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pedroscowgirl · 3 months ago

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The Ranch Next Door

Joel miller x fem!reader x Negan smith | MAIN MASTERLIST

Warnings! smut!! minors DNI! Age gap (I imagine them 50s and reader is in college (20s-30s)), oral m & f!receiving, 3some, p in v (wrap it up), creampie, nipple play, fingering, squirting, gagging, cum tasting (? idk), overstimulation, passing out, size kink, lmk if i forgot something wc: 6.5k Summary: Coming home from college for the break suddenly was intresting when you meet your dad's hot new neighbours

A/n: Okay I actually have soooooo much uni work to do but I needed to get this out of my system before i forgot what i was gonna write :). And I actually need these two to act in something tgt pleaseee. Anyways i hope you guys enjoyed this so def lemme know what you think!

The sun was setting over the rolling hills of the countryside, casting a golden hue over the sprawling farmland. You hadn’t been home in months, and the familiar scent of hay and earth filled your lungs as you stepped out of your car. Your dad’s farmhouse stood in the distance, its porch light flickering like a beacon. You stretched your arms, feeling the stiffness from the long drive melt away. College life had kept you busy, but there was something about coming home that always grounded you.

As you grabbed your bags from the trunk, you noticed movement in the neighboring field. Two figures on horseback were riding along the fence line, their silhouettes sharp against the fading light. You squinted, trying to make out who they were. Your dad had mentioned new neighbors moving in, but you hadn’t expected them to look like that.

One of the men tipped his hat in your direction, and your stomach did a little flip. You quickly looked away, pretending to fumble with your bags. When you glanced back, they were closer, their horses trotting toward you. Your heart raced as you realized just how big they were—both in stature and presence.

“Well, well, what do we got here?” The first man’s voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a teasing edge. He dismounted his horse with ease, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His dark hair was peppered with gray, and his hazel eyes locked onto yours. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. You swallowed hard.

“Joel,” he introduced himself, tipping his hat again. “You must be the college kid your dad’s been braggin’ about.” You nodded, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m, uh, just visiting over the break.”

The second man swung down from his horse, his movements fluid and confident. He looked tougher than Joel, with a smirk that could only be described as dangerous. His leather jacket and black hat gave him a roguish charm, and his eyes–dark and calculating–seemed to see right through you. “Name’s Negan,” he said, his voice dripping with charm. “And let me tell you, darlin’, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We don’t get too many pretty faces around here.” You felt your cheeks flush, and you quickly looked down at your shoes. “Nice to meet you both,” you mumbled, suddenly very aware of how out of place you felt in your city clothes.

Joel chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Don’t let Negan scare you off. He’s all bark, no bite.” Negan feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Now, Joel, that’s just hurtful. I’m a gentleman through and through.” He turned his attention back to you, his smirk widening. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. The tension between the three of you was palpable, and you couldn’t tell if it was intimidation or something else entirely that had your heart racing.

Joel stepped closer, his eyes softening just a fraction. “You need help with those bags?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” Negan leaned against the fence, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure? We’re just a couple of friendly neighbors, always willin’ to lend a hand.” “Or two,” Joel added, his lips quirking into a half-smile.

You laughed nervously, gripping the straps of your bags tighter. “I’m good, really. But thanks.”

They exchanged a look, one that you couldn’t quite decipher, before Joel nodded. “Alright then. You know where to find us if you need anything.” Negan tipped his hat, his smirk never wavering. “And I do mean anything, darlin’.”

You watched as they mounted their horses and rode off, their laughter carrying on the wind. As soon as they were out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your dad’s voice calling your name snapped you out of your daze, and you hurried toward the house, your mind still reeling from the encounter.

—---------------

The next morning, you decided to explore the farm, hoping to clear your head. The air was crisp, and the sound of birds chirping filled the silence. You wandered toward the old barn, where your dad kept his tools and equipment. As you approached, you heard voices—deep, familiar voices.

“You think she’ll come around?” Negan’s voice carried a playful tone. “Dunno,” Joel replied. “She seemed pretty skittish.” You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. Were they talking about you? Before you could retreat, Negan’s voice called out.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us.” You turned to see Joel and Negan leaning against the barn, their eyes fixed on you. Joel had a cigarette dangling from his lips, while Negan twirled a piece of straw between his fingers. They looked like they’d stepped right out of a Western movie, and you felt like the damsel in distress. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said, taking a step back.Joel shook his head. “You’re not interruptin’. We were just talkin’ about you, actually.”Your eyes widened. “Oh?”

Negan pushed off the barn and sauntered toward you, his smirk firmly in place. “Yeah, darlin’. We were wonderin’ if you’d let us show you around. You know, give you the grand tour.” You glanced between them, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “I, uh, I don’t want to be any trouble.” Joel stepped forward, his voice softer this time. “It’s no trouble. We’d like to get to know you better.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his tone-something that made your stomach flutter. Negan, on the other hand, was all charm and mischief, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” Negan asked, his voice low and teasing. “You up for a little adventure?”You hesitated, but something about the way they were looking at you—like you were the only person in the world—made you nod. “Okay. Just… don’t let me fall off a horse or anything.”

Negan laughed, a rich, hearty sound that made your cheeks heat up. “Don’t worry, darlin’. We’ll take real good care of you.”Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he took one of your bags, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. “C’mon,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Let’s get started.”As they led you toward the stables, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into something much bigger than yourself. The tension between the three of you was undeniable, and you had a feeling this weekend was going to be anything but ordinary.

—-

Joel and Negan had taken you riding across the fields, their easy banter and playful teasing making you feel both exhilarated and flustered. By the time you returned to your dad’s farmhouse, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. You were still buzzing from the adventure, your cheeks flushed and your heart light.

As you stepped inside, your dad looked up from his newspaper, raising an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been all day?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.“I, uh, met the neighbors,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Joel and Negan. They showed me around.”Your dad’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Those two, huh? They’re quite the characters. Good men, though. Hard workers.” He paused, then added, “Why don’t you invite them over for dinner tomorrow? Be neighborly.” Your stomach did a little flip at the thought of spending more time with them, but you nodded. “Sure, I’ll ask them.”

—--------------------------------------

The next day, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, agonizing over what to wear. You finally settled on a pair of denim shorts and a black tank top, the lace of your bra just barely peeking out at the edges. It was casual but flirty, and you couldn’t help but wonder what Joel and Negan would think.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up in the kitchen, and you called out to your dad, “I’ll get it!” You opened the door to find Joel standing there, looking every bit the rugged cowboy in his plaid shirt and jeans. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just showered, and he held a bottle of wine in one hand. His eyes softened as they landed on you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm and smooth. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, his stubble brushing against your skin. You felt your face heat up instantly, and you hoped he didn’t notice how your breath hitched.“Hi, Joel,” you managed to say, stepping aside to let him in. “Negan’s not with you?”

“He’ll be here in a bit,” Joel replied, handing you the bottle of wine. “Had somethin’ to take care of first.”

You led him into the living room, where your dad greeted him with a firm handshake. The two of them fell into easy conversation, and you busied yourself in the kitchen, trying to calm your racing heart. Joel’s presence was overwhelming in the best way, and you couldn’t help but steal glances at him as he chatted with your dad. Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. This time, when you opened the door, Negan stood there, his signature smirk already in place.

He was dressed in his usual leather jacket and jeans, a six-pack of beer in one hand. His dark eyes swept over you in a way that made your knees weak. “Well, well, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice dripping with charm. “You look… damn good.” His gaze lingered on the lace of your bra peeking out from your tank top, and you felt your cheeks burn. Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed your cheek, his lips lingering just a fraction longer than Joel’s had. The scent of leather and cologne filled your senses, and you had to grip the doorframe to steady yourself.

“Negan,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside, his eyes never leaving yours. “Thanks, sweetheart. Brought some beer for the occasion.”

You blushed furiously, unable to form a coherent response. Negan chuckled, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you, and followed you into the living room. He greeted your dad with a hearty handshake and a joke, and soon the three of them were laughing like old friends.

As you set the table, you couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air. Joel’s quiet intensity and Negan’s bold charm created a dynamic that was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. Every time Joel’s eyes met yours, you felt a jolt of electricity, and every time Negan flashed you that devilish grin, your stomach did somersaults.

Dinner was a lively affair, filled with stories and laughter. Joel was surprisingly sweet, offering to help you clear the table and refill your glass of wine. Negan, on the other hand, was relentless in his teasing, his comments always toeing the line between flirty and inappropriate—though he kept it toned down around your dad. At one point, you caught Joel’s eye as you licked your fork in a slow, deliberate motion, your lips curling into a subtle smirk. His gaze darkened, and he shifted in his seat, clearly affected. Negan, sitting across from you, noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across his face. Your dad, engrossed in a story about the farm, didn’t notice a thing.

After dinner, Negan leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked your dad.“Upstairs, first door on the left,” your dad replied, gesturing toward the staircase. Negan nodded and headed upstairs, his boots thudding against the wooden steps. As he reached the landing, he noticed a slightly open drawer in your room. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked inside. His eyes landed on a pair of cute pink lace panties with a delicate ribbon on the front. He bit his lip, his mind racing with thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be having.

“Did you find it?” your dad shouted from downstairs, snapping Negan out of his reverie.

“Yeah, got it!” Negan called back, quickly closing the drawer—though not all the way—and making his way to the bathroom. He took a deep breath, trying to shake the image of those panties from his mind, but it was no use. When he returned downstairs, he avoided your gaze, though you noticed the faint flush on his cheeks. Joel, ever observant, raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

After Joel and Negan left, you went upstairs to your room and noticed the drawer slightly ajar, the pink panties peeking out. A slow smile spread across your face as you realized what had happened. You chuckled to yourself, feeling a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction.“Those cowboys,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “What am I going to do with them?”

—----------------------------------------------

The next morning, the sun was already high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the farm. You woke up to the sound of your dad groaning in the living room. He was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, looking every bit the picture of a man who’d had one too many beers the night before.

“Dad?” you called out, trying not to laugh. “You okay?” He groaned again, waving a hand in your direction. “Joel called. Said he’d come over to help me with the fence on the south side of the property. But I… I don’t think I’m gonna make it, kiddo.”

You bit back a laugh, walking over to him. “You’re hungover, aren’t you?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, his face pale but amused. “Maybe. Just a little. That Negan and his damn beer… I swear, that man could drink a horse under the table.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll help Joel. You just rest.” He sighed in relief, giving you a grateful smile. “You’re a lifesaver, sweetheart. Tell Joel I’ll owe him one.”

You nodded, heading back to your room to get ready.

You decided to wear a white tank top that hugged your figure just right, the neckline dipping just enough to show a hint of cleavage. Your jean shorts were a little shorter than usual, riding high on your thighs, and you paired them with your red cowboy boots. You glanced in the mirror, running a hand through your hair, and smiled. You looked good, and you knew it.

—---------------------------

When you stepped outside, the heat of the day hit you like a wall. You spotted Joel in the distance, bent over the hood of his truck, his muscles straining as he worked on something under the hood. His plaid shirt was tied around his waist, leaving him in a plain white short sleeve top that clung to his broad shoulders and strong arms. You felt your stomach flutter as you approached him.

“Hey, Joel!” you called out, waving as you got closer.

He straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His blue eyes landed on you, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. “Well, hey there, sweetheart. What’re you doin’ out here?”You shrugged, trying to act casual despite the way your heart was racing. “Dad’s a little… under the weather. Said he owed you one for bailing on the fence.”

Joel chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “That old man ain’t washed up against a little hangover, huh? But that’s alright. I’ll take good care of ya, darlin’.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the way he said “darlin’” in that thick Texan drawl of his. You stood there for a moment, watching as he went back to working on his truck. His hands were rough and calloused, but they moved with a precision that was almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles flexed under his shirt, the fabric clinging to his chest and stomach.

—----------------------

The next two hours were a blur of chores. Joel had you helping him with everything from fixing the fence to hauling hay bales. He was patient with you, showing you how to do things the right way, but there was always that undercurrent of tension between you. Every time his hand brushed against yours, or his eyes lingered on you a little too long, you felt your breath catch.

Finally, Joel gestured to his truck. “Alright, darlin’. Last chore of the day. Gonna need you to help me wash this ol’ girl.” You nodded, grabbing a bucket and filling it with water from the hose. Joel did the same, and for a moment, the two of you worked in silence, scrubbing the truck down. But then, out of nowhere, Joel splashed a handful of water at you, hitting you square in the chest.

You gasped, the cold water soaking through your tank top. “Joel!” you squealed, glaring at him. He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made your stomach flip. “What? Just tryin’ to cool you off, sweetheart.”You narrowed your eyes, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Before he could react, you scooped up a handful of water and threw it at him, hitting him right in the chest. His shirt clung to his body, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way it revealed the outline of his muscles. He had that perfect dad bod—strong and solid, with just the right amount of softness. You bit your lip, crossing your legs as you felt a heat pool in your stomach.

Joel noticed the way you were looking at him, and his smile turned into something darker, more intense. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face, and took a step closer to you. “Eyes up here darlin’,” he said, his voice low and rough.

You didn’t have time to respond before his arm was around your waist, pulling you against him. His other hand cupped your face, and then his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. Your hands flew to his neck, tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck as you deepened the kiss. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced—raw, passionate, and completely overwhelming.

Joel’s hands moved down your body, one gripping your waist while the other slid under your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the hood of his truck. You gasped into his mouth as he kissed you again, his lips moving to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. Your head fell back, a moan escaping your lips as his hands roamed over your body.

His fingers found the button of your jeans, and before you could even think to stop him, he had them undone, sliding them down just enough to reveal the cute pink lace panties you were wearing—the same ones Negan had seen the day before. Joel let out a low groan, his eyes dark with desire. “Fuck, darlin’. You’re so damn cute.”You blushed, but before you could say anything, his hand was sliding your panties to the side, his thick fingers finding your wet folds. You moaned, your hips bucking against his hand as he slid a finger inside you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn’t help but cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders for support.

Joel kissed you again, his lips swallowing your moans as he worked you with his fingers. But then, just as quickly as it had started, he pulled away, cursing under his breath. He slid your shorts back up, his hands trembling slightly, and took a step back. “Joel?” you asked, your voice shaky and confused.He ran a hand over his face, his breathing heavy. “I… I gotta go,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I shouldn’t have…” He trailed off, shaking his head before turning and walking away, leaving you sitting on the hood of his truck, your heart racing and your body aching for more.

—------------------------------------------------

You continued washing Joel’s truck and were so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t hear Negan approach until his voice broke the silence.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” he said, that signature smirk playing on his lips. You turned to see him leaning against the fence, his dark eyes fixed on you. He looked as effortlessly handsome as ever, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder and his jeans hugging his legs just right.

“Hey, Negan,” you replied, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart skipped a beat.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Everything alright? You look a little… sad.”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, I’m fine. Just… thinking.” Negan raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, his gaze dropped slightly, and you realized your tank top had ridden up, revealing the white bow of your cute lace panties peeking out above your shorts. His eyes lingered for a moment, and you felt your cheeks flush as he raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Where’s Joel?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes still fixed on you.

“Dunno,” you replied, tugging your tank top down self-consciously. “Somewhere inside, I think.”Negan nodded, his smirk never wavering. “Thanks, darlin’.” He stepped closer, and before you could react, he slapped your ass playfully, his hand lingering to give it a soft rub. You gasped, your eyes widening as he leaned in to kiss your ear, his breath warm against your skin.“I know you’re wearing those cute panties, babygirl,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. “Don’t be naughty, or I’ll snitch to your dad.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already walking away, laughing to himself as he headed toward the house. You stood there, your heart racing and your body tingling from his touch. He had a way of leaving you flustered and wanting more, and this time was no exception.

—--------------

Negan stepped inside the house, calling out for Joel. “Joel? You in here, old man?” Joel appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression unreadable. “What do you want, Negan?”

Negan grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know that pretty little thing was visiting you. Her dad’s hungover or something?” Joel chuckled, though there was a tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, something like that.”

Negan’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Joel avoided his gaze. “Something happen?” he asked, his tone casual but probing. Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man… I screwed up.” Negan’s eyebrows shot up. “You fuck her?” Joel shook his head slightly, his voice low. “I, uh… kissed her. And… put one finger in her.” Negan’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. “Fuck, Joel. How’d her pussy feel?”

Joel rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Man, she’s the daughter of our neighbor. And like, twenty years younger than us.” Negan laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Hell yeah, so her pussy’s even tighter. Fuck, I’d do anything to hit that.”

Joel chuckled, though there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “Go ahead. I think she’s really craving some old man dick right now.”

Negan feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Who you callin’ old?” He paused, his smirk returning. “You think she’d wanna take two old dicks? Think she could handle that?”

Joel’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like he was considering it. The thought of it made his blood run hot, and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Negan… I don’t know, man.” Negan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive tone. “Fuck, Joel, she’s dressed like a slut. She’s wearing those fucking panties for a reason. Didn’t she love it when your one finger got inside her? Imagine how she’d go crazy for your dick, huh?”

Joel’s hand rubbed the back of his neck, his mind racing. He knew it was wrong, but the thought of having you—of sharing you with Negan—was too tempting to ignore. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fine. Let’s take her upstairs.”

Negan’s grin widened, and he clapped Joel on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

—--------------------

Negan walked back outside, where you were still standing by the truck, trying to calm your racing heart. He approached you with that same confident swagger, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Hi there, cutie,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. He lowered himself to whisper in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You still wet? ‘Cause your daddies got a surprise for you.”Before you could register what was happening, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style toward the house. You gasped, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he laughed, the sound rich and deep.

“Negan, what are you—?” you started, but he cut you off with a wink.“Just relax, babygirl. You’re gonna love this.”He carried you inside, where Joel was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of hesitation—but it was quickly replaced by something darker, something that made your stomach flip. “Upstairs,” Joel said, his voice low and commanding.Negan didn’t need to be told twice. He carried you up the stairs, his grip firm but gentle, and you felt your heart pounding in your chest.

—---------------------

Joel led the way, his broad shoulders filling the hallway as he guided Negan to his bedroom. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the king-sized bed. Negan laid you down gently on the mattress, his eyes never leaving yours.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, your heart racing as you took in the sight of the two men standing at the foot of the bed. Joel’s arms were crossed over his chest, his piercing eyes dark with desire. Negan stood beside him, one hand rubbing his beard as he stared at you with a hunger that made your stomach flip.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Negan said, his voice low and rough. “You’re so damn sexy.”

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. The way they were looking at you—like you were the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen—made you feel powerful and vulnerable all at once.

“Take off your top,” Negan ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your tank top, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. You were left in nothing but your bra, the lace barely containing your breasts. Joel’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gaze raking over your exposed skin.

He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tilting your chin up so you were looking into his eyes. Without a word, he leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. As he deepened the kiss, his lips trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin and making you gasp and your bra strap fell down your shoulder.

Joel’s hands moved to the back of your bra, his fingers deftly unhooking the clasp and letting the fabric fall away. He lowered the cup, exposing your perked nipple to the cool air. “How cute,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. He moved slightly so Negan could see, and you locked eyes with the man, your heart pounding in your chest.Negan bit his lip, his eyes dark with desire. “Fuck, Joel, she’s perfect.”

Before you could respond, Joel’s mouth was on your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before he sucked it into his mouth. You moaned, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shot through you. Joel bit down gently, the sharp sting making you cry out.

Meanwhile, Negan was busy pulling off your shorts, his hands sliding down your thighs as he revealed your lace panties. “Fuck, I can see how wet you are, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Joel, look at this.”

Joel hummed against your nipple, his hands moving to your other breast as he continued to tease you. Negan hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, agonizingly so. You whined, your hips lifting off the bed in an attempt to speed him up.“Oh, is someone impatient?” Negan teased, his smirk widening as he looked down at you. “Be patient, doll. I’ll fuck you soon enough.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Finally, your panties were off, and Negan’s fingers were on you, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand as he added two fingers inside you without warning. “Fuck!” you gasped, your nails digging into the sheets.

“Heard you already took one finger today,” Negan said, his voice dripping with amusement. “So I know you can handle more, babygirl.” You moaned, the realization that Joel and Negan had been talking about you—about this—making you even hotter. Joel’s mouth moved to your other nipple, sucking and biting as Negan’s fingers worked you open. The dual sensations were overwhelming, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, she’s so wet, Joel,” Negan said, his voice strained.“Fuck I know,” Joel replied, his lips leaving your breast to capture yours in another deep kiss. When he pulled away, he looked down at you with a wicked grin. “Negan, why don’t you let her suck your dick while I eat her sweet pussy?”

Negan’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Now THAT’S what I’m talking about.” You barely had time to process what was happening before Joel was spreading your legs, his mouth descending on your pussy with a hunger that made your toes curl. Negan, meanwhile, unbuckled his pants, freeing his cock and positioning himself at your lips.“Open up, babygirl,” he said, and almost melted at the sight of you.

You obeyed, your mouth widening as Negan slid the tip of his cock past your lips. You licked at the precum, moaning around him as Joel’s tongue delved into your pussy. It felt so good. Joel’s tongue flicking over your clit while Negan’s cock hit the back of your throat made you feel hazy.

Negan gripped your hair, his hips moving slowly as he fucked your mouth. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he groaned, his eyes locked on yours. Joel added a finger, then another, curling them inside you as he sucked on your clit. The combination of his fingers and tongue had you writhing on the bed, your moans muffled by Negan’s cock. You tried to focus on sucking Negan's dick but the pleasure of Joel's tongue inside you made it very difficult.

“Focus on your own pleasure, babygirl I don’t wanna cum yet,” Negan said, pulling out of your mouth to give you a moment to breathe. “Let Joel take care of you.” You fell back against the mattress, your chest heaving as Joel continued to work you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes met yours between your thighs, and the intensity in his gaze made your stomach clench. You could feel the pressure building, your orgasm just out of reach.

And then it hit you—hard. You screamed as you squirted on Joel's face, your body convulsing as he rode out your orgasm with his fingers and tongue. Negan watched, his cock in his hand as he stroked himself, his eyes dark with desire.“Holy shit!” Negan yelled, his voice filled with awe. “That was fucking hot.” You collapsed back onto the bed, your body trembling as Joel finally pulled away, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Fuck, Joel, I wanna feel that sweet pussy around my cock,” Negan said, switching places with Joel. Joel looked at you with soft, sweet eyes, his hand gently rubbing over your cheek before cupping your chin. “You alright, darlin’?” he asked. You nodded, biting your lip as you looked up at him with teary eyes.

“Fuck, you’re so cute, baby. Do you think your jaw can handle sucking my dick right now?” he asked. You nodded again, and he chuckled. “Words, please,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Yes, Daddy, I wanna suck your dick,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. His hands moved to unbuckle his belt, and he smirked. “Alright, anything for you baby.”

Negan, now standing by your legs with his pants off, laughed. “Daddy, huh? That’s new.” He stripped off his shirt, revealing his toned body adorned with sexy tattoos. He grabbed your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance. You gulped nervously, noticing how big he was.

“Don’t worry, doll. It’ll fit,” Negan reassured you with a smirk. He looked into your eyes as he slowly entered you, drawing a moan from your lips. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as he filled you.“Fuck, look at you, stretching for me so good. God, you feel amazing around my cock,” he groaned. You whimpered, still adjusting to his size, and hesitated to take Joel into your mouth.

As negan began moving faster, and the initial sting faded, it was replaced by a hot, pleasurable fullness. Finally, you turned your head toward Joel, who was already anticipating your next move. You propped yourself up on your elbows and took him into your mouth. His precum tasted sweeter than Negan’s, though they were roughly the same size.

You teased the tip of Joel’s cock with your tongue, and he groaned. “Fuck, darlin’, don’t tease me,” he said, his voice strained. You glanced up at him through your lashes, smiling around his length.

When suddenly, Negan thrust HARD into you, and Joel gripped the back of your head, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. You gagged, drool escaping your lips as Joel held you in place.“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Joel moaned. Negan laughed, his voice rough. “Her pussy clenched so hard just then. Fuck.”The reality of the situation hit you—you were here, with two older, incredibly sexy men. It felt surreal, like a dream. Joel snapped you out of your thoughts when he spoke up.

“Negan, can I feel her pussy for a second?” Joel asked. Negan nodded, pulling out of you with a wet sound that made you gasp. Joel withdrew from your mouth and moved to your front, entering you without warning. You cried out, the sudden fullness overwhelming.

“Holyyy shit,” Joel said, looking over at Negan, who laughed. “I know, right? It’s like a virgin pussy, but we both know she ain’t. Am i right you fucking slut?” Negan said, his tone teasing. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss that quickly turned into a full-on makeout session. Joel continued thrusting into you, his head falling back as he lost himself in the sensation.

Your orgasm was building, but Joel suddenly pulled out. “I wanna cum in her mouth,” he said to Negan, who nodded. “I get to breed her?” Negan asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Yeah, go ahead. I wanna see her swallow my seed like the good girl she is,” Joel replied. He positioned himself at your mouth again and entered it. You could taste yourself on him just as Negan reentered you. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, angling himself to hit your G-spot with every thrust. “Fuck Negan” you moaned.

“Call me Daddy,” Negan demanded, his voice rough. “Daddy,” you moaned, your voice breaking as he pinched your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through you.“Good girl,” he praised, his pace relentless and softly rubbing your clit now.

Your mind was spinning, overstimulated but craving more. You felt your orgasm approaching again, and Joel was close too. He gripped your head tighter, moving you faster on his cock until tears streamed down your cheeks.

With a groan, Joel came, his head falling back as he spilled into your mouth. You swallowed every drop, licking his tip clean as he pulled away. “Fuck, that’s so hot,” Joel said, tucking himself back into his pants. He sat down in a rocking chair, watching as Negan continued to fuck you. Negan’s thrusts grew harder, and you finally came, your body trembling as you squirted around his cock. He groaned, filling you with his release.

“Fuck, I hope you’re on birth control, babygirl, ‘cause that’s a big load,” he said, his voice ragged. You moaned at the feeling of his warmth inside you, but suddenly, your vision blurred. Your eyes rolled back, and everything went black as you collapsed.

—----

After a few minutes, you slowly stirred awake, your head resting comfortably on Joel's pillow. As your vision cleared, you noticed both men standing nearby, their eyes fixed on you with a mix of concern and amusement. Joel sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gently brushing through your hair in a soothing motion. Negan, leaning against the wall, smirked down at you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"W-What happened?" you asked, your voice soft and slightly disoriented as you tried to piece together the last moments before everything went dark.Negan chuckled, his deep voice filling the room. "You passed out, sweetheart. Couldn't handle my cock after all, huh? You squirted like crazy,damn, it was something else." His words were laced with pride, but there was a teasing glint in his eyes that made your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

You instinctively looked away, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Negan noticed your discomfort and quickly moved to sit beside you on the bed. His large hand rested on your thigh, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tried to reassure you. "Hey, shh, it's okay, baby. Don't be embarrassed. We loved every second of it. You were incredible," he said, his tone softer now, almost tender.

Joel, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. His voice was calm and steady, a stark contrast to Negan's playful demeanor. "I'll go tell your dad you're taking a nap. I'll say you did a good job with helping me and got tired." He gave you a small, reassuring smile and a wink before standing up and heading toward the door.

Taglist: @misguidedasgardian @highinmiamiii @aretha170

alltime: @emmaaas-posts

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catcake24 · 29 days ago

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One aspect I love about Optimus is almost every continuity is how much of a paragon he is, it’s like a core part of his character but I feel like so many people brush it off as “unrealistic” or “blind to the truth” or something. Of course, everyone is entitled to their reading, but I feel like it’s such a shame when people try to make Optimus “morally complex” by making him more of a self righteous asshole.

To me, that misses the point - Optimus was chosen to be a Prime because he was worthy of it, and I know not everyone likes that “chosen one” thing but part of why it works for me is because Optimus is the one who can see there’s a better way.

I feel like people are often writing Optimus in fanfic to be ignorant to the evil of the world, or being shown that actually he wasn’t fighting on the side of good all along, or defending a system that he didn’t know was completely corrupt, and that’s interesting but I feel like it misses the crucial aspect that Optimus does know about these things but decides he would rather try to fix the world then destroy it. (I see this especially often in MegOp fics, since it’s a quick and easy way to humanize the Decepticons and Megatron especially, but I feel like it does undermine Optimus’ character sometimes. But I don’t want people to feel bad if they do this, this is more me ranting about my own tastes/interpretation.)

Like G1 Orion was part of the working class, TFO Orion was below the working class, TFP Orion was part of the middle class but joined the cause of those below him because he can’t let injustice go. But they all become a hero because they know there’s a better way that might not always be obvious.

And what makes Optimus interesting to me is seeing him struggle with being a paragon in a world that is dark and messy. He stares into the darkest depths of hate, greed, corruption, and cruelty and was able to stare back and try to make it better. It isn’t easy, but he is willing to face that challenge if it means making the world just a bit better.

He’s a lot like Superman in that way, what makes him interesting is seeing a paragon face the darkest problems and try their best to find the best way possible.

And I would love more fanfics delving into his internal struggle, or how he tries everything he can to make the world better despite it always pushing against him. Stories about him even fighting against his high command to do what is right that none of them think is even possible. Hell, a story about him finding out about Autobot corruption and completely stomping it out and what the rescued Decepticons think of him now.

There are a few stories like this, probably loads I haven’t found or forgot about, but I always am looking for more because it’s always so interesting to me. Optimus is a character I look up to, a comfort character, but also the guy I want to see kicked around by the narrative. I want everything in the world trying to make Optimus cruel or give up his morals, but he spits in their face and calls them a pussy for even suggesting he should ever give up.

Because Optimus always tries to make the world better and do the right thing, because no one else can or will.

#I need to ramble about Optimus more this was fun #ramble #ramblings of an Optimus fan #Optimus Prime #Orion Pax #Transformers Optimus #maccadam #maccadams #Transformers #this is part of why I love Optimus x Megatron too - best guy in the world x worst guy in the world #(theres more to it then that but that’s one of the big ones lol)#also I don’t hate narratives where Optimus is wrong or isn’t aware of Autobot corruption #more that I feel like it’s a less interesting trope then having Optimus being the guy who makes the world better come hell or high water)#and this is all subjective opinion anyways lol

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ayamari-no-goshi · 11 months ago

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I’d like to clear up some common misconceptions about the Attack on Titan Tower, aka when Jason infiltrated it to attack Tim

If you want to read this for yourself, here are some links: readallcomics - I have the best luck with this site on destop zipcomic readcomicsonline - this site can be temperamental

1) Jason did not go there to attempt to kill Tim

Jason seems to have 3 separate goals for this: - size up the new kid. - make sure he knows Bruce just sees him as another soldier - prove to Tim just how dangerous the job is (heavily implied, in my opinion, especially after Tim tried telling Jason he was wrong about how Bruce saw him) He also voiced his anger over being forgotten by everyone. Depending on your interpretation of Jason and his character, this could also be a reason. To me, this feels more like an afterthought because they moved to the Hall of Fallen Heroes before he said this, and Jason likes to be dramatic.

Side note on this. Jason never says anything about being replaced.

2) none of Tim’s injuries were life threatening

Once again, Jason was not attempting to kill him. He beat him up pretty badly, but it was designed to prove a point

3) Jason did NOT cut Tim’s throat.

That happened during Hush which predates both Under the Red Hood and Titan’s Tower. Jason was pretending to be Hush, put a knife to Tim’s throat, and put enough pressure to make him bleed (it was not an actual slice) to get Bruce to react to him. That injury was not life threatening either

Edit: I’ve seen some comments about the ‘not life threatening’ statement. Yes, it needed stitches, but it wasn’t spurting blood, therefore not life threatening. Just because you’re bleeding from a neck injury, it doesn’t mean you’re at an immediate risk of dying (spoken from experience). It’s if the carotid artery or jugular vein are cut that it’s a problem, and you’ll know if that happens because of SO MUCH BLOOD. You will bleed out within minutes.

The way it’s portrayed, it’s not a life threatening injury

4) Jason developed a respect and a bit of envy for Tim after fighting him

At the end of the issue while he’s leaving (while outside the tower), Jason acknowledges Tim’s skill. Jason also wonders if he could have had a life more similar to his, where he had friends and a better support system, if he could have had a different life.

5) Tim was NOT a damsel in distress during the fight, and he did NOT develop a fear of Jason.

Tim was making quips and dissing Jason the entire fight. Tim was not afraid of him nor did he bat an eye at being attacked by Jason. He also vocalized just how much he had to work for his cape because of how Jason's death affected Bruce

Also, the next time Tim saw Jason after this, he made sure to kick Jason in the groin

6) Jason wrote "Jason Todd was here" and signed it with a hand print on the wall.

It looks like it could be in blood, but Tim's not injured enough for there to be that much... and blood darkens after a while. There's a bit of time between Tim getting knocked out and the rest of the Titans finding him and the writing so it's probably paint. Again, Jason likes to be dramatic

7) more Robin!Jason slander by Raven

Once again, we get the mention that Jason was "aggressive". I swear, this is the only thing writers remember from Death in the Family and not the point that that behavior was out of the ordinary for Jason. This is a personal pet peeve of mine in the comics.

8) almost forgot to add the most important part, Jason made a homemade Robin costume and wore it under his Red Hood outfit because he could

Again, Jason is a dramatic bitch.

#jason todd #red hood #dc comics #Tim Drake #dc robin #Attack on Titans Tower #As much as I do like enemy to caregiver fics I feel like we need to clear the air a bit regarding this specific event #dear fans Jason can be insane at times but to him he needed to prove something to both himself and Tim during this #killing was not on the table here #I love Jason as a character #but he is a dramatic bitch #he's also has some of the most wildly different characterizations out of the Batfam

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reiding-writing · 9 months ago

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Hi :)

Could I maybe get a two-for-one for your work, Deprivation? Maybe where reader takes Spencer home with them and they do some skin to skin cuddles and he just melts and sleeps for more than a plane ride?

Or if you don’t like that idea, just any continuation of Spencer being so afraid of touch but desperately needing it? I feel that in my soul.

I love your work so much, you’re beyond fantastic!

SALVATION — SPENCER REID!

after spencer gets some rest on the plane ride home, you offer for him to stay the night with you.

spencer reid x gn!reader | 1.0k | h/c | masterlist.

part one.

event masterlist.

a/n — thank you so much ml, i forgot how much i loved writing stuff like this, spencer needs so many hugs man

Your apartment was warm, a comforting contrast to the sterile jet and the cold night outside.

Spencer seemed out of place at first, standing awkwardly by the door as you set your keys on the table. You could see the fatigue in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the case still clung to him.

“Why don’t you get comfortable?” you suggested gently, motioning toward the couch.

He hesitates, lingering in the doorway like he’s intruding, like he’s unceremoniously encroaching on your space despite the fact that you’d insisted he spend the night at your apartment, insisted that he was going to get a good night’s rest even if it meant not getting one yourself.

It makes him feel bad. Guilty. You should be doing this for him, or feeling like you have to.

“Spencer,” You sigh, “Please,”

He reluctantly relents at the hint of desperation in your tone, toeing off his shoes and sinking into the cushions of your couch. His fingers twitched nervously, his mind still racing even in the quiet.

You brewed tea in the silence, not wanting to push him into talking if he wasn’t ready but wanting to offer him something—something to show that you cared, that you wanted him to feel safe and comfortable with you.

When you came back, you set the mugs on the coffee table, then sat next to him, close, but not impeding on his personal bubble.

The air felt thick with the unsaid, but you waited patiently, letting him come to you in his own time.

After a few minutes of silence echoed only through soft sips from your drinks, Spencer finally spoke, his voice small. “I… I can’t seem to turn my brain off. It’s like, no matter how exhausted I am, I can’t stop thinking about everything. It’s just… always there.”

Your heart ached for him. You could see how much he was carrying, how much he was trying to hold together on his own.

“You don’t have to do that tonight,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to keep holding it all together.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper. Vulnerability. “I don’t know how to… stop.”

You scooted closer, your fingers gently brushing his. “Come here,” you whispered, your voice gentle but firm. “Skin-to-skin contact can help calm your nervous system. Let me hold you for a while,”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

You were really pulling his own moves against him.

And you weren’t even wrong. It would indeed chemically help calm down his nervous system through releasing oxytocin and serotonin, not to mention promoting activity of the oxytocinergic system.

So there was no excuse to not listen to you.

Slowly, cautiously, he allowed you to take his hand and guide him toward you. You both shed your outer layers—he pulled off his sweater, and you slipped out of your own long-sleeved shirt, leaving the soft barrier of your undershirts between you.

You pulled him into your embrace, wrapping your arms around him as he rested his head against your chest, your warmth surrounding him.

At first, Spencer was stiff, as if unsure how to allow himself to relax into you. But gradually, the tension in his body began to melt.

Your hands stroked soothing circles on his back, your heartbeat steady and grounding beneath his cheek. You could feel the way his breathing began to even out, slow and deep, as if the weight of the world was finally starting to lift.

“You’re safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing the top of his head. “It’s okay to rest.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hands curling gently into your shirt as he allowed himself to surrender to the comfort you offered.

He pressed closer, his body seeking the warmth and safety that came with your touch, revelling in what he’d lost from you after the plane had landed back in D.C.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind began to quiet. The intrusive thoughts that normally plagued him began to fade, replaced by the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, the gentle hum of your voice as you whispered reassurances into the dark.

“I’m still so tired,” he confessed, his voice breaking slightly as the weight of the admission hit him. “I know I slept on the plane but…”

“I know,” you whispered back, shaking your head softly and holding him tighter. “You don’t have to fight it anymore. Just sleep.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, Spencer allowed himself to let go. His body melted into yours, his breathing deepening as the exhaustion finally caught up to him.

Within minutes, he was asleep, completely relaxed in your arms.

You held him as he slept, your fingers still running through his hair, your heart swelling with a fierce protectiveness. He deserved this—this peace, this comfort—and you would give it to him for as long as he needed.

And as Spencer slept, you could almost see the tension lift from his features, his body finally at ease. He looked peaceful, truly peaceful, in a way you hadn’t seen in far too long.

You stayed there with him, letting him rest, knowing that when he woke up, you’d still be there, ready to hold him again. Ready to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

#𝜗𝜚 book fayre。#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #mgg

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carmenized-onions · 1 year ago

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Something to Do. | Catering

logline; Itinerary for your trip to New York? Just try not to fucking cry.

[!!!] series history, this is the twelfth; gonna start season three after I post this. Wonder how bad it's gonna throw off the rest of my plot line. Ideally not at all. We'll see.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. I really like this playlist for all chapters, but for a wedding where music is blasting, it feels particularly fitting.

portion; 13.3k how does this keep happening.

possible allergies; Terrible self-image, everything feels bad, very real conversations abt ,,, self-death and addiction.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets referred to as a woman and other feminine honourifics but no pronouns, i believe)

i made you all so mad last chapter. Let's see if i can make it up to you, babydoll (probably wont)

You hate to admit it, but you were kind of relieved when you found out Carmen wasn’t coming on the plane. You’re in a bit of a state of fight or flight; well, more accurately, currently leaning towards the flight side— Pun intended.

He’s coming to the wedding. You know he is. For one, he’s getting thirty grand for this, he has to. For two, his location is still on for you— Whether he forgot to turn it off or just didn’t care, you’re not sure. But he hates you, so there’s no way it was intentional, you’re certain about that much.

You know you shouldn’t be looking at it, but you have. You’ve been looking all week. Checking your Find my Friends like a doting mother. He goes to work far too early, he stays far after close, he goes home. Rinse and repeat.

You check on him one last time before boarding the plane. He’s opted to drive, with Richie. Something about ‘wanting to bring their personal equipment’, Richie texted you. They’re halfway through Ohio. You’re sure that road trip is definitely going spectacular after their side of the explosion.

Richie texted the day after that fucking fiasco, asking if you’d want updates on how it’s going at The Bear. How it’s going with Carmen. You said you wanted to know if he wanted to tell. He opted not to tell.

You hate to admit, you were kind of relieved, to not know. To just look at Carmen’s little icon go from Point A to B. Instead of Carmen Reports, you and Richie text about much lighter things. Normal things. Eva drew a funny picture of you kinda things. It’s nice. You know you’re probably being childish, but it feels so much fucking better to ignore the Bear in the room. You don’t know how to feel about anything, and frankly you don’t want to try to figure it out.

You suck, Carmen sucks, what more is there to know? Process it? Fuck that.

Carmen hasn’t texted you; you haven’t texted him, the entire week. Radio silence. You stopped playing Connections. Didn’t see a point. Not like they even have a streak function anyways— You’d die before you let that Wordle streak break, though. That was your thing. Carmen doesn’t get to take your things, too.

You didn’t get a text from the Exec, either. So that’s… Something? Or, rather, explicitly, that’s nothing. Does that mean Carmen gives a shit? Not necessarily. Ugh. Your whole system was so shocked after that fucking fight that you didn’t really have time to take in the fact that that jag was into you? Vomit inducing. You’ve got to rethink your life choices, if they lead you to him.

But also, you know if Carmen and you were okay right now, you probably would’ve given him your number. You would’ve catfished him for weeks, laughing over your phone with Carmen and Syd as this idiot falls into your trap. You miss Carmen. You also don’t miss Carmen. You want to see him desperately and also never fucking look at him again.

Carmen’s going to be in the kitchen; you’re going to be out in the banquet hall, on bar, this whole wedding. The likelihood either of you have to actually interact this weekend is quite low. The likelihood either of you have to confront what you’re supposed to do with yourselves now is quite low. You hate to admit it, you’re fucking relieved.

Sydney sleeps on your shoulder, for most of the plane ride. You sleep against her head. Shout out Marcus, for switching seats. He’s behind you, with Tina. He wakes both of you up about an hour in, shaking your seats— Because the dessert cart came out and he didn’t want either of you to miss it. The mini cheesecakes are better than expected, to be fair, so he’s forgiven.

This is going to be the stupidest weekend of your life. You’ll take that, over worst, at least.

“Be honest, would you tip me extra well?”

You give a twirl in your probably too fancy semi-cultural outfit. Your family shows up for weddings, if Vinnie and Mira didn’t want their bartender to go hard, they should’ve put that in their notes. It actually would have been nice to get sent notes, though… What is the theme for this wedding other than ‘Italian’ and ‘New York’…? Glitter eyeshadow is probably fine, right? Yeah it’s fine. Not like you could get that shit off now, anyways.

“If you were my bartender, I would ask ‘what are we?’” Answers Syd, watching you from the bathroom as she attempts to put her hair up. Definitely struggling in silence.

Sharing a hotel room was the best idea you ever had. It would be a nightmare to get ready alone in silence, right now. It’s nice to talk and have something to do. If you didn’t, you’d absolutely be ruminating about Carmen, debating whether or not to check on his room, that’s just down the hall, you could see if he needed help with getting ready and also see if he’s as tired as you think he is and— Plus, the amount you saved on splitting a one bed? Christ. Economy is in shambles. So is your brain.

“You would not be brave enough to ask your bartender ‘what are we?’”

“For you, I would.”

“Are we about to kiss, bro?” You duck into the bathroom, getting way too close to the side of Syd’s face. She laughs, pushing you away with the palm of her hand, you scoff, “Wooowwww—”

You clutch your heart, mortally wounded. Retching, truly. Now this is heartbreak in its rawest form. “—Reject me, why don’t you?”

“I’m playing the role of timid—” “I’m sick of this friends to lovers plot line!” “It adds! It adds!”

“Shut up— And tilt your head back, dumbass, what are you doing?” You stand behind her, taking her braids into your hands as she struggles to bundle them all herself.

“I do this all the time by myself, y’know.” So Syd says, but she lets you take her braids regardless.

“Yeah, but I’m here.” You stretch the hairband on your fingers. “Messy bun?”

“You think?”

“I think primal is too clean.”

“No, I was gonna do the one where it does like— Like the infinity in the front?”

“Who’s mom are you tryna fuckin’ look like?”

She kisses her teeth, attempting to reach a hand behind her head to smack you. You dodge and somehow manage to make it easier to smack you. “I’m literally only gonna get to come out after everyone’s left, I dunno why we’re making effort here—”

“High messy bun?” “High messy bun.”

Oh, the days of doing each other’s hair. You’re glad it’s back. You’re glad you get to become, together, again. It used to be bobbles, friendship bracelets, and glitter tattoos—but now it’s tying up each other’s hair, helping with the curling iron, clasping the gold chains on your neck, zipping up the back of your outfit, pinning the collar pins on her uniform, fixing makeup, asking each other to compare perfumes before going through with the final decision, mocking each other’s purchases.

“Wait, what mini deodorant did you get at customs?”

“Oh, one of those Native ones— I think it’s peach—?”

“Those cost like five fucking dollars, Ink. For like two swipes.”

“Excuse me for wanting to smell good, fuckin’ ‘wolfthorn’—”

“I work in a restaurant. I need Old Spice strength, okay—!”

“Oh, pbbbttt— Syd.”

“Pbb—Fuck, how do you do that?”

There’s a knock at the door, interrupting your squabble. “Are you decent?!”

Sydney groans, “No!”

“Yes, Rich, we’re decent, doors open.”

Richie comes in, unceremoniously. A touch awkward. He’s so rarely been in a room with women getting ready. It’s simultaneously exactly what he expected, and not at all what he expected. “Chip, can you put these fuckin’ things on f’me?”

Cufflinks. He presents the box to you. They’re just plain and silver, boring. Save that in your rolodex of gifts to get this Christmas. “You’re fuckin’ forty and you don’t know how to put on some cufflinks—?”

You’re nagging, but you’re already putting them on him, he holds his wrist out for you. “Nah, I was too busy runnin’ shit to learn.”

“Runnin’ your mouth, more like.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s a quiet moment, a tender moment, of adjusting his sleeves. Sydney’s scrambling to clean up the room around you two in the background. It’s hard to turn off the autopilot of cleaning one’s station, no matter where she goes.

You purse your lips. You shouldn’t ask and you shouldn’t care, but you do. You half-whisper, to Richie. “How was the drive?” He knows what you’re asking.

“Terrible start. Surprisingly okay middle. He went straight to the banquet hall once we got here.” He swallows, treading carefully, a thing Richie never does. “Do you wanna know the dirty details?”

Oh good, you wouldn’t be able to check on his room even if you wanted to. You want to. Need to? Stop thinking. Carmen sucks and you suck.

“Not particularly.” You take one final look at his sleeves, happy with your handiwork, letting his wrists go. “You feel settled, though? Or jury’s still out?”

Richie shrugs, tilting his head back and forth. “Grovelled decent enough, by time we hit Penn. But I’m waitin’ on my informer.”

You cringe, knowing what he means. You also know he’d smack you if you said he doesn’t need your say in order to forgive Carmen. “It’s gonna be a minute, until your informer has an answer.”

“I know.” He nods, twisting his wrists back and forth, looking at the cufflinks. Then he gives you a once over. “Y’look good.”

“You too.” You look over him, he does look good. He’s in his suit, wearing his wedding ring, which makes your heart hurt a little bit, but he does look good. “What’s your fuckin’ job tonight, by the way?” He can’t be doing kitchen. He sucks at kitchen. But he’s also just not dressed for it.

“Fuckin’ everything.” Hyperbolic? Typically yes, with Richie, but not this time.

“Wait staff here had too high a fee—”

“Translation: more than free?”

“More than free, yeah.”

“Heard.”

“So, I’m server, set up, and fuckin’ whore-derve—”

“What?” That pronunciation snaps Sydney out of her autopilot clean, her back snaps up straight. Hands on her hips, like a disappointed teacher. “It’s hors d’oeuvres.”

Richie rolls his eyes and really his whole head back. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ CIA or whatever the fuck—”

You interrupt the fight before it can start. “Let’s just say appetizers.”

Sydney does not let you. “Apps and hors d’oeuvres are different.”

You angle your body from Richie to her, deadpanning. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ FBI or whatever the fuck—”

“Alright!” She’s already walking to the door, despite the fact that she started it— “We’ve gotta fuckin’ get to hall now or we’re gonna have like zero prep time, Chefs.”

You both follow after her, doing one last check to make sure you’ve got everything you need. You honestly don’t need to be in this much of a rush, you’re pretty sure, but you don’t mention that. Richie said Carmen just went straight to the banquet hall, when they came in this morning. You’re not sure how well you know him anymore, all things considered, but by your best guess, he’s almost certainly done all the prep by himself.

Carmen did not do the kitchen prep entirely himself. Well. He might’ve, you haven’t checked, but you don’t think he would’ve had the time.

Carmen did your prep entirely himself.

When you get to the bar, in the banquet hall, you have nothing to do. Side work finished for you. Lemons, limes, oranges— All cut into wedges and loaded in their baskets— even the cherries are pitted. The glasses are organized from wine to whiskey glasses, the sink is clean— Which you know the banquet hall staff didn’t do— They never fucking do.

You don’t see Carmen, but you know he did it. He showed up before anyone else, he was in the kitchen before anyone else— So no one else could’ve left the simple braised beef sandwich on your station. Exactly how Mikey used to make it. Half hot, half sweet. Your order at The Beef. Carmen would’ve done pork, but this is what they had on hand, and he had a feeling this would mean more, anyways. It does. Granola bar on the plate with it. One of the nice ones, too. The wrapping boasts fifteen grams of protein.

He knows how hard running bar is. He knows you won’t have time to eat once it starts. So, he’s making sure you get something down now— And that you have time to eat it in peace, and making sure you have something you can scarf mid-shift later, when you don’t have time.

Fucking. Hell. Fuck this fucking guy. Carmen fucking sucks. You fucking suck. This all fucking sucks so much. This sandwich is so fucking good. You’re so fucking mad. Stop saying fuck. Fuck your subconscious for wanting you to stop saying fuck. It’s so unfair, for him to be maybe the cruelest a person could possibly be, in front of an audience made out of your loved ones, and then be sweet, like this.

He is awful, with words— Well, he’s typically better, with you, par for the last time, but he’s best in the kitchen. You can taste the sorrow, the guilt, the apology. The first thing he ever made you, was a sandwich, the brisket sandwich, that Mikey refined for you, as an apology, for freaking the fuck out in a freezer and having that be your first impression of him— Or, at least, first first-hand impression of him. How far you’ve come.

This will not pass, as an apology. Not a proper one. But… You’ll give him a sign, in return, at least. A confirmation that you got the message, nothing more. Definitely nothing more.

“Rich.” You stop the guy in his tracks, as he marches through the room, helping the rest of the staff set up the hall. Not his job, but it’s Richie. “Can you ask kitchen their shifties?”

He nods, like he understands, walking away with stacks of chairs under both his arms.

He comes back after two minutes, straight up to your bar. “What the fuck is a shifty?”

“Oh.” You feel condescending, for being surprised. You’d never really thought about the huge difference between morning servers and night servers until right now. Richie has never worked with a bar staff. He worked at a fucking sandwich shop. “It’s uh— Your drink. Get a drink on your shift— Shifty— It can be like, a cocktail, a straight, a shot, coffee—”

“I know how many fucking drinks exist, Chip—” “Mocktail, smoothie, juice—” “Yeah, I’ll get a Pina Colada.” “I will break the blender over your head.” “I’ll get you a list.”

You nod, already starting on usuals you know will have remained unchanged since your absence. Steel trap memory. Getting drinks with The Beef staff used to be the highlight of your week, which isn’t a sad statement at all. “I won’t tell anyone you like Dirty Shirleys.”

He defends. “Eva put me on them.”

“Insane thing to say about your five-year-old.”

“You know what I meant— She likes the normal—” “I’m pokin’ fun, go give this to Carmen.”

You’re hoping if you say it fast, coupled with bickering, Richie won’t make mental note of it. Won’t register it. Of course, he still does. How could he not? You slide the mug to him; he takes it, though, slow, with a perplexed look.

Yeah. They had lavender and maple syrup behind the bar. And cardamom. And milk to froth. And black coffee. Whatever. You didn’t have any dried lavender to top it with, this time, so it’s not actually that cool, anyways. Doesn’t make it special. Did you do a maple syrup drizzle to make up for this? Yeah. You hate yourself just a little bit, for it. You really cannot shut off the way you love, can you? Hopeless. Be even the slightest bit withholding, would you? Just a touch petty? God, you suck. Such a princess.

Rich shrugs, when you don’t try to justify yourself. You’re an adult, he won’t coerce you to be sharper, even if you should be. “Aye aye, Chippy.”

If Carmen ends up wanting to drink later, then he’ll have to come to you. That’s being tough, right? Sure. That’s definitely withholding, Chip. Really showed Carmen there. Certainly, a church woman must be clutching her pearls at your backbone, somewhere in the world.

Do you think you’d be able to handle him coming to your bar, anyways?

No. Decidedly no. Which is a bit stupid, because you’ve faced much scarier things in your life, than some asshole you owe two grand. Well, some asshole you owe two grand that you love deeply that hates you deeply because you are in some part responsible for not taking care of his brother—

Carmen doing your side work was unintentionally cruel, honestly. You don’t have anywhere for your brain to go but him. Don’t have anyone to talk to, or anything to do. Richie can tell and whether you want him to or not; he knows what you need. He repeats himself, walking off with the mug. “I’ll get you your list.”

He knows what you need. Something to do. Something to fix, for someone. Not fix someone. People’s princess. Still failed Mikey, no matter how hard you tried.

Sprite, grenadine, vodka, lime, maraschino cherries. Dirty Shirley. Something to do. Just focus on something to do.

You miss the naivety of wanting something to do. Three hundred guests versus one bartender without a barback is a layer of hell that Dante forgot to specify in his Inferno.

“What can I fix for you, ma’am?!” You’ve got to yell every sentence to get anything intelligible over the music and the cacophony of conversations.

There is an overlap of voices from every single woman crowding around your bar, despite the fact that you were definitely making explicit eye-contact with just one of them. You lean over the counter to hear her alone. She blinks, when you get in her face.

“What are we?”

You cannot stop the snort, but you’re pretty sure she didn’t hear it, music's too loud to hear anything. Syd’s a fucking oracle. “We’re fucked. What can I get for you?”

“Lemon drop shot?” Of course. It’s New York.

“Comin’ right up—”

The crowd of women interrupt you, and each other. “Oh, make that two!” “Make that three!” “Wait what are we making?”

Who the fuck is we? They’re more than welcome to get behind the bar with you. You’d take anyone, at this point.

“Lemon drops, babe!” “Oh—Oh, we doin’ lemon drops?” “Let’s just say ten and be safe!”

Of course.

It’s a lot of that, on repeat. But it’s better than the ones that want one very specific brand of scotch with their soda, because at least you can make huge batches for these ones— Does no one know how to fucking act around an open bar anymore? You get a vodka cran and you fuck off. You really need to start telling people you don’t know how to make bellinis.

Working alone is hard, because you can tell when you turn your back to make drinks, and aren’t able to take twenty more orders at the same time, that everyone’s real fucking annoyed with you. You have tried splitting your cells to become a second person, didn’t work. You’re constantly spinning around to accommodate people, and it’s getting fucking nauseating. And you’re usually patient, but the questions are getting just as mind-numbing.

“Can I get a uh… A negroni… Sbagliato? With prosecco?” “Sbagliato means prosecco is in it, sweetheart.”

“Do you do hurricane shots?” “I’m happy to slap you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, so it’s open bar?” “Yeah.” “So, I don’t have to tip, either?” “Well— It’s appreciated— Oh, and you’ve already walked away. Okay.”

It’s a lot of that, on repeat.

You see from twenty feet away, amidst the crowds, Uncle Jimmy walking towards your bar, and when he waves all friendly, he sees your glower, and opts to turn in the other direction. Smart man. No wonder he’s successful.

Richie swings by your bar, waiting at the corner, where the line hasn’t congregated. You don’t need to be shaking this martini for as long as you are, but it’s a good way to look like you’re working when you’re just trying to talk to Richie. He presents his serving tray to you. “Tiny quiche?”

You open your mouth, hands full with your shaker. He gets the point, stabbing a toothpick into the appetizer and shoving it in your mouth. Oh God, food is beautiful. Food is what sustains. You could write a full book of poetry right now about why food is everything. Well, not everything. You’re still in hell.

“Richie, I’m dying, your job can’t be that important, come be barback.” You pour out the martini. You attempt to open the jar of olives by yourself, when you struggle, Richie puts his tray down and grabs the jar from you.

Thankfully for your pride, he’s also struggling with it. Plus, it gives you time to annihilate the tray of quiches. He shakes his head, his job is important, allegedly. “You want me to starve guests?”

“Ideally? Yes.” You ignore the dirty looks you get from eavesdropping patrons. He hands you the opened jar. You take a toothpick from his tray, since you’re already out of yours, pierce an olive, toss it in the martini, and pass it to someone— Quite frankly, there’s every chance that’s not the guy that ordered the dirty martini, but he takes it, so who gives a fuck.

Richie sighs, he does want to help. “I’ll ask kitchen if they can cut someone.”

Thank fucking God. “Ask Marcus, he’s got mixology experience or some shit.” You remember being occasionally impressed by his verbiage— At the very least, he knows what stuff is back here, and that’s enough for you.

Richie just shakes his head, lips in a line, when you mention Marcus. A universal sign that something has gone horrifically wrong. You furrow your brows, immediately worried, leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Excuse me! What’s it take to get a long-island iced tea around here? This open bar is not very open!”

You and Richie both grimace, at the thick Jersey accent on this woman waving her hand hysterically at your bar. He gives you a nod, already taking his empty tray and starting to walk back to the kitchen. “I’ll ask.”

You turn your body to the woman, but head still to Richie. “Don’t ask. Tell.”

Not even five minutes pass, before you get a barrage of texts, from multiple people, all at once. You watch them flood in on the notification screen of your phone laying on the counter, while shaking up a cosmo, this time.

From Marcus, worrying. ‘sorrysorysorrybakkingemergencymbmmbmb’

From Syd, concerning. ‘couldn’t stop him lmk if it’s bad’

From Richie, alarming. ‘yk how to call your dog right’

But it all makes sense, when Carmen comes up to your bar, removing his apron. “You need a barback?”

Hair is normal. Not at its best, not how you taught him, but it’s better than before. He smells excessively like you; like accidentally used half the bottle levels like you. Maybe not an accident. Don’t read into it, too much— They’re almost certainly the only travel sized bottles he had on hand. Of course he’d take them. He smells like Old Spice, too, though. Don’t read into it. He looks tired. You knew he would. You’ve watched his location, every day. By the time you go to bed each night, he’s only just left The Bear. He deserves to feel tired, he was a fucking asshole, and you’re glad your cat ate just short of all of his flowers.

But you brought in the plate, the next morning. You cleaned it, and then hid it in the back of your dishwasher. You wanted it to be safe, you also just didn’t want to look at it or think about it or have it exist in your mind, at all. That’s half the reason you couldn’t let it perch outside your window anymore. Taunting you. He’s a piece of shit, but you can feel it in your chest; the care you cannot get rid of. The desire to ask are you okay? Have you been sleeping? How are you? How’s your week been? Want a hug? Have you been playing Connections? What did I do wrong? Did you need me? Did anything break? Did you break?

You missed him. Was the radio silence relieving? Yes. Preferably, you’d never acknowledge each other for the rest of your lives besides an eventual wire transfer. Preferably, he’d stay in the back of your dishwasher for the rest of your life. But God, you missed him, this week. You’ll probably miss him for the rest of your life. Is that toxic? You’re working on it. No you’re not… He just made every space easier to breathe in, kept a light on, for you. Not at the end, but he did before. Before he figured out that he hates you.

It’s a thing that everyone says about you, that you bring ease, and whether you can confirm or deny that, who’s to say— But you know Carmen does it for you. Lights up a room for you. And you might be alone in that feeling, but that’s okay with you. Or it was. It was, before he figured out he should hate you.

Oh, shit, you’ve been staring at him in silence for way too long. It’s hard to know how to navigate this. You don’t know how to feel, so you don’t know how to act either. It’s all a weird state of limbo that you desperately want to get out of, but don’t want to do any of the work required to do so. What do you do with your hands? Your body? Your voice? Are you supposed to be funny and nice still? Christ, just say something. What’d he ask, again? Can’t remember.

“Uh…” Still can’t remember, but— “What’s happening with Marcus?”

He seems to falter, slightly, but he comes into your bar, oh right, barback. You needed a barback. He exchanges his kitchen apron for a bar apron. Not used to seeing him wear all black. You wish you could enjoy it. Wish you could say it’s cool watching him act as one of your professions. He answers, as he ties the strings around his waist. “Uber dropped their wedding cake.”

Fuck whatever tension you two have. You nearly fold over in shock. The current track on the speakers fades out, right as you yell back, “They dropped their fucking wedd—!?”

With haste, Carmen puts the palm of his hand over your mouth. Knife tattoo hand. Oh, he missed being this close to you. Not the point here, though. “Shhhhhhh…!”

You relax, he removes his hand, you’re annoyed that you wish he didn’t. You whisper, though it’s still screeching in tone. “They dropped their fucking wedding cake?”

He nods, combing his hair back with his hand. Knife tattoo hand. It’s making your shampoo waft. You both notice it. He stops. “Marcus is remaking one, now.”

“From scratch?” You were right to be so worried; Richie was right to make the face he did. Carmen tilts his head back and forth. “Box mix that he’s finessing—”

You finish the sentence with him, “—Because he’s Marcus.” The king of doing too much, especially when there’s no time for it. It’s his best and worst trait.

He nods, smiling just slightly, but not the typical smile you get from him. Timid. “Yeah, so he’s locked in, but I’m here.”

Simple sentence, but it still schisms your brain. You cannot help but feel a distrust of it. “Shouldn’t you be running the back, though?” Keeping his kitchen in order? Being the Exec in his head?

He shakes his head. “They run a tight ship without me just fine.” The first lesson you gave to him, that that’s a good thing. Is this conversation hitting specific pain points on purpose as a punishment from God or is this just how all your conversations are going to feel, from now on?

Probably both. You nod. “Okay.” You do need a barback.

“This is so cute, girl, and I love love but I’m gonna need that Cosmo like yesterday.” Why did this woman have to say love? That would already be terrible if you were good right now. Carmen’s probably not the type of guy to say the L word for like several months anyways. You’re not even dating anyways— Or weren’t? Can you use past-tense on something that never was?

You hand her the Cosmo, and you both pretend you never heard her.

Running bar with Carmen makes your life infinitely easier, though albeit tenser. He hasn’t done this before, but he’s watched previous bar staff from the sidelines— And one of his best traits is how quick he catches on to things. He’s not confident enough to mix drinks, but everything else, he does just fine.

“Behind.” There’re occasional autopilot moments that make you laugh, though. He snaps back into his body, when you do, moving next to you. He tilts his head, “What, you don’t say behind?”

You shrug, and it feels normal, for a second. “Professionals probably do, I’ve never worked in a place that does, though.”

“But what about when you’re holdin’ shit?” You allow yourself to feel normal, for a second. It is a delight to teach him something about your work. You continue to make drinks and hand off orders, all while you both speak. It reminds you of the domestic flow you were both so used to doing. That was so easy for you both to fall into. It’s nice that it somehow hasn’t gone away.

“So, you know when you’re in the kitchen, or here, behind bar, you get like, really fucking hot?” Don’t let that entendre stay doubled— “Like sweaty?”

“Mhm?”

You hold onto your chilled shaker, stepping behind him, “So, we don’t say behind, we—” and press it just under the back of his neck. He shivers, immediately, full shock running through his system. “Do that.”

“Christ!”

You want to enjoy the moment, but you can’t help but remember him calling you a modern-day saviour. You try to push it down, but the warmth you were starting to feel tones down, quite a bit. You manage to keep him from noticing, manage to keep the smile on. “What, don’t like it? It’s nice!”

“Think it’s a safety concern, f’sure.”

“Call OSHA.” You touch the shaker to his face, before going to pour it. He laughs. Actually laughs. You wish that made you feel good, still. And somewhere, in some corner of yourself, it still does. But not like it did before.

Soon enough, you two get a second of reprieve, as Vinnie’s Best Man gets up to do his speech, or whatever. He uses a knife to clink his glass, and of course, it fucking shatters. You’re half-mad, because technically for the night, those are your glasses, but it’s too funny to actually give a shit. Plus, the Best Man gets a pass tonight, in your book, because one, he understood protocol and got a vodka cran from you, and two, his speech is forcing everyone to sit down and leave y’all the fuck alone.

“Beautiful night, beautiful couple, beautiful people— Couldn’t ask for a better weddin’ for my best friend— But let’s be honest, I didn’t think he’d be gettin’ a wedding at all— Aye! This guy Vin, amirite?”

You take this moment to halve your protein bar from Carmen. You wordlessly hand the other half to him. He shakes his head. “M’Good, you eat.”

You shove it towards him. You know he hasn’t eaten much, you don’t know how, but you just know. “I’ve eaten twelve tiny quiches and a beef sandwich, Carm, take the fuckin’ granola.”

He breathes heavily through his nose, but he takes it. You both watch the Best Man, quietly eating your halves. He is silently overjoyed at the verbal confirmation you ate the sandwich.

“I don’t need to introduce my goddamn self, I’m sure my reputation precedes me, right? But I’m Leo, I’m my boy’s Best Man, and I just couldn’t be more honoured, y’know? We grew up together, playin’ stickball in the Bronx, and now this guy’s marryin’ one of the most wonderful women in the world? And I get to be here? Man, I love ya.”

As cranky as you’ve been all night, this really is a gorgeous wedding. More often than not, the guests are nice, it’s just that the shit ones stick out in your head like nails to be hammered. Vinnie and Mira seem like a good couple. You wonder if you’ll ever get to have a wedding like this. They commissioned one of those painters to do a live painting, too. Always wanted one of those. And they’ve got little gift bags for the guests. You’re taking notes, internally, of what you like here, what you’d want to do for your own.

You wish you and Carmen were talking, right now. Despite the fact that Leo’s voice is booming throughout the hall’s speakers, the silence between you feels deafening, because you both know that you would be talking right now, if you weren’t living in fucking limbo. You need to work. You need something to do. The ice basket is running low, refilling it will take at least two minutes and maybe holding the ice will shock your nervous system.

You grab a bag of ice from the freezer behind you both, Carmen pretends to be listening to the speech, because he doesn’t feel like he has the right to help you with the weight. You cut the bag, emptying huge chunks of ice into the basket. You ball up the plastic in your hands to throw out; you nod to Carmen. “Can you break the ice?”

He seems surprised, taking a second, before nodding, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I owe you an apology—”

“Oh, no!” You hastily correct. “No— Yes but no— I— I meant—” You hand him the metal scooper, nodding to the clumped-up ice you just poured out. “I meant can you break the literal ice blocks?”

Carmen wishes he has dead. And you can both tell that. “Yes. Yes— Yeah, f’sure, one-hundred— Course. Heard.” You nod back, pensive, throwing the plastic bag out, staring straight ahead, trying to refocus on Leo again. You can’t.

Carmen beats the ice, softly, so as to not make a noticeable noise for the audience. After a few seconds, he returns to his point. “…I do owe you an apology, though—”

“Don’t even worry about it, Carmen.” You don’t say this. Fak does. He sidles up to the bar. Where he keeps apparating from and hearing your conversations, you’re really not sure. “I’ve got this one.”

Neither you or Carmen know what Fak thinks he’s got, here, but you’re both too intrigued or surprised to stop him. Well, Carmen does give it a fair shot, after a second, “Fak, I’m—”

“Nono—” But there’s simply no chance. “I appreciate you trying to fix my problems for me, but y’know, I can handle myself, Carmen.” …You wish that’s what Carmen said, last Friday, instead of calling himself your charity tax write-off.

Fak pivots to you, sighing, shrugging, hands up, as if you know as well as he does what the fuck he’s about to say. You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be scared right now or not. When you don’t say anything, he starts, “Alright, I guess I’m the one that's brave enough to say it, there’s some major tension here.”

Now why does Fak think he’s the one to acknowledge this. Quite frankly, why is Fak here? Is he working, too? On what exactly? You don’t remember seeing him on the plane, either. Was he a part of the road trip? Dear God, that's a nightmare third wheel. You just let out a, “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t shown up at The Bear since last Friday—” You’re now remembering that before the fight of all fights broke out that night, Fak ran out of the kitchen. Guess no one filled him in, after. “And like, this week, when something broke—” He nods to Carmen, who grimaces, hand over his face. “Carmy told me to fix it, instead of calling you, like he’d usually.”

You know you’re not allowed to be upset about that, and yet, you really fucking are. You’re Carmen’s fucking fixer. Or were? Fuck. Christ, are you jealous of Fak now? You turn your gaze just slightly to Carmen, who’s leaning over the counter, propping his head up on his hands. “What broke?”

He answers briefly. “Expo clock.”

It was extremely apt and even more upsetting for him, the way time literally stopped, when you left. When he made you leave.

You tuck your hands in your pockets, looking back to Fak. “You fix it?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” Carmen stands back up, opening his mouth to intercept, Fak puts a hand in front of his face. “No Carm, I’ve gotta tell her the truth…” What.

“Tony…” Neil sighs, unable to make eye contact, at this moment. “I was really harsh on you, that Friday…”

“…Huh?” The fucking degree thing? Is that what he’s talking about? You honestly can’t remember anything before Carmen, from that night.

“You don’t need to hide your pain.” He nods solemnly, “I— I’m just gonna say it… I know it’s hard to believe, but I was… jealous.”

“I know.”

He ignores that you’ve said this entirely, “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Me? Jealous? But yeah, I was really good at hiding it, but you’re just really like smart, Tony, y’know? And everyone was like— Tony can fix this— Tony can fix that— And I was holding it together, but then you were good at serving, too. And it got to me— And obviously Carmen could tell, so he stopped calling you. Trying to be a true bro.”

Oh, Fak really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, huh? “Of course there’s like, the other obvious tension in the room—” Oh okay, so he does know— “Between us.” What.

“What’s up?” You blink, voice going high for a second. Carmen cannot stop staring at Fak, face entirely unmoving, unblinking. Neither of you are sure what emotion to feel right now. Is Leo’s speech still fucking going? You’ve completely tuned it out, if it is.

Fak gestures to the air between you two. “Well like, there’s obviously a really intense sort of rivals to romance dynamic happening here…”

What.

“And like,” He raises his hands, in defense— Of what exactly? You couldn’t be less sure. “I could totally see that happening, in the future.”

It takes everything in you, to just hold your lips closed together. You have to bite down on your top lip, to not scream laugh in his face. “For sure, man.”

He nods, continuing, “But right now, I just don’t think I’m ready to take what you’re giving, y’know?” Holy shit, wait, is that how Carmen feels? Is that what the fuck is going on in his head? “Just not ready for all—” He gestures to you in general. “This.”

“Little harsh.” You tilt your head. “Fuckin’ cool it, Fak.” Carmen barks, in tandem with you. Oh, he’s upset. He wasn’t set on his emotions, this entire time, but he seems to have now settled in the upset category.

“Right.” Fak nods. “And so, I’m sorry I can’t be that for you… And I know it’s gonna take time to recover, but please come back to The Bear, when you’re ready. You’re… You’re a better repairman than me. We need you.”

You put a hand over your mouth, to cover your shit eating grin, trying your best to compose yourself and look sad. The best way out of this is to just agree with him. It’d take far too much energy to clarify everything for Fak. You’re nodding too much. “…Yeah, y’know, Fak… I will consider that. All those words you said? I’m gonna… Gonna really take all of it to heart, dude. I really appreciate… The directness— Y’know, that takes… Strength, man.”

“Thank you.” He nods. “Still friends?”

You did not realize you were even friends to start. And not in the insecure way, this time. You nod. “For sure, dude.”

You and Carmen both watch him walk away, in perplexed silence. Carm’s the first to break it. “…Was that anything—” “Obviously fucking not.”

He’s going to reply something witty in response, and it’s going to make you both feel like everything’s okay, again, but then he seems to see something that scares him straight. He turns to the back of the bar, aimlessly grabbing bottles, for no reason. Literally no reason, everyone sat for the speeches, what’s he doing—?

“You still serving?” Older man, oval glasses. He stands in front of your bar. Ah. Kinda rude of him, maybe that’s why Carmen’s giving the cold shoulder to this guy? Whatever. You'll serve him. Just because you're Chicago's Kindest doesn't mean everyone else has to be.

“Yessir, what can I fix for you?”

“Manhattan with bourbon?”

You salute, “Aye aye.” And get to mixing the drink. You’re pretty sure Carmen must know this guy, because he’s already set out the bourbon, vermouth, and angostura. It doesn’t take long to fix the drink.

When you go to hand it to the man, he seems to notice the mop of blond curls behind you. “Aye, Carmen? Jimmy told me you’d be workin’ tonight.”

A small, tentative, meek wave from Carmen. He sniffs. “Yeah. Hi, Uncle Lee.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say. Pulling the drink away from his hand, as Uncle Lee reaches for it. “You’re Uncle Lee?”

“My reputation precedes me?” He chuckles, nodding.

Carmen comes up beside you, and witnesses a smile from you that he’s never seen from you, and ideally hopes will never be directed at him. It’s the slowness of it, it’s a smile, but you’re doing it purely to bare your teeth.

“It sure does.” Give him a chance, it’s been four years, give him a chance. “I was a friend of Mikey’s.”

He fails the chance. “Ah… I see, friend, ya did a little—” He taps the side of his nose, sniffing. “Together?”

He really fucking fails the chance. Your smile grows, painfully so. The apples of your cheeks so high they practically close your eyes for you. You laugh a deeply fake laugh. “Hahaha, yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what we used to do. Uncle Lee.”

“Oh!” You tilt your wrist quickly, pouring the bourbon Manhattan in the bar sink. “Ah, fuck. Hand slipped.”

Lee is a bit taken aback. “Really—?”

“Really.” You repeat. Putting the glass down. “And y’know, I could remake that for you, but I dunno if you wanna trust my shaky junkie hands.”

Holy fuck. Carmen has always been great at keeping his reactions hidden, and still is, so Uncle Lee cannot tell how out of character this is, of you. You’re nice, you don’t bite— Or Carmy didn’t think you did, because of the amount of grace you gave him, last Friday.

“Lee, I’m gonna level with you.” You cross your arms, smile fading, but there’s still that venomous lilt in your voice. “I’ve been thinking for the last, I dunno, two years, what I’d say to you, if I had the displeasure of seeing you.”

There’s a pile of forks behind your bar, that you’d asked Richie for, just in case this situation came to a head. Just in case this fucking idiot came by. But it just doesn’t feel right, now. Doesn't feel right to leap over the counter and stab him in the neck with a fork. Though you've imagined it, and you still actively are.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking around the venue. “But we’re at this beautiful wedding, and Vinnie and Mira don’t deserve to have their reception ruined by us causing a scene.” You gesture to the air between you, almost comical.

He shrugs, “Better than Mikey, in that regard, then.” You know what he’s referring to, despite not being there.

You nod, smiling real big now, really baring your teeth, now. “His fuckin’ house, Lee.”

“I could have your ass fired, y’know.” “So do it.”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m not getting paid for this. Please, get me fired. Snitch to Uncle J, c’mon, fire me. I’m delighted to get cut. Do it.”

After what feels like eons of a silent stare down, Uncle Lee throws a fake punch. Carmen’s the only one that flinches, immediately rearing his own fist back, stopping short when Lee does.

You’re still just coy, elbows on the counter. Lee scoffs, “Cokehead.” Of course.

“Yessir.” You just lightly shake your head, standing up straight again, smiling, amused, delighted, even. “That’s me. That’s who I am.” It’s not, but there’s no point in arguing with him— Especially when you agreeing just seems to piss him off more.

You’ve given Lee nothing to work with, to insult you, so it takes him a moment to generate something. “You’re—”

You don’t let him get it out, putting a hand up for him to give it a rest. “Lee, I’m not startin’ a scene, it’s a gorgeous wedding.”

“Oh, how grown of you—” “But, if you wanna have a scene, just wait in the parking lot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think—” “I do. I do think, Lee.”

You lean forward, again, shrugging, speaking nonchalant, speaking with your hands, casually. “I wanna make it so clear, for you, too. I’m not gonna crack my knuckles, not gonna make some empty threats, not gonna scream in your face— I’m not gonna tell you I’m gonna kill you or anything like that. Because obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

You nod, slowly, methodically, clearly. “What I am gonna say, is that I have been a bartender on and off since I was twenty-one. I was an E-M-T, for three years— All in our beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois. The sheer volume of geriatric white guys I have had to pull to the concrete in a full nelson in both professions— Insurmountable, Lee. So again, to be, so fucking clear, Lee— If I see you outside, I’m taking you to the fucking pavement, and I’m not getting off.”

Uncle Lee’s got no comeback, for this, but he’d be dead in the ground before he just lets someone have the last word. This is why Uncle Jimmy is more successful. “Oh, I’m sure you fuckin’ would.”

You grin. God, those forks are tempting. Resist. You keep your hands busy by grabbing a maraschino cherry from it's jar behind your bar to snack on. “Enjoy your night, Lee.”

“You’re a real fuckin’ bi—” A fork flies over his shoulder, clattering behind him. Not from you, from Carmen.

He speaks for you. “Enjoy your night, Uncle Lee.”

It feels good to be backed. Carmen’s here, and he’s on your team. You tack on, waving goodbye to the fucker, “Back lot, Uncle Lee.”

Lee pivots his gaze to Carmen, he rolls his eyes, disappointed. “Alright, Donna.”

Carmen goes for another fork, you stop his hand, holding it there, for a second. The metal clatters behind the counter. Lee’s pleased enough with the provocation. Men like him don’t leave until they’ve won something in their heads. He leaves, on his way to the punch bowl, since he’s determined he’s not getting shit from the bar tonight. You and Carmen just watch him, like prey, making sure he leaves without looking back.

“You’ve got teeth.” Carmen’s first to speak, cleaning a glass, both of you looking straight ahead. You nod.

“I do.”

“You don’t bite much.”

You shrug. “Try not to.”

Carmen considers the fact that what he wants to say would mean sticking his foot in his mouth. He then considers the fact that nothing he could say now will ever be worse than what he said then. He keeps rubbing away at a perfectly shining glass.

“You didn’t bite me.”

“I didn’t.” You nod, and your body goes on autopilot, as you start making a drink no one’s ordered. Just need something to do. “I couldn’t.”

He doesn’t like that answer. “I deserved it.”

“I deserved it, too.” You’re not a big fan of your own answer, either. But you can’t say it’s not true. You deserved it. Just some failure leech trying to reattach yourself to people through merry good deeds, as if they’d add up to fucking anything—

“No, you didn’t.” He pivots to you, tone inarguable. He puts the glass down. It’s a lowball, you need a lowball, you grab it from him.

“Do you like cognac or vodka?” You ignore his words, but you look him in the eyes. You regret it.

He lets you get away with it, because he is absolutely not the one allowed to lead the conversation, here. He did enough bulldozing, before.

“I dunno, I don’t really drink much.” You squint, you’ve seen his apartment. He clarifies. “Other than wine n’ beer.”

You nod. You opt for cognac. He watches you, for a moment, before asking. “What’re you—”

You’re already finished, by this point, sliding the glass over to him. “Black lavender latte. Cognac n’ coffee liqueur. If it’s too strong, let me know, I can add more milk.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Is all he can think to say. He takes a sip. It’s far behind in his long list of regrets, but certainly one of them in the way he spoke to you, is that there’s a strong chance he will never have a mixologist as talented as you working at The Bear.

“Hmm.” You hum, not watching him drink it, because you won’t be able to handle either reaction— You won’t be able to handle disgust nor pleasure. You never want to look at Carmen again. He’s also all you want to see. This sucks. You suck. Carmen sucks.

“Thank you for the coffee earlier, too.” You’re overjoyed at the verbal confirmation he drank it.

“Figured you’d need one.”

“I did.” He thinks about it, and decides to take the bullet. “Needed yours.”

Your breath hitches, and he can’t tell whether or not that’s a good thing. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, as a meek and overly sweaty man comes up to your bar. There are bar stools at your counter, though they’ve been tucked far under it to keep the flow of traffic moving. But the man points down to the stool, silently asking. You nod.

“You can sit, sir.”

He’s delighted. He sits. “Sorry, I’m not gonna sit long, I just uh— Just—” He turns around pointing to the Maid of Honour, who’s just gotten on the hot mic for her speech. “I uhm, it’s— Usually the bar is empty, when uh, when people are talking.”

“That they are.” You nod, smile soft. “Can I get anything for you, or d’you just wanna sit? No shame in that.”

“I— I, uh, if it’s not a bother— I was just wonderin’ if uhm— Totally fine, if it’s— If it is— Do uhm, do you— Do you do mocktails?”

Carmen watches you grow ten times softer, in demeanor. It’s wonderful, how you’re able to flip on a dime. It’s wonderful what you’re willing to give to people, when they deserve it. You nod. “Yeah, sir. What’s your drink?”

“Oh— I— Anything’s fine, really.” He plays with the loose strings on the cuff of his left sleeve.

You tilt your head, recognizing his nervousness. “If it’s not too personal, sir, are you…” You debate the best way to say it. “Taking twelve steps?”

He looks scared, initially, to be caught; but then he looks at your face, and he knows he has nothing to be worried about. He nods. “One— Two months, two weeks, one day.”

“That’s huge.”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

“A start is huge.” You emphasize, and he nods, because that’s inarguable. “What was your drink before? I can make a mocktail of that— Or maybe you’d prefer somethin’ total opposite?”

“Oh! Yeah, I uh, I liked uh, old-fashioneds, but you can’t really make those without whiskey—”

“Yeah, you can.” You’re already grabbing your shaker. “You just use barley tea. I can do that— If you want that.”

He thinks on it, for a second. Debates whether nostalgia is good or not. “Yeah, yeah I’d like that.”

While you work on it, the guy feels enough confidence, bestowed by you, to tell you about himself. “I liked sitting. That was the thing I liked about drinking. The sitting and the talking and the feeling good about it.”

“I hear that.” You watch the tea steep, nodding. “Reason why the phrase is ‘takes the edge off’.”

Carmen has to turn around. He’s listening intently, but he has to turn around. Again, he’s pretty good at hiding his tells, but you’re pretty good at reading them. And you’d be able to tell his flat expression is the equivalent of being absolutely fucking bug eyed on anyone else. You’re a bartender. You were a paramedic. You have seen so many people, on their worst day— Seen so many people like this guy, like his brother. You have taken care of so many addicts.

The number of times he said loser or junkie to your face, and the way that that was what you always fought back on. It will not stop replaying, in Carmen’s head. The way you think that wasn’t okay, but the way he spoke about you was. It’s all just nauseating. You’re so good to everyone but you. You defend everyone but you. Carmen's almost furious about this, though he doesn't feel he has the right to be. You should've treated him like Uncle Lee. He acted exactly like Uncle Lee.

“It can make it easier, to be at the bar, for some people, I've found.” You continue, still making conversation with the man as you stir the steeped tea into the glass, over ice. “Makes you feel normal.” Forced sobriety is definitely in the top five, of the most ostracizing human experiences.

He nods, relieved to have someone. “Most people don’t get that.”

You nod, strain out the virgin old-fashioned, and push the glass to him across the counter. “Well, I get that.”

He takes a sip of the mocktail, it’s perfectly nostalgic in a way that doesn’t hurt. “Thank you.” He’s thanking you for a lot more than the drink.

“A pleasure.” You nod. He stands up, tucking the stool back under the counter, as the speeches end. It won’t be long until the bar is crowded again, and he knows it’ll be too much, for him or you. You add. “Good luck with month three. It's a heavy one.”

“If you work it and you’re worth it.” He recites the line incorrectly on purpose, it’s an important one, but you both still laugh at it. Like an inside joke, practically. You give one quick dap, he puts a twenty in your tip jar, and walks off, with less sweat, and more spring in his step, this time. Good.

When he walks away, before guests start to stand, there’s a lull of silence. You don’t need to look at Carmen to know he has a million different thoughts, and a million more follow ups.

“You have questions?”

“None of my business.” He sniffs, awkwardly. “Unless you want it to be.”

Why did he have to fucking say it like that. Why did he have to put the ball in your court. Carmen fucking sucks. Y’know what, no, turn it on his ass.

“Did you give the New York Exec my number?”

“No.” The reply is instant. He doesn’t get thrown by the topic change in the slightest. You were pretty sure you knew the answer, but the speed of it is still a little surprising. Like it wasn’t something that was ever up for debate.

“What’d you say to him, then?”

This is when he looks embarrassed, just slightly. This part was up for debate, seemingly. “We—”

“Everyone, please stay in your seats for just a moment, our wonderful catering crew will be coming around to serve you!” Says… Vinnie’s mom? Mira’s mom? They all kind of blend together. It’s not long after this, that Syd rolls by with Marcus and a cart of food. She’s starting with you, despite the fact that you’re not a guest. Sweetie.

“Salmon or chicken?”

“Just gimme both, we’ll split it.” You nod your head to Carmen. “Best of both worlds.”

And then, the game of eye contact conversation ensues. A game that Carmen nor Marcus can comprehend.

‘I asked you’ Syd glares.

‘You can’t just starve him out’ You deadpan.

‘Who said?’

“Syd.” You say aloud. She sighs, handing you both plates, mumbling ‘whatevers’, walking off to serve the actual guests. No time to bicker. You look to Marcus, worried. “Heard about the cake, how’s it goin?”

He shrugs but he’s smirking, proud and bad at hiding it, he hands you a paper plate with a little chocolate cupcake. The floral frosting job is simple, and you know if he had more time, you’d probably be looking at a full realistic rose, but it’s still beautiful. “You tell me. Taste test.”

“Lil sacrilege, to do dessert before dinner, but okay.” You grab a fork from your pile, digging in. “Oh fuck,” You have to laugh. “Marcus— You stress me the fuck out, how do you have time to make shit this good?”

It’s a built-in habit for you, to hand your fork to Carmen. He gives you a moment to realize or pull back. You should but you don’t. He takes it, thankful, and tries the cupcake for himself.

“S’fire, Chef.” He points the fork, emphatically. “‘Specially with what you had.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Marcus nods.

You tilt your head, curious, “Do you even have time to test, though? If this sucked you wouldn’t have time to remake the full cake anyways, would you?”

“No.” He answers bluntly, and you both snort. He adds, “Just wanted to make sure you got dessert, over here.” Just wanted to make sure you ate something.

“Marcus…” You pout, overcome by the sweetness of the sweets Chef. You’ve gotta return the favour. “Gin and juice still your go-to?”

“You tryna get me fucked up at work?”

You shrug, grinning. “Are you tryna get fucked up at work?”

He’s going to say yes, but then he pauses, and looks to his boss. Looks to Carmen. Ah, you don’t run his kitchen— Get that through your head. Of course, Marcus can’t just drink—

Carmen shrugs, smiling, “Are you tryna get fucked up at work, Chef?”

Marcus claps his hands, grinning. “Yessir!”

That makes you feel a little lighter. You nod. “Gin and juice, comin’ up.”

You pour out the pineapple juice— Marcus’ preferred juice, of course you remembered. And Marcus leans over the bar, to watch you stir in the gin, even if it’s just a stupid simple drink, the guy loves to learn.

He asks, “How much they payin’ you, tonight?”

You shake your head, “Tips. Nothin’ else.”

Carmen’s ears burn, at that, while he evenly divides and plates out the salmon and chicken plates so you both have a little of everything. If things were normal you could just eat off each other's plates.

Marcus tilts his head, just as surprised. “You in debt, too?”

“Just to Mikey.” You smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m doin’ this in exchange for Uncle J getting me out of work early, a couple weeks back.”

“That’s it?”

“I was in a rush.” You shrug, measuring out the simple syrup. “Got like thirty missed texts from Syd, I thought someone fuckin’ died, didn’t have time to bargain.”

“Wait—” Marcus cannot help but grin, nearly laughing, at the ridiculousness of it, at how bad you got fucked over, by your own permission. “You’re here because you… left work… to go deliver Nat’s baby?”

“Yessir.” Are you fucking serious? Carmen can’t help but stare at the side of your head, for just a few seconds, before going back down to the plates. You’re in this hellscape of a bar, three states from your home, because you were delivering his niece? You did that for them already, and promised yourself for this, in order to do that?

“You know me,” You hand Marcus his glass, and you shouldn’t make the joke, but you can’t help yourself. “Modern day Christ.”

Marcus stifles down his snort, turning his head away from Carmen, to look at the ground. You do the same. There is something painful, about it all, for everyone; but Carmen can’t say that pain isn’t deserved, on his end, so he takes it. You’re allowed to joke about it all you want, if that’s what it takes for you to feel lighter.

A timer goes off on Marcus’ phone. He takes a sip from his gin and juice, nodding in approval, “Oh, shit— Alright, cool times up—” He lifts the glass to you, you hurriedly get the point and grab a random empty cup to clink with him, cheers.

“I’ll be back.” He says. Doubtful, you think. But you nod and wave him off nonetheless.

“If T needs a drink, tell her to take five.” You haven’t seen her tonight, but you realize yourself, again, once you say this. Not your kitchen. “Uh— If that’s, that’s okay—”

“Tell Chef to take a break if she needs it, we haven’t seen her.” Says Carmen, beside you. We. Don’t read into it. He hates you, and you hate him, actually. Carmen sucks, and so do you.

Marcus nods, and makes his mad dash off as a tsunami of guests that have just gotten their plates decide now that they want a drink with their meal. Sonofabitch.

God, you need a break. It’s really hitting you, and your stomach. As full as everyone’s tried to keep you, you really need to just sit down and have your fucking plate. Working behind a bar is a nightmare on the feet and back— Your earrings feel heavy, and your bracelets feel like handcuffs. It’s just all too much, without a break. You need a nap and maybe a thirty-minute session of just staring at a wall.

But the tsunami.

Carmen watches your side profile, and thinking back in his head, the collage of memories forming your face— He’s never seen you genuinely fatigued before. He’s seen you in the middle of the night, he’s seen you caught off guard, seen you distressed— But you’ve never really been one to ask for a break. It’s always yes of course it’s done, with you. It’s your best and worst trait.

As the crowd closes in, and your face morphs into a smile, ready to serve, Carmen claps his hands together, calling out to the sea. “Ey, sorry everyone, we’re just gonna take a quick thirty, alright? Union mandated.”

There is no such thing as a Bartender’s Union, you and Carmen very well know that. You’re about to call it off and say it’s fine before someone can throw an empty glass at your head or something, but instead, a scrawny but wide built, deeply New York Italian man, at the front of the crowd nods.

And as he nods, the crowd groans. He looks deeply offended by this. He turns to his fellow guests. “Where do y’all get off? We fought for those thirty-minute breaks, you fucks!” This quiets them pretty quickly. “We can live with the fuckin’ punch bowl for thirty minutes, c’mon.”

Carmen gets close enough to whisper to you, but far enough that it’s still not personal. Far enough that he still hates you. “Most of the family does or did service work. Say ‘union mandated’ and you can do anythin’”

You smile, watching the crowd dissipate, you crack a joke, because that’s probably what you’re supposed to do. “Union mandated… Murder?”

“Revolt, y’mean?” “Is that an offer?” “I’d ride for you.”

It’s supposed to be light and fun, but you can’t stop yourself, you can’t play the part and it comes out. “Would you?”

That one hurts. It all hurts, but that one really gets Carmen. That you’d have genuine reason to have pause about his dedication to you. Not your fault, his.

You grab your plate from his side of the counter, embarrassed by your instinctual prod. “Sorry.”

He’s not embarrassed by his. “Stop apologizing.”

There’s a heavy silence, before Carmen adds, “I’m supposed to be fuckin’ apologizing.”

There are no more interruptions. Fak isn’t going to come by, patrons are leaving you be, the staff is either helping Marcus or serving food. There is nothing left, to interrupt you two. This is going to happen. Christ, why does Never Let Me Down Again have to be playing right now? That’s not a fucking wedding song. This is too dramatic and simultaneously awkward and clunky and bad. There is no somethings left for you to do. There is nothing left to do, but talk. Nothing left to do but escape the void, ideally together. Please let it be together. You hate to admit it, but you want it to be together.

There is no good place to sit. So, you pick up your plate, and one of the many forks from your pile. With a sigh, you crouch down, and slide yourself underneath the counter, sitting with your legs folded, so Carmen can join you. You nod to him, to let him know that he can in fact join you.

He does. You take a few bites, in silence, before he breaks it.

“I didn’t mean a fuckin’ word.”

“It’s okay if you did.” You can’t look up from your plate. You deserved it.

He says your name, with a severity, to it. “—I didn’t mean a fucking word.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“I—” Despite rehearsing what he wanted to say, and having ample stage to say it, he does not know how to say any of it, anymore. “I was like, like, jealous? But not in the— Not in the normal way.”

“Normal way?”

“Like, I didn’t— Well I did— But I like—” He puts his fork down, “I saw you as competition.”

You don’t know what to say, and so he keeps going. “I saw you like… Like being so perfect at everything, and being so… Being so what everyone needed, and you being there, and and— I felt so… the way you can just do that— Like— Like you can just be you and it just works. And I just fucking can’t.”

A talent you share with his brother. A talent Carmen envied in Mikey, and thus, envies in you.

“And then I got so… weird about that thought. Like you being you is— You’re for everyone. And I got this idea in my head that…” He cringes, trying to find better wording in his head for it, and he can’t. “That you were for me.”

“But you’re not for me—” “Ouch.” “—Not what I meant.”

He thanks you, internally, for being willing to add levity, right now. “I lo— I like you, so much. And I don’t want you to change. If you were like…” He half gestures to himself, which you’re not a big fan of the deprecation, but you let it slide. “Cold, and not for anyone, you wouldn’t be… you.”

Carmen realized as much, watching you tonight. Watching you interact with full strangers to long time friends. If you were callus, you wouldn’t be you. If you didn’t love his family as much as he did, he wouldn’t have attached himself to you, so quickly. He loves the way that you love. The way that you can’t turn it off. It’s not that Carmen isn’t special. It’s that you are so fucking special. He’s fucking stupid for not connecting those dots, earlier.

He picks up his fork again, needing to do something with his hands. Your brows remain furrowed, as you try to walk back how he spiraled from what and where.

“So, you just wanted to take me down a peg?”

He shakes his head. “It— I— With Mikey, I— I saw some shit that made me think that I was just… fillin’ a gap, or you were just being so good to me out of like… Guilt.” He chews down on his salmon. “And I couldn’t find your fuckin’ invoice, so I just kept drilling into my head that I was just… Charity.”

“You’re not charity.” You’re quick to refute.

“You didn’t fail Mikey.” So is he.

Oh Christ. You nod, but you don’t believe it. “You weren’t wrong to say it.” You have to put your plate down. “I— I don’t see you like I saw Mikey, at all. But I do…” You trail off, just looking at him has you tearing up.

He leaves home so early. He comes home so late. He looks so tired. Gaunt. Has he been eating? Did he light his oven on fire again? Remember how he looked in the freezer. Remember how Mikey looked in the freezer? Remember how they are so so different. They are so different but you still can’t stop connecting every fragment and taking it as a sign and worrying so fucking much, so fucking paranoid—

“Do what?” He swallows his last bite of chicken, and you can’t stop looking at him and fuck you just can’t hold it back, this time. You were doing so good about this. This isn’t even the point of the conversation— Well, kind of. Just breathe.

As your eyes begin to water, he sets his plate aside on the floor, reaching out immediately, worried, immediately. He pauses, hand floating in the air. Hesitating. “Fuck—Can I?”

Eyes barely open, you nod. He’s quick to take your plate from your hands, set it aside, and hug you there. It’s awkward, underneath a bar counter, half sitting, half crouching, grappling you. Carmen does not wish to be anywhere else.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and babble, unable to hold back a fear that’s been long standing, since the day you met him.

“Sometimes you remind me of Mikey so much and I get so scared and I just— Fuck, I just— Please don’t kill yourself, Carmen.” His arms wrap around just a bit tighter, as do yours. “I know that’s selfish—”

“It’s not.” Mumbled, to your neck. Skin to skin isn’t really the focal point, here, but there is a lurking part of his subconscious fearing that he will never be able to hug you like this, again. Never be your rock. “I won’t.”

It’s silent, for a minute. You believe him. He holds you there, and you believe him.

“Why did you think all that? That you were filler?” You pull back, just a bit, to look at his face. “Did I do something to make you feel like that?”

“No— God no. You’re—” He swallows. It feels stupid now, to even say how his fucking tantrum started, you had it so much worse, in your head. Why didn’t you tell him? “I was looking for your invoice, and—”

“I forgot the booths, by the way.” You recall the shoddy invoice you wrote. It’s a stupid time to interrupt, but as you slowly grow more comfortable, inches from his face, it feels like the time to be stupid. “And taxes. I owe you something more like eighteen-seventy.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

“I’m paying back a Berzatto, somehow.”

“Where’d that money come from?”

“Where’d your tirade come from?”

He swallows again, getting back to the point. “I found a folder. Called ice chips, or something like that— But it wasn’t for ice. It was, for you.”

You look at him, genuinely perplexed for a second. Then you get it. And it makes a lot more sense, why Carmen knows you failed Mikey—Try as he might to deny it. “Oh… You found my Ice folder.”

“Fuck’s that mean?” You’re glad, honestly, that he’s never had a reason to learn what it means. It’s fair. You had to teach it to Mikey, too.

“Ice. I-C-E, Carmen. It’s an acronym.” You spell it out, slow. “In Case of Emergency. I-C-E.”

It knocks the wind out of him, immediately. He’s extra glad he’s holding onto you, because he’s starting to feel untethered. “What?”

You nod. It’s time to walk him through it. You have to tell him. “I made Mikey keep some sort of emergency stuff as a fail-safe, for when he forgot people wanted him alive.” When Carmen’s quiet, you continue. “I was in his work cabinet, I think Richie was in his bedside, you and Sug were in his wallet.”

His stomach lurches, at the idea of being the emergency his brother always had on him. “You knew he was suicidal?”

Who didn’t? You think, but don’t say, because that’s not fair. Mikey cut him out, how could he know?

“Everyone’s suicidal, when they’re trying to get sober.”

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back. It’s both your turns, to squint at the other, confused beyond belief now. How is he confused? You’re first to ask. “Carmen, what was in my ice folder?”

“Anniver— Oh my fucking God.” He unwraps himself from you, because he’s frankly too ashamed to touch you, realizing everything he misunderstood. “Oh, my fucking God.”

You let him go, though you don’t particularly want to. He’s probably realizing he’s hugging the enemy.

“Carmen—?” “You didn’t fucking date Mikey.”

“What?!” You jump, your head hits the bottom of the base of the bar’s sink. “Fuck! Ow, no— What?!”

It’s a mess of limbs and emotions, as he grabs your head haphazardly, seeing if you’re hurt— It honestly hurts more, to be pulled around like this. “Are you o—” You don’t let him finish, grabbing at his wrists, ignoring your sore head.

“You thought I’d fuck your brother and then—What— try to fuckin’ get the whole set?” You’re cringing at the thought. This had just never come up in your mind. You would’ve set him straight, if it did. It was way worse in his head. Why didn’t he tell you? “I— Carmy, babydoll, are you fucking insane?”

You say nice pet names, when you’re perplexed. You’ve got a pattern of doing so. He also has no comeback for this, completely mum. You release his wrists. You add, again, aghast. “How old do you think I am?”

“Ah— As old as Syd?” “Correct.” “So, twenty-eight?”

“Turning, but yeah.” You nod, like a teacher walking him through a problem. “And how old was Mikey?”

“Forty something.” “Forty-three.” “No one remembers their brothers’ age—” “Sixteen years. Carmen.”

You press your hands over your eyes. “And listen, I get at a point age is just a number but I was twenty-five when I met him and he was already fucking forty— I grew up with Muppet Babies and he grew up with Muppets. Period end of sentence.”

You sigh. This situation isn’t funny at all, but you feel a load lighten off of you significantly. And also the situation is extremely funny. It’s hard to be mad at someone this thrown off.

“It’s just— Listen, do I think Mikey’s hot? Absolutely—”

“Alright—” He cringes, putting a hand in the air, asking you to lay off this train of thought.

“Oh, what do you want me to say ‘your genetic make-up fucking sucks actually’? No, you have a hot family, Carmen.”

“Say this in any other way but this one.”

“I did not date your brother, Carmen.” You finalize, he breathes lighter. “Think about it for like more than two seconds. Richie would’ve fuckin’ run his mouth about it immediately— Would’ve said you’re getting sloppy seconds or call me a fuckin’ homie hopper—”

“I did think that he’d say that, yeah.”

“Well fuckin’ think harder on it, next time—” “Well, what about the joint bank account?”

The most romantic paperwork he’d ever seen. It makes you pause, and Carmen’s considers a universe where you’re just the most incredible pathological liar in existence.

“I made him make it.” You finally say, saddened just thinking about the failsafe that didn’t fucking work. “I didn’t put any money in it.”

“Why’d you want it, then?” The idea of you dating his brother quiets in his head, now he just wants to listen.

“So I could keep track of his spending and withdrawals.” You pick up your fork and twirl it around, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Need something to do with your hands. “Mostly his withdrawals.”

Carmen thinks about it, trying to tie together the red strings in his head without asking you first. “So you could see if he was buying.”

“If he knew he was being watched, he was less inclined to deal.” You shrug and nod. “Plus I wanted him to get into the habit of keeping savings.”

“Lotta good that did.” Carmen can’t help but laugh, pitifully, at that. “Everythin’ got claimed, when he kicked it.”

You shake your head, you tuck your knees to your chest. “Not everything.”

He just looks at you, curious, waiting for you to explain. Mikey had so much credit card debt— Everything he had outside of fucking tomato cans was claimed.

You shrug. “Not the accounts he wasn’t sole proprietor on.”

Joint bank account. It was partially your money, technically. It deferred to you. Carmen’s head just falls over, another painful realization of another thing you did, that he got completely wrong. You never gave Mikey a cent. You just gave him the protection of your name and credit score.

“Why’d you do all that, for him?”

Holy shit, he doesn’t know. Carmen doesn’t actually know you killed Mikey. You live in a world, still, where Carmen doesn’t completely rightfully blame you. You tap your fingers on your knees. Staring aimlessly. There is nothing else to do.

“Anyone ever tell you why I get called Chip?”

“I asked Richie. Said to ask you.” Carmen shakes his head, he’s a bit sick of himself, for being almost excited to get an answer about this. “Said it was personal.”

You squint and snort. “Since when does Richie give a fuck about personal?”

Carmen smiles, finally, and tucks his knees to his chest to mimic you. “Since me, I guess.”

“Good influence.” You smile, trying to distract from the nervousness, thrumming hard in your chest. Spit collects in your throat like it’s trying to choke you. “I uhm… Chippy is, uh, Mikey started calling me Chip or Chippy cause of uhm—”

You take a moment, one deep breath. A breath of air in the world before Carmen knows. A sanctimonious breath.

You pull at the long black rope chain on your neck, pulling it out from underneath your top, where it’s always been safely tucked. Not hidden necessarily, just always close to your chest. Close to your heart.

“It’s a joke, about— It’s like—”

Just do it, Chip. Let it rip.

“It’s—”

You hold out your fist for him to put his hand out and take it. Carmen gets the point and holds his palm out. You press the pendant into his hand. Holding your hand over it, for a moment, as if you could decide now that actually he shouldn’t be allowed to see this. Like there’s still an escape option, somehow.

You move your hand, you try to speak calmly, as he stares. And the text on the large round pendant stares back at him.

To Thine Own Self Be True.

“Sobriety chip.” Unity, Service, Recovery.

A proud and large 3 months, in the middle of the triangle, leers back at Carmen.

“I was— I was Mikey’s sponsor.”

Now y'all in my asks see why I was waiting, eh?

Ya caught on! Well, after thinking collectively, ya caught on. Some of you got it quick. Anyways, I shouldn't be talking about this like it's some gotcha, it's deeply painful.

A lot of hard confirmations! Fuck! This conversation was so hard to navigate, because I was like-- There's just so much for them to catch up on, and so they keep like moving forward and so I was like wait I have to go back and address this-- No. That's not how most real convos like this work, they just keep running forward, they can clarify later. Such a weird brain challenge. I was tweaking. I hope it's sensical to read? If it's not, dw, i'll walk into the sea about it.

Can you believe this chapter began with Syd/Chip/Richie? Absolutely bonkers. We started with getting ready in a hotel/taking a flight. We were so young, then. I've gotta go watch season 3, so don't send me spoilers, but please send me literally any and all thoughts about this chapter. I really fuckin-- Rah.

I'm happy with this chapter and I honestly think I will probably make a separate post sometime this week showing bits you might've missed-- So much of this was me harkening back to those first three chapters. I went back and reread them recently and I was like woah. I don't know how I did the thing where the writing style felt distant and slowly became close as they became close as characters, but I did feel like that was a thing. In the early chapters. Having to recreate that distant feeling here? Oh fuck. Brutalizing feeling.

Oh but on the more cute side, if you also see Tony as Desi, I was thinkin like a lehenga style blouse with all the work, and like, some black flared pants? and she's got big fuckin jhumkas, OF COURSE!!! OF COURSE BRO!!! But I just left it at semi-cultural so everyone could have fun, hehehe

I feel almost certain, someone's gonna be missing from this tag list, and for that, a thousand pardons, I am gonna put it in my notes app so I don't forget next time, mbmbmb, also added people that did not ask but you are so frequent that i feel like you're just forgetting to ask? idk if you wanna get taken off always just ask dw

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin @ashtonweon @sharkluver @fridavacado @hoetel-manager @mrs-perfectly-fine

anyways, if you wanna be added send me your thoughts/analysis/diagnosis at length + ask to be added and i will ! try! sometimes they get lost and i am sorry abt that but i do try!

Next Part

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen x oc #carmy x reader #carmy the bear #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear #the bear hulu #the bear fx

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muiitoloko · 1 month ago

Note

hey, will you write a fic themed around a woman suffering a emotionally or perhaps verbally abusive relationship with her parents, she has too much respect and clings to the good to ever cut them off, but when she settles down with Frank, her parents are mean about it but only to her, he doesn't know, so he comes home from work mad, they get into a fight, he yells at her, and she just retreats. she doesn't cry because she knows better than to make it worse, but Frank eventually gets her to open up, because all along hes noticed the snarky remarks or her coming home from visiting them and being in bed for two days. I would totally appreciate this as it hits home quite closely, I just need some comfort from my favorite Lieutenant General.

P.S. some smut may be nice, I do believe I am ovulating 😭

Title: Daddy’s Got You

Summary: Old pain resurfaces, new tenderness blooms. Frank offers more than comfort—he gives you the safety you’ve never had.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Angst

Also read on Ao3

It had been one of those long, grey afternoons where the light from the windows looked tired and the walls of the house seemed to press in a little more than usual. You’d lost track of time, not because of laziness or neglect, but because your energy had been sapped by a call from your mother earlier in the day.

She hadn’t said anything overtly cruel—she never did, not when anyone else could hear—but it was the tone, the subtle digs, the way she could make your accomplishments sound like inconveniences, your happiness like a delusion. You’d spent the rest of the day curled up on the bed, silent, thinking maybe, just maybe, if you stayed very still, it would all pass.

Frank came home late.

You heard the door open and close, keys dropping in the dish near the entryway, the familiar sound of his boots against the floor. He was always precise, even in the quiet rhythms of domestic life. But tonight, something was off. His footsteps were heavier, sharper. The baritone of his voice when he called your name from the kitchen had a bite to it.

You didn’t answer right away. You’d been in the bedroom, halfway between getting up and giving in to the ache in your chest. By the time you joined him, his coat was still on, and he stood stiff by the fridge, eyes scanning the counter like he expected dinner to have magically appeared.

“You didn’t cook?” he asked, voice low but edged.

You blinked, mouth opening slightly. “No, I… I didn’t have the energy today. I forgot.”

Frank exhaled sharply, the sound more tired than angry, but when he turned, the tension in his face was clear. “You forgot? Jesus Christ.”

You froze.

His voice wasn’t raised exactly—but louder than you’d ever heard it. Sharper. And when you tried to explain, something in you hesitated. That same old instinct. You never defended yourself well. Not to your parents. Not now.

“Just once,” Frank snapped, “could you maybe think ahead? I’ve been on my feet for thirteen hours, I haven’t eaten since six this morning, and I come home to this?”

You flinched.

It wasn’t the volume. It wasn’t even the words. It was the tone. The tone that mirrored your father’s. That familiar, hollow ring of disappointment. And something inside you recoiled, not with defiance, but with the quiet ache of an old wound reopened.

You opened your mouth, trying to explain—not to defend, just to give him context, to tell him about the call, about how the day had drained you dry in that quiet, invisible way only your mother could manage. But the moment you started to speak, Frank raised a hand—sharp, dismissive—and his baritone cut through the room with unexpected force.

“No,” he snapped. “No excuses tonight. I had a shitty day. A long, bloody miserable day. I dealt with back-to-back meetings, a broken comms system, and a fucking briefing that went in circles for three hours because no one can give a straight answer anymore. And the one thing I wanted—just one thing—was to come home and have something hot to eat.”

He took a step toward you, not threatening, but large and solid and tired. “But what do I find?” he continued, hazel eyes flashing. “Not even a takeaway box. You didn’t even bother to order anything. You were ‘out of energy’? Christ.”

You shrank back before you even realized it, your spine retreating an inch, your mouth gone dry. You hated how natural it felt—how easy it was to collapse inward when someone’s voice hit that particular register. How instinctively your brain whispered: don’t push, don’t argue, don’t make it worse.

“I’m—” you tried, but your voice barely left your throat. “Frank, I’m sorry, I—”

But he was already turning, already walking away, muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable,” as he pulled open a cabinet with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”

You stood there, frozen in the center of the kitchen, the cold air from the open fridge brushing your arms, your chest tight. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t know how to say anything else.

Instead, you moved silently toward the stairs, your steps slow, careful. Each one felt heavier than the last. You didn’t look back. You knew the look on his face. Knew what came next if you pushed.

Upstairs, the bedroom felt too big. The silence too deep. You crawled into bed still dressed, curling up on your side without bothering to turn on the light. The darkness was easier. Quieter.

You pressed your face into the pillow, willing yourself not to cry. You knew it would make it worse, not with Frank maybe, but with yourself. With the voice in your head that still spoke with your mother’s cadence, the one that always said you were being dramatic, selfish, impossible to love when you weren’t smiling.

It wasn’t always like this. There had been good moments. Birthdays when she surprised you with books you actually liked. Mornings when your father cooked too many eggs and called it love. They weren’t monsters. Not all the time. That was the hardest part. You’d learned to cling to the scraps—to the seconds of kindness like they were proof that it hadn’t all been cruel.

But now—tonight—you felt small again. Like that kid who used to tiptoe around dinner tables, who flinched when the sarcasm cut too deep, who laughed when it hurt just to make sure no one noticed the bruise under the words.

The pillow was warm against your cheek. Too warm. You turned it over and stared into the dark, breathing through the ache.

You didn’t know how long you lay there, but you didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

And you didn’t cry. Not yet.

You just waited. Like always.

Downstairs, Frank stood in the kitchen with the fridge door still hanging open, the cold air brushing against his uniform pants. His jaw was tight, his hands fisted on the edge of the counter. He didn’t feel angry anymore. Not really. What he felt now was something far duller—and far heavier.

Hunger had twisted in his gut all day, but now, with a hastily made sandwich in hand and the first few bites swallowed, that pressure was beginning to lift. His headache dulled. The tight coil in his chest started to unravel. He chewed in silence, leaning against the counter, the bread dry and the ham slightly off, but at least it was something.

As he finished the last bite, the silence around him grew louder. He looked at the empty kitchen—no music, no humming from the hallway, no footsteps from above. Just stillness.

Frank sighed, setting the plate in the sink with a quiet clink. He reached up, loosening his tie with one hand, the thick fabric pulling stiffly against his collarbone. He hated that tie. Wore it because the uniform demanded it, but right now it felt like a noose.

He rubbed his temple, then glanced toward the stairs.

Christ, he thought. What the hell did I just do?

A few minutes later, the bedroom door creaked open.

The light flicked on with a muted click. The overhead bulb bathed the room in a soft, almost apologetic glow.

And there you were—curled up on the bed, still fully dressed, your form small beneath the quilt. You didn’t stir. Not even at the sound of his boots on the hardwood.

Frank’s mouth tugged downward at the corners. Quietly, he shrugged out of his military coat, folding it with practiced care and placing it over the back of the chair. His tie followed, then his shoes, each one set neatly beside the other as he moved slowly, deliberately—like he didn’t want to spook you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you. Your back to him. Still, silent.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his baritone rough around the edges. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

You didn’t respond. Frank sighed, the sound low and worn. He shifted closer, sliding onto the bed beside you, the mattress groaning faintly beneath his frame. One large hand came to rest against your hip, tentative.

He bent his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“I was hungry,” he murmured, lips brushing against fabric. “You know how I get. Bloody grumpy and half-useless when I haven’t eaten.”

Still, you said nothing. Just breathed—steady, but shallow.

Frank’s brow furrowed. He reached up, his fingers brushing over the edge of your sleeve. “Sweetheart…”

“It’s fine,” you said at last, your voice faint. Measured.

But Frank stilled. He knew that tone. Knew what “it’s fine” really meant. It was never fine. It was something you said to end conversations before they could begin.

“No,” he said softly, but firmly. “Talk to me.”

You were quiet again.

His hand slid to your back. “Did your parents call you?”

Your whole body froze.

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, surprise flickering across your face. “How do you know that?”

Frank didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. He simply lifted a hand and cupped your cheek, his palm warm, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“I’m not stupid,” he said gently. “I notice things.”

You blinked, unsure.

“The way you come back from their house and spend the rest of the day in bed. The way your shoulders stiffen during family dinners when your mother speaks. How you look at the floor more than your plate.”

You swallowed hard.

Frank’s eyes softened, though the line of his mouth remained grim. “I’ve heard her. The sarcasm. The way she wraps insults in compliments. She might think she’s clever, but she’s not subtle. Not to me.”

You looked away, but not fast enough to hide the welling in your eyes. You blinked furiously, but it was there—the sting.

Frank shifted closer, wrapping one thick arm around your waist, tugging you gently against him. You didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Your body folded into his like you’d been waiting for it.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he murmured, his voice low and steady against your hair. “I came in like a bloody freight train without stopping to ask if you were alright. And you weren’t.”

Your breath hitched, barely audible. But it was enough. Frank pulled you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firm against your spine.

“You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re not dramatic. You’re not selfish. You’re human. And no one—no one—has the right to make you feel smaller than you are.”

That did it. Your body trembled once—and then the tears came, slow and silent. Not sobs. Not hysteria. Just quiet ache, finally given room to breathe.

Frank held you through it all, his lips against your temple, his breath steady in your ear, grounding you. Not speaking anymore. Just being there.

And in that quiet, wrapped in his arms, you finally let yourself believe—for the first time in a long time—that maybe you didn’t have to be strong all the time. Not with him.

The tears didn’t stop right away. They came in waves—silent, then shuddering, then silent again—until you were limp in Frank’s arms, your cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his undershirt, your fingers curled loosely around the fabric like it was a lifeline.

Frank said nothing. Not yet. He just held you. His broad chest rose and fell slowly, the beat of his heart steady under your ear. His hand moved gently along your spine, the calluses of his fingers warm and grounding. The room was quiet but for your breath and the occasional creak of the mattress as he shifted to keep you close.

When your breathing evened out—when the sting behind your eyes dulled to a manageable throb—you spoke.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” you whispered.

Frank didn’t respond. He only brushed a thumb across your back, patient.

“I try to be good,” you murmured. “I really do. I try not to ask for too much, not to need anything. I try to be quiet and helpful and easy to love, and still, she finds a way to make me feel like I’m some sort of... failure. Like I’m a burden.”

Your voice cracked.

“I got a promotion last year,” you said, shaking your head against his chest. “And she told me it was nice—‘if that’s the best you can do with that degree.’ I bought a car with my savings, and she said, ‘You know, most people your age already have a mortgage.’ Every time I bring something up, she twists it. Makes it sound like I’m lazy. Selfish. Never enough.”

Frank’s jaw flexed beneath your cheek.

“She always does it with a smile,” you said bitterly. “She never yells. Just… pokes. Cuts. She says things like ‘you’re so sensitive’ or ‘I was only joking’ when I flinch. And if I ever try to explain how it hurts, she turns it around. Says I’m ungrateful, crazy. Says I’m imagining things.”

You lifted your head then, blinking at the ceiling. “And I believed her for so long. I still do, sometimes. Even now, when I know better, it’s like this voice in my head—her voice—is always there, picking me apart.”

Frank was silent, but his grip on you tightened.

“I thought maybe if I was successful enough or pretty enough or quiet enough, she’d finally be proud of me. Finally say, ‘That’s my girl.’” You gave a hollow laugh. “But even when I got everything right, it wasn’t enough. It never is.”

You swallowed hard. “And I hate that I still want her approval. I hate that I feel guilty even talking about this. Like I’m betraying her, somehow.”

Frank cupped your face gently, his fingers brushing your temple, his thumb catching the tear that escaped before you could stop it.

“And my dad…” you went on, voice barely above a whisper, “he never said anything. He just sat there. Let her do it. I think he thought staying quiet was the same as staying neutral. But it wasn’t. It never is.”

Frank's eyes were dark now. Not with judgment, not with pity, but with fury. But his voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, measured, controlled.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured. “You’re not imagining it. And you’re not wrong for feeling the way you do.”

You closed your eyes, his voice pouring over you like warm silk.

“She hurt you,” he continued, “in the quietest, most corrosive way possible. She made you doubt your own worth. Made you think love was something you had to earn. Something you could lose if you spoke too loudly or wanted too much.”

You bit your lip, nodding, your throat tight again.

“But she doesn’t get to decide your value,” Frank said. “She doesn’t get to rewrite the truth. Not anymore.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “I see you,” he said quietly. “All of you. And you are not too much. You are not a burden. You are not hard to love.”

You stared at him, trembling.

Frank leaned in, his baritone low, steady. “You are mine. My girl. And I take care of what’s mine.”

You let out a broken breath, your body finally beginning to let go.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Daddy’s here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words struck something deep. The warmth in his voice, the unshakable certainty of it—it unraveled you all over again.

Frank held you through it.

“Come on,” he said after a moment, guiding you gently up from the bed. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

You moved without protest as he undressed you slowly—carefully—like you were made of something precious. He peeled off your sweater, unbuttoned your jeans, never rushing, never letting his hands leave your skin for long. When you stood bare before him, he wrapped you in one of his softest shirts—oversized and warm, smelling like him.

He helped you into bed again, then stepped away briefly, only to return with a warm washcloth and a fresh glass of water.

“You need anything else?” he asked, smoothing the blanket over your legs. “Tea? Something sweet?”

You shook your head. “Just you.”

Frank climbed into bed beside you, gathering you into his arms like you belonged there—like you always had. His skin was warm, his chest solid and soft beneath your cheek.

You tucked your face against him, your breath evening out. “I’m tired,” you whispered.

“I know,” Frank murmured, stroking your hair.

“You won’t let her hurt me anymore?”

“No, sweetheart. Never again.”

You sighed, melting into him.

And Frank—your steady, sharp-edged, impossibly gentle Frank—just held you, whispering low promises against your skin.

“Sleep now,” he said, his baritone thick with something tender. “Daddy’s got you. My good girl. My brave, good girl.”

His hand moved slowly along your side, grounding you with every pass of his palm. You felt safe. Warm. Seen.

But not tired.

Your eyes blinked open in the dim light, your fingers curling gently around the hand that rested against your belly. You stayed like that for a while, quiet in his arms, letting the warmth of his body anchor you—but eventually, you shifted, just enough for him to feel it.

Frank’s baritone rumbled low. “Hmm?”

“I don’t wanna sleep yet,” you whispered.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t press. Just adjusted his hold, pulling you a little closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s alright,” he murmured. “We can stay awake.”

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Your heart beat a little faster. You weren’t sure why you felt so shy all of a sudden—after everything tonight, after all the ways he’d seen you unravel—but still, the question caught in your throat like something delicate.

You turned a little in his arms. “Frank?”

He looked down at you, his hazel eyes soft, patient.

You swallowed. “Can we... could you—” You faltered, cheeks warming. “Could you make love to me?”

Frank blinked once, his brows lifting just a hair, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. His hand came up instead, fingers brushing your hair away from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His voice dropped low, quiet, velvet-smooth.

“My girl needs Daddy, hm?”

Your breath caught.

The endearment never failed to melt something in you. And the way he said it—calm, assured, a little possessive—it sent a shiver through your belly that had nothing to do with fear.

Still, you hesitated. “Only if you want to. I know it’s late. I know it’s been a long day. We don’t have to—”

Frank cut you off with a soft, quiet laugh, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice laced with fondness and something far darker underneath, “you really think I’d ever say no to that?”

You flushed, suddenly shy again.

But Frank didn’t tease. Not cruelly. Just chuckled again, low and warm, his lips brushing your cheek. “That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m always hungry for you.”

He shifted then, rolling you slowly onto your back, his body settling over yours with careful weight. His hand cradled your face as he looked down at you, white hair falling slightly forward, his hooked nose casting a soft shadow in the lamplight.

“You could wake me in the middle of the night,” he whispered, “barely dressed, barely speaking, and I’d still find the strength to fuck you slow and deep until your eyes rolled back.”

Your breath hitched.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You could be crying like you were earlier, small and shaking and needing something only I can give—”

A kiss to your temple.

“—or smiling like the devil, pulling me down by the tie.”

A kiss to your cheek.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll always want you.”

And then finally—his lips on yours.

Slow. Warm. Certain.

When he pulled back, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. Like you always had.

“Let Daddy take care of you,” he whispered, baritone thick and sure. “Let me make love to you the way you deserve.”

You nodded, breathless.

And Frank—gentle, dangerous, unshakably yours—began to undress you with reverence in his touch, like he already knew how to rebuild every piece of you he hadn’t broken but had always sworn to hold.

He started with your collarbone, warm mouth pressing reverent kisses to the curve of it, his white hair brushing against your skin as he lingered. The tip of his tongue traced the dip where your pulse beat, slow and steady, and he hummed low in his throat—like you tasted better than anything he’d ever earned.

“Such soft skin,” he murmured, dragging his mouth lower, kissing down the center of your chest through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugged the hem up, exposing your bare stomach, and his hands spread possessively over your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath the swell of your breasts.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice thick with something close to awe. “Always so good for me. Always mine.”

He kissed your belly, slow and deliberate, lips soft against skin. Every press of his mouth built the tension low in your stomach, your breath hitching just a little more each time his warm mouth passed lower. He slid his palms down your thighs, guiding them open again, his body shifting between them with practiced ease.

When he looked up at you from between your legs, hazel eyes dark and steady beneath his white lashes, your breath caught.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured. “Open. Waiting. Letting me do this right.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the sheets, body already humming with anticipation.

He leaned down, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Daddy’s here now.”

And then he kissed you. Right there—soft and warm and patient. Just one long, deliberate stroke of his tongue along your folds, slow enough to make you twitch. He moaned softly at the taste, and the sound alone made your back arch.

“Fuck, this cunt,” he groaned. “You’re already so wet for me.”

You whimpered, hips rising instinctively, but Frank pressed one firm hand against your belly.

“No, baby. Let me lead. Just lie back and take it.”

His tongue returned—this time faster, more focused, flicking your clit in slow circles before sealing his mouth around it with obscene pressure. You gasped, a high sound caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, your legs trembling as he licked and sucked with devastating rhythm.

Your hand flew to his head, fingers tangling in the white strands. “Daddy—oh—fuck—”

That made him groan into you, the vibration of it sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. His tongue moved faster now, greedy, practiced, pushing you higher with each breathless flick.

And then—his fingers.

Thick and slow at first, just one sliding into your soaked heat, curling deep until you cried out. Then another—two of them now, pumping inside you with that unrelenting pressure that made your hips rock against his face.

“There you go,” he growled against your clit, never stopping. “Taking my fingers so well, baby. God, this pussy’s perfect. So tight. So wet for me.”

You were writhing now, tugging his hair, your thighs shaking as he fucked you with his fingers and sucked your clit like he wanted to keep you pinned to the edge forever.

“Please—Frank—Daddy—I—” You were panting, words falling apart.

He pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Come for me, sweetheart. Let Daddy taste it.”

And you did—loud, desperate, full-body trembling, your fingers yanking at his hair as the orgasm ripped through you, hot and heavy. He moaned into your cunt, licking through it, his fingers still moving gently inside you as you rode every wave.

When the tremors finally eased, when your body sagged back into the bed, boneless and dazed, Frank withdrew his fingers with a slick, satisfied sound. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then up your belly, his body dragging slowly over yours.

You blinked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I… I wanna touch you, too.”

Frank’s smile was slow and dangerous, the weight of it curling deep in your gut.

“Oh, you will,” he murmured, baritone dropping like a stone into your chest. “But not until I’m sure you’re not done screaming my name.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your open mouth.

“Let Daddy work, baby,” he whispered against your lips, fingers trailing between your legs again. “You’ve still got more in you.”

And you did.

So much more.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #frank benson x reader #frank benson

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rindreamery · 6 months ago

Note

hiiiiii. congrats on 300follwrs 🫶🫶🫶 about your event can i request karasu tabito, sweet, kiss on the lips, rivals to lovers if not taken^.^ xo

ORDER 9: READY TO GO !

karasu + sweet + kiss on the lips + rivals to lovers w.c. 1k+

note. this took forever and is lowk booty cheeks 😭 literally right when i gained motivation to write this, got hit with a fever and couldn't write for a few days, and then forgot the plot that i initially thought of for this fic. so here we are... many days later... but i tried my best !!

interested in more? check out the lounge !

group projects are, admittedly, the bane of your existence.

but your professor loved to dish them out every chance they had, much to your dismay, under the pretense of “helping you form bonds with your peers.” though, it was always the same cycle; agree to work on the project on your own, piece together a slideshow or document using your individual work, turn it in, and hope for the best. in the end, your relationships with your peers remain the same, sometimes worse than before. not friends, simply classmates trying to survive the class, together or not.

finding yourself stuck in, yet another, project, it takes everything in you to bite back a loud sigh. mentally, you’re throwing darts at a board with your professor standing in front of it. physically, you’re stuck in the library, late into the hours of the afternoon (when you could be taking a nap), endlessly researching about some topic that you, honestly, could care less about.

but that, itself, isn’t the root of the issue.

writing a project about the effects of dopamine on love should not be complicated. well, at least, not more complicated than just pulling up research articles and getting a few quotes to meet your citation quotas. your issue, more or less, was with your assigned partner. him— karasu.

not that he was a bad person— no, quite the opposite, actually. he was perfect in a way that was so infuriating to you. anything you could do? he could do faster, more efficiently, and produce better results. he could put in half the effort and still come out with something that rivaled, or even topped, your work. that bothered you, and his nonchalance about it all only added to your growing frustrations.

group projects were the bane of your existence, and he was a close second.

even now, as he sits in front of you, doing nothing— he is frustrating. though, you can't explain why.

“if ya stop staring...” his voice slices right through your thoughts. he says it so casually, flipping through his notebook, ignoring the way your glare digs deep into his skin. “dopamine’s what makes people feel good, right?”

“yes,” comes your initial, curt, response. you can’t help the way your eye twitches at his tone, tracking his every move as he actively avoids looking back at you. his eyes are locked onto his notes in front of him, but you know better— he’s not actually reading them. “but it’s also a lot more complicated than that. dopamine affects a lot of things, like our reward systems and motivation. but if we’re talking strictly in the context of love, it’s what makes us feel that rush of excitement when we’re around someone we like.”

he hums at that, pretending to mull over your words. “got any personal experience?”

his question catches you off-guard, and for a second, you find yourself tripping over your words. “what— why do you care? you don’t need to know that.”

“no need to get all defensive.” he responds, once again in that casual tone of his, but mildly amused at the way you react to him. like he’s getting a kick out of making you flustered over his words. "i’m just thinking, to understand how dopamine affects how we see someone, we need to get some real-world data. like, experience it first-hand."

karasu finally looks up from his notes, and he raises a brow at you, anticipating your response.

you see right through him— a lie. this type of research project didn’t require personal understanding, rather, understanding gained from reading other sources. yet, oddly enough, you find yourself entertaining the idea. intrigued. “experience it first-hand? you want me to act as your lab rat or something?”

“well, ya are pretty much the perfect lab rat.” and your mouth opens to retort, but he flashes you a half-smile, that shuts you right up. though, teetering closer to that signature smirk of his. “because ya hate my guts. we can test to see if dopamine can make ya hate me less.”

you blink at him, blankly.

you're gauging for any sign that he’s messing with you, but he doesn’t backpedal on his words. rather, he sits there, chin propped in the palm of his hands as he waits for you to respond. (but it’s hard to, not when your mind is drawn to the way your heart stutters at his insinuation. an unexpected, and unwelcome, reaction from you.) "so, what? you’re suggesting we kiss or something?”

“ya said it, not me.” karasu shrugs, finally straightening his posture out and getting up from his chair. “purely for research purposes, of course.”

there’s another beat of silence as you wait for him to crack— to tell you that he’s simply messing with you. then, the two of you could go back to doing this cursed project, potentially finish it in one go, and never have to meet up ever again. but he doesn’t, and the silence draws into something more uncomfortable the longer it goes on.

“wait, are you... are you being serious right now?” you asked, your eyes widening as you look at him in disbelief.

“science is science,” is all he offers to you.

you could feel your face heat up, the warmth crawling from the base of your neck and up, and you’re sure your cheeks are sporting a bright shade of red. it takes a few seconds for you to gather yourself, not willing to back down, but in the end, all you can muster is, “fine— for science.”

his grin widens at that, and before you could second-guess your choice, he’s planting his hands on the table and leaning in.

yet, despite his rough approach, the kiss is soft— tentative, almost. his lips are barely brushing against yours, and you could still feel his shallow breaths as he refuses to make that last push to connect the two of you. he's simply hovering over you, almost urging you to make that decision, giving you that choice to back out of it if you wanted to.

all you can focus on is the rapid beat of your heart in your ears, the warmth emanating off of his lips that are so close, yet so far from yours. the logical, karasu-hating part of you is yelling at you to pull away, to get it together. but you don’t.

you close the distance between the two of you, locking your lips in a shallow, but sweet, kiss. full of nerves, from the way your lips freeze up against one another, not knowing where to go from there. the confidence he held washes away in that fraction of a second; his elbows buckle underneath him, caught off-guard by the feeling of your lips, pulling the two of you apart.

it’s brief, barely considered a kiss, but your reaction to him is undeniable. the way your heart pumps just a little harder, the tiny, electric sparks coursing through your veins, or the way you found yourself chasing after his lips as he pulled away.

the two of you stay silent, but you find that he's grinning at you— differently, this time. in a way you can't quite explain.

"hate me any less now?"

#ᯓ★ nishi's dessert lounge .ᐟ #blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #karasu tabito #karasu tabito x reader #tabito karasu #karasu x reader #blue lock fluff #bllk fluff

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fluff-lover · 10 months ago

Text

The one that got away (final part) | Wolverine x fem!reader

Summary: You were just starting something with Logan, when your ex-boyfriend decided to come back to your life. After Ben interrupts your makeup session with Logan, you're decided to move on.

This is based on this Reddit story

Part 1 - Part 2

Warning: this chapter is spicy! I’m not good at writing smut, so bear with me: PiV, oral (female receiving), a little bit of dirty talk. There's also a lot of fluff! Mature language, Wade Wilson being a menace. Bad writing (please remember English is not my first language, so if you notice something odd please write to me privately).

Tagging @aheadfullofsteverogers because she’s the only person reading this story XD

You stared at Ben expectantly while he looked everywhere but you. You both stood in your kitchen, the kitchen island putting a few good feet between you. After Ben rudely interrupted your little makeout session and asked to speak to you in private, Logan returned to Wade's apartment looking both angry and hurt. Your heart ached for him, not wanting him to be upset, especially not at you after such a great night.

“How did you get in?” You finally asked.

“I still had my key.” Ben replied.

“Damn, I forgot about that...” You mumbled angrily.

“I’m glad you did. It gave me hope.” Ben must've noticed the confusion in your eyes, so he explained “I thought maybe you were waiting for me to come back home.”

You frowned.

“Come back?... Ben, what are you doing here? Why did you come?” You pushed, your patience running thin.

“I want us to get back together.”

Your jaw dropped to the floor.

“You can't be serious. Ben, you broke up with me to be with someone else.”

Ben looked embarrassed.

“I know, I know, but hear me out. I made a mistake. She is not who I thought she was, I fell for an illusion, I really thought she was the one for me, the one that got away. But then I realized I was so much happier with you and I'm a fool for leaving.”

You were in complete and utter disbelief.

“You're kidding me, right?”

“We can work this out.” He pleaded.

“How on Earth can you possibly think that?” You asked. “You left me for another woman, there's nothing to work out, you made sure of that.”

Ben shook his head, not ready to give up yet.

“There's nothing between me and her anymore, I ended things.” He said and you scoffed. “I swear, I'm done with her.” Ben tried to take a step closer to you, but then you stepped back.

“That's not the point, Ben!” You yelled as you started pacing around the apartment. “This is not about her! This is about YOU! You gave up on us. YOU threw me away as if I was nothing. How could I ever believe you won't do it again?”

“I swear to you, I learned my lesson, I'm never making that mistake again.” He pleaded again.

“It was so easy for you.” You said, your voice turning low and sad. “To walk out on me… on us… as if we hadn't been planning our future together, or entire lives!” Tears started filling your eyes. “As if I meant nothing to you.” Ben's shoulders dropped, he knew there was no way he could ever make things up to you. “You didn't love me enough to stay. You didn't love me enough to realize you didn't want to be with another woman. The second you two started talking you should've shut down any possibility of something happening between the two of you, out of love for me. Out of loyalty. But you didn't.” Your lip trembled and tears rolled down your cheeks, but your voice didn't waver.

“I don't want to be with another woman, ever again.” Ben assured you and you resumed pacing around. “I know I hurt you, but I also know we can work it out. I'll do anything you ask. I'll go to couples’ counseling with you.” You scoffed. “I'll even let you sleep with that guy one more time.”

At that you froze and turned to face him fully.

“Excuse me?”

Ben sighed.

“I left to be with another woman, you're clearly moving on with another man. So let's even out the scores. Sleep with him one more time, get it out of your system and then…”

You slapped Ben so hard, his face turned to the point you thought he would break his neck. The sound it made echoed on the walls. Your palm started to sting really bad, you could only imagine how bad Ben's cheek was hurting now.

“Logan is not some rebound I can use and throw away, let alone to get back with you. He's a good man and doesn’t deserve to be used like that. He’s done nothing but treat me right and help me realize I can do much better than you.” You were practically hissing the words. “Not that it is any of your business but I didn’t sleep with him. I was too busy grieving our relationship, but now that I know what piece of shit you are, moving on from you should be much easier.”

Ben looked at you with emptiness in his eyes, his cheek already forming an imprint of your hand.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” You told him. Defeated, Ben turned to the door. “Wait.” He stopped. “Leave the key.”

After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, Logan decided that staying in bed was useless. Instead he sat on the couch with a bottle of scotch and a cigar.

He couldn't help but wonder… Were you with Ben? Was Ben in your bed with you right that moment? Were you two getting back together?...

The kiss you two shared was the first thing to bring him real joy in a long time. Saving the timeline was a real achievement and one to be proud of, but even then, nothing would ever surpass feeling loved and cared for, something Logan only felt a handful of times during his long life. And to lose it so quickly made his stomach churn.

Did he lose you already?

A sound caught his attention, and when he looked up he saw Mary Puppins scratching the window.

“What are you doing?” He asked, as if the dog could give him a straight answer. She barked and scratched the window again. “There's nothing out there, bub.” Logan frowned and got up. Outside the window was a firescape, nothing else. “You wanna go out? Is that it?” Mary Puppins looked at him and wiggled her tail. “Alright, don't go far.”

The second he opened the window the dog ran outside and started yapping.

“Sweet little puppy.” Logan heard your voice. He quickly poked his head out the window and found you there.

You were sitting on your window frame, a blanket on your lap, a steaming cup in one hand and the other giving Mary Puppins a belly rub. You were so beautiful.

“So this is why she wanted to come out so bad, must've heard you out here.” Logan said.

You smiled softly at the dog.

“Or she sensed I needed some company.”

Logan frowned.

“So Ben isn't here with you?” He asked.

You scoffed and shook your head.

“Hell no, I kicked him out as soon as I could. I'm done with him, he's not worth my time.”

Logan couldn't help but smile with relief.

“What are you doing awake then? It's really late.”

“I was too angry to sleep. So now I'm planning on watching the sunrise. Wanna join me?” You offered.

Without even thinking, Logan stepped out the window and sat next to you. Meanwhile the puppy laid down by your feet.

“Why are you angry?” He asked.

“Because I was having such a lovely evening before he ruined it. Everything was going so well.” You then looked at Logan shyly. “I'm so sorry, Logan.”

“Hey…” Logan took your hand. “There's nothing to be sorry about. You didn't do anything wrong.”

You looked at your hands together, your other hand coming to caress Logan's knuckles. Logan swallowed hard, moved by the fact you were lovingly caressing something everyone else feared. His hands were weapons, not meant to receive loving care.

“What about you? Why can't you sleep?” You asked.

Logan looked away awkwardly. He was so bad at talking about his feelings. But if he wanted to keep you around, he knew he needed to at least try.

“I was thinking about you… About you and Ben, I thought maybe you two were working things out.”

You quickly shook your head, your heart breaking at the thought that you hurt him.

“I'm so sorry-” Logan shook his head, interrupting you.

“Don't. It's okay.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” You reassured him.

Logan then lifted your hand and kissed it.

“I know, sweetheart.”

You smiled, feeling your heart flutter at his actions.

“Does that mean we're still going on a date?” You asked hopefully.

Logan smiled and nodded.

“We'll go on as many dates as you want.”

You chuckled.

“I'd like that.”

A cool breeze flew by and made you shiver. Logan took the blanket from your lap and wrapped it around you before placing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. You leaned your head on his shoulder and smiled when you felt his lips kissing the top of your head.

As the sun started to come up, your eyelids started going down. You were slowly falling asleep on Logan's shoulder.

“Let's get you to bed, gorgeous.” He whispered, but you just pressed yourself more against him.

“No, please, just a little bit longer.” You pleaded and nuzzled his neck. “I don't want this to end.”

Logan felt a tug in his chest. You wanted to be with him and he was so grateful, but he didn't want you to fall asleep like this. He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze and kissed your forehead.

“Come on, sweetheart, you need to rest.” He easily picked you up and carried you inside. Once in your bedroom he gently placed you on your bed, covered you and pushed your hair away from your face, admiring you in silence. You felt his fingers against your skin, tender and moving slowly, as if he was afraid of breaking something.

Before he could step away, your hand reached out and held onto his arm.

“Stay with me.” You whispered, eyes barely open.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

You hummed and nodded your head against the pillow.

“I don't want you to go.”

Logan smiled softly and caressed your cheek.

“I'm not going anywhere, sugar.” He said before getting under the covers with you and laying on his side.

Instantly you turned to press yourself against his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, while the other slid under your neck and you used it as a pillow. You fit perfectly against him, as if the two of you were two pieces of a puzzle.

Something moved at the foot of the bed, and when Logan looked over the covers he found Mary Puppins laying down by his feet.

It felt like home.

You slept the entire morning, waking up just around noon. A little bit of sunlight came through the curtains and gave your bedroom a golden tint. At some point during the night you rolled to your other side and Logan, without even realizing, scooted closer and spooned you. So when you woke up his chest was pressed against your back, his nose buried in your hair, and one strong arm was wrapped around your waist.

You carefully rolled over to face him, trying really hard not to wake him up. But Logan was a light sleeper, always alert, so his eyes fluttered open.

“Shhh… go back to sleep.” You whispered, your hand cupping his cheek and caressing it softly. He simply rolled on his back and fell asleep again.

You laid there for a while, watching Logan sleep. The morning light cast a soft glow on his peaceful face. His strong jawline, usually so defined and commanding, now relaxed in the tranquility of sleep. His dark lashes rested against his skin, and a gentle rise and fall of his chest was the only movement in the still room. You couldn't help but smile as she watched him, there was something so vulnerable, yet incredibly powerful, about seeing him like this, completely at ease with you by his side.

You felt so safe with him around. So peaceful. You knew he came from a violent world, where he lived an even more violent life, but here? All that seemed so far away.

“I can feel you staring at me.” Logan suddenly said with his eyes still closed.

Your face warmed up, embarrassed at being caught.

“Sorry.”

Logan opened his eyes and you smiled softly.

“It’s kinda hard not to stare at you, you’re so beautiful.” you said.

Logan didn’t know how to feel. He had never been called beautiful. Handsome? Yeah, maybe… but beautiful?

“YOU’RE beautiful.” He said, deflecting.

“I feel beautiful when I’m with you.” You confessed. Logan stared at you for a moment before pulling you closer and kissing you.

You returned the kiss but quickly pulled away.

“I have morning breath!”

“You think I give a fuck?” Logan asked as he tickled your sides. You started laughing, trying to slap his hands away from you. “How dare you deny me a kiss? After I caught you staring!”

“Okay! Okay! Sorry!” You laughed.

“You’re beautiful ALL the time.”

Logan climbed on top of you, holding his weight on his elbows and setting his hips between your thighs. You sighed contently, loving the feeling of him above you.

He kissed you again, this time slow and deeply. Your hands ran up his arms to his neck, then your fingers tangled in his hair.

Humming happily against your lips, Logan pressed himself against you, just enough to cover most of your body, but not enough to crush you. You stayed like that for a while, kissing each other softly, hands wandering all over each other’s bodies.

It was sweet. It was tender.

Logan moved his lips down your chin, up your jaw and then to your neck. When he reached a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear, you closed your eyes and let out a whimper.

Your hands moved down his back, pushing him even closer to you, and then you felt it. His throbbing hardness pressing against your panties. Out of instinct you rocked your hips against his, your legs lifting in the air and wrapping themselves around his hips.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Logan growled against your neck.

“Logan…” You whimpered. “Logan, please, touch me.”

You felt his big, strong hand move between your bodies and slip under your panties. His fingertips made their way between your folders and spread your wetness before finally burning themselves deep inside you.

Logan pulled back a little and looked at you.

“Take your shirt off.” He said. You quickly obeyed, throwing the shirt to the floor. With his hand still deep between your thighs, and the other holding him above you, Logan leaned in and covered one of your nipples with his mouth.

“Oh god!” You moaned as Logan sucked the tender skin hard.

Your hands tugged at his hair and his shirt, wanting more.

“You're so fucking beautiful.” He growled before moving to the other nipple. Your hips rocked against his hand, pressure building up in your lower belly.

Logan suddenly pulled away and knelt between your legs.

“Let me see you.” He said before rolling your underwear down your legs. “Fucking gorgeous.” He added and pressed your panties against his nose. He then took a deep breath and growled, almost like an animal.

If you weren't so horny and needy for him, you would've been mortified.

“You're still dressed and I'm not, it's not fair.” You pouted cutely.

Logan smirked and took his wife beater off.

Your heart dropped.

In front of you was the most gorgeous, muscular, ridiculously good looking man you've ever seen. Logan was a protein shake in human form.

“For fucks sake!” You threw your arm over your eyes. “It's like you're photoshopped! I could wash clothes on those abs!”

Logan laughed and gave your leg a little tug.

“Get up, I want you to sit on my face.” He said before laying on his back, his gray sweatpants doing nothing to cover his massive manhood.

“You sure?” You asked shyly as you knelt on the mattress.

“Yes I'm fucking sure, now get here.” He replied while getting comfortable and throwing a pillow away. You would be lucky if he didn't break the bed.

You crawled on top of him and positioned right above his mouth. You tried to hold your weight on your knees and by holding onto the headboard, but then you felt his hands grabbing you by your hips and pulling you down.

“When I tell you to sit on my face, you sit on my fucking face.” He commanded you.

“I don't wanna crush you.” You said, a bit embarrassed.

“You won't.” He was right and you knew it. But before you could say anything he pressed his mouth to your throbbing cunt.

“Fuck!” One hand gripped the headboard, while the other tugged his hair. He seemed to enjoy it as he growled against your skin. His fingertips dug into your thighs and pressed you more against him. How did he breathe, you didn't know.

Logan ate you out like a pro, tongue going in and out of you, licking up and down your sensitive folds before stopping to circle and suck your clit. All of that at a fast pace that left you breathless. Blessed be the women that came before you, because they clearly taught him well.

“Jesus! Fuck!” You moaned, hips moving against him needed more, more, more… “Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” Your legs went rigid and your body twitched violently was you reached your climax. You had to hold onto the headboard tight just so you wouldn't fall out of the bed or on top of Logan.

You were still trying to catch your breath when Logan moved from beneath you, threw the rest of his clothes to the floor and got behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing you against his chest, and kissed your neck.

“Got a condom?” He asked.

You shook your head. After being with your ex for so long, you stopped using them.

“I'm on the pill.” You said. “And I'm clean. You?”

You felt Logan smile against your skin as kissed your ear and temple.

“Same. One of the perks of being a mutant. I never catch anything.” One of his hands sneaked between your bodies, took a hold of his cock and started gliding it against your slit, coating it with your juices. “I could get used to this.” He said against your ear. “Rawdogging you, filling you up so good.” He nibbled your neck, his free hand cupping your breast. “Make you smell like sex and cum all day…” He growled at the thought.

Your head rested on his shoulder and you looked at him.

“Do it.” you said, eyes half closed. “I want you to fucking ruin me.”

Logan growled and gave you a hard, messy kiss, the type that leaves you breathless and your lips bruised.

He finally pushed his big, hard cock inside you. You knew he was big, having noticed it under his gray sweatpants, but this was more than you expected. Could this man be any more perfect? Not even Viking gods could compare.

“Fuck!” You hissed. It hurt, but it was a delicious type of pain, one that didn't last long.

“You good?” He asked and you nodded.

“You're so big.” Your words stroke his ego.

“You don't think you can handle it, babygirl?” He teased you.

“I told you, I want you to ruin me. Split me in half, tear me apart.”

“Jesus Christ, woman. You'll be the death of me.”

One hand held you by the hip, the other moved down between your legs and caressed your clit. And then he proceeded to give you the pounding of your life. The headboard banged the wall as you kept your grip on it, using it to push yourself back, your ass smacking against Logan's hips as he thrusted inside you.

More and more moans came from you. You had never been this vocal in the bedroom. Usually you would try to keep quiet, not wanting the neighbors to hear you, but there was something about Logan that made you lose control. Your jaw hung open, your eyes rolled back, wet sound echoing the walls in the room as flesh met flesh.

“Fuck! Logan! Yes! Yes! Yesyesyesyes!” It didn't take long to reach a second orgasm. Pressure built and built in your lower belly until it released the most intense ecstasy you've ever felt. Your back arched against his chest and Logan held you, still thrusting into you, helping you ride your climax.

You arrived at the conclusion that Logan liked manhandling you when he threw you on the bed, landing on your back. So far he had done to you whatever the fuck he wanted, and you weren't complaing. He grabbed you by the hips and pulled you towards the edge of the bed before placing one of your legs against his chest. In one swift movement he was inside of you again.

Logan looked so beautiful like that, standing over you tall and broad, covered in sweat, hips snapping against yours. You could watch him like this all day, every day.

You didn't know at the time but Logan was taking you in as well, hair all messy and sticking to your face due to the sweat, nipples hard and perked up.

“Fucking gorgeous.” He growled. “Give me one more, babygirl, I wanna see your face when you come around my cock.”

At this point Logan fucked you stupid, you couldn't come up with a single coherent thought. You gripped the bedsheets, trying to ground yourself somehow. You couldn’t remember the last time someone fucked you this good, but to be fair, you couldn't remember your own name at the time.

“G-God! You feel so good!” you moaned, back arching against the mattress. Logan leaned over you and kissed you hard. With your leg still against his chest, this position gave him a new angle, one that had you whimpering and moaning for more against his lips. Your hands tangled with his hair and pulled hard, earning you an animalistic growl. You loved that sound.

“I'm c- I'm cuming…” You managed to gasp out. Logan picked up the pace, fucking you hard and fast into the mattress.

“Come on, gorgeous, give it to me.” He told you, pulling back enough to look at your face. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

You let out the filthiest moan of your life as you came undone, body thrashing and trembling against his. Needing to hold onto something, your nails dug into Logan's shoulders, leaving marks that healed far too fast for his liking. Your walls clenched around him, practically milking him as he kept going.

Logan felt himself getting closer to his own climax and buried his face on your neck, grunting with each thrust. You ran a hand down his back to his ass and gave him a firm squeeze, the other moved to the back of his neck and pulled at his hair. With that Logan came. Hard.

You both were a trembling mess, covered in sweat, too spent to move for a moment, except from the sudden twitches your body made. Suddenly the room was very quiet.

Eventually Logan lifted his head from your neck and kissed you. It was a slow, sweet kiss, a contrast from the previous ones.

He pushed himself away and pulled out of you. You hissed, still getting used to his size and looked up at him. He looked so satisfied as he watched his cum drip out of you.

“What a pretty little pussy.” He said before running his thumb up the folds to the clit. You trembled. Logan looked around the room before picking your still wet panties. He used them to clean you up before smelling it again.

“I'm keeping these, by the way.” He said and dropped them on top of his clothes.

You giggled. No man had ever shown so much interest in you this way.

Logan lifted you up a little to get you more comfortable on the bed and laid next to you. You wrapped yourself around him, your face nuzzling his neck.

“Well, you did it. You fucking ruined me.” You sighed happily. Logan chuckled and kissed your forehead. “I'm serious, I don't think I'll be able to walk for a couple of days.”

“Am I hearing you complain?” He teased you and you laughed.

“Fuck no.”

“I aim to please.” Logan said satisfied. Then he pushed some of your hair away from your face and smiled at you. “I meant what I said, I could get used to this.”

You smiled back.

“Me too.”

Suddenly you heard a dog's bark. You both opened your eyes widely before looking up. On a chair in the corner of your bedroom was Mary Puppins, tail wiggling happily.

“Oh… my… god…” You said mortified. “Was she here the whole time?”

“I forgot she was here.” Logan said.

“Do you think we traumatized her?”

Logan laughed.

“Being Wade's dog, I'm sure she's seen worse.”

When you exited your bedroom Logan was fully dressed and holding Mary Puppins while you were wrapped in your fuzzy robe. As promised, your panties were safely tucked inside his pocket.

“I better take her home. Wade will lose his shit if he comes back and she's not there.”

You walked him to the door and smiled.

“Will I see you soon?” You asked shyly. Logan looked at you like you had just said the dumbest thing in the world.

“Do you really need to ask? After what we just did?” He said and you chuckled. “I promised you a date, didn't I? I'll pick you up tonight, 7 sounds good?”

You nodded.

“Sounds perfect.” Logan smiled and leaned to kiss you. When he pulled back you sighed happily.

“See you tonight, gorgeous.” He said before walking to his apartment.

Wade was sitting at the table, eating cereal, when Logan walked in.

“Morning, peanut! Did you have a good night?” He asked with the biggest, goofiest smile. “I recognize a walk of shame when I see it.”

“I'm not ashamed.” Logan protested, only confirming Wade's suspicions.

“You would think getting laid would make you less grumpy, color me surprised.”

Logan simply growled and ignored him, placing Mary Puppins on the ground. She quickly ran towards Wade and jumped into his arms.

“Come to your papa.” Wade said before kissing her head. “What's that, Mary?” He then asked, pulling her closer to his ear, as if she was saying something. “Uncle Logan got lucky last night? I know, I think the whole building heard them.”

“Your dog is a pervert.” Logan said, walking towards the bathroom.

“Just like her papa.” Wade said proudly.

Logan shut the bathroom door and got ready for a shower. As he undressed he pulled your panties from his pocket and smiled. He couldn't wait to take you out on a date.

#wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x female reader #james logan howlett x reader #James logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fluff #logan x reader #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x fem!reader #The one that got away

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thebatdadnomad · 20 days ago

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𝕄𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕞𝕚

Pairing: Dick Grayson x GN! Reader Summary: That time that Dick fell in (seemingly) unrequited love with his informant friend. A/N: Hey, wonderful ppl of tumblr <3333 This is my first time posting a series on here, so lemme know what you think and if there are any issues with navigating the parts (once they're all up ofc)!! Parts: Part 1, Part 2

Dick Grayson had many friends, but he recalled meeting you with remarkable clarity.

He had been proudly donning his Nightwing costume, ready, alert and interested in the group of civilians being led around the Watchtower’s Zeta Tubes he had just arrived at by staff.

"Who’re they?" Dick muttered to himself, politely smiling at the civilians who saw him and instantly scurried out of his way.

"Oh, them?" Wally replied out of nowhere, scaring the bejesus out of him much to Wally’s absolute delight. "Haha, got you."

Dick laughed. "Shut up. I just didn’t expect you’d be here on time that’s all."

“Uh-huh.”

“So?”

“Right,” Wally begun to drag Dick towards the meeting rooms. "They’re here because of the war we’re trying to stop, you know? The new recruits wanted to make them more comfortable by giving them a tour, and said so at the bottom of the email thread you told one of them to write. Didn’t you read it, Mr I Think I'm Better Than Everyone Else?"

"Of course I did, dumbass," Dick just hadn't finished reading yet, considering the fact that the newbies forgot to CC him in until 3 minutes ago – which he might mention during their monthly review. But his best friend simply stuck his tongue out at Dick’s explanation and changed the subject.

The case they were here to discuss wasn't anything special, but a lot of it was riding on eyewitness testimony because of the devastating lack of surveillance in the war-torn area they were trying to bring peace to.

Most of the informants weren't natives to the area, but holidaygoers on their way home who had been caught in the crossfire and were useful contacts desiring protection. So, after giving their consent, they were brought up to the tower for their own safety and were provided residency as an additional incentive.

You were just one among them. The pretty one, sure, but Dick saw pretty people all the time. He hadn't noticed you then. Nor had he taken note of your interview transcript when the meeting room read it all over. But, once the small discussion about people’s availability was over and two hours had passed…well, that was a different story.

"Good work, everyone. We'll solve this in no time," Dick ended the meeting at the same time any other meetings in the Watchtower would’ve ended. 9 PM.

They had a calendar booking system, and given that most heroes began readying themselves for their respective patrols around this time, no meeting was to end later than this unless there was an emergency. Dick, despite being nicknamed a risk taker by all of his closest friends, adhered to these rules. But that didn’t mean he would always left straight away.

As the host, Dick had been willing to join half of them – the new recruit he had scolded who went by the name Captain Fission and some more experienced Titans – in staying behind for a short chat. But then he noticed Wally had abandoned him there, and all his professional thoughts fled his mind.

That snake!

Mind changed, Dick promptly made his way out to catch his superspeed ass among the heroes now littering the hallway, only to bump directly into the pretty informant wandering a little off course from your temporary living space. You.

Dick blinked, slightly taken aback by how slowly you straightened yourself out while keeping your head down. He was quick to apologise, though his eyes did use the time you gave him to linger on your body in a way he usually wouldn’t. You had a nice figure, and he was only human, sue him.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to get in your way. Are you alright?”

Your head whipped up at the words as if you had suddenly woken up, and all the apprehension he initially expected from you appeared behind the first pair of unmasked eyes Dick had seen in the past two hours. The slight discolouring beneath those eyes did nothing to dim how your irises gleamed in the light. Nor did it do anything to blemish the beauty of your neat smile when you recognised him.

“You don’t need to apologise, Nightwing,” you eventually soothed.

But Dick shook his head. “I am sorry, though.”

"Please,” you emphasised, eyes wide and respectful. “You're the reason we're able to stay here in the first place instead of sitting ducks in a shelter and waiting to be attacked,” you vaguely gestured all around yourself and to the steadily growing number of heroes leaving their own respective meetings. “I should be thanking you instead."

"Maybe,” Dick briefly placed a hand on your clothed arm as a gesture of goodwill and removed it just as easily, pointedly ignoring the shockingly pleasant tingle that ran through his hand where he touched you because...because he was Nightwing now. A professional vigilante who had a loser friend to find. He didn’t need to think about whatever that was. “But don’t forget that your intel is priceless, too. We’d be nowhere without you guys. Have a good night."

A nod. "You too."

You stepped left and Dick remained still so you could smoothly walk past him. But the moment you were out of his direct line of sight, something deep, deep inside of him protested it. Maybe it was the way your eyes dazzled under the overhead lights or the lethargy in your features that did nothing to dull your allure, but soon Dick found himself leaning to the left as well. Just so he could look for one more second.

There was just something about you.

It could also be the fact that your attitude towards Dick was unlike how the other nervous informants treated him. Tiredness made you overly relaxed despite your lively courtesy, and he couldn’t stop noticing the dichotomy and how closed off your limp limbs made you appear. Something in his subconscious mind was latching onto you, and with a job like the one he had, following his instincts was crucial. It often meant life or death. You could be a threat.

"Is there something wrong?" You asked, looking at him through your eyelashes, when he got in your way.

But, no, you weren’t. One look told Dick you weren’t carrying anything sharp or dangerous beneath your clothes. Another told him you weren’t seriously unwell besides what must be simple sleep deprivation and fatigue from a long night touring the Watchtower. Thinking back to your file and the photograph on it, your background raised no flags about whether your true intention in coming here was anything but innocent.

And yet Dick still felt inexplicably drawn to you, some random pretty civilian.

Why?

“Are you lost?” Dick settled on.

You stared at him. “...Was it that obvious?”

He chuckled. “Not exactly, but I can help you out. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“Yeah, and how well do you know the back of your hand exactly?” You rolled your eyes with a tilted smile.

Dick’s heart fluttered, momentarily taken aback by your wit before puffing out his chest with a playful grin. “I’ll have you know my hand and I are very familiar with each other. I see it every day and trail the veins whenever I'm bored. Trust me. If I know this place as well as I know the back of my hand, I'll be able to get you where you need to go.”

Your slanted lips morphed into something polite again as if you hadn’t meant to let that question slip. “I know, I do trust you, I'm just teasing. I would really appreciate it if you could show me where the dorms are from here, though.”

“Sure, let's go,” but you didn’t follow and instead took to waving your hands around at a concerning fast speed, eyes widening once more in surprise.

“Oh no, no, directions are fine, Nightwing. You're busy and—”

“It’s not far from here,” Dick lightly interrupted, insistent despite the fact that this detour would likely make finding Wally much harder. “And even if it was, I’m not too busy to get you where it's safe,”

You paused. “…Safe?”

“You don't want to know the dangers of the pre-patrol rush on the tower. You really don't,” Dick solemnly shook his head, then smiled something reassuring, unwilling to leave you just yet. “Let’s go.”

“…Alright.”

Until he figured this out.

Until it made sense.

It was only once Dick took you to the dorms the informants were currently residing that he succeeded. Only when you followed him – or intended to – and a hero bumped into you, making you trip into his arms, that he understood this feeling.

Dick dutifully held your falling body steady against his then, his skin tingling underneath the black and blue Kevlar suit you wrapped your arms around, his ears listening to you crack some dry joke about superheroes being super blind until you moved away. And the emptiness Dick felt when you were out of his arms was the answer to the nature of his mysterious interest. It clicked into place like the first piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was solving yet.

It had been so long, Dick had almost forgotten what it felt like to have this, to have a crush. Because that’s what this was, a crush. He didn’t know why or how it happened, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he didn’t just think you were objectively pretty, he was attracted to your pretty and cheeky and good-natured self. He was intrigued by you, and he had never been good at resisting temptations.

So, Dick let himself reach out for your arm amid the rush and drew you out of the crowd before you could make another protest.

But the thing was, he soon found out, you weren’t interested.

Dick brightly laughed at your complaints and subtle jokes as you dragged a hand down your scrunched-up face once you arrived at a quieter hallway. He made sure to show off his pearly whites when he did so, but your only response was a polite smile.

As the both of you entered the lift that would bring you to the residential wing he knew all the informants were staying in, Dick casually leaned on one of the lift walls to show off his lean body, but you didn't react to that either as you made small talk. He noted that move to be a failure, too.

Dick jokingly poked the tip of your perfect nose with his finger when you graciously pointed out that you could tell he was obviously stalling the closer you got to your abode. But you batted him away without a second thought. Physical touch was another no, it seemed.

“After I helped you come all this way?” Dick playfully asked in response to the accusation that was 100% correct. He was stalling, he didn’t want to give up just yet. “I braved so much for a cute thing like you, and this is how you repay me? With accusations?”

“…With honesty. I feel like that’s a pretty good return,” your lips twitched at the compliment, but that was it. Maybe you saw it as platonic because of his tone, or maybe words just didn’t do it for you either. Dick was unsure, but as lift doors opened and you walked down the hall to door number 24, Dick realised that he would have to pull out all the stops. Time was almost up.

“It’s not a good return, no.”

You tiredly rolled your eyes again at Dick’s devilish grin as you leaned on the door he assumed you were staying in. “Well then, how would you like me to repay you for your oh so brave and gallant acts of kindness?”

“You can repay me…” Dick stepped up to you until all you could see was each other. He placed an arm by your head and stared down at you with intent burning behind his sapphire eyes, lowering his voice to a saccharine whisper, just hoping you would finally see him. “By telling me your name.”

Neither of you said anything as you assessed him, searching for a sign of a lie in his expression. But instead of giggling or looking away or even leaning in like many had before in and out of costume, you simply maintained the same weary politeness you always had and respectfully smiled when you didn’t find a sign of falsehood in his request. “Oh, that's easy. I’m Y/N L/N. It's nice to meet you.”

Damn.

“…It's nice to meet you, too.”

With that, you pushed up off the door and swung it open, seemingly not bothered by the fact that Dick had been crowding you moments ago at all. “So, as long as my debts have been repaid, I can go in?”

Dick felt...admittedly...a little put out. He had tried everything and anything to get a reaction out of you. To see if there was any chance that you were interested in him. Yet all Dick had received since the moment you met to now was a dreary, indifferent gaze staring back at him as though he were a stranger on the train. Someone you were willing to converse with while you were travelling, but unwilling to get to know once you had reached your station.

All Dick could do now was smile, wave and lock his heart up.

“Yep, of course.”

“Bye, Nightwing," you said, friendly as you went in, but the sound of you shutting the door behind you was deafening.

So much for his new crush.

Dick swallowed his disappointment down and brushed that whole interaction off of his already weighed down shoulders. He decided right then and there that he would never see you again. Not as Nightwing or the man he was during the day. For the sake of his sanity, his integrity and professionalism. He would take a page from your book and think of you like a passing dream, a fantasy he imagined being with until he realised how impractical it was. He would forget about you.

It was too bad, Dick would later realise, that the hero community were just as charmed by you as he was.

⇨ Part 2

#tbdnm fic #dick grayson #dick grayson imagines #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #richard grayson #nightwing #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #x reader #reader insert #confession #unrequited love #enchanthings

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teleit · 20 days ago

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We haven't insulted Condom enough for his version of dragon dreamers, and I'm here to insult him some more.

Why can Helaena both astral travel and not interpret her visions? Is it because the writers have a vendetta against common sense? Or because someone decided they could write a better story than GRRM, but forgot that it takes some brains?

Unlike GoT, where D&D focused on political games, making magic secondary, HotD inserts magic even where it didn't exist to begin with, without bothering to make it a coherent system. I could complain endlessly about what they did to the dragons and their connection to the riders, but that's not the point now.

Daenys the Dreamer, who foresaw the Doom of Valyria, was able to convince her father to move to Dragonstone. That's how dreams work - you see the future, you don't like it, you fix the future, done, you're awesome.

Why can't Helaena do the same? Why has no one, absolutely no one, thought to make her dreams an AU version of the plot, and attempts to fix it led to canon events?

Helaena tells Aemond to be careful, and to be wary of Jace, who will rip his guts out, only for him to end up losing an eye and gaining a dragon and contempt for their father. And she drowns in grief, crying at the bedside of her unconscious little brother, praying to the gods that he lives, and that the fever goes away.

Helaena deliberately avoids the night with Aegon when their daughter would have been conceived and brutally killed during the Dance, only to conceive twins later. And she looks at them with love, praying to the Seven that the fate of the unborn Alyssa will pass them by.

Helaena adds guards to Rhaenys's chambers to keep her from ruining the coronation, and orders Meleys chained tightly. And she flies with Dreamfyre by her husband's side, enjoying her last moments of peace, only to learn that Rhaenys has escaped anyway.

Helaena, advising that Aemond be sent to Storm's End, for if he goes to the Riverlands, the witch will steal his mind and heart. And she hears her younger brother, still wet from the rain, lie through his teeth that he intended to kill Lucerys all along and that he has everything under control.

Helaena stops her charity visits to the city, knowing that Daemon has hired assassins to desecrate her body and slit her throat the moment she leaves the sept after her prayers. The assassins find her themselves, coming to her house, killing one of her sons, cutting off his head before her eyes.

Helaena sees so much, and still can't save anyone.

Was it really that hard, Ryan?

#anti ryan condal #because i hate him #anti hotd #hotd critical #pro team green

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makeyoumine69 · 1 year ago

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Spit In My Face

PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Fashion Week is in full swing in New York City and Patrick Bateman doesn't miss the chance to show you the world of luxury and beauty. So, he invites you to attend the fashion show with him. Through the chain of events that unfold there, you will see a new side of Mr. Bateman that you never knew existed.

TAGS: Angsty romance, smut, toxic behavior, gaslighting, cheating, misogyny, hurt/comfort, seduction, swearing, flirting, sensual kisses & touches, jealousy, implications of self harm & panic attacks, (almost) character death, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, rough sex, finger sucking, spanking, biting, manhandling, choking, orgasm control, dry humping, nipple play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, body worship, Daddy kink, Praise kink, pet names, dirty talk, Service!Dom!Patrick Bateman being an asshole (again).

WORDS: 21k (oops)

SONG REC: ThxSoMch - Spit In My Face

A/N: Hey guys! It took me a year to finally finish this and I decided to post all the parts together since most of you probably forgot what happened in the previous ones (I'll delete the old posts). I did some extra editing before posting and I hope you like it and I'm happy to get back to writing and soon I'll be rebooting the Cupcake series as I've already started working on prequels. Love you all!

Fashion, grace, money, wealth, these were the words running through your head as you rode in the taxi, and you couldn't believe Patrick had just convinced you to go to the goddamn Dior boutique. Not to mention the upcoming fashion show you were going to together, which was an actual nightmare for you and your nervous system.

“I really can’t understand. Why me?” You asked Bateman, turning in his direction to see him looking through the window, with his headphones on. And of course, he didn’t hear you.

All you could do was give him a shy tap on the shoulder. You heard the loud beats of rock music as he opened one of his ears and turned to face you. "What?"

His slightly annoyed intonation almost discouraged you from repeating your question. "I'm just wondering why you decided to invite me to this fashion show when you have much better options."

You watched him frown, and before you continued, you already knew what Patrick was going to say: "Cupcake, I've told you several times. I want to show you the beauty of being rich. I bet you've never seen so many fabulous people in one place."

Sighing a little sadly, you fixed your coat to distract yourself from the burning anger in your chest. "I've had enough of the rich snobs in our company and…I’m not a fan of all these 'luxurious’ things, you know…”

With a small chuckle, Bateman removed his headphones completely, quickly checking his haircut in the window's reflection.

"Of course you're not. How can you be a fan of things you can't afford?" He stated before trying to hug your shoulders, but when he saw your intense expression, he just gently put his palm on your knee.

"Money is not happiness," you cast a serious look at him, brushing his hand away from your leg. "Can you call yourself a happy man?"

Perplexed, Patrick knitted his eyebrows, as if your question had caught him off guard —you have never seen him so lost before and that was really strange. Fidgeting in his place, Bateman was certainly about to replay something when you heard the raspy taxi driver’s voice:

“We’ve arrived.”

"Thank you!" You responded before quickly getting out of the cab without waiting for Patrick to pay for your ride.

Obviously, you were upset and pissed off because of his endless snobbish dialogues about rich people, money and how much his regular suit cos—tnone of this really interested you, would he ever understand that?

As soon as you were outside, you felt a stiff wind blowing through your hair, ruffling it and making your mischievous locks cover your face. Quickly, you brushed them away and raised your eyes to the beautiful sign that read "Dior" in large letters; so stylish, so plush—just the way he liked it.

"Are you going to stand here forever?" Bateman scolded behind your back, his loud footsteps forcing you to spin around.

"I'm so amazed, I can't even move," you sarcastically sneered, staring at the window of the boutique. "The aura of richness has just overwhelmed me."

"How witty," Bateman almost applauded you, his lips curling into a cheeky grin as he came closer, his muscular arms wrapped around your waist. "Come on, let's go inside." With a light push on your back, he induced you to move forward, his arms never left your little form.

When you finally reached the entrance of the store, Patrick gallantly opened the door in front of you and looked at you from above, his eyes glowing with an unfamiliar tenderness.

"Much obliged..." You stammered as he somehow managed to grab your ass, stroking it and squeezing your buttock a little through your coat. Embarrassed, you turned to face him, but Bateman just smiled in his usual smug way.

"My pleasure." He murmured in your ear before letting you go.

Once inside the boutique, you heard someone greeting Patrick with undisguised excitement:

"Mr. Bateman! It's so nice to see you again! Welcome to Dior, we are so happy to help you."

'Again, huh?' You chuckled to yourself, turning your gaze to a side and wondering about the number of his visits and how many girls had been here before; Bateman’s face changed almost immediately as if he noticed your reaction.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Mr. Graham,” you could definitely hear some tense notes in his tone. “You look great as always!”

The guy let out a little giggle; he seemed to enjoy the compliments as much as your yuppie boy. “Not as perfect as you!” he pointed his both index fingers at Patrick, and now was his turn to grin from being praised. “How can I help you?”

“Uh, I need a dress for…” he paused before staring at you, his eyes gliding over your completely relaxed expression. “For my good friend, but she doesn’t really know what she likes,” ‘good friend, with whom he slept almost every day. Nice shot, Bateman.' “Don’t cha, baby?” While saying that, Patrick groped your cheek, pinching it a bit.

Mr. Graham, who was supposed to be a local stylist, gave two of you a suspicious glare, and only then did Patrick understand what he was doing, pulling his hand away as if it had been burned.

"Well, if the young lady doesn't mind, we can try something to your taste, Mr. Bateman," the stylist confirmed, examining you like a statue. "What do you think?"

"Great idea," Patrick exclaimed, pulling you into his arms to take off your coat. You almost fell into his embrace, whimpering as he 'accidentally' touched your boobs, squeezing them gently. 'Fuck, why should he be so obnoxious?' "I can't wait to see my Cupcake in one of these beautiful dresses." He whispered before leaving a tiny peck on your neck.

"That's very sweet of you, but..." you murmured, looking into his hazel eyes. "I don't think I'll fit into those dresses."

"Don't worry, honey." Bateman winked at you and gave you a quick slap on your butt to nudge you toward Mr. Graham, whose smile widened the longer he watched the two of you together.

“Please, follow me.”

Trying to distract yourself from all the bad thoughts, you just did what you were told and moved along countless hangers with new dresses. The further you got away from Patrick, the more insecure you became, and that strange feeling made your whole body shiver like from a cold shower.

“So, which color do you want to try on first? Maybe something dark?” the man asked you, sliding his hand across the beautiful fabric of some dress nearby. “Dark blue or dark red…Or even black?”

"I really like the black color, it goes with almost everything."

Mr. Graham chuckled amusedly and handed you a black cocktail dress, which of course was very short. Apparently Patrick didn't like long dresses or skirts, you already knew that, but that didn't mean you were happy about it.

“Mm-mh, and I think this one can fit too,” he gave you another dark blue dress before adding. “I still recommend you to have a look at our new collection, maybe you’ll find something interesting.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you sighed and smiled sincerely for the first time of the day. "Those amazing dresses I saw when we just entered are from a new collection?"

“Yes, Miss.”

"I'll check them out. And… thank you, Mr. Graham." Excited, you smiled again, and then you strolled away, a pile of dresses in your hands.

Once you reached the place you had been before, you heard multiple voices—one of them definitely belonged to Patrick while another one seemed to be unknown to you.

"What are you doing here?" You peeked out from behind the hangers to see a beautiful blonde girl, her face literally glowing with enthusiasm. "I'm so glad to see you, it's been a while." You didn't even have to look to know what she did next as the loud pecking sound echoed in your ears as if you had been hit with something hard.

The blonde left a small kiss on Patrick's cheek before he replied. "Good to see you too, Meredith."

“Are you here alone?”

“Mm-mhhm,” Bateman looked around and when he didn’t spot you, he added almost emotionlessly. “Yeah, you can say that.”

An instant pain burned in your chest, causing your hands to cling to the dress you were holding. Breathing heavily, you were about to send everything to hell and just leave, but for some reason, you decided to listen to their conversation, maybe you would learn something else about yourself being nothing but an empty place.

"So, are you going to the fashion show this weekend?" She asked cautiously, as if testing his line.

"Sure," they looked into each other's eyes for a while. "You know, I never miss things like that."

The way she giggled, forced you to close your ears from cringe, but that unpleasant sound kept bouncing in your head.

"Do you have a date or not?"

"Why do you ask?" Bateman retorted in a stern but concerned tone.

"I just... I thought maybe we could go together?" Flirtatiously, she pulled him closer, pretending to fix his coat.

"I'm sorry, but the answer is no." Frowning, he quickly took her hand away.

Ashamed, she stepped back and stalled. "You could just say you already have someone to go with and…"

Patrick scowled in irritation, cutting her off. "I'd still say 'no' even if I didn't…"

"Miss, did you find something you like?" Mr. Graham's sudden voice made you jerk and drop the super expensive dress with a thud.

It felt like all eyes were on you at that moment, and you didn't really know what to do other than quickly pick up the dress and act naturally. “God, I’m so sorry…I can be so clumsy sometimes!” You apologized, trying to ignore Bateman’s intense gaze.

"Don't worry, Miss… it's not a problem!" The stylist assured you, matching his words with reassuring gestures.

"I'll pay for everything,” Patrick pronounced it so calmly and with absolute confidence, as he moved in your direction. “Have you finished?”

First, you cast a confused glance at him, and then you looked at Meredith, her mad stare of disbelief almost making you laugh. “I think so,” you murmured, watching him getting closer. “I even got some of the new collection.”

“Ahh, is it so?” he teased, standing face to face with you. “Come on, let Daddy see what you’ve got.”

With that said, Patrick leaned over to your lips, and you let him pull you into a deep kiss, which was pretty surprising—your own behavior almost scared you, as you didn’t even care about people watching you making out. Deftly, he grabbed your waist to lift you up, but your audible protest compelled him to stop.

“Pat-Patrick…” you whispered against his mouth. “P-please, don’t forget where we are…”

“I know, I know,” he snickered softly, hiding his face in the curve of your neck. “I just missed my Cupcake so much.”

With a dull grin on your face, you pulled away from him to look into his dark brown eyes. "Really?" After you asked that, you glanced at the blonde girl behind his back, who was now talking to a middle-aged woman, probably the assistant.

“Time literally stopped for me when you left.”

'What a beautiful flattery.'

After a while, you changed into the next dress because all the previous options didn't get Bateman's attention, even though you really liked them. You were struggling with a clasp when you heard him whine in anticipation.

“Baby, did you fall asleep in there?”

“Almost ready!” You blurted out before fixing the dress straps on your shoulders.

And then you walked out of the dressing room to the circular runway, and yes, this boutique had a special VIP area with a fucking runway.

"Finally, my favorite style," Patrick flattered, sitting in the leather chair and holding a glass of mineral water with a little lime. "Mm-mm, this dress outlines your tits so perfectly, not gonna lie, I like it."

A bit humiliated, you were constantly fixing the hem of the dress as it was too short for you, especially when Bateman was looking at you so vigilantly, making you feel yourself like a picture in some art gallery.

"Baby, turn around and…" he paused, crossing his long legs and pressing a finger to his lips. "Stop crawling! Square your shoulders and straighten your back!"

You turned around, unable to hide your sadness. "I… I don't feel comfortable in this. It's too short," you glanced at his annoyed face, wondering if you should continue. "I'm almost naked!"

"But that's the point!" Patrick tilted his hand to the side and was silent for quite a while, clearly thinking about something. "You know what, Cupcake?"

“What?”

"I'll be honest, this dress is amazing, but… unfortunately not on you," he scoffed before taking a sip of water. "It's not a problem, honey. Just take it as motivation to be better."

Biting your lip, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't try to hide your pain and resentment, but your voice sounded dejected anyway. “Of course… keep pretending that you didn’t expect this…”

Humming to himself, Bateman squinted his eyes and leaned on his knees. “Expected what?”

“That these slutty dresses wouldn't fit me,” you glared at him, your body was yearning to get rid of this dress as quickly as possible. “Goddamn, I have enough of this…I hope you enjoyed this little performance!”

After saying that, you turned around and went back into the dressing room. Trembling with rage, you didn't even care what would come next as the searing flame of injustice overtook your mind. No way would you allow anyone to treat you like that.

"Shit!" You cursed as you attempted to undo the fucking clasp on your back, but it didn't seem to work.

"If you keep pulling like that, you'll tear it apart for sure," his unexpectedly gruff baritone shot through your back like an arrow. "Let me help you."

"No!" You almost screamed, turning sharply to face him. Your chest rose and fell so abruptly that you thought you would choke on the air.

Sneering, Bateman gently extended a hand as if you were a wild beast he planned to tame. “Cupcake,” he was getting closer, forcing you to walk backwards. “Tell me…what’s wrong?”

"What's wrong?" You kept stepping back until you suddenly bumped into the wall behind you. "Maybe you should ask yourself first?"

"I think you should stop pouting or you will get wrinkles," he tried to be nice to you, but it only made you more upset. "I don't think either one of us wants that to happen, am I right, honey?"

“Stop it, Patrick…”

“Mm-mhh, it’s just Patrick now?” You didn’t even notice that his massive figure was already towering over you, pressing you a little against the wall. “No ‘Daddy’ anymore?”

Possessively, Patrick strived to cup your face, but you flinched away from his touch, coaxing a warning growl to break from his perfectly shaped lips.

“Can you just leave and let me change?”

“Jesus, (y/n)...you’re acting like a stubborn child!”

Panting, you leaned your hands against his firm chest to push him away a bit. "Do you really think I'm in the mood…after all the rude things you said?"

He chuckled, looking at you from above and giving you a feeling of being so small compared to him, you almost stopped breathing. “Rude things?” laughing again, Bateman trapped you between his arms as he put them from both sides of your head. “I always say what I think, there’s nothing special about it…”

"More likely, you always think only of yourself," your voice wavered, and you found it hard to breathe, as if he was sucking all the oxygen out of the air. "Let's just skip this, if you still want me to go with you..."

“No, I don’t need you to do me a favor.” Patrick shushed you with a finger, pressing it against your lips, leaving you trembling like a leaf.

“And I don’t need your help!” You tried to break away, but he kept you in one place.

“Oh, is that so, honey?” he crooned in a sweet tone, rubbing his nose against yours; his seductive aura was almost intoxicating, it was corrupting your mind stronger than anything else in this world. “Honestly, I just wanted to help you undo the clasp but now… now, I want more than that…”

With no delay, Bateman covered your mouth his heated one, wrapping his brawny hands around your quivering frame and spreading your legs with his knee. Suffocated, you didn’t react, feeling his hard bulge brushing against your mound—a muffled moan of sudden pleasure pierced through your bonded lips, sending chills down you spin; your cute reaction didn’t surprise him, but Patrick couldn’t hide his satisfied grin as his hands were already pulling down the straps of your dress.

And only now, you desperately clawed at his shoulders, weakly pushing him back, not understanding that your attempts to fight him were only putting gasoline on a fire, encouraging him to sprawl you against the wall, pinning your hands against your head.

"P-Patrick!" The way you almost screamed his name made you both tremble with ravenous lust as you looked into each other's eyes, not really knowing if you wanted him to let you go or hold you forever.

Growling quietly, Bateman continued to move along your longing body, forcing you to hook your hip around his loin, so you could grind against his hard groin. “Feeling good, darling?”

'No, not good...no!'

“Yes-s! Mmm-mh…Daddy… ahh!” Oh God, that was the end.

"Baby," he murmured in your ear, thrusting his firm thighs into yours and shamelessly groping your bottom. "Daddy doesn't like to see his sweet Cupcake upset."

"Maybe...n-next time Daddy will think more before he talks." You stammered from the beat of your heart.

“Do ya want me to bite this little sharp tongue?” panting, Patrick punctuated his words with rough smacks on your butt, which could be surely heard outside the dressing room. “I’ll teach you how to behave.”

Smoothly, Bateman pulled down the top of your dress, letting your breasts to bounce out from it, and the next second his greedy mouth was already sucking on your taut nipple.

"Mmm…Gosh." You arched your back as the last vestiges of your self-control seemed to disappear along with your ability to resist this man.

Switching between your engorged peaks, Patrick didn’t stop rubbing against your mound not even for a moment, your throbbing pussy was about to explode at any second. Thirsty, he tugged on your tip with a squelch, enjoying each little whine you made, but he still needed more.

“Turn around,” he urged briefly, licking his lips in hunger as he watched you bent over in front of him. “Oh-fuck, I can smell your sweet arousal… mmm,” snuggling into you, Bateman left a wet hickey on the back of your neck before he started to move down, peppering your exposed skin with hot sloppy kisses. “C’mon, Cupcake, spread your legs for me.”

As if hypnotized, you obeyed and before you even noticed, his long fingers were teasing your sensitive clit trough your so-fucking-wet panties. Clinging to the wall, you were about to moan when you sensed his big palm on your chin, his hot breathing was mercilessly burning the delicate skin of your throat while his rock-hard bulge was still pressed against your ass.

“Aa-aww, Daddy….mhm.” You muffled against your own hand before turning around to give him your most innocent look–he read it almost right away.

“So, you need my help?” bastard! – you almost said it out loud, but Bateman was faster as he slid his thumb into your mouth, and you started to suck it like medicine you couldn’t live without. “Ahh-look at ya… Such a little slutty girl, can’t function without Daddy’s finger inside her dirty mouth…”

Twitching under his massive weight, you could only think of his skilful digits playing with your pussy better than you ever wished for, damn you were already so close but it seemed like Partick's endless craving spurred him on to tear you apart completely.

With no words, Bateman knelt behind your back to pull up the hem of your dress, and soon you had to compress your lips so tightly, as loud nasty sounds were about to erupt from your fiery chest when he finally moved your underwear to the side and his plump lips covered your feverish cunt.

“Oh-mmmy God,” tensed like a string, you didn’t know if you wanted to cry or to laugh, or all these things together from how his masterful tongue was pushing you over the edge. “Mmm-Patrick-” you suppressed another moan when he bit one of your buttocks before spreading them wide open to push two fingers inside your blushing pussy. “A-aah-Daddy, I’m so close… p-please!”

Patrick only purred something incoherently in response, as he continued to lick your engorged folds and pumping your tight hole with his experienced digits. His persistent ministrations made you totally lose your mind, and now you didn’t understand were you begging him to stop or to NEVER stop.

When your legs shook in his grip, you heard his raspy snarl: “Not yet, Cupcake…Not yet!”

'And he just stopped, holy hell.'

Your miserable sobbing bounced against the walls of the dressing room as the coil in your lower belly was yearning for its release, it was literally itching so hard you were ready to scratch the wall with your nails if it could help you a bit.

“(Y/N), you can’t even imagine how much I want to leave you just like that,” Bateman hissed, and then you heard the unzipping sound which caused your knees to buckle. "But I want to get all your stupid thoughts about acting like a brat… out of your head!"

Abruptly, Patrick put your legs together and the next second you felt his leaking tip between your legs, brushing against your soaked folds and making your squirm from ecstasy.

'This man have no barriers, he can reduce me to pieces so easily, like no one else, and I am sure he likes it.'

A small drops of sweat were running down his forehead as he watched his beefy cock slipping back and forth with a sleek sound; your overstimulated pussy was literally on fire.

“P-please…” You whimpered, bending ever lower to give him a better access to your spasming cunt.

“If you want to cum, you have to move, slut.” Groaning, Bateman stood still with his hands wrapped tightly around your hips. Mesmerised, he watched you grinding on his huge dick as you desperately chased your release. At that moment, your languid, heavy breathing was all that mattered to him.

Shivering erratically, you almost crested your high when Patrick harshly grasped your throat and pressed you against the wall, possessively he began to smack his cock against your clit, each slap he made was taking your breath away.

“Tell me, Cupcake…” he grunted against your neck, brushing his swollen tip along your throbbing nub barely sensible. “Who do you belong to?”

“You…Only y-you...”

Bateman squeezed your neck with blatant dominance and demanded in a low voice, "Uh, not quite convincing…try again."

“Aa-aww! I… I belong to you…Daddy!” You cried out through your pressed palm when he sped up the tempo, slapping your pussy with nasty wet sounds.

With a devilish smirk on his face, Patrick had to hold you still as you cummed so hard, gushing on his dick and fidgeting around the wall. Multiple waves of pleasure were washing over you like a waterfall, leaving you completely exhausted, you didn’t even have any power to moan.

And soon, you became limp in his powerful arms, allowing him peacefully patting your head as he praised you. “You can be a good girl when you really want to,” Bateman kissed your temple, fixing his pants. “But still, you could just let me help you with this fucking dress.”

“You can help me now…” You replied, hungrily catching the air.

Smugly, Patrick eventually undid the clasp on your dress, not missing the moment to leave a red mark on your shoulder blade as he sucked on your soft skin. “Speaking about dresses. Since my favourite one didn’t fit, you can choose whatever you want…I don’t really care.”

You sighed, smiling ironically to yourself. “Great!”

Bateman didn’t stop smirking even for a second, he was so pleased with himself that he didn’t notice your sarcastic intonation, he just ignored it, as usual. “Come out when you are ready, I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

“What for? I can pay for this myself.”

His cheesy titter unpleasantly cut your ear. “I don't want you to starve, babe,” you cast an angry glance at him, but he only stroked your cheek before adding: “You only need to be an obedient girl, and I'll give you as many gifts as you want.”

“But I didn’t ask...”

A sudden ring of his mobile phone got his attention, so he hushed you with a finger before quickly going out from the dressing room, leaving you alone with your inflaming rage.

Snorting tiredly, you mentally screwed him a million times in a row, changed your clothes and tried not to even think about eavesdropping on his conversation with whoever it was. As you left the dressing room, you heard the echo of his voice from nearby.

“Jesus, Evelyn! I’ve told you already, I can’t take the time off work.”

At that moment, you could swear your legs weren't listening as they led you straight to the source of the sound. With your heart beating, you halted near the dressing room when his voice suddenly fell silent, and the next second the curtain was carelessly pulled aside so that your frightened eyes met his furious ones.

'Oops!'

Annoyed, Patrick stared at you with his hands crossed on his chest. It was too late to run now, so you stood still and heard him saying:

"Are you lost?" With a cocky grin, he picked up his briefcase and stepped closer to you.

"No...I mean, yes. Probably," your cheeks burned from the inside as the strong feeling of embarrassment hit you like a truck. "I was just looking for you and..."

"Aha," he crooned before towering over you, grabbing you possessively by the waist and leaning down to whisper in your ear: "Do you know the proverb 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

"I haven't heard it since I was a kid," you confessed, swallowing hard as you watched him taking the dresses from your hands, the mysterious grin never leaving his face. "Sorry, I really didn't mean to eavesdrop."

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Haughtily, Patrick winked at you, and that was really confusing because his unpredictable mood changes were the most difficult puzzle you had ever known.

“You don’t even want to see which dress I chose?”

"Not really, I'll see it tomorrow anyway," his voice sounded more stern now. "Unless you change your mind about going with me.”

He cast a challenging glance at you, but before you had a chance to reply, Bateman walked past you and gestured for you to follow. Slightly disappointed, you went after him and soon you made it to the hall where all this shit started.

"So, did the young lady find something to her taste?" The stylist asked as soon as he saw you coming.

"Yep," Patrick let him pick up the dresses and put them on the big table next to the beautiful leather couch on which Bateman kept looking in disgust and you didn't even know why. "(Y/n), c'mon, point with your finger to which dress you like?"

The way he cooed to you was absolutely stunning. Sometimes it seemed like he could read you like an open book, and that only made you feel insecure.

"I think this one." You replied with a shy smile.

"Nice, very nice!" Mr. Graham exclaimed before calling for an assistant to pack your dress. "That will be 2800 dollars, sir."

Satisfied, Bateman hummed to himself and pulled out his wallet. "Do you take credit cards?"

"Of course!"

All the while, you were pretty shocked by the price for just a piece of fabric. Frowning, you didn’t even realize you were saying it out loud. "2800 dollars, for this?"

Everyone, including Patrick, turned to look at you; the stylist was seriously confused and he just mumbled: "Excuse me?"

"Huh, don't worry," Bateman chuckled and handed him his platinum AmEx credit card. "She just can't believe I finally bought her a dress of your brand. Am I right, dear?"

When Patrick glanced at you, you felt a cold breeze run through your body—he must have been really angry. "Mmm, yes! I have been dreaming about this for so long."

Even though you were not an actress, your words sounded more than natural. Both men smiled at each other and proceeded with the payment procedure.

All the way back to his apartment you both remained almost silent. Patrick continued to listen to the rock track he had paused on before going into the store, looking at you from time to time when you didn't see him, his hand fidgeting with the hem of your new dress that was lying on your knees. Yet, you couldn't believe he'd just bought you a dress that cost more than your monthly rent. You hated to owe someone, but now you felt like you did, and it was killing you from the inside...because you didn't ask him to get you that dress, you didn't ask him for anything, and still he was trying to push you into the world of luxury where you would be a stranger forever.

'Bullshit.'

"(Y/n), what's on your mind?" His sudden question caught you off guard, and you almost bit your tongue. Why did he even ask, when it seemed he could read your mind?

Fidgeting in your seat, you turned away from the window and gazed into his brown eyes, now filled with an unrivaled enigma. "Just thinking about how to survive all the challenges you have set for me."

You heard him laugh softly, and before you could continue, he hugged your shoulders and snuggled into your small frame, the heat his body was radiating melted the cold shell you had been building up since the moment he decided to 'help' you in the dressing room.

“Challenges?” Patrick rejoined, nuzzling against your neck as he pulled your collar down a bit.

“Yes, Patrick,” you were trying to hold yourself as much as you could, not giving him more weaknesses to play around. “You know how much I hate all these fancy things which are made only for rich people.”

Bateman only purred something incoherently against your skin, tickling it a bit. “Cupcake…I think you need to relax.”

“Relax?”

“Yes, baby,” he tugged you closer, his nose was nearly rubbing against yours. 'Goddamn!' “Relax and take it easy.”

"Stop, stop, stop..." you pushed him away a bit, forcing his headphones to slide down his head completely. "You've reminded me almost every day...that I'm not from 'your world', that I'm just a mortal who can't afford to buy fucking clothes that cost a fortune...and now you're telling me to just relax?"

Patrick huffed and rolled his eyes. “(Y/n)...don’t even start this conversation again.”

“You’re such an…”

Despite the fact that the partition in the cab was closed, it seemed as if the taxi driver heard your loud voice, and the next moment he opened it to ask you if everything was all right.

When you said that everything was fine, he started to drive again and you clenched your palms into fists, feeling the embarrassment and anger fighting in your mind.

"You're ashamed of me, aren't you?" You wondered without looking at him.

The way Bateman exhaled was not a good sign. "When you make such scenes—yes, I am."

Sighing, you pressed a hand to your forehead. Damn, he was affecting you so badly and you hated yourself for it, for being so weak next to him, so vulnerable...you were literally losing yourself.

His apartment looked perfect as always, so clean, so posh, but there was something strange this time as you walked across the living room and saw a large bouquet of white roses on his kitchen island.

"Mmm, such beautiful flowers!" You approached them to inhale their scent.

"Yeah," he stated from behind, placing your dress on the back of his white couch. "I bought them for you."

Stunned, you broke away from them as if you were pricked. “For me?”

"I'm not going to repeat it," Patrick blurted out, walking into the kitchen to grab a glass and a bottle of super expensive whiskey. "Besides, I don't think it makes any sense now."

'Excellent.'

Without asking, Bateman set a glass on the bar counter in front of you as you took a seat near it. Still frowning with irritation, he poured some red wine for you, and when you were about to thank him, he just strolled away. The situation was rather unconventional, to say the least, and you didn't really know what to do, maybe just leave?

"Patrick, I think we both need to cool off a bit...right?" you sipped at your wine, waiting for his answer, but he continued to ignore you. "I'm going to finish my drink and probably go home."

"Whatever." Was all he said, standing with his back to your face, clearly thinking about something.

Upset, you stifled a sad gasp and took the glass before getting up. When you reached his white couch to have a look at your dress for distraction, you suddenly heard his challenging voice:

"You want to know who Evilyn is, don't you?"

Paralyzed, you almost choke on your wine. After coughing a little, you turned to see him standing near the coffee table with his hands in his pockets. This was getting serious.

"I don't understand, why do you ask?"

Patrick chuckled loudly and shook his head in disbelief. "Stop acting like a fool, Cupcake. I know you want this, I can even feel it," his face grimaced a bit dangerously while his eyes were getting darker by the second. "You've wanted it since we left the boutique, that's why you started acting like a bitch."

Trembling with burning rage, you squeezed the glass, almost breaking it. "I'm not in the mood for scenes, you know," you countered, not even noticing that you took a few confident steps toward him. "When I leave, you can bring Evelyn, Courtney, Meredith, whoever… and confront them for as long as you want!"

"Or maybe we can all have some fun together, huh?" he drawled the last words, enjoying the sight of your angry expression. "There's plenty of me to go around."

Scowling, you wanted to spit in his face, or slap him, or both. But instead, you just smiled and that was a little unexpected for him. "You're sick, Patrick. And I feel really sorry for you."

After saying that, you turned away from him to pick up the dress – you wanted to leave this place as soon as possible, so you even forgot about the glass in your hand.

"Of the two of us, you are the one who really needs some grief," his voice hurt you like a slow-acting poison, it was excruciating. Before Bateman returned to the kitchen, he added, "Evelyn is my fiancée, and has been all along. What an unpleasant surprise?"

A loud sound of broken glass echoed through the living room as soon as you heard his last words. It was a real miracle that the wine didn't splash onto the luxurious fabric of his white couch, but you didn't really care at that moment, with your heart beating so crazy in your chest. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and stood still, not hearing Patrick's footsteps behind you.

'Damn, that glass must have cost a fortune.'

"Cupcake..."

"I know!" You cut him off, raising your trembling hands in the air. "I'll return the money...just tell me how much it costs?"

'Don't cry. Please, don't cry!' But you did, and when you felt his warm hand wrap around your forearm, you tried to push him away, yelping:

"Give me...give me something to clean the floor!"

"(Y/n), calm down! You're bleeding."

"What?" you gasped, opening your eyes wide before looking down at your feet to see blood running down your ankle as a sharp piece of glass sank into your soft skin. Only then did you realize you were injured, a sharp pain hitting your brain like a lightning strike. “Oh, God…I thought it was w-wine…” You stammered as that was the end point for your nervous system.

With no more waiting, Bateman carefully took you in his arms to lift you up. Sobbing, you let him carry you into the bathroom and sat on the edge of his beautiful black tub. Gently, he removed your shoes and stretched out your bruised leg to assess the damage.

"Is it that bad?" You asked him in a shaky voice, trying not to look down at the wound.

"No, but it would be better if you stopped flinching." He insisted, releasing your leg and going to the sink to get antiseptic, tweezers, bandages and cotton pads.

As Patrick knelt before you, holding a pair of tweezers, time seemed to freeze for you, but then you screamed from the itching pain as he carefully pulled the shard of glass from your ankle.

"Mmmh," you mumbled through your palm when he pressed a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. "Shit…I am so clumsy and reckless..."

"You are," Bateman murmured as he wrapped a bandage around your leg. Every move he made was very gentle and accurate. "But still, you are mine."

"No, I'm not," you struggled to free yourself from his grip, but his hands held your leg very tightly. "We both know that's not true..."

Shivering, you peered down at him as he remained on his knee beside you. Almost immediately, his hazel eyes locked with yours, mesmerizing as always. "Why is it always so difficult with you?"

“Ask yourself.”

The moment you attempted to get up, you almost fell on the floor, but Patrick caught you in his arms at the last second.

"Patrick, let me go..." you pushed him into his chest to get some distance, but he didn't even move. "I will leave and forget everything that happened between us. Just like you wanted!"

"I never said I wanted to!" he growled, holding you closer so you could almost feel his fast heartbeat. "Why can't you just be a good girl and accept what I give you?"

"Oh, you've already given me enough, believe me!"

Annoyed, Bateman just shook his head before pressing a finger to your lips, silencing you and taking your breath away.

'No, no, no. Not again'

You swallowed hard as you felt his thumb slide up to your cheek to wipe away your salty tears.

'Stop.'

"Cupcake."

'His voice, his scent, his brawny body.'

"Look at me," Patrick whispered sweetly, and you felt yourself going limp in his strong arms, so you obeyed and let him kiss your temple. "You're driving me crazy and I hate it...because I'm so fucking obsessed with you!"

One sharp breath and his lips were on yours, forcing your hands to claw at his jacket, but Bateman only pulled you closer, deepening the kiss as his wet tongue played with yours. Panting against his mouth, you couldn't help but run your fingers through his soft hair, making it look so messy, but Patrick didn't care. Slowly, he lifted you up a bit to set you down on the sink opposite his bathtub, peppering your neck with little pecks.

"Daddy."

Just one simple word could turn this man into a savage beast, you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself as your inner nature yearned for him and it felt like you were meant for each other, two broken souls finally found each other.

"Cupcake." He kissed your lips briefly before moving down to your cleavage and unbuttoning your shirt, his hot breath tickling your bare skin.

Everything about him was so intoxicating that your clouded mind refused to function at all and now you couldn't hear your inner voice begging you to stop.

Quivering, you arched your back a little to give him better access, and immediately you heard him growl against your collarbone as he finally undid your shirt. Patrick didn't even bother to remove your bra - he just pulled it down, revealing your taut nipples; he licked his lips at the sight of them and then his greedy mouth was already devouring one of them.

"A-awwww," you mewled, hugging his shoulders as you literally melted under his touch. "Mmm, please!"

"Please what?" He looked at you, twisting your hard peak between his skilled fingers.

"I..." you hiccupped from the way Bateman spread your legs as he nestled into you with pure possession, groping your hip and licking your neck. "I... don't know... Gosh!"

This was pure madness, what was consuming your mind, with every kiss he made, breaking all your barriers, the more you tried to resist it, the more it hit you back. Panting, you threw your head back and felt your eyes begin to water again as his strong hands caressed your trembling little body. Never in your life had you felt so lost. Never.

"Relax, sweetheart," Patrick mused into your ear as he slid his palm between your legs. And of course you were so shamelessly wet that you could flood his floor. "I got you."

"I can't, a-aah..." You sighed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Yes, you can," Bateman planted another sloppy kiss on your neck before grabbing your hand to press it against the hard bulge in his pants. "I couldn't stop thinking..." he paused, drinking in your stifled moans as he gave your clit a few slight rubs. "Do you think about me, Cupcake? I know you do..."

"Mm-mhh," your hands roamed desperately down his broad back, fumbling with the smooth fabric of his suit. "And I...ahh-I know you don't think about me..."

A loud whimper fell from your lips as he shoved two fingers into your dripping pussy, almost causing you to bump your head against the mirror behind, but he prevented it by wrapping his hand around your neck.

"You're mistaken," his low groan echoed against the walls of his bathroom, sending shivers down your spine and coaxing your inner muscles to spasm around his fingers as they mercilessly rammed in and out of your throbbing cunt. "Because you know nothing about me," Patrick curled his fingers to stimulate your most sensitive spot, gritting his teeth as his aching cock was about to explode with ravenous desire. "Now be a sweet girl like you always are and..."

"Owwww!" you screamed in sharp pain as he accidentally pushed on your wound. “It hurts!”

"Fuck, I forgot...damn it!" He cursed and removed his hand from your leg.

Seizing the moment of his confusion, you slipped out of his embrace and nearly ran for the door, and thank God it was open, because when you heard his almost furious groan, your heart skipped a beat:

"Come back!"

"No, it can't be like this," you leaned against the door, holding out a hand defensively. "Not after what you said..."

Trembling, you watched him breathe heavily through his red nostrils, his wild gaze seeming to burn you alive as his self-control was about to snap. Scared, you weren't sure what to expect from him next, so you decided to leave this place right now, while it was still not too late.

Quickly, you walked into his living room and grabbed the damn dress, trying not to think about the broken glass and spilled wine. To be fair, you thought Patrick was going to chase you or threaten you with punishment, but none of that happened as he stayed in his bathroom. It was suspicious, but you would think about it later.

As you were about to leave, you walked past the open door to the bathroom and told yourself to just go and not look back. But when you reached the front door, you froze and sobbed - your heart sinking while your mind was waving a red flag.

'Just leave, please!'

Huffing, you turned and walked back to the open door. The scene you saw was not what you expected, it simply broke your heart - Bateman was standing still by the sink, leaning on his hands with his head bowed.

"Patrick."

"You're still here?" He asked without looking at you.

"I'll go with you tomorrow...but I'm not doing it for you," your voice wavered, but you didn't allow yourself to sound weak. "I just wanted to make that clear."

And then you left him alone in his super luxurious apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side. No matter how hard you tried to hold back your tears, they kept slipping down your cheeks. Even when you were in the cab on your way home, your soul was still aching because it seemed like the wounds he made couldn't be healed.

When the night came, there were only a few windows with lights on, and Patrick's bedroom window was one of them.

Irritated, Bateman lay on his bed while a blonde girl sucked him off, bobbing her head up and down at a fast tempo. There was no denying that she was trying her best to give him as much pleasure as possible, but he felt nothing, literally no emotions – only the dark void inside his mind.

"(Y/n), you're doing everything wrong...not the way I like it!" Patrick grumbled, pulling on the girl's hair.

"Who?" She asked confusedly, looking up at him. "My name is Meredith, in case you forgot, honey."

Bateman just laughed and carelessly pushed her down, forcing her to continue. "Shut your fucking mouth and suck my dick. You stupid whore!"

Meredith was making too many noises which annoyed him so much as he was trying to concentrate on dreaming of you—your beautiful face, your innocent sparkling eyes. Although this girl was very pretty, definitely 'his type', there was not a single trace of you and he thought he would never reach his high.

"Mmhm, Patrick…Maybe you will fuck me already?"

"Maybe," he sighed, watching her laying on her back with undisguised excitement, but then he frowned in a weird disgust. "No, get on your knees. I can't see your fucking face."

"W-what? What's wrong with you today?Ah!"

Angrily, he slapped her hip and rolled her onto her stomach. Without any preparation, he bottomed out, closing his eyes and thinking about the way you twitched every time he thrust inside you. Speeding up his pounding, Patrick finally felt his orgasm building up inside his body when she suddenly moaned. "Oh, yeah! Daddy, it feels so good!"

That was not even rage, it was something beyond that. Brutally, he squeezed her neck, almost choking her, and growled near her ear as he leaned down. "Never call me that! Understand?" he yanked her against the bed, still clutching her throat, and only when she was on the verge of asphyxia he released her, fucking her harder and gritting his teeth. "Fucking bitch, you should thank me for not killing you."

Camera flashes never stopped clicking in front of your eyes, you almost thought it was impossible to hide from them. They were literally everywhere, as were the countless supermodels and rich yuppies who looked at them without shame, their hungry eyes ready to eat them alive.

"Hey, are you trying to get lost or what?"

With a soft gasp, you stopped and turned around to see Patrick's irritated face as you walked through the huge hall, every part of which gave you strong vibes of luxury lifestyle.

"I don't think you'd notice my absence anyway," you replied, walking straight until his arm wrapped around your waist, causing your lungs to spasm from the sudden lack of oxygen. "Patrick?"

"Listen to me," he pulled you closer and leaned down to your ear, whispering in a serious tone. "There are a lot of bad people here who came for more than just fashion."

"Even worse than you?"

He scowled, but continued. "Much worse, believe me."

"Don't pretend you care," you tried to walk away, brushing his hand aside, but he tightened his grip. "Get off me!"

"You're too naive and innocent. I don't want you getting into trouble while you're here with me." Tensed, Bateman stroked your back to calm you down a bit as he noticed the people around starting to stare at you.

"That's very sweet, but I don't need your 'protection'...I'm pretty sure you came here for the same reason as all the other yuppies."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, okay? Let's get to our seats," he said possessively, easily cradling you in his arms, covering your small frame like a cocoon. "We have the best seats, by the way. Right next to the runaway."

"Amazing," you murmured as he led you through the endless crowds. "Not a single model will escape your gaze."

"That's right."

Frowning, you were about to slip out of his grip when suddenly someone ran into you, stomping painfully on your feet.

"Ouch!" Your loud whimper caused Patrick to turn in your direction, but then he froze as he looked over your shoulder at the blonde girl who was immediately apologizing.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry..." the familiar voice hit you like a bolt of lightning. "I can be so clumsy," she touched her forehead before locking her lost gaze with Bateman's. "Patrick?"

That was Courtney. There was no doubt it was her, especially when she smiled at him so brightly it could easily outshine the Sun.

"Hello, Courtney. It's so good to see you!" Patrick crooned gallantly, his arms finally releasing your shivering body.

But even if a few minutes ago you wanted him to take his hands off you, now you were feeling a bit upset that he actually did.

"How could I miss this?" She asked flirtatiously, completely ignoring your presence. "Where are your seats?"

"Yeah, where are they?" You blurted out abruptly, making them both almost jump. "I just don't want to interrupt your sweet conversation and..."

You almost hissed from the sudden pain as you felt his firm hand on your ass, pinching your buttocks. His face didn't change, though, as he continued to grin haughtily, his eyes never ceasing to roam over Courtney's pretty body. With slight irritation, Bateman approached your neck and whispered in your ear how to get to your seats, then nibbled briefly on your earlobe as a sign of his displeasure, but you didn't pay any attention.

"Thank you, Daddy." You uttered the last word in the most disgustingly sweet way you could and strolled away without looking back. No matter how much you wanted to, you just couldn't.

Patrick wasn't lying—the seats were really so close to the runway that you could probably see every little detail on the models' clothes.

After about fifteen minutes, it was getting dark, which meant that the show was about to start. You fidgeted in your seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but it just didn't work, your butt was still sore from Bateman's pinch.

As soon as you remembered him, you heard his voice as he moved across the seats to reach his place. Patrick grinned at you smugly as he sat down next to you, crossing one leg over the other and fixing his hair.

"You must be very pleased with yourself, Cupcake?" He asked mockingly.

You scowled and pretended not to understand what he was saying as the music turned up really loud: "I can't hear you."

Patrick just chuckled softly, put a hand on the back of your seat and moved closer. "I said you look so beautiful today."

'God, what a jerk.'

"Can't say the same about you."

"Uh, such an angry little kitten," Bateman laughed, looking at you from under his beautiful lashes. "I don't think I'll survive this."

"You really think I care?"

And then the show started, unfortunately not allowing you to finish what you were about to say. As expected, the models looked gorgeous and the clothes they were wearing were absolutely amazing—you had to admit that. Although you tried your best not to notice the way Patrick was staring at the girls on the runway, you had to claw at your skin when one of them winked at him without any shame.

"This is the grace I've been telling you about," he bowed closer to you to make sure you heard what he was saying. "The perfect example of feminine beauty."

You smiled ironically and replied without looking at him: "The real beauty begins when the boys come out."

Your sudden statement elicited a muffled groan from his chest, but Bateman simply nodded and turned away from you. From that moment on, he was almost silent, and it was a little strange, but as the male models appeared on the runway, you stopped analyzing and just enjoyed the handsome men walking back and forth in front of you. Everything was fine until one of the models found your eyes in the crowd and smiled at you. And of course Patrick wouldn't miss it.

"Do you like him?"

"W-who?" You stammered, feeling his warm hand on your knee.

"The model who just walked by," he murmured, stroking your exposed skin under the hem of your dress, sensing the way you tensed under his touch. "Maybe you should go talk to him after the show."

Shit, you couldn't believe he meant it or... you just didn't want to believe it?

"I'm not like you, Patrick," you chastised, feeling so damned angry as his words cut painfully through your heart. "You sometimes forget that not everyone is like that..."

"Like what?" Bateman scoffed with a raised eyebrow.

"You know what I mean." You added with a teasing smile and turned away from him, but he immediately grabbed your face, forcing you to squeal from the unexpectedness.

"No, I don't," he scoffed, pushing on your jaw. "C'mon, Cupcake, tell me."

The surrounding darkness came in handy in this situation, not to mention the fact that almost everyone was focused on watching the show, so Bateman felt pretty confident knowing that no one would notice your little fight here.

"Get off!" You hissed, wrapping both your hands around his wrist in an attempt to pry it away.

"Awww, look at those little hands," he pulled you closer, so you could feel his hot breath on your trembling lips. "You are so small and yet so brave. It fascinates me, I won't lie."

You froze for a second as his words caught you off guard. Blinking several times, you didn't even notice that his large palm was now gently stroking your chin, moving up to your cheek and ending this little intimate moment by pressing lightly on your half-opened lips.

Actually, that was the worst thing he could do at that moment, because his illusory softness and tenderness hurts like hell. It was like a sweet candy with a sharp blade inside.

Just as you realized how close your faces were, you tried to pull away, but Patrick's grip was too tight. Fixing you in place by your chin, he captured your mouth with his, hungrily relishing your taste, your shiver, your muffled gasp against his lips. Bateman tested your limits so masterfully that every little move he made was as precise as his side profile. Slowly he wrapped one hand around your neck while another was already resting on your waist, the kiss you shared was something more than just physical contact, and you let yourself sink into the flow of emotions, closing your eyes and letting him kiss deeper. You almost moaned, but the surrounding music of the show drowned out any obscene sounds that tried to escape your swollen lips.

His strong, warm tongue danced along yours, not even giving you a chance to take the lead, so you just opened your mouth wider and let your noses brush together, forcing your hearts to beat in a crazy rhythm.

God, this man was the darkest curse... the most delightful blessing.

After a few seconds, the people around started applauding so loudly that you had to open your eyes just as the lights came on. The strange delusion that was like a white veil behind your vision began to fade, and only then did you and Patrick realize that you were both staring at each other, your mouths still pressed together.

A second, two seconds.

It seemed as if you were both waiting to see who would break away first, and as soon as you heard someone coughing behind your back, you pulled away from Patrick's strong arms, but you knew that you only managed to break free because he let you.

"Patrick! I thought I wouldn't see you here!" A familiar female voice echoed from above and you didn't even bother to turn around to see another bimbo Bateman was hanging out with.

Shit, what if she saw what you were doing?

At first you thought Patrick would pretend he didn't know you or something, but instead Bateman smiled smugly and put his hand on the back of your chair.

Annoyed, but still as majestic as a lion, he looked up at the blonde and said quickly: "Hi, Meredith."

Her face turned into a sad grimace, though she pretended that Bateman's indifference didn't upset her. Obviously, Meredith was outraged and needed someone to take her anger out on.

With a haughty grin, she scoffed and almost stepped on your foot. "I don't understand, how can a man like you go out with someone like... her?"

Damn, that was such an obvious insult that it didn't even trigger a single emotion, you just gave her a deadly stare when you finally met her little eyes and you could swear that you saw a trace of fear in them.

"I asked myself the same question," you muttered suddenly, getting up from your seat and looking at Patrick, whose perfect eyebrows now frowned, especially when he understood what you were you doing—he squeezed the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white. "Have a nice evening."

With those words, you quickly walked away, and you were so damn glad that Bateman decided not to follow you, because with every step you took, your eyes got more and more watery.

"How did she even get here? Ugly people like that should stay at home to avoid traumatizing anyone." Meredith hissed as she watched your little figure moving away from them. "Who is she?"

Patrick chuckled, then did his classic move of parrying the question with his natural charm. "Oh, you're so mean," he muttered as he watched the blonde take your seat next to him. Playfully, Bateman pinched her nose and they both started to giggle, no matter how disgusted he felt himself right now, he wouldn't admit that your sudden leaving made him sad. "Such an angry little bitch."

You couldn't remember how you found your way to the ladies' room, but as soon as you stepped up to the sink and looked in the mirror, you scowled and clenched your fists from the sharp pain in your chest.

"I... I hate you so much!" You hissed in a trembling voice, not really knowing who you were addressing, yourself or Patrick, who was probably already taking the blonde bimbo to his place.

His womanizer nature was not a secret, so why did it hurt so fucking much?

Depressed by your weakness towards this man, you wanted to smash the mirror to stop seeing this sad face covered with tears, but you heard someone coming, so you just froze in place with your trembling hands in the air. A model walked past you and accidentally bumped your shoulder.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She squealed and opened the fauster to wash her hands.

Even though you understood that she didn't do it on purpose, it made you so mad that you almost ran out of the bathroom, loudly slamming the door behind you.

The moment you realized that you couldn't remember how to get out of here made all your insides cramp like a spring, and you thought you were just going to fall to the floor from a sudden fear of being lost. 'Fuck, not now, not now!'

Quivering, you looked around, searching for... Patrick? But instead of him, you could only see an endless number of beautiful models strolling here and there. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath to calm yourself, but when that didn't help, your legs seemed to give way, and you slipped against the wall until you rested on the floor. This panic attack was nothing compared to the ones you had before, your heart pounding painfully against your chest as if trying to burst through it. Things got worse when you felt the lack of oxygen as you literally suffocated with panic and your body burned from the inside out.

The group of models stood by and noticed your small, shivering form, rocking back and forth with your hands wrapped around your head.

"Hey! Are you okay?" One of them approached you and crouched down beside you, trying to help you up, but you refused.

"Don't touch her, Lizzy! Maybe she's on drugs. Let's go already!"

"No, wait... she clearly needs help," the models looked at each other, one of them trying to pat your shoulder to calm you down, while her friend tapped her foot annoyingly. "Are you in pain? Did someone hurt you?"

"N-no," you finally mumbled, opening your eyes to see that not only two, but many of these girls were already gathered around you. "I— I'm fine, I'm sorry... I'm just..."

Lost.

Jesus, that was so embarrassing that the words just stuck in your throat like a lump, and now you felt like a little girl who got lost in the big mall when she decided to run away from her parents.

"What's going on here?" That voice made you almost faint. "Get away!"

A bit roughly, Bateman pulled the model away from you and leaned down to your shivering form.

"HEY! We were just trying to help!"

"Go away! All of you!" He turned and barked at all the girls watching the scene. "Get the hell out of here, there is nothing to look at!"

Your head was spinning, at first you couldn't even believe it was him, hiding you from everyone with his broad, tall figure, as if he was trying to… protect you?

"Cupcake? Cupcake, look at me," his worried cooing made you submit, making you want to believe that he was really concerned about you. Gently, he cupped your face and stroked your slightly disheveled hair. "What happened?"

At first, you didn't say anything — you were paralyzed, mesmerized by his brown eyes, which were gliding desperately up and down your body, checking every little part of it.

"Who did this to you?"

'You did.'

But he would never know.

"You came," you replied briefly. "Why?"

Patrick frowned at your answer and let out a tired sigh. "I've been looking for you since you left, because this place is huge, and I didn't want you to get into trouble, but," he paused and brushed your tears away concisely. "But it looks like I'm too late. God, you're so reckless," he shook his head and stood up.

As soon as Patrick did that, something clicked in your head, and you didn't even notice that you were already on your feet as you snuggled up to him and buried yourself in his arms with a deadly grip.

"Please, don't go!" You begged in a trembling voice, hugging him tighter. "Don't leave me!"

Shocked, Bateman didn't know how to react, his arms dropped motionlessly, but then he carefully placed them on your back, drawing invisible lines along your spine.

"I have to get our coats. You came here in your coat, did you forget?"

Blinking several times as you looked into his eyes, you replied softly: "Yeah… I did."

Patrick couldn't help but smile adorably. "Wait for me here, (y/n). I'll lead you outside, you'll feel better there." He explained and distanced himself from you. "Don't go anywhere! Got it?"

You nodded, and only then did he walk away. Without even looking back, he disappeared into the crowd.

Bateman was right, once you left the building your condition improved, and you could finally breathe in the fresh air, filling your lungs with the oxygen they so desperately needed. A cool wind blew into your face, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the emotions you were experiencing right now — the fact that Patrick had come for you, that he was looking for you, left you with no choice but to stifle a loud scream that you wanted so bad to let out.

Bateman remained silent, standing a short distance behind you, puffing on his cigar and watching the smoke rise from it.

"Has this ever happened to you before?" His question came out of nowhere.

You shrugged, but didn't turn around. "Yeah... it happens sometimes, especially in crowded places."

Bateman didn't say anything, but you could feel the tension between the two of you. Without a rush, he moved closer to you, watching you hug yourself — the difference in your sizes made him gulp, but he didn't dare touch you. Not yet.

"Why didn't you tell me then?" He whispered above your ear before smoking his cigar.

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It does."

"No!" You blurted out and turned round to face him. "It… doesn't."

The way he looked at you was enough to make you hold your breath and take a small step back, but the next moment you were already trapped in his sturdy arms, the sharp smell of snuff filling the air around you as he blew off several rings of smoke.

"You're not going anywhere now." His voice lowered, and you closed your eyes from the astonishing sensation of being caught in his strong hands, feeling his hot breath on your face.

"Patrick," you gasped and hugged him back, surprising him for a second. "Thank you for... for everything."

A loud cacophony of laughter and rumbling got your attention and you looked over his shoulder to see Meredith and her friends coming towards you. She seemed to spot you even faster than you spotted her, and now her eyes were bloodshot red.

"Can you," you stammered, feeling ashamed. "Can you kiss me?"

What the hell was going on inside your head?

Anyway, you didn't have time to reflect on this, because Patrick wasn't the type of person who needs to be asked twice. The moment his soft lips met yours, the ground under your feet seemed to disappear, so he had to hold you with both hands, not caring that his expensive cigar fell down. Even if you would blame yourself for that, all you could think about now was his strong hands sliding along your small form, outlining your curves as you let him do it, while he used his wet tongue to make you go limp in his embrace.

Sneakily, Patrick admired your beautiful face with his half-open eyes, probably not even realizing how much you meant to him, how deep you were rooted in his soul. But did he even have a soul in the first place?

When you broke the kiss, you didn't see Meredith or her friends anymore. Bateman noticed you were looking for something, so he turned to look at the direction of your gaze.

"Cupcake?" He was confused when he didn't see anyone. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Uh, yeah! I just thought I saw a familiar face," you lied, trying to act natural. "I... I should probably go home."

Patrick gave you a suspicious glance, still holding you in his arms. "Actually, I don't want to leave you alone after what happened."

"What do you mean?" you asked, a little disappointed. "I said I'm fine."

"Shhh," he pressed a finger to your lips, and you felt the smooth, cold leather of his glove. "I know you like to be bratty, but now isn't a good time. You really scared me."

Sighing, you dropped your head and covered his hand with both of yours. "I'm sorry, I... I didn't want you to see me like that."

To be honest, you didn't want anyone to see you like this because you hated looking weak in front of people. Especially in front of people like him, because it would automatically give him another trump card to play around with.

"Let me take you home." Bateman mumbled briefly, fixing your hair and then rubbing your neck to relax you.

"Aren't you afraid you'll have a heart attack coming to my place? It's not like your apartment in Manhattan."

He chuckled and pinched your cheek, leaving you confused and offended.

"Of course it's not," Patrick grinned and poked you in the nose. "I don't have any expectations."

You frowned and tried to push him back, but he only pressed you closer, nuzzling your neck and leaving a small hickey on it for which you were not ready — your muffled whimper made him sneer even louder.

"That's a pretty exhaustive answer," he didn't even allow you to say anything in return as he kissed you again, but this time much more passionately. "I'll get us a cab."

This man was like a hurricane that tossed everything around and no matter how many walls you built — he would break them down, one after the other, because nature couldn't be stopped. It seemed that you were completely disarmed against your own nature, because it was calling for him, it was pushing you into his possession, and you were already so tired of fighting these feelings.

There was something special about New York at night, when millions of lights were shining like diamonds, reflecting on the water of the Hudson River and taking your breath away with the feeling of being so small in such a huge city, where the numerous soaring skyscrapers were almost touching the sky.

Tiredly, you closed your eyes, sighed, and leaned on the armrest of the car door, watching the scenery change behind the window. Patrick listened to the music, as he always did, his hands stroking your knee from time to time, but you could hardly feel it, since you were completely overwhelmed by emotions, feelings and thoughts. It was hard to believe that even after all that had happened, you still let him take you home, knowing damn well that he wouldn't just stay in the cab when it stopped at your place.

Just as you entered your apartment and turned on the lights, you heard his slightly nervous chuckle and little comment.

“Mmm, it's pretty clean here.”

His words almost made you choke. “Did you really think that my place would look like a dump just because I don't live in Manhattan?”

“I didn't mean that.” Bateman murmured behind you, following you carefully down the hall. “Where can I put my coat?”

“Why do you ask? I don't remember inviting you here,” You took off your coat and put it on the rack next to him. “Aren't you afraid your coat will stink of poverty?”

Patrick couldn't help but chuckle in a husky voice. “You're funny, Cupcake.”

'And why did I trust this man at all? What was so special about him?'

You didn't say anything, only a thin smile ran over your tired face as you turned around and saw him putting his coat over yours. After that, you continued to walk to your small kitchen, and as soon as you reached the table next to the window, your eyes began to search for something.

“Did you lose something?” He asked, leaning against the wall and hiding his hands in his pockets.

“N-no,” you stammered, as if he had caught you doing something bad. God, he was embarrassing you in your own apartment! “Just … It's been a while since I've had guests.”

Patrick hummed something incoherently and crossed his arms over his broad chest, then moved lazily to the kitchen counter when something caught his eye while you were busy gathering all the stuff on the kitchen table — including some books and various papers from work.

With undisguised interest, Bateman picked up the medicine to take a closer look at its name. “Don't you know these things can cause addiction?”

“What?” You turned to see him examining your sedatives.

“How long have you been taking them?” He asked again, his perfect eyebrows knitted together now.

You sighed tiredly and walked over to him, holding out your hand. “Not too long. Now give it to me, please.”

“I can bring you much better medication than this, since it obviously doesn't work,” he stated in a stern voice, without looking at you. “Because the panic attacks are still kicking your pretty ass.”

His words made your jaw clench, but you didn't even try to snatch the medication from him, instead you just let out a soft groan of annoyance, crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“That's very kind of you, but I have to decline your offer.” You replied, watching him shake his head in irritation. “Besides, you can only get those pills with a doctor's prescription.”

Patrick just shrugged and put the pills back on the kitchen counter.

“That's not a problem,” he quickly straightened his red tie before stepping closer to you. “I have one of the best therapists in the city.”

“Uh-huh, and the pharmacy you go to is probably one of the best, too?”

He grinned. “Sure, I usually get my meds from the one on Broadway.”

“Good for you.”

You started to saunter away from him, but his hands caught you faster than you could react. The next thing you knew, Bateman was holding you tightly against his tall, broad frame, looking down at you with obvious concern.

“Cupcake,” he murmured in a sweet voice, tracing a finger along your cheek. “I just want to help.”

Damn, this man only had to touch you a little bit and you were already lost in him.

“Patrick, you don't have to. I—” You didn't have a chance to finish your sentence because your lips were sealed by his.

Completely defenseless and vulnerable — that was how you felt right now, and it seemed as if he could feel it as the kiss grew deeper and more intense with each passing moment. Cautiously, you rested your hands on his shoulders before sliding them down to the lapels of his suit, fumbling with the soft material and feeling the ground disappearing beneath your feet.

'It's already too much.'

Only when you were both breathless did Patrick decide to break the kiss, but his arms were still wrapped around your waist, as if he was afraid you would disappear like a mirage.

“You were involved in all this because of me," he paused and leaned down to you again, letting your noses rub against each other. This little physical contact made your heart flutter. “And you really made me worry.”

Bateman said it so quickly, as if he wasn't even thinking properly at that moment. Embarrassed, you shrugged a bit in his arms. No matter how hard you tried to believe this man, all you could think about now was whether you were trapped in his other manipulative, mind games.

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” you put a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating fast under your fingertips and the next second you pulled your hand away as if you got burned. “Anyway, it’s late already and you probably have some more interesting stuff to do.”

His soft chuckling was annoying but pleasant to hear. “You’re not quite hospitable, aren’t you?”

Eventually, he let you go and stepped aside, unbuttoning his jacket — that scene caused your pulse to race.

“What are you doing?” “What does it look like?”

You crossed your arms and sighed. “Patrick, I really appreciate your help and… the show was really cool, but I doubt I would ever go back to that place again.” 'Damn it, did I actually say that?'

After Bateman removed his jacket, he carefully put it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and tucked his sleeves.

“You’re welcome,” he beamed with a cocky smile. “I thought you would offer me some tea, coffee or something?”

“I doubt I have anything good to your taste,” slowly, you turned away from him, as an unpleasant feeling of shame struck you right through your chest. “Mmm, I can only offer you mineral water but it’s not Apollinaris.”

“Oh, dear,” he crooned and suddenly hugged you from behind. “I didn’t expect you to have Apollinaris. Honestly.”

Gasping barely audibly, you covered his arms on your waist with your own arms and cocked your head to meet his brown eyes and for God’s sake, why did he always look so tempting, so captivating, so… magnetizing?

With a sharp breath, you managed to avoid another kiss he planned to pull you into, and it coaxed a low growl of disappointment to erupt from his half-opened lips which were so intended to collapse with yours.

“Patrick,” you gulped when he nuzzled against your neck, leaving small wet marks along your sensitive skin. “Please, stop. Let me just bring you some water and I want to relax a bit, after… after everything that happened.”

It was kinda unexpected that Bateman decided to let you go as easy as that without even trying to overpower you like he always does.

“And what do you do to relax?"

“Hot bath.” You responded without looking at him. Annoyed, you stumbled past him to grab the meds he was inspecting a few minutes ago, and then you opened the fridge to take out the bottle of mineral water. As soon as you started to pour the water into the most beautiful glass you had, you noticed his persistent stare, which made you almost spill the water onto the kitchen counter. “What?”

“These pills are no good for you, (y/n),” his anxious tone was very unnatural, you didn’t even remember him sounding like this ever before. “Stop being stubborn.”

With a small thud, you put the glass on the table next to him and replied a bit aggressively: "I don't think they're worse than coke."

At first, Bateman just gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, but then he took a quick sip of the mineral water, trying as hard as he could to play cool.

“Thanks.” Was all he said and that was actually not the reaction you have expected.

There was an awkward silence hanging in the air for some seconds and none of you wanted to continue this conversation, but once you tried to move his hand (that was wrapped around your forearm), his low voice engulfed you like a hot steam.

“Cupcake, I just want to make sure you won’t do anything bad.” “W-what do you mean?” You frowned in confusion and glanced at his hand before you raised your eyes to his perfect face. “Patrick, I suffer from panic attacks… not the things you're thinking of.”

“Then, go take a bath and I’ll leave after that.”

“But I’m not a child,” the more you were trying to resist him, the more your body was yearning for his touch, his large palm on your back was enough to make you forget how to breathe. “You don't owe me anything, this is my problem and I’ll handle this, just like I was doing it before.”

“To be fair, your behavior only shows how immature you are,” he crooned and traced a long, sensible line along your spine. “But, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt since you’re overwhelmed.”

At some point, you found yourself tired from trying to convince him to leave you alone, so you just nodded and quickly took your sedative before heading to the bathroom under his attentive gaze. After all, even if you even attempted to make him go away you would fail because compared to him you were so small and weak — Patrick had power over you in all ways, and he knew that.

You were trapped in your own flat, what nonsense.

In a few minutes, you were sitting in the bath and letting the warm water bring you some relief, just like it always did. Affected by sedatives, you didn’t even remember whether you closed the bathroom door or not, but being honest, you didn’t really care, because even if Patrick came here he wouldn’t see anything new.

The bitter aftertaste of what happened made you feel like shit, and you really didn't know how to find a way out from it. As if it was not enough for you to be dependent on Patrick (you owe him a lot of money), now you gave him more weaknesses that he could potentially use against you.

'Excellent!'

Hugging your knees, you burst in tears — salty tears that were falling into the water, leaving small circles on it. Before now, you didn’t even realize how devastated you were. You closed your eyes for a second and you drifted off almost instantly, and with each passing moment, your body was submerging into the water more and more.

Meanwhile, Bateman was sitting on the little couch in your living room, which he suddenly found pretty cozy, though he checked if everything was clean enough before he dared to take a seat. Did he really think that people outside Manhattan used to live in dirty, trashy apartments? Well, maybe he did, since he didn’t even remember when was the last time he was in such places.

Ever since you left, Patrick had been fighting the temptation to go through your things to find something interesting, which he would of course use for his own interests. But instead, he picked up one of your books from the coffee table, and as he did so, a small piece of paper fell out. Squinting suspiciously, Bateman leaned down to grab it, only to almost crumple it when he saw your handwriting — the paper was completely covered with your notes, and they were all the same phrase — "If I want to be loved as I am, I have to be willing to love others as they are." Patrick couldn't count how many times you had written that, but each line he read evoked something strange in him — the unraveling feeling that urged him to rip the paper, to crumple it. Is it compassion that he was so afraid of?

Closing his eyes for a moment, Bateman took a deep breath and put the paper back in the book, no matter how much he wanted to destroy it or forget what he had just read. After that, he checked his Rolex and noticed that it had been quite a while since you had left. Slowly, he got up from the couch and went to the bathroom. His 'sixth sense' had never failed him before, so he decided to rely on it and check on you.

Patrick didn’t knock once he noticed that the door was not closed, he just stepped in, looking for you.

“Cupcake, are you—”

A chilling shock swept over him when he saw only the top of your head above the water. Without a second thought, he ran across the bathroom and knelt down beside the tub to pull you out of the water, and the moment he did, you began to cough, clinging to his arms and desperately gasping for air.

“Pat-Patrick,” you were shaking so badly, so he had to hold you in one place, pressing you against his solid chest. “I don’t know how that happened… I… I didn’t want this I—” “Shh, (y/n),” Bateman cooed at you in order to calm you down, but he wasn't any less scared than you. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Trembling, you looked up at him — your eyes so red from tears, your heart beating like a broken alarm-clock. “I think I ruined your suit… I’m so sorry!”

Appalled, you tried to break free but Patrick didn’t let you move, his strong arms were holding you like tight ropes. Damn, he was so angry — he could sense his blood boiling inside his veins, forcing his jaw to clench in a silent growl. He was so fucking mad at himself.

How could he let this happen?

As this question ran through his bewildered mind, he froze in fear. He didn't know if he was talking about letting you nearly drown in your own bathtub or letting you take roots on his broken soul. Maybe that was the reason you two had bonded, two broken souls seeking for something that would stop their pain, something that would bring them freedom from a burdened life. But how could he help you when every day he was fighting his dark side, the side you didn't know about yet? The side he wished you would never meet.

Never.

"God... I'm so stupid." You cried out, interrupting his train of thought and bringing him back to reality.

"Shh," Bateman husked, cupping your face. "Stop talking!" He sighed and looked into your blurry eyes, breathing so heavily that it was almost painful. "Just don't say anything right now."

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe the sedative had a side effect on you, but as soon as he tried to pull you out of the tub completely, your hand slipped down his chest to his groin — your sneaky fingers instantly playing with the buckle of his belt, causing a shaky groan to escape his lips. Dazed, you moved your hand lower to feel the outline of his thick cock getting harder under your touch, but as you were about to unzip his pants, his firm hand stopped you, confusing your cloudy mind and inducing you to raise your eyes to meet his. He could swear no one had ever looked at him like that — so innocently, yet so sinfully.

"Cupcake, you don't want this," Patrick murmured, removing your hand. "Trust me."

"I do want this!" You replied in a trembling voice, pouting like a child.

"You're so fucking lost right now, you just don't understand," he manhandled you out of the tub and you almost punched him in his beautiful face, but Bateman paid no attention to your attempt to hit him. "Towels, where are they?"

Huffing, he lifted you up, and only then did you calm down, wrapping your hands and legs around him as securely as you could, like you were afraid of falling off the roof of the skyscraper.

After you pointed at the bathroom counter, Bateman carefully moved towards it to take some big, white towel and wrap it around you — he was drying you off so gently and attentively, it almost made you cry again.

Emotions were overtaking you.

Patrick didn't even say a word when he was done, he just got another dry towel and swaddled you in it like in a cocoon before carrying you out of the bathroom bridal style. Somehow, he managed to find the way to your bedroom, but once he saw your bed, he scowled and remarked: “Jesus, this bed is so small.”

“I love my bed.” You murmured in reply, hugging his neck and pressing yourself closer against his warm body.

Bateman couldn't help but chuckle in amusement, giving you a brief forehead kiss and sitting you down on the bed. As soon as you lost physical contact with him, you leaned on your elbows, watching him turn around and walk away.

“Patrick! Please, don’t go!”

Your words echoed inside his head like the most sacred plea, they made him stop and looked in your direction. “I need to remove my clothes since they’re pretty damp,” he checked himself, with a visible disgust on his face. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Be a good girl, and just wait for me here, okay?”

“Fine.” You mumbled and took the plushy bunny which was resting on your bed next to you.

This scene made him chuckle before he left your bedroom. Now you were completely alone with your thoughts, they didn't wait a second to start eating you from the inside again. With your eyes closed, you lay on your back and began to count.

One, two, three…

What if he lied saying that he would return? Gosh, you wanted him to leave the moment you came here, so why were you getting so upset thinking about him leaving you alone just as you asked him for?

Four, five, six…

The inner voice kept reminding you how many times Patrick has hurt you, how many times he made you cry, how many times you felt like a toy in his hands. You gritted your teeth, pressing your hands against your head to stop thinking.

Seven, eight, nine…

How many times have you promised yourself that you would break out from this circle of lies, pain and suffering?

“Stop it!” You whimpered, shutting your eyes as firm as you could until the tears started to form.

Ten.

“Stop what?” His voice—it was like a lifeline, like a light in the end of the tunnel, it was everything you needed here and now.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was his almost naked form, namely his toned tiddies and his mouth watering V-line, not to mention his perfect abs and the small trail of hair below his navel.

“For one second I thought you would just leave.” You looked into his hazel eyes, which were partly covered by his messy, brown hair.

“In wet clothes?” He giggled and stepped closer to your bed. It was so hard to ignore the bulge in his tight white underwear, but you tried your best not to stare at it. “Feeling better?"

“Yes, I think y-yes,” you swallowed hard when Bateman sat on the edge of your small bed and drew an invisible line across your ankle. “Can I… ask you for something?”

“You can try.” His voice got lower, sending shivers down your spine.

Panting, you uncovered yourself, putting the towel aside and letting him admire the view of your beautiful body, a pleasure he gladly took, his thirsty eyes roaming all over your curves, especially your full breasts and your inviting neck.

“What do you want, Cupcake?” His hand slides up to your hip, teasing the sensitive skin and making you gasp from need. “Tell me.”

“I need you,” you bit your lower lip, frowning from how embarrassed you were. “I n-need you more than ever.”

With no rush, Bateman bent down to your belly to press a brief kiss which elicited a soft moan to fall from your shaky throat. “Show me where you need me.”

You were about to lost it at any second, as the mind-blowing passion was crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, and you didn’t even know if you would survive this.

Could that be the moment of no return for both of you?

Stifling a moan, you took his big palm and guided between your opened legs—the sound of his fingers sliding along your oozed folds made you arched your back and you thought your heart would break out from your chest. Your heavy breathes filled up the room, and once you felt his hot lips on your mound, you nearly squeaked, creasing the sheets beneath you.

Patrick was enjoying every second of this moment, savoring the taste of your skin, reveling in all your little salacious noises when he encircled his arms around your legs and swiped his tongue over your throbbing clit.

That was the last drop of your resistance and you couldn't control it anymore, throwing your head back and mewling sensually: “Mmhm, Daddy…! You make me f-feel so good.”

“Are you sure you want this?” His sudden question pierced through your head like an electric pulse.

Gulping, you got up a bit to look down at him, his cheeks, neck and shoulders were already flushed, his hair was disheveled and his eyes were as dark as night.

“Yes,” you responded shortly, feeling a tight knot forming inside your lower abdomen just from being so close to his face. “Taste me, Daddy, please… I want to get lost… in you.”

“I see,” he said, hovering over you for a moment to grab the plushy bunny, then handing it to you with a mischievous grin. "Little girls always keep their favorite toys close?”

As soon as you held the bunny, Bateman got back to his previous position, fondling your hips here and there, then he kissed your inner thigh and put your legs together before bending them and pressing against your chest.

“Stay like that.”

After saying that, he brushed away his wavy locks, spit on your pussy and made several, barely sensible, strokes along your bundle of nerves, his sturdy arms were holding your legs to fixate you in one place as his ministrations were making it hard for you to stay still.

“Awww, P-Patrick,” you keened and squeezed the plush toy in your hand, feeling so dirty yet so high from the way his wet tongue was painting various ornaments on your taut lower lips. “I’m gonna faint…”

“Mmm,” he moaned against your feverish little bud before he took it inside his mouth, sucking it so deliciously that your eyes rolled back into your head, your inner walls were already spasming. “You’re my sweet little Cupcake.”

“Yes! Yes, please!”

Slurping at your soaked cunt, Bateman let you rest your legs on his shoulders and pull on his brown hair as you wanted to bring him even closer, moving your hips towards his face. God, you were such a wet moaning mess and when he shoved his long fingers inside of your dripping slit, you lost connection with reality and ascended to the apex of ecstasy.

His fingers were moving inside and outside of you like a clock-work, so smoothly and fast, since he knew your body so perfectly, it was quite simple for him to find your spongy G - spot. Once he started to stimulate it, your toes began to curve and your whole body was jolting as if you were hit by the eclectic shock.

The moment of your orgasm was as astonishing and relieving as a sip of water in the arid desert. But even after you cummed, Patrick didn’t stop eating you out, fingering you harder, so your juices were gashing around your sweaty bodies, the sheets beneath you were already wet and you didn’t know how you would live tomorrow when he leaves you.

“Mmmmh, I’mma cum again, D-Daddy!” You whimpered, squirming around the bed and pressing the plushy bunny against your face as you were on the verge of tears – overstimulation hitting pretty hard.

Bateman only growled in response and stuffed your soaked pussy with another finger, rhythmically swirling his hot tongue around your throbbing tip while his sneaky hand traced up along your shivering body to grope one of your breasts and pinch your engorged nipple.

“Ahhh—GOSH…! Pat...” Your voice cracked as you cummed so hard all around his face that your wetness was literally running down his chin. But he didn’t care, because the only thing that mattered for him was bringing you as much pleasure as he could.

Even when he was panting heavily against your abused cunt, and he almost couldn't feel his fingers anymore, he continued to lap at your cleft. By that moment your legs were looped around his head and you couldn’t stop twitching even for a second, with each lick he sent millions of tingles to your lower belly.

“Daddy, it’s t-too much… I can’t take it any longer.” You felt so goddamn sensitive, and your body was like jelly at this point.

“C’mon, babydoll,” he groaned in a raspy voice after he pulled on your clit with a nasty squeal. “You can give Daddy another one, can't you baby? For me, please?"

This time Patrick buried his tongue as deep inside your womb as he could, licking you from the inside out. He repeated the motion, making you climax countless times in a row, until your little frame couldn't bear it anymore. Soon, you drifted off with a smile of joy on your face, holding the plushy bunny close to your chest. Long time ago that toy was your only friend, but now it seemed like you have become a toy yourself. But unlike the plush bunny, it was obvious that you weren't the only toy for your owner.

Why did it hurt so good to be alive?

You heard a faint voice calling you and asking for help, but no matter how hard you tried to follow it and find it—all you could see was darkness before your eyes. Scared, you moved along the dark alley, surrounded by shadows, shivering from the abnormal cold, and for a second you even thought you were already dead. But when the voice called you again, you finally realized that it was your inner voice, but it sounded so sad, even compared to your darkest days.

"How did you end up like this, (y/n)?" Your own reflection spoke to you, each word cutting through your heart like a dagger. "You're so pathetic and weak, what would Mom and Dad say if they knew about your 'successful' life in New York?"

Frowning, you closed your hands around your ears to stop this madness, but the more you tried to ignore it, the louder the voice became in your head.

"Look what you've done to yourself! Do you really think he cares about you?"

"Leave me alone!" You yelled at your shadow copy and ran down the alley, but there seemed to be no escape.

"Wake the fuck up! Bateman is just using you for his own needs, and you let him treat you like a fucking toy. Being in debt to him is not an excuse!" You could hear it even with your ears closed and there was nowhere to hide.

"SHUT UP!" You sped up, the cold air hitting your face mercilessly, but you didn't care. "Get out of my head!"

God, it was so fucking absurd to argue with yourself.

Perplexed and scared, you suddenly realized that the faster you were running the louder your inner voice was getting, bringing you a sharp headache as if a million needles cut into your brain at once. It hurt really bad.

“Patrick! Patrick, where are you?” You cried out as the darkness was clouding around you with each passing second. “Please, I need you…” A single tear slid down your warm cheek when you felt your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen as though you were drowning. “Pat-Patrick…”

Slowly closing your eyes, you let the void consume you, which actually brought you some relief, because now you were free from pain and sorrow, reveling in the sweet space of non-existence.

A loud gasp bounced against the walls of your small bedroom, signaling of your eventual awakening. Panting, you sat on the bed only to see Bateman’s sleepy form next to you—he was sleeping like a baby, laying on his back and sniffling from time to time. Shocked, you were trying your best to regain your composure and steady your heavy breathing, not even noticing that you were drenched in sweat.

Quietly, you slipped out from under the covers to find yourself completely naked, so the next thing you did was find something to put on. Subsequently, you rushed inside your small bathroom and saw Bateman’s clothes drying off on the battery—the memories of the recent events flashed across your mind like a slow-motion movie. First, you were taking a bath—which was still full of cold water—then you nearly drowned but Patrick came in time and literally saved you. The next flashbacks made you lean on the sink and hold back your breath—his eager mouth on your cunt, forcing you to lose your mind and cum again and again until you eventually drifted off.

Jesus Christ.

Embarrassed, you quickly opened the water and washed your face several times until you cooled down a bit. After you regain your composure, you fasten your terry robe and head to the kitchen as you were so starved that you even had a stomach ache.

New York was already awake, and the sun was high above the horizon, shining so brightly in the windows that you had to close your blinds and thank God it was Sunday and you didn't have to go to the office because your head was spinning due the aftereffect of your sedative pills. Speaking of them—once you saw the jar with pills on the kitchen counter you threw it into the rubbish without any second thought, yet you didn’t want Bateman to know that he had an influence on your decision. When you closed the door to the kitchen, you accidentally slammed it harder than you should have, and it cracked so loudly that it sounded like a bundle of dishes broke at the same time.

"Damn it!" You cursed to yourself, pressing a palm to your face, certain that the noise would wake Bateman up.

Panicking a bit, you retreated to your bedroom and as soon as you stepped in you saw the man of your dreams stretching out and yawning so adorable, that for a moment you just froze in your place, not capable of taking your eyes off from Bateman’s disheveled hair and his broad chest.

With a low growl, Patrick pulled the blanket away and finally noticed you. "Woah, Cupcake, was that you?" The man chuckled, casually flexing his muscles as he looked at the mirror next to the door where you were standing. "I thought something had exploded outside."

Abashed, you quickly adjusted your robe from his piercing gaze. "Sorry, I can be really..."

"Clumsy?" Smiling broadly, Bateman leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms.

"Yes, clumsy," you tugged with your fingers, briefly glancing down—damn, he seemed to be the only person who could embarrass you so easily. "Well...do you want anything?"

"Hmmm, let me think," Patrick hummed before he thoughtfully pressed a finger to his plump lips. "I probably have something on my mind," Bateman gave you a mischievous grin when he saw your curious look and smoothed his golden brown hair. "How about a morning blowjob?" Your instant reaction was a mixture of anger and embarrassment, which made the man's face look even more smug. "Relax! I'm joking."

Of course he wasn't joking—you knew it and couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest. "I'd pretend I didn't hear that," you said, finally looking away from his sturdy body. "How about breakfast?"

"That sounds really good."

Shocked, you took a moment to think about the possible options you could cook for him since you didn’t really expect him to give you a positive answer. “I can offset you with a scrambled egg and some fresh orange juice.”

With a satisfied grin, the man slowly got up from your modest bed and stretched his muscles again; he was definitely making it on purpose. “Oh, that’s nice,” he almost groaned when he cocked his head to one side then to another. “I can’t say the same about your bed, Cupcake… you should change the mattress if you want to keep walking with a straight back.”

And though Patrick was lamenting, you could say he said it almost affectionately—as if he really cared about you, yet you brushed this conclusion off as fast as your heart was pounding right now when the man got closer to you; his tall, massive frame towered over you like a mountain.

“I also would like to have a shower, if…there’s such an option,” Bateman smirked and briefly traced a finger along your cheek, coaxing you to close your eyes for a second and revel in the soft sensation of his touch. “Did you sleep well?”

A sudden question that fell from his lips like a suffocated gasp, a tender stroke on your shoulder and you were already melting as Patrick knew what he was doing, every touch, every glance of his brown hypnotic eyes was deliberate and smooth, leaving you no chance but to surrender to his demand.

“Yes, I slept like a baby, though I can hardly remember the things that happened before I blacked out,” you lied with an embarrassed smile. “You can have a shower and use whatever soaps and towels you’ll see.” Thee more you talked the more his lips curled, especially when you allowed him to bring you closer into his embrace. “But don’t expect anything extraordinary.”

“I won’t, I promise,” the man chuckled and playfully pinched your ass. “Sleeping beauty.”

With that, Patrick walked past you, leaving you alone for a moment, giving you a chance to pull yourself together. And when you seemed to relax, a thought of his clothes that had been left in the bathroom popped up in your mind. ‘Oh God, I forgot!’

Nervously, you rushed after Patrick into your bathroom to see that the door was already closed, implying that he was inside and probably naked, though you couldn’t hear the sound of flowing water. Embarrassed, you coughed quietly and knocked several times.

“Yeah?” Bateman’s muffled voice echoed through the door.

“Patrick, I…” a short pause turned into a breathless gasp. “If you’re not already in the shower, may I come in?”

After a moment, the door in front of you opened and you saw Patrick wrapped in a white towel. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you giggled nervously and sneaked inside the bathroom to quickly grab his clothes. “I just wanted to iron your…suit and stuff, while you’re in the shower…” Quickly, you hovered his garments over your arm and walked past him, hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions, despite his surprised expression. “I’m so sorry for dumping your clothes yesterday.”

With these words, you deftly avoid his grasp as you knew he’d definitely try to make you embarrassed even more. “(Y/n)!”

“Take a shower. I’ll make you breakfast as I promised.”

This time, the man didn’t try to catch you or follow you, thankfully. So, you could safely make it to your living room where you set an ironing board and put his shirt first to iron. Wrapped in thoughts, you didn’t even notice how carefully you were ironing his clothes, you couldn’t even remember doing the same with your stuff but maybe you were just scared of ruining it since everything he wore was utterly expensive. ‘This suit probably costs like my monthly rent.’ Sighing, you put the shirt aside when you heard the water flowing sound and your mind instantly gave you an image of Patrick’s naked body, enveloped in steam and slightly flush from the heat. ‘Damn, I should stop or I'm gonna ruin something.’ When it was time to iron his tie, you ran your finger along the smooth red fabric, draped in beautiful intricate patterns—you couldn't deny that you had a thing for his ties, for all of them—you smiled to yourself before bringing it to your lips, you could still feel his cologne on it. This tantalizing scent was driving you crazy, it fit him so perfectly as if it was made specially for him, but even if that was true, you wouldn’t be surprised at all, regarding how rich this man was. The moment you finished ironing his pants, you seemed to hear his voice coming from the bathroom. ‘Perfect timing.’

Slightly tensed, you stopped next to the door. “Patrick? Did you call me?” When he didn’t reply, you became even more stirred, so without really caring about seeing him naked, you opened the door and stepped in. “Patrick?” Since your bathroom was much smaller than his, you bumped into his massive frame, squealing in surprise. “Oh God, sorry!”

“Oh, Cupcake,” he wrapped his hands around your shoulders before carefully cupping your face. “I hope you didn’t break your nose against my firm chest?”

Frowning, you gave him a dead glare but he only snickered back. “What happened? Why did you call me?”

“Do you have an extra toothbrush for me? I’ll buy you another one and…”

You stopped him halfway and removed his hands to stroll to the sink and opened the cabinet above it. “Here. There’s also a razor if you need.”

Smirking, Bateman sneaked behind you and pressed his wet body against yours. “Do ya think I need to shave?” He rubbed the mirror from steam to check himself, sliding a hand along his chiseled chin.

“I…I don’t know…I just thought in case you need to, the razor is here.”

“Mhm…” he hummed and before you knew it he nuzzled against your exposed neck, forcing you to gasp and stepped back right into his embrace, just like he planned it. “Does that tickle, Cupcake?”

‘Dear Lord, please give me the strength to survive this.’

Staying still, you just swallowed hard and let him continue to attack your neck, which he did with precious care before, but now, Patrick also used his mouth and teeth, and that was already too much.

"I think you definitely have some stubble," you laughed, trying to turn it into a joke. But as soon as you tried to walk away, he pulled you back into his strong arms, and that was not funny. "Breakfast Patrick, I have to make breakfast, did you forget?"

"Not really, but I need your help."

"Help?"

The man gave you a devilish smile before lifting you up and sitting you on the bathroom counter, not even giving you a chance to protest. Then Bateman took the shaving cream, checking the brand name skeptically, but then averting his eyes, probably thinking it was better not to know. With deliberate, calculated movements, he applied the cream to his cheekbones, moving up and down his face. The sight was something you never thought you'd find so damn hot that you didn't even make a sound, just watched him carefully prepare to shave.

"Have you ever seen a man shave, darling?" Patrick asked in a cheeky tone, surely noticing the way you were staring at him.

You shook your head. “No,” you shamelessly checked on him, following the little buds of water slipping down his torso. “God, this is such a silly question, don’t you think?”

Instead of answering, Bateman flexed his muscles while watching in the mirror and missing the way you rolled your eyes. “Well, now you finally have a chance.” The man winked at you and grabbed the razor. “You know, I really like your place, it’s pretty clean.”

“You already said that.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Yes,” you crossed your arms and turned away just the moment when the man started to glide the razor against his jawline—you thought the blade would become blunt because his cheekbones were too sharp—his every action was smooth and skillful. “That was the first thing you said when we came in.”

“That only means that it’s really very clean here.”

Huffing, you fixed your robe and cursed to yourself, ‘Why does he always have to be like this?’

Opening the faucet, Patrick cleaned his face after the last stroke of the razor. “Can you check here?”

Confused, you gave him a questioning gaze when he turned halfway, pointing at the apex of his jaw. Sheepishly, you touched his freshly shaved skin, feeling a slight prickly sensation. “I think it’s still a bit stubbly.”

“Aha,” Bateman acknowledged and quickly took your hand in his big one, briefly kissing the top of it and giving you the razor. “I told you, I’d need your help, Cupcake.” “How do you even do it yourself?”

“The razors I use are much sharper than this one, honey,” he chuckled but once you placed the razor against his skin he stopped moving. “Just be careful.”

The last phrase struck a chord inside your chest and you even stopped for a moment to take a deep breath before you eventually began to shave the rest of the stubble. All the while, Patrick would glance at you attentively, his hazel irises like hypnotizing spirals, so you forced yourself to stay focused on the razor and the patch of his skin still covered in a shaving cream.

“You have such soft skin,” you mumbled mostly to yourself but you were sure he heard it. “It’s so pleasurable to touch.”

“(Y/n),” he suddenly called out your name in a stern voice. “I think we should talk about yesterday.” “No…”

"Listen to me," he grabbed the hand that held the razor and pushed it to the side. "You should stop taking that sedative."

“It was just an accident.”

“You could die, Cupcake…”

"I...I know...I owe you for saving me," you finally stated, releasing your hand to finish shaving him. "But let me take care of my life."

“Ouch.”

“Oh my God! Did I hurt you?” You jolted in panic, almost dropping the razor as if you were hit by the electric shot.

“Yes, you did,” Bateman glided a palm along his now perfectly shaved cheeks. “With your words.”

Letting out a sad sigh, you put the razor into the sink next to you and reached for another towel for him as you watched him washing his face. The more you kept silent, the more palpable the tension was getting in the air and after a brief moment of contemplating, you decided that the best option now was just to go to the kitchen and cook.

“Toothbrush is here.” You murmured and got up from the bathroom counter, about to leave but Patrick stopped you.

First, you glanced down at his grasp around your wrist, then you raised your eyes to meet his walnut ones, now they were absolutely dark and demanding. Inch by inch, the man was getting closer, soon you could feel the fresh scent of your soap on his wet skin as he pressed you along his broad form, one hand rested on the small of your back, while another snaked beneath your robe to outline one of your hard peaks, which were visible through the fabric.

“Pat-Patrick…”

“No more ‘Daddy’ again, huh?” he whispered into your ear, playing with your stray lock. “Do you remember how many times you called me like that last night?”

‘No! I don’t remember, I shouldn’t remember this, I…’

“...your sweet voice sounded so good with all these little dirty pleas, ‘Daddy, don’t stop, mmhm-please!’ Uhhh, that was really something,” Bateman crooned against your neck, forcing you to step back until he trapped you between his massive body and bathroom counter. “Got you.”

There was nothing to say more, once his warm mouth latched on yours, the urge to deny him fading with every second of the kiss, especially when Patrick savagely sucked on your lower lip and drew his tongue across it as if asking for permission to slip inside.

Gasping, you instinctively inclined your head to the side for a moment and the man used it for showering your delicate neck with little peeks which then transformed into wet, red marks. This sweet torture could last forever if you suddenly didn’t press your palm against his naked chest in a determined way.

“We can’t,” you protested when he got down to kiss you again. “You’re engaged, don’t you think it’s so mean to…cheat on your fiance?”

The man couldn’t hold back a scoff. “What does that have to do with anything? You owe me, Cupcake, you owe me a lot.”

Annoyed, you made an attempt to push him away, but you obviously failed as Patrick was too strong, looming over you like a mountain. “If you mean the last time—I already thanked you and moreover, I didn’t ask you to do it, you know?” You watched his face changing into something more impish, the corners of his lips curled up as if everything was happening according to his plan. “You always decide for me…maybe it’s time to stop?”

Bateman chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to finally open your eyes?”

“Are you…really telling me this?!”

“You owe me a pretty big sum of money,” the man suddenly turned the conversation in another way. “And we had a deal…” Carefully, he trailed his finger along your cheek like an artist admiring his most precious creation. “Do you think I’d be so patient with your bad attitude to me if I were not really into you, hmm?”

The last words made you swallow hard and turned away for a moment, as you were on the verge of tears. Did he really just confirm that there was some kind of affection for you from his side?

“I…I know I owe a lot of money, but believe me, I’ll back them soon,” you removed his arms from your waist but the next second, Patrick placed them on the bathroom counter behind you from both sides, not allowing you to go away. “Please, believe me.”

“I don’t need that fucking money,” Patrick barked and unexpectedly gripped your shoulders, but when he noticed the glowing fear in your eyes, the man loosened his grasp and cupped your face. “I need you. Both your body and soul.”

Closing your eyes, you wanted to sink through the ground. “You want me to do things that you can’t buy with money…” you declared with a chilling coldness in your voice. “Other women are okay with being your toys, but I’m not. Now, let's finish this conversation, it won’t lead to anything.”

A tired sigh broke out from Bateman’s broad chest and for a second he even thought to let you go and turned over the page of the story of two broken souls, who met themselves so suddenly. Maybe now was that exact moment he was waiting so long, the moment to open the cards and confess, even though Patrick could hardly believe it would work.

"You don't seem to be listening to me at all," was all the man could say. "And that's not surprising, since no one really listens to me. Because...uhh...because no one really cares about what really bothers me…" He let you go and stepped back. "And you...I thought you were the only person who...who actually tried to understand me and act naturally."

"Patrick..."

He raised his hand in an eloquent gesture to let him continue. "You probably did it all because of the debt, but...I'll be honest, sometimes I made myself believe that you weren't acting like this just because of the money."

"Is this another manipulation?" You asked bluntly, holding back your tears. "How could I believe you after all the things you did to me? How many times did you treat me like a puppet that you no longer wanted to play with? And not to mention that you turned out to be engaged!" You grabbed your head and leaned against the bathroom counter, massaging your temples. "This is already too much."

The man huffed and cautiously approached you. With a soft, feathery movement, he touched your hands and pulled them away from your strained face. "At least you seem to care that I'm engaged," he said abruptly, moving you closer so that your head was now pressed against his massive chest. "I know it's overwhelming, (y/n). But..." the words suddenly stuck in his throat like a lump. "You're not alone in this." Patrick urged curly, running his large palm along the crown of your head before resting his chin on it, inhaling the scent of your soft hair.

‘Not alone’, you repeated inside your head and looked up into his brown eyes, which were now so stern and contemplative—you have never seen them like that before. This man, oh God, this man was such a mess, he was making you lose the ground beneath your feet with his sudden confessions, but in the end, actions spoke louder than words, even though you wanted to believe him and sink into the strong feeling you had towards him—you simply couldn’t allow yourself to get lost in him as you would burn out like a match.

All the while you were standing like that, Bateman was hoping you would say something in return, but when you didn’t, he just released you from his embrace without saying a thing. Overwhelmed by emotions, you left the bathroom and let him finish his hygienic routine in private.

A bit later, you didn’t even remember how you cooked a breakfast for both of you, the only thing you did remember was his positive comment that it tasted pretty good. You couldn’t help but smile, though your plate still stood untouched. Patrick noticed that, but didn’t make any comments about that.

“To be honest, I really didn’t expect it to be that nice,” he chuckled and finished his glass of mineral water that he didn’t really like. Quickly checking his Rolex, which he wore right after he took a shower, he added, “I’m afraid it’s time for me to go. Can you please bring me my clothes?”

“Sure.” You raised up and quickly strolled to the iron board where his suit and shirt were waiting to be presented to their owner. “Here, I ironed them for you.”

Bateman froze in shock for a moment. “You…ironed them?”

“Uh, yes, but I did it very carefully, I know everything you wear is utterly expensive,” you gave him his garments and he started to examine every thing with meticulous attention. “I…I thought you wouldn’t like to go outside in rumpled clothes.”

"That's… that's very sweet of you, Cupcake. Really…" he replied, his blush barely noticeable to anyone but you. "Thanks…thanks for everything."

“You’re welcome.” You murmured shyly, crossing your arms over the chest and watching him getting up from the table and walking to your bedroom to dress up.

Moments later, you both were standing in your small hallway, Patrick fixing his tie and coat, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“How do I look?” He asked nonchalantly, putting on the headphones of his Walkman.

Slightly upset, you leaned against the wall, your eyes gliding up and down his elegant, tall silhouette; the way the dark blue trench coat sat on his broad shoulders made you almost gasp in admiration.

“Perfect as always,” you stepped closer to adjust the collar of his shirt. “You’re like a Vogue cover which came alive.”

Fluttered, Bateman smiled and caught your hand to place a kiss on top of it. “And I always believe your compliments, they are so…sincere or…” he paused and looked into your eyes. “...or I’m just fooling myself.”

His usual chuckling now was less happy and it stirred something inside of you, so when you got up on your toes to kiss his cheek, Patrick took it like another chance to be intimate with you. With unhidden tenderness, the man pulled you into his arms to seal your mouths with a soft but passionate kiss which brought some unexpected relief for both of you.

“You know, I…I really appreciate your courage to be open with me,” you suddenly confessed when he broke the kiss, still holding you close. “It’s just that I need some time to think over things and…my life is such a mess.”

"Oh, you don't have to tell me that," Bateman sneered ironically to himself. "Since I know who made your life so messy," he stopped you from saying anything else by pressing his finger to your lips. Then the man slowly leaned down so that your foreheads now touched in the most intimate way. "Promise me you won't take those pills again."

"And you promise me you won't say things like no one gives a fuck about you," you gripped his arm, rubbing his firm bicep under the soft fabric of his coat. "Because I do give a fuck about you, even though I don't really like it."

"We'll talk about...us. That's the only promise I can make right now."

"Us?"

"You heard what I said," he pinched your nose, just like after the fashion show. "I'll call you today and Cupcake?" He leaned down to whisper in your ear, accidentally brushing his nose against your neck. "You're always on my mind, but I still haven't decided if it's good or not." The way he used your words to tease you brought a broad smile to your face, but the next time, all joy faded as the man stroked your cheek one last time before stepping aside to check himself in the mirror. "Hope to see you soon, darling."

With that he closed the door behind him and as much as you hated saying goodbye, you hated the moments like that, when you couldn’t control yourself as your emotions peaked, causing your knees to buckle and you stopped yourself from falling down only because you managed to lean on the nearby wall. The whole thing about your relationship with Bateman was one big mistake, as you would never find yourself belonging to this world—your meeting was a joke of fate—no less to say. Although you knew it, your heart was like a rebellion who refused to listen, to obey, to accept the truth that there were no chances to turn this situation in a way that would help these relationships to become healthy and normal. ‘Normal, huh? Do yuppies even know such a word?’ Laughing ironically to yourself, you got up and went back into your kitchen to wash the dishes. The sight of Patrick sitting here with a glass of water in his hand was still so fresh in your mind, but now you began to doubt if that really had happened.

All day later, you couldn’t sleep, you couldn’t eat, waiting for his call but he never did it. It was not surprising after the shit that man had done, but today you were really hoping he would keep his word. But your hopes were broken to pieces again, in the most brutal possible way because you really decided to give it a try and believed him.

When the night came to New York City, you were standing in your living room with a cup of freshly brewed coffee, thinking about what would you do next and trying to think less about what Patrick was doing right now…and even less about with whom he probably could be. ‘...with Courtney or maybe with his fiance, Evelyn?’ You snickered sadly to yourself and finished your drink. Coffee was supposed to help you to keep awake but instead it only made you even more sleepy, so you didn’t even realize how you fell asleep on your little couch while putting down the notes of how today’s day had gone in your diary.

The next moment you were awakened by the sudden doorbell, which caught you off guard and even scared you a bit as you didn’t wait for anyone. Quickly enveloping your robe, you got up and saunted to the door to look at the peephole—you would lie to yourself if you said you weren’t expecting someone specific, but when you saw nothing but flowers, your heart skipped a beat.

With one swift motion, you opened the door and an unknown guy instantly greeted you with a polite tone. “Good morning, miss (y/n),” he then handed you a big bouquet of red and white roses—it was so heavy you could barely hold it. “Uh, can you please put your sign here?”

Confused, you pressed the flowers to your chest to see the man’s face. “Are you… are you sure it’s for me?”

The courier only smiled and giggled. “Of course, but you can check the address, if you want,” the man showed you the paper with the order details. “We make no mistakes, miss, that’s why our service is the best around New York.”

“I see,” you responded and put your signature on the place he pointed you. “But, can I ask you who sent me this?”

“There’s a card inside if I’m not mistaken,” the courier replied and with that he put the paper inside his bag. “Have a good day, ma'am.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you closed the door and somehow proceeded into your living room where you put the bouquet on the coffee table and began to look for the vase for it. When you managed to find it, you poured some water and placed the flowers into it, then you remembered the courier’s words about the card and the next second you were already leafing through the flowers. Soon, a small white card caught your attention and when you picked it out, the first thing you noticed was two beautiful letters—P.B. in the end of the text which said:

“Good morning, my sweet Cupcake,

I’m sorry I didn’t call you tonight, I was extremely busy and didn’t really have any free time, but I hope this little gift would cheer you up a bit. What do you think about going to a yacht club these weekends? I’m looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Utterly yours, P.B.”

Your hands began to shake the moment you finished reading, but you managed to regain your composure. Driven by the unbridled happiness inside your chest, you leaned down to inhale the sweet scent of flowers—God, it felt like a dream. And speaking of dreaming—you were still so sleepy that after you finally calmed down, you decided to come back into the bed and nap a little bit longer. The sheets were still smelling of him, coaxing you to rub your face against the pillows and imagine him being here with you and somehow, you finally realized how deep this man was rooted inside your heart. ‘Utterly yours…’ You kept replaying these words inside your head until you drifted off to another dream, but this time, it was not a nightmare, but a heaven where Patrick was only yours, and you were his only one.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[SWEET LIKE A CUPCAKE M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]

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