#LOOK AT BECCAS ART

[chiangyorange]

more of them because im obsessed with this episode, honestly

prev

[timegays]

Finally watched that coffee town movie

[nofacednerd]

Some WIP Sticker designs for RCCC!!

[givesmeyourteeths]

I drew scabambaspis yesterday

Look at this boy

I love him

[becca-but-bitty]

HI I am back after like a 3 month long hiatus- I am very sorry BUT take these g/t doodles I've accumulated over the weeks as an apology

PLUS some non g/t stuff under the cut, as a treat

[jaeharuart]

Internet's been exploding with these characters right now, so I'm hoping on the bandwagon with this one. I like her tatts or whatever the f@ck. Speedpaint vid will be up on my YouTube whenever I get that compiled. Anyway,

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/JaeHaruArt?fan_landing=true

Follow elsewhere: https://linktr.ee/jaeharuart

[procyo9]

another one of my old characters revamped - Black Becca (BB) !!

i love her ;u; she's Tetsu's best friend and would prolly work at the in-game shop or something like that - i'd like her to appear quite often

[bisexualmultifandommess]

Pencil or pen sketches are so fun to draw because they always look so cartoony

[plantsssssblog]

My school won’t let me submit this for the art show cuz I drew someone smoking so imma post it here >:))

[vaaaaaiolet]

You take it upon yourself to spice up your husband's work lunches at Rebecca's encouragement, and Leon nearly dies in the process. Is Hello Kitty really a killer? Leon, for one, is convinced she's up to no good.

f / m, you're married to older leon!, crack treated seriously, fluff, slice of life, the dso is just one big happy family because i said so, bento boxes and happy ending but maybe not for chris (i still love my peanut buster king)

word count: 1.4k // read on ao3

a/n: inspired by rrcherrypie's hello kitty bento box video that i watched religiously as a kid. this entire fic is a shitpost tbh LMAO this is my government mandated apology for a story where no one goes anywhere <3 go check it out if you haven't yet!

Ever since his cop days, Leon’s learned that you can’t trust anyone whose hands aren’t in plain sight and well, Hello Kitty’s emblazoned face staring up at him from the kitchen counter doesn’t exactly have hands. Or arms.

Leon scrunches his nose at her and opts to wrap his own arms around your waist instead.

“Doll.”

“Hm?” 

Leon lines the side of your neck with kisses as carrot coins and cucumber slices fall serenely away at your knife. 

“Whatcha doin’?” he prods.

You neatly sweep the vegetables into the Hello Kitty bento box and give your attention-hungry husband a kiss to tide him over, but it’s not quite enough to satiate. Octopus sausages stare back at him with pointy sesame seed eyes, and Leon grows more unsettled by the minute.

He’s done playing nice; gives your hip a pinch. “Come on, you’re killing me here. What’s with all the arts and crafts?”

“Now, before you say anything,” your voice is soft and placating and giving him all the more reason to worry, "‘Becca came by to visit me the other day and said she really liked what I made you for lunch last week.”

“So this is for her?” Leon breathes a sigh of relief. He was starting to thin-

“No, this is for you, silly!”

And you laugh like it’s funny.

“I thought I should start putting in some more effort into your food. You’re away for work so often, and I don’t get to make you nice things as much as I want to.”

Leon chokes a little and looks back down at Hello Kitty’s gleaming metal face. “This is…what I’m taking to work?”

Your face falls. “What, you don’t like it?”

“No, doll, it looks delicious but…you really didn’t have to go all out. Your sandwiches are just fine. I don’t wanna give you the trouble, y’know?” 

“No trouble at all, baby,” you practically sing the words as you twirl to add your knife to a precarious tower of dishes in the sink, “you just say the word, and I can make you bento boxes every week.”

Every week?

You cup a soapy palm to Leon’s cheek as his gaze descends into a thousand-yard stare to rival Hello Kitty’s. “I think your friends might even be excited about your lunch now!”

Oh, absolutely. Chris was going to have a field day.

Chris completely loses his shit as predicted.

“Oh, Leon, it’s adorable,” Rebecca chimes in hopefully as Chris coughs into his fist, “you should have seen how excited she was when I gave her the box!”

The frustrated ceramic click of Leon’s teeth is somehow audible over Chris’ uncivilized howling. “So this was your idea?”

She gives him a sheepish chuckle.

“Rebecca, I thought we were friends,” he pleads as he picks up his metal fork. The team hovers over Leon’s shoulders like vultures to eye what his wife’s made him for lunch. 

To your credit, it’s a mealtime Michelangelo. There are Sanrio-themed rice balls of both the brown and white variety, vegetables neatly cut and festooned with animal picks, a beautifully folded omelet, and the ever omniscient octopus sausages. Hello Kitty’s metal face guards the entire hoard like a gargoyle. It’s enough to make Leon lose his lunch, but he’d have to have some first to cough it up.

He gives the octopus a tentative poke.

“Seriously, Leon, just man up and eat the damn thing.” Jill takes no nonsense as usual, plucking a carrot from the bed of lettuce and tossing it into her mouth. “Chris is just salty he’s having his fifth protein shake lunch of the week.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

It’s never quiet with those two around, but Rebecca gives him an encouraging smile as he gives the octopus a chew. It’s not bad, really. It’s just something about eating something with ey-

Rapid alarm beeps in the main compound snap the team’s attention away from the bento box affair and towards the map in the middle. Rebecca shoots off in her rolling chair to pull up what’s alerting the alarm system, and Hunnigan’s business voice projects into Leon’s earpiece.

“I hope you’ve had a satisfying lunch.” 

He wonders if Hunnigan ever eats as he shoves his bento box into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. 

She, however, is unconcerned. “You’re going to need the energy for the incident we’ve just gotten wind of downtown.”

The situation was supposed to be minor. There were rumors of King Tut’s Curse swirling amongst the museum staff after a rare shipment of Egyptian artifacts, but nobody had taken anything seriously until a janitor walked into the storage room and came back out more dead than alive. Things escalated after the infected janitor wandered into the World War II exhibit and bit the cleaning team there. The staff was horrified, the media was unhelpfully broadcasting the entire thing on live TV, and the DSO had blessedly quieted the whole thing down on that end before directing the case to Leon’s team as a classic T-virus takedown operation.

Easy as pie. Except the undead cleaning crew had gotten ahold of loaded World War II guns, you know, for historical accuracy. 

It’s a cinch for the most part to evacuate the visitors from the museum. Leon ushers terrified middle schoolers out of the exhibits as fast as he can while the rest of his team rounds up the infected, and it’s a routine sweep. He just feels bad for the kiddos.

“But what about the gift sho- AHH!! ” Leon whirls around to see an Infected point a knife bayonet into a terrified sixth-grader’s face. The zombie’s finger pulls back the trigger almost cinematically, and Leon’s not stupid. He’s going to be too late.

The gun fires.

It fires a round directly into his left shoulder as he shoves the kid to safety.

Leon collapses on the ground after shooting the zombie’s head to bits, but his shoulder aches something fierce. Oh God, not again, this time he hasn’t even got Ada to patch him up. He gingerly presses two fingers to the wound and pulls them away to inspect the warm spill of blood, but surprisingly, his fingers come away clean. 

Jill comes running up as he stumbles to his feet. The last of the Infected have been wiped out, she explains frantically, pulling out a roll of gauze, and everything’s secure, but suddenly she stops to peer at his spotless bullet wound.

So it’s not just him. There was definitely a shot, and his shoulder definitely hurts like a bitch. 

But where was the bullet?

You’re chewing your nails down to the quick when Leon walks into the living room later that evening. The quiet shuffle of his shoes falling onto the stand prompts you to smother in him a warm, bakery-scented hug and take him by surprise, but he squeezes you back as much as his shoulder allows.

You sniffle into his leather-clad chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, I just- I saw the news before they stopped the broadcast and I can’t believe they sent you to deal with the riot!”

So that’s what Hunnigan fed the press this time. Practical as always.

“I can’t believe I made you go to work with that stupid lunch,” you carry on, gasping as you spot the bandage peeking through his jacket, “you didn’t like it and you could have died, I’m never-”

“I’m alright, no biggie.” Leon kisses the top of your head, taking you by the arms and sitting you down next to him on the couch. You furiously wipe a tear off your face.

“It’s not alright, I’m never making you anything you don’t like ever again. That bento box is bad juju. I’m telling Rebecca never to buy anything from that shop from now on.”

Okay, so you finally admit the box is creepy. Leon bites back a laugh. 

“Woah, doll, not so fast. You think it’s the box’s fault I got hurt?”

“What else would it be? Today’s the first time you take it to work, and then you get shot on a regular patrol.” You frown as he pulls the Hello Kitty bento out from inside his jacket. “You brought that thing home?”

He chuckles. “Take a look at it. I’ve got you to thank for saving my life.”

You squint at the tin and realize with a startle that a bullet round is lodged smack dab in the middle of Hello Kitty’s yellow nose. Like a goddamn bullseye.

The lunchbox had taken the brunt of the hit, leaving Leon unscathed.

“Incredible.” you breathe out. 

And he’s inclined to agree.

“So, doll,” Leon grins, “got any leftovers for tomorrow? Chris is a really big fan of the octopus things.”

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[ventisstolengnosis]

Oc time :] juo is going through it. sorry bud

[meredithmcclaren]

Hey. Hey hey. Hey hey hey. BLACK CLOAK issue #08 is coming to shelves next week on 09.25. It's good stuff. You should pick it up.

BLACK CLOAK is written by Kelly Thompson, art by me, letters by Becca Carey and design by Rian Hughes. All good people. I swear.

Description: An illustration of a Raiju from Japanese mythology killing a winged snake with a spear. The characters are from the comic BLACK CLOAK and the piece is designed to resemble the look and age of an ukiyo-e print.

[camelidae]

Art tour of my room/studio! I caught the bug for buying little pieces from other artists to brighten up my space a few years ago – it’s addicting! (and wonderful!) I want to make sure I get everyone’s names in here (at least the ones who have an online presence), so be ready for a long post! 

It always feels a little ignomious hanging art in my bathroom, but I get distracted brushing my teeth a lot so it’s important there’s nice stuff to look at! I love my big crocodile print by Amanda Myers so much. He’s so Green and so lovely and he has so many teeth to contemplate while I brush my own.

I felt a little bad putting this magnificent tiger by Paleopanthera (paleopanthera.com) above the toilet, but the colors just work so nice and it makes my bathroom look so rad ;~; Do you think the tiger’s mad at me? Does he look mad?

I got this little scrollwork shelf from ScrollSawArtbyBC (etsy) and I love it so much! Makes a perfect little nook for my sink things~

And who is this peeking out from some of my nature treasures? Why it’s one of Becca Jane’s little blue snakes (BeccaJane.com). One day I’m going to save up my pennies and buy one of her big beautiful platters and on it I will serve the prettiest of pastas~

Also adorning my nature shelf is this beautiful mix-media plaque by Cephasparagus (insta). She also seems to adore collecting little bits of nature like an aesthetic magpie - my kind of gal!

I have a bevy of these little animal prints by Amanda Myers (Admers on etsy) on my walls – I love how combine with my pressed leaves and flowers to bring that "forest hermit" vibe I've always strived for.

The stained glass folk flower piece is from Leadleaf_ (insta) - it really makes my little terrarium corner look cozy and magical!

I got my Artistic License and my Poetic License from Kenspeckle Press (kenspeckleletterpress.com) - they didn’t even make me take an aesthetics test or metaphorically parallel park. (Plus another beautiful thank you card from Amanda Myers.)

The little kitty mug from Heikala (heikala.com) is what I drink iced cocoa from almost daily. I like how the ice clicks on the enamel <3

I still maintain that the embroidered flower pendant from DandelionDoiley (etsy) is the cutest thing that I own. Feels like holding a jewel! And the Hope pendant from BonbiForest (etsy) is such a lovely design with cheerful colors <3 The hummingbird I got from a local artist on a trip to Yellowstone, and the gold pendant is from a local artist where I live!

[viesanterieures]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒆

Robert Fischer (Inception) x female Reader

summary: The reader works as an artist who has never had a breakthrough until she decides to paint Robert.

warnings: this is a kinda cute and funny story so… no warnings :)

word count: 2500+

Masterlist

The air was warm as Robert turned into the familiar driveway. It was late October in Sydney, summer was just around the corner and the driveway was full of flowers and other plants. Today was Sunday, one of the few days he had to himself and his friends. During the week, he worked from early morning until late at night, as befits the future CEO of a multi-million dollar empire. Before he had even rung the bell, the door opened and a woman with shoulder-length brown hair pulled him into her arms. "Robert, how nice of you to come. We haven't seen each other in at least two months."

He laughed a little and patted his best friend on the shoulder. "I've had a lot on my mind, I'm sorry, Rebecca." Robert had known her since they were children. They had gone to kindergarten together and Rebecca was two years younger than him. All the friendships of his childhood, youth and university days had not lasted because many people thought he was arrogant, but Rebecca had always been there for him. As a child, as a teenager, as a student, at his wedding... and also at his divorce three years ago.

"How is your father, Robbie?" she wanted to know. Suddenly the smile on his face faded. "It doesn't look so good. He'll probably have to go back into hospital next month for a surgery." Rebecca looked at him compassionately and nodded silently as she took his jacket. "I'm so sorry."

I'm glad I can at least visit you," he quickly changed the subject.

"I'm glad too, Robbie," she said with a bright smile again.

"YN is also here, I hope you don't mind."

"No Becca, that‘s cool," Robert said, following her into the living room.

YN was Rebecca's younger sister and Robert quite liked her. She was one of those people who believed in destiny, the supernatural, spiritual things and tarot cards, which Robert didn't think much of. But she had always been very warm and kind to him and Robert was sure that there wasn't a single bad bone in this woman's body. She was just the way she was. As far as Robert knew, she worked full time in a perfumery and in her free time as an artist, but she remained rather unsuccessful. Her face immediately lit up when she saw him and gave him a friendly wave. She was wearing a pink dress, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, gold earrings and red lipstick. She was really pretty.

"Robert, how nice to see you! I brought some cupcakes, would you like one? They're homemade." She held out a bowl of pink muffins with strawberries and sprinkles to him. Robert gratefully took one and sat down on the couch next to the two women.

"It‘s really good," Robert praised YN's baking skills after taking a bite.

"Thank you, Robert. I baked them at 3 o'clock in the night because I couldn't sleep... It was another full moon. And my moon calender says that I should concentrate more on housework now, especially cooking and baking“.

He tried to hide his surprised expression and took another bite. Rebecca didn't seem confused by the explanation, she knew her sister well enough. Finally, YN slowly bent down towards them. "And do you know what my horoscope said?" Robert and Rebecca shook their heads.

"That I'm going to have my breakthrough this month," she finally said excitedly.

"You mean with your art?" Rebecca wanted to know.

"Yes! I'm going to have a huge success. But I don't know what motif to choose." YN picked at her dress thoughtfully. "A portrait or a landscape... I'm not sure. I need a subject to practise on first. Just to get back into it. I haven't painted for months.

"You've painted me so many times," Rebecca said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "How about you painting Robert?"

YN's face lit up at the words. "That's a wonderful idea! Robert, you have such a beautiful face... Like an angel!"

Robert almost choked on his cupcake. "Please what?"

"Oh come on Robbie, she just wants to practise," Rebecca interjected.

Sighing, he looked into YN's bright eyes and shrugged. "Yes, why not..."

YN cheered immediately and hugged Robert happily. "But I can't sit still for like eight hours," Robert replied quickly.

"You don't have to do that," YN said. "You can come with me to my studio, I'll draw the outlines and a sketch, then I'll take a photo of you to paint the details later. If you like and have the time, we can start right away. It would mean so much to me, Robert, really!" He smiled and nodded again. He just couldn't look away from YN's eyes.

***

"Nice studio," Robert said, breaking the awkward silence. He looked around curiously. YN's studio was a bright room with large windows letting in the daylight. There were easels full of canvases and tubes of paint everywhere and the smell of fresh paint was in the air.

"Robert, I told you not to move," laughed YN, who sat behind a canvas. The two had left for YN's that afternoon. Now the sun was already setting outside and Robert felt as if he had been sitting on the floor in front of her for ages.

"I'll be done with the outlines in a minute."

"Good, because my butt is already hurting," Robert grumbled.

A short moment later, YN put the brush down, clapped her hands and grabbed a camera lying on a chair next to her. "Well, I'm done for today. Let's take the photo quickly."

Robert moved back into position and looked a little tiredly at the camera. A few seconds after YN had taken the picture, he collapsed. "My God, this is more exhausting than I thought."

YN laughed. "I believe you. I've been a model too."

"Can I have a look?" Robert asked curiously, sitting up with a groan.

"Sure, come here." YN turned the canvas a little.

"Oh, this is definitely... Art." If Robert was honest, he couldn't really make out much on the canvas. It looked more like a wild doodle of a man who, with a lot of imagination, could look like him. And for this he had been sitting in an uncomfortable position on the cold floor for almost two hours?

"I'll start working on the details tomorrow. I'll let you know when it's ready."

Robert forced a friendly smile, YN pulled him into a tight hug to say goodbye and he left the house, a little disappointed.

Days and weeks passed without Robert hearing a word from YN. He didn't know how far she'd got with the painting, or if she'd even thrown it away. But then, one Saturday evening, she finally called him to say that she had finished the painting and that he could come and see it tomorrow. Of course Robert couldn't resist the opportunity, as he was actually quite curious to see how the painting would look now, although he had little hope that it would be any better than the last time.

He finally arrived at YN's door at 10am the next morning. She immediately greeted him friendly and offered him a cup of tea, which Robert gratefully accepted.

"Nice of you to come," she said and excitedly pulled him by the sleeve into her studio. "Close your eyes."

Robert did as she asked, although he was a little confused by her instructions. YN carefully led him to the easel in the middle of the room.

"And open your eyes."

Robert looked curiously at the painting in front of him, but then his jaw dropped and he couldn't get a word out.

"I've thrown away the old painting and made a new one. Isn't it gorgeous?"

He couldn't believe his eyes. The painting was insanely beautiful. It must have taken an eternity to work out all the details. He'd never seen so much care in YN's work, who usually painted in a rather chaotic way. Every single strand of Robert's dark hair was painted perfectly and precisely, and you could almost count every single eyelash. But most striking of all were the eyes, which stood out almost ghostly from the rest of the rather dark picture.

"It's so beautiful," he marvelled, running his finger carefully over the dry canvas. "But why am I wearing a sheer white shirt? I wore a normal black shirt that day. And my eyes look almost inhuman."

"Artistic freedom," YN quickly replied. "I wanted you to look a bit ethereal in the painting."

Robert nodded slowly with a raised eyebrow, then smiled again. "It‘s still so beautiful."

"You can have it if you want," YN offered.

He shook his head immediately. "No, no, keep it. It must have been so time-consuming that I don't want to take it away from you. I'm sure it's better off in your studio than in my house. But... promise me you won't sell it, okay?"

She nodded quickly and looked Robert straight in the eye. "No, I won't. I've made another artwork that I'm going to submit to the art competition."

Robert looked at her, confused. "To what?"

"Oh, I haven't told you yet. The art museum is running a competition this month. If I win, my painting will be on display there, isn't that great? Mrs Buchanan from the museum is coming to see the painting tomorrow. She's a good friend of my aunt's."

"That's great. Then I'll be rooting for you to win!"

Eventhough Robert had recently doubted YN's talent, he'd wished her all the best, especially now that he'd seen the beautiful portrait.

"And here it is," she joyfully pulled a cloth from a easel beside her.

"Oh, um... what is it exactly?" Robert asked, a little embarrassed as he couldn't make out more than a few patches of dark green on a grey background.

"The painting is called 'The Fog Forest'. The theme of the competition is 'Between reality and fiction: a journey into imagination'," explained YN. "The green stands for the trees of the forest and the grey is the fog and shadows, where you can easily get lost and dream.

"Oh, um, very nice." Robert forced a smile. "I'm sure Mrs Buchanan will recognise it immediately, also the deeper meaning, unlike me. You know I don't know much about art."

"I know that, Robert. But it's so kind of you to support me," she said softly, taking his hand and squeezing it gently.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go now, I have another appointment. Busy schedule as a future CEO... you know," he replied quickly, then looked at her pretty face and felt his heart beating in his chest.

***

"Becc, when I tell you! I've never seen such a beautiful painting." It was just after half past seven the next evening and Robert was glad to be off work. He stood in his kitchen, his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he chopped vegetables into small cubes.

"Are you sure, Robert? I've known YN long enough and she's never painted anything else than a few dots and lines," Rebecca's voice came over the loudspeaker. Robert thoughtfully placed the pieces of vegetable in a pot.

"I've seen it with my own eyes. Maybe she was possessed by the ghost of Leonardo Davinci that night or something." At this moment Robert's doorbell rang. "I have to hang up, Becc, I'm sorry. I'll call you tomorrow again." Confused, Robert wiped his hands on a towel and hurried to the front door. Who the hell was that? As he opened the front door, he saw a familiar face but also an unfamiliar one. In front of him stood YN, as always in one of her summer dresses and her big earrings, and next to her a tall, slim older lady with a tight bun and a blazer, looking at him curiously.

"Hey YN... what are you doing here? And who are you?" Robert wanted to know, frowning in confusion.

"Oh, it's him! I recognise him," the unknown lady said excitedly as she looked at him more closely.

YN tapped nervously with one foot and took a deep breath. "Robert, this is Mrs Buchanan from the art museum, she wants to have you."

"Wait, what? She wants to have me?" Robert laughed confused.

"Not you. The painting of you." The lady quickly clarified. "It's really gorgeous. What a work of art. It perfectly reflects our theme for this month. Between reality and fiction... Almost like a modern version of the Dorian Gray's portrait," she enthused.

Robert's jaw dropped and he looked at YN, stunned. "But... but you submitted a completely different painting to the competition. The one with the forest."

"Oh, please, sir, you couldn't even see any trees, forest or anything in the picture," she replied sharply, and Robert didn't miss YN's sad face. "I saw this masterpiece in the corner of her studio and asked her if she wanted to submit this instead of that… Fog-Forest... thing."

"This is not possible, I‘m sorry," Robert replied firmly.

"Why not?" Mrs Buchanan asked.

"I am a serious businessman, madam, about to take over a company worth millions. What would my employees and clients think of me if they saw the painting of me as an…an…ethereal creature? I have to maintain a certain respectability." Robert bit his lower lip as soon as he said these words. He realised that this was YN's last chance and that she might have to give up her dream of becoming a painter.

"It's okay, Robert“, YN said quietly. "I understand." Forcing a smile, she turned around together with Mrs Buchanan.

For Robert, the world seemed to stand still at that moment. He didn't want YN's dream to be shattered like his own. He had always aspired to become a professional musician and study music, but his father had always stopped him because he wanted him to take over the company one day. Even though Robert didn't even think he was the right person for this huge job.

"Wait, YN." The echo of his voice sounded down the driveway, the two women, who were about to get back into the car, immediately turned around.

"Let‘s do this, YN."

****

"A glass of champagne, sir?" asked an elegantly dressed lady next to him, balancing a small tray in front of her.

"No, thank you, madam. I don't drink alcohol at the moment," Robert declined her offer in a friendly voice.

"And for our winner? On the house, of course," she asked YN, who was standing next to him. She gratefully accepted a glass. The exhibition was in full swing. Many different artists were exhibiting that day, but no artwork attracted as many glances as YN's. Rebecca joined them and patted her sister on the shoulder. "I looked at it again, it really is amazing. How did you do it?"

"I don't even know it myself. It's as if my hands painted it themselves," YN replied, taking a sip from her glass.

"That supports Robert's Davinci theory," Rebecca chuckled.

YN looked at her, confused. "What?"

"Nothing," Rebecca replied quickly, pointing to the glass in her sister's hand. "Hey, where did you get the champagne?" she wanted to know.

"From that lady over there," YN replied with a grin and immediately Rebecca was gone in the crowd.

"I'm so sorry," Robert said quietly. "For what?" she wanted to know in surprise.

"For underestimating you... You and your art... You‘re such a wonderful, strong and unique woman."

YN bit her lip and Robert felt that she was about to cry. "Thank you, Robert." They remained silent as they watched the visitors pass by the artworks.

"So my horoscope was right after all," YN told Robert. "I really had my breakthrough. Do you believe in them now?" she wanted to know.

"Maybe," Robert replied thoughtfully.

"Do you know what else he said besides success?", she asked him.

Robert shook his head and smiled curiously.

"That I will also find love this month," she said quietly, putting her glass down on a small table beside her. "Maybe it was the love I felt for you when I painted that picture that made it so beautiful. Maybe that was the reason for all the success.“

Robert looked into her eyes and gently stroked her soft hair. Finally, he slowly pulled her into his arms and their lips touched immediately.

- 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔

[deliciouskeys]

Cozy Corner Domaystic prompts #16: Going through immigration and #24: Identity theft.

Guys. Guys, I’ll be honest. I have no idea what possessed me. I think I found these two prompts as some of the most challenging to imagine as a domestic fic, and… my thinking got a little bit too outside the box.

This fic will have an intended audience of about 1 (me). But I want to give major major props to @olliveolly who introduced me to this game and was the one who came up with this That’s Not My Neighbor / Boys crossover AU (with a couple lovely art pieces on the theme). The “lore” of this horror game is very simple. Tell me you don’t see it:

Butchlander. That’s Not My Neighbor crossover/AU. Rated E (why). 3.3k words (why). 2nd person to allegedly reflect the feeling of first-person gameplay (why). Is this domestic fic? Welllllll. It takes place in an apartment complex so it counts, right? Lax interpretation of ‘going through immigration’ but honestly that’s what this game really reminds me of 😂 AO3 link

Another day, another interminable shift working as the concierge in the dreary lobby of this apartment complex. It was exciting at first, sure, what with getting to play the first and last line of defense against the doppelganger monsters that attempt to sneak in every single day. But you’ve just gotten too good at noticing discrepancies. Nothing gets past you anymore. You know every single feature- hell, every single freckle! -of every single resident in the building. By this point you’ve got all their phone numbers memorized, for no better reason than there is simply too much tedium to this job. You find yourself wishing you could actually watch the D.D.D. ‘decontaminate’ the lobby, as they so euphemistically put it, instead of just sitting there twiddling your thumbs behind a pulled down rollup metal shutter after summoning them. You could still make out screams without seeing the brutality, and you knew the D.D.D. employed flame throwers and other serious weapons to deal with these monsters. Sometimes you caught yourself feeling just a little bit of sympathy for the doppelgangers, even though their main goal in life appeared to be to imitate people to blend in and then feed upon human flesh, and your main goal in life was supposed to be to ensure none of them would ever get let in through the locked inner door.

John Gillman comes in through the first door and gives you a tired, nominal wave before fishing around in his pockets for his documents to gain entry. He might be your favorite resident— always polite, always in that clean-cut milkman uniform at least when you happen to see him, because no one really leaves the apartment building outside of work obligations. There’s no nightlife in New York anymore, not with everyone nervous of dark alleys or being alone on the street, especially after dark. When you came over here from London, you certainly didn’t expect to get stuck here during a worldwide apocalyptic event like this that has resulted in curfews and lockdowns. You certainly didn’t expect to get zero action and get a mindnumbing job just to make ends meet. It was probably still more interesting than your gig working as a bouncer back in London, but at least you got fresh air there, and sometimes a date to go home with after closing time. Maybe that’s why you’ve started hyperfixating and daydreaming about one of the residents— the involuntary celibacy is getting to you.

John just always looks uncannily attractive. Maybe it’s that silly uniform that’s easy to fetishize. Maybe it’s because his tired eyes also look like bedroom eyes, or the dark circles function the same way eyeliner would. Why is he always so tired anyway? You know he lives alone up there in F03-02. He never gets any visitors either. How much can a person masturbate, really? There’s a rumor around the building that Becca Saunders’ tyke might be his, but you don’t really see the resemblance, and have your doubts that this didn’t just start as a “sleeping with the milkman” joke that got out of hand. People just like to gossip about single mothers. Things like this shouldn’t be considered scandalous. It’s 1955 for god’s sake!

“Sorry, William,” John says, hurriedly shoving his ID and entry request form underneath the glass so you can take take a look. “Almost thought I left my ID at work.”

“Long day, huh?” you ask without expecting a reply, pretending to scrutinize the documents while making small talk. You know this is John. You’d know him from a mile away. But it doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun. “Looks okay, and you are on the list of people authorized to come and go today. But can you take off your cap?”

John grabs his milkman cap off his head, exposing a mop of blond hair, looking mussed after being under the hat all day. You really wish you could test him, see how far you’d be able to take things before he refused to cooperate. Take off your shirt, John. Gotta make sure it’s really you. You never know these days. But of course you don’t. All you’ll have is your fantasies about breaching every code of ethics and using your master key to gain entrance into his apartment, seducing him, ravishing him right in the middle of what must be a depressing bachelor pad. Give him much darker undereye circles by keeping him up all night. Give this apartment complex a more interesting rumor to spread about the milkman in their midst.

“You’re good to go,” you say and press the green unlock button to let him in. He gives you a wan smile and walks out of view, and you listen to his footsteps ascending the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, only a few people coming and going, and a couple of doppelgängers with laughably strange appearance or bad credentials being dispatched quickly. Or at least it’s uneventful until John walks in, just a little bit past curfew.

“Hey William,” he says, sounding distracted, rummaging in his pockets for his documents as a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. This better be a doppelganger, you think to yourself. But he has both his ID and the entry request filled out correctly. He looks identical to the John that passed by here a couple of hours earlier. This can’t be.

You start dialing John’s number, not taking your eyes off the man in front of you.

John’s eyes widen with alarm when he sees that you get an answer from the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello? John here. I’m not expecting any visitors.”

You hang up pretty abruptly, staring at the John in front of you, searching his appearance for any subtle defect or inconsistency but finding none. Your finger is hovering over the alarm button.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you think I’m someone else? It’s me, William! I swear to god it’s me! I don’t know who you let in earlier, and who’s answering the phone now, but it’s not me up there!”

And shit, you believe him. You must have fucked up. Gotten smug and sloppy. Maybe the doppelganger handed you a fake ID but you didn’t notice because you were too busy daydreaming about fucking him.

“William, please believe me, please!” John is pressing up against the glass at this point, clearly scared that you’re going to quarantine him in the lobby and sic the D.D.D. on him. They don’t tend to ask questions. You’ve never had it happen, but you’ve heard of innocent people getting snuffed out on the mere suspicion of being doppelgangers, the D.D.D. rarely admitting to such mistakes even after the fact.

“Alright, alright, I believe you. I just have to think…” you mumble. “I’ll let you in, but don’t go up to your flat. We have to figure this out.”

John nods frantically and slips into your office after you buzz him in.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, and if you weren’t scared shitless at the moment, you’d probably get a kick out of how vulnerable and scared his expression is compared to his usual tired, impassive one.

“I should call the D.D.D. and get them to go up there,” you think out loud.

“Won’t you get reprimanded?” John asks, and oh how sweet of him to worry about your job when you’ve fucked up so royally and almost gotten him killed with your negligence. Maybe already gotten some of his neighbors killed.

“I just don’t want you losing your job over this— you’re the best concierge we have,” he says and then looks down shyly, as if realizing how strange that concern is.

What is this? Are you dreaming? Maybe you’re just out of your mind with adrenaline, but John sounds like he’s got feelings for you.

“Let’s just go up there and see what’s going on,” he says, and damn he’s persuasive as fuck. You want to go and deal with the mess you made, and protect him.

“I’ll go up there and just check,” you say, hardly believing yourself as you grab the fire extinguisher from the wall as a makeshift weapon. Everyone who was scheduled to return to the building has, so you shouldn’t get any more legitimate people coming through, but you still tape up a note that you’ll be back at your post in a few minutes. “Right then. You just stay down here and wait. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. If I’m not back in five, call the number on the post-it.”

John shakes his head and follows you up the stairs. “I’m not letting you go up there alone,” he says in that quiet irresistible voice and you start to wonder if there’s something strange going on. Why are you going on this potentially suicidal mission to deal with a doppelganger on your own? So what if you get fired? No job is worth your life, right? But you probably wouldn’t see John ever again if you lost this job and that’s clouding all your judgment right now.

Knocking on John’s apartment door is probably not a good idea, and will just give the monster inside time to prepare or hide. So you take out your master key and turn it in the lock as quietly and quickly as you can. The door swings opens with an ominous creak, revealing a dark living room with no sign of anyone there. Did he hear you coming up the stairs? You try to keep John behind you and shield him in case anything sudden happens from within the apartment, but then you feel a strong push from behind and both you and John are in the flat now.

You’re so stupid, so critically, fatally stupid. The John you let in earlier was the real one. You’ve let a doppelganger convince you that you made a mistake, and now you did let one in. You whirl around, try to hit him upside the head with the fire extinguisher you’re brandishing, but he blocks the move with little effort.

“I thought we agreed,” he says, and you realize he’s speaking not to you but past you to someone else in the room.

“Thursdays are my days,” an identical voice answers from behind you and you step back and try to make sense of what you’re seeing. Two John Gillmans, both in the same uniform, neither one looking the least bit spooked, both looking mildly irritated if anything.

“Since when,” the John who came up behind you asks of the other one. “I get to be here every other day, doesn’t matter what day of the week it is.”

“So now what are we going to do about him?” the John who was in the apartment asks, pointing to you. “Why didn’t you just leave once he called me? Are you stupid?”

Your heart may be racing, but your thinking feels as slow as molasses. They’re …. both doppelgangers?

“What have you done with the real John Gillman?” you whisper hoarsely. The twins turn to look at you and you’re creeped out by the very similar smirk that spreads across both of their faces. They’re really impeccable facsimiles of the real person, but this is an expression you’ve never seen on John.

“You’ve never met the ‘real John Gillman’,” one of them says.

There’s enough cold sweat that’s broken out on your back that it starts to trickle down as drops.

“We like you William. It would be such a shame for our friendship to end.”

You hold up the fire extinguisher in front of yourself defensively, but you’re not sure you can really do anything against two of them. You’ve never noticed before, and maybe the real John’s teeth didn’t look like this, but the two doppelgangers have sharp looking canines when they’re grinning. It’ll serve you right to get devoured in this dark flat for making so many mistakes and bad decisions in a row today.

“So you’re just going to kill me then?” you ask.

“We’d really rather not,” one of the twins says. “A murder would bring a lot of snooping law enforcement if not the D.D.D. Itself.”

“And it’s so hard to find good lodging to spend the night.”

They must be joking. “You really expect me to believe you’re not just here to eat people?”

One of the twins rolls his eyes. “Eat people! Yeah, that’s why we’re here, clearly.”

“Has anyone in this apartment building ever disappeared in all the months you’ve worked here?” the other one asks.

“How should I know?” You’re beginning to feel like this has to be some sick nightmare. You can’t possibly be having a civil conversation with a couple of cannibal monsters. This thought has a strange calming effect on you. “If I didn’t know you lot were masquerading as John Gillman, how am I to know how many other residents are real people?”

The twins turn to each other, still smiling and shrugging.

“We’ve been on a vegetarian diet for a while,” the other says and you can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” the other one says, spreading his hands in concession. “But milk is more than enough to sustain us. We do think people are delicious, but there’s one thing we like much more than eating them.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, emboldened by the possibility that you’re just in a ridiculous, paranoid, bad dream of a worst case scenario at your job.

“We’ve been watching you William. We think you’ve been interested in us.”

“We’ve never fucked anyone from this building, and never fucked together, but there’s a first time for everything, right?”

You just stand there, fire extinguisher still raised up defensively. No question about it, this must be a nightmare that’s slowly but surely twisting itself into a sexual fantasy.

“Come on, William. Let’s make you comfortable.”

You can hardly protest as one gently pulls your makeshift weapon out of your loose grip, and the other one sweeps you off your feet with preternatural superhuman ease and carries you over to the couch in this sparsely furnished apartment.

Gentle but insistent hands undo the buttons on your trousers and then maneuver you so they can pull them off completely and free your legs.

“Humans are such fun creatures,” one of the Johns comments when he sees that despite your fear of the situation unfolding right now, you are sporting a half-hearted hard-on. It somehow only gets harder when you hear them talk about people as another species.

Both Johns are still fully dressed, situating themselves to kneel on the floor on either side of you. It’s wild. You must be dreaming. And as you watch both Johns lean forward, extending their tongues and licking your cock up and down from opposite sides, you realize that if this is a dream, you never want to wake up.

They know what they’re doing. They bring you right up to the edge of orgasm and then pull away, leaving you feeling desperate and even annoyed. You’re not annoyed for long though as they both strip down, and you see that their human-mimicking powers are perfect, down to the most minute details that would never be seen under clothes. Granted, you don’t know what John Gillman looked like naked, so maybe they’ve taken artistic license and embellished. Whatever it is, they’ve compared notes, because they still look indistinguishable to you.

“Like what you see?” one of them asks and you realize you I’ve been staring, maybe even with your mouth hanging open. You never imagined you’d hook up with a doppelganger, let alone two of them at once. But you have imagined foisting yourself on John in this very flat, and you’re about to live that daydream.

You end up doing things with the two of them beyond what you’ve ever dreamed of. You fuck one of them, and at the same time get fucked by the other one from behind, the cheap bed’s metal joints creaking and moaning from the motion of three bodies rocking against each other. You let them suck your cock and rim you to get you back in the mood for another round, trying not to think about how unsettlingly hungry they both look, and who they really are underneath the human-looking exterior. The exterior slips periodically when they’re in the throes of pleasure. You wince when they betray just how strong they really are, whenever they flip you over or change positions, as if you weigh nothing. You try not to pay attention when their eyes start glowing red when they’re particularly turned on, but it’s impossible to ignore in the darkness of the bedroom.

“William, you are fucking delicious,” one of them declares, licking his lips obscenely after swallowing down your cum, and all you can do is emit a short nervous chuckle, and think that even if they do decide to eat you at the end of all of this— either to cover their tracks, or just because they might start feeling peckish after all this is over— it will still have been worth it.

You don’t get eaten. In fact, you’ve had the time of your life, and as you get up from the bed and mumble that you have to get back to your post before your shift is over, the two Johns lie languid, naked on the bed watching you, each enjoying a post coital glass of milk (that’s all they have in the fridge— you saw when they opened it), like perfect mirror images.

“You won’t be making any unnecessary phone calls, right William?”

“We can count on you to be discreet and keep a secret, right?”

Through the combined haze of being scared for your life and then having the time of your life, there’s still one thing that bothers you, and you ask about it, against all your best self-preservation instincts.

“So what have you done with the real John Gillman?”

They turn to look at each other, not exactly conspiratorial but it still makes you uneasy.

“Oh, John Gillman never existed. We’ve been around a lot longer than you humans think. Many of us never tried to replicate and replace real humans.”

“Yeah, and a lot of good that did when some of us started! The ones who are doing it are the reason we’re being hunted now. Unoriginal hacks. And so bad at mimicking too.”

“So many embarrassing ones out there.” They both nod at each other.

You’d like to believe them. You really would. “So why choose this persona?”

“The milkman gets free milk and gets around in your society! And humans seem to like this look,” one of them says, grinning and gesturing with his hand over their naked bodies.

“But we only ever get to enjoy bored housewives.”

“And why are there two of you?” you ask hesitantly, glancing at the clock on the wall to verify that you’re not late yet.

“Oh there’s more than two of us,” one of them says and they laugh in unison in a way that sends a chill down your spine.

~~~

You think you’ve got it all worked out. You’re letting the John Gillmans stay in the apartment undisturbed, and you let them through even when it’s obvious that there’s more than one of them coming and going. You figure it’s a win-win. They promise to protect the building from any rogue doppelgangers who infiltrate and intend to harm the residents, and in return get a place to stay the night peacefully. You get to visit apartment F03-02 after your shift ends and have mind-blowing sex. They seem to enjoy the orgies as well. They know your shift hours and try to only come and go during those times. There doesn’t seem to be a problem with this arrangement.

Or at least not a problem that you’re going to make into your problem. When one of the Johns walks in, visibly smeared in blood, you do give him a hard time.

“Come on, John. Just because I’ll let you in, doesn’t mean you can just stop trying to look decent. God forbid I call in sick and someone else is here.”

John shrugs and goes through the formality of pushing his ID and entry request under the glass window.

“And get a new ID…” you tell him when you see bloody fingerprints all over the worn paper.

John shrugs, doing his usual tired act, despite how ridiculous it looks to be so bored and nonchalant when he’s smeared in blood.

“Whose blood is that, anyway?” you ask, wondering why you’re not more disturbed.

“Someone who was of no consequence and who won’t be missed,” John replies, terse and cool as a cucumber.

“I thought you said you were vegetarian?”

“I’ll take a cheat day if I run into a wifebeater,” John says, shrugging.

You buzz him in, telling him to get washed up before someone sees him, wondering if you’re being colossally naive to believe his story, and wondering if you’ve got a death wish because you’re still looking forward to going up there once your shift ends in a few hours.

(What in the world. 💀)

ETA: now with another art piece by @olliveolly

[makeyoumine69]

Till Death Do Us Part (Chapter Four)

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Innocent!Fem!Reader; [no y/n]

SUMMARY: When you meet Patrick's colleagues in Barcadia, you realize that you're getting more and more entangled in his lifestyle, which you didn't like at all. Escaping your golden cage with someone from your past is the only thing you can think about. The question is, will Bateman allow you to do that?

CONTAINS: Smut, angst, breast fucking, cum eating, swearing, implied murders, blood and violence, fainting, spanking, degradation, cheating, abusive and toxic behavior, unhealthy relationships, NSFW art, Patrick Bateman is a warning himself.

WORDS: 5.8k

A/N: Another chapter for my dear readers, I hope you like it!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

Inflamed with an unquenchable desire for more, Patrick growled and slowed his thrusts, staring down at you. "Where shall I cum then, Becca? Huh? Your... hair? You want me to mess up your hair?" He teased, tilting his head up slightly. "I'm not putting on a fucking condom. I can't feel anything with one. "

His blatant statement about not using condoms made you nervous, but you managed to hide it. "Are you not going to use condoms...at all?" You asked with a hint of provocation. "I think...I think you told me you didn't want to have kids."

Did he really tell me that or am I hallucinating? 'Why can't I remember anything that happened this morning, and why am I so dizzy and my body feels like dough? Was that pill he gave me a painkiller or...'

Patrick huffed. "Well-no, I never told you... but there's no risk if I don't use a condom for this..." Patrick said through his teeth, averting his eyes as he lied to you. He would do everything in his power to make you believe that what happened this morning was all in your head.

Perplexed, you felt a sudden wave of nausea rise from your stomach, but Patrick continued, pressing your tits tighter against his throbbing cock. You needed him to climax or you might vomit right here and now. "Cum in my mouth...please...I beg you!" You urged him on, covering his hands with yours and opening your mouth wide so that his swollen tip now slid in and out with precious friction.

(Check out NSFW art on AO3!)

Bateman pressed your breasts together against his cock, moaning as he thrust faster. The man was a little surprised by what you wanted, but obliged. Huffing, he grinned and pulled on your hair, feeling himself on the verge of falling over the edge. Then Patrick pushed his tip into your mouth before he cummed hard, his hot seed filling your mouth and going down your throat. A little rough, Bateman yanked your head up so you wouldn't choke. With his eyes closed, he panted heavily and wiped his forehead with his arm.

Bateman's sperm did not taste as sweet as you expected. Because of your naivety and inexperience with sex, you really believed your friends' gossip about how delicious it felt when the man came right in your mouth because it tasted like fucking honey. But in reality, his seed was salty and very dense, making it hard to swallow, but spitting it out was not an option. Panting, you swallowed the last drop of the warm liquid and looked up at Patrick, who was still breathing heavily and enjoying the aftershocks of his orgasm. 

'I can't believe I made him cum...or did he do it himself?' Just the thought of him having a strong orgasm because of you made you feel strangely proud, but you shook off such thoughts before it was too late. "Can I use the bathroom, please?" You asked quietly, lying motionless under him. "I'm afraid we're going to be late."

Patrick blinked a few times before he opened his eyes. He sighed with satisfaction and moved away from you, pulling up his boxers. Relieved, Bateman didn't seem at all tired from the orgasm. He felt calmer and less impulsive now, returning to his friendly facade. The man chuckled. "You don't need to ask permission. This is your home too, you know." He said ominously before moving to the kitchen and quickly grabbing an Evian water from the fridge. He tossed it to you. "Drink this. Don't drink the tap water." Patrick stated, assuming you wanted to go to the bathroom to wash your mouth out. Then he went back to his bedroom and put his suit back on, running his hand over it to smooth out any wrinkles.

After almost 20 minutes, you finally got outside where the black limousine was waiting for you. Since it was late fall, the wind was quite cold, so you decided to put on one of your coats, and although it was not fur or super expensive, it was one of your favorites. Inside the limousine, Bateman took out his Walkman and put the earphones on his head before turning to look out the window as they pulled away. You didn't even try to get his attention. On the contrary, you even enjoyed a few moments of peace, as a new circle of hell awaited you in Barcadia. 'I brushed my teeth twice and I can still feel his taste on my tongue. God, how am I going to forget this?' Your train of thought was interrupted by a sudden tight grip on your knee. As you looked down at his large palm, then in his hazel eyes, you noticed something unusual in the way he was smiling at you, as if enjoying his triumph of getting what he wanted. Slowly, but determinedly, you removed his hand from your knee and adjusted the hem of your dress to give him no room to play. Patrick, in his Prada coat, took your hand firmly, not allowing you to pull away this time, opened the car door to get you out, and led you into the restaurant, where you were immediately seated at a table in a secluded part of the restaurant. 

(Patrick and my version of Becca by amazing @anyarlly!)

"Hello Price, Daisy-" the man greeted, then his eyes went wide. "...McDermott...and Van Patten." Bateman furrowed his brows, then looked at Price, who sat down and pulled out a chair for you. "You didn't tell me McDufus and his friend were coming tonight?" He whispered.

Price shrugged and pulled the lit cigar from between his teeth. "I invited them. They didn't have much to do tonight." He said casually before looking at you. He smiled a wolfish grin. "This must be your... oh, your FIANCE, Bateman." Price chuckled. "I can... tell it wasn't your choice. Definitely a step down from you-know-who." Timothy scoffed, chuckled at Patrick and gave him a high five. 

Soon the waitress came over and set menus for all of them. Even though you didn't hear the whole conversation, the echo of Tim's last words stuck in your head like they were imprinted on your brain. 'Just don't think about it, don't think about it.' Sighing sadly, you picked up the menu so quickly that it almost flew out of your hands, but you managed to hold it still, using it as a shield from prying eyes. You didn't listen to what they were saying, trying to concentrate on the huge list of dishes, but you weren't really hungry—you were still suffering from nausea. Patrick's sneaky touch on your leg under the table was just as sudden as it had been in the limo, but this time you couldn't just push his hand away. 'Damn it!'

Patrick chuckled, not bothering to defend you at all. Smirking, he opened the menu with one hand and looked at the list of meals. His other hand went down and rested on your leg and stayed there. He hummed and drummed on the menu with his fingers. "I think I'll have... peanut butter soup. The Times called it a... playful little dish." He smiled and put the menu down. "Is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?"

Craig chewed on a toothpick in his teeth, glanced up at you for a moment before looking back at the menu. He put it down and chuckled. "God, it's always the Fisher account with you, Bateman." He shook his head. "And of course the Jew still has it. Hell, I think he had to suck off some higher-ups to get it." He rolled his eyes. "I heard it's worth 800 million already."

"You're so full of shit, McDermott." Price said, shaking his cigar between his fingers. "It's only worth 400." He huffed and leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs. His eyes were on you for a moment before he looked at Daisy. "Take whatever you want, doll. Just make sure it's not too fattening." He grinned before he looked back at you. "So... where did you go to school? ACLU? Camden?" He took a drag from the cigar and blew a puff of smoke in your direction.

Timothy's question didn't really affect your mood, as you were already too fed up, but the way his girlfriend was staring at you was nothing but annoying. 'I wish I could throw that glass of water right in her smug face!'

Despite the evil thoughts in your head, you managed to keep up your fake facade of amity and politeness because you didn't want to have another scene with Bateman. "I'm a student at New York Medical College," you declared openly and without shame. "And I'm about to finish my internship as a scrub nurse." With that, you smiled at Price, realizing that your answer was not what he was expecting. Probably. As you were about to add another comment, Bateman's palm slid up your hip, almost touching you between your legs, but you stopped him just an inch away. Turning to look at him, you whispered barely audibly. "What the hell are you doing?"

"A nurse? Oh my God, that's so boring," Daisy complained, rolling her eyes. "Do you have a lighter, darling?" The blonde woman smiled at Tim and pulled out a cigarette, then wrapped her plump lips around it in a suggestive gesture. After Tim lit hers and his, Daisy noticed her nose wrinkle at the pungent scent of snuff, which only encouraged the blonde to blow more and more smoke. "I can't believe he's really going to marry that hick." Daisy whispered in Tim's ear before planting a small kiss on his neck.

Frowning, Price leaned back in his seat. "Huh... Well, I went to Stanford." He clicked his tongue. "I have a co-op here and a place in the Hamptons. And a Porsche." He bragged, running a hand through his slicked back hair. His attention was drawn back to his girlfriend, who chuckled softly. He pulled a book of matches from his pocket and struck a match, lighting her cigarette before relighting his cigar. He chuckled and tilted his head back from the kiss. "Well, it's an arranged marriage, darling. The poor bastard has no choice."

Disgusted, Daisy scoffed and took a long drag on her cigarette. "I can't believe such marriages still exist in the 20th century." The blonde continued to look at you and Patrick, and just as she was about to take another swipe, the waiter came to their table, ready to take their orders. "I think I'll have... a plate of Greek salad and fresh orange juice."

Patrick's attention was on McDermott. "Oh, Jesus McDermott—what does his being Jewish have to do with anything?" The man muttered, furrowing his brow. He moved his hand further up your thigh, his hand slipping under your dress. He touched the hem of your panties at your hips, keeping his eyes on McDermott. "A dreidel, not a menorah—you spin a dreidel." He rolled his eyes and looked back at you. He smiled, feigning ignorance. "I'm not doing anything, sweetheart."

Your fists clenched and unclenched under the table because the whole situation was so damn embarrassing and irritating. "Don't call me 'sweetheart,'" you hissed gritted clenched teeth before finally pulling Bateman's palm away from your leg. The waiter waited patiently for your order, but unfortunately you were about to disappoint him as you were not hungry at all. "Just... just a cup of coffee, please." You mumbled, dropping your eyes to the table and examining the beautiful napkin on it.

Patrick frowned at you for the tenth time during dinner, frustrated by your reluctance. The man sighed and looked back at the menu. "I'll have the peanut butter soup and an Evian." Then he pointed at you. "Along with the coffee, she'll have the pine nut salad with goat cheese." He said with a smile. Patrick didn't care if you ate it or not—he thought you could stand to lose a few pounds anyway, but it looked bad to go to a restaurant like this and not order any food.

"Well, that's what rich families do." Price shrugged and scanned the menu again. "I'll have the... tuna tartare with balsamic dressing. And a glass of red wine." He looked at Bateman with a smug smile. "No alcohol today, Bateman? Don't be such a lightweight." He chuckled. Patrick didn't react.

"I'll have the red snapper pizza with a glass of champagne." McDermott smiled and then looked at Patrick. "I'm surprised you didn't order the fucking potato pancakes, Bateman." He chuckled. 

David scratched his head, breaking his silence for the evening to place his order. "I'll have the... oh God…I think I'll have the... ceviche sandwich with pea dressing. And a cappuccino." He looked up at the waiter and adjusted his horn rimmed glasses. 

The waiter wrote down the orders and left. Soon the table was full of different dishes, and they all looked absolutely delicious, but it didn't help with the nausea at all. The men were still talking business when you noticed a tiny drop of blood on the napkin you held up to your nose, thinking you were about to sneeze. "Excuse me, I'll be right back." With that, you quickly got up from your seat and rushed to the nearest waiter to ask where you could find a bathroom.

Daisy didn't miss the sight of you walking away looking unhealthy, but the blonde just giggled. "She probably can't stand high cuisine, can she?" She chirped and looked at Tim for approval, hoping he would find her comment funny. "Patrick, do you remember my friend Claire? She has very rich parents, maybe you should meet her sometime?"

Patrick stared at his plate without touching it. The way his meal was organized was... just beautiful, he thought. He couldn't bring himself to ruin it, no matter how hungry he was. He looked up and saw you making your way to the bathroom. "Excuse me." He stood up, his eyes fixed on you. He would follow a few feet away so as not to be noticed. He slipped into the women's restroom, staying close to the wall.

Timothy watched Patrick leave, shaking his head. He started to eat, looking silently at Daisy until he swallowed. "I guess he's not interested. Don't blame him. Claire's a total bitch." He sneered.

As soon as you scooted into the ladies' room, you rushed to the sink and opened the cold water, noticing that your nosebleed was increasing. 'Damn, I haven't had a nosebleed in centuries. Maybe the pill Patrick gave me caused all this?' In panic, you hovered over the sink, almost choking, feeling the sharp headache and nausea, along with the metallic taste of blood running down your throat. You thanked God that the bathroom was empty and you wouldn't scare anyone with such a scene, but at the same time you suddenly thought that if you died here and now, no one would notice. With these cloudy thoughts, you slipped to the floor and lost consciousness.

Patrick came in just as you fainted. Annoyed, he looked down at your body with a puzzled expression on his face. Did he accidentally cause an overdose? Was the coffee poisoned? Did you have a heart attack? Were you murdered? Despite all these possibilities, he knew he had to act quickly if he didn't want you to possibly die. He took his monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and fixed your head in one place, pinching your nose to stop the flow of blood. He held your mouth open with his hand so you could breathe. Then, with ease, Bateman picked you up in his arms and slipped out the back of the restaurant. He didn't really care about abandoning his friends. They owed him a lot of paid meals anyway. 

Soon you were in his apartment again, lying on the couch with your head against the armrest.

Why is it so cold in here? Have I died? You felt nothing but a cold darkness surrounding you, as if you were falling into the black void but never reaching its bottom. Maybe you really died?  Everything was screaming about it when suddenly in your foggy head there was a loud children's noise, a group of boys chasing you, throwing stones at you and calling you an ugly face until they trapped you in the next alley.

"Look at her, boys, she's going to drown in her own tears!" One of the children laughed and pointed at you with a large wooden stick.

"Please... don't do this... I just want to go home... I didn't do anything wrong!" You begged, cowering in the dirty corner of the nearby building.

The group of bullies just giggled at your weakness when one of them suddenly screamed in pain. All eyes were on the tall, brown-haired boy, his eyebrows furrowed and his palms clenched into fists as he punched one of the boys right in his disgusting face. "Get away from her or I'll kick your asses! All of you!" Patrick barked, pulling up the sleeves of his fancy shirt.

Only now did you realize that you were dreaming, because you could see Patrick's childish face so clearly, as if you were back in time. To the moment when he had been the one to protect you from getting hurt. You wanted to stay in this dream forever, you wanted to touch Patty's soft hair and hug him tightly, but soon the image from your past began to fade and your eyes were wide open as you looked at the perfectly white ceiling above you. "Patty?" You whimpered and looked around, your eyes starting to water as you realized you were alone. "I'm so scared...I need you..." You covered your face and sobbed like a little baby.

Meanwhile, Patrick was in the kitchen, cutting up various fruits on a plate. He knew that you hadn't eaten anything today, which was probably the reason why you fainted. Patrick didn't really know how to cook, so he just cut up some fruit that you could easily eat. He perked up a bit when he heard a familiar nickname, but he couldn't remember the last time he had heard it. The man walked into the living room with the plate and set it down on the table. He stared at you with a blank face as you sobbed, unsure of what to do. "Uh-hey... stop it." Bateman nudged your shoulder with his hand, his eyebrows furrowed.

Bateman's stern voice helped you come to your senses, and now you felt so embarrassed, so humiliated. Visibly shaking, you hugged yourself, your hands rubbing nervously over your shoulders. "What was that medicine you gave me before dinner?" You asked quietly—a sheer testament to your exhaustion and weakness. "I felt bad from the moment we stepped outside," you added, closing your eyes. "I still feel like shit... Did you plan to kill me, Patrick? If you want to get rid of me so badly, you can just talk to your mother and this marriage won't happen." Despite your attempts to stop yourself from crying, several tears streamed down your tired face. You hated yourself for being so vulnerable and weak, so without caring about your poor statement, you tried to stand up.

'Christ,' Patrick thought, biting the inside of his cheek. The man couldn't stand that kind of crying. He really only liked crying when he physically caused it. "I didn't give you any medicine." He said through clenched teeth. "I gave you a Xanax and some Evian water. Evian water. Do you hear me? Xanax and an Evian. I didn't drug you." He ignored all of your words and pushed you back down from your standing position. Irritated, he grabbed your jaw and forced you to look up at him, anger behind his eyes. "Look, I want you to pull yourself together. Stop making a fucking scene." He said slowly. "How many times do I have to tell you the facts? This... marriage is going to happen whether we like it or not? Capiche? Comprende?" Then he whispered. "This, uh, situation is the only thing keeping you alive. If you weren't with me, Manhattan would eat you alive. Especially with the way you act. You really have a rotten attitude. Now stop fucking crying!"

'A rotten attitude, really?' Bateman's statement echoed in your head like a broken record. You brushed his hand away quickly. "Maybe it's you who's been spoiled by wealth and money?" You replied in a hysterical tone. "You gave me such a powerful sedative without telling me? You... you're a fucking monster, you..." your eyes suddenly rolled back into your head and you leaned on Patrick's shoulders for support. "I hate you... for killing the person... who was the light in the darkness for me... my whole life." And with that, you fainted again, going limp in his embrace.

Patrick scowled and clenched his hands at his sides. He thought about grabbing an ax and throwing it right in your face to shut you up. The man stood still. "Uh, are you... you know, mentally disabled?" He asked, almost exploding with anger. "I SPECIFICALLY told you it was a Xanax." Did he? He couldn't remember. "YOU took it. I didn't make you take it. God, I can't deal with this, you STUPID BITCH!" Bateman snapped before you passed out.

A phone call was so out of place, but the female voice on the answering machine immediately caught Patrick's attention. "Hey Patrick, it's Courtney," she paused for a second, choosing her words very carefully. "I heard you were at Barcadia today... Patrick... I really miss you and," another pause hung in the air, but this time it was obvious that Courtney was trying to suppress her sobs. "Luis is away this weekend, I thought... I thought you could come and see me... if you want."

Patrick was shaking with rage now. He stood up and pushed you away from him. Huffing, he stared down at you before he focused on the beeping phone. He walked over and brought it to his ear. "Yes... Courtney... I'll be there. Just, just don't cry when I get there. I've already had to deal with that today." Bateman said and then hung up. He looked back at you with a disdainful expression before he left the apartment and grabbed his briefcase. No sex could really calm him down from the anger he felt. He'd find a bum or a prostitute afterwards. Annoyed as hell, the man locked the apartment door and started walking to Courtney's brownstone, passing beggars and men who looked just like him and women who looked just like Evelyn.

The long day finally came to an end. 

The next time you opened your eyes, you were blinded by the light coming through the large window in Bateman's living room; you even had to cover your face from the brightness. Slowly, you got up from the couch, and after using the bathroom, you cautiously crept into the kitchen, where you found some sliced fruit that was starting to get musty, making you think that Bateman had probably forgotten about it. 'Wait, where is he?' Only now did you realize that you were alone, and that feeling lifted your spirits as you finally had the chance to call your ex-boyfriend Vincent. Although you didn't have a clear answer why the idea of calling him was so inspiring, since you had broken up a long time ago, but maybe... maybe Vincent would inform your family about Bateman's tantrums and you could escape this golden cage. With the grace of a cat, you slipped into Patrick's bedroom and picked up the phone to dial a familiar number of your college crush.

When another beep came from the receiver, you bit your lower lip. "Come on, pick up the phone, Vincent."

Just like in the movies, you heard a male voice right after you said those words. "Hello?"

"Vincent! Vincent, hi, it's Rebecca!" You brought the phone closer to you, holding it as if it were your lifeline. "I'm sorry to call you so early in the morning..."

"That's okay, I was getting ready for my daily shift anyway," the man paused and you could hear his thoughtful humming. "Did something happen?"

Closing your eyes for a second, you wanted to say yes, but then you pushed that thought away, not wanting to cause trouble for a person you once had a relationship with. "No, I just... thought maybe you could pick me up since today is my shift too."

"Sure," Vincent replied and you knew he was smiling. "Tell me the number you're calling from so I can call you back a little later."

After you gave the number, not really caring what Patrick might think about it, you and Vincent said goodbye to each other and hung up the phone. 'I hope that idiot doesn't come back before I leave'. The thought of Vincent accidentally walking into Patrick made your stomach churn. 'Dear God, please don't let this happen,' you prayed and went to the bathroom, still feeling dizzy but desperate to freshen up. At first you thought about taking a shower, but then you changed your mind and decided to take a warm, relaxing bath. It took you several minutes to get the bath ready and get out of your clothes. As you sat in the refreshing water, you let out a sigh of relief. Grinning like the most bratty child, you grabbed the bottle of soap sitting next to you and poured a handful of it. 'Ohhh, I wish Patty could see me now.' That was the first time you really had fun in this apartment. The steam soon filled the bathroom, making you too relaxed and you didn't even notice that you were falling asleep as you leaned against the edge of the tub and closed your eyes for just a second. 'Just a second.' You whispered to yourself before you drifted off.

Patrick entered the apartment at 8 in the morning. He was still wearing his Armani suit from last night, an overcoat, and black leather gloves. In his hand was a blood knife he had just used to stab a homeless woman to death. Blood and body parts were splattered on his gloves, coat, and even his face. He longed for a shower. Or better yet, a bath. A quick one. He had to go to the office today... and he had a lunch reservation with McDermott at Pastel's. And Price was going to take him to the Tunnel again. Patrick first washed the knife in the kitchen sink, watching the blood run down the drain. Frowning, he dried it and set it aside, his nose wrinkling as he noticed a strange odor in the air. He looked over and sighed, grabbed the fruit and threw it in the garbage. Then Bateman walked to the bathroom and took off his gloves and coat, leaving them on the floor. He then removed his Armani jacket, silk tie and cotton shirt. He admired his rock-hard body for a moment in the mirror before looking at the tub. He jumped and took a step back, his eyes wide with fear. He took a step closer and sighed. "Oh, Christ." He moved to the tub and tapped you on the hip with his bloodied shoe. "Get up!" Then he kicked you. "Do you know how pathetic you look?"

Suddenly you woke up with a squeal, startled by the sudden sharp pain in your leg. "Ouch!" You groaned before raising your eyes to see Patrick's tall figure standing next to the tub. "Patrick?" Shocked by the pain, you even forgot to cover yourself, as if Bateman hadn't already seen you naked. When you noticed the blood on your fiancé's face, you swallowed nervously and blinked several times as if to shake off the fear. "Is that blood? What happened? Are you hurt?" your questions were so fast and erratic that you even choked on your breath. "Do you need help?" You could not ask his question because you were a nurse.

Patrick touched the blood on his face and looked down at the red that stained his fingers. "Uh, no." The man said slowly. "It's... cranberry juice, cranapple." Then he stopped, seeing that the blood was too dark and thick. "I mean, chocolate. From a.. Dove bar. Hershey's syrup." He clicked his tongue, then looked back at you. "Now get out of my tub. What are you doing in there anyway?" He asked, then held up his hand. "You know what, I don't even care. Just... just go. Go... study or something. And stop sounding so damn sad."

Frowning, you wanted to say something in protest, but then you decided to just do what he asked, because you didn't want to have another fight. Slowly you got out of the tub and took the towel to wrap around your wet body. The fact that Bateman didn't even care about your nakedness was a bit disappointing, but now you should have concentrated on other things—exams and your work, because yesterday you had missed your preparation and hadn't even told your boss that you wouldn't come. With an annoyed face, you walked to the door, grumbling: "Have a good time, narcissistic king.

Excited, Patrick suddenly stopped you by putting a hand on your shoulder. He had a tight grip on you, the veins in his hands were visible. "A word of advice—if you're going to walk around my house like a slut..." He motioned to your body. "Then don't be a prude when I want to fuck you. Okay?" Before you could respond, he landed a hard slap on your ass before pushing you out, closing and locking the door. He sighed and finished undressing, putting an ice pack on his face as he filled the tub with water. He soaked his body and let his violent impulses slowly drift away for the day.

Even after some time, your ass still burned from the hard spanking Bateman had given you, but you tried to concentrate on your studies. Again and again you read the same sentence because you couldn't concentrate on anything, all you could think about was what had happened to Patrick and was that really a chocolate? As a nurse, you could tell blood from everything else, but why did he lie to you? Maybe he didn't want to make you nervous...although that wasn't really his type of attitude. Another thing that was bothering you was who did he spend the night with? Probably Courtney, since she called him last night, or maybe he called some prostitutes and they had an orgy. 'Fuck, why do I care?' You scoffed when suddenly the phone rang. Seizing the moment while Bateman was still in the bathroom, you dashed across the living room and grabbed the hung up phone. "Vincent? Vincent, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," the guy replied, bringing the phone closer. "Do you still want me to pick you up? I'll be leaving in a few minutes." Vincent looked out the window and saw that it was starting to pour outside. Your sudden call an hour ago was like a thunderstorm in the clear sky. It made him so nervous and stirred up some old feelings he thought had gone away long ago, but they hadn't and now he wanted to help you with anything you needed.

At the same moment, Patrick stepped out of the bathtub, grabbed his towel and ran it through his hair. He used his fingers to style it slightly, letting his bangs fall into his face. He wrapped the towel around his hips, leaving most of his body exposed. Enjoying the refreshment, he walked out and was about to go into the bedroom when he heard your voice. Bateman stopped and looked into the room to see you on the phone. 'Vincent? The name wasn't familiar. His brother had a friend named Vincent, but he doubted it was the same person. He strode into the room and took the phone from your hand, gently but forcefully. His unhappy expression suddenly changed to a smile as he put the phone to his ear. "Hi. Pat Bateman. Who do I, uh, have the pleasure of speaking to?"

Vincent almost bit his tongue when he heard Bateman's baritone on the other side of the phone. After a short cough, the man put the phone back to his ear. "I'm Rebecca's lecturer and I'm very concerned about her absence from yesterday's lectures," he lied, trying to keep his composure so that Patrick wouldn't notice. "And she also mentioned that you can be aggressive at times. Is that true?"

"Give it to me!" Suddenly you grabbed the phone and pulled it away from Bateman with all your might. "Give it to me or I'll start screaming and your neighbors will call the police!" You were absolutely cold-blooded and desperate in your attempts to snatch the phone from him. When Patrick tried to push you away as an annoying pest, you were ready to bite him without fear.

Scowling, Patrick let go of the phone when you reached for it and stared at you. He calmly walked to the phone dock and pressed a button, the phone shutting off and going to dial tone. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair before turning back to you. The man grabbed your hand to steady you, his face looking more exhausted than angry. "Listen to me." He said softly, staring at you intensely. "If you continue this behavior, you will ruin my life. If you keep acting like a...victim...like you're trapped here...calling for help and making up rumors about me to your ex-boyfriends, and yes, I know that's not your teacher—I've met her. Hear me out. You…You're going to bring down everything I've spent my life building." He inhaled slowly. "I'm just as trapped as you are... and I know my behavior can be... erratic at times, but I really am trying my best. Do you understand that? Do you hear the words I say to you?"

Breathing heavily, you fixed your still wet hair. "When you say I'm not a victim," you paused and swallowed. "Why can't I have a fucking phone call?" you asked, crossing your arms defensively. "He's not my ex-boyfriend! He's just a guy from my college and we work together..." Bateman's hot breath on your cheek made you stop talking and jerk away. "And I'm not spreading rumors, I just needed to explain why I wasn't there yesterday." The dangerous glow in the man's eyes was so damn scary that even though you had so much more to say, you decided to save it for another time. "I... I should get ready for work." Sitting on his big bed, so small and weak, wearing only a long shirt and nothing underneath, you felt like a caged bird whose owner was teasing it with an open window, proving to the statement that freedom was only an illusion.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!