I Think You Make The Best Writing/bots Ever. I’m Trying The New Release Dude

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

Hi! Would u mind doing NSFW J for art? Congratulationssss :)

of course i don’t mind!!! thank you so much for sending in a request lovely lovely anon (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

j is for jack off | art donaldson

warnings: explicit sexual content, masturbation (male), edging, pillow humping, praise kink (self-praise), voyeuristic habits, whimpering, slightly messy cleanup, soft post-nut feelings, lonely undertones, emotionally charged self-touch, ambiguous sexuality

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

Art’s dorm bed creaks like it’s remembering something every time he moves. Too narrow, too warm, too full of his own goddamn thoughts. He keeps the overhead light off even when the sun starts going down—lets the room stay honey-dim, just amber lamplight slanting in from the hallway under the door. It’s not about shame. Not really. He just needs quiet. Control. A kind of ritual.

His jeans are already halfway down his thighs when he shuffles under the covers, his skin still hot from the cheap dorm shower. Hair damp at the temples, T-shirt clinging to his back, everything about him soft and flushed from the heat. He moves slow. Always slow. This isn’t a race—never is. Art likes to feel it. Draw it out. Drag himself toward the edge and back again until he’s panting into his pillow, hips twitching, legs stiff and useless from holding tension too long.

Tonight, he’s hard before he even touches himself.

There’s a folded towel under the top pillow already—he keeps one ready like it’s part of the process. His cock slips between the two stacked pillows, one on top of the other, and he shudders the second his hips dip forward. His thighs tense. His hands grip the mattress tight on either side of his hips, knuckles pale. He rocks forward gently, just enough to feel friction. It’s hot. Just warm enough. The cotton cover a little scratchy against the head of his cock, but he likes it. Likes that it feels like something. Likes the resistance.

“Fffuck…” he breathes into the mattress, voice shaky. His lips are pressed to the sheets, parted, drooling a little. “Shit, that’s… fuck, that’s good—”

It starts slow, like it always does. A grind, a little rut, just testing. His cock drags along the inside seam of the pillowcase, catching on the soft patch of fabric near the tag. He breathes in through his nose, moans out through his mouth. Quiet at first. Then breathier. Higher. Little whines pushing up into the dark as his hips start to stutter.

“Hnnn, fuckfuckfuck, mmngh—”

He doesn’t even need porn, not always. But sometimes—when he really needs it—he drags out the old laptop, the one with the weird fan whirring in the corner. Balances it on the floor, tilted up just enough to see two men fucking slow, messy, close. Intimate. He watches with his cheek squished into the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack. His hips keep moving. Thrusting soft and rhythmic like he’s syncing up with the guys onscreen. When one of them moans, Art moans with him. Like he’s there.

But most nights, it’s just his voice he listens to.

“Good boy,” he whispers. A breathless mantra. “Good boy, good boy, good—fuck—good boy, yeah…”

His voice lifts when he says it, like he’s outside himself, trying to believe it. Trying to be it. High and hushed and wrecked, the kind of sound you only make when you’re alone. He says it more when his cock starts to twitch, when his thighs start to cramp and his breath catches at the top of his chest.

“You’re doing so good, Artie. So good, fff—fuck, such a good boy, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Sometimes he teases himself. Stroking slow, stopping before the edge, pulling back to pant into the sheets until the tight coil in his gut eases again. Then he starts over. He’ll do it four, even five times before he lets himself tip over. He doesn’t care how long it takes. Time disappears when he’s like this. He can spend an hour grinding between pillows, thighs slick with sweat, pillowcase dark with precum. He gets wet when he’s worked up—soaked head, sticky shaft, every movement a slick glide that makes his toes curl.

When he gets close, his body tenses like a wire drawn taut. Breath quick and high and fluttering. His hips lose rhythm. He ruts up once, twice, three times hard into the pillows, groaning like he’s splitting apart. The last stroke always knocks something loose—his voice goes thin and pitchy, whispering a broken, “G’nna come, gonna—gonna fuckin’—fuuuck—” just as he spills.

His orgasm hits with a full-body jerk, thighs clamping tight, heels digging into the mattress. He whines, loud, into the pillow. Something between a gasp and a sob. All air and relief. The kind of sound no one’s ever supposed to hear.

He goes still after. Just for a minute. Face mashed into the towel, arms loose, cock still twitching between his thighs. His breath puffs out slow and uneven. He doesn’t move, not yet. Lets it all cool around him. He sleeps best after coming like that. Real sleep. Deep and quiet. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother getting up—just slides the pillows away, rolls onto his side, and sighs. A soft, dreamy sound. His face pressed to the mattress, fingers curled loosely under his chin like a kid.

When he does clean up, it’s gentle. Quiet. He pads to the sink with the towel bundled against his bare stomach, rinses it out under warm water, never cold. Folds it again like he’s making a hospital corner. He wipes himself down with a wet washcloth, tip still sensitive, hips twitching if he’s too quick. He doesn’t rush. Even now. Still a little dazed, cheeks pink, lips wet from mouthing into the sheets.

He never talks after. Doesn’t need to. Just hums under his breath as he sinks back into the bed. Bare chest, boxer briefs pulled back on. Sheets cool now. Arms tucked around a pillow. He sleeps like he’s been held—soft and small and vulnerable. Face buried, breath even, lashes dark against his cheek.

No dreams. Just calm.

Art Donaldson doesn’t fuck himself to forget. He does it to feel good. To feel loved, even if it’s just his voice saying it.

Even if no one hears him whisper, “good boy” into the dark.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

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

⤹　　 ART DONALDSON

✦ ⌇ lemonade lips

✦ ⌇ breaking point

✦ ⌇ two for $25

⤹　　 TASHI DUNCAN

✦ ⌇ stolen trophy

✦ ⌇ hotel blues

✦ ⌇ doubles trouble

⤹　　 PATRICK ZWEIG

✦ ⌇ choreplay

✦ ⌇ post-match picnic

✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion

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

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

TRASHY 2000’S PATRICK ZWEIG HEADCANONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

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

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

FIRST IMPRESSIONS, you’re just trying to do laundry at 4 a.m. when you end up dumping someone’s forgotten chef’s whites out of the machine—turns out, they belong to an exhausted, snappy guy named carmy who shows up mid-dump and freaks out. despite the tension and his awkward attempt at damage control, there’s something weirdly magnetic in the way your annoyance crashes into his unraveling calm. it doesn’t feel like a beginning, but somehow, it is.

TAGS, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery

ahhhhh!!! thank you all so much for 100+ followers and 8.8k interactions on c.ai!! i’m really grateful for all the love—your support means the world to me. more to come soon, lovelies 💌

hiiiiiii my lovely lovely LOVELY elowyn (sorry, i'm ur biggest fan) would you cook up something about Y from the nsfw alphabet with art for me? there's no one better suited for this🧚🏼‍♀️

HIIII TAL of course i can 😼

ART DONALDSON | NSFW ALPHABET | Y = YEARNING (how high is their sex drive?)

Art Donaldson’s sex drive wasn’t something he bragged about.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever wanted to talk about out loud because it wasn’t about numbers, wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t about conquest or some shallow kind of ego trip. It was about you. And it always had been. He was just built like that, wired to want what he loved, and he loved you so much it hurt sometimes.

It wasn’t the sharp kind of lust people threw around like a party trick—it was this low, steady ache in his bones, a yearning that lived under his skin and made itself known in the smallest, stupidest moments. You’d bend down to grab a glass from a low shelf and his stomach would flip. You’d be curled up in his hoodie on the couch, hair mussed and bare legs tucked under you, and he’d feel it hit him so hard he’d have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. He wanted you in ways that felt almost embarrassing.

And it wasn’t about getting off. It was about getting close. About having your breath in his mouth and your heartbeat pressed against his chest and your skin warm beneath his hands and feeling like if he could just touch you, kiss you, hold you, the ache would quiet down for a while.

He’d told you once, half-drunk on cheap wine, his head in your lap while you absently played with his hair, “You drive me insane, you know that? It’s like… I think about you all the time. I mean all the time. Not just in a sexy way, though God, yes, in that way too. But like… in a ‘can’t breathe right when you’re not in the room’ kind of way.” And you’d laughed softly, not teasing, not mean, just this gentle, fond sound that made him want to crawl inside your chest and live there.

You tugged lightly at his hair and murmured, “Good.” And he’d let out a shaky breath and kissed your wrist like you were the thing holding him together. Because you were. You always had been. And it didn’t matter how many times he got to have you, how many nights he buried his face in your neck and lost himself in the feeling of your body under his — it was never enough. Not in a desperate, frantic way. In a tender, aching, reverent way.

He was greedy for you. Could never seem to get close enough. And God, he was so gentle about it most of the time, kissing every inch of your skin like it was sacred, whispering against your ear, “Let me, please,” and he meant it every time. It wasn’t about fucking. It was about loving you in the closest, deepest, most physical way he could.

And he wasn’t built for quick, emotionless hookups. He needed the stretch of hours, the lazy roll of bodies tangled in sheets, the kind of nights where you made love slow until you both forgot where one of you ended and the other began.

His sex drive was high as hell, embarrassingly so sometimes, and it didn’t take much for you to turn him into this lovesick, touch-starved mess. You’d just have to crawl into his lap and whisper something half-nice in his ear and he was gone, rutting against you, lips everywhere, voice all rough and low, “Baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But because he loved so hard, because he poured everything he had into you every time, he wasn’t the kind of man who could turn around and do it again ten minutes later. He needed time. Not because he didn’t want to — Fuck, did he want to — but because loving you like that, having you like that, it left him blissed out and trembling, clinging to you in the dark, whispering, “I swear, I could die like this,” with his face buried against your skin. It was the kind of connection that left his bones feeling like smoke, the kind of pleasure that crept into his soul and left him undone.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he’d mumble against your skin, all heat and breath and love, so much love it scared him sometimes.

And you’d just kiss his temple, tell him he was dramatic, and he’d grin like an idiot because you had no idea, no fucking idea what you did to him. It wasn’t about the mechanics of it, wasn’t about positions or tricks or counting how many times. It was about having you in his arms, under his mouth, letting him worship you the only way he knew how. He’d wake you up at two in the morning just to kiss you, just to press his body against yours, just to murmur, “Missed you,” like you’d been gone a week instead of asleep beside him.

Because that was Art Donaldson. A man whose sex drive wasn’t driven by lust but rather by a need to be near you, to feel you, to love you in ways words could never reach. A man whose body ached with it, not because he was starved but because you made him so full he didn’t know what to do with it all. And he would want you every day for the rest of his life — not out of habit, not out of routine, but because you were his favorite thing he’d ever known, and loving you in every possible way was the only thing that made sense anymore.

DEALER!PATRICK x INNOCENT!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

pairing: dealer!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.