Hi Jo Sorry If This Isn’t What You Normally Write And You Can Ignore It If You Want. I Would Just Love

just reread ppp on ao3 send help

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.

a doordash ad just called me a good boy

..I fear Thunderbolts bought out the most annoying John Walker fans..ever.

"He killed a terrorist! Hes better than Sam" you either didnt watch Falcon and the Winter soldier at ALL, or you're a weird, illiterate loser who just hates black characters. Like..people who think John is this cool character who did nothing wrong piss me the hell off.

He has an inferiority complex and he thinks he deserves the shield and a better title simply cuz he was a good SOLDIER. Like..that was his damn job. He didnt do it cuz he cared about helping and he doesnt deserve the fucking shield.

Also..the flag smasher he killed wasn't a terrorist, like..the whole point was they were being forgotten and shoved away cuz everyone who got snapped came back AND THEY HAD NO WHERE TO GO, then John, killed him even AFTER HE WAS ACTIVELY SURROUNDING. John was a giant fucking baby throughout the entire show and made Sam's life WAY harder cuz he couldn't deal with the fact he wasn't Captain America.

And then he goes up and he neglects his fucking son cuz hes reading articles about himself, and he screams at his wife??? And..this is your goat?? Really. You cant bash Sam for fucking existing and then claim John is this complex, interesting hero when he fucking isn't.

John was FUNNY in Thunderbolts and useful on the occasion. That doesnt make him the new Captain America, nor does it even make him good. Like..if you hate Sam and love John, Im just gonna assume you're racist cuz..aint no other explanation 🤨

TIMECAST - Roaring Twenties

The Pink Pony Club

pianist!art donaldson x burlesque dancer!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The music was never written down.

Art played it like a secret, fingers moving from muscle memory, heart memory. No sheet. No name. Just a tune he’d stumbled into one night after watching her dance and never managed to shake loose.

It didn’t match the other numbers. Too slow. Too sad. It had no business lingering beneath rhinestones and tassels. But it fit her. The real her. The one he only caught glimpses of between routines—when the lights dimmed and the sweat on her shoulders hadn’t yet cooled.

Carmen—though that wasn’t her name, he was sure—had a laugh like a brass bell and walked like she’d never been taught to apologize. On stage, she glowed. A constellation of sequins and hips, dazzling and deliberate. Offstage, she smoked French cigarettes and swore like a man on leave.

Art kept his eyes down when he played. Most nights.

Except for hers.

She was halfway through her number, some wild, thumping thing with feathers and a chair, when she caught him.

Not just looking. Watching.

Her mouth curved mid-spin, slow and dangerous. She pivoted, winked, and blew him a kiss so theatrical the crowd howled.

He fumbled the next chord.

The number ended. Applause. Laughter. A crash of cymbals. Carmen disappeared behind the velvet curtain, and Art was left blinking at ivory keys like they’d betrayed him.

It wasn’t until an hour later, after the last call had been whispered through shadowed booths and the club was quieter than a prayer, that she approached.

He was still at the piano. Always was. Tinkering with chords like they might one day answer a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She perched on the edge of the piano bench without asking. One long leg crossed over the other. Glitter smudged along her collarbone like stardust.

“That song,” she said. “The slow one. The one you always play when I dance. Is that for me?”

Art didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “Play what fits.”

A beat of silence.

Then Carmen laughed, soft and sharp. “You’re lucky I like flattery, sweetheart.”

She slid off the bench and disappeared into the dressing room corridor, scent trailing behind her like rose perfume and danger.

Art stared at the keys a long time before touching them again.

—

The Pink Pony Club was never silent, not really.

Even after the doors locked and the girls peeled rhinestones from their skin, there was always a hum. A low, ambient hush like the place had its own pulse. The walls held secrets in their velvet folds. Lipstick prints on half-drunk glasses. Ghosts of applause in the rafters.

Carmen lit a cigarette with one hand, the other holding her silk robe shut at the chest. She was perched on the piano bench again, bare legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe. The smoke curled around her like mood lighting.

Art played.

He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just let his fingers move—minor chords, soft harmonies, a lazy rhythm like the stretch after a long, slow kiss.

She hummed along under her breath.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, eyes closed.

“Sometimes,” he said.

Carmen cracked one eye open. “That a joke?”

He shrugged.

She took another drag. “You always play like you’re dreaming.”

“That’s when it sounds right.”

Silence again, except for the music.

Carmen reached into her robe pocket and pulled something folded and worn. She slid it across the top of the piano toward him. Art stopped playing.

It was a flyer. Faded. Creased from being carried too long. A girl in feathers smiled from the page, kicking her legs in silhouette. The headline read “Amateur Night—$20 Prize” in a cheap, jagged font.

“That’s me,” she said.

He looked up.

“I was seventeen,” Carmen said. “Didn’t even know how to sew a snap into a bodice yet. I borrowed shoes from a girl I met in the train station bathroom.”

Art didn’t ask how she got there. He just waited.

She tapped ash into a teacup. “I didn’t win. But Miss Kitty saw me. Told me I had legs like a chorus line and the face of a woman who’d never lose a fight.”

Art stared at her for a moment.

Then, carefully, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound book. He laid it between them. Inside, faded pencil notations danced across yellowed pages. Sheet music. Some finished. Some not.

Carmen raised a brow. “This your diary?”

He gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t… write things down. Not really. But this is how I keep them.”

She touched the edge of a page, delicately, like it might flake apart.

“Play me one of these,” she said. “Something no one’s heard before.”

Art hesitated.

Then he turned the book, laid it flat, and began to play.

The song was slow. Not sad, but wistful—like a window left open on purpose. A melody that didn’t ask anything of you, just stayed awhile and listened.

When it ended, Carmen blinked and cleared her throat like she hadn’t meant to.

“You got a name for that one?”

He shook his head.

She leaned back. “Call it Glitter.”

Art looked at her.

She smiled, a real one this time. Smaller. Softer. “That’s what it sounded like. Glitter in a drain.”

—

They called her Sugar Lace.

She arrived on a Tuesday with a battered suitcase and a voice that tried too hard to purr. Said she came from St. Louis, used to work the Rivoli, knew how to handle men and high kicks in equal measure.

Her curls were firetruck red. Her heels were too tall for the way she walked. Her perfume came in waves, like someone had spilled it on her train ticket.

Carmen clocked her before she even finished her introduction.

Too gay. Too eager. Too much brass, not enough brass band.

But Miss Kitty took her in anyway. Because Kitty always did.

Kitty didn’t turn girls away. She took the raw ones, the bent ones, the ones with lipstick too dark and shoes too big. She’d press a compact into their hands, teach them how to glide instead of walk, and make them family before anyone else could ruin them first.

“You don’t have to be the best,” Kitty said once, holding a girl while she cried in a beaded bra. “You just have to be yours. Everything else is rehearsal.”

Still, Carmen had earned the late night slot with blood, bruises, and boa fluff. So when Sugar Lace strutted onstage in Carmen’s eleven o’clock spot four days later, something behind her ribs twisted sharp.

From his bench, Art noticed too.

He always did.

⸻

Carmen was in the wings, arms crossed, one brow arched like a challenge. Her corset still clung to her ribs from the earlier number. She hadn’t even taken her lashes off yet. That’s how fast the schedule had flipped.

Miss Kitty stood behind her, cigarette smoke curling around her like a halo. “She’s a novelty act. Just passing through. Don’t bristle.”

“She’s flailing.”

“She’s trying.”

“She stole my slot.”

Kitty smirked. “No one steals from you, baby. Not without consequences.”

Carmen’s eyes flicked to the stage.

Sugar Lace was mid-routine, something involving a velvet swing and a poorly timed glove toss. The crowd liked it well enough—men laughed too loud and slapped tables—but there was no rhythm. No tease. Just noise and skin.

And the piano?

It didn’t sing.

Carmen’s head snapped toward the bench.

Art’s fingers were still moving, but the tempo was wrong. The chords a little off. The cue for the bridge came too early, then too late. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Sugar tripped her exit spin, laughed like it was part of the act, and jogged backstage to scattered applause.

Kitty didn’t say a word.

Carmen did.

She waited until the next act had started—one of the twins with champagne bottles and a comedy bit—then found Art exactly where he always was after a misstep: by the side piano, fussing with a page of fake sheet music like it might confess for him.

“You messed up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.

He didn’t look at her. “Sorry.”

“You don’t mess up.”

“I just wasn’t… focused.”

“Try again.”

Art glanced up, eyes meeting hers, cheeks already flushing.

“She took your number,” he said softly. “I didn’t like it.” He shrugged.

Silence.

Then she leaned down, placed a hand on the bench beside his, and kissed his cheek. A quiet press of mouth to skin. Nothing flashy. Just real.

“Don’t go starting a fire on my account, piano man,” she whispered. “Unless you want me to dance in the flames.”

⸻

Later that night, the girls were curled up in the dressing room like cats after a long hunt. Robes slipped from shoulders. Stockings dangled from the edge of the vanity. Glitter stuck to everything—skin, mirrors, even the doorknob.

Goldie passed around a tin of balm for bruised feet. Jo flipped through a gossip rag, reading the horoscopes out loud in her fake radio voice.

Lorna was painting her nails with bootleg polish, one leg kicked up on the makeup table. “Carmen, you hear your replacement?”

“She’s not my replacement,” Carmen said, biting into an apple like it had personally offended her.

“She cracked her knuckle on the swing,” Jo offered. “Heard it from Theo.”

“She’s got nerves,” Kitty said, appearing from the hall with a fresh martini in hand. “She’ll learn.”

“She doesn’t listen,” Carmen muttered.

“She’s scared,” Kitty replied. “You remember what that felt like?”

Carmen didn’t answer. Only clicked her tongue in annoyance.

Goldie grinned. “Art sure listened.”

Jo whooped. “You see that chord sabotage?”

Lorna raised her glass. “To shy boys with good ears.”

They clinked imaginary glasses and howled with laughter. Carmen rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

Across the room, tucked half out of view, Art sat alone with a paper napkin full of notes, scrawled staves, and tiny sketches of stars in the margins.

He wasn’t laughing. But he looked like he wanted to.

And Carmen? She looked at him and felt it.

The spark.

—

It started with a kiss behind the prop curtain.

It was after a long set. Carmen still glittered at the collarbones, sweat like pearls at her hairline, her robe clutched loosely over her costume. Art had just finished packing up the second piano—his fingers still tingling from playing her exit number like it was a love letter he wasn’t allowed to send.

She passed him in the hallway, didn’t even pause, just grabbed his tie and pulled him into the dark behind the curtain.

The kiss was fast. Heat and lipstick. A bite on the bottom lip.

She didn’t say anything after. Just slipped away like nothing had happened.

But it did.

God, it did.

⸻

The next time was in the back storage closet between sets. She cornered him while he was reaching for a fresh music stand. Kissed him again—slower this time, mouths fitting like they’d rehearsed it. Her thigh pressed between his. His hands, awkward and reverent, found her waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold her even now.

She broke the kiss and whispered, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He nodded.

It already meant everything.

⸻

It kept happening.

A dressing room when no one was looking. An empty stairwell at midnight. Once, breathless, against the hallway wall while the show thundered through the floorboards above them.

She touched him like she needed something from him—release, relief, quiet. He let her take it. Gave himself up in pieces.

But he never touched her like that.

He touched her like a hymn.

⸻

Art didn’t know how to be casual.

He tried. He told himself he could. But every time Carmen kissed him, he melted into it like sugar in heat. Every sigh was a song he wanted to write. Every time she undid her robe for him, he wanted to kneel.

She’d press him against the cool tile of the back room, kiss his throat, pull open his shirt with impatient hands. He’d slide his palms up her thighs, feel silk and strength and softness. He’d breathe her in like she was the only real thing in the city.

She’d laugh—low, wicked—and tell him not to get sentimental.

And he never said it out loud, but—

Too late.

⸻

One night, after, they lay tangled in the dressing room chaise, her head on his chest, their clothes half-askew.

He traced the edge of her arm with two fingers. Light, like a breeze. Her skin raised under it.

“You always touch me like I’m breakable,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” he whispered back.

“But you think I am.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the back of her hand.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly.

But it was something blooming wild and impossible in the dark—like orchids in a whiskey glass.

—

“Okay,” Jo said, leaning across the vanity with a cherry popsicle between her teeth, “so when are you gonna admit you’re absolutely, catastrophically, full-body stupid over the piano man?”

Carmen blinked. “Jesus, can I breathe?”

“Nope,” said Goldie, kicking her heels up on the chaise. “You’ve been walking around with that just-fucked shimmer for weeks.”

“You’re glowing like a cabaret Virgin Mary,” Lorna added, rifling through someone else’s lipstick bag. “Spill it.”

Carmen didn’t mean to.

But it was late, and her robe was falling off one shoulder, and she still smelled like his cologne from when he pulled her into the stairwell between sets. And her thighs? Still trembling a little.

So she smirked, twisted open her perfume bottle, and said, “Fine.”

Jo straightened.

“I’m fucking him,” Carmen said.

Screaming. Absolute chaos.

Goldie fell off the couch.

Lorna choked on her gum.

Jo slapped the mirror. “Oh my god. You’re fucking Art?”

Carmen lounged. “I’ve fucked him in the linen closet. Twice in the prop cage. Almost on the piano bench, but he got shy.”

“You corrupted a musician,” Goldie gasped from the floor.

“He said ‘oh fuck’ like it was a prayer,” Carmen said, grinning. “He says my name like it’s gonna kill him.”

Jo threw her popsicle. “You bitch.”

“He holds me like I’m gonna break,” Carmen continued, dreamy now, voice going all warm. “But he eats me out like he’s trying to ruin my afterlife.”

Lorna screamed. “I need him to teach a masterclass.”

“I’m gonna die right here,” Jo said, wheezing. “Art ‘I-blush-when-you-say-bra’ Donaldson? With the tongue of God?”

“And the hands,” Carmen added, dazed.

Goldie climbed back onto the couch like a ghost. “Tell me he calls you ‘ma’am.’ Tell me he whimpers.”

“Oh, he whimpers. He asks. He begs.”

The room exploded.

Jo was crying. Lorna rolled off the table. Goldie was chanting, “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” like a victory song.

Carmen tucked her chin into her palm, smug and soft at once. “And now,” she added, “he looks at me like he’s halfway in love and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

Silence.

Then a long, collective awwwwwwfuckkkk.

Jo wiped her face. “I’m gonna be sick. That’s adorable.”

“He’s gonna write you a fucking symphony,” Lorna said, starry-eyed.

“He did,” Carmen admitted, quiet now. “He played it for me after I let him take my stockings off with his teeth.”

Even Kitty—passing by the door—stuck her head in, arched a brow, and said, “Just make sure you’re not leaving a mess on the floorboards.”

Carmen winked. “No promises.”

—

It was half past three and the club was asleep.

The glitter had settled. The air was thick with old perfume and spilled gin. Somewhere, the record player was warbling a tune no one had flipped in hours.

Theo was behind the bar, wiping glasses and humming to himself, when Art slid onto the stool in front of him—shirt rumpled, tie loose, face a little too flushed for someone who definitely hadn’t been drinking.

Theo looked up. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

Art stared straight ahead. “I think I’m in love with Carmen.”

Theo blinked. “…Okay?”

Art buried his face in his hands. “She climbed on top of me and told me not to come unless she said so and then kissed my neck and I think I blacked out for ten minutes and also she stole my glasses after.”

Theo set the glass down carefully.

Art kept going. “She bit me. Like actually bit me. And I liked it. Like, a lot. And then she made this sound—like a gasp but also a laugh—and I swear to God my soul left my body.”

“Okay.” Theo leaned on the bar. “What exactly do you need from me here?”

Art looked up, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Advice? Perspective? A cigarette? A shovel to dig my grave?”

Theo sighed. “I pour drinks for a living. I once got broken up with because I didn’t know what ‘astrological incompatibility’ meant.”

“I’m so fucked,” Art said, voice rising. “She’s cool. She’s hot and charming and terrifying. She could eat me alive and I’d thank her. She laughs when I beg. And then she cuddles me like I’m breakable.”

“Sounds like you’re having a great time,” Theo said dryly.

Art slammed his head onto the bar. “She calls me baby. Like she means it. Like I’m hers.”

Theo slid a whiskey across to him. “Here. On the house. For your suffering.”

Art didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might hold answers.

Theo, against his better judgment, softened. “Look, man. She keeps coming back to you, right?”

Art nodded miserably.

“She kisses you after? Not just the… you know. Stuff?”

Art blushed. “Yeah.”

Theo shrugged. “Then maybe stop spiraling and let it be good. Not everything has to make sense. Especially not in this dump.”

Art looked up slowly. “She moaned my name.”

Theo put a hand up. “Nope. And we’re done here.”

Art smiled.

It was soft. Nervous. Stupidly, blissfully content.

“Thanks, Theo.”

“I did nothing.”

“You were here.”

“Tragically,” Theo muttered, walking away. “Fucking musicians.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She didn’t knock.

She never did. She just slipped in past the curtain like a secret, still in her robe, cheeks pink from the dressing room heat. Her heels were off. She walked barefoot across the sticky floor like she owned it.

Art was alone onstage, the club empty now except for the two of them. The lights were half-down, just enough for shadows to lean into everything. He was playing something soft. Something new.

She didn’t speak. Just slid onto the piano bench beside him like gravity had dragged her there.

He didn’t stop playing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Pressed her lips to his neck. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar.

He breathed out hard.

“You left a button undone,” she murmured. “I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“I didn’t—”

She unbuttoned the next one. Slow.

“You’ve got the softest fucking skin,” she said, and he swore his soul left his body.

“I, uh—”

She kissed his throat. Lower. Dragged her nails lightly down the back of his hand where it rested on the keys.

“I came here to say thank you,” she said, voice like warm smoke. “For letting me be a greedy, filthy, terrifying thing around you.”

He swallowed. “You’re not—”

She looked up at him. “I am. And you like it.”

He did.

He liked it more than he’d ever liked anything in his life.

“I can’t breathe when you look at me,” he admitted.

She straddled his lap.

“Good,” she said.

He kissed her like he was scared of being good at it. She bit his lip until he stopped being scared.

⸻

They didn’t have sex on the piano bench.

They almost did.

But then Carmen looked at him, fingers curled in his curls, and saw something tender in his eyes—something not just hard or needy, but open.

So she leaned in close, cheek pressed to his, and whispered:

“I want to hear the song you wrote me. The one you don’t want me to know about yet.”

Art froze.

Then—without a word—he adjusted the bench, flexed his fingers, and began to play.

Carmen sat in his lap, wrapped in robe and affection, listening to her heart get played in harmony.

The melody was all her edges.

And all his softness.

jo i just realised it's been like two days since we interacted i MISS youuuuu (said in the whiniest loser girl voice you've ever heard)

HIII pookie i miss you… joaquin coming tonight just for you

jo i love you so much for giving me exactly what i wanted here

also it's crazy the way everyone tries to act like patrick is solely a dom!top! when this is lit patrick

like yeah he's switchy but this is a brat. to me.

retweet. do i think he can dom and rail the shit out of you?? yes. is he the biggest brat to ever walk the earth?? ALSO YES

like the way he literally drags her fingers into his mouth... fuck !!!

slapping spitting choking. all of it. wants you to yank his hair and force him to make eye contact as you sink down onto him. hands obediently curled into fists by his sides bc you said he couldn't touch you until you got off first. "c'mon, harder. you're slapping like a girl. can barely even feel it" when you hit him. 'accidentally loses count' of how many just to prolong the entire thing. completely shameless about wearing the red brand on his cheek afterwards

or him acting up just to get a rise out of you. like you're in the middle of studying n just letting him toy with your fingers to shut him up for once. except he just ends up sliding them into his warm mouth, coating them in saliva and biting down on your knuckles. gives an innocent smile as he starts to pump them in and out, tongue circling keenly around your digits. he takes them all the way down to the second knuckle without so much as a gag. he's bored and just wants to get fucked!! n he knows the sight of drool spilling down his chin and your fingers curled in his mouth will get him what he wants.

definitely antagonises the shit out of you while he's getting pegged. "that all you got?" "i can feel you getting tired. y'giving up that easily?" his idea of a good time is you smothering his face in your pillows to shut him up, ass in the air and legs trembling under your spitefully rough thrusts. or the way he hooks his legs around art to pull him closer in the gif?? like ugh strong thighs urging him deeper, heels pressed into his ass to force him to bottom out. trying to sound smug but he's whining like a little bitch. he might be bottoming but he certainly doesn't act like it !!!

idk i think he just likes the game of "fighting for power." he knows it'll end w you riding him until he's begging to cum but he wouldn't be patrick if he wasn't difficult first. it's hotter to watch you get all pissed at him. put that little slut in his place

also he was Not joking ab the racket fucking thing. he'd let her do it. in fact he'd beg her to

well yes!!!

i love you <3

Do u mean it…

Radical Relations by Daniel Winunwe Rivers

having thoughts about t4t cowboy artrick | 18+ MDNI

two boys who met on a ranch out in a desert town, the distance from civilization and the quiet of the work keeping them safe from suspicion, from having to reveal secrets that they’d rather keep close to their chests. but they find comfort in each other—in the stupid, small smile Art affords Patrick across the field, in the flicks to the hat that Patrick fondly gives Art as he passes him on his spotted mare. they rarely speak for the first few months, but the farther down the line they get, the more comfortable they become with one another. soon they’re eating lunch side by side, taking jobs together, and Patrick even shares his cigarettes with Art when they have breaks to keep them from sweltering in the sun.

Patrick will ask Art what it’s like to be a blue-eyed cowboy, what with the sun sensitivity and all. it makes Art laugh, and it makes his stomach twist to know that Patrick looks at his eyes. Art asks Patrick about his mare: how long he’s had her, what her favorite snacks are, how she likes to be brushed. it only takes a few weeks for Patrick to notice that Art took his answers to heart, treating his girl the way she likes. it’s the little things that drive them closer together, that drive them to lingering looks and brushes of fingers as the pass saddles and ropes between them. it makes Art’s head spin when he catches Patrick’s eyes on him—it makes Patrick’s stomach clench when Art flashes him that smile. it’s all boiling under the surface until they both can’t handle it anymore.

all those big feelings come to pass when Patrick takes Art back to his room in the company building under the guise of “smoking and drinking” but they’re barely through the door before Art is pressed against the wall next to the, Patrick’s hands all over his toned body. Art moans softly, going pliant under his touch, his own hands cradling the back of Patrick’s head, tangling in his hair. “wanted this for so long…can barely stand the way you smile at me, fucking tease—“ Patrick moans out between kisses, his stomach twisting at the sound of Art’s returning whines and soft sounds. “my smile turn you on? that’s a new one.” the blonde shot back, laughing softly when Patrick lightly smacked his hip, lips moving down to his jaw. “don’t sass me..not right now..”

it was a shock that Art promptly shut his mouth, letting the brunette guide him to the bed and toss him down. he watched with rapt attention as he undressed himself, pulling off his shirt and his sweaty tank top before his hands reached for his belt. “wait.” Art said, sitting up and slowly crawling to the edge of the bed. he looped his fingers into Patrick’s belt loops, tugging him closer, eyes looking up into his. “may i..cowboy?” he asked in a soft tone, full of desire. Patrick swallowed tightly and gave a short nod, his lips parted. “yeah. go ahead.”

he watched with rapt attention as Art slowly undid his buckle, slipping the leather from the metal and letting it hang in front of his pockets. he gave Patrick one last look before he gently undid his jeans, sliding the zipper down. but he didn’t take his pants off, he left that for Patrick to do when he felt like he wanted to. the brunette’s cheeks were flush as he watched the blonde, and when he stopped he leaned down and kissed him, guiding him back to lay against the bed as he came to straddle his hips, hands cupping his cheeks. Art sighs, hands on Patrick’s hips, guiding him to rock down against him. “fuck…” he breathed out at the friction it provided.

Patrick gently tugs Art’s own shirt off, kissing his face as he does. but his heart slows when he looks down and sees the matching scars across his lover’s chest… his eyes dart back to those baby blue’s, looking through them, searching for answers. “you—you, too..?” he says, ever so soft and vulnerable. Art swallows and nods gently, his hand finding their place on Patrick’s shoulders. “yeah. me too.” it’s a tender, quiet moment when they both realize they aren’t alone. they connect with each other, they have something that tethers them to one another. it drives Patrick forward, as he undresses them both down to their bare bones and fondly strokes Art’s tdick. it drives Art as he guides Patrick to take a seat on his face, letting him lap and suckle at his most intimate parts. it drives both of them mad with lust and fondness, their moans and whines filling the air, leaving them sticky and panting in each others arms.

from then on..the farm doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.