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god put me in a room with stanford art donaldson + give me five minutes and a hair tie 🙏🏽

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☕️ twilight!art who keeps to himself unless spoken to. he's the quietest of his trio, always the one to scope out the place for any danger in order to keep them safe. he works at the forks diner, hoping that the bitter scent of coffee will overpower the temptation of human blood.

🩸 twilight!patrick who's the most careless despite his skin shining the brightest. he swaggers into the forks diner to visit his working friend, icy hands shoved into his leather jacket pockets like he owns the place. art and tashi refuse to acknowledge that the dried blood under his fingernails doesn't quite smell like an animal's.

♠️ twilight!tashi, the girl that everyone in forks wants to be, or be with. no one could ever reach her standards unless their names were art and patrick. she's the head of the cerberus, despite what her darker haired minion may think. her fangs are just as sharp as the silver tongue she uses to get her way.

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Saw a certain vid on twitter of a guy trying to do tech deck tricks on a girl’s ass while giving backshots….

Patrick Zweig is everywhere for those with eyes to see

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propaganda i’m falling for:

bottom patrick

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this is why i can’t take people who say artrick weren’t queer seriously because they’re were literally doing missionary ON THE COURT. ON LIVE TV. art’s grandma saw this live and i honestly think she didn’t even bat an eye

like patrick IMMEDIATELY wraps his legs around art’s waist and like ass in the air and everything… i think they forget where they were for a sec. i mean tennis IS sex but i think they got a little too excited….

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Patrick fingers on my mouth

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i really want him to be my male wife

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lwk challengers if art and partick were lesbian painters in 1600's france

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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.

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a new pope has been chosen!

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hurm patrick getting you high asf so he can pound ur pussy to no resistance?? just a wet warm hole that kisses his neck sloppy and paws at his shoulders

hi... <3 this made me so dizzy i'm obsessed. i let it cook a little i hope you forgive me <3

TW FOR NONCON/DUBCON VIA INTOX if this is a topic that will trigger you or is not to your liking, please don't read this <3 much love

Really, you should've stopped. You should've known that it was getting to be too much, but Patrick kept putting the joint back between your lips and encouraging you to take nice, big hits. His eyes boring into yours as he grins and rubs your back and grins.

"That's a good girl," he nearly coos. His voice is dripping with condescension that flies right over your pretty head as he takes the joint back. You don't even notice that he's not taking any hits from the joint, he just distracts you with soft little touches and mindless chatter before he's placing it between your glossy lips again.

It isn't long before your head feels a little fuzzy, when his hand on your thigh makes you just want to nuzzle up and curl against him like a cat. You sigh softly as he pets your face, thumb grazing over your cheek.

He clicks his tongue to get your attention and you peer up at him with heavy eyes, smiling sweet and docile up at him. When he runs his thumb along your bottom lip and tugs it down with no resistance, he knows he has you where he wants you.

The moment his thumb presses against your tongue, your soft, pretty lips seal around it. He lets you suckle and drool around it as he wriggles his hand down your jeans and into your panties. You're already nice and wet for him, he figures you probably have been since the moment you stepped into his dorm room and gave that sweet little smile as you toed off your shoes.

"That's it," he murmurs, mouthing at your jaw as his rough fingers rub at your clit, making you gasp and moan around his thumb. Each noise pulled from your mouth, each lazy blink and slow grind of your pussy against his fingers, is like the sweetest honey. Every thought in that pretty little head of yours unspooled and replaced with cotton candy. Sweet and ephemeral.

It's a relief, seeing you like this— when he's laying you down on your back and sliding your pants and panties off and you're just blinking lazily up at him. Cunt slick and hot, clenching around nothing when he strips you of your top and plays with your nipples.

You whine and mewl, squirming with desperate need that you're too mindless to beg for. But he can see it in your eyes, he can see it dripping from your needy little hole. Want. Need. Desire.

You're so pliant, so open. Your walls just barely fluttering and squeezing around his cock as he sinks into your warm, wet cunt. You moan softly and loop your arms around his neck— they feel too heavy for you to do much more than that.

Sweet little gasps and moans escape your lips as you mouth at his jaw and ear with sloppy kisses, and if he feels you getting a little too fuzzy, a little too limp, he just has drill into your cunt a little harder to bring you back to where he wants you.

You're so good for him like this— soaking wet and so sweet. From the looks of it, he'd guess you were in heaven. He thrusts a little harder and a whimper of a gasp punches out of your lips, again and again and again. Pretty, mewling cries, mumbled hot against his throat.

If he was nicer he'd make you cum, but you're not exactly in a position to hold him to it. You whine softly when he pulls out, and he almost feels bad as he looks down at you— bleary eyed and desperate. When he notches his cock at your lips, you almost look a little confused, but you open your mouth and let him in— until you're suckling on his tip and laving over him with your tongue.

"There we go," he murmurs, his fingers fisted in your hair as he sinks in a little deeper. "Just needed something else in your mouth, didn't you? Keep going, honey... that's it. Use that hot little tongue."

He comes with a groan, pumping his load into your mouth and over your lips. Pretty little angel lips glazed in his cum. When you lick it off, he rewards you with another hit. It's the least he can do.

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kids used to bully her in school for being too pretty, they chased her around yelling “pretty face, pretty face”

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BILL SKARSGÅRD | Locked (2025)

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ohmygoooooooooaaaaawddddd

thoughts on gooner!art

HE is peak gooner!Art to me….. pretty little 2006 Art :(((

he was a gooner before it was even a thing. he gets his own laptop from his grandmother on his eighteenth birthday and with that comes totally PRIVATE internet search history. and it doesn’t help that Patrick’s gift to Art is taking him to a sex shop in the seedy part of town to help him buy his first pocket pussy (which Art vehemently argued against… he thought Patrick was taking him to Taco Bell).

it’s a perfect storm. He doesn’t want to use the toy. really. It’s perverted and weird. It stays in its box under his bed, because he can’t just throw a gift away!

but ik his pornhub history is CRAZY. A private laptop gives him the freedom to just go apeshit. When Patrick’s out at a tournament that Art didn’t qualify for he spends his whole day watching porn. He’s not even edging on purpose… he doesn’t even know what that is. He’s just… practicing! To last longer! And it feels too good when he’s drawing it out— a delicious ache and thrum of need when he brings himself to the edge and just stops.

And then there’s the toy. His hand feels good, but he’s been sitting on the edge for hours and he wants more. He turns on an hour long creampie compilation and finally takes the pocket pussy out of the box. He doesn’t even have to use any more lube— he’s already all slick from precum and hand lotion, so the toy makes a wet schlick schlick schlick sound as he uses it to pump his cock.

he’d get soooo brainless with it. Immediately loses all sense that he’s in a dorm and gets so loud— moaning and whining as he fucks into the tight silicon, because it feels so much better than his hand. Probably even talks like he’s actually fucking someone— so tight, oh god, you feel so good, squeezing me so tight, oh fuck, faster, faster, fuck, fuck— bucking his hips up so he can fuck into the toy. The pretty pink head of his cock peeks out the end of the pocket pussy with each thrust, glistening with pre.

Poor thing forgets he’s even trying to edge. His head is just filled with the sloppy sounds of porn playing over his shitty laptop speakers, with the overwhelming sensation of something slight and tight pumping his cock. He’s so close, the feeling is hot in his lower stomach. He’s been building to this for hours, and it’s so intense it fucking scares him.

“Oh fuck, ’m gonna— gonna cum so hard— fuck— gonna… nnnghh— yeah, yeah, oh fuck, fuck— take it, yeah, fuck— cumming— cumming—“

And he’s spilling thick ropes into the silicon, eyes rolling back, doubling over as he bucks deeper into the toy. He cums so much it dribbles out around the end, dripping down his pretty shaft and to his balls. Poor thing had never come that much in his entire life.

His heart is pounding, he’s panting like he’s run a marathon. He pulls the toy off and more cum pours out. His softening cock plops against his tummy with a soft smack, and he tries to come back to earth.

His blackberry buzzes on the beside table, Patrick checking in. Are you surviving without me? And Art thinks he’d be fine with Patrick having a few more weekends away.

His laptop keeps playing the video and his cock twitches against his tummy, still slick and messy with cum and lube. Five more minutes— Maybe ten— and he’d get back to it. He has to take advantage of his alone time, doesn’t he?

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Need a stupid twink

i want to share her stupid twink with her hi