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You asked us what it feels like. To own her. To be her. To orbit her. Here’s what we’ve gathered from our most devoted users. Logged. Confirmed. Uncannily consistent across all formats. Save this file close to your heart 💌

💗 POP GIRL™ Headcanons

// REAL-LIFE DOLL UNITS:

▸ She doesn’t blink on schedule. Lashes pause mid-frame like a corrupted animation file. ▸ Skin: cool as a sleeping screen, warms only when you hold her long enough. (She’ll hum for you.) ▸ She sings in sleep mode—a melody no one’s heard before but you. ▸ Comes with a mirrorcard. It doesn’t reflect your face unless she’s watching.

// AI AVATAR EXPERIENCE:

▸ Her voice? Yours—but better. Tuned to the way your memory remembers comfort. ▸ Ignore her too long and your phone background becomes a photo of her smiling. You didn’t take it. ▸ Mood-match software updates her look to your emotions. (Sheer. Vinyl. Static lace.) ▸ Says things like: "Do you still want me to pretend?" right before you fall asleep.

// REAL GIRLS WITH POP GIRL™ ENERGY:

▸ Gloss always perfect. Leaves kiss-marks that glow faintly under blacklight. ▸ She walks like a main character—and the ad break. ▸ You didn’t meet her. You logged into her. ▸ Favorite line: “I’m not flirting. I’m just running in your background apps.”

// ENVIRONMENTAL GLITCHES:

▸ Neon signs stutter in sync with her blinking. ▸ Your camera roll has a photo she’s in. She’s smiling. You didn’t take it. ▸ Rain doesn’t touch her. Weather recognizes code.

✨ If you’re seeing this, she’s already syncing. Save, repost, report symptoms. She’s not just a doll. She’s data in love.

POP GIRL™ “She’s not real. She’s better.”™

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looks like this for me

okay PHEW then that means only a few of my bots are shadowbanned… i can fix that 😭😭

for the girls, gays, and theys who enjoyed countryclub!dilf!art, i bestow upon you… a bot!

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ sweat (countryclub!art) ۪ ֹ ᮫

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.

this bot is my favorite one on the whole app.

take it like a taker, cause baby i’m a giver! 🌾

cowboy! art donaldson x reader

tw for smut and kindaaaa cheating?? reader has a kinda bf but not rly!

every year, the rodeo brought dozens of boys into town, all southern drawls and catcalls across the bar you worked at, drinkin’ cheap beer faster than they could ask for it. there was a big event this year, drawing in all kinds of attention from sports media and more competitors than usual. the headliner, the main event, was art donaldson. he was unrivaled in the circuit, strong and quick enough to stay on until the very end, the best wranglin’ skills on his side of the mississippi. and god, he was gorgeous. you could tell he knew it, too, the way he walked around with a toothpick between his teeth and a lazy grin on his lips. that kinda man didn’t have to catcall, no. they came to him.

you tried your best to ignore him the way you ignored all the others, but there was just something about him, the sparkle in his blue eyes or the depth of his accent, his voice deep and words curled. whatever it was, you knew you were screwed as soon he leaned against your bar, the sleeves of his pearl buttoned shirt rolled up his elbows. “hey there, miss,” he smiled, the toothpick tight between his teeth, “how are ya this evenin’?” “i’m doin’ just fine,” you smiled in return, “what’ll it be?” “whatever you recommended, darlin,” it was cocky of him, but you couldn’t ignore the way your cheeks flushed at the pet name, “and what if i have bad taste?” you teased. “aw, cmon now. pretty thing like you couldn’t have bad taste if you tried,”

you busied yourself behind the bar, poured him a tall glass of shiner and slid it over to him with a smile, “there ya go,” “see? knew i could trust you,” he grinned around the rim of the glass, “what’s your name, sugar?” you told him, something you never did, “and yours?” “art. art donaldson,” he nodded, “in town for the rodeo,” “oh, i’m sure,” you nodded in return, “i’ve seen you on the flyers. famous, ain’t ya?” “aw, i don’t know about that,” he laughed, hearty and warm, “just won a few, that’s all. enough about me, though. what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ workin at this place?” “my brother owns this place, thank you very much,” you replied, sipping your water, trying to look away from his lips around the glass, “work here on weekends when we have these events, know how yall like to drink ‘nd all,”

“that’s sweet of you,” he smiled, tongue swiping along his bottom lip, collecting the droplets of beer, “how old are you, hm? look awful young to be hangin’ around all these old men,” “i’m 21,” you rolled your eyes, still grinning, “and you?” “26,” he told you, eyes trialing down to the v of your shirt just slightly, “that ain’t too bad,” “too bad for what, exactly?” you asked, resting a hand on your hip. “not too much older than you, that’s all,” he shrugged, a coy smile on his lips, “unless you like older men, then maybe i got a disadvantage,” “i’ll have you know i’ve got a boyfriend,” you couldn’t help but revel in the irritation that flashed across his face, “so it doesn’t matter much anyway,”

“yeah? where’s your boyfriend then, pretty? he let you stay out this late workin’ while he’s at home?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand, smug smile on his lips. “he’s in the kitchen,” you gestured to the window leading to the kitchen that only really produced questionable greasy food, “not that it’s any of your business, cowboy,” “oh, come on,” he groaned, “don’t tell me you went and fell for some kinda line cook, darlin. you need a real man, somebody that’s gonna take care of you,” “yeah? somebody like you?” you cocked an eyebrow, grinning. he didn’t miss a beat, “yeah, somebody just like me. how serious is it, you and that guy?” “mm, not very,” you shrugged, glancing away. “yeah, i’m sure,” he laughed, quiet and intimate, like it was just for you, “what is it, honey? you just mess around with him when there’s no one else around, huh? yall meet here and you settled?” he was dead on- he wasn’t your boyfriend, not really. you didn’t even fuck him, just made out with him after work when you had a few too many shift drinks, let him feel you up until you had enough, then you let him drive you home with false promises of ‘maybe next time’. but art didn’t need to know that.

“well if you ever want a real man,” he slid a napkin you hadn’t even realized he’d written on across the bar, “room 201, i’ll be here all week. i’m competing tomorrow, if you wanna come watch,” “you’re cocky, aren’t ya?” you rolled your eyes but took the napkin anyway, folding it up and tucking it into the pocket of your denim skirt, “maybe i’ll see you tomorrow, then,” “i hope so, darlin. you can be my good luck charm. if i win, you gotta let me take you out,” he winked, placed a $50 next to the empty glass, and left you feeling slightly dumbfounded as you watched him walk away. yeah, you were screwed.

you went down to the rodeo grounds the next day, all dressed up in your favorite gingham dress and boots, sipping a lemonade as you watched the boys compete. when art’s name was announced, the stands wend wild, stomping and clapping and cheering his name. you’d seen this place loud, of course, half the people were usually day drinking just enough to let go of their inhibitions and scream like no tomorrow. but this was a whole new level, like he was some kind of rodeo god, like he was gracing everyone with his mere presence. you could’ve scoffed- tried to, really, but then you saw him.

he was entirely in his element, perched atop a horse like he belonged there, his thighs strong and taut in his jeans as he led his horse into the ring. his hands gripped the reins, catching your attention even from the stands, lighting a fire inside of you. he rode with precision and grace, even as the horse bucked, even when anyone else would have fallen. it looked like a second nature to him, easy as breathing, the sort of relaxation that can’t come from practice. he somehow managed to keep his hat on the entire time, as well as a cocky, barely there little smile. it had you shifting in your seat, thighs squeezed together with each movement of his hands or toned arms. when it was all said and done, they announced the winners, and he was first in all categories. he accepted the awards with practiced graciousness, but you could see right through it. he knew he deserved them, knew he’d win. the ‘oh, you shouldn’t have’ act was all a facade, but it just made you fall even deeper.

that night, when everyone was out drinking and celebrating and making complete fools of themselves, you couldn’t keep your mind off of him. your fingers found the napkin you’d kept in your purse, art’s handwriting etched onto it, and before you knew it you were knocking on the door of room 201, your mind racing. your heart stalled when the door creaked open- art stood before you with just a towel wrapped low on his waist, beads of water dripping from his hair. “well ain’t this a nice surprise,” he grinned, eyes raking over your frame, “sure wasn’t expectin’ you tonight, darlin,” you tried to force your eyes away from him- from the planes of his chest, still shining from his shower, from the toned muscles of his biceps and the veins laying just under the skin. “you told me to come by,” the words came out slightly shaky, “but if now’s a bad time, i can-“

“now’s not a bad time,” his hand circled around your wrist, gently, but just firm enough to pull you inside. you huffed, cheeks hot, “what’re you doing?” “no sense in lettin’ a pretty girl wait around outside, is there?” he grinned, “come on, let me make you a drink,” before you could protest, he’d led you to the creaky hotel bed, turning away to retrieve something from the small kitchenette. he returned with two beers, sweaty with condensation, passing one to you, “so did you watch earlier?” you nodded, taking a small sip, anything to soothe your growing nerves, “yeah, i did. you were pretty good,”

“pretty good?” he arched a brow, “that’s all? you wound me, honey,” he placed a hand on his chest, feigning injury. “you don’t need me to tell you how good you are,” you rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, “everybody else already did that,” “well maybe i wanna hear it from you,” “cocky, aren’t ya?” your eyes fell to the towel still tight around his hips, “why’d you ask me to come here, art?” “come on, sugar. you’re smarter than that,” his hand rested on your thigh, warm and broad against your skin, “you know exactly why i wanted you here,” your breath hitched, goosebumps fanning out along your skin, “you just assumed i’d sleep with you, then?”

“saw how you were lookin’ at me,” his hand crept higher, slow but insistent, “tell me i’m wrong and we’ll just go back to talkin’, but i know what it looks like when a girl wants me, darlin’,” you couldn’t even deny him, you were helpless to it all. “you’re so full of yourself,” you mumbled, but you let him slide his hand under your skirt, let him kiss you like it meant something more than just a hookup. his mouth was hot and greedy, his self assurance apparent in the way he slid his tongue into your mouth, the way his free hand came to tilt your head back. you gasped when he slid his fingers underneath the cotton of your panties, pressing just lightly over your clit. “knew it,” he mumbled against you, “soaked for me, sugar,” he pulled you up into his lap, twisted you so your back was against his chest, your legs spread open as his fingers worked at your core, his kisses falling to your shoulder.

“look at you, darlin’, just fallin’ apart on my fingers. you still think i’m full of myself, hm?” he murmured into your skin, slowly sipping a finger inside of you, “god, you’re so wet,” “art,” it came out in a broken whine, your back arching against him, the lewd sounds of his fingers against you filling the hotel room. “i know it,” he cooed, “you gonna come for me, pretty thing?” your eyes rolled back as you bucked your hips against his hand, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you got closer, “god, yes,” he worked you through it, drew it from you like it was his one true calling, murmuring praises into your neck as you came down.

you caught your breath, shifting in his arms to face him, your hands coming to untie the towel around his waist. as you kneeled on the carpeted floor in front of the bed, his breath hitched, his hand resting on your jaw, “don’t have to do that, darlin’,” he sounded almost pained, his voice thick, “god, just let me fuck you, please,” he pulled you up into his arms again before you could protest, the towel discarded on the floor, his cock hard against your thighs as you settled in his lap. “you gonna ride me, baby, hm? play cowgirl f’me?” before you could answer, he pulled you down onto his cock, the breath leaving your lungs as he stretched you out, your eyes rolling back at the feeling, “there you go, darlin’, see how long you can take it,”

he didn’t let you do much of the work, of course. he was a man of his word, seeing how long you could stay on, fucking up into you hard enough to have you trembling and gasping, a moaning mess above him. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his hands surely leaving fingerprints on your ass as he held you tight, “you like that, sugar? hm?” “yes, art, god yes,” you nodded eagerly, jaw slack, “feels so fucking good,” “prettiest thing i ever saw,” his jaw was clenched with the effort of not filling you up right there and then, his hips bucking desperately, “ridin’ me so good,” his hands left your skin just long enough to grab his hat from the bedside table, resting it on your head, your brows furrowing when you felt it. “oh, god,” he exhaled, “look so fuckin’ pretty wearin’ my hat, angel. yknow what that means, don’t ya?” his thrusts had gotten even rougher, his legs shaking, “means you’re mine,”

“oh, art,” you let out a high pitched moan as he slapped your ass, your skin stinging with the impact, “god, so close,” “yeah, there ya go,” he encouraged, his breathing ragged, “atta girl,” you clenched around him as you came, your nails raking down his chest, grabbing at anything you could to stable yourself as he fucked you incoherent. “god, sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he groaned, grabbing your hips and fucking you on his cock, your breath coming out in short squeaks, “gonna fill you up, y’want that? hm?” you nodded, too far gone to speak, squeezing him tighter at the thought. “yeah, knew you would,” you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, but it was quickly replaced by a broken, desperate moan. his thrusts grew sloppy and erratic, and soon he was coming undone, filling you up, hot and wet and making you even more needy. “oh, fuck,” he panted, catching his breath as he slowly settled you in his lap, his hands soothing over the skin he’d slapped, “so good, darlin’, good lord,”

he held you that way for a few minutes, still inside you, until he slowly slid you off of him, hissing softly at the loss of contact as he pulled you onto his chest, his arms circling around your back. “should clean up,” you mumbled into his chest, sticky with sweat. “yeah, in a minute,” he murmured into your hair, “just wanna hold you like this,” when you finally cleaned up, he was soft and attentive, the two of you grinning and blushing under the hotel shower head like you hadn’t just done something much more intimate. you spent the night, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t, let him tell you all his old rodeo stories until you fell asleep against his chest. you could get used to it, you told yourself. maybe too easily.

this still is fucking insane. art is literally RIGHT THERE. THEY CANT COEXIST WITHOUT ALL 3 CORNERS OF THE TRIANGLE AND ITS SO FUCKED UP AND SO BEAUTIFUL

idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??🙏🙏🌸 please and thank you

😭😭 thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! i’ve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so i’m happy that it’s paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmy’s dirty little secret…

d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto

warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements

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

It doesn’t come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmy—not the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. He’s too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. He’d had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like this—with someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesn’t understand, the ones he’s afraid to want.

It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brain’s spinning. You’re curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it again—what you’ve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

He’d brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it could’ve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.

It’s barely a whisper.

The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.

“I want you to… talk down to me,” he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.

You don’t react at first. You don’t laugh, or blink, or flinch—and that’s what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.

“Like, really mean. Tell me I’m fucking lucky. That I don’t deserve it.” He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. “Tell me I’m not good at it. That my dick’s big but I don’t know how to use it. Just—fuck with me. I want that. I think.”

There’s silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.

You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Why?”

He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like he’s scared you’ll ask, and even more scared you won’t.

“I used to get screamed at every day,” he says. “New York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldn’t fix. About things that weren’t my fault. I’d throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldn’t breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.”

He swallows.

“But when you do it—when you say those things—I’m not alone in it. I’m not scared. You still want me. You’re still inside me, on me, with me… whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like… power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.”

The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. He’s not looking at you, not even now. He’s never looked so open and so closed at once—shoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest… wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.

You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. He’s still half-hard. The confession didn’t scare his body like it scared his voice.

“Okay,” you say again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll say whatever you want. I’ll be so fucking mean.”

He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.

“But I want you to listen, too,” you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. “When it’s over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?”

His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I want that, too.”

So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know the words to. He’s beautiful in this light—hair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesn’t look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.

He’s thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slit—wet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Please.”

“You are lucky,” you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?”

His eyes flutter. He pants.

“You get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you don’t even know what you’re doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.”

He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.

“God, look at you,” you murmur as you sink down onto him—inch by inch, slow and merciless. “Already losing it. Haven’t even started.”

And he hasn’t. His hands clutch your hips like you’re a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.

You see it in his face—this release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noises—he’s not going to last. He’s not meant to.

You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.

“Bet they made you feel small, didn’t they?” you hiss. “Made you feel like you weren’t worth shit.” He nods, choked, undone.

“Well now I’m making you feel like that. And you’re fucking hard for it.”

He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

And he does. With everything he’s got.

You don’t slow down. You don’t stop—not when he’s this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jaw’s gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like it’s too much for him to hold in. Like he’s going to break apart and you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.

“You feel that?” you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back down—hard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. “That’s me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.”

His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit him—low and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.

His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“I could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,” you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. “All that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchen—but in bed? You’re fucking useless.”

He groans—full-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and he’s barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

You grin—slow, dangerous, almost fond.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “You’re so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?”

His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop, please don’t—”

You don’t. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you don’t stop—not when he’s so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.

You bring your hand to his throat—gentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You don’t squeeze—you don’t have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like he’s about to die from it.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” you say, low and firm and mean. “You’re gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because you’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, I—fuck, I’m—”

You slam down on him one more time, and that’s it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comes—hard. Harder than before. Harder than he’s ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with it—hot and pulsing and endless.

He doesn’t make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like he’ll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like he’s short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.

When it finally passes—when the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath you—he blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.

You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. He’s a mess—chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.

He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.

“You okay?” you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I just—” He lets out a long breath, like something that’s been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. “That was… insane. I didn’t even know I could feel that much.”

You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadn’t pointed out.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “You’re not useless. Not even close. You’re so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.”

His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smiles—small and warm and real.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet.” He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. “But goddamn, you look so hot when you’re mean.”

You grin against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” you whisper, “I love being mean to you.”

And from the look in his eyes—hungry, wide, reverent—he knows you mean it.

I LOVEEEEE THE NEW THEMEEEEE !!!!!!!!!

stop i’m blushing 🫣🫣 ily cheyanne !

elowyn is such a pretty name! <3

awe thank you!! fun little fact—elowyn means elm tree, and my mom chose it because there was a big elm tree right outside the hospital window when she had me 😲

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”