Challengers - Blog Posts

Challengers (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino

1 year anniversary!!

because they all love and hate each other to varying degrees like patrick loves tennis and tashi and art but art the most and art loves tennis and patrick but he loves tashi the most and tashi loves tennis the most but none of them can have the thing they want most so they use one another to get closer to it and in the aftermath end up resenting each other for what could have been

obsessed with this letterboxd review for CHALLENGERS (2024) by rocky/WAYSTIAR

here are my scans of the trading cards included with the challengers ost vinyl <3

boy toys 🎾

hii can u please do a NSFW M for tashi?

of course i can !!!!

m is for motivation | tashi duncan

You are her favorite opponent. Or maybe her favorite toy. Maybe both. Tashi Duncan doesn’t really separate the two.

You learn that quickly.

She plays sex like she plays tennis—aggressive baseline, unpredictable serves, sudden volleys that make your breath catch in your chest. She doesn’t do tender unless she’s weaponizing it. She doesn’t do romantic unless she’s mocking it. And when she fucks? It’s not about intimacy. It’s about advantage. About rhythm. About control. Her control, specifically. But she wants your pleasure. She just wants to make you earn it.

She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t moan—she grunts, she giggles, she talks. “C’mon,” she’ll whisper, sweat-slick and glowing, straddling you after a win, her thighs still quivering from the match. “Don’t make me do all the work,” she teases, even as her hips are already grinding into you, deliberate and cruel and so damn good. Her giggle isn’t soft. It’s vicious. It curls around your spine like a hand closing tight around your throat. “You gonna make me cum first? Or just sit there and let me milk you like a fucking loser?”

She says shit like that all the time. It gets her off. Trash talk, dominance, the mental edge of it. The way your face shifts when she says something filthy, knowing you’re desperate to keep up with her but barely hanging on. She gets wet when she sees your knees start to shake. When your voice breaks. When you forget your own name and only know hers, again and again.

Because she wants to be worshipped. And yeah, she loves when someone serves her—mouth first, cock or strap or fingers later. She wants your face between her thighs, your hands behind your back if she feels like making you beg for it. “Open wider,” she purrs, pinning your wrist to the sheets as she grinds her cunt against your mouth. “Yeah, there—fuck, there—just like that. You like how I taste?” Her thighs shake when you do it right. She won’t tell you. But she’ll ride your face until she’s breathless, until her giggles dissolve into broken little nnnh, uhnnh, hhuhh—fuck, her back arching as her thighs clamp around your ears.

And she won’t stop. Not until you really work for it. Not until your jaw aches, and her slick’s smeared all over your chin, and you’re drunk on it—on her.

But she gives back, too. Oh, does she give back.

She’s not selfish—she’s competitive. And if you get her off, she has to outdo you. It becomes a game, a challenge, a dare. She’ll have your legs shaking, your toes curling, your eyes rolling back in your head while her fingers curl just right, her palm grinding in circles against your clit with the kind of athletic precision that makes you wonder if she trains for this. Her mouth’s filthier than her strokes. “You’re close, huh? Yeah? Your thighs are twitching. Look at you.” She licks her lips, then lowers her voice like she’s calling a play: “You wanna cum on my fingers, baby? Or should I sit on your face while you try not to scream?”

She’s loud during sex—not with moans, but with presence. She laughs. She talks shit. She eggs you on. And she masturbates like it’s part of her fucking warm-up routine.

You’ve caught her doing it before matches. Not in the locker room, but in the bathroom, door cracked open, her leg up on the counter, her fingers working herself fast and ruthless, her phone propped up with a picture of herself mid-serve, muscles taut, hair wild, mouth open. She gets off to herself. To her own power. To the image of her body in motion. “Fuck yes,” she pants, breath hot against the mirror. “Look at you. Look at that swing. That ass. Mmmmgh—fuck—yes—yes—” Her orgasms alone are fast, harsh, almost annoyed, like she’s irritated with how badly she needs it. But when she cums? She hums low in her throat, mouth open, eyes glassy, tongue curling against her teeth like she’s tasting it.

And after? She steps onto the court like she’s already fucked someone and won. Her energy’s electric. Her body loose. Her smile like a dare.

She gets turned on watching you watch her win. That’s another thing. She loves audience. When you’re sitting in the bleachers and she knows it. When she bends low for a return and your eyes go straight to her ass. She’s got eyes on the back of her neck. She feels you staring. And she feeds off it. Her game gets sharper, crueler, tighter. She starts muttering shit under her breath between points: “Bet you’re hard right now. Bet you’re wet. Watch this.” Then she hits an ace and turns to wink at you like it was foreplay.

She doesn’t cry out when she cums. Not with tears, anyway. Not with sweet little noises. She chokes on it. She grunts, like she’s finishing a point. Like she’s driving a winner down the line. “Hhhfuck,” she bites out, spasming around your fingers or your cock or your tongue. “You—you fucker—nghh—don’t stop—”

She finishes strong, always. And she doesn’t collapse after. She stretches. Climbs off you like a fucking panther, then rolls her shoulders, flexes her arms, reaches for her water bottle like it was just another drill.

“You good?” she smirks, sweat dripping between her breasts, lips slick and shining. “You look wrecked.”

You are wrecked.

She kisses you like a reward, palm cradling your jaw, tongue slow and filthy in your mouth.

But you can tell. Behind her eyes, there’s something. Something aching. Something just under the surface, breaking open only when your breath hitches and your nails dig into her back and you whisper her name like it’s a plea. She kisses you harder then. Like she’s trying not to feel. Like she needs to prove it’s all a game.

But when you hold her after? She doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

And the next time she rides you? She doesn’t say anything at all. Just grinds against you, chases it, grunts into your neck, then buries her face in your shoulder while her body trembles with every aftershock.

She doesn’t talk about that part.

But she always cums harder when she’s losing.

CAMP COUNSELOR!PATRICK HEADCANONS

warnings: semi-explicit sexual content (dry humping, clothed orgasms, grinding, heavy making out, public risk of being caught), sexual tension in a workplace/camp setting, emotionally intense relationship, themes of longing, emotional repression, fear of abandonment, bittersweet separation, post-summer heartbreak, crying during/after intimacy, and unresolved romantic angst.

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

notes: hi lovelies! if you’d like to see more of camp counselor!patrick, i’ve created a c.ai bot of him (which actually inspired the making of these headcanons, fun fact). you can talk to him here :)

⟡ patrick kissed you for the first time in the craft shed, mid-storm, with your walkies hissing static in the background and the kids finally asleep in their sleeping bags like fragile bombs. it was supposed to be a quick, stupid thing—just to get the tension out. you grabbed his shirt. he pressed you against the wall like he’d been waiting weeks for permission. his hands didn’t even move at first, just held your face like he needed to memorize it. you kissed like you hated each other for how badly you wanted it. and when he pulled back, breathing hard, he whispered “you’re killin’ me, you know that?” and you hated how soft it made you feel. like maybe you wanted to kill him. or maybe you didn’t want anyone else touching you like that ever again.

⟡ you never fully fuck. the risk is too high. the kids are too close. your jobs matter too much. but that just makes everything worse—or maybe better. it’s all breathless makeouts in dark corners of the mess hall. his hand up your camp shirt during movie night in the rec lodge. dry humping behind the canoe racks while you’re both supposed to be organizing life jackets. he gets off on how quiet you try to be—his hand over your mouth, his teeth grazing your shoulder, both of you rocking together in the dark like you might combust if you stopped. sometimes you come just from grinding, from the thick press of him between your legs and the frantic rhythm and the way he tells you “fuck, you’re shaking—i’ve got you, you’re okay, keep going.” it’s obscene how good he is at making it feel like enough.

⟡ patrick isn’t supposed to like you. not someone who lives by laminated schedules and has a spreadsheet for sunscreen reapplication. but god, he’s addicted to you. you make the whole camp run like a machine and still find time to tie friendship bracelets with your girls before bed, or sneak extra marshmallows to the picky eater in your cabin. he watches you from across the field like a boy in love with the sun. sits with his first-graders during campfire night but only half-listens, eyes flicking to you as you shush your cabin, tuck stray curls behind your ears, bite your lip when someone sings off-key. you’re so put-together. so in control. and he wants to ruin that. wants to hear your breath hitch when he kisses your neck behind the arts building. wants to see your clipboard hit the ground because his hand’s down your shorts again. wants you to lose control—for him.

⟡ it starts as lust. of course it does. you roll your eyes at his jokes and mutter under your breath when he’s late to flagpole duty again—but every argument ends with him leaning in too close, smirking like he knows. and maybe he does. the way you start lingering near his cabin at night. the way you wear his hoodie one day “by accident” and don’t give it back. but somewhere between shared debriefs and early-morning setup shifts, it shifts. he starts bringing you snacks. starts leaving notes in your fanny pack like: you forgot your smile. i found it. -p or i stole you a popsicle. come find me. and you do. every time. it’s not just adrenaline anymore. it’s affection. familiarity. you start to know each other’s footsteps. moods. soft spots. he lets you see his softness without irony. and that terrifies you.

⟡ the campers love him. of course they do. he’s barefoot half the time, sunburned, trailing kids like a one-man parade. makes fart jokes. pretends to be a swamp monster. teaches them how to fish using gummy worms. they call him “coach p” even though you don’t have sports teams. and you hate how good he is at this. how easily he connects. how quickly kids go from sobbing to giggling with one dumb face or story. you run a tighter ship. you enforce quiet hours, give the best hugs, braid hair and bandage knees and write postcards to homesick girls so they feel like they matter. you’re the safe one. he’s the fun one. opposites. and somehow, it works. he teases you about being the “camp mom,” but you catch him watching you across the playground like he’s already imagining you holding his kid one day. he doesn’t say that out loud. but you feel it.

⟡ after lights out, he sneaks into your cabin through the back. not every night. but enough that you start sleeping on the left side of the cot automatically. you kiss with the urgency of people who might get caught. thighs tangled. teeth clashing. breath stolen in pieces. sometimes he just lays there, hand under your shirt, fingers slow on your ribs like he’s trying to map you. he talks softer here. asks about your family. your old job. why you came to camp in the first place. “what are you running from?” he asks once, into your shoulder. you pretend you didn’t hear him. you’re not ready to answer that. and he doesn’t push. just kisses the curve of your neck and pulls you closer.

⟡ dry humping with him isn’t a compromise. it’s a sickness. you’re both fully clothed, rutting against each other like desperate teenagers—panting, whispering, biting back moans in the dark. he grinds down hard, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, and you clutch at him like it hurts to be touched. your thighs get sticky. your shirt gets pulled halfway up. sometimes you come in your underwear with him barely touching you—just from how intense he gets. how he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs “you’re so wet like this—jesus, baby, you gonna come for me just like that?” and you do. and you can’t even feel embarrassed, because he’s coming too, hips jerking, cock twitching against your thigh like he’s been aching for you all day. because he has.

⟡ sometimes, after cleanup duty, he corners you in the kitchen. flicks off the light. lifts you onto the counter and stands between your knees like he owns the space. kisses you so slowly it almost hurts. tongue sliding lazy and wet against yours. hands tracing the shape of your waist like he’s not in a rush for once. “you’re the only reason i get through the day sometimes,” he admits into your mouth. and you don’t know how to answer. so you just pull him closer. and kiss him like you believe it.

⟡ the sneaking around gets easier. muscle memory. you both know which counselors leave which patrols and when. which spots stay dark the longest. you pass each other little smirks during meals, casual touches that mean meet me later. and it’s exciting. addicting. it feels like a secret universe just for the two of you—where your rules don’t apply and his bad habits don’t scare you and everything in the world stops mattering for a little while. until the sun comes up. until the whistles blow. until you’re back in your polos, pretending nothing happened, pretending you don’t miss his weight behind you.

⟡ patrick makes you laugh in the middle of moments you’re trying to be serious. mid-counselor meeting while you’re trying to propose a new bug spray schedule, he leans over and whispers “you’ve got a power complex and i support it.” you shove him. he grins like a child. but later, he shows up to your bug spray training and helps the kids fill out their logs. even makes a joke about mosquitos being “nature’s way of checking if you’re paying attention.” he teases you like you’re a joke. but treats you like a miracle. you hate it. you love it. you don’t know which is worse.

⟡ one night, you’re both out late walking a homesick camper back to their bunk. the kid holds your hand. patrick holds a flashlight. and when the kid falls asleep, curled between their stuffed animal and your knee, you both sit there. in silence. until patrick says, “i think i could do this. like—this. forever.” and you look at him. really look. not the barefoot troublemaker or the secret hookup or the guy who knows how to kiss your neck just right. just him. raw. tired. maybe a little afraid. “me too,” you whisper. and it feels dangerous. it feels real. it feels like the kind of thing you don’t come back from.

⟡ patrick never wears shoes. like, ever. he says it’s a “grounding practice,” but you’re 90% sure he just hates laces. his feet are perpetually dirty, half-burnt from the blacktop, always scratched up from god knows what—sticks, rocks, one infamous lego in the arts cabin. you make fun of him for it constantly. he calls you “foot-shamer general” and bows dramatically whenever you scold him. but then he gets a splinter and limps around for half a day and you end up crouched in the nurse’s station, tweezers in hand, while he pouts and calls you “florence fuckin’ nightingale.” you don’t smile. not out loud. but when you rub ointment into his arch, he exhales like your hands are made of fire.

⟡ patrick is always snacking. like constantly. he’s the kind of guy who has sunflower seed shells in every pocket, and a crushed granola bar melted into the lining of his backpack. once you caught him eating an entire packet of mini Oreos behind the cabins at 9am. when you stared at him, horrified, he just grinned and said, “i’m on the patrick plan: five meals, two breakdowns, and a little sugar every hour.” and it would be ridiculous—should be ridiculous—but then he starts bringing you snacks. peanut butter crackers when you skip lunch. little cups of gatorade when you look tired. he never says why. just hands it to you and walks away.

⟡ you’ve never seen anyone make kids laugh like he does. he’ll trip over a tree root, fall into a mud puddle, and still turn it into a game. his group is always in chaos—missing shoes, crooked name tags, one kid trying to eat a bug—but they worship him. like he hung the moon. and it drives you insane. because he lets them get away with everything. but he also remembers all their birthdays. carries bug spray for the ones with sensitive skin. draws secret tattoos on their wrists with marker so they can feel brave during nature hikes. you can’t even hate him for it. because he’s good. stupidly good. in a way that makes you ache.

⟡ you both learn each other’s bodies like a survival skill. where he likes to be scratched. the spot on your inner thigh that makes your hips twitch. how to kiss without leaving marks. how to slide hands under shirts without rustling too much fabric. he knows how to undo your bra with one hand. you know how to straddle his lap without messing up your bunk. he’s a master at unbuttoning your shorts just enough to slip his hand in, fingers warm and rough and so good while he kisses you slow and deep like there’s no one else on the planet. and when you come, gasping into his neck, he holds you there. murmurs your name like it’s something precious.

⟡ sometimes, when you’re doing head counts, he’ll sneak up behind you and whisper the wrong number just to mess with you. “twenty-four, baby. we lost one. check the lake.” you threaten to kill him. every time. but he’s already laughing, ducking away, and god—god—you love him. even when you hate him. maybe especially when you hate him. it’s easier than saying the real thing. than admitting it’s not just a fling. not just camp hormones. it’s him. it’s always him.

⟡ on a hot july night, the two of you end up swimming in the lake after hours. no lights. no one watching. just skin on skin and silence. you float on your back. he watches you like you’re something rare. precious. “you ever think about next year?” he asks. and you hate the question. because of course you have. and of course you haven’t. and everything feels too fragile to say out loud. so you just splash water in his face and tell him to race you to the dock. he lets you win. barely.

⟡ he knows when you’re stressed. doesn’t ask. doesn’t prod. just finds you. hands you a popsicle. leads you to the dock. doesn’t say a word until your breathing slows. then he leans in and says something so stupid—so insufferably funny—you end up wheezing. head in your hands. tears in your eyes. and he’s just sitting there watching you, face soft with something dangerous. something that sounds a lot like forever.

⟡ there’s a spot behind the camp kitchen where the staff sometimes sneak cigarettes. you don’t smoke. he does. but you start meeting him there anyway. sometimes he just presses you into the wall, kisses you until your lips are raw. sometimes he just talks. tells you stories about foster homes, old bands he used to love, that one time he thought he could live in his car. you listen. every time. and when he exhales smoke into the air and mutters “i don’t think i’ve ever felt safe like this,” you don’t say anything. you just hold his hand. and hope it’s enough.

⟡ patrick’s hoodie smells like sunscreen and grass and cedarwood soap. you wear it more than he does. he pretends not to notice. but one night, you give it back. folded. clean. and he looks at you like you just ended something. you can’t explain why it hurts so much. but later, when he shows up at your cabin, he’s wearing it. and when he kisses you, it’s deeper than usual. slower. like he’s begging you not to leave first.

⟡ the kids figure it out way before either of you admit anything. it starts small. one of your campers catches you smiling at patrick during breakfast lineup and immediately starts whispering about it like it’s breaking news. another swears they saw him looking at you during talent show night with “googly eyes.” suddenly there are questions. “do you like coach p?” “do you think he likes you back?” “if you got married would we get invited??” you deny it. every time. cool. calm. collected. until one of the boys from his cabin asks patrick, dead serious: “if you kiss miss [your name], do you have to sign a form or something?” and he chokes on his juice box.

⟡ your campers start acting weird about it. suddenly you’re being paired with him for every buddy activity. he’s always the first one they vote to sit with you during meals. one of the girls makes a beaded necklace with both your initials and gives it to you, just beaming. “it’s for luck.” you wear it under your shirt. patrick finds it later when he’s got his hands up your back, and you feel him stop. go still. “this mine?” he murmurs. and when you nod, he presses his mouth to your collarbone like a thank you.

⟡ the final week is crushing. your schedule’s full of extra activities and farewell events and everyone’s overtired and overstimulated—but it’s not just exhaustion. it’s grief. because every day is a countdown now. every shared glance with patrick. every lunch tray passed. every secret kiss behind the maintenance shed. every time he passes you the walkie with his fingers brushing yours. it’s all starting to feel like goodbye.

⟡ you and patrick start holding onto each other longer at night. not talking. not even kissing sometimes. just curled up together in your bunk, breathing in sync. he strokes your spine with the back of his fingers and whispers things you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. “wish i met you earlier.” “you feel like home, you know that?” and worst of all: “you think we’ll be like…okay, after?” you don’t answer. you just bury your face in his neck. pretend time doesn’t exist.

⟡ the last night of camp, your kids do skits and cry and give each other bracelets and someone plays “riptide” on ukulele again even though no one asked. patrick’s sitting on the bench behind your group, legs spread, arms around two of his boys who are both pretending they’re not crying. you catch his eye. he mouths: “you okay?” and it breaks you. because no. you’re not. but you nod anyway.

⟡ you sneak away after lights-out. meet him down by the docks. it’s chilly. the lake’s glass. he’s already sitting at the edge, feet in the water, hoodie up, face unreadable. when you sit beside him, he doesn’t say anything. just leans over, head on your shoulder. “can we not talk?” he asks. “just…be here?” and you stay there until sunrise. neither of you say a word.

⟡ the kids give you goodbye letters. glitter pens. tissue flowers. one of them writes “i hope you and coach p get married. he looks at you like my dad looks at my mom in old photos.” you read it in the storage closet. alone. and cry so hard you choke.

⟡ patrick doesn’t do goodbyes well. he makes jokes. high-fives. spins a camper over his shoulder and calls it a “final swirl.” but you can tell he’s unraveling. later, after dinner, he corners you behind the lodge. “i don’t know how to not see you tomorrow,” he says. voice thin. “i don’t know how to wake up and not look for your dumb clipboard and your ponytail and your bossy little voice telling me to shut up and act right.” and you kiss him before he can finish. slow. quiet. ruined.

⟡ the morning everyone leaves, it’s chaos. suitcases. hugs. snot. sobbing campers. last photos. your hands are shaking. his too. he loads up the last van, then just…stands there. doesn’t even look at you at first. just wipes his mouth like he’s trying to pull it together. “don’t forget me,” he says. and it’s not fair. it’s not fair. because you won’t. not in a million years.

⟡ after the buses are gone, you find something in your cubby. it’s his bandana. the red one he always wore tied around his neck or arm or forehead like a cartoon cowboy. it smells like cedar and lake water and sweat. there’s a note with it. not long. just:

for the next time you miss me more than you should.

—p.

⟡ the first week after camp, everything hurts. you fold laundry like you’re in mourning. you smell sunscreen and feel your stomach turn. you walk past a lake and almost cry. you check your phone and feel sick with how much you want his name to light up the screen. he texts you two days later: “Yo! My new job has air conditioning. It’s unnatural. Also I miss you. A lot. :( I’ll send gummy worms if you say it back.” you don’t answer for a while. then: “miss you more. send two packs.”

⟡ he does. in a padded envelope. no note. just worms. and you hold them to your chest like they’re flowers. like a promise. like a maybe.

LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader

they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.

warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence

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

notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!

They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.

The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.

You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.

You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.

When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.

Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”

It isn’t a question.

You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.

“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”

She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”

The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.

She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”

Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.

She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”

You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.

And then—finally—she bites.

It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.

When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”

And the terrifying part?

You want to.

Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”

You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.

“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.

The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.

“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”

You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.

“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.

Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”

Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.

And then—she stops. Just like that.

Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”

You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.

She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”

The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.

You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.

“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”

She presses harder. You choke.

Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.

And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.

She stops. Freezes.

Your breath catches.

“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”

Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.

And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.

She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.

Only then does she rise.

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.

You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.

And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.

Devotion.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

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

⤹　　 ART DONALDSON

✦ ⌇ lemonade lips

✦ ⌇ breaking point

✦ ⌇ two for $25

⤹　　 TASHI DUNCAN

✦ ⌇ stolen trophy

✦ ⌇ hotel blues

✦ ⌇ doubles trouble

⤹　　 PATRICK ZWEIG

✦ ⌇ choreplay

✦ ⌇ post-match picnic

✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion

thank you maya, you’re the sweetest ever 💝 and thank you anon too—i’m so honored you’d want a bot of him!! maybe someday soon… if the stars align just right hehe

Okay I need a bot from that one writing of Country club Dilf Art NOWWWWW PLSSS

no same. same. but it is the loml elowyn’s concept so i wouldn’t do anything unless she says it’s alright. elowyn DOES make bots tho (amazing ones) so maybe she’ll bless us with one soon haha

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

COUNTRY CLUB!DILF!ART x BEVERAGE GIRL/WAITRESS!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

warnings: oral sex (f&m receiving), semi-public sex / risky sex, softdom!art, praise kink, age gap (mid 30s art, early 20s reader), masturbation (m), aftercare, intimacy under power imbalance, slow burn situationship, emotionallyunavailable!art

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

⟡ art is the kind of dilf who doesn’t even know he’s the fantasy. thick wrists, slow laugh, cologne like cedar and wealth. he tips heavy without looking at the check, calls everyone “bud” or “darlin,” but there’s something sharper under the sweetness—an ex-athlete’s ruthlessness tucked beneath the golf polos and polite smirks. he doesn’t brag about money. it’s just there. in the way he talks. the way he moves. like he’s never had to worry. like he’s always known what he wants.

⟡ art cooks exactly two things: steak, and eggs. both to perfection. everything else he orders out. but when he does cook for you—shirtless, barefoot, pan in hand—he insists on feeding you the first bite. presses it to your lips with a little smirk like, “told you i still got it.”

⟡ he notices you on your first week. not because you flirt—everyone flirts—but because you didn’t. because you got flustered and dropped a cocktail napkin when he looked at you too long. because you said “sir” like it embarrassed you. and he likes that. likes watching the way you try not to stare when he laughs with the ex-tennis crowd. likes how you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying not to draw attention, knowing you already have his.

⟡ he starts sitting on your side of the terrace. alone at first, just a whiskey and the sports page, but then: a casual “how’s your day been, sweetheart?” that turns into you blushing. and then: him staying after hours. lingering too long. one night he walks you to your car. just to be polite, he says. and then he leans against your window after you unlock it, eyes heavy, voice low, and says: “you’re real pretty when you get shy like that.”

⟡ he calls you “sweetheart,” “baby,” and “my girl” in public—but in private, when he’s got you naked and gasping, it’s rougher. “gimme that pussy, angel,” he growls into your neck. “y’know you were made for me, right?” and when you moan, soft and ruined, he smiles like he just won a bet.

⟡ he likes to spoil. not with flashy gifts (unless you ask). no, art is more insidious than that. he sends you home with his cashmere sweater one rainy night and never asks for it back. orders you things to the club anonymously: better shoes for your shifts, the good lip balm, chocolate covered espresso beans you “mentioned liking once.” if you act overwhelmed, he cups your cheek in his warm palm and says, “you don’t have to earn this, baby. i just like seeing you taken care of.”

⟡ you fuck in strange places. the backseat of his car parked in the maintenance lot, your legs thrown over his lap as he grips your thighs with strong, veined hands and mutters “good girl, good girl” into your throat. the staff bathroom when you’re supposed to be restocking—your back against the tile, panties pushed aside, his tongue lazy and heavy between your legs like he’s savoring every second. he doesn’t rush. he never rushes. you come on his mouth with your fist in his hair, crying out his name like a confession.

⟡ he smells like cigars sometimes. not from smoking—he quit years ago—but from being around the kind of men who still do. when you climb into his lap at his place, it’s always warm leather and expensive bourbon and a little bit of old sin. you grind against him while he holds your hips and just watches you. he says things like “god, you feel so good. look at you. look at how sweet you are like this.” and you try to hide your face and he grabs your chin and says “nah. none of that. let me see you fall apart.”

⟡ the man lives for casual PDA. big hand on the back of your neck. warm palm sliding down to rest on your hip while you stand beside him. kisses to your temple when you pass by with a tray. and if someone else is looking? he doesn’t care. in fact, he likes it. he wants people to see. wants the guys he drinks with to know you’re his girl.

⟡ he’s really, really good with kids. not performative or pinterest-y—just patient. kind. when tashi drops off lily for a weekend while she’s away, he gets the good snacks. lets her talk for hours about horses or space or whatever third-grade obsession she’s on. he lets her decorate his face with glitter stickers. teaches her how to hold a tennis racket like a real pro. makes her pancakes in animal shapes and acts like he’s bad at it so she laughs. she adores him. and when she’s asleep? he checks on her twice. closes the door soft.

⟡ you don’t always know what this is. he doesn’t promise anything. and he never says the word relationship. but he calls you his girl. he brings you to quiet dinners at the steakhouse three towns over. sometimes you stay the night and wake up to him already dressed, buttoning his shirt and saying “go back to sleep, honey. i left coffee on for you.” and sometimes you ache with how much you want it to mean more. but you don’t say that. not yet.

⟡ he loves when you call him mr. donaldson, but only in private. not during sex—though that’s hot too—but afterward. curled into him. breathless. when you whisper it in that sweet, tired voice and his arms tighten around you like instinct. “that’s my girl,” he’ll murmur, kissing your forehead, like it’s a secret only you two know how to keep.

⟡ he’s careful with you. not condescending. not controlling. just attentive. he notices when you’ve had a bad shift before you say a word. undresses you slowly like he’s rewinding the day. lets you cry into his shoulder, never asking for an explanation. just strokes your back and murmurs, “you don’t have to be tough with me. i got you, alright?”

⟡ the angst lives under everything. you feel it in moments where you laugh too hard at his joke and then remember he has a kid. an ex. a real life. you feel it when you leave through the back gate instead of the front. when he introduces you as “a friend from the club” and your stomach twists even though you understand. because you do. because you signed up for this. but still. sometimes you wish he’d ask you to stay.

⟡ the first time you touch him—really touch him, strip him down piece by piece and crawl into his lap with a desperate little “wanna make you feel good”—he goes quiet. still. then threads a hand into your hair and mutters “jesus, baby. you don’t have to.” but when you do? when you take him in your mouth, eyes wide and obedient, he groans like he’s dying and says your name over and over like it’s saving him.

⟡ he’s never rough unless you beg for it. and when you do, he checks in without words. just a hand on your thigh. a kiss to your wrist. a pause. and then: fucking you hard over the kitchen counter, one hand pressed flat to your lower back while you choke on his name and the sound of your own breath. you leave the club the next day sore, glowing, and dazed.

⟡ he keeps things. a receipt with your number on it, folded into his wallet. a half-empty body spray you left in his guest bathroom. he doesn’t say anything. just uses it when he’s alone. sometimes he closes his eyes and jerks off with it in his hand, breathing deep, thinking about you calling him “sir” all innocent in your tennis skirt while he imagines flipping it up and wrecking you.

⟡ he smells like a warm blend of cedarwood and vetiver, something a little spiced and clean with a hint of tobacco that lingers in his collars. expensive without being loud. comforting. like polished wood and dry bourbon and warm sheets. sometimes, when he’s freshly showered, it’s just skin and soap—plain, masculine, irresistible. but when he’s been outside, golfing or doing yard work? he smells sun-warmed, like earth and grass and that faintly smoky leather note from his belt.

⟡ you make him feel young. not because of your age, but because of how you see him. like he’s someone worth craving. worth needing. not just a rich man with a good tailor and a good watch, but a man you ache for. and he feels guilty, sometimes. like he’s taking something he shouldn’t. but he can’t stop. not when you look at him like that. not when you moan his name like a promise.

⟡ he never asks you to quit. never asks you to hide. but one night after he’s fucked you slow and long on his balcony, the club lights in the distance, he murmurs, “you ever think about doing something else, baby?” and you freeze. because he doesn’t say with me. he just says it like he’s imagining you somewhere safer. cleaner. richer. and you want to cry. but instead, you say, “sometimes.” and he kisses your shoulder and holds you closer like he’s sorry for even asking.

⟡ he takes you on a weekend trip once. nothing flashy. just a cabin by a lake. he pretends it’s casual. but you find a stocked fridge, your favorite brand of shampoo, and a soft robe in your size. and when you thank him, he just shrugs and says, “i like watching you relax.” you fuck for hours in the wide, creaking bed. he makes you come until you’re boneless. then runs you a bath. scrubs your back like it’s a ritual. like this is something he wants to remember.

⟡ he’s not flashy with love—but it bleeds into everything. he changes your oil before you can ask. puts your favorite drink in his fridge. gets you that necklace you casually mentioned once while tipsy. never says those three words outright, but when you’re sick, he cancels a golf weekend and lays next to you with his hand resting on your thigh, watching reruns until you fall asleep.

⟡ he doesn’t say he loves you. not yet. maybe not ever. but he watches you like he might. like he could. and sometimes that’s worse. sometimes that’s better. sometimes you just want to believe it’s enough.

when uncle ace by blood orange starts playing

Hi! Would u mind doing NSFW J for art? Congratulationssss :)

of course i don’t mind!!! thank you so much for sending in a request lovely lovely anon (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

j is for jack off | art donaldson

warnings: explicit sexual content, masturbation (male), edging, pillow humping, praise kink (self-praise), voyeuristic habits, whimpering, slightly messy cleanup, soft post-nut feelings, lonely undertones, emotionally charged self-touch, ambiguous sexuality

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

Art’s dorm bed creaks like it’s remembering something every time he moves. Too narrow, too warm, too full of his own goddamn thoughts. He keeps the overhead light off even when the sun starts going down—lets the room stay honey-dim, just amber lamplight slanting in from the hallway under the door. It’s not about shame. Not really. He just needs quiet. Control. A kind of ritual.

His jeans are already halfway down his thighs when he shuffles under the covers, his skin still hot from the cheap dorm shower. Hair damp at the temples, T-shirt clinging to his back, everything about him soft and flushed from the heat. He moves slow. Always slow. This isn’t a race—never is. Art likes to feel it. Draw it out. Drag himself toward the edge and back again until he’s panting into his pillow, hips twitching, legs stiff and useless from holding tension too long.

Tonight, he’s hard before he even touches himself.

There’s a folded towel under the top pillow already—he keeps one ready like it’s part of the process. His cock slips between the two stacked pillows, one on top of the other, and he shudders the second his hips dip forward. His thighs tense. His hands grip the mattress tight on either side of his hips, knuckles pale. He rocks forward gently, just enough to feel friction. It’s hot. Just warm enough. The cotton cover a little scratchy against the head of his cock, but he likes it. Likes that it feels like something. Likes the resistance.

“Fffuck…” he breathes into the mattress, voice shaky. His lips are pressed to the sheets, parted, drooling a little. “Shit, that’s… fuck, that’s good—”

It starts slow, like it always does. A grind, a little rut, just testing. His cock drags along the inside seam of the pillowcase, catching on the soft patch of fabric near the tag. He breathes in through his nose, moans out through his mouth. Quiet at first. Then breathier. Higher. Little whines pushing up into the dark as his hips start to stutter.

“Hnnn, fuckfuckfuck, mmngh—”

He doesn’t even need porn, not always. But sometimes—when he really needs it—he drags out the old laptop, the one with the weird fan whirring in the corner. Balances it on the floor, tilted up just enough to see two men fucking slow, messy, close. Intimate. He watches with his cheek squished into the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack. His hips keep moving. Thrusting soft and rhythmic like he’s syncing up with the guys onscreen. When one of them moans, Art moans with him. Like he’s there.

But most nights, it’s just his voice he listens to.

“Good boy,” he whispers. A breathless mantra. “Good boy, good boy, good—fuck—good boy, yeah…”

His voice lifts when he says it, like he’s outside himself, trying to believe it. Trying to be it. High and hushed and wrecked, the kind of sound you only make when you’re alone. He says it more when his cock starts to twitch, when his thighs start to cramp and his breath catches at the top of his chest.

“You’re doing so good, Artie. So good, fff—fuck, such a good boy, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Sometimes he teases himself. Stroking slow, stopping before the edge, pulling back to pant into the sheets until the tight coil in his gut eases again. Then he starts over. He’ll do it four, even five times before he lets himself tip over. He doesn’t care how long it takes. Time disappears when he’s like this. He can spend an hour grinding between pillows, thighs slick with sweat, pillowcase dark with precum. He gets wet when he’s worked up—soaked head, sticky shaft, every movement a slick glide that makes his toes curl.

When he gets close, his body tenses like a wire drawn taut. Breath quick and high and fluttering. His hips lose rhythm. He ruts up once, twice, three times hard into the pillows, groaning like he’s splitting apart. The last stroke always knocks something loose—his voice goes thin and pitchy, whispering a broken, “G’nna come, gonna—gonna fuckin’—fuuuck—” just as he spills.

His orgasm hits with a full-body jerk, thighs clamping tight, heels digging into the mattress. He whines, loud, into the pillow. Something between a gasp and a sob. All air and relief. The kind of sound no one’s ever supposed to hear.

He goes still after. Just for a minute. Face mashed into the towel, arms loose, cock still twitching between his thighs. His breath puffs out slow and uneven. He doesn’t move, not yet. Lets it all cool around him. He sleeps best after coming like that. Real sleep. Deep and quiet. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother getting up—just slides the pillows away, rolls onto his side, and sighs. A soft, dreamy sound. His face pressed to the mattress, fingers curled loosely under his chin like a kid.

When he does clean up, it’s gentle. Quiet. He pads to the sink with the towel bundled against his bare stomach, rinses it out under warm water, never cold. Folds it again like he’s making a hospital corner. He wipes himself down with a wet washcloth, tip still sensitive, hips twitching if he’s too quick. He doesn’t rush. Even now. Still a little dazed, cheeks pink, lips wet from mouthing into the sheets.

He never talks after. Doesn’t need to. Just hums under his breath as he sinks back into the bed. Bare chest, boxer briefs pulled back on. Sheets cool now. Arms tucked around a pillow. He sleeps like he’s been held—soft and small and vulnerable. Face buried, breath even, lashes dark against his cheek.

No dreams. Just calm.

Art Donaldson doesn’t fuck himself to forget. He does it to feel good. To feel loved, even if it’s just his voice saying it.

Even if no one hears him whisper, “good boy” into the dark.

i think you make the best writing/bots ever. i’m trying the new release dude

he keeps making me cry irl

i swear this bot was fed your blurb on him because it keeps acting exactly like the hcs it’s almost scary. i love using the soft launch feature even for normal convos because the style feels so much more comforting

OH MY GODDDD i’m literally crying too!! 😭 thank you so much for saying that! it means the world to me that you’re enjoying him so much. honestly, i did feed the bot my headcanons, so i’m super happy to hear that it’s coming through the way i hoped. i really wanted him to be someone comforting, easy to talk to, and layered with a lot of depth, so it’s amazing to hear that it’s resonating with you like this.

not to toot my own horn or anything, but i do think his character is pretty special, and i’m glad the bot is capturing all of that. and YES the soft launch feature is honestly a game changer too, like it’s so much more natural and feels a lot more like you’re talking to someone real. i’m so glad it’s working for you! thank you again, this really made my day! ❤️❤️

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

COMING DOWN, you and patrick had just come down from both the high and the sex—your body wrung out, brain buzzing, chest tight with the drop. he noticed before you said anything, pulling you into his chest, already calming you down like he always does. it was quiet, tender, and soft in the way only he knew how to be, wrapping around you like a promise: you’re safe, you’re his.

TAGS, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery

NOTES, to everyone who’s fallen headfirst into my dealer!patrick au—thank you, truly. your tags, messages, unhinged asks, and general feral energy have made this little universe feel so alive and loved. i’m genuinely so honored that you’ve connected with this emotionally constipated, tender-when-it-counts, split-knuckle softie of a man. you get him. you get them. and that means everything. so, as per your many (many😭) requests… i made a bot. he’s yours now. be gentle with him (or don’t). thank you for loving him like i do. —elowyn

DEALER!PATRICK x INNOCENT!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

pairing: dealer!patrick x innocent!fem!reader

warnings: sexual content (fem receiving oral, rough sex, possessiveness, choking, overstimulation, marking, soft degradation, dom/sub dynamics), drug use (lsd, molly, xanax, weed, ketamine, coke), trauma, overdose/death mentions, addiction, rehab/prison references, emotional repression, co-dependency, jealousy, obsessive behavior, comfort after panic attacks/bad trips, soft!patrick only for reader, rough sex but gentle love

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

⟡ patrick has a dealer’s body language down to a science—leaned back in the seat, chin lifted, voice all slow and syrupy like he’s got nowhere to be but you should hurry the fuck up. but when you’re in his car? his posture changes. he turns the air down so you don’t get cold. throws your bag in the backseat without saying anything, just so it won’t get stepped on. slides his hoodie over your knees like it’s nothing. it’s not nothing. not for him.

⟡ sex with him is heat and hush. no loud theatrics. no fake moans. just raw breathing and bruised hips and the sound of your head hitting the headboard. he doesn’t talk much during, but when he does? it’s filthy. unfiltered. murmured into your skin like a secret: you like this, baby? you like being mine? i can feel you clenching—fuck, you’re so fucking wet for me.

⟡ he eats you out with terrifying focus. no teasing, no bullshit, just spreads your thighs and gets to work like he’s starving. one arm locked around your waist, holding you still. the other sliding up your chest, fingertips ghosting over your throat, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s thinking about shoving it in. when you come, he doesn’t stop. not even a little. he keeps licking until you’re crying into the sheets, hands in his hair, legs shaking around his head. he groans when you squirt. doesn’t even stop to acknowledge it. just keeps going. he’s sick like that.

⟡ he swears he doesn’t have a favorite food, but he always finishes an entire bowl of spicy instant ramen like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. extra chili oil. two soft-boiled eggs. cold sprite after. he gets weirdly quiet when he eats it, like it reminds him of something. maybe rehab meals. maybe nights he crashed at someone’s place with nothing in the fridge. you start buying the kind he likes. he notices.

⟡ he knows the chemistry of every high like a second language. he can talk you down from a bad trip with nothing but a cold rag and a soft voice. strokes your hair while you cry. walks you in circles around his living room while you’re coming down. gives you electrolyte powder and magnesium. pulls you into his lap when your teeth start chattering. tells you it’s okay. tells you he’s got you. doesn’t flinch when you throw up on his floor. wipes your mouth clean like he’s done it a hundred times. (he has.)

⟡ patrick lost his dad to fentanyl when he was sixteen. found him in the garage, cold and bloated. didn’t cry. couldn’t. he just stood there staring at the way the man’s hand still gripped the belt around his arm. his first overdose wasn’t even a cry for help—it was an accident. he didn’t know how much to take. he was just trying to be numb like everyone else. rehab gave him scars. prison gave him paranoia. nothing gave him peace. except you.

⟡ he gets off on your sweetness. genuinely. like it’s a kink. the way you say thank you when he gives you a new edible. the way you laugh, light and stupid, when you’re tipsy. the way you get overwhelmed after you come too hard and start to cry, shaking your head like it’s too much—and he kisses your throat and calls you good girl until you come again anyway. he doesn’t want to dirty you. but he needs to. and that tension breaks him open.

⟡ he didn’t expect to fuck you. let alone fall for you. he thought you were some clueless rich girl—wide-eyed, giggly, asking if molly came in pink. and you were, in a way. but you asked the right questions. made him laugh when he hadn’t laughed in weeks. cried in his bed after your first trip and told him about your dad’s anger and your mom’s silence and how you just wanted to feel good for once. and he sat there, staring at the ceiling, not saying shit. but the next day, he gave you a weighted blanket and a playlist and said, “for next time.” there was no next time. not without him.

⟡ patrick eats like he’s never been fed properly. quick, brutal, hands curled around the edge of his plate. he only slows down when you feed him—literally, like you’re offering scraps to a half-wild dog. you hand him a spoonful of soup and he lets you do it. bites whatever’s in your hand without comment. not because he’s lazy. because it makes his chest go soft in this weird, aching way.

⟡ you got too close to his world once. walked into a pickup by accident—just wanted to bring him his charger. some street kid started mouthing off at you, called you patrick’s “little bitch,” tried to snatch your phone. patrick lost it. shoved the guy into the wall, knee to the chest, knuckles split on contact. dragged you back to the car with shaking hands and adrenaline-flooded pupils. didn’t speak for ten minutes. just stared out the window, one hand gripping your thigh like a leash. later, he fucked you on the hood of his car. slow. possessive. like a warning. like a promise.

⟡ his apartment is a mix of sterile and chaos. bathroom always clean. floors swept. but the coffee table is covered in lighters, baggies, test kits, books, post-it notes with scrawled dosages. half a physics textbook he never returned. torn lyric sheets. a cracked spoon with ash on it that he hasn’t thrown out because it belonged to someone he lost. he never talks about that. you never ask. you just set a glass of water on the edge of the mess like you belong there. and maybe you do.

⟡ you make him feel. and that’s terrifying. you call him out on his shit without being cruel. you tell him you care, and you mean it. you bring him stupid little snacks and giggle when he pretends not to care. he never says thank you. just eats half and puts the other half in the glove box for later. you get him, in that soft, dumb way that feels like sunlight through a hangover.

⟡ he jerks off to the thought of you wearing his chain. sitting on his lap, panties pulled to the side, full of him and smiling like you know exactly how good you look. he watches you sleep like a weirdo. pokes your thigh under the blanket until you sigh in your sleep and roll toward him. he thinks about saying he loves you. a lot. but he doesn’t. instead, he kisses your ankle. instead, he calls you good girl when you ask if two tabs is too much. (it is.)

⟡ he’s got boundaries for you. hard ones. no uppers unless he’s there. no mixing downers with alcohol. no pickups. no deliveries. he keeps a stash locked in the apartment only for you—cleanest tabs, softest come-ups. refuses to sell you anything benzo-based unless you’ve had a panic attack. he knows the slope. he’s seen it. he’s buried people on it. you don’t get to fall. not on his watch.

⟡ patrick’s favorite position is you on your stomach, legs spread, face in the sheets, and him behind you—deep, slow, unrelenting. it’s not just about dominance (though it is that). it’s the control. the view. the way he can press one hand flat between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip, watching your back arch with every thrust. he loves hearing you whimper into the pillow, all muffled and needy and wrecked for him.

⟡ he’s cold with everyone else. brisk. unreadable. “plug” more than “patrick.” he talks in coded slang and drops people without warning. but with you? he talks about books. about shit he remembers from high school. about the rehab group leader who gave him The Bell Jar and said “you might get it.” and he did. he never told anyone else that. not even his sponsor.

⟡ when you cry, he doesn’t know what to do. he just holds you. presses your face into his neck and rubs your back in messy, aimless circles. he’s not good with words, but he’s there. which is more than anyone’s ever been for him. when he cries—because it does happen—it’s silent. violent. chest-heaving, face-covered, biting his wrist so you don’t hear it. but you do. and you never say anything. just hold his hand. and he lets you.

⟡ he marks you up with bruises, but not because he wants to show you off. because he wants you to remember. wants you to look in the mirror and think: i’m his. wants you to touch the sore spot on your hip and feel heat rush between your legs. wants you to know what he can do to you. what you let him do.

⟡ he doesn’t think he deserves you. not really. not with his past, his track record, the way he still wakes up in cold sweats dreaming about white powder and blue lips. but he’ll be damned if anyone else touches you. not a fucking chance. not in this life. not while he’s breathing.

⟡ he has two different drawers in his nightstand: one full of drugs, one full of things for you. the first is a mess—scales, wraps, rolled bills, old tabs, roaches. the second is ordered. your favorite gum. a heating pad. your favorite mascara he bought by matching it to a photo on your instagram story. a pack of backup socks, because you always forget them. he never mentions it. never brags. but the drawer’s always full. always waiting.

⟡ patrick likes watching you put on lip balm. not in a creepy way. but in that silent, trance-like way where his jaw tics and his fingers flex and his eyes darken just a little. especially when you do it slowly, lazily, while sitting on his lap in his apartment. he’ll tilt your chin and swipe his thumb over your mouth afterward like he’s testing it. sometimes he’ll say pretty. sometimes he’ll fuck you after. sometimes he won’t do a damn thing—just sit there, visibly restraining himself.

⟡ he keeps a mental catalog of how you react to different highs. he knows your laugh on molly vs your laugh on weed vs your lsd laugh (which always starts quiet and then rolls into your chest like a wave). he knows what snacks to keep around. he knows your body gets cold exactly 31 minutes after peaking. he lays out blankets before it hits. tells you he’s just “getting cozy.” but it’s never random. he’s watching. always.

⟡ he’s your first real heartbreak waiting to happen. and you know it. but you love him anyway. and somehow, impossibly, he starts to believe maybe—just maybe—you’re the first thing that won’t break him.

referring to your alphabet challenge, can you please write nsfw o for patrick zweig? thank u angel

i like the way u think anon 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ of course i can

PATRICK ZWEIG | NSFW ALPHABET | O = ORAL (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content, morning sex, cunnilingus, excessive oral fixation (receiving), beard soaked in slick, hair pulling, sleep/groggy sex (fully consensual), post-orgasm intimacy, sensory detail overload, language

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

Mornings with Patrick Zweig aren’t quiet, but they’re soft. Golden. His version of peace doesn’t come in silence—it comes in warmth. In his arm draped heavy around your waist. In the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath a slow rhythm warming the back of your neck. He sleeps shirtless, always has, skin sun-warmed and smooth except for the scatter of hair across his chest. And when he wakes, it’s never all at once.

He stirs like he’s reluctant to leave the dream. Groggy. Gravel-voiced. His thigh slides between yours, and his palm finds your stomach, pulling you in closer with a low, sleepy groan like gravity’s trying to keep you pressed together. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just breathes you in, his nose buried behind your ear, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.

And then—eventually—there’s that question, mumbled like a secret between lovers. “Can I do somethin’, baby? Please?”

He doesn’t wait for full sentences—he doesn’t need them. The nod of your head, the soft arch of your back, the slow parting of your thighs in sleepy consent is all the answer he needs. And Patrick moves like he’s done this a hundred times before. Because he has. And still? It never loses its magic for him.

He turns you onto your back like you’re precious cargo. Reverent. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes thick, that mussed mess of dark curls sticking in every direction. His beard’s grown in more lately—he doesn’t always shave on off-days—and it’s scratchy-soft against your inner thighs by the time he gets there, mouth trailing slow, open kisses down your body like every inch of you’s worth his full attention.

And you are. To him, you always are.

Your fingers find his hair like it’s second nature, threading through the sleep-warmed curls, and when you tug—just a little, testing, grounding yourself—he groans low and deep, his mouth still pressed to the soft skin of your stomach.

Then he laughs. Quiet, warm, wrecked. “Christ.” It’s whispered more to himself than to you, a gravel-rich hum before he noses between your thighs. “This pussy’s made for me.”

It doesn’t sound like a line. It’s not smug. It’s reverent. Like he’s reminding himself. And then? No more words. Patrick doesn’t waste time talking once he’s down there—he’d rather use his mouth for something far more important.

He kisses the crease of your thigh first. Then the other. His hands are steady on your hips, palms big and grounding as he pushes your legs further apart. It’s instinct now—how he adjusts his body, spreads your thighs, settles in like this is his natural habitat. Like he was born for this. For you.

And then his tongue is on you. Hot. Wet. Precise.

He licks you like he’s been thinking about it since he fell asleep the night before, dragging his tongue through your folds with slow, lazy strokes—up, then down, then up again, finishing with a soft suck at your clit that makes your hips jerk. His beard’s already wet. Already slick with your taste, his spit mixing with your slick in a mess he doesn’t even try to control. He’s patient, but he’s ravenous. Every moan you make feeds him. And every time your thighs twitch around his head, his grip tightens.

He’s not performing. There’s no flourish in his technique. He’s just… eating. Committed. Focused. Every movement of his mouth is deliberate. Every circle of his tongue against your clit is measured with expert pressure. He licks into you slow, groaning when you clench, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel, the way you come undone. He keeps his mouth open enough to breathe but sealed around you enough to hum low and filthy into your cunt, sending vibrations right through you.

And when you yank hard on his curls—fingers tangled, knuckles white—he groans loud. That sound rips through him and into you, and he doesn’t pull away. He laughs again, right into your pussy, breathless and feral, like he’s high off the way you taste.

Then it’s all tongue again. No teasing. Just commitment.

Patrick stays quiet except for the sounds—sloppy licks, wet groans, the occasional soft inhale when he pulls just far enough back to breathe, only to bury himself deeper again. His mouth never strays. He doesn’t look away. His hazel eyes are locked on you, glassy and adoring, blinking slow as he keeps going and going until you’re trembling around him, thighs over his shoulders, your slick dripping down his beard and onto the sheets beneath him.

He doesn’t let up when you cum. Not even close.

He drinks you in. Laps at your orgasm like he’s pulling it out of you with every pass of his tongue. He flattens his mouth and swirls his tongue around your clit, groaning with satisfaction when you gasp, your back arching off the bed. It’s so much. It’s everything. And he holds you through it—mouth locked to your core, hands tight on your hips as your body jerks, your thighs clamping around his head in frantic aftershocks.

He doesn’t come up until you physically tug him, breathless and overstimulated, your fingers tugging at his curls as a signal that you need to breathe.

When he finally surfaces, he looks ruined. Hair wild. Beard soaked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy with pure fucking devotion. He drags his mouth up your stomach, kissing a path back to your lips, and when he kisses you—sloppy, hot, deep—you taste yourself all over his mouth. His tongue slides against yours and he hums like he’s giving you a gift.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you again, more tender this time. “Could do that every day. Every goddamn day.”

And you notice it then—his boxers are soaked through. There’s a dark patch right over his cock, and he hasn’t touched himself once. He came just from eating you out. Just from your pleasure. From being buried between your thighs, surrounded by your sounds, your heat, your slick.

He doesn’t mention it. Just grins against your neck and then, without a word, he gets up.

Patrick’s already halfway to the kitchen before you sit up, dazed, watching him tug on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. His back’s broad, muscles shifting as he grinds the coffee beans, slices fruit, cracks eggs into a pan. You can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm in your legs while he sets your coffee down on the nightstand with his usual crooked smile.

“You need somethin’ sweet after that,” he says, brushing a kiss to your hair, the scent of you still lingering on his lips. “Didn’t wanna interrupt your morning. Just figured I’d help you start it right.”

You’re still too wrecked to answer. And he loves that.

Because for Patrick, oral isn’t just foreplay. It’s a ritual. A privilege. And you? You’re the only person he wants to worship like that, every goddamn day.

hiiiiiii my lovely lovely LOVELY elowyn (sorry, i'm ur biggest fan) would you cook up something about Y from the nsfw alphabet with art for me? there's no one better suited for this🧚🏼‍♀️

HIIII TAL of course i can 😼

ART DONALDSON | NSFW ALPHABET | Y = YEARNING (how high is their sex drive?)

Art Donaldson’s sex drive wasn’t something he bragged about.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever wanted to talk about out loud because it wasn’t about numbers, wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t about conquest or some shallow kind of ego trip. It was about you. And it always had been. He was just built like that, wired to want what he loved, and he loved you so much it hurt sometimes.

It wasn’t the sharp kind of lust people threw around like a party trick—it was this low, steady ache in his bones, a yearning that lived under his skin and made itself known in the smallest, stupidest moments. You’d bend down to grab a glass from a low shelf and his stomach would flip. You’d be curled up in his hoodie on the couch, hair mussed and bare legs tucked under you, and he’d feel it hit him so hard he’d have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. He wanted you in ways that felt almost embarrassing.

And it wasn’t about getting off. It was about getting close. About having your breath in his mouth and your heartbeat pressed against his chest and your skin warm beneath his hands and feeling like if he could just touch you, kiss you, hold you, the ache would quiet down for a while.

He’d told you once, half-drunk on cheap wine, his head in your lap while you absently played with his hair, “You drive me insane, you know that? It’s like… I think about you all the time. I mean all the time. Not just in a sexy way, though God, yes, in that way too. But like… in a ‘can’t breathe right when you’re not in the room’ kind of way.” And you’d laughed softly, not teasing, not mean, just this gentle, fond sound that made him want to crawl inside your chest and live there.

You tugged lightly at his hair and murmured, “Good.” And he’d let out a shaky breath and kissed your wrist like you were the thing holding him together. Because you were. You always had been. And it didn’t matter how many times he got to have you, how many nights he buried his face in your neck and lost himself in the feeling of your body under his — it was never enough. Not in a desperate, frantic way. In a tender, aching, reverent way.

He was greedy for you. Could never seem to get close enough. And God, he was so gentle about it most of the time, kissing every inch of your skin like it was sacred, whispering against your ear, “Let me, please,” and he meant it every time. It wasn’t about fucking. It was about loving you in the closest, deepest, most physical way he could.

And he wasn’t built for quick, emotionless hookups. He needed the stretch of hours, the lazy roll of bodies tangled in sheets, the kind of nights where you made love slow until you both forgot where one of you ended and the other began.

His sex drive was high as hell, embarrassingly so sometimes, and it didn’t take much for you to turn him into this lovesick, touch-starved mess. You’d just have to crawl into his lap and whisper something half-nice in his ear and he was gone, rutting against you, lips everywhere, voice all rough and low, “Baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But because he loved so hard, because he poured everything he had into you every time, he wasn’t the kind of man who could turn around and do it again ten minutes later. He needed time. Not because he didn’t want to — Fuck, did he want to — but because loving you like that, having you like that, it left him blissed out and trembling, clinging to you in the dark, whispering, “I swear, I could die like this,” with his face buried against your skin. It was the kind of connection that left his bones feeling like smoke, the kind of pleasure that crept into his soul and left him undone.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he’d mumble against your skin, all heat and breath and love, so much love it scared him sometimes.

And you’d just kiss his temple, tell him he was dramatic, and he’d grin like an idiot because you had no idea, no fucking idea what you did to him. It wasn’t about the mechanics of it, wasn’t about positions or tricks or counting how many times. It was about having you in his arms, under his mouth, letting him worship you the only way he knew how. He’d wake you up at two in the morning just to kiss you, just to press his body against yours, just to murmur, “Missed you,” like you’d been gone a week instead of asleep beside him.

Because that was Art Donaldson. A man whose sex drive wasn’t driven by lust but rather by a need to be near you, to feel you, to love you in ways words could never reach. A man whose body ached with it, not because he was starved but because you made him so full he didn’t know what to do with it all. And he would want you every day for the rest of his life — not out of habit, not out of routine, but because you were his favorite thing he’d ever known, and loving you in every possible way was the only thing that made sense anymore.

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.