FUCK AROUND & FIND OUT

TRASHY 2000’S PATRICK ZWEIG HEADCANONS

pairing: trashy2000’s!patrick zweig x reader (f!implied)

warning: sexual content, oral fixation + implied oral sex, dry humping, marking, casual substance use, questionable hygiene habits. MDNI

⟡ his room smells like a violent cocktail of weed, cheap deodorant, sweat, and whatever microwaved shit he ate at 2am. probably totino’s pizza rolls, or a burnt grilled cheese sandwich. there’s a stale open mountain dew on the nightstand. it’s been there for days.

⟡ will 100% play video games with your legs across his lap, absentmindedly tracing circles on your calf while yelling at the screen. “you’re a fucking idiot. no, no, not you. the character. unless you’re into it.”

⟡ bites. like, actual biting. shoulder, neck, inner thigh. leaves marks and smirks about it the next day. “oops.”

⟡ you wake up to find him staring at you sometimes. not creepy. just soft. blinking real slow, like he doesn’t believe you’re real. “you’re pretty,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “like…like real-life pretty. not just ‘i like you’ pretty.”

⟡ he kisses like he means it—messy, desperate, always with a little tongue and too much breath. like he thinks he’ll never get to do it again.

⟡ every now and then, he says something stupidly sincere like “y’know, you’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t suck” and then immediately throws a cheeto at your face to ruin the moment.

⟡ plays old bootleg burned CDs of limp bizkit, breaking benjamin, and early muse. he still calls mp3 players “those tiny ipod things.” he doesn’t trust streaming services. says they’re “too clean.”

⟡ he has zero boundaries when he’s in love. sticks his cold feet under your thighs. eats off your plate without asking. chews your gum after you spit it out. “it’s romantic,” he insists, already popping it between his teeth.

⟡ can fix anything with duct tape and a bent butter knife. you don’t ask how he knows this. he once got a broken dvd player to work using a safety pin and a guitar pick.

⟡ lives on energy drinks and bagel bites. once you watched him eat cold pizza at 7am and wash it down with monster and he just shrugged like it was fine.

⟡ has a soft spot for you but tries to hide it behind constant teasing. “you’re wearing that?” followed by “nah, you look hot. don’t let it go to your head.”

⟡ he’s loud during sex. whiny, growling, panting. curses a lot. grunts “fuckfuckfuckfuck” when you ride him. moans into your neck like he’s scared of being alone. sometimes you don’t even fuck—he just wants to grind up under you, your weight pressing him into the mattress like gravity is a comfort.

⟡ doesn’t sleep much. not cause he’s an insomniac, just cause he always forgets. plays tony hawk pro skater 3 till sunrise, then crawls into bed with his arms around your waist, muttering “i’ll sleep better if you stay.”

⟡ has the worst oral fixation you’ve ever seen. he chews pen caps until they’re mangled, always has a sucker in his mouth (blue raspberry to match his tongue), and if you’re laying in his lap while he’s watching tv, he’ll slowly guide your fingers into his mouth and suck on them like it’s nothing. like it’s just another habit. if you shift your hips even a little while you’re grinding on him, he groans into your palm, eyes half-lidded, and lets your index finger drag across his tongue like he’s starving for it.

⟡ he’s the type of guy who watches donnie darko on loop and pretends it’s for the cinematography. absolutely convinced he gets it on a level no one else does. “this movie’s about me,” he says, half-joking. “you’re not allowed to date anyone who doesn’t like it.” he 100% had a frank the rabbit poster on his wall for years.

⟡ his idea of a date is going to a laundromat at 1am, splitting a slushie from 7/11, and making out in the detergent aisle. you’re sitting in the spinning dryer drum and he’s got his head between your legs. “just five minutes,” he says. you stay there until the sun rises.

⟡ won’t admit it but he loves it when you brush his hair. especially when he’s lying with his head in your lap. makes this quiet humming sound, eyelids fluttering like a sleepy cat. if you stop, he whines. literally whines.

⟡ he picks up little things for you constantly. a soda you like. a broken charm off a keychain. a gas station sticker. gives them to you like treasure. like, “this is trash, but it made me think of you.” you keep them all in a drawer.

⟡ never remembers to charge his phone. it’s always at 3%, held together by tape, and missing the back panel. but he keeps a photo of you as his background. not one where you look nice. one where you’re eating chips in bed with crumbs all over your shirt. he says it’s his favorite.

this song is so carmy. every single lyric pertains to every single aspect of his life. grieving mikey, the stress of being a chef, being mean to those he loves……..oh i’m devastated (and SO writing some angst!)

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

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

⤹　　 ART DONALDSON

✦ ⌇ lemonade lips

✦ ⌇ breaking point

✦ ⌇ two for $25

⤹　　 TASHI DUNCAN

✦ ⌇ stolen trophy

✦ ⌇ hotel blues

✦ ⌇ doubles trouble

⤹　　 PATRICK ZWEIG

✦ ⌇ choreplay

✦ ⌇ post-match picnic

✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion

A LOVE WITHOUT EDGES

a moment of vulnerability with art, where insecurity meets devotion. he finds you battling with your reflection and reminds you that your body is a temple he worships with reverent hands and whispered truths.

pairing: husband!art x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader

warnings: body image issues, mentions of disordered eating patterns, cunnilingus, body worship, emotional vulnerability

note: hi, lovely human. this is just for you. i know how heavy it can feel—carrying all those thoughts about your body that no one else can see. the way mirrors become battlegrounds. the way numbers on a scale start to feel like verdicts. but please, hear me: your body is not a problem to fix. it is not too much or not enough. it is not wrong. your body is yours, and it is good, even on the days it feels like a stranger. you deserve to live in a body that is safe. that is fed. that is held with tenderness—even if only by your own hands for now. you deserve joy and rest and love that doesn’t ask you to shrink to receive it. and you deserve help if you’re hurting. if you’re struggling with disordered eating or body image, please know that you’re not alone—and that healing is possible, no matter how far away it feels. you are loved. you are worthy. exactly as you are, right now, in this moment.

if you or someone you love is struggling with an eating disorder, please consider reaching out:

National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) Helpline: 1-800-931-2237 (Monday—Thursday: 11am–9pm ET, Friday: 11am–5pm ET) or visit nationaleatingdisorders.org for chat support, resources, and help.

be gentle with yourself today.

with love, elowyn ♡

You've been avoiding the mirror for weeks now. Dancing around it like some fragile, dangerous thing that might shatter and cut you open if you look too long. The bathroom light feels too harsh these days, revealing every curve you've come to despise, every soft edge that wasn't there before. You've been wrapping yourself in oversized hoodies — his hoodies — drowning in fabric just to feel less visible to yourself. Just to breathe without the crushing awareness of your own skin.

Art notices. Of course he fucking notices. How couldn't he? The way you flinch from his touch when his fingers graze your stomach. The way you turn the lights off before undressing. The way your eyes dart away when he looks at you too long, too lovingly. He sees everything — the skipped meals, the clothes that hang off you differently now, the shame that clings to you like a second skin. He watches you drift through the house like a ghost haunting your own body.

This morning breaks across the horizon in shades of amber and gold, casting long shadows through the windows. You stand barefoot on the cool tile, having crept in while Art was still sleeping. Steam from the shower clouds the glass, creating a hazy filter over your reflection, but not enough to obscure what you see as flaws. Your fingertips trace the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where your body refuses to be what you want it to be.

You don't hear him come in. Don't notice the door opening, the soft padding of his feet against the tile. Your focus is singular, devastating — cataloging every perceived imperfection with clinical precision. The war inside your head drowns out everything else.

“Baby." His voice cuts through the silence, deep and warm and achingly familiar. You startle, arms immediately crossing over your body, a shield. An instinct. "What’re you doing?"

The question hangs between you. Simple. Devastating. You can't answer him because the truth feels too pathetic to voice aloud. Instead, you reach for the towel hanging nearby, wrapping it around yourself with trembling fingers. "Just getting ready for the day," you lie, the words bitter on your tongue.

Art doesn't move from the doorway. His eyes — those eyes that have always seen straight through you — hold yours in the mirror. He's leaning against the frame, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but boxer briefs slung low on his hips. There's something unbearably tender in his gaze. "You've been doing that a lot lately," he says softly. "Standing here. Looking at yourself like that."

Your throat tightens. Something hot and painful builds behind your eyes. "Like what?" The challenge in your voice is weak, transparent. You both know what he means.

Art crosses the bathroom in three strides. He comes to stand behind you, not touching, just present. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Like you're looking at a stranger," he answers, his voice dropping lower. "Like you're trying to find something wrong."

The tears come without warning, hot and sudden. You turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of yourself breaking open like this. "I don't wanna talk about it, Art.” The words come out choked, strained through the tightness in your throat. You move to push past him, to escape back to the safety of baggy clothes and avoidance.

His hand catches your wrist. Not restraining, just connecting. "Hey," he whispers, drawing you back toward him with gentle insistence. "Look at me." When you don't, when you keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor, he tips your chin up with one finger. "Please."

You meet his gaze reluctantly. He's looking at you with such naked concern that it makes your chest ache. "I don't know what's happening," he continues, thumbs brushing away tears from your cheeks. "But I know you're disappearing. Right in front of me." His voice cracks slightly. "You won't let me touch you anymore. You won't let me see you."

"Because I don't want you to," you whisper, the admission tearing from you like something physical. "I don't... I can't..." The words falter and die on your lips. How do you explain the civil war happening in your head? The daily battle with your own reflection?

Art shakes his head, somehow looking both devastated and determined. "C’mere," he says quietly, taking your hand. He leads you back to the bedroom, the early morning light painting everything in soft focus. He sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls you gently between his knees.

You stand there, clutching the towel like armor, feeling exposed despite being covered. Art's hands come to rest on your hips, warm through the terry cloth. "Do you remember," he begins, looking up at you with those devastating eyes, "what you said to me after we lost the championship my second year coaching?" His thumbs trace small circles against your hipbones. "When I couldn't even look at myself?"

The memory surfaces, crystal clear despite the years between then and now. Art, devastated after a brutal loss, questioning everything — his abilities, his choices, his worth. You'd held him through the night while he unraveled. "I said that failure isn't who you are," you answer softly. "It's just something that happens."

“You told me," he continues, his voice dropping to that low register that always makes your heart skip, "that my worth wasn't measured in trophies or titles." His fingers tighten slightly on your hips. "That I was more than one moment. More than one loss." His eyes never leave yours. "You need to hear that now."

Something breaks open inside you. A dam bursting. "It's not the same thing," you protest weakly, even as tears spill down your cheeks again. "This is... it's my body, Art. It's me."

"No," he says with sudden fierceness. "It's not you. It's the house you live in." His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away tears. "It's the vessel that carries you. The body that lets you move and feel and live." He leans forward, presses his forehead against your stomach through the towel. "The body I fucking worship."

The raw honesty in his voice steals your breath. You feel his hands move to the edge of the towel, hesitating there. "Let me show you," he whispers against your skin. "Let me remind you."

Everything in you wants to run. To hide. To wrap yourself back in layers until you can't feel the weight of your own skin. But there's something in his eyes — not pity, not obligation, but devotion. Pure, aching devotion. Like you're sacred. Like he wants to build an altar at your feet.

With trembling hands, you let the towel fall.

Art's breath catches audibly. His eyes travel over you slowly, reverently, like he's seeing you for the first time. Like he's memorizing every inch. You fight the urge to cover yourself, to hide the softness of your belly, the fullness of your thighs, all the places where your body has changed. Instead, you force yourself to stand still under his gaze, vulnerable and exposed.

"Do you know what I see?" he asks, voice rough with emotion. His hands come to rest on your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your stomach. "I see the body that keeps you alive. That lets you laugh and cry and breathe." He leans forward, presses his lips to the soft skin below your navel. "I see the body that carries you through this world. That lets you dance with me in the kitchen at midnight."

Each word feels like a balm, soothing something raw and wounded inside you. Art's hands slide up along your sides, mapping you with careful attention. "I see the body that holds mine at night," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "That wraps around me when I'm cold. That fits against me like it was made for me."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, in his touch. "I don't recognize myself anymore," you admit in a whisper. The truth you've been running from for weeks. "I look in the mirror and… I don't know who I'm looking at."

Art stands slowly, his hands never leaving your skin. He towers over you, all lean muscle and focused intensity. "Then let me show you what I see," he says, guiding you gently to lie back on the bed. "Let me remind you."

He kneels between your legs, spreading them with gentle hands. There's something almost religious in the way he looks at you, in the careful reverence of his touch. "This body," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your inner thigh, "is a fucking masterpiece." His mouth moves higher, breath warm against your skin. "Every inch of it." His fingers trace patterns on your stomach, your hips, your thighs — not to arouse but to appreciate, to honor.

You feel the hot press of tears behind your eyelids again, but different now. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Art works his way up your body with lips and tongue and gentle hands, kissing each place you've learned to hate. The curve of your belly. The softness under your arms. The fullness of your thighs. He worships each part with the devotion of a true believer.

"The way you move," he whispers against your ribcage. "The way you breathe." His mouth moves to the underside of your breast. "The way your skin tastes." His tongue traces the curve of your nipple. "Everything about you is perfect."

You shake your head slightly, eyes still closed. "Don't say that," you whisper. "You don't have to pretend—"

"I'm not pretending." The fierce conviction in his voice makes your eyes snap open. He's looking at you with such intensity that it steals your breath. "I have never in my life pretended with you." His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet. "This body," he says, circling your clit with gentle pressure, "is the one I fell in love with. The one I wake up for. The one I dream about." His fingers slip inside you, curling perfectly, making you gasp. "The one I worship."

His mouth follows his hand, replacing fingers with tongue. He settles between your thighs with practiced ease, with hungry devotion. There's nothing performative about the way he eats you out — it's pure, unadulterated worship. His hands grip your thighs, holding them apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. His tongue works against you with dedicated precision, drawing patterns that make your back arch off the bed.

"Art," you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. The sight of him between your legs — the absolute focus in his eyes, the way he looks at you through his lashes like you're his religion — undoes something inside you. Something tight and painful begins to unravel.

He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His eyes never leave yours as he works you higher, as he brings you toward the edge with practiced skill. When you come, it's with his name on your lips, your body arching toward his mouth. He stays with you through it, gentle but insistent, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and breathing hard, does he rise up to hover over you. His mouth is slick with you, his eyes dark with want. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "You feel like home."

His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "This body," he whispers, voice low and fierce, "helps you breathe. Helps you feel. Helps you love." His forehead presses against yours. "This body carried you to me. It lets you hold me when I need you. It lets you move through this world being the person I love more than anything."

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes, trailing down into your hair. "I'm trying," you whisper, voice breaking. "To see what you see. I'm trying."

"I know, sweetheart." He kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. "And I'll keep showing you. Every day. Until you can see it too." He settles beside you, gathering you against his chest. "Your body is changing because it's alive. Because it's growing and adapting and breathing." His fingers trace patterns along your spine. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. For the first time in weeks, you don't feel the need to hide. To disappear. The war in your head hasn't ended, but there's a cease-fire, a moment of peace. In the circle of Art's arms, under the weight of his devotion, you find a moment of respite.

"Stay with me," he murmurs against your hair, arms tightening around you. "Come back to me." His lips brush your temple. "Let me love all of you. Not just the parts you've decided are acceptable."

You nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Art holds you like that as morning light fills the room, painting everything in shades of gold. He holds you like your body is precious. Like it's worth protecting. Like it's his greatest privilege to touch it, to love it.

And for now, for this moment, that's enough. It's everything.

"I love you," you whisper against his skin. "Thank you for seeing me."

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your forehead. "Always," he promises. "In every version of you. In every body you inhabit." His voice drops to a whisper, fierce and certain. "I’ll always see you."

The morning stretches on. The light shifts across the floor. And for the first time in weeks, you breathe fully, deeply, without the crushing weight of your own gaze. Art holds you through it all, steady as a heartbeat, unwavering as faith.

In his eyes, in his hands, in his worship, you begin to find your way back home.

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

everything you write is dessert i love it i love it

this is such a unique compliment awh!! i love it and i love YOU anon 💌💌💌

take it like a taker, cause baby i’m a giver! 🌾

cowboy! art donaldson x reader

tw for smut and kindaaaa cheating?? reader has a kinda bf but not rly!

every year, the rodeo brought dozens of boys into town, all southern drawls and catcalls across the bar you worked at, drinkin’ cheap beer faster than they could ask for it. there was a big event this year, drawing in all kinds of attention from sports media and more competitors than usual. the headliner, the main event, was art donaldson. he was unrivaled in the circuit, strong and quick enough to stay on until the very end, the best wranglin’ skills on his side of the mississippi. and god, he was gorgeous. you could tell he knew it, too, the way he walked around with a toothpick between his teeth and a lazy grin on his lips. that kinda man didn’t have to catcall, no. they came to him.

you tried your best to ignore him the way you ignored all the others, but there was just something about him, the sparkle in his blue eyes or the depth of his accent, his voice deep and words curled. whatever it was, you knew you were screwed as soon he leaned against your bar, the sleeves of his pearl buttoned shirt rolled up his elbows. “hey there, miss,” he smiled, the toothpick tight between his teeth, “how are ya this evenin’?” “i’m doin’ just fine,” you smiled in return, “what’ll it be?” “whatever you recommended, darlin,” it was cocky of him, but you couldn’t ignore the way your cheeks flushed at the pet name, “and what if i have bad taste?” you teased. “aw, cmon now. pretty thing like you couldn’t have bad taste if you tried,”

you busied yourself behind the bar, poured him a tall glass of shiner and slid it over to him with a smile, “there ya go,” “see? knew i could trust you,” he grinned around the rim of the glass, “what’s your name, sugar?” you told him, something you never did, “and yours?” “art. art donaldson,” he nodded, “in town for the rodeo,” “oh, i’m sure,” you nodded in return, “i’ve seen you on the flyers. famous, ain’t ya?” “aw, i don’t know about that,” he laughed, hearty and warm, “just won a few, that’s all. enough about me, though. what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ workin at this place?” “my brother owns this place, thank you very much,” you replied, sipping your water, trying to look away from his lips around the glass, “work here on weekends when we have these events, know how yall like to drink ‘nd all,”

“that’s sweet of you,” he smiled, tongue swiping along his bottom lip, collecting the droplets of beer, “how old are you, hm? look awful young to be hangin’ around all these old men,” “i’m 21,” you rolled your eyes, still grinning, “and you?” “26,” he told you, eyes trialing down to the v of your shirt just slightly, “that ain’t too bad,” “too bad for what, exactly?” you asked, resting a hand on your hip. “not too much older than you, that’s all,” he shrugged, a coy smile on his lips, “unless you like older men, then maybe i got a disadvantage,” “i’ll have you know i’ve got a boyfriend,” you couldn’t help but revel in the irritation that flashed across his face, “so it doesn’t matter much anyway,”

“yeah? where’s your boyfriend then, pretty? he let you stay out this late workin’ while he’s at home?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand, smug smile on his lips. “he’s in the kitchen,” you gestured to the window leading to the kitchen that only really produced questionable greasy food, “not that it’s any of your business, cowboy,” “oh, come on,” he groaned, “don’t tell me you went and fell for some kinda line cook, darlin. you need a real man, somebody that’s gonna take care of you,” “yeah? somebody like you?” you cocked an eyebrow, grinning. he didn’t miss a beat, “yeah, somebody just like me. how serious is it, you and that guy?” “mm, not very,” you shrugged, glancing away. “yeah, i’m sure,” he laughed, quiet and intimate, like it was just for you, “what is it, honey? you just mess around with him when there’s no one else around, huh? yall meet here and you settled?” he was dead on- he wasn’t your boyfriend, not really. you didn’t even fuck him, just made out with him after work when you had a few too many shift drinks, let him feel you up until you had enough, then you let him drive you home with false promises of ‘maybe next time’. but art didn’t need to know that.

“well if you ever want a real man,” he slid a napkin you hadn’t even realized he’d written on across the bar, “room 201, i’ll be here all week. i’m competing tomorrow, if you wanna come watch,” “you’re cocky, aren’t ya?” you rolled your eyes but took the napkin anyway, folding it up and tucking it into the pocket of your denim skirt, “maybe i’ll see you tomorrow, then,” “i hope so, darlin. you can be my good luck charm. if i win, you gotta let me take you out,” he winked, placed a $50 next to the empty glass, and left you feeling slightly dumbfounded as you watched him walk away. yeah, you were screwed.

you went down to the rodeo grounds the next day, all dressed up in your favorite gingham dress and boots, sipping a lemonade as you watched the boys compete. when art’s name was announced, the stands wend wild, stomping and clapping and cheering his name. you’d seen this place loud, of course, half the people were usually day drinking just enough to let go of their inhibitions and scream like no tomorrow. but this was a whole new level, like he was some kind of rodeo god, like he was gracing everyone with his mere presence. you could’ve scoffed- tried to, really, but then you saw him.

he was entirely in his element, perched atop a horse like he belonged there, his thighs strong and taut in his jeans as he led his horse into the ring. his hands gripped the reins, catching your attention even from the stands, lighting a fire inside of you. he rode with precision and grace, even as the horse bucked, even when anyone else would have fallen. it looked like a second nature to him, easy as breathing, the sort of relaxation that can’t come from practice. he somehow managed to keep his hat on the entire time, as well as a cocky, barely there little smile. it had you shifting in your seat, thighs squeezed together with each movement of his hands or toned arms. when it was all said and done, they announced the winners, and he was first in all categories. he accepted the awards with practiced graciousness, but you could see right through it. he knew he deserved them, knew he’d win. the ‘oh, you shouldn’t have’ act was all a facade, but it just made you fall even deeper.

that night, when everyone was out drinking and celebrating and making complete fools of themselves, you couldn’t keep your mind off of him. your fingers found the napkin you’d kept in your purse, art’s handwriting etched onto it, and before you knew it you were knocking on the door of room 201, your mind racing. your heart stalled when the door creaked open- art stood before you with just a towel wrapped low on his waist, beads of water dripping from his hair. “well ain’t this a nice surprise,” he grinned, eyes raking over your frame, “sure wasn’t expectin’ you tonight, darlin,” you tried to force your eyes away from him- from the planes of his chest, still shining from his shower, from the toned muscles of his biceps and the veins laying just under the skin. “you told me to come by,” the words came out slightly shaky, “but if now’s a bad time, i can-“

“now’s not a bad time,” his hand circled around your wrist, gently, but just firm enough to pull you inside. you huffed, cheeks hot, “what’re you doing?” “no sense in lettin’ a pretty girl wait around outside, is there?” he grinned, “come on, let me make you a drink,” before you could protest, he’d led you to the creaky hotel bed, turning away to retrieve something from the small kitchenette. he returned with two beers, sweaty with condensation, passing one to you, “so did you watch earlier?” you nodded, taking a small sip, anything to soothe your growing nerves, “yeah, i did. you were pretty good,”

“pretty good?” he arched a brow, “that’s all? you wound me, honey,” he placed a hand on his chest, feigning injury. “you don’t need me to tell you how good you are,” you rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, “everybody else already did that,” “well maybe i wanna hear it from you,” “cocky, aren’t ya?” your eyes fell to the towel still tight around his hips, “why’d you ask me to come here, art?” “come on, sugar. you’re smarter than that,” his hand rested on your thigh, warm and broad against your skin, “you know exactly why i wanted you here,” your breath hitched, goosebumps fanning out along your skin, “you just assumed i’d sleep with you, then?”

“saw how you were lookin’ at me,” his hand crept higher, slow but insistent, “tell me i’m wrong and we’ll just go back to talkin’, but i know what it looks like when a girl wants me, darlin’,” you couldn’t even deny him, you were helpless to it all. “you’re so full of yourself,” you mumbled, but you let him slide his hand under your skirt, let him kiss you like it meant something more than just a hookup. his mouth was hot and greedy, his self assurance apparent in the way he slid his tongue into your mouth, the way his free hand came to tilt your head back. you gasped when he slid his fingers underneath the cotton of your panties, pressing just lightly over your clit. “knew it,” he mumbled against you, “soaked for me, sugar,” he pulled you up into his lap, twisted you so your back was against his chest, your legs spread open as his fingers worked at your core, his kisses falling to your shoulder.

“look at you, darlin’, just fallin’ apart on my fingers. you still think i’m full of myself, hm?” he murmured into your skin, slowly sipping a finger inside of you, “god, you’re so wet,” “art,” it came out in a broken whine, your back arching against him, the lewd sounds of his fingers against you filling the hotel room. “i know it,” he cooed, “you gonna come for me, pretty thing?” your eyes rolled back as you bucked your hips against his hand, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you got closer, “god, yes,” he worked you through it, drew it from you like it was his one true calling, murmuring praises into your neck as you came down.

you caught your breath, shifting in his arms to face him, your hands coming to untie the towel around his waist. as you kneeled on the carpeted floor in front of the bed, his breath hitched, his hand resting on your jaw, “don’t have to do that, darlin’,” he sounded almost pained, his voice thick, “god, just let me fuck you, please,” he pulled you up into his arms again before you could protest, the towel discarded on the floor, his cock hard against your thighs as you settled in his lap. “you gonna ride me, baby, hm? play cowgirl f’me?” before you could answer, he pulled you down onto his cock, the breath leaving your lungs as he stretched you out, your eyes rolling back at the feeling, “there you go, darlin’, see how long you can take it,”

he didn’t let you do much of the work, of course. he was a man of his word, seeing how long you could stay on, fucking up into you hard enough to have you trembling and gasping, a moaning mess above him. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his hands surely leaving fingerprints on your ass as he held you tight, “you like that, sugar? hm?” “yes, art, god yes,” you nodded eagerly, jaw slack, “feels so fucking good,” “prettiest thing i ever saw,” his jaw was clenched with the effort of not filling you up right there and then, his hips bucking desperately, “ridin’ me so good,” his hands left your skin just long enough to grab his hat from the bedside table, resting it on your head, your brows furrowing when you felt it. “oh, god,” he exhaled, “look so fuckin’ pretty wearin’ my hat, angel. yknow what that means, don’t ya?” his thrusts had gotten even rougher, his legs shaking, “means you’re mine,”

“oh, art,” you let out a high pitched moan as he slapped your ass, your skin stinging with the impact, “god, so close,” “yeah, there ya go,” he encouraged, his breathing ragged, “atta girl,” you clenched around him as you came, your nails raking down his chest, grabbing at anything you could to stable yourself as he fucked you incoherent. “god, sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he groaned, grabbing your hips and fucking you on his cock, your breath coming out in short squeaks, “gonna fill you up, y’want that? hm?” you nodded, too far gone to speak, squeezing him tighter at the thought. “yeah, knew you would,” you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, but it was quickly replaced by a broken, desperate moan. his thrusts grew sloppy and erratic, and soon he was coming undone, filling you up, hot and wet and making you even more needy. “oh, fuck,” he panted, catching his breath as he slowly settled you in his lap, his hands soothing over the skin he’d slapped, “so good, darlin’, good lord,”

he held you that way for a few minutes, still inside you, until he slowly slid you off of him, hissing softly at the loss of contact as he pulled you onto his chest, his arms circling around your back. “should clean up,” you mumbled into his chest, sticky with sweat. “yeah, in a minute,” he murmured into your hair, “just wanna hold you like this,” when you finally cleaned up, he was soft and attentive, the two of you grinning and blushing under the hotel shower head like you hadn’t just done something much more intimate. you spent the night, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t, let him tell you all his old rodeo stories until you fell asleep against his chest. you could get used to it, you told yourself. maybe too easily.

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ABOUT ME

elowyn. 18. gemini. neurodivergent. bisexual. white + latina. she/her. writer & bot maker

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challengers. the bear. bones and all. bottoms. gilmore girls. slushy noobz. bridgerton. red dead redemption 2. the last of us. outer banks. you. gossip girl. resident evil. stranger things. yellowjackets.

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i will not write rpf, noncon, scat play / watersports, knotting / heats / alpha-beta-omega, blood-related incest, pedophilia, male!reader, self-harm, degradation involving slurs / bigotry, feederism / vore. these are my firm boundaries and will not be written under any circumstance.

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SWEET COPPER ROT, lee is a haunted, hungry boy with blood under his nails and nowhere else to go. he shows up at your door like a ghost that remembers your name, all teeth and tremble, and he stays because you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel full. eater meets eater—this is survival turned intimacy turned something like love, bones and all.

wait… what do you mean 200 followers… (⊙_⊙;)

i literally just hit 100 on may 8th… it’s may 15th… you guys are unwell (affectionate) and i love you so much for it. i truly don’t have the words to explain how much this little blog has meant to me lately. i’ve been going through kind of a rough patch irl and being able to come home, open my phone, and just giggle, kick my feet, and scream about challengers and other nonsense with you all has been the brightest part of my days.

you’re all so funny and sweet and completely unhinged in the most delightful ways and i feel so lucky to have found this weird little corner of the internet where we can be so unserious together. (｡•́‿•̀｡)♡

i don’t have anything special planned for 200 because. well. i literally just did for 100 like a week ago LMAO but!! my sfw/nsfw alphabet challenge is still running until the end of may so if you haven’t sent in a letter yet… consider this your official invitation (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

thank you, seriously, from the bottom of my sleep-deprived, fic-addled heart. you’ve made such a weird, hard time in my life feel a little softer. ily. mwah.