Admitting You’ve Been A John Walker Fan Since Day One Is CRAZY To Me. You Saw An Unqualified, Privileged

the pinterest game idea is so cute!!! i play guitar and my favourite colour atm is red/orange if that helps!!!

obsessed w this music set up, gave me u vibes <33

little martinez brothers..

raw. next question.

He’s my favorite mythical animal.

SUGAR RUSH.

peter parker x afab!reader

fluff. heavy kissing. implied intimacy. teens being ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ teens. light suggestive vibes but nothing explicit. ♡

You're on your stomach on Peter's bed, your legs stretched out while wearing the hoodie you stole from his closet a week ago. The sleeves are too long, covering half your hands, but you like it that way. It smells like him, like detergent and that cologne he pretends he doesn't use. You've been living in it like a raccoon in a stolen nest. You're not doing anything right now, just waiting for your boyfriend to finish studying, with your mouth full of Pop Rocks that won't shut up.

Crack. Pop. Crack. It's funny, honestly. It sounds like a neck getting cracked in half—well, it can sound like fireworks too. It's annoyingly loud because your mouth looks like it's trying to pick a fight with physics.

Peter groans from his desk and doesn't even look at you. "You're so annoying." The words come out flat like he's already said them three times today. You know he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's just complaining. As always. It's his nature.

You chuckle, candy still fizzing. "You said I could have them." You roll onto your side just to get a better look at him, your lips pouting as if you're using them against him. His pen is tapping against his notebook while listening to the popping of the Pop Rocks.

"Didn't say I wanted to hear them every five seconds, baby." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes you wonder how he can even manage you. Maybe he's praying for patience and not getting any divine assistance.

You shift a little, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his bed. "You can't even hear me over there," you say before scoffing and chewing deliberately, just to make a point.

"I can. It's like... background music. In my head." He spins slightly in his chair, just enough to throw a look at you over his shoulder.

You snort. "Dramatic." You drag the word out, milk it, trying to piss him off. Then you toss another handful of candy into your mouth like a kid.

He finally turns around the chair creaking. His hair's a mess, and there's a pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He crosses his arms and damn... those muscles are flexing. "I'm trying to study, and you're over here sounding like... I don't even know what to call it." His expression is all annoyed, but his eyes are warm. Tired, but warm. Not angry. Honestly? You love it when he gets like this, grumpy and soft around the edges.

You open your mouth real wide and go "Aaahhh," just to make the fizz louder. It's obnoxious. Truly. The kind of noise that would make people glare at you, and you're so proud of it.

Peter squints at you like he's in pain. "Why is my girlfriend like this?" He says it like a curse, like a prayer, like a man at the end of his rope who still wouldn't let go.

"Aw, come on, you love me." You say it too easily. It's not a question—something settled and obvious and unchangeable.

He exhales through his nose and walks over to you anyway, flops down next to you on the bed, elbow bumping yours. You hold out the package of candy. It rustles between you like a peace offering. Or a trap. He hasn't decided which yet.

He eyes it before looking back at you and your lips. "You're gonna shut up if I take some?" There's no heat in it, like the everyday tone he uses when you're being like this. Just a tired sort of fondness, like he's resigned himself to your antics and this weird little life you two have built. Annoyingly lovable, what he always says when you're asking for assurance if he still loves you even though you're playful.

You shrug. "Probably not." And you mean it. You're indecisive, and impulsive, with tendencies to be pushy. He knew that when he let you steal his hoodie the first time, and when you did things just to get his attention.

He sighs but takes a few and tilts his head back to chew. The sound bursts in the quiet like tiny firecrackers, and he physically winces, like he didn't think they'd be that loud. Hates the sounds. Obviously.

He looks at you like you just committed a crime. "Why does it... feel weird?" His face scrunches, and he's trying not to like it but also can't deny that it's kind of hilarious.

"It's fun-weird, not bad-weird." You roll onto your back beside him, shoulder brushing his, voice smug. "It tastes good though!"

Peter turns his head toward you and looks at your mouth. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, barely louder than the crackle. But he's still watching you, still close before he takes the Pop Rocks from your hand, gets enough from inside, and puts it in his mouth.

Then he kisses you.

Like... no warning. One second he's staring at your mouth like it's got all the answers to his questions, and the next, he's leaning in, slow but sure, like he already decided and you just didn't catch up yet. It's not aggressive, not rushed- it's soft, warm, and easy.

Your mouths meet soft at first. Just lips brushing lips, a little sticky from the candy's effect. But then the Pop Rocks crackle between you, loud and sudden, like someone just started a time bomb under your tongues, and everything jumps.

You giggle against him, nose bumping his, but he doesn't pull back. He just tilts his head and pushes in a little deeper. And, well, yeah, maybe that's when it changes.

Because now it's not soft. It's something else.

His mouth opens just enough for your tongue to catch him, and he tastes like cherry- you're sure it's from the candy. The candy's still popping, still snapping under your tongues, and it's a funny feeling. Literally. Your lips part wider, let it get messy, let it get loud. You lick into his mouth a little and feel him suck in a breath right through his nose.

And God, that's all it takes before he's kissing you back harder now, licking the taste of candy right out of your mouth like he's trying to shut it off. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gently and soft the way he knows you like. It's steady; he's holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, yearningly, just barely, just enough to feel it, and you groan, soft and surprised and too into it.

It's clumsy, yeah. Of course, it is. You're both grinning too much, breathing too hard, lips swollen already, and the candy still going off like a fucking broken record. But you don't stop. Neither of you. Because it's fun and silly. Because it's stupid. Because it's so much better than it should be.

Peter pulls back eventually, breathing hard, his lips pink and wet, a little sugar stuck at the corner of his mouth again. He licks it away automatically, and your stomach flips.

"Okay," he says, voice low and just barely wrecked. "That was..."

He doesn't even finish the sentence.

You're already grabbing more Pop Rocks.

"Again," you say, out of breath but grinning. "C'monnn."

He laughs, but it's a little shaky now. "I'm gonna die."

"Mhm," you hum and press your mouth to his before he can say another word.

This time, it's not that gentle. It's full of tongues and teeth and stupid little moans pressed into each other's mouths, sugar and spit and heat all tangled up in a kiss that has no business feeling this good.

You taste like candy, and he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

ballerina!tashi who is recognised as one of the best ballet dancers in all of america. she flows across the stage with such gracefulness that the audience is left bewitched by her delicate beauty. at times, she is still sharp and controlled with her body, leaving you intimidated by her movements. having so much talent only made it much more tragic when she suffered her knee injury, turning to ballet instructing after recovery. she's still known for her most successful and alluring role of odile, the black swan.

ballet dancer!art who has every dance company falling at his feet, begging for him to sign with them. his skills alone are admirable, but his looks are every casting director's wet dream, it's almost unbelievable how perfect he is for the stage. art is almost always casted as some sort of handsome prince, carrying himself with poise and elegance. he's a lean and athletic man, spent years of his life building his physique into the perfect vessel specifically for ballet.

ballet dancer!patrick who is never seen putting much work into his craft yet is one of the strongest male dancers in his company. he carries his dance partners over his head with ease and pulls off some of the highest leaps his instructors have ever seen. patrick secretly stays in the prop and costume room of the dance studio, refusing to ask for help unless one of the pretty ballerinas offers him a place to sleep for the night.

mlm Patrick and wlw Reader fake dating to make Art & Tashi jealous

🧁🍭🍫🍩🍰 *bribes you*

do we like?? do we want a part 2??😅😅😅

ugh jo you're always exceeding expectations

virgin art x patrick hcs i’m begging you

i KNOW it didnt just stop after their little jerk off sesh

warnings: 18+, handjob, gay and REPRESSED

oh yeah no absolutely not.

i think as they grew up there was def a lot more. like to the point where they can't even jerk off without each other in the room because they can't finish otherwise. but both of them are very much subject to the "five feet apart cause they're not gay" rule. it doesn't count if they're in their own beds and not touching!!! totally normal

and then one of them (i'm gonna say art) sprains his good wrist. nothing long-term damage, just a few weeks without tennis. and he's sooo pent up and patrick feels kinda bad just getting off on the other side of the room while art looks so forlorn with his pyjama bottoms tenting comically. bottom lip trembling, like on the verge of tears because he just wants to touch himself soooo bad

"do you want me to—"

and the question isn't even finished before art is nodding eagerly like a bobblehead. patrick practically leaps to his bed like an olympic sprinter. then he's braced on top of art who's still nursing his sore wrist (poor baby), holding out his palm expectantly. art's confused, brows furrowed and bottom lip still jutted out.

"spit. i'm not using my own. that's weird." because jerking off your best friend totally isn't weird in the first place!!! but art obliges and spits a generous amount of saliva into patrick's outstretched palm (because he's literally been drooling watching him touch himself for the last five minutes.)

when patrick's hand slips down into his chequered pants, he almost orgasms instantly. the feeling of his rough palm and thick fingers, all slicked up with his own spit, wrapping around him... ugh. he dies on the spot. and normally they talk about the girls at the academy, whether it's just seeing some girl's tits in a sports bra after practice or whoever they've made out with that week under the bleachers.

but their room is utterly silent other than the sound of heavy breathing and the obscene sound of a wet hand pumping up and down art's cock. intense eye contact, patrick's breathing just as rough as his own. he knows if he looks at him any longer he's going to cum so he ends up shutting his eyes, head thumping back against his pillow.

his uninjured hand balls into a fist to bite down on and patrick is sorely tempted to move it away so he can actually hear him. but that'd be too much so he just settles for listening to the stifled sounds art makes. he's a lot more whiny when someone else is touching him. he also looks a lot prettier up close—brows pinched together, nose scrunched up as his teeth sink into his knuckles.

when he finally does cum, that muffled little, "oh-oh, f-fuck, patrick—" is criminally hot. he cleans art up and climbs into his own bed, ignoring the fact he's hard again after jerking himself off before art.

for the rest of art's recovery, patrick lends him a helping hand (literally). and then even AFTER that they end up jerking each other off regularly. like patrick comes back to their room after a failed hook-up, grumbling about wanting to get some so art says 'let's just jerk it out' and they end up kneeling in front of each other, hand wrapped around each other while patrick groans about her being a prude. art couldn't care less when he's being touched like this but he nods along anyways.

it gets to the point where they’re so used to hearing each other groaning that they have pavlovian reactions on the court. art’s more of a whiner so it isn’t as bad for patrick but the way he grunts is so reminiscent of the sounds he makes when he’s close, it has art adjusting his stiffy at least once per set. but it’s okay bc as soon as they’re back in their dorm patrick’s there to take care of it under the guise of “wow you must have been looking at amy’s tits bounce all practice.”

it's always just handjobs. patrick drunkenly suggests using his mouth once and art vehemently denies him bc that'd make it too real. no kissing (even if they stare at each other's mouths the entire time). they dry-hump a few times and afterwards patrick always hears art sniffling in his bed guiltily. but handjobs don't count!!!

moral of the story that's why they make awkward eye contact when tashi asks if they've ever done anything together. bc the cum rag art threw on the pillow before she came in is stained with BOTH of them.

sub!art taking strap and begging the reader to cum in him

summary: art begging for that strap.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. submissive art. praising. begging. strap in v (art receiving). fake fluids. disgusting dirty-talking. drooling. oral sex (art receing).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @idyllicdaydreams @sohighitscool

The sound of rain against the window filled the room, soft and rhythmic, blurring the city outside into streaks of gold and grey. You were curled up on the couch, a throw blanket tucked over your lap, a half-finished movie playing low on the TV. Art sat beside you, long legs tucked under himself, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up—even here. Even with you.

He always got like this after a match—withdrawn, tightly wound. His body ached, and not from the training. From the pressure. From everything unspoken.

You nudged him gently with your knee. “You good, baby?”

Art turned his head toward you, the softest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long, and then drifted down—neck, chest, lap—before he caught himself and looked away, ears turning pink.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… tired.”

But the way he said it wasn’t really tired. It was restless.

You reached over and combed your fingers through the dark strands falling over his forehead. “Want me to help you wind down?”

His breath hitched just a little. He nodded, once.

The first twenty minutes were nothing more than touch. You moved to straddle his lap, lips brushing his jaw, your hands roaming under his hoodie—slow, reverent. You kissed the column of his throat until he sighed into you, until his hips shifted beneath yours, until his fingers bunched in the hem of your shirt like he needed to anchor himself somewhere.

“Fuck,” Art whispered, head tilting back. “You always touch me like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

“I just like taking my time with you,” you murmured against his skin. “You’re worth it.”

That made him shiver.

By the time you peeled his hoodie off, he was already flushed. You worked him out of his sweatpants next, mouthing along his stomach as you slid them down. He let you, pliant and quiet and trembling just a little. His briefs were dark with arousal, a wet spot already blooming through the front.

“God, look at you,” you said, brushing your fingers over it. “You’re dripping.”

He whined. Actually whined.

You tugged his briefs down slow, inch by inch, revealing the slick shine between his thighs, the soft curve of his hips. His cunt was swollen, flushed, begging for attention. And when you kissed the inside of his knee and looked up at him, his mouth was parted, a thread of saliva already gathering at the corner.

“Baby,” you breathed, settling between his legs. “You need it, don’t you?”

Art nodded fast, biting his lip. “I need your mouth,” he mumbled. “Please. Just—don’t make me wait.”

You didn’t.

Your tongue dragged through his folds, slow and flat, savoring the taste of him. He gasped and curled inward, one arm over his mouth, trying to muffle the broken sounds that spilled from him. His hips bucked when you sucked his clit into your mouth, and when you kept going—lapping him open, tongue fucking him until his thighs shook—he moaned so loud you could feel it echo in your core.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, pulling back just long enough to say it. “Let me hear how much you love this.”

Art whined again, hand curling in your hair. “Feels so good,” he choked out. “Your mouth—fuck, I can’t—” You gave him one more deep lick, then pulled away. His whole body trembled when the air hit him.

“Don’t worry,” you said, rising to your knees. “You’re gonna get more than my mouth tonight.”

His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw what you were doing—reaching into your drawer for the harness, lube, and the soft pink silicone cock he liked best—the special one, his pupils blew wide.

You strapped it on slow, letting him watch, letting him see the way it jutted from you, slick with lube before you even got close. Art reached between his legs and touched himself, fingers dipping back into his slit, gathering the slick you’d left behind.

“I want it,” he said, voice raw. “Want you.”

You grabbed a pillow and slid it under his hips, guiding him to lie back against the couch. His legs spread willingly, shamelessly, cunt glistening and twitching as you moved between them.

“You sure?” you asked, rubbing the tip of the strap through his folds, coating it in his slick. “I want you begging for it.”

“I am begging,” he groaned, arching. “Please—just fuck me. Fill me up. I want you to cum in me.”

That made your stomach flip.

You pushed in slowly, the head of the strap breaching him with a thick, wet sound. Art gasped, hands clutching the couch cushions, every muscle going tight as the fake cock stretched him open.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “Take it, baby. You look so good like this.”

Art whined through his teeth, breath ragged. “So full already—fuck—feels so fucking good.”

You bottomed out and leaned over him, pressing kisses to his flushed face, his damp hairline. “You’re doing so well. Look at you—so pretty when you’re stuffed full.”

His hips jerked. He loved being called pretty. Loved hearing how good he was.

You started thrusting, slow at first, just enough to make him squirm. Every inch you pulled out left him gasping; every push back in had him drooling, lips parting in a wet, blissed-out moan.

“God, yes,” he babbled, head tossing back. “More, please—I can take it—”

You gave it to him. Deep and hard, until your hips smacked against his ass, until his thighs trembled and his cunt made obscene squelching sounds every time you drove into him. You leaned over him again, catching his mouth in a kiss, and were met with spit-slicked desperation. He kissed like he couldn’t breathe without it, mouth open and tongue needy, drool trailing down his chin.

“You’re drooling for it, baby,” you growled, fucking him harder. “You want me to cum in you that bad?”

Art let out a broken, shattered moan.

“Yes, fuck—please, please—I want it in me, I want you to fill me up, I need it—”

“Gonna pump you full,” you rasped, one hand gripping his hip, the other coming down to rub his clit in messy, frantic circles. “Gonna make a mess in you, baby.”

Art was gone. His eyes rolled back, hands clutching your wrist, hips slamming up to meet your thrusts. His whole body was trembling, slick gushing from him in waves as the toy plunged deep inside over and over again.

And then—you pressed deep, grinding your hips, moaning his name like a prayer. “Cum in me,” he begged again. “Please—please, just do it—I want to feel it, want to be full of you, I—”

You gasped as the fake cum released inside him, thick and warm, the fluid filling the toy's reservoir and spurting into him in slow pulses. Art cried out, back arching, body locking up as the sensation tipped him over the edge.

He came hard, cunt spasming around the strap, hips jerking helplessly as he sobbed your name into your mouth. His thighs were soaked. His chest heaved. And when you pulled out, slow and careful, the fake cum dripped from his stretched hole, glistening down his ass and thighs in sticky white rivulets.

You kissed his stomach. His chest. His open mouth.

“You did so good,” you whispered, wiping the drool from his chin with your thumb. “So perfect for me.”

Art blinked up at you, dazed and blissed out. “Love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too.”

You curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over you both, and kissed his temple while the rain kept falling outside.