#anyway face to face w patrick zweig again

[poppy-metal]

do you know how hard it would be to be patricks enemy - its easy to piss him off, he runs hot, his fuse is short - but he lets shit go, just as quick. you'd have to really break his heart, be someone so fucking fake you make his skin itch just to be around you, so against being honest he wonders if you're even real or if you're just a puppet.

[murdrdocs]

every passing moment

description. sitting in the front seat of patrick zweig’s car, it’s nearly impossible to pretend like you don’t want him. it's impossible to pretend you didn't come for this.

includes. SMUT 18+, car sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected p n v, lots of denial from reader, some manhandling, sort of mean patrick, also mean reader, hooking up w a friends ex (but consensually!), takes place in the 2000s

wc. 3.6k+

a/n: cannot be bothered to edit sawrryy. based on a req i got forever ago. art creds unknown. title from so into you by tamia

“You can stop pretending.” 

You pause your insistent flipping through radio stations to glare in Patrick’s direction. His eyes are straight ahead, staring at the red streetlight through the rain still pattering down onto the windshield. You narrow your eyes in distaste, trying not to notice the way the light illuminates the shape of his face. 

“Pretending?” 

Patrick shrugs, glancing at you for a moment before the light is green and he’s facing the road again. 

“Yeah. Pretending that you’re not into me.” He says it with such assurance as if his statement is a fact of matter and not just an arrogant assumption. 

You scoff and decide on a station playing the final bits of a Katy Perry song. Maybe you would have been able to distinguish the song if it weren’t for the volume of the blood pumping through your body. You’ve been attempting to ignore it the entire time, ever since you and Patrick dropped Art off at a friend's place.

But there was something about being alone with Patrick and sitting in the front of his car. It affects you. When you were sitting in the back of the car and looking out of the window, you weren’t focused on anything other than how long it would take to get back to your dorm. Patrick and Art were as they usually were—Patrick and Art, extensions of the other. They joked, laughed, and included you for a bit before Patrick wrongfully proclaimed that you were asleep. You were in your world and they were in theirs. But now you’re part of Patrick’s world, forced to listen to him scoff at the song playing and click to another station. Forced to kick away an empty Monster can that rolls back and hits the toe of your sneakers. Forced to smell his cologne, previously too strong but now worn off to a more pleasant intensity, carry towards your nose with the cold AC. 

Before, you were able to pretend that you didn’t want Patrick. Now, you’re right next to him, bumping your elbow with his as they both rest on the center console. Mumbling the same lyrics—although Patrick gets the words slightly wrong—to the same song. There is a certain harmony that exists in this space, shining a light on your true desires, the ones you pushed down with eye rolls and groans whenever Art insinuated that you had feelings for his best friend. The desires you pushed away even whenever Tashi exclaimed that what she and Patrick had was nothing but a thing that they had, and you were free to swoop in if you pleased. 

Now, sitting in the front seat of Patrick Zweig’s car, it’s nearly impossible to pretend like you don’t want him. It’s impossible to pretend like you didn’t come dressed for this. 

Your meticulously crafted outfit screams in your face. Your best pair of jeans, the ones that hugged your ass just right and had gotten you laid twice this semester already. A tiny enough top to warrant attention without being obvious that that’s what you wanted—it ended right above your navel and was thin enough for your tits, unrestrained by a bra, to press against the fabric. In certain lighting, like the lighting coming from the stoplight, for example, you could see your nipples poking through. 

When you glance over at Patrick again, you catch him glancing down at your tits. You scoff like it’s not what you wanted, but you cross your arms under your bust and enhance the pair anyway. 

The car ride is going fine. Patrick’s chosen station plays hit after hit to fill the silence as he steadily heads toward your dorm. You’re only a few minutes away, no more than 7 if the stoplights weren’t taking too long, and then Patrick pulls into a gas station. 

You look over at him, your eyes squinted and your eyebrows furrowed. 

“What’re you doing?” 

He puts the car in park next to a pump. “Getting gas,” he tells you factually as if you’re the outrageous one. 

He closes the door before you can argue with him but you reach over and press the button to roll down the window before the battery completely turns off. 

“My dorm is literally right down the street. You couldn’t wait?” You hiss at him through the open window, watching him insert his card and put his PIN in. Unsurprisingly, his PIN is his birth year. 

“It’s easier this way,” he takes his card out of the reader and opens the tank. “Otherwise I would’ve had to double back. Too much work. Waste of gas.” 

You huff and fall back into your seat, just a tad bit upset that Patrick would’ve had the perfect view of your tits if he looked away from the dirtied gas pump for just a second. 

You sit for a moment, tapping your finger against the plastic door handle. You pull a stick of gum out of your purse. 

“Pass me one,” Patrick demands, doesn’t ask. 

You make a point of smacking on your piece as you tell him, “It’s the last one.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls the corner of his lips into his cheek and glances back at the screen steadily counting up. 

He looks back at you. His eyes scan your frame and you can’t help but feel a little satisfied. 

“You look really pretty right now.” He tells you. His compliment should flatter you, and it mostly does, but he gave you those eyes. The ones you’ve seen him throw at multiple women, hoping it would get him what he wants. 

You’re sure that you and him currently share the same wants, but you want him to be a little shameless about it. For the sake of your pride, you can’t give it away this easily. So you retort. 

“Oh my God, Patrick. Fuck off!” Petulantly, you cross your arms over your chest and focus your attention on the mostly empty building in front of you. 

“I’m serious.” And he sounds serious. He sounds earnest. It’s the softest you’ve ever heard Patrick speak and you don’t know if he’s doing it to get in your pants, or if he has no ulterior motives. 

You don’t know which one you prefer more. 

You don’t know how to respond. Silence seems to be the best answer for you. 

It’s not satisfactory for Patrick. “This is usually the part where you’ll accept my compliment. Maybe give one back.”

“That would be the part if I were another one of your conquests. Which I’m not.”

“You wouldn’t be another one of my conquests.”

“You tell everyone that? Or just girls that you think ‘look really pretty’.”

“Alright, whatever. Will thinking that you’re another one of my conquests help you? Would it take some pressure away from all of this?” He gestures wildly between the two of you. The tank reaches its limit behind him and he places the nozzle back in its home. 

He’s back in the car with the engine turned on and his seatbelt on when you respond. 

“It doesn’t matter, Patrick. Because I’m not sleeping with you.”

He laughs. The sound is irritating. It makes your nostrils flare and your skin burn. 

“What’s funny? I didn’t think someone finally not wanting you would be so entertaining.”

“Oh, people don’t want me all the time. You’re just not one of them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” he puts the car into drive and starts off towards your dorm. “I know you wanna sleep with me. It’s fine if you don’t admit it to me, maybe even yourself, but it’s obvious. You’re just too egotistical. You think you’re superior to me because—what? You chose a ‘real job’ over tennis? That doesn’t make you superior, it makes you scared. And that’s okay. You’re scared of your own potential and you’re scared of how bad you want me. That’s fine,” he spits your name out with a natural ease that used to flatter you. Now it pisses you off. “Just don’t walk around like that’s not the truth.” 

You have the urge to tell him to pull the car over. You have the urge to spew out every nasty insult you’ve ever thought about him, some of them even Tashi’s own t words that she’d shared with you after the breakup. But you’re only a block away from your dorm and you refuse to waste your energy on Patrick. That and you know if you try, your voice will crack and you’ll embarrass yourself. 

Instead, you turn the radio up and sit with your anger until Patrick pulls up to your dorm. 

Your seatbelt clicks to free you, the door is unlocked, opened, and closed, and you’re turned to face the entrance when the sound of the window unrolling stops you. 

“Call me when you’re done lying to yourself.”

He doesn’t leave until you’re inside the building. 

Even then, he isn’t gone for long. 

You’re standing in front of the elevator, waiting for the familiar ding! so you can crawl upstairs to your room, call Tashi, and tell her about this horrible night. 

But you knew you wouldn’t be satisfied. You knew the night couldn’t end like this. 

So just when the elevator reaches you and opens its doors, you have your phone pressed to your ear and Patrick’s number ringing. 

He picks up on the second ring and he just laughs. Big and boisterous like you’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. 

You huff, considering hanging up and going upstairs. But you shift your stance and the seam of your jeans presses right into the center of your cunt and you know you couldn’t ignore it anymore. 

“Don’t be an ass. Just come back.” 

When you walk out the door, he’s back in the same spot. 

The car door is opened, the yellow light turning on and illuminating Patrick’s sick fucking smirk, and you don’t say anything as you sit in the passenger seat. You don’t bother clicking your seatbelt on. 

“Why don’t we just go upstairs?” he suggests. 

“I’m not checking you in.” I don’t want proof of this ever happening, is what you don’t say to him. Even without the fine print being verbalized, Patrick knows what you mean. 

He hums, a sound that infuriates you just as much as his laugh, but then he puts the car into gear and starts off towards wherever he’s taking you. 

You end up in the parking lot behind one of the science buildings. It’s empty, completely desolate besides a half-drunken bottle of blue Gatorade and a campus security pole that shines a deep blue. The light isn’t bright enough to penetrate the foggy windows of Patrick’s Honda, but the streetlights that keep the parking lot lit are. 

The white light sits along Patrick’s cheekbones. It’s flat against the straight line of his nose. It’s barely there, right along his prominent cupid bow. 

You can’t help but sit and admire his face. You can’t help but admire the way sweat has started to coat his hairline, threatening to drip down over his thick eyebrows and fall onto his cheek. You can feel your own sweat coming through your pores, but you can’t feel that more than you can feel Patrick’s fingers fucking up into you, two thick digits plunging into your walls over and over again. 

You can’t believe you’re actually doing it, following up on the encouragement from both Tashi and Art. You’re finally giving in to all of those dreams that you pushed out of your mind as soon as you could, or those brief pictures of Patrick’s face in your head whenever you were trying to picture your latest celebrity crush instead. 

Now, Patrick is all you see. 

When you’re verbally asking him to use his mouth on you, you only see Patrick’s smirk. It’s real and raw and right in front of you. And you can’t stop staring. 

Even when he contorts his large body to bring his face right between your legs, and you can only really see from the tip of his nose up, you don’t stop staring. When the pleasure mounts and climbs up your spine, you don’t stop staring, even when your eyes beg to flutter closed just to focus on the pleasure. 

You’re zoned out and you know it. You’re staring at Patrick’s eyes, even when he’s watching your cunt and you can only see his eyelids. Your own eyes have glazed over from refusing to blink, and when you do blink—an action that’s pulled from you when Patrick flicks his tongue over your clit just right—a twin set of tears glide down your cheeks. 

It’s then that Patrick decides to look at you again and you can feel his smile. 

Thinner than usual and more pursed as it’s the position of his lips, but the expression is pressed right up against you and you can feel it so intimately. It’s really a shame that the thing you hate most is the thing that gets you right to the edge. 

Patrick baring his teeth and gently nipping on your clit as he twists his fingers inside of you is the thing that makes you throw your hand out to grip the back of the passenger seat, your back arching as your mouth throws out moans that you don’t mean to be as loud as they are. 

And Patrick just helps you ride through it. Even when you hook your legs around his head and twist your fingers into his hair, keeping his face dangerously close to your cunt, he helps you out. He’s more generous than you would’ve thought, and you don’t want to think about how many orgasms Patrick Zweig would be willing to give you before asking for one of his own. So you don’t. 

Instead, you think about the way you’re grinding your cunt against Patrick’s face. As soon as you realize you’re doing it, you stop. You unhook your legs and let his hair go and when he comes up for air, you refuse to meet his eye. 

After all of that staring, you suddenly are completely uninterested in Patrick’s blue eyes, including the little speck of blood-orange he has in them. 

Patrick snickers and with him being this close to you, you can smell yourself on his breath. Why does that make you want to kiss him more?

“Come on. After I just made you cum you won’t even look at me?”

You reach above you to click the car light on and immediate regret finds you. Because now that there’s a substantial amount of light in the car, you can see the way Patrick’s clean-shaven chin, plump lips, and perky nose shine. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where all of the shimmer has come from, especially not when the evidence is still smeared all over your pussy and inner thighs. 

You dart your eyes to the side, looking at Patrick’s floor in search of the firetruck red pair of panties you were wearing. You look, and look, pushing away bottles and plastic bags and a pair of sneakers, and when you don’t find them, you huff and try to reach around Patrick to grab your jeans that have landed on the center console. 

He bends out of the way, letting you grab the jeans, waiting for your next move. 

“You can take me back to my dorm now.”

He hesitates. He doesn’t say anything. And then, “Don’t you want me to fuck you?” he asks it as if he knows the answer. 

You know the answer. Still, you look at him, feigning unimpressed with your jeans hanging limply in your hands. You should put them back on. You’ve got what you came here for, a really good orgasm, and now it’s time you start working on the paper you’ve been putting off. A paper you absolutely despised. A paper that you would do anything to escape, or at least put off a bit. 

Anything including letting Patrick Zweig fuck you. 

Yeah, that’s not the only reason why you let Patrick fuck you. You’ve wanted him for a while and you’ve been fairly obvious about it. The classic childhood approach to your attraction wasn’t fooling anyone. Masking your attraction with annoyance didn’t do anything but make you want him more. 

In the end, it wasn’t effective, as it still brought you here:

On your hands and knees in the back of Patrick’s car, letting him defile you from the back, remaining completely uncaring of the heat and the volume of your moans. 

You’ll admit, this isn’t how you imagined fucking Patrick. You imagined it being somewhere more appropriate, for starters. In a bed or on a couch perhaps. But everything else about it, you’ve imagined. 

The way he fucks you, rough and without abandon, is how you imagined it. The way he just takes and takes is how you imagined it. Late at night when you would slip your hands between your thighs, hoping to provide even a bit of reprieve, you imagined it like this. 

You imagined his grunts right in your ear. You imagined the feeling of his balls slapping against your cunt. You imagined the feeling of his hands on your hips. But now you don’t have to imagine, it’s all real. 

“Good?” Patrick asks from behind you. 

Your lips move on their own accord. “‘s so good. Just like I imagined.” 

You regret the admission as soon as it’s in the stiff air. You regret even thinking about it whenever Patrick snickers, curt and confident. 

“Just like you imagined, huh? Knew you—fuck, you feel good—I knew you wanted me.” 

His words are redundant at this point. It’s obvious that you’ve wanted Patrick the entire time. Now, he just wants to rub it in your face. He’s treating you like a pet, a big hand on the back of your head and rubbing your face in the mess you’ve made. Quite literally, as he palms the back of your head and pushes your face down into the seat at one point, smearing your nose in the sweat and arousal left over from your first orgasm. 

But he’s not reprimanding you. He’s encouraging you. 

He’s hooking a hand over your shoulder and pulling you back onto each of his thrusts. He’s hunching over your body as best as he can in the tight space and resting his head against your spine. 

When you feel a glob of drool meets the center of your back, it suddenly occurs to you that Patrick has wanted this as much as you have. He’s been chasing after you the entire time, apparently, if you could trust the words of Art and Tashi. 

You tune in, allowing yourself to hear him, to be with him in this brief moment. You’re made aware of his groans, how deep and throaty they are, how sincere they are. You notice how the drag of his cock out of you is slower than the push back in. It’s almost as if he’s savoring the time that he’s in you, prolonging it as long as possible. Yet, he slides out nearly all the way, only stopping when his mushroom tip is settled within you, your cunt clasped around it like a vice. And then he glides back in, swift and gentle. 

Over and over again. And no matter how much he’s trying to prolong it, no matter how much he’s trying to prevent the inevitable, it approaches steadily. You’re close before you notice it, hands gripping the door handle and the leather seats. 

You don’t warn him. If you feared he was going to stop or change something, maybe you would have told him that you were close. But Patrick isn’t one to change something that’s working well so you really had nothing to worry about. 

Soon enough, when your orgasm is at its peak and you’re letting noise after noise spill past your lips, Patrick joins you. His forehead resting against your shoulder, his hips sloppily knocking into yours. 

It’s harmonious. Possibly the most (willingly) in tune you and Patrick Zweig have ever been. Likely the most willingly in tune the two of you will ever be. 

When it’s over, it’s over. There’s no more harmony. You nudge yourself back, getting Patrick off of you. You abandon the search for your panties and just settle with slipping your jeans back on, doing the same for your bra and shirt. You climb into the front seat, leaving Patrick in the back to catch his breath and redress. 

He leaves the car to walk around to the driver's side and you use that one moment where he isn’t there to ask yourself what the fuck?

The drive back is silent. No music, no conversation, just the sound of rubber against asphalt. Patrick asks you one thing. 

“Do you wanna go anywhere else?”

“I’m fine.”

And then you’re back at your dorm. You take a moment, mulling over your possibilities. You could have Patrick park in a visitor's spot, come up to your dorm, and spend time with you. You could resort back to your usual banter, maybe throw in an insult that doesn’t have to do with the way he defiled you just a few minutes ago (because there really isn’t anything negative you could say about that). 

Instead, you open the door and step out. 

“Thanks,” is all you tell him. 

When you get upstairs, you consider the possibility of telling Tashi or Art. Instead, you take a shower and go to sleep.