GIMME

people who restrict themselves to one music genre or one movie genre or one fav colour scare me so bad

HAPPY BDAY TO MY IRISH BABY OMGGGG

YAYYYY THANK YOU LOVELY

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.

Radical Relations by Daniel Winunwe Rivers

the juxtaposition of art and pat. fire and ice. pat taking what he wants, art being too timid. pat ruining things, art locking them down. art being full of guilt and shame for so much as eating a cookie, while pat could jerk off into art's girlfriend's panties and then use art's favourite boxers as a cumrag without feeling an ounce of shame.

pat jerking into art's gf's panties is soooo funny to me help. just picturing his gf freaking out and art has to take the blame while patrick just smiles to himself in the corner

but yeah i think that's why they were so tightknit growing up. patrick needing art to hold him back, art needing patrick to push him forward. very much balanced out each other, flaws and all. i know a lot of people think that their friendship wouldn't have lasted even if they had never met tashi bc of art's insecurity + whatnot but they're 4lifers to me :((

maybe i'm coping...

  A HELPING HAND

summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.

pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson

content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?

word count: 2.4k

authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts

for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.

speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.

if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.

"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.

the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?

another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.

but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?

he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.

and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.

eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.

there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.

when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.

he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.

he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.

arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.

they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)

it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.

their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.

patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.

patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.

he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.

art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.

  —

in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."

when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.

"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.

by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.

patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."

"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.

can all five other mcu Joaquin Torres fans stand up, I want to get a headcount of us all

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.

little martinez brothers..

TRAVIS MENTION?!?!