Yeah I Think Im Gonna Block You Forever Now

AVAAAAAAAAAAA congratulations angel <3 thank you for putting in so much work to feed my brain with challengersisms. You deserve every bit of 600 and beyond

ava's 600 follower celebration bot drop!

wow, these milestones are flying by so quickly! thank you to every single person who has made this possible. i love all of you, so, so much, and there are not enough words to describe just how grateful i am.

i've received quite a few requests to make bots based on some of my fics, and while i have never made bots prior to this... how could i refuse any of you? without further ado, see below. i hope you enjoy :)

fics are linked to titles!

patrick zweig:

sun on the sidewalk bot

jitters and the vibe bot

art donaldson:

love me harder bot

until the tournament bot

tashi duncan:

let's be friends bot

tagging mutuals and taglist (so sorry if i miss you!): @cha11engers @soaraes @apatheticrater @guadagninolover @glennussy @cherrygirlfriend @peachyparkerr @jordiemeow @asheepinfrance @cybertink @misswrldd @lvve-talks @artspats @jesuistrestriste @empthy0 @slushfaerie @cursedfiles @tashism @grimsonandclover @gibsongirrl @dazedandconfusedlvr @patrickbtman @enterthebadlandss @newrochellechallenger2019 @mirclealignr @ghostgirl-22 @blastzachilles @voidsuites @roryheartz @happenssweet @diyasgarden @foralltheprettygirls @faistology @itsrensfairygardenn @stanart4clearskin @artstennisracket @ellaynaonsaturn @coolgrl111 @222col @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @awaywithtime @artdonaldsonbabygirl @soulxinxthexsky

OKAYYYY 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

bang bang bang punch punch pow pow. hair up, earrings out, etc etc.

AVA congratulations on 500! *dances*

for ask game > 🐓 you are in a fight, which tumblr account are you getting to help you?

HI THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!!!!! <3

this was honestly very easy for me to get down to two people, but i can't narrow it down any further:

@patrickzweigette and @jordiemeow i feel like we'd be a dream team. varying genres of humor and deadpan stares in a lethal mocktail.

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

… how do we feel about an all tashi release. need to show that girl some love (and give those white boys a BREAK)

talia liked this

lollipop | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, porn with very minimal plot

The bass is sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind that slides down your spine and coils low in your stomach. Lights strobe like they’re trying to catch secrets midair, but none of them land on you—yet.

You’re leaning against the bar, mouth wrapped around a cherry lollipop and eyes scanning the crowd like you’re on the hunt. But you already know exactly who you’re waiting for.

You haven’t seen them in months. Not since New Rochelle. Not since you told them to lose your number, and Patrick laughed like it was a challenge. Since Art told you, with terrifying calm, that you’d come crawling back. Since Tashi just kissed your jaw, eyes unreadable, and walked away.

You hadn’t planned on seeing them tonight. You’d heard they were in town for the tournament, sure, but you weren’t stalking their schedules anymore. You’d come out with friends. You’d worn this dress for yourself. The lollipop had been a joke. A dare. Something stupid.

Except it wasn’t a joke. Not really. Everyone who knew you knew the lollipop meant something.

You used to walk onto the court with one in your mouth. Superstition, maybe. Distraction tactic. Or maybe it was just habit—your particular brand of psychological warfare. Patrick used to call it bait. Tashi called it smart. Art never called it anything. He just stared.

And now they’re all here.

Art sees you first.

He stops walking mid-stride, mid-laugh. His mouth still shaped around something clever, but no sound comes out. Tashi clocks the shift instantly, turning her head and following his gaze. Her eyes narrow.

Patrick, as always, takes the longest. But when he sees you, his mouth splits into a grin that’s all teeth and no kindness.

You raise the lollipop to your lips and bite down hard enough to crack it.

They cross the club like gravity. The crowd parts. You should leave. You don’t.

“You’re really here,” Patrick says, breath warm near your temple. “Cute dress.”

You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, not looking at him. “I wore it for someone better.”

“Yeah?” Tashi’s voice is close, cool, a whisper by your ear. “How’s that working out for you?”

You turn, smile too-sweet. “Pretty well, actually. Until now.”

Art doesn't speak. He just watches you like he’s memorizing something he plans to wreck.

Patrick leans against the bar beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “Still sucking on candy like a baby?”

You roll the stick over your tongue, slow and deliberate. “You're just mad I'm not sucking your dick anymore.”

“Not mad,” he murmurs. “Only a matter of time.”

Tashi’s hand slides to your hip. Her grip is possessive. Familiar. “We should talk,” she says, but she’s already pulling you toward the VIP section, not waiting for permission.

Art finally speaks. “She doesn’t want to talk.”

Patrick snorts. “Not with words, anyway.”

You go because it’s easier than fighting. Because you want to. Because you’ve already lost.

The VIP room is low-lit and velvet-lined. Music muffled. Private.

You’re barely inside before Patrick sits, spreading his legs like he’s home. Art leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you. Tashi pulls you to the center of the room and turns you to face them.

“On your knees,” she says softly, like it’s a suggestion. Like you won’t do it unless she asks nice.

You smile, sickly sweet. “I don’t take orders.”

Art pushes off the wall. “Sure you do. Just not in public.”

You sink. Slowly. Lollipop still between your fingers, now sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Patrick unzips with a lazy smirk. “Show us what that smart mouth is really good for.”

You glance up through your lashes, tongue dragging along your lower lip as you stroke him once, slow and warm, before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock.

The lollipop clatters to the floor.

Patrick groans. “Fuck, I forgot how good you are at this.”

You hum around him, smug, spit already slipping down your chin. He grabs your hair, not hard yet, just enough to let you know who’s in control.

Tashi kneels beside you, mouth at your ear. “No teeth. No attitude. Be useful.”

You glance at her, eyes glassy, and she kisses your cheek like she means it.

Art unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound is enough to make you clench around nothing.

“You’ll take all of us,” he says. “You love your lollipops, don't you, baby? We’ll see how sweet it tastes with three different flavors in your throat.”

And then there’s no more pretending.

Patrick thrusts shallow and slow, easing his cock past your lips, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your head, dragging moans out of his throat with every wet, messy stroke.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “You wanted attention? Fucking take it.”

Tashi’s nails dig into your scalp as she holds you still. Her other hand slips down, trailing under your jaw. “Messy little thing,” she murmurs. “You look better like this.”

You choke when Patrick pushes deeper. Your eyes water. Spit drips down your chin, onto your chest, and you don’t care.

Art is behind you now. You hadn’t even noticed him move. His hand slides down the back of your neck, soothing for a second—before he pushes your head farther down Patrick’s length.

“She can take it,” he mutters. “She’s done worse with less incentive.”

Patrick grunts. “Fuck, I’m close.”

Tashi pulls you off his cock with a pop just before he comes. You gasp for air, blinking through tears.

“Not yet,” she tells him, then turns to you. “Open.”

She climbs onto the couch beside Patrick and leans back, spreading her thighs. Her underwear is already discarded. You don’t remember when she slipped them off.

She smells like heat and sweat and control. You lower your mouth between her legs, tongue dragging through her slick folds, and she sighs like she’s been waiting for this since the moment she saw you tonight.

You lap at her slowly at first, just the tip of your tongue, teasing over her clit until she grabs the back of your head and rolls her hips into your face with zero patience.

Her moans are sharp and indulgent. One hand in your hair, the other pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her shirt. She rides your tongue, thighs clamped around your ears, telling you exactly how she wants it.

"Faster. Right there. Don’t you fucking stop."

Your tongue aches. Your jaw burns. You flick and circle and suck until she gasps, trembling, thighs shaking as she clamps down, grinding into your mouth with a low, shuddering whine.

She comes like it hurts, like she’s been holding it in for far too long. And she keeps you buried between her legs until the aftershocks fade.

When she finally lets you go, you’re breathless, chin glistening, and Patrick is already grabbing you by the jaw.

“You ready now?” he rasps.

You nod, lips red and swollen.

He fucks your mouth without mercy this time, fast and brutal, his cock slamming against the back of your throat as he growls, “Don’t waste a drop.”

You swallow every bit of it.

Art is the last.

He pulls you into his lap on the floor, tilting your head up. His hand strokes your cheek—almost gentle.

“You think you’re still in charge?” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face like he doesn’t want to see a single thing in the way.

You nod, breath catching. Barely.

He smiles. “Then prove it. Make me come without using your hands.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. Just waits, watching.

You sink onto him slowly, tasting salt and heat, letting your lips wrap around the flushed head of his cock. He exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

You go slow. Excruciatingly slow. Hollow your cheeks. Twist your tongue on the upstroke. Let him feel every second of your mouth, every flutter of your throat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. His head tilts back, hips twitching upward as you swallow him halfway, then deeper.

You look up at him as he starts to lose control—his mouth parted, chest rising fast, hands gripping your hips like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into your throat.

“Keep going,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You push until your nose brushes the soft skin at the base of him, until his breath catches in his throat and he chokes out your name.

He comes with a groan, hand tight in your hair, cock twitching as you milk every drop from him. You swallow because you want to. Because he told you not to use your hands, and you want him to know you listened.

When he finally lets go, you slump against his thigh, dazed, used, lips slick and trembling.

Tashi crouches down and lifts your chin. “That’s better,” she says, like it’s a reward.

Patrick chuckles. “Told you it was only a matter of time.”

You close your eyes.

Sticky. Breathless. Satisfied.

And craving another taste.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

Take Me To Church

an: thanks mel for the idea @artstennisracket and @blastzachilles for the random read. also thanks to my irl maddie for catholic imagery recs you're a real one for that. not proof read, or spell checked, written in a daze in the span of a couple hours so forgive quality. also tumblr hates when i try and include a photo and the one i wanted didn't work so enjoy this random blurry one.

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For as long as he’d been able to walk, he’d made the short trek to church each Sunday. When he was particularly small, he’d hold Nana’s hand when crossing the street to make it to the large, pointy-roofed building safely. He sat on her knee, fingers gripping the backs of the pew in front of him, and nodded his tiny head in rhythm with the sermons he heard. He refused to go to the children’s service, no matter how the youth pastor tried to goad him into coming. It was too juvenile for him, he thought, even if he hadn’t even graduated from kindergarten yet. He needed to know everything he could. He wanted to know why he was here, what God’s intention was with all this. With each ‘amen’, his little fingers would wrap around the small, golden cross resting daintily on his sternum, and he’d smile as if he understood it all. On his walks back to his house, there was always a bit of extra energy in his body, and he saw each sway of a blade of grass, each breath of the wind, as the movement of God’s vessel. Where his place was in it, he hadn’t yet figured out. But if he was here, he could only have been planned to be, and he would carry out his purpose dutifully. 

He was quite upset to find out the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy had no services on campus, and the bus full of his future peers all looked at him quite strangely when they saw him mumble a prayer of each sip of water and opened granola bar. He was even more peeved to find that the boy he was bunking with, his age and an inch or so taller, was wearing a Star of David and a smirk that pulled to the right side of his face. It wasn’t that he felt it was wrong, per se, to not devote oneself to God the way he did, he just couldn’t quite make sense of it. He felt for God the way he felt for tennis, that it was something too beautiful, too invigorating, to let slip past him without indulging in the light it shone upon him. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, watched from his bed, lounging on his side, as he prayed that night, propping his cross against the wall as he couldn’t find a nail to hang it on. Patrick could practically see the halo over Art’s head of cherubic, golden curls, but maybe it was just the old, orange hue of a lightbulb about to die off. 

“What are you doing down there?” 

Art bit back a sigh, though he felt a sense of excitement stir in him as he shifted slightly left on his knees, patting the spot once taken by him. It was an invitation most teenage boys wouldn’t take, stuck in their need to feel more adult than they truly were, driven to defiance. But, after a moment’s consideration, he felt Patrick’s presence beside him, awkwardly chuckling into the oversized neckline of a hoodie.

“Do we just start talkin’ to ‘em?”

And here it was, it seemed. Art’s purpose at this moment. After all, was it not his duty to spread the gospel? If he could watch the symbol on the end of that thin, expensive-looking chain around his new roommate’s change, then maybe, just maybe, he’d be looked down on with favor. He could practically feel the lights shining down on him at this very moment. He took the boy’s hands in his own, clasping them into a ball, and began his prayer all over again. Patrick looked Art over with something akin to wonder, watching his closed eyes and moving lips, his bare knees oh so close to his own. He couldn’t help but feel that it was all so strange, and he tried his hardest to stifle his nervous laughter, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care when Art finally finished, looking up through pale lashes and frustrated, furrowed brows. 

That night, long after rising from off the floor, finding the small, circular indentations of carpeting in his knees, he stared at the ceiling without a goal in mind. His palms felt tingly, almost dry, and no amount of wiping them down the length of his shorts did little to rid himself of the feeling. His hands felt like Patrick’s, rough and dry and tingly. Calloused in places. How had that happened? Developing into Patrick as quickly as he’d met him. And, most importantly, why did that thought make his stomach stir with something akin to glee? Why did he like Patrick’s skin being so different from his own? Why did he want to reach out and grab at it? It was all so odd. It was unlike him. He flipped onto his side, now facing Patrick’s half of the room, and observed with all his might the image of him sleeping. His lashes weighed gently on his cheeks, lips almost pouting, and his chest rose and fell softly, steadily, slowly. It was almost beautiful. With each lift of his chest, the hem of his shirt rose just above the waistline of his shorts, and Art found himself focusing on that slim line of pale skin each time it revealed itself. He felt that stir again, deep within his gut. He frowned, turned over again, staring at the bare, brick wall.

Art and Patrick had found a push and pull, and the prayers became a semi-regular occurrence, as did practicing with one another, eating at the dining hall in ‘their’ corner, splaying themselves across the floor with cigarettes that Art had so reluctantly tried, and now become hooked on. They’d become friends in that odd, disconnected way only teenage boys could. And God, did Art love it. He liked feeling known in the way that only Patrick seemed to know him, reading him with just a sideways glance. They knew just about everything there was to know about each other, which is why tonight was so strange. Art’s eyes shot open, alerted by a muffled sound from across the room, almost pained in nature and he immediately sat up to find… oh.

“What are you doing?”

Patrick stopped dead in his movements, half-way through something Art definitely wasn’t meant to see. Patrick looked sticky with perspiration, chest heaving, bottom half of his body veiled by a duvet. 

“I’m practicing my backhand. Obviously, I’m jerking off. What does it look like I’m doing?”

He didn’t seem particularly ashamed, because Patrick never did, but Art was catching on. And it was wrong, so, so wrong, but he couldn’t help it. Curiosity was only natural, and so were needs. If it was friendly, it couldn’t count, could it? And Patrick was a good friend, always generous with his things, his knowledge, and he offered to teach him. Art considered it heavily, torn between duty and desire, and found himself disgusted with the way that his need seemed to outweigh all else. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. He was to follow orders with his head bowed, worship unquestioningly at the altar. Yet, Patrick seemed to be herding him at that moment. All he did was want. And so, he learned. He murmured the name of some girl, Kat Zimmerman, because Patrick did. He didn’t quite care to imagine her, though, as suggested. He watched Patrick’s face scrunch, brows knit and lips curl, and felt something snap. He looked down at his hands, his lap, and scowled. Patrick simply laughed, like all this was so normal, so perfectly alright. Art gathered up an old t-shirt from the floor, wiping himself as clean as he could manage, but he still felt dirty. His lip wobbled the whole night through.

At fourteen, Art found himself nervously picking at the dead skin of his bottom lip, nursing a red cup of JUST the juice part of the punch, watching Patrick dance with some girl in ways that for sure weren’t considered appropriate. Too much touching, too little space. He wanted to grab Patrick by the shoulder and scold him. After all, there was no way that the God he’d tried so hard to get Patrick to believe in would approve. He was just being a good, caring friend and saving him from some kind of divine punishment. It had nothing to do with the nausea in his gut, or the clenching of his fingers. He felt something wet hit his shoe, and when he looked down he saw the white fabric had been stained red with his drink, the cup forced out of shape by his own hand. So, he did what he thought, instinctually, would be best. He forced a smile and found a girl to occupy himself with. A nice one, whom he recognized from… something. He’d never really bothered to care about anyone at school but Patrick. She spoke too fast, words tripping over each other on their way out, shuffling between her teeth. He didn’t listen to most of it, eyes inevitably following their way back to Patrick. He wonders if Patrick had ever been a dancer. He moved quite gracefully, in his own way. 

He wasn’t quite sure why, what cue he’d given her, but she’d grabbed him by the wrist and led him back to her dorm, biting at her bottom lip as he sat across from her. He sat back on his heels, lifting off of them only when she began descending towards him, and their lips met. He expected to feel more. Some kind of thumping in his chest, fluttering in his stomach, something like what he felt that night with Patrick. But still, he felt nothing. And based on the way she was sighing, grasping at his shirt to draw him further in, he was alone in that sentiment. So, he imagined. Patrick said things like this were always better if you imagined someone, hadn’t he? Think of long, skinny legs in tennis skirts, think of flowing hair and batting lashes, think of hands you’d want to touch. And all that came up was Patrick. Patrick with his stupid smirk and pointed canines, Patrick who had made things easy, Patrick who had made things so much harder. Suddenly, her lips felt soft, warm, and insistent. He pushed her away with flat palms to her shoulders, gathering himself and rushing out the door, mumbling an apology she certainly wouldn’t make out. It was wrong. He ran his fingers over the cross on his chest, and only then did he notice it was really just a piece of metal. Still, he begged for its forgiveness.

Now, he was eighteen, eighteen and relegating himself to unsatisfactory, rarely occurring kisses with girls. Girls who always seemed to want more than what he could give them. Something serious, in some cases. Something with lingering hands on waists and bruises sucked above pulse points. Something that would make his parents shake their heads in disapproval. Eighteen and spending one of many summers at the Zweig estate, watching Patrick swim in the deep end of the pool. 

“You seriously not gonna get in?”

Art shrugged, looking anywhere but Patrick, noting the trees, a dove flitting its wings upon a branch, as if preparing for flight. He thought he was fine where he was. He’d always been more than happy just to observe Patrick in any way he could. Patrick made up of taut muscle and stupid, horrifically perverse jokes and a softness that only showed itself when he let it. But, he did move, seating himself at the edge of the pool to submerge himself in that crystalline water from the ankle down. Patrick slotted himself between Art’s legs, pushing his sunglasses up and off the bridge of his nose, which crinkled along with his eyes from the sudden intrusion of sunlight. Close. So close. He could run his hand down the curves of Patrick’s jaw, should he have the bravery to just move his hands. He wanted nothing more than to be brave. He was so glad to be a coward. And Patrick did nothing. Patrick just watched, breathed, maybe even waited. And he rose, soon, pushing off of his elbows to meet Art at eye level, tip of his nose bumping against Art’s. They were close enough to feel the heat of each other’s anticipatory breaths on each other’s skin, close enough to not know whose was whose. Who leaned in first was unclear, but he blamed that on feeling faint. Patrick tasted like stale cigarette smoke and spit, like chlorinated water and wine, like Patrick, Patrick, Patrick and it was so good he moaned down the other boy’s throat. It was warm and soft and insistent and he was going to be sick. He pulled back like he’d been shot, eyes wide and an arm covering his mouth. Patrick frowned, held up his arms as if to surrender, mouth open to ask what's gone wrong. Art scrambled to his feet, only able to get out repeated ‘mm-mm’s before running back inside. Patrick called out for him to wait. He didn’t. 

He stayed locked in the guest room for hours. He watched the sunset through the windows, he smelled dinner being cooked, heard muffled, uninteresting conversation and scraping cutlery against china plates. He saw the shadows of feet planted outside of his door, shifting from one to the other, hesitating, hoping, fearing. They walked away. He had never prayed so passionately in all his life. He could practically feel the flames licking at his feet, the disappointed shaking of heads from above as they looked down at him. How the mighty had fallen. If he had ever been an angel, his wings must have shriveled up and fallen away. He looked down to his chest, feeling for the familiar weight of a crucifix, cold and unyielding. It wasn’t there. 

At midnight, he padded down the hall towards Patrick’s room, planning to do something. What? He wasn’t sure. Apologize? Correct his mistakes? Cry until he couldn’t anymore? But he managed a knock, and the door opened immediately. Like Patrick had been waiting. And they did nothing but stare at each other. One step forward, silent and heavy, then another, another. 

“I have your-”

Art silenced whatever was about to be spoken with his lips, rough and raw and not at all with the delicateness he would’ve chosen if he could think clearly. But, of course, he couldn’t. All he heard was the soft, wet sound of lips coming together, then coming apart, the blood rushing in his ears, and, when he was lucky, Patrick. Patrick practically clawing at Art’s hair, his shirt, his hips, anything he could possibly grab ahold of, and Art doing the same. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and yet, no part of it felt that way. Shouldn’t it feel horrible? Something so sinful should only feel disgusting. Perhaps that was the true test of his faith. Only giving in to temptation could feel so good, and he was meant to resign himself to living life feeling… what exactly? Dulled? Empty? He shall not want. 

“I need to feel bad.”

Patrick pulled away, confused all over again, and Art wanted to smooth the crease between the boy’s brows with his thumb. He resisted the urge.

“Art, what are you talking about?”

“Just… it’s supposed to be wrong. It should feel wrong. It should- it should hurt. I need you to show me it’s wrong… hit me.”

“Art, what?”

He’s laughing uncomfortably, nervously, reaching back out to resume things or just touch, Art’s not sure which. He dodges the movement regardless.

“Hit me. Please, I just- just hit me.” Remind me that it's bad by making me feel the pain I think I should feel and I just don't. 

Hesitantly, Patrick does. He swings an open palm to a flushed cheek and winces at the crack that the connection makes. His palms tingle, Art’s face now a thick, ruddy rouge. He whimpers once, twice, and pulls Patrick right back in. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. And yet, with Patrick walking him backwards towards the plush of his mattress, his touch much softer than to be expected of a man so brash, he can’t help but to think that he is being shepherded by God himself. Otherwise, this would hurt. Nothing not divine could feel so all-consuming. 

Patrick kisses down the lines of his body like it’s worship, like he’s offering his devotion to the shrine of some kind of God, and Art feels like it’s the silliest thing Patrick’s ever done. It would only make sense for the roles to reverse. But they don’t. Not when Patrick is baring himself to Art, firm and strong and vulnerability swimming behind his eyes. Nor does it happen when Art’s bared all the same, bent in on himself as if there was anywhere to hide. But each brush, of fingers, of lips, of tongue, is like a small taste of heaven. And so what if they’re sweating, so what if it’s a sin? Because Patrick’s hand is in his and he hasn’t felt a sense of pride like this since he decided his purpose was to urge Patrick down the right path. How naive. It’d never been him doing the urging. His breath shook afterwards, and he still didn’t quite feel like he’d ever be forgiven. He needed no forgiveness. If being happy was wrong, he hoped to continue to make irrevocable mistakes. He saw the glint of his chain on the wooden floors, lit up by the moon. He turned away from it and found Patrick. For now, that’s all he needed to find.

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

im gonna hold my knees and cry

PLUG!PATRICK x INNOCENT!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

pairing: plug!patrick x innocent!fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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