her, he's looking at you. to make sure you're watching. and you do the same thing to him. and the whole time you two are wondering what are we doing to one another?

summer after high school, he shows up to your doorstep one day on his skateboard. with a box full of all the letters you used to send him as a kid. you still have yours too, somewhere tucked underneath your bed. you spend the whole afternoon laughing with him as you read through them all, laying on the carpet of your living room, and you both feel like kids again. he hovers over you when he kisses you, but you're still mad at him, and to show him how mad you are, you kiss him back. it's no use, you two are going to different colleges, you'll hardly see him, but he swears he'll call. he swears he'll fly to see you. he swears he'll never makes the same mistakes again, because he wants you. and only you. you kiss his cheek, and say okay.

and he does. he does everything he promises you. but the distance is too hard, and he was a little too late. you break up with him over a twenty-one character text sent while you're drunk at a house party your second semester at university, and he just doesn't understand. he'll never understand. and he never sees you again.

until you're both thirty-two, standing in line at the grocery store. he taps your shoulder, you turn around, you wonder if it's a stranger who wants a favor, and you realize he's so much more than that. he's the little boy that kissed your cheek underneath the slide when you were five. your first kiss. except it wasn't, was it? his face is long, and his cheeks have lost plush, but he looks so handsome it makes your heart skip a beat. you two are pleasant, exchanging it's been so long! and you look great! but when his eyes catch the twinkle of the wedding ring on your finger, his smile drops ever so slightly, and when he scratches his cheek to hide the sadness, you notice a band on his finger too. and he pays for your groceries, just to be kind. and you thank him for it, just to be kind. and you go your separate ways, never to speak again. but there's a box that still sits somewhere in your closet. and a similar one still sits in his too.

[pfffsfic]

I thought too hard about the circumstances of the (not really an AU, more of a series of loosely connected drawings) Rob Cipher AU. unfortunately, I came up with this.

[peppermintquartz]

Whoever let Denny have a bunch of temporary tattoos should get a medal, Buck thinks. His arms are now like some artist's sketchbook, full of random bits of art, and Tommy's legs below the knees are also tatted up (temporarily).

And while Tommy has always looked hot, he is incredibly sexy now with (fake) ink on his skin. A little hint of danger. If not for the fact that he and Tommy are watching Denny, Mara and Jee for the evening, Buck would drag his boyfriend to the nearest horizontal surface and have his way with him.

Taking a deep breath, Buck focuses on cooking dinner. Tommy and Denny are teaching Jee and Mara a new game, something that involves freezing on the spot when the tagged person turns around. And Buck is also not thinking about how domestic this is, and how easy it feels - Tommy taking charge of the kids, while Buck settles a different task. After this, they'll divide up the tasks: Buck will oversee Jee's bath time, Mara will take her own shower and Denny will help with her hair, Tommy will clean up the kitchen and start the dishwasher.

I want the rest of my life with this man, Buck thinks when he hears a dramatic cry of dismay from Tommy in the living room, and Jee and Mara are laughing happily. The thought blooms warm and bright in his chest.

It's not the first time he's thought this. Which is why, in the boot of his Jeep in a dusty little pouch tucked into a corner, he keeps a small jeweler's box.

He'll ask tonight after they get home. Grinning to himself, Buck plates the sweet and sour chicken and calls out for everyone to wash their hands.

[sualne]

some later kidlu stuff (part 2 - nsfw)

[ganondoodle]

(OC redesign?)

so here is Shargons (he/they) possible redesign (of his humanoid form; basic, with clothes and one with the coat)

also wrote a few basic notes about him on there but my hand hurts now so i will write more about him in a reblog if theres interest ( •̀ ω •́ )y