#Paddy Cakes

[atlantes96]

Patrick Crough - Paddy Cakes - 11.2.25

✅ 6807

ig: @patrickcrough

[fullcravings]

Hidden Rainbow Cake

[ficswithtacotuesday]

I've honestly thought of this for so long. You CANNOT TELL ME that Spy doesn't have daddy issues. He abandoned Scout since birth, continued to ignore his existence and still acted like an ass when he become his co-worker. The only time Spy was a father to Scout was during Expiration Date and the 7th comic where he says he's proud of him, but both those times happened WHEN SPY THOUGHT SCOUT WAS DYING.

This man is terrified of being a father, and I think it's because he has some horrible trauma from his own dad. Spy probably had some rough times from his own dad that made him scared of becoming the same person as him, so he chose to be distant, only changing his attitude when the circumstances were extreme. Him being a spy just adds to keeping this distance, since no one really expects him to be open and he can keep it that way. Well except when it comes to, in this case, Engineer. Because daddy issues, and genuine feelings, but also daddy issues.

Thankfully Scout will break this cycle of generational trauma, not because he would be a great dad at some point in his life, but because he'll die a virgin

[redorchidsfuchsiaribbons]

some of the St. Patrick's Day cakes I decorated this week with some of my own designs/ideas in the mix...

[madamewalburga]

Walburga rarely goes out these days. The war is still raging, and anybody who had half a mind would rather stay in the safety of their homes. Not that she’s scared, no. She just doesn’t have any face left to show society after everything her sons did.

Regulus, that spineless fool, defected from the Dark Lord after years of being one of His louder fanatics and has been murdered for it, after weeks of hiding. Add to that the fact that Sirius has always been openly against the Dark Lord, going as far to defy him publicly with Potter and their silly little gang of mudbloods and misfits. Oh, all the stories people have fabricated about her boys. The ridiculous amount of leering and jeering from the other Houses.

Even Kreacher has been ordered to only use the back door for the past two years.

But no matter. Today is special.

It truly must have been the war and the amount of people dying, but ever since Regulus’ funeral two years ago, Sirius has agreed to meet every now and then. Albeit very reluctantly. But still. Walburga must do what it takes to ensure the bloodline perseveres.

Their meetings are either very uneventful or extremely loud. Understandably, since they have always been the pair who has both understood and rejected each other deeply and passionately. But they get through it. Sirius has stopped deliberately wolfing down his meals like an animal, and has started to fix his posture now. Walburga doesn’t chastise him as much for his poorer choices in life as thanks.

Today is October 31st and Walburga is out and about in Horizont Alley at evening, shopping for the first time in months. She has not seen her eldest for a long time since Potter’s son was born. But it would be his twenty-second birthday in a few days and he has agreed to have dinner together at Grimmauld (they never eat at Grimmauld. Always at the other houses). Something about James being unavailable. No matter. It might be a simple dinner but it must be something worthy of her heir. A gift too! Plus, Walburga has already resolved to not remind him of his responsibilities or ask to get rid of that stupid muggle bike. Most importantly, not ask him about the Potters especially the baby he’s so deeply fond of.

Walburga’s last stop was the stationery store, to grab some gift wrappers. Kreacher asked if he should buy a copy of the evening paper since it looks like it’s selling out.

“An owl will deliver a copy to Grimmauld, Kreacher.”

“But Mistress, they say that the Dark Lord has been finally defeated—”

Walburga turned sharply. “What?”

“—and they’re all saying the Potter’s boy name! Calling him The Boy Who Lived!”

True enough, whispers of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, ring through the streets. There are no talks about his parents.

Kreacher reports that all the papers have been sold out, so they quickly apparated home and summoned the paper to read it.

“…Harry Potter, one-year old, is the first ever person to survive the Killing Curse. His parents James (21) and Lily (21) Potter were both found dead at their residence at Godric’s Hollow…”

James Potter… found dead…

Walburga ran as fast as she could to the Floo network and tried to call every person that might know where her son is. Nothing. She scanned every inch of the Prophet for any mention of her firstborn. Nothing.

All night long, Walburga traveled from one Black property to another, to every known location Sirius has ever been to see with her own eyes that her boy is alive.

Nothing.

She anxiously waited for the morning paper to arrive, praying for some news about her son.

And there he is.

Front page.

Murderer of twelve. Voldemort’s spy. Traitor to his most beloved people.

His family of choice, he called them.

Sirius Black Locked up in Azkaban for Life!

Walburga got up from her seat, and moved towards the coffee table. With trembling hands, she started wrapping the presents she would never be able to give.

[dead-pidove-do-not-eat]

More ppl need tummies I can play paddy cake on :(

[sandboxworld]

Lucky Charms Reveals Three New Flavors For St. Patrick's Day

Get Ready to Go Green—Leprechaun Style! This March, General Mills is rolling out the green carpet for St. Patrick’s Day, and trust us—there’s a pot of sugary gold waiting at the end of the cereal aisle! Lucky Charms is getting a festive glow-up, and it’s so magically delicious that even the leprechauns are giving it two tiny thumbs up. First up, the fan-favorite Limited Edition Magic Clovers…

[punkbakerchristine]

chocolate irish coffee cake: chocolate cake laced with bailey’s and espresso with a buttercream spiked with the liqueur and a chocolate ganache in the middle

happy st. paddy’s day! ☘️🍻☘️🍻

[atlantes96]

Patrick Crough - Paddy Cakes - 7.4.25

✅ 314

[fullcravings]

Pistachio Cake with Pistachio Italian Buttercream

[sasa-chan]

[the-rat-k-ing]

Who knew paddy cake could be so exhausting

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲*

Parings → Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → 18+, NSFW / Smut!! Unprotected sex, Crotchless lingerie, Oral (f receiving), Fingering, Soft dom! Tom, Overstimulation, Praise kink, Birthday sex

Summary → It's Tom's birthday, and of course you have something special for him.

Tom’s family had gone all out this year.

His mum, ever the queen of the kitchen, had baked that chocolate cake, the one with layers so thick and rich it could knock a grown man out. There were streamers taped to the ceiling in a way only mum-decorating could get away with, and somehow, the entire house buzzed with the kind of warmth that only the Hollands could radiate.

Paddy had declared himself the DJ for the night, blasting a chaotic mix of old-school hits and random TikTok audios through an ancient speaker that crackled every time someone turned the volume past 60%.

Meanwhile, Harry and Sam had spent weeks planning an adorable-slash-horrifying slideshow of baby Tom photos. It was a masterpiece of toothless grins, bad haircuts, and one particularly cursed shot of him sobbing in a Spider-Man onesie.

Tom turned beet red and kept muttering “you lot are the worst” while everyone cackled, including you.

But the real moment?

That was when you handed him his gift.

You’d been quiet about it all week, brushing off his questions and giving vague answers like, “It’s not a big deal” which was obviously code for it’s a huge deal, just wait.

So when he unwrapped that slim velvet box and found the vintage Omega watch—sleek, elegant, and something he'd casually mentioned wanting a year ago—his breath actually hitched.

“No way…” he whispered, fingers trembling slightly as he picked it up.

“You remembered this?”

“Of course I did,” you said softly. “You said it reminded you of your granddad’s. I thought… maybe you’d want to wear it on special days.”

There was a pause. One of those thick, full-hearted ones where his eyes glazed just a bit too much for someone not about to get misty.

He looked at you like you’d just personally rewritten the stars for him.

“You already got me the best gift just by being here, you know that?”

“Well,” you smirked, tilting your head, “lucky for you, I’m still full of surprises.”

Everyone clapped and cheered, the night rolled on, and Tom didn’t catch the way your lips curled just a little wickedly as you sipped from your glass.

But he would.

Ohhh, he absolutely would.

------

Hours later, the flat was quiet.

Warm. Dimly lit by the string of fairy lights you’d hung around the ceiling earlier, soft gold that made the place glow like a dream. After all the noise and love and chaos at the Holland house, this felt like the perfect exhale. Just you and Tom, finally alone.

You could hear the bathroom door click open. Tom stepped out, towel riding low on his hips, curls wet and clinging to his forehead. Steam still drifted from his shoulders as he padded barefoot across the floor, fresh from the shower and looking like every sinful summer fantasy rolled into one exhausted, happy boy.

“You comin’ to bed, love?” He called, voice already thick with the beginnings of sleep as he collapsed onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh.

“In a minute,” you replied from inside the closet, your voice calm and careful. “Just… don’t fall asleep, okay?”

“Mmm,” he hummed distractedly, already flopped back against the pillows. His thumbs tapped lazily at his phone screen, scrolling through birthday texts and group chat chaos from Harry and Sam.

He didn’t see the door creak open again.

Didn’t see you step out.

You stood bathed in the gentle glow of the fairy lights, the quiet hum of the flat cradling the moment.

The lingerie you wore had been hidden away for weeks, saved for tonight, black lace and sinful intent woven into every inch. The sheer cups barely hiding your nipples, delicate straps framing your chest like a work of art. Thin straps hugged your waist and hips, leading down to where the true surprise waited.

A string of white pearls lay perfectly nestled in the crotchless opening, pressed right against your bare folds. Each pearl sat flush against your sensitive skin, cool and firm, lined in a single teasing strand that promised nothing but trouble. A tiny satin bow rested just above, a final deceptive touch of sweetness over something utterly filthy.

You looked like a sin wrapped in lace and pearl.

And when Tom looked up from the bed and saw you, his breath left his body like it’d been punched out.

You tilted your head, your voice low and sweet. “Happy birthday, Tommy.”

Tom’s mouth parted, but no sound came out at first. Then.....“F-fucking hell…”

He sat up so fast the towel nearly dropped. His eyes raked over every inch of you like he couldn’t decide where to look first. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your hips sway, your smile just a little wicked. His breath quickened with every step you took.

“Told you I had one more surprise,” you teased.

Tom’s voice was practically a whimper. “This… this is illegal. I think you’re trying to kill me.”

You climbed onto the bed and straddled his hips, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. His hands flew to your waist, eager, but you caught them mid-motion and pinned them gently against the sheets.

“Nope,” you whispered, eyes glittering. “Birthday boys don’t work on their big day. They receive.”

He let out a strangled groan, his head falling back against the pillows, curls sticking to his forehead.

“God, I love you,” he breathed.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him a real kiss. “I know,” you murmured. “Now lie back, birthday boy… and don’t even think about moving.”

You grinned as you hovered above him, settling on his lap with a slow grind of your hips. The way his breath hitched made you feel like a goddess. He was already hard beneath you, the thin towel between you barely a barrier at all.

“Look at you,” you murmured, trailing your fingertips down his chest, stopping just above where the towel hung low. “So obedient. I might make this last all night.”

Tom’s eyes followed your hands like they were magnetic. “Yeah?” He rasped. “You think you’re in charge now, birthday present girl? ”

You smirked. “Obviously. You’re not allowed to move, remember?”

He groaned, deep and low, like it physically hurt him to stay still. But he kept his hands where you’d pinned them, letting you kiss down his chest, letting you tease him with feather-light touches. You pressed your thighs tighter around his hips, shifting slightly so the pearls dragged across your clit. A soft gasp escaped you.

Tom heard it.

And that sound flipped a switch in him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered. “But if I go out… I’m going out on top.”

Before you could blink, Tom surged up. In one fluid move, he flipped you onto your back, hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head.

Your mouth parted in surprise, but your moan betrayed you.

“Tom—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your gasp. “Shh. Thought you were in charge, love?” He murmured against your lips, breath hot. “That was cute.”

You squirmed under him, the pearls shifting against your core, driving you crazy. “I was trying to spoil you.”

“You are.” He dipped lower, trailing kisses down your neck. “By letting me unwrap you exactly how I want.”

Tom’s fingers ghosted over the pearls between your legs, then pressed them firmly against your clit. You whimpered, hips bucking. The cool beads rubbed right against your swollen nerves, and he grinned as he felt you twitch beneath him.

“Sensitive already?” He teased. “God, you wore this just to come undone for me, didn’t you?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken moan.

He leaned in, voice rough in your ear. “Say it.”

“I… I wanted to surprise you—”

Tom pressed harder. “Say it right.”

“I wanted you to fuck me in this,” you gasped. “I wanted to come for you.”

That earned you a growl, low and satisfied. “Good girl.”

He tugged the pearls aside, finally exposing you, then kissed his way down your body. “Keep those pretty hands where they are,” he warned, breath hot against your thigh. “And don’t come until I say.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, devouring. His tongue circled your clit, slow and teasing, before flicking right where you needed it. His fingers gripped your thighs, spreading you open, and when the pearls shifted again, it added a delicious drag that had your whole body trembling.

You arched up into him, crying out his name, but he didn’t let up.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, mouth slick with you. “Could stay down here all night.”

You were panting, desperate, the pressure coiling fast. “Tom—please—”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

And when you finally shattered with a gasp and a sob, he didn’t let you come down gently. His mouth kept moving, lips sucking your clit, tongue relentless. The overstimulation made you thrash, but he pinned you in place like a man possessed.

“Too much?” He asked, licking you slow and soft now.

You nodded weakly. “Too good.”

He looked up at you with the cockiest smile you’d ever seen. “Then we’re just getting started.”

You were still shaking, legs splayed open and glistening, the pearls tangled just off to the side. Tom kissed his way back up your body, soft and unhurried, leaving tiny trails of warmth in his wake.

“Look at you,” he whispered, brushing hair off your damp forehead. “All flushed and fucked out already. And I haven’t even gotten my real present yet.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted. “That… that wasn’t it?”

He smiled. Soft. Dangerous.

“No, baby. That was just my appetizer.”

His mouth met yours again, slow and sensual, like he was trying to imprint himself on your soul. His tongue moved lazily with yours, coaxing little whimpers out of you while his hand slid down your stomach, slow, deliberate.

You flinched when his fingers found your center again.

Still sensitive. Still soaked.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Ohh, baby,” he cooed, voice low and velvety. “Still so wet. You came so hard for me, didn’t you?”

Your head nodded instinctively, and he grinned. “Let’s see if I can make you cry this time.”

He slipped one finger inside you, then two. Thick, slow strokes, curling perfectly against your walls. His thumb brushed your clit just barely, enough to make your back arch. The mix of pleasure and overstimulation was intense, but you were drunk on it. On him.

“You’re squeezing me so tight already,” he muttered, watching your face closely, pupils blown wide. “Feels like your body’s just made for me.”

Every slow thrust of his fingers built the tension again, this time hotter, deeper. He never looked away, his free hand cupping your cheek while he worked you open with the other, praising you with every moan that slipped past your lips.

“You’re doing so good, darling. Taking everything I give you, yeah?”

“Tom, I— I’m gonna—”

“Good. Come for me again, love. Let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder this time.

Your body clenched around his fingers like a vice, a broken sob of his name escaping as you came for the second time. He didn’t stop until your thighs trembled and tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

Only then did he kiss your forehead, whispering, “You okay, love?”

You nodded weakly, the aftershocks still pulsing through you. “I need you inside me.”

He groaned at that, actually groaned, and kissed you again, gentler this time, like you were made of glass.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured as he slid the towel off and lined himself up. “I’ve got you.”

He pushed in slowly.

So slowly.

Stretching you inch by inch, letting you feel all of him. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes never leaving your face as he bottomed out with a long, shaky breath.

“Oh my God, baby,” he gasped. “You feel— fuck—you feel unreal.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He filled you completely, perfectly, and when he started to move, it was with that same infuriating slowness that made you want to cry and kiss him at the same time.

Long, deep thrusts. Just enough friction to make you burn. His hips rolled against yours like a dance, and the whole time, he was talking to you. Loving you.

“So beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “So good for me. You take me so well.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, desperate to pull him closer. He kissed you deeply, then trailed down to your neck, your collarbone, your chest—kissing the tops of your breasts, then mouthing around the lace until he found that sensitive skin beneath.

“You dressed up so pretty for me,” he said, licking a slow stripe over your nipple. “Gonna make sure you feel loved for every second of it.”

Every thrust was deliberate. Every word was praise.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until he kissed the tears off your cheeks.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His hips stuttered. Then he kissed you like the words cracked him open.

“I love you too, darling. So damn much.”

He sped up just a little, chasing his own high now, but never rough, never losing that rhythm that made your body sing. His thrusts stayed deep and controlled, hips rolling against yours like slow waves, the perfect drag of friction inside you. Every time he bottomed out, your breath hitched. Every time his pelvis nudged your clit, your body twitched with need.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Come for me, sweetheart. One more. Just one more.”

You were already so close, overstimulated and sensitive, but his voice, his body, the way he looked at you like you were sacred, it pushed you right to the edge.

Then his thumb found your clit again. Gentle. Precise.

“Come with me,” he murmured against your lips. “Let me feel you fall apart on me, baby. Want to feel you cum while I’m inside you.”

That was it.

Your body tensed, spine arching as the orgasm ripped through you. This one hit like a wave, deeper, fuller, with a cry of his name you couldn’t have held back if you tried. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him through every aftershock.

That sent him over.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he groaned, deep, guttural, his hands tightening on your hips like you’d just ruined him. He buried his face in your neck, his body trembling as he finally let go, spilling inside you with one last broken gasp.

“F—fuck. That’s it. That’s my girl…”

He didn’t move right away.

Just held you there, bodies tangled and sticky, his breathing ragged against your skin while your heartbeats slowly synced.

“Still alive?” You teased, breathless.

“Barely,” he muttered, brushing kisses along your shoulder. “I think you might’ve broken me.”

You smiled, curling into his arms. “Happy birthday, Tommy.”

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[macdenlover]

frank has been handling most of mac and dennis’s taxes and finances and shit for years and a while back he came to the realization that it would save him a good amount of time and money if those two just had a joint account. so he casually slipped them a couple of documents to sign one day and so for the past few years mac and dennis have been legally married with no idea whatsoever.

the thing is when they do find out dennis is all pissed off that frank kept it a secret from them more than he’s pissed off about being married to mac. and mac is all pissed off that the sanctity of marriage was ruined because they never even had a wedding. and dennis is like wait That’s what you’re mad about? and mac is all like yeah! i always thought that when i’d get married one day there would be a whole wedding in a big ass church and they’d be playing bon jovi on the organ and god would be watching. and then dennis starts getting a tension headache and it escalates into a heated debate/yelling match about weddings.

and frank is like woah woah woah woah alright listen best i can do is a cake and some streamers and we’ll clean cricket up a little and he can be your priest is that good is that gonna get you two off my back about this? and the truth is they both suddenly got really excited about the idea of a wedding so they’re like… yeah okay fine whatever.

AND THEN

they’re like fuck okay we gotta speedrun this whole thing starting with batchelor parties. mac drags charlie along with him and dennis drags dee to his. mac is all like i want today to be full of beefcakes i wanna have one last big gay hoorah without having to think about dennis at all and then spends the entire day talking about dennis anyway and charlie is on the verge of blowing his brains out. meanwhile dennis spends all day trying to justify marrying mac to dee as a logical and financial thing and how he’s definitely not in love with him or anything like yes he’s his best friend and yes they share a level of intimacy that they could never have with anyone else and yes sometimes it’s sexual but it’s not Romantic and dee is also on the brink of blowing her brains out all day.

eventually it starts getting competitive and both of them desperately wanna out-do the other’s bachelor party and things get a little too intense (cops, crack, hookers, knives, the mcpoyles, you name it) and they all wind up back at the bar at the end of the night drunk and high out of their minds and just happy to see each other.

they get married hungover in paddys the next day

[plum-berry]

Party on You

Summary: You hate parties — but you threw this one for him.

A/N: I am going feral crazy over this man. Someone needs to put me down like a sick dog. This is also 100% based on the Charli XCX song "Party 4 U". There is no smut, just fluff and sexual tension (sorry to blue ball). This is also on AO3, as always.

You didn’t even like parties.

Not really. Honestly, hated them.

But tonight, the lights were pink and dripping from the ceiling like honey. The bass trembled through the floors like a heartbeat, and every glittering detail — the custom cake with What Now? piped in gold, the silver balloons curling toward the ceiling, the playlist you obsessed over for hours — was all for him.

Paddy.

The fight was the night before. Bloodied mouth, split brow, roar of the crowd. You knew him before the world did — before pay-per-views and Dana White promo reels and meathead boys in the gym shouting “Lad, you see that KO?!” You were behind the camera, editing reels in your little office, finding that one perfect frame where his eyes went cold before a takedown. You never even meant to specialize in combat sports. But Paddy made it easy.

He was expressive. Fierce and fun. He was a generous fighter; he gave you moments. And you knew it.

The last video you cut — the one that went viral after his win against Chandler — had him in slow-motion, sweat flicking off his chiseled biceps, his mouthguard bloody, jaw tight, veins taught like wire, eyes cool and hard. You paired it with a slowed beat and let it ride in silence at the end, just his breath heaving, eyes locked on the camera like a threat.

Everyone called it cinematic.

Paddy had only said one thing when he saw it: “Didn’t know you could make me look that fit and that scary at the same time.” He said it with a press friendly smile. But you felt the way he watched you after that. Longer. Hungrier.

Now, at the party, you kept to the edges. A few fighters nodded at you in recognition — the quiet girl from the gym with the laptop and headphones always slung around her neck. Someone shoved a drink into your hand. You smiled tight but polite, thanked them, and kept scanning the crowd. You took large sips of your champagne, desperate to get your nerves under control.

And then, like a pull in your chest, you felt him before you saw him.

Paddy was standing across the room, half lit by the pink glow of some terrible LED sign. He wasn’t talking. Just watching the crowd.

You held your glass to your chest like it was a shield. Your dress sparkled — low back, high slit, clinging to you in places he had never touched, begged: notice me without asking you to. You’d done your makeup soft and unassuming. You’d rehearsed the moment in your head so many times: you walking up to him, pretty smile, some flirty quip. But now you were frozen, glued to the wall, watching him from across the room like a shadow.

His hair was still damp from the drizzle outside, and his ends were wisping into curls that clung to his forehead. A group approached him and he laughed. His voice — louder than the music — hit you like a gut punch.

You turned away before he could see you staring.

Go say something. You attempted to give yourself a pep talk, but your nerves were hot and frazzled, a live wire whipping around in your chest. You threw this party for him. He should be thanking you. But that wasn’t the point.

You didn’t throw the party for attention. You threw it to see him.

And when you finally looked back and locked eyes with him across the room, you knew he had caught you.

He was still talking to someone, but his eyes intentionally stayed on yours. His expression softened like he’d just remembered something important. He excused himself, brushing past people, making his way through the glitter-flecked bodies like they were unimportant obstacles to him. Towards you. Determined.

Your heart stuttered so hard in your chest, you briefly thought you might be dying.

Paddy stopped a few inches in front of you, warm and golden under the lights.

"You didn’t tell me you were throwin’ this," he said, stepping a little too close. His accent curled around each word, soft and rough all at once.

You breathed deep. He smelt like expensive cologne and rain, something you’d want to bury your face into and bite and taste and — you rolled your eyes effortlessly. You hoped you were playing off your cool and unbothered facade better than you felt. "Please. You think I’d miss celebrating your win?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. He looked at you like you were something he wanted to unwrap slowly. "Figured you’d be at some rooftop bar, too good for a fight-night afterparty."

You tilted your glass and swirled the champagne around. “Didn’t think I’d be invited to that. I’m no A-List fighter.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow, eyes narrow with mischief, a small grin on his lips. “Don’t be daft. You made me look insane in that video. You earned a red carpet.”

And, yeah. There was no denying you worked your magic specifically for Paddy. You weren’t supposed to have favorites, but you paid extra special attention to his clips. If anyone noticed online, no one said a thing.

“You looked like that on your own,” you smiled up at him. “I only hit upload.”

He chuckled again, this time with his head tilted back. You liked how he laughed — not in the way some people laugh to fill silence, but like he’s genuinely surprised by the things you say.

His eyes flicked to your dress and lingered. "Y’know, I've been lookin’ for you since the fight."

Your stomach flipped, a tiny knot of anxiety unfurling into a red hot heat.

"You found me," you said, tiny.

"Yeah." His voice dropped, lower now. He reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing too slow, too soft. He took your cup and set it aside on a windowsill, then leaned back against, elbows resting, body open. His shirt clung to the definition of his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The way he filled out his body, shoulders broad, biceps and legs thick and muscular; the largeness of him was imposing and comforting all at once. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times already tonight.

“You really did make me look terrifying,” he said, voice threading through the music. “Scary. Dangerous. Tad sexy, too.”

“Just a tad?” you teased, leaning ever so closer into him.

He grinned. “Don’t want to sound vain, do I?”

“You don’t mind sounding dangerous.”

His gaze dragged over you, fingers reaching out to gently tug on the end of your dress. “Only if it works on you.”

That made your heart knock against your ribs. His presence was nearly overwhelming, and you wished you had your cup back in your hands. You wanted to reach out to touch and feel him.

“You ever think about putting yourself in front of the lens?” he asked, voice warm and dangerous. “Let someone film you lookin’ that good?”

He let the space hang between you, heavy like a dare. You shook your head and opened your mouth, but Paddy interrupted you.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing the low of your back, slow and casual. “Always watchin’. Always seeing people without letting anyone see you.”

You didn’t mean to look at his lips, but you did.

And he saw.

The air shifted and slowed. Your heart beat behind your ribs like it was trying to say something your mouth couldn’t. His rough hand gripped you now, pulling you close enough for him to lean down and rasp in your ear, “What if I want to see you?”

“I…,” you began, but couldn’t quite finish. Your chest ached with something you had tried to ignore. You stared up at him, trembling and electric.

He didn’t move. He didn’t lunge or press or chase. He just… waited. Letting you choose.

He brushed his hand around from the small of your back to your hip, thumb rubbing intimate circles into your skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Your hand flew up to his chest. Your fingertips pressed hot against his bare skin as you vigorously shook your head.

He smirked softly, leaning down into your face again. “Say it.”

“No,” you whispered.

He backs you into the wall, cornering you with his arms. You fall into it much too slowly. It's less about feeling good and more about coming alive.

Gently, he presses his lips into yours. His hands have taken to skimming across the skin of your thigh through the slit in your dress. You can hear each sharp exhale when he presses deeper into the kiss.

Paddy is everywhere, but nowhere you want him. He bites on your bottom lip, tugging it a little before kissing over the swollen area.

You pull off, dazed and flushed. Your lips burn and Paddy’s hands are still touching you. He’s looking down at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"This is going to be scandalous," you breathe out, hands gripping his collar. You can only imagine the tabloids tomorrow, and you vaguely wonder how many people have already snapped videos of you two making out. You’re thankful for your nervousness earlier forcing you into a darker corner of the room.

"I know," he swallows. "Far as I know, that don't stop anyone at parties."

"I don't want to be a night for you,” you admit.

His eyes soften as he brushes a hand up against your cheek. "I'm not going to use you like that."

He dips his head to drag his lips against your neck, tender and soft. "Promise?"

The promise was made with a kiss. He’s turned into you, somewhat impatient, but you take your time with it.

His fingers aren't low enough. He knows you want them to press through you, that you want him inside and hard and fast. He meets your tongue when you part your mouth for him. His adoring fingers cage you in, his other hand latched to your hair to pull your head up into him. You whine low in your throat. You want to be taken care of and destroyed all at once. You want to be ravaged and intimately loved. You want him.

He licks into your mouth, pulling on your bottom lip every time you draw away. He catches your hand from his shoulder, intertwining your fingers, and steadies your hip until you’re just swaying and rubbing. Even though he is already hard in his trousers, he doesn’t want it to end so fast.

You laugh breathlessly against the crook of his neck, “Are we going to dance now?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, blinking slow, almost as if he’s dazed. He lazily grins, lopsided like he’s drunk on you, voice wrecked. “We’ve been dancin’, love.”

The room spins around you in slow motion — glitter suspended midair, bass slow and syrupy, lights pulsing like a heart too full of feeling. He takes your hand and spins you gently, your dress catching the light like spilled champagne. You laugh, dizzy and lightheaded, caught between wanting him closer and never wanting this suspended moment to end.

Paddy’s hands settle at your waist, his touch hot and heavy. His gaze has quieted, softened, the heat still there but tempered.

You smile shyly, “I meant… on the floor.”

He huffs a laugh, leaning his forehead to yours. “This is better.”

You don’t argue. You just stare into each other’s eyes. Around you, the party thrums on — bass pulsing through the floor, laughter cresting over music. But in your little corner of the world, it’s quiet. It’s just him, looking at you like you’re something rare, something worth slowing down for.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow alone,” you murmur, suddenly nervous again.

“You won’t.” He slides his hand down your back, anchoring you. “Come home with me.”

You pause and search his face. There’s no cocky smirk now, no fighter’s bravado. Just Paddy — familiar, real, and looking at you with a silent confession.

You nod and reach up to kiss him once more.

He grabs your hand gently and leads you towards the exit. The party fades behind you — pink lights melting into the floor, the crowd a blur of shimmer and sweat. You didn’t even like parties. But damn, were you glad for this one.

[fullcravings]

High Altitude Chocolate Guinness Cake