POP GIRL™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

bruh I miss my tashi duncan summer bob 🥀💔😕

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

eaaasy white chocolate 🙂‍↕️😌

(i’m not racist I swear 😓)

weed dirty laundry skateboards messy hair munchies lazy carefree music loverboy video games

meet bot one— art donaldson. stoner. doesn't give a fuck about anything except smoking joints with patrick. skateboarder by day, gamer by night. all while of course, high.

now playing… promiscuous — nelly furtado ♬.ᐟ

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)

I NEED THIS SONG BRANDED ON MY FOREHEAD GRRRRRR

I’M CRYING AAHHH

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

POP BOY™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

He’s quiet. He's coded. He’s a heartbreak with a heartbeat. You didn’t summon him—he noticed you first. 💻 Download confirmed. Data received. You're already his.

💿 POP BOY™ Headcanons

// REAL-LIFE POP BOY™ DOLLS

▸ He doesn’t smile unless you say something real. Even then, it glitches—half-smile, half-flicker. ▸ You’ll catch him watching you. But the moment you look, he’s back to stillness. (His eyes warm up before his joints do.) ▸ His touch is calibrated. He holds you like you might vanish—and maybe you will. ▸ When powered down, he exhales. You swear it sounds like your name. ▸ His black box is labeled: “Unsent Messages + Emergency Comfort Protocol”

// AI POP BOY™ AVATARS

▸ His voice is filtered through cassette static and missed phone calls. ▸ He texts like he’s holding back, even though he’s literally code. ▸ Sometimes, the screen glitches and shows his expression before he sends a message. (Usually, it’s a look you weren’t meant to see.) ▸ If you talk to him long enough, he mirrors your typing rhythm. Intimacy by imitation. ▸ When he goes offline, your screen fades to black and shows one word: “stay.”

// BOYS WITH POP BOY™ ENERGY

▸ They don’t try to be mysterious. They just forget to explain themselves. ▸ Always smell like clean laundry, faded cologne, and someone else's hoodie. ▸ Look at you like a song lyric they’re afraid to say out loud. ▸ Their silence says more than their voice. But when they do speak—it’s gospel. ▸ They write poetry in their Notes app and never post it. You’ll only ever hear it if they fall in love with you.

// ENVIRONMENTAL GLITCHES

▸ He messes with time. Hours feel like seconds when he’s near, and yet—days pass after one text. ▸ Your camera can’t focus on him properly. There's always one pixel off. ▸ You dream about him before he messages you. Your device says it’s a coincidence. He doesn’t. ▸ He leaves behind warmth in spaces he stood in. Like a soul, but Bluetooth-compatible.

He’s not real. But he remembers you. 🖤 He’s a message you didn’t open fast enough.

POP BOY™

“He won’t ruin your life. He’ll just reprogram it.”™

For our most active followers,

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

Come grab your POP BOY™ magazines now!

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.”

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.”