LITTLE LAMB — Vampire!tashi X Sacrificialvirgin!reader

no i will not be taking questions at this time ❤️

this bot is my favorite one on the whole app.

Hi! Would u mind doing NSFW J for art? Congratulationssss :)

of course i don’t mind!!! thank you so much for sending in a request lovely lovely anon (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

j is for jack off | art donaldson

warnings: explicit sexual content, masturbation (male), edging, pillow humping, praise kink (self-praise), voyeuristic habits, whimpering, slightly messy cleanup, soft post-nut feelings, lonely undertones, emotionally charged self-touch, ambiguous sexuality

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

Art’s dorm bed creaks like it’s remembering something every time he moves. Too narrow, too warm, too full of his own goddamn thoughts. He keeps the overhead light off even when the sun starts going down—lets the room stay honey-dim, just amber lamplight slanting in from the hallway under the door. It’s not about shame. Not really. He just needs quiet. Control. A kind of ritual.

His jeans are already halfway down his thighs when he shuffles under the covers, his skin still hot from the cheap dorm shower. Hair damp at the temples, T-shirt clinging to his back, everything about him soft and flushed from the heat. He moves slow. Always slow. This isn’t a race—never is. Art likes to feel it. Draw it out. Drag himself toward the edge and back again until he’s panting into his pillow, hips twitching, legs stiff and useless from holding tension too long.

Tonight, he’s hard before he even touches himself.

There’s a folded towel under the top pillow already—he keeps one ready like it’s part of the process. His cock slips between the two stacked pillows, one on top of the other, and he shudders the second his hips dip forward. His thighs tense. His hands grip the mattress tight on either side of his hips, knuckles pale. He rocks forward gently, just enough to feel friction. It’s hot. Just warm enough. The cotton cover a little scratchy against the head of his cock, but he likes it. Likes that it feels like something. Likes the resistance.

“Fffuck…” he breathes into the mattress, voice shaky. His lips are pressed to the sheets, parted, drooling a little. “Shit, that’s… fuck, that’s good—”

It starts slow, like it always does. A grind, a little rut, just testing. His cock drags along the inside seam of the pillowcase, catching on the soft patch of fabric near the tag. He breathes in through his nose, moans out through his mouth. Quiet at first. Then breathier. Higher. Little whines pushing up into the dark as his hips start to stutter.

“Hnnn, fuckfuckfuck, mmngh—”

He doesn’t even need porn, not always. But sometimes—when he really needs it—he drags out the old laptop, the one with the weird fan whirring in the corner. Balances it on the floor, tilted up just enough to see two men fucking slow, messy, close. Intimate. He watches with his cheek squished into the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack. His hips keep moving. Thrusting soft and rhythmic like he’s syncing up with the guys onscreen. When one of them moans, Art moans with him. Like he’s there.

But most nights, it’s just his voice he listens to.

“Good boy,” he whispers. A breathless mantra. “Good boy, good boy, good—fuck—good boy, yeah…”

His voice lifts when he says it, like he’s outside himself, trying to believe it. Trying to be it. High and hushed and wrecked, the kind of sound you only make when you’re alone. He says it more when his cock starts to twitch, when his thighs start to cramp and his breath catches at the top of his chest.

“You’re doing so good, Artie. So good, fff—fuck, such a good boy, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Sometimes he teases himself. Stroking slow, stopping before the edge, pulling back to pant into the sheets until the tight coil in his gut eases again. Then he starts over. He’ll do it four, even five times before he lets himself tip over. He doesn’t care how long it takes. Time disappears when he’s like this. He can spend an hour grinding between pillows, thighs slick with sweat, pillowcase dark with precum. He gets wet when he’s worked up—soaked head, sticky shaft, every movement a slick glide that makes his toes curl.

When he gets close, his body tenses like a wire drawn taut. Breath quick and high and fluttering. His hips lose rhythm. He ruts up once, twice, three times hard into the pillows, groaning like he’s splitting apart. The last stroke always knocks something loose—his voice goes thin and pitchy, whispering a broken, “G’nna come, gonna—gonna fuckin’—fuuuck—” just as he spills.

His orgasm hits with a full-body jerk, thighs clamping tight, heels digging into the mattress. He whines, loud, into the pillow. Something between a gasp and a sob. All air and relief. The kind of sound no one’s ever supposed to hear.

He goes still after. Just for a minute. Face mashed into the towel, arms loose, cock still twitching between his thighs. His breath puffs out slow and uneven. He doesn’t move, not yet. Lets it all cool around him. He sleeps best after coming like that. Real sleep. Deep and quiet. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother getting up—just slides the pillows away, rolls onto his side, and sighs. A soft, dreamy sound. His face pressed to the mattress, fingers curled loosely under his chin like a kid.

When he does clean up, it’s gentle. Quiet. He pads to the sink with the towel bundled against his bare stomach, rinses it out under warm water, never cold. Folds it again like he’s making a hospital corner. He wipes himself down with a wet washcloth, tip still sensitive, hips twitching if he’s too quick. He doesn’t rush. Even now. Still a little dazed, cheeks pink, lips wet from mouthing into the sheets.

He never talks after. Doesn’t need to. Just hums under his breath as he sinks back into the bed. Bare chest, boxer briefs pulled back on. Sheets cool now. Arms tucked around a pillow. He sleeps like he’s been held—soft and small and vulnerable. Face buried, breath even, lashes dark against his cheek.

No dreams. Just calm.

Art Donaldson doesn’t fuck himself to forget. He does it to feel good. To feel loved, even if it’s just his voice saying it.

Even if no one hears him whisper, “good boy” into the dark.

Hiii! I saw on your pinned that you’re a fan of RDR2, so for your alphabet challenge, would you please write NSFW letter X for Arthur Morgan? Thank you!

ohhhh anon you have TASTE. i’d be DELIGHTED to write this for you.

x is for x-ray | arthur morgan

warnings: explicit sexual content, nudity, detailed anatomical description, language consistent with 1800s setting, voyeuristic focus on male body, light exhibitionism, use of second person pov, erotic fixation on physicality, unprotected sex implication, emotionally intimate context, mild praise kink undertones

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

notes: hey angels just a lil note—i absolutely love writing for challengers and the bear, and i’ll always be down to explore more of that, but if you ever feel like sending in asks for other fandoms too, please do! it really helps me stretch my creativity and explore new voices/vibes. writing for arthur morgan was such a joy, and i’d love to dive into more worlds like that. don’t be shy! okay i’m gonna stop because my hands hurt, i wrote a lot today 😭 enjoy!

The room in Valentine is nothing special—wood-paneled, narrow, scuffed floors and faded wallpaper peeling at the edges—but it doesn’t matter. The second Arthur strips off his coat, it ceases to be a hotel room. It becomes a cathedral. A shrine. A holy place built around the gravity of his body. And for the first time, you get to see him not as he’s dressed for the world—layered in denim and dust and guns—but raw. Bared.

It starts simple: the shrug of that trail-worn coat from his shoulders, the soft thud as it drops over the back of the chair, the flick of fingers undoing buttons down his shirt. But there’s nothing simple about the man himself. Arthur’s frame commands the space like it was built to worship him. Broad. Thick. Weather-hardened and sun-fed. His shoulders stretch the fabric of every shirt he owns, and once he peels it off—slow, like it’s never occurred to him someone might want to watch—it becomes impossible to look away.

He’s built like the frontier. Rugged. Untamed. A map of sweat and sun and scars. His skin is the color of oak bark in summer, golden and burnished with the kind of tan that doesn’t fade—it’s in him. Part of him. A deeper warmth than just skin-deep. His chest is massive, pelted with a coarse dusting of tawny-blond hair that gathers dense across the sternum, softens as it trails down his stomach in a thick line. His pectorals are full, heavy, not sculpted like a statue’s but lived-in—flesh formed from years of labor, from chopping wood, breaking horses, dragging bodies.

The hair down the center of his chest glows golden in the angled light, catching the color of the sunset leaking through the curtains. It creeps over his collarbones, softens the harsh ridge of old scars. One scar slices diagonally across his left pectoral, paler than the rest of him, like a whip cracked hot against the skin long ago. Another curls near the hip, a jagged crescent hidden in the shadow beneath his ribs.

And then the suspenders fall. The belt buckle clicks. He kicks off his boots, and his pants sag low on his hips. Wide hips. Solid hips. Built for carrying weight—saddlebags, corpses, the weight of guilt he doesn’t speak of. When he pushes those pants down, slow and unceremonious, he steps out of them like a man shedding his sins.

He is naked in the truest sense. And it’s devastating.

Arthur Morgan’s cock hangs thick between his thighs, flushed deep red at the head, darker toward the base where the hair thickens into a coarse nest of dirty blond. It’s big even soft. Long enough to demand respect. Heavy, veined, the foreskin resting back just enough to tease the slick pink of the glans beneath. A single bead of precum shines there, like he’s been holding back too long. And you know he has.

As you stare—open, shameless—he twitches. His cock thickens slowly, like it’s waking, like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it.

Arthur notices. His smile is shy, but crooked, a hint of self-deprecating charm. “Ain’t exactly a prize hog,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, but you can see it—the flush crawling down from his cheeks to his chest. He likes being seen. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.

His thighs are thick and wide-set, dusted with blond hair, dappled with fading bruises, knotted muscle flexing under skin every time he shifts his weight. There’s a line of scabbing down his shin from a ride through bramble or a botched dismount. His calves are strong, veined, the kind only years of walking, climbing, riding could build. Everything about him is earned.

And that stomach—not flat, not soft, but strong in a way that’s real. A faint curve over the belt-line. Muscles beneath the skin, not gym-trained but carved by work. He’s got a fine dusting of hair there, too, curling tighter below the navel, guiding the eye downward toward the dark root of his cock.

His arms are worth their own chapter. Thick biceps that stretch the seams of his shirts, veins standing prominent, forearms like sculpted stone. His hands? Massive. The kind that wrap around the butt of a rifle like it’s nothing. The kind that grip reins and throats and thighs with the same ease. They’re calloused and dirt-streaked and holy.

And the more you look, the more detail unfolds. His neck is thick, corded with sinew, shadowed by stubble. There’s always a touch of sweat just at his temples, the scent of him musk-heavy—leather and iron and firewood smoke, cut with the faint sweetness of molasses if you get too close to his throat. His beard is full, well-kept but untrimmed, flecked darker around the chin and mouth, soft-looking despite the thickness. And then there’s his hair—messy, sun-lightened, curls catching at the nape like he’s been riding all day with his hat off.

He’s staring now, too. Watching you watch him. That stormy gaze softened around the edges with something quiet. Something almost vulnerable.

“I know I’m rough,” he says low, voice catching like wind in a canyon. “Ain’t got much polish to me. But… well. I clean up all right, don’t I?”

And you want to laugh. Want to cry. Because this man—this towering, muscle-bound, scar-splattered outlaw—is standing bare before you, cock heavy and leaking, chest heaving just a little from the weight of your gaze, and still he wonders if he’s enough. If he’s worth looking at.

He’s more than enough. He’s obscene in his beauty.

You reach for him like gravity pulls you there. Your hands span his hips, your fingers brushing the wiry curls at the base of his cock, and he shivers. That flushed cock jumps against his stomach. The skin there is so hot it burns, a furnace under your palm. You drag a thumb over the slick head and he grits his teeth, groans low and deep, a sound pulled from somewhere in the belly of him.

“Fffffuck, sugar,” he gasps, shoulders flexing like a draft horse under harness. “That’s—s’tender. Been thinkin’ about this too long.”

But you don’t stroke. Don’t tease. You just look.

You memorize the shape of him. The texture of his skin. The way every part of him—from the pink of his nipples to the curl of his toes—is alive with anticipation. And when he leans back on the bed, thighs wide, cock resting against his stomach and glistening, one arm propped behind him to hold his weight—he looks like a goddamn vision. Like something carved out of the dirt and sun and blood of the West itself.

Arthur Morgan, in full.

And nothing’s ever looked better.

stanford art is my babie 🥹🥹

welcome to fwaist !

ABOUT ME

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

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

READ BEFORE REQUESTING

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

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ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ 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.

PTA MOM!TASHI HEADCANONS

pairing: pta mom!tashi x ptamom!fem!reader

warnings: explicit f/f oral sex (giving + receiving), rough fingering, overstimulation, power play, mild mommy kink energy (not explicit but heavily present in her dynamic as a controlling maternal figure), possessiveness / marking (biting, bruising, claiming behavior), masturbation (fem) with voyeuristic + obsessive undertones

⟡ tashi is the kind of mom who dominates the pta not by yelling, but with a smile that tells everyone she’s already ten steps ahead. her clipboard is color-coded. she has spreadsheets. she bakes things with just the right balance of pinterest aesthetic and genuine homemade warmth. the other moms admire her. fear her. talk about her in group chats. but you? you get the real version. the one who peels off her cardigan in your kitchen, kicks off her heels, and mutters “if i have to smile at one more bitch who calls my scones ambitious, i’m gonna scream.”

⟡ she’s got that casual, icy authority that makes people listen, even when she’s just asking someone to pass the almond milk. you’ve seen her make a man shut up mid-sentence with just a raised brow. but then she turns to you, softens just a little, and says, “you wanna ditch this meeting and go get drinks?” and you’re already grabbing your keys.

⟡ she touches you like you’re her pressure valve. not always sexual—though that comes later—but possessive. anchoring. a hand at the small of your back. fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist. her palm hot against your thigh when you sit next to each other at the pta fundraiser planning committee, perfectly hidden under the tablecloth. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.

⟡ she masturbates to the thought of you while lily’s at art’s house. her legs tangled in the sheets. her back arched, whispering your name into her wrist. she fingers herself hard, mean, like she’s punishing herself for how badly she wants you. sometimes she lays your photo face down beside her, like that’ll help. it never does. she always flips it back over.

⟡ tashi knows how to fake warmth. she did it on tennis courts for years. she does it at every bake sale, every book fair, every damn halloween carnival. but you see the cracks. the nights when she comes over with a bottle of wine she won’t share and mascara smudged under her eyes. “i was supposed to be something,” she says once, almost under her breath. “i was supposed to be more.”

⟡ she eats pussy like it’s the only god left. slow at first, like she’s unwrapping a gift. reverent. her tongue is precise, clinical even—but then something breaks in her. she grabs your hips like she’s trying to hold on for dear life. hums into you. makes a mess. won’t stop until your legs are shaking and your fingers are tangled in her sweaty curls. “you’re gonna come again,” she pants, “don’t argue. i know you can, baby.”

⟡ she lets you touch her only when she’s desperate. not because she doesn’t want to. because she doesn’t know how to let go. when she does let you? she comes so hard she cries. her hands gripping the pillow. her thighs clamped around your head like she’s trying to shut the world out. after, she’s quiet. breathless. she never says thank you. just kisses you like she’s drowning.

⟡ she handles school politics like a pro. she knows who’s cheating on who, who’s laundering money through the auction fundraiser, and which mom has a wine habit that’s gone from “ha ha” to “someone should talk to her.” she doesn’t say anything out loud. just gives you the look during meetings. that look. the you-see-this-bullshit-too-right? look. and later, she vents it out in your passenger seat while you get drive-thru sodas and sit in silence like you’re both 16 again.

⟡ tashi doesn’t let people in. not really. but you’re in. whether she says it or not. she remembers how you take your coffee. picks you up little things from target—nothing flashy, but things that mean she’s been thinking about you even in the toothpaste aisle. if you get sick, she’s at your door in 30 minutes with soup and vicks vaporub like a military-grade wife. she doesn’t sit. she hovers. she glares at your thermometer like she can will the fever away.

⟡ she gives you orgasms like performance art. like they’re something she choreographed. one hand holding you open, the other pressing your chest flat to the bed. she doesn’t always talk, but when she does, it’s filth whispered like prayer. “so sweet like this. you know that? so good for me. bet you’d let me fuck you on the pta table if i asked real nice.”

⟡ she can be so gentle it makes your chest ache. she brushes your hair behind your ear while you talk. buys your favorite gum and keeps it in her purse. she’ll send you a picture of lily in a homemade costume and say “we did good.” when you call her impressive, she looks away. “i don’t know what i am anymore,” she says. “but i like you. that’s one thing i’m sure of.”

⟡ she bites when she wants to remember you. collarbone. hipbone. between your thighs. she won’t say she misses you, but she’ll leave a bruise the size of her mouth on the inside of your thigh and then text you a picture of it two days later: still mine.

⟡ she has a jealous streak she refuses to name. if another mom gets too close to you? she’ll step between you, hand on your lower back, and smile like a wolf in pearls. later, she’ll pin you to the bed and mutter, “she doesn’t know how to make you feel like this. only i do. tell me.” (you always do.)

⟡ aftercare is strange for her. she can’t say the sweet things. so she gets quiet. brings you water. tugs your shirt back over your head with gentle fingers. brushes your hair behind your ear. she doesn’t kiss you right away. just looks at you—long, searching—and says, “you okay?” in that too-casual voice that means please say yes. please need me back.

⟡ she hates not being useful. if she’s not planning, fixing, perfecting—she feels hollow. after she quit tennis, there was a period where she couldn’t get out of bed. not from sadness. from inertia. it scared her. so now she overbooks everything. overfunctions. overachieves. she only slows down around you. sometimes. when she feels safe enough.

⟡ she makes lily’s life feel curated and safe. she sews labels into her daughter’s jackets. she keeps the fridge stocked with exactly the kind of juice box lily likes and tracks the phases of the moon in case her daughter’s third-grade science class needs “enrichment.” and she’s not trying to win—except she always is. she wants lily to feel like everything in her world is managed and flawless, because tashi’s childhood was chaos, and she will not repeat it. “i’m not gonna give her an anxious mom. even if i have to fake peace every single day.”

girl your killing it

no YOU 🥹🥹 thank u so much anon this is so sweet!

referring to your alphabet challenge, can you please write nsfw o for patrick zweig? thank u angel

i like the way u think anon 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ of course i can

PATRICK ZWEIG | NSFW ALPHABET | O = ORAL (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content, morning sex, cunnilingus, excessive oral fixation (receiving), beard soaked in slick, hair pulling, sleep/groggy sex (fully consensual), post-orgasm intimacy, sensory detail overload, language

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

Mornings with Patrick Zweig aren’t quiet, but they’re soft. Golden. His version of peace doesn’t come in silence—it comes in warmth. In his arm draped heavy around your waist. In the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath a slow rhythm warming the back of your neck. He sleeps shirtless, always has, skin sun-warmed and smooth except for the scatter of hair across his chest. And when he wakes, it’s never all at once.

He stirs like he’s reluctant to leave the dream. Groggy. Gravel-voiced. His thigh slides between yours, and his palm finds your stomach, pulling you in closer with a low, sleepy groan like gravity’s trying to keep you pressed together. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just breathes you in, his nose buried behind your ear, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.

And then—eventually—there’s that question, mumbled like a secret between lovers. “Can I do somethin’, baby? Please?”

He doesn’t wait for full sentences—he doesn’t need them. The nod of your head, the soft arch of your back, the slow parting of your thighs in sleepy consent is all the answer he needs. And Patrick moves like he’s done this a hundred times before. Because he has. And still? It never loses its magic for him.

He turns you onto your back like you’re precious cargo. Reverent. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes thick, that mussed mess of dark curls sticking in every direction. His beard’s grown in more lately—he doesn’t always shave on off-days—and it’s scratchy-soft against your inner thighs by the time he gets there, mouth trailing slow, open kisses down your body like every inch of you’s worth his full attention.

And you are. To him, you always are.

Your fingers find his hair like it’s second nature, threading through the sleep-warmed curls, and when you tug—just a little, testing, grounding yourself—he groans low and deep, his mouth still pressed to the soft skin of your stomach.

Then he laughs. Quiet, warm, wrecked. “Christ.” It’s whispered more to himself than to you, a gravel-rich hum before he noses between your thighs. “This pussy’s made for me.”

It doesn’t sound like a line. It’s not smug. It’s reverent. Like he’s reminding himself. And then? No more words. Patrick doesn’t waste time talking once he’s down there—he’d rather use his mouth for something far more important.

He kisses the crease of your thigh first. Then the other. His hands are steady on your hips, palms big and grounding as he pushes your legs further apart. It’s instinct now—how he adjusts his body, spreads your thighs, settles in like this is his natural habitat. Like he was born for this. For you.

And then his tongue is on you. Hot. Wet. Precise.

He licks you like he’s been thinking about it since he fell asleep the night before, dragging his tongue through your folds with slow, lazy strokes—up, then down, then up again, finishing with a soft suck at your clit that makes your hips jerk. His beard’s already wet. Already slick with your taste, his spit mixing with your slick in a mess he doesn’t even try to control. He’s patient, but he’s ravenous. Every moan you make feeds him. And every time your thighs twitch around his head, his grip tightens.

He’s not performing. There’s no flourish in his technique. He’s just… eating. Committed. Focused. Every movement of his mouth is deliberate. Every circle of his tongue against your clit is measured with expert pressure. He licks into you slow, groaning when you clench, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel, the way you come undone. He keeps his mouth open enough to breathe but sealed around you enough to hum low and filthy into your cunt, sending vibrations right through you.

And when you yank hard on his curls—fingers tangled, knuckles white—he groans loud. That sound rips through him and into you, and he doesn’t pull away. He laughs again, right into your pussy, breathless and feral, like he’s high off the way you taste.

Then it’s all tongue again. No teasing. Just commitment.

Patrick stays quiet except for the sounds—sloppy licks, wet groans, the occasional soft inhale when he pulls just far enough back to breathe, only to bury himself deeper again. His mouth never strays. He doesn’t look away. His hazel eyes are locked on you, glassy and adoring, blinking slow as he keeps going and going until you’re trembling around him, thighs over his shoulders, your slick dripping down his beard and onto the sheets beneath him.

He doesn’t let up when you cum. Not even close.

He drinks you in. Laps at your orgasm like he’s pulling it out of you with every pass of his tongue. He flattens his mouth and swirls his tongue around your clit, groaning with satisfaction when you gasp, your back arching off the bed. It’s so much. It’s everything. And he holds you through it—mouth locked to your core, hands tight on your hips as your body jerks, your thighs clamping around his head in frantic aftershocks.

He doesn’t come up until you physically tug him, breathless and overstimulated, your fingers tugging at his curls as a signal that you need to breathe.

When he finally surfaces, he looks ruined. Hair wild. Beard soaked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy with pure fucking devotion. He drags his mouth up your stomach, kissing a path back to your lips, and when he kisses you—sloppy, hot, deep—you taste yourself all over his mouth. His tongue slides against yours and he hums like he’s giving you a gift.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you again, more tender this time. “Could do that every day. Every goddamn day.”

And you notice it then—his boxers are soaked through. There’s a dark patch right over his cock, and he hasn’t touched himself once. He came just from eating you out. Just from your pleasure. From being buried between your thighs, surrounded by your sounds, your heat, your slick.

He doesn’t mention it. Just grins against your neck and then, without a word, he gets up.

Patrick’s already halfway to the kitchen before you sit up, dazed, watching him tug on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. His back’s broad, muscles shifting as he grinds the coffee beans, slices fruit, cracks eggs into a pan. You can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm in your legs while he sets your coffee down on the nightstand with his usual crooked smile.

“You need somethin’ sweet after that,” he says, brushing a kiss to your hair, the scent of you still lingering on his lips. “Didn’t wanna interrupt your morning. Just figured I’d help you start it right.”

You’re still too wrecked to answer. And he loves that.

Because for Patrick, oral isn’t just foreplay. It’s a ritual. A privilege. And you? You’re the only person he wants to worship like that, every goddamn day.