This Song Is So Carmy. Every Single Lyric Pertains To Every Single Aspect Of His Life. Grieving Mikey,

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FIRST IMPRESSIONS, you’re just trying to do laundry at 4 a.m. when you end up dumping someone’s forgotten chef’s whites out of the machine—turns out, they belong to an exhausted, snappy guy named carmy who shows up mid-dump and freaks out. despite the tension and his awkward attempt at damage control, there’s something weirdly magnetic in the way your annoyance crashes into his unraveling calm. it doesn’t feel like a beginning, but somehow, it is.

TAGS, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery

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THREE’S A CROWD, art and tashi invite you to a hotel dinner that’s not really about dinner. the table’s set, lights dimmed, but their eyes stay on you. tashi’s sharp, in control; art’s quieter, unraveling. conversation slips from polite to personal fast—resentments, desires, everything unspoken laid bare. the meal stays cold. their fixation on you doesn’t. lines blur. therapist, obsession, maybe something worse. by the end, they’re not asking for help—they’re asking what you want.

need mike faist in some sort of period piece drama/romance like i need water and oxygen. i literally had a dream about him candlelit in a poet blouse confessing his undying love for me last night. woke up and cried a little 💔

Your theme is fye

thank you, lovely!!!! i finally figured how to get colored text yay

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i loved your 2000s tashi is it possible you could to an 80s tashi?

of course i can!!!

HUNGRY EYES

you’re her secretary. she never raises her voice. she doesn’t need to. all it takes is a look and your knees lock. she ruins you with silence and eye contact, and then she lets you clean yourself up in the reflection of her office window.

pairing: corporate yuppie!tashi x secretary!fem!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content (fingering, powerplay, orgasm control, breast play), dom!tashi, sub!fem!reader, emotionally distant dynamics, corporate eroticism, voyeurism (window), 1980s glamour/power aesthetic, intense gaze kink, objectification, degradation (implied), lack of aftercare, unbalanced power dynamic, slow burn smut pacing, no aftercare

The Wall Street Journal sits folded on her glass-topped desk, announcing Black Monday's aftermath in stark black type, the October 1987 market collapse still sending aftershocks through every financial district corridor. Your shoulder pads feel particularly heavy today beneath your silk blouse – Dynasty-inspired armor for the corporate battlefield where women like you are still fighting for footholds. The clock on the wall reads 7:43 PM, its quiet ticking a counterpoint to the Diana Ross cassette playing softly from Tashi’s private office where she’s been holed up since the markets closed.

You’re not supposed to be here this late, but the stack of reports she demanded for tomorrow’s board meeting required overtime, and your predecessor’s abrupt firing is warning enough about the consequences of disappointing Tashi Duncan.

"Come in here," her voice slices through your thoughts, not shouting but somehow filling every molecule of air between her office and your desk. You gather your notepad and pen, smooth your pencil skirt, and steady yourself with a deep breath before pushing open the heavy mahogany door. Tashi sits behind her expansive desk, backlit by the Manhattan skyline, her silhouette sharp against the city lights that sparkle like the diamonds at her ears. Her blazer has been discarded over a nearby chair, leaving her in a dark silk blouse with a dramatic cowl neck, her hair out of her usual, severe ponytail and brushing the tops of her shoulders.

"Close the door," she says without looking up from the financial statement she's annotating with a Mont Blanc pen, its gold nib catching the light as forcefully as her presence catches your attention. The room smells of Opium perfume and the lingering notes of expensive scotch, creating an atmosphere as intoxicating as it is intimidating. Your heels sink into the plush carpet as you approach her desk, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your pulse quicken inexplicably.

"I've been watching you," Tashi finally looks up, her eyes holding yours with an intensity that makes you forget the room's cool air conditioning. "Three weeks as my assistant, and you're still here at eight o'clock on a Friday night – either you're desperate for approval or terrible at managing your workload." She places her pen down with deliberate precision, the way she does everything – measured, controlled, purposeful. "Which is it?"

"I… I wanted to make sure the Davidson portfolio analysis was complete before Monday's presentation," you respond, proud that your voice betrays none of the nervous energy coursing through your veins. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile but something adjacent to approval, and something hot unfurls in your stomach. "The market volatility means their holdings need significant restructuring if we want to maintain their confidence."

"Sit," she gestures to the chair across from her desk, but when you move toward it, she shakes her head. "No, here," she pats the edge of her desk, the glass surface gleaming under the banker's lamp that casts her in amber light. You hesitate only for a moment before perching on the edge of her desk, your skirt riding up slightly above your knees as you cross your legs, the sheer fabric of your stockings catching against the smooth surface.

Tashi leans back in her chair, assessing you with the same calculated precision she applies to market trends and acquisition targets. "Do you know why I hired you over the Harvard MBA with three years' experience at Goldman?" Her voice drops lower, each word deliberate as she reaches for her crystal tumbler, ice clinking softly against the sides. The question hangs between you, rhetorical yet demanding an answer.

"Because I won't challenge you the way he would have," you answer honestly, watching her sip her scotch, leaving a perfect impression of her red lipstick on the rim. Something dark flashes in her eyes – not anger but appreciation for your candor, for understanding the unspoken rules of her domain. "Men like him want your job; I just want to learn from you."

"Mmmm," she hums, setting down her glass and leaning forward, the movement causing her gold bangles to slide down her wrist with a musical chime. "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it?" Her voice carries a note of amusement as she reaches out, her fingers stopping just short of your knee. "But I saw something else in that interview – something hungry behind those careful answers and that Saint Laurent suit you clearly couldn't afford but bought anyway."

Heat rises to your cheeks as her fingers finally make contact with your knee, her touch light but deliberate as she traces a small circle on your skin just above your stocking. "I saw someone who wants more than she admits, who calculates every move, who watches and waits and plans." Her eyes lock with yours, challenging, assessing, daring you to deny it. "Someone who reminds me of myself ten years ago."

You resist the urge to shift under her touch, under her gaze that seems to see right through the careful persona you've constructed. "There are worse people to be compared to," you reply, your pulse hammering against your throat as her hand slides an inch higher, her touch feather-light yet somehow burning through the thin fabric of your skirt. The faint sounds of New York traffic float up from thirty stories below, a distant soundtrack to this unexpected scene unfolding in the rarified air of her corner office.

"Stand up," Tashi commands suddenly, her hand retreating as she rises from her chair in one fluid motion. "Turn around." You comply without hesitation, something about her tone bypassing your usual tendency to question, to analyze. The reflection of you both appears in the window – you facing the glass, Tashi behind you, the city lights creating a glittering backdrop to this power play.

She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her body though she doesn't touch you. "I don't mix business with pleasure," she says, her breath warm against your ear, the contradiction between her words and actions hanging between you. Her hands come to rest lightly on your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently against the tension you carry there. "But I do believe in rewarding exceptional potential when I see it."

"Is that what this is?" you ask, watching her reflection in the window, her expression unreadable as her hands slide slowly down your arms. The city sprawls below, millions of lives in motion while time seems suspended in this office, the usual boundaries of professional conduct dissolving with each second that passes. "A reward?"

Tashi's laugh is low and rich, vibrating through the small space between your bodies. "No, this is a test," she murmurs, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin below your ear as her hands find your waist, fingers spreading possessively over your silk blouse. "Everything with me is a test."

"And if I fail?" The words come out breathier than intended as her hands slide higher, stopping just below your breasts, her touch both a question and a demand. You can see both of your reflections clearly now – your eyes wide, lips slightly parted; her expression controlled but intent, watching your reactions with scientific precision.

"You won't," she states with absolute certainty, one hand moving to your throat, not squeezing but resting there with gentle pressure as her other hand finally cups your breast through your blouse. "Because you want this – want me – to validate that you belong here, in this world I've conquered." Her thumb brushes over your nipple, which immediately hardens at her touch, betraying your body's response to her calculated advances.

"Nnnnngh," the sound escapes your lips before you can stop it, a soft moan that seems to please her, judging by the slight curve of her lips in the reflection. Her grip on your throat tightens infinitesimally as she presses herself against your back, her lips tracing the curve of your neck while her fingers work the buttons of your blouse with practiced ease.

"Tell me to stop," Tashi challenges, her voice steady even as her actions grow bolder, your blouse now hanging open to reveal your lace bra, another extravagance you couldn't really afford but deemed necessary for your new position. "Tell me this isn't what you imagined when you stayed late tonight, knowing I'd be here alone."

The accusation stings because it carries a grain of truth – not that you planned this specifically, but that some part of you has been drawn to her power, her presence, since the first interview. "I didn't—" you begin, but she cuts you off by turning you around to face her, her hand cupping your chin firmly.

"Don't lie to me," she says, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Not when we're like this." The intensity in her eyes makes you forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything but nod in acknowledgment. "Good girl," she murmurs, the praise sending an unexpected thrill through you as she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours.

When she finally kisses you, it's not gentle or tentative – it's consuming, authoritative, her tongue sliding against yours as her hands push your blouse from your shoulders. "Mmmm—!" you moan into her mouth as her fingers trace the edge of your bra before skillfully unhooking it, letting it fall to the floor alongside your blouse. The cool air of the office makes your nipples harden further, or perhaps it's the way Tashi's eyes darken as she takes in your exposed chest.

"Put your hands on the glass," she instructs, moving you back toward the window that spans the entire wall of her office. "Let the city see what I see." You comply without thinking, the glass cold against your palms as she steps back to admire you, half-naked and trembling slightly – from anticipation, from the chill, from the sheer audacity of what's happening.

Tashi circles you slowly, the click of her Manolos against the hardwood floor beyond the carpet a rhythmic reminder of her control of this situation. "Do you know how many assistants I've had in the last five years?" she asks conversationally, as though you're not standing topless in her office with your hands pressed against the window. "Seven." She stops behind you again, her fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness. "Not one of them had what it takes to last in this business."

"What… what makes you think I'm different?" you ask, trying to maintain some semblance of the professional confidence that secured you this position, even as her hands slide around to cup your breasts from behind, her thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness. Your head falls back against her shoulder as pleasure ripples through you, your reflection in the glass showing a version of yourself you barely recognize – wanton, needy, completely at her mercy.

"Because you're still talking back," Tashi chuckles, the sound rich with appreciation as one hand abandons your breast to slide down your stomach and under the waistband of your skirt. "Even now." Her fingers find the damp heat between your legs, separated from her touch only by the thin fabric of your underwear, and you gasp at the contact, your hips instinctively pressing forward seeking more pressure.

"Mmmmnngh," you groan as she traces circles over your most sensitive spot, her other hand still teasing your nipple while her teeth graze your earlobe. The juxtaposition of the cool glass under your palms and the heat of her body behind you is dizzying, creating a sensory overload that makes it impossible to think beyond the pleasure building with each deliberate stroke of her fingers.

"Tell me what you want," Tashi demands, her voice husky but still commanding as she presses herself against you, the silk of her blouse soft against your bare back. "I want to hear you say it." Her fingers pause their movement, hovering just where you need them most, the frustration making you whimper.

"I want you," you manage, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears, breathless and needy. "Please, Tashi, I want you to touch me." The use of her first name feels like crossing another boundary, but she rewards you by slipping her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and ready for her.

"Fuck, yes," you moan as she slides one finger inside you, her thumb continuing its torturous circles. The reflection in the window shows her watching your face intently, cataloging every reaction, learning what makes you gasp and shudder. "More, please… Aaahnn—!”

"So polite," she murmurs against your neck, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that makes your knees buckle slightly. "Even when you're begging." Her free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as she establishes a rhythm that has you panting, forehead now pressed against the cool glass as pleasure builds with each thrust of her fingers.

The telephone on her desk rings suddenly, the harsh sound jarring in the quiet office, but Tashi doesn't even flinch. "Let it ring," she says, her pace unfaltering as her fingers drive you closer to the edge. "Nothing is more important than this moment right now." The possessiveness in her voice sends another wave of arousal through you, the idea that you've captured the full attention of a woman who juggles billion-dollar deals and commands boardrooms full of men twice her age.

"I'm close," you warn, your hips moving in counterpoint to her thrusts now, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. "Tashi, I'm going to—nnnnngh!" Your words dissolve into a moan as she curls her fingers again, pressing against a spot inside you that sends lightning through your veins.

"Come for me," she commands against your ear, her voice the same one she uses to close deals and crush competitors, and somehow that's what tips you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you in waves, your inner walls clenching around her fingers as she continues to stroke you through it, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and gasping for breath.

When you finally come back to yourself, Tashi is slowly withdrawing her hand, turning you to face her with an expression of satisfaction that borders on smugness. "That's what I wanted to see," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. "You, completely undone."

You're still trying to catch your breath, aware of how you must look – half-naked, flushed, lips swollen from her kisses – when she steps back and straightens her blouse. "Get dressed," she says, her professional demeanor sliding back into place as she moves to her desk and picks up her Mont Blanc pen again. "The Davidson portfolio needs your attention, and I expect those reports on my desk by 8 AM, sharp."

The abrupt return to business leaves you momentarily stunned as you gather your discarded clothing, the lace of your bra scratchy against your sensitized skin as you redress under her occasional glances. "Yes, Ms. Duncan," you finally respond, falling back on formality to regain some equilibrium in this drastically altered dynamic.

Tashi looks up from her work, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And schedule yourself for a late dinner with me tomorrow night," she adds, her tone making it clear this is not a request. "We have much to discuss about your... professional development." The double meaning hangs in the air between you, a promise and a threat wrapped in one perfectly delivered line.

As you leave her office on slightly unsteady legs, the weight of what just happened settles over you along with the realization that nothing about this job will be what you expected. The rules have changed, the stakes have risen, and somehow, standing in the empty reception area with the taste of Tashi Duncan still on your lips, you've never felt more alive in this cutthroat world of high finance and higher ambitions.

The digital clock on your desk blinks 8:17 PM in green fluorescent numbers, a reminder that time continues to march forward even when it seems to stand still. You gather your things, knowing sleep will elude you tonight as you work on the Davidson portfolio and replay every moment of what just transpired in that corner office thirty stories above Madison Avenue. One thing is certain as you press the elevator button and watch the numbers descend – your 1987 has just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more thrilling.

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CIGARETTES & CONTEMPT, anthony and you stealing away from croquet mallets and polite conversation, finding each other in the forgotten corners of the garden where cigarette smoke mingles with unspoken tension, both of you refusing to admit that these moments of mutual inconvenience have become the only ones that matter.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

theme is looking so cutesy!! the pfp especially 🙂‍↕️

thanks so much 🥹 i’m in a reconstructive period right now so excuse me if this theme is gone in like 2 days lol 😭😭 just playing around with things!!!

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

WHO… obviously grew up sheltered by religion. he was basically raised in a pew and he’s pretty sure his fingers have molded to fit the shape of his bibles spine.

WHO… everyone comes to with their problems. not only because he’s the preacher of the only church in town, but, also because he’s such a warm and inviting soul.

WHO… wouldn’t think twice before spending his last five dollars on someone who needed it, no matter how big or small the reason. money doesn’t matter to the lord, why should it matter to him?

WHO… caught wind of the new family in town and, as the town preacher it was his job to make himself a familiar figure to his neighbors.

WHO… first introduced himself to you at your doorstep, a batch of warm cookies in hand and an even warmer smile on his face.

WHO… invited you to church on sunday, made a promise that everyone was friendly and would accept you and your son with open arms.

WHO… gets to know you a little better after service when the two of you are cleaning up the potluck. he learns everything from what you do for work, where you’re originally from, to your son’s father being a deadbeat.

WHO… looks for you during sunday service among the pews. every time he spots you, glowing from the sunlight, your son sitting well behaved on your lap. it’s almost like that first breath he took after his baptism all over again.

WHO… finds himself spending more time with you away from church. he’ll come to your house to help fix an appliance, or maybe just to hang out.

WHO… definitely catches feelings, you’re just so sweet and, arts been alone for a long time. he’s always so focused on spreading the good word that he never thinks about what he wants.

WHO… comes to the conclusion that what he wants is you. he couldn’t care less that you have a son out of wedlock, or that you aren’t as religious as him or others in town.

WHO… asks you on a date after service, and is only about two seconds away from yelling out a hallelujah and jumping for joy when you inevitably say yes.

wait… what do you mean 200 followers… (⊙_⊙;)

i literally just hit 100 on may 8th… it’s may 15th… you guys are unwell (affectionate) and i love you so much for it. i truly don’t have the words to explain how much this little blog has meant to me lately. i’ve been going through kind of a rough patch irl and being able to come home, open my phone, and just giggle, kick my feet, and scream about challengers and other nonsense with you all has been the brightest part of my days.

you’re all so funny and sweet and completely unhinged in the most delightful ways and i feel so lucky to have found this weird little corner of the internet where we can be so unserious together. (｡•́‿•̀｡)♡

i don’t have anything special planned for 200 because. well. i literally just did for 100 like a week ago LMAO but!! my sfw/nsfw alphabet challenge is still running until the end of may so if you haven’t sent in a letter yet… consider this your official invitation (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

thank you, seriously, from the bottom of my sleep-deprived, fic-addled heart. you’ve made such a weird, hard time in my life feel a little softer. ily. mwah.