Well, Yes!

POP GIRL™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

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.”™

For our most active followers,

@blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams

Come grab your POP GIRL™ magazines now!

eaaasy white chocolate 🙂‍↕️😌

(i’m not racist I swear 😓)

thank you for the tag corall!!! 💗

npt : @ellecdc @femme-lusts @aetherraeys @itsrensfairygardenn

saw this "which jellycat are you" quiz and had to do it, it's just too cute <333

npt 🏷️: @foodiegoogie @msmk11 @godricgryffinsnore @notyaslol @g0lden-sky @g1rld1ary @moonpascal @lupinsweater @laufeysvalentine @lydiasfalling + anyone who wants to join!

TRIBBING WITH FTM!ART ‼️‼️‼️‼️

summary: art is a bit shy about telling his girlfriend what he really wants; but once he does, he doesn't regret it. he knows his girlfriend will always take care of him and what he needs.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.1k words. praise. tribbing (vulva against vulva). messy kissing. submissive art donaldson. kind of dirty talking (soft).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams (to be added)

The air was thick with summer heat, even with the window cracked open. Somewhere outside, a cicada buzzed lazily, the sound distant and muffled under the soft hum of the box fan in the corner of the room. The semester at Stanford was over and you had invited your boyfriend for vacation at your family’s house.

Art sat on the edge of your bed, fingers twisted in the hem of his T-shirt, thighs tense where they pressed together. His eyes flicked up to yours—dark, hungry, but nervous too.

“You sure?” you asked gently, stepping between his knees. The bed cracked.

Art nodded, hidden adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Just… just don’t stop talking. I like when you talk.”

You smiled and leaned down to kiss him—soft at first, your lips brushing his like a whisper. But the moment he leaned into you, you deepened it. His lips parted, eager and open, and your hands found his jaw, thumbs stroking lightly across his cheeks. He tasted like mint and nerves. The kiss was messy from the start, all breath and need and little whimpers that caught in his throat. You loved how easy it was to unravel him with nothing but your mouth.

“You’re already shaking,” you murmured against his lips, your voice low and fond.

Art let out a tiny, desperate sound, hips shifting involuntarily. “I can’t help it. You make me feel—fuck, I don’t even know.”

You pushed his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a soft flush spreading across his skin. You let your fingertips skim over his scars with reverence, thumbs circling his nipples until he gasped.

“You’re so handsome like this,” you told him. “I love every inch of you. You know that?” Art’s eyes fluttered shut, as though the praise was too much to take. “Say it again.” He almost begged.

You leaned in, nipping gently at his jaw. “I love your body. Love the way you melt under my hands. You’re beautiful, Art.” He let out a shaky breath, hands coming up to grip your waist. His voice was smaller now, breathless. “Please… I want to feel you.”

“You will,” you promised, brushing your nose against his. “Lay back for me.”

He obeyed immediately, scooting up the bed until his head hit the pillow. You followed, straddling his thigh as you kissed him again—this time deeper, wetter, like you needed to taste every sound he made. Your hand slid between his legs, cupping the heat of him through his boxers. Art gasped, hips arching into your touch.

“You’re already soaked,” you murmured, half in awe. “I haven’t even taken these off you yet.” It wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t mocking—just a fact.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he admitted in a whisper. “Thought about you on top of me. Thought about your thighs, your hands, your kisses…” You kissed his throat, then lower—pressing your mouth to every inch of skin you could reach just to hear his beautiful sounds. “You’re gonna get what you want. Just stay still for me, baby.”

He whimpered at that, thighs twitching. You peeled off his boxers with care, and he helped, lifting his hips, baring himself completely to you. The trust in his eyes nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Look at you,” you said, tracing a line down his stomach to where he was slick and flushed. “So wet for me. So perfect.”

Art keened, covering his face with one arm. “Fuck, stop—you’re gonna make me come just from that.”

You grabbed his wrist and gently pulled it away, making him look at you. “Don’t hide from me,” you said softly. “I want to see every reaction. Every twitch. Every time you fall apart.”

His eyes darkened with arousal, lips parting in a silent moan.

You sat up just enough to strip off your own shirt and underwear, leaving you both bare. His gaze dropped to your thighs, your folds already glistening. His hands gripped your hips as you moved to straddle him, your wet heat pressing against his. You rocked gently, grinding down, and both of you gasped at the friction.

“Fuck,” Art groaned, his head tipping back. “Feels so—God—feels so good.”

You cupped the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss, open-mouthed and slick. Your tongues slid together, and the sound of it—the soft, wet suck—sent heat spiraling low in your belly.

You rocked again, slower this time, dragging yourself along the length of his wet folds. He was flushed and trembling beneath you, hands tight on your waist, mouth falling open with every drag of your hips.

“That’s it,” you whispered into his mouth. “You feel so good like this. So fucking soft. So easy to love.”

His nails dug into your skin. “Keep talking.” You bit his lip gently. “You’re perfect, Art. You make me want to take my time. Make you come slow. Make you feel everything.”

He moaned—long and deep—and ground up into you, searching for more pressure. You shifted your angle, thighs tightening as your clits met again, slick and swollen, sending sparks through both of you.

“There,” you gasped. “Right there, baby. You like it like that?”

He nodded furiously, words failing him.

You took his face in your hands, kissing him through it. It was messy now—spit-slick, desperate, full of moans. His lips chased yours, like he couldn’t stand to be without the taste of you.

“You’re being so good for me,” you said, rocking harder now, your pace growing erratic. “So responsive. So fucking pretty.”

“Please don’t stop,” he begged. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Let me feel it,” you whispered. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The sound he made then—half whimper, half sob—sent you over the edge with him. His thighs tensed and trembled as he came, grinding up against you, body jerking with every wave of pleasure. You followed seconds later, burying your face in his neck as your own orgasm crashed through you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

You stayed like that for a long time—bodies sticky and tangled, mouths still occasionally brushing in soft, open kisses. His fingers ran up and down your spine in a lazy rhythm, and your hands cradled his jaw as you murmured praise into his skin.

“You did so good for me,” you said. “So perfect. I love how you fall apart. Love how you feel against me.” Art’s cheeks were still flushed, but his smile was soft now. “You make me feel like I’m perfect.”

“You are,” you said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You always are.”

Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And is Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

Guess the app works.

BOT DUMP by @ 222col °❀⋆

norman fucking rockwell! - lana del rey ᯓ★

꒰ notes ꒱ ft challengers & obx characters 𖤓 thank u to those have been patient with me during my break, lotta love for u all <3 any feedback is welcomed!!!

JJ MAYBANK

𖤓 ( norman fucking rockwell )

𓇼 you and jj were best friends. always had been. but lines had been crossed, and suddenly he was barely paying you any mind outside his bedroom. fed up of his childish behaviour, you call him on his bullshit at the boneyard.

RAFE CAMERON

𖤓 ( mariners apartment complex )

𓇼 rafe's sweet girl. never could you believe that he was your rafe that shot peterkin, you'd stuck by him through it all. only when he fucks up and confesses in front of you do you realise who he is.

ART DONALDSON

𖤓 ( venice bitch )

𓇼 art's enjoying college life, biggest name on campus thanks to his famous pop star girlfriend. living it up at frat parties, and only occasionally riling up his very possessive girlfriend. when you come back from tour to surprise him,and find him between two girls, it was never going to end well.

TASHI DUNCAN

𖤓 ( fuck it i love you )

𓇼 four years since you'd seen the girl you once loved. tashi had promised to keep in touch, stay friends, but you hadn't heard from her since the breakup. out celebrating another tournament win, and she sees the one she loves.

TASHI DUNCAN

𖤓 ( doin' time )

𓇼 you loved her so bad, and she treated you like shit. tashi never let you put a label on it, despite how often she called you her girlfriend, she'd never make it official. time to give her a taste of her own medicine.

RAFE CAMERON

𖤓 ( love song )

𓇼 rafe has always cared more about his image than anything else, and that carried through to his relationship. in reality, he could barely care about you. just the looks that he got when he was with you. prettiest girl on the island, and you were all his.

PATRICK ZWEIG

𖤓 ( cinnamon girl )

𓇼 you were retiring, from your life as a famous band-aid. too many broken promises from musicians, too many boys wasting your time thinking you were just some groupie. one final show, and that's when you spot him. up-and-coming lead guitarist, patrick zweig. retirement was never going to last long. ( almost famous (2000) au )

JJ MAYBANK

𖤓 ( how to disappear )

𓇼 jj could never admit you weren't his anymore, ask anyone and he'd say you were still his girl. whether you had a new boyfriend or not, his answer remained the same. despite the new boy on your arm, you can't help but run back to him.

PATRICK ZWEIG

𖤓 ( california )

𓇼 patrick was finally back in town for off season, months after the breakup. that didn't stop him from spending the whole time with you though. time moves too quickly, and suddenly he's by the door ready to leave you again.

JJ MAYBANK

𖤓 ( the next best american record )

𓇼 pogues were starting to get noticed, touring around the us on their first headline tour. but you and jj were still focused on writing the perfect song. everyone could see it was more than that, the two of you spent every minute together, saying it was all for the song. until jj realises, it's not about the song at all.

PATRICK ZWEIG

𖤓 ( the greatest )

𓇼 things were perfect, then patrick goes off to the junior us open and you never hear from him again. it took art and tashi doing the same to him to realise, you were the greatest loss of them all. when he sees your name on the list of coaches at the tennis club he's playing a challenger at, he realises he can't let you slip away again.

JJ MAYBANK

𖤓 ( bartender )

𓇼 the only thing that got jj through his shifts at the country club, was his favourite little kook sitting pretty waiting for the drinks he made. he's playing the long game, desperate to be the one who taints your prissy lifestyle. so when he hears you've been blown off from a kook party, he's waiting to swoop in.

RAFE CAMERON

𖤓 ( happiness is a butterfly )

𓇼 you'd heard the rumours about rafe, about what he did to peterkin and god knows how many others, even before the two of you started sleeping together. you never knew the truth, but seeing your situationship covered in blood when he picks you up answers every question you had.

ART DONALDSON

𖤓 ( ​hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have - but i have it )

𓇼 art had never had his faith tested, never in the way you were testing him. two weeks staying at his house, in your silk nightgown that he couldn't get out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. when you come knocking on his door when you can't sleep, even god couldn't stop him saying come in.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @funkycoloured @bluestrd @appleaali @donteventry-itdude @gublerstylesobrien1238 @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @chrattvibe @tacobacoyeet @lexiiscorect @glassmermaids @voidsuites @matchpointfaist @s0ftcobra @artaussi @simmerinsauce @coolgrl111 @hrrysglitter @cinnamoncunt @elsieblogs @tennisthatcher @deeninadream @magicalmiserybore @soulxinxthexsky @sohighitscool @4jjsbank (to be added)

METALHEAD ART HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. hair pulling. knife play. blood kink. spitting. face-fucking. choking. unprotected sex. marking. orgasm denial. praise. exhibitionnism. voyeurism. slight impact play. panties fetish. recording with consent. use of toys. body worship. power imbalance via aesthetics. aftercare. unhealthy devotion. art’s fetishization of softness. erotic horror energy.

pairing: metalhead art x soft!afab!girlfriend.

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

★ ── Underwear sniffing addict. Art steals your panties constantly. You’ll be looking for a pair and find it days later in his guitar case or under his pillow. He jerks off with them stuffed in his fist, moaning your name like a prayer. If you catch him? He doesn’t stop—he looks you dead in the eye and keeps going.

★ ── He worship the contrast. Art’s obsessed with how soft you are; your sweaters, your clean nails, the pastel socks you wear to bed. The way you look curled up on his filthy mattress surrounded by his torn band posters? He stares like it’s the most surreal painting he’s ever seen. “You’re like a fucking angel in a pit of Hell.” He mutters once, kissing your knee.

★ ── Toys with your orgasm like it’s a game. He’ll use vibrators on you and turn them off when you’re seconds from the edge. Laughs low, kissing your trembling lips. “So greedy. I said not yet.” Sometimes makes you earn it with your mouth.

★ ── Sleeps in old band tees, usually stolen or faded beyond recognition. Most of his shirts are threadbare. You can barely read the logos. Some have crusty paint splatters. Grease from his corpse paint that never left. Others are torn at the neckline or re-stitched with dental flows. He refuses to throw a single one away.

★ ── Orgasm denial king. He lives to edge you. Ties you up with his band tees, spreads you on his mattress, and teases you until you’re crying. “Not yet, baby. You haven’t begged right.” He’ll bring you right to the edge five, six, seven times before he lets you come—and when you do, it’s brutal and messy.

★ ── Brings you to shows, but protects you like you’re glass. You don’t even like the music, but you stand in the back, cheering for him anyway. Art makes sure no one bumps you, no one breathes wrong near you. Afterwards, he’ll lift you off your feet and whisper, “Did I look hot, baby?” Corpse paint smudging when he kiss your cheek.

★ ── He’s covered in scratchy, DIY, and occult-inspired ink. His tattoos look like they were done in basements and bathrooms; which most are. Stick-and-poke runes, sigils, knives, snakes, Nordic symbols. He doesn’t care if they are pretty. They are his.

★ ── Voyeurism & exhibitionism combo. Will absolutely finger you under the table at a bar while making eye contact with the bartender. Gets off on the idea of being watched—loves mirrors, windows, risky places. Once made you ride him with the blinds wide open, his hand around your throat and a smirk on his face: “Let ‘em see how good you take it.”

★ ── You trace his tattoos in bed. Sometimes after sex, you just lie there touching his arms, tracing every runes, line and scar. He pretends he doesn’t like it. But he always turns toward you, lets you study him like scripture. “They are not sacred, babe.” He’d tell you and you’d reply, “To me, they are.”

★ ── Doesn’t own a proper bed frame. His mattress is on the floor. There’s graffiti on the wall above it; band logos, sigils, lyrics scrawled in marker. A pocketknife is usually wedged under his pillow just “in case.”

★ ── Blood kink is deeply spiritual. Not just for fun—he reveres it. Whether it’s from knife play, rough scratches, or period sex, Art treats your blood like a sacred offering. He’ll lick it off your skin, smear it on his chest, even kiss you with a stained mouth. He calls you his altar.

★ ── Performer like a man possessed. Onstage, Art is unhinged; black boots stomping the monitors, mic cable wrapped around his throat, eyes rolled back as he screams like he’s trying to tear his vocal cords out. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t break. He just bleeds.

★ ── He thinks it’s cute you don’t know the bands. You mispronounce band names and ask if Gorgoroth is “that one anime-looking guy.” He pretends to groan, but secretly? He melts every time. “God, you’re such a little poser,” he says grinning. “I’m gonna fuck you until you do like blast beats.”

★ ── Public brat tamer. Loves when you tease him in public—but he always makes you pay for it later. You wear a short skirt to a gig? You’re bent over the bathroom sink after the set, panties pushed to the side, mouth full of his rings while he groans, “Mine. Every inch of you.”

★ ── Respected but not necessarily liked. Art doesn’t do fake politeness. He’s blunt, cold, and brutally honest. Most people in the scene respect his work; but a lot are scared of him. He’s not part of the post-show small talk, he’s already vanished by then. He doesn’t need to make friends with anyone.

★ ── Music collection from Hell. He has shelves of cassettes, burned CDs, and secondhand vinyls. He still burns mix CDs just because he likes the ritual. Thinks Spotify is “too sterile”. He alphabetizes his black metal by country of origin and era.

★ ── He loves it when you wear his clothes. Hi shirt hang off your shoulders. His jacket swallow you whole. The first time you wore his torn Mayhem hoodie, he couldn’t stop staring. “Jesus. I’m going to ruin you in that.” And he did. Right there, on the floor, with your thighs still half in denim and his hoodie halfway off your shoulder.

★ ── Doesn’t smile in pictures, ever. Art thinks posing is fake. His photos are all candid or grainy Polaroids where he looks half-possessed. The only exception: blurry backstage selfies with a cigarette between his lips, smudged corpse paint and blood on his knuckles.

★ ── He’ll fight someone in the pit. If he sees someone harassing a woman, throwing elbows too hard or acting like a fascist, he’ll get off stage and personally beat their ass in front of everyone. No hesitation. No apologies. Then, he’ll go back to playing like nothing happened.

★ ── Spits in your mouth, slaps your face, kisses fou after. His favorite combo: spit, slap, praise. He’ll degrade you, ruin you, then whisper “Good girl. You take everything I give you so well.” It’s filthy and tender—like you’re his favorite pet and his religion all at once.

★ ── He thinks your music taste his hilarious. Your playlists are full of soft pop, acoustic love songs, even maybe musical soundtracks. He pretends to mock you. “Is this Taylor Swift? I’m gonna die.” But the moment you fall asleep in his lap to it? He listens to the whole album in silence to understand you. Every. Damn. Track.

★ ── He’s not religious, expect for you. Art doesn’t believe in God, but when he’s buried between your legs, licking blood from a shallow cut he made just for pleasure, when you’re moaning his name, trusting him with everything… you might as well be divine. “You’re my altar,” he tells you once, kissing the spot where his blade left a thin red line. “And I’m never gonna stop worshiping you.”

★ ── Anarchist energy but quiet about it. He hates cops, capitalism, and rules; but he’s not the kind of yell in public. He’ll burn something down when no one’s looking. Writes anti-authoritarian lyrics and slips them into every riff.

★ ── Worships your thighs like a starving man. He’ll spend hours with his head between them—biting, kissing, sucking bruises into the skin. He’ll mutter filthy things while he licks you slow: “This pussy's the reason I can't think straight.” You’re not allowed to close your legs, even when you’re overstimulated.

★ ── His room is a graveyard of gear and grime. Cable snakes across the floor. Pedals and amp are scattered under piles of clothes. There’s always at least one crackled candle, a knife left on the nightstand, and an ashtray he definitely hasn’t emptied in weeks.

★ ── Other guys talk shit until they see him play. There’s always a dude who rolls his eyes at Art’s look; the hair, the rings, the age. That is, until he hears him play. Then he shuts the fuck up. Art never says “I told you so.” His riffs say it for him.

★ ── Keeps a secret photo folder. Filled with Polaroids, nudes, pics of your bruises, your moaning face, the mess he made on your stomach. Sometimes he takes videos of your orgasms just so he can jerk off to the sounds when he’s on tour. His favorite clip? You drooling with his fingers down your throat, eyes glazed over.

★ ── Corpse paint ritual. Art does his corpse paint in silence, alone, with black metal blasting and a cracked mirror lit by candlelight. The white goes on first, then jagged black lines like rot around his eyes and mouth; raw, smudged on purpose. It’s not for looks. It’s armor. Once, you caught him halfway done — chest bare, one eye darkened, and he looked at you and said, “Don’t get scared.” Then smeared a streak of white on your cheek like a blessing. You didn’t wash it off.

★ ── Loves gore art and erotic horror. Has stacks of obscure zines filled with disturbing illustrations. Loves the intersection of pain and beauty. Thinks blood is the sexiest color. Draws anatomical hearts and crucified angels in his sketches.

★ ── Face-Fucking connoisseur. Loves to hold your hair in a fist and gently, slowly fuck your throat until you’re sobbing and drooling. He praises you the whole time. “You’re my perfect little fuckdoll. Look at that mouth, so full.”

★ ── Aftercare god. For all his filth, he’s soft as Hell after. Bathes you. Brushes your hair. Plays some mellow doom metal and lights a candle. Kisses every bruise and cuts. Holds you until you fall asleep in his arms, whispering. “You’re my perfect girl. No one gets me like you do.”

scenemo! patrick fucking scenemo! reader at a ptv concert in the bathroom cause he’s just so hyped up😈

summary: what happens when patrick, your boyfriend, gets a bit too hyped up during a pierce the veil concert? too much sweat, too much heat and the both of you ends up in the grimy venue bathroom for a quickie? teasing turns into mirror sex. it's messy, mean, and drenched in eyeliner and spit.

pairing: scenemo!patrick x scenemo!afab girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.2k words. semi-public sex. unprotected piv. fingering. mirror sex. degrading and name calling. dumbification. dacryphilia. drooling. messy makeout. impact play (thighs and cunt slapping). humiliation. implied choking. dubiously clean setting.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover (to be added)

The air inside the venue is hot and choking. The bass is vibrating through the soles of your creepers, and the pit's sweat clings to your fishnets like glue. Bodies crash into each other like waves, but none of it feels real. Not when Patrick’s hand is pressed tight to your lower back, guiding you through the chaos like he owns you. (It feels like he does).

He’s wild tonight. His hair’s freshly dyed black with streaks of blood red, sticking to his damp forehead, and his eyeliner’s already smeared from sweat, cheeks red from how hard he was screaming lyrics during Bulls in the Bronx.

His shirt’s a shredded Pierce the Veil tank, barely hanging off one shoulder, and cropped, showing the bat tattoos across his pelvis and the sweat glistening on his chest. You’d only meant to find him near the barricade—but the second your eyes met, you knew he was not going to behave tonight.

He pulls you close in the shadows of the venue bathroom hallway, the door marked Staff Only swinging open without hesitation. “Get the fuck in,” he mutters, voice rough and low from yelling over the music. He’s not smiling, but his eyes—lined and blown wide—are drinking you in like you’re something worth worshipping and destroying.

The lock clicks behind you, and your back hits the sink.

“Couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore,” he growls, body already crowding yours. “You, pressed up against me in the pit—lookin’ like you wanted me to ruin you right there.”

Your fingers curl into the faded fabric of his shirt, and he kisses you like he’s mad—like this has been building all night. It’s messy. Sloppy. Tongues clashing, teeth clacking, his lip ring dragging across yours. You can taste energy drink and smoke and Patrick, sharp and hot and fucking addictive.

His hand slides up under your skirt—black mesh layered over red plaid—and he groans when he feels the heat of you. “Already wet?” he mocks, licking a stripe up your neck, biting down just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “You such a little concert slut, baby. Got off just from me singin’ next to you?”

You whimper, but that only makes him grin. “Aw. Don’t go dumb on me yet.”

Patrick spins you around to face the mirror. His body’s heat stays pressed to your back, and his hand snakes around to cup you between the thighs. You meet his eyes in the cracked glass—his eyeliner running, his pupils wide, and his smile mean.

“You see that?” he murmurs into your ear. “That’s what I do to you. Look how fuckin’ ruined you already are, and I haven’t done anything yet.”

His fingers tug your panties to the side—black lace soaked through—and then he’s sliding one finger in without any type of warning, slow and deep, until your hips jerk forward from the sudden pressure.

“Shit—Patrick…”

“Nuh uh. No talking. Just watch.” He curls the finger, and your mouth drops open as your thighs shake from being on your feet during this. “There we go. You’re already fallin’ apart. I should’ve done this hours ago.” As if he thought about doing this in the pit, while everyone was screaming and having fun.

You try to grind back against his hand, chasing more friction, but he pulls back with a tut.

“Desperate little girl. What, you think I’m gonna let you get off that easy?” You feel yourself clenching at his words, like degradation makes you all wet and he knows it.

He slide two fingers this time—slipping in slick and smooth—and his palm grinds against your clit as he starts pumping, slow and controlled. Every wet sound is amplified in the tiled room, and you can’t even pretend not to be enjoying it. Drool drips from your lip, and Patrick lets out a breathless laugh.

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ mess,” he whispers, mouthing at your neck. “Look at yourself. Whimperin’ in the mirror like a dumb little toy. You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?”

You nod—pathetic and eager—and your mascara’s already smudging from the heat and the tears gathering in your lashes. A whimper escape past your lips and Patrick smirks, like he knows what that means. Like he knows how much you fucking love this.

“I knew it,” he growls. “You love being used, don’t you? Love gettin’ fucked up against a goddamn sink while a thousand people are outside.”

He curls his fingers again, hitting that spongy spot with each thrusts of his fingers, and your legs nearly give out at the feeling. He catches you by the hips, holding you up easily, his hard cock grinding against your ass through his skinny jeans.

Then he pulls away. You whine at the loss, but he’s already undoing his belt—quick, clumsy, desperate—and shoving his jeans just far enough down to free himself. His cock is hard and you wonder how long it had been before he had enough and dragged you here. It’s leaking pre-cum, red at the tip and so appetizing.

He strokes once, twice, eyes fixed on your reflection. It’s depraved, disgusting.

“You want it raw, don’t you?” he pants. “Want to feel me fill you up with everything I have, uh?”

A strangled noise get pass your lips and you nod your head at him—his eyes wide as he watches you in the reflection of the mirror. “Please, Patrick, I need you.”

That gets him. His jaw clenches, and he slams into you with a filthy growl, burying himself to the hilt in one long, slick thrust. You cry out, head snapping forward against the mirror, but he grabs your chin and forces you to look. To see how filthy you are for being fucked here; in this grimy bathroom, with so many people outside.

“No hiding,” he spits. “Watch yourself while I fuck you like the filthy girl you are.”

He sets a rhythm—fast and punishing, hips slapping against your ass with every stroke—and the sound echoes around the tiny bathroom like music. His nails dig into your thighs, and he starts slapping them, rough and rhythmic, until your moans turn to sobs.

“That’s it. Cry for me, baby.”

The mirror fogs with your breath, with sweat, with heat. Your mascara runs in twin tracks down your cheeks, tears falling freely now, and he loves it. You can feel how hard he gets just from seeing you break, his cock twitching inside you, brushing against your walls with every thrusts of his hips.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he coos, voice cruel and amused. “Just stuffed full of cock and droolin’. You’re pathetic.” His voice echo in your ears, and you feel humiliated but God, how good it feels.

You babble something incoherent, and that makes him laugh again—low and dark.

“God, I love you like this.”

His hand sneaks back between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight circles before his hand slaps onto your bud of nerves. Not once, not twice but thrice—slaps harsh enough to make you whine and moan. You arch into him, legs shaking, but he holds you in place with a hand on the back of your neck. The other keeps rubbing, fast and merciless.

“Gonna cum?” he taunts. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

You nod, sobbing, thighs quivering.

“Then cum. Be good for me.”

Your orgasm hits hard as soon as the words escape his mouth—white hot and dizzying—and you scream against the mirror, hips jerking back into his as he rides you through it. His fingers don’t stop. Neither does his cock. He keeps thrusting, keeps mocking you, keeps slapping your pussy and thighs until you’re cumming again—too fast, too much, too overstimulated.

You’re gasping, crying, drooling down your chin as he fucks you straight through it, your head hitting the mirror gently with each movement.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, voice cracking now. “So fuckin’ deep you’ll feel me for days. You want that? Want me to cum in you, no condom, like a filthy little whore?” Once again, the humiliation makes you clench around his cock and you hear a hiss coming from his mouth. You squeeze him so good.

“Yes—please—Patrick—”

He slams in deep, one final thrust, and groans against your shoulder as he cums, cock twitching inside you, hips jerking in uneven spurts. You can feel his semen filling you, mixing with your own release, close to dripping down your thighs.

For a moment, all you can hear is your breath and the distant throb of music outside. The sink is cold against your lower stomach. Your thighs are trembling, almost giving up under your weight. Patrick is still buried inside you, panting against your neck, arms tight around your waist.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

You hum, too dazed to speak.

He pulls out gently, letting you sag against the sink, and catches a glimpse of the mirror—your tear-streaked face, your ruined makeup, your dazed little smile. He leans forward and kisses your shoulder, still breathless. One of his hands lifts up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, before he press a kiss to your jaw.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly, and he chuckles, kissing your cheek this time.

“Cool. Wanna get back to the concert? They are playing King For A Day now. It’s your favorite song.”

watching challengers in social studies.. I think we know the more important history.

“mixed girl cannon events this!” “mixed girl cannon events that!”

except it’s feeling ghetto for doing the slightest things. wearing lashes for the first time is not for the weak. (I am the weak.)