Well Yes!!!

stanford!art

who... is (kinda) new to the dating game so when he gives you attention he overwhelms you by the amount of affection that he gives you.

who... rubs his face against yours, his arm is constantly around your shoulders, his forehead pressed against the meat of your cheek despite the height difference.

who... is constantly asking for kisses or for your fingers to be in his hair. he loves the feeling of your hands in his curls, and he's definitely the type of guy to use the "baby voice" on you despite being around people.

who... waits for you to be ready before finally fucking. and when it happens its wonderful, he's slow and gentle. but also so clumsy that he ends up almost cumming on you. luckily he pulls out in time.

who... loves eating you out. loves how you get wet so easily, how his mouth and jaw get sticky and soaked with your wetness and his spit. he specially loves how your hands tug at his hair, his ego boosting up each time you moan louder and louder.

who... doesn't mind if you dont give him head, but when you do he's so vocal. constantly telling you how good your mouth feels, how perfect you are. he does sometimes pushes your head down, but that's only when he's so desperate! and when he comes, he always makes sure to ask you first. he doesn't want to dirty your face, but he also loves the way his seed looks splattered around your plump lips.

who... almost always ends up knocked out after sex. whether its only him eating you out or just you giving him head. he always finds solace in your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he's scared you run away. and you dont complain because you love the feeling of his curls tickling your cheek.

who... doesn't know how or why you got with him, and who knows there are better men out there. but he plans and is confident in keeping you in his life as long as you allow him to.

JESUS CHRIST HE HAS A BETTER RACK THEN I DO 😭

i can’t stop thinking about forced feminization with art. he’s so pretty i can’t take it. like…. god. imagine calling his cock a pussy while you fuck him. (not with a strap, no. we are not in that kind of scene.) it’s just you between his legs, (which is already dangling off the bed) and you are sinking him deep inside of you by rolling your hips slow like you’re the one fucking him.

and you are not riding either. you’re not bouncing. not that kind of topping. you’re not letting him have anything that makes him control anything. it’s just you. you’re thrusting him inside you. and you’re looking down at him like he belongs there… beneath you.

he’s already leaking, of course, he’s so close already. already twitching inside you, whimpering like he doesn’t know how to handle the way it feels. like it’s too much. like it’s not supposed to feel that good.

and you tell him while looking down at his fucked out face, “you’ve got the puffiest pussy, baby. don’t you?”

it’s not a yes or no. it’s not even a question.

and he’s already nodding, eyes wide and glassy, like he needs you to believe it, like he needs it to be true. and you make him say it. you tell him to say it.

and of course he does. god, of course. he gasps it out between moans like it’s breaking him, all breathless and shaky. “I- I’ve got- a-ah... a fluffy- a p-puffy pussy…”

you can barely take it. he’s so shy about it, but it’s like something he’s been waiting to say his whole fucking life.

you keep going, soft but mean. “what kind of girl are you, baby?”

and he looks up at you like he’s about to cry. so red, so shy and embarrassed already.

“i’m… i’m your good girl…”

and yeah. he is. he fucking is.

!nerd art who’s so desperate he doesn’t let you two feet in the door..like easyyy white chocolate let me take my shoes off

literally mouthing at your jaw and pushing his hands up under your shirt, then down to tug at your waistband, murmuring things like “sorry, please, i can’t wait, been studying all day—“ and “shit, you smell so good, im so hard already..”

then he drops down to his knees and helps you take off your shoes, kissing your legs as he stumbles back upright and presses you against his door. his hips rutting into your pelvis and his fingers creeping over the expanse of your stomach before fiddling with the top of your panties. “want me to go down on you? or—or do you just wanna get right into it? or can we, like, rub on each other for a bit like last time? actually, wait.. no.. that made me finish too fast.. okay tell me what you wanna do—“

just a mumbling, awkward mess of a guy who’s simply happy to be in your presence and not thinking about biology or calculus

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.

Anthony Mackie you deserved so much better

*kiss*

ohh This is a tragedy…

You will never make me like John Walker

Palestinian ButchFemme wedding, 2022, @/leilanations

No, the captain America mantle should not be thrown around like a hot potato during Doomsday, are you stupid?

Only time Captain America should ever be named in the movie is if someone is trying to get Sam Wilson’s attention.

The only other acceptable names to address Sam include “Cap” “Captain Wilson”

I hear you suggest any bullshit like that again, I’m coming at you with a shovel.