ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

#And he's dead serious (and right)

hai omg your layout is so cute what the eff how is your text so kawaii

omg hii you’re literally the sweetest ever what the freak… thank you so much!! i’m really happy you like my layout hehe. and aaa yes!! the text color thing is actually super easy once you get the hang of it, i promise. i’ll walk you through everything step by step so you can make your text all cute and colorful too!!

how to make your text colored on tumblr (desktop only)

ok so first!! you’ll need a couple of websites to help you out, depending on how you want to pick your color(s):

if you want to pick colors from an image:

https://imagecolorpicker.com

you can upload a pic or paste an image URL, then click anywhere on it to grab the hex color code! super helpful if you’re trying to match a vibe or palette.

if you just want to browse and choose a color:

https://htmlcolorcodes.com/color-picker/

this one lets you scroll through all sorts of shades and gives you the hex code instantly.

once you’ve picked your color(s), you’ll go here:

https://www.stuffbydavid.com/textcolorizer

this is where the magic happens. you’ll paste in your text and your color code, and it’ll give you the html version of it!

example of what this might look like:

now hop over to tumblr (on desktop!! not the app):

1. start a new post and type what you want like normal

2. then click the little gear icon in the top right and switch from “rich text” to “html”

3. paste in the code you got from the text colorizer

4. once it’s in, you can switch back to regular rich text and it should stay all pretty and colored!

(excuse the wonky gif tutorial i did this on my phone in class oopsie)

and that’s it!! super simple once you do it once or twice. i hope this helps a bunch and you have fun customizing your posts — it’s such a cute way to make things feel more you!!

if you need help with anything else or want more custom color ideas just lmk!

PTA MOM!TASHI HEADCANONS

pairing: pta mom!tashi x ptamom!fem!reader

warnings: explicit f/f oral sex (giving + receiving), rough fingering, overstimulation, power play, mild mommy kink energy (not explicit but heavily present in her dynamic as a controlling maternal figure), possessiveness / marking (biting, bruising, claiming behavior), masturbation (fem) with voyeuristic + obsessive undertones

⟡ tashi is the kind of mom who dominates the pta not by yelling, but with a smile that tells everyone she’s already ten steps ahead. her clipboard is color-coded. she has spreadsheets. she bakes things with just the right balance of pinterest aesthetic and genuine homemade warmth. the other moms admire her. fear her. talk about her in group chats. but you? you get the real version. the one who peels off her cardigan in your kitchen, kicks off her heels, and mutters “if i have to smile at one more bitch who calls my scones ambitious, i’m gonna scream.”

⟡ she’s got that casual, icy authority that makes people listen, even when she’s just asking someone to pass the almond milk. you’ve seen her make a man shut up mid-sentence with just a raised brow. but then she turns to you, softens just a little, and says, “you wanna ditch this meeting and go get drinks?” and you’re already grabbing your keys.

⟡ she touches you like you’re her pressure valve. not always sexual—though that comes later—but possessive. anchoring. a hand at the small of your back. fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist. her palm hot against your thigh when you sit next to each other at the pta fundraiser planning committee, perfectly hidden under the tablecloth. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.

⟡ she masturbates to the thought of you while lily’s at art’s house. her legs tangled in the sheets. her back arched, whispering your name into her wrist. she fingers herself hard, mean, like she’s punishing herself for how badly she wants you. sometimes she lays your photo face down beside her, like that’ll help. it never does. she always flips it back over.

⟡ tashi knows how to fake warmth. she did it on tennis courts for years. she does it at every bake sale, every book fair, every damn halloween carnival. but you see the cracks. the nights when she comes over with a bottle of wine she won’t share and mascara smudged under her eyes. “i was supposed to be something,” she says once, almost under her breath. “i was supposed to be more.”

⟡ she eats pussy like it’s the only god left. slow at first, like she’s unwrapping a gift. reverent. her tongue is precise, clinical even—but then something breaks in her. she grabs your hips like she’s trying to hold on for dear life. hums into you. makes a mess. won’t stop until your legs are shaking and your fingers are tangled in her sweaty curls. “you’re gonna come again,” she pants, “don’t argue. i know you can, baby.”

⟡ she lets you touch her only when she’s desperate. not because she doesn’t want to. because she doesn’t know how to let go. when she does let you? she comes so hard she cries. her hands gripping the pillow. her thighs clamped around your head like she’s trying to shut the world out. after, she’s quiet. breathless. she never says thank you. just kisses you like she’s drowning.

⟡ she handles school politics like a pro. she knows who’s cheating on who, who’s laundering money through the auction fundraiser, and which mom has a wine habit that’s gone from “ha ha” to “someone should talk to her.” she doesn’t say anything out loud. just gives you the look during meetings. that look. the you-see-this-bullshit-too-right? look. and later, she vents it out in your passenger seat while you get drive-thru sodas and sit in silence like you’re both 16 again.

⟡ tashi doesn’t let people in. not really. but you’re in. whether she says it or not. she remembers how you take your coffee. picks you up little things from target—nothing flashy, but things that mean she’s been thinking about you even in the toothpaste aisle. if you get sick, she’s at your door in 30 minutes with soup and vicks vaporub like a military-grade wife. she doesn’t sit. she hovers. she glares at your thermometer like she can will the fever away.

⟡ she gives you orgasms like performance art. like they’re something she choreographed. one hand holding you open, the other pressing your chest flat to the bed. she doesn’t always talk, but when she does, it’s filth whispered like prayer. “so sweet like this. you know that? so good for me. bet you’d let me fuck you on the pta table if i asked real nice.”

⟡ she can be so gentle it makes your chest ache. she brushes your hair behind your ear while you talk. buys your favorite gum and keeps it in her purse. she’ll send you a picture of lily in a homemade costume and say “we did good.” when you call her impressive, she looks away. “i don’t know what i am anymore,” she says. “but i like you. that’s one thing i’m sure of.”

⟡ she bites when she wants to remember you. collarbone. hipbone. between your thighs. she won’t say she misses you, but she’ll leave a bruise the size of her mouth on the inside of your thigh and then text you a picture of it two days later: still mine.

⟡ she has a jealous streak she refuses to name. if another mom gets too close to you? she’ll step between you, hand on your lower back, and smile like a wolf in pearls. later, she’ll pin you to the bed and mutter, “she doesn’t know how to make you feel like this. only i do. tell me.” (you always do.)

⟡ aftercare is strange for her. she can’t say the sweet things. so she gets quiet. brings you water. tugs your shirt back over your head with gentle fingers. brushes your hair behind your ear. she doesn’t kiss you right away. just looks at you—long, searching—and says, “you okay?” in that too-casual voice that means please say yes. please need me back.

⟡ she hates not being useful. if she’s not planning, fixing, perfecting—she feels hollow. after she quit tennis, there was a period where she couldn’t get out of bed. not from sadness. from inertia. it scared her. so now she overbooks everything. overfunctions. overachieves. she only slows down around you. sometimes. when she feels safe enough.

⟡ she makes lily’s life feel curated and safe. she sews labels into her daughter’s jackets. she keeps the fridge stocked with exactly the kind of juice box lily likes and tracks the phases of the moon in case her daughter’s third-grade science class needs “enrichment.” and she’s not trying to win—except she always is. she wants lily to feel like everything in her world is managed and flawless, because tashi’s childhood was chaos, and she will not repeat it. “i’m not gonna give her an anxious mom. even if i have to fake peace every single day.”

Hiii! I saw on your pinned that you’re a fan of RDR2, so for your alphabet challenge, would you please write NSFW letter X for Arthur Morgan? Thank you!

ohhhh anon you have TASTE. i’d be DELIGHTED to write this for you.

x is for x-ray | arthur morgan

warnings: explicit sexual content, nudity, detailed anatomical description, language consistent with 1800s setting, voyeuristic focus on male body, light exhibitionism, use of second person pov, erotic fixation on physicality, unprotected sex implication, emotionally intimate context, mild praise kink undertones

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

notes: hey angels just a lil note—i absolutely love writing for challengers and the bear, and i’ll always be down to explore more of that, but if you ever feel like sending in asks for other fandoms too, please do! it really helps me stretch my creativity and explore new voices/vibes. writing for arthur morgan was such a joy, and i’d love to dive into more worlds like that. don’t be shy! okay i’m gonna stop because my hands hurt, i wrote a lot today 😭 enjoy!

The room in Valentine is nothing special—wood-paneled, narrow, scuffed floors and faded wallpaper peeling at the edges—but it doesn’t matter. The second Arthur strips off his coat, it ceases to be a hotel room. It becomes a cathedral. A shrine. A holy place built around the gravity of his body. And for the first time, you get to see him not as he’s dressed for the world—layered in denim and dust and guns—but raw. Bared.

It starts simple: the shrug of that trail-worn coat from his shoulders, the soft thud as it drops over the back of the chair, the flick of fingers undoing buttons down his shirt. But there’s nothing simple about the man himself. Arthur’s frame commands the space like it was built to worship him. Broad. Thick. Weather-hardened and sun-fed. His shoulders stretch the fabric of every shirt he owns, and once he peels it off—slow, like it’s never occurred to him someone might want to watch—it becomes impossible to look away.

He’s built like the frontier. Rugged. Untamed. A map of sweat and sun and scars. His skin is the color of oak bark in summer, golden and burnished with the kind of tan that doesn’t fade—it’s in him. Part of him. A deeper warmth than just skin-deep. His chest is massive, pelted with a coarse dusting of tawny-blond hair that gathers dense across the sternum, softens as it trails down his stomach in a thick line. His pectorals are full, heavy, not sculpted like a statue’s but lived-in—flesh formed from years of labor, from chopping wood, breaking horses, dragging bodies.

The hair down the center of his chest glows golden in the angled light, catching the color of the sunset leaking through the curtains. It creeps over his collarbones, softens the harsh ridge of old scars. One scar slices diagonally across his left pectoral, paler than the rest of him, like a whip cracked hot against the skin long ago. Another curls near the hip, a jagged crescent hidden in the shadow beneath his ribs.

And then the suspenders fall. The belt buckle clicks. He kicks off his boots, and his pants sag low on his hips. Wide hips. Solid hips. Built for carrying weight—saddlebags, corpses, the weight of guilt he doesn’t speak of. When he pushes those pants down, slow and unceremonious, he steps out of them like a man shedding his sins.

He is naked in the truest sense. And it’s devastating.

Arthur Morgan’s cock hangs thick between his thighs, flushed deep red at the head, darker toward the base where the hair thickens into a coarse nest of dirty blond. It’s big even soft. Long enough to demand respect. Heavy, veined, the foreskin resting back just enough to tease the slick pink of the glans beneath. A single bead of precum shines there, like he’s been holding back too long. And you know he has.

As you stare—open, shameless—he twitches. His cock thickens slowly, like it’s waking, like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it.

Arthur notices. His smile is shy, but crooked, a hint of self-deprecating charm. “Ain’t exactly a prize hog,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, but you can see it—the flush crawling down from his cheeks to his chest. He likes being seen. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.

His thighs are thick and wide-set, dusted with blond hair, dappled with fading bruises, knotted muscle flexing under skin every time he shifts his weight. There’s a line of scabbing down his shin from a ride through bramble or a botched dismount. His calves are strong, veined, the kind only years of walking, climbing, riding could build. Everything about him is earned.

And that stomach—not flat, not soft, but strong in a way that’s real. A faint curve over the belt-line. Muscles beneath the skin, not gym-trained but carved by work. He’s got a fine dusting of hair there, too, curling tighter below the navel, guiding the eye downward toward the dark root of his cock.

His arms are worth their own chapter. Thick biceps that stretch the seams of his shirts, veins standing prominent, forearms like sculpted stone. His hands? Massive. The kind that wrap around the butt of a rifle like it’s nothing. The kind that grip reins and throats and thighs with the same ease. They’re calloused and dirt-streaked and holy.

And the more you look, the more detail unfolds. His neck is thick, corded with sinew, shadowed by stubble. There’s always a touch of sweat just at his temples, the scent of him musk-heavy—leather and iron and firewood smoke, cut with the faint sweetness of molasses if you get too close to his throat. His beard is full, well-kept but untrimmed, flecked darker around the chin and mouth, soft-looking despite the thickness. And then there’s his hair—messy, sun-lightened, curls catching at the nape like he’s been riding all day with his hat off.

He’s staring now, too. Watching you watch him. That stormy gaze softened around the edges with something quiet. Something almost vulnerable.

“I know I’m rough,” he says low, voice catching like wind in a canyon. “Ain’t got much polish to me. But… well. I clean up all right, don’t I?”

And you want to laugh. Want to cry. Because this man—this towering, muscle-bound, scar-splattered outlaw—is standing bare before you, cock heavy and leaking, chest heaving just a little from the weight of your gaze, and still he wonders if he’s enough. If he’s worth looking at.

He’s more than enough. He’s obscene in his beauty.

You reach for him like gravity pulls you there. Your hands span his hips, your fingers brushing the wiry curls at the base of his cock, and he shivers. That flushed cock jumps against his stomach. The skin there is so hot it burns, a furnace under your palm. You drag a thumb over the slick head and he grits his teeth, groans low and deep, a sound pulled from somewhere in the belly of him.

“Fffffuck, sugar,” he gasps, shoulders flexing like a draft horse under harness. “That’s—s’tender. Been thinkin’ about this too long.”

But you don’t stroke. Don’t tease. You just look.

You memorize the shape of him. The texture of his skin. The way every part of him—from the pink of his nipples to the curl of his toes—is alive with anticipation. And when he leans back on the bed, thighs wide, cock resting against his stomach and glistening, one arm propped behind him to hold his weight—he looks like a goddamn vision. Like something carved out of the dirt and sun and blood of the West itself.

Arthur Morgan, in full.

And nothing’s ever looked better.

Elowyn is such a gorgeous name wow. It reminds me of the name Éowyn, like the Lord of the Rings character.

thank you so much!! i just googled her and shes gorgeous ❤️

I have been chatting with your carmy bot and holy shit.. first of all your writing is so beautiful, the responses are all so good.. I will say though it tends to slip into third-person instead of second-person POV for me, it might be something with the examples you've given it

I LOVE HIM regardless, and I would love to see more bear content from u <<3 congrats on 100!!

ahhh thank you so much, seriously — that means a lot to hear. i’m really happy you’ve been enjoying the carmy bot, even with the little pov slip-ups (which yeah, might be from the examples i’ve fed it — i’ll definitely tweak that a bit!). it means everything that the writing and vibes are landing for you, and i’ll absolutely cook up more the bear content soon. thank you for the love and for being here, truly. 💓

congrats on 100 elowyn!!!!! you so deserve it, gonna request M from nsfw alphabet and would I be possible do this artrick? if not just patrick is fine🙂‍↕️

tysm mel 🥹💝 i’ll whip up some artrick for ya

ARTRICK | NSFW ALPHABET | M = MOTIVATION (what turns them on, gets them going)

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @sohighitscool

ART DONALDSON

Art makes sex feel like the warm weight of a promise.

He doesn’t come at you like he’s trying to conquer anything—he approaches like he’s been handed a gift, and he’s terrified of holding it wrong. He’s soft, but not because he’s unsure; it’s because he cares that much.

What turns him on isn’t power, isn’t control, isn’t anything you’d expect—it’s praise. Honest, needy praise. The moment you gasp out a, “Fuck, feels so good, Art,” his whole demeanor shifts, and suddenly he’s hungry in a way that makes your knees weak. He needs to know he’s doing it right, doing it better, making you feel so good that you can’t even remember how to speak. Tell him he’s perfect and he’ll suck a bruise into your thigh, low and trembling and worshipful, like he’s trying to prove he deserves it.

He gives head like it’s his religion, face buried between your legs, licking and moaning like he’s starved, every sound you make pulling him deeper into the rhythm of it, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair and sob his name, he groans, hips grinding against the mattress because getting you off does more for him than anything else possibly could.

He can be rough when you want it—can pin your hands and fuck you slow and deep with his teeth gritted and his praises pouring out—but even then, it’s all in service of you. You tell him he’s the best you’ve ever had and he’ll fall apart in your hands. You tell him you need him and he’ll shake.

And after, he’ll be nothing but warmth—gentle, whisper-quiet, kissing your forehead and wrapping you in his arms, asking if you’re okay even though he’s already gotten you a towel and a bottle of water and is halfway through tucking you in. “You sure I didn’t overdo it?” he’ll ask with that little furrow between his brows, even though your legs are still trembling and your voice is wrecked from screaming his name. All he needs is to hear you say it again. That he did good. That he’s enough. That he’s yours.

⸻

PATRICK ZWEIG

Patrick’s turn-ons are chaos dressed in charm. He flirts with tension the way most people flirt with eye contact, fingers always testing the limits, grin just crooked enough to get away with it. He gets off on being too much—too fast, too close, too smug, too hot, too fucking good at making you react. Bratty as hell, all lip and swagger, Patrick will push you until you snap because what really makes him throb is watching you lose your patience and take what’s yours.

His body is made to be fucked. He knows it, he flaunts it, he dares you to admit it. Slap his ass, spit on his mouth, call him a whore—he’ll moan into it with a bite to his grin, pupils blown wide, head tilted like he’s about to laugh and cry all at once. “You gonna call me names, baby?” he’ll pant, sucking your fingers into his mouth like candy, drooling around your knuckles with that filthy, reverent look in his eyes.

He loves being used, degraded, pinned down and told he’s nothing but a hole to fuck, but he wants it from someone who sees him. Who gets him. That’s where the angel glows through—he’s the devil who blushes when you call him beautiful mid-thrust, the brat who melts when you pull him in and tell him he’s yours.

He switches when it hits right, when the mood turns—one second he’s mouthing off, the next he’s flipping you over, fucking you deep with slow, brutal thrusts and hissing in your ear, “You gonna be good for me now?”—and whether he’s topping or bottoming, he wants it dirty. Wants it wet, messy, obscene. His mouth stays busy—on you, around you, in you—and when he finally comes, it’s loud, full-body, shameless.

Aftercare’s minimal but honest. He won’t do the whole ritual but he’ll hold you, curled against your chest, biting back a sleepy smile while pretending he’s not touched. “You’re obsessed with me,” he’ll mumble, already half-asleep with your fingers in his hair, and when you kiss his forehead he doesn’t flinch—just sighs like he’s never been safer in his life.

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”

Tashi’s the kind of girl who has you wrapped around her finger before you even realize it. She knows exactly what she wants, exactly how to get it—and when she touches you, it’s deliberate. Slow. Calculated. She doesn’t rush, because she doesn’t need to. Her voice is like velvet, commanding and sweet all at once: “Look at you… already shaking? And I’ve barely touched you.”

She plays your body like a game, fingers teasing just enough to make you whine, to make you beg. One second she’s cooing, “Such a good thing for me,” and the next her tone drops, sharp and amused: “Pathetic. You’d do anything just to come, wouldn’t you?” And it’s true. You would.

Tashi makes you feel worshipped and owned in the same breath. She’ll praise you when you do exactly what she wants—kiss her thigh just right, moan at the right pitch—and degrade you when you fall apart too quickly. And you live for it. Her hand at your throat, her mouth at your ear, telling you exactly how pretty you are when you cry for her.

She makes you ache. She makes you beg. And she never lets you forget who’s in control.

THEME SO CUTESY WUTESY

guys why are you all so sweet ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ i really appreciate it!!!