#dadbod!patrick

"already...?" you sleepily grumble, your eyes still shut. you had barely woken up and as much as you loved him, you were not energized enough to move just yet.

"shh..." he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "just gonna take care of myself. that okay?" he asks sweetly, his voice low and a little raspy from sleep.

"mhm," you allow, and his hand is immediately finding its way between your legs.

he starts simply, just running his fingers through your folds, warming up your clit, building up your wetness so that he can eventually ease himself in. despite your barely awake state, it doesn't take long for his fingers to start moving smoother as your wetness grows for him.

"your pussy is always so good to me," he murmurs, pressing kisses to the side of your neck. "you're always so good to me. so lucky that you're my wife."

you could reach fifty years of marriage with him, and he'd still keep saying it—he always made sure to remind you of his love and his gratitude for you and the kids.

he pulls your thigh back gently, letting your leg rest behind you on his hip, opening you up for him. his fingers find your button once more, circling the spot until he hears you let out the sweetest, sleepiest little moan for him.

"feeling good?" he checks. "think i can get in there?" his beard rubs your shoulder as he asks the question, his face resting atop the area. he waits for you to acknowledge him before he reaches down, sliding his cock through your juices before gently pressing in.

his groan of satisfaction meets your moan in the air as he stretches you open easily, slowly bottoming out. you feel him reach the hilt and your walls flutter around him, eliciting yet another groan from him which lands directly in your ear.

your mouth falls open as he begins to move—you're still a little too sleepy to realize you're moaning just a tad too loudly for before 6am.

"gotta keep it down, baby," he reminds you. "don't wanna wake the kids up just yet." you can hear the teasing grin in his voice as he starts to roll his hips at a moderate pace, his thigh flexing to keep your leg securely anchored over his. the bed creaks ever-so-slightly in time with his movements, his tummy pressing harder against your back.

the hand that isn't still teasing your clit snakes around the top of you, finding its way past the fabric of the worn-out sleep shirt you're barely wearing and reaching its destination at your eager nipples. you all but squeak as he pinches one, rolling it between his thick fingers.

"can't have you being that loud, now, can we?" he snickers, playfully biting your shoulder. "lemme help you out, yeah?"

he keeps one hand assigned to your breasts, but his left hand moves toward your face, his middle and ring finger pressing at your mouth. your lips part, allowing him to slide them in, then immediately close as you swirl your fingers around his digits, sucking them in. the sweetness of your own slick mixed with the tang from the cool metal of his wedding band sets your senses alight, your eyes fluttering open.

he grunts rhythmically in your ear, pressing impossibly closer to you as his thrusts grow quicker, shallower, needier.

"getting so close," he groans. "so fucking close. gonna fill you up, 'kay, babe? maybe we can make another. then i can keep you in bed all day; see your cute, sleepy face all the time. wouldn't that be nice?" his voice is gruff yet airy as he spills all of his fantasies in your ear, the tired springs of the bed getting louder, now.

"fuck, patrick," you whimper as his fingers withdraw from your mouth, a long string of spit dangling between you. "you're so fucking needy," you jokingly whine. "nasty, too, talking about filling me up before the sun is even fully out."

"what can i say?" he pants, grin evident in his voice as he ruts into you. "you make me like this. i've got the sexiest wife in the world. it takes a lot of restraint for big man like me to not just keep you here like this 24/7."

you chuckle, but both of you know he's not entirely joking—patrick has proven many times that he's absolutely insatiable when it comes to you.

his hips stutter, his rhythm faltering as he thrusts into you, one, two, three more times before spilling his load into you, groaning far too loudly. there's so much of it, it leaks around the length of him, dripping all over your thighs.

before you can say anything, he flips you around, easily lifting your messy pussy to his bearded mouth to work you to your finish as well. "shit—patrick!" you exclaim, a cross between surprise and overwhelming pleasure. he doesn't bother responding, just lays a light slap against your thigh as a reminder to keep quiet as he sucks at your clit.

your hips roll against his face involuntarily and he moans in delight, the vibration traveling through your core as he holds you to his face, his giant hands tightly gripping your ass. his beard scratches deliciously against your skin as he eats you out like the hungriest man alive, making mere minutes before you're gripping the headboard for purchase, back arching as he drinks up your orgasm.

he helps you off of him slowly, laying you down onto your back as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

"feeling good?" he asks breathily, glancing over at your relaxed form.

"feeling great," you confirm, meeting his gaze with a lazy grin.

he matches your smile before slowly pushing himself to standing, crossing the bedroom to clean himself up and throw on his clothes.

"gonna go wake those little shits up," he tells you, pretending like he doesn't notice your eyes roving all over his sweaty, heavy frame.

you start to push yourself up as well, but he's quick to stride over and push you back down.

"i need to go make their lu—" you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a shake of his head.

"what you need to do is close your eyes," he tells you, pulling on a shirt. "ruined your beauty sleep, didn't i? get a couple more hours in, and stop worrying. i promise i can handle morning duty," he smiles gently.

you know he won't have an issue getting them to school on time, but you feel bad making him do all the work himself. "at least let me make br—"

"nope," he interrupts again. "i can handle pancakes for breakfast. and i'm sure they'll be fine with daddy's gourmet pb&js for lunch. or we can bring them taco bell later. they'll be over the moon. just lay your cute butt back down and go back to sleep, okay?" he instructs, now dressed in a truly stylish combo of a t-shirt with an indescribable stain and the most worn-out shorts ever.

you know it's no use trying to argue with him, so you let yourself lay back a little. "wake me up before you guys leave," you tell him sternly, eyes already starting to get heavy.

"we'll see," he snorts, wiping a damp towel between your thighs before pulling the covers back over you. "sleep well, baby," he whispers, his beard tickling your nose as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

sometimes he won’t even give you his cock—he’ll just make you rut against his thigh, fat and hairy and solid under you while he slouches on the couch like it’s nothing. you’re a mess, clutching at his shoulders, grinding down harder and harder to chase the friction, and he just sits there stroking himself lazily, eyes half-lidded, lip caught between his teeth. every grind has you soaking his skin, and he’ll just chuckle, “look at you…drenching my leg like a little slut. can’t even wait for me to fuck you properly, huh?” he doesn’t move an inch—just lets you use him until you’re gasping and trembling, and it only makes him grin harder when you beg for more.

other times it’s his face. he’ll lie back, hands folded behind his head again, beard and chest hair damp with sweat, tongue out while you straddle him. he won’t hold you down, won’t guide you, won’t even pretend to help—you’ve got to ride his face yourself, rocking against his mouth until you’re shaking. and he just watches, eyes smug and heavy-lidded, groaning into your cunt like he’s got all the time in the world. you can feel every lazy lick, every teasing swirl of his tongue, and it drives you insane because you’re the one working for it while he’s practically purring underneath you, soaked and satisfied.

and he’s fucking obsessed with your tits. greedy, almost. the second you’re on top, his hands are there, kneading and pinching and sucking at your nipples until you’re whimpering. sometimes it’s worse—sometimes he makes you wrap them around his cock, spit slick between your cleavage, his fat length sliding through while he groans like it’s the easiest thing in the world. belly bouncing with every twitch of his hips, smirk plastered on his face when he mutters, “jesus, baby, keep squeezing those tits, fuck.” and you’ll do it, because the way he looks at you when he’s dripping sweat and tits-deep is enough to ruin you.

and the happy trail. god. it’s not a trail, it’s a fucking highway, thick and bold, dark hair arrowing down from his navel like nature’s way of pointing a sign to a pot of gold. it’s obscene how much it turns you on. you want to lick it like it’s sacred, nose brushing through the wiry hair while your tongue leaves wet streaks down his stomach. spit clings, mats the curls, shines on his skin. you get drunk on the taste, the scratch of it on your tongue, the way it leads you lower and lower until you’re hovering at the edge of his sweats, starving for what’s hidden underneath.

and then his sweats drop and it only gets filthier. the bush. an absolute mess. a dense, dark nest of hair wrapped around the thick base of his cock. it's so manly, the minimal trimming that he is certainly unapologetic about. you can’t get over how much there is, how it scratches your cheeks when you go down on him, how it burns your chin red, how it leaves your face marked up. and you love it. nothing makes you crazier than being nose-deep in that mess, smothered by hair, choking yourself on his fat cock while the bush scrapes your face raw. you want the smell clinging to you, musk and sweat and just patrick, stuck on your skin like you’ll never wash it off.

and he’s fat too, which just makes it better. the belly, soft and heavy, covered in that thick spread of hair. the way it presses down into your ribs when he’s on top of you, dragging over your stomach, smothering you in weight and in warmth. every thrust slaps his hairy gut against you, and it’s loud, obscene, and wet with sweat, making your head spin. you can feel the bush grind against your clit when he pushes in deep, stomach hair catching on your skin until you’re squirming underneath him, overstimulated and desperate. his chest hair scratches your tits, his belly hair rubs you raw, his whole body overwhelming yours until there’s no escaping him—not that you’d want to.

he’s smug about it too, the bastard. lounging back like a king, hairy belly soft and heavy, arms behind his head while you crawl down his body like you’re starving. his grin is lazy and cruel when you nose through that thick happy trail, tongue working lower until you’re choking yourself on him, face buried in the bush. his stomach shakes when he laughs, jiggling against your cheek, chest hair damp with sweat as he groans. he doesn’t even have to move—he just lets you have him, lets you claw at his fat stomach for leverage, lets you rub your face raw against all that hair until you decide you've had enough.

but, seriously... you can't ever get enough. you crave him. you want his chest hair threaded with your spit, scratching your tits while he pins you down. you want his hairy gut smacking into you, grinding against your clit until you’re begging. you want his bush burning your thighs every time he bottoms out, leaving you sore and marked up. you want the trail on your tongue, the sweat in your mouth, the whole hairy, fat mess of him pressed so tight against you that you can’t breathe without tasting him.