#(love you!)

[shadthchan052-blog]

*shakes you affectionately*

shakes you in a tupperware /affectionate

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[ellsbclls]

Can I request something with Vi? Maybe like dating headcanons, or maybe where Vi and reader got separated after the council incident that happened but reunite after vi came a pit fighter, and once they see each other again talk a bit before making out

thank you thank you thank you thank you, angel 🥹 i had the absolute hardest time trying to choose which prompt to do, so for the time being i'm gonna word vomit about how good of a girlfriend vi would be, and then i'll work up the courage to execute such a fun and cool scenario!

𖨂 DATING VI HEADCANONS;

  ⟢ vi has always been lead by her heart and so, when she finds someone who embraces it — not for what it can be but for what it is — she lays her weapons down

  ⟢ during her shifts, she'll squirrel away at little souvenirs to bring home to you. it's not enough to just tell you about it, she needs to veil your mirror with a string of noxian banners, the emblem scratched away and embroidered with lily-shaped bolts and acrylic wire. she needs you to know that you're the first thing that comes to her mind when she sees something so tender in the face of violence. by the end of the week, your vanity is overflowing with so many little trinkets that its barely useful anymore, save for her gifts and the exhibition of them. and yet, when she slips the vein of a curling leaf into the palm of your hand, you find a sliver of space for it to live and stretch in front of the face of the mirror, listening intently while she explains how it marked the beginning of another fall with you.

  ⟢ when she finds herself close enough to you, she always tucks her head into the soft of your jaw. and not even in search of a kiss, or at the expense of her teeth. she just breathes you in, where your heartbeat lives, and rocks you back and forth, matching her rhythm the the flighty rate of it.

  ⟢ she hates to bother you with her gauze, and her dressing never cease to bother you. with how often she uses her hands, its inevitable that they will unravel, they'll tear and crease by the end of the day, but god forbid she asks you to help her. no, it won't be until you walk in on her in the bathroom, and she freezes in time — her canines snagging at the tail of a bandage roll while her other arm angles so precariously that it's almost comical. "i've got this," the words are so mangled between her teeth that you choose to ignore them. "i'm sure you do, but humor me." when you take the mantle, she can't help but notice how strong your hands are, how steady, like you're performing surgery. and in a way, you are, putting her back together the only way you know how — carefully.

  ⟢ despite her hands and how heavy they are, she touches you gently. near hesitant. her fingers sweep at the bottom of your eye when you’re drowsy, or tug at the corner of your mouth until it’s nothing but a cheesy half smile, clumsily obvious in her efforts to simply be near you. she’ll say “eyes up here, mister” when she notices how sleazy she’s making you look, but then blush into a blister when you do obey, flashing a pretty pair of doe eyes back at her, your sleazy smirk erupting into something saccharine and beguiled. she barely notices how easily you melt into her touches. so accustomed to drawing blood, to digging into the heel of her palm and restraining, that she feels giddy and drunk with the prospect of holding you and knowing you won’t falter.

  ⟢ she's also a little gross

  ⟢ well, a lot gross, actually. she’ll clean her runny nose with the bottom of her shirt, or dig it into the scruffy pink heat of her armpit and stop, letting the scent hit her tastebuds before she, without fail, shrugs it off. and whenever you catch her in the midst of doing something so gross, she’ll freeze and maintain an eerily impressive sort of eye contact with you, knowing full well that you’ll break eye contact with her before she has a chance to feel ashamed by her actions. it’s the price of growing up with brothers (+ jinx) and never paying for it.

  ⟢ in her restless hours, when you and your body lay half-hazed and dreamy, tucked into the throws and comforts of your bed, perfumed by the drowsy memory of a shower and toasted rice, she comes and crawls into the open spaces you’ve left. for her. to map out and nestle into from above the covers. when she finally finds you, as if you’re not impossibly intertwined already, she needles her arms around your back. nevermind how useless they become in the morning when the prick and pin of morning emerges. who cares? for just one selfish moment it’s just the two of you, cast to an island of quilted sands and dreams.

  ⟢ she also has a hard time saying no to you. the words come out, sure, but the actions never quite line up.

  ⟢ like one instance, early into the post-war rehabilitation efforts. most of piltover had been ravaged, a shiny metropolis brought to pieces — ivory rubble and the singing of distant songs. remarkably, the only remaining piece of infrastructure was the bridge to zaun. its made it easier for the relief efforts to come, and in droves they come — filling empty stomachs, arms aplenty with gauze and vodka, ornamenting what’s left of piltover with remnants of a zaun left unspoken for, whispers of something new and whole. and yet the only thing she hears is the hum of your voice, a gentle echo — "do you think the fish shop is still open?"

  ⟢ for you, it's simple, but to her the request is haunting. she hadn't the heart to tell you that, of the many things that zaun could not preserve, the fish shop was the first to go, and she had spent the remaining weeks finding ways to break it to you. but all fell short in comparison to just doing something about it, even if that something meant tracking the limescaled chef to the heart of zaun and requesting your order a la carte, her heavy gauntlet punctuating the request through the hardwood of his makeshift home.

[rainingskeletons]

I love to see how active our community is!

I just opened my inbox and was so overwhelmed by everyone's excitement and interest in the next chapter and shared love for the AU.

(last year was waaay more intense than I expected lol) But you all deserve better, I'm working on Chapter 5 I promise!

I think everyone needs a little happiness right now, so I'm gonna make it my mission to bring you more chapter updates in 2025!

[nonushu]

hi

i miss him alr. :( and he isn’t even gone yet…

[annispillowfort]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ welcome to my little corner of tumblr ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

right of the bat: do not repost any of my thoughts and pictures without my consent and credit!

hi, i’m anni aka bambi! i'm a poet, dreamer, and lover of all things bitter, sweet and bittersweet. this blog is where i share my original poetry and photography, thoughts on life, and the occasional ramble about pomegranates, stars, and the quiet beauty of the world with the appropriate amount of dread, can't have one without the other.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ what to expect here ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

⭒ raw, emotional poetry about love, loss and resilience, existential dread and the indomitable human spirit

⭒ nature-inspired musings and symbolic imagery

⭒ a mix of dark and hopeful vibes (because life is both, right?)

⭒ the occasional poem/writing prompt about the bat family because jason todd is an integral part of my personality by now (we both have beautiful-princess-disorder)

at this point i'd like to issue a trigger warning: i use my poetry to work through all sorts of things considering i'm diagnosed with a slew of illnesses (including but not limited to borderline personality disorder, adhd, ptsd and depression. it's rough out here). please be mindful of your own state of mind when reading and take care of yourself 🫂 i will tag accordingly.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ my vibes ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

imagine a quiet forest at dusk, where the air is thick with stories and the trees whisper secrets. that’s the energy i’m going for.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ let’s connect! ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

feel free to say hi, share your thoughts, or send me a prompt! i’d love to get to know you all.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ a quote i love ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

"the world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper." – w.b. yeats

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ a song i am currently obsessed with ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

↺ karma police by radiohead

so, what’s a song, poem, or quote that’s been on your mind lately? let me know in the comments or reblog with your answer!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ other socials ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

⭒ instagram @sweetpea_anni (private)

⭒ instagram @sweetpea_photodiary (photography)

⭒ pinterest @sweetpea_anni

⭒ spotify @a.antronov

⭒ my other blog @bambispillowfort (anything dc related, chronic reblogger)

[separatist-apologist]

It's @shallyne birthday today. I wanted to impress you with a stick figure drawing of my own, only to learn that shit is harder than it looks. So I turned to good friend and fellow skeleton romancer @velidewrites who also loves you, and this is our little gift to you!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

[luveline]

Hey! I’m the one who send you the picky eater reader request but I didn’t check your blog and now I see you also have a complicated relationship with food. I’m so sorry. I wish you the best, it’s so hard to deal with things like this. I’m sorry for being insensitive and I’m sorry if I made you in any way uncomfortable with that request. You’re so lovely, please know that thousands of people here support and care and root for you (in a friendly non pressuring way) <333

Please ignore this if you like.

omg baby it’s okay! You are so so considerate but don’t worry! I’m a picky eater too and I actually liked the request, so pls don’t worry that you’ve made me uncomfortable, you have not!! I appreciate that you’d worry about that but put it out of your mind my sweetheart

[chanelnumbermine]

anna. she/her. hello, welcome!

let’s find you that love story you need today! all fluffy or a bit more spicy? summertime heat, autumn breeze, cracking fireplace, birdsong…? more than happy to help! and they’re just waiting to get lost in your loving eyes. so, who will it be today?

paul aron

too hot to handle

rising

oliver bearman

andrea kimi antonelli

second first

pepe marti

to teach a young dog old tricks

what hides beneath

luke browning

franco colapinto

headcanons

f2 2024 boys when you're on your period

f2 2024 boys when someone else compliments you

f2 2024 boys during christmas preparations

nothing to your taste? feel free to slide into my asks. i write mostly fluffy pieces in a x reader format. formula 1, 2, even 3. headcanons, short story, preferences? or maybe waiting for a matchmaker to find the perfect driver for you? i’d love to help find the one for you!

with love,

yours truly.

[gaveyouigaveyoui]

make me pick between 2 taylor songs: @rocketsaurus - long story short or this is why we can't have nice things

[darling-heffron]

I hope you like our little moodboards we are planning to do one for each chapter! I'm not the creative so you can tell when it's my shitty handiwork LMAO Sol come save me. She is the artist so... IDK why I was allowed to do moodboards. Anyway enough of my rambling, here is chapter five!!

taglist: @malarkgirlypop, @mellow-human, @next-autopsy

Chapter Five: Muddied hands 

Sam laid on her belly, the map spread out before her as she used a pencil to trace her path. She needed to get from her position in Amherst to Pittsfield, which was the next closest city. 

The blonde had enough supplies to last her for the three day journey, she could do it in two if she wanted but she didn’t want to risk moving in the dark again. Her plan was simple: move during the day and before the sun set she would have her camp set up. 

She set out the next morning bright and early, she wanted to try and get all the way to Idaho as quickly as she could without dying along the way. But it was a massive journey, one that needed to be taken city by city. 

She knew if she set out the exact route all the way to the safe haven it might not go her way. There were a million factors that could change the route drastically, so she didn’t want to plan that far ahead. Sam knew she would have to be smart about this, travelling too far away from cities could mean she wound up with no supplies. 

Not that she really wanted too but she would have to hop from city to city to make it through alive.   

The girl made it out of the area, the only people she had seen in her travels had been the family she met yesterday. Other than that the town appeared quiet, she didn’t want to find out why, so she left quickly. 

The days were long, walking the path by herself. Sam was able to avoid most of the hoards, she could sneak past without them noticing. If she couldn’t, she found that they were very reactive to sound. Sam could throw an object in the opposite direction to her and it would trigger all of them. 

Once one moved, the others followed.

Sometimes the rabid’s would be by themselves, they looked lost without the rest of the swarm, they would stagger around with no destination in sight. The stragglers would often look worse than the swarms, seemingly more decomposed and skinny. The rabid’s that stuck together looked well fed and plump, decomposing more slowly than the isolated ones. 

Sam sat criss-cross striking the steel across the flint to create a spark that would light the tinder in the campfire she had set up. It was unlikely anyone would find her in the dense bush, so she felt more confident in lighting it. Sam hadn’t been using fires when she was closer to towns, she was unsure who or what it would attract. She didn’t need unwanted company, the blonde was a good fighter but she didn’t think she would stand much of a chance if a hoard or group stumbled upon her. 

“Ah ha!” She grinned seeing the spark alight the dry wood shavings she had tirelessly carved earlier in the afternoon. Sam blew on the fire to keep it going, cupping it in her hands to stop the wind from putting out her hard work. 

Once the flame took off she placed it in the middle of her log pile, watching the orange tongue lick at the new fuel she had given it. Sam sat close just watching the fire, enjoying the warmth it gave off, it was somewhat comforting to watch. Listening to the crackling and popping of the wood as the flame consumed it slowly. 

Sam had always wanted to go camping, sit around a campfire and roast marshmallows and sing silly little songs with her family. 

Not that that would even happen, her younger self was much more optimistic than the bitter girl she had become. The young girl had hope, foolishly so, but it was still hope. Still a sliver of happiness that she could imagine but never grasp. 

Sam’s love of the fire soon grew to disdain, something she always dreamed of, only now she was alone and it wasn’t for fun; to roast marshmallows or sing songs around, it was for survival. Sam sighed moving further back into her tent, bringing her knees into her chest as the fire danced, almost taunting her in a way. 

The blonde focussed her attention on her pack, rustling around in the bag to find what she was looking for. Sam’s hand wrapped around the cold can, pulling it to the surface so she could examine it closer. It was a can of fruit, she had wanted to try and catch something for her dinner but exhaustion pulled at her heavy eyelids. All she wanted was to fill her stomach and try to sleep. 

Sam had never been a great sleeper, any small noise could easily pull her from her slumber. Samantha blamed her father for this trait, he never slept, she had never seen him rest. 

When he was home he marched around the house on the phone, or sorted paperwork. He was up at all times during the night. Sam liked to watch him, sneaking downstairs after hearing the front door unlock and open, she knew it was him, he always came home late after everyone else had left or had gone to bed. 

But Sam’s ears perked at that familiar sound of his heavy boots falling on the tile floor. She would sneak down and hide in the shadows, he would never notice her, hell he often forgot she existed. 

Sam remembered one time he was home during the day and had run into her in the halls, he looked at her questioning her presence in his home, and then she saw it, he remembered who she was. 

She would never forget the feeling in her chest, as his eyes grew hard and stance became taller, more assertive. Her father’s body reacted to her as if she was a stray dog on the street, he stuck up his nose and pretended he didn’t see her, moving on with his day. 

But that young girl still held hope, still held onto the ‘maybe’s’ and ‘what if’s’. She didn’t hate her father, even after he stepped around her without an exchange of words or even the courtesy to look at her. But the Sam now, the older, more resentful, this one hated him with every fibre of her being.  

Samantha curled into her sleeping bag, her trusty knife clutched to her chest, she let sleep tug her down into darkness, maybe, just maybe, she would be able to sleep peacefully tonight, but she didn’t hold hope. 

To no one's surprise the blonde didn’t sleep well, noises and rustling nearby didn’t let her relax all night. She would drift off to then wake in a jolt to a noise in the distance. Sam’s mind always raced, thinking of all the things it could potentially be, she was rational, but now with the rabid’s on the loose what was rational? 

Sam packed her gear, heading out on the road again. She stomped out the embers that still smoked under the early morning sun. She made her way through the trees, which was easier said than done. 

These parts of the woods had never been trailed before, there was no clear path she was following, just the one of least resistance. 

Sam swung her axe bringing down the dead branches and debris that blocked her way, she hummed a tune as she worked, there was nothing else to do to keep her entertained. She always had to be on lookout which drained her, every sense she had was running on overdrive. 

A noise caught her attention, groaning in the distance. Sam crouched down low, positioning herself behind the trees so that she couldn’t be seen. Her ears perked like a dog, listening closely for any sign of movement. It was odd that most of the time she heard things like this she hoped it was a rabid. 

Something about the people that lurked around didn’t seem too inviting. 

Sam found it easier to kill the lonesome rabid’s, but the thought of finding another human that had cruel intentions sent shivers up her spine. It wasn’t the thought of killing her fellow peer that made her so uncomfortable, that part she was capable and ready to do, it was the interaction. 

Trying to figure out the intentions of the person before deciding whether or not they should live or die. 

Sam wasn’t surprised at what the family had told her when she had been held up in the rampaged supermarket. Sam had been in war, she had seen how people followed rules so eagerly until all hell broke loose. 

People’s morals seem to all but disappear when their world turns to chaos. 

Things that would seem horrific and vile when there was regulation and control; go out the window when it goes. Humans need rules and guidelines to follow, they need order to be set or it all goes to waste. 

But in this new era of mankind, one where fellow humans are now nothing but mindless animals, order seems to be far from the world they used to know. 

Sam stayed out of sight watching the woods closely, her eyes forever scanning the tree line. 

She watched as a small hoard stumbled into view, they groaned together following the leader. They were intriguing to watch despite their gruesome and violent nature. Sam often thought it was so strange that they used to be people, like her. They had lives, jobs, and families.

But now they wandered aimlessly, their only goal was to fill their bellies. 

It was sad to imagine how many people now were these awful creatures, everything they ever lived for so easily ripped away from them. 

Sam was snapped out of her deep thinking by the sound of feet hitting the ground in clumsy fashion. She refocused her attention to the small group only to find they were coming straight for her.

“Ah, shit.” Sam cursed under her breath. She hadn’t needed to fight any of the rabid’s since her first meeting with the driver. But even then she never fought him, just escaped. 

However that situation was different, at that time she had no idea what she was dealing with or what was happening.      

Sam sprung from her hiding spot, axe ready in her hand. 

“Come get me you motherfuckers!” She yelled loudly so they could find her easily. 

The group barreled towards her, their noises mixing in with each other as they rushed for the blonde. 

Sam swung her axe over her head bringing it down with such force that the first rabid’s skull split in half, but in its momentum the body kept moving towards her. She smashed the butt of her axe into its side, flinging it over and out of the way.

The next one chomped for her, his gnashing teeth lashing out at her flesh. Using the handle of her weapon she shoved him away, sending him backwards into the rest of the pack. They tumbled to the ground like pins, but that didn’t mean the fight was over.

The gnawing man leapt to his feet again in no time, making another attempt to get his fill from the angry woman. 

Little did he know she was begging for a fight, Sam was ready to cave some heads in.

And that she did. 

Sam sliced through the air with speed, the rabid stopping in its place before crumpling to the ground. The woman swung so hard she had cleanly decapitated the biter. 

The last two came together at her as a pair, but they were nothing more than mindless animals, they both aimed for her face. Their gangly decomposing limbs reached for her, clawing and grabbing at the air. The pair together were strong, with both of their weight pushing Sam backwards. 

She used the length of her axe to hold them back, wielding it as a barrier between them. The rabids lunged forward knocking Sam off her feet. She yelped in surprise as the pair toppled onto her. Sam held fast keeping them at arm's length, she grunted, straining to keep them at bay. 

But she thought fast, tucking her knees up against her chest; she kicked out, rocking her hips upwards. Sam used the force to push the rabids over her head, they toppled to the ground behind her as she rolled backwards. 

It was a quick movement so fast she was already on her knees before the rabids could even sit up. She swivelled to face them as they sprung up arms outstretched for her, her hands found the two knives that were sheathed at her belt. 

Sam gripped the hilt of the daggers in a fast motion she drove the weapons upwards into the underside of their chins. 

There was little resistance to the sharp daggers as they plunged into the soft decomposing flesh of the biters, their jaws turned slack as the blade of the knives pierced into their skulls. Sam withdrew the weapons from the two rabids, they slumped back lifeless. 

Sam nudged the two rabids with her foot, but they didn’t move. Sam had seen enough zombie media to know that if you wanted to kill them for good, it needed to be through the head.    

She cleaned her knives from the black blood that covered the blades on the back of the fallen biter. Before she picked up her pack, that had slipped from her shoulders during the attack, and swung it back on her shoulders. 

************

Finally Sam had made it to Pittsfeild. The town now empty and desolate, had an eerie sense to it. She made her way into the heart of the town, making sure she kept low and out of sight at all times. 

The blonde scavenged in and out of the abandoned stores. As she had made her journey she noted the supplies were now few and far between. Unlike with the first store she had gone into that still had resources in it, now the shops had been picked bare. 

Sighing, she threw what she could into her backpack. It was early afternoon and thought it best to make her way as far as she could away from the town and toward Albany. 

Swinging her bag back onto her back after securing the buckles, she made her way out of the store.   

Sam had only made it a couple blocks before a squeak came from under her boot.  She lifted her foot, revealing a dirty teddy-bear lying on the ground. Sam tilted her head, it looked familiar, but she didn’t know from where. 

Her brows drew together as she studied the small stuffed bear that looked back up at her. Sam couldn’t put her finger on why the bear looked so sad, the smile that was stitched into the mouth wasn't bright and cheerful it looked so melancholy; like it was forced. 

Sam placed her foot on the ground as she bent down to pick the bear up. It was only small, easily fitting into her hand. 

The bear was dirty covered in muck from the ground, blood stains on his feet and tummy, but under all the grime it seemed well loved. The nose had been worn down, like the owner often touched it. 

The ears were the same. 

The fur on the bear looked shorter there than on other places on the bear. The teddy's hands also had the same pattern as the ears, the owner must’ve held his hands a lot. 

Then Sam’s heart dropped, the memory coming back to her in a rush. 

The picture of the young girl holding up her little bear to wave goodbye before she was ushered out of the supermarket by her mother. 

Sam lifted her head, eyes scanning the area. The small voice in her head begging for the girl to have just dropped it by accident, it fell out of her bag without her noticing.

The voice didn’t last very long, as Sam bit her lip. Her eyes found a group of people lying on the floor, two big, one small. She approached slowly, hoping and praying it wasn’t who she thought it was. 

But she was right, she stood over the small girl, hand still interlocked with her father’s. The girl’s mother was frozen in time, reaching out for her daughter. Fingers still spread wide so close but so far from her little girl that only lay inches away face down in the dirt. Sam closed her eyes, willing the searing vision of the family to leave her brain, it wasn’t something she wished to carry. 

The blonde bent down tucking the small bear under the child’s arm, she didn’t think it was right to rip him away from his family as well. But even then it didn’t feel right, leaving the family face down in the street. 

She cursed under her breath, she needed to leave but her conscious wouldn’t let her move until she had laid them all to rest. It was only right, the family seemed to have been taken from the world in such violence, they needed to be in peace. 

Sam moved the mother first, dragging her body off the street and into the edge of the woods that they were so close too. 

The woman wondered if that’s where they were going for safety, they were almost there, another couple of steps and then could’ve been in the forest. Sam laid her down, facing her up to the sky, she noted the bullet wound in her chest and the crimson that stained her grey sweatshirt.

Next she moved the little girl, she was easier. Being only so young Sam could easily pick her up and move her. So she did, Sam cradled the young child in her arms and walked her to her mother who waited for her. She walked slower than normal, letting the young girl admire the sky one last time, the way the blue contrasted against the green of the trees that stood so tall. 

Her teddy bear still tucked under her arm she lay next to her mother, Sam placed their hands so they were touching. Sam then moved the father, laying him on the other side of his daughter, she moved their hands so that they were laying together as well. 

Sam dug quickly. She felt bad but she didn’t have time to dig them a proper grave, but it didn’t feel right leaving them exposed to the elements. They need their privacy, so that they could truly rest.        

The blonde moved them into the grave she had dug, keeping the same position she had them in as when they were laid on the grass. Sam took a moment of silence before covering the bodies in the earth. She patted the ground, smoothing it over. But still it felt empty. 

Sam knew she was wasting time, but she couldn’t leave them here in an unmarked grave, nothing to show who they were. 

She turned in a circle, eyes trailing her surroundings. Her eyes landed on wild daisies that sprung from the ground. Sam grabbed a handful to bring it back over the earth that held the family. Sam had never had an eye for decorating, her room often laid bare, but she placed the flowers around the edges of the grave. The rest of the flowers she had scattered in the middle. 

It wasn’t beautiful but at least now it wasn’t empty. 

Sam never cried much, as a child she was scolded for such things, so she learnt to hold it back. But in that moment she couldn’t help the tears that dripped down her cheeks.

The family shared so much love, their little girl had so much potential. 

But now they’re gone. Buried in the earth. 

Sam didn’t know their names, ages, or their life. 

This life was cruel, cruller than most. 

Then the thoughts trickled in, Sam cursed her mind for falling into the ‘what if’s’ again. It was a trait she trained so tirelessly to remove from her brain, but it always found a way to sneak back in. 

What if she had agreed to come along with them, would she have been able to save them? Or would she have met the same fate.  

It felt cruel to leave but she was wasting daylight, she huffed as she looked at the fresh grave before she headed into the forest herself.      

They almost made it. The vile voice in her brain taunted. Could’ve been saved if you weren’t so heartless.  

Sam groaned, shaking her head to rid the thoughts that plagued her mind. It was in the past, she had made her bed and now she would have to lie in it. 

Unfortunately the family haunted her with every step she went deeper into the forest. The tightness in her chest suffocated the poor girl as she fought with her own emotions. Like she had said before, this world was cruel, the only way to survive was to be even more ruthless and spiteful than the evil creatures that lurked in the shadows. 

However it wasn’t those creatures that had ended that family’s life, it was other people.  People like Sam, merciless and uncaring.

A/N:

Ok so our Sam has a heart but don't tell her that or she'll beat you up. I'm so excited to be posting these I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far! I hope you all are loving Sam like I do, she may be a tough cookie but I still want to give her a big hug, but she would most likely punch me in the face LMAO.

Esra ✨

[sceletaflores]

"Dependence Is Weakness, Darling."

pairing: older!patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: it wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. it was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. and as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

—or: it's been a little over twelve years since you've seen patrick zweig.

word count: 7.8k (hopefully this is long enough lol)

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex but in a loving way, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), semi-public sex (fucking in a car, you know i had to...), angst, swearing, cigarette smoking as a love language, slight mommy issues lmao, hints of mean!reader cause i still live for that shit, love confessions, rain scene cause i'm corny as hell, porn with SOOOO much plot, no use of y/n.

author's note: this might me the filthiest thing i've ever written lols. i actually DID get a couple asks for some more angsty patrick fics and ofc i love writing angst i'm just a girl i live for that shit. look at me doing what was asked of me and not just whatever i wanted! i'm a giver, what can i say. this fic was revived because of a few anon's who demanded it and i'm so glad they did. you guys got me to give this a second chance and i'm so proud of how it turned out. extra special shout out to @bii-aan-ckaa who fiercely advocated and waited very patiently for this! i'm so obsessed with you and your beautiful kind words. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

Fifteen minutes. 

That’s how long you can stomach sitting in the sticky booth of the bar watching Patrick Zweig flirt with a woman you don't recognize across the dimly lit room. Fifteen measly minutes until you were giving your friends some lame excuse of needing fresh air and leaving the table to escape out into the alley.

It’s been a little over twelve years since you’ve seen Patrick. A little over twelve years since you turned your back on him with tears spilling down your cheeks and your favorite racket a mangled, smashed mess gripped tightly in your shaking hand as you walked out of his life forever. 

Or at least what you thought was forever, you guess you were wrong.

To put it lightly, your relationship with Patrick was…complicated. You met him the summer before you started at Stanford. He was tall with green eyes and curly hair and he was kind of an asshole but he made you laugh, so you let him fuck you anyway. At the time, you thought that was it. One really good fuck with a really hot guy you’d never see again.

You thought you were hallucinating when you saw him on the campus courts two months later, when he sauntered up to you with an unmistakable “I know what you look like naked” smirk on his face. He was just as tall and had the same green eyes and the same curly hair and was an even bigger asshole than he was before. You still let him fuck you anyway.

You never thought you’d get sucked into the storm that was whatever the fuck was going on between Art, Patrick and Tashi. Never thought that it would completely ruin your self esteem, your tennis, your everything.

You weren’t particularly close to Art or Tashi in college. Sure, you were all in the same circle. That didn’t make you best friends. Art was nice enough, but he never went out of his way to talk to you. You and Tashi were on the same team but that didn’t mean anything. You respected the hell out of her and her game, and you could tell she felt the same. Even with that respect, there was still a tiny part of you that resented her. 

She was number one, the pride and joy of Stanford, had a constant slew of brands and scouts up to her ears. It seemed like no matter how hard you worked that she would always be number one. It felt like you were always just inches behind her.

Clawing and scratching your way through the ranks since you were twelve to be second best was never the plan. Your mother made sure to remind you of that every chance she got.

Then slowly, she started beating you at more than just tennis. Patrick wanted her, it was more than obvious. At first you didn’t care, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was just a guy you fucked, he could do whatever he wanted. You were friends. There wasn’t a problem.

When you realized you knew more about Patrick than just how he worked dick, then there was a problem. 

At first, all the things you knew about him were boiled down to the vulgar little tidbits you’d notice when he fucked you. You know that he has a birthmark on his lower back. You know when he’d be close because he’d always bite your shoulder before he came. You know his favorite position was really missionary even though he told everyone it was doggy.

Knowing all that was fine.

You also know that he’s allergic to kiwi. You know that he only holds his cigarettes with his thumb and his pointer finger. You’d always know when he was nervous because he’d start tapping his fingers on his thigh. You know that when he’d listen to music he loved, that his right hand would drum along to the beat just a little bit faster than his left would.

You knew all those things because you were falling in love with him, and Patrick Zweig is not someone you fall in love with. Especially not with Tashi Duncan in the picture.

You tried your best to push it down, to pretend you weren’t hurt every time Patrick chose Tashi over you. When he’d miss your games because he was with Tashi, when he’d blow you off to go meet Tashi, when he started to stop returning your calls or replying to your texts. All things you never cared about before started slowly eating at you. You felt awful most days, holed up in your room wallowing in self-pity. Your GPA was steadily dropping as the semester went on. Even your tennis started slipping, and you lost your winning streak to a fucking scrub. When you finally cracked and broke down to your mother over the phone one night she just scoffed.

“Well what did you think would happen when you started to depend on that boy? Dependence is weakness, darling.”

Dependence is weakness. You blocked Patrick’s number that same night.

It all came to a head when he blew up at you after Tashi’s injury. Everyone was pretty shaken up about it. You’d never forget the way it buckled, the way the sharp snap rang through the court, the way she fell to the ground screaming. You’d never seen her cry before. 

Patrick found you later that night, all alone on the practice courts trying to burn the day out of your mind by serving balls till you collapsed. It was the first time he talked to you in weeks. He was pissed. Screaming at you, calling you every nasty thing he could think of, getting up in your face. It was a fucking mess. You both said some things that should have never been said, but it ended when Patrick accused you of somehow being the cause of all of it.

“You hate Tashi, fucking hate her. You wanted something like this to happen. I bet you’re just over the fucking moon that she’s finally out and you can take her place. You can finally be number one seed and you're fucking ecstatic, aren't you? You’re so fucking pathetic, so desperate for validation. Maybe if mommy paid attention to you for once, you wouldn’t be so fucking needy. You're just a sad, delusional fucking runner-up, grasping at whatever shreds of importance you think you still have.”

You stood there, stunned by his outburst, each word hitting you like a physical blow. It was insane, nothing but Patrick blowing things way out of proportion in the midst of his anger.

You wanted to scream, to deny it vehemently, but the hurt and frustration choked off your words. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in you. Vision blurring out everything but Patrick's face twisted up with rage as he glared at you, his words lingering in the air like poison. 

You told him about your mother because you thought you could trust him. You thought he was the only person that really understood you, his dad was a piece of shit too. Him using something so delicate as material to hit you where it hurts was the last straw.

You blew up, all the things you’d been keeping bottled up for months finally boiled over in you swinging your racket down on the green concrete over and over until there was nothing left of it to break. You didn’t even look at Patrick as you walked away. You never saw him again.

You’d love to say it was also the last time you thought about him, but that would be a lie. As much as he hurt you, and as much as you hated him for it, your mind refused to let you forget him.

You still smoke Camel Blues because that was your guys’ brand, even when you should have quit years ago anyway. You still buy the same color lighter, pink. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than an easy choice, that it’s a good color. It’s not at all because you can still hear Patrick’s teasing voice in the back of your head bitching, “I can’t believe you make me use a pink lighter.” when he always forgot his and had to borrow yours. 

It’s not based on a compulsive need to be reminded of him every single time you use it. It’s just convenient, okay.

You know deep down that they were the only remnants of a past that you still couldn’t fully let go of. As much as you tried to bury those memories, they lingered, melded into the corners of your mind like stubborn stains. 

It wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. It was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. Patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. And as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

Even twelve years later you’re still trying to convince yourself that dependence is weakness, that you were better off without him. But sometimes, in the quiet moments like this when the smoke curls from your cigarette and the pink lighter flickers in your hand, you wonder if he ever thinks of you, if he regrets how things ended between the two of you.

Maybe it's not that you can't escape Patrick's grip on you after all these years, it's that you just won't.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear the heavy door to the bar swinging open, or the sound of gravel crunching underneath approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” a deep voice rings out from your right, “someone pinch me.”

Your whole body tenses, your cigarette freezing a few inches away from your lips. Something like fight or flight starts to quietly buzz beneath your skin. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, even despite the gruffer, more grown up tone that wasn’t there the last time you heard it.

Your heart’s already kicking into overdrive when you finally start to hesitantly turn your head, time almost slowing down as your eyes sweep over the alley. You kind of don’t want to believe that your luck is this shitty. That maybe it was all in your imagination, that you were thinking about him so much you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there, that he was still back in the bar feeling up that blonde girl. But it can never be that easy, and sure enough, there he is.

Patrick Zweig is standing a few feet away from you with both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a wide, achingly familiar grin lighting up his face.

You’re quiet for a few long moments, completely shocked into silence. Your mind races with a million different things you want to say but can’t find the voice to. You should be causing a scene. You should be losing it, screaming, crying, throwing things, slapping him hard across his unfairly handsome face. But you don’t, too surprised to even move. 

Patrick speaks again, taking several steps towards you. “It is really you, right?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth pulling into an easy, lopsided grin. To anyone else, the laid back, carefree tone he was going for would sound genuine. You can barely pick up on the stunned, almost breathless edge lacing his words, like he also can’t believe you’re standing right in front of him.

He steps into the light shining from a dingy lamp above the door, it basks around him in a yellow orange glow.

Same eyes, same ears, same Patrick.

For years you’ve thought about this exact moment, what you’d say if you ever saw him. You lose all of that practice the closer he gets. He’s less than a foot away from you now, an expectant look on his face. He’s waiting for you to say something. 

You feel like running, like stubbing your cigarette on the pavement and making a break for the door. You already ran from him once, but old habits die hard. 

You don’t run, you refuse to take the easy way out. You’re a grown woman, you’re stronger than you were in college, you’re going to the goddamn Olympics. It’s only Patrick for Christ’s sake.

“What are you doing here?” It sounds harsher than you meant, but that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve kindness from you. 

“Tennis.” Is all he says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Camel blues. “What are you doing here?” He parrots back, smacking the bottom of the carton, plucking the one that shakes out between his long fingers. “I’d think that Miss. Team USA would be too busy for bar crawls.”

You bristle, eyes narrowing skeptically. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or not. “It’s not a bar crawl,” you shoot back childishly, feeling defensive under his heavy gaze. “We’re celebrating.”

Patrick just nods, letting out a small hum in lieu of replying. He's close enough now that you can see gray strands streaked through his hair. He looks older, a few barely there wrinkles creasing his skin as he pops his cigarette between his lips. “Got a light?” he asks around the filter, holding his hand out expectantly before you even answer.

It’s still just as annoying. You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically as you fish your lighter out of your skirts pocket. You place it in the open palm of his hand, ignoring the fireworks that go off at the base of your spine when his fingers catch on your wrist as you pull away.

He mumbles out a half-assed thanks, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. If he notices the color, he doesn’t say anything. It feels wrong that he doesn’t tease you about it, staying silent as he tosses it back to you when his cigarette finally lights. You ignore the hurt blooming in your chest as you pocket it.

Patrick takes a deep inhale, the tip of his cigarette burns bright red. The way his lips wrap around the filter has heat spreading through you. “Shocked you’re still smoking,” he waves his free hand at you vaguely, smoke flowing from his lips as he speaks. “It’s not super admirable.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s really how you want to start this?

“Start what?” he asks coyly, leaning his shoulder too close to you against the brick. He’s playing dumb, the smirk on his face gives him away. 

You say nothing, not trusting yourself to speak. He has a beard now, sort of patchy and fairly new looking. You wrinkle your nose up at it. 

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s acting like this. All calm and collected like he’s catching up with an old friend, like he didn’t say all those horrible things to you. As if every single word he said that night isn’t still engraved in your mind and carried with you through your whole career. 

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, taking another slow drag. “Have you seen either of them?” His voice is hesitant, like he’s treading the water of your boundaries by bringing this up. “Or am I your first?” He lets the innuendo hang in the air, trying to joke his way through something neither of you really want to talk about.

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the part of the street you can see through the alleys opening.

You don’t need to ask who “them” is.

You just shake your head no, not wanting to have to say anything out loud and make this into a whole thing. The smoke from your cigarette swirls through your lungs, warm and familiar. 

You’ve seen them both at multiple tennis events. Things like matches, and galas, and charity auctions. Hell, they watched from the stands when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You just make sure and avoid them like the plague, always running the other direction the second you see a short bob and cropped blonde hair.

You’ve been in the same room with them countless times over the years but you might as well have been in separate worlds. The only “contact” you’ve had with them since you all graduated was weirdly ominous.

Art followed you on Instagram after you got your third career slam, but he doesn’t like any of your posts. You’re one of the mere twenty accounts in his following. You never followed him back. 

Then, when your career first started taking off, the press somehow learned about your past with Tashi. They started using it to their advantage when picking headlines for any pieces written about you. “The only woman in the world to beat Tashi Duncan!” It pissed you off to no end. It was stupid, a way to get clicks on their sad little gossip sites. And it wasn’t even fucking true.

They finally stopped when you threatened to sue their asses. Apparently, Tashi noticed.

She sent you flowers. You threw them out.

Patrick nods back, taking his own slow drag. The sound of traffic hums in the background, the music from the bar bleeding through the wall mutely. 

“Congrats on that,” he says casually, looking you up and down slowly. You fight not to squirm under his gaze. “On making the team. That’s some serious shit. I always knew it’d be you, out of all of us.”

It’s a blatant lie. You were always four out of four in college, the one person in the group with the least potential for stardom. If it wasn’t for Tashi’s injury, she’d definitely be in your place — on top of the world.

He’s trying to pacify you, to butter you up. All it does is grate on your nerves and leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

“Did you just come out here to interrogate me? To mess with me?” you ask sharply, frustration starting to get the better of you. “Do you want a fucking autograph or something?”

Patrick laughs, throwing his head back. “Nope, I wanted to catch up. It's been a while.” he shrugs, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “I just know how much you like talking about yourself, that’s all.”

You pause, picking up on the clear implication of his words. “Excuse me?” you question, turning towards him.

“Just saying,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “When we were younger everyone always thought I was this arrogant, cocky, self obsessed prick…” he trails off, an infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. It does nothing to soothe you, only adding fuel to the fire of your anger. “And they were all right, I was. But, that’s also exactly what you are right now.” he finishes, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

You feel it, all the emotions swirling inside you of at seeing Patrick again threatening to burst. Anger and misery waging a war in your stomach. The wind is starting to pick up around you, making goosebumps break out over your skin. The fabric of your skirt swishes around your thighs. You feel clammy, but it has nothing to do with the temperature drop. 

“Was?” you ask, condescending and mean, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “You really don’t think you’re still all of those things?”

Patrick chuckles, shoulders shaking with amusement. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it. “I’ve changed, Patrick.” you say sternly, brows furrowing in displeasure. Your tone is hard, frustration seeping into your words. Considering the last time the two of you spoke, this was almost going well. It’s just like Patrick to ruin something before he needs to.

You know distantly that you could deescalate the situation, but maybe you’re more alike than you thought. Maybe you’re just too greedy to keep the peace. “So fucking sorry that I’m not the same person I was in college, but I actually chose to grow up.”

Patrick snorts, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose. “Yeah, clearly.” he mutters under his breath, it’s condescending and sarcastic. It pisses you off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask sharply, cigarette now forgotten and steadily burning away at your side. 

Patrick shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still so lost. I sure as shit don’t have a red, white, and blue track suit hanging in my closet, but at least I know who I am.” He doesn't sound angry, only sure of himself, like he may have been thinking about this for a while. His face is passive, body relaxed as he leans against the hard brick.

Your jaw clenches, anger running hot through your veins. He doesn’t know anything about you, hasn’t for over ten years. He doesn’t have the right to try and talk down to you, not after all the hard work you put in to get to where you are.

“My wrist alone is worth ten million. What are you worth now, Patrick?” You’ll be embarrassed about bringing up status later, you always try to stay as humble as possible, but you’re too mad to care. You just need to hurt him, to hurt him like he hurt you. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that Patrick’s parents cut him off a while ago, that he’s been slumming it ever since. “I know exactly who I am, I’m a fucking Olympian.”

The venom in your tone is sharp, each word from your lips like a knife stabbing through the tense air trying to draw blood. “You’re a fucking nobody, Patrick. You’re irrelevant. Washed up. Buried. Forgotten.” You pause when your voice starts to shake, taking a deep inhale of smoke to try and calm yourself. Your hand is shaking too, ash falls from the burnt out tip down to the gravel. Patrick just watches you, his expression doesn’t change. Smoke billows from between your lips, blowing away with the wind. “We’re not on the same level, not anymore.” 

Patrick’s unfazed, staring back at you with his cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between his fingers, letting his arm drop to hang at his side. “I’ve been thinking about you.” he says casually, head lolling to the side lazily. He looks at you through his lashes, eyes sweeping over your face slowly. “I was just thinking about you, and now you’re here. Right fucking in front of me.” he shakes his head with a dry laugh. “You look…” he trails off, green eyes taking in every inch of you. “You look amazing.”

Your pulse flutters wildly, you feel so light headed, like you could pass out any second. “I’ve missed you, missed you everyday since that night.” His expression is that same half cocked grin from before, all smooth bravado and easy smiles as if he’s not staring at you like you’re the very blood coursing through his veins. All the air drains from your lungs, mind racing what feels like a thousand miles per second. 

He sounds like he means it. He looks like he means it. He can’t possibly mean it.

A loud chant ringing through your skull is the only coherent thing screaming through all the mess. Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fucking fall for it–

“Well I don’t miss you.” A lie. “You were nothing to me, Patrick.” Another lie. “You were just easy dick.” Your stomach twists painfully, like your body is physically trying to stop you from lying to yourself any further.

His face stays neutral, it frustrates you to no end that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Patrick had a terrible poker face in college, you could read him like a book with a single glance. It was one of your favorite things about him, how expressive his face always was.

Now he’s just staring down the bridge of his nose at you passively, the picture of indifference. It’s another reminder of how long it’s been, that he’s lived a whole life without you in all that time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you as he does.

His lips are slick and pink, just how you remember them. The beard isn’t so bad, it makes him look more rugged, more like a man. It’s the most drastic change in his appearance, far different from the smooth skinned pretty boy he was before.

He exhales, a long stream of smoke blowing past your ear. “What are you still doing here then?” he muses with a small shrug. He leans in even closer, slowly, like you were a cornered animal he didn’t want to spook. You can smell him, something woodsy with a hint of musk. You can see the clusters of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, almost completely faded. “If I’m nothing,” he clarifies, simple, easy. “Why are you here?”

It’s a loaded question, one he obviously knows the answer to. It’s a dick move, forcing you to confront what you’re really feeling. Your eyes start to sting, complicated emotions welling up in your throat. “Fuck you Patrick.” you whisper weakly, all the bite in your tone getting lost in your dejection. Your lip wobbles warningly, you try your best to stifle it. You refuse to cry in front of him.

Patrick’s face does something funny, turning his eyes to the sidewalk. “I need someone like that again. Someone that isn’t afraid to fucking check me, that wants me to do better and not because they just see a check or a legacy or whatever the fuck else my parents expected from me. Someone that wants me to do better because they actually believe in me.”

The honesty in his voice takes you by surprise. He gets more worked up the longer he talks, chest rising and falling a lot faster than before. Rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his hardened exterior.  “I fucked up that night, I know. Now my life’s a fucking mess, and I need someone to help make it make sense again.“ 

You scoff thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as you fight back tears. “And I’m that person?” you ask skeptically, brow raised in question.

“You always were,” he replies easily, his face forming into a sad smile. He almost sounds like his old self. Your brain flashes the image of Patrick leaning outside the door of your science lecture, waiting to walk you back to your dorm. He’s smiling wide enough to show teeth, looking down at you with brilliant green eyes, just like he is right now.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the boy that broke your heart on a tennis court twelve years ago. 

He was the boy that held your hair back when you threw up after drinking too much at a frat party and still stayed the night even though you didn’t hook up, his chest pressed against your back like a security blanket the whole night. He was the boy that let you make friendship bracelets on the handle of his favorite racket, and secretly kept the one you made for him braided around the neck for weeks until you finally noticed the fraying blue strings still in place when he forgot his tennis bag at your dorm room one night.

Suddenly he wasn’t anything but the boy you fell in love with when you were eighteen years old.

You swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribcage. Your cigarette falls from the slack grip of your fingers, plummeting to your feet where it burns out on the pavement. 

It’s like you lose control of yourself, like all your morals get shot out of a cannon into the sun. You’re lunging forward before you know what you’re doing, fisting the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him down to meet you halfway. Your first kiss with Patrick in twelve years.

It’s a mess of teeth clashing together roughly, with way too much tongue and spit to be classified as romantic. It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s fucking filthy and it’s exactly what you need.

Your tongue forces its way between Patrick’s lips when he gasps in shock, mapping out the familiar territory of his mouth like muscle memory. His big hands fly up to hold onto your hips as he eagerly returns your kiss, pressing you up against the brick and sucking your tongue lewdly. He tastes like smoke and bottom shelf whiskey. You moan into his mouth, wetness starting to seep through the thin material of your panties.

You stay like that for a while, just kissing until Patrick slides the hard line of his cock against your hip strategically. You moan at the size of it pressing onto you through his jeans, breaking the kiss to inhale a couple lungfuls of air. “You’re not fucking me in an alley.” You say bluntly as he trails wet kisses down the side of your throat.

He laughs, nipping at your collarbone teasingly. “My car’s a block away,” he offers between kisses.

You think about it for a second. Deciding on whether or not you’re going to let Patrick fuck you in the backseat of his car like you’re two horny teenagers and not full grown adults.

“Lead the way.” Is all you say, finally letting yourself smile when Patrick starts to drag you away from the bar. 

You shoot your friends a quick text letting them know you decided to head home early, already in the uber you ordered when you’re actually letting Patrick drag you across a blessedly empty parking lot to an old SUV parked in the middle. A completely one-eighty from the Porsche he used to drive.

He takes a second to press you against the door, capturing your lips with his again. It’s a slower kiss, sweeter than the one you shared outside the bar. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach when he cups your face, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. He fumbles blindly for the car door with his other hand, pulling it open and pushing you into the back. He follows closely, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

Patrick’s back on you in less than a second, yanking at the buttons of your shirt impatiently, fingers too big to work them through the holes as fast as he wants to. He lets out a frustrated growl, grabbing both sides and pulling hard. The buttons all go flying in different directions, landing in different spots around you.

“That was three hundred dollars,” you mumble against his lips, not wanting to stop kissing him for even a second. He looms over you, broad and all encompassing. He sits up to yank his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and popping open the button of his jeans.

“You can buy another one,” he says simply, shucking his jeans and boxers off all in one go. His dick is long and lovely, tip red and drooling pre-cum that drips all the way down to his balls. Your mouth waters, desperate to taste it, to feel the weight of it on your tongue and down your throat. You push it to the back of your mind. There’s no time for that, both of you too keyed up to do anything other than fuck.

Patrick leans down, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. He turns his attention to your pulling skirt down, panties going with it and getting tossed onto the floorboard carelessly. His eyes zero in on your bare pussy, wet and on display. The cool air shocks your system, making you want to press your thighs together but Patrick’s hands keep you spread open.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, moving to roll the knuckle of his right index finger over your slick entrance, just barely rocking it into you. You gasp, your whole body trembling with need. “Just like I remember.” He mutters to himself, pushing in the smallest bit deeper. 

Your leg kicks out, patience starting to wear thin. “C’mon, Pat.” you mewl sweetly, bucking your hips up in a clear invitation. “Fuck me.”

Patrick shifts up onto his knees, silently shuffling closer to your spread thighs. His cock juts out from his body, so thick and heavy that it doesn’t point straight up, instead hangs angry and red between his legs. His big hands slide halfway up your thighs, you shiver at the way they skirt across your skin lightly. He presses you backwards by them, leaning over you with your legs slung across his shoulders.

His cock drags across your inner thigh, trailing a sloppy line of pre-come as it does. You nearly wail, wrapping your arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders as you beg for him to give you what you want.

“God Patrick! Put it in. Please, put it in. Let me have it, please, fuck–,” you beg frantically, arms tightening around his shoulders like you’re trying to drag him impossibly closer to you. He goes willingly, burying his nose in the soft skin of your neck. He presses a small kiss directly over your pulse.

“I’m gonna give you this cock, baby.” he whispers lowly, hot lips brushing against your skin with every word. He slides the head of his cock through your wet folds, stopping to rub it over your swollen clit a few times. “Gonna get all up inside you and fuck you exactly how you like.” He slides the length down, letting his tip catch on your empty, clenching hole.

You’re so damn worked up, writhing and pushing back and begging Patrick to just fuck you already, that you can’t take anymore teasing. Your hole contracts around the tip of his dick like it’s trying to suck him in. He sinks in deeper, slowly feeding every thick inch into your aching cunt.

“God,” Your name falls from his lips in a shuddery breath that fans over your fluttering pulse. “You still smell the same.” It’s the same stunned, breathless tone from when he first saw you. He presses his face cheek to cheek with yours, the rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin. 

Patrick moves his hips against you slowly, deep strokes that drag every thick inch of him against the walls of your cunt. The tip of his cock stabbing that sweet spot inside you that makes stars glow bright on the ceiling of his car each time you blink. The angle has his balls pressing against your cunt as he fucks into you, the excessive pre-come leaking from his tip mixing with the sticky wetness of your juices leaves an obscene ring of creamy white around the spread hole of your cunt. It sticks wetly to the base of Patrick’s cock with each thrust, shining back at you on his skin when he pulls out.

The slow thrusts feel amazing, but you know it’s not enough. You need him to pound into you, to bully his big cock into your cunt like he’s getting back at you for shutting him out. You need him to fuck you. 

“Harder, Pat…” you whine breathlessly, clawing desperately at the polyester seats.

He groans loudly, hips immediately speeding up, getting rougher, meaner. He leans up to get more power behind his thrusts, breaking your tight hold on his shoulders. “This is where you belong,” he grits out, sweat dripping from his forehead to fall onto your heaving chest. The sharp smack smack smack of his hips bruising your ass gets louder, the lewd noise filling the car. “Where you should have been this whole fucking time, spread open on my cock.”

The only thing you can even get out anymore are pleading whines and loud moans of Patrick’s name as he pounds into you like he’s trying to kill you. The harsh snap of his hips inching you further up the backseat until your head’s knocking against the doors handle on each mean thrust. Your feet bounce by his ears, body almost completely folded in half so all you can do is lie there and take it.

The car rocks steadily, anyone who spares a glance at the SUV will know what’s going on inside. 

Patrick sneaks a hand between your legs, fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You scream, throwing your head back in pleasure as the calloused tips over his fingers work you over. “Fuck yeah,” Patrick mutters, turning his head to lick and bite at your ankle. “You’re so fucking sexy, so fucking beautiful. I missed you so much, missed this pussy.” His voice is pinched, hips fucking into you impossible faster.

The wet squelching noise of your cunt is filthy, splattering against Patrick’s heavy balls with each thrust. “I know she missed me too, didn’t she baby?” he taunts, eyes wild and blown out. “Taking my cock so well, squeezing me so fucking good.”

“Close,” you gasp out. Patrick pitches forward, licking into your parted lips as he rubs tight circles over your clit faster. He kisses you sloppily, smearing spit all over your lips and chin. His sweat drips onto your face and mixes with your own, it should be gross, but it makes you even wetter. The primal part of your brain overjoyed to be claimed by him. He lifts his fingers up the tiniest bit, smacking them over your clit with the smallest amount of force.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, back arching off the seat wildly as you gush around his cock. You claw at his back desperately, nails raking down his skin hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake.

“Shit– that’s good, milk it out of me baby, work for this fucking load.” he groans, hips not slowing down as he chases his own release. His breath puffs over your skin, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter the closer he gets. You whine, trying your best focus on clenching your cunt over his cock in your fucked out state. “That’s it, baby– God – you’re gonna make me come, squeezing me so tight I can barely fucking move…” he growls, teeth sinking into your neck hard.

You hiss sharply, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure starts to become too much. He licks over the bite mark, like he’s apologizing. “Gonna fucking come inside you, fill you up so good, fuck–”

His rambling dissolves into a loud groan, hips giving one last thrust as he buries himself as deep in your cunt as he can. You feel rope after rope of warm come flood your insides, painting your walls with it. It feels like hours, him unloading into you with cut off moans and grunts. 

You're still desperately trying to catch your breath when he finally starts to pull out of you as gently as he can. The red tip of his cock popping free lets the river of his come leak out from your abused hole, spilling out of you to drip onto the car’s seat.

Patrick curses at the sight, scooping the white, creamy mess onto his fingers so he can fuck it back into you. You hiss at the over stimulation, thighs squeezing together around his hand. Your chest is still heaving, breathing erratic as you slowly come down from your orgasm. Patrick tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, smiling warmly as he takes you into his arms and shifts around until he’s sitting up against the door with you curled into his chest.

The windows are steamy, melting all the streetlights outside into a swamp of warm colors on the glass. They shine through the car like sunlight piercing through a stained glass window. You feel light and hazy, like you’re in a dream. Patrick’s body grounds you, firm and familiar against your back. It’s quiet for a long time, only the sound of soft breathing fills the car. You're scratching your nails through the hair on Patrick’s chest when he finally breaks the silence.

“There’s…” he says into your hair, trailing off near the end. He’s idly tracing shapes on your lower back. A circle, a square, a circle, a diamond, a square, a heart. “There’s this challenger in New Rochelle in a couple weeks, I’m entering it. You should come.” 

Your heart drops, the delicate cloud encompassing you and Patrick forcefully ripped away in less than a second. You’ve already heard of this challenger, seen all the publicity it’s been getting since Art’s name came up in the conversation surrounding it. The ‘Phil’s Tire Town Challenger’ is all anyone can talk about. 

If Art’s there, she will be too. Sitting in the stands in a classy Ralph Lauren two piece, watching her husband and Patrick on the court, looming over the two of them for the first time in years. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing her. You can’t stomach the thought of Patrick seeing her, terrified that the second she spares him a glance you’ll be right back where you were in college, an afterthought left in the dust for something better.

Your stomach lurches violently, you feel nauseous. The heat of Patrick’s backseat becomes almost unbearable, making it harder to breathe. You rip yourself away from him, tearing through the backseat to find your clothes. 

Patrick startles, sitting up with a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what's wrong?” You can feel the warmth of his hands hovering over your back, not sure if he should touch. “What did I do?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Your throat feels tight, chest constricted and heavy as you try to take in lungfuls of air. You tug on your skirt and panties haphazardly, grabbing the first shirt you find strewn across the car's floor and yanking it on. You know it’s not yours but you don’t care, too busy trying to shove your shoes back onto your feet and push open the door all at once.

Patrick questions you the entire time, voice confused and insistent as you tumble out into the parking lot. The cool air feels like a life jacket, the smell of rain fills your nose as you try to steady your erratic breathing. You’re still trying to tug your right shoe on as you start to speed walk away from his car.

You can hear the sound of feet slapping behind you on the pavement as you walk. A strong hand wraps around your bicep, whipping you around. Patrick only has his pants on, shirtless and barefoot in his haste to catch up with you.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes searching your face closely. It makes tears burn hot at your waterline, blurring your vision and falling to trickle down your cheeks when you try to blink them away.

“This was a mistake, Patrick.” your voice is thick with emotion, you try to wrench your arm out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, not squeezing tight enough to hurt but to try and keep you in place. You need to leave, to get as far away from Patrick as you can before you’re in too deep. “Please, let go.” Your voice is small, shaky and weak and so unlike you. The panic from the car is still wrapped around you, growing tighter every second you spend with him.

Patrick shakes his head wildly, raindrops slowly start to fall onto his bare shoulders. “No, fuck no! We can talk about this. We just need to talk–”

“Patrick stop!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, loud and desperate as you double your efforts to free your arm. “Please just let me go!”

You don’t know if it’s the way you said it or the look on your face, maybe it’s a bit of both, but something makes Patrick let you go. Dropping your arm from his grip and letting his own hang limply at his side.

Rain starts to come down all around you, large drops hitting your skin and soaking the cotton of your shirt. You let yourself meet his eyes, they're sad in a way you’ve never seen before. The green turned dull and lifeless. It looks wrong on him.

When you can’t stand the hurt look on his face any longer, you leave. Walking away deeper into the rain, small puddles splashing up around your shoes with every step. You hope Patrick doesn’t follow you, that he lets you go. You’re doing him a favor by making the choice for him, it’s easier this way.

“You know, I think I really loved you.” He calls from behind you as the rain really starts to pick up. His voice almost gets swallowed by the thunder, you wish it would have. 

Against your better judgment, you look back. Patrick hasn't moved, still standing in the middle of the parking lot. The rain is making his hair stick to his forehead, starting to seep into the denim of his jeans to darken the gray. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, voice tiny and pathetic. Patrick probably couldn’t even hear you over the wind whipping through the air. He stares back at you, there's too much distance for you to see the look on his face. You turn on your heels and keep walking.

It’s nostalgia in its sickest form, the dark familiarity of the situation washing over you with the rain as you walk away from Patrick again. Ignoring every call of your name and desperate pleas for you to come back is new, you can’t tell if it hurts more or less than the silence of last time.

You wrap your arms around yourself, tears mixing with the trails of rain running down your cheeks. It’ll make it easier to convince yourself later on that you weren’t really crying, that it was just the rain. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will all be behind you. Patrick will be fine, he doesn’t really love you. In a few weeks he’ll go to the challenger and forget all about you. 

You hear your mothers voice ring out in the back of your head as you walk.

"It's for the best, my love. Dependence is weakness."

You hope to God that she's right.

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[cinamun]

Heeeyyy Cin!! I’m back with my quarterly message 😂 but no fr I just wanted to pop in and say you’re doing amazing and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not! It takes real commitment and dedication to keep up with TFA for as long as you have especially working as hard as you do IRL and I absolutely love catching up on all your hard work when I have the chance. I enjoy your non TFA related posts too! hope you have amazing 2025! 🥳💜

FRIEND!!! It feels so good to feel appreciated! Thank you so much for this sweet message and thank YOU for following along with the shenanigans and bringing thought-provoking questions and discussions to the Ratchet Reading Room™. Here's to a prosperous new year full of hydration, moisture and blessings! 🥂🎉

[peachesofteal]

Sorry if this is TMI but what do you do as a career? Ik you said you’ve travelled to many places and all

I am John Wick

[violetmuses]

@trippinsorrows Your writing convinced me that Ro has a mansion! 🏡💰