Smut.

Where is your boy? (Patrick Stump X Reader)

Lenny rating: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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     It was a cold night in November, and you were walking home from your now ex-boyfriend's apartment. The cold wind whipped through your hair and stung your eyes, adding to the tears that were already falling from them. Your tears stung the new cuts on your face, and in a strong burst of pain your vision grew blurry. You leaned up against a wall and blindly groped for your phone. Once you had the device in your hand, you called the first person you could think of: Patrick. The monotone dial-tone radiated through your head for a few seconds; Patrick picked up after 2 rings.

     "(Y/N)?" His voice was deep and gravely. He must've just woken up.

     You try to reply, but all that escapes from your throat is a hollow sob. You hear Patrick throw the covers off of himself and his heavy footsteps toward his front door.

     "I'll be there in two minutes. Don't move," And he hangs up. You find it funny that he didn't have to ask you where you were; he already knew. This was a regular routine for you two. Johnathan would hit you after an argument or after he got home drunk, and you would stumble to this same corner and call Patrick. Luckily for you, this was the last time you would do this.

     In no time at all, Patrick pulled up in front of you, and, once again, you were in the passenger seat of his car, sitting in silence during the drive home.

      You could feel his eyes on your face as you let your hair fall in front of your features, and you turned away in shame. Before long, you were pulled from your stupor and out of the car. Patrick gently placed a hand in the small of your back as he lead you to the door, and you felt your face grow warm. It did that every time this happened. Every time he touched you or even looked at you, you grew warm. He made you feel safe and loved every time something bad happened to you.

     He led you into his living room and gently sat you down on his couch before leaving to go to the kitchen. You stared, disassociated, down at your hands, your nails digging into the flesh between your knees and upper thighs. You were startled when Patrick was eye-level with you, the side of your face in his right hand, your right hand in his left.

     His hand slid down the side of your face to your chin, and he raised your gaze to meet his own before releasing your hand and grabbing a damp towel. He gently dabbed away the tears and the blood, paying extra attention to your flushed cheeks and being careful to avoid causing you pain. Once he was done, you moved your hands and placed them on his chest.

     You looked into his eyes and without realizing, leaned toward him. You could feel his heart rate accelerate under your palm as your lips touched, and his breath hitched as you moved a hand from his chest to his hair. Without hesitation he closed the gap between you two, and in that moment, everything clicked.

     You realized you didn't care if you had just been beaten for the millionth time by your abusive ex. You didn't care if this seemed too soon. You realized you needed this -needed him- and didn't care what other people would think. Above all, you finally realized why nobody else was right for you. It was because none of them were Patrick. You didn't love any of them the way you love him.

Patrick moved both of his hands to the sides of your face and gently pushed you back into the couch before a low growl emanated from his chest. You made an audible groan of displeasure as he pulled away.

"(Y/N), I-" He began

"Patrick," you replied, voice soft like cotton.

"Y-Yes?"