POP GIRL™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

hiiiiiii my lovely lovely LOVELY elowyn (sorry, i'm ur biggest fan) would you cook up something about Y from the nsfw alphabet with art for me? there's no one better suited for this🧚🏼‍♀️

HIIII TAL of course i can 😼

ART DONALDSON | NSFW ALPHABET | Y = YEARNING (how high is their sex drive?)

Art Donaldson’s sex drive wasn’t something he bragged about.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever wanted to talk about out loud because it wasn’t about numbers, wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t about conquest or some shallow kind of ego trip. It was about you. And it always had been. He was just built like that, wired to want what he loved, and he loved you so much it hurt sometimes.

It wasn’t the sharp kind of lust people threw around like a party trick—it was this low, steady ache in his bones, a yearning that lived under his skin and made itself known in the smallest, stupidest moments. You’d bend down to grab a glass from a low shelf and his stomach would flip. You’d be curled up in his hoodie on the couch, hair mussed and bare legs tucked under you, and he’d feel it hit him so hard he’d have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. He wanted you in ways that felt almost embarrassing.

And it wasn’t about getting off. It was about getting close. About having your breath in his mouth and your heartbeat pressed against his chest and your skin warm beneath his hands and feeling like if he could just touch you, kiss you, hold you, the ache would quiet down for a while.

He’d told you once, half-drunk on cheap wine, his head in your lap while you absently played with his hair, “You drive me insane, you know that? It’s like… I think about you all the time. I mean all the time. Not just in a sexy way, though God, yes, in that way too. But like… in a ‘can’t breathe right when you’re not in the room’ kind of way.” And you’d laughed softly, not teasing, not mean, just this gentle, fond sound that made him want to crawl inside your chest and live there.

You tugged lightly at his hair and murmured, “Good.” And he’d let out a shaky breath and kissed your wrist like you were the thing holding him together. Because you were. You always had been. And it didn’t matter how many times he got to have you, how many nights he buried his face in your neck and lost himself in the feeling of your body under his — it was never enough. Not in a desperate, frantic way. In a tender, aching, reverent way.

He was greedy for you. Could never seem to get close enough. And God, he was so gentle about it most of the time, kissing every inch of your skin like it was sacred, whispering against your ear, “Let me, please,” and he meant it every time. It wasn’t about fucking. It was about loving you in the closest, deepest, most physical way he could.

And he wasn’t built for quick, emotionless hookups. He needed the stretch of hours, the lazy roll of bodies tangled in sheets, the kind of nights where you made love slow until you both forgot where one of you ended and the other began.

His sex drive was high as hell, embarrassingly so sometimes, and it didn’t take much for you to turn him into this lovesick, touch-starved mess. You’d just have to crawl into his lap and whisper something half-nice in his ear and he was gone, rutting against you, lips everywhere, voice all rough and low, “Baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But because he loved so hard, because he poured everything he had into you every time, he wasn’t the kind of man who could turn around and do it again ten minutes later. He needed time. Not because he didn’t want to — Fuck, did he want to — but because loving you like that, having you like that, it left him blissed out and trembling, clinging to you in the dark, whispering, “I swear, I could die like this,” with his face buried against your skin. It was the kind of connection that left his bones feeling like smoke, the kind of pleasure that crept into his soul and left him undone.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he’d mumble against your skin, all heat and breath and love, so much love it scared him sometimes.

And you’d just kiss his temple, tell him he was dramatic, and he’d grin like an idiot because you had no idea, no fucking idea what you did to him. It wasn’t about the mechanics of it, wasn’t about positions or tricks or counting how many times. It was about having you in his arms, under his mouth, letting him worship you the only way he knew how. He’d wake you up at two in the morning just to kiss you, just to press his body against yours, just to murmur, “Missed you,” like you’d been gone a week instead of asleep beside him.

Because that was Art Donaldson. A man whose sex drive wasn’t driven by lust but rather by a need to be near you, to feel you, to love you in ways words could never reach. A man whose body ached with it, not because he was starved but because you made him so full he didn’t know what to do with it all. And he would want you every day for the rest of his life — not out of habit, not out of routine, but because you were his favorite thing he’d ever known, and loving you in every possible way was the only thing that made sense anymore.

JAW once said in an interview that “Carmy does not fuck” which is 1. hilarious and 2. in character and 3. intriguing, and I would love to hear your headcanons regarding this🙏🙏💕

of COURSE carmy doesn’t fuck. not because he couldn’t, but because he’s so emotionally repressed, chronically stressed, and buried under ten layers of guilt and self-loathing that sex would just be another thing he overthinks into oblivion. the man is hanging on by a thread and that thread is beef. so yeah. he doesn’t fuck—but if he ever did? it would be awkward and intense and kind of sweet in a “he’s trying so hard please someone give him a hug” way. and i have so, so many thoughts about that. okay—diving in.

Carmy’s not inexperienced, per se. He knows what sex is. He’s watched enough porn, read the occasional questionable Reddit thread, jerked off in rushed, guilt-tinged moments between 14-hour shifts and deep spirals of culinary self-loathing. But sex—actual sex, with a person who looks at him like you do? That’s a different kind of pressure. It’s a kind of heat he doesn’t know how to hold.

He prepped for this. Not like—intentionally, but… kind of. He showered longer than usual. Used the good soap. Trimmed everything down there as best he could and definitely nicked himself once or twice in the process—stood over the sink like it was a high-stakes mise en place, squinting into the mirror, muttering, “Okay, slow, slow, don’t fuck this up, chef…” The result is neat, if a little uneven. He smells like clean cotton and whatever expensive shampoo Sugar left in the apartment.

When it finally happens—when you tug him by the hand to the bed and he stammers something like, “We don’t have to, if you’re not—if this is too soon or whatever, I can wait, I’m chill,”—you kiss him quiet. He melts. Shoulders slumping. Lips soft and hungry. He kisses like he means it, like every second is precious, like he’s scared it’s going to be the last. And when your hand dips between his legs?

He gasps. Full-bodied, shaky. “Fucking Christ,” he chokes out, hips twitching. His cock’s already hard, hot against your palm. Not huge, not small—just right, pretty even. Cut, flushed pink at the tip, thick enough to make you feel it stretch you, but not enough to overwhelm. There’s a vein down the side that pulses when you stroke him, and he watches you like he’s watching God.

“Oh my god—yeah, okay, that’s—fuck, shit, sorry,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “That—feels better than, like—anything. Ever. I don’t—am I supposed to do something with my hands or—?”

You laugh, and he blushes so hard his ears turn red. “You’re good, Carm. You’re doing fine. Let our bodies do the talking.”

He groans like that line alone nearly finishes him off. “Ohhh—fuck, no, don’t say shit like that—”

You guide him inside you, and for a second, everything stops. His breath catches. Eyes wide. Muscles tense like he’s bracing for something catastrophic, like maybe he’s about to cry or come or die. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Are you sure—are you okay—do I need to slow down?”

You just nod, and he lets out this broken little sound. Kind of a moan, kind of a whimper, and so sincere it nearly undoes you.

At first, he’s awkward. Bumping the wrong angle. Hips moving in tiny, unsure thrusts like he’s terrified to go too deep. Keeps checking your face like he’s looking for notes. “That—no, sorry—was that weird? I can stop. I’ll stop. Shit. I—uh—yeah.” You kiss him again, thread your fingers through his hair, and roll your hips until he’s buried deep and shaking.

When you get on top, his brain shorts out. Full-on blue screen. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but his mouth is stuck on a loop. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. You’re so—holy shit, you’re—beautiful, baby, fuck, shit—” His voice goes high when you clench around him, like a whine caught in his throat. His hips twitch like they want to buck up but he’s scared to move, too scared to end it too soon.

And he does come too fast. Not in a tragic way—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that makes you want to kiss every inch of him. His hands tremble on your thighs, face slack with pleasure, mouth open as he gasps out, “I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—fuck, fuck, f—ohhh—shit—” and then he’s done, shaking under you, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

“Sorry,” he whispers after. “I—I swear I can go again. Like. Soon. Just—holy shit.”

And he does go again. He’s hard again in less than ten minutes, and the second time’s better. He starts to find rhythm, his hands more confident, his mouth bolder. He talks more, too—low, raspy praise between panting breaths. “You’re so fucking soft, baby, you’re perfect, so wet, so good for me—” He latches onto your tits like he’s been dreaming about them for years. He sucks and mouths at them like a man starved, eyes glazed and reverent.

“I’ve got a thing,” he confesses, voice rough. “With—y’know. Tits. Just—fuck. They’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

You ride him through it. Take control. And he loves it. Because it lets him feel without the pressure to perform. He’s sensitive, vocal—little gasps and sighs spilling out with every grind of your hips. When you tell him not to talk, just to feel, he moans so sharply it echoes. His whole body tightens, stomach clenching, hands white-knuckling the sheets.

“Ohhh, fuck—don’t say that—fuck, I’m gonna—” he whines, high and airy, and then he’s coming again, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle it, cock pulsing deep inside you. His thighs twitch. You feel his whole body flutter under you, coming undone again.

After, he holds you. Silent. Breath slowing, chest rising against your back. Face nestled into your hair. And for once, there’s no chaos. No kitchen yelling. No fire alarms. Just the sound of your heartbeat under his cheek and the soft hum of the city outside his window.

You trace his jaw, and he mumbles, “I was so bad at that, huh.”

“You were perfect, Carm.”

He sighs, a sleepy little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. Good. ‘Cause I—uh. Wanna do that again. With you. Like, a lot.”

And he means it. Every stammered word.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ 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

MORE PATRICK BOTS!!!!

omg i was legit thinking about making another one today but i have no ideas for a scenario 💔 if there’s anything specific you’d like to see lmk!

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!

when uncle ace by blood orange starts playing

welcome to fwaist !

ABOUT ME

elowyn. 18. gemini. neurodivergent. bisexual. white + latina. she/her. writer & bot maker

FANDOMS

challengers. the bear. bones and all. bottoms. gilmore girls. slushy noobz. bridgerton. red dead redemption 2. the last of us. outer banks. you. gossip girl. resident evil. stranger things. yellowjackets.

READ BEFORE REQUESTING

i will not write rpf, noncon, scat play / watersports, knotting / heats / alpha-beta-omega, blood-related incest, pedophilia, male!reader, self-harm, degradation involving slurs / bigotry, feederism / vore. these are my firm boundaries and will not be written under any circumstance.

BREADCRUMBS TO FOLLOW

c.ai | taglist | c.ai bot request form

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!!!

FUCK AROUND & FIND OUT

it’s one of those sultry afternoons where everything feels gross and itchy, and you end up tangled with tashi, your bestfriend since childhood, all teeth, sweat, and filthy fucking tension. nothing sweet about it—just spit, slick, and the kind of grind that makes you see stars.

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader | tashi duncan x vulva-bodied!reader

content warnings: tribadism (f/f grinding), clothed & partially-clothed dry humping, mutual degradation kink, frantic sex, messy/wet/cumplay undertones, hair pulling, nipple play, rough kissing. MDNI

It was one of those heat-choked afternoons that felt like time had given up and just started melting — thick air, sweat-sticky skin, and every single second dragging its balls through molasses. The fan did jack shit but push warm air around like a lazy drunk blowing breath in your face. Everything felt gross and slow and itchy. The TV was on in the corner, spitting out those trashy early-2000s music videos like background radiation — half-naked pop stars grinding on sand or leather couches, and every now and then, one of you would hum along without even realizing it, like the heat had cooked your brains just enough to make you forget you had control over your own fucking mouth.

Tashi was sprawled out like a bored brat in a porno scene, half on her stomach, flipping through some beat-up Cosmo that probably still smelled like her older sister’s weed stash and old perfume. Her legs kicked aimlessly in the air, watermelon gum popping every couple of minutes like a goddamn metronome of irritation. That sound was enough to make you twitch — snap, snap, snap — loud in the stifling quiet. You were slouched somewhere in the disaster zone of pillows and tangled sheets that had once been a bed, sweat plastering your tank top to your back, your sleep shorts clinging to your ass like a second skin. Hair stuck to your neck. Every breath felt like licking the inside of a fucking sauna.

Tashi groaned like a dying animal, flinging the magazine away like it had tried to assault her. “Fuck me, I’m gonna drop dead from boredom.”

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “You say that every ten minutes.”

“Because it’s true every ten minutes, dumbass.” Another snap of gum, and then a pillow flying straight into your lap. “Seriously, what the fuck are we even doing?”

You barely shrugged. “Existing.”

She made this dramatic gagging noise like you’d just told her to meditate. “Jesus. You’re so fucking boring sometimes, babe, I swear to God.”

“Eat shit,” you muttered, glancing up just in time to see that feral glint in her eye — the one that always meant trouble was two seconds away and smiling like the devil.

Her toes jabbed you. Sharp. Annoying. On purpose.

You flinched, swatting at her leg. “The fuck? Cut it out.”

She grinned like a little demon and did it again — harder.

“Tashi, I’m not playing.”

“Oh, yeah?” she chirped, all fake-innocent sass. “What’re you gonna do, cry about it?”

You grabbed a pillow and launched it straight into her smug face, grinning like a jackal. The sound it made was perfect — a soft thwump followed by her surprised bark of laughter. She caught it, lunged, and suddenly you were both in it — flailing and grabbing and cackling like feral children on a sugar high, the sheets twisting around your legs as you wrestled like you were six again, except you weren’t. Not even close.

Your hand got in her hair. Her elbow jammed into your ribs. She shrieked with laughter as she pinched your side and you squealed like she’d stabbed you. It wasn’t cute. It was messy, breathless, chaotic. Your tank tops had ridden up, shorts twisting tight between your thighs. Every movement left you more tangled, more flushed, more wound up with that tense, vibrating heat that had fuck-all to do with the weather.

Then suddenly she had your wrist, twisted and pinned, her body hovering above yours with this wicked glint in her eye. Her thighs locked around your waist, warm, damp, and snug, her skin slick with sweat where it pressed against yours. She was breathing hard, but grinning — eyes alight with something mean and teasing and way too fucking aware.

“Say it,” she panted, cocking her head, smirk wide and full of teeth. “Say ‘uncle’.”

“In your fucking dreams,” you spat, writhing beneath her.

She leaned down, her face inches from yours, breath hot and sweet with gum. “You’re so full of shit.”

And then she rocked her hips — just a little. Just enough to make your breath catch. Enough to feel it.

The shift was instant — one slow grind of her cunt against your stomach and the mood flipped like a switchblade. That smug little roll of her hips wasn’t playful anymore. It was calculated. Slow. Wet. Her pussy already leaking through those paper-thin shorts, leaving a warm smear across your skin that made your whole body twitch. She felt it too — the way your stomach clenched, the way your breath hitched like someone had yanked the air out of your lungs. Her mouth curled like a knife.

“Hey,” she breathed, all low and dirty, like a secret she’d been waiting to unwrap. “You fucking like that.”

You should’ve told her to fuck off. You should’ve shoved her away. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when her cunt was grinding down like that — slow and heavy, soaked enough to make your stomach shine where she dragged over you. The shorts didn’t hide shit. Just spread the mess.

You bucked up without meaning to, chasing it, and her laugh was this hot, breathless little sound that hit straight in your gut.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, teeth flashing. “You’re practically begging already.”

“Bite me,” you hissed, but your voice was shaking. Soft. Pathetic.

She leaned in, her lips brushing yours — not kissing, just hovering, teasing. “Yeah? Want me to? Want me to fucking mark you up like a little bitch in heat?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Her mouth crashed into yours, all spit and teeth and desperation. No build-up. No hesitation. She kissed like she wanted to break something — her lips hot and wet, her tongue shoving past your teeth like she owned the place. The gum was still in her mouth, mashed between you, sweet and sticky and obscene. You tasted it. Felt it smear across your lips.

“Nnghhh…” you groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound like it was dessert.

Her hips never stopped. That sloppy, filthy grind got rougher, wetter, her clit grinding hard against your abdomen. Every move dragged more slick from her cunt, the wet spot on her shorts blooming bigger by the second, smearing a mess across your stomach. Your own hips started moving, rutting up, instinctive and shameless, trying to match the rhythm, to chase that sweet, aching drag of friction.

Tashi broke the kiss with a laugh, gasping against your lips. “Look at you. Fucking humping me like a dog. You that needy, huh?”

You grabbed her ass and yanked her down harder. “Aaahhh!—” she gasped — this high, surprised little sound that made your head spin.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” you spat, fingers digging into the curve of her ass hard enough to bruise. “You’re dripping all over me and I’m needy?”

She laughed again, mean and breathless, her hips slamming down harder. “Fuck, yeah, you are. You feel that? Feel how wet I am for you? Could drown you in it.”

You bit her. Right on the shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her flinch and groan — “Nnghhh—” loud and hot, her whole body jerking.

“Jesus fuck,” she gasped, clenching her thighs tighter around your waist. “Do that again and I’ll cum on your stomach right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” you growled, flipping her off-balance, grabbing her hips and grinding her against you even harder. “You’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you? Getting off like a desperate slut while I’m stuck here covered in your mess.”

“Ahh—fuck—” she moaned, no words — just a sound, raw and ruined, as she ground down like her life depended on it.

“Take your top off,” you snapped, already tugging at the hem of hers, dragging it up past her tits. She didn’t argue — just peeled it off, tits bouncing free, her bra shoved down useless under them. You reached up, grabbed a handful, thumbing over her nipple until it hardened like a bullet.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she whimpered, her head falling back, hips grinding faster, more frantic now. “Touch me — fuck — I’m so close already — this is so fucking good—”

You pinched her nipple hard.

She choked on a moan, her whole body trembling.

“You’re such a fucking wreck,” you muttered, licking up the sweat between her tits, your teeth scraping the swell of one. “Little cunt-hungry bitch just needed something to grind on, huh?”

She nodded, wild-eyed, hair stuck to her face, her whole body flushed and dripping. “Yeah,” she panted. “Yeah — fuck, I needed it so bad — I’m so fucking close — please — just a little more—”

You grabbed her shorts, yanked them halfway down her thighs, not even bothering to take them off. Her pussy was soaked — the crotch dark, slick, practically painted in cum. You pushed your own down just enough, then grabbed her by the hips and slammed her cunt down on yours.

The sound it made was obscene — wet, smacking, like slapping raw meat. Both of you moaned at the contact — “Ahhh—” “Nnghhh—” — bare, slick heat against bare, slick heat, the friction perfect and raw and fucking criminal.

“Holy fuck,” she gasped, fingers digging into your shoulders. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god—”

“You like that?” you hissed, rocking up hard into her, the wet drag of clit on clit making your head spin. “Fucking take it. Rub that dirty cunt on mine. Want you to make a mess on me.”

She lost it. Grinding hard, fast, desperate now. Hips slamming down in messy, sloppy circles. Her moans were loud and high and completely unhinged. You were both soaked — thighs slick, the whole bed probably stained with the mess of it.

“God — fuck — I’m cumming — I’m gonna fucking—” she shrieked, her body locking up.

You grabbed her ass and slammed her down one last time — and that was it. She came with a strangled, breathless cry, legs shaking, her cunt grinding hard against yours like she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her whole body twitching, riding it out, milking every fucking second of it.

You weren’t far behind. The second her clit dragged over yours just right, you were gone — hips jerking, mouth open in a silent moan — “Aaahhh—” — the orgasm ripping through you hard and fast and fucking mean. Your thighs clenched, your back arched, and you came with a strangled, gasping growl, grinding your cunt up into hers like you could melt together.

The room spun. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing.

When it finally eased, you collapsed into the sweat-soaked sheets, limbs tangled, your cunt still twitching, still leaking, still pressed up against hers in a hot, messy smear.

Tashi was giggling — this breathless, fucked-out laugh that shook her whole body.

“Holy shit,” she panted, resting her forehead on your chest. “We’re fucking disgusting.”

You grinned, chest heaving, sweat dripping from your brow. “Yeah. And you love it.”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to.

thank u for the tag, mika ♡

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt ୨ৎ: @talsorchard, @artstennisracket, @voidsuites, @newrochellechallenger2019, @ghostgirl-22, @jesuistrestriste, @lovefaist, @zionna, @bambiangels

thank you for the tag @donaka-screaming mwah!!!!

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt: @kingkat12 @vadersangel @222col @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @generalb @sallux @carmillavalentine