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makeyoumine69 · 11 hours ago

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How did I manage to fuck up the tags...

Hi! I just had a random thought and wanted to share.

Do you think Patrick, or Bruce for that matter, would gift his wife his mother’s diamonds? Just as a thoughtful gesture to show her she means a lot to him.

(I thought of this for Bruce because of him & Selina but realized it could work for Patrick also!)

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Patrick gave you his family's heirloom—but he had already given you something far more precious: his heart. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Husband!Patrick Bateman x Wife!Fem!Reader 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Romance, fluff, established relationships (married couple), true love, Patrick being genuinely affectionate, a little bit of dirty talk, pet names. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: Around 1k 𝐀/𝐍: Hello! Thank you so much for sharing this idea! I've already written about Bruce giving his family heirloom in a smutty fic called Delirium. You can check it out! I hope you enjoy this little piece of writing!

Patrick had been thinking—almost planning—to give you diamonds as a romantic gift, but everything changed at the last moment when his mother insisted on staging a scene straight out of some royal medieval drama. It wasn’t just a present—it was a sacred family relic that, in her eyes, demanded reverence. That necklace was meant to speak volumes about the Bateman family's so-called "nobility."

Patrick usually found anything to do with monarchy ridiculous and outdated, but sometimes he let himself imagine being a king—and you, his queen. In those moments, the diamond necklace wasn’t just jewelry; it was a collar, a symbol around your neck that told the world you belonged to him.

That fateful day, the two of you were invited to Newport—to his family estate, a place Patrick could barely recall visiting. You were visibly nervous. Even though you were already married and supposedly accepted by his parents, a nagging, crawling doubt still gnawed at you.

What if they didn’t actually like you? What if the invitation was just a setup to humiliate you, a chance to prove you weren’t worthy of the Bateman name?

During dinner in the grand dining room, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. The anxiety was only growing the longer you stayed in that suffocating place. Patrick, on the other hand, was acting as calm as ever—flashing sly smiles, unbothered and untouched by the tension. It irritated you more than it should’ve.

He kept his composure even when he led you into a slow dance in the middle of the vast living room, right under the guests’ watchful eyes. His expression didn’t change when you stepped on his foot mid-step. He just chuckled, slipped his hand more firmly around your lower back, and gave it a few slow, comforting strokes.

"Hey," Patrick murmured, his lips brushing your ear, "any idea where my wife is? Because she looks like she’s somewhere else entirely. What’s going on?"

Your throat locked up. The words refused to come out.

"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked again, this time more softly.

"No."

He tilted his head, searching your face. "No, but...?"

"I think I’m gonna throw up."

"Don’t," he whispered with a crooked grin. "At least not right here."

You let him hold you closer, resting your cheek on his strong shoulder, wrapping your arms around him like he was the only thing holding you together.

"I don’t want to be here," you mumbled into the side of his neck, his sharp cologne flooding your senses.

"Not much I can do about that, doll," Patrick replied, placing a gentle kiss on the shell of your ear. "Be a good girl, finish this dance with me, and I’ll give you that goddamn necklace. Then we’re done."

A sudden draft of cold air swept over you like a leash snapping tight—even though all the windows were shut.

"Necklace?"

He didn’t answer. The dance was over. Guests began applauding—his mother included, flashing a pristine smile that could probably be seen from space.

"What a perfect couple. A delight to behold," she trilled as she approached, holding a velvet box in her elegant but aging hands. "I think it’s time, Patrick."

You tensed, fists clenched at your sides as you watched him take the box. When he opened it, your breath caught—the diamond necklace sparkled so brightly under the chandelier it hushed the room. Guests paused, probably busy sizing up the stones and judging their worth. Snobbery at its finest.

But all of that became background noise the moment Patrick turned to you, lifting your hands into his.

"My dear wife, love of my life," he began. His tone sounded rehearsed, just enough to fool everyone else—but you knew better. You could tell he was improvising every word. That realization hit harder than expected. "I want you to wear these diamonds as a symbol of my loyalty and the love I will never stop giving you."

He couldn't help but flash a small, smug smirk—but of course, you noticed. What a bastard. Still, his words landed deep. You turned around silently, letting him fasten the necklace. The cold stones danced across your skin like little shards of ice. When he finished with the clasp, Patrick sealed it with a soft kiss to your bare shoulder.

Now you understood why he insisted on this dress.

"I love you," you whispered, barely audible, as he wrapped his arms around you from behind. You shut your eyes, trying to hold back the tears.

He smiled—broad and unmistakable. You could feel it against your skin. "I love you too," he breathed, his lips brushing your neck. Then he bit gently at the curve of it, making you jolt. "And I can’t wait to see you wearing nothing but those diamonds."

Of course he’d say something like that.

Not a single day could pass without him whispering something filthy.

Patrick didn’t wait for your reaction. He took your hand and led you across the room. Another course was about to be served—but your mind was already far away.

You couldn’t wait for him to make good on his last promise—in the most vivid way possible. Because you loved this man. With or without the diamonds, you were his.

Always.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update! [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[MY IMAGINES ABOUT PATRICK]🪓[KO-FI]

#patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines #american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine

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makeyoumine69 · 11 hours ago

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Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho (2000) dir. Mary Harron

(christianbalefanatic edit)

#christian bale #american psycho #mary harron #2000 #2000s #2000s movies #2000s films #christianbalefanatic #christianbalefanatic edit #my fine man

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makeyoumine69 · 16 hours ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫

◙ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: When your parents bought a new house, you didn’t hesitate to ask your boyfriend for help with the move. What started as a simple favor quickly turned into something steamy—with a hint of danger. Clark’s biggest fear? Losing control around you… because if he did, the consequences might be irreversible. ◙ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader ◙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, established relationships (aka a freshly minted couple), fluff, oral sex (reader receiving), unprotected p in v sex, mild anal fingering, body worship, manhandling, cum play & eating, praise kink, size kink, spanking, teasing, pet names, dirty talk, Clark has Soft!Dom vibes (kind of :D). ◙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: Around 3.5k ◙ 𝐀/𝐍: This is dedicated to all anons who sent me their requests. I hope you like it!

One day, your parents got a new apartment but apparently decided to take a trip to the seaside. They assumed you would take care of moving their stuff since you were the responsible one. The idea of bringing Clark and asking him for help popped into your mind faster than you could think rationally. Instead of hiring a moving service, you dragged your recently acquired boyfriend into it.

Surprisingly, though, Clark was more than happy to help.

This kind of sweetheart behavior was still unfamiliar to you—you simply weren’t used to it.

It was hot in Metropolis that summer, so the two of you broke into a sweat pretty quickly, though neither of you pretended to mind. Even though your boyfriend insisted that you stay inside and relax while he handled everything, you couldn’t keep your hands off the boxes, especially the fragile ones. That small sign of mistrust stung him more than he let on, but he chose not to say anything.

After nearly an hour of unloading the truck parked outside, you finally took a break. Moving slowly, you pulled several family photos out of one box to examine them—and secretly watched Clark stroll around the living room. He handled the heavy-looking packages as if they weighed nothing. His white T-shirt was soaked and nearly transparent, nipples visible beneath the thin cotton. A glistening sheen of sweat added a glow to his smooth skin, and his muscles flexed slightly as he lifted nearly three boxes at once.

"Aren’t you tired?" you asked him, leaning against the dark wooden cabinet in the living room, where you'd placed several small boxes. "Not even a tiny bit?"

Clark hesitated before answering, positioning the boxes carefully and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his large hand.

"No, I’m not," he finally replied with a boyish grin that showed all his teeth—the kind of grin he used when he wanted to seem playful, not flirtatious. "I thought your parents would have more stuff to move."

You snickered and set the photo on top of the cabinet. "You saw them only once and already formed an opinion?"

The young man shrugged, the smile still lingering on his face. "I didn’t mean anything bad."

"I know. It’s just funny."

"Well, good—because I love it when you laugh," he added, winking briefly before turning on his heel and heading for the next set of boxes.

Left alone, you seized the moment to reflect on the family dinner where Clark finally met your parents. You also recalled how your mother had referred to him as the boy-next-door type of boyfriend. God, that line lived rent-free in your head, even now. It was so fucking on point—and your mother had delivered it without realizing she’d struck a nerve.

A bit later, you were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Clark was panting slightly and muttering under his breath as he carried two massive boxes and a package nearly as tall as he was. After placing them gently on the ground, your eyes widened when he peeled off his soaked T-shirt in one fluid motion.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stood there, your eyes tracing the lines of his cut physique. The man didn’t appear to notice your momentary embarrassment as he brushed aside a few damp strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Or maybe he just pretended not to.

You crossed your arms and bit your lip before pressing them together. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

Confused, Clark stopped mid-step and turned halfway around. "What? It’s just hot in here."

"Take a shower."

He let out a breathy chuckle and adjusted the belt on his pants, which had slipped down a bit.

"Do we have time for that?" Clark raised his brows, adding a hint of spice to his not-so-innocent question.

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer—without touching him.

Not at all.

"We don't have time," you crooned, shamelessly teasing. The distance between you was just a few inches. "But you do."

He grumbled, but not with irritation.

"Babe," Clark rasped suddenly, leaning in. "Why are you so tense?"

"I'm not," you replied, pausing as his hand cupped your cheek—more tenderly than you handled those fragile boxes of family heirlooms. "Not tense."

"You are," he murmured, drawing nearer until your lips nearly touched, though he still didn’t kiss you. "I remember you mentioned your parents aren’t in town."

God bless his memory, which had saved you millions of times—but now, it had backfired. You really did say that, and now you couldn’t use it as an excuse. Clark had cornered you without even realizing it.

"So, what are we doing now?" you asked, glancing down at his parted lips. The blend of his natural scent, cologne, and sweat made you feel dizzy. "There’s still some stuff left in the truck, but the driver won’t wait long."

Trailing his hand up your face, the young man used his other to pull you closer until your bodies met—and you could definitely feel which one of you was really "tensed".

"Leave that to me," he replied. The airy lightness in his voice almost made you levitate. "No need to fill this pretty little head with such problems."

With that, his hand slid higher to the base of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss that lasted only a few seconds—you slipped from his grip the moment he thought he had you under control.

Giggling, you darted to the nearest massive box, not even knowing what was inside. Clark didn’t hurry to chase you, though his breathing had turned uneven—not the steady, easy rhythm it had just moments before.

"We’re not doing it in my family’s house," you called out, your voice rising involuntarily, barely hiding your excitement.

"They haven’t even been here," he countered, moving slowly like a predator who knew damn well his prey wouldn’t run. "Besides, I just want to help my girlfriend relax. I don’t see anything criminal about that."

You knew that tone. You knew it too fucking well.

Its texture clung to you like thick honey, fixing you in place and clouding your thoughts.

If it wasn’t one of his superpowers, then what the hell was it?

Words were useless in this situation. You simply turned around, facing away from him and leaning against the tall box, which felt solid beneath your body. Clark took it as an invitation and moved quickly, knowing exactly what to do—and how to do it.

Always calculating. Always disciplined. Always putting you above everything else. That kind of affection? It threatened to make you lose your mind entirely.

His hot breath fanned across your back as he towered over you, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you slightly while palming your breasts through your black T-shirt. You felt like a helpless creature whenever he manhandled you like that.

"Mhmm, Clark," you gasped through parted lips, eyes closed and brows furrowed. "Did you... did you close the door?"

He smirked against your hair, his hands still kneading your soft tits.

"Of course I did, little one," he murmured—his answer clipped, but the trail of kisses he left along your neck was anything but brief.

Good grief!

This man was impossible to resist. He was sweet with a hint of spice. Sometimes, not even just a hint. A pool of boiling lava brewed inside him, ready to consume you.

You couldn’t do anything about it—you were so small next to him, disarmed yet desired.

The chirping of small birds soon faded into the background as your labored breaths filled the space around you. Slowly, without rushing, Clark traced your body with kisses, starting from your shoulder and moving downward. He was meticulous, marking your skin with care, unwilling to miss a single inch—until he had to bend lower to kiss your loins. Without a word, he folded the hem of your T-shirt and lifted it, pressing a feverish kiss just above the waistband of your tight jeans.

That almost broke you in half.

"Gosh, why are your lips so hot?" you asked, not expecting a reply.

Instead of answering, Clark gripped your curvy ass and gave it a playful smack—not rough, just teasing.

"I told you it’s pretty hot today," he murmured, feigning innocence while unclasping your belt. His hands were already in position to slip your jeans off. "Your parents will definitely need a good air conditioner."

You nearly combusted from shame.

How could he act so casual—talking about your family while literally kneeling behind you and about to strip you? The worst part was, he wasn’t trying to play the hot boyfriend saying lewd things just to make his girl blush. No. Clark was simply built this way.

And that was what hit you the hardest.

You had to cling to the cardboard box to steady yourself when he finally slid your jeans down. The fabric clung desperately to your skin, but Clark didn’t stop. He simply applied more pressure until the pants pooled at your feet. With his help, you stepped out of them, panting, and turned halfway to stroke his fluffy hair.

"How did you manage to get to know me so well… so fast?"

Your question hung in the air for a moment—your boyfriend too busy worshipping your ankles, hips, and the dip of your lower back. Everything remained tolerably innocent until his lips pressed against the convex curve of your pussy, kissing it through the soaked fabric of your favorite black lace bikini panties. His cheeks were already flushed as he nuzzled against your buttocks before replying.

"I can just see right through you."

With that, Clark nipped at the tender flesh of your swollen lower lips. You wailed and nearly lost your balance, but his firm grip kept you steady.

"Shh, careful, babydoll," he purred against your soft skin, planting delicate kisses on the insides of your thighs. "We don’t want to explain to your parents where these bruises came from, do we?"

"Clark..."

"I’m right here," the man murmured, kissing the soft mound of your ass and fondling it with both hands. "Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

He’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t nervous every time he had you like this—vulnerable and absolutely mind-blowing in your timidity. Sometimes it felt like he was committing the greatest sin. And he loved you for being so pure and unguarded in your emotions and desires—for never hiding how much you wanted him.

Time seemed to stop when he hooked the bottom of your panties with his tongue to taste you. A soft growl rumbled from his chest.

You were sweeter when caught like this.

"Clark, it feels so good," you murmured, not daring to look directly at him—just stealing shy glances at his outstretched tongue and flushed cheeks. "So fucking good..."

Huffing under his breath, Clark tugged your panties aside just enough to gain better access. Once he did, your folds were fully exposed to him, presented like the perfect dessert. He didn’t hesitate to taste every part of you—sucking slowly, deliberately, until they swelled even more. Until you were writhing in his grip, shifting from foot to foot like you were teetering on the edge.

Maybe you were.

"You sound so sweet when you're about to cum. You know that?"

He spanked your ass again, then your hips. Just as you were about to cry out from the sting, he peeled your panties off completely. They glided down your legs so smoothly it felt like gravity itself conspired to hand you over to your super-strong boyfriend right in your family house.

The boy next door, as your mom once said.

The boy next door who didn’t want to waste a single drop of your flavor as he locked his mouth to your dripping slit, tongue and lips moving in perfect sync. He latched onto the puffy flesh of your clit, licking it like it was his last chance. Clark wasn’t just eating you out—he was devouring you. There was no way to brace yourself. Your legs were open wide, and his face was buried deep between them.

"Fuck, Clark! Mmm, you're going to make me cum!" you warned him—though he could already feel it for himself.

His hands gripped your hips as he groaned into your throbbing pussy. Each low sound sent shockwaves through your body, blurring your vision. Meanwhile, that familiar coiling sensation in your belly was ready to spill over—like water brimming in a glass.

"Cum for me," he rasped, finally giving in to the urge to distract himself from feasting on that delicious little cunt. "Make a mess on my face."

You were so worked up you could’ve followed his command at any second and given him exactly what he wanted—but Clark seemed to be in full sex-torture mode. He decided to turn up the heat by pressing the tip of his finger against your puckered asshole. He didn’t push in, just let you feel the tension. Your body jolted—you nearly collapsed belly-first onto the box.

Clark reacted instantly, helping reposition you, tipping you forward just enough so he could plunge his tongue into your cleft. You were so warm and soft around him he couldn’t stop himself from moaning. His cock was already hard, but he ignored it.

Right now, he wanted you to fall apart.

To scream his name.

"Clark—oh, Clark!"

Yeah.

Just like that.

He didn’t say it aloud, only murmured incoherently into your flesh. His tongue moved feverishly inside you while one hand anchored your hips and the other tenderly toyed with your ass. The slick, obscene sounds were the perfect soundtrack to the heated scene. And when you finally let go, you cummed with a choked whimper, clawing at the cardboard box until your fingers locked up from the tension.

Clark didn’t release you until your body stopped trembling against the box—you almost kicked it with your knees. A soft pop echoed through the room, sending another pulse of pleasure straight to your already-melted core.

"You know," Clark murmured against your skin, his voice low and sincere, "I think it’s about time I thanked the good Lord for sending me someone like you." He rested his cheek against your hip, brushing soft kisses there. "And I reckon I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life."

"Oh, Clark," you drawled, giving his head a few clumsy, affectionate pats. "You're a blessing, too."

The next second, Clark was already standing up to kiss your lips, letting you taste yourself. You didn’t hold back a loud, depraved moan—he drank it in like a starving man. Then, he unbuckled his pants within seconds, his fingers moving swiftly without any help from you. With slow, graceful, yet possessive motions, your boyfriend turned you around and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me, darlin'," he murmured, guiding you to sit on top of the box. "Let me make you feel good a little longer."

You obeyed.

Whenever he spoke to you like that, you never needed to be asked twice—you trusted him completely.

From tip to toe.

After giving himself a few quick strokes, he waited for you to anchor yourself to the solid frame of his shoulders. Your nails lightly grazed his skin—not enough to leave marks, but enough to spike his sensitivity. He was already lining up with your glistening pussy when you suddenly pressed a palm against his sweaty, muscular chest.

"What’s wrong?" he asked instantly, his brow furrowed in concern.

"It’s... it’s a washing machine," you mumbled awkwardly, as if that explained everything. "In the box."

Clark seemed to black out for a second, like he’d been hit with an invisible hammer.

"And... Do you want to unpack it and turn it on?"

The two of you stared into each other’s eyes without blinking for a moment, both trying to make sense of what had just happened. You were the first to break, bursting into nervous laughter.

"What? No! I just—" You turned away, absolutely mortified by his sudden remark. "I hope we didn’t mess anything up."

Clark chuckled deeply, rocking his hips into yours. His dick slid between your slippery folds like clockwork.

"Believe me, if I really wanted to cause some damage, this place would need a full reconstruction."

You fluttered your lashes at him, smiling dumbly in that hazy, post-orgasmic way.

Before long, Clark’s lips found yours again. He guided his length to your entrance, dragging it slowly through your wetness, coating himself with every teasing glide before easing forward. Just the tip filled you so completely it stole your breath—but you didn’t stop kissing him, even as the sweet, aching stretch rolled through you like a slow, crashing avalanche.

"Mm-hmm," you whimpered into his mouth, your hands clutching his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "So... big..."

"I know, I know, sweetheart," he murmured, licking your bottom lip and cradling the back of your head as he rolled his hips. He navigated his cock so masterfully, you could’ve sworn it was in your belly. "You're so tight for me, baby."

"Yes... y-yes..."

Your voice came in waves now.

"Move with me."

It didn’t sound like a command—more like a plea.

And you answered it with the little energy you had left.

With one hand beneath your hip and the other wrapped around your waist, Clark began thrusting harder until it turned into a shameless, pounding rhythm. You leaned back against the surface of the box, your legs still looped tightly around his lower back. His heavy balls slapped your ass, filling the room with the sound of pure, unfiltered filth.

"Ahh... Clark... mmm... please... don't stop," you whimpered, clenching your legs tighter around him to pull him even deeper.

Clark growled, eyes squeezed shut—so caught up in the moment that he briefly forgot his true nature. And that scared the shit out of him, because if he lost control even a little, he might do something he couldn't take back.

Your wanton moans weren’t helping. Neither was your pulsing, needy pussy—it only made everything worse. Or better. Like you two were made for each other.

"Oh, shit, you need me so bad," he gritted out, fucking you almost senseless. "I can feel it."

Another loud cry escaped your lips, and he grabbed your hand, entwining your fingers with his. The pace turned brutal—he couldn’t stop himself, slamming into you like there was no tomorrow.

"Tell me to cum," Clark suddenly rasped, panting as he searched your eyes. "Tell me you want me to paint you white."

He thrust into you so hard the box cracked beneath you. Sweat dripped from your bodies, pooling and mixing in the heat between you.

"Please, please—I want your cum! I w-want it... s-so fucking much!"

That was all it took.

The filthy beauty of your own words sent your second orgasm barreling toward you. Breathing raggedly, you lay flat on your back, squeezing his firm ass with both hands as hard as you could. Clark hovered over you, massive and overwhelming. You looked so small beneath him—so delicate, so dear. To protect. To cherish. To love.

To fuck senseless on your parents' washing machine.

With another deep roll of his hips, he made you cum harder than ever before. But he didn’t stop. On the contrary—he kept jackhammering into you, savoring the sloppy, wet sounds your hole made and ignoring the burning itch in his balls from being so fucking locked and loaded.

Clark kept moving.

Until the surge of his own high became unbearable, he managed to pull out at the last second, erupting onto your belly and breasts in thick, creamy ropes. You didn’t make a sound—just breathed deeply and squeezed your breasts, smearing his cum all over them. Clark’s head tipped back, eyes still shut, as he gave himself a few final strokes until he was completely spent.

"Good girl," he rasped, watching you play with his cum through heavy-lidded eyes. "Here, take a taste."

Still panting, Clark leaned down and dragged a finger to your lips. You took it in without hesitation, sucking it clean. Afterward, he kissed you softly, pressing his forehead against yours. The two of you stayed frozen in that position for a moment—quiet, close, breath mingling.

It took several minutes before you came back to yourself. Then, out of nowhere, you let out a soft laugh, nearly making him flinch.

"What’s so funny?" Clark murmured, brushing his palm along your flushed cheek.

"Nothing," you smirked, placing your hand over his. "I was just thinking about how I’m going to live with what we’ve done. How I’ll be mortified every time we visit my family."

Clark couldn’t hold back a deep laugh.

"I’ll do my best to remind you," he teased, pecking your nose. You both giggled. "Of everything that happened here."

"You’re a terrible person."

"Relax," Clark muttered against your lips, admiring how wrecked you looked. "I don’t think the washing machine’s gonna need therapy after this."

God, this man was unbearable.

But you didn’t want him to change.

None of what was happening between the two of you needed to change.

You took him the way he was.

With all his secrets. With all his pain, his struggles—and his fears.

Thank you for the reading!💓 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

#clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x female reader #clark kent smut #clark kent #superman x reader #superman x you #superman x y/n #superman smut #dc x reader #dc x you #dc smut #superman #superman 2025 #clark kent x fem!reader #time zone reblog

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makeyoumine69 · 24 hours ago

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Let's choose the next piece of writing based on anon's requests!

After that, I'm taking a break from writing about Clark, but I appreciate all the ideas you send me.

Thank you so much!🌻

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makeyoumine69 · 24 hours ago

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Mood

#patrick bateman #american psycho #christian bale #such a big mood #i love him forever #my man my man my man

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makeyoumine69 · 24 hours ago

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Thank you so much, my dear! For everything!💍💓

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫

Surprisingly, though, Clark was more than happy to help.

This kind of sweetheart behavior was still unfamiliar to you—you simply weren’t used to it.

"Aren’t you tired?" you asked him, leaning against the dark wooden cabinet in the living room, where you'd placed several small boxes. "Not even a tiny bit?"

Clark hesitated before answering, positioning the boxes carefully and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his large hand.

You snickered and set the photo on top of the cabinet. "You saw them only once and already formed an opinion?"

The young man shrugged, the smile still lingering on his face. "I didn’t mean anything bad."

"I know. It’s just funny."

"Well, good—because I love it when you laugh," he added, winking briefly before turning on his heel and heading for the next set of boxes.

Or maybe he just pretended not to.

You crossed your arms and bit your lip before pressing them together. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

Confused, Clark stopped mid-step and turned halfway around. "What? It’s just hot in here."

"Take a shower."

He let out a breathy chuckle and adjusted the belt on his pants, which had slipped down a bit.

"Do we have time for that?" Clark raised his brows, adding a hint of spice to his not-so-innocent question.

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer—without touching him.

Not at all.

"We don't have time," you crooned, shamelessly teasing. The distance between you was just a few inches. "But you do."

He grumbled, but not with irritation.

"Babe," Clark rasped suddenly, leaning in. "Why are you so tense?"

"I'm not," you replied, pausing as his hand cupped your cheek—more tenderly than you handled those fragile boxes of family heirlooms. "Not tense."

"You are," he murmured, drawing nearer until your lips nearly touched, though he still didn’t kiss you. "I remember you mentioned your parents aren’t in town."

Trailing his hand up your face, the young man used his other to pull you closer until your bodies met—and you could definitely feel which one of you was really "tensed".

"Leave that to me," he replied. The airy lightness in his voice almost made you levitate. "No need to fill this pretty little head with such problems."

With that, his hand slid higher to the base of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss that lasted only a few seconds—you slipped from his grip the moment he thought he had you under control.

"We’re not doing it in my family’s house," you called out, your voice rising involuntarily, barely hiding your excitement.

You knew that tone. You knew it too fucking well.

Its texture clung to you like thick honey, fixing you in place and clouding your thoughts.

If it wasn’t one of his superpowers, then what the hell was it?

Always calculating. Always disciplined. Always putting you above everything else. That kind of affection? It threatened to make you lose your mind entirely.

"Mhmm, Clark," you gasped through parted lips, eyes closed and brows furrowed. "Did you... did you close the door?"

He smirked against your hair, his hands still kneading your soft tits.

"Of course I did, little one," he murmured—his answer clipped, but the trail of kisses he left along your neck was anything but brief.

Good grief!

This man was impossible to resist. He was sweet with a hint of spice. Sometimes, not even just a hint. A pool of boiling lava brewed inside him, ready to consume you.

You couldn’t do anything about it—you were so small next to him, disarmed yet desired.

That almost broke you in half.

"Gosh, why are your lips so hot?" you asked, not expecting a reply.

Instead of answering, Clark gripped your curvy ass and gave it a playful smack—not rough, just teasing.

You nearly combusted from shame.

And that was what hit you the hardest.

"How did you manage to get to know me so well… so fast?"

"I can just see right through you."

With that, Clark nipped at the tender flesh of your swollen lower lips. You wailed and nearly lost your balance, but his firm grip kept you steady.

"Shh, careful, babydoll," he purred against your soft skin, planting delicate kisses on the insides of your thighs. "We don’t want to explain to your parents where these bruises came from, do we?"

"Clark..."

"I’m right here," the man murmured, kissing the soft mound of your ass and fondling it with both hands. "Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

Time seemed to stop when he hooked the bottom of your panties with his tongue to taste you. A soft growl rumbled from his chest.

You were sweeter when caught like this.

"Clark, it feels so good," you murmured, not daring to look directly at him—just stealing shy glances at his outstretched tongue and flushed cheeks. "So fucking good..."

Maybe you were.

"You sound so sweet when you're about to cum. You know that?"

The boy next door, as your mom once said.

"Fuck, Clark! Mmm, you're going to make me cum!" you warned him—though he could already feel it for himself.

"Cum for me," he rasped, finally giving in to the urge to distract himself from feasting on that delicious little cunt. "Make a mess on my face."

Right now, he wanted you to fall apart.

To scream his name.

"Clark—oh, Clark!"

Yeah.

Just like that.

"Oh, Clark," you drawled, giving his head a few clumsy, affectionate pats. "You're a blessing, too."

"Wrap your legs around me, darlin'," he murmured, guiding you to sit on top of the box. "Let me make you feel good a little longer."

You obeyed.

Whenever he spoke to you like that, you never needed to be asked twice—you trusted him completely.

From tip to toe.

"What’s wrong?" he asked instantly, his brow furrowed in concern.

"It’s... it’s a washing machine," you mumbled awkwardly, as if that explained everything. "In the box."

Clark seemed to black out for a second, like he’d been hit with an invisible hammer.

"And... Do you want to unpack it and turn it on?"

The two of you stared into each other’s eyes without blinking for a moment, both trying to make sense of what had just happened. You were the first to break, bursting into nervous laughter.

"What? No! I just—" You turned away, absolutely mortified by his sudden remark. "I hope we didn’t mess anything up."

Clark chuckled deeply, rocking his hips into yours. His dick slid between your slippery folds like clockwork.

"Believe me, if I really wanted to cause some damage, this place would need a full reconstruction."

You fluttered your lashes at him, smiling dumbly in that hazy, post-orgasmic way.

"Mm-hmm," you whimpered into his mouth, your hands clutching his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "So... big..."

"Yes... y-yes..."

Your voice came in waves now.

"Move with me."

It didn’t sound like a command—more like a plea.

And you answered it with the little energy you had left.

"Ahh... Clark... mmm... please... don't stop," you whimpered, clenching your legs tighter around him to pull him even deeper.

Your wanton moans weren’t helping. Neither was your pulsing, needy pussy—it only made everything worse. Or better. Like you two were made for each other.

"Oh, shit, you need me so bad," he gritted out, fucking you almost senseless. "I can feel it."

Another loud cry escaped your lips, and he grabbed your hand, entwining your fingers with his. The pace turned brutal—he couldn’t stop himself, slamming into you like there was no tomorrow.

"Tell me to cum," Clark suddenly rasped, panting as he searched your eyes. "Tell me you want me to paint you white."

He thrust into you so hard the box cracked beneath you. Sweat dripped from your bodies, pooling and mixing in the heat between you.

"Please, please—I want your cum! I w-want it... s-so fucking much!"

That was all it took.

To fuck senseless on your parents' washing machine.

Clark kept moving.

"Good girl," he rasped, watching you play with his cum through heavy-lidded eyes. "Here, take a taste."

It took several minutes before you came back to yourself. Then, out of nowhere, you let out a soft laugh, nearly making him flinch.

"What’s so funny?" Clark murmured, brushing his palm along your flushed cheek.

"Nothing," you smirked, placing your hand over his. "I was just thinking about how I’m going to live with what we’ve done. How I’ll be mortified every time we visit my family."

Clark couldn’t hold back a deep laugh.

"I’ll do my best to remind you," he teased, pecking your nose. You both giggled. "Of everything that happened here."

"You’re a terrible person."

"Relax," Clark muttered against your lips, admiring how wrecked you looked. "I don’t think the washing machine’s gonna need therapy after this."

God, this man was unbearable.

But you didn’t want him to change.

None of what was happening between the two of you needed to change.

You took him the way he was.

With all his secrets. With all his pain, his struggles—and his fears.

Thank you for the reading!💓 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

#re reblog

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makeyoumine69 · 1 day ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫

Surprisingly, though, Clark was more than happy to help.

This kind of sweetheart behavior was still unfamiliar to you—you simply weren’t used to it.

"Aren’t you tired?" you asked him, leaning against the dark wooden cabinet in the living room, where you'd placed several small boxes. "Not even a tiny bit?"

Clark hesitated before answering, positioning the boxes carefully and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his large hand.

You snickered and set the photo on top of the cabinet. "You saw them only once and already formed an opinion?"

The young man shrugged, the smile still lingering on his face. "I didn’t mean anything bad."

"I know. It’s just funny."

"Well, good—because I love it when you laugh," he added, winking briefly before turning on his heel and heading for the next set of boxes.

Or maybe he just pretended not to.

You crossed your arms and bit your lip before pressing them together. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

Confused, Clark stopped mid-step and turned halfway around. "What? It’s just hot in here."

"Take a shower."

He let out a breathy chuckle and adjusted the belt on his pants, which had slipped down a bit.

"Do we have time for that?" Clark raised his brows, adding a hint of spice to his not-so-innocent question.

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer—without touching him.

Not at all.

"We don't have time," you crooned, shamelessly teasing. The distance between you was just a few inches. "But you do."

He grumbled, but not with irritation.

"Babe," Clark rasped suddenly, leaning in. "Why are you so tense?"

"I'm not," you replied, pausing as his hand cupped your cheek—more tenderly than you handled those fragile boxes of family heirlooms. "Not tense."

"You are," he murmured, drawing nearer until your lips nearly touched, though he still didn’t kiss you. "I remember you mentioned your parents aren’t in town."

Trailing his hand up your face, the young man used his other to pull you closer until your bodies met—and you could definitely feel which one of you was really "tensed".

"Leave that to me," he replied. The airy lightness in his voice almost made you levitate. "No need to fill this pretty little head with such problems."

With that, his hand slid higher to the base of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss that lasted only a few seconds—you slipped from his grip the moment he thought he had you under control.

"We’re not doing it in my family’s house," you called out, your voice rising involuntarily, barely hiding your excitement.

You knew that tone. You knew it too fucking well.

Its texture clung to you like thick honey, fixing you in place and clouding your thoughts.

If it wasn’t one of his superpowers, then what the hell was it?

Always calculating. Always disciplined. Always putting you above everything else. That kind of affection? It threatened to make you lose your mind entirely.

"Mhmm, Clark," you gasped through parted lips, eyes closed and brows furrowed. "Did you... did you close the door?"

He smirked against your hair, his hands still kneading your soft tits.

"Of course I did, little one," he murmured—his answer clipped, but the trail of kisses he left along your neck was anything but brief.

Good grief!

This man was impossible to resist. He was sweet with a hint of spice. Sometimes, not even just a hint. A pool of boiling lava brewed inside him, ready to consume you.

You couldn’t do anything about it—you were so small next to him, disarmed yet desired.

That almost broke you in half.

"Gosh, why are your lips so hot?" you asked, not expecting a reply.

Instead of answering, Clark gripped your curvy ass and gave it a playful smack—not rough, just teasing.

You nearly combusted from shame.

And that was what hit you the hardest.

"How did you manage to get to know me so well… so fast?"

"I can just see right through you."

With that, Clark nipped at the tender flesh of your swollen lower lips. You wailed and nearly lost your balance, but his firm grip kept you steady.

"Shh, careful, babydoll," he purred against your soft skin, planting delicate kisses on the insides of your thighs. "We don’t want to explain to your parents where these bruises came from, do we?"

"Clark..."

"I’m right here," the man murmured, kissing the soft mound of your ass and fondling it with both hands. "Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

Time seemed to stop when he hooked the bottom of your panties with his tongue to taste you. A soft growl rumbled from his chest.

You were sweeter when caught like this.

"Clark, it feels so good," you murmured, not daring to look directly at him—just stealing shy glances at his outstretched tongue and flushed cheeks. "So fucking good..."

Maybe you were.

"You sound so sweet when you're about to cum. You know that?"

The boy next door, as your mom once said.

"Fuck, Clark! Mmm, you're going to make me cum!" you warned him—though he could already feel it for himself.

"Cum for me," he rasped, finally giving in to the urge to distract himself from feasting on that delicious little cunt. "Make a mess on my face."

Right now, he wanted you to fall apart.

To scream his name.

"Clark—oh, Clark!"

Yeah.

Just like that.

"Oh, Clark," you drawled, giving his head a few clumsy, affectionate pats. "You're a blessing, too."

"Wrap your legs around me, darlin'," he murmured, guiding you to sit on top of the box. "Let me make you feel good a little longer."

You obeyed.

Whenever he spoke to you like that, you never needed to be asked twice—you trusted him completely.

From tip to toe.

"What’s wrong?" he asked instantly, his brow furrowed in concern.

"It’s... it’s a washing machine," you mumbled awkwardly, as if that explained everything. "In the box."

Clark seemed to black out for a second, like he’d been hit with an invisible hammer.

"And... Do you want to unpack it and turn it on?"

The two of you stared into each other’s eyes without blinking for a moment, both trying to make sense of what had just happened. You were the first to break, bursting into nervous laughter.

"What? No! I just—" You turned away, absolutely mortified by his sudden remark. "I hope we didn’t mess anything up."

Clark chuckled deeply, rocking his hips into yours. His dick slid between your slippery folds like clockwork.

"Believe me, if I really wanted to cause some damage, this place would need a full reconstruction."

You fluttered your lashes at him, smiling dumbly in that hazy, post-orgasmic way.

"Mm-hmm," you whimpered into his mouth, your hands clutching his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "So... big..."

"Yes... y-yes..."

Your voice came in waves now.

"Move with me."

It didn’t sound like a command—more like a plea.

And you answered it with the little energy you had left.

"Ahh... Clark... mmm... please... don't stop," you whimpered, clenching your legs tighter around him to pull him even deeper.

Your wanton moans weren’t helping. Neither was your pulsing, needy pussy—it only made everything worse. Or better. Like you two were made for each other.

"Oh, shit, you need me so bad," he gritted out, fucking you almost senseless. "I can feel it."

Another loud cry escaped your lips, and he grabbed your hand, entwining your fingers with his. The pace turned brutal—he couldn’t stop himself, slamming into you like there was no tomorrow.

"Tell me to cum," Clark suddenly rasped, panting as he searched your eyes. "Tell me you want me to paint you white."

He thrust into you so hard the box cracked beneath you. Sweat dripped from your bodies, pooling and mixing in the heat between you.

"Please, please—I want your cum! I w-want it... s-so fucking much!"

That was all it took.

To fuck senseless on your parents' washing machine.

Clark kept moving.

"Good girl," he rasped, watching you play with his cum through heavy-lidded eyes. "Here, take a taste."

It took several minutes before you came back to yourself. Then, out of nowhere, you let out a soft laugh, nearly making him flinch.

"What’s so funny?" Clark murmured, brushing his palm along your flushed cheek.

"Nothing," you smirked, placing your hand over his. "I was just thinking about how I’m going to live with what we’ve done. How I’ll be mortified every time we visit my family."

Clark couldn’t hold back a deep laugh.

"I’ll do my best to remind you," he teased, pecking your nose. You both giggled. "Of everything that happened here."

"You’re a terrible person."

"Relax," Clark muttered against your lips, admiring how wrecked you looked. "I don’t think the washing machine’s gonna need therapy after this."

God, this man was unbearable.

But you didn’t want him to change.

None of what was happening between the two of you needed to change.

You took him the way he was.

With all his secrets. With all his pain, his struggles—and his fears.

Thank you for the reading!💓 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

281 notes · View notes

makeyoumine69 · 1 day ago

Text

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

◙ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: One day, Patrick Bateman saw firsthand just how severe your panic attacks could get—and he literally saved your life by pulling you back from the edge. What he didn’t realize (or maybe just didn’t care about) was that he was one of the reasons your mental health was falling apart in the first place. Still, neither of you could answer the real question: why did you keep coming back to each other? Patrick claimed it was because you owed him. But the truth behind your twisted bond ran much deeper—and much darker. ◙ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Sugar!Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader ◙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, angst & romance, unhealthy relationships, implications of self harm & panic attacks, mental issues, heavy Daddy kink (dd/lg), praise kink, traumatized reader, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of drugs, smut, cockwarming, masturbation (reader receiving), orgasm delay (kinda), nipple play, body worship, minor dacryphilia, teasing, marking (hickeys, etc), dirty talk, pet names, Service!Dom!Patrick Bateman is a warning himself. ◙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: Around 3.5k ◙ 𝐀/𝐍: Hello, dear people! It’s been a while, but I hope everyone who still remembers my Cupcake series is happy to finally see an update! Honestly, this fic broke me—I’m not the same person I was before I wrote it, haha. I hope you enjoy it!

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌-𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

You were so fucking scared.

Every time you closed your eyes, falling asleep next to him, you were terrified that the next time you opened them, he wouldn’t be there anymore. That he’d vanish as quickly as he had appeared in your life—like a sudden gust of wind blowing in through a door someone forgot to close.

No matter how many walls you tried to build, they always collapsed whenever he made you feel like you two weren’t so different. Because he was afraid too. Afraid of losing the one person who brought even a faint sense of normalcy to the chaotic realm he suffered through like an endless whirlpool of pain, disdain, lies, and disgust.

"Open your eyes and hold my hand," his voice guided you through the darkness, even though it was midday and you both stood on the balcony of his apartment. "You’re not gonna fall if you just come here."

You shook your head and stepped back into the doorway. "I told you—I’m scared of heights!"

"Cupcake," Patrick crooned, extending his hand. Sunlight bounced off his gold Rolex, nearly blinding you. "You don’t have to be scared. Not when I’m here with you."

"But you're not here," you murmured, hugging yourself against the chilly air—typical for late summer in New York. "And you never were."

There were plenty of things Bateman despised in life, but you using words as a weapon was high on that list. Simply because it hurt—deeply—and it was nothing like physical pain. It made him feel too alive, too fucking immersed in the mess of emotions that he hated with every fiber of his being. He didn’t even flinch at the icy wind lashing at him like a thousand whips—maybe you were right, he wasn’t really there at all.

Still, there was a small hope inside you, some quiet, stubborn belief that this man wasn’t a curse but the only person who somehow resonated with your soul. Someone who could give you what you needed. Though, in truth, you probably didn’t even know what that was. And Patrick—of all people—was the last man capable of giving you that elusive thing that might’ve saved you from the monotony of your life. It was foolish to think you could find comfort in the arms of someone like him. But you did. Through pain. Through tears. You clawed your way into his soul, believing he had one.

Lying under the covers of his California king bed that night, you didn’t expect to fall asleep quickly. In fact, you didn’t expect to sleep at all—not after what happened on the balcony, where you reminded him for the who-even-knew-how-many-th time that you didn’t trust him. But still, you stayed.

A vicious cycle with no exit.

You were unraveling, gripping the sheets, your black underwear soaked with sweat. Swallowing hard, you felt the panic rising in your chest like a snake, tightening, preparing to suffocate you right there. Right next to Patrick, who was fast asleep—arm curled under his head, his breathing steady and slow. Sometimes watching the rise and fall of his broad chest helped lull you to rest—watching the rope-like muscles flex and release like it was a part of some flawless machine.

But not tonight.

Tonight there was only the sharp, grinding ache beneath your ribs, like something inside you was trying to rip its way out. Maybe it was your fear. Your broken dreams. Your grief. One thing was certain—if you kept lying there, letting yourself spiral and letting the panic take over—you were going to suffocate.

That wasn’t part of the plan when you came here.

Right. There was no fucking plan—because whenever it came to Patrick Bateman, your mind stopped working. Like he had some mystical power. A mind-reader, at the very least. Every time you thought you'd outplayed him, he’d already moved a step ahead.

Cautiously, you pulled the blanket aside and slipped out of bed, trying your best to move quietly so as not to wake him. The bedroom was swallowed in darkness, where shadows danced along the walls, occasionally forming grotesque shapes that reminded you of your worst nightmares.

Barefoot and barely clothed, you stepped onto the oaken floor, which felt icy against your skin—such a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed. But you didn’t want to go back. You could have woken him. Asked for comfort. You were even certain he’d say or do something that might help. He had before—once literally pulling you out of the chaotic backstage at a fashion show when you nearly fainted under the weight of too many faceless models.

Their mocking laughter still echoed vividly in your mind.

By the time you reached the bathroom, you were barely breathing. Your heart pounded inside your chest like a heavy hammer. When you turned on the light, your reflection nearly startled you. Your skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Opening the faucet, you splashed cold water on your face, hands trembling, droplets spraying everywhere.

You didn’t care. You barely noticed.

The water was frigid, but your skin felt even colder—like you could freeze over entirely. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself before finally lifting your glazed eyes to the mirror.

Lately, panic attacks have become more frequent. And more intense. Bateman had been right—the meds you’d been prescribed weren’t helping. Maybe they never did, just placebos wrapped in false comfort, since you never had the nerve to take anything stronger. If only you had the courage to be vulnerable. To ask for help.

Just once.

You closed your eyes and leaned on the sink. The black tiles felt insubstantial beneath your fingers. Soft, nearly silent footsteps echoed behind you—tiny, steady beats like a ticking clock. You had left the door open. It didn’t take him long to appear.

He was still in the gray sweatpants he’d changed into before bed. They hung low on his hips, threatening to slip, but he didn’t bother adjusting them. His attention was locked entirely on you—his stare so intense it felt like it could burn a hole through your back.

"Standing there hugging the sink won’t help. You know that right?" Patrick’s voice cut through the silence, quicker than he seemed to think it through. "There’s Xanax behind the mirror. You can take one—"

"No."

Bateman smirked, as if he already knew what your answer would be. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bathroom door, clearly not in the mood to convince you of anything.

If he could ask why you kept coming back—why you stayed the night in his apartment—he would. But every time he saw you shaking like a leaf in the wind, something in him paused. It stopped him from becoming the brutal, detached version of himself—the version most people got.

Even with people he claimed were "slightly more important" than the rest, he couldn’t recall ever being kind. Or even decent. But you were different. Flawed. Messy. Perfect in your imperfection. You didn’t need to be broken. You just ended up that way.

"You can either come back to bed or stand there all night," he said abruptly, pushing off the door. "I’m not gonna ask again."

You thought he’d just leave. But then—click.

The bathroom went dark.

Your panic surged to its limit.

Before he could fully walk away, you nearly shouted:

"Don’t act like you’re not the reason I’m scared!"

You didn’t turn around, but you heard his footsteps stop.

"I’m standing here… in this goddamn place because you wanted me to," you hissed, your hands gripping the cool edge of the counter, your whole body trembling to keep the tears at bay. "You can’t be the fucking hero who saved me… when you’re the one who built the trap."

The lights came back on abruptly.

"Not that I ever asked to be saved," you added, finally spinning around and releasing the counter. Your fingers throbbed from the tension.

Patrick didn’t even bother stepping in, speaking from somewhere in the hallway. "Are you done?"

You ignored him.

"Good," his voice carried a sharp edge, growing louder as he approached. "Because I’ve got work in the morning and I need to sleep," he kicked the door open—hard. It nearly came off its hinges. "But instead I’m stuck babysitting a crybaby who’s too fucking proud to accept help, yet too reckless to deal with the consequences!"

"I didn’t ask! Why the hell did you even come in here?"

"Because I didn’t want to find a corpse in my goddamn bathroom come morning!" he snapped, closing the distance.

Paralyzed, you gasped for breath as he leveled with you. The scent of his body lotion hit your nose—clean, warm, familiar. You instinctively stepped back until the sink caught you. Patrick didn’t ask for permission—or give a damn about personal space anymore. He simply scooped you up in his brawny arms.

You didn’t hesitate to cling to him.

His skin was slightly slick with sweat—whether from anxiety or something else, you couldn’t tell.

"Why… why are you doing this?" you rasped into the crook of his neck. "Why do you keep coming after me? Why pretend to care?"

His arms tightened around you like steel wires. The heat of his body, the overwhelming scent of him—it blanketed you entirely. When he rested his chin on top of your head and inhaled your hair, your knees nearly buckled.

He stroked the back of your neck, then brushed his lips across your temple.

"Don’t talk," he murmured near your ear, his warm breath skimming your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. "Words are useless sometimes."

It was strange to hear something like that from him.

So strange you couldn’t hold back your tears anymore. You clawed into his back, burying your face between his neck and shoulder.

"I’ve missed you—"

There it was.

"I’ve missed you so much." Your voice cracked as you swallowed back tears, no longer trying to hide them.

"I know," he answered shortly, sliding one hand from your neck down to your waist. "You always miss me. Even when I’m with you."

That was the ugliest truth the world had ever heard.

"You want me to take you back to bed?"

The question hit you harder than it should have. You trembled in his hold, and he gently kissed your wet cheeks.

"Shhh, Cupcake," he nearly purred in a soft, soothing tone, rocking you gently. "I’ll carry you back to bed. You’ll calm down. You’ll fall asleep. You’re not gonna fade away tonight."

Not gonna fade away.

You clung to him tighter. "And you—?"

"Me? I won’t go anywhere."

Then he kissed you. Slowly. Deliberately. Tilting your chin up, he brushed his big, warm palm along your cheek, as if it belonged there.

As if you two were meant to be.

As if you hadn’t gone through this same spiral countless times before.

Patrick proved his words and carried you to the bedroom, holding you tightly in his arms until your back touched the cold sheets. You expected him to shower you with kisses—that you’d pick up right where you left off.

But to your own surprise, he simply lay down beside you, rolling you onto your side and wrapping himself around you from behind. His hands were strong, keeping you anchored in place, as if restraining you from slipping away and doing something reckless.

You almost grumbled in protest, but—once again—Bateman must have read your mind. Before you could say a word, he pressed a brief kiss to the slope of your neck, hitting that exact spot. You trembled against his massive frame, but he ignored it. He only nuzzled you for a fleeting second before pulling away.

"Sleep," he murmured, voice slightly rough.

You fidgeted, covering his hands with yours. "I don’t think... I can."

"Too bad."

Shit.

You were barely restraining yourself from rubbing your ass against his groin, just to provoke some kind of reaction—any reaction. It was obvious that your panic attacks didn’t turn him on, but why did your body always swing straight to arousal the moment anxiety overwhelmed you? Like some faulty switch that flipped your brain from chaos to craving in a heartbeat.

You felt stupid. Robbed.

Robbed of things no one actually promised you—just expectations. Fantasies that rarely turned into anything real.

Patrick’s breathing grew slower, deeper—he was on the edge of sleep. It made your chest tighten. If you woke him again, that would be a disaster. So you acted fast.

Cautiously, you arched your back, letting your hips grind against his—your ass barely brushing his groin. Semi-hard, but not quite pressing firm enough to satisfy. You repeated the motion, this time more deliberately, practically bumping into his crotch with the curve of your butt.

Finally, you noticed his pulse quicken. His breath shifted, more ragged.

"You’re not going to calm down, are you?"

Slightly embarrassed—but very aware of what you were doing—you bit your lower lip. You didn’t turn around, only arched deeper, and this time he bucked his hips toward yours. You barely managed to swallow a moan.

"Sex won’t help you," Patrick muttered suddenly.

But one of his hands was already palming your breast.

"Believe me."

Just when you thought he was going to deny you and tell you to sleep again, his free hand suddenly found its way between your legs, drawing a swift but potent line along the center of your panties—right on the seam—teasing your engorged clit and smearing your slickness just enough to make you writhe against his body.

"Daddy…" you nearly whimpered into the pillow, your cheeks burning with undeniable heat. "Jeez, I need you—I need you so much..."

Bateman snickered in your ear in a distinctly mocking tone, his tongue sweeping along your earlobe before sucking it briefly and giving it a playful nip.

"You always pick the worst moments to flaunt your daddy issues," he drawled, peppering the most sensitive spot on your neck with sloppy kisses. You squirmed more vigorously, grinding the curve of your ass against his dick—now hard as a rock. "I’m not gonna fuck you tonight."

Everything inside you went numb, as if a heavy weight had dropped into your stomach.

"But—"

"Spread your legs a bit," Bateman muttered, biting down on the throbbing artery in your neck before sliding lower to suck on your collarbone in rhythm with the movement of his hand.

Once you obeyed, he slipped his fingers deeper, rubbing your pussy lips lazily—then abruptly pulling back when he noticed you moving too much.

"M-mhm, don’t stop," you gasped, shaking your head to clear the damp, tangled strands of your messy hair. "Please."

You felt his lips curl into a smile against your skin. Patrick had already learned how your body responded to different kinds of pressure—right now, it craved a hit of dopamine. If it were up to him, he’d probably snort a thick line of coke, chase it with a shot of J&B, and crawl back into bed to fuck the hell out of you—since you were practically begging for it. But with someone else, he’d imagine a different face. Someone less soft, less innocent. But not with you. With you, he didn’t want your mind to wander. He wanted you present—needed you to unravel in his hands. To watch you break apart just to fuse again with him.

Gritting his teeth until his jaw clicked, Patrick shifted on the bed and slid his sweatpants down. You were about to squeal in triumph when he pressed his heavy, throbbing length against your soaked slit—then he suddenly froze.

"Gonna stick my cock into your tight pussy," he growled, punctuating each word with slow, feverish kisses along your burning cheek. "And you’re gonna sleep like that until morning. Got it?"

You froze, barely breathing. "W-what? Why?" "Because I want to feel your warmth all night long."

If this man was sick enough to think that giving you his dick would bring comfort—he was so fucking right about that. As soon as he started rubbing himself against your soaked panties, avoiding too much pressure on your clit, you couldn’t stay still. Your hands clawed at his hips, his biceps, his palms. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. One second, he was nearly pushing inside through the thin fabric; the next, he was teasing your swollen nub with his tip.

"Mmm—Cupcake," he murmured against your temple, keeping you pinned with one hand while the other gripped his cock—slick with precum, thick like syrup. "You’re so soft," his voice was the only anchor holding you in place. "So pliable."

ARGH!

You wanted to fucking bite his hand off and gnaw on it.

Emotions overwhelmed you, especially when he finally moved your drenched panties aside, hooking the fabric effortlessly and sinking his fingers into the wet mess between your thighs.

"A-ahhh—Daddy," you gasped, nearly elbowing him as your body jolted for more friction. "You’re good, you’re good, I’m here," he muttered feverishly, barely keeping control—and that concerned him. "Daddy’s gonna take care of his sweet, little girl."

Jesus fucking Christ.

Those words alone nearly catapulted you into orgasm.

And then, when he finally plunged his thick, veiny cock into your dripping pussy—you saw black dots flashing behind your eyes. Your inner walls clenched around him, sucking him in so greedily he had to bite his lip to stop himself from slamming into you without restraint.

"I…" you stuttered, panting, drooling like a waterfall without even noticing. "I’m… so close… I… wanna cum… can I cum? Please, Daddy?"

Patrick cursed under his breath, sweat dripping down his brow, stinging his eyes as he blinked hard. His cock twitched deep inside you, the arch of it pressing against your soft inner walls without even moving.

"Not yet." That was all he growled—harsh, commanding.

Without another word, he pressed two fingers to your swollen clit, rubbing it harder—in circles, in swipes, in rhythms your mind couldn’t even register anymore. The fullness of his cock, the pressure on your cervix, the relentless stimulation on your clit—and then, as if that weren’t enough, Patrick slipped one cup of your bra aside and pinched your nipple with merciless precision.

"Fuck," you sobbed, grabbing at whatever your hands could reach. "Gonna cum… I’m gonna—"

Patrick didn’t hesitate to catch your mouth with his, swallowing your moans. His fingers never stopped working your throbbing clit, even when you began wiggling so wildly in his arms that he had to use his other hand to pin you down—wrapping one leg around yours to hold you still.

And still, he struggled not to cum himself—the way your pussy pulsed around him, like it was doing everything it could to milk him dry.

When your mouths parted, he watched you fall apart in the throes of orgasm—the most fucking beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

"Good girl," he whispered, kissing your face wherever his lips could reach as your body twitched against him.

"My good girl."

Gasping for breath, you couldn’t even open your eyes. You were completely wrecked—in the best way. It was like he had drained you of every ounce of anxiety and darkness, leaving only the sweet haze of absolute tranquility.

"Now sleep," Patrick murmured a little later, both arms wrapped around your upper body, his hands lazily kneading your breasts—not to arouse, but to soothe. A touch that comforted him more than it did you.

You let out a weary sigh and shifted slightly, resting your head beneath his chin. "In the morning…" you paused, licking your lips slick with saliva. "I want you to claim me—"

Bateman laughed sharply, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest. "You’re already mine, little one."

Neither of you moved much after that.

Both panting. Both satisfied in your own way. Thinking about the morning—about what it could bring… and what it might take away. Your hearts fell into rhythm, beating in unison. The closeness made you feel overheated, even though the covers had slipped off. A pleasant fatigue dragged you under, and you finally surrendered to sleep.

Patrick, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep at all. His cock kept twitching. His balls ached from tension. But he didn’t regret a damn thing. Holding you in his arms, still buried deep inside you, knowing how much you craved him—body and soul—gave him a twisted kind of fulfillment. The kind he’d never felt before.

No amount of money, luxury, status ever made him feel like this. Even though the fear of closing his eyes still lingered, now that he knew it was mutual, the heavy weight on his chest began to lift. The chains around his heart started to crack.

"My sweet little Cupcake," he whispered into your hair—barely audible.

He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud or if it had only echoed inside his head—the buzzing inner voice that had never left him since the moment he met you.

...

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