lazythinking

[lazythinking]

Part 2 of my friends to lovers drabble. Read part 1 here.

Patrick sits idly on your couch, uncharacteristically quiet. The sky is overcast, the autumn weather gently breezy—not that he would know because you always preferred to shut the windows, far too sensitive to the winds to ever properly enjoy them. He watches you through the shadow that projects onto the wall from the light above your stove. Even your silhouette moves so gracefully, carefully and considerately. He has always admired this quality of yours, the softness of your character compared to his rough, cruel boyishness.

Being around you, though, makes the boy in him dream of becoming a man. Yes, this thought comes to him fully fleshed now. It wasn’t the sex, as beautiful and gorgeous as it was, that has brought this indisputable fact to the forefront of his mind. That would be a misguided conclusion, one that lacks the context of your shared history. In your apartment, time seems to slow; the candles burn for an eternity, daylight forever present and filtering through your translucent curtains until he blinks and suddenly the last ray disappears behind the horizon.

Life is not tennis. How stupid that it took him so long to realise. Life is not tennis, and the change of pace your home provides lets him ponder over the facts of his life. To come back to that previous hypothesis: no, it is not the sex, not at all. Like stated before, that would be ahistorical to say. Rather it is the fact that you have loved him, adored him endlessly and unwaveringly for over half a lifetime now. Yes, you have your moments of anger and disappointment; you shed tears, you bite back sobs, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath so you don’t scream at him and say something more stupid that what he had said to you… But you could never bring yourself to say goodbye, to cut him out of your life. You stayed. You loved him. Platonically or romantically, that has never been clear. (Until now, it seems.)

Regardless, it is irrelevant. Ha! Patrick feels strangely at ease now, and he stretches his arms over the sides of the back of your couch comfortably. There’s no doubt in his mind now that he is in love with you. He won’t run away from that fact, the indisputable truth that he wishes to explore the untraversed waters of domesticity with you. Whether or not this is to be in a romantic sense is not important; even if you did not love him back, he would stay just to repay all your favours. Looking at your shadow still, he watches as you carefully nudge at the sides of the pancake, elbow sticking out as your spatula slowly starts to slip underneath the edges of the batter. Patrick feels rather inspired. Slowly, he rises to his feet, his socked toes pattering softly against your hardwood floor. He finds you at the stove, presses against your back as he places a hand on yours, wrapped around the spatula.

He speaks simply. “Let me?”

You snort, turning to face him—only to realise, at the sight of his gentle eyes, that he is dead serious. Your eyes widen. “Uh… Alright.”

Patrick nods. He wraps his hand around the part of the spatula’s handle where yours isn’t, and you slip out from where he is, settling near the stove as you watch him carefully peel the batter off the pan. He keeps the utensil underneath the pancake for a minute too long. You look at him, puzzled, and he seems to be thinking about something.

“Hmm,” he says, withdrawing the spatula. “Hold this.”

Still puzzled, you nod anyway, taking it from his extended hand as you watch him wrap both hands onto the handle of the pan. And then you realise immediately what he’s about to do, and before you can protest, Patrick’s done it already; he’s flipped the pancake perfectly, with a flick of the pan.

You chuckle to yourself, eyes creasing. Of course, you think. Of course it would work out this well for him. That boyish confidence, the assuredness in every action he takes, it ensures that everything would work out just fine for Patrick, always. “You’re a natural,” you say. “Who would’ve thought?”

He slips the pancake onto the stack you’ve already made, then turns to you with a playful smile. “Oh yeah?” Patrick says, beaming with the pride of a child who’s been praised. “Pour me some more batter, then.”

Of course, you oblige. The batter pours out of the ladle, hits the scalding hot surface of your iron pan. He pokes cautiously at its sides, eyebrows slightly furrowed, the tip of his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. He’s never been so beautiful to you before, you realise. He’s always been handsome, and everyone knows that. But right here, right now, he is truly, transcendently beautiful to you.

Tenderly you come closer, and Patrick seems to not notice this, too focused on his precious pancake to see. You press a kiss onto his cheek, and it sends him right back to being in bed with you, your arm thrown around him, your plush lips on his rough stubble. When you pull away, you notice the flush on his cheeks.

He has never been good at these things. Patrick finds it much easier to say the salacious than the tender, and you of all people would know this best. It certainly is not lost on him, then, that the declaration of your love comes not through words, but through an action. When you kiss him on the cheek, he knows exactly what it means. The words can come later. He’s busy making his girlfriend food.

[lazythinking]

Okay friends, a confession: I am dying to write a continuation of this.

Smut aside… The idea of two friends finally fucking is actually so fraught. Say it’s you and Patrick, and being a girl around Patrick was always going to be hard; but the years go on and it gets harder and harder to tell whether or not his flirting is simply a friendly, slightly cruel joke, a bit between two best friends that has gone on for maybe too long. Very early on in the friendship, you put your foot down and told him straight up that you were not that kind of girl and you would ever fuck a friend. Never ever. He just shrugged it off and cackled boyishly, dismissing your concerns and saying he’s only fucking with you.

But now it’s fucking with him too. The years go on, you’ve settled into a comfortable job and living situation and his… future has not really gone to plan. When Patrick’s tired of sleeping over at whichever hookup he’s found for himself that night’s place, he takes shelter in your home, sleeping comfortably in your familiar futon, soothed to slumber by the familiar smell of your sheets. You’ve always been so kind to him, even though he definitely doesn’t deserve it. Not at all, not even a little bit.

Art and Tashi are, if not long gone now, quite unattached to the two of you beyond the occasional bumping into each other at the grocery store. They’ve left him behind is the point. So why did you stay? Why do you let him sprawl himself on the couch, your legs laying in his lap as you watch the TV, pretending not to be hurt too when he makes some awful half-joke about how he’s fucked up his life? Patrick knows this is true because you clutch his face when you’re drunk and look at him with this sad frown that makes his stomach churn. “It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,” you tell him. “You keep saying that shit… and you’ll buy into it. So don’t.”

It fucking kills him. Recently he’s started to think a lot more about all this when he’s driving on the road; he’s beginning to gain a little perspective. There’s a name for that stomach-churning feeling, Patrick realises, but he wouldn’t dare to even say it in his mind. It’s not right. Someone like him should never even be seen with someone like you, a goody-two-shoes his family would love. So yes—when he’s fallen back into that comfortable habit of flirting with you… It kills him, too. Just like it’s always killed you. And there you go, breaking the only rule you had, the one thing you set down before you even became friends…

Patrick wakes up not on your futon, but in your real bed. Now he’s awfully sober and his life is fucking flashing before his eyes. Has he just ruined the one thing he had going for him? The sex was good, he thinks to himself, but not enough to justify this. (Really, it wasn’t just good, it was the best sex of his life, but why admit that?)

But then you throw your arm around him, soft skin brushing against his bare chest as your little fingers find their way up to clutch his jaw. You grumble softly, half-asleep and yet reaching out for him so tenderly. The question is inescapable and it remains present in his head like a giant blinking neon sign: are we still friends? Or are we… Patrick finds himself unable to say a word, rendered silent by your little gesture. He just leans into your touch. Slowly, he closes his eyes again. He doesn’t see it coming when you press a soft kiss onto his cheek, plush lips against his rough stubble. But God, he doesn’t mind it at all.

[lazythinking]

oh god. forcefully feminizing art during sex 😞

like pegging him + stroking him while you look down into his eyes and caress over the bralette you made him wear

“who’s a good girl for mommy?”

and he just whines and arches his back and juts out his lip with teary eyes as he leaks over your fist

he’s so embarrassed

“i’m a good girl, i’ll be so good for you…”

“i wanna be pretty for you, if that’s what you want”

“please let me cum”

[lazythinking]

Why does no one ever write older!Art and Tashi where you’re Lily’s best friend and they taking a special liking to you once you’re legal😕

Anon I got this brewing in my noggin rn but I need you to come back and provide a few more details just in case we got two different things in mind rn

[lazythinking]

Literally what being with Art is like

[lazythinking]

Scratch that my most insane headcanon is that they’d do this photoshoot with Patrick Zweig

[lazythinking]

I know you already posted this as just a headcanon but PLEASE elaborate on the fact that art donaldson cums just from nipple play 😵

Ugh, he’s just so squirmy and sensitive in general that he probably does shiver with the slightest touch. I’ve said this before, but like most things, I don’t think he finds out about it until he’s with you. He’s hooked up with a couple girls before that, but they’ve never ever even considered doing it, so when you suggest it to Art he doesn’t quite understand what he’s signing up for until you pinch the nub of his nipple gently between your fingers and he damn near folds in half from how sensitive he is.

I don’t think he’s quite at the level of enjoying heavy pinching, don’t expect him to be enjoying the idea of nipple clamps. Art loves it when you’re nice about it. This is a tricky one to navigate; he’s so sensitive that if you overplay your hand and get too rough, it stops being enjoyable for him and he’s just thrashing around in pain. So you have to be gentle and skilful, and he’ll shudder and whimper as you roll his nipples between your fingers. He especially loves it when you run your tongue over one, flicking and swirling around the nub while your hand’s still on the other one. Usually, the feeling of your warm wet mouth and your hot breath fanning over his skin is enough to send him over the edge, and it doesn’t take long until his voice starts quivering and his legs start to shake, his cum seeping through his briefs slowly as he whines and sobs.

[lazythinking]

Art is suchhhh a puppy I’ll expand on this eventually but oh my god he probably does respond to your cooing. Like if you go “you’re such a good boy” or “attaboy Artie!” or “you’re my good lil puppy” he’d get so giddy. He’d love head pats and being petted so much too, if you ran your fingers through and ruffled his hair he’d close his eyes and go like ( ◠‿◠ ) feels so nice momma!

I’m gonna die.

[lazythinking]

Can I send in more dirty art and patrick thoughts 😘

Fire away my beloved

[lazythinking]

Another beautiful day of not setting up my masterlist

[lazythinking]

Thinking about how Art is actually tall and broad and how amazing it would be to have him struggling underneath someone much smaller. This big giant man, a whole ass athlete, squirming and writhing. Gulp.

[lazythinking]

OMG ALSO IMAGINE THIS

You and patrick are fighting and he says something very mean so you slap him in the face thinking he will loose his shit with you or something but he whimpers and just says “harder.” UGHHHH IN MY MIND HE LOVES GETTING HIT ON THE FACE

He lives for this shit. Genuinely, he does. Patrick doesn’t really want to get you genuinely mad, I don’t think he’s that much of an asshole. I imagine the argument is probably about how he treats you; I think in the early days he probably would have a tendency to sort of carry you around as a proto-trophy wife, a trophy girlfriend if you will, and as nice as it is to be paraded as the hot girlfriend, you end up feeling like he’s just undermining your own achievements and career at points. After a dinner out with his friends, you get into a fight over it; you yell at him about how tired you are of playing that role, and he yells back at you about how he doesn’t see what the big deal is, that he knows that you’re successful too, he just really likes to baby you, and so on.

Things take a turn when he succumbs to name-calling. Patrick, rashly, asks why you’re being such a bitch. You whip your head around with a loud gasp. Your jaw clenches as he looks at you blankly, heels click-clacking loudly against the ground as you furiously make your way towards him—and then, SMACK. Your brain doesn’t process it fast enough when your open palm makes contact with his face, harshly smacking against his cheek so hard his head turns around. You’re flushed red in the heat, head hot with the fire of your fury, chest heaving from the intensity of the moment as he slowly turns back to you, his hand coming up to gently graze over the red mark you’ve left on his face.

A smile creeps up on Patrick’s face. The silence is tense. Then, he speaks.

“Harder,” he says.

His tone is sort of whimpering, not sounding pained, but pleasured. You cock up an eyebrow, coming even closer to him now with an interrogating gaze. “Did that—are you horny, Patrick?” He doesn’t reply, still goofily smiling at you, but you know the answer anyway and it makes you scoff.

“You’re so—you’re such a—you’re a fucking pervert,” you spit out, coming so close to him now that the tip of your nose is almost touching his. “You’re fucking gross.”

He tilts his head up a little, sly smile still on his face, his eyes half-lidded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is this it?” You say. “Do you get off on this?”

You place a gentle hand on his face, fingers clutching at the sides of his chin. “Do you bully girls so you can get off on them punishing you?”

Patrick chuckles at your words. He hums. “Maybe.”

You let out a bitter chuckle in response. “Close your mouth if you don’t wanna hurt yourself.”

SMACK! You strike him on the cheek, his freckled skin soon flushing deep red. SMACK! The other cheek, now. SMACK, SMACK, SLAP! You notice him start to slump as his knees buckle, his lips parting as he groans loudly, his eyes rolling back. Patrick heaves, chest rising and falling from the adrenaline as your hand smoothes over his cheeks almost lovingly.

Now you smile at him, your body pressing up against his. Your lips graze against the bruising skin as he sucks in a deep breath. “You fucking slut,” you whisper.

You slap him again, the crisp, sharp sound of it like music to your ears as it elicits a loud whine from him. He mewls, grinning as you cup the side of his face. His eyes fall down to your lips before meeting yours, and you recognise the mischievous look in them.

“Harder,” Patrick says.

[lazythinking]

Patrick would 100000% like it when you dregade him during sex (eg calling him a slut) like he would come INSTANTLY

He’s such an evil fucker it would genuinely be hard to know who’s domming who in this situation, even as you’re straddling him and calling him a slut, a whore, a pervert, etc. His submissive headspace is probably vastly different to Art’s (who is very much a service/pet sub); he’s bratty and a smart-ass, and he gets off on misbehaving because he knows it brings out the mean streak in you. So you call him mean names and tell him how bad he’s been, and he’s looking up at you with this goofy smile that’s so self-satisfied, drunken giggles mixed with lusty groans falling out of his mouth so easily as you move your hips, his pink cock sliding in and out of you.

Don’t worry, you make sure he knows by the end of the night how much of a privilege it is to even be touched by you, and his brattiness only makes it more satisfying when you do break him down. When he’s close to climaxing and realises the possibility of you refusing to let him get over the edge is awfully real, he goes silent, a panting, heaving mess. You’ve denied him several times by now; his hair is starting to stick to his sweaty forehead. Now you taunt him, cooing at him as you asked what happened? “You were so mouthy only a couple minutes ago. Cat got your tongue, baby?” He huffs, eyes closing as he swallows down a whimper at the feeling of your breath fanning his skin as you whisper into his ear. You threaten to do it again, hand wrapped around his angry cock quickening before he relents, quietly asking you to let him come. Because truthfully, Patrick does like submitting to you, and it turns him on so much that only you have this unique power over him. He’d be on his knees for you—after a few hours of whipping him into shape.

(Yes, you do overstimulate him as further punishment after letting him come. He shakes like a motherfucker, huffing and groaning loudly as his knuckles turn white at how hard he’s gripping onto the sheets.)

[lazythinking]

If you slapped Art while riding him, he’d start heaving and sobbing, telling you he’s sorry and he’ll be a good boy. If you slapped Patrick while riding him, he’d let out a giggle and ask you to do it again.

[lazythinking]

Could you imagine how insane it would be to come up with Art and Patrick through the academy. They watch your hips and chest grow, you watch them get taller and broader, and the moment you turn eighteen (probably the youngest of the bunch) they start looking at you differently. You’re the first to hear about Patrick teaching Art how to jerk off. They were probably telling you about it just to see if it riles you up, to see what kind of reaction they’d get and how far they could push it until you snap and do something about it. In other words, I hope you like the Eiffel Tower.

[lazythinking]

art donaldson full-on steals your panties from the laundry basket when you’re not home.

he would never admit it to you, but there’s certainly been more than one occasion where he’s taken your underwear from the hamper and balled it up in his fist before pressing it into the lower half of his face and just huffing it.

his face will scrunch right up; his pretty brows all knitted and his eyes fluttering shut.

you usually smell so clean. so fresh. like strawberries and cream, or daisies and sandalwood.. stuff like that. so there’s just something so fuckin��� dirty about smelling the way your body marks your clothes with your own sweat and fluids. it’s rich and it’s heady and it’s so good.

art loves it.

the smell of you—the scent of you—is like his kryptonite. it boils a heat in the depths of his gut and makes his cock swell instantly. he’ll sniff every inch of the fabric like a damn dog, pushing his nose into it as he fists the ache between his legs until his back arches and he squirts; pretty little whimpers and loud groans pouring from his chest as his head tips back.

sometimes he’ll come on top of his stomach, still breathing in your musk, and other times he’ll come all over the pretty fabric still clutched in his hand. he glazes it with his spend, bucking into the soft cotton material, and biting down on his lip when he thinks about how weirded out you would (probably) be if you found out he did this sort of stuff.

he can’t help himself— it’s like a compulsion. but as long as you don’t find out about his perverted little habits, he has no intention of stopping.

[lazythinking]

Somebody send me your nastiest, grossest thoughts about Art/Patrick in my askbox rn