#I can fix the misogyny I can make him better-

[bellaaldamas]

The "mistagging" was clearly not accidental, sadly. This person deliberately used the ship tag (freytos) so that the fans, myself included, would find it. Whereas the "progressive left" has demonstrated yet again how they embrace patriarchy in it's most primordial form by claiming Freya's development and "freedom" from abuse will be "downplayed" if she enters a healthy relationship with another man. This same person never received any kind of aggressive backlash or trolling when it comes to their own, completely AU and fanon headcanons about Atreus and the yaoi involving him. But they cannot extend the same courtesy to other people in the fandom, in this case freytos shippers, and refrain from using the appreciation tag for their outburst.

And as much as I absolutely hate going into that territory and playing the "Greek woman" card I cannot help but be disturbed and appalled by how Lysandra is being used as a weapon against Freytos by the people who do not - nor have they ever - cared about her. Beyond her being a "proto" Greek wife who has "fulfilled her duty" of carrying a brooding and violent man "forward" before he could find a more "advanced and developed" Nordic woman Faye who "finally fixed him". Thus, Faye has also fulfilled her duty of making Kratos into a better person and being the perfect wife and mother before dying on him. Those same people do not even recognize how misogynistic it is to reduce both Faye and Lysandra to the accessories in Kratos's story.

@rhythmsmith and @freytos already covered most of the issues with the anti-Freytos rhetoric in the replies. Therefore I will just copy and paste my own responses to their eloquent summary (you can read their comments in the reply section to this post):

This attitude stems from misogyny and the idea that women become reduced to sexual objects the moment they get involved with men. This is normalizing the society's sexist notion that romantic/sexual relationship mean an automatic loss of autonomy and agency - but only for a woman. Same notion does not extend to men and THAT is why the anti-Freytos types support all manner of ludicrous Yaoi with Kratos involved. Including Kratos and Atreus of Sparta which is absurd because Kratos would never name his son after a man he supposedly had a "crush" on let alone a relationship with. Or Kratos and Tyr and Kratos and Thor where the former has zero basis in canon and is even more fanon than Freytos (which had allusions and direct mentions of the possibility of their involvement in Valhalla). Whilst Kratos/Thor is an outright toxic ship where antagonism between two characters is being fetishized and sexualized. Those same people would bend over backwards calling an M/F ship such as this "abusive" because "dumb women" cannot resist "bad boys'" charms. But men totally can and should be paired with such bad boys.

Finally, there is the greatest evil in the form of the idea that platonic and romantic relationship should be held to a different standard.

This is why the Baldur issue only EVER comes into play when the subject of Freytos romantic involvement comes into play. This is especially offensive in the context of Freya's story where Odin's abuse of her did not exist in vacuum and was enabled and made possible by her community, her own people and both the "evil/misguided" Aesir and the "good/confused" Vanir.

Freya's own people, for whom she had entered the marriage with Odin in the first place, denounced her - including her own brother - and wrote insults on the walls of her realm in order to humiliate her for daring to exercise her agency. But both the fandom and the narrative expected Freya to just forgive and forget because this is what women ought to do.

Then the anti-Freytos types spit on abuse victims from their victim blaming, pseudo-feminist high horse when they pair Freya with Sif - a woman who raised her own daughter to consider Freya a "treacherous ex wife" of her genocidal granddaddy (but Thrud is still a "feminist icon" and should totally be friends and even "more" with Atreus who made it clear time and again he is not interested in her and who, mind you, killed her brother in cold blood; but it's totally ok, because Thrud dismissed Modi's death in an outright sociopathic manner of "we're better off without him").

Most of the anti-Freytos misogyny is repackaged patriarchy from yaoi shippers which suggests a woman loses her individuality the moment she gets involved with a man. Particularly atrocious is the rhetoric of "let Freya just be Free" after her separation from Odin and his abuse, as if commitment and romantic/marital involvement means an automatic loss of freedom and autonomy but only for women. This is both misogynistic and absolves men like Odin of responsibility for their abusive behaviors by implying that the problem was/is not them but the fact of a woman choosing to enter a relationship and marriage. And, by doing so, supposedly "signing up" for marital and domestic violence. This is a progressive version of "she had it coming".

This is also where another misogynistic claim comes into play: the idea that Freya being involved with Kratos "destroys her entire arc, their beautiful friendship and Freya's liberation from Odin's abuse". Yet again the mechanics of abuse against women is being misrepresented and implies that involvement, for a woman, comes with the inevitability of being A) abused and B) losing her freedom/autonomy. By arguing that, the anti-Freytos camp is placing the responsibility for those occurrences on women.

But a man can totally be involved with any other man because men in general have "evolved beyond" losing their individuality and freedom when they have a relationship. Only "hormonal and gullible women" do. Hence the assorted yaoi with Kratos passed off as "progressive".

The Freytos opposing crowd is so miserable they believe their "progressive misogyny" gets a pass for invading freytos tag with their "hot takes". Of course said progressive misogyny involves an insulting anti-women claim that woman's separation and freedom from her abuser (Odin in this case) would be downplayed if she enters a positive and healthy relationship with another man. And no, you do not get to play the "but Kratos killed Baldur!!11!!" card if you still "Wuv their Bootiful Friendship" and don't want it ruined by the "dirty romance" which supposedly turns women into sexual objects and robs poor men of the ability to still respect them and acknowledge their needs. Holding platonic relationship to a different standard than romantic relationship is offensive, especially when talking about a character like Freya whose marital abuse at the hands of Odin was only possible because it was enabled by the people she had platonic connections to (including her own people and her brother who had denounced her). Kratos was the only one who did not enable it.

Needless to say those progressive misogynists are totally on board with Kratos being a part of some completely fanon yaoi such as Kratos/Mimir or Kratos/Tyr or Kratos/Thor. Because men are "more complex and deep" than women and THEIR progression, development and "journey" can never be undermined if they take romantic interest in one another. Only women become servants to their hormones if they do, didn't you know?

Predictably, in order to make this progressive misogyny work and get support from the fellow "progressives" the anti-Freytos types proudly establish themselves as the "not like other girls" of the fandom who do not need to learn proper tagging.

One good thing to come out of their sexism, entitlement and lack of tagging ethic? It gives a perfect opportunity to block everyone in the notes.

[fatgumsurpremacy-remastered]

Tbh, I'd fuck Herbert West.

I know he's an anti-hero, but he's also a morally ambiguous mad scientist type played by titan of the horror genre, Jeffrey Combs.

Herbert is the sluttiest scientist in existence and I adore him sooooooo much

Just a scromby

[dalliancekay]

Aziraphale, misogyny and the female character treatment

I don't know if anyone wrote a post about this but I see from time to time comments to this end - that Aziraphale is treated like the female leads in films often are, obviously especially romantic films. So I'm gonna try to point how I see this. I welcome further insights of course.

Say we take a basic premise of a romantic film: A girl is wooed by a bad boy for example. And she is a good girl, from a good, proper family and everything so she refuses his advances. This goes on through his various ploys to entertain and romance her, do things for her etc etc and frustrates us as the audience because we can see the bad boy is actually good, her family is oppressive and holding her back and that she (deep down) cares for him (if only she was brave enough to admit it to herself) and so we want her to open her eyes and say she is actually in love with him cos her life will be so much better should she (finally) give in and run away with him.

Familiar? Reasons Aziraphale is not her and the analogy does not fit (but that I so often see in metas and takes about her):

Aziraphale always knew her family is shit. Or at least longer than Crowley did. She was already anxious in Before the Beginning about what she thought Angel!Crowley could and could not say or do without getting into trouble.

She knows Crowley is good. She never doubted him. Whatever he says or does or pretends to do or must do for his job. Aziraphale knows he's inherently good and would always do good if he can.

She knows she's in love - I mean we can argue about when each realised this and also when each realised the other loves them back just as fiercely, but they both know. And they both love. And they both long to be together. Aziraphale is not ashamed of her feelings nor hiding or suppressing them for fear they are wrong or immoral or other BS like that.

Aziraphale doesn't need to overcome her love for her family/employer and finally make the leap to be with Crowley. They simply can't leave their bosses without punishment. Neither of them. They live in a dictatorship with nowhere to go. And just because Crowley experienced both sides, doesn't give him some huge insight that Aziraphale completely lacks. Both places are awful. Their separation isn’t about fear of societal judgment (or Aziraphale's unwillingness to give up Heaven, being seen as good, being an angel - and to what end, to Fall? I really don't know what takes like this want from her, it would not work anyway), it’s about survival in a system that won’t let them be together.

Aziraphale doesn't want to change Crowley. She never did. She asked for Crowley to come to Heaven as an angel because that was THE ONLY option she had for them to be together in any capacity at that point. It was NOT an attempt to “fix” him—it was a desperate bid for a way they could be together at all.

One thing I don't see as much anymore is the call for Aziraphale to change. Obviously she's pretty but she would be prettier if she lost those century old clothes maybe and started listening to something made after 1950? Be more cool to match Crowley? Less stuffy?

These kind of film premises are already pointless, offensive and make me roll my eyes, but to stick them all over Aziraphale and huff cos she doesn't do what the clever sexy man in dark clothes and sunglasses says she should - well that makes me angry.

And so do takes and mischaracterisations that ignore Aziraphale as silly, her worries as pointless, sometimes excessive - maybe she's just hysterical, you know? The one time she shows more emotion, in F15, she is so often completely ignored in her obvious distress just because Crowley is trying to confess his love at the same time and seemingly 'not getting through,' because Aziraphale is not reacting the way everyone expects. So many takes that always assume Crowley is right, no matter what. Even when he calls Aziraphale an idiot. If Crowley says that, it must be true. No matter that the book spells out in Terry's voice that the angel is extremely clever.

Aziraphale’s charm lies in her kindness, her love for books and knowledge, her whimsy, and her quiet courage. These qualities don’t make her naive—they make her resilient. She often hides how she truly feels, hides her grief, her pain, her true desires, hides what she really thinks; always always to protect herself and her beloved. She is often forced to say stuff she doesn't mean. Again. To keep the one she loves and their fragile relationship safe. But where people seem to catch on with that on Crowley's side, they don't with Aziraphale. She is fierce when pushed and will defend the defenceless (humans) and the ones she loves (Crowley) to her last breath (whether she needs to breathe is irrelevant right now okay).

She loves her bookshop. She built this home, full of knowledge for herself and her demon and you can take this HC from my cold hands. That she was forced to leave it, only emphasises how little choice she had in Final 15. Good Omens has two main, equal characters; who are both gorgeous and complex and deep and neither is right or wrong or in need of saving or learning some huge lesson to get to their goal and be together. What needs to change is the world, the system they live in. And they will change it.

Just look at her!! Anyway. I love her. P.S. Just to add, many, many (if not all) bad takes on Aziraphale are also bad takes on Crowley. They mischaracterise and misunderstand just how deeply and unconditionally he loves Aziraphale. How he adores her and understands and accepts her just as she is. He does not expect or want Aziraphale to change in any way. He knows why they are not together. And it's not Aziraphale's fault, it's because of circumstances, not because of her choices. Crowley would never ever want Aziraphale to suffer, he wouldn't expect her to come back from Heaven saying how sorry she is for what happened, how stupid and blind she was and how he was always right. That's just not going to happen. ------------------------------------------ @tenok I simply must highlight the awesomeness you put in hashtags!! EVERYBODY please read:

Thank you sm for this!!

[whore-ibly-hot]

Yan!Husbands Boss x Married! Reader

"Just Another Day at The Office."

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Dub-con, misogyny, name calling, nude photos, coercion, dubcon touching, fem genitalia for reader, mentions of divorce, general perversion, praise, clit play, cheating, readers husband is a scumbag.

(AN: Requested by an Anon early today, and it made me feral.)

Tick... tick... tick... the sound of an office clock rings in your ears, the only sound louder is your heart, pounding in your ribcage. The clock was awfully loud, though you had never noticed it before, when you were coming to bring your husband a warm, home-cooked meal. Maybe then you didn't notice it because you weren't fearing for your future.

Morgan & Cole, the investment firm your husband had been working for for years had been doing better than ever, and in turn, so had your husband. Promotions, expensive raises, and more had been sent his way. The house was even being repainted. All that begs the question, how had you found yourself in this situation.

It was a few nights ago when your husband informed you of the deal he had made with his boss. Morgan, the co-owner of the company, had his sights set on you, apparently. At a holiday party, he approached your husband with an offer, an offer to get a night with you in exchange for another fat raise. You had always known your husband hadn't been the most loving, but you had never imagined his greed could get to this. The worst part was how casual the deal he described was. Approaching a man at an office party and asking to sleep with his life like you were discussing sports frightened you. You had only met Morgan once or twice, and while he seemed charming, him doing something like this made you very much doubt he was in actuality.

You are snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of a door opening. Morgan steps out of his office, fidgeting with his smart-watch when he looks up and sees your meek form in the office lobby. His brow furrows.

"Oh, Mrs. Peters, I hadn't expected you to met me here. I had intended to come pick you up. How long have you been here?" He asks. You gulp. "Not long, just ten or so minutes." You say, trying to hold eye contact. He sighs and shakes his head. "Well, I wish you would have knocked on my office door, I feel awful having left you out here alone. Come, we can head back into my office and chat." His voice is so soothing, and in any other situation it would have been nice. You enter his office, and he closes the door behind him, before sitting at his desk. You take the chair in front of it.

"So, I assume your husband-" His teeth grind as he says this. "Is assume he has gone over what this is about." You nod. "He did... and... and I don't know if I can do this. I don't know you at all, and I'm a married woman." You whimper. Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, and Morgan sighs heavily. He comes around to lean back against the front of the desk, one hand supporting him while the other touches your cheek.

"I know this must be scary, I understand that. But I'm gonna solve both of those problems right now." He kneels down so your eyes meet his. "First, you worry you don't know me. Let me fix that. My name is Morgan Brant, I am thirty-two, and I live in a loft down on 37th. I like charcuterie and making my own organic lattes. I work out everyday, and enjoy walking through the city. I have both of my parents, Ruth and John, and they live in the city as well. Anything else you'd like to know?" You're too stunned and still panicked to respond, so you just shake your head. "Okay, okay. Good." He murmurs. A hand strokes your hair softly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal. To your shock, for a man who basically paid for a co-workers wife to prostitute herself, he does seem genuinely upset at your fear. His eyes are filled with a sorrow, and he chews his bottom lip nervously. He looks down for a moment.

"Mrs. Peters, your second concern, about being a married woman, is very respectable. I appreciate that you respect the sanctity of marriage so much. I think your loyalty and love for your husband is beautiful." He pauses, and gently grips your chin so you look him in the eyes. "But... I worry that love and loyalty may not be returned. Mrs. Peters, I need you to promise me you will listen to what I am about to tell you." You gulp, his suddenly serious, yet still soft, tone worries you.

He stands, walking to the back of his desk and opening a drawer, grabbing a manila envelope before sitting down at his chair again. He pushes the envelope towards you, folding his hand together and sitting up. He looks as those this odd exchange is yet another business deal, as he sits like a man prepared to do whatever it takes to seal a deal. A real businessman. Your hand trembles as it opens the envelope. Your heart stops.

Inside, your husband can be seen in several photos, from many different angles. Some looked ripped from security footage, others appear to be taken at a distance. However, they all contain the same subject. Your husband, locking lips with various women, every photo a different one. Your hand covers your mouth as you let out a choked sob. "N-no... I mean, he was never warm to me, b-but..." Everything comes crashing down at once. All those nights you waited up for him when he was 'working late', all those warm meals you brought him at work, only to be brushed off so he could talk to his secretary. It all made sense.

"I can't believe this..." You squeak. Morgan shakes his head. "You can believe it, I know you can. He's never loved you, I've seen how he treats you. Rejecting your meals, ignoring you at office parties and work functions. My dear, he is actively sitting at home and preparing to count the bonus he received for pimping you out to me." Morgan exclaims, his shoulders tightening. You put your head in your hands. "I'm... what am I going to do?! I'll divorce him, but I'll have nothing. I, oh god." You cry. Morgan once again moves to try and comfort you. His broad arms wrap around your shoulders.

"I know, I know this is scary. You've been through a lot tonight, your entire marriage even. But it's going to be okay." He cups your face. "I've been watching the two of you, you mostly." He hands you something. An empty tupperware container. "This is from his lunch yesterday. Every meal he rejected from you, I gladly took. I hadn't had the chance to eat something made so lovingly in a long time. They don't serve home-cooked meals like this at business conferences." He chuckles. "I saw how you would cling to him at those same parties he was ignoring you at, and wishing, praying you would cling to me like that." You look up, his confession is shocking. "Your husband... he is a greedy man, but he has pride. I knew I wouldn't even get a moment along with you unless there was something in it for him." He shakes his head. "Darling, I was just as disgusted as you were that he'd agree to that. As excited as I was, as I am for this moment with you, I was thanking whoever is out there that no other person at this office had tried something similar. I'm not some deviant, or criminal. I've had my fair share of sexual encounters, with prostitutes and escorts, but... I never felt anything. I need to feel something. I do with you." He says.

You shake your head. "You don't know me." You say. He shrugs. "You don't need to someone to love them, not at first. I hate to say this, but you didn't really know your husband, did you?" You sob again, and his sticks his hands out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry darling, that was out of line. I just needed to prove a point. What I'm saying is, I don't just want one night of pleasure with you. I want you to be mine. If you left him, you wouldn't be lost or desolate, you would have me. I could give your everything he has and more. Money, a penthouse, and my love. Real love. You deserve someone who wants to care for you the way you cared for that man-child. I can do that." You sniffle. "It's all so soon, and I don't... I'm scared." You say again. "I know. I hadn't wanted to do this here. I had wanted to show you the pictures and confess early on, I had plans to pick you up and take you somewhere nice to eat. I know the last thing you want right now is a fresh new relationship, I understand. But just maybe, the idea of revenge tempts you?" He suggests. You look up, and bite your lip. "What are you suggesting?" You ask.

"He thinks he's better than you, and that you could never leave him, because you have no one else, nothing else. Why else do you think he assumes their will be no repercussions for a night like this? He's so confident that you would never leave him, never even think about another man, that he truly believes you will return to him after he's pimped you out." Morgan moves closer. "I won't lie, I'll enjoy this, but don't just do it for me. Do it for yourself. Give in, leave him for a man who will worship you, who can give you more. Get back at him, and be with me." You shake your head. "You... you paid him to pimp me out to you like this though?" You exclaim. He nods "I had to show you how little he cared for you, same with the investigators I hired to get those photos." He nods in the direction of the envelope, now dabbled with your tears. "Besides, I've already signed his termination papers, I don't hire men like that here. He isn't getting shit for doing this to you." He assures.

In a moment of weakness, you break. The betrayal of the evening, the hurt and the fear, the anger, it's all too much. You sink to your knees, and nod. "Alright, let's do it. Just... be gentle, go slow." He nods. "Oh, my sweet. I'll do whatever you ask." He captures your lips, pressing your back against the front of his desk as he kneels beside you. His lips are soft, and taste of bourbon and mint. He smells like cologne, but a good kind, something smokey. Not like the tacky expensive stink of your husband, now ex-husbands favorite cologne. His tongue prods at your lips, and shyly you part them, allowing his tongue to slip in and suck against yours. He groans, and you both pull away breathlessly. While you take a breath, he immediately latches onto your neck, placing quick, feverish kisses along your collarbone. You gasp at the feeling, shrinking in on yourself. He grins.

"Does it really feel that good, that's quite a reaction." He chuckles. You blush and look to the side. "It's- It's been a while." He frowns and tilts his head. "How long is awhile, darling?" He whispers. "A few months, maybe eight or so." He shakes his head. "My poor girl, doing all that for him and he still wouldn't please you." He grips your waist, his lips on the shell of your ear. "To be fair though, even if he did, he couldn't make you finish. He would please himself, not you. But I won't, baby. Tonight, is all about you." You can feel a thick hardon pressing against your knee.

"Tell you what, darling. Let me make you feel good, real quick. Something nice and easy for my sensitive girl. Then, I'l take you out. I'm not just going to have sex with you without wineing and dineing you. Then, I'll take you back to my place, I-I'll send for your stuff tomorrow, and if you want, we can go for round two." He coos, looking up at you with admiration and hope. "Won't my husband try to resist my stuff being taken?" You ask. He shakes his head. "He's not your husband. If he calls, I'll hang up. He sold you out, and if he gets pissy, I've go the best lawyers in the country at my disposal. I'm not letting you spend one more night under a roof with that man. You aren't Mrs. Peters anymore, you're Mrs. Brant. Now... let Mr. Brant make you feel good." Hands cradle your thighs, slipping the skirt of your sensible slip dress up over your knees. A hand paws at your panties, cupping your cunt as he sighs. "So warm, poor little thing hasn't been touched in months. I've only kissed your neck a little, and your soaked. Is it because I said I love you? Does your little cunt respond well to just being admired and appreciated? Oh, my darling." He slips your panties aside just a little, not wanting to ruin your outfit for dinner later. Fingers part your lips as a long digit strokes up, from your entrance to your clit. A finger prods the entrance, and you gulp at the throbbing heat you feel.

"Gentle, slow please." You murmur. He nods, placing a gentle kiss on your neck before slipping in his digit. His long, calloused fingers rub your neglected walls in all the right ways. "A-ah, Morgan..." You pant. "Good?" He asks. You nod, breathless already. He thrusts it in and out gently, before asking to add another digit. When you nod, he adds another, while his free hand circles your clit with his middle finger. Perhaps its from typing everyday, day in and day out, but he is skilled. Even when your husband has slept with you, you had never felt like this. A coil forms in your stomach as you pant and whimper.

"M-morgan." You moan. "Please, I need to-" You're cut off by him sharply curling his fingers, as they hit a spongy spot deep inside you. "Oh, god. Yes." You moan again. "Cum for me, darling, please. I want to hear you." Morgan's tone is suddenly more desperate ethan you had heard it all night. He's needy, begging to know that he is pleasing you in the way he so desires. "Say my name, would you? I just want to please you, I need to know it feels good." He begs. "Morgan, I'm gonna cum, shit-" Your walls begin to pulse, juices coating his fingers. As you moan, finishing your high, he kisses you feverishly, desperate for closeness.

When you pull away, panting as you come down from your orgasm, he licks your juices off his hands with a squelching noise, putting your panties back into place. He helps you to your feet, and hands your your purse. "Ready for dinner?" He asks. Tired and very hungry, you nod. "Just one more thing, and you don't have to do anything, I've dealt with this myself plenty but-" He looks down, the tent in his pants is still very prominent.

"May I handle that before we go out?"

[feministfang]

Three brave women beat up a shopkeeper in islamic republic of Pakistan for harassing them and all the Pakistani men are so pissed off that they’re sending death threats to those women for taking action in their own hands instead of tolerating and calling some male authority or police. That piece of shit also filed a case against those women for abusing him and as a citizen of this trash country, i can tell he will win the case.

A 20 years old girl, Sania Zehra, was brutally tortured, raped and murdered by her husband, syed ali raza bukhari, when she was pregnant with her third child. This also happened in Pakistan on 8th of July. Now the same men are silent over this or trying to shove the issue of Palestine on feminist pages posting about Sania’s case because "far worst things are happening in the world". Meanwhile, Pakistani women are busy dick worshipping the victim’s father because "he must be so traumatised after losing his daughter like this. oh poor man!" As if that bitch isn’t at fault for making her daughter marry that old beast when she was probably 16.

Celebrities here are more concerned about men’s deteriorating mental health in this country as these lunatics think catering to men’s feelings will somehow fix them. What else can you expect from them when the entire world outside has progressed, but these dumbfucks are still portraying the same old cringe fairytale stories where a simple beautiful, but unfortunate girl falls in love with some ugly psychotic man and tolerates his abuse because "that’s true love 😍" and in the end, she’s successful in fixing him.

But when we speak a word against the atrocities women face in this country, all these people lose their minds and try to silence us to ensure the image of their fuckin country is not at risk of defamation and the lovely Pakistan can become an example of how peaceful islam is. Pakistani men (and most women here as well) are intolerant when it comes to the vilification of the image of their country and religion. And their asses start burning when they see someone ruining it. They even stoop so low to the level of satanism that they would not hesitate to send death threats to anyone making them look bad globally. A girl i was friends with on FB wished Malala another gunshot on her face by Taliban because of her anti-marriage stance.

This is why i urge y’all to please don’t stay silent on the issues women are facing in Pakistan. I never see global feminist pages talking about female oppression in this garbage country. Some feminists living in west also act like brown men are somehow better than white men and they’re more oppressed than white women because of racism, or that muslim men are better than christian bigots. Stop victimising brown muslim men. Not only are they hideous but also the misogyny the south asian society has shoved in their assholes is extremely disgusting and they keep shitting it on women everywhere they go, including white women.

I wouldn’t expect support from brainless libby feminists as they’re probably busy pulling their pants down on their favourite OF platforms or fighting misandry online, but i would love to see all the radfems speaking up for south asian women. Please make it known globally how the Pakistani islamic community is constantly oppressing women day by day.

Use the examples i stated above. Speak up for Sania Zehra!! Demand justice for her globally, and keep bashing corrupt Pakistani law system. Also, don’t forget to defame their religion. These people are most protective of their culture and religion. I don’t see any hope in this country for women, but there’s a chance they will start taking action and give proper justice to the victims in order to protect their so called dignity.

[porkcutletbowl44]

The Man You Need

Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

Tags!: 🔞NSFW. MDNI. unprotected p in v sex(wrap it in foil before you check her oil), dirty talk, creampie, PWP, Insomnia!reader, brief mention of misogyny, semi-public sex, shower sex, reader is also kinda bratty

(Ik y'all are only here for the porn that's why the plot dies quick lmao)

A big thank you to the 200 followers and counting 🫶🏻🩷

• · ────── ·🔞🖤🔞· ────── · •

"Y'look knackered, 'aven't been sleepin' enough?"

Simon's voice forces you to stop staring at the stale scones under the heat lamp, yanking you out of that day dream of falling face first into the breakfast line to get real sleep.

"Just the usual insomnia," you reminded. "What plans do you have today?" You asked, gatherthering the last of your breakfast.

His long strides effortlessly keeping up with your shorter ones. He towers over you as you both approach the table where you both sat normally.

"Just the usual, trainin' new recruits." He answers in the same manner as you, he sits down opposite you. He stretches his long legs out under the table, his calves brushing yours.

His eyes fixed on you like little bugs on your skin, taking in every detail of your face.

"'ow long has it been since y'last slept through a night?" He asks gruffly.

"Saturday." You answered.

His jaw clenches momentarily behind the thin fabric of his balaclava, and his shoulders stiffen.

"Y'mean to tell me its been three days an' you're still functioning?" He retorts, skepticism written on his face. He knows you, and he knows how bad your insomnia gets.

"Yeah. Doesn't help when we have to wake up early."

Simon lets out a frustrated sigh, running a gloved hand over his face.

"You can't survive on 2 or 3 hours o' sleep a day. Y'know you're pushin' it too far. You're going to collapse soon if y'don't get your sleep under control."

He's always stern when he speaks, but with you it's like he's scolding you like a child who doesn't know any better.

You do know better; you've busted your ass to get where you are. You've had to deal with everything in the book to fight to where you are now in the military, and he knows that, he's been there the majority of the time and yet he nags you everyday about something.

"Well I'm trying, Si. Melatonin doesn't work and it gives me bad headaches." You mumbled irritably.

"Doesn't work, eh? An' I can see those bags under your eyes. Headaches too..." He rubs his chin as he looks at you, his eyes calculating. "What 'ave you tried so far, love? I've told you to keep me updated."

"The sleepy tea worked for a little bit, and then it didn't. I tried running before bed, no screen time, benadryl..."

Simon grunts and leans back in his chair, listening to you list all the things you've already tried and don't work, his frustration only seems to grow with this situation— or you?

"Bloody hell. You've tried everythin', 'aven't you? Nothin' seems to work, it's as if your body just won't shut down."

Sometimes this leads to the same thing over and over again, the 'you have to sleep' or, 'why do you do this to yourself?'. You just smile and nod, because yes, you can 100% control this.

"Well, sometimes another thing works, but it's just too much of a hassle." You shrugged, sipping some vitamin water.

Simon's brows furrow as he hears your muttered words. He leans forward, his gaze intense.

"What 'other things?'"

You sometimes keep things from him, and he won't let you get away with it this time. Or, there's the other times you are blunt, disgustingly blunt. You live with a bunch of men, who do not have a filter, that alone has killed yours out of existence.

You blink, fidgeting in place. "Ahem. Me time?"

He's not dense, he knows exactly what you mean and he's not one to back down from anything that usually makes normal people squeamish or "grossed out".

"An" 'ow is it 'too much o' a hassle exactly?" He asks, a slight raise in an eyebrow.

"My hand cramps." You rolled your eyes, it was obvious, who doesn't have that problem sometimes?

He crosses his arms over his broad chest with a humored look, your honesty can be either amusing or completely looked over.

"Your hand cramps, you say? Thas a hell o' a reason."

He chuckles softly, his eyes raking over you, taking in the sight before him. His gaze is heated. Your face can feel it, it's warm, it's like he's putting your face close to a bonfire with that look. For months you two do this... This thing that borders flirty and suggestive but at the same time it doesn't quite feel like either.

"Yeah. Thinking about going down to the store."

His eyes snap up, crossed arms going lose from his chest. He's not stupid; he knows what "going down to the store" means.

"You're talkin' about goin' to get one o' those things." His voice is low, but not quite harsh. He's almost hesitant to say it out loud, but he says it with so much disdain.

You deadpan. "A vibrator, Simon. A vibrator."

The tops of his cheeks flush red beneath his balaclava at your blunt response. You giggle a little, not expecting such a reaction from Lieutenant Ghost. What's the big deal? Did guys not talk about fleshlights? Brand recommendations?

He clears his throat before speaking, a little husky and quiet. No way, are you embarrassing him with girl stuff?

"Y-yeah. One o' those." He stutters, his usual confidence wavering. "Yes, thank you, love. I realize that. I just..." He trailed off, blinking a few times.

"Y'can't be serious. You're goin' to use a toy instead o' asking for help?"

It's like he can't believe you just said that out loud, in a busy mess hall no less. This is what it took? Talking about sex toys to make him awkward?

"Uhm...yeah? I less you have a boyfriend in your pocket waiting for me." you retort.

And yikes, he didn't seem to like that. His eyes squint, probably crinkle in his nose. He paused, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes studying your face closely.

"You don't seriously think y'need a toy instead o' just asking me, do you?"

Why does he sound hurt??

Your stomach does a backflip off your intestines and into a hot tub of oil. He did not just say that. You must be asleep, yes, you must be dreaming.

You giggled, "Good one."

Simon gives a low grumble, his jaw flexing and grinding. This apparently wasn't a laughing matter to him. Is he serious? Your tongue works over your teeth, trying your absolute hardest to be so cool, nonchalant, you don't care you don't care—

"'M not jokin', love. You don't honestly think that a toy would be better than the real thing, do you?"

Of course it's not fucking better. But what choices did you have? Sleep with one of your teammates and then get a dishonorable discharge? Make things awkward in your team?

"Oh... Considering it's illegal to have relationships, yes. A vibrator won't leave me, cheat on me, break my heart... It's perfect." You shrugged— it was for the best anyways.

He knew the rules just as much as you did. And he followed them religiously. What the hell is going on? Why would he just suggest that out of the blue?

"Y'think you'd be better off with a piece o' silicone than takin' the chance on me?"

You pinch your thigh under the table. Nope. You're still here in mess hall, in front of your now cold breakfast, and Simon is still trying to convince you to fuck him.

"Y'wouldn't be satisfied with that thing. You'd get bored, love..." He sounds so sure, and jealous when he speaks of the horrible, terrible, vibrator.

"How would you know?" You quired quickly.

Just to double check. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

"I know 'cause I know you. You'd get tired o' that thing eventually, you'd want somethin' real."

He paused for a moment, his eyes lidding, darkening, consuming.

"You'd want someone to touch you, love. Not some piece o' plastic an' silicone."

"Yeah, like I'd ever get that," you barked out a laugh out of sheer nerves.

He didn't like that anymore than your last dismissive reply, you may just be convinced about now. So, cue to you squeezing your thighs together in your seat. Acting completely normal. Because everything about this is so normal; your coworker just telling you to come to him for a good fuck to be able to sleep.

"What do y'mean by that? 'ow can you say that with a straight face? Y'don't think anyone would want to touch you? Let y'know 'ow loved you are?" He grumbled, his hands clenching on top of the table.

"Y'think you're so undesirable that nobody would want you? Bloody hell..." He shakes his head.

"Simon, take a look at me." You licked your lips to prevent a shout of frustration, yikes, you do need sleep.

Simon's eyes fly over your form, from head to toe. He took his time studying you, his eyes lingering over the curves of your body, the way your hair fell over your face. There isn't a damn thing wrong with the way you look.

"'M lookin' at ya, love. An' what I see is perfection. So tell me again... what's your damn point?"

Oh, good God. It's real. But this is better than you imagined; you want to make him work for it. All because it's hotter to get a man to work for something, get all riled up.

"What do you see? A cutesy little girly girl? A nice little housewife for a big strong man?" You asked sarcastically.

"I see a woman who's strong, capable, an' bloody beautiful." He glares, offended you'd even think about saying that, "You're not some dainty damsel in distress, you're a force to be reckoned with..."

"My point exactly. Men don't want a chick that's more man than them." You rolled your eyes at just mentioning the delicacy of fragile masculinity these days.

Simon grunted and rolled his eyes, his irritation building into something you might not want to poke at.

"Thas where you're wrong, love." He points his spoon at you. "Not all men are as narrow-minded as y'think. I know damn well I want a woman like you. Strong, feisty, sexy."

"My point, Simon! I don't want some fucking pussy, I want someone whose more man than me." You huff.

You're not entirely implying this trait about him... You just wanna see him work for it.

"You're not goin' to find that in a bloody toy, love. You're lookin' in the wrong place if y'think some plastic will make y'feel better. Y'want a man? You already 'ave a man."

He was right there, willing to give you what you needed. But how far will he go?

"Yeah but... I want something real, too." You tried to explain.

This flirting back and forth was something you enjoyed; but what would it mean in the long run?

"Exactly." He huffed a bit exasperated. "Y'want somethin' real. Somethin' I can give you."

He shifted in his seat, leaning closer to you, his eyes deep and intense.

"Y'don't need a toy, love. You 'ave me. 'M real, an' I want you. Don't settle for some piece o' plastic when y'know damn well what you really want."

Okay then, schizophrenic, game on.

"I want someone stronger than me, someone to give me a reason to act like a woman," You snorted.

You were infuriating at times.

"An' y'think I can't give ya that? Y'think I can't make y'feel like a woman? Like a fuckin' queen?" That retort comes out low, accusing. "I can definitely make y'feel like a woman. Y'don't need someone stronger than you, love. Y'just need me."

Nail on the head with that one; yet how far can you take it? You lean between your elbows, squeezing your tits together to make you look as enticing as possible.

"Do I?" You purr.

Simon freezes in time, his plastic spoon almost falling away from his thick fingers. His hand does scramble for it to his credit but he almost dumps his bowl in the process. You hear him clear his throat roughly, Adams apple bobbing at the hem of his mask before it disappears. You bite your lip with a challenging gaze, would he take it?

"Yes," He replied firmly to cover up his hesitation, "Y'need me, love. Y'just don't know it yet. I can make y'feel things no toy ever could. Think y'need a man t'make you feel like a woman? I can do that, an' I will happily."

You smirk, "You're gonna have to try harder than that,"

"Oh, I will, love. You're just askin' for a challenge, aren't you?"

"You afraid to take it?" You shot back slyly.

He was anything but afraid with that look. He was up for the challenge, and you know he's gonna prove it.

"Baby, 'm not afraid o' anythin' when it comes to you," he replied, his voice low and husky. "As long as you can take what I can give you."

He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes searing into yours. There was danger in his gaze, it only made it all the more delicious.

"Y'think you can 'andle me, love? Y'think you're ready for what I can do t'you?"

"Only if you can prove it." You grin.

Ghost let out a low growl, his eyes darkening at your challenging tone. He thrived on it, it only fueling his drive to prove himself to you.

"Oh, I'll prove it, love. I'll prove it again an' again until y'can't even think straight."

"No, no, prove you're more man than me." You corrected easily.

"Y'want to know why 'm more o' a man than you? I can make y'feel things you 'aven't even imagined before. I'll 'ave you beggin' f'me, addicted t'me."

"I'll be waiting, then." You set the challenge in stone. This was it.

The bear has been poked enough. He was on a mission now.

"You'll be beggin' f'me before the night's over." He boasts smoothly, a promise and a warning all in one.

"If I get a good night's sleep I'll consider keeping you,"

You were maddening, and he both loved and hated the way you pushed his buttons. It was all in good heart; for the most part.

"You're already keepin' me, love. Y'just don't know it yet."

You bite your lip, taking a quick survey of the area before replying. This was getting too good to be true.

"Don't disappoint then, we have..." You glance at your watch, humming, "six hours until lights out."

"Thas more than enough time." He grunts, all smug and cocky behind his mask.

Step one, getting recruit work out of the way. It's boring as fuck, mostly watching the Lieutenant scare the absolute piss out of the fresh meat.

Simon was barking orders left and right, ruthless to the soldiers in training. Almost as ruthless as the sun beating down on them.

You abandoned your spot in the shade, clip board in hand. You balance two water bottles on the wooden board as you approach to offer a beverage.

"Thanks," he grumbles, his eyes darting around to ensure no one witnessed the small gesture just like you.

He took the offered water, downing half the bottle in one go and adjusting his mask back in place. You drag your pin down the clip board to check off what's already done.

"Forty laps?"

"Forty laps."

Simon confirmed with a gruff nod, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment before turning back to the recruits. Despite the challenging heat, he refused to end the training drills early no matter how much you teased him about buying him a little extra on your toy run— Viagra.

You thought it was hilarious, him? Not so much.

"An' they better pick up the pace!" He barked, the deep baritone easily reaching the pirvates' ears.

You circle that box, "And the sixty pull ups?" You breathed a bored sigh.

Simon grunted in annoyance.

"Done."

He informed in a low grumble, his jaw working under the balaclava. It was an excessive amount, but many of the recruits wouldn't even make it halfway through. But he didn't care, he was in a mood. A horny one. When was the last time this guy got laid?

"Wasn't accepting any half-assed attempts, either."

"The rope climbing?" You tap your pen at the box.

Simon glances down at the list, eyeing the scribbles and doodles next to the ticked boxes.

"Done." He replies simply.

You could faintly hear the sound of the recruits groaning and grumbling in pain and exhaustion, you almost felt bad. It was minor flashbacks to your recruitment days, yet Simon didn't seem to have that same sympathy judging by the satisfaction in his eyes.

"Aaannnd... Combat." You hum, one last task left for training.

This was where things get interesting.

"Its last. Need to let 'em rest a bit first. Suppose they earned it."

"Generous," you comment blandly.

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep checkin' off the list. I wanna get these fuckin' recruits dismissed soon. 'M sick o' the heat."

The day dragged on painfully slowly. The heat was relentless until the rain would show up any minute, and he was more irritable than usual. Even the recruits seemed to notice his foul mood, giving him a wide berth whenever he was in their vicinity. You were starting to grow bored of his usual job of scaring the hell out of the recruits, (not so bored when sweat rolls down the thickness of his biceps and the bounce of his tits when he jogs up to the trainees to yell at them) and overall wondering when and how the fuck you're supposed to get laid at this point.

Finally, the training was over. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the compound. The recruits limped and hobbled their way to their assigned lodgings, exhausted and sore.

Simon, on the other hand, seemed like he had even more energy than usual. Despite the long, grueling day, he was somehow wired and restless. You should ask what energy drink he uses after you wrap this up. (Hint: it's the male drive to get some pussy).

As the recruits dispersed, one in particular caught your eye. He was the most arrogant and obnoxious of the bunch, strutting around like he owned the place. You and Simon had seen it countless times before, it got old fast.

"Arrogant little prick," Simon muttered irritably.

You tongue your cheek, "What? Threatened by him?"

It's a pointless taunt— Simon? Threatened? Gosh, it's so fun to get men worked up. Simon's eyes narrow at your comment, a grunt bursting out from him.

"Threatened? Me? Fuckin' hell, no." He grumbles offendedly. "I could take 'im apart within a minute. Can't stand the ones caught up in their own 'ead,"

You hum in agreement. You know for a fact you'd pay to see that one day, and Soap would be right behind you.

"You're lucky you're the most tolerable person 'ere," he adds goodnaturedly.

You backhand his shoulder lightly, "Oh, look, your best friend is coming over!"

And speak of the devil, the recruit struts over with that piece of shit arrogant smirk. Simon rolls his eyes in annoyance as he turns to face the strutting recruit.

"Great. Just what I need," The sarcasm is laid on thicker than the suspicious gravy served this morning at breakfast.

The recruit saunters over, his obnoxious confidence on full display. Simon clenches his jaw, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Sir... Do we have more extensive training available?" He asks slowly, his own ego taking a hold of his tongue.

Simon's eye twitches at the recruit's pompous tone. Extensive training, more like a request for special treatment to feed that ego.

"Extensive training?" He echos roughly, "F'you? Why?"

The recruit shrugs boredly, "I think your ways are a bit old fashioned, too easy,"

Easy, old fashioned? This cocky little bastard doesn't know the first thing about hard work. And he's about to serve himself his very own buffet of living hell from Simon. You distract yourself with the grass below your feet, taking everything you have to not laugh.

"Y'think we make things easy on you?" He sneers, taking a step closer to the recruit. "Y'think you're hot stuff, eh? Well, you're in for a rude awakening, rookie."

Your lips purse, frowning deeply to stop the smile.

"What makes y'think you deserve anythin' beyond the standard training regime, hmm? You 'aven't earned a fuckin' thing yet." He glares at the recruit, his eyes dark and intense behind his mask. "Y'get your fuckin' arse to the barracks. Your extensive training for the next month? You'll be cleanin' the bathrooms before lights out."

The recruit's smirk falters at Simon's orders. He's not used to being talked back to, much less being told what to do. But he tries to maintain his cocky attitude, not wanting to back down in front of you, maybe. Ugh, men.

"Bathroom duty? That's... a little degrading, isn't it?"

Simon chuckles darkly, his eyes dancing with amusement. This cocky bastard was really pushing his luck more than you were. You almost feel bad if it weren't so funny.

"Degrading?" he sneers. "Welcome to the military, rookie. It's not a goddamn country club. Y'think you can come 'ere, demand extra training, an' expect special treatment? This ain't a playground. You're 'ere to learn discipline, not stroke your ego."

You stifle a laugh behind your clipboard. This was too good, and all the more hot to see Simon angry.

Simon shoots a sidelong glance at you, even though he's supposed to be acting tough and intimidating, he seems to let himself crack through the lieutenant role around you.

The recruit, on the other hand, doesn't notice your amusement. He just looks sulkily at Simon, clearly not pleased with the prospect of bathroom duty.

Simon grabs the recruit roughly by the collar, the display of power and dominance making you jump in place. Simon's firm grip on the recruit's collar startles the cocky little punk, his eyes wide in surprise.

"See, this is your problem," Simon grits lowly. "Y'think you're untouchable. Y'think you're better than everyone else. But lemme tell you somethin', wanker... you're not."

The recruit stammers, eyes frozen with fear.

"Disobey your superior officer again an' I'll make sure your walls are covered in you."

He gives the recruit a rough shove, releasing his collar. The recruit stumbles back, shocked out of words.

"Consider that your final warning," Simon growls. "Now get your arse to the fuckin' barracks, rookie."

The recruit seems to shrink under Simon's intimidating aura, his cocky demeanor shattered and squashed to dust. He mumbles a half-hearted, "Yes, sir," before hurrying away.

You check your watch, "Well, today has been fun. It's too bad you only have three hours left."

Three hours left, you say? He hadn't even started yet. Because of training, of course.

"Three hours, huh?" He grumbles, eyes setting in determination. "Don't count me out yet, love. I can do a lot in three hours."

"Hurry it up, or in three hours I'll have a brand new shiny vibrator." You grin cheekily.

"You won't be needin' any damn vibrator if I 'ave anythin' to say 'bout it," he hisses. "I don't need any bloody gadgets to 'elp out."

He starts to stalk towards you, his eyes intense and focused. Your thighs squeeze together, pleased with your outcome.

"Three hours is more than enough time f'me to prove myself, love. An' you'll be beggin' before the clock strikes, guarantee ya that."

"Right," you drawl with a roll of your eyes.

He reaches up with a rough hand, grabbing your chin and lifting it so your eyes meet his.

"Y'think I can't prove myself in three hours, huh? That I need some bloody toy to 'elp me out? I promise you, love, you'll be singin' a different tune."

You giggle teasingly, biting your tongue through your smile.

"Tick tock, Simon." You singsong.

You were mocking him, challenging him, all for this purpose.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, love," he growls down at you, "Y'think you can tease an' walk away with that pretty lil smile on your face. But you're gonna find out real quick that I won't back down, even when you're being a cheeky lil minx."

You smirk dreamily, staring up at him with raw want. You kinda want him to do something extravagant, proving himself just because. When was the last time you had fun like this?

"You're pushing your luck, love," he grunts, his voice gruff with barely concealed desire. "If you keep lookin' at me like that, there ain't gonna be enough time to do everythin' I wanna do to you."

You pull from his hand, turning on your heel as you call over your shoulder,

"I'll be waiting, Si,"

You were taunting him, teasing him, with that sultry little comment and casual tone. You feel his eyes on your ass with each sway of your hips, that naked feeling let's you know he's undressing you with his eyes.

You whip out your phone to look at the time, alas, there's just no way what you want can happen. The rules, regulations, and the severe lack in privacy.

Shooting Captain a quick text for permission to leave base for an hour you head into the higher up showers for some much needed washing of the sweat collected on your body.

As you toss your towel on the bend, your phone buzzes.

'Permission granted. I'll let the team know you'll be out.'

Your heart drops to your ass as you frantically text back—

'Wait no that's not necessary!!!!!'

And then, to your horror, you get a ping in the group text.

Shit.

The team knows youre just going out, but Simon knows. Simon knows you're chickening out from the challenge.

"Fuck!" You hiss, frantically looking around the showers as if there were anything that could help you.

There's nothing. Not the gathered pubes in the moldy shower drain nobody uses, not the faded rusting lockers, not the dirty windows that nobody will ever be able to see out of no matter how much scrubbing

You're fucked.

But how fucked, do we wager? Does this mean Simon will get in his feelings and never talk to you again? Will he out you? (No, it wouldn't ever—) What if he gets revenge?... What kind of revenge?

As you stand there, panic setting in, a voice rings out from the entrance of the shower area.

"What 'appened to three hours?"

You squeak as the door slams, the deadbolt echoing through the room.

You are locked in the showers with Simon.

"What's with the sudden cold feet?" Simon grunts as he rounds the corner, closing the distance between you in slow, measured strides.

"I-I can explain—" you stammer, phone dropping on the bench next to your towel.

He stalks towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. There's a dangerous edge to his gaze that makes your heart beat even faster in your chest.

You're trapped, unable to back away, and he looms over you like a caged beast.

"Explain why you're runnin' away from the challenge you issued, love?" he drawls, stopping just a few feet away from you. "This I 'ave to 'ear."

He crosses his arms as he stands there, his eyes never leaving your face. You're in for it now, his expression seems to say.

You chuckle nervously, gesturing between the two of you, "I mean, realistically it can't ever happen—"

"Who says it can't?" He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. "I don't care 'bout the damn regulations, love. That's not gonna stop me from 'aving you."

"Y-You are all about the rules, Si. You follow them to a T— You wouldnt—" you swallow thickly. What have you done to yourself this time.

"I usually follow the rules, yes," he concedes tauntingly, "An' right now, those rules are fuck all to me anymore."

Your tongue suddenly feels heavy in your mouth, "W-What about—"

Simon leans a forearm over your head and slouches down, his eyes darkened by lust and determination.

"What 'bout...?" he mocks, "Y'think I give a damn 'bout those old geezers with their rules right now? All I care 'bout is 'aving you, 'ere an' now."

Simon's free hand reaches up, his fingers lightly tracing your jawline. "I'll show you 'm fuckin' man enough to 'ave you."

While you are speechless, he adds for you to better understand. "It's just you an' me in 'ere."

"But—" you squeak.

Simon's hand moves quick to cup your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"No," he growls, "We don't need to follow the rules in 'ere. We don't need anyone's permission. We could be loud, we could be rough. No one would ever know."

No one... Would know.

He leans in, his lips hovering just centimeters from your ear. "Just us in 'ere. You tellin' me you'd rather 'ave some stupid fuckin' toy over a man that can fill you up all night long?" His hand slides down to your throat, holding you tenderly but firmly, "Just say yes, love."

You whimper in delight, his eyes flickering down to your shifting thighs.

"Yeah," he purrs, his hand angling your head up against the wall. "Y'know you want it. Y'want me."

You want him more than sleep. You want him more than some real fucking food.

"Y'know you don't need anythin' else but me t' fuck you stupid."

"Yes," you moan.

Simon's eyes gleam with approval, his grip on your chin tightens slightly.

"That's good fuckin' girl," he growls.

He licks your neck through the mask, chest expanding with a deep inhale that crushes you to the wall.

"Say y'want me," he demands in a gravelly whisper.

What is thinking? Why would you have to think?

"Want you s'bad," you whine.

"Fuckin' right you do," he mutters.

His other hand drifts down, slowly tracing down your body until it lands on your waist, shoving you into the shower stall. For a moment, you thought you were going to get a little groping, made a knead here and there. But no, you're just standing like a dumbass in the empty shower stall.

"Strip." He growls.

Your skin erupts with gooseflesh in the bare shower shall, his gaze unwavering as he waits for his private show. He steps closer, his own clothes still on, thick arms folding over his chest.

"Slowly," he commands, "Show me what's gonna be mine."

You pinch the hem of your cargos, and then switch to your shirt.

What the hell do you even start with?

"Trousers first," Simon instructs roughly.

He stands there, still dressed, but his eyes devouring every inch of you as you slowly pop the button.

You slowly shimmy the waist band over the swell of each hip, pushing down to your ankles. Simon's breaths grow heavier as you flick the material off your feet his eyes transfixed on the movement.

"Thas it. Bra next," he commands, velvety smooth, "Nice n' slow. I want t'see all o' you."

Bra? Bra next? Why not your shirt?

You kick the cargos away, your shirt barely covering over your panties as you unclasp the bra through your shirt and maneuver it out from one of the sleeves to hold it in the tip of your finger.

Simon's eyes zero in on your pebbled nipples and pretty panties, the thin fabric doing little to hide your curves.

"Good girl," he purrs, "Now come 'ere."

You're... You're not even done. He motions with his fingers for you to approach him, his eyes dark with need.

"Do the thing," you manage out.

"The thing?" he grunts in an enticing voice, taking a step forward as you gesture to your mouth and nose.

He reaches up and pulls the mask to his nose, revealing his lips.

"Is this what y'want, love?" he asks, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

"Yeah," you breathe as you wet your lips.

Those would taste so good. You just know it.

"Y'want to see m' mouth, huh?" he asks, a smirk playing at the corners of those now revealed lips that show his canines, a chipped tooth, his lower face in general in its scarred glory, "Y'want to see what I can do, love?"

He closes the remaining space between you in a single stride, grabbing you by the back of the neck and yanking you forward.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with dark hunger that makes your pussy pulse.

His mouth descends on yours, his lips claiming yours in a fiercely possessive kiss. You moan lowly, one of your arms circling his thick waist. He's burning up, hot and sweaty under his clothes that reek of his natural musk.

One of your curious hands ventures down, squeezing at his ass. He breaks the kiss with a surprised grunt, a coy smirk.

"Naughty, that," he huffs, "But I like it. My turn,"

The world before you lunges back, his mouth descending on your neck. He sucks and bites at the sensitive skin, his teeth leaving red marks in their wake.

His hands have a rough exploration, sliding down your skin, pausing just above the waistband of your panties to slide in to the globes of your ass. You stand in your tip toes to lean into him, whimpering at his rough gropes and kneading.

His mouth continues it's path down your neck, his teeth grazing the tops of your covered tits as his hands roughly squeeze and massage your perfect ass.

"Look at you," he growls, "Squirmin' an' I haven't even started."

He pushes your ass up, looking over your shoulder to watch it bounce. His hands slide lower, pulling the elastic of your panties down slightly, "Look at this," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You're fuckin' soaked through."

And he's right.

You squeeze your thighs, trying to rid that sticky mess thats unbearably uncomfortable. He tuts, delivering a slap to your ass.

"Tryin' to get yourself off, love?" he purrs, his fingers tracing along the edge of your panties.

You can't tell the difference between the onyx color from his pupils, you can hardly look at his eyes when his mouth is right there and his own tits are in your face. God, you want to nibble on those chapped lips, feel those fat biceps squeeze you as his hips snap on the backs of your thighs—

He backs you up, his hard cock pressing against you through his jeans, "Y'want it?"

"Yes!" You mewl.

"Thas what I like to 'ear, love," he husks, his fingers playing with the crotch of your panties. "Get that shirt off, wanna see those pretty tits finally."

You squirm, pulling your shirt up and off and throwing it somewhere that doesn't matter right now.

"Perfect," he rasps, his hand reaching up to cup your breast, "These are fuckin' nice,"

You arch, eyes rolling at the nice kneading to your sore flesh of being stuck in a bra all day. To your displeasure, freezing water sprays down your body and your uncomfortable groan bounces off the walls until the water warms up.

He's still fully dressed though, his clothes sticking to his muscular frame, accentuating every hard muscle and scar.

"Shower's a bit shitty," he says, his eyes raking your body. "But we don't 'ave to wait for that to get goin'."

Your panties have disappeared into his pocket, you follow the way his fingers shove it in— Your eyes divert to that large bulge behind the zipper.

"I know what y'want," he grunts, his hand moving to the belt and zipper.

Simon pulls down his zipper, the metal teeth parting revealing a black pair of boxers, which does little to hide the already impressive outline of his hard cock nudging up against the waist band.

He pushes his jeans down his thick thighs, his body still clothed in a tight black shirt and underwear drenched in water.

Your saliva glands burn at the sight of his happy trail plunging past the waist band, eyeing that nice size you only got a little feel of on your leg—

"Want a closer look?" he purrs, his hand slowly palming the base of his covered cock, precum bleeding out from the thin fabric on his thigh.

You make a face at him, your face burning with embarrassment

"What's the matter, love? You shy now?" he says with a smirk, his hand continuing to slowly palm and squeeze, "Y'were all full o' attitude today."

His head tilts mockingly, stroking himself for you, enticing you. Pinch yourself again, this might actually be a dream—

"Go on," he rasps, "Feel me."

You follow a trail of water down to his shirt clinging to his body, his drenched happy trail, and then the outline of his cock.

With one hand, you tug the waist band forward, clenching as he sucks in a breath that makes his abs tense.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear, "Go on," he husks, "Take it out, love."

He leans back, watching you intently, waiting for you to do as told. Maybe you do like to be told what to do in this context. With your other, you pull him free with your eager hand.

He moans, he fucking moans.

"Thas it, love," he husks out, his voice a little strangled. "Feel me up."

His hands rest on the wall behind you, caging you in. He hips rock into your hand, each stroke of your fist pulling the foreskin back.

"You're so big," you whimper.

Simon lets out a deep, gravelly groan as you speak. It just might be the hottest sound you've ever heard. Right next to the time he was lifting heavy dumbbells, letting all those grunts and growls loose.

He looks down at you, his gaze burning with lust and need, "You want it, baby?" he asks, his hips grinding against your hand harder, "Want this big dick?"

"Want it so bad, Si," you mumbled against his lips, your tongue darting out to lick his teeth.

his mouth claiming yours in a rough, passionate kiss. His tongue immediately tangles with yours, his teeth biting and tugging at your lower lip.

"I know you do," he grunts, his tongue slipping past your lips to slide against yours before speaking again, "You've been eye-fucking me all afternoon, love."

His hands start to wander along your body, mapping your curves with rough caresses,

"You're gonna get it," he husks.

One of his hands moves down to your hip as he moves lower, his mouth following the curve of your throat, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses and bites.

"Want m'cock in that pretty pussy? Or your mouth?"

Where do you fucking think, smart guy?

"In me, inside me, please," you mewl.

His massive paws squeeze your hips to spin you around, planting your hands against the wall.

"Bend over," he growls, his eyes roaming over your body, "'M gonna give you what y'want."

His hands on your hips start to maneuver your body, making you arch your back and hips out.

He runs a hand up your spine, "So pretty," he murmurs as he takes in the sight of your body bent and on display for him.

He steps up behind you, his body flush against your back, his clothes still fucking on and wet and sticking to your body.

"Gonna fill ya up nice n' good," he sucks on his teeth with a low growl, "Been thinkin' o' me all day 'aven't you?"

His hips rock against your ass slowly, his bare cock rubbing on your supple skin.

His hands massage your ass, kneading and squeezing the flesh as you lean on your forearms, moaning as the blunt head notches to your dripping slit.

"Want m'hands all over you," Simon growls against your flesh, his rough palms skimming over your curves, "Mm, relax, yeah? Nice n' easy— Yeah, thas a good girl,"

His hips do a slow, deliberate grind, rocking into you to make room for him as he moves his lips along the curve of your shoulder.

There's slow shallow thrusts, working you open until he takes a deep stroke down to the base. Fuck, he's thick all over, heavy even inside your walls. If you had the brain power, you'd reach below and hold his balls.

"You're so damn gorgeous," he husks darkly, his breath hot against your skin, "I wanted this since I first saw you."

He's so intense he's burning a hole through you with his gaze, his hands still exploring your body, worshiping every curve, every dip, every inch of you.

His hands slide down to the front of your thighs, coaxing your legs further apart, opening you up for him.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you walked in," he breathes, "I knew you'd feel amazing under my hands."

Your cheek presses into the shower wall with a strangled moan,

"S'deep,"

Simon growls at your moan and pushes into you with more force, his hands squeezing your ass to yank you back, spearing you over and over on his cock.

"Fuckin' knew you'd feel s'tight an' good,"

His hand presses on your lower tummy, mouth hot and panting against your shoulder blade. He grabs the back of your hand, his fingers threading through yours and pressing it against the wall.

"Take it, take—this—cock,"

You choke out a moan, slumping against the wall, "please, so close, so close—"

"You gonna come f'me, huh?" he asks, his voice raw and breathless.

It's a lovely sound on him.

"Yes, please, wanna come, haven't came this fast before—" you beg.

He lets out a ragged, possessive growl at your words, his hips piston roughly against your ass, full balls swinging on your clit over and over.

"Come on, pet," he snarls, deft fingers twirling tight circles around your clit.

You whimper loudly, hands sliding down the slick shower walls, hips straining for him as you come hard with a broken mewl.

"That's it, fuck—"

He breaks off in a gutteral moan, hips stilling as he spills inside you. Simon catches you as your legs buckle out from under you, scooping you up against his chest to lean you back against the wall.

You don't even know what just happened in the span of 5 minutes. He's panting hard, his heart pounding against your back.

"Fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, "Fuckin' perfect, love,"

You smile lazily back at him, pawing at his shoulders to pull him in a soft languid kiss, his lips claiming yours in soft, sweet caresses. He melts against your touch, the fierce need from earlier receding now that you're sated. He returns your lazy kiss, his hands gently roaming up and down your back.

"Bloody hell," he mutters against your lips, "Fuckin' perfect, woman." He nips at your neck, "'M not done yet."

Looks like he is the cure to your sleeping problem.

[depravitycentral]

Tw: mild misogyny, physical assault, sexual harassment, he's icky nasty

“Y’know, you get this look when you’re mad.” He starts, and you straighten, back going taut as you wait for him to continue. Your back is to him, and you’re painfully aware of the heavy sound of his footsteps, slowly approaching you with a pace that makes shivers prickle along your arms.

“It’s like…” He starts, a noise following that you can only assume must be contemplative. “It’s like you’ve just missed the last train, or maybe someone cut you in line and got the last soda. It’s angry, sure, but it’s more like you’ve given up, if that makes sense.”

You peek at him, now, out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure what brought this on – he’d just been out to get a coffee from the campus café, promising to be back in a few minutes. That’d been thirty minutes ago.

Working on the project together hadn’t been your choice, but when he turned to you in class and nudged you, quirking his brows and promising to work real hard, you’d merely shrugged, genuinely ambivalent. You didn’t know anyone else in the class, only taking it as an elective, and it was supposed to be pretty easy.

“See, you’re doing it right now.” He snorts a bit, and now you fully turn to look at him.

“Thirty minutes? The café’s next door.” You’re a little irritated, sure, but not terribly so. Working on the project wasn’t exactly your idea of fun, either.

He winces, eyebrows drawing together, but offers you an apologetic smile. “Yeah, yeah, sorry about that.”

He sits down next to you, the otherwise empty classroom making the squeaking chair echo. The smell of coffee fills the room as he sets down his own cup, steam billowing from the sipping slit. You’re about to open your mouth to ask him if he’s finally ready to get started, but when he places a to-go cup down in front of you, too, your mouth snaps closed.

“Just guessed what you’d want, sorry. For whatever it’s worth, your drink’s the one that took so long to make.”

You glance at him, finding his gaze already stuck on you, but you just smile a bit. “Okay, forgiven.”

He laughs, clapping his hands together in a praying motion. “Thank god.”

Your laptop’s open in front of you, and for a few minutes the only sound filling the room is the clicking of keys and occasional sipping. Much to your surprise, he’d managed to select a drink you didn’t mind. Taking a small sip, you sighed at the flavor. It was cold in the classroom and the warmth was welcomed.

“So, what are you thinking for colors? I like my PowerPoints to be pretty, but if you want it to be more simple then that’s okay.” You look over at him as you finish, watching the way he bites his lip.

“Mm, maybe black and white? Y’know, just real simple. Simple’s always good.” He winks at you, and you slowly nod.

“Okay, uh, sure.”

Truth be told, you didn’t know much about your seatmate – he’d ran into class five minutes late the first day, quickly rushing into the closest open seat which happened to be next to you. You’d been a little irritated at first at how his stuff sprawled out and invaded your space, but he seemed nice and was decently participatory in class, making you grow a bit fond of him. Besides, the professor always looked so thankful when he was the only one to raise his hand – and for that, you could let his more questionable behavior slide.

“You’re doing it again, you know.” He starts, a finger coming out to poke at the side of your arm.

Jumping, you whirl on him. “What?”

“Doing your angry-but-not-really face.”

“I’m not mad, I promise.”

“Sure, sure. Then hopefully you won’t be mad if I do… this.” He starts, before reaching out to flick your pencil over the side of the table.

You’re frozen for a second, before staring at him blankly. “What the fuck?”

He grins. “I just wanna see if that look gets worse when you’re for real irritated, y’know?”

You sigh, reaching down to pick it up off the floor. Fixing him a look, you cross your arms. “Better? Because I am definitely irritated now.”

He appraises you, leaning a few inches closer. “Mhm, just as I thought! Your lips get thinner, and your eyebrows get all tight.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to face your laptop again. You only get a few words typed before he’s snickering under his breath, voice low as he mutters, “Most guys think that’s pretty unattractive, just so you know.”

Immediately you stop typing. Maybe partnering with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“What’s your problem?” You ask, and he looks at you again, hands poised over his own keyboard.

“What? Sorry if I hit a sensitive spot – girls are so weird about stuff like that. You’re pretty, don’t worry.”

You stay staring at him, and he only snickers. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the look I’m talking about. Kind of kicked-puppy, like you’re real sorry for yourself.”

Standing up from your chair, you set your hands on your hips and face him. “Okay, listen you ass, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not dealing with this shit.”

You start to gather your stuff, but your partner only laughs a bit, before reaching out and flicking your pencil once more, this time a little bit further. With a huff, you smack at his arm and set your things down with a loud thud onto the wood, moving to the side of the desk and bending down to pick it up.

He’s quicker than you’d expected, given the frumpy sweatshirt and sweatpants he wears that hide the muscular physique underneath.

Hands encircle your wrists before you can think, body rotated harshly, back hitting the linoleum floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. He’s above you, strong thighs caging your legs together underneath him. Your wrists are held up above your head, his single hand large enough to keep them pinned there. It isn’t until now that you realize just how tall he is, or how strong.

“What the fuck – “ You start, struggling and wiggling in his grasp. With growing panic, you realize you’re not able to make much progress, his muscles feeling like stone against you. A hand quickly comes down to slap over your mouth, muffling any yells or screams.

He’s staring at you, expression blank, something heavy simmering behind his eyes. Slowly though, the corner of his mouth tilts up, and it spreads, something resembling a grin stretching across his mouth – though his eyes don’t change.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a filthy mouth?” He asks, voice a bit quieter now, more of a whisper and deeper somehow – deep enough to make you freeze, momentarily stopping your struggle. His eyes are sharp, scary, too much – he’s too close to you, leaning closer and closer and making you press yourself harder and harder against the dirty classroom floor.

He laughs again. “But that’s okay, I like that about you. It’s like you’re wild, like you’re untamed. Real.” His eyes flash. “Raw. Ha, I just know girls love to hear that word.”

Your eyes go wide, the insinuation making your struggling pick back up again. You’re thrashing, but he only squeezes at your jaw, tutting at you.

“Nuh-uh, none of that, okay? And don’t worry,” he throws you a smile that makes your eyes feel wet, your nose tingling, “I’m not gonna do that. At least, not here. Y’know, I’ve got a little bit of decency, I know girls like mattresses, pillows, and shit like that.”

He licks his lips. “Anyways, back to that mouth of yours…”

Quickly, and without any warning, the hand over your mouth shifts up and down, two long, curling fingers plunging past your lips and laying heavily against your tongue.

Your face twists up, eyebrows knotting together in disgust because his fingers taste like salt. He grins again, and to your horror, his fingers start moving. Rubbing against your tongue, pressing down and down, the pads of his fingers feeling like sandpaper against you.

“You always get a look when you’re angry, sure, but did you know you get this look when you’re really happy, too? It’s like you’ve seen something Earth-shattering, like it’s something almost holy.” The fingers move and angle under, rubbing against the soft underside of your tongue, down and pressing against the space underneath your tongue. He shudders. “They say this part feels like pussy. That true?”

You can’t move, can’t even breath as he shoves his fingers down deeper, moving to run over all of your teeth, a whistle slipping past his lips. “But you’re real pretty when you’re smiling, you know. Makes me wanna stare at you. When you answer a question right and professor tells you ‘exactly!’, you get this big grin and it’s damn cute. Always staring at those lips of yours – they get thinner when you’re smiling, y’know? Stretched taut, always makes me think what all they can do. Just how much they can stretch, if you get what I’m saying.”

You do, but you wish you didn’t, and he must know that because his fingers move to dip into the lower corners of your mouth, slipping between your back molars and your inner cheeks, prodding and poking at the juncture between gum and cheek. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Even like this – you’re puckered, which I guess isn’t the same thing, but I like it.”

He hums, taking his time as his fingers dip and poke at every inch of your mouth, running over every bump and curve of your teeth, pinching your tongue between his finger pads, thumb rubbing circles against the underside of your chin.

“Do you like this?” He murmurs, those eyes locked on the motion of his fingers inside your mouth, the imprint visible against your cheeks. He licks his lips again. “I’ve heard some girls like shit in their mouth. Obviously I think my cock’d be better, but this works too. Works for me, that’s for sure.”

He laughs at that, shifting his hips forward, and you whimper when you feel what you can only assume is his erection against your thigh. His nostrils flare at the sound. “Fuck babe, that’s good. Do that again.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend you’re somewhere else, but his grip on your wrist gets tighter, tight enough to hurt and oh ow ow ow –

You gasp around his fingers, the sound choking, and he whines lowly in his throat. “God, you’re fucking pretty. Your smile’s good, but you look good like this too, just so you know. All scared, shivering and squirming around… Ha, see? This is kind of like that angry face I was talking about. All terrified and self-patronizing, feeling back for yourself.”

He cocks his head to the side, fingers pushing in even further in a fluid motion, reaching to touch the back of your throat, making you gag. He bites his lip. “Kind of pisses me off that you’re so afraid of me, but I get it. I can forgive you. Besides…”

He leans down, nose nudging at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Something warm and wet lolls out to run in languid strokes along your skin, the tee-shirt you’re wearing doing little to deter him. In fact, he takes the hem between his teeth, sucking at the fabric and letting his hair brush against your jawline. You shut your eyes again.

“I know what will make that face even better, how you’ll get even more angry.”

You stop, dread filling every muscle in your body.

He laughs against your skin, nibbling lightly and smiling at the way you jolt away. “Remember how I said I like your smile? How I think it’s just so damn pretty?”

You’re too frozen to move – not like you could, anyway. The linoleum feels especially cold against you.

He grins, pulling back to look at you. He presses a kiss against his hand, right over your lips. “Well, when we met up today and you looked at me like that, smiling at me – at me, I mean, what was I supposed to do?”

His cock’s pressing against your thigh again, humping lightly as it grows harder, bigger, more insistent. “I know you’re not stupid. Coffees don’t take thirty minutes to get. So you know what I did with the other twenty minutes, then, right? C’mon, you’re smart, think about it.”

He’s staring at you again, mirth swimming in his eyes. “Let’s just say my refractory period is damn short.”

Immediately there’s bile climbing up your throat because the salty taste of his fingers – his right hand, no less – is all too strong now, the smell of his pinky pressed up against your nose musky and heady and god, you’re going to be sick. 

He’s quick to press harder against your mouth, though, tutting against at you. “Oh, don’t worry, I washed my hands after the first round. But then your drink was done, and I couldn’t keep you waiting, right? After all I know how you get when you’re mad.”

He sighs, leaning down to press his forehead against yours again. “Now, about that mouth.”

He grins, eyes sparkling as he ruts against your thigh and asks, “On your knees or on your back? I’ll let you choose, babe.”

Atsumu Miya, Kenji Futakuchi, Takahiro Hanamaki, Shoyo Hinata, Tetsurou Kuroo, young Enji Todoroki, Tomura Shigaraki, Kaigaku, some flavor of Tengen Uzui, Ryusei Shidou

[makeyoumine69]

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.

— CONTAINS: 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!

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

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.

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

[bonefall]

how much of Stormpaw’s demon are Maple’s curse vs just things that happen (cause in canon it’s really vague about whether Maple causes all those tragedies or has the ability to see his future for some reason)

EVERYTHING that happens in Stormpaw's Demon involves her. It's not being so dramatically renamed for nothing, she's a major driver and cause of the plot! Crookedstar's young name is in the title; but really, his demon is driving the misfortune.

That said... It's been a while and I'm heavily considering retooling the narrative.

Since I last REALLY worked on it, BB has changed in the sense that I'm a lot more willing to alter canon than I used to be. While my driving mindset used to be "telling a better version of the original story," and that IS a value I still hold... I've lost patience with the misogyny within the original work.

I've spoken at length about the way Crookedstar's Promise grinds my gears (PLEASE follow this link for a full breakdown of why), but in summary; it desperately tries to keep every male character likeable when they shouldn't be, saying nothing about the fact they are complicit in or even enabling abuse, while giving Crookedstar TWO flatly evil maternal figures. Even Brambleberry, who's heavily praised for being "like a mom instead," has a weird moment where she starts giving Crookedjaw the cold shoulder because she finds out he's chatting with a demon.

So like... I'm not sure if I want to make the "better version" of that story. That was the one that I already had, which had Mapleshade be acting entirely out of just the malice of wanting to hurt a child, while Hailstar and Shellheart are the excellent people canon wanted to see them as.

(not that it's even a BAD super edition, it's actually a really good one, but if it's my kitchen that's not what we cook here. Man I really do always massively overhaul my favorite SEs LMAO)

I think, specifically, I want to make Mapleshade slightly more morally gray and Hailstar more of an enabler. Shellheart is getting significantly retooled to make him more of the heartwarming parental figure I think he should be; someone loving to help balance out a very heavy rework.

And of course Brambleberry, I'm going to tweak her some. Try to make her flaws more consistent, get rid of that odd cold shoulder moment.

Old regulars will remember an old AU which is also still a massive favorite of mine; it was called Better Call Mapleshade, and it was kind of a commentary on how an environment can shape a person. Mapleshade, as a demon in heaven, was essentially their best prosecutor and defense attorney.

You can actually see how a lot of ideas from that AU ended up in Better Bones with the expanded trial system! I'm thinking of taking another page out of it, by making Mapleshade more aware of "the game" of Clan culture's structural unfairness, while also using it like a weapon against people she wants to hurt. A powerful demon of revenge.

Under the cut, what won't be changing, the way it was, and Draft 2 of Stormpaw's Demon.

(MASSIVE CONTENT WARNING FOR MENTAL AND PHYSICAL CHILD ABUSE including ableism. BB!Rainflower is WORSE than canon.)

WHAT WON'T BE CHANGING;

These are major details of Stormpaw's Demon that are different from canon. I'm working with these as givens and won't be changing between drafts.

Mapleshade does have a bone to pick with Appledusk's lineage specifically. One option might make her more discerning when it comes to her targets, but no matter what, she is going to have her eyes on this bloodline. She Haunts Applekin.

Rainflower is Hailstar's deputy. And I will make her downfall spectacular. If you were worried I was going to make her more sympathetic then you have no idea who I am LMAO

Shellheart is not Crookedstar's biofather While I want Hailstar to maybe be worse; I do want to fix Shellheart by making him a good parent. I've decided a good way to do this is to make it that Shellheart adopts Storm AFTER he's been abused by Rainflower. He didn't have authority over him before then. In general, I do want him to have a bigger positive role in this narrative. DEPENDING ON WHICH VERSION: Oakheart might also not be his bio-brother.

Crookedjaw is not a cruel name; it's an Honor Title. I've ALWAYS been frustrated by how canon treats scars and injuries as bad things. It's a BATTLE culture. Surviving brushes with death is their WHOLE THING. There is no "crookedkit" or "crookedpaw," he was Stormpaw until he earned his warrior name, with "Crookedjaw" commending the massive lengths he's gone to in order to survive, adapt, and honor StarClan.

Mentor change: Goodbye Cedarpelt, hello Magpiesky! I decided to repurpose one of the Barn Cats! Magpie from the books is a daughter of Perchshine-- the cat who killed Mapleshade. She joined RiverClan long ago. She's actually the one who points him in the way of the barn, and has to train him "as a punishment for teaching him disobedience" when he comes back. I actually have a couple of minor reasons for making this change but I'll spare them for now. He might start with Cedarpelt, but then run to the barn when Cedarpelt is basically refusing to train him properly.

Some family tree shuffles I need to update this tree to show Crookedstar's new situation with Shellheart (and also reflect some other changes I made like confirming Hallowflight fully being Lizardtail's honor title and Robinpaw being the apprentice who gets eaten by Ripwater), BUT, overall this tree is solid.

The ableism Storm faces is going to have a different flavor I have built BB in a way where him surviving his injury would be very respected, but he'd get badly coddled and pushed into early retirement. Him running to the barn is because he suspects he wouldn't have gotten training otherwise.

He kills a fox there because it's Cool. I might give him the tail to wear as a trophy of the kill because that's also Cool. The fox was very old and feeble at that point, which was why it was attacking chickens, but shhh

The Way It Was (Very Evil Mapleshade)

Darkstar's Commandment creating the Queen's Rights, that no queen would ever have to reveal the other parent of their kittens, wasn't enough to appease Mapleshade.

Nor was the damning of everyone that Mapleshade killed. In a fit of irrational fury at all the death, StarClan sent all her victims into the Dark Forest.

But she can't chase them. In the Dark Forest, you don't see someone unless you WANT to see them, not unless you're hanging out in a "land mar" (a sort of personal hell that all demons get).

on the off-chance she does see them, Frecklewish usually rips her to shreds...

Which is the next problem.

You can't DIE in the Dark Forest if you're a demon. You poof back into existence the next day, no injuries, no scars, nothing.

she's bored.

And vengeful. In spite of the wrong being righted, she still thinks she deserves MORE revenge, because what she wanted was really Appledusk.

She finds it unfair that HER legacy is snuffed out, that it's Darkstar's Commandment and not hers, that her babies were destined for greatness and by extension SHE should have been great.

So she takes up a hobby in tormenting Appledusk's descendants. She wants to eradicate them completely, but is spiteful enough that she'll just settle with hurting them.

The first one she managed to kill was Applefrost, Reedshine's son. Just by accident. She didn't know she had such power over the mortal plane.

After that, she managed to drown Duskwater. The daughter.

But she couldn't wipe out HER daughter in that storm... and she brought two more Applekin children into the world.

Stormkit and Oakkit.

So, naturally, Mapleshade turned her sight on the little fuzzball.

He would be an easy kill, in theory. She smashed Stormkit's jaw on the rock, but Oakkit pulled him out.

From there, it's similar to canon for a bit. His recovery is long and painful.

Rainflower is disgusted, and wants absolutely no part of helping him through this process.

That wasn't an injury gained in battle-- it's because he's careless and didn't listen to her. He's going through all this suffering, and for what?

To never become a warrior?

She's cruel to him, begins to neglect and distance herself from him. Discourages him from suckling.

Mapleshade LOVES this. It's worse than she could have imagined. Rainflower is horrible.

Gleefully, she realizes that Stormkit dying now is what Rainflower wants.

So, she kills two other kits in the nursery.

Fallowtail's only survivor is Willowkit, so she has plenty of milk. She starts suckling Stormkit.

(Graypool is now an older sibling! She's actually an apprentice at this time! Later, she encourages Willowkit to visit their father, who decides to just kidnap them completely)

Eventually, being the deputy, Rainflower had some kind of conversation with Hailstar.

During that conversation, she asked him to do something very cruel to Crookedkit.

And Hailstar LOST IT

He's the successor of Volestar, who was appointed by Darkstar herself to uphold the Queen's Rights and protect children.

How DARE you try to turn RiverClan into a place of disrespect?? To use my power this way?!

So, her power was stripped, and Oakkit and Stormkit were taken from her.

From there, Storm eventually goes to the barn as discussed, and Mapleshade continues to do things to hurt him.

This was my first draft, and now having thought about it a lot, I feel like it's not super cohesive. A demonic Mapleshade who's entirely malicious is neat, but I feel like this makes her flat. Shellheart's not tied in super well either, and Hailstar's stand feels kind of hollow because Rainflower hasn't actually used or leveraged the new authority I've given her.

But most egregiously? Rainflower's abuse being so close to canon tastes kind of bland. I feel like I can make it sooo much more intense, complicated, and painful.

Draft 2 of Stormpaw's Demon (Demon of Revenge Update) Essentially an outline for the first few chapters establishing Mapleshade by dealing with Rainflower and then fragments for the rest.

Mapleshade's still malicious, but this time, there's more to it.

Darkstar's Commandment, and the damning of her victims, DID appease this Mapleshade.

But is she satisfied? No.

She doesn't feel like she was wrong at all, actually. Without her killing those three in revenge for her kittens, StarClan's anger probably would have subsided.

She can't hunt her victims down again though, because, they don't want to see her. She fights Frecklewish every now and then but what's the point?

She WON already. She already GOT the euphoria of dragging them all down with her.

Punishing everyone who had ever wronged her was the highlight of her existence... but now it's done.

She's in Hell and she's bored. Her punishment is never seeing her kits again, but more importantly, her punishment is eternal shuffling through the leaf litter when she's SO GOOD at getting revenge.

Problem with revenge is, when you get it, it's gone.

She probably messed with Duskwater and Applefrost a bit, but if she killed one of them, it was accidental. It made her realize that revenge without a motive is just boring.

The prologue would probably open up with establishing her as a character. Who she is, what she wants.

Because the first chapter would dive RIGHT IN to Stormkit. The only child of Rainflower, the deputy.

Right along with Stormkit, you only learn in hindsight that he was born in a storm that killed his grandmother. It's clear that Rainflower reminds him of this often.

And that she's nasty to him. Giving him unclear instruction and finding things to critique, telling him to jump and then barking at him that he didn't ask how high.

She has great expectations for him, and reminds him of their family lineage often. Of who killed his great-grandfather, of what a fantastic pair of warriors Applefrost and Duskwater were

"I lost everything the night you were born. You'd better be able to make up for it."

Unfortunately, Stormkit is not the sort of child who's good at listening to those sorts of orders. He's stubborn and defiant; angry and oppositional.

When he doesn't understand why you do something, he doesn't want to do it

He "embarrasses" her a lot, and gets hurt for it.

In public, these are swats and whacks. The things you're "allowed" to do to discipline your child. In private these are a lot more severe.

So when Stormkit is given an order or a command, he obeys completely out of fear rather than respect. And sometimes he forgets his fear.

The other cats in RiverClan? Well... Stormkit is a problem child, and Rainflower is a fantastic, organized, respected deputy.

Hailstar especially, unfortunately. He feels bad... for Rainflower.

"It must be so hard for her to have such a little brat as a son. He never seems to learn his lesson. When will he stop wandering off? What's wrong with him? He certainly didn't get that from her."

His best friend, Oakkit, gets in the SAME trouble he does.

He's mischievous, fearless, and outgoing, and... never gets punished for it.

There's times where Oakkit does something and Stormkit physically recoils, just imagining what Rainflower would do if HE did something like that. Especially in how Oakkit talks to his dad, Shellheart.

For example, Shellheart will come to get his son for suckling time and Oakkit will tell him to his face things like, "I don't want to! I'm HAVING FUN!"

and shellheart doesn't flip out. He just. explains why it's important to eat on time.

"I know. But Fallowtail wants to go have fun too! She's waiting for you to come and suckle so she can go play."

"Well why can't she just play now and I suckle later?"

"When a suckler is full of milk, it makes their belly very itchy. She's uncomfortable when you don't come and eat on time."

"nnnh"

"Tough sell? How about I sweeten the pile with a badger ride back?"

"Hm. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Dad."

Stormkit doesn't know why he hates it. He's all angry inside when he sees them acting friendly. He's polite because Oakkit's his best friend and Mr. Shellheart is really nice, but he just...

He's too young at the time to know he's envious. He wants what Oakkit has so badly it hurts.

Sometime after an exchange like that, Stormkit is visited by Mapleshade for the first time.

And they talk about Stormkit's anger and resentment. Stormkit lets it slip that he HATES his Mi.

Waits for Mapleshade to stop him and tell him, like everyone else does, that "she's still your mother."

...but she doesn't.

Besides Oakkit and Shellheart, she's the first person who doesn't tell him that.

She just lets him talk. Lets him go on. Starts making nasty jabs, which make him laugh.

"She says she lost everything the day I was born!!"

"What?! That's crazy! She got you that day!"

"Right?! It's like she's saying I'm nothing! Maybe she SHOULD lose everything, then she'd know what she's got!"

And then she asks, "Do you want her to die?"

Suddenly, there's a chill in the air. He's really shocked by the suggestion of that. He didn't... he didn't mean it to go THAT far. That's not what he meant... is it?

But she's fading back into the shadows, just her eyes visible in the dark. Tells him that she can see he's unsure. That's ok.

Holds up a budding sprig of sycamore, the maple she's named for. Its buds grow in a "deer hoof," with one large bud in the middle and two "toes" sprouting on its sides.

Teaches him that if he needs someone in his corner, all he has to do is call.

(to summon her, a bud is plucked off the sprig and thrown in the river.)

He wakes up with the sprig in his paw, panics, and shoves it under the nest he shares with his mother.

The experience shakes him. He probably ran to Brambleberry for the first time, who explains very seriously that he was contacted by a demon.

From the description... Mapleshade. The cat who killed his great-grandfather.

He BEGS her not to tell Rainflower. PLEADS with her. He can barely hear her already saying yes under the throbbing sound of his heart in his ears.

When he calms down, he hears her saying yes. On the condition she will need to smoke the nursery with sage and cedar, and that he will be needing a bath as well.

When he's still concerned that Rainflower will question him, she makes a plan to distract her for a day, long enough for him to do his cleanse and the smell to fade.

And, of course, that he will not follow any instructions that Mapleshade left him. He agrees. But does not tell Brambleberry about the sprig.

For a while he's very "well behaved." But it's not about him, never has been.

It really doesn't take long at all for Rainflower to get worse. Kids who are defiant like that are usually exercising a defense mechanism-- if they're not aggressive about their boundaries, their limits are pushed to a breaking point.

And after a big blowout like this, which was probably a public spectacle, Stormkit runs back to his nest and digs out the sprig, runs to the river, and throws a bud in the river.

Having calmed down from his shuddering fury, the dread begins to set in as a dead-smelling wind ruffles his fur. He can't help but feel like he just did something very stupid out of anger.

Looking at his reflection, he sees no cuts or swelling. The blows weren't "bad enough." He doesn't have the kind of injuries that anyone would do anything about. Equal parts guilt and frustration swell in him like a tide at full moon. How could he be sitting here wishing she hurt him worse?

So he tries to soften it, "I don't want her to die, I just, I... I just want her to lose everything like she says. Please..."

The wind whispers in his ear, "it will get worse before it gets better."

"I can handle that," he sobs, "I can do anything. Please. Make it stop."

After that, Oakkit probably runs to come find him. Stormkit doesn't want to be found. He makes up a childish plan, on the spot, to run away and join ThunderClan.

Oak says that's mousebrained, but Storm has DEVOTED himself to this plan he made just now.

And is crossing the stones.

Oak sighs, but if Storm's going to ThunderClan, he should really go with him because then they could totally fight off a small fox (Childish hubris)

Unfortunately, Rainflower found them. asks Exactly What He's Doing.

The kids freeze. Stormkit in particular has that horrible, twisting anxiety that you get when you hear The Tone that means you're in for an absolute wallop when you get home.

He's about to start running, but then the voice tickles his ear-fur again. Mapleshade tells him to go back. It'll be ok. She's on his side. She'll make her pay.

Oakkit is still frozen in place when, as if possessed, Storm's body stiffly returns to his mother.

There's a silence. The river trickling through the stepping stones. Storm looking with fear and anger up at her.

She's waiting for an apology, groveling. He doesn't give her one.

So she raises her paw and gives him an awful, hard blow.

His little body twists, flung off balance, trying to correct himself, and he can swear he felt paws pushing him a second time, whipping him downwards.

The feeling of falling fills his stomach, the water sloshes into his ears before there's a ring of a sound like CLUNK-CRUNCH, and then the river floods his nose and mouth.

It all goes dark.

When he wakes up, it's with a throbbing pain in the side of his jaw so intense that he can feel it all the way down in the tip of his tail. He learns from Brambleberry that Oakkit rescued him-- jumped right into the water to pull him out. And then Rainflower pulled him out. That was when Shellheart came and found them.

There's a LOT of arguing outside, but Storm can't ask what it is because it hurts to move his mouth at all. Brambleberry hushes and soothes him, telling him it's nothing he needs to know about.

(MEDICAL INFODUMPING: i do actually have a medical reason I want his injury to come from someone hitting him which causes him to fall. The injury he'd get in canon would actually be a really simple and common split in the front of the mandible, which wouldn't cause his mouth to have a dramatic twist and would heal very easily. He needs to come down on the rock at an angle to shatter the joint like that.)

From here, the tune about Stormkit starts to change.

Oakkit was distraught when they got back, telling everyone that Rainflower smashed him against a rock.

Rainflower's story is that he was running, and she chased after him. EVERYONE knows that he has a habit of doing this.

Then HE slipped and fell and hit his face on the rocks. His fault.

Oakkit was running away with him, he's lying.

Shellheart is FEROCIOUSLY taking the side of his son, furious that she would imply he raised a liar.

Hailstar is taking the side of Rainflower. It's two troublemaking kits against his deputy.

Yes, Rainflower's disciplined him before, but that's no indication she'd do something like this on purpose.

Brambleberry weighs in that the injury that Stormkit has isn't the sort of injury a kitten gets from hitting his jaw. The bone is shattered.

probably does some kind of visual to go along with it, using a stick and a stone

"The bones of a kitten are like the young shoots of a tree. When they fracture," she takes a young twig and snaps it in her paws. The fibers in the center are bent but unbroken, with the bark splintered around them, "they flay but don't snap."

She places the stick on the ground, "So for the injury that Stormkit has," and violently smashes the rock down onto it. It's shattered and pulped, the fibers flattened, "there would need to be a great force."

Shellheart hisses, saying that THIS is the evidence. Oakkit's story is consistent but Rainflower HAS to have lied.

Several cats are now on his side.

...But more are on Rainflower's.

"She's his mother. She loves him. Oakkit has to be mistaken."

"Why would she chase down her own son just to smash his face on a stone?"

"She wouldn't pull them out of the river if she really wanted to hurt him!"

Hailstar prompts if there's ANYTHING else that could explain this?

It comes up that Brambleberry cleansed the dens the other day.

She says that it's possible there is a demon's influence at work. She can't know for sure which one it is-- but it may have a grudge against Rainflower.

She allows them to reach the conclusion that it's probably Mapleshade on their own. She will be talking to Crookedkit when he's able, but she's not about to tell anyone about his dream yet.

She doesn't want him to have the extra scrutiny when he needs to rest and heal, but if she'd shared that an unnamed cat had a demonic dream, it would set off panic as cats accused each other of dark magic.

Rainflower manages to escape consequences by pointing out that it was likely Mapleshade that injured her son.

Oakkit is still trying to tell everyone SHE did it, he SAW it, Stormkit walked back and she hit him and smashed his jaw on the rock

But he's hushed. It's decided there's not enough evidence. And not enough reason to doubt the noble deputy.

She's never done something like this before, after all. It's more likely it was an accident.

There is a group of cats that are dissatisfied about this, though, and it only grows when Brambleberry explains that Stormkit's prognosis is not good.

There is a very high chance he will die. Even adult warriors can wither slowly from this sort of injury.

Recovery will be slow and it will be painful.

...but after that incident? Rainflower gets bolder. She got away with it in public. She got a taste of the leverage she has, how much they trust her.

Stormkit spends a lot of time floating in between his dreams and his living-world pain. There's at least one interaction where he speaks to Mapleshade, screaming at her that he TRUSTED her, he KNOWS she's the one who hurt him! How could she?!

She can't say much, kept at bay by a hazy smokescreen of sage. "You must live! You must survive!"

Her old words echo in his head; It Will Get Worse Before It Gets Better.

Throughout the recovery, Rainflower grows more cruel and more distant.

In public she likes to talk about how difficult this is for her, but he's strong, he will survive.

In private, she'll do things that hurt him, like repositioning his head in a way that "his jaw will heal better in." When he cries, she's unsympathetic.

"You brought this on yourself. This is for your own good."

Her definition of "private" is also changing. She's getting more comfortable with snapping at him in front of limited groups of people.

Since she's deputy, the other two parents in the nursery, Shellheart and Fallowtail, do their best to care for Stormkit while she's away. He's pulled away from them when she gets back, any ideas or suggestions they have vetoed.

When they try to go to Brambleberry about this, she shakes her head with frustration and tries to make them understand she knows... and she's just as unhappy with it as they are.

She tells them she keeps going to Hailstar, but he's still hesitant. Even though she's trying to tell him that Stormkit's recovery is being undermined.

"Rainflower's son has always needed tough love. She's his Mi and knows him best... she's still taking care of him. Give her a warning before suggesting anything drastic."

In the other draft, I had Mapleshade kill two of Fallowtail's kits to free up milk for Stormkit. I'm not sure I need that anymore honestly, plus, this rework's heavy enough! She can just have Willowkit without any deaths, while Graypaw remains an older sibling.

When Brambleberry informs Rainflower and Stormkit that the jaw isn't healing straight and it will probably be at an angle forever, Rainflower reacts with disdain.

"His first scar and it's nothing he earned?!"

She's reminded he might not even survive. He's lost weight. He's eating less. Stormkit curls up quietly. He hates how they talk about him like he can't hear them.

"Surviving is the bare minimum," she scoffs reflexively. There's a silence so thick you can cut it with a claw. After an uncomfortable heartbeat, she continues, "What kind of a life will he live if he-"

"a life," Brambleberry cuts in, "he'd live a life. And it can be a good one"

Rainflower growls, spitting that the twisted jaw is a disfigurement. He'll never be able to open his mouth all the way. He can't chew and he can't suckle forever. Stormkit will never become a warrior if he can't even dispatch a fish with a killing bite.

"Scars are the sign that StarClan has mended our bodies after fighting a good fight, making any Clanborn cat worthy of being an elder" Brambleberry preaches, "Names are what mark us, calling upon our ancestors to look down at us and witness our actions, Rainflower. Don't say anything you wouldn't want them to see."

Rainflower flicks her ear, seething, a rumble in her throat, "was that some kind of threat? As if I've said something wrong?"

"If you feel threatened, look within."

Stormkit resents all of this talk. He can feel his mother tensing up next to him, hears the low rumble progressing into a growl. When adults play stupid games with his mom, he's always the one who ends up dealing it. Why don't they get that?

It's only Shellheart who seems to have it click, "Hey, this is the nursery. Can you take it outside, please?"

As Brambleberry and Rainflower leave, Stormkit lays curled up in his nest, cold and alone. Oakkit leaves Shellheart's paws to curl up around his best friend.

Shellheart stares at them, shifting, but ultimately stays where he is.

There's a lot of words I could write there, between Storm and Oak. Ones where Storm speaks about how he just wants the pain to be done with. Others where Oak comforts him, tells him how much he means to him. More where they end up running into the wall that they're just two little kids and they've both learned the truth that they have no control over what happens when Rainflower comes back into that den.

But I think it would be good to end there, at the lowest point. Because it gets better.

Pissed off by being gently confronted, after her warning from Brambleberry, this is the moment where Rainflower goes too far.

Hailstar is gradually losing his patience. Every time this issue comes up, he's making some kind of new excuse for her.

She's still a competent deputy who holds the Clan together, but this has taken a toll on her reputation.

Her biggest mistake was becoming more open with her abuse after being emboldened. And I think Hailstar is beginning to feel like he's got "egg on his face."

After standing up for Rainflower several times, getting heat from Brambleberry, and now the Clan also starting to murmur...

It's getting very difficult to justify why he's sticking his neck out.

and maybe, part of him is starting to feel a little self-conscious about the way that his deputy is acting about her injured child.

When she comes storming up on this fateful day, interrupting whatever he was doing to make a proposition, it's the breaking point.

Her suggestion: "I've realized that there's only one way to ensure my son survives his injury. He's being haunted by our demon, which only started threatening him when he disobeyed me for the last time. WE need to teach him a lesson, and make sure StarClan gazes down upon him to acknowledge his mistakes."

"...how do you intend to do that?"

"Stormkit must be given a Dishonor Title."

A Dishonor Title, one of the greatest shames that a leader can put onto one of their warriors. A punishment that ranks just below exile in terms of severity.

"you want to put a dishonor title... on your child? one with a life-threatening injury?"

"One that acknowledges his carelessness. To protect him from the demon."

Protect him from the demon. "I see now what must be done."

Previously, I'd thought of Hailstar as someone who would be loud and merciless when he does this. Now I'm thinking it was something he put a lot of thought into. He stands up, brushes past her, and goes to talk to some of his most trusted cats. Brambleberry, his mate Echomist, an experienced warrior such as Piketooth or Ottersplash, and lastly, Shellheart.

So it's not a surprise to anyone but Rainflower herself. He doesn't want this to be dramatic. He doesn't want it to be another big scene. Stormkit has gone through enough.

When he eventually has this Clan meeting, he calls it quietly. In his address to the gathered cats, a crowd that Shellheart and his family are missing from at his request, he says that his greatest regret is that he didn't do this sooner. He even doubts that Mapleshade is haunting her at all-- now having seen her behavior, he says it's more likely that Rainflower bashed her own child against a rock and simply lied.

First, he announces that Stormkit will be removed from her care. He will no longer be of the Applekin bloodline.

She is banned from the nursery at the request of Fallowtail, and will only see Stormkit when supervised by his new Mi, Shellheart.

Brambleberry has already agreed to this necessity, and is performing a ritual so that StarClan may approve of this choice.

He also strips her of her deputyship, and appoints Ottersplash instead. (I might change this to a different deputy eventually)

Not everyone agrees with Hailstar. There's an uproar from Rainflower's supporters.

She was a VERY popular deputy.

More that are just uneasy, feeling that this was a BRUTAL punishment that she didn't deserve.

Lots are happy and optimistic, though. But the mixed reception is exactly why Hailstar asked Shellheart not to be here.

This isn't something Stormkit has to deal with right now.

When Darkstar herself, who created the Queen's Rights, was on her last life, she appointed Volestar to uphold the law as her legacy knowing that Oakstar might try to break it again.

Volestar appointed Hailstar, in the hopes that he would uphold her legacy in turn, to protect kittens and those who can't protect themselves.

He was late, and can only hope he was not too late. He hopes that Volestar can forgive him for that.

Meanwhile in the nursery, Shellheart, Oakkit, and Stormkit are alone, far in the back, where the padded moss keeps out arguing voices.

Oakkit, bless his little heart, is babbling with excitement because his best friend is his BROTHER now. And it's gonna be THE BEST.

He's talking about how it's fine he can't chew because now they can have soup, and they're going to make the nest bigger, and they can stay up later because they can whisper quieter if they're this close together

But Storm doesn't really hear him. His head's swimming, thinking about the dull ache in his jaw, how MAD his mom's going to be because he can't imagine her not finding a way to hurt him, how this is all his fault because he called Mapleshade.

He can't stop it anymore and starts sniffling, which turns into weeping. Still, he's TRYING not to bawl, knowing, knowing he looks stupid when he does that

Shellheart just pulls him in close, so he can bury his face in his fluffy chest. Tells him it's going to be ok. He's safe now. No one can hurt him there.

Not on his watch.

Unfortunately, it's not the last he sees of Mapleshade. After this...

Mapleshade shows him everything she did for him. Yes, she did smash his jaw-- but it was to get him away from his mother.

And she planted an idea here and there, just little whispers into Rainflower's ear. Nothing she wouldn't do all on her own.

And now... Mapleshade believes she's earned some respect.

Stormkit can't disagree... she did exactly what she told him she'd do.

And now that he's not Applekin anymore, they can be Real Friends. They could even strike up a partnership, of sorts. After all, what did StarClan do to help him?

It wasn't StarClan that answered his prayers.

I'm still figuring out what, exactly, she's going to want from him. I have a scintilla that she wants to give him a life, maybe as some kind of bridge to StarClan to see her kits?

Some strange "attempt" at redemption, perhaps? Which she ultimately doesn't get.

Not that she didn't enjoy doing all that for love of the game, mind you. She's very good at getting revenge and it's fun and exciting to pull it off.

But hey, if you're good at something, never do it for free.

What causes Mapleshade to ultimately turn, and begin haunting the bloodline again + Oakheart, is Crookedstar rejecting her in some way.

She comes to collect on her end of the bargain and he refuses, breaking their partnership. He chooses StarClan.

And then from there, it's ON again. Now she has another EXCUSE to do what she wanted to do, and take out her boredom and malice on his family.

This time, it includes Oakheart as well-- because he was Crookedstar's brother.

It was also her curse that harmed Willowbreeze and eventually Silverstream. She's on the warpath.

Maybe she actually helped make him leader on purpose. Like he explicitly asked so she helped him by making the squirrel omen, instead of just doing it for him unprompted. Still figuring it out.

Shortly after the scene where Stormkit cries, he needs to have a confrontation with Brambleberry about Mapleshade I think. She needs to explain why Dark Forest demons are seen as bad.

She's biased, of course, but it's not like she's TOTALLY wrong either. Cats like Mapleshade ARE vengeful, in ways many other spirits are not.

If you're curious, Crookedstar's dishonor title from Rainflower would have been something comparing him to a parasite and referencing his ""accident"" like Fleaskip or Midgefall.

The point she's trying to make with the Dishonor Title is that her son is an annoying bug who didn't listen, as well as subtly erase she fact she knocked him off that rock.

She wanted his name to say "everything that happened was my fault and my mom did nothing wrong"

Not that Hailstar got as far as even asking lmao

[blossom-hwa]

a very fine line, indeed [3] | c.bg

pairing: Beomgyu x fem!reader genre:  fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: mentions of abuse, cursing, period typical misogyny word count: 7.7k notes:  — updates every M/W/F at 8pm EST until the series finishes — assault/abuse scenes are not graphic, but please heed the warnings and let me know if any of it is romanticized or just written in poor taste--I assure you I did not mean it, and I will fix anything needed. — inspiration taken from an amalgamation of different bridgerton stories - let me know what easter eggs you find! — story takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun and earl!taehyun fics - check out the link to the series below for some more easter eggs :) In a society where it only takes a year for a young woman in search of a husband to be considered out of season, it is no wonder that by your third year out, you are desperate to marry. Known as one of the beauties of the ton, such a task should not be difficult for you—but with an absent father, no dowry, and a reputation centered around your inability to keep your mouth shut around one certain Beomgyu Choi, your prospects are more limited than you’d like. While you cannot recover your family or your wealth, however, the one thing you can try to control is your reputation. So when the third season rolls around, you resolve to keep your distance from Beomgyu Choi, your childhood enemy, and the man you hate most in the world. Enter Beomgyu Choi, second son of the Kensington Viscountcy, one of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. His older brother, cousin, and good friend have all recently married, leaving the mamas to salivate at his doorstep for the chance of marrying one of their daughters to him. When Beomgyu walks in on a particularly traumatizing moment between you and one of the most unsavory men in the ton and learns of your desperation to marry, despite your history of enmity, he proposes you a devious deal—to pretend to court you. It seems like a winning situation for both of you—more gentlemen will take notice of you, enhancing your prospects, and he will have the ton’s mamas off his back—and so, despite your misgivings, you agree. With you hell bent on marriage and Beomgyu completely indifferent to the concept, even independent of your hatred for each other, it seems unlikely that any sort of true affection will bloom. But as you begrudgingly put aside your differences to spend more and more time in one another’s company, and as you grow to know each other beyond your ill-conceived preconceptions from childhood, you begin to realize that perhaps you two have more in common than you had once thought. And as your faked acquaintanceship becomes more truth than fiction, a friendship beginning to bloom most unexpectedly— Perhaps you no longer need to convince the ton of the veracity of your courtship, because anyone with eyes can see that it is true.  Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Series Masterlist | TXT Masterlist

When your stepmother announces that the two of you will be attending the Harlowes’ upcoming garden party, you decide not to complain. It isn’t as if anything would come of it even if you did. But the Harlowes are a nice family, and their parties are never too intense—it is perfectly acceptable to pull out one of your older, more comfortable gowns for one of these events, and not have to worry about having a new one made. 

Not that you have the money to afford new gowns at the moment. But even so, re-wearing one of your older ones saves you the effort of having to fetch your embroidery hoops and threads to spruce up one of your gowns just to give it the illusion of being new. 

The day of the garden party dawns grey and wet in the morning, but by early afternoon the sun cheerfully shines in a blue sky mostly devoid of clouds. The light drizzle of the morning gives the grass a little sparkle as you step over the green, and to make things even better, a few gentlemen engage you in conversation almost immediately after you join the party, which takes you far away from your stepmother. 

It's a strange feeling, having people around who are actually interested in courting you. You are no stranger to having admirers, it is true, but any admirers you had never showed much interest in actually pursuing you. Even after Mr. Choi started pretending to court you, the general sentiment around you still seemed to be mostly look, don’t touch, until Lord Kim and his friends spoke to you at the Smythe-Smith musicale. With that conversation, it seems as though some final barrier has come crashing down, giving the men of the ton some sort of signal that you are acceptable for courtship. 

You are begrudgingly grateful to Mr. Choi for proposing this idea, and to Lord Kim for being the first to actually begin courting you. But you can’t say you don’t find it a little demeaning that all of these men now asking for your attentions felt the need to wait for other men to approve you first before trying their hands. 

Still, though, you need to be married, and beggars—or third season near-spinsters—can’t be choosers. So you smile prettily the way you’ve learned to and indulge them in conversation. Even though it is a garden party, Mrs. Harlowe has arranged for a short dais to be raised on the grass, a suitable floor for dancing. As the sun sets into evening, you engage some of the gentlemen in a few dances. 

Eventually, though, your mind and body begin to tire, and citing exhaustion, you duck away from your dance partners to find some peace and quiet. You don’t quite find that, but you do find the next best thing—Lady Choi by the refreshments, looking at the desserts.

“In need of saving?” she says as soon as you’re close enough, her lips twisted in a wry grin. “Here, you must be parched.”

You take the glass she hands you with thanks. “Not really saving,” you reply, taking a sip. “I’m just a little tired.” You sigh. “How are you? Is your husband not here?”

“I’m doing all right for myself.” She smiles. “I came alone, but Soobin and his brother said they would join me later. They should be here soon.”

You nod, smiling easily with her. She was married early the season you debuted, but prior to that she had been out for three years before she and Soobin finally realized their childhood love for one another. They were married soon after, but they of course still attended the season’s events, and last year when it became obvious you were not to be married for the second year in a row, she was one of the few who comforted you, rather than mocked you behind your back. You’ve become good friends over the past year despite your turbulent relationship with her brother in law. You can’t imagine how she abides Beomgyu in her daily life, but you only admire her all the more for it.

“Oh, Mr. Choi will be here too?” you ask. “He hadn’t mentioned it to me.”

“Curious, aren’t you?” Your friend snickers knowingly at you. You roll your eyes, because she actually knows nothing at all, but it isn’t as though you can say that right now. “You two are so strange. I suppose it really is true that hate is closer to love than anyone ever thinks.”

You just manage not to spew lemonade all over your friend’s dress. “Love?” you sputter, holding your drink at arm’s length before you spill it more. Already there are a few drops soaking into your gloves. “Where—what—we don’t love each other—”

“Only love could have ended that horrible blood between the two of you,” Lady Choi interrupts, glancing at you slyly. “Trust me, Y/N. If you don’t love him now, you will come to.”

Only love. That, or maybe just a deal made by two desperate people. 

“That is…a long time coming in the future,” you finally say. “He only started courting me a couple of months ago. We may be on better terms, but I’m…marriage…” You feel your cheeks get warm, even with the cool wind brushing across your cheeks. “We haven’t spoken of marriage. I don’t know if either of us is ready for it, or if we will even want it.”

Nothing you just said was a lie. But you still feel slightly nauseous just thinking of it. 

“People have gotten married in less time, and with less reason,” she points out. “Perhaps as his sister in law I am biased, but of all your suitors this season—and you have quite a few more than ever before—I believe him to be the best of all of them, and the best suited to you.” She squints at you briefly, then smiles. “I never thought I would say that. But when I saw you two in the park, talking and laughing…I must say, the two of you do make a striking pair.”

Talking and laughing. She doesn’t know that you two were trading thinly veiled insults almost until the moment you saw them. 

“Well, that is…very kind of you to say,” you get out. You take a sip of your glass of lemonade, ignoring the sticky drops still staining your gloves. The sky has darkened with the onset of evening so no one should be able to see it, but you can feel it. And with your hands cracked between washing dishes and the slowly cooling weather, the stinging lemonade doesn’t feel very good. You rack your mind for something to say, but behind your friend, two familiar figures catch your eye. “Oh!” you exclaim, relieved at the distraction. “Is that your husband?”

Sure enough, Lord Choi and Mr. Choi are coming over the grass, the last rays of sunlight framing their faces. Not for the first time, you envy your friend for her marriage. Lord Choi is handsome, very handsome, but your envy doesn’t come from his looks. Rather, it is the clear adoration on his face as he walks up to his wife and takes her arm so sweetly, the look they share after they greet each other that means a thousand things to them and no one else. 

“Miss L/N.” Mr. Choi takes your hand and you nearly jump, still rattled from your conversation with Lady Choi. Belatedly you realize he took the hand with the lemonade spill, but he’s already pressing the customary kiss on your knuckles so there isn’t any point in trying to pull away. He doesn’t say anything about it either. “I didn’t know you would be here today. How long have you been?”

“Well, my stepmother only decided we would attend a couple of days ago,” you reply back. Relief helps you smile quietly at him—you can manage polite conversation like this. “I’ve been here since the afternoon. We are very lucky the rain stopped earlier in the morning.”

“So we are,” he agrees. His gaze skips over behind you, and his gaze turns nonplussed. “It seems my brother and his wife have decided to give us some time alone.”

You turn and sure enough, the two of them are disappearing into the growing crowd, happily linked by their arms. You smile a little. “They’re in love,” is all you say. 

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Choi grumbles. “It was such a pain to watch them figure it out. I swear, Soobin was about to send me to an early grave.”

That startles a laugh out of you. “Was it truly so terrible?”

“Miss L/N, one of the worst things that can ever happen to you is to watch two idiots fall in love and not realize it.” He shudders. “Soobin would deny it every time I tried to talk to him. They just have to realize it themselves, and unfortunately that takes an eternity.” 

You didn’t know Lady Choi before she was married, but she’s told you a fair amount about her childhood. And in the end, it always came back to Lord Choi—Soobin. How they played together as kids, how he wrote to her even when he was in school, how he comforted her after her first season out with nary a proposal in sight. It was so obvious to you just from the way she spoke of him that she had loved him for a very, very long time. 

You try to imagine what it would be like to be around that for five, ten, maybe fifteen years, except without admitting that she loved him. You also shudder. 

It must have been infuriating. 

You say as much to Mr. Choi and he snickers. He doesn’t seem to do that around anyone else. Which makes sense—snickering is not exactly one of the hallmarks of polite society, tittering is more like it. But Mr. Choi doesn’t need to pretend to be polite around you given that you both have seen the worst parts of each other already. 

Hm. You always thought that Mr. Choi brought out the worst in you, but maybe he’s the only one you can truly be yourself around, and vice versa. Flaws and all. 

How ironic.

You drag yourself out of that strange train of thought with difficulty. Maybe you’ll probe it again later, but the idea that only Mr. Choi knows the real you makes you want to hide in the bushes and maybe scream. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Choi?” you ask, motioning to the refreshments. “It seems they have just refilled the table.”

Once both of you have drinks in hand, you congratulate yourself for having whiled away another few minutes of polite conversation with Mr. Choi. Then you realize that there aren’t very many people around here, so you have to continue talking with him. 

Good God. You didn’t realize it would be so difficult to hold a conversation with Mr. Choi that didn’t involve insults that echoed around the ton. It isn’t that you want to hurl obscenities at him now. You just don’t know what else to say. “Any residual trouble with the mamas?” you ask, because your deal is usually a safe topic when there aren’t others around. 

“Only a few of the most determined.” He smiles at you in that conspiratorial way, like you share a secret, and when you smile back it feels almost friendly. It isn’t a bad feeling. “Mrs. Jung…I hardly know anything about the woman, but when she puts her mind to something, she certainly does everything she can to see it to the end.”

You think back to the Mrs. Jung you know, all warm smiles and gentle eyes burning with a passion to see both of her daughters married to titled gentlemen. Her second daughter, Mihae, is a shy little thing—very sweet, very pretty, but very quiet. You wonder how she feels about her mother’s efforts. “Well, you aren’t wrong about that,” you reply frankly. “But she’s a good woman. Very kind.”

“I know. The two aspects are not mutually exclusive.” Mr. Choi sighs, then runs a hand through his hair. Your eye catches on the movement. In the fading sunlight, his brown hair takes on a tinge of gold, and for the first time you realize Mr. Choi really is handsome. You have never been blind to his looks, of course—you know he is attractive, the same way you know you are beautiful. But when he is friendly, when he speaks to you like a person and not someone he holds a childhood grudge against…

He's very handsome. And try as you might, you can’t exactly figure out what to do with this information. 

“Your end of the deal seems to be going rather well,” he says, and you shove your train of thought away. You are never picking that one back up. He eyes a small group of men farther down the green, who all seem to be looking at you with varying degrees of interest. You’re quite sure they aren’t looking at Mr. Choi, at least. “How many suitors have you gathered?”

“A few,” you say, allowing yourself a wry smile. Lord Kim called the morning after the Smythe-Smith musicale, and for once your stepmother didn’t yell at you at all for the rest of the day. There were a couple others, too—Mr. Winslow seemed very kind, and though you don’t think much of Lord Fife, he at least made you laugh a little. “I suppose your plan did have some merit.”

“Of course it did. I’m a genius.” He smirks, his expression so self-congratulating as he raises his glass to you in mock cheer that you abandon all notions of Mr. Choi being handsome. You want to pinch him. Hard. 

“Don’t inflate your head too much,” you snipe, taking a sip of your own drink. “It doesn’t become you.”

He snickers again and for some reason, you feel your annoyance grow. You force it down. You were having a good time, you remind yourself. Mr. Choi was being almost bearable—actually bearable, even, if you’re being nice. You just need to change the subject back to something safe that won’t have you at his throat in seconds, or maybe maneuver yourselves to talk to other people—

“Did you not buy gloves?”

You blink. “What?”

“The other week, when I called. You mentioned you had gone to town to buy gloves.” Mr. Choi looks down at your hands, then back at you blankly, completely oblivious to the way your heart has stopped beating. “Did you not find any? Forgive me if I am wrong, but you seem to be wearing the same pair as always.”

If your heart wasn’t beating a second ago, it is now beating fast enough that you almost can’t breathe. You look down at your gloves. You always wear them—you need them to hide the calluses and cracks that come with your housework at home—but no one has remarked on them before. They’re plain, white, and customary. You’ve always kept them clean and mended them to perfection and you haven’t had to spend your family’s meager funds on a second pair in years. 

Why did you use that as your excuse to Mr. Choi? Why did he have to remember that? And why, just why did he even have to notice?

“I didn’t find anything that day,” you say haltingly. “And I haven’t had much time to go out since.” Your voice grows slightly sharp, and you can’t seem to rein it back in. “I spilled some lemonade on them earlier. I apologize if that upset you.”

A beat of silence follows. You bite the inside of your lip to keep yourself from speaking and making things worse. 

“Damn,” Mr. Choi finally curses, breaking the silence. You blink, but his expression softens, looking almost contrite. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have said anything. I spoke without thinking, Miss L/N.” He swallows, looking uncomfortable for the first time. You start to feel a little guilty for snapping at him. “I wanted to make conversation and so I spoke my thoughts without thinking. I apologize if I offended you.”

“It’s…quite all right,” you say, feeling just as awkward as he looks. “I must apologize for snapping at you. It was not so offensive a question, I was just not…prepared.”

Mr. Choi raises an eyebrow. “That might be the second time you’ve apologized to me, Miss L/N.”

You roll your eyes, but for all his mocking words, you can’t help but feel relieved that he let it all go so quickly. “As I’ve said before, don’t get used to it,” you snap. “And if I recall correctly, you apologized first.”

“So I did.” He smiles, looking almost friendly yet again, and it seems like he’s about to say something more before someone calls his name. 

“Beomgyu!”

The two of you turn to see a man and his wife walking up, his wife holding something in her arms. You don’t quite recognize them, though the wife looks very familiar. You stare at her a moment, trying to place her, but then Mr. Choi smiles widely and calls out the man’s name. “Yeonjun! I didn’t know you would come today.”

And then it hits you. This woman was the diamond of your first season who was acknowledged by the queen during her debut, and who went on to marry the Duke of Hastings, only the most eligible bachelor of the ton in years. You haven’t spoken much to her, but she is beautiful, and from what you have heard, she is also kind, gracious, and very intelligent. 

The Duke of Hastings also happens to be Mr. Choi’s first cousin, which explains why they seem so delighted to see each other here.

A sick feeling curdles in your stomach. What would such a brilliant woman think of you, sharp-witted and foul-mouthed, being courted by her cousin in law? Surely she has read Whistledown or seen snippets of it. Last season, there was a mention of you in every other week, and very few of them were focused on your positive aspects. 

The two of them approach you with bright smiles. You see that the duchess isn’t just carrying something—in fact, she’s carrying her baby, which explains the servant trailing behind her with a small pram. Though your palms remain sweaty with anxiety, something in you melts when you see the child, small and giggly and obviously very happy to be in their mother’s arms. 

“Well, we wanted to get some fresh air. I’ve been cooped up inside for too long.” The duchess smiles and in that one expression, you can see her kindness. “The Harlowes always host some of the greatest parties, so I thought we could drop by.” She looks at you, obviously not recognizing you, but her kind smile doesn’t waver. “Might I ask your name? I’m not sure we’ve been introduced.”

“Oh, I am Miss Y/N L/N.” You curtsy slightly, fixing a smile to your face. “My father is the Baronet L/N, I am not sure if you are acquainted with him.”

To your surprise, her smile doesn’t fade even the slightest upon hearing your name. In fact, she only laughs. “So you are the young lady Lord Choi was telling me about, the one who had such a terrible history with Beomgyu only for him to end up courting her.” She leans closer to you. “Between you and me, Miss L/N, whatever you did to him in the past, I’m sure he deserved it.”

Her words startle a laugh out of your chest, compounded only when Mr. Choi snaps “Hey!” with a deep pout. “I’m not that bad,” he mutters.

“Actually, you are,” the duke replies, smirking, which just sets you off again. 

The duchess, apparently taking pity on Mr. Choi—she might just be an angel—segues the conversation away from teasing him to your courtship, which is a much less welcome topic but also one that probably cannot be avoided. “How long has this been happening?” she asks, handing her baby off to the duke. “The way Soobin told me about it, you two had been at odds for…well, nearly forever.”

You’ve told the story so many times that it is almost second nature for the lies to slip off your tongue. Mr. Choi nods to emphasize some points, and chimes in to finish the story off on his own. You look at him after, just for a moment, to let your secret understanding pass between the two of you.

“Well, that sounds just like a love story for the books,” the duke says, smiling in surprise. “I honestly never though Beomgyu would get past his childhood grudge. It’s good to see that he’s matured.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you tease, which sets off another round of laughs from everyone but Mr. Choi, who narrows his eyes at you with his mouth still fixed into that deep pout. “I jest. But I will admit, it has been nice to see another side of Mr. Choi that I had not been privy to before.” It’s as much truth as it is a lie, so you don’t feel much guilt for saying it.

Mr. Choi, likely sensing that you are veering back into teasing territory, swiftly turns the conversation to the duchess’s baby. Apparently she is just a few months old and already the sweetest thing, but she was a bit small at birth. “Should she be outside like this?” Mr. Choi asks, stroking back a bit of flyaway hair on her head. The duke obligingly hands the child to his cousin, and as he carefully takes the baby, you are reminded of how he spoke to your little sister that day he called. He’s so gentle, so sweet and concerned—he almost seems like a different person altogether. 

“The doctor said it should be fine, and that it would do good for her to get some fresh air every so often,” the duchess says, gazing fondly at her child. It isn’t right, but you feel a little pang of envy—that she is so beautiful, that she can be so kind and have such a loving and doting husband as well as the sweetest child. She’s perfect in every way that you aren’t. “She seems to be enjoying it.”

“She certainly does,” you say softly, holding out a finger to her. She grabs it with her own little hands and you laugh when her big eyes find yours, wide with wonder and curiosity. “She’s lovely.”

“Would you like to hold her?” the duchess asks. 

You take her with reverent hands, feel her small body pressed against yours as she laughs and gurgles at you. She reminds you of Delia when she was small and you helped take care of her, rocking her to sleep before she napped, walking her around your small garden so she could see the flowers. “She’s lovely,” you whisper again, more to yourself than anyone else. 

When you look up, the duke and duchess are gazing at their child with undisguised fondness, but Mr. Choi seems to be looking at you with a strange expression. You frown at him slightly. “Mr. Choi? Is something wrong?”

He blinks. “No, nothing at all,” he says, that strange expression disappearing so fast you almost think you imagined it. You narrow your eyes, not trusting him completely, but then the baby gurgles again so adorably that you have to coo. 

The duke and duchess eventually leave, and then Mr. Choi leads you to the small stage to dance with you twice. You spend a few hours more at the party, just chatting and laughing, before your stepmother decides it is time to leave. 

When you go to bid goodbye to Mr. Choi, that same strange expression flashes across his face quickly before he bows and wishes you a good night. And for some reason, though so much happened during the day, you can’t help but wonder what that expression meant all the way home. 

. . . . .

Standing across the ballroom, watching you whisk your way across the dance floor with another man, Beomgyu comes to the unfortunate conclusion that you are likely actually a good person. This is a very unfortunate finding, as it only makes it more difficult for him to dislike you on principle as he always has.

But he can’t exactly ignore it anymore. The fact has been pushing him to stare it in the face for a while now, but after the Harlowes’ party, where you held the duchess’s child with such tenderness and care…

Quite frankly, Beomgyu has never seen you look so soft in your life. He caught a glimpse of it when he met Delia for the first time, but your tenderness to those you care for has never been more obvious than in that moment when you held the baby. Beomgyu automatically distrusts those who are rude to children—he would never say anyone has to like them, but they are young and inexperienced and never deserve outright cruelty. To those who are not only kind to children, but actively respectful and accommodating for each of their individual quirks and personalities…well, Beomgyu holds such people in quite a high regard. It usually means they have good hearts.

As Beomgyu is beginning to see in many of your interactions with others, you have a good heart indeed.

When he saw you holding his cousin’s baby, your face soft with wonder and tenderness, it struck him then that good people are very beautiful, no matter their looks. And unfortunately, since then, he hasn’t been able to see you the same way he did before—pretty, but unconvincing in your respectability. The more he observes you, though, the more grudging respect he gains for you.

It is true that you have acted abominably around him. But Beomgyu now must conceded that he has let that part of you blind him long enough that he never bothered to notice how you act around others, too. This leaves a bit of a bitter taste in his mouth, though he has to acknowledge that he is at least as responsible for your mutual enmity as you are. 

It doesn’t mean he has plans to apologize just yet, though. 

The current piece ends, and Beomgyu watches you curtsy to your partner with a wide smile on your face. The man doesn’t seem to be one that he recognizes, and he frowns a little. Beomgyu knows almost every gentleman in the ton, simply by virtue of the season and attending school with them for many years. If he doesn’t know who this person is, he must be from out of town. 

It isn’t that rare for some foreign nobility to attend a season to find a partner in London, but Beomgyu feels certain that he would have heard of such a thing from Whistledown. Perhaps this man arrived in the week between issues. The next issue should tell him more about this person. 

No matter. You and Beomgyu agreed to dance a quadrille tonight and that so happens to be the next dance in this set. Foreign suitor or not, he should at least ask if you would like to take to the floor with him. He wouldn’t mind if you refused, as there will be other quadrilles, but he won’t break your agreement. 

You fairly seem to sparkle tonight. As Beomgyu comes closer, he almost stops at the sight of your bright smile directed right at this foreign lord. You’ve never looked so happy—or at least so enamored. Which, to be honest, Beomgyu doesn’t quite understand. Yes, this man is handsome, but what exactly else does he have?

Thankfully, he gets to you when it seems that you’ve reached a lull in your conversation. He catches your attention and to his surprise, your smile hardly fades when you notice him. “Miss L/N,” he greets, bowing slightly. 

“Mr. Choi.” You curtsy prettily, and that’s when Beomgyu realizes why your bright smile unsettled him—it looks completely genuine. With everyone else you’ve spoken to, your expression has been pretty but bland, pleasant but reserved in a way that isn’t quite yourself. Right now, though, speaking to this new person, you look completely at ease with yourself, and not in the way you are with Beomgyu, unafraid to bite back and toss insults in his face. 

No, with this foreign lord, you look completely yourself in your most charming form. And Beomgyu…

He almost feels jealous of it. 

“Allow me to introduce you to Lord Cho,” you say, breaking Beomgyu out of his rapidly devolving train of thought. “Lord Cho, meet Mr. Choi, second in line to the viscountcy of Kensington.”

“A pleasure.” Lord Cho inclines his head, that charming smile never once fading. Beomgyu has to force his own smile not to curdle as he greets the other lord in turn. 

“Lord Cho has just come from the continent to join the season,” you explain. “He hails from Prussia.”

Beomgyu raises an eyebrow. Prussia is a great distance away, not one that most would brave simply to join the London season. He has enough propriety not to say that, of course, but he has to wonder why this Lord Cho could find no one in his home country to marry, with his good looks and charm. “My word, that is quite the journey,” he says neutrally. “I hope you did not find the travel too taxing.”

“Not at all.” Lord Cho smiles easily, which for some reason just puts Beomgyu more on edge. “I love to travel, and if in the end it was to meet Miss L/N, it was all worth it.”

Beomgyu almost gags. To your credit, you don’t look much impressed by his flirty quip, but you do smile somewhat wryly at him. “We have only just met, Lord Cho,” you say. “Do save your deepest compliments for those who deserve them.”

Lord Cho grins. “And do you not think you are deserving?”

That’s quite enough. Beomgyu fixes his attention on you before he does something stupid to Lord Cho, like roll his eyes. Or punch him in the face. “Miss L/N, the quadrille is about to begin,” he says. “I came to ask if you might want to dance.”

You glance at Lord Cho, but before Beomgyu can tell what you’re thinking, you’ve turned back to him and are putting your hand in his. “Of course,” you reply. “Thank you, Mr. Choi. Lord Cho, perhaps I will find you sometime later this evening.”

“I will count the dances until then,” he replies smoothly, and Beomgyu just refrains from rolling his eyes as he leads you onto the floor.

The music begins, and the two of you effortlessly take your starting positions. “How did you meet him?” Beomgyu mutters as you pass one another. 

“It seems he is good friends with Mr. Jung,” you reply. “Lord Cho is staying with him while he decides whether or not he wishes to stay long enough to let a house. He came with Mr. Jung to this ball.”

This makes sense, to Beomgyu. Wooyoung is a social butterfly. If anyone in town were to have foreign friends, it would be him. He spins you under his arm. “You seem to like him very much.”

A little smile involuntarily curves your lips. Beomgyu isn’t even sure you notice it, which annoys him more than it really should. “He’s very charming,” you say. “And he has already asked to call on me sometime this week.”

Well, at least he seems to be serious. Beomgyu wants to ask more questions, but the music is picking up as it nears the climax of the dance, so he forces himself to focus on the steps first as you dip and spin and whirl across the floor. There will be time to probe later. Beomgyu doesn’t wish to think ill of someone he hardly knows, but he has been accounted a fair judge of people’s personalities. If he dislikes Lord Cho, there might be a reason. 

Or it could just be that twinge of jealousy that he felt earlier. 

No. He turns you under his arm, catches your hand. For a moment, the two of you meet eyes. He can’t be jealous—you two have no relationship. He isn’t even really courting you. Sure, the animosity between you two might be fading ever so slightly, but you are still a ways from even being friends. Jealousy doesn’t make sense. This is just…concern. Normal concern that one would feel for any acquaintance who might possibly be in a worrisome situation. 

The music fades out, and as he bows to your curtsy, Beomgyu can already see Lord Cho glancing at you from one side of the ballroom with a group of what Beomgyu will assume to be his friends. Fortunately, the refreshments are on the other side of the room. “Shall we get a drink, Miss L/N?” he asks. “You must be parched after having danced so much this evening.”

You smile at him gratefully, and Beomgyu feels some absurd sense of pride that he’s the one who made you smile this way. “That would be most welcome,” you say, and so the two of you head to a table laid out with an array of glasses. 

Several things happen in rapid succession. 

One: Beomgyu picks up two glasses of lemonade and hands one to you. 

Two: You take the glass. 

Three: Someone’s elbow knocks into you from behind. 

Four: You crash right into Beomgyu, and the two of you fall to the floor in a twist of limbs and lemonade. 

Beomgyu blinks, drops of lemonade stinging his eyes slightly as he tries to take in what just happened. You’re on the floor and clearly took the worst of the fall—you may have knocked into him, but your cup shattered on the ground and little glass shards lie all around you, glinting in the candlelight. "Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath. Someone’s apologies sound vaguely against his ears but he can only hear your slight hiss of annoyance as you try to stand. “Miss L/N, come—you need to get out of the glass.” You cry out in pain when he tries to take your hand so he gingerly grips your fingers to help you up. “Come, I’ll help you to another room,” he says, glaring at those who have come to gawk at the scene. “Move, please,” he snaps at the crowd. 

Somehow the two of you make it to a small, empty room, where a servant rushes in with a little basin of water and a cloth. Beomgyu looks at you, unsure what to do. Your gloves are covered in sticky lemonade and part of the front of your dress is also soaked in it, but worst of all…

A line of red seems to have soaked through your gloves. You’re bleeding. 

“You’re bleeding,” he says as calmly as he can. “Miss L/N—”

“I know,” you snap, jerking your hands away from his, which doesn’t make sense because he’s the one who has the cloth to wipe the blood with. He doesn’t relent, though. “The glass must have scratched you,” he says, reaching for you again. “We need to clean it.”

You look at him. He looks at you. Then, almost as one, you look down at the blood seeping through your gloves. 

Through your gloves. Beomgyu blinks. There are no rips in the fabric, just stains from your blood and the lemonade. 

Which means the glass didn’t cut you, and the blood is coming from something else. 

“Miss L/N,” Beomgyu says slowly. “What happened to your hands?”

. . .

You stay silent for a moment. When you raise your head, a dull expression resides on your face. “Leave me, please, Mr. Choi,” you say, reaching with your unbloodied glove. “I can clean myself up. You need not be here.”

Beomgyu snatches back the cloth. “No,” he replies shortly. “How exactly do you plan to bandage your hand on your own? Do you even have anything to bind it with?”

“Just leave me!” you snap. “I will find some way on my own—”

“Would you just let me stay here and help you?” Beomgyu explodes. “I know you don’t like me, but I only want to help!”

Then he remembers that the door is still open. 

Dead silence falls. But though no one comes in and he hears no whispers outside, meaning their deal is probably still safe, he looks at you and you suddenly looked hunched in and—terrified. Beomgyu feels awful. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to yell, and I certainly didn’t mean to say that.”

You swallow hard. Beomgyu is reminded of the terrible night of that first ball, when Mr. Thompson tried to assault you and you went into something like shock. This time, though, you manage to speak. “It’s all right,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry, too. It’s not because I dislike you. It’s…” You turn away. 

Beomgyu reaches out. Takes the hand with the bloody glove gently. You flinch slightly and he almost lets go, but with seeming effort you force yourself to relax. You don’t pull away even as he begins to peel back the worn cotton layer to reveal your bare hands. 

A lady’s hand is meant to be smooth, soft. The hardest labor they might do with their hands is sew embroidery, or pen letters and documents every day. But your hands are rough, littered with small calluses and cuts left in tender skin. The pads of your fingers look pricked and raw while your palms seem slightly swollen. Beomgyu recognizes the cracks that come from the mixture of harsh wind and exposure to cold water. He got plenty of those when he used to play outside in the winter, but young ladies your age don’t play outside, especially not in this harsh winter season. These marks have no place on your hands. 

So where did they come from?

Without a word, Beomgyu dips the cloth into the basin and presses it against one of the cracks still oozing blood on your palm. Silence fills the room save for the sound of your breathing, the ripple of water in the basin as he wets the cloth again. 

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” you ask roughly. Normally, Beomgyu would bristle at your tone and the sarcasm littered through it, but in this moment he recognizes that this is your last defense in a moment of weakness. He doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“No,” he replies quietly. “Not unless you want to tell me. I will not pry.”

You stay silent for a moment more. Beomgyu continues cleaning off the blood and lemonade, acutely aware of your eyes warily searching his face for something. He doesn’t quite know if you find it, but as he’s dipping the cloth back into the basin, you take a breath. 

“On your honor,” you say, voice trembling, “what I am about to say does not leave this room.”

He nods. “On my honor, and that of my family, I swear it.” 

Something in your face seems to relax, though your shoulders remain tense. “I have no dowry.”

This is common knowledge. Beomgyu says nothing of it, though, and just waits. 

“My family is poor.” You state the words with a dull finality. “We may still have our house and estate, but we do not have a full array of servants.” You pause to take a deep breath and Beomgyu has a sinking feeling he knows what you will say next. 

“And so someone must help them with the chores they cannot summon the manpower to do.”

Beomgyu lets those words mill around his mind for a bit before he says anything. “And that person is you,” he states. 

Your lips curve in the semblance of a smile, though no mirth reaches your eyes. “How ever did you guess?” you ask, sarcasm in every word. 

Silence falls again. Beomgyu takes the time to sort through the revelations you’ve given him. Your family is far poorer than the ton even knows. There is not enough money to hire the number of servants needed to keep your estates in order. Which means you must help them with their work, resulting in these rough, callused hands. Beomgyu can see exactly where these cracks come from. Doing laundry in the cold air, icy water drying out your hands while the wind chaps them…

A sick feeling rises in his stomach. No wonder you wear gloves all the time. And no wonder you have worn the same pair for…however long. Probably longer than Beomgyu even knows. You likely don’t have the money to spare for a new one. 

“Does your stepmother know about this?” he asks quietly.

You snort. “Who do you think ordered me to begin with it?”

He stops. Stares. “What?”

“My stepmother hates me,” you snap. “I am a daughter, and not even one by her blood. If I wasn’t already known to society when she married my father I’m sure she would have dropped me off as a maid in someone else’s home and been done with me.” Your voice starts rising, but with visible effort, you rein yourself in. “Unfortunately, she is stuck with me, so I must earn my keep as a daughter who brings no monetary value to the household.” 

Beomgyu’s head is reeling. So he was right—you and your stepmother aren’t on good terms. But what he hadn’t realized was just how bad those terms were. Not only does your stepmother know about your servitude, she’s the one who started it. And Beomgyu doesn’t have to ask to know that your stepmother has likely never lifted a hand to help even when you started. 

He feels a little nauseous. Maybe you really do fear your stepmother, if your relationship is more of a master and servant than a mother and daughter. It sounds terrible, but the more you say, the more likely it becomes. 

No wonder you are so insistent on marrying before society takes you off the marriage shelf.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because you jerk your hands away. “Don’t pity me,” you say dangerously, a snarl creeping into your words. Your eyes shine strangely and Beomgyu thinks you might be about to cry. “I am telling you now, Mr. Choi—don’t you dare give me any of your pity. I don’t want it. If that is what keeps you in here, you can leave right now.”

“I don’t pity you,” he replies quietly, reaching for your hand again. “I could never pity a person as strong as you.”

Tension hangs in the air, so thick it feels like a noose wrapping around his neck. Slowly, though, you extend your hand back to him, and the air relaxes slightly. “Does your father know?” he asks. 

“No. He is always on his nth business venture, trying to make money for the household so my brother will have something to inherit.” You shake your head. “His last letter was months ago. I have no idea where he is or if he’s even still alive. Anyway, my stepmother would never have me work whenever he was home, and he’d never believe me if I said anything anyway.”

Beomgyu sucks in a breath. Lets it out slowly, very slowly. “I see,” is all he ends up saying.

You watch in silence as he takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around your hand, covering the cuts in the white cloth. It takes him a few tries but he finally manages to tie the ends in a knot. It looks a bit clumsy, but it is functional. “You’ll want to bandage that properly later,” he says. “Do you still want to return to the party?”

He sees the answer written on your face even before you reply. “No,” you whisper, and for the first time that evening—the first time ever—you look broken. It shatters something in Beomgyu’s chest. “No, I really don’t.” You swallow. “But my stepmother is still here and she won’t want to leave so soon…”

“I will send you home in mine,” he interrupts quietly. “I had planned to stay a few hours longer, anyway. If anyone asks, I will say that the mess was too great, and you went home to clean up and rest.” He holds out a hand. “Will that be all right?”

Relief crashes over your face as you nod. “Yes,” you say. “Thank you very much.”

The two of you slip out of the room. Beomgyu is thankful to see that no one seems to have been in the hallway. You alert a servant to the basin and cloth you left in there, and then Beomgyu manages lead you out of the mansion without anyone asking too many questions. You don’t speak until you’re in front of his family’s carriage and Beomgyu has given directions to the footman. He offers you a hand to help you inside and you take it, but you don’t step up yet.

“Thank you, Mr. Choi,” you say quietly. “I must apologize for any rude behavior I displayed earlier. I am ever grateful for your help, and your understanding.” You swallow. “I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” he replies. “And there is nothing to forgive. You were forced to show me something you have kept secret for a long time, and understandably so—I cannot imagine anyone would have reacted gracefully in the face of that.” He looks at you, moonlight glittering solemnly in your eyes. “And, Miss L/N, I swear on my honor and those who came before me that what you told me tonight will never pass my lips to another. Not without your express permission.”

You look at him for a long moment, gaze unreadable. “Mr. Choi,” you finally say, “for all the faults I once perceived in you, your honor is the one thing that has never been in doubt to me.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

[maskosis]

SNIPPET OF AN UPCOMING FIC: the "absentee father too busy saving the world and his needy, neglected daughter who was raised on cyber-misogyny and uses the only asset she was told she has to get her father's attention" incest fic no one asked for.

You become aware of it on the cusp of adolescence.

It's nestled in that transitory realm from a little girl, girlhood, to a bratty teenager. Marbled with the stretch marks of puberty and preadolescent angst; an incipient bloom, a budding flower, that stays. Grows roots in rotten, fetid soil. Acidic enough to corrode metal but a basin of filth where this needling sapling flourishes. 

And these feelings inside of you refuses to die through the evolution of innocent child making eyes at Kovu, Aladdin, and Shang with a stupid grin on your face as you sit in his lap (only vaguely aware of how he huffs about work, grumbles under his breath to your mother about how they don't need a separation, it'll be fine, we'll be fine, don't go makin’ any rash decisions now—i can fix this) to burgeoning adolescent shoving clumsy fingers against the gusset of your panties, scrubbing sloppy and uncertain at your flesh until something feels good.

The tether between these two worlds is him. Has always been him. 

His voice in your head as you rut your hips into the pillow shoved between your thighs, biting your fist in frustration because it just won't work—

The image in your head changes even if the content they sit you down in front of doesn't. Tarzan's dad. McCready, when your cousin lets you watch the Thing at a sleepover. Older men. Gruff men. Men who pry their thick, grizzled fingers into the soil of the earth and peel it apart with brute force and a snarl. 

(Men who pick that same world they claw apart over you—)

One's who look, who sound, just like your dad.

It just makes sense, you think, fingers twisting into the hem of your panties at night, hours after he sends you to bed with a pinched goodnight, princess. It just—is. Him. Him. Him—

Who else could it possibly be when all you can think of is stay, don't go, when his hand twitches towards the door, when he keeps his phone clenched between those bearish hands you wish would squeeze you just as tight. When he seems relieved to finally get pulled away from clumsily patching himself into some proximation of a man that isn't burdened by the weight of the world and eager to flee this tangled, knotted web of his fracturing family, splintering apart over divorce papers pinned to the refrigerator he said he'd replace four years ago, and a daughter who calls him dad in the same tone she says, hello, how are you? to strangers on the street. 

You say, I love my dad, this stranger in your home who weaves in and out of your life like a migratory bird nesting for the winter—you, this house, dad and daughter, nothing more than a pitstop, a bottleneck, on this grand journey to somewhere better—but it's wrong. Tastes of cyanide. Fills the gaps of your baby teeth like sticky, sweet mercury. 

A tale as old as time—absentee father and the needy, neglected daughter he abandons in pieces; unwilling to rip himself away like a bandaid so he hangs there, tugging on unblemished skin. A constant, bitter ache. A little sting. 

(You love him. But the word dad fits clumsily in your mouth like it doesn't belong—unpractised on your tongue because you can count the number of times you uttered this to him with just one hand.)

Of course he runs. 

And of course you try to follow the only way you know how. 

(Want love? Want affection? Crave a scrap of attention from a man that refuses to give it?

Well—

You have all the power between the meat of your thighs, darling, did you know that?)

It's huddling under the blankets at night, eyes glued to the blue-green glow of your screen as you watch big, brutish men ruin pretty girls. Shoving their thick, too big daddy too big cocks into their cunts, legs thrown over their brawny shoulders. Pov shots of a hairy, soft belly and a wisp of a thing underneath, yowling at the stretch, how good it feels.

At some point, it just becomes normal to want him.

Evolutionary.

But you're not stupid.

These feelings that bud inside your chest—girlhood crushes shaded in rose-pink, pealing giggles demanding daddy's attention, chaste kisses to the apple of your cheeks, a warm, rough hand on the crown of your head, nose tucked into his neck that smells of wet leather and smoke; to damp panties glued to your aching cunt when he brushes his thick fingers over your forehead, brows pinching together as he murmurs don't feel warm t'me, that heavy, scorching hand on your lower back when he walks you from the car to the restaurant as you babble about your day, the rough scratch of his beard when press your cheek to his, wondering how it it would feel against your cunt—are not normal. The furthest thing from it, really.

And you're too aware of it, you think. About how it should disgust you, but doesn't.

You know the word incest before you know the meaning. Read it as it pops up above the videos you like (daddy-daughter; daddy fucks his daughter and cums inside her tight pussy—)

[hunterwritesstuff]

Adam x fem cannibal sinner??? 

Okay, so this is gonna be a bit of a self indulgent moment for me here because I have had. ideas stewing in my head, so I'm gonna dish it out and hope it tastes okay to y'all!(I know a lot of other people have done this with Adam already but HUSHHH)

Fallen Angel!Adam x fem cannibal sinner reader

🎸 So. he's a little afraid at first, because you two probably met like, when he was still getting used to Hell.

🎸 When he's still getting used to Hell, I'm gonna be honest with you, every little thing sorta makes him cry. He's a bit of a crybaby.

🎸 But overtime, with a bit of kindness, a bit of patience, and a bit of rainbow sherbet, he starts to open up to you a bit more!

🎸 He's like. really clingy.

🎸 If you're taller than him, he'll hide behind you whenever you go somewhere until he's comfortable in Hell.

🎸 Eventually, he asks you if you can go with him to where the showdown he fell at went down, saying he forgot something important there.

🎸 If you agree, he finds his axe-guitar in...honestly ABYSMAL condition.

🎸 You assure him that it can get fixed, but it's a little hard to get through to him.

🎸 You eventually have to yell at him that it can get fixed and he pokes his head out of...a grave...he's digging for it.

🎸 You eventually help him build his confidence back up, but this time it isn't as much of an ego.

🎸 You help him like. get over his misogyny thing!

🎸 Unfortunately, he isn't COMPLETELY normal about you.

🎸 Now he's INCREDIBLY POSSESSIVE AND OBSESSIVE ABOUT YOU.

🎸 Like, YOU HAD TO TALK HIM OUT OF STARTING A CULT SURROUNDING YOU LEVELS OF OBSESSIVE.

🎸 He's already lost TWO women in his life, he isn't gonna fucking risk losing you. Not when you've helped him get better.

Hope you enjoy! I lowkey LOVE writing Adam, so don't be afraid to send in more requests with him! Just make sure to be as specific as possible! <3

[fallenhunnyapple]

@ilikelookingatthings left a very long and question filled essay about Angel!Lu AU in the replies so now its time to delve into More Info about the AU! @fallenguitarhero is my Adam so I got his input for all the Adam-related parts of this. Under a cut because.... this is Very Long LOL (bonus art at the end)

I'm going to just Copy-Paste the answers I got when we discussed it

I do think that Adam actually subconsciously shifts blame to Lilith because he's very black and white in his views. He hates devil Luci but he thinks he can prevent angel Lu from going down that path if he just keeps them apart. Lute also believes this and ngl her view of Lilith is like...really awful internalized misogyny type shit. Both of them think its better the two never meet and Lute outright threatens Lilith to stay away. Adam is too possessive to try and shift Lu to someone else but he does like... try to push Lu back into friendship type feels. Adam is a dumbass about sexuality so he thinks if he brings Lu to do Masculine and Straight things it will fix this. Instead he ends up just spending even more time with him and making it worse. As for his trauma... yeah Adam tries to hide it. Mostly by changing the subject and acting like an asshole tbh. I've thought abt Lu finding out about Cain and Abel p much by mistake (maybe saw artwork of it, all the hell related stuff is hidden but they wouldnt think to hide art of Adam holding Abel's body or Cain's exile) and it breaking his little baby heart. Adam def has moments where like... his mind is busy w something else like a bad day or a nightmare and for a second he sees the devil instead of his angel. Adam always like... 'shit, sorry, i thought you were someone else- fuck, don't look at me like that, c'mon.' There are other issues he just... doesn't realize he needs to hide. They're right about Adam being cynical and like... telling himself Lu doesn't really love him. Even once they date, he's still insecure. At that point i think he'd tell Lu about Lilith leaving him for a friend of his (whose name he never gives) and his marriage with Eve ending badly. He avoids details. He prob talks way more about his kids and prob even introduces Lu to them... Lu being around might encourage him to work on his relationship with them. Adam's body dysmorphia is such a contrast from the Adam Lu knew before... i do think that with him hiding so much from Lu, he tries to make it up to him by making sure his life is perfect. He goes out of his way to keep his angel happy and his attitude spreads to his exorcists who accept Lu into their flock. tbh Adam's dynamic with them prob becomes way healthier over time due to Lu's influence. i think Adam does tell the truth about some things but leaves out the details. Like he says evil found earth and destroyed Eden but says it hurts too much to talk about it (not a lie) and tells Lu that it's why the exorcists exist, they protect heaven and the dead humans from it. Which is what the official story is anyway! i think Lu prob has the same info the average low ranking Heavenborne and winners do. If Lu pushed him too much Adam might admit there are things he can't tell him but frame it as a military thing - there are things only Michael, Adam and the high ranking exorcists can know. He feels a lot of guilt about lying. it weighs on him a lot. that and the stress of protecting Lu from his brothers honestly makes Adam act more subdued and tired than canon Adam. His eyebags are awful. It prob becomes obvious as time goes on that Adam is Not Well. He keeps his mask on for a looong time after the first time bc it helps him hide his feelings and self-regulate but when he finally takes it off it's obvious to Lu from how he looks that Adam is struggling mentally. Comparing him to how he looked in Eden makes it so clear.

For Lu's part of things. Of course he'd ask about Lilith. Especially after finding out that so long has passed and Adam is here, so Lilith is probably here too, right? I feel like because he missed... So much, the concept of Death to him still doesn't really sink in. Like even with the Sins, it's basically like he just Knows he can't See them again. So with Lilith its like Adam has to just lie the same as with Anyone else from Hell. And Lu is definitely heartbroken about Lilith being Gone.

And like, at the time, Adam isn't lying so he doesn't feel Guilty about it, he just feels bad seeing Lu so upset. The timeline of this is kinda indeterminate but it definitely is Earlier than the 7 years of Lilith being in Heaven. So when he first Appears, she hasn't left Hell yet. Who knows, Charlie may not have even been born yet at that point. There's no Solid point in Time for Lu to have appeared in Heaven, it's just... Earlier. He doesn't think to Look for her because he knows that if she's Not Already There, then she's Inaccessible. Otherwise Adam would have told him, he's sure of it. (Adam has no obligation to tell Lu when Lilith does get there and for the reasons stated above + the fact that the Elder Angels probably would try and deter any interaction between the two. he's left in the Dark about her arriving in Heaven. He doesn't know Adam has even made a Deal with anyone) He still misses her because Adam is Truly the only friend from When he's from left.

And tbh the mixed signals are what keeps Hope Alive for Lu. As much as he tries to be okay with friendship, he still wants more because he's In Love and Adam is the only thing that makes him feel Normal when his entire life and everything he knew was entirely up-ended. It's why he's so passive about it. He doesn't want to make Adam feel bad, but he sees Adam being so Conscious of him now and it makes him happy. He doesn't wanna Push it, but he still likes seeing that Adam is Aware of him like that now. Especially because it's not in a way where Adam is trying to push him away, Adam is actively spending more time with him!

The longer time passes, the more discontent Lu grows. Knowing he's being lied to/that things are being hidden, even by Adam, he is Curious and he wants to learn more. But he also isn't going to be reckless about Learning More. The thing is also he Doesn't Know what questions he should be asking. He could ask Winners things and get answers, its not like anyone would stop him from Talking to Winners, its part of his Job. But like... How would he even start to figure out what's Missing in his knowledge?

Also Lu is definitely Aware of how different Adam is from his Eden self. Like just Visually, it's so easy to separate them because Adam wears his mask. But when its just the two of them and Adam is maskless, Lu may be more susceptible to treating him like that. But he's also very aware of the fact that actually their Knowledge Base is completely flipped. Lu hardly knows anything and Adam knows Everything.

And like.... Lu Knows that being kept in the dark is probably 'for his own good' but as stated, the person who fell is Still him. So now instead of resenting/being upset that Humans were kept in the dark, now it's himself. There's no Fruit That Will Fix Things for him though. He's just left frustrated at his lack of agency in this. And honestly, what keeps in line Most is Fear. Since coming to this time, his family has been Nicer to him, he's actually getting along to some degree with his brothers who used to ridicule him (or worse) and he Knows it's only because he's 'behaving' now, now that Creation is over and Life Has Existed. And he's scared or what will happen if he steps too out of line. He doesn't have the refuge of going to Eden to visit the Humans if things go south with his siblings. He isn't allowed on Earth, he's confined to Heaven, so he would just be stuck with the same sort of things that ultimately drove him originally to commit the Sin of giving Eve the Apple (not that he's Aware of how it culminated) And Also he has Adam. He doesn't want to know what the consequences would be if they were to decide that they shouldn't be allowed to stay together. It would absolutely break him.

If Lu were to find out about the exterminations, he'd be just as Appalled by it as Emily was. Lu doesn't know about Sin, what that entails, how Sinners destroy everything. He hasn't had to live with it so he can't see any contempt or justification for their destruction. Lucifer hates them because they came in a ruined the world he tried to build in Hell. Lu doesn't have any such associations with them. He would just see them much like Charlie does, souls who made mistakes and who should be given the chance to Do Better and make up for it. (That's sort of what he is, in a way, too.) He would absolutely be upset and scold the fuck out of Adam and Lute if he knew what his besties were REALLY doing once a year-

As for the sexual stuff, Both Lucifers started without having a concept of sex or sexuality, so both of them are specifically shaped by their partners (literally in a way). So the Lucifer who learned and explored with Lilith is going to be completely different from the Lucifer who learned and explored with Adam in terms of How they have sex. It's a skill they learn by doing, so it's not the Same.

Thank you for sticking it out this long, have a doodle for your troubles 🙏

[stuck-writing-sickos]

In Poor Taste [P9]

(Yandere × Reader)

[Series link]

[Warning: obsessiveness, misogyny, sexism, harrassment, explicit language, violence, mentions of sex]

(Dead from work. Enjoy. Here is what u came for. Anyway, tell me what u think. Talk to me. Ik i havent been responsive (busy) but i wanna read ur comments 🫶 love u stay well and stay away from people like my OCs)

He never knew how good it tastes to bite the hands that fed him.

Better some of you than none of you, Lukas thought when his eyes refused to leave your body as you sat by the pool with a beer in your hands. The humid air hung heavy beneath rumbling thunder, but no rain yet. The villa was quiet sans the sound of wind and waves. Lukas felt sticky under his shirt as he shifted, trying to see your face but couldn't. The bedside lamp casted light through the uncurtained glass wall against your back, soft and yellow like saw dust. You didn't talk. He didn't know what to say - you had Yuki on your mind and he had your brutal fist on his. This wouldn't go anywhere nice.

He clicked his tongue and took a sip from his can.

"Something on your mind?" - you asked, face turned away.

"Nothing at all."

"You seem pensive."

No, you do.

"Maybe just the stress of trying to readjust to a new way of life."

"You're doing well."

"Well... thank you."

Words failed him. His head raced to piece together something to say that wouldn't make the friction between you and him worse. He couldn't. Lukas no longer wanted to make small talks about bullshits like "how do you like Phuket so far" or "how many siblings do you have". He was tired of trying to get to know you politely. He wanted to rip through the layers and get messy - "we're small and scared. Please, let me into your arms", he wanted to say, the fire in his stomach sending heat through his whole body, his fingers itching to reach for your skin.

You were angry at Yuki, no? He probably fucked up - men always do. Yuki probably did what men do best - use and discard. After all, sex is the ultimate currency in their sphere. Lukas wondered if Yuki felt good after having had you. Did he brag? Did he laugh about the way he made you buck and squirm with his friends?

Lukas turned his gaze away, feeling guilt brewing in his stomach. You wouldn't know about all that. You probably woke up in Yuki's arms smiling, thinking that the intimacy meant something. But Yuki would turn cold. They all do. He had you, and he had the nods and murmurs from the douchebags he hung out with. And now there you were, sitting by the edge of the small pool, wondering what you did wrong, asking yourself questions like "was that all I am to him".

Lukas wanted to throw up thinking about it. He tried hard not to realize the reason he could imagine the intricacies of your situation so vividly, but the thought had taken roots. He knew because he had done it all. He wasn't any better.

But he could learn. That was the difference. And what more... he could atone. He would gladly take your punishment. Lukas felt his fingertips playing with the silver chain on his neck, pulling it around as if to scratch an itch he had yet felt. His eyes found their ways back to you who had not said a word, your arms pulling your knees to your chest. He swallowed dryly.

He could learn. He could be good for you. Yuki couldn't do that - the man left you sad and confused, likely unaware that under your calm surface you were a storm. He didn't stop to see the look in your eyes now when you fixed them upom the sky - resilient, yet filled with disappointment. You expected better from Yuki and he failed to deliver. That was on him - he was flawed and spineless, unable to let you in.

But Lukas could.

Before he could think of anything to say, a flash of light cut through the sky. You didn't flinch. "This one will be loud", you said. Lukas braced for the thunder, his body tensing up. "Yeah", he replied, his voice suddenly weak. He jumped at the cracking thunder, his head ringing.

"Are you okay?" - you asked, sounding cold as usual.

"No, yeah", he tried to match your tone but couldn't, heaving, "Just a little startled."

"A Texan who's scared of thunder... what do you know..."

He laughed, barely containing the high he felt seeing that you had engaged in some sort of personal conversation with him for once.

"You got me."

"The thunder did. I'm just sitting here."

He was aware that he was smiling big, but he didn't know how to stop that. Lukas wanted to say something else, but before he could, he felt water on his skin. The rain came down hard and quick. In the moment he took to react, it had already curtained the scene white.

"Ah...", he heard you said past the rainfall. You were sopping wet like him, your thin summer clothes clinging to your skin, showing him almost everything he wanted to see. The rain was cold, yet he could not beat the heat.

You stood up. He followed. You didn't seem to be in a hurry when you pried your glass door open and let him in with you, spashing the curtain and carpet. Something inside him clicked when the sound of rain sounded distant so suddenly, leaving the air filled with your breaths and the dripping of your clothes. Standing around awkwardly, he watched you who returned his gaze. Lukas felt the hair on his arms standing up when you asked:

"Are you cold?"

___

Yuki wanted to peel the skin off his body to see if the crawling discomfort would cease. He felt restless. Squirming in the uncomfortable arm chair, he watched the storm rage on, thrashing against the window. He couldn't even go for a smoke when he needed it most. Biting on his nails, Yuki felt the uncomfortable queasiness all over himself like a swarm of spiders.

He wanted to talk to you.

Yuki knew he handled the first night he spent with you poorly. He talked of family too soon. He still couldn't think of one good reasons why he did it. When you looked away and avoided his question about regrets, a switch flipped in his braim and made him stupid. Did you regret sleeping with him? He would hate that. Perhaps that was why his first reaction was to lock you down with hints of family and marriage. Juvenile and stupid, no different than Lukas. Fuck. He was just afraid to lose you.

Even now, he still felt the lump in his throat. It sucked that he wanted you so bad. For a long time, he thought he was dead inside when it came to intimacy - he only knew panic, only knew to look for the door when someone got too close. Yuki couldn't find it in himself to put his lips on another's, much less doing what he did to you when he was still in office clothes, smelling of sweat and cigarette. He didn't vomit after. When he finished and look at you still holding onto him in disarray, Yuki thought that he was at the right place. It was simple and natural - he wanted you and you wanted him.

It didn't take him long, though, to flip the script. Maybe he wanted you, and you wanted to escape your family that lurked at the other end of your calls, their shadow looming over you even when their bodies were plane flights away. He thought of that when you fell asleep by his side, the skin on your face no longer carved in by your exhaustion. In that moment, he felt like just another giant of your bad dreams, casting his own shadow on you. Were you running away and just happened to find yourself in his arms? He couldn't sleep well that night, not at that thought, but at another more sinister one he failed to deny.

He would gladly be your safe haven.

The moment that thought took form, Yuki felt a twist in his stomach. He didn't bother to deny the idea - no excuses of "that was just an intrusive thought" or "I only wanted to support her". When he slipped out of bed and into your bathroom, he knew what he saw in the mirror. He was no misunderstood artist, he was no kindhearted colleague, and he was definitely no reliable friend. He was a spider waiting for you to flail your way into his web, and once you did he had every intention to keep you there. He wouldn't mind you getting in more troubles, as long as you come running back to him. He would make it nice and cozy for you. With him, you could surrender your guards and let him take the lead. No more calls from your brother asking for money nor threats from your mother to fly you back. He could legitimize your citizenship with marriage... maybe even a beautiful child. His family may push back, but he doubted they could disown their only son.

Yuki didn't like the way his reflection look, so he put those thoughts away only for them to come spilling out when you were vague about "regret". He hated that he couldn't contain his perversion for long - the desire for you to suffer enough that you would fall into his arm was a poison he wanted to seal away, but alas he didn't have any self control after all. He was just like the new brat that fawned over you, eager to gnaw and rip at your edges.

__

You didn't care for Lukas' begging eyes when he sat at the corner of your room, far away from you. "Go back to your room", you said for the second time yet, "you must feel less cold by now". Around him wrapped the gigantic towel you found in your bathroom, the one he asked for when you made the dumb mistake of worrying enough to say "are you cold". He looked down shamefully when he whispered "can I be here? I'm afraid of thunders."

You didn't buy it. No way a man this grown would be so scared of thunder. Your face scrunched up as you leaned against the bedside drawer, your arms taking the warmth of the lamp. He wanted to be near you, that much was obvious, but you didn't quite expect this display of pathetic pleading. You wondered if he ever tried it before and if he did, if it worked. You didn't like it.

"Lukas... look, I think you're drunk. Go get changed and sleep it off. I won't tell anyone that you're scared of thunders, okay?"

You felt like you were talking patiently to a pet that would not quite get your idea but may get your tone.

"No, I'm not drunk."

At that, you rolled your eyes and chuckled wryly, finding a twinge of amusement in your annoyance.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable", you tried to talk again, even slower this time, "but this isn't a good look, no? You and I in here... people will talk."

"Nobody is coming, you know?"

His voice was firm now, and much more sober than you expected. Your eyes snapped back at him who returned the favor, awfully calm now. At least you got your confirmation - he wasn't afraid. Never was.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nobody is coming. Not with this storm."

At that, he stood up, the towel slipping off him. Lukas did not stumble when he walked over to you, his footstep quiet and slow the same way a cat walked when it saw a bird perching somewhere in a backyard bush. You didn't find it threatening at all, though. Unlike a helpless starling, you knew what to do.

When he reached you and the modest distance forced you to push against the cold wall, you let out a tired scoff.

"I'm sorry if I ever gave you the wrong idea, Lukas, but I'm not interested in you that way. Please, just leave, and we can pretend that this never happened."

"I don't want to do that."

His voice was soft now, his warm breath brushing your cheek. He did not raise an arm. Neither did you. You didn't want it to come to violence.

"You're overstepping."

"What are you gonna do about it?"

You smiled bitterly, getting weary of his stupid games. Deciding not to escalate the situation, you looked away. He didn't let your lack of reaction stop him from adding to his stupidity:

"Really, what are you going to do? Do you realize what's happening right now?"

You couldn't help but laughed in his face. He didn't find it so funny. Perhaps you insulted his masculinity? They usually hated it when you did that. Curiously, the look he had on right now did not seem like one of anger or lust. He seemed eager... for what, you were not quite sure.

"I'm warning you", you bluntly said, dropping the smile completely, "you still have this chance."

"Seems like you gave me plenty of chances so far."

Your blood boiled. You didn't know from where he got the idea that this was endearing or sexy. This sucked, and you were getting impatient by the minutes. Your right eye twitched, and you could feel the corner of your mouth pulling into a nasty scowl. Getting hot from your anger, you let the way his eyes widen in expectation escape you.

"This isn't funny, Lukas."

"Isn't it?"

His hands reached to you. Instinctively dodging it, you found yourself trapped between him and the wall as he laid his palms to the side of your head, his heap of black hair tickling your forehead. He grinned smugly, baring his white teeth.

"I find it very funny...", he cooed, lifting his hand to try and touch your neck.

You decided that that was enought. Grabbing his wrist and pulling it, you forced his body down and landed your knee on his chest, hard. Lukas let out a pained groan and fell forward, collapsing to your feet. As you stepped over him to get away, you couldn't help but wonder if his body was limp from the alcohol, or if he never intended to fight back. You watched his back while he pitifully trembled, hand clutching where you hit him.

"Get the fuck out", you coldly demanded. He didn't say anything for a moment, still heaving from the shock.

You planned to grab him by the scuff of his stupid button down and drag him out. Before you could, you heard your doorbell ring.

Blood turning cold, you let your eyes dart between Lukas and the door, wondering how to deal with the situation. You didn't even stop to think who could be coming to you at this hour, in this weather. The silence hung in the air, heavy and thick. It seemed forever until you heard a voice trying to get to you past the storm.

"Please, if you don't mind... Would you let me in?"

Yuki.

If anyone would understand, it would be him. You felt a burst of relief exploding in your chest as you rushed to let him in. Your hands had reached the handle and cracked the door open when Lukas, still in pain, had managed to crawl on all four and throw himself at you, his wet arms clinging around your leg as Yuki stared in horror. "Help me", you choked out and swung the door open wide, letting Yuki in along with the rainfall. Under you, Lukas had broken down into sobs.

"Please... don't go. I will be good."

[sissytobitch10seconds]

I think it's kind of interesting that Viktor is overshadowed by his siblings both in the canon and fanon.

In season one I could understand it. Despite Viktor being the main character that literally drives the entire plot, everyone focuses on the other characters. People make fun of Luther for talking about the moon all the time. Everyone is almost creepily obsessed with Klaus and the Vietnam fling that he had. No one really talks about Allison, but her story is primarily linked with Viktor's since she's trying to heal their relationship (fandom misogyny too). I think that there's a decent amount of talk around Five since he's such a fascinating character. There's quite a lot of talking about Diego too, since he loses Eudora and spends a lot of time trying to take care of Klaus. But no one really talks about Viktor and the amount of shit that he goes through in s1. All the siblings other than Allison completely abandon him too, and Allison only wants the idea of a 'sister' that she's built up in her head since she lost her husband and daughter.

In season two, it makes even less sense to not talk about what Viktor has done. He has a queer love story with Sissy and we get to see way more development and chemistry for, Klaus and Dave had a montage and some sad lines from Klaus as opposed to an entire arc through ten episodes, but no one really does anything with it. Allison gets basically no attention for the same fandom misogyny issues as before. Five gets some attention because of the fact that he's exhausted and still dealing with the Commission (his fight scenes are amazing). Diego gets the same treatment as Luther did but a little more deserving because the plan to save JFK was stupid. Luther gets totally sidelined and ignored too, but people really hated him in S1 so I'm not surprised. Klaus gets all the attention again even though his plot outside of Ben possessing him is honestly really boring and makes me so uncomfortable.

Season three is where Viktor should have gotten the most attention. If we're considering the fact that the TUA fandom has a very queer audience, then they should be super excited and celebrating the fact that Viktor is trans. Not only that, but he's also working his ass off so that he can fix things for Allison and get her back to a timeline where her daughter exists or back to the sixties. I think a lot of people ignore that, giving Five more credit than he deserves for trying to fix the world when Viktor was doing that until Harlan showed up and he wanted to handle that first. A lot of attention during the debut went again to Klaus, which was actually warranted this time since he was plot relevant by showing us things about Reggie and discovering his powers. Diego got more attention since he was parenting Stan and fighting with Lila, which was nice. Five got some meme attention but nothing serious and Luther got a little bit of genuine love. But mostly people just posted the conversation where Viktor comes out to his family and continued to ignore him.

Now Season four is out and no one cares about Viktor. He stands up to Reginald and says all of the things that he needs to say, he fights like Hell to try and save Ben from the Durango and get him someplace stable, he owns a bar and got fucking KIDNAPPED. No one is talking about him, all people are doing is complaining about fivela and the ending.

Viktor moved to Nova Scotia probably to get better trans healthcare, but also because none of his siblings care about him. My man is a tiny trans man that got kidnapped and ransomed off the street and they couldn't care less about him when they show up, Five is taking notes about the room they're in instead of checking to make sure that his childhood best friend is okay. Luther may have made him best man at his wedding, but it was just because Viktor had only just come out and all the other siblings were non options (never been close with Five, butted heads with Diego who didn't even want the wedding to happen, not their Ben, and Klaus was officiating) which was the same reason Lila was Sloane's maid of honor. Diego and Viktor barely spare two words at each other despite their closeness in the comics. Lila and Allison say something briefly to him before they also fuck off further into the plot.

Viktor isn't liked by his family despite them trying to include him in it when it's convenient for them, and he's also disliked by the fandom. I went into the TUA tag and about half of the top twenty posts were about someone else with him tacked on as an afterthought.

[chaotic-starlight24]

Steve Randle General Headcanons

I surprisingly have a lot of headcanons for him! He actually won the poll so here he is :) The guy we all have to write because he had like 2 things about him!

Warnings: Spoilers, Mentions of abuse, Misogyny by his dad, Some angst

Steve just hates coffee. He hates the bitterness and everything. But sometimes Evie’s parents make chocolate cake, with coffee flavored icing. Steve has fallen to this trick more times than he can count and almost always ends up excusing himself to the bathroom and spitting it out in the toilet.

When he and Soda were younger, Soda actually had a relatively large friend group. They were really good friends but several times Steve felt very insecure about whether or not they were really best friends. But Soda turned to him the most, Steve was the first one to hear about him dropping out, Steve helped tutor him, they hung out most afterschool. So eventually they were never seen apart. And Steve realized that Soda really was his best friend.

The manager of the DX is very supportive of their dreams and has given Steve some tips on starting a business. He knows that they will lose money whenever the two leave and probably lose even more when they start it up, but he doesn’t care. He wants to give the world to the next generation and give them a chance in life. He’s also sure that some other car genius will work their way into the DX one day.

When they were in early middle school, Steve and him were best friends but whenever Steve was run out of the house he didn’t go to the Curtis house because he didn’t want to trouble them. So he would quietly get up and onto his roof. Then just fall asleep under the stars. 

Whenever he was run out he would also not really have much access to food and this guy needs to eat breakfast or he starts getting sick. So whenever he and Soda would go to school he would just be shaking from nausea and have a very vocal stomach. One day, Steve wasn’t let back in his house for 3 days and Soda caught on once Steve passed out in front of him. Mr.Curtis came to pick him up and assured him it was no problem and let him and Soda have a sleepover of sorts for the next couple days. From then on they left one of the windows unlocked just in case.

Steve, as many have decided, is actually quite school smart. He especially excels at science and math. He enjoys most aspects of science but especially the hands-on stuff. With math he mainly studies for it because he knows it will serve him well in engineering.

Steve really wants to open a car shop to fix cars and stuff but he also really wants to try and become an engineer and try to create better cars. But he doesn’t have much hope in being able to go and actually study engineering since there is almost no way he can pay for it and he doubts he would ever get a scholarship.

Him and Dallas probably have the most hatred for the Socs. He has grown to hate how he can have dreams but that’s all they’re probably going to be, dreams. While the socs can chase whatever they want because they have a shot. They have a chance in life. And that’s not fair. Then they have the AUDACITY to come and harm greasers. They could be using that chance in life, but no! They come over to harm his buddies!

He knows all the inner workings of cars and their bodies and their inventors and everything! You ask something about your car’s engine and suddenly he goes onto a rant about how this engine was originally and Henry Ford’s help in the engineering of engines like this and- He’s learned to dial it down once he saw how annoyed people started getting. Soda enjoys hearing him go on these tangents and Evie does as well.

Steve helps out Johnny a lot and will give him a sandwich or something and let him sit at the DX. Johnny has heard all about Steve’s dream shop and actually helped him try and come up with a name and sign design for it. They’re both mediocre artists but it turned out pretty nice!

Steve is absolutely terrified of the cops. He has read about different things they did in history that were bad (Everything that happened during segregation) and knows how quickly they are to accuse greasers. It didn’t help that his father tells him each time he is run out he better not tell the cops or they’ll take him away and give him a worse beating than his dad ever will. 

He knows Soda is extremely forgetful and has to remind him of some of the most random things. His pants? Almost forgot them on the drying line. His shoes? They were under the couch after they played a game with them. His homework? He taped it to the ceiling to see if he could focus better. A lot of school mornings were spent with Steve and Soda tracing his actions to find said items.

Him and Two-Bit are also really good friends. Steve and him work on Two’s old car and Two-Bit likes to prank him a lot. One time, Steve was going to help replace the steering wheel and Two-Bit brought one out. Frozen in a block of ice. Two-Bit was dying on the floor laughing while Steve tried to hide his grin. How does Two-Bit do this? We don’t ask.

His dad is a very masculine guy and HATES Evie. He hates Evie for all the reasons Steve loves her. She is fiery and has a quick wit. Which Steve’s dad hates because he thinks it's disrespectful to talk back, especially when a girl does it. Evie wears shorts or pants a lot because she works repairing household appliances. She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. Which also goes against his dad’s views. Evie knows this. So whenever she and Steve walk by his house she will bridal carry him just to spite his dad. 

Steve has rather wavy hair and usually combs it to be that way (which is indeed canon) but it gets really tangled really easily. Soda likes styling hair when he’s bored but he can never style Steve’s because Steve is the only one who knows how to comb his hair without the comb getting stuck. (Those were a fun 30 minutes for Mrs. Curtis)

To those who don’t know him, Steve is not in any way a nice person. He can be very snappy and rude to strangers. 

Him and Evie are a power couple and complement each other extremely well. They are both mechanical geniuses, Evie is as energetic as he is but can also bring him down to earth, Steve is one of few who can calm her down before she goes off on someone, and they are just in love with each other. Steve can be very lovey-dovey with her and she can match that but in general Steve is much more prominent with physical affection. Evie has a bracelet that says Stevie and wears it everyday. 

Steve really likes almonds, it's his favorite snack. Especially honey-roasted ones.

Him, Johnny, and Soda were the original trio in the gang. Then as they got older they gained Dally and just kind of mushed with Two and Darry. Now they have the Curtis gang :)

Steve didn’t like Pony at first because Soda put a lot of his attention on PB. But eventually he continued to find Pony annoying at all ages. He still cares about him though. Steve is his older brother with the more common “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” outlook on him.

Steve has so many random abilities and it kind of freaks Soda and Evie out. Like one time they were all hanging out (Sandy was there too) and he was dared to try Evie’s platform heels and he was able to dance in them. Through these games it has also been discovered he can:

Write really well with both hands

Balance spoons on his face

Use chopsticks with his mouth

He and Evie actually really liked Sandy and felt utterly betrayed when they found out about her. Sandy was Evie’s best friend. Steve barely knew what to do for Soda. It was just so out of character for her.

When Johnny and Dally died, he didn't show too much emotion. He cried, he grieved with the rest of the gang, but overall he didn't feel much. Until he found the design him and Johnny did for the shop. Soda found him at the DX, sobbing on the ground next to this crappy drawing. So he sat next to him and cried with him, listening to Steve sputter out "He never had a chance! None of us do! Them Socs ar-are using them all up! With no gratitude! We'll never know what he could've done!"

"I know Steve, I know."

"Soda...What are we going to do now?"