Could I request some fluff with whichever ADCU boy you think would say (and genuinely mean) "I only have eyes for you and no one else turns me on"?
You absolutely could!! I hope you don't mind me taking the opportunity to write for a boy I haven't written before...sweet sweet Paterson. He seemed the perfect fit! 💕
Thank you for your request 🥰
I Have You (Paterson x Reader)
Words: 728
“I think she likes you” you said, voice jovially taunting and trying to hide the weird tightness in your chest.
You’d watched as one of the regulars you couldn’t remember the name of shamelessly flirted with your boyfriend Paterson as you’d walked into the small-town bar.
You’d taken your time shucking off and hanging up your rain-soaked coat so you could watch in amusement a little longer. That amusement had turned a little sour when she’d stroked her fingertips on his forearm. Paterson the ever-gentle giant was as polite as ever, always with a kind smile and a welcoming word to say to anyone. Even if that word was a little stammered at times.
Pat turned to you as you sat beside him; his face close to yours as you shuffled your stool in closer to him at the bar, “Who? Sarah? She’s nice”
You nodded, “And she likes you”
His eyebrows furrowed, “Well I’d hope so, I’d like to think I’ve been nice back”
Rolling your eyes, you watched as he peacefully sipped at this beer, poor clueless man. You stayed staring at him, wondering if the lightbulb would flick on but he continued sipping his beer and watching the little TV that was sat behind the bar.
“Oh my god” you whispered to yourself in exasperation, “She has a crush on you!” you shout-whispered into his ear, pushing at his arm.
His face was a picture, completely and totally confused, “What? D-don’t be silly”
Laughing you said, “I’m not, she likes you. She always twiddles her hair like a school-girl whenever she’s around you”
Paterson opened and closed his mouth a few times without sound. At the best of times he was a man of little words, except when he was writing but you supposed that’s why he chose poetry as his medium. Short and sweet.
Shrugging at his silence and motioning to Doc so you could order a drink you said, as nonchalantly as possible, “She’s pretty”
You wondered if your sudden, slight jealously at someone flirting with your boyfriend stemmed from your knowledge that he was previously married. You knew that at one point he’d belonged to someone else, a marriage she had broken off. It had taken a while for Paterson to move his heart on, you’d seen that sadness in full swing and you were so happy when he placed his heart in your hands. You were lucky to say the very least.
Laura seemed to be the flighty type from what you knew, always moving from one thing to the next, you wondered how on earth she could get bored of the life Paterson gave you. It was quiet and perfect, homely and altogether everything you had been looking for. You were glad that he was now yours, your heart soared at the prospect every chance it got.
So, you figured now, however silly it may be, you felt a little threatened.
“Well regardless it doesn’t matter” he stated matter of factly, placing his half empty pint of beer down. You titled your head in question, “…because I have you beautiful. I don’t need anyone else”
The clench of your heart almost floored you, sitting back on your stool you tried to regain yourself but nope, Paterson wasn’t having that. He leant forward and took your hand, “She can ‘crush’ on me all she likes but my heart belongs to you”
The stunned silence you gave him in reply made him smile. As unassuming as Paterson may seem he really did like flustering you. It made his ego grow just a touch, puffing up his chest and making him feel bolder than his quiet disposition gave way too.
“I only have eyes for you” he whispered, leaning forward he strokes his thumb across your cheek, “And if she’s pretty or not you’re the only one that has an effect on me, no one else turns me on like you do”
A gasp escaped from behind where your teeth bit at your bottom lip, “Paterson! In public?”
He smirked to himself, “Just proving a point”
“So forward,” it was your turn to smirk now, nudging your shoulder into him. He smiled shyly in return and linked his arm around your shoulder, pulling you so your head rested against him.
“Poetry has its place my darling but sometimes a straight to the point approach has its benefits”
Thank you so much for sending this in! I hope you enjoy this soft little something! :)
It wouldn't be incorrect to say that Paterson is an incredibly sentimental person. He always has been, ever since he was a sensitive little boy sticking close to his mother's side. Now that he's an adult, he's been hardened by his experiences of the world, but still, he's never stopped being that shy, gentle, introspective person that you know and love.
His birthdays are quiet because he prefers them that way. He's not one for large parties at a loud restaurant, he doesn't need fanfare or all the attention on him. Paterson's ideal birthday is to be surrounded by loved ones in a lowkey, comfortable outing.
One year you gathered up his motley crew of coworkers, friends, and family, and went to a jazz festival under the stars in the park. Another year, you borrowed a couple lounge chairs and drove him out to the seaside to soak up the sunshine.
In the beginning, he didn't even tell you when his birthday had arrived. It was only after the house's landline had gotten a call from his mother, asking if they could get together, did you realize.
It's not that he didn't like his birthday -- it was just that well, it was just another day.
You're the one who taught him that another day on this earth is something to cherish, and that despite the way life is constantly trying to do otherwise, making it another year is something worth celebrating.
That struck a chord with Paterson, this thoughtful, kind, grateful person. This man who saw beauty in the mundane, who found light in the darkest of tunnels. You're right, and it's inspired him to be more open about his birthday.
Each year, you work on continuing a poem that you recite for him, just the two of you late at night, skin sweaty and lips kiss-swollen.
And if nothing else, he looks forward to next year's birthday to hear what you've added to the next stanza.
Paterson is up too late, his candy cane striped pajama bottoms are pooled around his knees as he sits cross legged in the quiet glow of multi-colored Christmas lights. He’s got wrapping paper, scotch tape, and a bag of multicolored bows open beside him. He’s tried for so long to keep this a secret. Every gift he’s collected and hid from you since July is sitting in front of him, ready to be wrapped and stacked under the tree.
He’s got glitter covering his lap from the candy striped wrapping paper he’s placed down. Paterson’s wrapping isn’t the neatest, isn’t the prettiest, but you’ve always loved the way he wraps. The jumbles at the top, the weird strings tied around in the strangest looking bows you’ve ever seen. His heart smiles brightly, wrapping that pretty framed poster of the two of you from the three Christmas’ you’ve already shared together. And each year he grows fonder, warmer, makes it harder to think he could ever be without you. His heart squeezes in excitement every time he thinks of you opening that personalized wine bottle, the one he’s sure you’ll giggle as you drink and then display the empty glass on the mantle.
He thinks that you’ll enjoy the body scrub he’s picked out after hearing how much you say that you needed it. He stacks up each gift and places them under the tree, labeling them with a Love, Paterson right on the top. He hums quietly, hearing the cat roll overtop of the loose trimmings of wrapping paper. And he takes a look over at the bed in your studio, to make sure you’re still sleeping and he’s being as quiet as he can be.
You’ve done your Christmas shopping early, picked out the nicest journals for Pat. Personalized paintings on the inside covers with his name printed right through the middle. He would absolutely love them and you knew that he would. He would get the prettiest smile on his face, run his fingers over specially pressed vegan leather, he would untie the straps and flip open the pages. He would look over at you after opening the gifts and he would smile and hug you as tightly as he could. But you’re asleep now, your gifts stacked under the tree so neatly while he finishes wrapping up his.
And on Christmas morning, Paterson’s arm is wrapped tightly around your waist. The snow is falling outside of your New Jersey studio, the radiator is working overtime to keep your apartment warm. The cat is wrapped up in a ball on the windowsill. You feel Paterson’s lips on the back of your neck, humming quietly as he rubs your hip. “Good morning, dove.” He mumbles quietly. “Merry Christmas.”
You open your eyes, stretching and taking in the quiet morning that you’re sharing together. “Merry Christmas.” You mumble softly, sitting up in bed. The matching candy cane pajamas are clinging to your bodies as you clamber out of the sheets to collect your gifts for one another. Paterson smiles at you brightly, holding his gifts in his lap as you begin to open the things he’s gotten for you. The things he’s put so much thought into. You grin, thanking him for each one. You’ll hang the poster right above your bed, use your plants to place around them.
And when Paterson opens his journals, his eyes start to water. He looks at the P pressed in that leather. His heart starts to feel like it’s growing three sizes. Warm and fuzzy and full of love. He knows how much you’ve always supported him and he’s so happy to have found you so early in his life. He opens the inside of the first journal, the one with the worn brown cover. He sees the painting of flowers and leaves on the inside, his name in the nicest calligraphy right across the pages. And he really can’t wait to sit at the front of his bus and scribble words to new poems across the clean white expanse of the paper.
You smile as you watch him, he reaches over for a pen. And maybe he scratches down one of the quickest love poems he’s ever had come to him. He writes about the color of your eyes and how they light up with just the perfect amount of holiday cheer. He writes about the way the stars align and how you get to kiss under the mistletoe each time you two pass the island in the kitchen. His whole heart bursts with each word he writes down on the page.
You sit and smile at one another, enjoying each other’s presence as the cat plays with the new toys you two had gotten for him. Your hearts are growing larger and larger with the spirit of the holidays. “This was so thoughtful, dove.” Paterson smiles at you. “I love the gifts, I can’t believe you put so much thought into them… just for me,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “It really means a lot to me.”
You smile brightly, heart eyes as you lean in to kiss the tips of his ears. “I love you, P.” You mumble, rubbing his shoulder. “I love everything you picked out for me. It must have taken a lot of thought and preparation to find some of these things.” You say softly, eyes filled with admiration. Paterson smiles again and your heart starts to soar.
Paterson starts to pick up the discarded wrapping paper, and maybe he stashes one of the With Love, Dove tags in his pocket for his memory box. With every gift and every stolen kiss, Christmas starts to get a little sweeter. Every year gets a little bit better and Paterson thanks every star in the sky every day. He thinks about marrying you. A holiday wedding. A Christmas wedding. And as he watches you hang your favorite gift you’ve received— he knows for sure that this is one of the most special days he ever gets to share with you. And he knows he can’t pass up the opportunity.
A/N: You all can blame @contesa-lui-alucard for this monstrosity... I literally am in love with this character now and I will never stop... I slept on him SO hard and I REGRET IT! Thank you for the inspiration and this fic is so self indulgent I wish Pat was my true baby daddy... Enjoy loves!🖤
Warnings: tw: pregnancy, tw: pregnancy kink, obscene amounts of marital fluff and love, tw: breeding kink, tw: unprotected sex, tw: doggystyle, tw: very slight edging, tw: body image, tw: slight depression (regarding body image and self esteem), lots of fluff (because Pat is fluffy), tw: daddy kink, tw: hair pulling, creampies (I mean when am I NOT doing a creampie?) a smidgen of Dom!Pat because I CANNOT control myself
(PLZfor the love of Satan lmk if I miss a tag or TW... I am only human and I make errors all the time)
“Goddammit!” you practically cried, seeing the thousandth piece of clothing you owned barely fitting around your new curves. The look of defeat and sorrow running across your pretty face from the mirror as you twisted and turned to somehow wish the new poundage away.
“Honey?” a sheepish voice called from the kitchen in your quaint home, his heavy footfalls coming steadily as he padded back to your bathroom.
His precious features gracing the floor-length mirror as he crowded the edge of the molding on the frame of the closet.
He gasped slightly, surveying the scene before him. His cock stirred in his jeans as he appraised your body, the new planes from the growing baby inside you making you glow with an effervescence he had never seen before.
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he caught his breath, your tits plunging out of the small tank top, bouncing as you frustratingly tried to pull it over your growing bump, to no avail as the bottom half and your belly button poked from under the hemline.
The leggings barely fitting on your thighs as they clutched onto your globe of an ass. He wished on all the stars that you couldn’t fit into your underwear and had forgone them all together so he could rip the seam and go to town on your backside.
“Pat,” you whined his name, running your hands over your belly, clearly upset you had a dwindling wardrobe as the days progressed.
“I need to get some new stuff honey,” your pretty lips going into a full pout as the tears rolled down your cheeks. You never had any reason to feel as unattractive as you had just now. He had never given you any indication he didn’t think you were the most beautiful creature on this planet. In fact, when he and you had found out about the baby, he was completely overjoyed and more touchy than he had ever been in the years he’d been married to you.
His feral instincts had kicked into hyperdrive when he became a father-to-be. Making sure you were well taken care of in all aspects including but not limited to cleaning, cooking, foot rubs, nightly baths, and of course reading poetry to you and your unborn son as he grew bigger and bigger.
He loved every detail of it. The gross and good parts, and ebbed and flowed with every single mood swing and nauseous feeling you had. He was the perfect husband, and here he was, looking at you as if you were the most gorgeous goddess he had ever seen. In fact, you were to him, no matter how many times he had been in utter disbelieve that you gave him the time of day let alone let him fuck you three or more times a day.
“Okay baby,” he cooed, coming over to wrap you in the biggest hug he could, rubbing your back as you sobbed over this minor detail in your pregnancy.
He hushed and rocked you, petting your hair, while you inhaled his fresh scent, rubbing your face in his cotton t-shirt as he whispered the sweetest nothings into your ear.
“It’s gonna be okay honey,” he murmured, “you still look absolutely perfect to me my sweet love,” the words making you tear up even more as he kept with his praises.
“You’re absolutely amazing,” his chorus kept going, the baby suddenly joining in the party as he kept talking, “we both think you are, mama,” the sobs catching in your throat as your son kicked a series in your stomach, his low baritone only encouraging the movements as he kept on.
“In fact, I think mama could use a nice bath and something sweet to eat… What do you think?” he arched back to see your head pop up from its place, his precious smirk making you smile with glassy eyes while you nodded.
“That’s exactly what I think too,” kissing your forehead with the lightest effort, “okay, go get out of these, and I’ll get it going for you, deal?” his eyebrows raised as he ran a hand over the expanse of your bump, cradling underneath while you wiped your cheeks off with your hands.
He kissed over your face before heading to the bathroom to run the tub, the lavender scent emanating as the water filled the basin.
You struggled out of your clothing, cursing the companies who made your clothes as you did so. You felt like burning them in a fire or ripping them to shreds but settled on maturity rather than violence as the clothes weren’t the issue.
Your body ached from the weight of everything. The baby of course wasn’t your average-sized fetus, being that his father was a whopper when he was born. You never assumed, however, that he could be as heavy as he felt the more he grew inside you. And you also didn’t take into account the toll his size would take on yourself as the months dragged on. But willful ignorance is what you went with, and with that came karma in its truest form.
No matter how much you hurt and complained, you loved your boys, size and all, and you knew you wouldn’t do this for any man except for your precious Pat.
He was truly just the best partner in every sense of the word. And this simple gesture of making sure you practiced some self-care was his way, amongst many, of showing you how much he appreciated the sacrifices you were making for him and your growing family.
You waded into the steaming water, the enveloping hug of warmth shrouding your emotional state into numbness as the floral notes caressed your senses. This was heavenly, you thought, submerging your body as far as possible into the water, the top of your belly poking out like a small island in the ocean as you relaxed.
You closed your eyes, trying to take in the serenity, rubbing slow circles on the sides of your taut stomach as the baby relaxed within you.
Your meditation was so deep after a few minutes, you never heard Pat come in to check on you.
His hand found the exposed skin, calloused fingers enveloping it in a heated touch as he whispered to you, “how are we doing now mama?” he cooed, his soft smile in the warm light bringing you to tears again.
He was the sweetest thing on this planet. You hoped to any entity that was listening that your son had his perfect features. Those golden eyes, his soft lips, the freckles that speckled his body, his calm demeanor.
“Better,” you whispered back, unconsciously pushing your body into his touch, “thank you, daddy,” smiling at his sweet face.
“Good,” holding his gaze for a moment to peer at your perfection for just a second longer, his smile widening as yours did too.
“When you’re ready to get out I’ll help you get all lotioned and dressed… I’ve got one of my shirts and sweats out for you babe,” his lips pressing against your forehead again as you exhaled a relieved sigh.
“We’ll go get you some new stuff in the morning,” rubbing the top of your bump as you smiled brighter and brighter, “that okay?”
You nodded, peacefully, not wanting him to leave this spot until you were finished.
___________________
You spent about twenty more minutes in there until the water became too cold, his cue to get you and little man from the tub.
He helped you get dried off, making sure to gingerly rub your skin before grabbing the lotion from the cabinet. He knew you liked the lavender scent, so he had picked up a bottle when he was at the store earlier in the month. The fact that it was just about gone being an indication of a good purchase on his part.
He rubbed your relaxed muscles, making sure to massage the cream into every crack and crevice he could reach for you, the primal instincts rising within as he ran his hands over the curves and dimples on your skin.
He tried to shake the thoughts, thinking of the task at hand, but being hopelessly derailed after you let out the fifth or sixth moan in pure bliss.
He snapped then, the ambient lighting in the room looking so good on your naked body as you laid out perched in the best way for him.
“Pat?” his sudden stop causing you to look up from your spot, the pillows you had stacked so you were comfortable during his massage able to push you to see his looming body over your belly.
“What’s wrong honey?” gazing at him in the warm light, his hair tousled from the work he had been doing, his lips quivering as he gulped a dry swallow upon seeing your eyes meet his.
“I need you to get on your hands and knees and arch that perfect back of yours before I paint my jeans,” his tone deep enough to cause a stir in your nether regions.
Your eyes dilating immediately upon his sudden domineering behavior, “like this baby?” you made a show out of it all, wiggling your ass as you crawled up the bed, gripping the sheets in both hands as your back arched just the way he liked it.
“Such a good fucking mama,” he cooed, the sounds of his pants unzipping and the clang of them on the floor, coupled by the bed creaking slightly from his weight on the edge, “back up to me honey,” his hands gripping the sides of your hips as he helped you ease your body to meet his.
His tip barely touching your ass, causing a hiss to leave his chest, and a moan to leave yours upon feeling his pubic hair graze your mound.
“I’m gonna destroy this pussy of mine,” he growled, his voice getting deeper and deeper as he grabbed and rubbed his tip in your wet folds, “fuck this wet little pussy until you can’t take it anymore,” gritting as your hole sucked the head in, your warmth coating it so perfectly.
“Fuck Pat,” you whined, his hold on your hips bruising as he stilled his tip for a moment or two before sheathing it to its base, “y-you’re s-so f-fucking b-bi,” not able to even finish as he plunged even further, pushing your hips so you both let out a chorus of groans.
“Y-you t-take t-this b-big c-cock of m-mine s-so w-well m-mama,” he gasped out, picking up his pace as he fucked further and further into you, his hand pressing into your lower back as you arched more and more.
“I-I’m s-such a g-good g-girl,” you mused back, “I-I l-love p-pleasing m-my b-baby,” feeling his dick harden even more in your squelching cunt as he plummeted further into your hole.
“S-such a g-good g-girl,” he recanted, “k-keeping m-my c-cum s-so g-good,” speeding up even further, your moans picking up as he found your G-spot.
“Y-you l-love b-being all f-full of m-me,” the slaps of sweaty skin and balls hammering the room as the moans turned into feral screams.
“I-I l-love c-carrying y-your b-baby P-Pat,” the tears streaming as you felt the shroud of warmth begin to expand from your cunt to the rest of your body.
“T-that’s f-fucking r-right y-you d-do,” he growled, his teeth snarling as the sweat dripped in a waterfall from his short locks, the songs of your cries opening his senses to overdrive as he watched you writhe under him.
“Y-you c-cum on t-this m-monster c-cock of y-yours,” he grunted, feeling your walls vibrate around him and your screams emanate. As a last-ditch effort, he moved his hand on your back to grab your messy bun, pulling the hair to cement your rapture.
“F-fuck P-Pat!” you came, and you came hard. The damn breaking to coat his dick in your sweet sticky release wave upon wave, the wet sounds sending him over the edge as he pummeled the last of his efforts into your spent pussy.
He grit his teeth again, pushing in two more times before emptying his large load into your occupied cunt, the overload spilling out in a thick mixture while he pumped lazily in and out, musing at the sight.
He pulled out slowly, holding your hips so you could relax a little bit before guiding you to the side and surrounding your body with an abundance of pillows once more.
“So much for a bath,” you sighed and laughed, fanning yourself in a sweaty haze.
“I’m sorry honey,” he chuckled too, grabbing a towel to wipe you and then himself off, “I wasn’t even thinking about it… I just got too riled up from the clothes you were wearing earlier, and I…” he trailed off, watching a smile creep over your face as he talked.
“Really?” your curiosity getting the better of you, “you liked me in those clothes?”
“Ummm,” he sheepishly blushed, “y-yes?” itching the back of his head trying to avoid any eye contact with you.
“Well....” you adjusted as the baby began to make himself known for the night, “I guess I know what I need to do in the future,” winking as he found the other side of the bed, curling up to run his hand over your belly.
“Honey,” he whispered, “you don’t have to be doing anything for me to get turned on by you… I’m just in love with you either way,” his admission making you misty-eyed while you felt his light touches on your skin.
“But I have to admit… I really like this kind of look on you,” gesturing to all of your figure from head to toe.
“Well, you made me this way,” inching in to kiss his plush lips, him returning as you both pecked each other for a few seconds.
“I’ll keep you this way if you want me to,” his voice barely loud enough for you to hear, “keep you all knocked up and gorgeous for as long as you let me,” his words going straight to your cunt again as he kissed you again and again.
“As many times as you wish… Daddy,” winking and kissing him deeply, a smile inching over his lips as yours met.
“I love you,” his faint words cutting into your soul as if he was saying it for the first time.
“I love you,” returning it with a smile and a nuzzle into his neck as you began to drift off together in sticky paradise.
___________
Well... What did we all learn today? That I have a total fucking issue with not being his baby mama and that I have staples that I stick to and will not waiver from in my deepest darkest fantasies... Goodnight everyone I love you and I'll be crawling back into my festering hole to think about what I have done.
As a fun little housewarming party of sorts, you and Paterson throw together a little Fourth of July barbecue get-together at the new house. Since getting engaged only a couple months ago, you decided to finally purchase a house of your own.
You found the perfect, quaint little house with a big backyard and old farmhouse-like character. Both of you fell in love with the house as soon as you stepped foot inside.
Today, the backyard was a sea of red white and blue, streamers and banners fluttering in the New Jersey summer breeze as you and Pat get some last-minute things squared away.
Friends and family soon file through the back gate, spreading out in small groups across the backyard. You’re on greeter duty while Paterson pulls the grill out from the shed.
Kids and parents begin to set up various lawn games while others sit on the outdoor loungers and have a cold one. Everything is running smoothly so far, which is a huge weight off your shoulders.
You look around the backyard, the sight of it being utilized to its full potential bringing you tremendous joy. Your eyes linger over the parents and their kids, mind wanders to what it’ll one day look like when you and Paterson decide to start a family together...
“Hello, beautiful.”
A familiar voice says, large hands coming up to rest on your shoulders, giving them a rub.
“Everything’s going well, don’t you think?”
You sigh, looking over your shoulder at the handsome man you’re lucky enough to call your fiancé.
“Indeed it is. Thanks for all your help setting up and getting the grill, I appreciate it.”
Paterson smiles, letting his hands trail down over the curves of your body, resting now on your hips. His lips plant a kiss on your bare shoulder.
“No thanks necessary, sweetness. The sight of you in this beautiful little sundress is more than enough of a ‘thank you’.”
Your eyebrows raise as his lips journey their way across your shoulder blade and up to the curve of your neck.
“Mm, is that so?”
“Oh, yes.”
He scrapes his teeth along your skin playfully.
“You know I love a good sundress on you. They always look so pretty, but perhaps that isn’t saying much coming from me, since I think everything you wear is pretty.”
“Well,”
You look around, seeing that pretty much everyone’s enjoying themselves.
“Don’t you think the dress would look better...on the floor?”
Paterson groans softly, smirking against your skin.
“I’m sure it would. Why don’t we, uh, put that theory to the test, hm?”
You bite your lip, looking around one last time to make sure that no one’s the wiser to yours and Paterson’s less-than-appropriate plans before walking into the house at a casually brisk pace.
“Where--oookay then!”
He quickly pulls you into the first-floor powder room, effectively answering your question. Once you’re inside, he quickly closes and locks the door behind you, then pins you up against it.
His lips mingle with yours as his large hands squeeze the flesh of your hips, then travel up to the thin spaghetti straps laid over your shoulders, keeping the dress up. He teases them for a moment before pushing them off, pulling back to watch the dress fall to the floor, revealing your partially-nude figure to his wanting eyes.
“So fucking pretty.”
He mumbles, eyes flickering between your breasts while his thumbs come up to tease the hardening buds.
“Love your tits, sweetness.”
You let out a shaky sigh, back arching off the door at his touch.
“Mmmmmm, as much as I love this, we don’t have much time, baby. People are gonna notice we’re missing soon.”
A simple nod is his only response before his hands move down to trace the waistband of your panties. His forefingers loop in the material, promptly yanking them off your hips, letting them pool at your feet.
His palm reaches down to cup your bare crotch, groaning softly when he feels the wetness and heat already present there. He smirks, curling his fingers back to tease your clit, which makes you jump slightly.
“Sink.”
He whispers in your ear, nibbling at your earlobe.
“Bend over and spread your legs nice and wide for me.”
You nod, whimpering softly as you make your way over to the porcelain sink, bending yourself over it and spreading your legs, just as your fiancé had requested.
Paterson wastes no time removing his khakis and plaid boxers, pulling his hardened arousal out from beneath the layers. He runs his hand over the shaft a few times, making sure he’s ready for you, then lines himself up with your entrance.
His hand rests on your shoulder while the other helps guide him inside, a shaky sigh leaving his lips as he sinks further and further into your wet heat. Your back arches once he’s fully in, walls stretching out to accommodate his girthy size.
“Mmmmmm, Pat...”
He grunts in response, forehead resting on your upper back as his hips begin to move, quickly picking up the pace. His head eventually moves up your back, chin now resting on your shoulder, hand coming up to wrap around your jaw.
“W-Want you to watch yourself getting fucked, Y/N.”
You moan softly, eyes looking at the erotic reflection in the mirror. Your tits bounce slightly under the confines of your bra with each of Pat’s swift movements and you watch how his face contorts as he fucks you.
The snapsnapsnap sound of his hips colliding with your skin quickly fills the small space and you can feel your orgasm beginning to build up. Your hand slides down, fingertips swiping over the hardened bud nestled between your legs.
Paterson moans when your insides instinctively clench, hips starting to lose their rhythm as his climax builds steadily. His hands move down to grip your hips, keeping you steady while his hips frantically slap against you, cock sliding in and out rapidly.
“I’m c-close, sweetness.”
He grunts in your ear, eyes staring at you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Gonna fill you up, Y/N, stuff you so f-fuuuucking full.”
Your fingers move quicker over your stiff clit, bringing yourself to orgasm moments later. You gasp and moan softly as you watch yourself come undone around your fiancé’s cock, a sight that only prolongs your orgasm.
Pat’s orgasm comes shortly after yours and you thoroughly enjoy the sight of his brows knitting in the center of his forehead as his hips press themselves flush against your ass, burying his cock as deep inside of you as possible.
“O-Oh fuuuuck.”
As soon as he’s finished, he gently pulls out and pulls his bottoms back on before helping you get re-dressed, kissing your neck as he does so.
“You’re incredible.”
He breathes, spinning you around so that he can kiss you properly.
“I love you so much.”
You smile, kissing him back eagerly.
“I love you too, Pat.”
The two of you walk out of the bathroom together without much thought, promptly running into Pat’s mom, who was apparently heading to the bathroom. She gives the two of you a suspicious look, which makes Pat blush madly, sighing softly as she turns around and heads towards the staircase.
“Yup, I’ll definitely be using the upstairs bathroom.”
AN: This is a little story about the first time Pat holds your hand awwwwwwwwww :)))))))))))))
You aren’t sure if it’s an accident at first.
His pinky brushes against yours. It’s autumn, leaves are falling all around you, and the wind is nipping fiercely at your neck, but it’s his touch that gives you a chill.
You’ve never walked this close before, side by side, just near enough to feel each other’s warmth, to huddle in the little cloud of cozy that circles the two of you and no one else. It’s a fragile aura, it’ll dissipate if you move even an inch too far away. So you don’t dare, and you thank your stars when the tall form of his body follows yours like a magnet with the sway of each step. He still smells just faintly like the cinnamon latte he sipped across from you this morning, all spicy and sweet and safe.
So close like this, it’s only natural your hands would touch. So you try your very best not to think too much of it, even though your steps slow, your heart picks up, and your wide eyes stare straight ahead. And then there are the goosebumps that travel in little glittering constellations up your arm, across the nape of your neck, over your scalp, and all the way back down your spine to the tips of your toes.
You wonder, in the milliseconds that pass by like hours in that moment, if he’ll apologize. If he’ll stumble through some sorry phrases in that rich amber voice, draw his hand back so devastatingly far away from yours, thinking it’s for your sake.
He’s done it before. Not with his hand, but with his heart. He’s gotten so close you had no choice but to touch, telling you stories about his mother, his 5th grade book report, his inability to watch movies where someone drowns, his divorce. And you’ve touched, across the dining table, from the other side of the coffee shop, even through phone lines. Your hearts have reached out like invisible hands and brushed in the space between you. But he’s always pulled away as soon as he felt it. Like he hadn’t meant to invade your space. Like he was afraid to be seen, heard, known. Just a little too close for comfort. And that was OK.
You weren’t going anywhere. Not when the very nearness of him kept your soul so warm.
And now here you are, and it’s not an invisible touch this time. His hand is grazing yours, gingerly, gently, just barely there. But it’s there.
You brace for the cold air to hit, for the chill you’ll feel in the wake of him pulling away. And the milliseconds tick by, one by one.
What you don’t know is that Paterson has fought in a war, shipped out overseas, left his entire world behind and literally stared down the barrel of a gun, but this is still the bravest he’s ever had to be.
Because you matter. And none of it ever has before, he realizes, until now.
He’s been thinking about this for weeks.
******************************************
He felt it, too, those times you touched. That’s what you don’t know. He felt it through the phone line, when you didn’t laugh at his self-deprecating joke about 5th grade.
“They all laughed. I think even the teacher was laughing,” he chuckled. He’d told this story before. A few times, actually. It was the story of the first time he ever tried public speaking, presenting a book report on Maniac Magee in front of the whole class. He’d thrown up on his shoes, wracked head to toe by stage fright. At the time, it had been the most embarrassing moment of his entire life. But it was rote now, just an old funny story, and he didn’t have to think twice about following up with the punchline. “They only let me graduate to 6th grade because I promised I’d aim for the trash can next time.”
He waited for you to chuckle politely, like they all do, like she did. Waited for the practiced nicety of it all to play out.
But you didn’t laugh.
“Pat, that’s awful,” you said, your voice laced with sweetness and sympathy. “You didn’t deserve that, you poor kid.”
And something hurt.
There was a memory, a distant ache that had been numbed over the years. But he felt it again. The twinge of embarrassment. The dizziness of confusion at what he’d done wrong. He had only been trying his best.
He was just a kid.
A wound opened then, a wound that had never healed right. Had fused into a gnarled scar that could only be soothed by humor. And maybe Pat knew, in that moment, that there was a chance to heal it better. To treat it with compassion and patience and honesty that would sting like rubbing alcohol as it rid the wound of bacteria and denial and shame.
But it hurt, then. And Pat was afraid. So he recoiled, drew back his hand, reeled his voice back in through the imaginary spirals of the phone cord and told you he had to be up early the next morning and he had better go.
He hung up. He dreamt of you that night. And when he woke, he felt as if something in him had been stitched together that had been in pieces since he was 10 years old.
*********************************
He felt your touch when he told you about his mother for the first time. He told you about her laugh from across the dining table, leaning back in his own chair and guffawing himself as he recalled the way her shrieks used to echo through the halls of his childhood home. And you laughed, too. And it sounded so beautiful that it caught him off guard, and suddenly he was acutely aware of his own goofy voice, his crooked teeth, his carefree posture. He was acutely aware that he had lost track of the story, had told you things about her that strangers didn’t know, had let you catch a glimpse of the only love left in his life that hadn’t been tainted or broken.
And Pat was afraid.
So he stopped laughing, caught his breath, swallowed a few times and stared down at the table. And when he glimpsed your falling, disappointed smile, he couldn’t tell if it was his laugh you didn’t like, or the fact that he had stopped.
“I love your laugh,” you said, as if on cue. And suddenly his ears were so hot, and you were the most breathtaking person he had ever seen.
************************************
He felt it the first time you met, just a couple of strangers sharing a coffee shop table on a busy Saturday morning.
“Have you seen that new pirate movie?” you asked, tapping a fingernail at an ad in his newspaper. “I’ve heard it’s fantastic.”
“Uh, no,” he bumbled. He was caught so off guard by you, his eyebrows lifted in the middle and his pretty lips dropped open just the littlest bit. “I… I can’t really do movies where people fall into water.”
Weird. Stupid. What a weird, stupid thing to say.
But you tilted your head to the side, eyebrow raised and your eyes shining. You looked like a quizzical little puppy. He’ll never forget it.
“Really?” you asked. And it was just that one word. All it took was a single word to make him feel seen, to make him realize you cared, really cared, about something- about someone- that mattered so little. But maybe he did matter. If you were really there, really looking at him like that, then yeah, maybe he mattered after all.
He felt your touch then. And Pat was afraid.
Afraid he’d be too much for you, the way he was for her. Afraid whatever you learned about him, you’d use against him. Afraid you’d laugh at him. Afraid he had coffee breath. Afraid he’d take up too much of your morning, your day, your space, your world, your life.
But there was something in him that wanted to be brave. Something in him that couldn’t really help it. Something that knew better than he did.
So he told you about it, just a little. He didn’t tell you about why. He didn’t tell you about the nightmares. He didn’t tell you about the falls, where could face his fear from a safe distance, from behind a chain link fence. But he told you about the fear. Word by halting word. And you smiled. And you listened. And you asked him to tell you more.
And nothing was ever the same.
**************************************
And here you are now, walking side by side, sharing a secret bubble of warmth amid the autumn wind. You’re still here. He’s still here. You’re still together, even after the shame, even after the retreats, even after the false starts and the countless times you both could have run.
You’re here, and his pinky is brushing against yours, and you think it may be an accident but it’s the most intentional thing he has ever done, maybe the only intentional thing he has ever done, and god he’s terrified, but he’s never been so sure.
Your head turns to meet his gaze. He’s showing 500 different emotions all at once. He’s afraid, he’s embarrassed, he’s enraptured, he’s captivated, he’s breathless. You see flashes of them all, but you can only really make out one.
He wants to hold your hand.
You lift your pinky the tiniest little bit, grazing over his skin. It’s slow, so slow. But it picks up speed, and it all falls together, and in the next breath your fingers are like pages in a book, rifling through each other in a flurry that holds volumes, that holds your story, that holds it all.
The gaps overlap effortlessly and your fingers slide between his. His palms are just a bit sweaty, you can feel the tough callous on his middle finger from where he holds his pen, and the cool metal of his watch presses against your wrist. There are so many more complexities to his touch than you’d imagined. The realness of him, the rough parts, the rawness, the radiating warmth… they’re perfect. Your eyes drop to where your hands meet, memorizing the masterpiece of your fingers intertwined, his broad grip protecting yours, holding it so preciously.
He gives you a squeeze, and you meet his gaze again. His eyes flit back and forth between yours, and maybe it’s just the wind, but you swear there’s a tear or two welling in those beautiful dark depths.
He blinks a few times and looks briskly forward, squeezing your hand again, longer this time. You smile knowingly, and without saying a word, you take your next step.
His thumb glides back and forth over yours, savoring each millimeter of your skin, blessing each one with an unspoken wish that it will never be harmed, never be neglected, never be taken away.
Step after step you walk on in comfortable silence, past pigeons and pups and parkgoers who will never know what took place in the milliseconds before this moment.
They just see two lovers, walking side by side. Sharing the morning. Hand in hand.
Happy Friday Issa! Today I am thinking about Paterson, and what it would be like to end up on his bus one day by happenstance. It would be impossible not be smitten at first sight. I can't stop picturing the way his eyes would just bore into ours when he catches us staring in the rearview mirror. The blush that spreads over him would be just unreal. 😍🥺💜 Thanks so much for sharing nyour imagines with us!
Lovely Claire, as you know I’ve been excited to get to this one. Partly because I love Pat with all my heart and partly because I looked forward to bringing such a beautiful idea to life in that calm Paterson style. I hope you like this little story <3
Three Stops, Five Regulars, and You
Word Count: 2,152
Warnings: Really just sweetness, the slightest angst from ~yearning~
Paterson drives the same route every day. He knows the people who get on, where they board, and where they disembark. The sweet old lady who gets her groceries at the corner store on Tuesdays. The recent emigrant from Nigeria who sits in the front and practices English with the local florist as they both commute to different jobs in the same strip mall. The high school baseball player who acts rowdy in the back of the bus with his teammates until the teammates get off on Maple Street and he remains on for eight more stops, always moving to sit shyly with a girl Paterson has gathered to be the boy’s old English tutor.
But never you.
When Paterson opens his folding doors and you walk in, he is immediately struck by your newness. The way the planes of your face reflect no familiarity back onto him unsettles Paterson as you pass him by to take your seat a few rows down. He inhales the scent that wafts in your wake, trying to place it but, as with your features, he draws a blank. Freesia? Gardenia? Paterson blinks at the expanse of windshield before him in an attempt to ground himself in the here and now.
It’s a Friday afternoon, almost early evening.
He’s on 5th and Potomac.
Three more stops till he’s done with his shift.
Done to go home to a microwaved meal and a comfortable couch.
Five more regulars to get to their destination.
And you.
Paterson looks up then into the rearview mirror only to meet those unfamiliar eyes. Beautiful eyes, he registers somewhere in the back of his short-circuiting brain. Eyes that take him in through the mirror. Appraising him. He wonders what they see in him, these eyes that can’t possibly know him any more than his know you.
“Hey Pat, we outta gas or something, buddy?”
The good-natured tease comes from Ollie, the auto mechanic, sitting in his usual seat in row six. This does nothing to stop Paterson from jumping a foot into the air and muttering his apologies before clunking the bus into gear.
It takes Paterson several minutes of silent driving before he works up the courage to glance at the rearview mirror again. He argues with himself internally before he does so.
You’re probably not even looking anymore. No, it’s much more likely you’ve become engaged in polite conversation with another passenger or pulled out a book or lost yourself looking out the window, taking in the outside world with those beautiful eyes…
Or, less likely but much more anxiety-inducing, you could still be looking. Looking at the lanky bus driver with the goofy ears who stared like an idiot instead of doing his job. He kicks himself at the thought of the way he’d gaped at you. Openly and so out of character.
What he should have done was averted his eyes when you’d entered, waited a respectable amount of time, and then peered back a few times to catch a glimpse. He could have taken in the curve of your jaw, the arch of your brow, the turn of your nose, all without detection from the comfortable anonymity of the driver’s seat. Gone home and written a poem or two about the ethereal creature who’d gotten lost and found herself on his bus route, a sprite or a fairy who would disappear tomorrow like some Freesia-scented vapor, perhaps never really there to start.
But no. He’d looked. And you’d looked.
And now he looks again.
His eyes dart back to the road immediately and his pulse races.
You were looking.
Paterson takes a few deep breaths and minds a stop sign before he hazards a glance again.
Yes. Still looking.
But this time he notices the smile on your face. The lips he hadn’t noticed, being so far below your eyes as they were, your eyes which had been just about as far as he had gotten to this point. The smile is soft but amused. Your hand lifts up in a small wave and Paterson feels himself heat up all the way down to his sensible shoes. His ears burn and he brings his eyes back to the road by force of habit and in order to do his job of steering this bus full of people but for absolutely no other reason. Because now he has two different things that require his attention – your eyes and your lips. Both deserving of equal consideration.
When his eyes revisit the road he realizes the next stop is upon him. When the bus pulls to a halt and deflates down steadily to allow passengers to climb out, Pat counts the seconds with his heartbeat. Wondering if this is your stop. Knowing which stop it is for all other riders but you. Knowing Mr. McKinney will get off to see his nephew and that the kind goth boy whose name he doesn’t know is off to the library with music blaring in his ears. Paterson nods to each of them as they pass, but does not look up to see them, opting instead to stare straight ahead.
When his peripheral vision doesn’t show him your retreating figure Paterson looks up to find you still in your seat, this time sitting lower. More comfortable. But still looking. Still smiling.
Involuntarily, Paterson feels a smile spread across his own face. He closes the folding doors and shifts back into gear.
Two more stops and three more passengers.
And you.
As Paterson navigates his way into the middle lane to avoid construction, he tries to settle his racing thoughts. He’s confused by this reaction, mental, physical and otherwise. It’s not like he’s never had a pretty passenger before.
So why does your face look like nobody he’s ever seen but everything he’s ever looked for?
“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”
Paterson inhales sharply and he jerks his head around at the unfamiliar voice to see that you are now sitting in the seat directly behind him. Your smile larger than ever.
Paterson swallows thickly, searching for the first words best to say to you.
“Passengers shouldn’t move about while we’re in motion.”
Wrong words.
“So is it that? The authority?” you joke, your smile becoming more lopsided, Paterson’s thankful to be able to see. Even with you right behind him he can still see you in the rearview mirror.
“No! No I didn’t mean to…I mean it’s really not that big…we’re only going 30 –” Paterson’s stuttering is cut off by your laugh.
“Ok if not that then what is it?”
“Um, what is what?” Paterson asks, looking back up after yielding to a bicyclist.
“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”
“Oh.” Paterson looks back at the road.
He’s never really thought of it. Mainly because nobody had ever asked it before, so he hadn’t bothered to ask it of himself. But it only takes another second of thought before he has his answer.
“It’s a weird limbo.”
“Come again?” Judging by your expression this was clearly not an answer you’d anticipated.
“Being a bus driver you are part of people’s daily lives. You go with them to work, you take them home after a long day. You see them with their friends and family. Or alone.”
“I’m alone,” you point out with a nod. It’s a simple statement, as if corroborating his assessment. Paterson grins and nods.
“Exactly, you’re alone. It’s very personal, in a way. Being there for these moments in between where they are coming from and where they’re going.”
“Intimate?” you offer. Paterson feels his throat go dry as he nods again.
“Yes. Intimate.”
“But you called it limbo?”
“Well it might be intimate, but it’s from a distance. A bus driver is only a small part of someone’s day, but my passengers are my day.”
“Oh,” you exclaim, voice softer than before. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”
The next stop, the penultimate one, comes into view and Paterson eases to bus to halt. A single mother known for jogging around the park in the evenings bids Paterson good night and Ollie claps him on the back as he heads out for dinner with his kids. Upon their exit, Paterson’s eyes seek out yours in the mirror once more. Wondering again if this is the place where you get off.
You lean against the back of your chair. Still very much seated.
Still very much a passenger.
It is then, as Paterson closes the folding doors once more, that he realizes the rest of the bus is empty. This startles him, as usually there is one more regular on the bus for this last upcoming stop. A man, very quiet and not unlike himself. Though Paterson doesn’t know much about him, he’s always wondered just how similar they are. Wondered if the man who enters a residential complex across the street from this last stop also has an empty apartment waiting from him. A lukewarm meal and a cold bed.
Paterson spares a moment to wonder where the man is, feeling a tinge of hope burn through the usual pity – perhaps the man is not alone, wherever he is, and perhaps tonight his dinner will be hot.
The folding doors hiss as they close for the second to last time tonight and Paterson pulls back into traffic. A glance in the rearview mirror reminds him that, not only are you still there, but that the absence of his final regular means that you two are very much alone.
The thought makes blood pound in his ears and he finds his eyes darting between the road and the mirror, not wanting to miss a second of whatever you may do, whatever you may say.
And you don’t make him wait long.
“That man called you Pat earlier,” you say in that lilting voice. “Is your name Patrick?”
“Paterson.” He says it wearily, bracing himself for the inevitable exclamation sure to come about how his name couldn’t possibly be what he says it is because no, that’s the name of the town.
Instead he sees you nod in the mirror as if this is the most rational name he could have given. Of course his name is Paterson.
The silence that follows is heavy with a lot of things, chief among them the things he wishes he could bring himself to say. Questions mainly, ones to counter the questions you’ve lobbed at him. After a block passes he opts for a simple one.
“What do you like best about being a bus passenger?” The question is timid and he hates himself for it, but the sound of your laugh is an pleasantly unexpected reward.
“I like the bus drivers.”
Paterson laughs with you then.
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not!” you say with mock offense. Paterson flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, starting to feel them tingle. Probably a symptom of a long day of driving.
Or a symptom of you.
“Ok maybe you’re not making fun of me, but there’s no way that’s your answer.”
“You’re right, maybe it’s not the bus drivers,” you say then, leaning forward to rest your chin on your arms as they fold on top of the ledge separating the first row from the driver’s seat. Paterson can practically hear your breath as you speak your next words. “Maybe I just like you.”
If Paterson hadn’t already been pulling up to the final stop he’s pretty sure he would have slammed on the breaks. When the bus eases into motionlessness, Paterson’s hand automatically opens the folding doors, something he probably wouldn’t have thought to do if the action wasn’t so tied to muscle memory at this point.
Paterson’s mind is reeling. He needs to ask you out, or at least as you your name.
But his tongue is tied and you’re standing up and reaching for your bag.
You step down the one step that brings you to the level of the driver’s seat and he gets another good look at you, eyes skittering up and down in a vain attempt to take in every detail incase this was both his first and last chance.
“Good night!” you say cheerily as you move to the door.
Paterson’s heart is sinking faster than the hydraulics on his bus when suddenly you turn around once more, almost as an after thought.
“Oh and Paterson? You were my day.”
And with that you step into the night.
Perhaps to continued tangibility.
Perhaps to vaporize into thin air.
He’s not sure which possibility scares him more.
Paterson allows himself to sit still for a few more moments, not bothering to close the folding doors so quickly this time. Allowing the cool air to flow in. Air that contains the remnants, and potential, of you.
~*~
Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!) @mariesackler @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50 @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely @han-not-solo @morby @emeraldsiren20 @maryforyou @aloneandsleepless @jynzandtonic @renmaulxo
(AND PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE GETTING NOTIFIED ABOUT THIS TAG, TUMBLR HAS BEEN WEIRD LATELY that is all, love you guys <3)
warnings: is covid/quarantine a warning? because it’s a big part of this and i wrote this at the start of the pandemic lol, male receiving oral but it’s not that detailed, swearing , 18+ BELOW!
quarantine with paterson would be filled with your normal routine and a little bit extra activities. you’d wake to him kissing you cheek or your shoulder, open your eyes and see his pretty brown ones staring at you, and you’d just melt into him.
“what would you like to do today darling?” you’d ask him.
he’d smile that crooked grin of his and kiss your cheeks. “whatever you’d like to do.”
you were trying new recipes, you watched one of those mask making videos and took some old clothes apart to try and sew them together, pat tried too but failed miserably.
you climb on his lap, straddling him with a smirk on your face. “well first… let me take care of you…”
he blushes as you pepper kisses all over his neck. paterson was always so busy. he would get up, drive the paterson bus, and then come home. you would have dinner and sometimes the two of you would go to the bar, or just him.
when he told you he was taking a leave of absence from driving the bus, you were shocked. he wanted to keep you safe, and staying home was the best way for him to do that. not many people were taking his bus anyways. so sex became apart of your morning routine now, and the two of you were experimenting with different things.
today you were just going to give him head, no big deal. all you wanted to do was please your husband. he gave you anything you wanted, so that was the least you could do for him.
he’s already hard, so fucking perfect for you. you pull his boxers down and his length bobs out, the tip red and dripping with precum. you take him into your mouth all the way down to his base, bobbing your head up and down. you love hearing pat moan or yell out your name.
when he finishes, you smiled up at him, placing a light kiss on his stomach. he smiled back, “making me want to write a poem about you doing that to me angel…”
you blush and pull his boxers back up, climbing off the bed. “i’d love to hear it baby…”
he sits up, placing his feet on the floor. “maybe…”
the two of you get up and enjoy some breakfast. you make yourself a bowl of cereal, pouring it in and then the milk. you open the jug and go to pour some onto the frosted flakes, but only a small drop comes out.
“shit! i used the last of the milk making dinner last night!” you yell out.
paterson looks up from the newspaper and laughs. “guess we’ll have to go shopping huh? try out those masks you made?”
you walk over to him and give him a deep kiss. his hand cups your face and you nod, “yeah… i guess we will.”
