Function Idea: You, Me, And Da Boys Licking And Sucking On Art Donaldson, Driving Lamborghinis, And Eating

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for the girls, gays, and theys who enjoyed countryclub!dilf!art, i bestow upon you… a bot!

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ sweat (countryclub!art) ۪ ֹ ᮫

COUNTRY CLUB!DILF!ART x BEVERAGE GIRL/WAITRESS!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

warnings: oral sex (f&m receiving), semi-public sex / risky sex, softdom!art, praise kink, age gap (mid 30s art, early 20s reader), masturbation (m), aftercare, intimacy under power imbalance, slow burn situationship, emotionallyunavailable!art

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

⟡ art is the kind of dilf who doesn’t even know he’s the fantasy. thick wrists, slow laugh, cologne like cedar and wealth. he tips heavy without looking at the check, calls everyone “bud” or “darlin,” but there’s something sharper under the sweetness—an ex-athlete’s ruthlessness tucked beneath the golf polos and polite smirks. he doesn’t brag about money. it’s just there. in the way he talks. the way he moves. like he’s never had to worry. like he’s always known what he wants.

⟡ art cooks exactly two things: steak, and eggs. both to perfection. everything else he orders out. but when he does cook for you—shirtless, barefoot, pan in hand—he insists on feeding you the first bite. presses it to your lips with a little smirk like, “told you i still got it.”

⟡ he notices you on your first week. not because you flirt—everyone flirts—but because you didn’t. because you got flustered and dropped a cocktail napkin when he looked at you too long. because you said “sir” like it embarrassed you. and he likes that. likes watching the way you try not to stare when he laughs with the ex-tennis crowd. likes how you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying not to draw attention, knowing you already have his.

⟡ he starts sitting on your side of the terrace. alone at first, just a whiskey and the sports page, but then: a casual “how’s your day been, sweetheart?” that turns into you blushing. and then: him staying after hours. lingering too long. one night he walks you to your car. just to be polite, he says. and then he leans against your window after you unlock it, eyes heavy, voice low, and says: “you’re real pretty when you get shy like that.”

⟡ he calls you “sweetheart,” “baby,” and “my girl” in public—but in private, when he’s got you naked and gasping, it’s rougher. “gimme that pussy, angel,” he growls into your neck. “y’know you were made for me, right?” and when you moan, soft and ruined, he smiles like he just won a bet.

⟡ he likes to spoil. not with flashy gifts (unless you ask). no, art is more insidious than that. he sends you home with his cashmere sweater one rainy night and never asks for it back. orders you things to the club anonymously: better shoes for your shifts, the good lip balm, chocolate covered espresso beans you “mentioned liking once.” if you act overwhelmed, he cups your cheek in his warm palm and says, “you don’t have to earn this, baby. i just like seeing you taken care of.”

⟡ you fuck in strange places. the backseat of his car parked in the maintenance lot, your legs thrown over his lap as he grips your thighs with strong, veined hands and mutters “good girl, good girl” into your throat. the staff bathroom when you’re supposed to be restocking—your back against the tile, panties pushed aside, his tongue lazy and heavy between your legs like he’s savoring every second. he doesn’t rush. he never rushes. you come on his mouth with your fist in his hair, crying out his name like a confession.

⟡ he smells like cigars sometimes. not from smoking—he quit years ago—but from being around the kind of men who still do. when you climb into his lap at his place, it’s always warm leather and expensive bourbon and a little bit of old sin. you grind against him while he holds your hips and just watches you. he says things like “god, you feel so good. look at you. look at how sweet you are like this.” and you try to hide your face and he grabs your chin and says “nah. none of that. let me see you fall apart.”

⟡ the man lives for casual PDA. big hand on the back of your neck. warm palm sliding down to rest on your hip while you stand beside him. kisses to your temple when you pass by with a tray. and if someone else is looking? he doesn’t care. in fact, he likes it. he wants people to see. wants the guys he drinks with to know you’re his girl.

⟡ he’s really, really good with kids. not performative or pinterest-y—just patient. kind. when tashi drops off lily for a weekend while she’s away, he gets the good snacks. lets her talk for hours about horses or space or whatever third-grade obsession she’s on. he lets her decorate his face with glitter stickers. teaches her how to hold a tennis racket like a real pro. makes her pancakes in animal shapes and acts like he’s bad at it so she laughs. she adores him. and when she’s asleep? he checks on her twice. closes the door soft.

⟡ you don’t always know what this is. he doesn’t promise anything. and he never says the word relationship. but he calls you his girl. he brings you to quiet dinners at the steakhouse three towns over. sometimes you stay the night and wake up to him already dressed, buttoning his shirt and saying “go back to sleep, honey. i left coffee on for you.” and sometimes you ache with how much you want it to mean more. but you don’t say that. not yet.

⟡ he loves when you call him mr. donaldson, but only in private. not during sex—though that’s hot too—but afterward. curled into him. breathless. when you whisper it in that sweet, tired voice and his arms tighten around you like instinct. “that’s my girl,” he’ll murmur, kissing your forehead, like it’s a secret only you two know how to keep.

⟡ he’s careful with you. not condescending. not controlling. just attentive. he notices when you’ve had a bad shift before you say a word. undresses you slowly like he’s rewinding the day. lets you cry into his shoulder, never asking for an explanation. just strokes your back and murmurs, “you don’t have to be tough with me. i got you, alright?”

⟡ the angst lives under everything. you feel it in moments where you laugh too hard at his joke and then remember he has a kid. an ex. a real life. you feel it when you leave through the back gate instead of the front. when he introduces you as “a friend from the club” and your stomach twists even though you understand. because you do. because you signed up for this. but still. sometimes you wish he’d ask you to stay.

⟡ the first time you touch him—really touch him, strip him down piece by piece and crawl into his lap with a desperate little “wanna make you feel good”—he goes quiet. still. then threads a hand into your hair and mutters “jesus, baby. you don’t have to.” but when you do? when you take him in your mouth, eyes wide and obedient, he groans like he’s dying and says your name over and over like it’s saving him.

⟡ he’s never rough unless you beg for it. and when you do, he checks in without words. just a hand on your thigh. a kiss to your wrist. a pause. and then: fucking you hard over the kitchen counter, one hand pressed flat to your lower back while you choke on his name and the sound of your own breath. you leave the club the next day sore, glowing, and dazed.

⟡ he keeps things. a receipt with your number on it, folded into his wallet. a half-empty body spray you left in his guest bathroom. he doesn’t say anything. just uses it when he’s alone. sometimes he closes his eyes and jerks off with it in his hand, breathing deep, thinking about you calling him “sir” all innocent in your tennis skirt while he imagines flipping it up and wrecking you.

⟡ he smells like a warm blend of cedarwood and vetiver, something a little spiced and clean with a hint of tobacco that lingers in his collars. expensive without being loud. comforting. like polished wood and dry bourbon and warm sheets. sometimes, when he’s freshly showered, it’s just skin and soap—plain, masculine, irresistible. but when he’s been outside, golfing or doing yard work? he smells sun-warmed, like earth and grass and that faintly smoky leather note from his belt.

⟡ you make him feel young. not because of your age, but because of how you see him. like he’s someone worth craving. worth needing. not just a rich man with a good tailor and a good watch, but a man you ache for. and he feels guilty, sometimes. like he’s taking something he shouldn’t. but he can’t stop. not when you look at him like that. not when you moan his name like a promise.

⟡ he never asks you to quit. never asks you to hide. but one night after he’s fucked you slow and long on his balcony, the club lights in the distance, he murmurs, “you ever think about doing something else, baby?” and you freeze. because he doesn’t say with me. he just says it like he’s imagining you somewhere safer. cleaner. richer. and you want to cry. but instead, you say, “sometimes.” and he kisses your shoulder and holds you closer like he’s sorry for even asking.

⟡ he takes you on a weekend trip once. nothing flashy. just a cabin by a lake. he pretends it’s casual. but you find a stocked fridge, your favorite brand of shampoo, and a soft robe in your size. and when you thank him, he just shrugs and says, “i like watching you relax.” you fuck for hours in the wide, creaking bed. he makes you come until you’re boneless. then runs you a bath. scrubs your back like it’s a ritual. like this is something he wants to remember.

⟡ he’s not flashy with love—but it bleeds into everything. he changes your oil before you can ask. puts your favorite drink in his fridge. gets you that necklace you casually mentioned once while tipsy. never says those three words outright, but when you’re sick, he cancels a golf weekend and lays next to you with his hand resting on your thigh, watching reruns until you fall asleep.

⟡ he doesn’t say he loves you. not yet. maybe not ever. but he watches you like he might. like he could. and sometimes that’s worse. sometimes that’s better. sometimes you just want to believe it’s enough.

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

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okay PHEW then that means only a few of my bots are shadowbanned… i can fix that 😭😭

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.

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 😲

DEALER!PATRICK x INNOCENT!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

pairing: dealer!patrick x innocent!fem!reader

warnings: sexual content (fem receiving oral, rough sex, possessiveness, choking, overstimulation, marking, soft degradation, dom/sub dynamics), drug use (lsd, molly, xanax, weed, ketamine, coke), trauma, overdose/death mentions, addiction, rehab/prison references, emotional repression, co-dependency, jealousy, obsessive behavior, comfort after panic attacks/bad trips, soft!patrick only for reader, rough sex but gentle love

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

⟡ patrick has a dealer’s body language down to a science—leaned back in the seat, chin lifted, voice all slow and syrupy like he’s got nowhere to be but you should hurry the fuck up. but when you’re in his car? his posture changes. he turns the air down so you don’t get cold. throws your bag in the backseat without saying anything, just so it won’t get stepped on. slides his hoodie over your knees like it’s nothing. it’s not nothing. not for him.

⟡ sex with him is heat and hush. no loud theatrics. no fake moans. just raw breathing and bruised hips and the sound of your head hitting the headboard. he doesn’t talk much during, but when he does? it’s filthy. unfiltered. murmured into your skin like a secret: you like this, baby? you like being mine? i can feel you clenching—fuck, you’re so fucking wet for me.

⟡ he eats you out with terrifying focus. no teasing, no bullshit, just spreads your thighs and gets to work like he’s starving. one arm locked around your waist, holding you still. the other sliding up your chest, fingertips ghosting over your throat, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s thinking about shoving it in. when you come, he doesn’t stop. not even a little. he keeps licking until you’re crying into the sheets, hands in his hair, legs shaking around his head. he groans when you squirt. doesn’t even stop to acknowledge it. just keeps going. he’s sick like that.

⟡ he swears he doesn’t have a favorite food, but he always finishes an entire bowl of spicy instant ramen like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. extra chili oil. two soft-boiled eggs. cold sprite after. he gets weirdly quiet when he eats it, like it reminds him of something. maybe rehab meals. maybe nights he crashed at someone’s place with nothing in the fridge. you start buying the kind he likes. he notices.

⟡ he knows the chemistry of every high like a second language. he can talk you down from a bad trip with nothing but a cold rag and a soft voice. strokes your hair while you cry. walks you in circles around his living room while you’re coming down. gives you electrolyte powder and magnesium. pulls you into his lap when your teeth start chattering. tells you it’s okay. tells you he’s got you. doesn’t flinch when you throw up on his floor. wipes your mouth clean like he’s done it a hundred times. (he has.)

⟡ patrick lost his dad to fentanyl when he was sixteen. found him in the garage, cold and bloated. didn’t cry. couldn’t. he just stood there staring at the way the man’s hand still gripped the belt around his arm. his first overdose wasn’t even a cry for help—it was an accident. he didn’t know how much to take. he was just trying to be numb like everyone else. rehab gave him scars. prison gave him paranoia. nothing gave him peace. except you.

⟡ he gets off on your sweetness. genuinely. like it’s a kink. the way you say thank you when he gives you a new edible. the way you laugh, light and stupid, when you’re tipsy. the way you get overwhelmed after you come too hard and start to cry, shaking your head like it’s too much—and he kisses your throat and calls you good girl until you come again anyway. he doesn’t want to dirty you. but he needs to. and that tension breaks him open.

⟡ he didn’t expect to fuck you. let alone fall for you. he thought you were some clueless rich girl—wide-eyed, giggly, asking if molly came in pink. and you were, in a way. but you asked the right questions. made him laugh when he hadn’t laughed in weeks. cried in his bed after your first trip and told him about your dad’s anger and your mom’s silence and how you just wanted to feel good for once. and he sat there, staring at the ceiling, not saying shit. but the next day, he gave you a weighted blanket and a playlist and said, “for next time.” there was no next time. not without him.

⟡ patrick eats like he’s never been fed properly. quick, brutal, hands curled around the edge of his plate. he only slows down when you feed him—literally, like you’re offering scraps to a half-wild dog. you hand him a spoonful of soup and he lets you do it. bites whatever’s in your hand without comment. not because he’s lazy. because it makes his chest go soft in this weird, aching way.

⟡ you got too close to his world once. walked into a pickup by accident—just wanted to bring him his charger. some street kid started mouthing off at you, called you patrick’s “little bitch,” tried to snatch your phone. patrick lost it. shoved the guy into the wall, knee to the chest, knuckles split on contact. dragged you back to the car with shaking hands and adrenaline-flooded pupils. didn’t speak for ten minutes. just stared out the window, one hand gripping your thigh like a leash. later, he fucked you on the hood of his car. slow. possessive. like a warning. like a promise.

⟡ his apartment is a mix of sterile and chaos. bathroom always clean. floors swept. but the coffee table is covered in lighters, baggies, test kits, books, post-it notes with scrawled dosages. half a physics textbook he never returned. torn lyric sheets. a cracked spoon with ash on it that he hasn’t thrown out because it belonged to someone he lost. he never talks about that. you never ask. you just set a glass of water on the edge of the mess like you belong there. and maybe you do.

⟡ you make him feel. and that’s terrifying. you call him out on his shit without being cruel. you tell him you care, and you mean it. you bring him stupid little snacks and giggle when he pretends not to care. he never says thank you. just eats half and puts the other half in the glove box for later. you get him, in that soft, dumb way that feels like sunlight through a hangover.

⟡ he jerks off to the thought of you wearing his chain. sitting on his lap, panties pulled to the side, full of him and smiling like you know exactly how good you look. he watches you sleep like a weirdo. pokes your thigh under the blanket until you sigh in your sleep and roll toward him. he thinks about saying he loves you. a lot. but he doesn’t. instead, he kisses your ankle. instead, he calls you good girl when you ask if two tabs is too much. (it is.)

⟡ he’s got boundaries for you. hard ones. no uppers unless he’s there. no mixing downers with alcohol. no pickups. no deliveries. he keeps a stash locked in the apartment only for you—cleanest tabs, softest come-ups. refuses to sell you anything benzo-based unless you’ve had a panic attack. he knows the slope. he’s seen it. he’s buried people on it. you don’t get to fall. not on his watch.

⟡ patrick’s favorite position is you on your stomach, legs spread, face in the sheets, and him behind you—deep, slow, unrelenting. it’s not just about dominance (though it is that). it’s the control. the view. the way he can press one hand flat between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip, watching your back arch with every thrust. he loves hearing you whimper into the pillow, all muffled and needy and wrecked for him.

⟡ he’s cold with everyone else. brisk. unreadable. “plug” more than “patrick.” he talks in coded slang and drops people without warning. but with you? he talks about books. about shit he remembers from high school. about the rehab group leader who gave him The Bell Jar and said “you might get it.” and he did. he never told anyone else that. not even his sponsor.

⟡ when you cry, he doesn’t know what to do. he just holds you. presses your face into his neck and rubs your back in messy, aimless circles. he’s not good with words, but he’s there. which is more than anyone’s ever been for him. when he cries—because it does happen—it’s silent. violent. chest-heaving, face-covered, biting his wrist so you don’t hear it. but you do. and you never say anything. just hold his hand. and he lets you.

⟡ he marks you up with bruises, but not because he wants to show you off. because he wants you to remember. wants you to look in the mirror and think: i’m his. wants you to touch the sore spot on your hip and feel heat rush between your legs. wants you to know what he can do to you. what you let him do.

⟡ he doesn’t think he deserves you. not really. not with his past, his track record, the way he still wakes up in cold sweats dreaming about white powder and blue lips. but he’ll be damned if anyone else touches you. not a fucking chance. not in this life. not while he’s breathing.

⟡ he has two different drawers in his nightstand: one full of drugs, one full of things for you. the first is a mess—scales, wraps, rolled bills, old tabs, roaches. the second is ordered. your favorite gum. a heating pad. your favorite mascara he bought by matching it to a photo on your instagram story. a pack of backup socks, because you always forget them. he never mentions it. never brags. but the drawer’s always full. always waiting.

⟡ patrick likes watching you put on lip balm. not in a creepy way. but in that silent, trance-like way where his jaw tics and his fingers flex and his eyes darken just a little. especially when you do it slowly, lazily, while sitting on his lap in his apartment. he’ll tilt your chin and swipe his thumb over your mouth afterward like he’s testing it. sometimes he’ll say pretty. sometimes he’ll fuck you after. sometimes he won’t do a damn thing—just sit there, visibly restraining himself.

⟡ he keeps a mental catalog of how you react to different highs. he knows your laugh on molly vs your laugh on weed vs your lsd laugh (which always starts quiet and then rolls into your chest like a wave). he knows what snacks to keep around. he knows your body gets cold exactly 31 minutes after peaking. he lays out blankets before it hits. tells you he’s just “getting cozy.” but it’s never random. he’s watching. always.

⟡ he’s your first real heartbreak waiting to happen. and you know it. but you love him anyway. and somehow, impossibly, he starts to believe maybe—just maybe—you’re the first thing that won’t break him.

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

Elowyn is such a gorgeous name wow. It reminds me of the name Éowyn, like the Lord of the Rings character.

thank you so much!! i just googled her and shes gorgeous ❤️