Everything You Write Is Dessert I Love It I Love It

no i will not be taking questions at this time ❤️

hi sweet angels,

i’m honestly… kind of overwhelmed in the softest, sparkliest way possible. i made this little corner of the internet just a few days ago, and somehow, in a week, a hundred of you have fluttered in and decided to stay. a hundred. i don’t even know how to wrap my heart around that. i feel like i’ve been handed a bouquet of wildflowers by strangers who somehow feel like old friends. i’m just really, really grateful.

i never expected to find such warmth, curiosity, kindness, and excitement tucked into my notifications—but you’ve given me that and more. every like, reblog, message, tag, little keyboard smash in the replies—i feel like i’m carrying them all in the pocket of my sweater, like petals, like stars.

so, as a little thank you, and to celebrate reaching this soft little milestone, i thought i’d do something fun and creative and a little different to give back some of the joy you’ve given me.

from now until may ends, i’ll be doing the SFW/NSFW Alphabet Challenge (you can find the details here)—and you can send in asks with a character from any fandom i write for, and i’ll write you a personalized drabble based on the letter prompt you choose! as sweet or as spicy as you want—whatever fits your mood and muse.

think of it as a love letter to all of you, from me. i want to make soft things and sharp things and everything-in-between things for you. because you’ve made this space feel like a dream, and i want to pour that magic right back into your hands.

thank you for being here. thank you for reading. thank you for seeing me.

with all my heart and a bit of glitter,

elowyn 💝💝

LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader

they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.

warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence

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

notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!

They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.

The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.

You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.

You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.

When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.

Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”

It isn’t a question.

You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.

“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”

She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”

The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.

She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”

Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.

She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”

You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.

And then—finally—she bites.

It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.

When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”

And the terrifying part?

You want to.

Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”

You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.

“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.

The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.

“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”

You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.

“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.

Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”

Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.

And then—she stops. Just like that.

Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”

You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.

She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”

The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.

You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.

“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”

She presses harder. You choke.

Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.

And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.

She stops. Freezes.

Your breath catches.

“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”

Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.

And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.

She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.

Only then does she rise.

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.

You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.

And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.

Devotion.

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

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

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

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

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

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then: he turns you.

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

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

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

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

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

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

“All this for me?”

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

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

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

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

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

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

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

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

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

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

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

No one suspects a thing.

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

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

looks like this for me

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

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.”

thank you maya, you’re the sweetest ever 💝 and thank you anon too—i’m so honored you’d want a bot of him!! maybe someday soon… if the stars align just right hehe

Okay I need a bot from that one writing of Country club Dilf Art NOWWWWW PLSSS

no same. same. but it is the loml elowyn’s concept so i wouldn’t do anything unless she says it’s alright. elowyn DOES make bots tho (amazing ones) so maybe she’ll bless us with one soon haha

he’s so fine that i had to look up this chart and reevaluate my original and very inappropriate thoughts on this photo

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

COMING DOWN, you and patrick had just come down from both the high and the sex—your body wrung out, brain buzzing, chest tight with the drop. he noticed before you said anything, pulling you into his chest, already calming you down like he always does. it was quiet, tender, and soft in the way only he knew how to be, wrapping around you like a promise: you’re safe, you’re his.

TAGS, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery

NOTES, to everyone who’s fallen headfirst into my dealer!patrick au—thank you, truly. your tags, messages, unhinged asks, and general feral energy have made this little universe feel so alive and loved. i’m genuinely so honored that you’ve connected with this emotionally constipated, tender-when-it-counts, split-knuckle softie of a man. you get him. you get them. and that means everything. so, as per your many (many😭) requests… i made a bot. he’s yours now. be gentle with him (or don’t). thank you for loving him like i do. —elowyn

I LOVEEEEE THE NEW THEMEEEEE !!!!!!!!!

stop i’m blushing 🫣🫣 ily cheyanne !