POP BOY™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

“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.)

my heart was beating to the bass drum of Add Up My Love by Clairo earlier.. does this mean something??

supppperr duper late to this but thank you for the tag, coral! ily! 💝

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac ||

npt! 💌 : @ellecdc @ellaynaonsaturn @aetherraeys @diyasgarden

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.

I NEED THIS SONG BRANDED ON MY FOREHEAD GRRRRRR

I’M CRYING AAHHH

having so many fic ideas and being a mid writer is not for the weak 🙏

eaaasy white chocolate 🙂‍↕️😌

(i’m not racist I swear 😓)

Stanford Art you will always be famous to me

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!

to whoever just saw me analyzing the hotel scene I sincerely apologize. (not really) ☺️