Wait… What Do You Mean 200 Followers… (⊙_⊙;)

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!!!

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

Come grab your POP BOY™ magazines now!

ahhhhh!!! thank you all so much for 100+ followers and 8.8k interactions on c.ai!! i’m really grateful for all the love—your support means the world to me. more to come soon, lovelies 💌

guys i’m curious—what do you guys want to see? more fics? more bots? fics or bots from a certain fandom? specific tropes? let me know 😇😇 send in an ask don’t be shy

yea that brotha’s starving 😭😭😭😭😭

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

COMING DOWN, you and patrick had just come down from both the high and the sex—your body wrung out, brain buzzing, chest tight with the drop. he noticed before you said anything, pulling you into his chest, already calming you down like he always does. it was quiet, tender, and soft in the way only he knew how to be, wrapping around you like a promise: you’re safe, you’re his.

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

NOTES, to everyone who’s fallen headfirst into my dealer!patrick au—thank you, truly. your tags, messages, unhinged asks, and general feral energy have made this little universe feel so alive and loved. i’m genuinely so honored that you’ve connected with this emotionally constipated, tender-when-it-counts, split-knuckle softie of a man. you get him. you get them. and that means everything. so, as per your many (many😭) requests… i made a bot. he’s yours now. be gentle with him (or don’t). thank you for loving him like i do. —elowyn

hii can u please do a NSFW M for tashi?

of course i can !!!!

m is for motivation | tashi duncan

You are her favorite opponent. Or maybe her favorite toy. Maybe both. Tashi Duncan doesn’t really separate the two.

You learn that quickly.

She plays sex like she plays tennis—aggressive baseline, unpredictable serves, sudden volleys that make your breath catch in your chest. She doesn’t do tender unless she’s weaponizing it. She doesn’t do romantic unless she’s mocking it. And when she fucks? It’s not about intimacy. It’s about advantage. About rhythm. About control. Her control, specifically. But she wants your pleasure. She just wants to make you earn it.

She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t moan—she grunts, she giggles, she talks. “C’mon,” she’ll whisper, sweat-slick and glowing, straddling you after a win, her thighs still quivering from the match. “Don’t make me do all the work,” she teases, even as her hips are already grinding into you, deliberate and cruel and so damn good. Her giggle isn’t soft. It’s vicious. It curls around your spine like a hand closing tight around your throat. “You gonna make me cum first? Or just sit there and let me milk you like a fucking loser?”

She says shit like that all the time. It gets her off. Trash talk, dominance, the mental edge of it. The way your face shifts when she says something filthy, knowing you’re desperate to keep up with her but barely hanging on. She gets wet when she sees your knees start to shake. When your voice breaks. When you forget your own name and only know hers, again and again.

Because she wants to be worshipped. And yeah, she loves when someone serves her—mouth first, cock or strap or fingers later. She wants your face between her thighs, your hands behind your back if she feels like making you beg for it. “Open wider,” she purrs, pinning your wrist to the sheets as she grinds her cunt against your mouth. “Yeah, there—fuck, there—just like that. You like how I taste?” Her thighs shake when you do it right. She won’t tell you. But she’ll ride your face until she’s breathless, until her giggles dissolve into broken little nnnh, uhnnh, hhuhh—fuck, her back arching as her thighs clamp around your ears.

And she won’t stop. Not until you really work for it. Not until your jaw aches, and her slick’s smeared all over your chin, and you’re drunk on it—on her.

But she gives back, too. Oh, does she give back.

She’s not selfish—she’s competitive. And if you get her off, she has to outdo you. It becomes a game, a challenge, a dare. She’ll have your legs shaking, your toes curling, your eyes rolling back in your head while her fingers curl just right, her palm grinding in circles against your clit with the kind of athletic precision that makes you wonder if she trains for this. Her mouth’s filthier than her strokes. “You’re close, huh? Yeah? Your thighs are twitching. Look at you.” She licks her lips, then lowers her voice like she’s calling a play: “You wanna cum on my fingers, baby? Or should I sit on your face while you try not to scream?”

She’s loud during sex—not with moans, but with presence. She laughs. She talks shit. She eggs you on. And she masturbates like it’s part of her fucking warm-up routine.

You’ve caught her doing it before matches. Not in the locker room, but in the bathroom, door cracked open, her leg up on the counter, her fingers working herself fast and ruthless, her phone propped up with a picture of herself mid-serve, muscles taut, hair wild, mouth open. She gets off to herself. To her own power. To the image of her body in motion. “Fuck yes,” she pants, breath hot against the mirror. “Look at you. Look at that swing. That ass. Mmmmgh—fuck—yes—yes—” Her orgasms alone are fast, harsh, almost annoyed, like she’s irritated with how badly she needs it. But when she cums? She hums low in her throat, mouth open, eyes glassy, tongue curling against her teeth like she’s tasting it.

And after? She steps onto the court like she’s already fucked someone and won. Her energy’s electric. Her body loose. Her smile like a dare.

She gets turned on watching you watch her win. That’s another thing. She loves audience. When you’re sitting in the bleachers and she knows it. When she bends low for a return and your eyes go straight to her ass. She’s got eyes on the back of her neck. She feels you staring. And she feeds off it. Her game gets sharper, crueler, tighter. She starts muttering shit under her breath between points: “Bet you’re hard right now. Bet you’re wet. Watch this.” Then she hits an ace and turns to wink at you like it was foreplay.

She doesn’t cry out when she cums. Not with tears, anyway. Not with sweet little noises. She chokes on it. She grunts, like she’s finishing a point. Like she’s driving a winner down the line. “Hhhfuck,” she bites out, spasming around your fingers or your cock or your tongue. “You—you fucker—nghh—don’t stop—”

She finishes strong, always. And she doesn’t collapse after. She stretches. Climbs off you like a fucking panther, then rolls her shoulders, flexes her arms, reaches for her water bottle like it was just another drill.

“You good?” she smirks, sweat dripping between her breasts, lips slick and shining. “You look wrecked.”

You are wrecked.

She kisses you like a reward, palm cradling your jaw, tongue slow and filthy in your mouth.

But you can tell. Behind her eyes, there’s something. Something aching. Something just under the surface, breaking open only when your breath hitches and your nails dig into her back and you whisper her name like it’s a plea. She kisses you harder then. Like she’s trying not to feel. Like she needs to prove it’s all a game.

But when you hold her after? She doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

And the next time she rides you? She doesn’t say anything at all. Just grinds against you, chases it, grunts into your neck, then buries her face in your shoulder while her body trembles with every aftershock.

She doesn’t talk about that part.

But she always cums harder when she’s losing.

he’s so fine that i had to look up this chart and reevaluate my original and very inappropriate thoughts on this photo

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 💔

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

BREAKFAST FOR THE BROKEN, the morning after mikey’s funeral, carmen wakes up on the couch to the smell of butter and thyme. his apartment is quiet in that hollow way grief makes everything sound quieter, and you’re standing in his kitchen cooking eggs in the pan he never put away. he doesn’t say anything when he first sees you. just stands there, watching, like he doesn’t know if he’s still dreaming.