#i might need to think about this i love how fucked up the patricks are if you think about it fkdjdj

[idciminlove]

Take a Slice

Part Five - Casual

f!reader x Tashi Duncan x Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig

Cinnamonacid on AO3

Warnings- arguments, angst, jealous Tashi, situationship struggles, homoerotic friendship struggles, etc.

You have to deal with making some difficult choices.

Song inspo: Casual- Chappel Roan

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Art paced around the living room, anxious and angry. Tashi stood and watched him, her arms folded, while Patrick sat on the couch. “Wanting to train her professionally? I thought we agreed to put our family first after Patrick retired. I thought you were happy with training the girls at the foundation.”

Tashi sighed. “I am.”

“Clearly, you’re not. It’s never enough for you, is it? What if she said yes, huh? Would you go on tour with her? Lily’s too old for that. She needs stability.”

“What, you think I would just run off with her? She’s not even ready to go on tour yet. She would just be a side project. I’d start off training her twice a week, when I wasn’t working at the foundation, and once she started showing improvement, things would get more serious. I know what I’m doing, Art. You know I love you, and Lily, and Patrick. I take care of our family and the both of you just fine. You need to trust me.” She remarked.

“This isn’t just about tennis, Tashi. I know that. I know you want her, and it’s not a good idea. She’s young, a lot younger than us, and she might not know how to handle this.” He gestured to the three of them.

“What did she say when you offered to train her?” Patrick interjected.

Tashi gripped her arm sleeve tightly in annoyance. “She said that she’d think about it, and that she has people she doesn’t want to leave.”

“‘People?’” Patrick cocked an eyebrow, a little smirk crossing his face.

“Her doubles partner, I’m assuming. She’s pussy whipped even worse than you, if that’s possible. Came in with all these hickeys on her neck, which she tried to cover up with concealer.” Jealousy was clear in her voice, along with her irritation. Patrick snickered quietly.

“I’m giving her an opportunity, a real chance, and she’s willing to give up everything for her. Everything she’s ever done, everything she’s ever worked for. It’s fucking stupid.”

Art’s expression softened, and he found himself locking eyes with Patrick. Maybe he knew you better than he thought. Maybe you could fit into this. Maybe he should give you a chance.

He sighed, running a hand over his face, feeling the cool metal of his wedding ring burning against his cheek, taunting him. “She’s going to need some time. Let her figure everything out. She’ll come back to you.”

“How do you know?” Tashi asked.

“I saw how she was looking at you at the end of the match. She wanted you to see. She wanted you to be impressed. She wanted you…who wouldn’t?” He took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Tashi smiled at him.

Patrick got to his feet, gazing at the two. “Wait, so you’re in?”

“I guess so, are you?” Art replied.

“..Yeah.”

–

“So, how did it go?” Anneliese questioned as she sat across the table from you in the dining hall. Honestly, you didn’t know how to answer that. There was so much that happened, so many feelings, so many conflicts. Thinking back on it made you dizzy. It was like a puzzle you were trying to piece together in your head.

“I think I blew it.” You admitted.

She furrowed her eyebrows. “What? What do you mean?”

“It went fine, I guess, but she said she wanted to train me to play professionally, and I told her that I need to think about it, and she wasn’t very happy with that.”

“Why?”

You messed with the food on your tray, unable to meet her stare. “I don’t know, it was a lot, and I- I couldn’t give her an answer right away-”

“This is your dream. You worked so hard, and you told her you need to think about it?”

“I know, but doing this means leaving school and leaving everyone behind. It means leaving you behind. It means no more practices or matches together, no more bus rides, no more shared hotel rooms. It means no more us.”

“So you want to give it all up for me? That’s fucking stupid. There is no ‘us.’ We’re not even together. This is just..casual. You know that, and I won’t let you throw everything you worked so hard for away.”

Her words stung. Moving from state to state with your mother made it hard for you to make new friends, and even harder to keep them. She had been your first best friend, the first person that actually stuck around in your life. You loved her so much and you knew she loved you too, but she’s right.

You bit your lip, fighting back tears. She reached across the table, resting her hand on yours and giving it a comforting squeeze. “It’s not like you’re going to be moving across the country, you’ll only be an hour or so away. You can visit me and I can visit you. I’ll go see your matches and you can see mine. We’ll make it work, I promise. But I’m begging you, please don’t give up your dreams for me.”

You wanted to believe her, you really did, but you’ve heard those words too often before. Empty promises that they’ll keep in touch, that they won’t forget you, that they’ll make it work. It never does.

Your heart felt heavy in your chest. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look her in the eyes. “Okay, I’ll send her a text and let her know that I’m ready. I’m going to do this.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good.”

–

You: I thought about it and I’m ready

You: I want to do this. I want to play professionally and I’d be honored to have you train me.

Tashi had been waiting impatiently for that text, checking her phone constantly. She wanted Art to be right, she really did, but she had her doubts. Now, as she stared down at her phone, those doubts dissipated, replaced with feelings of satisfaction and excitement instead.

Tashi: I think you made the right decision

Tashi: Lmk your schedule and I’ll set something up

[vonlipvig]

Isn't Patrick married? Does Not Patrick lice with them now!?

WAIT HE IS, he says so during sportsboard, right?

I NEVER CONSIDERED THAT INTO NOT PATRICK'S EXISTENCE OH MY GOD. INCREDIBLY FUCKED UP.

[runningthroughthegarden]

dumb young love

1.9k words, summary: when art leaves you in the dust for tashi, a part of you breaks. after an argument art realizes how desperately in love he is with you.

request from @fangirlinc :)

you had gone and done the one thing everyone had warned you not to do. you had fallen in love with your best friend. i mean how could you not? he was handsome, charming, talented, funny, everything you could want in a man and more. you both had such bright futures ahead of you and just loved being in each others company. which is why you never felt the need to profess your love to him. but lately you've been rethinking this choice. 

you obviously knew how close art and patrick were, i mean you guys all practically grew up with each other. this dynamic never really bothered you, why would it? that all changed once tashi came into the picture. 

you had been there, at the match where it all started. you had come to support them like you always had, but within those few days something had shifted and you had no idea why. suddenly the boys were ditching you to go to a party you didn't even know they cared about. 

they had come back to you the next day, raving about how amazing tashi was and the night they spent together. you noticed a glint in art’s eye that wasn't there before, and you tried your hardest to suppress the jealousy you were feeling. 

that day, when patrick won the match, you couldn't help but feel relieved that art would remain yours just for a little longer. what you didn't realize is that art didnt care if patrick was with tashi, because he was still head over heels for her.

 

“hey are we gonna have dinner tonight?” you ask, throwing another tennis ball over the net.

“yeah, just gotta get back to my room and shower” art replies, hitting back the ball with a distraught look on his face. 

“is it tashi?” you sigh.

“what? no-no. i'm just stressed about my next match” he replies, walking over to the bench. 

“you're art donaldson. you’re never stressed about a match. c'mon just tell me” you say as you walk over to him. 

“its just. patrick called and all he can fucking talk about is how amazing tashi is. and then i walk around campus and all i hear is how amazing tashi is. no matter what i do i can’t escape her.” he confesses, putting his head in his hands.

“i can’t imagine you ever wanting to escape her” you reply, letting out a forced laugh. 

“what?” 

“cmon art, from the day you lost that match it’s like your entire world changed or something. i mean all of a sudden your whole life revolves around this girl” you scoff. 

“y/n i really don’t need this shit from you, i’ll see you later” he scoffs, picking up his bag and leaving the court. 

“art!” you call out, only for him to leave you there alone.

standing there you think back to when everything was fine. how art would link his pinky with yours as you walked. the way he would call you everyday when he had to travel for matches. the nights you spent in his dorm trying to cram week's worth of studying into one night. the way he would so effortlessly plant kisses to your forehead. the moments you thought he might actually be in love with you. but now all you had were those memories. 

 

before you knew it, all art was doing was hanging out and helping tashi train. he had been your training partner first, so it hurt like hell to be left in the dust. you decided to try and let it go and focus on winning your matches. your most important match was coming up and you couldn't let your silly love life get in the way. the one person you had always dreamed of being coached by was going to be at your match. so you knew you had to train like crazy to get to work with them. 

a part of you was hoping maybe art would see how amazing your match would be, and finally start paying attention to you again. but you knew you were holding onto false hope. 

 

the day of your match had finally come, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. this was such an important moment for your career and you couldn't shake those nerves. but you knew seeing art up in the stands would give you the boost of confidence you needed. 

the first set was about to start and you still didn’t see art in the stands. you felt your heart skip a beat at the thought that he might not show up. he would never do that to you. right? 

the first set had started and for a moment, the world around you started to fade. you may have hated tashi, but man was she right about tennis. you were performing flawlessly and you knew all the hard work was finally going to pay off. 

after winning your first set, you go back to your seat, taking a breather and still scanning the crowd for art. he was still nowhere to be found and you could feel your sadness turning into anger. deciding to use that as fuel, you prepare yourself for your next set. the rest of the game goes flawlessly and you know this is the best you have ever played. 

hitting the winning point, you stand in shock as cheers come from the stands. thanking your opponent you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face. that is until you spot art in the stands. you could feel all the anger and resentment you suppressed fighting to be released. this had been your best game yet, and there art was, to ruin it.

packing up your bag, you felt a presence behind you. all spectators and coaches were long gone so you knew exactly who was behind you. turning around to face art, you push past him not wanting to hear a word he has to say. 

“y/n please i-” art calls out, quickly catching up with you.

“you what art?!” you yell, turning around to face him.

“you forgot? you had homework? you lost track of time? oh better yet, maybe you were with tashi?” you continue, looking up at him. you could feel hot tears threatening to spill from your eyes. 

he stays silent and thats all the answer you need. 

“oh my god you were” you whisper, stepping back from him. 

“please just let me explain” art pleads, a look of desperation you’d never seen before. 

“today was the most important day to me. and i really thought that as my best friend you would at least care a little more. but i know where your priorities lay. and i'm done fighting for a spot i’ll never get” you say as tears quickly spill onto your cheeks. 

art’s hand reaches up to brush away your tears, but you step back. 

“stay the fuck away from me art” you choke out, quickly walking back to your room. 

 

the next few days were hell. spending each day crying in your bed, you had lost not only the love of your life but your best friend. you had gotten a call offering to be coached by someone you could only ever dream of working with. you should’ve felt happy, ecstatic even, but the last conversation you had with art was still ringing through your head. he had called you far too many times and texted you even more. but you had ignored every single one. the first day he came knocking on your door, but gave up after an hour of waiting. the apology flowers he had sent you sat on your desk. you had no idea what you were going to do. until, you got a text from patrick. 

patrick 

hi love, art told me about what happened im sorry. 

y/n

hi, you don’t have to apologize for him being stupid

patrick

do you want to hang out today? try to get your mind off of him

y/n 

actually i would love to

patrick 

meet me outside at 2

getting ready to see patrick was a highlight from these past few days. while you were enjoying your sulking you knew you had to get out at some point. going out to the courtyard, you see patrick sitting on a picnic blanket. your favorite foods and snacks were neatly laid next to him. you felt yourself genuinely smiling for the first time in a really long time. you spent the next hour eating your favorite meal and laughing at stupid shit with patrick. although your heart still hurt, you could feel your spirits rising. 

“thank you for this patrick, it’s all so lovely” you smile. 

“of course i’ll always be here for you” he gleams, pushing away the hair around your face and leaning in to kiss your forehead. 

“what the fuck?!” 

you would recognize that voice anywhere. 

“art what are you doing here?” patrick stands up to face him. 

“oh i dont know maybe i go to school here? what the fuck are you doing here patrick?!” he replies, getting closer to patrick. 

“seriously y/n? you run off to patrick?” he questions, obviously distraught but you can't seem to place why. 

“hey you don’t get to blame her for this” patrick replies. 

“oh fuck off patrick would you let her speak” 

grabbing arts hand, you quickly lead him away from the public spectacle this was all becoming. 

“what the hell is wrong with you art?” you yell, shutting your room door. 

“i mean, you completely forgot about me for some other girl and now you're mad at me? none of this makes sense, you broke my heart. you don't get to be angry.” you continue, feeling tears brim your eyes. 

he paces for a second, running his hands through the curls you missed so much. 

“im in love with you” he stops, looking down at you. 

it felt like you were dreaming, like you were imagining the words that just came out of his mouth. 

“i always have been. i've just been so stupid about it. when tashi came around i threw myself at her because i thought there was no way you would ever feel that way towards me. and i know i fucked up by doing that, i really really fucked up. but when i picture my life i see you, i've only ever seen you. and seeing you with patrick, i was scared i lost you. i'm sorry y/n, i really am. i would do anything to take it back.” he confesses. 

“you’re so stupid!” you yell, pushing his shoulders. 

“ive been in love with you for like, forever!” you look up at him, confused as to how he never realized. 

“really?” he asks, pure shock all over his face. 

“yes! i thought it was obvious” you frown. 

before you knew it he was holding your face in his hands, planting a kiss on your lips. in that moment everything felt right, like the stars had aligned. 

“y’know i'm still mad at you” you look up at him, placing your hands over his. 

“trust me, i will do everything to make it up to you. i'm just glad you're finally mine” he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face as he kissed you again. 

[poppy-metal]

NEED to be tashi’s innocent stepsister who Patrick’s just obsessed with whilst he’s dating her. Your sister is your whole world, Patrick can see that. You look at tashi like she hung the moon in the sky herself and if he looks too closely he can see the lust for her in your eyes, buried beneath all that admiration.

So of course he decides to be proactive about it. One night he’s staying over at your parent’s place and as the evening rolls around he fucks tashi. Like fucks her, making sure she’s gushed over his cock at least three times, making him alllll nice and wet. He waits for her to fall asleep and sneaks into your room to shove his cock in your mouth.

At first you’re a bit dubious about it, you would never want to hurt your sister but as soon as that sweet, tangy, indescribable taste hits your tongue you can’t help but go to town on his hard cock.

“You like that?” He teases you from above, jerking his hips mercilessly into your mouth “taste good?”

You gargle out something akin to an agreement before he’s bending down to groan into your ear “you better savour that shit up, that’s the taste of your sister’s pussy”

Might come off anon might not but for the time being can I pretty please be ur sweet 🐉 if it’s not taken?

🐉 when I catch you,,,,, when i catch you,,,,,

hhhhh you hate that patrick has power over you and you even more that you kinda like it - it was easier when he was just tashi's dumbfuck boyfriend you hated for stealing her attention. you were so sure you were sneaky about it, your admiration innocent in appearance - your preening under her attention just the sweetness of a younger sister. no one had to know you stole your big step!sisters panties and rubbed your pussy raw while you sniffed them. no one had to know you secretly seethed with jealousy when she regailed a story about how she fucked a girl on her strap once, no one had to know how you fucked yourself on your dildo imagining your big sister breaking open your virgin pussy on her big plastic cock - and when she got a stupid fucking boyfriend no one had to know you pressed your ear to the wall and humped your pillow to wet slapping sounds of patrick fucking her - the headboard slapping the very wall your ear rested against - her moans mixed with his animalistic grunts making your cunt gush - filled with so much jealousy, and want, and lust - you forgot to muffle your whimper when you came - that's what gave you away.

and when patrick started paying extra attention to you afterwards it made you uncomfortable. face flushing when he'd purposely tease you, bump his shoulder against yours when he plopped down next to you on the couch and leaned in way too close - the scent of his cologne and boy smell invading your nose and you told yourself you were grossed out by it, annoyed, scrunched your nose and shoved at him - his attention made you uncomfortable because it made you wet and you didn't want to have the hots for your stepsisters boyfriend when you already had the hots for her.

but when tashi would get all huffy and snap at patrick to leave you alone and threaten him you'd think you wanted patrick to bother you alot more if it meant tashi would get all protective over you like that. you loved when she got invested in you, that she vetted all the boys you went on dates with and hardly any of them impressed her - so you rarely dated at all.

you knew you could never have her though. she was too focused and driven - you doubted her and patrick were even serious - and you were in love with her. plus - you knew she was religious too, and even if she was okay with fucking around and having sex, you doubted fucking her little sister would be passable to her. she'd think you were gross and a pervert. she was perfect and was gonna be a tennis star and get married to a man someday and have a big family and be famous and you didn't fit into that. that didn't stop you from wanting though. from desiring. from being a freak.

freak enough to suck her boyfriends cock when he cornered you one night and confessed to knowing what a little pervert you were. you felt bad - you really did, this was tash's man, and she could act all tough and independent as much as she liked, but you knew she cared about patrick - he was cheating on her, technically, by propositioning you. the right thing would have been to tell her everything, despite what patrick might reveal about you - but you were far far far away from being a good girl.

you did try to resist, called patrick an asshole and a horrible person - you tried to be a good sister, but the second patrick gripped your hand and guided it to under his sweats, to his bare, sticky cock - and said - "v'got your sisters pussy all over my dick. you wanna taste her don't you, you little freak?"

you'd been helpless after that - and you'd always been naturally submissive, and yeah maybe you'd always admired how hot patrick was, but you'd never felt anything deeper about it, because it wasn't comparable to what you felt for tashi - but right then, at the moment, with him towering over you all intimidating and tall and his hair mussed from being in tashi's bed all night - you sunk to your knees for him, too easily.

let me be a bad sister in secret, you thought as you opened your mouth to receive patricks cock - if it meant it was the only way you'd ever get to taste your sisters cunt - you'd be fucking terrible.

patrick groans when you sink your mouth around him - his grip on your hair tight and hard. "lick the whole thing - fuck yeah, suck her off me -"

god, you really could taste her. a tangy saltiness on his cock that wasn't just his skin - the sticky film of what must have been her orgasm covering his thick shaft that you lapped at like a kitten, holding his cock up so you could lick the underside too- get every last remaint of her off his cock and onto your tongue - whining as you did it -

patrick reached down to grip himself for you, holding himself out of your way and pushing your head even further between his legs - "get my balls too. she was fuckin' drippin' all over them."

you'd given head before - albeit alot less enthusiastically then this - but you'd never given special attention to a man's balls. never had the desire too.

patricks balls are heavy things - he's got a fat sac, and you can see the individual balls inside the fleshy skin, like two well - balls, you suppose. or two ripe fruits. they hang from how full they are - the skin around them a little loose. they look meaty. the musk there is even more prominent too, more distinctive - he's got alot of fuzz down there and you should be disgusted - you know for a fact tashi isn't licking these balls, she'd said as much when she told you how much she hated giving head - and you'd agreed that it sucked, only for her to flick your forehead and tell you you shouldn't be sucking anyone's dick, because no one was good enough to be on your knees for -

and isn't that another thought? how angry she'd be at the fact that you're such a slut? on your knees and liking it. salivating at the smell of a man's sweaty balls inches from your face - she'd be so disappointed. your cunt throbs and you moan as you lean forward to lap at his sac.

your hand reaches between your legs as you explore his balls with your tongue - laving your tongue in circles across the silken flesh, suprised by how soft he is here, despite the hair, which you surprisingly don't mind - you're liking this alot more than you thought you ever would -

"fuck - knew you'd be such a fucking slut. open your mouth - " you do so eagerly, and he pushed your face almost entirely between his thick thighs, until your mouth is directly under his balls, "- yeah, just like that. shit, you're good at that."

he lowers his balls into your mouth and you close your lips around one of the fleshy stones - pulling and sucking it into your mouth with long swallows. like you're trying to pull it all the way into the back of your throat. you pull and suck pull and suck until he plops free from your mouth with a wet sound and he doesn't even have to ask before you're giving the same treatment to the other one - until his whole sac is wet and gleaming with your saliva and drool.

god, you feel insane - your mind is fuzzy - your nose is pressed up against the underside of his fat cock, hid knuckles bumping against the ridge of it because he's fucking jerking himself off while you gurgle on his nuts - he's disgusting and deplorable but you're not better, your tongue sneaking back to lick the underside of his sack, to his perineum, your head bobbing as you suck and suck and suck.

he just feels so warm in your mouth - squishy and full and the sensation is as fun as the taste is salty and good on your tongue - you're enjoying yourself so much that when he pulls you back you actually try to dive back in - forlorn as you stare at his dripping sac, wanting to go back, lap and lick and lave at them for hours -

you're not left wanting for long though, as she's soon feeding you the tip of his cock, and then more - your mouth stretching and splitting as he forces himself down your tight throat - "shittttt" he grunts, half hunched over you, and his palm slaps on the wall behind you, he looks down at you with the most debauched expression, pupils blown out, hair dark and wild, lips bitten red - and you feel a wash of pride that your mouth undid him that much - hate yourself for it -

he gets you all the way down, all the way to his thick base - until the thick thatch of hair at his pelvis, wirey and dark is brushing your upper lip and nose - he lets out the most pornographic moan that's so loud you actually feel a flash of panic that tashi will hear and coming barging in and see your mouth split wide around her boyfriends dick and - fuck why did that just make your clit pulse?

"she can't take me like this," he tells you - "she starts spitting up before I can even get - fuck - halfway down. but look at you - " he shakes your head a little, kind of jiggles it on his cock, moving it inside your mouth, and your throat constricts at the same time your pussy throbs and throbs and throbs - "you fuckin took that shit - oh fuck, if she knew what a little cocksucking slut her baby sister was - what d'you think? think she'd be proud?" his free hand comes down to cup your cheek, and he pushes against you so that his cock shifts in your mouth, pushes against the side of your cheek that he's cupping, his thumb strokes over your skin in faux tenderness.

you should bite his dick off - talking about tashi like that - so what if she can't deepthroat him? but you're so turned on, you can't help it. you can't even pinpoint why. you don't get off on the thought of hurting tashi - you'd rather kill yourself than upset her - and if you knew for certain if she knew about this and she'd cry over it, you'd gut patrick like a pig yourself.

but.

but then you think of her being proud - like he said. of her watching how much of her boyfriends cock you can take and being impressed.

you're not good at tennis - and that kills you - because it's tashis lifeblood - it's the very essence of her being. her one true love.

but what if this was something she could be impressed by? you'd always thought you'd only be happy with a guy if they were hand picked by tashi. almost like you wanted her to be there holding your hand with you on the dates you went on - there with you when you were kissing them - instructing them on how to do it, how to make it good for you - you never let them touch your cunt because in your head, you always knew, tashi would never approve of this guy taking my virginity.

obviously she approved of patrick enough for herself. and she did have high standards.

was this why you were letting this happen? you didn't know - you didn't want to analyze - it just felt good in the moment - so you moaned around him, and you reached into your panties and you touched your wet pussy as you let patrick zweig fuck your face in way he never would your sister's.

and when he cums, hot and pulsing on your tongue and down your throat - when he grunts - "stick out your tongue and show me", you open your mouth wide to show him you swallowed it all down. he grips your chin and his eyes shine with pleasure. an approval that sends shockwaves straight to your throbbing little clit.

he leans back, tucks his softening, wet cock back into his sweats - and you think he means to leave you - leave you to deal with all your conflicting emotions but then he scrubs a hand down his jaw. appraises you.

"you're a virgin?"

had tashi told him you were? or did it leak from your pores?

"what's it to you?" because, really. why did he care?

patrick tongues the inside of his cheek - and you hope he doesn't notice the way you squeeze your thighs together. you hate how fucking stupid hot he is. you wish tashi had gone for someone ugly, one of those "I don't know how he bagged her when she's a 10 and he's a 2" kinda situations, but no, because tashi was vain, and didn't date ugly people.

"I can fix that for you, if you want."

you stare at him. he'd said is so casually, like he was a math tutor offering to help you understand math homework better and not the guy dating your sister who he knew you wanted to fuck you -

"dude, what the fuck? you're dating my stepsister."

patrick raises an eyebrow. "didn't give a fuck about that when you were gargling my nuts just a second ago."

"you don't deserve her."

"yeah, no shit." he scoffs. straightens and shrugs like it's not big deal, though there was definitely a tinge of bitterness to that statement. he leaves your room, stopping at your doorframe to add, "just an offer. text me if you change your mind, yeah? we can work something out."

he slaps the top of your doorframe in a ridiculously boyish gesture as he leaves and you stare after him. dumbfounded.

of course you masturbate to the memory of the whole ordeal immediately after - still throbbing and horny from it all - and after you're left so empty and wanting, starting at your ceiling as your chest heaves up and down, and you can't help but think how similar you and patrick are, more than you'd thought. you both love tashi. you both kind of hate her for the power she holds over you. you're both kinda fucked up sexually, though patrick definitely has more experience than you.

and it's not like tashi is ever going to want you back - or actually be the one to take your virginity - so why not patrick? she'll break up with him soon, anyway. a fact even patrick seems to be aware of. it can just be a quick affair, a secret tryst. the closest you'll ever get to your big sister - and a way to scratch that perverted itch inside of you.

you last a week before you cave and text him.

[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.

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

[egcdeath]

sealing the deal

pairing: patrick zweig x reader

summary: you and patrick make a few unique business proposals to each other.

word count: 7k

warnings: succession au – tomshiv dynamic (pre-failmarriage), proposals (business and romantic), fluff, a little angst, mentions of a dad being very sick/almost dying, lots of exposition/background on the relationship, art cameo, a little domesticity, established relationship

author’s note: you don’t have to know anything about succession to enjoy this fic! i’ll explain everything that you need to know. if you’re a diehard succession fan i can’t promise that everything will be completely faithful to the source material but it definitely takes a lot of inspiration from tom and shiv’s dynamic.

i wanted to give a HUGE thank you to my succession anon who gave me so much help and guidance for this fic and basically ended up being my co-author for this fic! i hope you all enjoy :)

It wasn’t always easy loving the youngest son of the owner of a multi-billion dollar media conglomerate. 

In fact, most of the time, it was quite the opposite. 

Even without Patrick working in his family’s business, it always felt a little bit like you were in a competition for brain space and time with his family and career, and you were losing. Badly. 

You weren’t exactly sure that you knew what you signed up for when you first met Patrick—connected to each other by a mutual friend you went to business school with, whom you’d begged to try to set you two up for career advancement purposes more than anything else. 

“You know that guy you keep asking me about?” your friend asked you after taking a hefty sip from the drink the bartender just passed her. 

“Patrick Zweig?” you asked, not bothering to pretend like you didn’t know who she was talking about. 

“Yeah!” she laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. You weren’t sure where she was going with this subject, but you were intrigued by her mention of the man and her apparent entertainment at the situation. 

“What about him?” you asked, perversely curious as to why she was bringing him up now. 

“I invited him to come out with us tonight!” she laughed once more as she divulged this information, as if it wasn’t shocking news to you.  

“What? What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me before!” you practically yelled at her over the sound of loud music and other bar patrons. You suddenly felt very self conscious. If you’d known you were going to meet Patrick Zweig tonight, you would’ve put yourself together, rather than coming straight from work to the bar. 

“I wanted to surprise you!” she continued with her giggling at a situation that you did not find nearly as humorous. “Oh my god. I wish you could see your face right now.”

“I hate you!” you laughed, thinking that maybe this was some sort of prank. “You’re joking, then?”

“No, he’s really coming. He just got back from D.C. and wanted to meet with me. I asked if my hot friend could come along and he was like, ‘Obviously!’”

You groaned aloud. This wasn’t how you intended to make your first impression on him.

“Okay, well, what’s his type?” you asked her, hoping to get a bit of insight before you were launched right into what might end up being your first date. You were sure that you would make a good impression if you showed up as you were, but you wanted to be better than good. You didn’t want to be just another forgettable notch on his bedpost.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, taking a sip from her drink. “Hot? A nice ass? A little mean? Isn’t that every guy’s type?”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough for me,” you replied. You wanted to have a strategy going into this. You would’ve appreciated at least a small briefing before meeting someone so intimidating. 

“I am, you just check all the boxes already. Just be yourself and I’m sure things will work out fine,” she assured you. 

Her assurance was well warranted, considering that things worked out far better than fine. In fact, your friend was overdue for a fruit basket—one that you would be paying for with Patrick’s credit card as you sat in the dining room of your shared penthouse apartment, after you wrapped up a day of work in the skyscraper that was his father’s corporate headquarters. 

At the time, you had a slight idea of who he was, but you had an even better idea of who his family was. Anyone who owned a television would be familiar with his family’s corporation—from the causal channel surfers who passed one of their many news channels during their search for the newest episode of The Bachelor, to the thousands of people with their logo burned into their device screen from the hours they spent with their eyes locked on the 24-hour stream of borderline propaganda. 

Beyond his impressive family, you’d heard whispers and rumors about Patrick for a long time. Between headlines in gossip magazines and stories from your mutual friend, you learned that he’d entered the political world as an attempt to make a name for himself outside of his family name, but struggled to be taken seriously for many years due to the less than stellar reputation that came with being a Zweig.

Although, rumors about his career were just the tip of the iceberg. Gossip about his tumultuous relationships—if they could even be called that—and history of partying far too hard often ran wild, making you believe that your initial meetings with Patrick would be nothing more than a few hookups and sweet talking yourself into a new job. After all, there was no better pillow talk than an elevator pitch. 

At first, your plan seemed like it was right on track. You ended your first night together in the early morning, finding yourself in Patrick’s apartment for hours. Your night hadn’t really ever ended, with the two of you leaving the bar together, having some of the best sex of your life in a bed that felt a little bit like laying on a cloud, then proceeding to talk for hours until it was time for you to go back to work. You smiled to yourself as you sat in the backseat of Patrick’s car, exhausted from the long night and a little uncomfortable in yesterday’s clothes, but mostly enthusiastic after your surprisingly eventful night with the man. 

It was a strange turn of events from what you initially expected. While you couldn’t be too sure what you were getting yourself into when you learned you were being set up on a date, you assumed that Patrick would be like any other rich asshole you’d gone out on dates with, who got what they wanted from you, sent you off on your merry way, then never spoke to you again. You quickly discovered that he was unlike anyone you’d ever been with before. 

Patrick seemed to be full of surprises, and the fact that you were going on multiple dates with him in the first place was one of those very surprises. You hadn’t expected to go on any more than three dates before you asked about working for his family, securing yourself a job, then leaving him alone. 

What took you by even greater surprise were the dates themselves. What started as an intimate dinner in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city ended with you at a terrible 24-hour diner, treating Patrick to his first slice of cherry pie as you talked into the wee hours of the morning. 

Your subsequent dates went similarly, with the two of you talking endlessly about anything and everything. Patrick was someone full of surprises—he was far from the rich asshole you expected him to be, and more like a knowledgeable politics nerd with a lot of money. 

You talked for hours about big things, like why Patrick decided to pursue a career as a political strategist and what brought you to New York City, but you also found it easy to discuss small random things with him, spending an extended period of time discussing how you named your cat, and debating on the best restaurant in the city. 

You always thought of yourself as being somewhat agreeable and friendly when it came to conversation, but your discussions with Patrick took you by surprise. You weren’t sure you’d ever clicked with someone the way you clicked with him, and it made you as excited as it made you nervous. 

By the time you worked up the nerve to ask Patrick about working for his family, you were already beat to the punch. The two of you were tucked into the booth that you’d recently declared as yours in the same diner that you seemed to be spending all of your all-nighters in, reclining comfortably in the particularly uncomfortable seats. 

“Do you like the business side of things?” Patrick asked you, stirring a flattening Diet Coke with a straw. 

“It’s fun,” you dismissed. “It’s less fun going to work on a half-hour of sleep.”

“Shut up. You love it,” the man across from you laughed, an admittedly very handsome half-smile on his face. “I mean it though. Do you like what you’re doing?”

“It pays the bills, I guess. I like the work, but I’m not huge on the company. All the politics and the instability with layoffs lately… It isn’t exactly ideal.”

“Would you ever work for my family?” he asked. “I mean, you’re just wasting potential elsewhere. I really think they could use someone like you on their team.”

“Seriously?” you asked, partially surprised at the proposition, but mostly surprised that you weren’t the one to ask in the first place. Across the table, Patrick listened to you intently. “I mean, If they’d have me, I’d love to work for them.”

“My dad mentioned something about them looking for some new blood. I can put in a good word for you, if that sounds interesting to you.”

“Is this because I showed you the joys of a slice of diner cherry pie?” you joked, trying not to let on just how overjoyed you were about this opportunity. 

“You got me. And now that you mention it, we should probably order another slice,” he suggested, going along with your joke. “You’re smart and you clearly know your shit. Besides, I’m mostly doing it for myself. It’ll be nice to have someone around at company Christmas parties who can actually keep up with me.”

“Well, thank you,” you replied calmly, though you were doing somersaults in your mind. “I look forward to drinking eggnog and singing Mariah Carey songs with you.”

In retrospect, you recognized this action as the first of his many wordless declarations of love. You later learned that Patrick did everything he could to avoid talking business with his family, as it was clearly a sore spot for everyone involved. Realizing that he’d gone out of his way to get you a job had been an even more kind gesture than you knew at the time. 

While you initially expected your fling to taper off after Patrick fulfilled his end of the business deal he didn’t even know he was facilitating, your relationship did nothing of the sort. In fact, his favor seemed to have the opposite effect on your bond. 

Before you knew it, the two of you were courting each other like lovesick Jane Austen protagonists. In another shocking turn of events, Patrick ordered flowers to your doorstep each morning and took you on lavish dates, while you began to take four-hour long train rides to and from D.C. each weekend to visit him, and frequently sent him rambling love letters. 

While you hadn’t expected for your relationship to unfold the way that it did, you genuinely loved Patrick. You loved the way his eyes crinkled when you told him something stupid that he’d laugh at, or how he leaned in to whisper something judgmental in your ear about someone you mutually disliked during family events. You loved the way his hand felt in yours and the way his mind worked, which he frequently displayed to you while discussing his latest political strategy. You even loved when he minced words to describe how he felt about you, knowing that though the word ‘love’ might never leave his lips, his actions spoke far louder than his voice ever could. 

It just so happened that you loved his proximity to power, too. 

While his money and power might have piqued your interest initially, it didn’t change the fact that the two of you quickly clicked. You had a natural chemistry, with you matching Patrick’s flirty words and actions with ease. It also just so happened that you entered each other's lives at the perfect time, with you in dire need of a career upgrade, and Patrick in need of someone unafraid to show him more affection and care than he was willing to give. 

Though he wasn’t the best at communicating his feelings, you quickly became a tenured professor in Patrick-ology. You were certain that this played a role in why Patrick liked you so much in the first place—being somewhat emotionally stunted, he needed someone who could understand his thoughts without him having to explicitly say every detail, and you did exactly that. 

This skill worked out surprisingly well for you. You gave him the love and understanding that he’d been looking for and missing for all of his adult life, and you got to reap the benefits that came with being in a relationship with someone in one of the most powerful families in the world. 

Despite your more humble beginnings, you quickly became familiar with luxurious items and activities. You also quickly learned that no matter how prepared you thought you were for that level of wealth—you weren’t. You couldn’t even begin to count the amount of times your unfamiliarity with certain norms left you as the laughing stock of the family. 

But it wasn’t all corner offices in skyscrapers and helicopter rides. During the honeymoon phase of your relationship, it certainly felt like it, but the cracks in your foundation became more and more evident every day. 

The thing was, as much as you two cared about each other, there was a family shaped shadow that loomed over everything that you did. It was clear that you were an outsider in Patrick’s family. Coming from an upper-middle class Midwestern background, you were often made to feel like you were a stupid gold-digger, only staying around your boyfriend for power, rather than love. At times, you wondered if his family knew what love was at all. 

The love, or lack thereof in Patrick’s family was what shocked you most of all. It was no secret that his father was unnecessarily cruel to all of his children, but particularly to his siblings trying to work their way into more serious positions in the company. Patrick somehow managed to dodge that particular flavor of cruelty, with him very obviously being his father’s favorite and working outside of the family business, but the emotional scars his father left still lingered. 

But his father’s presence didn’t just loom over him, it was beginning to loom over you, too. Not only in the extreme intimidation you felt when having to interact with him, but in the small acts of callousness Patrick showed you throughout the course of your relationship. 

It began as small things, things that bothered you less the more you got used to them. Like how he always seemed to unconsciously belittle your work, not even bothering to seem interested in the recaps you gave of your day before he launched into a story of his own about the candidate he was working with. Though you tried your hardest to fight through your smaller pet peeves with him, Patrick’s inability to be straightforward about his emotions felt like the cherry on top of an already painful sundae.

Regardless of all of the flaws, bumps, and roadblocks in your relationship, you promised to yourself that you would be in Patrick’s corner, no matter how ugly things got or how poorly he treated you. Not only out of your own self-interest, but out of your love for the man, and the knowledge of how difficult his upbringing made certain things for him. 

Which was why when you got the call from Patrick that something had gone terribly wrong with his father while coming back from his birthday celebration, you didn’t hesitate to rush to the hospital, encouraging your driver to speed all the way to the building. 

When you arrived, he and his siblings were in disarray in a way you’d never seen before. His father, who was typically a presence that towered over everyone in the room, was reduced to an old man hooked up to a number of machines. His older sisters, who were always either waiting for the moment to swoop in and make a crude joke or waiting in the wings to discuss the next business strategy, paced back and forth endlessly, clearly feeling the pressure of their sick father.

Patrick sat alone on an uncomfortable chair, peering helplessly into the observation room. It was rare for you to see him with his feelings written so openly across his face, even after years of being in a relationship with him. That concerned you.

You made quick work of walking over to Patrick, whose tensed-up shoulders slightly dropped as you took a seat next to him. Though he wouldn’t ever tell you this, you knew that your presence made him feel more supported and a little more safe, though you being or not being in the hospital clearly wouldn’t have an impact on if his father lived or died. 

“Hey,” he greeted you, immediately squeezing your hand. “Thanks for coming,” he said weakly, as if he was fighting off a new round of tears. In that moment, you so desperately wanted to take some of his emotions for yourself, knowing that Patrick hated feeling any feeling, let alone such negative feelings to such a serious degree. 

“Of course, honey,” you reassured him, running what you hoped would be a grounding hand up and down his arm. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Water? A snack? I saw that burger place you like on my way over.”

“No, nothing right now,” he sighed. You inspected him cautiously, knowing that he wasn’t exactly one to always say what he meant. “Really,” he assured you, though you didn’t completely buy it. 

Since he wasn’t in the mood for more material items, you decided that the best course of action was a little affection. He wasn’t always the biggest fan of receiving affection in front of his family, but you figured that in a time where he was uncertain if his father would live or die, he would appreciate a little outward support. 

You laid your head on his shoulder and angled your body closer to his. Not expecting any response, you were surprised when Patrick kissed the top of your head. “I’m glad you’re here,” he told you quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’d be in trouble if someone overheard him. 

You held his hand as the two of you sat for hours, only getting up to stretch your legs or take phone calls from friends with insight on other high-end medical facilities that might be able to better accommodate Patrick’s father. 

You did your best to give Patrick his space when he needed it, as he floated between two of his siblings—one of which was focused mainly on the future of the company, and the other in a state of denial about the state of her father—then back to you when he could no longer stand the chaos of his sisters. 

It was a stressful scene, and one that was clearly too much for your boyfriend, who went back and forth between wanting to be glued at your hip, and wanting to be left completely alone. You’d seen Patrick stressed in the past, with him chatting your ear off as he waited for his candidate’s election results, or as he prepared to give a speech at an event, but you’d never seen him like this. 

He almost seemed fragile, like one wrong word or action might break him. It frightened you to see him in such a state. Again, you lamented not being able to take some of his pain for yourself. 

In the time that you waited without any word from any doctors, a few gears began to turn in your mind. Life was so fleeting, which was proven by Patrick’s mighty father falling so seemingly easily. Really, it could’ve been any of you sitting on that table with tubes and monitors attached to you. If it were Patrick who was sitting on that gurney, you would be an absolute wreck. If he somehow died, you also wouldn’t technically be a widow, despite your long-term relationship with the man. 

All of it made you wonder if you should just bite the bullet and propose to Patrick.

Sure, it wasn’t the best timing ever. Sure, you’d always imagined yourself being on the receiving end of a grand proposal, especially from someone like Patrick. But maybe he would appreciate the gesture—giving him a distraction to take away some of his pain, and giving him one final grand milestone with you while his dad was still alive. 

To a lesser extent, being married would provide you with certain protections you didn’t have while you were only his long-term girlfriend. Obviously, you didn’t want to think of anything bad happening to your boyfriend, but accidents and tragedies could happen at any point, and it was better to be prepared than to be sorry. 

It felt right that you might be able to join his family during a time where he was losing a family member. Not only for his sake, but because losing their patriarch meant unprecedented instability in his family. You wanted to be sure of your spot amongst them, after you’d grown used to the privileges that came with being Patrick’s girlfriend. 

You fidgeted with the ring on your middle finger, a family heirloom passed from generation to generation onto you. It was no expensive piece of jewelry, and it certainly wasn’t an engagement ring, but it was incredibly meaningful to you—a symbol of your family, which was extremely important to you. Patrick knew just how much you valued the ring and exactly what it represented to you, so in turn, you hoped that if you gave it to him, he would understand how much he meant to you. 

Getting up from where you’d been sitting for far too long, you began to pace the hallways of the hospital, wondering about the timing of your now imminent proposal. As you shuffled through the sterile building, you surprised yourself as you came across your partner. 

“Patrick!” you said with a start after unexpectedly catching a glimpse of him. 

“Hey,” he greeted unenthusiastically before beginning to walk right past you. 

“Wait,” you grabbed onto his arm before he could fully walk away, encouraging him to look right at you. It was now or never, and the words were on the tip of your tongue. 

“I’m sorry, I really don’t have time for this right now,” he dismissed, his voice monotone and listless. 

“You do, though. Patrick, listen,” he didn’t look like he was in the mood to talk, but was prepared to listen to you anyway. You knew you only had a few seconds to pitch your proposition before you lost him, so you spat out your words rather than beating around the bush. “Let’s get married.”

“What?” he looked at you with brows drawn in confusion. It wasn’t exactly the ideal reaction to your proposal, but then again it wasn’t much of a proposal. “Right now?”

“Obviously not now, but… soon?” as you spoke, you began the process of slipping the ring off your middle finger and attempting to present it to him in the palm of your hand. Sure, it wasn’t the most romantic or put together proposal, but it felt right to be offering him such a grand and personal gesture while everything else was going sideways in his life. 

“I know it’s probably not the best time, but I thought that maybe I could make things a little better with your dad and… I don’t know. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If something ever happened to you, I wouldn’t want to wonder about what we could’ve been and-” you rambled on before you were interrupted with a sigh. 

“Honey, you can’t just make my dad dying better,” he rubbed his temple exasperatedly, then looked between you and the ring you were presenting him with. “If you wanted to make me feel better, you should’ve just brought me coffee.”

You frowned at him, knowing that you’d offered him that very thing earlier and he turned you down. You wondered if your communication would ever improve—or if it even needed to improve, since this proposal was going so poorly that you’d probably leave the hospital single. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” you closed your palm and put your hand in the pocket of your jacket, fully prepared for Patrick to tell you to fuck all the way off. It had been stupid for you to think that Patrick would appreciate such a grand gesture during such a terrible time. 

“Wait,” Patrick stopped you, now reaching for your arm. “My answer isn’t a no, it’s just… I don’t want this to be the memory. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Doing all the work of getting your hand out of your pocket, he grabbed the ring you presented him with to further prove his words and slipped it on his ringer. It only fit halfway down his finger, but he kept it on regardless. 

“Really?” you said, suddenly perking up.

“Duh,” he replied, looking a little shy as his cheeks turned a light shade of pink and he briefly looked away from you, as if his feelings were so strong that he couldn’t even manage to look you in the eye. 

You couldn’t contain your excitement at his answer, jumping and squealing a little bit as you pulled him into an overly enthusiastic hug. You heard the familiar sound of Patrick laughing quietly in your ear as you squeezed him. Though he always seemed to hold back his emotions, you knew that he was just as excited as you were to be promised to one another.

You pulled him into a soft kiss, draping your arms around his neck, holding him as close as you could until he inevitably pushed you away. 

Patrick surprised you with how long he was willing to embrace you, clearly in need of a little bit of comfort after such an emotionally exhausting night. You surprised yourself when you ended up being the person to pull away. 

“Should we go check on our family?” you asked, not bothering to hide your excitement around finally being in. 

“I just need a second,” he told you, glancing down the hallway before pulling you into yet another embrace. He pressed his face into your hair, soothing himself with your scent and presence. You rubbed circles into his back and muttered something about him taking all the time he needed.

You were interrupted by one of Patrick’s sisters, whose voice called out your names down the hallway. “When you two are finished with your snuggle-fest, the doctor has news for us.”

“Wait, what?” Patrick pushed you away quickly, his tune changing in an instant.

“Good news, I think. But move your asses. C’mon,” she directed, already turning away and Patrick quickly following her. 

If you were experiencing an emotional rollercoaster, you couldn’t even begin to understand how Patrick was feeling. Finding out his dad was sick, being proposed to, and immediately hearing more news about his father in the span of just a few hours must’ve felt unreal. 

You sat quietly and observed from the sidelines as a doctor took them into their father’s room and filled in the siblings on the state of him. They all seemed to share a collective sigh of relief, and though you couldn’t hear the exact news from where you were sitting, you knew that it must’ve been good. 

When Patrick came back to you, he had a hint of a sad smile on his face. “Ready to go?” he asked you. 

He didn’t need you to ask twice. You were more than prepared to escape the too-bright lights, sickeningly sterile scent, and the feeling of sadness that seemed to be hanging in the air of the hospital. 

Your driver was a welcome sight, with him giving you a quiet greeting as the two of you got in the backseat of the car. As he drove, Patrick reached for your hand, which you gladly gave up to him. 

In the following minutes, Patrick crept over further into your space until he sat directly beside you, leaning his head on you with his eyes closed. The long day was surely taking its toll, with the anxiety of his dad being in such dire straits, and the excitement and confusion of you proposing to him. 

His sleep was well earned. You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, then closed your own eyes, letting the soft sound of the early morning city traffic lull you to sleep. 

In the following days, you could tell that something wasn’t quite right with Patrick. At first, you chalked it up to nerves around his father’s health, but that didn’t seem to be it. Typically, when Patrick was really anxious about something, his silence on the elephant-sized topic gave him away. While you’d heard quite a bit about the state of his father from him—whether it was an update sent to him by his step-mother or an actual visit to the man—you hadn’t heard a peep about your engagement since the day after you got engaged. 

On the other hand, you were struggling to keep the news to yourself, despite the request of Patrick. You wanted to scream the announcement from the rooftops, but in the early morning after you returned from the hospital, Patrick made his position very clear: Wait a little while for things to blow over before you started telling people– your friends and family included. 

Despite the fact that he wore your ring every day since the day that you’d given it to him, something about his behavior told you that it was that very ring that was giving him so much internal conflict. 

In the past few years of knowing Patrick, you learned that he was a bit of a control freak. You wondered how out of control it made him feel for you to be the person to propose to him. Part of you wondered if you should’ve even proposed in the first place if it was going to be an issue. Maybe you should’ve let him do things on his own timeline, rather than making him feel nervous or insecure in your relationship.

But at the same time, Patrick initially seemed rather entertained by the idea of you getting married. In the morning after your engagement, he couldn’t stop referring to you as Mrs. Zweig. At the desk of your brand new office, given to you after a serious promotion, you found a box of expensive chocolates with a note fondly referring to you as his fiancé. As you laid next to him in bed that night, he pulled up the profiles of three separate wedding planners and asked you about your preference in people. 

It almost felt like his feelings on your engagement were constantly fluctuating between being excited to be with you forever, and being terrified of that very commitment. Things weren’t made any better by Patrick’s professional-level ability to dodge questions, especially questions related to how he genuinely felt. 

“C’mon, you know how I feel,” he replied to you after you directly asked him over breakfast. He lifted his mug casually, subconsciously putting space between the two of you. 

“Pat, I don’t. That’s why I asked,” you forced out a laugh, though the situation wasn’t exactly funny to you. If Patrick didn’t want to marry you, you didn’t want to force him to do so. 

“But you always know how I feel,” he said with a bit of a pout and a whine—what you called his ‘let me get away with it’ demeanor that he often used with his family—before setting down his coffee and standing up. 

“Not this time,” you explained, standing up as well and abandoning the plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you. 

“You’ll figure it out,” he dismissed your concerns and stepped close enough to you to hold your face in both of his hands. 

“Love you?” you asked, hoping that if he could confirm that at the very least, you might have a better understanding of what was going through his head. 

“Of course,” he said genuinely, though he didn’t offer you any parroting of those words. Instead, he dropped his hands from your cheeks and kissed one of them. “Have a good day at work, okay?” 

“Yeah. Thanks,” you tried not to look as annoyed as you actually felt as you made quick work of grabbing your work bag and leaving. You needed some time to make sense of it all. 

The situation only became more complicated as you sat down in a conference room, mentally preparing yourself to make your first big presentation as the newly vetted Head of Parks and Cruises division. You cared greatly about what your peers thought about you, so you couldn’t deny the nerves running through your veins. 

These nerves only increased when you caught a glimpse of Patrick from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the conference room, shaking hands with people on your floor and clearly making cordial small talk. 

You desperately hoped that he was there to wish you luck on your presentation, and not to pick your conversation from the morning back up. You bitterly thought about how he couldn’t have picked a worse time as he waved at you from the window. You stiffly waved back, not exactly in the mood to be interrupted right before a big presentation. 

“Hey, if I don’t make it back for whatever reason, you can do this presentation, right?” you asked quietly, leaning into your newly-hired assistant’s ear. 

“Wait, what?” he asked you, brows furrowing. “I don’t know, I haven’t practiced or anything, and-“

“Perfect,” you replied, not listening to a single word he was rambling out. “Just read off the slides. You’ll be okay.”

You didn’t bother staying to listen to Art ramble in your ear about how he didn’t know what he was doing. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be the one presenting, and if he absolutely had to, he’d probably be fine. 

You shut the door behind you, politely waving at one of your co-workers as they entered the conference room. You made your way to Patrick and stood with your arms crossed against your chest, trying to strike a good balance between showing him how agitated you were, and not trying to further agitate your fiancé, who seemed to be in a particularly fragile mental state lately. 

“Hi honey, is anything important going on?” Patrick asked once you stood across from him. 

“Actually, yeah. Is there any way we could chat a little later? Like maybe an hour or two?” you suggested. “I can block some time off on my calendar for you and everything.”

“I’m sure whatever it is isn’t more important than this,” he glanced over at the conference room as he spoke to demonstrate his point. You wished you could explain to him how far that was from the truth.

“What is it?” you asked, your patience beginning to grow thin.

“You’ll have to see. Come with me?” he offered. 

“Patrick, I’m in the middle of a meeting!” you whisper-shouted, trying to keep your voice down and your body language mostly neutral, so your colleagues couldn’t observe how much you were freaking out as you talked to your partner. 

“It hasn’t started yet,” he dismissed casually. “They’ll be fine without you. I won’t be fine without you.”

You eyed him suspiciously. 

“Please,” he added, as if you’d ever be able to say no to him—though you were pretty tempted to do so. 

“Fine,” you gave in with a small, soft sigh. That didn’t deter Patrick at all, who seemed uncharacteristically excited as the two of you sat in the backseat of his car. 

“So where are we going? Or, what are we doing?” you asked, trying to ignore the terrible feeling in your gut that you felt about leaving your meeting. 

“It’s a surprise,” Patrick said coyly. “It’ll be more fun than that meeting, though.”

“I’m sure,” you replied, looking out the window. You hoped that whatever romantic gesture Patrick planned would be worth losing the respect of all of your peers. You wondered what you could tell them that would make your absence seem acceptable. Family emergency? It wasn’t exactly a lie. It wasn’t quite the truth either. 

When your ride stopped and you stepped out of the vehicle, you were surprised to find yourself at the diner that you spent the majority of your first few dates at, splitting pieces of pie and talking each other’s ears off for hours. 

“Craving some cherry pie?” you asked him curiously. Obviously, this seemed like a task he could’ve handled on his own, coming to the diner himself or having his driver buy and deliver him a whole pie, but you figured that maybe he was simply in the mood for some nostalgic comfort. In the midst of such chaos, you would be happy to give that to him. 

“It’s been too long,” he shrugged before grabbing your hand.

Patrick led you to the booth that you declared as yours all those years ago, and began to chat your ear off like normal. While you wanted to think about work, it was surprisingly easy to forget about the real world when you were in such a nostalgic place with him. 

The two of you ordered your old usual order, only enhancing the feeling of nostalgia as you shared a plate of painfully average pancakes and a slice of cherry pie.

“Ew, what is that?” you laughed after you bit into something hard and gross. “This fucking place,” you muttered, looking for a napkin that you could spit out whatever it was that you almost just consumed. 

When you glanced down at the napkin, you were shocked to find what looked like a metal ring covered in cherry syrup. “Oh shit. Do you think this belonged to someone?” 

Once you looked up, you were shocked to find Patrick holding a black velvet box, one that you’d seen before nearly a year ago as you deep-cleaned your shared bedroom, one that you chalked up as a gift for his mother or a friend. 

“Patrick?” you asked, clearly confused. He parroted your name right back to you and opened up the box, showing you one of the most beautiful rings you ever laid your eyes on. 

Suddenly, it made sense why he asked you to come out with him, interrupting you in the middle of the day to take you to a diner where you shared so many memories. Sure, he could’ve waited until you got off work, but you figured he was thinking about your conversation from the morning and wanted to do something that would show you how much he truly cared about you. He’d always been better at bigger gestures than verbally sharing his feelings, so part of you remained unsurprised. 

“I first fell in love with you here, so it only felt right to bring you back here to ask you to marry me?” he explained, not breaking eye contact with you. He was never one for a soapbox when it came to sharing his feelings, so his proposal was short and straight to the point. Though, you wondered if he had more words prepared that he simply couldn’t get out. Based on the speed of his leg bouncing under the table, you knew that Patrick was nervous out of his mind—despite him already knowing what your answer was. 

You recalled what Patrick told you in the hospital about not wanting your proposal to be the memory—the memory you told others about when you shared the news, or fondly recalled to your kids in ten years when you reminisced on your love story. 

If accepting his proposal now, and acting like his proposal was the only proposal made him feel better, you didn’t see any reason why you wouldn’t fully lean into it.

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, genuinely being surprised at the offer, but playing up your excitement for the sake of your nervous fiancé. “Of course I’ll marry you, Pat.”

Patrick broke into a toothy grin, his excitement contagious to you. “Give me your hand,” he directed, taking the ring out of the box. 

He slipped the ring onto your finger, and it somehow looked even better on your finger than it did in the box. You looked at it in amazement curling and uncurling your hand to look at the ring from all of its angles. 

“It’s gorgeous, Patrick. Thank you,” you told him earnestly as you looked from your hand to him. You weren’t surprised by the quality of the ring or even that he found something that you liked so much. Growing up with lavish gifts constantly being given as an expression of ‘love’ made Patrick pretty damn good at giving you gifts. As for the other expressions of love… he wasn’t the best. But he was very obviously trying his best for you, and you loved that about him. 

In some ways, your proposals felt like the perfect encapsulation of your roles in your relationship. While you offered Patrick a ring with little monetary, but high emotional value, he gave you a ring that was probably more expensive than you could ever fathom, that didn’t have the same emotional ties that your family heirloom of a ring did. 

Beyond the appearance or symbolism behind your rings, and despite your very different proposals, you were ecstatic to be engaged to Patrick. It only felt right that after years of loving the man, you two were finally making things official in the legal sense. 

As you peered at your shyly smiling fiancé, you couldn’t help but break out into a grin yourself. You underestimated just how exciting it would be for you to be starting a new chapter of your relationship. 

[cowboygideon]

I love so much how every time we see art and patrick before knee-gate, they're eating (or drinking) something "unhealthy." Like the hotdogs and the churros and the cigarettes, of course (which I'm now realizing are all phallic symbolism LMAO) plus the coca-colas and the beer. Because it just furthers this idea that Patrick is a kind of corrupting force to Art, who we know, as Ice, is a very controlled person. And then, during their final game, you have Art with his fuckass protein paste, or whatever, but Patrick with the banana, which obviously isn't unhealthy, but still something much more akin to the food of your average person—and he offers it to him! Jokingly, yeah, because he knows he's not going to take it, but also, like offering his hand, inviting Art to take part in his own corruption once again. Plus, a banana?? Could they have found a more dick-like food? Insanity.

Also I like that the one scene we have of the throuple in a room together (the party notwithstanding), Tashi is also drinking the beer. Because Patrick stokes the fire in her too, brings out a part of her that Art alone doesn't.

I was thinking about this because I saw a cut scene in the script, where Tashi and Art smoke a cigarette, and I found it really interesting. Because, for one, I understand why they'd cut it, since such a big part of the artashi dynamic is restraint, repression, both pushed further into the frigid parts of their personalities, so having them do something like that without Patrick around might remove some of that. But ALSO I think it was such a good scene because they both start coughing during it, and it sort of feels like their trying to make up for Patrick's absence with each other, but they fail. They need Patrick to push them completely out of their comfort zones—or else they'll just keep toeing that line between the familiar and the unfamiliar, safety and freedom.

Anyway, in conclusion, welcome back Adam and Eve and that fucking snake, enjoy your apple [polyamory].

[makeyoumine69]

Being Bateman’s Soulmate | HEADCANON

Pairing: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader; CW: Romance & Angst; Links: [MASTERLIST]; Song Rec: The Cure — Lovesong; A/N: This is dedicated to everyone who is madly in love with their fictional crush! 💗 If you find any mistakes regarding gn!reader, please let me know!

— “Soulmate? What the fuck does that word even mean?” Bateman would say the first time you mentioned it. His reaction would amuse you at first, although you knew that Patrick would understand its meaning in time, and that feeling when you could touch another person's soul as if it were material. The feeling of wanting to scream because you were so in love that you couldn't even believe it was possible to have such feelings. All of this would eventually overwhelm him, and then he'd never want it to end.

— "You think I have a soul, huh?" He would smile whenever you had sentimental conversations, and even though Bateman kept repeating that he didn't like them, you would sometimes see him sitting alone, thinking about his life before he met you. Did you make his life better? Well, was it even possible to judge such things? Since nothing in this world could be black or white, it was always gray.  But with you, his life was painted in new colors.

— “I remember you telling me that your favorite color was red.” Red like the blood that spilled on his perfect sheets whenever he treated you too rough, but you never asked him to stop. Sometimes those little scarlet spots on the white sheets could look like petals from the red roses Bateman used to give you, even though he knew how clichéd that was. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?" The man would ask, tracing his long finger over the red marks on your hip.  Sighing, you would roll onto your stomach and give him your most devoted look. "Because I like it," and that was all he needed to hear from you. "I'd tell you if I didn't." Having said that, you would sit up to find his lips and kiss him, slowly but eagerly, transmitting all the love and emotion you had for him through that kiss.

— "If you say you love me, why does it hurt so much?" He would ask you this question over and over again after he had a breakdown because he was so overwhelmed by everything you were giving him: your care, your affection, your understanding, and your support. Eventually, it all became too much for him, and when Patrick realized that he was probably in love with you, a sharp pain coursed through the very small pitch of his body like an electric impulse. He loved you so much it hurt.

— One night, you were sitting in the living room in Bateman’s slick apartment and watching some classic romantic comedy from the 1930s, the scenes from it made you think about something you never expected you would. "Patrick, have you ever thought about death?" You asked suddenly, holding his hand and noticing how tense he became. "I mean... I'm afraid of death because I don't want to be without you, if that makes any sense." At first, Patrick just laughed and gently moved closer to you, hugging your shoulders possessively. "Can you promise me that... if there is an afterlife, you will find me there?" Nearly sobbing, you looked into his dark, brown eyes, at the way his eyebrows furrowed as the man considered his answer. "And we will be together even after death?" Your voice cracked at the weight of your words, never before had you dared to speak of such things.

— The question of death, an abstract yet intimately familiar topic, drew a thoughtful arch to his brow. Death was not a stranger to him, nor was it an adversary he feared-not in the way that the average person might. "Death," Patrick began, his voice tinged with a cold amusement that belied the gravity of the subject. "It's the only certainty in life, isn't it? A final transaction, one we all must make." His arm tightened around you, a gesture that feigned warmth but held an undercurrent of something sharper. Bateman met your gaze, the hazel of his eyes unreadable yet intense, reflecting the black-and-white dance of images on the screen. "If there is an afterlife," he continued, weighing each word like a coin on a scale, "I'll find you. But let's not be so morose, darling." The man leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath a whisper that carried the scent of the red wine you had shared earlier. "Life is for the living, and I intend to savor every moment I have with you. Making promises about the afterlife is... morbidly romantic, but unnecessary. I have you now, and you have me. Isn't that enough?"

— And that was even more than enough.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[knyontop]

bowers gang hcs?

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PLEASE SEND MORE BOWERS GANG REQUESTS GUYSIGHHSIBJHSIHGJ

Ft: Henry bowers, Patrick hocksetter, Victor criss, Belch huggins.

Tw: dark stuff remember its the bowers gang!!!

Henry:

・Henry is the most aggressive and just mean😭

・you give him one wrong look and your already a target for him.

・depending on how much he hates you is how far he will go.

・He deff has some doggys!!!!

・hes a dog person confirmed ^_^

・he has two dogs, both are German shepherds (cant think of any names so just make them up..)

・hes had sex with like five girls, maybe even more. But they dont mean anything to him he just needs a good fuck every once in a while.

・he mostly goes for nasty bitches (thats all there is in darry) but if hes lucky there will be one sweet, innocent girl he can corrupt. (He has a thing for the innocent ones)

・Henrys favorite color is red im confirming it :3

・he stays out late so he doesn’t have to go home to his shit dad, he hangs with his friends but he also likes his alone time.

・when he was younger i just know he loved trucks😭

・a truck is definitely his dream car💪🏻💪🏻

・Henry doesn’t like loud children and he doesn’t like crowds because its so annoying trying to get through and its loud as hell.

・he is not scared to get into a little kids face and tell them to shut up and if they really push it he might slap em’ on the head.

・i feel like when he was younger he definitely wanted a sibling he wanted a younger sibling to hang out with and make into like a mini him just someone he could protect and hang with. (He still kinda does)

・anger issues, daddy issues, asshole issues, what do you expect?

・henry bowers getting therapy when??

・bro looks at himself in the mirror and just admires himself bc he knows hes hot😭

・AS HE SHOULDDDD

・i would like to say hes pretty good at skateboarding like i just have an image of him when he was younger with his little crew and there just skating☹️☹️

・but he thinks he doesn’t have time for it anymore, only on rare occasions he does it. (Vic still skates often tho)

・but yeah henry bowers is pretty fire🔥🔥

Patrick:

・the most sadistic and cruel like we all know that.

・bro is just born this way no sad backstory nothing😭

・I imagine that its just him and his mom, and his mom is a sweet angel while hes just the devil.

・his dad left after he killed his little brother, and Patricks okay with that. Never like his old man anyways.

・he has some type of caring for his mom I mean like deep deep inside somewhere you will find a little care.

・he does not care about your race or sexuality at all like the only thing he will care about is if your a girl because he believes that men are better than woman.

・little patrick was like, “MOM GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN!”

・complete menace smh.

・but yeah he doesn’t care he just calls you slurs and stuff because he loves humiliating people😭 the rush he feels it gives him a feeling of what its like to even feel something.

・he doesn’t have a favorite color, he thinks thats stupid and childish. Like who gives a fuck? (I DO☹️)

・no filter. Speaks his mind.

・”Fucking whore.”

・evilest laugh EVER.

・”if i laugh during a fight run” ah💀

・deep deep down he has a soft spot for his little gang and his mom, deep, deep, deeeeeep down.

・he wants to feel things he just doesn’t, so, feeling that rush of excitement or sexual energy or desire helps him feel emotions and he doesn’t care if its bad at least hes feeling it!

Victor:

・hes the smartest like he got those straight A’s in elementary🙏🏻🙏🏻

・i just know hes a cat person like he holds in a coo when hes those little furballs☹️

・has two siblings >3< a little brother and a little sister!!!

・and hes a pretty decent big bro to.

・took them to the park, helps his little sister tie her shoes, but just bc there his little siblings doesn’t mean hes not afraid to get rough with them. Hes in the bowers gang for a reason.

・hes like the stereotypical bully, pinning people down shoving them a little bit maybe a little beat dowm mocking and teasing his victims.

・never to far ig…

・Victor’s favorite color is green, yeah pretty obvious ik ik☹️☹️

・he cuts his own hair!!! Hes pretty smart when hes not being a asshole.

・i feel like if he wasn’t a bully he would have so much potential.

・buttt anywho he has old note books that he used to journal in when he was younger he thinks its stupid now that hes older. (I promise its not)

・he likes making Henry proud because i mean hes his leader why wouldn’t he want to please him?

・he grew up in a srict household, when he was 8 he realized rules are stupid.

・they are all little shits omds.

・he used to want to be a cop but look where he is nowwww..

・woops!

・funfact: hes pretty good with kids sense he has little siblings, he just doesn’t have a lot of patience.

Belch:

・most empathetic, his actor even said he was more human than the others he was not as evil as the others.

・i feel like hes a 100% mamas boy he hates his dad, his parents split up so he takes care of his mom behind the scenes.

・he has one little sister which she is the exact opposite of him like literally shes just a sweet little bundle of joy with her taller and bigger intimidating older brother next to her with his arms crossed.

・might be a better older brother than vic ngl😪

・now im not saying hes gentle or nice hes still an asshole hes not a good person im just saying hes nicer than the others.

・he intimates kids, shoves them around, never anything as bad as henry gets with his strength.

・Belch likes to make people intimidated, he feels strong. He feels good.

・belch is a dog person but he thinks cats are okay, but definitely a dog person.

・hes got a little pug <\3

・which he keeps his pug ten yards away from patrick because that pug is his baby.

・to any of patricks fat jokes hes like “Im big boned asshole!”

・close enough welcome back eric cartman.

・I feel like his favorite color would be blue or orange.

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I had fun making this :33 PLEASE SEND MORE REQUESTS FOR THE BOWERS GANG!!

[lovebot444]

Sweet angel of mine - Ballet!Art AU

I apologize for taking so long, school just started again and so did my social life! But here it is, I hope it’s up to expectation💋

Disclaimer: this is barely proofread, and halfway through the writing I realized I sucked at dialogs. English is not my first language. Read at your own risk!

Warnings: slight stalking/obsession. Cursing. Mentions of porn and masturbation. Patrick just kinda pops up out of nowhere. Writing based on Art’s pov, which is why it kind of belittles him.

Art knew her. They never spoke, she has never even looked his way, but he knew her. He has walked by her classes too many times not to.

Not in a creepy way, no! Ask anyone who knows her just like he does, she’s just too enticing to go by unnoticed. Seriously, it’s almost mythical, she is so inhumanly beautiful that it’s sickening. Back straight and head held high, every aspect of her is set to absolute perfection, in a way that it’s obvious she’s either: A) An Angel or B) A ballerina.

C) Both, was Art’s best guess, because she seemed to lack all ballerinas number one characteristic — the crippling fear of being perceived as anything less than perfect. The type of fear that feeds the need to knock down the competition from the very start, a fear that’s hidden by enough fake confidence to present yourself as a higher being, the fear that keeps them skinny, uptight and miserable.

His Angel was never like that, she was only the good parts of ballet. The class and the beauty, but never the pain. Which is why he didn’t dare to speak to her, she’s just so perfect, he can’t risk tainting her pure clear soul with all his greed and shame — infect her — like the disease he is.

He’s happy just memorizing her class schedule, what time she’ll be at the cafeteria, and the exact way she moves behind the big glass windows of the dance studio. Never unhappy, never bothered. After all, she’s his Angel, and he’s just Art Donaldson.

That changes tho, at a college party. Art never went to parties, he uses all his energy studying for classes and practicing tennis. His friends try dragging him out of that lonely dorm room every goddamn weekend. Art never went to parties, and yet there he was at the rooftop looking for Tashi.

He spots her with her back turned, wearing that same pink top from that night at the hotel. It must’ve been destiny, because when he tapped her shoulder and she turned around, it wasn’t Tashis’s face.

“Hi!”

“Oh! Uhm… sorry, I was looking for Tashi.”

“No way! I’m her roommate!” Art had to fight the urge of blurting out “I know”.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Art”

“No way! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the Art Donaldson.” The Art Donaldson? Not just Art Donaldson, but The Art Donaldson. She knew him, or heard of him… but still! Maybe this one sided, weird, parasocial relationship he has built her wasn’t one sided after all. Maybe she knew all his classes as well , maybe she watched him play like she watched him dance, maybe he’s her angel too…

“Tashi has told me so much about you! I don’t know why she didn’t introduce us sooner…”. Or maybe she’s his friend’s fucking roommate.

And before he could beat himself for being so foolish, she grabbed his hand. She guided him through the party and talked to him like he was worth talking to. Back straight, head held high, the same drill he had watched from afar, but this time is the first time he can watch from up close. He would’ve described her as reachable, except she has already been reached, since she was holding onto him. She told him how she loves Tashi and they get along so well, well enough to share absolutely everything — especially clothes — and he wondered, if one of those rare times Tashi would hug him goodbye after practice, he was actually hugging her.

Eventually they did find Tashi, and only then she lets go of his hand. Art thinks he might come to parties more often, because this evening went better than he could’ve ever imagined. He got to be part the cool kids in their very secluded and exclusive little group, not talking to loud or being to wild, but still being the stars of the evening.

And he got to know her.

From this night on, she would never be just the girl he’s weirdly obsessed with. Now, she’s the girl who loves iced coffe, the girl who’s only at Stanford until she’s good enough for Julliard. She’s the girl who said she was glad to meet him, that said he is funny, and smart, and they should hang out again some time.

Time flies when it’s spent with endless praise, and soon enough, the pink skies turned a deep shade of blue, most people left and the party is now a game of truth or dare with only their friends.

Tashi had left about ten minutes ago to grab more alcohol from the deli nearby. Art had taken his shoes and socks off for refusing to say both what Patrick used to tell him about ballerinas, and what he used to do while listening. And she has been answering pretty invasive questions, refusing to strip since she was only wearing sandals, shorts, and nothing underneath Tashi’s sweater. The others were merely background characters. And of course, Patrick was the asshole who kept making the invasive questions and disgusting dares.

“When was the last time you touched yourself?”

“What’s your porn search history?”

“Common Art, I think she’d like to hear it”

“I dare you to dance on the edge of the rooftop.”

This time, instead of laughter it was awkward silence, everyone froze.

“If you don’t you have to take your shirt off.”

“Get some music playing then.”

What?

“You don’t actually have to do it!”

“Yeah Patrick is just being a jerk!”

Everyone tried to stop her, but she was already sliding out of her sandals and playing classical music on her iPod.

“Oh my God, I was joking, I just wanted you to take your shirt off!”

Now she pushed herself up the edge, standing until the right part played through. She started slow — but not scared — in fact, she seemed as confident and collected as she always did. The parapet of the rooftop was quite thin, and she hopped and twirled from side to side at such a rapid steady pace that everyone just sat still and observed, their mouths agape but with no sound coming through, scared that if they shouted for her to stop they’d distract her and she’d fall.

The tense atmosphere and background music was abrupt by Tashi barging in through the door.

“What the fuck is she doing.”

She sounds angry, the second most scary thing happening right now.

“Performing Kitri’s variation on the edge of a rooftop…” A girl who Art has seen dancing alongside her answered, she too seemed more mesmerized than terrified.

“And why the fuck is nobody stopping her.”

Tashi started shouting for her to stop. Saying how this is stupid and dangerous and she’s completely insane. As the music intensified so does the choreography, and suddenly she’s pirouetting all the way until the very edge. Tashi’s demands start sounding more like begs, her voice almost crack when she sees her roommate stop, one centimetre forward and she would’ve fallen.

“That was- the most, stupid fucking thing someone has ever done.” She tries to sound tuff, but her heavy breathing makes it obvious she’s in the verge of crying.

“Not if you know you’re good.” She hops of the parapet, walking towards Tashi, close enough to her face to whisper — “And I am.”

God, Art has never been this fucking hard in his entire life.

[fawnnpaws]

gawd…… ur brain. i love u.

patrick and the self-loathing… art being so insecure so sad… they’re both extra clingy to you that night, need you to make it all better.

and patrick the next day….. you’ve never seen him like that. neither has art. it’s so eerie. especially if like. you also grew up w them. idk. i looove a girl best friend trope. ANYWAYS!!! everything just feels so #off. poor sweetie patrick hates himself kinda, doesn’t know what to do

and if i said this all actually takes a huge emotional toll on you but you don’t say anything bc the two of them are worse off and you need to fix it………. if i said you fix everything for them and are their emotional comfort but end up breaking down yourself in a week because you didn’t talk about how you felt because that’s what you’ve always done with art and patrick……… its not entirely their fault, you just want to take care of them, but it’s been years in the making. years of mediating their spats, comforting them through break ups despite your pining for them, giving so much of yourself to make sure they’re okay and never voicing that you might need something in return. and now you’re navigating this new dynamic where suddenly you have the two people you’ve wanted most since you were fucking 12 years old.

you thought you knew what they needed, you thought you were equipped to handle anything they threw at you. you’d known them for the majority of your lives at this point, so seeing something completely new from patrick is terrifying. it takes days to figure out the root of the problem, days of walking on eggshells trying to get patrick to open up again. art is particularly needy because he’s just as scared as you are when patrick stops responding to your texts and spends more time out doing who knows what. you know he’s punishing himself, but you don’t know how to get him to stop. it takes locking him in a room with you and art to get him to talk, then it takes hours for the three of you to lay it all out. you address patrick’s self blaming and art’s insecurities, but you don’t say anything about how it’s affecting you. you don’t even think it’s affecting you at all - you just feel relieved that your boys have worked their feelings out in the open.

so, when things return to an improved normal, why don’t you feel better? why does it feel like there’s something gnawing in your chest? and— why are they looking at you like that?

“what’s wrong? are you okay?” they both speak at the same time, so you’re not even sure who says what, but suddenly, the two of them are on either side of you on the floor of your room with worry written all over their faces.

“what?” you hear yourself ask the question, but the words feel distant from you. like you’re watching yourself through backward binoculars. it’s then that you feel how wet your face is. you’re crying. you hadn’t even realized. come to think of it, you’re not sure how or when you ended up on the floor either. your tongue feels numb and you can’t stop the tears. you know they’re talking to you but you can’t hear them anymore. it’s like you’re being swallowed whole by a dark cloud.

the next thing you remember is an overwhelming sense of comfort. you’re laying down, pressed between two bodies. you know these bodies. art and patrick. your boys. you blink your eyes open, taking a moment to adjust to the light coming through your window. it hasn’t been that long, then. above you, art and patrick are sitting propped against your headboard and talking in hushed voices. yours cuts through them, though it’s still soft with sleep, “what happened?”

they look down at you and it’s clear how relieved that are that you’re awake. that you’re somewhat okay.

“we’re not sure, baby, but we think you might have had a panic attack.” patrick says, instinctively reaching out to touch you but hesitating, like you’re made of glass he’s afraid he’ll break. you gently take his wrist and bring his hand to your face so you can nuzzle into it. art wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you up so you’re curled up in his lap, patrick closes the gap where your body was between them and pulls your legs over his lap, so you all stay touching.

“this week was really hard on you, wasn’t it?” art asks quietly.

you think for a moment and your lip wobbles, “i just wanted to help you both. i didn’t think i needed anything else.”

“you did help us. so perfectly.” patrick says, his hand still on your face. “we should have seen it was taking a toll on you.”

“no, i should have been able to handle it. i always handle it.” you insist, tears threatening to fall again. you feel art’s arms tighten around your waist.

“you’re right, you always handle it - handle us - but we need to take care of you, too.” art says. “i mean, jesus, we put so much on you this week alone. we should have checked on you. we should have been checking on you for the last ten years.”

“you’re our girl.” patrick smiles, leaning closer to look you in the eye. “just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to do everything by yourself. we’re here for you, too, sweetheart.”

you nod, letting out a choked little sob, and the two of them are on you again, cuddling you, holding you as close as they can. you can hear the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, feel the soft rise and fall of their chests. you remember what art always asks when he’s being held like this and decide to test it for yourself, “i was good?”

the answer is immediate from both of them.

“the fucking best,” from patrick.

“so so good - perfect, baby,” from art.

warmth and love radiate from them through you, so much so that it makes you dizzy. you understand why art asks that question now.

[artdcnaldson]

Longing for more Art angst in the changeover AU like in Valentine’s Day. Could you possibly do a follow up? Or maybe another angsty, sad, want to rip my hair out and sob, standford!Art x reader?

Rating: T

Word Count: 910

Warnings: Angst, Language, situationship being a situationship

Summary: The week of formal, Art finally lets you know that he’s not going to make it.

A/N: I jumped to write this so fast. Nothing makes me happier than Art and angst in the same sentence :) hope u enjoy this! Set the week of Part 1 of Changeover :)

Art was noticeably quiet as you modeled your formal dress for him. There was something to his expression that made you nervous— his smile seemed a little too sweet, his eyes a little too cold.

It had taken weeks for you to find one you’d liked, but you’d fallen in love at first sight with the one you were wearing. A pretty, Stanford red, just like he liked.

Well, maybe it wasn’t so much that you liked it than you knew he’d like it. And it just made it even more noticeable that he was being quiet.

“What?” You asked softly, brows furrowed.

“Nothing,” he said with a half-smile. He reached a hand out to grab yours and tugged you closer so you were slotted between his thighs. “You look really, really beautiful. You know that?”

His hand was warm on your lower back, which was exposed due to the revealing cut of the dress. His thumb rubbed soothing circles there.

It felt like there was another shoe, just out of sight, waiting to drop. Your pulse fluttered with anxiety as you looked at him.

“So you like it?” You asked, toying with the fabric. “I found a matching tie for you— it’s in my closet.”

There it was again. The flicker of guilt, or shame, or something. You pulled away. “Just unzip me.”

He sighed, but did as you said. The second the zipper was down, you walked away, putting as much space between the two of you as the small dorm could allow.

You pulled the dress down and tossed it over the chair of your desk. Kicked off your heels a little too aggressively. They slid beneath the risers of your bed. Didn’t matter, you wouldn’t need them.

“Baby—“

“Don’t.” You said firmly, jaw set with frustration. “When were you going to tell me?”

He didn’t respond. You pulled a tee shirt over your head and crossed your arms. He looked small sitting there, like a bug pinned under a magnifying glass.

“Art. When were you going to tell me that you weren’t going to fucking come? It’s five days until formal. Were you planning on letting me show up alone and look like a total idiot?”

He sighed, standing and crossing the room so he could wrap you in his arms. You stiffened, hoping he would let you go, but he wouldn’t.

“I was going to tell you today,” he said softly. “I swear, but then you brought out the dress, and you looked so excited that I just—“

Hurt squeezed your chest, making it feel hard to breathe or think.

“Patrick’s coming in, and Tashi thought the three of us should go to dinner. After the Pepperdine match, there are going to be team parties, so the only time that works for us would be Saturday night.”

You pulled back, a frown tugging at your lips. “So it’s about Tashi?”

He swallowed, annoyance visible on his features. “It’s not about Tashi.”

You scoffed and shoved him away. You didn’t want to be touching him, or near him, or even close enough to hear him breathing. You were torn between laughing and crying and biting his head off.

“Do you realize just how much you’ve wasted my time?” You asked finally, staring at the blank white board above your roommates bed. You could see Art’s reflection, the way his arms crossed and his brows furrowed. It made you even angrier.

“Genuinely, Art,” you snapped, turning to face him. “You’ve spent this entire fucking semester goading me with the idea that you might grow up and stop pining after your friend’s girlfriend. It’s been a waste of my fucking time.”

Art rolled his eyes. “You’re always making this about Tashi.”

“That’s because for you everything is about Tashi,” you yelled. “You want to be her boyfriend, you want to be the one she talks to about her day, you want everything I’ve given you, but from her. But she doesn’t want you, Art. She wants Patrick, and she’s always going to want Patrick.”

He rolled his eyes, jaw set tight. When he looked at you again, his expression was icy. You felt like you understood the nickname, finally. “You might feel better blaming me for all of the time you think you’ve wasted, but you knew I never wanted a girlfriend. You knew exactly what you were to me.”

“Right.” You laughed, despite everything, despite the pain in your chest, the pit in your stomach. It was all so fucking ridiculous. “I may be an idiot, Art, but at least I’m not fucking cruel.”

Art slammed the door on his way out, making the frames on the wall rattle. Your dress was red like fresh blood, a blight on your vision. You shoved it into your closet, crumpled and messy. It was a good thing you’d left the tags on.

There was a tiny part of you that thought Art might crawl back. A part of you that wanted to laugh in his face if he did, and a part of you that would accept his affection eagerly, desperately.

On Friday, Tashi fell on the court. Art was there then, and at the hospital. That night you fuck his best friend, or ex-best friend, or Tashi’s ex-boyfriend. All of the above.

On Saturday, you take your dress back to the mall for a full-refund. Patrick splits a Mrs. Fields cookie with you. It almost makes you feel better.

Two angst fics in a row? More likely than you think! Pls keep sending more changeover AU thoughts or prompts or questions! i love it :)🩵

[amymbona]

I was thinking about being Patrick’s childhood friend and accidentally marrying him at Las Vegas. You’ve been in love with him for years and he with you, but neither of you know that the other is in love with each other. The marriage is completely legit and it’s weird, but it is so much work and money to get a divorce. You’re both close anyway and there are some benefits to staying married, so might as well right? Patrick agrees and you both go with it. The fact that you’re both secretly in love with each other has nothing to do with that decision of course…

Just all the domestic bliss of living with someone you’ve loved for ages but are unable to properly say it. Slowly coming to realize both of you are in love wirh each other and that this is the happiest mistake of your life.

(very vague ik but just some thoughts)

Ughhh imagine going on a lovey dovey honeymoon because both of you feel like two weeks spend tanning at the beach and drinking cocktails are more than needed. If Patrick is still playing tennis, he's like semi-famous, so the two of you might meet a guy or two who excitedly take selfie with him and then swiftly tweet how the Zweig guy is married!

The way the two of you act is a mix of friendly and romantic, cause nothing changed, but actually everything has changed. You know what I mean? It's no secret the two of you are touchy, giggly and all that jazz, like you've been best friends since you've learned how to speak! You genuinely don't mind if Patrick sees your boob when the top of your bikini slips while the two of you are swimming the sea; he literally held your hair and rubbed your back when you first got drunk, and changed a pad for you once as well. There's no hint of embarrassment or fear between the two of you.

However, for some reason, Patrick can't keep his eyes off of you. He's looking at you in such a different - lustful - way, but not in the sense that he'd bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you. God, you're glowing, you're like an angel, like a goddamn diamond that shines brighter than the cheap gold ring he put on your finger (he needs to buy you a prettier one). He longs to see you in pretty dresses, to lay in bed with you while you're reading your favourite book, to twirl your hair around his finger, to kiss your pink lips. But do you feel the same way about him?

And, oh, you do. You fucking do, and it drives you crazy. If only Patrick knew how much you wish you were one of the girls that are mentioned in articles about him, how much you wish that the two of you could go out in public and people would speculate it you're just a family friend or something more. And now you might have it, but is it really what you dreamed about?

It's like a fever dream to you actually, like a beautiful dream that you will wake up from once you make it back to the USA, slipping into consciousness and forced to part ways. What if the excitement will wear of? What if Patrick will realise that this situation offers no benefits at all and decides to go through the awful process of a divorce.

Patrick manages to convince you otherwise, especially when he scoops you into his arms while you're walking along the beach and threatens to drop you into the water, when he buys you your favourite flavour of ice cream and wipes a drop of it from your chin. The more Patrick does, the more you find yourself falling in love with him, which can't be good at all. But in the end, these are just the feelings that you've managed to repress for years, and maybe now, you'll be finally allowed to let them flow freely, considering you're officially Mrs Zweig.

[spideyhexx]

oct. 18th - hostility maintenance

Patrick Zweig x Female!Reader

mdni!!! wc; 1k cw; p in v, slapping

kinktober 2024 masterlist

a/n; twas difficult to write this one cause i had to scrap what i originally had but😭it's finished and it's patrick so enjoy🫶

You’re going to kill him. 

You won’t. But you will. 

That Zweig motherfucker was going to make you commit a heinous crime and there may be no going back. 

How can Art befriend a guy like this, you don’t know. And you love Art. He’s attentive. Sweet to you. He shares his snacks when you stay over. Tashi…you could understand why she liked Patrick, but it still irked you. Patrick? Who rubs his sweaty face on your clean towels and does not throw them in the hamper. He’ll hang them right back up like they haven’t been used. 

And he’d have a dangerous smirk when he catches you using said towel. Patrick. Who comments on every little thing about you or what you’re doing? Did you wear a new bracelet? He’s asking what brand. You’re eating something? Well, can he have some too? He’s starved. 

Patrick Zweig was a tried and true asshole and you wanted his head on a spike. Is that too far? 

Probably. 

Tashi let him stay over and housesit, is what she called it. But you’re home now. Back from a work trip before Tashi would be home. Hours before she would be home. 

Zweig has you pinned on the floor of your hallway, his sweaty hair to his forehead, his hand stroking at his cock, making sure his tip is touching your clit, a breathy laugh leaving his lips when you tug harshly at his hair, like you wanted to rip it out. In spirit of course. 

“Sweetheart, slow your roll, I’m not even in you,” he mumbles, his free hand pushing on your thigh to hook your leg up high on his hip. 

Your eyes are squeezed shut to avoid ever seeing his smug face, but your body aches for him to fill it. You want with all your might to tell him you don’t actually want this, that this is too wrong, that you should at least go into your room and not fuck on the hallway floor but you can’t say any of that. Because that is not what you truly want. Patrick knows that. 

He knows you so well. He knows you watch when he adjusts himself in his shorts, when he’s got his towel low on his hips after a shower with or without Tashi. Hell, last time his cock filled you up, he insinuated that he was sure you get yourself off while listening to his and Tashi’s moans in her room. 

You might, but that’s besides the point. 

“Then get yourself in me, Zweig, we can’t be fucking slow, Tashi will-”

“Shh, shhh, shh, why’re you mentioning her?” 

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking, a low groan leaving his lips as he teases the head of himself at your hole, easing it in, only to move it away completely. 

You huff through a whine, “You know why I’m mentioning her, don’t be like that.”

“Mm, yeah, I know, you got the hots for her, but let me fuck you in peace.”

“Patrick I-”

You cut yourself off with a moan as Patrick pushes his cock into you, burying his face into your neck and pulling at both of your legs to wrap tightly around him. He wants you deep. That much is certain. 

Taking the opportunity, you hold to the back of his head and let your nails dig to him, not caring if it hurts him. It might. But he likes it. 

It’s clear because he laughs at the feeling and thrusts his hips harder, claiming every part of your body with his own. Your back is uncomfortable on the floor but the ripples of pleasure swarming your body make up for it. 

“Now think about Tashi coming home, walking across this floor right here,” he grunts to your neck, nipping at the skin enough to make you moan, but not enough to leave a mark. If he did leave one, you’d know it was on purpose. He never truly cared if Tashi saw. But neither did Tashi. 

“She’s gonna walk across right where we fucked, sweetheart,” he laughs again, reaching his hand to your ass and pushing you up to fuck you at a better angle. 

“And?” You take a deep inhale, your thighs squeezing to his hips to keep him as locked into you as he can be, though the other side of your brain with more sense wants to slap his face. 

“And, maybe we should leave a small mess. See if she sees,” he grins against your neck, splotching messy kisses up to your jaw and biting at you. When you whine, he nods his head, “Yeah? Oh you’re too desperate.”

“Fuck off, Patrick,” you mumble, tilting your head back to the floor, moving a hand to his shoulder and digging to the skin there. 

He hums at the sensation and gives a few rather sharp thrusts into you, “You’re annoying. But then it wouldn’t be fun to fuck you, would it?”

This time you do actually slap him. Your hand collides to his cheek without thinking it through. Patrick grunts and his pace quickens, “Oh, there you go, where the fuck’s that been?”

You’re going to kill him. Of course he’s amused. Patrick twitches inside of you and grunts with every forward movement, his teeth biting under your jaw without a care in the world, your hands back to digging into his shoulders, leaving reddened marks in their wake. 

You think he’s gonna beg you to slap him again when you don’t respond, only moans tumbling out of your mouth, but he doesn’t. Patrick focuses on fucking his cock into you, muttering, "I always gotta take fucking care of you sweetheart, it's sad," and then, "it's like my fucking job now," until your thighs feel shaky and you finish with a loud moan.

You don’t think about how hard you’re holding onto him, only the shattery feeling exploding inside of you and the warm pump of his release as he buries his cock into you. Patrick chuckles through his groans as he finishes and he waits until he’s completely spent, completely sure he’s emptied himself into you before he pulls out. 

He taps your thigh, “better get to your room, my phone buzzed.”

You barely register his words until you hear the sound of keys at the front door and in a second, you’re on your feet, going quickly into your bedroom. 

[poppy-metal]

we as a nation don’t talk about how much patrick loves to be degraded. because he hates himself, and a twisted part of him loves his fears to be confirmed, to give himself over to being terrible and debauched and for someone, a hot girl, you to tell him you know what he is, you know he’s bad and dirty and you know how little respect he deserves because of it. it’s such a relief to let go of the guilt of being terrible, and just be terrible. fucks you so nasty. legs spread in a v beneath him, kept open by his gripping hands. digs your pussy out, lunges forward and forward and forward inside you like he hates you. whimpers and grunts above, and looks into your tooth-gritted face with so much adoration. you try as hard as you can to maintain some composure, but you growl in stifled pleasure: “you’re a cheap fucking whore. you’d fuck anything that moves if i let you, wouldn’t you?”

“yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

brainless and guiltless, he chases the suckling heat of your cunt.

“yeah?” you sneer.

his spittle flies onto the pillow under your head and his cheek throbs, the sound of the cutting slap to his face mingling seamlessly with the slap of his thighs against your ass. he moans deeply, and his hips stutter but never still. your cunt tightens around him.

“you don’t even know what you’re agreeing to, you- you big dumb slut. listen to me when i speak or you’ll have to jerk yourself off for a fucking change.”

he swallows, and you pant as his adam’s apple bobs.

“no, no. please. please.”

“if you want to fuck this pussy you better prove to me you deserve it.”

and he will. he’ll do anything to deserve it.

YEWWWW GET IT

he hates himself so much that he needs degradation as much as he needs praise. when he's especially worked up - on the edge of self destruction or self sabotage - you pull him back to you with claws and teeth, reminding him his place is beneath you.

when he's being an asshole for no particular reason, and usually that's your perogative, the one picking petty fights - and it doesn't take him long to piss you off, get under your skin. think he probably calls you pathetic. you're really wasting your time on a deadbeat like him? just for some dick? what does that say about your self confidence?

and you know what he's trying to do. it's not about you so much as it's about himself and his own self confidence issues. thinks he's not shit and you're just going to drop him one day like art and tashi did - hell, hes practically inviting you too - holding the door open and promising to drink himself stupid as soon as you do.

and it's that knowledge that truly pisses you off- more than any of his words could. you're so sick of this smarmy asshole forcing his way into your heart and into your bed and twisting you all up inside only to act like a sad sack of shit because of his stupid childhood insecurities that you had nothing to do with.

maybe you could talk it out with him - truly get to the bottom of the problem. except you're not exactly the model for healthy behaviors either.

you fuck him instead.

when he tells you to fuck off and stop nagging at him you make it halfway to the door before you spin around and stalk back to where he's slouched into his ratty little couch - you yank his bottle of beer out of his hands and fling it across the floor, ignoring his sharp "the fuck?!" when you do.

your hand whips out to slap him, careening his cheek to the right - a bright red mark immediately appearing as blood rushes to the surface of his skin. he looks at you incredulously, his eyes wild and his lip split and bubbling with a bead of blood - he looks enraged, like he's about to stand up and choke you out - and if this had been a fight you started, you might let him do just that - hell, it'd be the exact outcome you wanted.

instead, before he has the chance - you lean down and crash your mouth to his. tugging his bottom bloody lip between your teeth and biting down hard, until he groans in pain and grips your waist in his hands. you pull back just to wrap a hand around his throat as you shove his head back against the couch, crawl into his lap and glare down at his flushed face.

"you're such a piece of shit and an asshole." you snap - reaching down with your free hand to yank at his belt, ripping it through the straps roughly and moving onto his zipper next. "you're like a fucking child, you know that? throwing tantrums because you can't communicate. you don't want me to leave." the hiss of the zipper as you drag it down. patrick still seems stunned by your slap - in a daze almost as you dip your hand into the hole of his jeans and fist his cock. "you'd fucking cry yourself to sleep thinking about me fucking some other guy."

finally, patrick snaps out of it - hips jerking as you grip his thickening dick in your hard grasp - hissing when you fish him out - "you're such a bitch." he volleys back at you, a weak insult. "I don't give a fuck - shit - what you do." he grits his teeth to near breaking them when you lean up and pull your panties to the side. the flash of your cunt just under your skirt blanking his brain. he'd make a comment on what a cockhungry slut you are, coming by his apartment with such a short skirt, but he's not on his A game today.

"yeah you do." you answer. you tip his chin even further back with your hand around his throat as you sink down on his cock with one push down of your hips. he groans, lashes fluttering. you grip the couch behind his head for leverage. "everyone thinks you're this devil may care playboy - but I know what you are -" you slowly drag your aching cunt up his thick cock, until just his fat tip is plugging your hole. " - you're a little pussywhipped bitch."

you slam your cunt down on him and feel his throat spasm under your palm as he chokes. "oh fuck -"

you start bouncing then, vigorous and mean - taking what you want. everyime you come down your clit catches on his belt buckle and the friction is so fucking good - you know you won't last long. and that's okay, because you'll be making him cream you up quick.

"trying to be shitty to the only girl who puts up with your loser ass, the fuck are you thinking, huh?" you slap him again, the scruff of his cheek scratching against your palm. you let your genuine anger come through your voice as you ride him. "what if I really left? you'd probably kill yourself you're such a goddamn health hazard. you're lucky you have such a huge cock."

patricks eyes roll back and his lips fall open. your pussy squeezes like a vice around him, hot and tender and fuck - he knows you're right. he'd literally be lost without this - he's become so dependent on this, on you - he'd fall apart if you genuinely went away. his fingers slide under your skirt and grip the fatty meat of your ass - groaning helplessly as you fuck him stupid on his cheap ass couch.

"s - shit. goddamn.," he can't think. no smart remarks in his head. just the sweltering bliss of your pussy sucking on his dick. "fuck. fuck - "

you wish you'd had the mind to get him fully naked - but you'd been so mad - you want to feel his bare skin on yours, his hips pounding yours into the couch - until the ratty thing collapses. your hands dive into his thick dark hair, gripping the strands roughly as you bounce furiously on and off his dick. "you piss me off," you grunt, half angry half horny as hell. "you piss me the fuck off."

"I know." he whines. squeezes your asscheeks as if in apology. "im sorry - I'm sorry, baby. I'm the worst - worst fucking man alive -"

you nod. "uh huh. stupid - f- fucking asshole. god, if I didn't love this dick so much -" he's hitting so deep inside you, but you want it even deeper. plunging and tunneling in and out, thos fat balls of his beating up against your asshole as he takes your tight pussy.

"fuck. use me. use my dick, baby - tell me how to fuck that pussy so she'll k- keep comin' back for more - "

"on top of me," you gasp, rutting back and forth in his lap, your hands kneading his shoulder - wanting his shirt off, wanting him naked. "pound my pussy - "

you're underneath him immediately.

[localkiss]

Princess Sprinkles!

Vendetta Chris Redfield x fem reader!

cw: dd/lg, creampie, squirting (guys idk how squirting feels like....), multiple orgasms (reader), fingering, pet names, praise kink, oral fixation (reader obv), light mentions of breeding, soft dom!Chris!!, afab terms used, size kink ish.., Chris being silly, Chris being a lil mean one time, and some fluff :3 !! — Lmk if I missed anything.

wc: 2005 !! (🤭 birth year go crazyy LOL!)

notes: if you don't like ddlg just um. Idk don't read 💀!! I fr try not to make the reader teeny tiny but like dude Chris is huge asf.. size kink go brrr 🧎🏻‍♀️! I'll be making reader a lil squishy from now on bc I'm not skinny either ☝🏻.Also I used to watch the Bratz babyz movie on repeat sm that the disc got ruined 😭😭 soo.. yes that part is directly from yours truly! Not proof read 😵‍💫

tags: @argreion, @rigorwhoring bc ily guys 😇!!

"Daddy!" You squeal as soon as Chris picks you up and spins you around. Making your fluffy mini pleated skirt twirl upwards.

Chris hoists your pretty body over his shoulders and pats you on the butt, practically skipping towards your shared bedroom. It looks like someone dumped all the squishmallows possible into the master bedroom. He can't help but think of you every time he sees a stuffed animal. Shits rooted in his brain. Stuffies = his angel!

Yeah, he might have to fight with them to make room for himself, but he wouldn't trade it for any other way. He doesn't actually fight them, knowing you'd throw a hissy fit and say "Hate daddy! Forever 'n ever!" Chris's heart shatters like glass whenever you say that.

He's grown softer because of you and those little threats of yours make his heart drop down to the core of the Earth. Would he admit it to team Alpha? No. Never in a million years. But they've got eyes and ears, they're not Patrick Star. Dumb and living under a rock.

Lately he's been covered in hickeys and cute little doodles that're supposed to be like tattoos by yours truly. Goes to work and gets teased by his squad, telling him how you've got him wrapped around your pretty little finger. How much you've changed him, for the better. He always shrugs them off, putting them back to work.

You for sure made Chris cut back on smoking a fuck ton. Constantly crying about how the stench will ruin your stuffies and the coat the walls of the house with a film. You're right, that's for sure. And the fact that second hand smoke is even worse is what clicks it into his head for him. His baby. His sweetheart, could end up dying because of his stupid ass habits.

Chris has lost too many of his men because of his habits. Too many good men. You are his savior. He pounds away the guilt into your needy little cunt. Constantly craving him. Needing him. Loving him. Honest to God, he needs that more than anything in this lifetime.

"Sweetheart," he sighs and sets you down onto the bed. "I missed you. Whatcha been up to?"

"Slept 'n colored and um... Ate some snackies, watch movie, 'n had lotsa juice!" You mumble, eyes glancing around the entire room. Using your hands to talk, as your words get slurred when you're in this state of mind.

Chris presses a faint kiss to your temple and noses down to the underside of your ear. Carefully holding the back of your head with his hand. He gives you more kisses and blows raspberries into your ear, making you squeal and swat at him.

"That's good baby. Glad you had a productive day." Chris smiles at you lovingly.

Your heart then swoons, making you feel all mushy inside. Praise gets him everything from you. Just like you crying out for daddy gets you everything from him!

He lazily starts to unbuckle his belt, pulling it through the loops. Setting it down on the bedside table with a thud. He starts to undo his fly, pushing his pants all the way down, kicking out of them.

Only dressed in his boxers and shirt, he engulfs you with a hug. Nuzzling into your neck, feeling your hands grab ahold of his shirt.

"Daddy?"

"Just recharging honey, hold on." His voice is deep and gruffy, sending chills up your spine.

You lay there, body buzzing with warmth as his figure presses you into the mattress. His hips shift and move against yours, causing you to gasp.

Thighs squeezing against his fit waist and he sighs into your neck. "Daddy's not charge. He excited..." Your fingers tug on his shirt and he sits up.

"Off?" Pointing to his shirt and you clumsily remove your own shirt and skirt. Now both of you are only in your underwear. Well, you still have your white thigh highs on, but still.

He presses your thighs up to your chest and settles in the middle as best as he can. Feeling his skin on your skin feels like heaven. Makes your panties wet, which he's noticed but doesn't want to say anything about it. Knowing you get all shy and embarrassed when he points things out like that. He likes it. Thinks it's cute that you want skin ship.

"So pretty baby," he pushes his hips forward. His cock catching onto your clit with each slow roll. "Pretty pussy, pretty tits. Pretty girl. My pretty girl."

Chris leans back and gets rid of his boxers. Pulling your panties up to slip his cock between your folds. Laying back down on top of you. Humping you instead of fucking you.

You can't complain, his tip his pressing against your clit nicely. Your hips rolling up to meet his and his dick slips inside.

He bottoms out immediately with a growl. "Baby. Did I say you could put it in?" Chastising you with a rough thrust, acting like it's your fault his dick slipped inside of your tiny hole.

"Daddy, didn't mean to. Not m'fault," you whine out, kicking your legs.

"S'okay. Daddy will make it all better." Chris presses a kiss to your forehead and acts like he's going to pull it out. Only to harshly thrust it back into you. "Fuck, princess. She's not wanting to let me go. You hear her crying for me?"

Moaning, you dig your nails into his back, "Daddy, daddy, never leave," you start babbling already.

He groans and rabbits his hips, making the bed rock against the wall.

"Wait, daddy, stuffies no want look, turn," you try to speak as he continues to fuck you like he hates you.

"Shit, okay baby. Hold on," he grunts and turns them around as best as he can. "Better now?"

You nod and go in for a kiss and he meets you halfway. Drooling into your mouth and your tongues swirl together before you suck on his. Moaning as he drives himself deeper inside of you. Squelching sounds and skin on skin echoing in the bedroom. Surely you guys won't get a noise complaint this time!

He spits into your mouth and smears it all over your lips with his thumb, pushing it into your mouth. Who needs a pacifier when you've got daddy's thumb?

Watching your eyes flutter shut and your lips wrapping around his thumb, it sets him off. His other hand driving down between you both and rubbing harshly at your puffy nub.

Biting down, you furrow your eyebrows. Breathing quickly and moaning softly. "Close," you hum around his digit. Sucking on it as you get closer and closer.

Chris's dick hits a special spot inside of you and your body shakes underneath him. Pussy trying to push out his cock as a clear liquid shoots out of you.

"Goddamn, baby, squirting on me, mmhh—fuck..." His hips falter and he dumps his cum inside of you. Resting his body on you, burying you into the bed. Making sure his cum never leaves you.

Chris pulls his thumb out of your mouth and kisses you feverishly. "Putting a baby in you, s'that alright princess?" Your pussy agrees by clenching around his thickness.

But he's acting like you've got a choice, since he's already done the deed. He pulls you up into his arms and you guys slowly make your way to the bath. Still connected and full.

Keeping you in his arms, he reaches down to turn on the water and put in the plug. You giggle and some of his cum starts to spurt out and drip down his balls. He settles in the tub with you on his lap, grabbing the soap to fill it with bubbles.

Chris slowly lifts you off of his length and sets you between his legs. Back pressed against his hairy chest. While his cum dribbles out of you.

His fingers make their way down to your sensitive cunt and slowly dips them inside. "Shh, I know baby," pressing soft kisses to your cheek as you whine and claw weakly at his forearms. The other one is keeping you pressed against him.

"Daddy's helping you baby," he starts to curl his fingers and your legs shake. Clearly overstimulated from earlier. But Chris starts to be a bit greedy, smacking his palm against your pretty little pearl.

Throwing your head back against his shoulder, he coaxes you into another orgasm. With the disguise of helping you get his cum out. If anything, he's trying to fuck it back into. Serious about putting a mini him or you inside of your tummy.

"Baby, almost there. Y'got it princess.. mmh.. cum one more time for daddy? Promise I'll clean you up and get us some donuts with sprinkles on 'em, just the way you like." Man, he's even bribing you! Daddy knows what you really want right now. So you whimper in response.

"Daddy, mmhhff... Daddy oh god! Please, please, please!" Your heels dig into the tub as the water fills it. His lips sucking and biting into your neck is what makes you cream around his digits.

Body convulsing and breath raggedy and higher as you come down from your second high of the night. Chris grabs your face and kisses you all over, mumbling praises into your skin. "Good girl, daddy's so proud of you."

Then, he takes his time washing you off, letting you play with the rubber duckies and splashing water onto him. Putting bubbles on his beard and making one for yourself.

"I daddy! See?" You pout and furrow your eyebrows, taking a drag of an imaginary cigarette. Chris rolls his brown eyes and takes the imaginary cigarette and puts it out.

"Babies can't do that stuff, remember? Only daddies can do that, silly baby girl." He wipes the bubbles off of your face and his, nibbling on your earlobe. Making chewing noises, "Om nom nom, my baby tastes so yummy!"

You squeal and press your face into your shoulder. "Daddy! Got wash so we can eat nummy donut! Donut sprinkle!"

He hums and gets to work. Gently washing your back and hair as you wash your front side and down to your toes. Chris hauls you up and he turns on the shower to wash your hair and his. God knows he needs this shower after training his new squad mates today.

Chris washes his own figure as you cup the water in your tiny hands and splash it up in the air. Watching you pretend you have powers as the water runs down your arms and to the tips of your fingers.

"Alright princess. Let's go get some sprinkled donuts," he pats your heart shaped ass with a chuckle. Wrapping you in a fuzzy towel, he gets to work drying you off. It reminds you of that Bratz babyz movie. Sure reminds him of it too. From how often you guys watched it, the CD stopped working and you threw a fit.

So of course, he bought a couple more, just in case. It's not like he doesn't have the money for it. So why not keep his baby sated with something so simple as a 2000s movie? He even bought you some Bratz dolls and monster high ones. Likes how you squeal and jump around in excitement every time he buys you something so simple as a doll. Makes him happy.

"Princess sprinkles and daddy sprinkles! Getting donut sprinkles! Sprinkles, sprinkles, sprinkles!" You laugh as he puts on your blue matching cinnamoroll pajamas that he spent fifty dollars on. Worth it in his opinion. Looks so cute on you, he can't help but press kisses all over your cheeks.

"Alright, alright, princess sprinkles. Let's go get in the car. Daddy'll buy you all the chocolate sprinkled donuts there is at the bakery." Chris's heart thumps in his chest. Yeah, there's a sprinkled shaped hole with a sprinkle version of you in his heart.