A Doordash Ad Just Called Me A Good Boy

julien baker being a butch lesbian with top surgery who still uses she/her pronouns means so so so much to me

I’m sorry, but imagine being mad at former Avenger, current Captain America, first person to speak up against The Accords, has spent his entire MCU tenure fighting against corruption (while also fighting the Big Bads), Sam Wilson, because he doesn’t want a bunch of misfits, including the guy who tried to kill him with his own shield, running around working for the head of THE MOTHERFUCKING CIA and calling themselves Avengers???

Jfc put on your thinking caps already

service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter service top james potter

can i be the laurie to your jo (please find this entertaining i felt so smart for thinking of it)

real picture of us

side note i love this movie so bad. easy letterboxd top 4

YAY JAMES ON THE WAY (at some point...)

the way i report to your asks the second something crazy happens on cai is embarrassing but i was testing your new james bot and OH!!!

in conclusion i need more jamie bots baby bc tiktok showed me abhay verma as james and something awakened within me

ABHAY VERMA JAMES IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME!!! i used atj picture purely bc i made a folder n couldn’t find enough pictures of him for consistent icons 💔 but yeah james potter brown boy is canon to me 🙏

i have 2 james drafts rn (fics not bots) but i’m currently incapable of committing to finishing anything i fear

#And he's dead serious (and right)

Everyone acting like Sam fans are just humorless bitter meanies is killing me tbh 😭

Ummm sorry, but I think we’ve been pretty chill for a good ten years now lol. I mean, they didn’t even let the man be a social worker from Harlem for goodness sakes!! Erased his comic history with Steve and significant chunks of their friendship, largely forgot about his family and friends, sidelined and forgot about Sam himself too. For years! Gave him a show instead of a movie, and hired a guy who clearly hates him to write it. Then years of zero cameos, not even a shoutout or two. Finally gave him a movie, that was really good by the way, but then when they do manage to finally acknowledge him in another project it’s just to insult him. And, whole time that all this is happening, they’re glazing the hell out of a whole slew of other characters who objectively deserve the hype less than Sam.

Actually, yeah, we’ve been gracious af.

yay i love spidey-boy!!

wait you write for marvel!!! ooh for the follower game could i get a blurb with peter parker or joaquin torres with like a cooking late at night kind of vibe?

200 FOLLOWERS GAME.

oh my god, hi !! yes i do write for marvel! (well, kind of) 💕 also thank you for following me and supporting my account, it means a lot to me!

unfortunately i feel like i know way more about peter parker than joaquin torres right now, so i made it about spidey-boy, i hope you don’t mind! this was so cute to write too 🥹

It starts with a rumble in Peter’s stomach and a whispered, “You awake?” at 1:43 a.m. when he gets home from patrol. His feet walked him to your shared room.

You blink up at him from your shared tangle of sheets, half-conscious, but nod anyway. He grins, boyish and sheepish, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“Cool. Wanna make grilled cheese with me?”

And just like that, you’re padding down to the kitchen in mismatched pajamas, the overhead light too harsh for the hour, so Peter flips it off and sticks to the glow of the stovetop and the fridge light. The whole apartment feels wrapped in quiet—just the soft clink of utensils, the low hum of the city outside the window, and Peter humming under his breath as he pulls ingredients from the fridge like he’s on a mission.

He’s still wearing his Spider-Man suit from earlier, unzipped halfway with the sleeves tied around his waist, hair a little sweat-damp and wild. He moves around the kitchen like he’s still burning off adrenaline, bouncing on his heels, dancing to nothing in particular as he layers cheese between slices of bread.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. He notices your sleepy smile and gives you one of his own—wide and bright, like the sun decided to live in his face.

“You’re staring,” he teases, holding up a slice of cheddar like it’s a trophy. “Because I’m handsome, right?”

“Because you’re a menace,” you reply, but you’re already taking the offered cheese and biting into it.

He laughs. “Same thing.”

The grilled cheese sizzles on the pan, golden edges crisping up as Peter gently flips it with exaggerated concentration. He talks about his patrol—about the guy who tried to mug someone with a rubber chicken (“I wish I was joking”), about the cat he helped off a fire escape, about the kid who called him “Spider Dad” and made him seriously question his public image.

You sit on the counter as he cooks, legs swinging, and Peter keeps leaning over to kiss you—quick, soft pecks on your knee, your cheek, your shoulder—like he can’t not touch you. Like even in the stillness of your tiny kitchen, he needs to remind himself you’re here. That this is real.

When the sandwiches are done, he cuts them diagonally (because “that’s the superior shape, don’t argue”) and slides one onto a plate for you. You both eat sitting on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, knees touching.

There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the low crackle of city life outside, the warmth of melted cheese, and the way Peter looks at you between bites—like the world could end in the next five minutes and he’d die perfectly happy, as long as you were sitting right here beside him.

Afterward, when your plates are empty and his head is resting on your shoulder, he lets out a soft sigh.

“This,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “This is my favorite kind of night.”

You nudge your head against his. “Even better than swinging from rooftops?”

He hums thoughtfully, but he’s already lacing his fingers through yours. “Way better. Rooftops don’t feed me grilled cheese or kiss me when I smell like sweat and danger.” You laugh, and he smiles like it’s his favorite sound.

Eventually, he stands and pulls you up by the hand, murmuring something about bed and warmth and “let me hold you before I pass out standing up.” And you go, because there’s no better way to end the night than curled into Peter Parker, who might be half-exhausted and a little cheesy—but is yours. Entirely.

And in a quiet apartment at 2:18 a.m., that’s more than enough.

FAIRY!ART HEADCANONS

pairing: fairy!art x cottagecore princess!fem!reader

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

⟡ art is the kind of fairy that looks like he was born from a wish—soft-spoken and starlit, with wings that shimmer like frost on spider silk. they catch the light in rippling colors, translucent as soap bubbles, delicate but fast. when he flutters around you, they make the faintest hum, like the air itself sighs in his presence. you swear they glow stronger when he’s near you—especially when he’s flustered. which is often.

⟡ he’s angelic in the way dew is angelic. not perfect. not polished. but fragile and wild and full of wonder. he wears a tunic of moss velvet and sun-dyed silk, stitched with golden beetle-thread. his hair is a halo of honey curls that never fall the same way twice, always a little windswept, like he’s just tumbled out of a flower bed. his cheeks are berry-pink and his nose is dusted with freckles, as if he’s been kissed by clover pollen. he smells like crushed violets and rain.

⟡ “you left out honey again,” he mumbles once, not looking at you. he’s hiding in your herb shelf, crouched behind the rosemary, eyes wide and guilty. “so i… thought you wouldn’t mind if i took a bit.” you don’t mind. not even a little. but you pretend to be stern anyway. just to see the way his wings droop. just to make him pout.

⟡ he calls you “the big one” when he doesn’t think you can hear. like you’re a marvel. a myth. a towering creature of warm hands and soft breath and gentle curiosity. sometimes he calls you “my lady,” half-teasing, twirling a blade of grass like a rapier. but when you stroke his wings—carefully, reverently—he gets quiet. “you shouldn’t touch them,” he whispers once, his voice a tremble. “they’re… they’re very delicate.” and then, softer: “but… you can. if you want.”

⟡ he brings you tiny, ridiculous things: a thimble of moonlight. a moth’s eye, opalescent and still. a string of pearls no bigger than dewdrops, fastened together with spiderweb thread. once, a shard of mirror, cracked and glinting, so you can “see yourself how he sees you.” you don’t dare ask what that means. but your throat tightens anyway.

⟡ he’s shy with affection. not because he’s afraid of you—but because he’s so clearly not. you’re something bigger. older, maybe. like the forest itself whispered you into being. when you brush his curls back or cup him in your hand, his breath catches. when you hum while you work and he lays in the crook of your neck, his whole body stills—like he’s listening to the bones beneath your skin sing. “you smell like warm sugar,” he says one morning, all tangled in your scarf. “and… safety.”

⟡ sometimes you find him asleep on your windowsill, wings curled in like petals closing for the night. sometimes curled in the hollow of your palm, arms tucked under his cheek, breath rising and falling like a cat’s. he mumbles in his sleep. always your name. or maybe just your scent. or maybe the little nickname he made up for you that no one else knows: “my thornless rose.”

⟡ he gets jealous. adorably, irrationally jealous. of squirrels. of bees. of the wind when it tangles in your hair. “i was going to do that,” he grumbles once, watching a butterfly land on your wrist. “stupid flutter-bitch.” he doesn’t mean it. but you still laugh so hard you drop your basket of blackberries.

⟡ he is terrified of cats. once, you came home to find him clinging upside-down to the rafters, shouting: “death beast! orange! hungry!” it took two spoonfuls of honey and three kisses to coax him down. he refuses to speak to the cat now. but he’ll sit on your shoulder and glower at it with his arms crossed like a miniature warlock.

⟡ your favorite thing is how easily he laughs. not giggles. not chuckles. laughs. big, bright bursts of sound like sunlight spilled in a field. like he’s never been taught to keep joy quiet. he’ll dance in your teacups and leap across your rolling pin, leaving smudges of berry juice behind, just to make you smile. “do you like it when i do that?” he asks, flushed and breathless. you say yes. so he does it again. and again.

⟡ “you don’t want a crown?” he asks once, tiny legs dangling from the rim of your mixing bowl. you’re elbow-deep in flour. you shake your head. “good,” he says. quieter. “you don’t need one. you already feel like a kingdom.”

⟡ when you’re sad, he doesn’t ask questions. he just lays himself across your heart and sings in that strange, lilting tongue you don’t recognize but somehow understand. the language of rain and roots and wings. it feels like someone brushing your soul with the back of their hand. afterward, you sleep better. always.

⟡ sometimes he forgets how small he is. puffs his chest out. tries to protect you from bees and beetles and the odd nosy owl. “i’ll hex it,” he says darkly, waving a twig like a sword. “don’t you dare, artemis,” you whisper. he pouts. “that’s not my name.” you arch a brow. he blushes. “but i like when you say it.”

⟡ he leaves you love notes. or what he thinks are love notes. scribbled on birch bark, inked with berry juice, full of half-spelled flowers and symbols only fae understand. once you deciphered one. it said: your laugh makes the trees hold their breath. you folded it into your locket. he pretends not to notice. but he glows the first time he sees you wear it.

⟡ he loves when you hum. loves when you knead bread. loves when your hands are smudged with jam and he can kiss the tips of your fingers like a knight returning from war. “i could live in your pocket forever,” he says once, curled into a spool of thread. “i’d never ask for a crown. just crumbs and kisses.”

⟡ he wants to protect you. in the only way a fairy can. with enchantments. with bloom. with joy so old it tastes like the first spring. he weaves soft spells into your aprons. presses tiny sigils into the mud near your doorstep. he never says what they’re for. but the wolves stay away. and your dreams stay warm.

⟡ “you’re not what i expected,” he whispers, once. you’re half-asleep. fire crackling. his tiny form tucked under your chin. “i thought princesses were cold. porcelain. like glass you couldn’t touch. but you… you’re soft.” his wings flutter. his voice hitches. “you made space for me. in your hands. in your heart.”

⟡ art smells like all the sweetest things in the world—crushed sugar petals, sun-warmed clover, the faint fizz of lemonade in late spring. when he curls into the pocket of your apron, you swear the scent clings to the fabric for hours. it’s like having a piece of a dream stitched to your hip.

⟡ he doesn’t just flutter—he twirls, spins, zips in little loops like a dandelion seed caught in a spell. when he’s happy, his wings sparkle like frost caught on silk thread. when he’s really happy, they chime. softly. like bells far away in a fog. once, you heard it and forgot what sadness felt like for a whole minute.

⟡ when he gets excited, he can’t help but glow a little—literally. a faint golden shimmer pulses under his skin, especially at the tips of his ears and in the whorls of his tiny knuckles. “stop looking,” he squeaks when you notice. “i’m not blushing. i’m—charged. from pollen. obviously.”

⟡ he’s hopeless with doors. they’re too big. too stubborn. so he knocks—gently, rapidly, with both fists—until you come open them. once you asked why he doesn’t just slip under. “rude,” he said with an offended flick of his wing. “besides. you always answer.”

⟡ he nests. shamelessly. your wool basket? claimed. the curve of your favorite teacup? claimed. the bonnet you left on the windowsill? conquered. he drags little scraps of felt and flower fluff into tiny dens, curls up with a satisfied sigh, and guards them like a baby dragon guarding glitter. “this is where i do my dreaming,” he explains solemnly. “it needs to be soft.”

⟡ he sings to your garden when he thinks you aren’t listening. high, silvery notes that make the tomato vines shiver and the snapdragons bloom sideways. you caught him once, mid-aria, standing on a mushroom with his arms flung wide like a tiny opera star. he hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment.

⟡ “you shouldn’t keep me,” he says once, looking up from the curled curve of your palm. “fairies are wild. feral. mischievous.” and then, quieter: “but… i think i like being yours.”

⟡ he once got stuck in your bread dough. just stuck, like a honeybee in jam. you had to carefully peel him out and rinse him with warm water, and he just sat on your drying rack afterward, wrapped in a linen napkin like a soggy prince, pouting and mumbling about “ambush kneading.” you laughed until you cried. he tried to stay grumpy. he failed.

⟡ he gets hiccups when he eats too much jam. tiny, airborne hiccups that make him hover an inch off the ground every time. once he got so flustered, he flew into your cupboard and stayed there until you promised not to tell the bees.

⟡ he’s utterly, completely enamored with your voice. whether you’re talking, humming, sighing—it all makes his wings twitch. sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just so he can lie there and listen to you whisper nonsense to the kettle. “it’s like honey being poured into my ears,” he told you once. then blinked. “that sounded gross. but i meant it nice.”

⟡ he gets tangled in your hair constantly. it’s not on purpose. (except when it is.) he’ll pretend he just happened to land there, but you’ll feel his hands combing through a curl and hear him mutter, “mine,” under his breath like a dragon counting gold.

⟡ when he really misses you—like when you’re out all day gathering herbs or walking into town—he leaves flower petals in your shoes. little folded ones, marked with silvery ink that reads things like come home soon, miss your hands, and i tried talking to the cat. she hates me still.

⟡ you once made him a cloak from the corner of an old silk scarf. he lost his mind. wouldn’t take it off for days. kept swooping dramatically around the kitchen like a leaf in a gust of wind. “do i look noble?” he asked, striking a pose atop your butter dish. you said yes. he hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

⟡ he measures time in pastries. “has it been one tart since you smiled?” “that was three scones ago.” “you promised to kiss me before the next muffin, and this—” dramatic pause “—is a muffin.”

⟡ “i don’t know what love is like for humans,” he says once, brushing pollen from your knuckles. “but if it’s like what i feel when you say my name… then i think i do.”

⟡ he doesn’t like thunderstorms. they make his wings heavy, and the air too sharp. but he’ll never say he’s scared. he just curls under your collar, shivering slightly, and says, “it’s cozy in here.” and you pretend not to notice the way he buries his face in your neck.

⟡ he once tried to impress you by catching a firefly. it ended badly. his hair singed. the firefly escaped. but he held out the glow cupped in his palms like treasure anyway and said, very seriously, “i brought you a star.”

⟡ his favorite place in the world is your shoulder. from there, he can press his face into your neck, listen to your breath, and whisper the tiniest compliments in your ear. “you smell like a story,” he said once. “the kind i’d live in.”

⟡ “if i was your size,” he says once, curled under your chin with his hand pressed over your pulse, “i’d kiss you until the stars begged us to stop.” you choke on your tea. he grins. and adds, “but for now… i’ll just listen to how your heart speeds up when i say things like that.”

⟡ “i think i’m in love,” he blurts one evening, after a honey tart and a lot of staring. you glance at him. he clears his throat. “with… um. teacups. and linen. and… and girls with wild hair and big hands who tuck me into thimbles like i’m something worth keeping.” you don’t say anything. you just scoop him into your palm, and he leans into it like a sunflower.

girl they're literally us btw

MY SHAYLAS THEY R SO CUTE omg i forgot they were friends #topgun

literally Us. the danny to my lewis