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crimewriter · 2 months ago

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PRIDE.

“Love's gonna get you killed, but pride's gonna be the death of you, and you and me.” PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Black Fem!Reader Summary: He’s the living embodiment of the American Dream — you’re a woman carving your own path. Chasing stability, success, maybe even love — your slice of the dream. What is it you feel for him? A lust for him? Or a lust for what he has? CONTAINS: Mentions of era relevant racism. Reader who is clearly a OC. Also this is long af.

“The American Dream isn’t for us.”

Your granddad recited that, pounded that, into your eight year old brain. In your elder’s eyes it was crucial that you, a young black girl, knew the country had a lower, designated place for you from the moment you were born.

Sometimes you wondered if you would have to endure your granddad’s solemn monologues about the false promises of America if you were his grandson rather than his granddaughter, but the truth of the matter is the old man was born in Georgia during the days of Jim Crow, so naturally he would abstain from looking at this country in a positive light.

Meanwhile you - born in 1961, four years before Jim Crow’s dissolvement in the relatively…satisfactory, state of Ohio maintained a different albeit naive perspective. “Who says it’s not for us?” The cheeky question would come out of your little mouth every now and then. Just to shake things up. “White man says.” And this is what your grandfather would reply, sharp and annoyed. “Well,” you always went there, always had to play around saying the last thing your grandfather wanted to hear: “the white man never told me that.” Sometimes Granddaddy would grow cold, telling you to get out of his sight, but most of the time he would shake his head and say: “you’ll see when you get out in the world. You’ll see.” Even when you were no longer ignorant to matters such as the institutional racism America’s very foundation was built upon, you always carried this high sense of self-importance. Always sensed that greatness of some sort awaited you in your future. Your grandparents, being the ever-devout Christians they were, told you to be humble. God can bless you and just as quickly snatch those blessings away, but again: you always carried this high sense of self-importance that nothing could shake. Your academic life was impressive from a very young age. From the numerous grade school accolades you collected to the pristine high school diploma, you earned tearful congratulations from your grandmother and mother when you took your big step into Harvard. But had this success come easily? No. What came swift and easy for a mediocre white boy required absolute perfection from you and the other few black students in the institution. Flawless memory retention, precise, eloquent words, a demure demeanor with a perfect smile while simultaneously showing you were a go-getter. Ah, and on the subject of appearance: no afros, period. As a young adult clawing your way into the corporate world, your hair had to be shiny and sleek, flat ironed once a month. And god forbid your outfits look like they came from a discount outlet, no, you needed everything in the women’s section from the Sears catalogue. Which, of course, wasn’t the crème de la crème, but your income was fixed and limited.

Perfection was tiring, draining, but not nearly as draining as the shit - the absolute shit, you had to overlook from your colleagues.

Truthfully, you’ve never been a forgiving person, but those you had grudges against from your old hometown had absolutely nothing on those you met in college. There were the overtly racist classmates who would still give anything to sleep with you, the professors who hardly hid the fact they weren’t pleased with your presence.

You could never educate them, argue with them, hell, maybe screw the niceties and just hit them, because not only would it prove something about your race, about you being this ‘angry black woman’ underneath it all, but it would take away everything you had ever accomplished, forcing you to go back to Ohio.

Nonetheless, as the transgressions grew, you found a personal solace in thinking that would would be higher, better, and god willing more wealthy than all these Harvard assholes.

The killing part is you weren’t even studying law or anything like that.

You were studying speech communication. Upon graduating Harvard, you stayed in Massachusetts for a year. After that, you set your sights on New York City. New York - there was always something to do, always someone fascinating to meet and always a story to be found… “He said I’m ‘too Italian.’ The hell does that mean? ‘Too Italian’! So I said to him, ‘you’re Italian too, motherfucker, what’re you getting at?”

…and there was always a broken hearted woman in this big city.

Withholding your sigh, you look at the paper sticking from your typewriter as your friend, Fiora, wept in your ear. Her crying and cursing may have been over the phone, but the agony and rage she carried in heart was so strong, so vocal, that she might as well have been in front of you. Had anyone else been in your apartment they would have clearly heard her rambling.

“Have you ever heard someone say something similar to you?” Fiora asks, making you debate whether you wanted to go there and say:

‘oh yeah, being called too black is a thing.’

You decide against it. Not wanting to give Fiora any ammunition to believe the plight of Italians is on par with any oppression you face.

“Nooo…I…” Sure, you consider she may not have thought that, but opening Pandora’s box just wasn’t worth it. “Haven’t.”

“The real problem here is that he’s scared of me.” Four minutes later, Fiora concludes this. “Fifteen years he’s known me - I mean - we went to church together, we grew up on the same block, and he’s got the audacity t’be scared of me-”

There were only so many times you could go, “aw,” “um-hm” or, “I know” between a brief critique about men before Fiora essentially went in a circle talking about her boyfriend’s adultery. It was not just tedious, but distracting from the incomplete article waiting for you.

“You know what I think?” Sucking your teeth, you begin with a furrowed brow. “I think you two had a good run. I mean, six years of dating? Come on! I think that has to be longer than the average high school sweethearts.”

For a moment, there’s nothing said. You hope Fiora’s thinking of your words, striving to make something positive out of them. “Yeah.” In spite of her agreement, you know that voice. She doesn’t sound pleased.

“You should lay down, honey.” You say with your best, quasi-maternal voice. “It hurts now but tomorrow? God, you’re going to feel so much better. And think of it! Now you’re free! You’re not tethered to that manchild!”

Please, you think, please let me go. Let me go.

“…yeah,” she says again, on the hinges of stoicism. “I’m getting off now. I think I’m going to order Chinese.”

“Okay, okay,” you smile, “I’m gonna finish this article - but Fi! What did Bernadette Peters sing?”

“Time heals everything,” Fiora was withholding an giggle, you could tell.

“Time heals everything!” you repeat, “just sleep it off like I said. It’ll be okay”

Before hanging up the phone, you deliberately left out encouraging statements like, “call me later” or, “call me anytime.” It was time to work.

By nine thirty, the soothing voice of Dionne Warwick filled your apartment. “Walk on by…” she crooned from your vinyl player as you sat amongst your slew of disorganized books, cozy by your typewriter. In your right hand you held your tapecorder, stopping, playing, rewinding as you relistened to your interview with gallery owner Marcello Giamatti.

You supposed you were satisfied with the article. In the very least you needed two more quotes and when considering what critique from your editor could be like, you reckoned the lead could stand to be shorter.

Having securely heard enough of the interview, you pause the recording. “Okay, okay.” You murmur to yourself, “let’s get back to work.” As soon as your fingers were perched atop the keys, your landline emitted a piercing ring.

“GOD!” you toss your head back, agonized.

It had to be Fiora. You hoped it was not Fiora. But it had to be her.

“Hello?”

“I did some thinking.” There was no ‘hi,’ ‘kiss my ass’ or anything. Fiora was hyper focused, ready to take on some kind of business.

You squint, “uh…huh?” you weren’t going to be done with work until midnight at this rate, you just knew it.

“You said six years is longer than the average couple…so I started asking myself…what’s really goin’ on here? The whole Italian thing - it’s a coverup. But maybe, it’s not all him. Maybe I should hold part of the blame for how things ended.”

You never should have made that comment to her, this has got to be one of your deepest regrets of all time. “What? No! No! How can you even reach that conclusion?!” “Look, my hours at the restaurant are crazy. On a bad day, you spend eight hours in a kitchen and you feel like you’re stuck with lunatics for a year. I get home, I’m pissy, I take everything Greg says as a threat-” “You-” You wanted to tell Fiora that this line of thinking was bullshit. She loved to cook, it’s her passion, working at a restaurant like Dorsia’s was her dream - erratic co-workers aside. Biting your tongue, you rub your temple. “Or, or, here’s another way to look at it. Maybe he cheated because at Tunnel he has all these women trying to show him their tits for free drinks. ‘Cause, God knows he is NOT on your level!” Reminding Fiora of the ‘Italian’ comment was on the tip of your tongue, however your companion spoke too quickly.

“I’m going to talk to him.”

“He’s at work.” You countered. “I know. So I’m going to meet him there.” “Girl, I can’t even count the ways this is a bad idea.” “I have to do it.” You laugh, incredulously. “You don’t have to do anything!” “But I need to.” Fiora’s voice doesn’t waver, it’s clear she’s made up her mind. She may not have a good defense, but she would be damned if she didn’t head to Tunnel tonight.

You sigh and use your foot to idly swivel around in your office chair. “So you think…” you feel like you’re entering work mode with questions buzzing around in your head. “Approaching him at Tunnel, in a sea of strobe lights, is going to make him focus on a serious talk about what went wrong in your relationship?” “Maybe that’s the only place I can get his attention.”

“And what if you see him flirting with a bombshell blonde? What will you do?” “Beat both their asses,” Fiora easily answers, “especially if it’s the slut he slept with!” “Wrong answer, babe!” You exclaim, “That’s a certified way to get kicked out!” “Okay, so, you know the right way to act: come with me then.” “You want me to come with you?” “Yes!”

“Okay so,” you sigh, “I think whether I come or not this is a mess waiting to happen. But…” You look at your typewriter, conflict in your heart. You could finish the article and let Fiora go tackle these matters of the heart as a one woman army. But if you did that - what if she ended up doing something not just crazy but risky, to get under Gregory’s skin? If you both went, you could at least sleep over at her place or have her come home with you. As grating as Fiora can be sometimes, if anything bad happened to her it would have stayed on your conscience. So you say: “...give me like. Twenty minutes to get dressed.” Fuck my life, you think.

- - - As a disciple of fashion, you knew that what you draped over your body made a statement. Therefore, in this noble role as Fiora's bodyguard you wore your eyeliner like war paint. Your pressed hair was big and voluminous, slightly bumped. A few stray strands were curled over the left side of your brow, working as de-facto bangs. Additionally framing your face were two golden hoop earrings. On your lips was a vibrant shade of crimson - deep red, like blood, of course. Such a powerful hue would draw attention to your lips while successfully hiding the true intentions of the expressions you made. A foolish man with drunken eyes could have been fooled that the grin he perceived was actually a coy smirk. You wore a sharply tailored, double-breasted blazer in deep plum with broad, padded shoulders. A power silhouette. The blazer cinched at the waist with a glossy black leather belt, accentuating your figure and adding a touch of dominance. You wouldn’t tell Fiora this, but pepper spray was carefully sealed away in your Fendi purse.

When you met up with Fiora, you saw she too was dressed to kill. In terms of fashion, when she wasn’t confined to the staunch white clad uniform at Dorsia’s, she was more - extroverted? No, that wasn’t quite the word. But if it was something, it was definitely loud. Fiora neither straightened her hair or permed it, she naturally had very thick, dark curls that always reminded you of Cher’s glorious hair in the film Moonstruck. Under the glow of the streetlamp you saw she wore a body-hugging mini dress in leopard print. There were gold lamé accents that glinted under the lights—thin straps, a touch at the waist, a suggestion of shimmer with every sway of her hips. Fiora was a short woman, 5 '3 to your 5' 5, but at this moment the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder as she wore sky-high heels. Strappy, and metallic colored: even with footwear, Fiora didn’t believe in subtle. You praised her, she praised you and the two of you entered the battleground. Tunnel. …only to learn that Gregory wasn’t there.

While you perched your hands on your hips in disapproval, Fiora leaned over the bar, furiously. “Y’think y’can lie to me? Gregory works every. Single. Night. Every night ‘cept for Tuesday and Thursday!” You point a manicured finger at Fiora, chiming in: “she knows her man’s schedule!” “I’m not saying he was never here okay?” The bartender, a brunette woman, stresses. “He just got off work an hour ago because he felt under the weather. That’s it. It’s a stomach bug he had or something.” “Are you covering for him?” Fiora asks exactly what’s on your mind. This whole thing seemed contrived. “No?” “-’cause if you are and you’re one of his little side pieces? I’ll kick your ass up and down this fucking club.” “Hey,” the woman snaps, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Greg, but don’t bring me into the middle of your quarrel.”

You saw Fiora’s cheeks go scarlet in real time. God forbid Fiora and this bartender share the same pigment as you, they would have been used as a means to show how dangerous and uncouth black women were.

“Bitch-” The moment that word is spat from Fiora’s lips, you gently gesture her away by the waist. “Let’s go, babe, let’s go.”

“I don’t forget a face, bitch!”

Though shaken, the bartender scoffed and averted her eyes, silently grateful you allowed her to spend the rest of her work hour unscarred.

It would have been a waste to leave Tunnel. With the fare it took to get here? Please. You and Fiora made your way through the gyrating bodies and decided to at one of the booths. The sound of Grace Jones' song, “Pull Up To The Bumper” engulfing the building in its pulsating rhythm. “You think he’s fucking her?” Fiora asks, eyes narrowed and cigarette lounging between her fingertips.

You lift an eyebrow, “I mean, if he is? He’s lowered his standards. You’re way prettier than her. So.” You cross your legs, “still think you should hold part of the blame for how things ended?”

“Don’t go there.” “Hey!” You laugh, “you’re the one who called me and said that, and if I should remind you, it was verbatim!” “I was all wrapped up in my feelings,” Fiora fusses, “I had on Lifetime-” “You had on Lifetime,” you lovingly mock, taking a drag of your own cigarette. “Hey.” Fiora frowns, “there’s some good movies on there. You need to stop being judgmental and just tune in one day.”

You had a quip hanging at the tip of your tongue about preferring to stick to the cinema when a man approached. “Hey ladies.”

He was early 20s, just like you and Fiora. Brown-skinned — just a touch fairer than you. He possessed a sturdy jawline softened by the fullness of his lips, and lashes so long they looked almost unreal. His wavy hair was cropped close on the sides.

This man wore a white suit with red accents. Kind of reminding you of that one movie Al Pacino did about the druglord a while back. You didn’t remember the details of the film, but all the same felt mild concern as to whether this guy may have idolized that character.

However, you had to appreciate the cut of the outfit. It was sharp. Wide lapels, a deep V revealing a silk, unbuttoned red shirt underneath. His pants were high-waisted, stopping just at the top of his polished loafers. It was a loud outfit, but he wore it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hey yourself!” You nonetheless reply with a pleasant, intrigued tone. This is a man who thinks he’s the life of the party, you think. “You two beautiful women here alone?” When he smiles, you swore he was another character waiting to shake up your night. Now, you can appreciate a good looking man. You really can. But, as pretty as this man was, you knew in your heart that he was the sort you would want to choke after an hour of being alone. You didn’t know what his flaws were, but you knew he had them. So with a tight smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you roll your gaze over to Fiora. She was idly holding her cigarette, obviously sizing him up, and not in a way that indicated disgust. You had an idea. “SHE’S here alone!” If saying that wasn’t enough, you were pointing to your companion proudly. Had Fiora not been so obviously into this man, this would have been you ruthlessly throwing her under the bus. “Oh yeah? You’re too sexy to be here alone, what happened to you baby?” “My boyfriend ran out on me,” Fiora explains. There was no anger, no heartbreak, it was announced like saying: ‘it’s going to rain tonight.’ “Damn…ran out on you? Wow, that’s crazy.” You purse your lips in thought. This man had no game, he just let droll words fall from his lips while his sad eyes did the talking. Personally, you would have brushed him off, but, this wasn’t your guy so you ease back and watch the flirtation play out.

“Lemme buy you a drink.”

“Uh.” The gears in Fiora’s head were suddenly turning. You assumed she was thinking about the bartender she nearly went toe to toe with.

Fiora grins, “how about we dance instead?”

Despite the fact this meant you were now left alone in this club you shout at the guy: “I’m not going anywhere, so don��t get crazy with her!”

From “Don’t You Want Me” to “Midas Touch,” Fiora and her new man danced on the floor. Now, “Young Love” by Janet Jackson blared on the stereo and the two were still glued to the hip. Every now and then you would see if you could spot them, but for the most part you tried to entertain yourself. A short drink, a small dance, but your heart wasn’t into it. Clubs weren’t really your thing.

It was close to 11, you should really go home but you asked yourself, was Fiora really safe? As you weighed the pros and cons of leaving versus staying, your senses were numbed to how a man prowled your way.

“Hello.” When your gaze meets his, he gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re here alone.”

He stood tall. Unnervingly still, posture perfect. His suit was immaculate. Bone-colored Armani with sharp lapels, not a wrinkle in sight. He was as attractive as Fiora’s new man, similarly having model-esque features but, Fiora’s man had been handsome in a more ‘natural’ way. This white man had skin that looked like it was peeled from an advertisement. His flesh just wasn’t smooth, it was as if it was polished like a marble tile. Everything about him was professional - and again, you would use that word, polished. Promptly, you feel curious. Like a mischievous little girl you want to see if you can scuff the marble.

“Have you been watching me?” You give a performative, playful laugh.

He chuckles, his smile growing so much that his eyes have squinted. “Something like that. Let’s go with that.”

He shakes his head in rejection, “no.” For a moment, the two of you just regard one another. You aren’t quite sure what this moment will lead to. His attraction to you is evident, but you find that he doesn’t feel warm or tangible in the slightest. Not like Fiora’s man. Suave, he leans over the bar, “what’s your name?”

“Sheila.”

“Sheila.” He repeats, charming smile unwavering, “Like the song Oh Sheila?”

“Oh!” Your eyebrows fly up, intrigued. “Okay, you know that song? You have some culture, I see!”

“Come on,” the man retorts, chuckling. “Who doesn’t have some appreciation for Prince? Prince has redefined what it means to be a musician — he’s, dare I say it, genre-defying.” Your hand swings over your mouth in an effort to stifle your laughter. You didn’t mean to laugh at him, you really didn’t, but he spoke with such certainty. Such love for Prince. And he wasn’t even the one who made the record.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” You say, manicured hand raised in apology. “But, that song is actually not by Prince, it’s by Ready For The World.” “Ah…” his smile drops, eyes darting to the corner for just a moment. He’s not a man who likes to be embarrassed, you can tell. All the same, he smiles again trying to demonstrate that he was unphased by his hiccup. “I was really off the mark then, wasn’t I?”

“Yeahh…” you playfully pout and furrow your brow as you nod, unbeknownst to you, this teasing further rubbing salt into Patrick’s wounds. “They have zero Prince affiliation, but hey, Prince is an awesome artist! I can appreciate a Prince fan!” Leaning a bit closer to him, you cup your jaw. “So, what’s your name? Is it song-based too?” “My name is Patrick.” He answers, “I don’t think you’ll find a song with my name.”

“Hm…” you wrinkle your nose in playful delight, “Yeah. Can’t think of anything.”

Yes, you think. He’s cute…uncanny, but cute. You think you could get somewhere with this man. Patrick. If he wasn’t into you he wouldn’t have approached you. No, you wouldn’t have let him follow you home, but maybe you could dance, have some drinks…

“Hey, hey!” you hear Fiora call out, “emergency!”

Promptly, you become alert, but you’re sure to bid a smile to Patrick. “Excuse me, I’ll think of a song when I’m back!”

Patrick squints, “looking forward to what you come up with.”

“Don wants me to go back to his place.” Fiora announces, facing the wide restroom mirror as she strives to make her bosom look more ample. “Whaddya think about that?” The ladies restroom was a revered realm for the utmost crucial of topics. You weren’t even grated by the fact you had been separated from Patrick. “Girl,” you lightly scoff, “you know my first question is going to be where does this guy live?” “Washington Heights.” You lift an eyebrow, “that’s a ways away.” “Nah, not really.” Fiora responds. Lust knows no distance, you suppose.

“Well…” you start, “are you still going to try hunting down Gregory this week?”

“Fuck no.” Fiora retorts, now applying a fresh coat of lipstick to her lips. “Italian boys aren’t shit.”

You have to bow your head, softly laughing. “If your heart is set on this guy right now, go for it.” “What about you?” Fiora comes to face you, hand on the sink’s counter as she casually leans back. “You okay here or are you going home?” “Me?” You tilt your head, thinking of the yuppie who was ideally sitting atop his hands, anticipating your return. “I’m going to stay a little while longer.” “Right, ‘cuzza the guy you were talking to.” “The guy,” you repeat with a scoff, “I don’t know him…but! The end goal of the night is to get to know him.” “He looks like he works on Wall Street, of course you’d go for him. Zero surprise here.” Fiora laughs as the both of you step for the exit. “You say that like he’s a cultist.” “I want a guy who can fuck me until the sun comes up, you want a guy who’ll talk about stocks by a fireplace in Aspen. No judgement, we’re just ladies with different tastes.” “That we are.” “Alright, I’m gonna find Don, you have fun with Mr. Armani!” “Oh, I will. Use a condom, Fiora!” Fiora furrows her brow before laughing, “uh - you too!”

The club is even more crowded, a mist of sweat and perfume hanging in the air. Your eyes scan the dance floor, the dimly lit bar and there he is. Patrick hadn’t moved far from where you left him, you waste no time stepping to him. Only to stop at the sight of a head full of blonde hair. Her jaw clinches, how many minutes passed since you spoke to Fiora in the ladies room? Three? Five? That’s all it took for him to move on, leaning casually against the bar - the same way he did with you.

“Of course, I don’t usually drink those anymore,” he says, “too much Campari. Bad for the skin.” He leans closer to the woman, head tilting. “But you? You have great skin. Flawless, really. What do you use? Retinol? Or just good genes?” Jealousy swells in your chest. It doesn’t matter you didn’t know this man, it doesn’t matter that he never belonged to you, it matters that you were so replaceable, interchangeable, secondary. Walking into the night, you felt ashamed you even acknowledged his existence to Fiora. Now you have to make up some kind of story about how the night ended on fine terms. “Taxi!”

He’s just a man, you think to yourself in the back of the dark cab. Just a man. In a matter of seconds, your attempted calm would faint into anger.

He's a man no different than those Harvard ex’s who wasted your time. Counting each streetlight that went by, you remind yourself that New York City was a big place. Always something to do, always someone fascinating to meet and always a story to be found…

…but there always was some pissed off woman in this city.

#i forgot all my tags but XIA YOUR WRITING LITERALLY NEVER DISAPPOINTS

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crimewriter · 2 years ago

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🥺pat and angel for 1 pls 🥺

tfw when i reblogged this at some point months ago and i'm only now getting to this lmao

1. A Hot, Steamy kiss

In a usual day, Patricia would hate the thought of being such a fucking damsel in distress, waiting for a man to swoop in and save her. Right now, the thought doesn’t cross her mind. She can’t focus on much more than the persistent ringing in her ears, the blood and bullet cases on the floor she tries so hard to ignore, and the relief flooding her veins like a shot of morphine at the sight of Ángel.

He leans down to inspect the cable ties keeping her bound to the chair and her whole body strains forward towards him, the ties digging deeper into her already bruised wrists.

“Patricia, calm down,” he says, his voice too gentle and graceful for the scenario around them. "You're hurting yourself."

“I thought—”

“I know. But I’m here. It’s okay.” His lips brush against her forehead, just the ghost of a touch, as he moves to cut open the ties.

He gets one of her hands free and it immediately twists into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him forward and crashing their lips together. Her other hand strains against its binds, still trapped, helplessly reaching for Ángel too. She feels fingers burying into her hair as he kisses her back hard, making her whimper when he pulls back just a few seconds later.

“Ángel—”

“I gotta get you out,” he reminds her. She’s still fidgeting even as he tugs at the ties, still pressing small kisses along his jawline and wherever she can reach, like she can’t stand not to touch him for five fucking seconds. He’s as patient as usual, searching for a way around the ties without hurting her even as she wants to tell him to hurry the fuck up.

She’s free and she finally gets to reach for him with both hands, tossing herself at him and pressing their lips together before she can even take a full breath. She barely even notices Ángel lifting her up off the ground until he sets her over the nearby wooden desk. Not once do their lips part, so close and airtight it feels like they’ll never separate again. The kiss is desperate and animalistic and instinctive, passion and relief running between their bodies all at once.

Patricia keeps a leg wrapped around his waist even when she leans against the desk, when she could touch the floor with her feet if she wanted to. She breathes a sound into his mouth as Ángel runs his large hands over her body, grabbing at her hips rough and possessive, not being gentle at all but Pat doesn’t mind it; she wants the red hand prints, wants the bruises, wants the hurt that makes her remember every second of this later.

He captures her bottom lip between his teeth briefly, just a pinch of pain before he’s soothing it with another deep kiss. And right here, with his lips over hers and his hands tight on her skin, it feels like this should be the end of it all. Like the world should be crumbling around them, like this was the very last thing that needed to happen before time just stopped.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, somehow still into his lips. She can tell it’s not a one-sided wish, his growing bulge pressing right against her where they’re flush together. The kiss doesn’t slow down, and she wonders if he even heard her before he pulls back to look at her. His eyes are dark, pupils blown out with arousal, and he looks nothing like his usual self; the man who handles her like he’s scared she’ll break, the gentle giant who only indulges in violence as a part of his job.

She gasps when he moves her hips to grind against his.

“You want me to fuck you?” Ángel presses a trail of kisses up her neck, drawing a moan from her lips.

“Yes,” she breathes, feeling herself clench against him. She’s never felt more ready. “Please.”

“Want me to bend you over this desk?”

“Yes.” The friction between them is good but not enough, not nearly enough. She reaches down to undo his belt, and that’s when he reaches for her hands, pulling them away from himself.

She glances up at him in surprise, and he lets go of them just so he can hold her face in his hands. He pulls her in for another kiss, slower but still urgent.

“You think I’m gonna do it right now? Fuck you for the first time in this place?” He tucks her hair behind her ear, strokes the sides of her face with his thumbs, gentle once again.

“I don’t care,” she insists, even though she’s suddenly aware of her surroundings again, of the thick smell of blood still in the air. “I just want you. It doesn’t matter where, Ángel. I promise.”

“Well, I care. You deserve something nice, Pat. A bed, at least.” He presses a chaste kiss to her lips before he hooks a finger under her jaw, tilting her head up to look him straight in the eyes. “I can wait a little bit longer for you. You're worth it.”

She’s at loss for words, her eyes burning with the all-too familiar feeling of tears rushing to the surface. Pat pushes them back by kissing him again, pouring so much love and adoration for him into it she feels like she might burst with the sheer force of it.

“Then let’s hurry,” she smiles as they break apart, the kind of smile that’s small but makes her eyes brighten.

He gives her one final kiss, this time on her forehead, keeping his lips there until she melts into the embrace and the tears start to build up and blur the edges of her vision.

“Come on, I got you.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders as he starts to lead the way, tucking her right up against him. “Let’s get out of here.”

#citylighten #writing tag #ángel & patricia.#i wanted to add a nice edit to this but i'm so lazy #maybe tomorrow

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