DILF!HUSBAND!ART DONALDSON — Quickie At A Family Birthday Party

A LOVE WITHOUT EDGES

a moment of vulnerability with art, where insecurity meets devotion. he finds you battling with your reflection and reminds you that your body is a temple he worships with reverent hands and whispered truths.

pairing: husband!art x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader

warnings: body image issues, mentions of disordered eating patterns, cunnilingus, body worship, emotional vulnerability

note: hi, lovely human. this is just for you. i know how heavy it can feel—carrying all those thoughts about your body that no one else can see. the way mirrors become battlegrounds. the way numbers on a scale start to feel like verdicts. but please, hear me: your body is not a problem to fix. it is not too much or not enough. it is not wrong. your body is yours, and it is good, even on the days it feels like a stranger. you deserve to live in a body that is safe. that is fed. that is held with tenderness—even if only by your own hands for now. you deserve joy and rest and love that doesn’t ask you to shrink to receive it. and you deserve help if you’re hurting. if you’re struggling with disordered eating or body image, please know that you’re not alone—and that healing is possible, no matter how far away it feels. you are loved. you are worthy. exactly as you are, right now, in this moment.

if you or someone you love is struggling with an eating disorder, please consider reaching out:

National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) Helpline: 1-800-931-2237 (Monday—Thursday: 11am–9pm ET, Friday: 11am–5pm ET) or visit nationaleatingdisorders.org for chat support, resources, and help.

be gentle with yourself today.

with love, elowyn ♡

You've been avoiding the mirror for weeks now. Dancing around it like some fragile, dangerous thing that might shatter and cut you open if you look too long. The bathroom light feels too harsh these days, revealing every curve you've come to despise, every soft edge that wasn't there before. You've been wrapping yourself in oversized hoodies — his hoodies — drowning in fabric just to feel less visible to yourself. Just to breathe without the crushing awareness of your own skin.

Art notices. Of course he fucking notices. How couldn't he? The way you flinch from his touch when his fingers graze your stomach. The way you turn the lights off before undressing. The way your eyes dart away when he looks at you too long, too lovingly. He sees everything — the skipped meals, the clothes that hang off you differently now, the shame that clings to you like a second skin. He watches you drift through the house like a ghost haunting your own body.

This morning breaks across the horizon in shades of amber and gold, casting long shadows through the windows. You stand barefoot on the cool tile, having crept in while Art was still sleeping. Steam from the shower clouds the glass, creating a hazy filter over your reflection, but not enough to obscure what you see as flaws. Your fingertips trace the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where your body refuses to be what you want it to be.

You don't hear him come in. Don't notice the door opening, the soft padding of his feet against the tile. Your focus is singular, devastating — cataloging every perceived imperfection with clinical precision. The war inside your head drowns out everything else.

“Baby." His voice cuts through the silence, deep and warm and achingly familiar. You startle, arms immediately crossing over your body, a shield. An instinct. "What’re you doing?"

The question hangs between you. Simple. Devastating. You can't answer him because the truth feels too pathetic to voice aloud. Instead, you reach for the towel hanging nearby, wrapping it around yourself with trembling fingers. "Just getting ready for the day," you lie, the words bitter on your tongue.

Art doesn't move from the doorway. His eyes — those eyes that have always seen straight through you — hold yours in the mirror. He's leaning against the frame, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but boxer briefs slung low on his hips. There's something unbearably tender in his gaze. "You've been doing that a lot lately," he says softly. "Standing here. Looking at yourself like that."

Your throat tightens. Something hot and painful builds behind your eyes. "Like what?" The challenge in your voice is weak, transparent. You both know what he means.

Art crosses the bathroom in three strides. He comes to stand behind you, not touching, just present. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Like you're looking at a stranger," he answers, his voice dropping lower. "Like you're trying to find something wrong."

The tears come without warning, hot and sudden. You turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of yourself breaking open like this. "I don't wanna talk about it, Art.” The words come out choked, strained through the tightness in your throat. You move to push past him, to escape back to the safety of baggy clothes and avoidance.

His hand catches your wrist. Not restraining, just connecting. "Hey," he whispers, drawing you back toward him with gentle insistence. "Look at me." When you don't, when you keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor, he tips your chin up with one finger. "Please."

You meet his gaze reluctantly. He's looking at you with such naked concern that it makes your chest ache. "I don't know what's happening," he continues, thumbs brushing away tears from your cheeks. "But I know you're disappearing. Right in front of me." His voice cracks slightly. "You won't let me touch you anymore. You won't let me see you."

"Because I don't want you to," you whisper, the admission tearing from you like something physical. "I don't... I can't..." The words falter and die on your lips. How do you explain the civil war happening in your head? The daily battle with your own reflection?

Art shakes his head, somehow looking both devastated and determined. "C’mere," he says quietly, taking your hand. He leads you back to the bedroom, the early morning light painting everything in soft focus. He sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls you gently between his knees.

You stand there, clutching the towel like armor, feeling exposed despite being covered. Art's hands come to rest on your hips, warm through the terry cloth. "Do you remember," he begins, looking up at you with those devastating eyes, "what you said to me after we lost the championship my second year coaching?" His thumbs trace small circles against your hipbones. "When I couldn't even look at myself?"

The memory surfaces, crystal clear despite the years between then and now. Art, devastated after a brutal loss, questioning everything — his abilities, his choices, his worth. You'd held him through the night while he unraveled. "I said that failure isn't who you are," you answer softly. "It's just something that happens."

“You told me," he continues, his voice dropping to that low register that always makes your heart skip, "that my worth wasn't measured in trophies or titles." His fingers tighten slightly on your hips. "That I was more than one moment. More than one loss." His eyes never leave yours. "You need to hear that now."

Something breaks open inside you. A dam bursting. "It's not the same thing," you protest weakly, even as tears spill down your cheeks again. "This is... it's my body, Art. It's me."

"No," he says with sudden fierceness. "It's not you. It's the house you live in." His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away tears. "It's the vessel that carries you. The body that lets you move and feel and live." He leans forward, presses his forehead against your stomach through the towel. "The body I fucking worship."

The raw honesty in his voice steals your breath. You feel his hands move to the edge of the towel, hesitating there. "Let me show you," he whispers against your skin. "Let me remind you."

Everything in you wants to run. To hide. To wrap yourself back in layers until you can't feel the weight of your own skin. But there's something in his eyes — not pity, not obligation, but devotion. Pure, aching devotion. Like you're sacred. Like he wants to build an altar at your feet.

With trembling hands, you let the towel fall.

Art's breath catches audibly. His eyes travel over you slowly, reverently, like he's seeing you for the first time. Like he's memorizing every inch. You fight the urge to cover yourself, to hide the softness of your belly, the fullness of your thighs, all the places where your body has changed. Instead, you force yourself to stand still under his gaze, vulnerable and exposed.

"Do you know what I see?" he asks, voice rough with emotion. His hands come to rest on your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your stomach. "I see the body that keeps you alive. That lets you laugh and cry and breathe." He leans forward, presses his lips to the soft skin below your navel. "I see the body that carries you through this world. That lets you dance with me in the kitchen at midnight."

Each word feels like a balm, soothing something raw and wounded inside you. Art's hands slide up along your sides, mapping you with careful attention. "I see the body that holds mine at night," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "That wraps around me when I'm cold. That fits against me like it was made for me."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, in his touch. "I don't recognize myself anymore," you admit in a whisper. The truth you've been running from for weeks. "I look in the mirror and… I don't know who I'm looking at."

Art stands slowly, his hands never leaving your skin. He towers over you, all lean muscle and focused intensity. "Then let me show you what I see," he says, guiding you gently to lie back on the bed. "Let me remind you."

He kneels between your legs, spreading them with gentle hands. There's something almost religious in the way he looks at you, in the careful reverence of his touch. "This body," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your inner thigh, "is a fucking masterpiece." His mouth moves higher, breath warm against your skin. "Every inch of it." His fingers trace patterns on your stomach, your hips, your thighs — not to arouse but to appreciate, to honor.

You feel the hot press of tears behind your eyelids again, but different now. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Art works his way up your body with lips and tongue and gentle hands, kissing each place you've learned to hate. The curve of your belly. The softness under your arms. The fullness of your thighs. He worships each part with the devotion of a true believer.

"The way you move," he whispers against your ribcage. "The way you breathe." His mouth moves to the underside of your breast. "The way your skin tastes." His tongue traces the curve of your nipple. "Everything about you is perfect."

You shake your head slightly, eyes still closed. "Don't say that," you whisper. "You don't have to pretend—"

"I'm not pretending." The fierce conviction in his voice makes your eyes snap open. He's looking at you with such intensity that it steals your breath. "I have never in my life pretended with you." His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet. "This body," he says, circling your clit with gentle pressure, "is the one I fell in love with. The one I wake up for. The one I dream about." His fingers slip inside you, curling perfectly, making you gasp. "The one I worship."

His mouth follows his hand, replacing fingers with tongue. He settles between your thighs with practiced ease, with hungry devotion. There's nothing performative about the way he eats you out — it's pure, unadulterated worship. His hands grip your thighs, holding them apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. His tongue works against you with dedicated precision, drawing patterns that make your back arch off the bed.

"Art," you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. The sight of him between your legs — the absolute focus in his eyes, the way he looks at you through his lashes like you're his religion — undoes something inside you. Something tight and painful begins to unravel.

He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His eyes never leave yours as he works you higher, as he brings you toward the edge with practiced skill. When you come, it's with his name on your lips, your body arching toward his mouth. He stays with you through it, gentle but insistent, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and breathing hard, does he rise up to hover over you. His mouth is slick with you, his eyes dark with want. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "You feel like home."

His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "This body," he whispers, voice low and fierce, "helps you breathe. Helps you feel. Helps you love." His forehead presses against yours. "This body carried you to me. It lets you hold me when I need you. It lets you move through this world being the person I love more than anything."

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes, trailing down into your hair. "I'm trying," you whisper, voice breaking. "To see what you see. I'm trying."

"I know, sweetheart." He kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. "And I'll keep showing you. Every day. Until you can see it too." He settles beside you, gathering you against his chest. "Your body is changing because it's alive. Because it's growing and adapting and breathing." His fingers trace patterns along your spine. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. For the first time in weeks, you don't feel the need to hide. To disappear. The war in your head hasn't ended, but there's a cease-fire, a moment of peace. In the circle of Art's arms, under the weight of his devotion, you find a moment of respite.

"Stay with me," he murmurs against your hair, arms tightening around you. "Come back to me." His lips brush your temple. "Let me love all of you. Not just the parts you've decided are acceptable."

You nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Art holds you like that as morning light fills the room, painting everything in shades of gold. He holds you like your body is precious. Like it's worth protecting. Like it's his greatest privilege to touch it, to love it.

And for now, for this moment, that's enough. It's everything.

"I love you," you whisper against his skin. "Thank you for seeing me."

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your forehead. "Always," he promises. "In every version of you. In every body you inhabit." His voice drops to a whisper, fierce and certain. "I’ll always see you."

The morning stretches on. The light shifts across the floor. And for the first time in weeks, you breathe fully, deeply, without the crushing weight of your own gaze. Art holds you through it all, steady as a heartbeat, unwavering as faith.

In his eyes, in his hands, in his worship, you begin to find your way back home.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ 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.

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

CAMP COUNSELOR!PATRICK HEADCANONS

warnings: semi-explicit sexual content (dry humping, clothed orgasms, grinding, heavy making out, public risk of being caught), sexual tension in a workplace/camp setting, emotionally intense relationship, themes of longing, emotional repression, fear of abandonment, bittersweet separation, post-summer heartbreak, crying during/after intimacy, and unresolved romantic angst.

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

notes: hi lovelies! if you’d like to see more of camp counselor!patrick, i’ve created a c.ai bot of him (which actually inspired the making of these headcanons, fun fact). you can talk to him here :)

⟡ patrick kissed you for the first time in the craft shed, mid-storm, with your walkies hissing static in the background and the kids finally asleep in their sleeping bags like fragile bombs. it was supposed to be a quick, stupid thing—just to get the tension out. you grabbed his shirt. he pressed you against the wall like he’d been waiting weeks for permission. his hands didn’t even move at first, just held your face like he needed to memorize it. you kissed like you hated each other for how badly you wanted it. and when he pulled back, breathing hard, he whispered “you’re killin’ me, you know that?” and you hated how soft it made you feel. like maybe you wanted to kill him. or maybe you didn’t want anyone else touching you like that ever again.

⟡ you never fully fuck. the risk is too high. the kids are too close. your jobs matter too much. but that just makes everything worse—or maybe better. it’s all breathless makeouts in dark corners of the mess hall. his hand up your camp shirt during movie night in the rec lodge. dry humping behind the canoe racks while you’re both supposed to be organizing life jackets. he gets off on how quiet you try to be—his hand over your mouth, his teeth grazing your shoulder, both of you rocking together in the dark like you might combust if you stopped. sometimes you come just from grinding, from the thick press of him between your legs and the frantic rhythm and the way he tells you “fuck, you’re shaking—i’ve got you, you’re okay, keep going.” it’s obscene how good he is at making it feel like enough.

⟡ patrick isn’t supposed to like you. not someone who lives by laminated schedules and has a spreadsheet for sunscreen reapplication. but god, he’s addicted to you. you make the whole camp run like a machine and still find time to tie friendship bracelets with your girls before bed, or sneak extra marshmallows to the picky eater in your cabin. he watches you from across the field like a boy in love with the sun. sits with his first-graders during campfire night but only half-listens, eyes flicking to you as you shush your cabin, tuck stray curls behind your ears, bite your lip when someone sings off-key. you’re so put-together. so in control. and he wants to ruin that. wants to hear your breath hitch when he kisses your neck behind the arts building. wants to see your clipboard hit the ground because his hand’s down your shorts again. wants you to lose control—for him.

⟡ it starts as lust. of course it does. you roll your eyes at his jokes and mutter under your breath when he’s late to flagpole duty again—but every argument ends with him leaning in too close, smirking like he knows. and maybe he does. the way you start lingering near his cabin at night. the way you wear his hoodie one day “by accident” and don’t give it back. but somewhere between shared debriefs and early-morning setup shifts, it shifts. he starts bringing you snacks. starts leaving notes in your fanny pack like: you forgot your smile. i found it. -p or i stole you a popsicle. come find me. and you do. every time. it’s not just adrenaline anymore. it’s affection. familiarity. you start to know each other’s footsteps. moods. soft spots. he lets you see his softness without irony. and that terrifies you.

⟡ the campers love him. of course they do. he’s barefoot half the time, sunburned, trailing kids like a one-man parade. makes fart jokes. pretends to be a swamp monster. teaches them how to fish using gummy worms. they call him “coach p” even though you don’t have sports teams. and you hate how good he is at this. how easily he connects. how quickly kids go from sobbing to giggling with one dumb face or story. you run a tighter ship. you enforce quiet hours, give the best hugs, braid hair and bandage knees and write postcards to homesick girls so they feel like they matter. you’re the safe one. he’s the fun one. opposites. and somehow, it works. he teases you about being the “camp mom,” but you catch him watching you across the playground like he’s already imagining you holding his kid one day. he doesn’t say that out loud. but you feel it.

⟡ after lights out, he sneaks into your cabin through the back. not every night. but enough that you start sleeping on the left side of the cot automatically. you kiss with the urgency of people who might get caught. thighs tangled. teeth clashing. breath stolen in pieces. sometimes he just lays there, hand under your shirt, fingers slow on your ribs like he’s trying to map you. he talks softer here. asks about your family. your old job. why you came to camp in the first place. “what are you running from?” he asks once, into your shoulder. you pretend you didn’t hear him. you’re not ready to answer that. and he doesn’t push. just kisses the curve of your neck and pulls you closer.

⟡ dry humping with him isn’t a compromise. it’s a sickness. you’re both fully clothed, rutting against each other like desperate teenagers—panting, whispering, biting back moans in the dark. he grinds down hard, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, and you clutch at him like it hurts to be touched. your thighs get sticky. your shirt gets pulled halfway up. sometimes you come in your underwear with him barely touching you—just from how intense he gets. how he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs “you’re so wet like this—jesus, baby, you gonna come for me just like that?” and you do. and you can’t even feel embarrassed, because he’s coming too, hips jerking, cock twitching against your thigh like he’s been aching for you all day. because he has.

⟡ sometimes, after cleanup duty, he corners you in the kitchen. flicks off the light. lifts you onto the counter and stands between your knees like he owns the space. kisses you so slowly it almost hurts. tongue sliding lazy and wet against yours. hands tracing the shape of your waist like he’s not in a rush for once. “you’re the only reason i get through the day sometimes,” he admits into your mouth. and you don’t know how to answer. so you just pull him closer. and kiss him like you believe it.

⟡ the sneaking around gets easier. muscle memory. you both know which counselors leave which patrols and when. which spots stay dark the longest. you pass each other little smirks during meals, casual touches that mean meet me later. and it’s exciting. addicting. it feels like a secret universe just for the two of you—where your rules don’t apply and his bad habits don’t scare you and everything in the world stops mattering for a little while. until the sun comes up. until the whistles blow. until you’re back in your polos, pretending nothing happened, pretending you don’t miss his weight behind you.

⟡ patrick makes you laugh in the middle of moments you’re trying to be serious. mid-counselor meeting while you’re trying to propose a new bug spray schedule, he leans over and whispers “you’ve got a power complex and i support it.” you shove him. he grins like a child. but later, he shows up to your bug spray training and helps the kids fill out their logs. even makes a joke about mosquitos being “nature’s way of checking if you’re paying attention.” he teases you like you’re a joke. but treats you like a miracle. you hate it. you love it. you don’t know which is worse.

⟡ one night, you’re both out late walking a homesick camper back to their bunk. the kid holds your hand. patrick holds a flashlight. and when the kid falls asleep, curled between their stuffed animal and your knee, you both sit there. in silence. until patrick says, “i think i could do this. like—this. forever.” and you look at him. really look. not the barefoot troublemaker or the secret hookup or the guy who knows how to kiss your neck just right. just him. raw. tired. maybe a little afraid. “me too,” you whisper. and it feels dangerous. it feels real. it feels like the kind of thing you don’t come back from.

⟡ patrick never wears shoes. like, ever. he says it’s a “grounding practice,” but you’re 90% sure he just hates laces. his feet are perpetually dirty, half-burnt from the blacktop, always scratched up from god knows what—sticks, rocks, one infamous lego in the arts cabin. you make fun of him for it constantly. he calls you “foot-shamer general” and bows dramatically whenever you scold him. but then he gets a splinter and limps around for half a day and you end up crouched in the nurse’s station, tweezers in hand, while he pouts and calls you “florence fuckin’ nightingale.” you don’t smile. not out loud. but when you rub ointment into his arch, he exhales like your hands are made of fire.

⟡ patrick is always snacking. like constantly. he’s the kind of guy who has sunflower seed shells in every pocket, and a crushed granola bar melted into the lining of his backpack. once you caught him eating an entire packet of mini Oreos behind the cabins at 9am. when you stared at him, horrified, he just grinned and said, “i’m on the patrick plan: five meals, two breakdowns, and a little sugar every hour.” and it would be ridiculous—should be ridiculous—but then he starts bringing you snacks. peanut butter crackers when you skip lunch. little cups of gatorade when you look tired. he never says why. just hands it to you and walks away.

⟡ you’ve never seen anyone make kids laugh like he does. he’ll trip over a tree root, fall into a mud puddle, and still turn it into a game. his group is always in chaos—missing shoes, crooked name tags, one kid trying to eat a bug—but they worship him. like he hung the moon. and it drives you insane. because he lets them get away with everything. but he also remembers all their birthdays. carries bug spray for the ones with sensitive skin. draws secret tattoos on their wrists with marker so they can feel brave during nature hikes. you can’t even hate him for it. because he’s good. stupidly good. in a way that makes you ache.

⟡ you both learn each other’s bodies like a survival skill. where he likes to be scratched. the spot on your inner thigh that makes your hips twitch. how to kiss without leaving marks. how to slide hands under shirts without rustling too much fabric. he knows how to undo your bra with one hand. you know how to straddle his lap without messing up your bunk. he’s a master at unbuttoning your shorts just enough to slip his hand in, fingers warm and rough and so good while he kisses you slow and deep like there’s no one else on the planet. and when you come, gasping into his neck, he holds you there. murmurs your name like it’s something precious.

⟡ sometimes, when you’re doing head counts, he’ll sneak up behind you and whisper the wrong number just to mess with you. “twenty-four, baby. we lost one. check the lake.” you threaten to kill him. every time. but he’s already laughing, ducking away, and god—god—you love him. even when you hate him. maybe especially when you hate him. it’s easier than saying the real thing. than admitting it’s not just a fling. not just camp hormones. it’s him. it’s always him.

⟡ on a hot july night, the two of you end up swimming in the lake after hours. no lights. no one watching. just skin on skin and silence. you float on your back. he watches you like you’re something rare. precious. “you ever think about next year?” he asks. and you hate the question. because of course you have. and of course you haven’t. and everything feels too fragile to say out loud. so you just splash water in his face and tell him to race you to the dock. he lets you win. barely.

⟡ he knows when you’re stressed. doesn’t ask. doesn’t prod. just finds you. hands you a popsicle. leads you to the dock. doesn’t say a word until your breathing slows. then he leans in and says something so stupid—so insufferably funny—you end up wheezing. head in your hands. tears in your eyes. and he’s just sitting there watching you, face soft with something dangerous. something that sounds a lot like forever.

⟡ there’s a spot behind the camp kitchen where the staff sometimes sneak cigarettes. you don’t smoke. he does. but you start meeting him there anyway. sometimes he just presses you into the wall, kisses you until your lips are raw. sometimes he just talks. tells you stories about foster homes, old bands he used to love, that one time he thought he could live in his car. you listen. every time. and when he exhales smoke into the air and mutters “i don’t think i’ve ever felt safe like this,” you don’t say anything. you just hold his hand. and hope it’s enough.

⟡ patrick’s hoodie smells like sunscreen and grass and cedarwood soap. you wear it more than he does. he pretends not to notice. but one night, you give it back. folded. clean. and he looks at you like you just ended something. you can’t explain why it hurts so much. but later, when he shows up at your cabin, he’s wearing it. and when he kisses you, it’s deeper than usual. slower. like he’s begging you not to leave first.

⟡ the kids figure it out way before either of you admit anything. it starts small. one of your campers catches you smiling at patrick during breakfast lineup and immediately starts whispering about it like it’s breaking news. another swears they saw him looking at you during talent show night with “googly eyes.” suddenly there are questions. “do you like coach p?” “do you think he likes you back?” “if you got married would we get invited??” you deny it. every time. cool. calm. collected. until one of the boys from his cabin asks patrick, dead serious: “if you kiss miss [your name], do you have to sign a form or something?” and he chokes on his juice box.

⟡ your campers start acting weird about it. suddenly you’re being paired with him for every buddy activity. he’s always the first one they vote to sit with you during meals. one of the girls makes a beaded necklace with both your initials and gives it to you, just beaming. “it’s for luck.” you wear it under your shirt. patrick finds it later when he’s got his hands up your back, and you feel him stop. go still. “this mine?” he murmurs. and when you nod, he presses his mouth to your collarbone like a thank you.

⟡ the final week is crushing. your schedule’s full of extra activities and farewell events and everyone’s overtired and overstimulated—but it’s not just exhaustion. it’s grief. because every day is a countdown now. every shared glance with patrick. every lunch tray passed. every secret kiss behind the maintenance shed. every time he passes you the walkie with his fingers brushing yours. it’s all starting to feel like goodbye.

⟡ you and patrick start holding onto each other longer at night. not talking. not even kissing sometimes. just curled up together in your bunk, breathing in sync. he strokes your spine with the back of his fingers and whispers things you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. “wish i met you earlier.” “you feel like home, you know that?” and worst of all: “you think we’ll be like…okay, after?” you don’t answer. you just bury your face in his neck. pretend time doesn’t exist.

⟡ the last night of camp, your kids do skits and cry and give each other bracelets and someone plays “riptide” on ukulele again even though no one asked. patrick’s sitting on the bench behind your group, legs spread, arms around two of his boys who are both pretending they’re not crying. you catch his eye. he mouths: “you okay?” and it breaks you. because no. you’re not. but you nod anyway.

⟡ you sneak away after lights-out. meet him down by the docks. it’s chilly. the lake’s glass. he’s already sitting at the edge, feet in the water, hoodie up, face unreadable. when you sit beside him, he doesn’t say anything. just leans over, head on your shoulder. “can we not talk?” he asks. “just…be here?” and you stay there until sunrise. neither of you say a word.

⟡ the kids give you goodbye letters. glitter pens. tissue flowers. one of them writes “i hope you and coach p get married. he looks at you like my dad looks at my mom in old photos.” you read it in the storage closet. alone. and cry so hard you choke.

⟡ patrick doesn’t do goodbyes well. he makes jokes. high-fives. spins a camper over his shoulder and calls it a “final swirl.” but you can tell he’s unraveling. later, after dinner, he corners you behind the lodge. “i don’t know how to not see you tomorrow,” he says. voice thin. “i don’t know how to wake up and not look for your dumb clipboard and your ponytail and your bossy little voice telling me to shut up and act right.” and you kiss him before he can finish. slow. quiet. ruined.

⟡ the morning everyone leaves, it’s chaos. suitcases. hugs. snot. sobbing campers. last photos. your hands are shaking. his too. he loads up the last van, then just…stands there. doesn’t even look at you at first. just wipes his mouth like he’s trying to pull it together. “don’t forget me,” he says. and it’s not fair. it’s not fair. because you won’t. not in a million years.

⟡ after the buses are gone, you find something in your cubby. it’s his bandana. the red one he always wore tied around his neck or arm or forehead like a cartoon cowboy. it smells like cedar and lake water and sweat. there’s a note with it. not long. just:

for the next time you miss me more than you should.

—p.

⟡ the first week after camp, everything hurts. you fold laundry like you’re in mourning. you smell sunscreen and feel your stomach turn. you walk past a lake and almost cry. you check your phone and feel sick with how much you want his name to light up the screen. he texts you two days later: “Yo! My new job has air conditioning. It’s unnatural. Also I miss you. A lot. :( I’ll send gummy worms if you say it back.” you don’t answer for a while. then: “miss you more. send two packs.”

⟡ he does. in a padded envelope. no note. just worms. and you hold them to your chest like they’re flowers. like a promise. like a maybe.

congrats on 100 elowyn!!!!! you so deserve it, gonna request M from nsfw alphabet and would I be possible do this artrick? if not just patrick is fine🙂‍↕️

tysm mel 🥹💝 i’ll whip up some artrick for ya

ARTRICK | NSFW ALPHABET | M = MOTIVATION (what turns them on, gets them going)

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @sohighitscool

ART DONALDSON

Art makes sex feel like the warm weight of a promise.

He doesn’t come at you like he’s trying to conquer anything—he approaches like he’s been handed a gift, and he’s terrified of holding it wrong. He’s soft, but not because he’s unsure; it’s because he cares that much.

What turns him on isn’t power, isn’t control, isn’t anything you’d expect—it’s praise. Honest, needy praise. The moment you gasp out a, “Fuck, feels so good, Art,” his whole demeanor shifts, and suddenly he’s hungry in a way that makes your knees weak. He needs to know he’s doing it right, doing it better, making you feel so good that you can’t even remember how to speak. Tell him he’s perfect and he’ll suck a bruise into your thigh, low and trembling and worshipful, like he’s trying to prove he deserves it.

He gives head like it’s his religion, face buried between your legs, licking and moaning like he’s starved, every sound you make pulling him deeper into the rhythm of it, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair and sob his name, he groans, hips grinding against the mattress because getting you off does more for him than anything else possibly could.

He can be rough when you want it—can pin your hands and fuck you slow and deep with his teeth gritted and his praises pouring out—but even then, it’s all in service of you. You tell him he’s the best you’ve ever had and he’ll fall apart in your hands. You tell him you need him and he’ll shake.

And after, he’ll be nothing but warmth—gentle, whisper-quiet, kissing your forehead and wrapping you in his arms, asking if you’re okay even though he’s already gotten you a towel and a bottle of water and is halfway through tucking you in. “You sure I didn’t overdo it?” he’ll ask with that little furrow between his brows, even though your legs are still trembling and your voice is wrecked from screaming his name. All he needs is to hear you say it again. That he did good. That he’s enough. That he’s yours.

⸻

PATRICK ZWEIG

Patrick’s turn-ons are chaos dressed in charm. He flirts with tension the way most people flirt with eye contact, fingers always testing the limits, grin just crooked enough to get away with it. He gets off on being too much—too fast, too close, too smug, too hot, too fucking good at making you react. Bratty as hell, all lip and swagger, Patrick will push you until you snap because what really makes him throb is watching you lose your patience and take what’s yours.

His body is made to be fucked. He knows it, he flaunts it, he dares you to admit it. Slap his ass, spit on his mouth, call him a whore—he’ll moan into it with a bite to his grin, pupils blown wide, head tilted like he’s about to laugh and cry all at once. “You gonna call me names, baby?” he’ll pant, sucking your fingers into his mouth like candy, drooling around your knuckles with that filthy, reverent look in his eyes.

He loves being used, degraded, pinned down and told he’s nothing but a hole to fuck, but he wants it from someone who sees him. Who gets him. That’s where the angel glows through—he’s the devil who blushes when you call him beautiful mid-thrust, the brat who melts when you pull him in and tell him he’s yours.

He switches when it hits right, when the mood turns—one second he’s mouthing off, the next he’s flipping you over, fucking you deep with slow, brutal thrusts and hissing in your ear, “You gonna be good for me now?”—and whether he’s topping or bottoming, he wants it dirty. Wants it wet, messy, obscene. His mouth stays busy—on you, around you, in you—and when he finally comes, it’s loud, full-body, shameless.

Aftercare’s minimal but honest. He won’t do the whole ritual but he’ll hold you, curled against your chest, biting back a sleepy smile while pretending he’s not touched. “You’re obsessed with me,” he’ll mumble, already half-asleep with your fingers in his hair, and when you kiss his forehead he doesn’t flinch—just sighs like he’s never been safer in his life.

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.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

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.

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

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!

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