hyperfixationstati0n - Tumblr blog

hyperfixationstati0n · 28 days ago

Text

trailer park trash!patrick x trailer park princess!reader

patrick’s lived in trailer parks his whole life. his father in and out of his life before he decided to just be out months before patrick’s tenth birthday. raised by a single mom who did the best she could.

he smells like he bathed in cigarette smoke and car oil. was just as bad as the guys he grew up with despite swearing he was different.

one thing he never did was fuck girls from his own lot. doesn’t want to deal with the drama that comes with. but he couldn’t resist your pretty pout begging him to come fix your mom’s boyfriends truck.

“please, he’ll kill me if he finds out.”

he could see you weren’t gonna take no for an answer, and it was a simple fix that he got done in under thirty minutes. the plan was to go inside to get his money but he ended up fucking you on the kitchen floor. your thighs covered in faint oil marks from his stained hands, and his back aching from your scratches.

that was months ago, and now patrick can’t seem to get rid of you. not that he wanted to.

“are you gonna be working late today?” you laid out wrapped up in patrick’s sheets watching him walk around the small room getting ready.

“mmm, not too late. you gonna be here when i get back?” he grumbled around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. “maybe.” you shrugged. patrick finished getting dressed before walking over to you. “well, make sure you lock up if you don’t end up staying.” before he could leave you pulled him down, taking the cigarette from his lips to place a small kiss that quickly turned in to something deeper. patrick liked to kiss with his whole mouth, all tongue and teeth. if he didn’t stop now he’d be late.

“ok, alright.” patrick was trying to pull your arms from around his neck but you fought against his grip. “stay.” you sighed against his lips. “no.” your hold on him was surprisingly strong. “why?” patrick stared down at you. “cause i said so, and i’m older so you have to do what i say. let got.” you did so reluctantly.

patrick stood to his full height.

you looked up at him with your arms stretched out beside you. the sheets had slipped down exposing your bare torso that was covered in marks from the night before. the look you were giving him almost worked if it were for his phone going off.

“maybe next, babe.”

then he was gone, leaving you to satisfy your needs alone.

patrick’s couldn’t have gotten off of work earlier. it was 7pm the sun was beginning to set, and he was tired. and horny, with a slight knot starting to form in his neck.

he knew you were still there when he pulled up to his trailer house. the light coming from the lamp in his bedroom told him that much.

you were laid out on your stomach flipping through a magazine. you were so caught up with listening to your friend rant on the phone that you didn’t hear the key turning in the lock, or patrick’s heavy footsteps creeping towards you. you didn’t notice him until you felt the familiar roughness of his hands sliding up your bare thighs.

“was talking on that.” you said in response to patrick taking your phone out of your hands, hanging it up.

“so.”

he placed slow open mouth kisses on the back of you neck.

“m-made dinner for you. it’s in the microwave.” patrick smiled against your jaw. “well aren’t you the perfect little housewife, hm. did you mope around here waiting all day for me to get home?” he was teasing. you shook your head. “no, went home to make sure my mom didn’t pass out with oven on again.” you huffed a laugh that patrick copied.

your felt his hands take hold of your waist turning you onto your back. patrick took a minute taking in your figure. your were only wearing polka dots panties, his oversized band-tee that you seemed to live in, your plump lips that he slide a thumb over before pushing it into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.

“been thinking about you all fucking day.”

he freed his thumb from your mouth and moved to pull your his shirt over your head. “fuck.” patrick’s thumbs brushed over your taunt nipples, before he brought his head down taking on in between his teeth. “ah, p-pat.” he took your whole nipple into his mouth, sucking softly.

patrick is nothing of not fair, taking his time on both your tits switching back and forth. soft pants fell from you as your hip grinded up into him desperate for attention there.

“touched myself after you left today.” you confessed breathlessly. “did you?” patrick’s words were muffled against your skin. “mhm, needed you and you left. couldn’t help it.” thick fingers traced along the waist line of your underwear. “how many fingers?” he asked, ghosting his own over your clothed cunt.

“two.”

patrick smirked, pulling your panties to the side exposing your soaked core. “you can take more than that.” you responded with a moan when he eased three fingers in. he worked his fingers in and out of you getting you stretched for what comes next.

you were already a mess and now even needier than before. “patrick.” he undressed quickly, his cock hard and ready to be buried inside you. the man in front of you kneels between your legs, hiking your them up and wider. you signed a moan when patrick slide his dick through your slick folds, your panties pushed to the side.

“tell me how bad you want it.” the tip of his dick nudged against your clit, and pressed just barely into your opening.

“need it so bad patrick, please, please.” you put on a deep pout and the puppiest puppy eyes you could muster. patrick cooed, thumbing the underside of your jaw.

“anything for you.”

finally what you’ve both been waiting for all day. the stretch of your pussy conforming to patrick’s size. patrick backed out until just the tip was left in before he thrusted forward hard and deep.

“god, you’re so tight for me baby.”

patrick’s hips fell into a steady rough rhythm that had the headboard banging against the wall, and your whiny moans echoing in his ears.

“been w-wanting this all day.” your arms hooked around patrick’s shoulder. he hummed into neck where he was leaving harsh sucks. “this what you thought about while fucking yourself?” he raised his head up to look down at you. his hand coming up to wrap around your neck. “fell apart on your fingers thinking about my cock?”

“u-uh huh.”

the hand resting on your neck tighten, and patrick’s pace picked up. his strained moans mixing with your clearer ones.

your eyes shot open when you felt his cock slipping out of you. “what are-” your confusion was cut short when patrick flipped onto your stomach, and lifted your hips up leaving your upper body pressed against the sheets.

pulling your underwear all the way down taking in the view of your wet pussy clenching around nothing. “i swear you were made for me.” patrick says mostly to himself. you flinched at the feeling of spit hitting your tight ring of muscle. patrick just teased his finger over your hole, moving to feed his cock back into your cunt.

a too loud moan ripped out you. the walls of these trailers were paper thin, and sweet older couple that lived next door didn’t deserve to hear this.

“why so quite?” patrick caught on to the way you muffled your moans in the his pillows. his hands took hold of your hair, yanking you up. “get loud. let them hear. let the whole lot hear who’s fucking you so good.” the sounds of his hips beating against your ass echoed. “who is fucking so good, hm?

“you.” a moan got caught in your throat. “you’re fucking me so good o-only you.”

you could feel patrick’s smile in the way he started fucking into you faster,harder. tugging at your hair with more force.

the squelching sounds of patrick’s dick ramming in and out of your wet heat was almost as loud as the groans and wails coming from the both of you.

“oh god, oh fuck, right there pat!”

the head of his cock knocked right into that soft spot inside of you. “gonna fucking cum.” your fingers flew to your clit rubbing fast circles until your body tighten up and your orgasm came crashing down on you. strings of curses mixed with patrick followed after a silent scream.

patrick fucked you through your orgasm, setting off his own. his hips stilling and his cum filling you up. “shit.” he collapsed on top of you catching his breath for a moment before sliding out of you. he laid out next to you and began rifling through his drawer for his “after sex cigarettes.”

“did you want your dinner now?” you asked, watching his light the white and orange stick. “in a minute, wanna just lay with you.” he pulled you closer to his chest. the of you pass the stick back and forth.

497 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 29 days ago

Text

the generational curse the hanging tree song put on the chance family needs to be studied because what do you mean THE hanging tree guy's name was arlo chance and the boy who ran on reaping day was woodbine chance what

and while we're on the subject, THE hanging tree song guy's love who he told to run so they'd both be free was a girl named lil with a brother named spruce who was involved with D12's underground rebellion. and what is a spruce? a tree. not just any tree, no, a fuckin evergreen tree. so while im beating my head against this wall im going to assume lil is short for lily. lily and spruce everdeen

are we deadass right now

5K notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 1 month ago

Note

mike x reader costar vibe i’m thinking maybe costar is playing tashi? or are we thinking more she’s playing grazi in west side story???🫣🫣 all i know is i want us to be as talented!!! he can’t be the star of the show… we are 💅 OMGGG maybe sneaking around because apparently he does that a lot? and then secretly dating on press. ideas ideas ideas.

i was enchanted to meet you <3

mike faist x costar! reader

tw not much! no smut just insinuated (this is my first time writing for mike instead of a character and i couldn’t decide how far to go hehe)

the first time you met mike faist, it was after your chemistry read. you had just stepped out of the audition room, flushed and half drenched from the july humidity. he was sitting in the lobby, hunched over his phone like a teenager waiting for a ride home from school. you recognized him immediately. he looked up as you passed, your eyes catching for only a second too long. "hey," he said, standing, "you’re tashi?” “today i am,” you shrugged, grinning. that made him smile—just a flicker, but enough. later, you’d learn that’s how mike is. always giving you just enough to want more.

filming started in the fall. boston was pretending to be new york, and the city felt like it was holding its breath—gray skies, quiet tension, leaves like dying embers scattered across sidewalks. you trained together. ate together. waited through lighting setups lying side by side on the court like kids after gym class, arms barely brushing, pretending not to notice. it was subtle at first, the way he watched you. like a note just off-key, barely audible. you told yourself you imagined it, but you knew the difference between acting and something real.

mike looked at you like he was terrified and fascinated all at once. you shot a scene in the locker room one day—tense, intimate, filled with subtext. between takes, he stayed quiet, hands on his knees, staring at the floor. "you okay?" you asked, approaching carefully. he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable. "you're really good at pretending you don't know how magnetic you are," he said quietly. the air thickened, but still, you said nothing.

that night, after drinks with the cast, he found you outside your hotel room, hands buried in his coat pockets. you didn’t say a word. you just stepped back, let him in. he kissed you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, like you might vanish if he was too greedy with you. his hands hovered until you took them and placed them on your hips. “i’ve been thinking about this since the read-through,” he whispered into your skin. “i know,” you said, voice soft, “me too,” it wasn’t wild, it wasn’t frenzied. it was slow, aching, careful—two people starved for something that scared them. after, he stayed, just to hold you, his breath against your neck, heartbeat calm.

neither of you spoke about it in the morning. from then on, everything was a negotiation. there were moments you almost reached for him in public—instincts trained from rehearsal and habit—but had to curl your hands into fists.

on set, you gave nothing away. your co-stars joked about how well you and mike "got each other," but it never went deeper. except with josh. he always saw more than he let on. "you’re different when you look at him,” he said one day during blocking, “like you’re seeing something no one else does," you didn’t reply, just stared at your mark on the floor until the moment passed. it wasn’t always easy.

there were nights he wouldn’t text. nights where you both disappeared into your separate rooms, pretending the space was normal. he had a habit of pulling away when things got too close. "i don’t want to hurt you," he told you one night, back pressed to the wall, eyes full of guilt. "you’re not hurting me," you replied, though your throat felt tight. "you don’t know that," you walked up to him, placed a hand over his heart. “this is already mine. so whatever happens—it’s too late to undo it,” he kissed you like an apology, like a thank you. like surrender.

when the press tour began, everything shifted. photoshoots. interviews. staged candids. every headline speculating who was hooking up with who. and you and mike? perfectly professional. behind closed doors, though, he was quieter. you’d find him curled on hotel couches reading scripts he wouldn’t let you see yet. he’d brush a strand of hair behind your ear and say your name like a prayer, like it wasn’t safe in the air for too long. you once asked him, half-joking, “do you think this ends when the film does?” he looked at you with something breaking in his expression. "i think if it ends, it’ll be because we were too scared to admit it meant something," you didn’t laugh that time.

the premiere was surreal. flashes of cameras, fans screaming. you in a dress that cost more than your apartment, mike in a suit that made your stomach flip. you stood apart on the carpet. close enough for chemistry, far enough for deniability. when the movie played, and the final scene faded out—your face, tashi’s face, on the big screen, triumphant and hollow—you looked over. he was already looking at you. his eyes were glassy. your own stung. you didn’t need to say a thing.

later, back in the hotel, you lay next to him, legs tangled, everything quiet. “i don’t know how to be with you when the world’s watching,” he said, voice barely audible. “then don’t be with me there,” you whispered, “just be with me here,” you placed his hand over your ribs. “can you feel that? that’s real. that’s all I care about,” he closed his eyes, and for a moment, the weight lifted. you never defined it. you didn’t have to.

it lived in glances, in fingertips brushing just once too long, in long voicemails after press days. in the fact that neither of you ever said goodbye, only "talk soon," like it was a promise you could keep if you just whispered it gently enough. maybe it would fade. maybe it wouldn’t. but it was yours, and no one could take that from you.

215 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 1 month ago

Note

art falling in love with his nutritionist!reader?

TW: heavy implications of ed, pathetic art...

he hated. HATED. his last nutritionist. tashi hired her, and having tashi and a nutritionist on his ear telling him what to eat and what not to eat was enough to make him want to eat nothing at all.

he might've developed an ed...he doesn't pay much attention to it tho. all he knows is that since his retirement and divorce he hasnt been eating...like at all. he feels guilty whenever he does so much as think about fast food, but when he tries to eat healthy food he gets the urge to throw up. so he does the mature thing and gets a nutritionist.

he's scared, in lack of better words. he doesn't want to repeat the same cycle he had with his old nutritionist. you were coming to his house, and god was he nervous. yet when you arrived, he couldn't deny how pretty you were. hair in a blowout, hands neatly clasped infront of you. and your smile was oh so sweet and eased his heart. "hi!" you stuck your hand out, and his much bigger hand shook your smaller one.

"hey," he smiled back and stepped back so you could come in. he offers you a seat on his counter, and he leans against it. his biceps flexing subconsciously as he smiles awkwardly. with you sensing his nervousness you start questioning him about his eating habits, past and present. he's open, about his old nutritionist, possible ed and all of his struggles. he feels like he's in a therapy session with how you listen to him attentively.

"so you have trouble eating?" you ask softly and he nods. "yeah, i just cant find myself actually digesting it. specially if i want to keep a good physique." you hum, nodding as you look up at him. he swears he could get lost in your eyes.

"well you know you can add a few sweets and oils every now and then, right?" you say slowly, almost if talking to a child. he stays quiet, he has been told to not eat eats and/or oils at all. "c'mon." you take out a chocolate bar and he internally cringes at the sight. "we each get a bite, 'kay?" you take a small bite. humming at the flavor. "okay your turn," you pass the chocolate to him, looking at him expectantly.

he gulps, frowning. "i really cant." you smile softly at his words. "there's no rush, but you really wont process if you dont start. a few meals wont ruin you."

it takes minutes to try convince art to bite into the chocolate.

an hour later and he's crying into your chest. whining about not being enough and feeling so lost. or atleast that's what you think he's saying, his cries are too much for u to understand completely what he's saying. he clings to you, burying his face into your breasts. your hand rubs his neck up and down as you try to calm him down. "there there...its okay, we'll take it one step at a time, okay?" he nods, fingers curling around your hips.

he doesn't quite remember what happened after that, he just remembers begging you to not leave him and inevitably sleeping in your arms. and when he wakes up, he is greeted by greasy eggs, orange juice and a side of greens.

oh, you're definitely better than his last nutritionist.

502 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 1 month ago

Text

I'm gonna tell my kids this was Sunrise On the Reaping

7K notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 1 month ago

Text

Fraternity!art🏌️‍♂️

144 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 1 month ago

Text

acaban de nacer miles de haditas por kali

tom's profile will always be 🥴🥴🥴

50 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 2 months ago

Note

Oh pudge!!! But it’s reader with the pudge either they’ve just had a baby or our pregnant. I feel like Patrick would be obsessed with how he was able to change his partners body.

a little blurb. sorry i can't take anything seriously. SMUT 18+, pregnant!reader, mentions of body troubles

-----

It starts with a quiet war against your own reflection.

The mirror catches everything: the flush of your cheeks, the slope of your belly, the fine sheen of sweat collecting beneath the swell. You’re not glowing. You’re not radiant. You’re tired. And you’re prickly. In more ways than one.

The razor in your hand feels like a joke, some useless little weapon you’re no longer equipped to wield. Your fingers strain, stomach tight with effort, and still—there’s just too much of you in the way.

So it starts with a complaint.

"I can't see or reach," you huff, struggling to bend far enough over the sink. "This is undignified. I'm undignified."

Patrick barely glances up from the bed where he's sprawled, socks mismatched and a spoon hanging out of his mouth. "What are you doing in there?"

You hesitate. The answer feels too stupid to say out loud. "Self-maintenance."

"...Are you shaving?"

You close the door slightly. Not enough to hide, just enough to deny. "Trying. I can't see past the bump."

There's a pause. Then the familiar shuffle of Patrick rising, setting his half-eaten yogurt cup on the bedside table like it's some grand gesture of sacrifice.

"Alright," he says, voice too eager, "tag me in."

"Patrick—no—"

"C'mon," he says, already heading your way. "If Scott Disick can help Kourtney, I can handle a bush."

You groan. "I knew I shouldn't have let you watch Keeping Up with me."

He grins. "You say that, but I’ve been preparing for this moment for months."

He’s already crouching in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s not kneeling in your cramped bathroom between a bathmat and the trash can, about to get way too intimate with your third-trimester jungle.

"So what’s the emergency? Hair? Access? Aesthetic crisis?"

You glare. He softens.

His voice shifts, more grounded. "You think I care that you’re hairy? Babe, I’ve seen you puke with a toothbrush in your mouth and still wanted to kiss you. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?"

You look down at your body—heavy, flushed, marked in every direction. You don’t feel cute. You don’t even feel human. You feel like a host.

Patrick must see it on your face. His teasing quiets, but he doesn’t get mushy. He just nudges your knee apart with two fingers and says, “Okay. Here's my official statement: your body is hot, your pussy’s hotter, and I’m about to make your night."

Your jaw drops. “That’s your statement?”

“Do you want a PowerPoint?”

"You sound like a feminist porn director," you mutter, half-laughing.

Patrick shrugs. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

You don’t know whether to smack him or kiss him. But he’s already settling on his knees like he’s clocking in for a job he takes very seriously. The air shifts—not because he says something sentimental, but because his whole posture changes. Intent, hungry, locked in.

His hands run slowly up your thighs, thumbs skimming the crease where they meet the bump. His breath ghosts over your skin. He looks up, not for permission, but to remind you who you are to him.

There’s a moment where he just stares. Not at your face, not even at your pussy—but at all of it. The shape of you. The curve. The softness. The undeniable presence you carry now.

It undoes him a little.

Every time he sees you like this—round, flushed, a little breathless—it sets something low and aching in his chest. Not arousal. Not even pride. Something more like awe.

He used to trace your waist when you were asleep. Now he does it without thinking, just to feel the give beneath his palm. The way your body feels like home. Like time made visible.

He doesn’t repeat himself. Doesn’t keep hammering the same line. He just stares. And then he acts.

He’s on you.

Not gentle. Not delicate. Just hungry.

He nuzzles in like he belongs there, beard scratchy, mouth confident. He licks you like he’s starving, like you’re dessert and dinner and everything in between.

You gasp, legs twitching. He growls. "Don’t even think about it."

Your head tips back against the mirror. Patrick anchors you, hands firm, tongue relentless. The words he mutters are crude, yes—but they’re also true. And it’s that truth, hot and messy and absurd, that finally undoes you.

He moans into you when you come. Like he’s proud. Like it wrecks him.

When he pulls back, his face is slick and smug.

"Still wanna shave it?"

You’re speechless.

"Didn’t think so."

He kisses your bump. Then your mouth.

Later, when you're breathless and boneless against the bathroom door, the silence hums between you like a held note. Your legs are still shaky. The room smells like soap and heat and him.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, then another to the underside of your belly, soft and lingering like a thank-you. Not for the sex. For staying. For carrying this weight. For letting him see you, really see you.

"This is why I can’t trust you around reality TV," you murmur, eyes still closed.

Patrick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. "Reality’s never been this entertaining."

He helps you up, steady hands under your arms, and guides you back to bed like he’s afraid you’ll tip over. Once you’re beneath the sheets, he crawls in beside you without ceremony. No smugness now. Just warmth.

You’re already half-asleep when you feel his hand settle over the curve of your belly. He doesn’t say anything. He just rests there, grounded and quiet, like he could stay that way until morning.

You roll your eyes. But your hand finds his warmth, and stays there.

127 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 2 months ago

Note

AHHHHHH

I wanna DEEPTHROAT your fics!!

Okay okay so imagine enemies to fuckbuddies/lovers with patrick and he pisses reader off so much she pounces on him and chokes him and hes like "are you grinding on me rn...?" Like she didnt even realise and they fuck :3

girl i wanna deepthroat YOU for this suggestion hello. Please. anyways wasn't supposed to yap so much sorry self indulgent i just want him to call me a bitch and then tweak out about it.

warnings: smut 18+ (p in v), dry humping, choking, no proofreading soz

Oh, what a fucking asshole.

You swear your eyes are going to be stuck permanently in your skull with how hard you've been rolling them at Patrick all night. Smug grin and blue collar slightly upturned from a flick of Art's hand—you just wanna choke the life right out of him. Awfully tempting.

"—I just think you're being sensitive," he insists, leaning forward in his beach chair.

The gathering has long died down by now. Most of your friends have 'gone to bed' (are drunkenly hooking up with each other). Art staggered off ten minutes ago claiming something about having a hangover in the morning. Bullshit. He's had two beers at the most; he's just avoiding the bickering still going on in his absence.

Two weeks into the summer and you're regretting agreeing to come along with your friends to the Zweig summer house. You're only here for Art. Sweet boy.

Patrick? A menace.

"Sensitive?" You retort incredulously, setting your drink on the ground with a soft clang.

"Yeah. Sensitive. Sensible," he replies in a very poor imitation of French. "Does that help?"

Your jaw clenches. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

Your dry reply amuses him further, head tilted as he observes your very apparent frustration. "It's just a word. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"I just don't think that men should—"

His groan interrupts you. "Should, what, say bitch? Don't get all liberal on me."

"Liberal?" You bark back.

"Liberal. Feminist. Whatever." A dismissive wave of his hand. "It's all the same."

You rise to your feet, scoffing under your breath about men having zero awareness. He just watches you, smirk still in place as you smooth down your summer dress and prepare to head for the house. Maybe you'll be matching nursing headaches with Art in the morning; you don't understand how he doesn't have a permanent migraine when he's stuck with this shithead all the time.

And then, of course, just as you start up towards the house—

"What, not even a goodnight? You don't have to be such a bitch about it."

You whirl on him in an instant. One, two, three, four long strides before you're lunging at him so hard his chair almost tips over. His smirk melts in an instant, the sound of surprise he lets off breaking into a choked sound when your fingers curl around his throat. You aren't sure whether it's the amount of times you've heard the word bitch tonight or just the complete assholery you've had to put up with for the last few weeks.

It doesn't matter. All you know is you can't take it anymore.

"Shut up, Patrick," you snarl. "Just... shut the fuck up for once in your life."

He's not sure what silences him: the pressure around his throat, or the sheer venom in your voice. But his mouth snaps shut audibly, and you can feel him swallow against your palm.

"You just... you never know when to quit, do you? Do you get off on this? On being a degenerate asshole? Or are you really just so much of a bitch—" He almost cracks a smile when he hears that. For the sake of his poor neck, he doesn't. "—That this is who you really are, huh?"

"I was just joking," he tries to pacify you, his voice strained. He's not sure why his hands stay on the arms of his chair; certainly not out of self-preservation, that's for sure. He should be prying you off him right now.

You take some satisfaction in the way he rasps, and that tiny flicker of fear in his eyes. But you're far from done. "You're so entitled that it's baffling. We get it, Patrick. Mommy and daddy don't love you so you feel the need to take it out on everyone else. But you aren't funny. You're just an asshole. So just... just shut up!"

It's a miracle he can breathe at this point. The way his eyes have widened and his breathing is stilted makes guilt settle at the pit of your stomach. Not enough to remove your hand entirely, of course, but your grip loosens enough for him to inhale a deep breath.

You're expecting either of two things: an apology, or for him to call you fucking crazy. Instead, what you get is:

"... Are you grinding on me right now?"

What? That's ridiculous. Laughable, really. Why would you be—

Oh, shit, you are.

In the midst of your tangent, you'd hardly noticed the way your hips had started to gyrate. Little circles of your hips, just enough to stimulate you. The movement was involuntary; grinding down against the thigh you're perched upon, little sparks of pleasure mixing with that guilt in your stomach. Fuck.

"N-no—" You stammer, cheeks flushed at the realisation.

"I can feel it. You are," he insists incredulously. And when your grip on his throat tightens in retaliation (or embarrassment), he just smirks this time. "Oh my god. You're enjoying this."

"Don't be so fucking ridiculous," you shoot back, your hips stilling. Somewhere deep down, you're disappointed by the loss of friction.

His hands finally leave the tanned wicker of the chair. Not to push you off, though. Instead, you find a pair of firm hands holding you in place, grinding you down hard against his thigh. Your own hand tightens instinctively, a pair of stuttered gasps synchronising between you.

"You're insane. Stop it."

"Am I? You're the one that's wet."

Touché. Your cheeks burn harder. There's just enough light coming from a lamp post to illuminate your mortified expression. All you can do is stammer over your words in an attempt to salvage your dignity.

"Yeah, well... well you're hard!" Good comeback.

You aren't wrong, though. You can feel his cock pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his shorts. You pointedly ignore the little thrill you feel when you realise how big it feels.

"Because you're choking me."

You stare at him incredulously for him a moment. "... You're sick."

"And yet you haven't stopped."

No, you haven't. Your hands are still wrapped around his throat, and you haven't made any attempts to stop the way he keeps grinding you down against his thigh. If you sat up long enough to look, you'd see the damp patch of slick you've transferred onto the cotton.

"Just... just shut up!" You repeat.

He just smiles crookedly. "You gonna keep saying that, or are you gonna make me?"

A moment of staring, and then your mouths are clashing together. There's no method behind it; just teeth and noses bumping together, stray tongues licking at lips and into mouths. Gasps and moans each time you grind against his thigh.

It shouldn't be happening. You hate him. You do. But just because he's an insufferable asshole doesn't mean he's ugly, and there's something oddly cathartic about the way his eyes flutter when your hand squeezes or he groans into your mouth when your knee presses against his erection.

"Sit up," he pants against your mouth. Against your better judgement, you find yourself obliging. One knee on each side of his thighs as he pushes his shorts out of the way.

Between the darkness and the angle, you can't see what he's doing. Your breath hitches when the rubs the head of his cock against your panties. They're so soaked it hardly feels like there's a boundary there at all.

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

Your reply is a little too fast, but he seems too focused on pushing your underwear to the side to mock you. Besides, mocking is what got you both into this whole mess. Your forehead thumps against his when the blunt head slides between your folds to tease at your entrance, breath stuttering.

Your hands slide to his shoulders for purchase, and you swear you see a flicker of disappointment cross his face. It's so brief you can't be sure as you sink down onto his cock, head tilted back with a groan at the sheer size of him. It takes a few moments to ease yourself down, and the stretch is almost blinding.

He waits for your hips to be flush together to make any sly remarks. "Big enough for you?"

"Shut the fuck up," you reply, voice rough.

He laughs. It's equally as strained.

And then you're riding him. It starts off slow enough for you to adjust at your own pace, just grinding back down against him. Patrick lives up to his asshole reputation, though—his hands find your hips to hold you in place and soon enough he's pulling you down against him, his hips bucking up to meet you.

You're vaguely aware of the fact anyone could still be awake and take a peek out the window, but it doesn't stop your hand from sliding down between you to circle your clit mindlessly. Your head lolls back, sweet moans filling the air each time he drives up into you.

Patrick, on the other hand, is watching you with rapt attention. Grunting and panting while he drinks up every sound and expression, his grip just short of bruising every time you're brought back down onto his cock.

"Fuck. You're so hot like this," he grits out.

"Bet you've been thinking about this," you shoot back breathlessly.

"Hell yeah I have," comes his unabashed reply. "Every time you're going off on your feminist bullshit. Or calling me a brat."

"You are a brat."

There's a glint in his eye. "Treat me like one, then."

So you do. Your fingers curl back around his throat as he fucks up into you; his reaction is almost instantaneous. Eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a soundless moan, his pace faltering for just a moment before he catches himself.

"Yeah. Yeah, just like fuckin' that."

It's not long before you're both nearing your peaks. You can hardly focus on keeping a good grip with how desperately your other hand is rubbing your clit, knees digging into the wicker. You can feel the indents forming against your skin.

"Close—" You manage to warn.

"Yeah? Y'gonna cum on my cock?"

"Jesus, stop with the fucking dirty talk."

He laughs. Hoarse. Unrepentant. "Sorry. Used to fucking people that like to hear my voice."

To his credit, he does shut up for the next minute or so. It's just the sound of you both moaning senselessly and chasing your highs, until he shifts the angle just right and—

"G-God, yeah, right there. I'm gonna—"

"Cum?"

You'd glare at him if it weren't for the abrupt fluttering of your walls around his length. "Fuck, Patrick, oh—" And then your vision is whiting out and you're gushing around him.

His name on your tongue is almost enough to do him over. Almost.

"Choke me. C'mon, I'm so close," he whines, hips stuttering upwards into you. You feel like your brains have been fucked out, but you have just enough sense to comprehend the request. And then you're squeezing and watching the whites of his eyes appear.

A few more jolts of his hips and your name is cried out as he comes undone. You can feel the hot warmth filling your cunt, and he continues to pull you down onto him to milk out his orgasm. Moaning pathetically with his head tipped over the back of the chair.

And then it's just the sound of you both panting as both of your hands release each other. You shift off awkwardly, ignoring the whine he makes and the way the sudden emptiness has you feeling the same way. You stumble to your feet, yanking your dress down and peering at the crosshatching on your knees.

At least you're both sporting evidence of the encounter. Patrick's neck is sporting a reddening print, the start of little bruises forming where your fingers pressed too hard. Now you have to look at that for the rest of your vacation.

Great.

You swallow thickly. "Just to be clear, I still think you're an asshole."

He nods, like he hadn't even considered otherwise. "Yeah, I know. But I think you like that about me."

"Patrick—"

"Kidding." His hands raise in mock surrender. "Just get your pretty ass to bed. I've had enough of you yelling at me for one night."

You scoff. You aren't sure whether it's out of contempt or amusement. But you turn on your heels, shaking your head as you finally start back towards the beach house the way you'd intended to fifteen minutes ago.

You're making your way up the steps when he calls out behind you: "But we're doing this again, right?"

"In your dreams." You shoot him your middle finger over your shoulder. His laugh rings out as you trudge up towards the house on wobbly legs.

He watches you go, and it's only when you're safely inside that he mutters under his breath.

"... Bitch."

468 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 2 months ago

Text

Happy Challengers Anniversary #1 !!!

I present to you: Tashi Duncan’s Diary

Click for better quality

Author’s note

This is an interpretation exclusively based on the character.

I didn’t add much about Art or Patrick because it’s also a point of view where Tashi was only 18. A girl trying to figure out who she was —just like they were— and trying to build a life she could be proud of.

Before anyone tried to define her.

Some things she already knew: She wanted more. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be herself.

This journal is my interpretation of that Version of Tashi.

It’s not perfect—it’s personal.

It’s a glimpse of her, through my eyes.

Thanks for reading. <3

222 notes · View notes

hyperfixationstati0n · 2 months ago

Text

Ladybug Smile

p. zweig x reader

warnings: happy ending I promise, medical trauma, trauma in general, cancer, sickness, loss of a loved one, loss of a sibling, grief, fucked up family dynamics, disordered eating due to poverty, panic attacks, homelessness, pregnancy mention, first time parenting, patrick zweig needs a hug and a sandwich, angst, hurt/comfort, patrick zweig gets a hug, lmk if I forgot anything

wc: 5k, why did I let it get so long, what was the point

an: I forgot I could write... I don't think this is coherent or good but it's probably legible. thank you to @artdcnaldson for listening to me talk abt this (and to my irl friends for the same)

When Patrick was seven years old, his parents sat him down to talk. They said, in very soft and wavering voices, that Marion was sick.

He didn't quite understand, at the time, what this meant. They did use the word cancer, but he was seven. It didn't mean much to him. They wouldn't say how bad she was.

He visited her in the hospital as much as he was allowed, though. Brought her the smoothest pebbles from the lake on the estate grounds. Told her about Mila from school and how he was going to marry her. Brushed her hair even when it was starting to fall out. Cried when he showed up one day and she was bald.

She kept her same brightness all through the disease. Hugged him with her skinny arms and smiled just as much as always. Giggled at his stupid jokes, yelled at him when he was being annoying, called him out when he tried to lie or omit details of a story. Too smart for her own good. She was his sister, through and through, and that never changed. His parents let him pick out a pretty wrap for her head, and he decided on ladybug print. “It's happy!” he said as they questioned his judgement. Marion loved it, anyway. That was all that mattered. He felt almost vindicated that they didn't know ladybugs were her favorite; she was special to him, after all. What did they know?

When Patrick was eight, his parents didn't come to pick him up from school one day. This wasn't unusual, per se. They were busy people. He sat on the curb, expecting the driver to pull up instead. No one did.

When the principal walked out, face white as a sheet, he knew. Maybe not what, but he knew. Of course he did. Especially when she sat right down beside him on the curb with no regard for her pristine skirt and shiny shoes.

She rubbed his back and tugged him into her side while he sobbed. He was almost glad she was the one who told him, not his parents. His parents were too… themselves. They were uncomfortable. Firm. She, at least, was something to hold onto.

When Marion died, he stopped trying. Who was there to impress with good grades? His parents didn't care. The school could send home a million report cards and letters, but everything would be fielded to the nanny anyways.

When he was twelve, he went to MRTA. It wasn't exactly his first choice, but it was better than being at home. And his parents didn't want to look at him, anyways. They never liked seeing Marion’s face anywhere but on her body. This would be easier on everyone.

Art was a good friend, but Patrick kept him at arm’s length. He had to. There would be no one who he loved like Marion. Not even a little bit. He adored Art. Adored playing with him, against him. Growing up with him. But Art was a person, and therefore, Art would leave. Patrick Zweig did not have permanence. He didn't earn it.

A sickening feeling started to fester in his gut when he met you. You went to Stanford with Art and Tashi, and he first ran into you at one of Tashi's tennis matches. Art was there too, for his girlfriend, so he dumped Patrick off onto you, her friend, for a moment’s peace.

You were sweet. Gentle. Kind. But you were by no means innocent or pure, and he could tell from the first moment that you wanted him.

The stumble back into your dorm (‘my roommate is home for the week’) and the ensuing sex was thrilling. So was the ‘relationship’ that followed. He never really called it that, hadn't done since his girlfriend Laura in sixth grade. No use. That wasn't what he was for.

But Patrick Zweig had never earned permanence. Like poison leeching in slowly, resentment began to fester. He hated how you’d wait up for him at night. The way you looked so crushed when he’d pull out and get ready to leave, as if you expected him to stay for some reason. As if you expected anything to change.

The argument wasn't that bad at first. Quiet words spat like venom into the other’s face, a stony glare.

“You’re being weird,” you'd snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. He scoffed.

“I don't have to be any kind of way for you, y'know. You expect so much for a fucking hookup.”

God, he hated the way you went silent after that. He tried cracking a joke. Brushing a hand over your arm, pressing the flat of his palm to the small of your back. You didn't budge an inch.

It took ten minutes for him to give up. To walk out of your life. He didn't stay in Art and Tashi’s long after that either.

Everything was ephemeral. This was fine.

The restaurant is a little too air-conditioned for the tepid weather, the air a little too thickly silent in the way that makes each touch of utensil to dish sound painful. He can't pay much attention to what the woman across from him is saying. The food hasn't arrived yet, and his stomach is a gnawing pit that consumes his mind alongside the rest of him. She's making what seems to be a joke, and he laughs weakly while she cracks up over her own words.

The sharp gasp from a few tables away catches his attention, though. He looks up for a moment and catches a flash of a familiar sweater and a familiar gaze. His heart drops.

You're pretty. Like the day he left you. The years have worn on your face, though it's only been seven. He winces at the realization that he's been counting.

His date makes a sputtering, confused kind of sound as he stands, chair scraping deafeningly across the floor, and bolts. He can almost hear her shout after him, and he's pretty sure she just got his name wrong. Still.

The air outside is pleasant, but just a little too humid to be comfortable. Or maybe that's just the tightness in his chest. He gets maybe half a block before he stops. The footsteps behind him slow.

When you appear in front of him, he knows it's definitely the tightness in his chest. He doesn't speak.

“You look like a skeleton,” is the first thing you breathe out, and he scowls.

“I don't need your pity. What do you want?”

He hates the way your face falls.

“I don't pity you one bit. I just wanted to tell you-”

You cut off, and he can hear the way your breath hitches. It makes him uncomfortable.

“I wanted to tell you that I was pregnant when you left. And that- and that I kept it. So there.”

You're trying damn hard to keep it together, he can tell. Holding up a front like this is casual and you're doing so well about telling him. If he was able to breathe, maybe he’d laugh at the poor act.

He sits down heavily onto the curb, body crumbling in on itself. His head hits his knees. It takes a few seconds to calm down.

“You’re insane,” he bites out, no venom in the words. He might be crying.

He pauses.

“Is it- I mean- where's the… the kid?” It hurts to say that word.

He hears you sit down beside him, and the déjà vu is enough to make him want to puke.

“She's at my apartment right now. The babysitter’s getting her ready for bed.”

He lets out a bitter huff, fingers twitching like they want to do something. Rip his hair out, maybe. Punch a wall. Hold onto you.

“Do you have pictures?”

He doesn't know what possesses him to say that. Something so innately self-destructive and scary. He says it anyways.

The light of your phone creeps in on his vision, and he lifts his head, staring into the screen.

The little girl is small and chubby, wearing a ladybug raincoat and sitting directly in a puddle. She's wearing his smile, too. She's got one hand up, waving at the camera, gaze focused on something behind it. You, he assumes.

“Fuck.” That's all he can say for a few moments. “What's her name?”

He hates the way you pause.

“Marion. Marion Eleanor.”

He vomits into the gutter, sobbing. Feels your hand on his back, snaking around his side. Melts into your touch.

The two of you stay like that for a while. Longer than any two people should sit on a curb in the middle of the city. He’s grateful for the touch.

“Can I see her?”

His voice is uncharacteristically small. He can't put up a front. Not right now.

The pause sucks all the air out of the atmosphere.

“Are you going to stay? Because I'm not letting her fall in love with you if you're gonna run again.”

He's never wanted to promise something more than he wants to promise you of his permanence. But that feels too close to a lie. Too close to a way he could hurt you. Hurt the kid. Marion.

“I want to say yes,” he admits. “But I don't… know how to do ‘staying’. I don't do that. You know it.”

He almost starts sobbing again.

“I want to know her. I just don't want to hurt you both.”

I don't want to get hurt, is what he doesn't say. You seem to understand despite his silence.

“You can see her.” He senses the caveat before it's spoken. “But I'm not going to tell her who you are. You can be my friend, nothing more. You won't bring her presents or treats. You won't let her get attached until you prove it's safe to.”

The gnawing in his stomach gets worse. But he nods. There's a terrible pull in him that tells him he needs to see her, to know her. She feels like someone whole and right, and her smile looks like someone he used to know.

“I'll give you my phone number and text you my address. You'll show up at eight tomorrow morning.”

There's nothing he can do but agree, and the mixture of guilt and hope is so overwhelming that his head is full of floss.

His car pulls up outside your apartment building at seven forty-five, creaking a little as the engine cools down. He opens the door at seven fifty, steps out on legs that are a bit too shaky. His outfit is probably the nicest one he owns; an Adidas hoodie from eight years ago and a pair of khaki pants he almost forgot to take the tag off of before getting here. Neither fit quite right, but it’ll have to do. He hopes, maybe foolishly, that the little girl won't look at his beat-up sneakers with the soles glued back on one too many times. It doesn't seem like something a six year old would care about, but the nerves are there all the same.

He makes his way up to the apartment number he’d been given, punching in the code for the lobby door. His fingers quiver so badly that he got it wrong three times.

It's seven fifty-seven when he knocks on the door, quickly stuffing his hands back into his pockets and trying not to pass out.

The door swings open, revealing you. You’re wearing an old t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, a mug in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other.

He smiles, but his breathing is too shallow, so he kind of gasps when he does.

“Patrick,” you say, tugging him into a loose, one-armed hug. The movement gives him the opportunity to see the small girl hiding behind your legs, looking up at him with big eyes. “It's good to see you.”

You turn to the child, who’s clinging to the hem of your t-shirt, and his heart flips.

“Mari, baby, this is Patrick. He’s mommy’s friend. Do you wanna say hi?”

She pauses a bit, sizing him up, and nods.

“I'm Marion,” she declares, not making a move to approach him.

He makes the abrupt decision to crouch down to her level, hoping it makes her a little more comfortable.

“Hey, Marion. You've got a very pretty name.”

He's grateful his voice doesn't crack and he manages to finish the sentence.

This puts a smile on her face, a wide grin that almost knocks him off his feet. She's missing a front tooth, but that smile is all him. (All Marion. He won't acknowledge that part.)

“Mommy says I'm named after someone very special,” she informs him, nodding sagely like she’s got all the knowledge in the world. He gives a wet laugh.

“Yes you are,” he agrees. This time his voice does break. She gives him another once over before walking away to what he assumes is the living room.

His gaze lands on you heavy, staring with the weight of a thousand questions and a thousand words. A few seconds go by in silence, and then he breaks it.

“She looks just like you,” he mumbles. “She's got- she's got my smile, though.”

He can call it his smile now, but once upon a time another person wore it first. It's his to the people who never knew her. There are more and more of those as the years go by. He wonders briefly if anyone will even talk about her when his parents die.

You nod, a look on your face he can't read. Could he ever? Did he ever know you that well?

You lead him through the apartment. His gaze catches on smeared orange and pink across one wall, like someone had attempted to wipe it off but hadn't quite gotten it. There are a few photos in frames set on a shelf. One of you and a newborn baby on your chest, laid on a stretcher in front of an ambulance, looking beautiful and scared. One of you and a few girls he thinks might've gone to Stanford with you. One of a very old man holding a clearly-squirming Marion in aged hands, beaming so widely his smile could blind.

You take him to the small living room, and he looks around. Colorful toys are scattered on the beaten-down carpet; a bunch of small animal figures, a playhouse, a tennis player Barbie with tangled hair. Marion sits cross-legged, methodically coloring a picture of some birds.

“Are you hungry?”

Your voice cuts into his observation, and he looked up and you, blinking before he processes.

“We made pancakes and sausage for breakfast.”

We. We made pancakes and sausage for breakfast. ‘We’ being you and his bright, bubbly daughter who barely looks up as he responds.

“Sure, yeah. Thanks.”

You hurry off into a small, partly separate kitchen, and he peers at Marion.

“Whatcha drawing?”

She glances at him before presenting the half-finished coloring sheet, hiding her face behind it as she sticks it forward.

“Parakeets,” she tells him, and launches into a detailed explanation of the coloration and why she’d chosen what pencils she did. He listens with rapt attention, barely looking up when you walk back into the room with a reheated plate and a mug of coffee. You set it down on the coffee table, and he smiles his thanks before digging in. It’s halfway gone by the time he remembers he maybe shouldn't eat like he’s starved for it (he is).

There are a couple eggshells ground up in the pancakes, but when Marion asks him all quiet and inquisitive how he likes them, all he can do is tell her they're perfect. She grins.

“I made the batter,” she explains, and he nods.

“That's good. You could be a chef. Or… baker. Is this baking or cooking?”

Her brow furrows as she tries to think of the answer, and you turn to him.

The rest of the morning passes by quickly. Too quickly. In no time at all, he’s hugging you quickly and waving goodbye to Marion, who’s quite busy setting up a scene with her toy animals. She spares him a ‘bye, Patrick’ over her shoulder, and his heart nearly rips apart.

You step out into the hallway with him, closing the door after yourself, and he waits expectantly. Maybe for you to tell him never to return. Maybe for you to tell him he was terrible in there. Maybe for something else entirely.

“That was a good first go,” you say softly, and he almost collapses in relief. “Thank you for listening to me about how to approach this. It's better for all of us.”

He wants to say it's not better for him, but he keeps his mouth shut instead. Grins. Grits his teeth. Waves goodbye to you, too, and returns to the car he’d been living in. Relief blooms when he thinks of how you had said not to buy her presents. He doesn't have the money for good ones anyway.

Over the next few weeks, he creeps further into your life, and Marion’s too. Nearly every day, he’s there. He wishes her a happy first day of summer vacation. You let him come with to the park once or twice, allow him to visit you both at the coffee shop. He smiles at her frosting-covered face and the crumbs of cinnamon roll on her plate.

It happens when he’s at the park with you both. Marion comes running up from where she’s been digging in the grass, looking at you breathlessly.

“Mommy, you remember I have an appointment tomorrow, right?”

You nod, rubbing her arm. A puff of air leaves her in relief, almost a sigh, and he wants to laugh at how beyond her years she can appear sometimes.

“Okay good. Don't forget,” she warns, and goes back to her plastic shovel and worm collection. His body shifts to face you, and you give a quiet laugh.

“What kind of appointment?” he asks softly, and you give a sigh far too close to her own.

“Cardiology. It's just a checkup, though, so hopefully it won't eat up the whole day. I hate that parking lot.”

His brain’s gone fuzzy like a dandelion again, and it takes a second for him to brush away the haze enough to reply.

“Cardiology? Why? Is she okay?”

He sounds like a nut, the almost frantic tone of his voice making your brow pinch.

“Yeah, she's fine. She had some complications after she was born, so she was pretty sick for the first few years. Now we just have follow-ups once every few months.”

He can't breathe. The fresh air of the park turns stale and acrid, clogging his lungs and pressing heavy on his chest. He looks at you for a couple more moments, then over at Marion. Her bright features are melting before his eyes into something more drawn and sallow, and for a second he thinks he can see some missing spots in her hair. Maybe that's just his vision.

Your hand is on his arm, grip firm, before shifting to his other shoulder, wrapping around his back.

“Patrick. Hey. Patrick. C'mon.”

You suck in an exaggerated breath, and he copies, his own more stilted and shallow. It takes a couple seconds longer to calm down, but he manages.

“She’s okay, Pat. What just happened?”

He doesn't speak for a while. Doesn't say that he remembers doctors’ appointments called ‘checkups’ when he was a kid. Doesn't say that he remembers his parents talking about how sick and frail Marion was when she was a baby.

He excuses himself back to his car, giving Marion a thumbs up and a wave as he tries to escape as fast as possible.

He doesn't show up at your apartment the next day. You don't call.

When he arrives, it's the middle of the night. He’d last seen you two days ago. He’d last seen Marion on your private Instagram account, mid-bite of a churro.

The temperature dropped around eight PM, and the weather channel warned of a nasty storm. He's gotten by in his car for long enough, but one of the windows is plastic-wrapped, the glass shattered a few weeks ago when some teenager pitched a rock while he slept.

He tries. He really does. But he’s shivering and soaked, and the threat of a tornado from the forecast a few minutes ago was too much. So he shows up at twelve fifty AM, duffel bag half-slung over his shoulder, face twisted in a grimace.

It's Marion who answers the door. She looks up at him, sleepy and confused, and waves him in.

“Marion Eleanor! Do not open the door for just anyone-!”

You appear a second later, face dropping as you see him there. You're standing still, looking at him for a moment. He almost thinks you'll tell him to get out.

Instead, you send Marion to grab a towel, and she shuffles out.

“What the fuck, Patrick?”

You don't sound mad. Not really. Just stunned.

“I've been, uh- well, I don't have a good place to stay right now. I'm… between apartments. But the window- the car window- is broken, and…”

He trails off at the look on your face. Like you're staring at a ghost, or something.

“You're living in your car?”

He wants to say no. Laugh, maybe. Joke about it. He reaches to touch your arm, then aborts the movement and sets his hands on his thighs.

“... Yeah. Pretty much.”

It's not a spoken thing, when he moves in with you. You don't say ‘move in’, or ‘stay here'. But you do insist on carrying a couple of his bags into your guest bedroom when he brings them in, and you do insist on helping him fold them into the dresser.

He thinks you might've explained it to Marion when he wasn't there, because she doesn't ask questions. But then again, she’s always seemed like she knows more than she's told. It makes him feel a little insecure when she looks at him.

The first night in your apartment, he can't sleep. The bed is unfamiliar, the room too quiet, the ticking of the clock in the corner making him feel claustrophobic.

When the door creaks all the way open, he looks up, almost expecting to see you in the dim hallway light. It's Marion who shows up instead.

“Was getting a snack, and I saw you through the door,” she explains as she climbs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged beside him.

He laughs softly, weakly.

“Thanks for visiting, Mari,” he says, and she nods. “You shouldn't be up this late.”

“That's what mommy says. She told me to get a sweet treat when I can't sleep ‘cause it’ll relax my brain or something. Dunno if it really works.”

She pulls a chocolate-chip cookie out of the pocket of her pajama pants, breaking it in half (not at all even), and hands him a piece.

He takes it gratefully and looks at her for a moment. She glances up at him.

“You're very nice,” she says. “I think it's fun you’re here.”

He falls asleep that night in peace, and dreams of his sister.

When Marion gets bronchitis, he doesn't know how to act. You aren't home, off on a weekend trip for work, and his little girl is coughing her lungs out, chest rattling with each breath.

He calls you and it goes to voicemail. Calls again with the same results. He remembers the conference you'd told him about slated for one PM. It's one-fifteen. He curses softly enough that Marion won't hear him.

“Mari? Do you want me to take you to urgent care?”

She looks at him with all the misery in the world and coughs in his face, giving a shaky nod.

“Okay, uh- okay. Okay. Right.”

He scrambles for a minute or two, grabbing his phone and his charger and his wallet. They're stuffed into his pockets, and then he returns to the couch where she lays under a blanket quivering.

“Kay, let's go,” he says a bit too loudly, and winces. She sits halfway up before another coughing fit wracks her, and he wants to die at the grating sound.

It's a split-second decision, but he’d really like to get her help, and she doesn't seem particularly capable of cooperating. He urges her to stand once more, and then gives in.

She’s light in his arms, and he almost gets scared until he remembers she’s six and that's how it's supposed to be. He carries her with ease, pulling her soft blanket off the couch and putting it over her again. It's late summer, still warm enough, but it seems like a comfort for her. He gets her downstairs relatively fast, passing a couple neighbors he doesn't remember the names of.

She’s practically hacking up a lung on his shoulder, and he rubs her back, patting softly like it'll help her. The tears pricking his eyes aren't familiar to him.

He fits her into the booster seat like you'd shown him, practiced movements getting her all buckled, and presses the back of his hand to her forehead once more. She's still too warm even as she shivers.

He stays remarkably calm in the children’s urgent care, getting her through intake quickly enough, carrying her into the hospital room and just nodding when a nurse asks ‘Are you dad?’.

He gives her info- date of birth, address, mom’s name, dad’s name. No medication in the past twenty-four hours, no trips outside the country in the past month.

As soon as they've got her asleep and comfortable, he breaks just a bit. Cries silently into his hands, shoulders shaking.

His phone goes off and he answers, collecting himself immediately. Your voice is low and concerned, and he can hear unintelligible chatter in the background.

“What's going on?”

“She has bronchitis,” he explains, glancing over to the little girl on the hospital bed. “We're at urgent care, they're getting her all sorted out. She should be okay.”

You ask a few questions, he fields them. You pause.

“Are you okay?”

He's taken aback. A few moments go by silently, amplifying the beep of her pulse and oxygen monitor, and he inhales sharply before answering.

“It's just scary,” he admits. “Being here. Her being sick.”

When you return home early from the work trip, he’s sitting up with Marion while she sleeps on the couch. His legs almost give out as he pushes up to meet you, taking a stack of discharge paperwork, prescriptions, and instructions with him. He holds them out to you and starts explaining everything as fast as his voice will let him. But each word gets quieter than the last, the space between them larger, and he barely manages an inhale before he starts crying again. His eyes are fixed on the papers as they start to blur, his shoulders shaking, breath hitching.

It doesn't register as you take the papers from him and replace them with your hands, or as you try to say his name. It only registers when you wrap your arms around his middle and tug him into yourself.

He grabs onto you tight, hands fisting at the back of your shirt, large body hunched over and wracked with sobs. You hang onto him like that for a long time, until he's stopped crying and his chest is expanding and contracting slowly.

He follows silently as you bring him into your bedroom and settle down onto your bed, and he melts as you shift his head to lay on your chest. Your nails scratch softly at his scalp, and he inhales your scent with the realization that you still wear the same perfume.

“D’you wanna talk?”

Your voice is gentle. Like you care about him. It makes him feel a bit sick, but he doesn't think he hates it. He closes his eyes.

“Marion- my sister Marion- died when I was eight.”

He's recounted this to you before, he knows. A drunken night at Stanford years ago where he cried endlessly until he told you it had been her birthday. He'd hiccuped how he wanted a daughter named after her. Disappeared before the sunrise after you held him to sleep.

“She had cancer. It happened really fast, and I didn't… really know what was going on. Too fucking young to know better. I guess it just freaked me out to be in that hospital with all the little kids and the- the painted walls and bright lights. I didn't realize I remembered it all that much.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, a few stray tears dripping onto your shirt.

“I get really scared when Mari seems sick. It makes me feel like- like I'm going to come home one day and she’ll be gone too. I dunno, maybe it's irrational. She looks like her when she smiles.”

Sleep overtakes him an hour or so later, tucked into your bed while you look after Marion. He's grateful when he can't hear her coughing, relaxing just enough to rest.

When morning light filters through the blinds, his eyelids flutter, and he blinks awake. He can hear two sets of footsteps in the hallway, and then you're there, leading a still-sick but much happier Marion into the room. You hoist her up onto the bed, where she promptly fits herself into the crook of his shoulder and rests at his side.

“Marion,” you begin softly, sitting down beside her, a hand on her leg. She's all smiles, and he instinctively checks to see if she's lost the wiggly tooth she was complaining about. “Do you remember when I'd tell you about your daddy?”

She nods, huffing.

“He plays tennis. He has dark hair and a nice smile, and he loves me so much,” she recites, stretching her arms apart on the word ‘so’ to quantify it.

“Patrick, d'you wanna?”

He nods, inhaling.

Marion fixes her inquisitive gaze onto him once more, and he looks down at her, heart stuttering in his chest with nerves. She's got the stars in her eyes, and he almost chickens out when he thinks about being the cause of them dimming.

But he doesn't.

“Marion. Ladybug.” He scoops her up into his arms, settling her down on his lap so she can look at him eye to eye. “It’s me, bug. I'm your dad.”

At her long pause, he starts to panic.

“Is that okay? It's- it's a lot, I know. You don't have to love me or call me dad or any of it, I can just be mommy’s friend Patrick still,” he rambles, lips tilting into a frown.

“Do you love me so much?” she asks, like the security question to her heart. Her voice is still a little raspy and weak from being sick. He almost sobs.

“Yeah, I do. If- if your arms could go like this-” he spreads his own wide- “and wrap around the whole world, it still wouldn't be big enough for all my love for you.”

She pauses again, then exhales, satisfied.

“You are my daddy,” she agrees. “That's good. It's nice having you here.”

He can't quite help it. He pulls her in closer, snuggling her small body up into his arms, kissing the top of her head and grinning down at her. He feels complete when his sister’s smile grins right back up at him. You settle down beside the two, and he hauls you in as well, keeping his family tucked in safely with him.

Maybe Patrick Zweig hasn’t earned permanence. And maybe he won't get it.

But for the first time, he feels like this is enough. Like however much time he has with you and the life you’ve created together is enough. And he’ll be damned if he runs from that again.

92 notes · View notes