Big Shoes To Fill

you evil, evil, horrible, terrible woman

from the dining table x challengers

made my first ever edit and made a tiktok page... feel free to follow me @ tacobacoyeet!

The war has returned again, Gaza is under bombardment and my area is being subjected to heavy shelling. We have lost hope in our rights. We must evacuate this city where there is no security. Donate to my family again, you are our only hope.

Donate here

raised 50$/10000$

Vetted by : 90-ghost

Get a job. Take some writing classes.

okay, let's talk about this for a moment. a lot of my moots/oomfs have been getting a similar message in their inbox. i don't know if they're coming from the same person or not, and frankly, i don't care.

you are wasting time out of your day to leave a message that you are too cowardly to put an account behind, on a website that was created for the purpose of publicizing self-expression.

i don't care that you don't like my writing. i don't like my writing. i am upset because you are putting legitimate effort into bringing down other people who have absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. if anyone needs to get a job, anon, it's you.

i do not know what is possessing you to act with such cowardice, but whatever it is, i hope it gets better for you. in the mean time, stay out of the inboxes of creators who are volunteering their time and their efforts to enrich the lives of others.

i wish you good luck in the future.

:( i love him im gonna crumple him up

bodyguard | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, this is a blurb

It almost ends in silence.

That kind of silence that isn’t soft or thoughtful or pregnant with meaning—it’s thick, charged, bitter. The kind that fills a car when one person wants to speak and the other refuses to be heard.

Patrick’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than it needs to be. You’re staring out the window, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Not crying. Not yet.

The fight—if you can call it that—wasn’t loud. It never is with him. Just a deflection here, a shrug there. You asked a simple question. Something like "How are you, really?" Something like "Let me in."

And he did what he always does. Shut the door.

You almost got out when he pulled into your building’s lot. Almost left him there, sitting in the blue wash of streetlights with his hands still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

But something in you stayed.

Because even in the worst of it—even when he’s all teeth and armor—you can see the boy behind the racket. The one who’s tired of being hard all the time.

So you twist in your seat.

He’s still facing forward, and you can see it—the crack in his armor. The set of his shoulders isn’t quite as stubborn. His grip on the wheel is no longer furious, just tight. Like he’s not sure if he should let go.

And you know this version of him.

You’ve seen him at ten—spinning, sharp-tongued, manic with energy he doesn't know where to put. You’ve seen him on the court, teeth bared, eyes wild. You’ve seen him explode and implode all in the same hour.

But you’ve also seen him at zero. At nothing. The mornings he can’t get out of bed. The press days he skips and blames on jet lag when really, it’s the weight in his chest.

You know how to read his silences. The kinds that ask you to stay even when he won’t say it out loud.

You’ve never wanted to fix him. You’ve just wanted to be there. Wanted to be the one thing in his world that didn’t want anything from him.

You speak softly, like you’re talking to a wounded thing. “Patrick, I’m not trying to fix anything.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“I just wanna know what’s going on in there,” you add, tapping lightly on the side of your head. “You don’t have to make it nice. You don’t even have to make it make sense. I just… want to know you’re here.”

Another pause. This one stretches.

He finally exhales through his nose. Barely audible.

“I don’t talk about shit like that,” he mutters. “Never have.”

You nod. “Yeah. I figured.” You shift, turning to face him fully. “But you let me be here. Every time. So either you want something real, or you don’t. And if you do... I need you to stop pretending you're alone.”

That lands. You see it in the way his fingers loosen on the steering wheel.

And then he finally looks at you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

You blink. “What, talk?”

He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. “Yeah. That. All of it.”

“Then don’t talk,” you say. “Just let me in.”

And that’s when you move.

You lean in slowly. Not to comfort. To reach. You press your mouth to his—soft, sure, no hesitation. He responds like it hurts. Like it heals. Like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.

Your hand slips into his hair. His jaw slackens. The car windows fog.

It’s not a rush. Not at first.

But soon you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, the console digging into your thigh and neither of you caring. His hands settle on your waist, unsure.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper against his jaw. “Just let me be here.”

And when you grind down, he gasps like he’s breaking.

You kiss him again. Deeper. Messier. Like a promise made with tongue and teeth and breath.

You press your forehead to his and say, “Let me take care of you.”

And when you rock your hips again, when his hands grip you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever held, he lets you.

For once—he lets you.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, lips parted, chest heaving. You guide him gently, tugging down the waistband of his sweats, freeing him fully. He’s already slick in your hand, the head flushed, and his breath stutters as you shift your hips.

“Can I?” you murmur.

He nods—almost frantic—and you line yourself up with shaking fingers.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow and devastating. Your breath catches at the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of him beneath you, inside you, finally here. His hands clutch at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The car is too small for this, too cramped, but it doesn’t matter. Your bodies find rhythm anyway. A language made of friction and breath and everything you’ve never needed words for.

The smell of his cologne has long faded under the weight of everything else—sweat, sex, and the faintest trace of smoke from the ashtray by the gearshift. There’s a lipstick-stamped cigarette butt half-buried beneath a crumpled parking receipt. He hasn’t cleaned this car in months. It smells like late-night drives, like sweatshirts in the backseat, like every fight you’ve almost had and every kiss you didn’t mean to give.

The cracked vinyl seat beneath your knees sticks to your skin. Somewhere in the background, the faint click of the hazard light ticks like a metronome. The windows fog faster than you can clear them. The Honda rocks with every roll of your hips.

The ceiling liner droops slightly overhead. The rearview mirror is useless now, fogged over and tilted sideways from where his elbow knocked it loose.

None of it matters.

You’re the only thing that matters.

He curses when your hand returns to where your bodies meet, when your fingers circle just right. You smile, not teasing, just full of something fierce and warm and steady.

“Let me take it,” you whisper. “All of it. Just for tonight.”

His head falls back. His mouth falls open.

You keep going until he’s shaking. Until he’s saying your name like it’s the only thing left that’s his.

When he comes, you hold him there. Through it. Around it. Until he’s panting against your neck, hands still gripping your hips like they’re his last prayer.

You follow a heartbeat later. The kind of release that steals your breath, curls your toes, and makes your chest ache.

And after—you don’t move.

You just breathe. Let the sweat cool. Let the quiet settle.

You press your palm flat against his chest and feel it thudding wildly beneath your skin.

You don’t ask him to say anything. You don’t need him to explain.

You hold him the way he’s never let anyone hold him—without expectation, without question.

Like softness is a shield.

Like love can be a place to rest.

-----

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

OHHHH MY ANGEL BABY :(

Happy Challengers Anniversary #1 !!!

I present to you: Tashi Duncan’s Diary

Click for better quality

Author’s note

This is an interpretation exclusively based on the character.

I didn’t add much about Art or Patrick because it’s also a point of view where Tashi was only 18. A girl trying to figure out who she was —just like they were— and trying to build a life she could be proud of.

Before anyone tried to define her.

Some things she already knew: She wanted more. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be herself.

This journal is my interpretation of that Version of Tashi.

It’s not perfect—it’s personal.

It’s a glimpse of her, through my eyes.

Thanks for reading. <3

this sucks but i haven't written in a while so. here you go

Everyone was horrified by your lack of tears. You could see it on their faces. You were supposed to keel over with your knees pressing into your stomach and wail, pounding on the floor like the vibrations would shake through his body and start up his heart again. If that was going to work, he would’ve come back days ago. The night you got the call, you wished you’d been more shocked. You hung up the phone politely, always cordial with his mother despite everything, and screamed. Screamed like the release was enough. Enough to feel better? Enough to wake him up? Who knows. Certainly not you. Now, you don’t cry. You hardly move. Where was there to go when pinned down by a loss this big? Not to sleep. Not to the awakened world that reality brings, either. Not to the middle ground. It’d be easier to snap your fingers and just phase out of existence. You wonder how it’d feel to be sucked into a black hole. You wouldn’t necessarily mind if it hurt.

You didn’t want to see the body. The worst thing you possibly could do for yourself would be to see the body. When you first heard, you tried to imagine what he’d look like, all paper white and green like the veins beneath his wrists. You had a hard time picturing it, initially, because how could you? He had been livelier than people gave him credit for. He lit up during movie nights, grinned like the sun had shone down just for him when he got the curve of your nose in a drawing just right. He’d been so alive. Soon it got easier. You could wipe off the cheap foundation holding him together just enough to look lifelike while lifeless and see if your imagination was correct, but it’d do you no good. It still hurt to see him all colorful, rosy like the blood beneath his skin still flowed. He looked the same. It feels like he’d been dead this whole time. You fear he had been.

The dirt in the ground beneath you had hardened with the cold air, bunching in on itself to create an uncomfortable, constant press against your spine. You tossed, turned, and the earth didn’t move. Nothing had ever bent at your will, really. You weren’t one of the lucky ones. You learned about this once, how cold slows down particle movement, hardens things, molds them into one set form. The smell of misty, post-rain air was still dancing around, the remnants now shining, silvery coatings over the deep green blades of grass which tickled the skin of your cheek. 

If you reached out your hand just enough, it would touch his, and it would still feel like lighting on fire from the inside out. The cigarette between his lips, which bobbed when he swallowed around nothing, sizzled a bit on the inhale, glowing redder with each breath in, and simmering down when the connection was lost. You think you understand how it feels. You could’ve kissed him if you wanted to, but you’d never liked the way that cigarette smoke lingers on your tongue, wraps around your hair like ivy and burrows itself between the fibers of your clothes. So you just watched as he breathed life into it, cherry glowing brighter, brighter still, a flaming, striking orange, then reducing down to a deeper red. 

If it weren’t so cold, maybe the stars would;ve seem less hazy. The world always seems muddled this time of year, all soft lines and blending colors, like each texture was bleeding into the other. Then again, maybe it was just your eyes. But still, they glowed for you, for him, maybe for the pair you made up. 

“Do you think that you’ll ever be okay knowing this is it?”

He had a way of speaking that makes everything sound significant, like a weight off his chest comes with each syllable that funneled up from his throat. It’s one of those things you love about him, one of many. Sure, he’d had his flaws, like all people do, but when he made something as simple as a greeting sound like a poem, it’s almost indescribable, the sensation of hearing him say that he loves you. 

“I think that’s fine with me. It’s not like things are stuck here. I can still move around a little bit. You know, make friends, get a job. Things that aren’t concrete.” 

He hums, tilting his head up as if he’s going to nod, but he never drops it back down. He just keeps staring up, up and away. Almost like something is looking back at him. You hope whatever God is holding his gaze is one of the pleasant ones, all white, flowing dresses and feathered wings. 

“Do you think you’ll be ok with it?”

He shrugged, took a breath. 

“It’ll have to be enough.”

You itch with disgust at the memory. The stupidity you’d always had. It’d never be enough. Maybe ‘it’ wasn’t anything you could ever understand. He’d been the smarter one. You step outside of the funeral parlor, hands shaking as they dig through your purse, pulling out a small box of cigarettes you haven’t yet learned to stop coughing around. You hope the smoke which fills your lungs doesn’t leave, settling into a hard soot against you. You settle it between your lips, the lighter setting it aglow. You breathe in, choke at the harshness, and suck in harder. It better stick into each and every hair. It better turn your teeth yellow with damage. It’s like kissing him all over again.

new zendaya louis vuitton campaign i’m UP

wife, Expanding

TACOBACOYEET BOT REQUEST INFORMATION!

hi everyone! i put this in my bio post when i made my bot drop, but i figured i'd make an actual announcement as well. now that i have dabbled in bot-making and with summer approaching, i am opening a bot request form! feel free to send in your requests, and i will get to them as i have time.

here are a few rules that i ask you follow with regards to this:

this form is for bot requests ONLY. i will not accept fic or moodboard requests via this form.

i prefer for bot requests to be sent here, but i will accept them via ask as well!

if i don't write for it, i won't make a bot. this goes for fandoms and for content.

please, don't crowd me and other creators with the same request. if you've already asked multiple other bot makers for a bot, and they've made it, then there's no need to ask for another one. use it to your heart's content!

i haven't decided how i'm going to be structuring releases just yet, so please don't expect me to have your bots ready as soon as you request them. there is a lot of work that goes into making them, and i want to make sure i'm not doing a half-assed job. please be patient with me, i am still new to this!

this would not be possible without a lot of people, but i would like to close this out by shouting out some of my favorite bot-makers. you are all... 'pillars of the community!' get it? challengers joke. ba dum tss!

anyway... here's just a few of my people. i am so sorry if i miss you!

@jordiemeow

@voidsuites

@grimsonandclover

@tashism

@222col

@ellaynaonsaturn

@soaraes

@happenssweet

thank you to all of you for being such inspirations and for the talent that you constantly share with this community. i love you all! thank you to everyone who has brought me far enough to reach this point. i love all of you as well! happy c.ai-ing!

if you haven't gotten sick of seeing me on your timeline, i'm not doing it right. i'm like a challengers fan fiction cold sore! i'm not sure if i like this, but then again, i say this about everything i've ever posted and still make it publically available. i hope it's cute and just yearny (??) enough because what is a challengers fan if not a yearner? i will probably post something again in the next 24 hours maybe less so.. who's ready for a patrick fic? patfic. woah... hope you enjoy and feel free to leave tips and critiques as per usual<3

Societal conventions of platonic relationships are boring, and that’s why you all rejected them. I mean, sure, every time you said that you weren’t dating one of them the response was always “You know you can tell me anything, right?” but seriously! You’re all just very good friends. Best friends, more accurately. So, yes, you helped each other out. That’s what friends are for. Patrick needs a fake girlfriend for one of his parents’ parties? You and Tashi are on it. Art wants a date to some tennis gala? You’re all jumping at the chance. It’s not like it’s hard to fake something like that, because you’re all close already. A kiss on the cheek and a hand on the waist are essentially nothing. You wouldn’t bat an eye if it happened outside of one of those contexts, either. So it’s fine when it does, and it doesn’t make your heart race.

It also never bothered you to admit that they were incredibly beautiful people, because that’s just a conclusion that you can draw by having eyes. Even without your little set up, you’d certainly feel that way. So Tashi’s birthday party, which she’d dragged you all to some club you can’t legally be in for, was fine. It was fine that Tashi was dancing with her arms outstretched above her head like a prayer, slightly offbeat to the timing of the song, and yet still so in place. She’s dancing like she forgot there’s always eyes admiring her, skirt swaying around her long legs, eyes closed like she’d absorb the moment if she concentrated enough. And she looked gorgeous, the way she always did. Which you’re allowed to say, because best friends always support their best friends. And sure, when she opens her eyes and waves at you from her spot on the floor you start giggling despite having had nothing to drink, but it’s because you’re happy for her. It’s extra fine that Patrick soon comes up to join her, large hands to sharp hip bones, and they start swaying like one unit, and they both look lost in one another until suddenly they’re lost in you. You don’t bristle when Art leans into your side and mumbles that someone ‘looks really good, huh?’ and you don’t quite make out if the sentence started with ‘he’ or ‘she’.

It’s fine when Tashi pulls you up to some makeshift platform of a stage for karaoke, screaming the lyrics just a bit too loudly into the microphone, and clinging onto you for dear life. There’s a second mic hanging limply to your right, but it’s been deemed unnecessary because she’d insisted on pulling you close and sharing the one in her hand. From this close, you can smell the perfume she’d chosen for the night, which you note isn’t her signature, and the faint coconut of her shampoo. You can make out two sets of smiling eyes from the same shitty table you’d claimed, nursing drinks in calloused hands that still manage soft touches. 

It’s fine when you get a little solo and you manage to squeak out a few notes, voice thick with nerves and lack of proper use, and feel the way that three people’s worlds have stopped to take in each sound before they pass. They’re committing you singing to memory, and you’re not sure what’s telling you as much, but you know it’s true. It’s fine when the song’s over and Tashi leads you back to the table with a hand on your lower back, and her fingers are so long that your mind drifts without your permission, and your steps become a bit more rigid than they’d usually be. 

It’s fine when you’re pressed between Patrick and Art in the rented limo Patrick had arranged using his parents’ money, and two different hands meet your thigh, and you can just barely feel Patrick’s pinky grazing the hem of your skirt. It’s fine when Art begins feeding you praise like it’s his life’s goal to make you drown in it, because the compliments sound sweeter in his voice, so you can take that sickening butterfly flutter in your ribcage and crush it under the stiletto point of your heel. 

It’s fine when you’re all laying on dew-dampened grass somewhere near Patrick’s apartment, staring up at the sky, and the crowns of your head are all touching, because there’s a need to not acknowledge the obvious, and a deeper need to indulge in it. There’s a voice in the wind that’s rustling Tashi’s hair and creasing Art’s shirt that’s telling you to just give in to yourself. You wonder if it’s only talking to you. It’s fine when you turn to look at Patrick to find he’s already looking at you, and he’s got the wonder in his eyes you see on people gazing into a Van Gogh. He’d take staring at you over any painting in a heartbeat, he’d tell you if you asked. 

It’s fine when you find yourself in Patrick’s bed, goosebumps littered across cold-air-kissed skin, with your back to Tashi’s chest, and she’s cradling your head like it’ll fall off if she doesn’t hold it up herself. You find yourself liking the feeling of Art’s lips scattering feather-light kisses across the inside of your thighs. You lean further back against Tashi when she starts cooing some kind of praise you’re too hazy-minded to make out, but it sounds nice with the inflections of her voice, demanding but soft. You don’t mind watching Patrick’s lips connect with Tashi’s, then with Art’s, because you can focus in on how their bodies melt and their fingers bend. You can pick up on each little click of a broken kiss, and each sigh of a newly formed one. The night’s some kind of haze of warm hands, adoring eyes, and wandering lips with glints of white teeth that you can’t quite put in place. What you can definitively say is that it felt like coming home. It felt like sleeping in your bed for the first time since you’ve been away, and it molds around your shape like you hoped it would. It feels like falling asleep with Tashi’s hair in your face and a pool of Patrick’s drool building atop your stomach and not caring. It feels like getting a kiss goodnight from Art because he’s just as naked and giddy as you are.

It’s fine to admit to yourself that you’re in love when you don’t want to be. Love apparently didn’t care that you wanted a step-by-step plan, a playbook, a set of rules to follow. Love didn’t care that you’d been planning on keeping things simple, because lack of acknowledgement means lack of potential rejection. Love didn’t care because love is like a mother, it knows what’s best for you, even if it’s less than pleasant to sit with. But love was deeply breathing against your neck and snoring a little too loudly. Love was going to wake you up at sunrise to make them all hangover cures, should they need them. Love was going to let you fall asleep and dream about it, just to wake up and realize it’s still there.

MICHAELLLLL DON’T LEAVE ME HERE MICHAELLLLLL

i am so... i just... this is my wife...