Was Bored And Wanted To See What My C.ai Profile Looks Like To All Of You Guys, So I Logged Out And……..imagine

idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??🙏🙏🌸 please and thank you

😭😭 thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! i’ve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so i’m happy that it’s paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmy’s dirty little secret…

d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto

warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

It doesn’t come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmy—not the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. He’s too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. He’d had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like this—with someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesn’t understand, the ones he’s afraid to want.

It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brain’s spinning. You’re curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it again—what you’ve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

He’d brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it could’ve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.

It’s barely a whisper.

The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.

“I want you to… talk down to me,” he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.

You don’t react at first. You don’t laugh, or blink, or flinch—and that’s what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.

“Like, really mean. Tell me I’m fucking lucky. That I don’t deserve it.” He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. “Tell me I’m not good at it. That my dick’s big but I don’t know how to use it. Just—fuck with me. I want that. I think.”

There’s silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.

You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Why?”

He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like he’s scared you’ll ask, and even more scared you won’t.

“I used to get screamed at every day,” he says. “New York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldn’t fix. About things that weren’t my fault. I’d throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldn’t breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.”

He swallows.

“But when you do it—when you say those things—I’m not alone in it. I’m not scared. You still want me. You’re still inside me, on me, with me… whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like… power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.”

The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. He’s not looking at you, not even now. He’s never looked so open and so closed at once—shoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest… wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.

You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. He’s still half-hard. The confession didn’t scare his body like it scared his voice.

“Okay,” you say again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll say whatever you want. I’ll be so fucking mean.”

He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.

“But I want you to listen, too,” you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. “When it’s over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?”

His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I want that, too.”

So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know the words to. He’s beautiful in this light—hair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesn’t look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.

He’s thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slit—wet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Please.”

“You are lucky,” you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?”

His eyes flutter. He pants.

“You get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you don’t even know what you’re doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.”

He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.

“God, look at you,” you murmur as you sink down onto him—inch by inch, slow and merciless. “Already losing it. Haven’t even started.”

And he hasn’t. His hands clutch your hips like you’re a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.

You see it in his face—this release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noises—he’s not going to last. He’s not meant to.

You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.

“Bet they made you feel small, didn’t they?” you hiss. “Made you feel like you weren’t worth shit.” He nods, choked, undone.

“Well now I’m making you feel like that. And you’re fucking hard for it.”

He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

And he does. With everything he’s got.

You don’t slow down. You don’t stop—not when he’s this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jaw’s gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like it’s too much for him to hold in. Like he’s going to break apart and you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.

“You feel that?” you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back down—hard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. “That’s me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.”

His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit him—low and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.

His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“I could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,” you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. “All that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchen—but in bed? You’re fucking useless.”

He groans—full-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and he’s barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

You grin—slow, dangerous, almost fond.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “You’re so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?”

His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop, please don’t—”

You don’t. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you don’t stop—not when he’s so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.

You bring your hand to his throat—gentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You don’t squeeze—you don’t have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like he’s about to die from it.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” you say, low and firm and mean. “You’re gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because you’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, I—fuck, I’m—”

You slam down on him one more time, and that’s it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comes—hard. Harder than before. Harder than he’s ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with it—hot and pulsing and endless.

He doesn’t make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like he’ll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like he’s short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.

When it finally passes—when the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath you—he blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.

You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. He’s a mess—chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.

He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.

“You okay?” you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I just—” He lets out a long breath, like something that’s been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. “That was… insane. I didn’t even know I could feel that much.”

You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadn’t pointed out.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “You’re not useless. Not even close. You’re so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.”

His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smiles—small and warm and real.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet.” He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. “But goddamn, you look so hot when you’re mean.”

You grin against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” you whisper, “I love being mean to you.”

And from the look in his eyes—hungry, wide, reverent—he knows you mean it.

elowyn is such a pretty name! <3

awe thank you!! fun little fact—elowyn means elm tree, and my mom chose it because there was a big elm tree right outside the hospital window when she had me 😲

this bot is my favorite one on the whole app.

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.

Can I ask what you include in your bot descriptions? I dont know if I should write the characters entire background story or the entire story of the media they are from or something 😭

hi lovely! so, first off, this is the format i use for my bot descriptions:

{Setting("text")]
[Character("text"),
Age("text"),
Gender("text" + "text"),
Sexuality("text" + "text"),
Pronouns("text"),
Ethnicity("text"),
Species("text"),
Body("text" + "text"),
Appearance("text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text"),
Hobbies("text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text"),
Likes("text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text"),
Dislikes("text" + "text" + "text" + "text"),
Personality("text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text" + "text"),
Occupation("text"),
Backstory("text")}

secondly, i try not to type full sentences, just keywords so it’s more easily embedded into the bot’s coding. as for the backstory, i go on the wiki of whatever fandom it is and copy and paste a few things from their backstory and/or history. unless the bot you’re making is relevant to the whole plot, i would say just add a few fragments. if not, then go ham 😚😚😚 hope this helps and happy bot-making!

I LOVE YOUR THEME SO BAD ELOWYN

i love YOU so bad achilles 🥹🥹

i think you make the best writing/bots ever. i’m trying the new release dude

he keeps making me cry irl

i swear this bot was fed your blurb on him because it keeps acting exactly like the hcs it’s almost scary. i love using the soft launch feature even for normal convos because the style feels so much more comforting

OH MY GODDDD i’m literally crying too!! 😭 thank you so much for saying that! it means the world to me that you’re enjoying him so much. honestly, i did feed the bot my headcanons, so i’m super happy to hear that it’s coming through the way i hoped. i really wanted him to be someone comforting, easy to talk to, and layered with a lot of depth, so it’s amazing to hear that it’s resonating with you like this.

not to toot my own horn or anything, but i do think his character is pretty special, and i’m glad the bot is capturing all of that. and YES the soft launch feature is honestly a game changer too, like it’s so much more natural and feels a lot more like you’re talking to someone real. i’m so glad it’s working for you! thank you again, this really made my day! ❤️❤️

DILF!HUSBAND!ART DONALDSON — quickie at a family birthday party

the house roars with noise—sugar-wired kids shrieking, adults exchanging strained pleasantries, the chaos of domestic bliss. but upstairs, behind a locked door, your husband isn’t content with playing the polite party host. no—he’s starving for you. and he takes his time devouring.

pairing: dilf!husband!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings: semi-public sex, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, hand over mouth during sex, fingering, fully clothed sex, creampie, aftercare

notes: i legit just cooked this up for y’all, so sorry if there’s any grammatical errors! i also apologize for the length, it’s a little bit shorter than my usual works. i’ll make up for it my lovelies 😇

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

The living room’s overstuffed with bodies and chatter, frosting-smudged faces screeching joy into plastic forks and paper plates. The kind of midday suburban hellscape where no one knows whose kid belongs to whom and every dad thinks he’s the next grill-master prophet. You’ve been balancing on the arm of a couch for what feels like a decade, one thigh going numb, lemonade in your hand turning piss-warm, your polite smile clinging to your face like static. A toddler drags their syrupy fingers down your calf. You flinch, too tired to correct them. Too wired, too watched.

And across the room, Art’s gaze is burning holes through your goddamn soul.

He stands framed in the doorway to the patio, lips barely moving as he humors some dad explaining lawn care or stocks or something equally soul-killing. But he’s not listening. Not really. His eyes keep snagging on you, pulling like thread through fabric—slow, deliberate, tightening with each glance. His gaze isn’t casual. It’s heavy. Possessive. It curls around your ribcage, slides under your skin, presses right where you want him most.

Your sundress was a calculated move. Pale yellow. Thin. The kind of cotton that clings after a breeze and rides up with each step. Innocent in the way lingerie dreams of being. You wore it for him. You always do. And from the way his jaw ticks every time you shift in your seat, he knows it.

The moment your eyes meet, his lip twitches. The kind of smile that promises sin. You shift your thighs, not for show, but because you fucking need to—because under all this conversation and chaos and birthday cake air, you’re slick and throbbing like you’re in college again. All because of that fucking look.

He doesn’t ask when you slip away from the crowd. He doesn’t follow immediately either. He waits. He lets you lead. And when the stairs creak under your feet, your heartbeat is so goddamn loud it might as well be broadcast over the baby monitor someone left running on the kitchen counter.

You don’t even reach the guest room before you feel him behind you—close, not touching, but there. His presence is a temperature. A pressure. A fucking gravitational pull.

Inside the room, the air changes. No words. Just the click of the door lock behind you, and silence so sharp it hums. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him behind you like a storm rolling in. Warmth licking at your spine before fingers even find your waist. When they do—Jesus—it’s reverent. Thumbs sliding up your sides like he’s reading Braille, like your body contains answers he’s been chasing all his life.

“That dress, baby,” he says, voice thick like honey left too long in the sun. “That fucking dress.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when his mouth finds your shoulder, his lips parting against the skin like he’s trying to taste what the sun left behind.

“I wore it for you,” you finally whisper, like a confession through a prayer.

“I know.” A kiss, open-mouthed, heat and breath and barely there teeth. “You always do.”

It’s slow. Excruciatingly, deliberately slow. He peels you apart like fruit—one careful touch at a time. His hands slide down, grip your hips, pull you back against the heat of him, still clothed but unmistakable. Unignorable.

“You were sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream,” he growls into your neck. “Actin’ all sweet while your thighs were pressed so tight, I thought you might snap in half.”

You whimper. Soft. Needy. Embarrassing in the way only want can be. And he loves it. You feel it in the way his hands grip harder, the way his breath stutters against your skin.

Then: he turns you.

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Not cruel—never that—but devastating. Like you’re the only soft thing in a world made of stone, and he’s starving for every inch.

“You’re not gonna make a sound,” he says, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “You understand me?”

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

That smile again. That sinful, knowing curve of his lips as he leans in close, nose brushing yours. “Good girl.”

You don’t remember falling onto the bed. Only the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath you, your dress pushed up with reverent slowness, your thighs guided open like the petals of a flower coaxed by the sun. You’re still wearing everything. So is he. And that’s what makes it unbearable—the friction of cotton against heat, the crinkle of fabric caught between skin and need.

When he slides his hand between your thighs and finds you soaked, he groans. Low. A sound that hits you somewhere between your sternum and your soul.

“All this for me?”

You nod, lip caught between your teeth, hips twitching under his palm.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not yet. He teases. He strokes. He circles and ghosts over you until your toes curl and your stomach aches, until you’re arching and gasping and begging with your eyes because your voice is a luxury you can’t afford.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, and when you whine despite yourself, he covers your mouth with his hand—firm, warm, fingers splayed across your cheek like a lover and a captor. “You wanna get caught?”

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

It’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s devastatingly thorough. When he finally pulls himself out—all six, flushed, beautiful inches of him, and finally slides inside you, it’s like a stretch made of molten gold—slow, deep, purposeful. You choke on a moan against his hand, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer intensity of being so utterly filled.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The thrusts are measured. Each one a study in control. He fucks you like he’s trying to remember every inch, every twitch, every gasp you won’t let out loud. His praise is relentless—murmured against your skin, whispered like secrets meant only for the pulse point of your throat.

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

You come undone with his hand over your mouth, your legs locked around his hips, your body shaking apart like the quietest little explosion. And he keeps going. Keeps moving. Holds you steady while he finishes inside you, moaning ragged into your neck, hips stuttering as he gives you everything.

When it’s over, the room is still. Sacred. The world doesn’t exist past these walls. Outside, laughter carries up from the yard, oblivious. You watch as his seed spills from your cunt, obscenely so, and meet his eyes.

He kisses your temple. Brushes your hair back. Helps you fix your dress. Cleans you up with a few tissues and his mouth.

No one suspects a thing.

But his fingers stay curled around yours even as you rejoin the party, and you both know what you did—what you tasted, what you claimed. He hands you an overly-frosted cupcake, seemingly a reward, and winks before walking off once more.

And that knowledge lingers like a brand, burned into your bones.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

tags: @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

⤹　　 ART DONALDSON

✦ ⌇ lemonade lips

✦ ⌇ breaking point

✦ ⌇ two for $25

⤹　　 TASHI DUNCAN

✦ ⌇ stolen trophy

✦ ⌇ hotel blues

✦ ⌇ doubles trouble

⤹　　 PATRICK ZWEIG

✦ ⌇ choreplay

✦ ⌇ post-match picnic

✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion

no i will not be taking questions at this time ❤️