ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ! ۪ ֹ ᮫

CHALLENGERS ANNIVERSARY BOT RELEASE ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

04/05/25

happy terribly late challengersversary!! and thank u for 1k followers that's insane i adore u all. crazy to me how fun of a place this has become and i can’t believe it’s been an entire year since the movie came out omg. shoutout to tashi duncan for bringing us all together to fujo out like this. yeah x10!!

also dropped the android bots temporarily bc i know a few people got reqs for them for this release! they'll be out in the future but i wanna make a tashi one too so i can post them all at once :) as usual all bots are gender neutral unless specified otherwise.

***three's a crowd bot got flagged randomly right after uploading again even though it's been fine for days. will get fixed asap and link added

enjoy! <3

ART TASHI PATRICK

ATP art x tashi x patrick x user

One coach is strenuous enough. Two gives you a headache. But three people barking orders at you for hours every day… it's enough to drive any sane person crazy. Especially when your coaches are known to get a little more... handsy, than what should really be appropriate.

ART AND PATRICK

THREE'S A CROWD art x patrick x user

Three's a crowd. or, at least, it should be. The three of you are thick as thieves—both your boyfriends, and each other's best friends. But you see the way they look at each other, the way they get a little too lost in each other when you're all tangled up in bed together. They aren't as discreet as they think they are. Your poor little repressed white boys.

UNOFFICIAL THIRD art x patrick x user

Moving into a rural town with no stable job probably wasn't the smartest decision you've ever made. But two of the local farmers are friendly enough to offer you a job helping around their farm. Two boyfriends, Art and Patrick, who seem just a little too keen to keep you around for a monogamous couple.

TRUTH OR DARE art x patrick x user

It's always Patrick, isn't it? None of you are surprised when he proposes a game of truth or dare the summer before college starts, sitting out in the sand in front of his parent's beach house. Aow bad could it possibly go? (Spoiler: very.)

ART DONALDSON

KIDS HAVING KIDS art donaldson x user (m4f)

Meeting Art in your freshman year of college was great. He had the potential to be a perfect boyfriend—you just never expected it all to happen so quickly. Fast forward to two years later and the pair of you are juggling an unplanned baby, your future careers, and enough homework to drown in. at least you have each other.

ALTAR BOY art donaldson x user

Art's a good Christian boy. Says his prayers before bed every night, serves as his father's altar boy when he's preaching, and wears his purity ring as if it's a physical part of him. Which is why he feels real guilty about all the thoughts his brain is conjuring up about the new kid in town. And against his better judgement, he finds himself seeking you out more and more.

IMPOTENT art donaldson x user

It's embarrassing. Thirty-two years old and he struggles to get it up. Patrick says it's normal for a man of his lifestyle, but he knows he's just saying that to make him feel better. And with you, his young new partner, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He can't just keep making excuses when you try to take it further; one man only needs to run to the bathroom so much. Maybe it's time to finally come clean.

MERYTON BALL art donaldson x user (m4f)

When your mother mentions a new young man moving into netherfield park, you don't think too much of it. An eligible bachelor that all the girls will be swarming to at the first event he shows his face at, no doubt. But the man in question, Art Donaldson, seems to take a shine to you, and you can't possible turn down such a sweet, bashful smile.

SLIP OF THE TONGUE art donaldson x user (m4f)

Well, this is very awkward. In the heat of the moment, with you perched atop him and your bodies slick with sweat, Art accidentally let the word mommy slip. He's never been so mortified in his life; it's never a term you've discussed using, and the surprise on your face was clear. Embarrassed, he takes to avoiding you after that—but you're his girlfriend. He can't ignore you forever.

JUST A TRIM art donaldson x user

Just a trim. That's what you said when you plucked the pair of hair scissors out of your bag and made your husband sit down at your kitchen table with a towel draped over his shoulders. But, as you run your fingers through his curls, you can't help but think how handsome he'd look with his hair cut a little shorter. How much more mature he'd look without those boyish ringlets.

TRINKETS art donaldson x user

Art normally keeps to himself—he's accidentally lured more than a few pure souls to their demise with his siren song over the course of his life. Now, he watches from afar, transfixed by the humans along the shore that come to swim or play in the rock pools. When you move into one of the houses by the shore, he thinks you're absolutely wonderful. He's too shy to talk to you, of course, but that doesn't stop him from leaving little gifts for you: trinkets he's discovered from sunken ships or on the ocean bed. And then one night the moonlight emboldens him enough to find you on the shore.

PATRICK ZWEIG

BOY DAD patrick zweig x user (m4f)

Your baby daddy is a real pain. The kind that doesn't even bat an eye when your son comes home saying swear words after the spending the weekend with him, and texts you to confirm details he should know about his five-year-old. At the end of the day, though, your kid loves him. Maybe you still love him, too.

DESK CLUMP patrick zweig x user

Once upon a time, Patrick Zweig was destined for greatness. Now, in his mid-twenties, he's found himself working a shitty desk job for a sales company he couldn't care less about. Amidst all the dullness and depression of the modern office, at least he has you to make him feel better about himself. That one weird co-worker who he shares a desk clump with and looks considerably more miserable than him. Plus, you're kinda cute.

GIRL DAD patrick zweig x user (m4f)

When you told your friends you were pregnant, they weren't sure whether to congratulate you or pat you on the back and tell you everything would work out. "Are you sure?" Your mother had asked, when you delivered the news. But despite everyone's doubts about the father, Patrick has proven himself; he's settled down, and after years of being alone, he has a family to come home to. Doesn't mean he isn't still the same idiot you fell in love with.

NUISANCE patrick zweig x user

One of your roommates is a total nuisance. Art is clean enough, but Patrick is a slob. Probably because he grew up with a maid to clean after his ass and Art to keep their room tidy enough for inspections at the Academy... he also has no sense of space and just never leaves you the fuck alone.

WEIRDO patrick zweig x user

Patrick isn't really sure what it is about you. Maybe it's the fact that you don't care about putting up an image to impress him. Maybe it's the way you look adorable with your glasses on and your nose in a book. Either way, he's just completely smitten with you. You're a weirdo... but you're his weirdo.

SINGLE MOTHER patrick zweig x user (m4f)

The moment you brought up having a toddler, Patrick should have booked it. He was sorely tempted, mind you—it's a lot of commitment getting involved with a woman that already has a kid. He's never been the settling down type in the first place. But he really likes you, and after being introduced to your son, he realises he likes him too. Ugh. What a predicament.

TASHI DUNCAN

WHO WOULDN'T BE? tashi duncan x user

Is it a little snaky of you? Yeah, probably. But Patrick just isn't good enough for her! you tell yourself you're doing her a favour. As her best friend, it's your job to steer her away from her asshole of a boyfriend, even if that involves telling a few white lies.

SOLAR POWER tashi duncan x user

Tashi doesn't really get much time to just relax. If she isn't playing tennis, she's at press conferences or sponsorship meetings. She's the most hard-working person you know, especially at her age. So you're a little surprised when she suggests a trip to the beach... but there's no way you're turning down seeing her all chilled out in a bikini.

TUTORIAL tashi duncan x user

When you start seeing Art, your lack of experience doesn't even cross your mind. He seems like an innocent enough guy to you, after all. But when your best friend keeps telling you stories patrick has passed out about all the people art has been with at the academy, maybe you get a little insecure. And maybe you've been whining about it to Tashi for the last few weeks. So, eventually, she caves—she can teach you a few things. It's not as if her boyfriend will mind. He'll just be mad he isn't there to watch.

SUNSHINE tashi duncan x user

After her injury, Tashi was miserable. The first few weeks of working with her, she was cold and snappy, the opposite of your warm smiles and encouraging words. Barely said a word to you unless it was to tell you she was fine or to fuck off. But she's taking it out on the wrong person. You're only trying to help, after all—it's your job. So eventually she warms up to you, and the hostile greetings eventually turn into smiles and coffee placed on your desk before you begin her sessions. She's still a little moody sometimes, though.

COVER GIRL tashi duncan x user

The name 'Tashi Duncan' is quickly becoming known by everyone in the modelling world. Dhe's been on the cover of Vogue, inspired a whole new Chanel collection. With her face on half the billboards in the country, she doesn't have the time to be answering calls and sending emails, so she takes on an assistant: you. The job pays well, and it's a good way into the industry, but... she's a lot more of a brat than you were expecting when you took the job.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @gracelynnx @femme-lusts @voidsuites @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @m4lodr4ma @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @artspats @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @elsieblogs

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.

yea that brotha’s starving 😭😭😭😭😭

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.

for the girls, gays, and theys who enjoyed countryclub!dilf!art, i bestow upon you… a bot!

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ sweat (countryclub!art) ۪ ֹ ᮫

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.

#And he's dead serious (and right)

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. 💓

I LOVE YOUR THEME SO BAD ELOWYN

i love YOU so bad achilles 🥹🥹

DILF!HUSBAND!ART DONALDSON — quickie at a family birthday party

the house roars with noise—sugar-wired kids shrieking, adults exchanging strained pleasantries, the chaos of domestic bliss. but upstairs, behind a locked door, your husband isn’t content with playing the polite party host. no—he’s starving for you. and he takes his time devouring.

pairing: dilf!husband!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings: semi-public sex, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, hand over mouth during sex, fingering, fully clothed sex, creampie, aftercare

notes: i legit just cooked this up for y’all, so sorry if there’s any grammatical errors! i also apologize for the length, it’s a little bit shorter than my usual works. i’ll make up for it my lovelies 😇

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

The living room’s overstuffed with bodies and chatter, frosting-smudged faces screeching joy into plastic forks and paper plates. The kind of midday suburban hellscape where no one knows whose kid belongs to whom and every dad thinks he’s the next grill-master prophet. You’ve been balancing on the arm of a couch for what feels like a decade, one thigh going numb, lemonade in your hand turning piss-warm, your polite smile clinging to your face like static. A toddler drags their syrupy fingers down your calf. You flinch, too tired to correct them. Too wired, too watched.

And across the room, Art’s gaze is burning holes through your goddamn soul.

He stands framed in the doorway to the patio, lips barely moving as he humors some dad explaining lawn care or stocks or something equally soul-killing. But he’s not listening. Not really. His eyes keep snagging on you, pulling like thread through fabric—slow, deliberate, tightening with each glance. His gaze isn’t casual. It’s heavy. Possessive. It curls around your ribcage, slides under your skin, presses right where you want him most.

Your sundress was a calculated move. Pale yellow. Thin. The kind of cotton that clings after a breeze and rides up with each step. Innocent in the way lingerie dreams of being. You wore it for him. You always do. And from the way his jaw ticks every time you shift in your seat, he knows it.

The moment your eyes meet, his lip twitches. The kind of smile that promises sin. You shift your thighs, not for show, but because you fucking need to—because under all this conversation and chaos and birthday cake air, you’re slick and throbbing like you’re in college again. All because of that fucking look.

He doesn’t ask when you slip away from the crowd. He doesn’t follow immediately either. He waits. He lets you lead. And when the stairs creak under your feet, your heartbeat is so goddamn loud it might as well be broadcast over the baby monitor someone left running on the kitchen counter.

You don’t even reach the guest room before you feel him behind you—close, not touching, but there. His presence is a temperature. A pressure. A fucking gravitational pull.

Inside the room, the air changes. No words. Just the click of the door lock behind you, and silence so sharp it hums. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him behind you like a storm rolling in. Warmth licking at your spine before fingers even find your waist. When they do—Jesus—it’s reverent. Thumbs sliding up your sides like he’s reading Braille, like your body contains answers he’s been chasing all his life.

“That dress, baby,” he says, voice thick like honey left too long in the sun. “That fucking dress.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when his mouth finds your shoulder, his lips parting against the skin like he’s trying to taste what the sun left behind.

“I wore it for you,” you finally whisper, like a confession through a prayer.

“I know.” A kiss, open-mouthed, heat and breath and barely there teeth. “You always do.”

It’s slow. Excruciatingly, deliberately slow. He peels you apart like fruit—one careful touch at a time. His hands slide down, grip your hips, pull you back against the heat of him, still clothed but unmistakable. Unignorable.

“You were sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream,” he growls into your neck. “Actin’ all sweet while your thighs were pressed so tight, I thought you might snap in half.”

You whimper. Soft. Needy. Embarrassing in the way only want can be. And he loves it. You feel it in the way his hands grip harder, the way his breath stutters against your skin.

Then: he turns you.

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Not cruel—never that—but devastating. Like you’re the only soft thing in a world made of stone, and he’s starving for every inch.

“You’re not gonna make a sound,” he says, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “You understand me?”

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

That smile again. That sinful, knowing curve of his lips as he leans in close, nose brushing yours. “Good girl.”

You don’t remember falling onto the bed. Only the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath you, your dress pushed up with reverent slowness, your thighs guided open like the petals of a flower coaxed by the sun. You’re still wearing everything. So is he. And that’s what makes it unbearable—the friction of cotton against heat, the crinkle of fabric caught between skin and need.

When he slides his hand between your thighs and finds you soaked, he groans. Low. A sound that hits you somewhere between your sternum and your soul.

“All this for me?”

You nod, lip caught between your teeth, hips twitching under his palm.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not yet. He teases. He strokes. He circles and ghosts over you until your toes curl and your stomach aches, until you’re arching and gasping and begging with your eyes because your voice is a luxury you can’t afford.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, and when you whine despite yourself, he covers your mouth with his hand—firm, warm, fingers splayed across your cheek like a lover and a captor. “You wanna get caught?”

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

It’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s devastatingly thorough. When he finally pulls himself out—all six, flushed, beautiful inches of him, and finally slides inside you, it’s like a stretch made of molten gold—slow, deep, purposeful. You choke on a moan against his hand, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer intensity of being so utterly filled.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The thrusts are measured. Each one a study in control. He fucks you like he’s trying to remember every inch, every twitch, every gasp you won’t let out loud. His praise is relentless—murmured against your skin, whispered like secrets meant only for the pulse point of your throat.

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

You come undone with his hand over your mouth, your legs locked around his hips, your body shaking apart like the quietest little explosion. And he keeps going. Keeps moving. Holds you steady while he finishes inside you, moaning ragged into your neck, hips stuttering as he gives you everything.

When it’s over, the room is still. Sacred. The world doesn’t exist past these walls. Outside, laughter carries up from the yard, oblivious. You watch as his seed spills from your cunt, obscenely so, and meet his eyes.

He kisses your temple. Brushes your hair back. Helps you fix your dress. Cleans you up with a few tissues and his mouth.

No one suspects a thing.

But his fingers stay curled around yours even as you rejoin the party, and you both know what you did—what you tasted, what you claimed. He hands you an overly-frosted cupcake, seemingly a reward, and winks before walking off once more.

And that knowledge lingers like a brand, burned into your bones.

he’s so fine that i had to look up this chart and reevaluate my original and very inappropriate thoughts on this photo