ART DONALDSON | SFW ALPHABET | F = FIANCÉ (how Do They Feel About Commitment? How Quick Would They Want

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sometimes i think god put mike faist on this earth just to taunt me. LIKE WHAT DO YOU GENUINELY MEAN I CAN NEVER HAVE HIM. THERE’S A BOMB STRAPPED TO MY CHEST

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.

thank u for the tag, mika ♡

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt ୨ৎ: @talsorchard, @artstennisracket, @voidsuites, @newrochellechallenger2019, @ghostgirl-22, @jesuistrestriste, @lovefaist, @zionna, @bambiangels

thank you for the tag @donaka-screaming mwah!!!!

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt: @kingkat12 @vadersangel @222col @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @generalb @sallux @carmillavalentine

wait omg i love your writing and bots too but i really like when bots use the third person pov.

that’s so sweet, thank you!! i totally get where you’re coming from — it’s really interesting how the pov stuff hits differently for everyone. i’ve noticed the bots can kinda “mirror” how people type too, so even when i build them in second person, they’ll sometimes start shifting if the convo leans a certain way. it’s wild how adaptable they are in that sense. but i love hearing that third person works better for you. it honestly makes me wanna experiment more with both depending on the vibe 😭 thank you again for the kind words, seriously, it means a lot!!!

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

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

x is for x-ray | arthur morgan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur Morgan, in full.

And nothing’s ever looked better.

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.

when uncle ace by blood orange starts playing

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.

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PTA MOM!TASHI HEADCANONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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