ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

CIGARETTES & CONTEMPT, anthony and you stealing away from croquet mallets and polite conversation, finding each other in the forgotten corners of the garden where cigarette smoke mingles with unspoken tension, both of you refusing to admit that these moments of mutual inconvenience have become the only ones that matter.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you are. To him, you always are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

stanford art is my babie 🥹🥹

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

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

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

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

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

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then: he turns you.

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

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

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

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

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

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

“All this for me?”

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

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

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

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

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

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

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

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

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

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

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

No one suspects a thing.

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

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

guys i started watching yellowjackets and let’s just say natalie, lottie, and jackie bots WILL be made

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

function idea: you, me, and da boys licking and sucking on art donaldson, driving lamborghinis, and eating chicken tikka masala in the yacutzi 🔥🔥🔥🔥

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

STAKING HIS CLAIM ( FRAT!AU ), you knew what you were doing—fingertips brushing someone else, laughter a little too loud, eyes flicking to him like bait. he didn’t say anything until your second drink, then dragged you down the hallway like a line he refused to let you cross. the door slams, the fight starts, and somewhere between the spit of anger and the kiss he swore he wouldn’t give you again, you both forget why you were mad in the first place. it’s not an apology—but it’s the only kind he knows how to give.