Not A Face Reveal But Kinda How I Look On The Inside??

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

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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!

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.”

well, yes!

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.”

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.”

more ftm!art x reader if you can this awakened something inside of me

summary: it’s a rainy night, and all you want to do is take your time to worship your boyfriend, Art. in the safety of your shared intimacy, you help him fully go—trembling, messy and beautiful.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1k words. submissive art. praising. dirty-talk. messy makeout. fingering (art receiving).

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

Art’s hoodie is too big on you, but you don’t mind. You’re curled up in his lap on your bed, legs tangled, the TV flickering across his face — not that you’re watching it. His hands are warm under your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles. You shift to face him, brushing your nose along his jaw. He’s already flushed.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice low and raspy, with that slight edge he gets when he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, eyes soft. “You’re hot like this. Blushing. Trying not to lose it.”

Art huffs out a breath — half a scoff, half a laugh — and looks down, but you catch his face in your hands. You kiss him slow. Open-mouthed. Your lips move like a question: Can I? And the way he breathes out against you says yes, yes, please.

The kiss deepens fast — messy, wet, tongues tangling with a kind of quiet hunger. You feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, feel his hand tightening on your hip. His hips twitch up before he catches himself. “You’re shaking,” you murmur against his lips.

“I’m not—” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale as your hand sneaks under his hoodie, resting just beneath his scars; thumb brushing against his skin.. Art shivered at the touch.

“You are. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then down to his neck, sucking softly at his pulse. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Art swallows hard. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate. “Let me take care of you tonight. You always take care of me.”

His breath hitches. That gets him. You know it does. You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hand sliding down to cup him between his legs — gentle, reassuring pressure. He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching again. “There you go,” you coo. “Already so sensitive for me.”

His hoodie comes off easy. Yours follows. You take your time, making out like you’ve got nowhere else to be. Like you’re addicted to the taste of his tongue and the way he gasps when you tug his lip between your teeth.

When you slide your hand into his boxers, he tenses for a second — but you’re slow, patient. You touch him how he’s taught you he likes. Not rough. Just enough pressure to drive him a little crazy.

The moment your fingers touch him, he flinches — not from discomfort, just sensitivity. He’s already so wet. Your hand is instantly slick, and you groan softly into his mouth.

“Jesus, baby,” you whisper against his lips, dragging your middle finger through his folds, slow and steady. “You’re soaked for me.”

He whimpers, biting his lip. “I can’t help it—”

“I want you like this.” You kiss down the side of his neck. “It’s so fucking hot, Art. You feel so good already.” Your fingers part him gently, and your thumb brushes against his clit — just barely — enough to make his whole body jerk beneath you. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut.

“There it is,” you murmur, kissing the flushed skin of his chest. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”

Your fingers stroke over him again, this time more deliberately — back and forth, gathering slick, teasing his clit in slow circles. He arches up into your hand without even meaning to, and the sound he makes is barely human — a needy, breathless whine.

“Such pretty noises,” you breathe. “Let me hear more, baby.”

When you press a finger inside, he lets out a broken moan. He’s warm, tight, and fluttering around you — his thighs tense on either side of your hips. You keep your movements slow and deep, curling your finger upward until his back arches and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Oh—fuck—right there, right—”

“I’ve got you.” You kiss his ribs, his stomach. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

You add a second finger slowly, watching his face the whole time. He gasps again, his nails digging into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly into your palm. You curl your fingers just right, dragging them in and out at a steady rhythm, each stroke making him clench and shake.

Your thumb returns to his clit — this time with more pressure, circling in time with your thrusts. Art cries out, trying to muffle himself against your shoulder, but you pull back.

“No hiding,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He moans again, louder this time — hips bucking, thighs trembling. His eyes are glassy, lips wet, sweat beading at his temples. You speed up your pace just slightly, fingers sliding deeper, thumb tighter on his clit, and his whole body starts to stutter.

“That’s it. Just like that,” you whisper hot against his cheek. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“I—fuck—yes, yes, I’m—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”

His orgasm crashes through him like a wave — thighs shaking, breath catching, hips grinding into your hand as he comes with a loud, raw moan. You don’t stop until he’s whimpering, twitching, so sensitive he’s pushing at your hand even as he rocks through the aftershocks.

You ease your fingers out gently, cupping him one last time as he pants beneath you, eyes glazed and lips parted. You kiss him slow and deep, one hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth — still messy and hungry, but softer now. “That was so good,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re so good for me.” Art blinks up at you, dazed and red-faced, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “You’re so fucking good for me.”

And you kiss him again until the room fades around you and all that’s left is the warmth between you, the slow drag of breath, the softness of afterglow.

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!