lvrrgirlll

[lvrrgirlll]

I need down bad DILF!patrick au PLS ❤️

[lvrrgirlll]

The Rival and the Lover

a/n: thank you so much to dani @ghostgirl-22 for beta reading and both dani and diya @diyasgarden for being vested, it’s helped me keep going! this is the longest thing i’ve ever written (7k-ish words) and posted, completely self indulgent but I hope you enjoy :)

pairing: ceo!art donaldson x ceo!patrick zweig

summary: art hates nepo babies, patrick is a nepo baby. hate to love, teasing, flirting, and tashi is all-knowing (and a lesbian) of course

cw: nsfw(18+)

[ao3 version here]

In Art’s head they were rivals. Art Donaldson was the second youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 investment company in New York City. His firm had their hands in many pots, buy-side, sell-side, reinsurance. He was second youngest only to Patrick Zweig. CEO of Zweig Limited Inc. He was younger than Art only by 3 months. Patrick was also a cocky son of a bitch. In Art’s head Patrick’s title didn’t even count since he was handed down that position from his dad. If there’s one thing Art hates more than egomaniacs, it’s nepo babies.

Art worked so hard to get where he was. Graduated his undergrad (summa cum laude) with a degree in Structured Finance. Busted his ass as an actuary, calculating risk for other people. Finished his executive MBA with a concentration in finance while still working full time. Now he runs the whole damn thing. His promotion was the culmination of hard work, luck, and networking.

So in Art’s head, they were rivals.

When Forbes dropped their 40 under 40 list, it ticked Art off that Patrick was listed one spot above him.

They’ve never met in person but Art was sure they’d bump into each other. Tonight was the Forbes lists gala where all the 30 under 30, 40 under 40, etc participants would come and receive their awards in person.

Lo and behold, during the cocktail hour while Art was ordering a drink from the bar, a voice sounded behind him.

“I would’ve bought you a drink but somehow I get the vibe you wouldn’t have come home with me after,” Patrick grins inserting himself next to Art at the bar.

“Of course you would assume that buying someone a drink means they’re obligated to engage in anything with you.” Art scoffs, pulling out his wallet. Since it’s an open bar, he grabs a $20 to put in the bartender’s tip jar.

Patrick watches him. Eyes glued to where Art picks up his whiskey glass to take a sip.

“You really think I’m a dick don’t you?” Patrick questions. He nods towards the bartender, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“No,” Yes, “I just think that you think you’re above everyone else.” Art shrugs, taking another sip.

Patrick smirks, pulling his wallet out to tip the bartender a $100 bill. Art watches him. Show off.

“I don’t think I’m above anyone. Except for you, considering I am taller than you,” Patrick looks around, surveying the room. Whiskey glass weighing heavy in his hand.

Art can already feel his eyes getting tired of consistently rolling at everything Patrick says. “We’re the same height,” Art shoots back. It’s taking everything in him to not look at Patrick. He wants to say, Well let’s just stand back to back and settle this right now, but for some reason that feels a little childish. So Art settles with continuing to stare off at the gala happening in front of him.

Patrick turns back towards Art’s direction. He’s leaning against the bar, sizing up Art for a second. Looking him up and down at a painfully slow pace, like he’s contemplating something.

He’s about to step away from the bar but decides to leave Art with one last comment. He licks his lips before leaning in to whisper right by Art’s ear. Art almost flinches at how close Patrick is to him right now.

“Maybe in your dreams. Everyone’s the same height when they’re lying down,” Patrick winks at him when stepping away. He makes his way further into the crowd.

Art is frozen in spot. His heart is racing and his pants are tightening.

…

“No Tashi you don’t get it. I don’t like him, he’s an arrogant asshole,” Art says.

His desk phone is on speaker as he stands facing the floor to ceiling windows in his office, appreciating the view.

Tashi hums on the other side of the phone. Tashi was Art’s right hand women. He promoted her to CPO (Chief Product Officer) shortly after he was promoted to CEO. They’ve been best friends since college. Of course they had tried their hand at dating a long time ago, but decided it was better to be friends.

Her office was on the other side of the floor since she preferred south facing windows.

“Sure you do,” She laughs, leaning back in her desk chair.

Art scrunches his eyebrows together, turning to face the phone, “What? You know I do.”

“Okay let’s say you do hate him. It’s still clear that he wants to fuck you,” She shrugs, bored. Art was the most oblivious person on the planet, especially when it came to judging people’s perceptions of him.

“What are you talking about?” He questions sitting down at his desk.

“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. That man wants you Art. I know you complain about his email etiquette and how he speaks to you, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s teasing you. Now whatever you decide to do about it is your own decision,” She sighs continuing, “Now that that’s settled, we have a 10am meeting with the rest of the board so I’ll see you there.”

And with that she hangs up, dial tone ringing throughout Art’s office.

…

Art doesn’t usually go to the company happy hours at the bar across from their office building, but he was trying to get know some of the new employees more, and hang out with some old ones he already knew.

There was alot of joking from his old teammates saying, “Well you’re the big boss now,” and “So when’s our next bonus exactly?” It was nice to just hang out and have fun for once. Tashi was right, being the one that convinced Art to go since “All you do is work, just go have some fun.”

Art was about to order another drink at the bar until the bartender handed him a glass of whiskey unprompted.

“The guy over there sent you a drink,” The bartender points to the other side of bar where Patrick is sitting. Oh fuck off.

Art storms over to the barstool Patrick is occupying, “Are you stalking me or something?”

Patrick huffs, “Don’t flatter yourself sweetheart.”

“How else am I supposed to take it when you buy me a drink?” Art questions, raising his voice. He was a little tipsy so maybe he didn’t need another drink anyway, this was a work thing after all.

“How many drinks have you had?” Patrick, amused, asks leaning his elbow on the bar top.

“None of your fucking business,” Art grunts, “Stay the fuck away from me.” He turns his back to Patrick, going to rejoin his colleagues.

Later that night, Art definitely got little more than tipsy.

Patrick had been watching him most of the night. He watched as Art got goaded into a drinking game that he shouldn’t have participated in. Watched Art go from tipsy to drunk ridiculously fast.

Once someone dared Art to dance on the table and Art tried to actually do it, Patrick stepped in.

“Okay I think it’s time to go home, don’t you?” Patrick asks, grabbing Art’s shoulder to pull him away from the table.

“You’re no fun,” He huffs slurring his words severely.

Patrick throws Art’s arm over his shoulder, walking them outside. “Hey no, don’t touch me,” Art slurs, making no attempt to push Patrick away.

Patrick gets off the phone with his driver, who’s now on the way to pick them up. He sighs, “I’m gonna take you home, what’s your address?”

“Stranger danger, ‘m not telling,” Art huffs like an absolute child.

“If you don’t tell me, then I’m just gonna have to take you back to mine. Is that okay?

“ ‘m cold,” Art whines squeezing his eyes together like if he imagines his bed hard enough, he’ll teleport there.

Patrick sighs in amusement, “The car is almost here.”

“But I’m cold right now,” Art whines again and Patrick rolls his eyes, despite how cute he thinks Art is being right now.

So he takes off his jacket, throwing it around Art’s shoulders and pulling Art into a hug. Shielding him from the cold. But Art is the drunk one, he shouldn’t even be cold.

The car ride is short, Patrick doesn’t live too far away and since it’s so late there’s not too much traffic. Patrick lives on the upper west side, in one of those brownstones that have been converted to one big unit instead of several smaller units. His house had 3 floors, equip with both an elevator and stairs. Specifically for times when he was too drunk to walk up two flights of stairs.

Except now he was loading Art into the elevator to take him up to the guest bedroom. Art had stayed quiet for the most part, tiredness most likely taking over. Art did make one comment about how big Patrick’s house, saying “This is like a million square feet,” hyperbole of course.

Once they got to the guest room, Art plopped face down onto the bed. Patrick took his jacket back, tossing it to the side. He pulls Art’s shoes off before asking, “Do you want me help you take off ur clothes or you’re okay?”

Art just mumbles something incoherent and shakes his head into his pillow. Patrick shakes his head, smiling. He seriously can not wait to see the aftermath tomorrow.

Just as he’s about to go to his own room, he hears a whine from Art, “Stay with me,” He slurs.

Patrick raises one eyebrow, “You sure? Not gonna try to kill me in my sleep or something?,” He jokes.

Art shakes his head no, “Can you just hold me til I fall asleep?” He says just above a whisper. And that’s the cutest fucking thing Patrick has ever heard, how can he not oblige.

He does grab a bottle of water and advil from the en suite bathroom, to leave on the night stand for Art when he wakes up. Afterwards, he ends up spooning Art in his 2nd floor guest bedroom.

What Patrick expects to wake up to is a disgruntled hungover Art who berates him for taking Art home against his will. Probably says a couple smart things about how buying a drink does mean taking someone home for Patrick.

Instead Patrick has the absolute pleasure of waking up to Art mid wet-dream. At first he thinks Art is messing around, trying to get back at him or something? No clue.

They were still cuddling but now Art was laying on Patrick’s chest, one of his own legs thrown over Patrick’s leg. Except now Art was fully humping Patrick’s side. His hard length pressing into Patrick’s hip, grinding against him.

Patrick wasn’t sure if he should wake Art up until he hears a very soft, very faint whimper that sounds alot like Patrick leave Art’s lips.

Oh.

Oh. He smirks.

This just got a whole lot more fun.

Patrick keeps watching Art. The way Art is gripping Patrick’s waist to get a better angle. His whines getting a little louder, more distinguishable, he’s definitely dreaming about Patrick.

So Patrick being the gracious person he is, kisses Art’s shoulder before softly before moving his hand down to palm Art over his slacks (since Art refused to get undressed before passing out last night).

That really makes Art responsive, which in turn wakes him up.

Art takes a deep inhale through his nose, sitting up way to fast, very confused by his surroundings.

“What? Why—huh?” He questions, holding his head since he has a pounding headache. Still hungover for last night.

“Good morning,”Patrick laughs lightly, “You had a little too much to drink last night and wouldn’t tell me your address so I could take you home. So now we’re at mine,” Patrick continues, still palming Art’s hard length.

Art bites his lip to hold back a whimper, “Why are you—doing that?” Bringing his gaze down to focus on Patrick’s hand on him.

“Did you sleep well? Have any dreams?” Patrick smirks, moving to unbuckle Art’s pants.

“I-I didn’t—,” Art is flustered and his decisions making skills are still not fully recovered from last night.

“I think you did,” Patrick insists as he starts jerking Art off, “Tell me, I wanna know what happened in your dream.”

Art shakes his head no, “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t,” He moans out. His hips are already bucking into Patrick’s fist. He’s already close.

“Why are you lying to me? Were you lying this whole time? Did you actually hate me or was that a lie too?” Patrick whispers in Art’s ear, taking the time to lick up the side of Art’s neck and nibble at his ear lobe.

Art groans closing his eyes, “Patrick I can’t,”

“Fortune 500 CEO gets a little stupid with my hand on his cock right?”

“Fuck—gonna cum, shit.” Spilling over Patrick’s fist, some of it even landing on his dress shirt.

Art leans back, slumping against the pillow. Patrick going to wash his hands and get a washcloth from the bathroom.

“You know, deep down I always knew it was an act,” Patrick says, walking back to sit at the foot of the bed, in front of where is sitting.

Art scoffs, “Wasn’t an act. I genuinely think you’re a dick.”

“Says the man who just let me jerk him off,” Patrick retorts looking at the cum stains on Art’s shirt.

Art huffs unbuttoning his shirt to take it off, “Doesn’t mean anything, thought you hated me too.”

“Why would I hate you?” Patrick chuckles.

“Because you’re like— or like—,” Art is realizing just how baseless his hate of Patrick was. Even if Patrick was a nepo baby, so was 80% of all the business world.

“You have no idea, do you?”

“Well it just feels like you don’t respect me and I get that our positions in this space are similar—“

“You think I don’t respect you?”

“Your email etiquette is awful and you always make fun of me—“

Patrick starts laughing, cutting Art off. “I was just teasing you, that’s just how I flirt. Didn’t know if you liked guys.”

“Oh.” So Tashi was right. Well when isn’t she right? She was going to have a field day once Art told her what happened.

“But I guess I have my answer now,” Patrick shrugs smiling, “If you want you can shower in the en suite. I should have some clothes in the closet too if you want.”

“Yeah, yeah I’ll do that,” Art sighs running hand through his hair.

“Left some painkillers on the nightstand and I’ll make us some breakfast so come downstairs when you’re done.”

…

Art made his way downstairs in a clean pair of Patrick’s sweat pants that were a little big for him and a white t-shirt.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island while Patrick finished plating their food. The silence is a little awkward at first. The only sounds being the utensils Patrick is using to plate their food, faint sounds from the street outside. Art is picking at his thumb, nervous habit he could never really kick.

He takes this time to observe his surroundings. Patrick’s house was surprisingly homey? It didn’t really seem like a bachelor pad at all. There were curtains on the windows, a plush rug on the living room floor, and a mix of family photos and art on the walls. It was still cohesive. A prominent vibe Art could only describe as warm.

Art’s condo was nothing like this. Tashi had offered to help him, maybe even hire an interior designer but Art didn’t see much of a point since he spent so much time in the office.

The sounds of the plate being placed in front of him startling him.

“Thanks,” Art says, eating a forkful of eggs.

Patrick goes to sit in the barstool next to him, but not before pushing the barstool to be impossibly close to Art, “Not what you expected I’m guessing.”

Art shakes his head no in between bites, “Thought this would be more like a bachelor pad or something.”

Patrick laughs before sipping his water, “God forbid a man have taste.”

“No it’s just nice is all. Like warm, homey,” Art shrugs not looking up from his plate. He had finished the eggs. There was a stack of 2 pancakes left untouched.

“First you think I have no taste, and now you think my cooking sucks?” Patrick gestures towards the pancakes on Art’s plate, “I saved you from embarrassing yourself in front of your employees, slaved away in the kitchen to make you the best pancakes known to man, and this is how you thank me?” He jokes.

Art side eyes him, small smile on his lips, “No I— the eggs were surprisingly good. Pancakes just have like no nutritional value.”

“Oh you’re one of those gays,” Patrick smiles shoving Art’s shoulder lightly. He stuck his fork into the pancakes on Art’s plate to start eating them.

“What are you even talking about?” Art scoffs. He’s not even gay he’s just…open.

“Like the guys who are always at Equinox because they have to workout and be fit and are so obsessed with their body image. And go to Fire Island every summer.”

“And that’s not…you?”

“I mean I never said it wasn’t me, but I still ate both our pancakes. Would love to eat your cake sometime though… ”

Art shoves Patrick playfully, “Fuck off,” He was actually enjoying Patrick’s company more than he’d like to admit. But it was already 2pm on a Saturday and he needed to start prepping for work on Monday. “I need to go home and- and yeah. I should go.”

“You can take the car if you want, I can have Paul drop you off,” Patrick offers.

“No it’s fine subways faster anyway,” Art says standing up, walking to put his plate in the sink “Thank you for breakfast and for saving me last night as you so nicely put it. Kidnapping is more like it.” As he makes his way to the front door to put his shoes on.

“Anytime,” Patrick smirks following him to the door to see him out.

…

When Tashi walked into Art’s office on Monday at 7:30am she knew something was different.

“You’re early,” He says out loud, not looking up from the two glowing monitors sitting atop his desk.

“I’m always here early, it’s nice working when the floor is empty,” She shrugs.

He nods, “Well usually it’s just me and my EA (executive assistant) since we both get here at 7.”

“No me and my EA also get here at 7 everyday,” She insists.

“Then how come I never see either of you then?” He leans back in his desk chair, looking at her as he speaks.

“You look different.” She continues, grazing over his question.

“What’re you talking about?”

Tashi perches herself on the edge of Art’s desk, crossing her arms. She studies Art face for a moment. He tries to keep his face neutral, unsure what she’s searching for. There’s no way Tashi would be able to tell what happened this weekend right?

“You seem more relaxed. Released some pent up energy maybe. Did you fuck someone?”

Blood rushes to Art’s face at the casual way Tashi can talk about something like this like it’s the weather, “No I didn’t fuck anyone. Now can you leave so I can prep for the board meeting?”

She sighs standing up, “Fine. But I’ll figure out what it is. I always do.”

…

Art had been in his head all day. Mainly about work stuff since Q3 was ending soon and anytime it’s quarter opening or closing he’s always busy. So pretty much he was busy all the time.

The added anxiousness of Patrick weighing on his shoulders. He doesn’t know what his next move should be. He had fun, sure, but what did Patrick want out of this? Like fuck buddies or like…more?

And maybe Art is just too in his head. Maybe it was a one time thing and that’s it. But why did that thought make him sad?

There’s a knock on his door which pulls him out of his thoughts. There leaning against the door frame, stood Patrick. Black slacks stretched over his long legs topped with a crisp white button up that had not a single wrinkle in sight.

“How did you even get in here?” Art questions as his stomach turns and his heart rate picks up.

“I have my ways,” Patrick shrugs, pushing off the door frame to walk inside the office, looking around, “This is nice, no privacy though,” Patrick notes looking at the wall of floor to ceiling glass windows that separates Art’s office from the rest of the floor.

Art keeps his eyes locked on Patrick’s movements, “I have a remote to change it to privacy glass. How did you even know I’d still be here?”

Patrick turns to look back at Art smiling, “You know I’m a CEO too right? Working until,” He looks down at the patek phillipe nautilus watch on his wrist, “10pm really isn’t that unfathomable. Where do you think I just came from?”

“Okay well why are you here is a better question?”

“Can’t a guy just visit their favorite irritable blonde post hangover handjob?” He smirks, sitting against Art’s desk. He pulls Art’s desk chair so that Art is sitting between the V of Patrick’s legs.

Art’s heart rate picks up even more which he didn’t think was possible, “What are you doing?” he says barely above a whisper.

“Here’s what I think,” Patrick whispers back, “I think you’re a little tense.” He moves his thumb to smooth out the lines between Art’s brows, “Why don’t you just relax, yeah? Let me take care of you.”

Art doesn’t know how to respond but before he can think of what to say Patrick getting on his knees under Art’s desk. It’s a little comical at first because of how tall Patrick is but he makes it work.

He’s unzipping Art’s fly and pulling down Art’s briefs just enough to pull his half hard cock out. Patrick strokes him a few times to get him to full hardness.

“Patrick we can’t do this here,” Art gasps out.

“It’s not like you’re trying to stop me. Besides, floor is empty,” He says before taking Art into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Art groans, his hands flying to tangle in Patrick’s curls.

Patrick makes quick work, sucking Art’s cock. He swirls his tongue around Art’s tip a few times before sinking down, letting Art hit the back of his throat. He continues sucking, swallowing around Art’s length. He pulls off for a moment, taking Art’s balls into his mouth, while jerking him off simultaneously.

“Ah-Patrick, please,” Art whines, hips bucking into Patrick’s fist.

Patrick smirks pulling away, “Thought you said I couldn’t do this here? Seems like you’re enjoying it.”

Art groans, the grip Patrick has while stroking his dick is perfection, in another state of mind Art would be thinking about how many other people Patrick has done this with before.

Patrick continues, “Yeah? Nothing to say now huh? That’s good, like when you get nice and stupid for me.”

Art feels like he’s going to combust if he doesn’t cum soon.

Patrick goes to stand up, hand still stroking Art’s cock, to lean in and whisper by Art’s ear, “Gonna let me fuck you? Right here on your desk? It’s the only way for you to relax fully…” he trails off.

Art doesn’t even realize he’s nodding in agreement until Patrick is swiftly changing their positions. He has Art bent over the desk, pulling down Art’s slacks and briefs.

“Here, help me out babe.” Patrick says bringing his fingers to Art’s lips. Art gets the message opening his mouth to suck around Patrick’s fingers. His coats them thoroughly before Patrick pulls them out.

“There we go,” Patrick whispers as two of his fingers sink past Art’s rim. Two fingers is alot to take right off the bat which leads Patrick to believe that—“Did you prep yourself?”

“No I— maybe,” It’s hard to focus with Patrick pumping his fingers inside Art. And if by ‘maybe’ Art actually means that he jerked off while fingering himself in the bathroom an hour ago. What? It was late, the bathrooms are singles, and there really was nobody left on the floor.

Thinking about Art getting off, fingering himself nonetheless, in his office? “Fucking hell,” Patrick says under his breath. He’ll ask Art to elaborate later, for now he just needs to fuck him as soon as humanly possible.

Patrick unbuckles his belt, pulling down his pants and boxer briefs just enough to pull himself out, “Condoms?”

Art whines at the loss of Patrick’s fingers, “Don’t have any here, ‘s fine ‘m clean.”

“Are you saying you want me to fuck you raw Art Donaldson CEO of Trade Reinsurance? I haven’t even bought you dinner yet.” Patrick teases, dragging his tip across Art’s hole.

Art groans in anticipation and slight annoyance. Patrick being a cocky son of a bitch as always, “Patrick,” he whines, annoyed.

“Okay okay, relax. Said I was gonna take care of you, I meant it.” Patrick assures as he slowly pushes in until he bottoms out.

They both groan in sync.

Patrick pulls out slowly before pushing back in, setting a slower pace with harder thrusts, “Feels good?”

Art nods gripping the desk so hard his knuckles are white.

“That’s good. Just relax and take it. I’ll do all the work yeah?” Patrick grips Art’s hips to continue his pace, “You do so much thinking, all day every day, now you get to stop thinking,” he grunts out in between thrusts.

“Fuck Patrick—“

“Yeah that’s all you should be thinking about,” Patrick smirks, “Just concentrate on how good I’m making you feel. How my dick is stretching you open, fuck you’re so tight.”

Art feels like his brain is melting. The way that Patrick is quite literally stretching him out is more euphoric than he could’ve imagined. Patrick is assaulting his prostate, ramming into it over and over again.

“Fuck, I’ve thought about this for so long. Imagined it so many times. Taking you on your desk. You probably wish this floor wasn’t empty. All your employees seeing their CEO getting fucked stupid. Bet you couldn’t even form a sentence right now if you tried,” Patrick groans.

Stupid Patrick and his stupid fucking ego and his stupid fucking big dick. Art can’t tell if he’s more annoyed or turned on by the fact that Patrick is right.

Art is right on the edge so when Patrick’s hand grips Art’s cock, stroking to match his thrusts, the drag of Patrick’s calloused fingers sends him over the edge, “Fuhhhh…’m coming,” Art’s words slur as pleasure washes over him. It gets all over Patrick’s fist and some even landing on Art’s dress shirt and desk. That was the hardest orgasm he’s had in a while, and his left ear is ringing.

“Yeah? Gonna make a mess of your fucking desk? Holy shit—fuck,” Patrick moans out as his thrusts get faster, his hips start to stutter and finishes inside Art.

Art lays limp against his desk, it’s a little uncomfortable since he’s bent over the top but he swears he could fall asleep right there.

Patrick sighs from exhaustion, pulling out and sitting down at Art’s desk chair behind him. Now this is a fucking sight. Art with his slacks and briefs pulled halfway down his thighs, dress shirt bunched up so his ass is fully exposed. It gives Patrick the perfect view of his own cum leaking out of Art’s hole, running down his inner thighs. Running all the way down to Art’s briefs. Fuck.

If Patrick was 20, he would’ve been hard again so fast.

But he’s not, he’s 33 and as much as he would love to use his cum as lube and fuck Art again, he should probably get them cleaned up instead.

“Should’ve known you weren’t a gentleman. What does a man have to do to get cleaned up? Or you just want to keep letting your mess make a mess of my clothes,” Art sighs from his place leaning over the desk.

Patrick snickers, “Well I wanted to take you dinner first but you asked me oh so nicely to fuck you raw Art Donaldson,” he stands up to pull his pants back up, buckling his belt. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll get you cleaned up. Just tell me where.”

Art gestures to the bottom left drawer of the desk and Patrick pulls out a pack of wipes. After Art’s all cleaned up and put together as much as he can be, Art plops down onto the sofa in the corner of his office with a sigh. Slightly wincing in pain from previous events.

Patrick stays where he’s seated at Art’s desk, “This office is actually really nice—“

Now it’s Art’s turn to cut Patrick off, “What is this Patrick? What are we doing?”

Patrick smirks, locking his eyes on Art, “I think you know what sex is we just—“

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Art is looking down at the floor now, fidgeting with his fingers.

Patrick takes in Art’s body language and his face drops, putting his teasing act aside, “I meant what I said before. I do want to take you to dinner, get to know you properly.”

“Like a date?”

“Exactly like a date.”

Art takes a beat, looking up to meet Patrick’s gaze across the room, “And who said I wanted to date you?” Okay now Art was the one doing the teasing.

“Tomorrow night 8pm, I’ll pick you up from here. And wear those gray slacks I like, the ones from last Friday. Your ass looks insane in those.”

Art scoffs, “Okay whatever—“

This time they’re both cut off from the glass door to Art’s office opening. Their eyes snapping over to see who’s intruded on what they thought was an empty floor. It was almost 11:30pm.

It was none other than Tashi.

She leaned against the door frame crossing her arms. Her long white slacks and white dress shirt that looked pristine except for the fact that the top button was unbuttoned and there seemed to be makeup smudges by her collar. Very unlike Tashi.

“And who do we have here?” She asks.

Art tries not to panic saying, “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know this isn’t a work meeting. But relax I didn’t see anything, thank god,” She looks over at Patrick then back to Art, “Knew something was different.”

“It’s not what it looks like—“ Art starts

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Patrick interrupts, smirking.

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Since Friday,” They say in unison. Freaky.

“Well technically since Saturday,” Art corrects.

“I don’t know if that makes it better,” She laughs, “but good to know I was right, as always.”

“What are you even still doing here?” Art shoots back.

Patrick chimes in this time, “It’s obvious, she was fucking too.”

Arts eyebrows shoot up at that, taken aback, “Huh?”

“It’s obvious,” he repeats, “look at her face, even if there weren’t makeup smudges on around her collar or the top button of her shirt was still buttoned it’s still written all over her face,” Patrick shrugs, reading her like an open book.

Tashi is stunned but keeps her face neutral. She’s never had someone read her back, she likes being the all knowing omniscient figure. Maybe Patrick Zweig was more than meets the eye.

“No comment,” She says in a cool tone, trying not to let any cracks show.

But Art knows what that means, “Shit you’re right,” Art says to Patrick but keeps his eyes on Tashi.

Art thinks back to the conversation they had this morning about how Tashi and her EA supposedly get into at 7am everyday but he never sees them. It’s like a lightbulb goes off in his head.

“You’re fucking your assistant! That’s why I never see her or you in the morning” He accuses, a hint of shock in his tone.

“That’s actually hilarious,” Patrick chimes in.

“Whatever. How did you even get Art to put his own ego aside enough to make this work?” She gestured vaguely to the two of them.

“My ego?” Art questions. If anyone had an ego it was Patrick, not him.

Patrick starts to tell the story of how they ended up here, “Well—“

“No.” Art deadpans.

“It’s a cute story,” Patrick tries again.

Art groans covering his face with a pillow, “Fine.”

“Art had a wet dream about me, while sleeping at my house,” Patrick finishes, smiling like he’s so proud of himself.

Tashi cocks an eyebrow, “I think some backtracking is needed, how did Art end up at your house?”

“He got really drunk and—“

Art removes the pillow from his face to defend himself, “No, no, I was a reasonable level of tipsy at most and Patrick was the one sending me drinks anyway—“

“One drink.”

“And then he quite literally kidnapped me.”

Tashi thinks for a second before asking, “So you want me to believe that you were only tipsy yet somehow allowed yourself to be ‘kidnapped’?”

Art has no rebuttal and lets Patrick continue.

“Yeah and I took him to the guest room, so he could have his own space, and then he asked me to stay. Being the courteous host that I am, I stayed and we fell asleep together. Then I woke up the next morning to Art humping my leg and the rest is history.”

A blush rises to Art’s cheeks, he knew this story was ridiculously embarrassing, “No comment.”

“You’re right that is a cute story,” Tashi says in a way that Art feels is more patronizing than endearing.

“So how did you start fucking your assistant?” Patrick asks.

“And that’s my time. Have a goodnight gentlemen.” She finishes, heading out of Art’s office.

…

Art wasn’t sure what to expect on their date tonight. He wasn’t sure what to expect in this whole situation thing they were doing to begin with.

Patrick insisted on picking him up to keep the date a mystery. Art wasn’t sure he wanted the few employees left scattered on the floor to see him leaving with Patrick so he just met Patrick in the lobby instead.

Art was shocked to find out Patrick would be driving them today instead of Patrick’s driver. He drove a sleek dark blue maserati and if Art knew more about cars maybe he’d be able to distinguish the model too.

Dinner was at Maison Close. A french restaurant downtown that had amazing drinks and even better food.

“I would say I’m impressed but I can only imagine how many of your conquests you’ve brought here,” Art says as he takes another sip of his drink.

Patrick laughs, “Well unless you’re also counting family, the answer would be zero. I usually go here with my sisters when they’re in town.”

Art isn’t fully convinced but maybe if this thing was going to work, whatever this is, he should start to trust the things Patrick says.

“Well it’s…nice. I’ll give you that.”

“I believe the word you used before was impressed”, Patrick smirks before pulling Art’s chair closer to his. He leans in to whisper by Art’s ear, “Do me a favor, stop acting like you don’t enjoy my company.”

A shiver ran down Art’s spine as Patrick’s lips lightly brushed against his ears. “Well maybe I don’t,” Art says weaker than he would’ve liked.

Patrick lets his hand rest in Art’s inner thigh, next to Art’s growing semi. Fuck his hands are so big. How did Art not notice that before?

“You sure about that?” He whispers, sneaking his hand further up Art’s thigh until he’s pressed up against Art’s erection, “Because it feels like you do. And you wore the pants that I told you to wear. Like a good boy.”

A man with a thick parisian accent pulls them both out of the little bubble they created, “Mr.Zweig! I hope everything has been to your satisfaction tonight?”

Patrick sits back in chair, keeping his hand on Art’s thigh, “It’s been perfect night, just like every night I dine here. Thank you Antoine. Please give my compliments to Chef Edouard.”

The man whose name Art now knows as Antoine does a short nod, “As always. Ms. Zweig won’t be joining you tonight?”

Patrick’s sister. Okay well maybe Art should trust Patrick more.

“Not tonight but please, let me introduce you to Mr.Donaldson. CEO of Trade Reinsurance.”

A series of handshakes and pleasantries are exchanged before Antoine leaves them to enjoy the rest of their dinner.

For the rest of night Art allowed himself to be more open. Engaging in conversation that allowed him to share more about himself and learn more about Patrick. Funnily enough they both used to play tennis when they were younger, all the way until college.

And Patrick kept his hand right where it was.

…

Patrick and Art had been officially dating for 3 months. Art hasn’t really told anyone, not even Tashi. But he’s sure she knows anyway. Him and Patrick have been hanging out almost every weekend and sometimes on weekdays.

They text and call pretty frequently. As frequently as they can. Art finds himself staying up late at night smiling at his phone screen like a teenager. Until Patrick sends him a dick pic and it becomes a very different type of conversation.

Their jobs as CEO are still super demanding so they don’t get to see each other most weekdays. Especially during quarter open, or quarter closing, so again basically most days. But they’ve been making it work (mainly by Patrick showing up to Art’s office unannounced.) Like today.

He strolls into Art’s office without knocking as always.

“What’re you doing here?” Art sighs, eyes glued to his monitor.

Patrick pouts, tilting his head to the side, “Sorry I thought my boyfriend would be happy to see me. My mistake. How’d you even know it was me? You didn’t even look. And I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Art just points to the speaker phone in his desk, insinuating that his executive assistant had called Art to let him know Patrick was coming.

“Can you at least look at me? I came all the way over here to see those pretty blue eyes,” Patrick smirks sitting on the edge of Art’s desk.

Art sighs again, clicking his mouse a few times, locking his computer screen as Patrick makes his way over. Then he looks up to meet Patrick’s gaze with his own, “Yes Patrick you now have my full undivided attention for,” He checks his watch, “about 20 minutes.”

Patrick wants to make a comment about how Art should be taking his lunch at this time for at least an hour. Okay maybe 30 minutes. Okay maybe 20 minutes is more accurate. Patrick can’t even remember the last time he took a full hour lunch, maybe when he was an intern.

“I can work with that,” He gestures to Art’s now locked monitor, “Why’d you lock it? Scared I’m going to sell your company secrets?” He teases.

Art stands up so he can be closer to Patrick’s eye level. He shoves his hands in his pockets, “No I know you won’t. Just have something big coming up.”

Patrick pulls Art closer to him by his waist. He keeps his hands there, “Big like what? Bigger than my d—“

Art cuts him off, covering Patrick’s mouth with his hand, “I’m not even gonna let you finish that sentence. Sometimes I swear you act like you’re a 21 year old intern.”

Art can feel the smirk growing across Patrick’s face and under Art’s hand. He pulls Art’s hand away to intertwine with his own, “I mean I didn’t know you were into roleplay. We can make that happen if that’s what you’re into Mr.Donaldson.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, bringing his arms to rest around Patrick’s neck, “No. But if you must know, we’re taking the company public.”

Going public was a big deal. Working with a team of lawyers and analysts to establish an IPO, asses all the current internal stakeholders, current ownership percentages of board members, it was a lengthy process meaning that Art had been working on this way before him and Patrick ever started seeing each other.

“What? That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you,” Patrick smiles, “we should celebrate tonight. C’mon I’ll take you out.”

“I don’t know I think I just wanna stay in? I’m just so tired all the time, working even more ridiculous hours than usual. Just wanna relax.”

Patrick moves his hand to cup the side of Art’s face. Art leaning into his touch. “Then come over tonight, I’ll cook. Let me take care of you.”

…

On Art’s way out of the building he catches Tashi. She raises an eyebrow, “You’re heading home early. It’s only 7pm.”

“Yeah I-,” He almost slips up and says he’s going to Patrick’s, “Just going to get a quick session in at the gym before I go home.”

She makes an amused face, “Your gym is in your apartment building Art.” So he wouldn’t need to stop at a gym before going home, he would’ve just said he was going home. “It’s fine, go have fun with your man. You guys are cute.”

Art tries to fight off the blush rising to his cheeks as he makes his way out the lobby.

…

Patrick such cooked an amazing dinner that Art would’ve questioned if he even made it himself if Art didn’t get to witness Patrick cheffing it up in the kitchen. It wasn’t anything crazy, just steak, mashed potatoes and asparagus. And a side of red wine of course. Patrick grilled the steak to perfection (somewhere between medium rare and medium) while Art sat at the kitchen island pouring himself another glass of wine.

They ate at the dining table this time. Easy conversation that seemed to just flow like it was nothing. Everytime they spoke it was like they had been friends for years it was freaky.

Art has never felt more seen or loved, than when he was talking to Patrick. It was the little things he did. Like always making sure Art’s cup was full (whether it was alcohol or water), texting Art everyday at 12 pm religiously to make sure he eats something for lunch, helping Art put on his cufflinks the morning after sleeping over, always knowing what Art’s thinking or feeling at any given moment. That was insane.

After changing into comfy clothes, they started the movie in Patrick’s room. Cuddled up together in bed. Art had started to talk about the IPO again. How nervous he was about it, which Patrick engaged in for a little until he cuts Art off by kissing up his neck, “I think you need a break from work. From thinking. Think you can be good for me?”

Art nods biting his lip. This was another thing. Patrick always knowing what he needed. Being able to to tell when Art was stressed out, anxious, overthinking, or overwhelmed with work. Art thought he hid it pretty well but Patrick can always tell.

And it wasn’t always sex. Sometimes it was just being in each other’s company, not having to make decisions. Anything that wasn’t work related, because work took up so much of their time.

But most times it was sex. Only because it was the only thing that Patrick could guarantee would keep Art focused on him and only him. And Patrick definitely was not mad at that.

Patrick snakes his hand into Art’s briefs, stroking him to full hardness, “How about you fuck my mouth? Think you can do that for me baby?”

Art involuntarily fucks into Patrick’s hand while nodding, his body’s response to Patrick’s words.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Patrick smirks. He makes his way down Art’s body. Watching how Art’s abs contract once Patrick takes him into his mouth.

Patrick loved when Art got like this. Just pliant and perfect. Ready to please. To be good. Not a single other thought in his brain. Only Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Moaning and whining and whimpering. It drove Patrick insane.

Art’s hands find their way to Patrick’s curls. Pulling just the right amount to ellcit a moan from Patrick that vibrates around Art’s length.

He starts slow. Slow thrusts, giving Patrick a chance to adjust. But he quickly lets the pleasure take over. His thrusts picking up speed, consistently hitting the back of Patrick’s throat. It’s sloppy. All the spit in Patrick’s mouth collecting at the base of Art’s cock. Drooling out the sides of his mouth. The squelching and occasionally gagging noises are obscene, only driving Art further towards release.

He opens his eyes to look down at the brunet taking him so well. Fuck. Patrick’s lips stretched around the girth of his dick. He looks like a slut.

“You look like a—fuck—like a slut,” Art groans, keeping his pace.

Patrick pulls off, replacing his hand where his mouth once was. The spit causing an easy glide as he jerks Art off, “Yeah? You like that? Keep talking,” wrapping his lips around Art’s tip to sink back down.

Patrick’s voice is already wrecked, raspy and hoarse. Art squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep his orgasm at bay, “Love your mouth. Your throat fuck. Think about it all the time. Think about you all the time.”

Patrick pulls off again to say, “Think about me how? Said you were gonna be good, so tell me everything. Wanna know all your dirty thoughts baby. Don’t hold back,” before going back to it.

Art pulls Patrick’s hair harder, before fucking his throat relentlessly, “You’re such a fucking cockslut fuck. Always coming to my office on lunch. Sucking my dick at my desk, shit. Sending me fucking nudes when you know I’m working,” he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Pulling Patrick up by his hair to look at him. Curls messy, eyes glazed over, tears threatening to escape, lips slick with spit. A fucking vision. Art smears his tip against Patrick’s lips a few times before guiding his cock back down Patrick’s throat.

Keep his grip in Patrick’s hair, and his brutal pace fucking in Patrick’s throat as his orgasm approaches.

“Your lips are so fucking perfect. Wrapped around my cock. Fuck you’re so fucking—. Want you to ride me at my desk next time. Shit. Want that so fucking bad. Want everyone to hear you, taking my cock so well. Wanna cum deep inside you ah. Think about it all the time. Think about you all the time. Dirty fucking whore. Such a slut for my cock. I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” Art whines out towards the end. Burying himself deep in Patrick’s throat to make sure he gets every last drop.

After Patrick swallows and pulls off, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, “How was that?” he smiles.

Art nods from his place on the bed, exhausted, “Good. Really good. Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me for that. Hands down one of my favorite ways to take care of you. It was fun with you doing all the talking. Hot.” Patrick smirks before moving back up to lay next to Art.

Art rolls his eyes, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s waist to pull him closer, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

…

thank you for making it this far :)

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[lvrrgirlll]

stay forever | patrick zweig x reader

a notting hill au!patrick zweig x shopowner!reader 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

note: based off the movie! patrick is the famous one, but is also an actor in this au!

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

patrick was at the height of his career, there was no where to go but up. he was the most famous tennis player in the world, with three Career Grand Slams, 4 Olympic Gold Medals, 2 ATP Final Championships---not to mention his Challenger circuit wins-- all by the age of 28. tennis championships landed him brand deals leading to magazine covers and billboards and full interview spreads in said magazines. which lead to now, taking a short hiatus from the professional tennis scene, he'd become somewhat of an actor. it’s more of a side hobby for him, but these directors are seeing something in him that he never did before. they’re calling him “a heartthrob”, and “a leading man—on screen and on the court”. he’s famous in a way he’d never expected, and sure sometimes it felt good to be adored and appreciated for more than just tennis, but it still felt surface level. he was starting to wonder what else there could be out of life.

the current movie he was in had based its production in london. he wasn’t needed on set this particular day and he wanted to see what a city as vast as that had to offer. he wandered down side streets, not drawing attention to himself, while exploring neighborhoods that seemed to be quieter or unknown. he wasn’t searching for anything in particular, rather just trying to enjoy time away from flashing lights and pretending all day long.

after leaving behind smells of fresh produce and baked goods from the farmers market he just walked through, patrick stumbles upon a quaint bookshop on the corner of the street. he takes a moment to appreciate the flowers growing over the top of the sign and the blue colored facade before entering. a bell chimes when the door opens and as he takes a step inside, and though the shop is on the smaller side, there are quite a few tall shelves stacked with an array of vintage, rare, and new books. he’s never been much of a reader but he feels some type of pull to this shop, to the books, and art prints being sold here in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. until he goes to check out and is met by what must be the shops owner, you.

the name on your name tag matches the one on the stickers he’s noticed on certain stacks stating your favorite picks in those sections. your smile, and the ease and eagerness at which you talk about the things he’s picked out as you ring him up is pulling at his heartstrings that he didn’t even know were there. when you finally meet his gaze for longer than a moment and he really gets to take you in. you’re radiating joy for the simplicity of reading, your smile is infectious, and your eyes are warm like the sun that’s suddenly shining through the window of the shop on what was a gloomy london day.

“is there anything else i can help you with, sir?” you ask, your tone genuine and friendly. the way you call him sir takes him back a little, usually people would have recognized him by now, but you aren’t making it a big deal. you have to know who he is, and he doesn’t mean that in a cocky way, it’s just that in magazine section you also sell some that have his face on it. but you’re treating him so human and it’s a relief.

he smiles back kindly, letting you know that there isn't anything else as you put all his items in a bag for him. he's about two seconds away from telling you that you're beautiful and asking for your number, but then a fellow customer asks him to sign the magazine with his face on it that they'd just bought. patrick's not one to say no to his fans if they're respectful, even if he's not in the mood. so reluctantly he signs it but when he turns back to talk to you you're already busying yourself with something else. he just about accepts defeat and leaves the shop with thoughts of you and "what ifs"' filling his mind.

for the rest of his free day, patrick wanders through other neighborhoods of london. he admires how different it is than other cities he's passed through, how the weather and coldness, though gray at time, isn't biting, and is more misty, at least this time of year. he takes a comfort in it for some reason. definitely not because he is inherently a lonely person, and he is finding himself romanticizing things more than usual. before he even realizes it, he's taking the long way back to his hotel, which just so happens to include passing through notting hill once again.

he's a bit in his own head, carrying what was a hot tea in his hand as he's walking, when he collides with someone else. he doesn't look up at them right away, because the remaining contents of his cup are spilling all over his shirt.

"oh my gosh I am so sorry! are you okay?" the voice says, a little panicked and embarrassed. it cuts through his thoughts, causing him to finally look up. its then that he realizes that its you. the beautiful, charming, bookshop owner from earlier.

"oh, its fine--" he barely gets out, although it is clear that it will leave a stain.

"are you sure? I feel terrible. my place is just around the corner, i can give you a fresh shirt so you don't have to walk all the way back in a wet one." you offer, and you sound so sweet, perhaps a little bit embarrassed, and he feels himself swooning internally. he feels bad that you feel bad, and he knows technically you're a stranger that he has only just met so he really shouldn't allow you to take him back to yours. but when some passersby start to piece together that it is indeed him, not patrick, patrick zweig the actor and tennis player, and they slowly start to make their way over to ask for a picture or autograph, he's already letting you whisk him away.

back at your place, you offer him an old oversized sweater to wear while you work the stain out of his shirt. you apologize for the mess of books spread across the table and unwashed dishes and folded laundry that you hadn't had the chance to put away. it seems that you think that you're a bit of a mess, but he thinks you're human in a way he hasn't seen in awhile. lately his world has consisted of so much glitz and glamor, people who want something from him or want him to do something. genuinity has been hard to come by these days for him, but here you are.

after you work as much of the stain out and throw it into the washer for a quick cycle, you brew him some hot tea and a comfortable silence eventually falls over the two of you. he realizes that he's sat in your home, and he still doesn't know anything about you.

"so, how long have you owned that bookshop?" he asks, wincing a bit because of all things he could've started with that's what he landed on.

"how did you know i was the owner?" you answer his question with a question, but you laugh a bit at his correct assumption and it takes some of the edge off for him. "a little over three years. i worked all through college, and after working for a few more years i was able to open it. "

"that's impressive." he compliments, and he means it. he's seen the shop for himself, and before he even met you he thought the place felt like coming home. a lot like you, he's starting to think.

"it's not much, but its mine, so thank you." you respond with a shy smile as you sip on your own tea. you're humble, something else he's not used to.

he asks about some of the books you have out and you once again talk about them highly, even if he can tell you're trying not to ramble so much, not that he minds. you ask him where he was coming from and what he saw throughout his day before he'd run into you, and he can't quite put a finger on what it means to him to not have to talk about work. after another beat of silence, in which he admires everything he's coming to know and observe about you, patrick speaks again.

"you didn't have to do all this for me." he says, scratching the back of his neck a bit nervous.

"what do you mean?" you ask in return tilting your head at him as if you're taking him in.

"you've been really kind to me. at the store, here, you've treated me like i'm normal. " he's not used to people not wanting something from him.

"are you not?" you ask, part laugh and part genuine misunderstanding.

"come on, you know what i mean, at least i'm hoping i don't have to sound like i have the world's biggest ego." he's embarrassed now, and he doesn't want to have to refer to himself as a "celebrity".

but you seem to finally catch his drift and your expression softens.

"i am being kind, because you are normal. i don't want to devalue your celebrity status, because from the work i have seen of yours i know you are very talented, but i also don't think that it means i am going to treat you any differently than i would treat any other person." your tone is gentle and honest, and it softens something in him too.

"i think what i mean to say is, i'm grateful. its been a long time since i've met someone who is kind just for the sake of it, and who treats me like i'm a person and not because i'm 'famous' or 'my status'." he puts air quotes around those words, but he tries to get across how appreciative he is not just for this day, but for you.

“you are a person. you don’t need to thank me, but you’re welcome. i’m just glad i could offer you a break from ‘your world’, even if it’s just for a little while.” you copy his air quotes and it gets a laugh out of the two of you. he wonders if he’s dreaming.

something shifts between the two of you. the air feels lighter with that in the open, and you guys end up talking about things with more ease as you wait for his shirt to finish in the wash/dryer.

"well, patrick--" you say as you walk him to your front door and he hands back the sweater he borrowed from you. hands brush. you address him by his first name since the level of comfortability between the two of you established that you guys can now be on a first name basis. he's reeling a little bit at the way it sounds coming out of your mouth. "good luck with your movie. and i hope that you find all the things that london has to offer."

when you say that he smiles big and absolute, in a way he doesn't think he has in a while.

"i will. i think i already am." when he says that, the air shifts again. you both pause for a moment, and before he realizes it, he kisses you. its soft, sweet, but over before any processing can really happen.

but you don't seem to mind, and neither does he because he does it again before leaving.

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

months and seasons pass. but whatever it is between you and patrick doesn't. he would be busy with his movie, and there would be busy times at your shop, but in the rare quiet, free moments--there was the two of you together. he admired how he could be patrick, not patrick zweig, with you. how much you love your shop and the quietness of notting hill, but sees how much of yourself exists within the shop. your soul is equal parts you and your passions, but is felt in every nook and cranny of that shop. so much so that he’s feeling you in the days that you’re not together. you cherish how he succumbs to the stillness of your world, and you don't downplay that he is amazing on screen or court or just as a human. when he comes by your place you bond over other books but not just that, you learn of shared art tastes and movies (that he isn't in) and music.

he's intuitive in a way you didn't expect, and you're enchanting in a way he thinks he's been searching for his whole life. this thing that is growing between the two of you isn't nothing, even if it goes unacknowledged at first.

you haven't talked about what happens when he has to go back to the states. and he doesn't claim you when people make comments about the fact you've been hanging around when he is on set or at interviews. you're not asking him to parade you, you just don't want to be nothing. maybe that is why it hurts so bad when you don't talk about it and he just...leaves. when he does go back to the states and you don't hear from him.

you busy yourself with the shop. switching out your recommendation shelves more frequently. making sure to stay on top of new releases. redecorating and reorganizing. you let your friends actually set you up on dates. all to keep your mind off of him as you curse yourself for believing he could've been different. but nothing fully sticks.

patrick has always been a coward when it came to love. he hadn't had much of it growing up, and even being "famous" and being "loved" by millions of people didn't fill that for him. you did though, or were starting to, and he couldn't face it. so instead of claiming you like he could've, he ran. and he was miserable. he tries for months back home to forget you, but he just can't. so in an act of spontaneity, or insanity, he halts production on the movie he was filming and flies back to london.

he shows up on your doorstep. no notice. when you open the door, you barely get a word in before he is stepping inside and rambling.

"i messed up. i was a coward. i should've done more. i was scared, and i know that isn't an excuse, but i was. you were real and it scared the shit out of me. and i don't deserve you, but i couldn't keep pretending that i didn't care, so i'm here, and i'm prepared to beg and plead and prove that i'm not scared anymore. i just want you." he blurts out faster than he realizes, pacing your living room, before coming to a standstill in front of you, attempting to catch his breath.

you are still registering not only that he is there, but everything he’s just confessed.

“you mean it?” you finally say after what feels like eternity for him. you won’t stand here and beg him to love you if he didn’t. he was expecting you to yell or tell him to leave, and he would’ve deserved that even if he would’ve hated it. but you’re calm. you’re looking at him like you’re still deciding if he’s telling the truth, but he won’t let you believe otherwise. not anymore.

“i do. more than anything.” he doesn’t hesitate. when you don’t say anything else, but the lines that formed between your eyebrows when you furrowed them disappear, he takes a step closer to you and holds your hands in his. he squeezes them three times and doesn’t let go.

“promise you won’t leave again?” you ask, looking at your joined hands before back up at him.

“i’ll stay forever if you’d let me.” and he really hopes you’ll let him.

lucky for him, you’re okay with that.

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

note (again): i had to feed the josh o’connor rpf some way finally i finished this wip! hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs always appreciated <3 tagging some of my mutuals aka the loveliest people i’ve been able to meet because of challengersblr and that inspire me always aka that everyone should follow!

@artstennisracket @newrochellechallenger2019 @voidsuites @gibsongirrl @jordiemeow @diyasgarden @jesuistrestriste @asheepinfrance @tacobacoyeet @cha11engers @imperishablereverie @coolgrl111 @slushfaerie

[lvrrgirlll]

summary: new rochelle is watched over by father patrick: charismatic, trusted, adored by the town's youth. but when you, a troubled young woman, begin confessing desires you can barely name, he finds himself drawn to more than just your need for salvation.

warnings: 18+, masturbation, religious themes/blasphemy, morally dubious priest, specific age gap not specified but implied (patrick early 30s at most), power imbalance mentioned + alludes to patrick seeing himself as god, patrick jerking off while reader is unaware so tagging dubcon, reader confessing sins/praying gets this freak horny

notes: inspired by rewatching fleabag. hot priest. mmm. patrick hot priest. mmm x2. patrick hot fucked up priest. mmm x3. haven't been to church in like 4 years forgive me for anything inaccurate x

—

Patrick Zweig—or Father Patrick, as you know him—has long since noticed the way the young people of New Rochelle come to him. They do not only seek someone to represent their faith but something more elusive. Perhaps it is because he is younger than most priests. Not old and distant, but in his early thirties at most, with an easy smile and a voice that carries warmth and humour. Young enough to understand the pulse of the town's restless youth but old enough to carry the weight of the Lord's unyielding authority.

The people of the town gravitate towards him for the rare sense of understanding he offers. His sermons aren't just words; they feel like conversations, one between a sinner who has repented inviting them to do the same. It’s raw. Real. Sometimes he thinks they have come to trust him a little too much.

That must be what draws you to him. Conversations in town, staying after service to light candles just to catch a glimpse of him tidying away prayer books or emerging from the sacristy absent of his vestments. The real man behind those robes of faith. 

He’s come to enjoy your company. The shy smiles you offer when he lights a candle next to yours, or the way your pupils dilate when your lips part oh-so-willingly to accept communion from his giving hands. Yes, perhaps it’s not the company itself he likes, but rather the way you look at him as if you’re waiting for his absolution. Not God's. His.

And it comes eventually when you bump into him while walking home after a rough day. Bloodshot eyes, nose running and hands trembling when you choke out a "Father, I must confess. May I come by the Church tomorrow?"

He agrees. What kind of priest would he be to turn away a parishioner in need? He knows that's not why, of course. He enjoys the thrill of command in his sacred space. The silent dominance in your submission. It is a heady feeling to hold power not just as a priest, but as a man standing between your past and your hope for redemption.

"Tell me," he says. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?"

Your hands wring together nervously. The sight makes something stir within him. "I want to feel clean. I want to believe I'm not beyond saving."

"Then you must accept your truth and seek the path towards light. Not by denial, but by courage." He nods towards the booth. Your eyes dart over nervously, but you mimic his nod in wordless assent.

Neither of you speak as you settle in on opposite sides, curtain shut until the sacred and forbidden mingle only in the flickering candlelight beneath the red fabric. He can barely make out the blurry shape of your face through the lattice, and for a moment all he hears is his breathing mixing with your own.

It starts tame. Things like I pretended to be sick to get out of going to work or I've been slacking on my nightly prayers because I've been too lazy before bed. He wants to press, because clearly you did not beg to come to confession just for this. There must be something darker weighing on your soul.

But he forces himself to be patient, interjecting only when necessary to assure you that you are holding yourself accountable and therefore will be cleansed in the eyes of God. Until you utter the words:

"And... and sometimes I touch myself. To relieve the ache within me. I know it is wrong, and I want to stop. To repent."

Blood instantly rushes south at those words. His fingers dig in to his palms so hard it almost feels like his nails would rend his flesh. Such admissions are commonplace in the House of the Lord, and yet hearing you speak them does something to Patrick. His mind wanders to places it shouldn't. He conjures images of you writhing in the silence of your room while your hand seeks that sinful high. 

His nails dig into his skin and he has to inhale through his nose to keep his voice from cracking when he asks, "How often does this ache come upon you?"

It is so quiet in the booth that he can hear your shaky exhale. "Almost every night, Father."

His chest rises and falls heavier as he listens to your confession, his fingers trembling under the fabric of his green cassock. He shouldn't ask. This is your place to confess, but the question slips out anyways:

"And you said you... touch yourself?"

You hesitate. You trust him enough to give him everything. The shame, the fear, the secret part of your soul you dare not speak aloud to anyone else. Attraction. Desire. Truth you're terrified to claim. It reaches into places that Patrick has long since buried beneath years of study and prayer.

He's never had the need to wait so desperately for the next sentence to fall from someone's lips. He feels as though he's hanging on to every word, hand gripping his thigh as he waits for you to continue.

"Yes," you breathe, as if you're picturing it now, too.

"Just to relieve the ache, as you say," he clarifies. This is not something new for him. But you. He’s always been so fond of you and the way you looked up at him with those sweet eyes of yours… 

This is wrong. This is holy ground. He is supposed to guide you, not...

Not what? Want you? Use you? Revel in the control of your secrets?

He remembers his vows, the promise he made to serve God, to resist temptation, to be a vessel of mercy and purity. But in the quiet of the chapel, the lines blur. He holds the power here—the power to condemn or to forgive—and that knowledge intoxicates him like a dark prayer one would utter to a deity that was not his own God.

Patrick wonders, then, can he separate the man from the priest? Can he keep his desire buried beneath the robes and rituals? Or is he already lost in the same darkness you're confessing to, tangled in the very sins he is sworn to save you from?

"May I ask where this ache comes from? If only to understand what you are confessing to."

His heart beats faster. It's not just a spiritual power right now. It's deeply personal, because here you are, a young woman trembling with fear and shame, laying your soul bare behind the veil of confession. And to hold the key to your salvation, or your condemnation, is an all-consuming thing. One that leads his hand to slip down, down, down into the tight confines of his cassocks. Fumbling with buttons to push further until he reaches into his boxers and—

"Well, Father, I... I find myself drawn to… men. Ones that I should not be." Oh. Yes, there it is. A gasp that is not completely in disbelief came from the other side of the confessional as his fingers curl around himself. The quiet of the booth is broken only by your voice and the faint rustle of clothing from across the lattice as he listens intently.

Married men, his brain supplies. Or perhaps someone as unobtainable as him. "Attracted in a way I should not be. I don’t want to feel this way. It’s like a weight inside me, like a stain on my soul. I pray for it to go away, but the feelings grow stronger. I’m scared I’m lost."

"You are not lost," he rasps. "Those thoughts you have... they do not define you. You are a child of God." His breathing is heavy, punctuated by a low, almost choked off groan that he prays you do not acknowledge. "The church teaches us about sin, yes, but also about love and forgiveness. What matters is your heart’s honesty."

He hears you breathe out a shaky sigh. "But I feel so dirty. Like I’m breaking God’s law."

Dirty. Breaking. God. His hand tightens around his cock, stroking up-down, up-down, up-down as your words struggle to find clarity in his head. Dirty dirty dirty. Your voice is so soft, so tinged by despair. He cannot decide whether he wants to save you or ruin you further.

"Sometimes, what we fear most is what we must face." His lip catches between his teeth so hard he can taste the tangible rust of blood on his tongue. "And in confession, you find not judgement, but understanding."

"Do you understand me, Father?"

Yes. Oh, you have no idea how much he understands you. Does God hear the conflict in my heart as clearly as your confession? He wonders. I am a priest. I am meant to forgive. But who forgives me when my own sins are tangled in the shadows?

His other hand grips the wooden screen, nails digging fruitlessly into the timber-stained beech. You may not go to Hell for this, but he certainly will. A servant of God indulging in the sin of lust in his very House of Worship. Patrick's hand picks up faster at just the thought.

"You are not alone, my child." He forces the words out. It comes out strangled, a little too sharp, a crack in the steady command you're used to. His head falls forward until his forehead brushes the screen. Patrick holds onto his weakening composure with gritted teeth.

"The Devil whispers in all our ears, but it is up to us to reject his sinful promises."

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

In that moment, he wonders if this is a test. One he is failing and too far gone to fix. Patrick lets out a hoarse laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the desperation that seeps into it.

"You have no idea." His breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His eyes burn with something that feels like pain. His cock throbs with something that feels like divine pleasure. "The things I would do to—"

He chokes on his own words. No. You are the one confessing, not him. The room feels like it is spinning and his body thrums with a sinful ache he has not felt in years. The Father he is sworn to serve would not have him succumb to this selfish desire, and yet here he is. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus on the heavy, burning wood beneath his hand, but all he can picture beneath the screen is you. On your knees, eyes wide, waiting for him to do something about this burning hunger.

"This is a house of prayer, my child." His voice is hoarse. Raw. "I urge you to do the same."

His hand is a blur in his trousers and it's harder and harder to keep his voice steady. "You have not yet given me your penance for these sins."

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

He hears you sink down on floor, forehead pressing into the opposite side of the screen as his. He can only imagine what he would be doing—tasting—if not for the wooden barrier. He feels dizzy. Light-headed.

The weight of the penance he imposes feels like a chain, one you're willing to accept. Because in that submission, you find a flicker of hope. Your hands clasp together in your lap.

"Repeat after me. Our Father—" His breath catches on the word father. He hears you say the words on the other side of the lattice.

"—Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Patrick's hand picks up. Squeezing at the base of his thick length, dragging it up to smear himself in the essence of his own dark desire. He wonders if you can hear the slick slide of his hand around his cock with as much clarity as he does.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—"

Something that sounds like a moan pushes out from behind the screen. You pause.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is too fast, too breathy, but he commands nonetheless: "Keep going."

You continue without him. His eyes are screwed shut as he pumps himself, listening to your sweet voice sing to him like an angel. Temptation personified praying to the Lord who will condemn him for the gratification he is bringing himself right now.

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

That does it for him. Sudden and abrupt, the warmth of his sin spills into his hand, coating his fingers and the inside of his boxers. A pleasure so hot that it feels like it comes from the Seven Hells themselves, vision whiting out as a low groan forces its way out of his throat, raw and guttural.

The silence afterwards is stifling. He takes in ragged breaths that sound more like sobs. It leaves you kneeling in your guilt, heart pounding, unsure what to do next. What was that noise? Was Father Patrick crying? Or was it something else? You swallow thickly.

He slowly slides back onto the bench, running an unsteady hand through his dark hair. "Rise, child." He hears the scuffling of you pushing yourself up to your feet. "God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Silence on the other side of the lattice, before you speak tentatively: "Thank you, Father." You do not thank God. You thank him directly. It should not make him feel as satisfied as it does.

Patrick does not move when he hears the curtain draw, or when your footsteps disappear down the nave. It is only after he hears the distant sound of you blessing yourself in the narthex and the door creaks shut behind you that he rises.

He steps out, inspecting the glistening of his hand in the dying sunlight that peeks through the clerestory. He is stained by guilt, and yet he makes no effort to scrub the evidence from his skin.

Because if he wants to feel clean, truly clean, he must be willing to feel dirty first.

—

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[lvrrgirlll]

Cherries In The Snow

This wasn’t supposed to go like this, he was supposed to be playing Xbox with Art.

After he saw you a little conflicted. Flipping through magazines at the kitchen counter. He asked and now he’s here, sacrificing his freckled skin for a lipstick transfer test.

Sitting on the floor in your room, the fluffy rug underneath both of you.

You’re rummaging through a Hello Kitty pouch (really just an old bag), looking for lipsticks and skipping over the ones that melted.

Beside him there’s a piece of paper with a list of names, like:

Orgasm?

“What the actual fuck? Is this real?” He pointed at the name as you sat down beside him.

You squinted to look at what he was pointing. “Oh— yeah, it was a pain in the ass buying it. Dad was paying that time” you shivered at the memory.

He laughed, “Is that even a shade,“ he teased, eyeing you as you searched for the specific tube.

“We’ll try this one first,” you took the cap off, “now that you’re curious.”

You twisted it carefully before applying it and smacking your lips together.

“Okay— let’s try this cheek,” you brushed his hair back before tilting his head slightly.

Just an excuse to touch him.

And your hands landed on his shoulders.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. It smeared a little, so it was discarded.

“Oh— I had hopes for that one” you shrugged, cleaning your lips with a Kleenex.

He just stared at you, then grabbed the lipstick tube. OMG… the name was real.

You marked “Orgasm” off the list.

“Okay… next one is … Russian Red,” you clicked the pen.

You smiled slightly after smacking your lips together and closing the cap. He seemed to like red on you, it suited you.

“Nice,” he smirked.

“This one might stain so it has to be… mhm” you pecked his lips, “there—“ you were about to pull back when he pecked your lips again.

His hands run up on your waist and the kiss got a bit messier than expected.

You pulled back after a while.

Laughed when you looked at him, a little dizzy and a red stain on his lips. You catch your reflection in the mirror—lips smudged, cheeks flushed, his hand still resting on your thigh.

“This one’s great,” you cleaned his lips with the edge of your hoodie sleeve.

He was just happy to be there.

You were happy to check Russian Red on the list.

Next one: Revlon ColorStay in “Cocoa Craving”

“This one smells like chocolate,” you said, twisting the cap off.

“Lemme see.” He leaned in, nose nearly brushing your fingers. “Woah, it does.”

“Too bold?” You held it up so he could see the shade.

He analyzed it like he cared, brow furrowed, pretending to. “Not really,” he said, “but if you’re scared of where it might end up—“

“Hey!—“ you scoffed, smacking his arm. You were halfway in his lap.

“Just sayin’” he murmured, his voice lower now. A grin curling slow.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. Soft. His lashes fluttered.

“Yeah, no- I think I wanna see if it also tastes like chocolate,” you laughed as he cupped the back of your head, smacking your lips together.

𝘓’𝘖𝘳é𝘢𝘭: 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 (𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗿) ★

𝘊𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭: 𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 (𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗸𝘆) ×

𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘭𝘰𝘯: 𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸 (𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗳 𝟭𝟬𝟬%) ★

𝘓𝘪𝘱𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘴: 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺-𝘒𝘪𝘸𝘪 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 (𝟭𝟬/𝟭𝟬) ★

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦: 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴 (𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗿, 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘃𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗺) ★

𝘔𝘈𝘊: 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭 (𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵) ★

And finally another lipsmacker just to compensate all that matte mess on his face and neck, somehow ended up making out. What a surprise.

Now he’s hovering over you, and his lips taste like… Sprite.

Whatever, you just cupped the side of his neck. His hand up on your jaw, parting your lips with his thumb on your chin.

When he pulled back to catch some air, you sighed and huffed a laugh. He still had remains of Cherries In The Snow on his jaw. Which was disguised with the flush near his ears. You caressed the stain with a thumb.

You hugged the back of his neck. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Glad to be your little experiment buddy,” he smirked and left a wet kiss on your neck. It tickled, and you laughed, a little breathless.

Divider credits: @fairytopea

[lvrrgirlll]

Gamer!Patrick

who… you started dating in college. you guys met in your second year finance class after working on a project together. you thought he was cute but a little egotistical, always answering teacher questions without raising his hand. always contributing to class discussions aka saying his opinion louder than everyone else

who… always wears sweatpants or board shorts to class. no in between. always paired with his nike killshot’s, a watch his father bought him, and soft sprays of his expensive tom ford cologne. he clearly doesn’t care what people think of him. he’s also stupidly charismatic. all the business professors love him.

who… always insists on hanging out at your dorm instead of his off campus apartment. you never knew why until one day he finally gave in. his place was nice. expensive. he said his parents paid for the rent. it was a two bedroom apartment that he shared with his best friend Art but he was rarely home. but Patrick’s room was a disaster. dirty clothes everywhere, half eaten cups of ramen, half drunk water bottles, and suspicious socks strewn all over that made your stomach turn at the thought of what they were probably used for.

who… essentially ignores you everytime he’s on the game. his pc would be the only source of light in his room most nights. even if you spent the night, hoping he’d join you to sleep, most times he wouldn’t until an ungodly hour. staying up until 4/5am screaming at his teammates through his headphones, you’re surprised you can even sleep.

who… jerks off to porn videos of his favorite video game characters. he would never tell you, but one day when you’re over at his place, making cereal in the kitchen (because there’s no real food there), Art outs him. he busts out laughing saying “oh you didn’t know? yeah you should ask him about that.” you’re not even sure how Art knows this information.

who… denies the accusation stating that “why the fuck would I do? that’s fucking gross.” only for you to catch him jerking off at 4am to overwatch porn. t-shirt pulled up, hand shoved down his boxers, abs flexing, eyes locked onto his phone screen. he doesn’t even notice that you woke up until you inch closer to him and spot the visuals on his phone. he drops his t-shirt from where it was between his teeth, “it’s not—whatever. fuck you,” he groans, hand picking up its pace. so you pull his hair (for being a brat), kiss his neck, and whisper dirty things into his ear while keeps watching his phone, making him finish in record time.

who… loves when you sit under his desk to blow him while he’s playing. trying really hard to concentrate and play well but it’s hard. the obscene squelching noises everytime he hits the back of your throat, the drool falling from the sides of your mouth, your other hand toying with his balls at the same time. he has to mute his mic when his friends keep asking him why he’s breathing so hard. he calls you a slut for trying to get his attention this way, “such a fucking slut. only way you know how to get my attention huh? want all my friends to hear me? so they know how much of a whore you are for my cock?”

who… hates loves playing video games with you. he has to teach you a lot, and you keep forgetting which buttons do what. it’s cute at first when you guys are playing co-op games like It Takes Two, but eventually after you try to make an ‘easy’ jump 5 times (dying everytime) he grabs the controller from you and does it for you, “Jesus fuck, it’s not that hard.” playing fortnite is a hit or miss because sometimes it’s fun but eventually it becomes stressful since Patrick is carrying you, making all the kills but also trying to watch your back while you’re doing the Taste dance emote in your Sabrina Carpenter skin.

who… can’t function when he sees your halloween costume. you dressed up as Kitana from mortal kombat (with the help of Art since you wanted to surprise Patrick). back to back frat parties on frat row. you keep getting wolf whistled at as you guys walk from house to house. Patrick keeps at least one point of contact the entire night. Patrick can’t keep his hands to himself the entire night. a hand on your waist, around your shoulder, on your thigh, on your ass. and his favorite obviously being when you dance on him. he makes sure neither of you drink too much that night so he can fuck you stupid when you guys get back to his apartment. he already texted Art earlier to fuck off unless he wanted to hear you getting wrecked. it’s sloppy and rough and of course you keep your costume on. he pulls out his phone to record while you guys are in doggy.

who… actually really sweet. he builds you guys a house in minecraft (with cherry blossom wood as you requested). will always put himself in harm’s way when you guys go mining. so he takes the lead and if there’s a creeper or a zombie he takes care of it. goes on crazy stupid long adventures with you just so you can find an ocelot, “this is fucking stupid, jungles are rare biomes it’s gonna take us forever to find one.”

who… thinks you may actually be the first girl he’s ever fall in love with. the first girl to see all of him and still accept him for who he is. the first girl who never tried to change him. the first girl to enjoy just sitting in his presence, even if he’s on the game. but he’d never tell you any of that. not unless you said it first anyway.

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[lvrrgirlll]

mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

It starts with a chore. Two dollars in your hand, a list from your husband, and a summer heat that clings to your skin like sin. The streets of West Side New York are loud and cracked, lined with gossiping women and the smell of city sweat—but it’s the garage that stops you. Him. Riff. Smoke curling from his mouth, coveralls unzipped to the waist, looking at you like you’re not just somebody’s wife. Like you’re someone. You tell yourself you’re just passing by. But the truth is, you keep walking past Joe’s Auto like it’s gravity. And he keeps watching like he knows. You weren’t looking for freedom. But you found him. Grease-stained hands, soft with you. A body that wants, not owns. And in a city built on noise, you find silence in the space where he touches you. The affair doesn’t start that day. But it starts then.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

✧˖° mechanic!riff who never calls you by your name until he’s got you pressed to a wall, breath warm against your throat, whispering it like a secret he earned.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who doesn’t ask why you’re there, just hands you a bottle of Coke and wipes his hands slow, watching you like he’s waiting for the truth to fall out of your mouth.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who laughs low and dangerous when you say you’re married, like he already knows you’re not taken where it counts.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who touches you like he’s fixing something—patient, precise, and with reverence only he believes you deserve.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who calls you “good girl” and makes it feel like rebellion, not obedience.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who holds you after, smokes in silence, and doesn’t need to talk—but always listens.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who smells like sweat, smoke, and gasoline, and now you can’t smell any of it without tasting him.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who knows you’ll always come back. But doesn’t know if you’ll ever stay.

[lvrrgirlll]

Cordelia’s 200 follower celebration !!!

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Wow! Thank you guys for over 200 followers!!!! 💕💖💕 The thought that even 10 people have read something I wrote on here and liked it enough to follow me is insane, let alone 200?!?!? I genuinely can’t express my gratitude enough. I love you all and your beautiful minds and that’s why…

I’M DOING A REQUEST EVENT!!!

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Rules:

Send in a prompt of sorts (it can be literally anything, a theme, idea, picture, quote, au, song… whatever you want!)

Specify what character you’d like it to be for (I write for Art, Tashi, and Patrick!)

And then I’ll write an exactly 200 word drabble for it (with a moodboard for each ofc) since I’m celebrating 200 <3

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Thank you all again! I couldn’t do any of this without your support and friendship. It means the world to me, truly!

xoxo, cordelia

[lvrrgirlll]

White Mustang

Patrick Zweig x Reader

SUMMARY: "Summer’s meant for lovin’ and leavin’..." You knew what he was from the start. All charm, all warning signs. But you still chased lightning across the court, thinking maybe this time you wouldn't burn.

CONTENT: No use of pronouns, no physical descriptions, mostly angst with a bit of fluff and a bittersweet ending, suggestive content, complicated feelings, fleeting intimacy, some internalized heartbreak, a lot of metaphor-heavy narration and longing. Think of this as somewhere between 2010 and 2011, Patrick's still the rich kid, his career starting to decay.

Inspired by White Mustang by Lana Del Rey

A/N: Promised to post this like two weeks ago but I kept rewriting until I felt satisfied and hurt my own feelings while at it. Idk but I felt White Mustang would be good with Patrick and I got inspired to do this! Hope you enjoy it! Would love it if you had some feedback cause I'm thinking of making a part two for this one! :)

WORD COUNT: ~2.9k

At first it was something fun, sneaking into the members-only club, maybe it was curiosity or maybe you wanted to see how it felt to belong somewhere you don’t, but you slipped through like a secret. all you knew was that you needed a place to breathe.

You thought you were the kind of girl who wouldn't get noticed here. Not by the members, not by the staff, and certainly not by the players, but then he arrives.

Patrick Zweig. Fresh off some tournament in Europe; you've heard about him before, you've heard that he comes from a rich family, that he's gone pro for a while now but that he's not doing good lately... Among other things.

The first time you see him is under the brutal sun, playing at some charity tournament organized by the club, and yes, you know you're not supposed to be sitting at the bleachers and watching him play, and yet you can't stop yourself.

He's tall, handsome, unreal. All in white, as if the court was built around him. As if he’s always been here.

He moves like he’s on fire, every serve cuts through the air like it’s personal. There’s a kind of violence in how he moves on the court, the way he hits every ball.

He looks like something designed to be admired from a distance.

And you do. You watch every move he does.

Right now, your world has narrowed to a white blur and a boy you shouldn’t be watching this closely.

He doesn’t notice you. Of course he doesn’t.

But deep inside, you wish he did.

---

And when he does, it happens three days later, right behind the bleachers, where the afternoon heat sticks to skin and makes conversation feel heavier than it should.

You see him walking by, holding a racket and a towel, hair damp, shirt clinging to his back after some training match, you're not sure he even looked at you but then you hear him talk.

“You always watch from the top row,” he says, making you stop and turn around.

You blink. “I—what?”

He gestures lazily upward. “You sit high up. Good angle.”

His curls are damp with sweat and you can now see his face covered by tiny freckles, his beautiful eyes, he's even more handsome up close.

“You’ve seen me?”

He shrugs. “Hard not to.”

He’s standing there, just watching you as if he's trying to read your mind.

“Here,” he says, and slips something into your hand, a faint smirk on his lips.

A scrap of paper. A number.

“You don’t have to call,” he adds, already turning away. “Just figured—if you wanted.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you to wonder if this could be the beginning of something.

---

You type the number and save it into your contacts, but you don’t call.

You stare at it for two days, debating if you should delete it and lose the piece of paper again into your bag.

You've heard things about him, that he won the juniors US Open a couple years ago but also you've heard the whispers, everyone says he's the kind to leave when someone gets too close.

And you're not sure if you want to believe that, all you feel is that this could be the kind of story that will end with someone burning.

You just don't know who would catch fire first.

---

A couple weeks later you sneak at the tournament’s afterparty.

Not the official with sponsors, champagne flutes and forced smiles, but the second one, the one that doesn’t start until past midnight, half a mile from the courts in a rented house that smells like sweat and cheap alcohol.

You wander through the house when you see him walking out of the kitchen, drinking some vodka from the plastic cup in his hand, he's now wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and looking kinda… expensive.

"You never called," he says as soon as he spots you, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I kept checking. You didn’t even text.”

You freeze mid-step, thinking of a good excuse—anything.

“I figured you’d forget about it by the next day,” you reply, trying not to look too long at the way he looks even more handsome out of his sports clothes.

“I remember everything,” Patrick says, cutting through the crowd to find you.

“Especially when I give someone something and they don’t use it.”

You cross your arms. “I never promised to call”

He tilts his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say that. Just surprised you’re here.”

“I could say the same about you.”

He shrugs. “Well there's free alcohol”

There’s something brittle behind the way he says it. A tiredness that doesn’t match the noise around them.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks.

---

A little later you're outside, to the back deck, where the world is cooler and quieter. There’s a hot tub no one’s using and string lights that don’t quite reach the edges of the yard.

Patrick sits beside you on the wooden railing, his drink forgotten somewhere inside.

You don’t talk much at first but then he asks:

“You know who I am?”

The question isn’t arrogant. It’s almost… tired.

“I’ve heard things,” you admit.

“Yeah. People always hear things.”

He sounds far away, like he’s remembering some version of himself he doesn’t like at all.

“You think they’re true?” he asks.

You take a look at him, but you don't see the Patrick from the court. Not the one from the gossip and the whispers.

This one looks quieter. Less sharp around the edges. Like maybe he wants to stop being the uprising tennis star just for a minute.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s why I didn’t call.”

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “Fair.”

And then he leans in. Not fast. Not bold. Like he’s giving you time to walk away.

He’s just close enough for you to feel his breath when he says:

“When I first saw you I thought that maybe we could have something different.”

You don't kiss, not yet, but none of you walk away either.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous.

---

You don’t become a thing. Not in a way that anyone could name, but you start showing up to his practices more often, not every day but enough to feel like a pattern. He doesn’t ask you to come. You don’t ask if he wants you there.

You just sit high in the bleachers like you always have, water bottle sweating beside you, sunglasses hiding how much you're watching.

He starts looking up between sets. Sometimes he smirks. Sometimes he just stares, like he’s making sure you haven't left.

And then after the matches, the soft kisses and heavy makeout sessions happen behind the bleachers, but it stops there, you don't ask for more, neither does he, maybe it's for the better, that way no one's gonna burn when the lightning strikes.

---

One afternoon, after a long practice and a longer silence, he finds you at the vending machine near the locker rooms. It’s barely working — chewing at your dollar like it’s too tired to finish the job.

Patrick steps behind her. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just watching you struggle with the stupid machine.

“Let me,” he says eventually, nudging you aside with his shoulder.

You huff. “I’ve almost got it.”

“You’ve almost had it for three minutes.” He taps the glass with his knuckle as you attempt to shove the dollar in once again.

The machine grinds, shudders, and finally spits out a bottle of iced tea.

You blink at it. “Okay, that’s terrifying.”

He shrugs. “This shit works better under pressure.”

There’s a pause before you mumble.

“You're different when you’re not on court.”

He glances at her. “Good different or bad different?”

“Neither. Just… more human.”

Something in his expression softens. “Didn’t realize I came with a soft side.”

“I kinda like it.” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer, but the way he looks at you right after says more than he needs to.

You sit on the bench just outside the court. Just shoulder to shoulder, the way people do when they’re pretending not to fall into something that already started.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says suddenly, he's not asking.

You turn to him. “Should I be?”

Patrick’s smile is crooked. “Maybe. I tend to ruin things.”

“You haven’t ruined this,” you say.

“Not yet,” he replies, and the way he says it is so honest it hurts.

He looks away, something like guilt flickering in his expression. “I’m like lightning. You don’t chase lightning — you just get burned when it hits.”

You lean in, soft but sure. “I like the thrill of chasing lighting”

---

It happens after a loss.

Not a catastrophic one, but enough to bruise the ego, enough to remind him that his career is slowly slipping away.

He doesn’t ask you to come with him after. Just glances across the parking lot and says, “I’m leaving”

Not a question.

Not a request.

But you follow anyway.

The apartment is all clean lines and quiet light. The kind of place that feels temporary, no matter how long you stay. He walks in first, drops his bag near the armchair and takes off his sneakers like they're too heavy.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, still facing the window.

“I know. But I care about you”

Patrick turns toward you. There’s something raw in his expression — not pain exactly, just something unguarded, like the mask slipped and he didn’t catch it in time.

He exhales, short and soft. “You always say the right thing.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replies. “I just speak what's in my heart”

That makes him look at her differently. Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

And then he crosses the room.

He doesn’t kiss you right away. He just touches your face — slow, bandaged knuckles grazing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says quietly. “But it’s the only thing that feels like it isn’t slipping away right now.”

Your breath catches. “Then hold on to it.”

And this time, he does

—

When he finally touched you, it wasn’t sudden. His fingers brushed yours, then hesitated. You shifted closer, a silent permission. Then his hand moved — slow, steady — up your arm, over your shoulder, finally cupping the side of your neck. His thumb traced just beneath your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you. You leaned in before you could stop yourself.

The kiss was soft at first — unbearably so. No rush. No hunger. Just warmth, like he was testing the water before diving in. It was very unlike him, and he knew that.

His lips pressed into yours with care, his hands were bolder, slipping down to your waist, tugging you closer until your body fit against his, wanting to feel you completely.

His mouth deepened the kiss, open and seeking, and you gave into it with something close to a sigh. Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his curls, wanting him closer, needing more and more of him.

You undressed each other slowly, clothes tugged away with care rather than urgency. He kissed the skin he uncovered — your shoulder, your ribs, the curve of your hip — like he was trying to leave something behind. Not marks. Not possession. Just presence

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t try to impress. He just learns you — inch by inch , sigh by sigh.

At one point he murmurs, face in the crook of your neck.

“I never slow down like this.”

“And why is that?.”

He smiles — something small and sad.

“You make me forget I’m not built for this.”

---

Later, you lie tangled in sheets and shadow.

You're curled on her side, your head resting on his chest and for once, he’s awake, but quiet, his hand caressing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

“You scare me,” he finally breaks the silence.

You blink.

“What? Why?”

“Because you see me too clearly. Because this could be something if I let it.”

“And if you did?”

“I’d ruin it.”

You stay quiet for a moment, and then you say:

“Maybe not.”

His hand leaves your hip and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I ruin good things before they have the chance to be real.”

“I don’t think I imagined what happened tonight.”

“You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“Then don't let me go.” you whisper.

—

There was a moment — brief and fragile — where you felt him soften, where it felt like the world peeled back and he let you see all of him. The loneliness. The weight. The want. And you thought: this could be it. This could change something.

But soon you'd find out good things don't last forever.

He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up. Shirt half on, expression unreadable.

You sit up slowly. “Patrick?”

He glances back at you, looking slightly guilty. “I’ve got a flight in three hours.”

“That’s not what I wanted to ask”

He doesn’t answer.

You want to ask what last night meant. If it changed anything. But the words die on the tip of your tongue because you already know it meant something to you. That’s the problem.

You get out of bed, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “Are you really going to disappear like everyone said you would?”

Patrick stands. Stills. Then, softly:

“I told you not to trust me.”

You don’t cry, not in front of him, but you can already feel the tears stinging your eyes.

“You told me a lot of things, Pat.”

He hesitates. Like he might come closer.

Like he might undo it all and say he wants to stay.

But he doesn't.

---

It’s not the first time someone’s left.

But it’s the first time it felt like something was taken away from you.

Weeks pass and you go back to your regular rhythm — whatever that means now. Mornings feel too quiet. Coffee doesn’t taste right. Music doesn’t sit well in her ears. Everything is a little too loud or not loud enough.

He doesn’t text.

Doesn’t call.

Doesn’t check in.

And you don't reach out either — not because you don't want to, but because you're not going to be the girl who begs him to come back.

You remind yourself that he warned you, his words still ringing in your head.

You scare me.

I never slow down like this.

I ruin good things

Sometimes you stare at the text thread that still has his number. No messages. Not even a dot-dot-dot. Just the space where something could have been.

“Hope you're doing okay.”

You delete it.

> “Was it real for you?”

Delete that too.

Because if it was real, it wouldn’t be this.

Maybe it's time to move on.

---

A couple months later, a different court, somewhere in Atlanta. You're not there to see him. Hell, you didn’t even know he was playing this tournament.

You're passing by, near the food vendors right outside the tennis stadium when you spot a familiar figure. He’s in a grey t-shirt, hair damp, headphones slung around his neck.

For a second, he doesn’t notices you.

But then he looks up.

And stops.

Your eyes meet for a moment and no one moves.

“Hey,” he says. Like it hasn’t been months. Like he didn’t disappear without a word.

Then he smiles. Small, tired… Real.

You cross your arms and you can't help the words that leave your mouth.

“You still giving out your number and vanishing after you get too close?”

He winces. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Wind in the trees. People walking past, none of them aware of the way time just stopped for them.

He steps a little closer. Not too close.

“I wanted to call you. A lot.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That I was just another layover between tournaments? That what happened was forgettable?”

Patrick swallows. His voice drops. “It wasn’t.”

And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d said nothing.

You nod. “Okay.”

He glances down at the ground. Then back up. “I want to get better. At staying. At being… decent.

You soften. Just a little. “I hope you do.”

He exhales like he was holding that breath the whole time. “Are you—?”

“I’m good,” you say. “Really.”

“Still chasing lightning?” he asks, gently teasing.

You tilt your head. “No. I think I’m done chasing.”

Patrick nods, slowly. Thoughtful. Regret in his eyes, but not drowning in it.

They stand there for a moment longer. Neither says a thing.

And maybe that’s what growing up is — not making someone stay, but letting them leave knowing they mattered.

You take a step back.

“Take care, Patrick.”

“You too.”

And then you turn, walking away, your heart a little heavier, but your spine straighter.

Behind you, you hear him say it — too quiet for anyone else to catch:

“I still think about you”

You don't look back, but this time, you smile for real

---

THE END

[lvrrgirlll]

PLUG!PATRICK x INNOCENT!FEM!READER HEADCANONS

pairing: plug!patrick x innocent!fem!reader

warnings: sexual content (fem receiving oral, rough sex, possessiveness, choking, overstimulation, marking, soft degradation, dom/sub dynamics), drug use (lsd, molly, xanax, weed, ketamine, coke), trauma, overdose/death mentions, addiction, rehab/prison references, emotional repression, co-dependency, jealousy, obsessive behavior, comfort after panic attacks/bad trips, soft!patrick only for reader, rough sex but gentle love

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist

⟡ patrick has a dealer’s body language down to a science—leaned back in the seat, chin lifted, voice all slow and syrupy like he’s got nowhere to be but you should hurry the fuck up. but when you’re in his car? his posture changes. he turns the air down so you don’t get cold. throws your bag in the backseat without saying anything, just so it won’t get stepped on. slides his hoodie over your knees like it’s nothing. it’s not nothing. not for him.

⟡ sex with him is heat and hush. no loud theatrics. no fake moans. just raw breathing and bruised hips and the sound of your head hitting the headboard. he doesn’t talk much during, but when he does? it’s filthy. unfiltered. murmured into your skin like a secret: you like this, baby? you like being mine? i can feel you clenching—fuck, you’re so fucking wet for me.

⟡ he eats you out with terrifying focus. no teasing, no bullshit, just spreads your thighs and gets to work like he’s starving. one arm locked around your waist, holding you still. the other sliding up your chest, fingertips ghosting over your throat, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s thinking about shoving it in. when you come, he doesn’t stop. not even a little. he keeps licking until you’re crying into the sheets, hands in his hair, legs shaking around his head. he groans when you squirt. doesn’t even stop to acknowledge it. just keeps going. he’s sick like that.

⟡ he swears he doesn’t have a favorite food, but he always finishes an entire bowl of spicy instant ramen like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. extra chili oil. two soft-boiled eggs. cold sprite after. he gets weirdly quiet when he eats it, like it reminds him of something. maybe rehab meals. maybe nights he crashed at someone’s place with nothing in the fridge. you start buying the kind he likes. he notices.

⟡ he knows the chemistry of every high like a second language. he can talk you down from a bad trip with nothing but a cold rag and a soft voice. strokes your hair while you cry. walks you in circles around his living room while you’re coming down. gives you electrolyte powder and magnesium. pulls you into his lap when your teeth start chattering. tells you it’s okay. tells you he’s got you. doesn’t flinch when you throw up on his floor. wipes your mouth clean like he’s done it a hundred times. (he has.)

⟡ patrick lost his dad to fentanyl when he was sixteen. found him in the garage, cold and bloated. didn’t cry. couldn’t. he just stood there staring at the way the man’s hand still gripped the belt around his arm. his first overdose wasn’t even a cry for help—it was an accident. he didn’t know how much to take. he was just trying to be numb like everyone else. rehab gave him scars. prison gave him paranoia. nothing gave him peace. except you.

⟡ he gets off on your sweetness. genuinely. like it’s a kink. the way you say thank you when he gives you a new edible. the way you laugh, light and stupid, when you’re tipsy. the way you get overwhelmed after you come too hard and start to cry, shaking your head like it’s too much—and he kisses your throat and calls you good girl until you come again anyway. he doesn’t want to dirty you. but he needs to. and that tension breaks him open.

⟡ he didn’t expect to fuck you. let alone fall for you. he thought you were some clueless rich girl—wide-eyed, giggly, asking if molly came in pink. and you were, in a way. but you asked the right questions. made him laugh when he hadn’t laughed in weeks. cried in his bed after your first trip and told him about your dad’s anger and your mom’s silence and how you just wanted to feel good for once. and he sat there, staring at the ceiling, not saying shit. but the next day, he gave you a weighted blanket and a playlist and said, “for next time.” there was no next time. not without him.

⟡ patrick eats like he’s never been fed properly. quick, brutal, hands curled around the edge of his plate. he only slows down when you feed him—literally, like you’re offering scraps to a half-wild dog. you hand him a spoonful of soup and he lets you do it. bites whatever’s in your hand without comment. not because he’s lazy. because it makes his chest go soft in this weird, aching way.

⟡ you got too close to his world once. walked into a pickup by accident—just wanted to bring him his charger. some street kid started mouthing off at you, called you patrick’s “little bitch,” tried to snatch your phone. patrick lost it. shoved the guy into the wall, knee to the chest, knuckles split on contact. dragged you back to the car with shaking hands and adrenaline-flooded pupils. didn’t speak for ten minutes. just stared out the window, one hand gripping your thigh like a leash. later, he fucked you on the hood of his car. slow. possessive. like a warning. like a promise.

⟡ his apartment is a mix of sterile and chaos. bathroom always clean. floors swept. but the coffee table is covered in lighters, baggies, test kits, books, post-it notes with scrawled dosages. half a physics textbook he never returned. torn lyric sheets. a cracked spoon with ash on it that he hasn’t thrown out because it belonged to someone he lost. he never talks about that. you never ask. you just set a glass of water on the edge of the mess like you belong there. and maybe you do.

⟡ you make him feel. and that’s terrifying. you call him out on his shit without being cruel. you tell him you care, and you mean it. you bring him stupid little snacks and giggle when he pretends not to care. he never says thank you. just eats half and puts the other half in the glove box for later. you get him, in that soft, dumb way that feels like sunlight through a hangover.

⟡ he jerks off to the thought of you wearing his chain. sitting on his lap, panties pulled to the side, full of him and smiling like you know exactly how good you look. he watches you sleep like a weirdo. pokes your thigh under the blanket until you sigh in your sleep and roll toward him. he thinks about saying he loves you. a lot. but he doesn’t. instead, he kisses your ankle. instead, he calls you good girl when you ask if two tabs is too much. (it is.)

⟡ he’s got boundaries for you. hard ones. no uppers unless he’s there. no mixing downers with alcohol. no pickups. no deliveries. he keeps a stash locked in the apartment only for you—cleanest tabs, softest come-ups. refuses to sell you anything benzo-based unless you’ve had a panic attack. he knows the slope. he’s seen it. he’s buried people on it. you don’t get to fall. not on his watch.

⟡ patrick’s favorite position is you on your stomach, legs spread, face in the sheets, and him behind you—deep, slow, unrelenting. it’s not just about dominance (though it is that). it’s the control. the view. the way he can press one hand flat between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip, watching your back arch with every thrust. he loves hearing you whimper into the pillow, all muffled and needy and wrecked for him.

⟡ he’s cold with everyone else. brisk. unreadable. “plug” more than “patrick.” he talks in coded slang and drops people without warning. but with you? he talks about books. about shit he remembers from high school. about the rehab group leader who gave him The Bell Jar and said “you might get it.” and he did. he never told anyone else that. not even his sponsor.

⟡ when you cry, he doesn’t know what to do. he just holds you. presses your face into his neck and rubs your back in messy, aimless circles. he’s not good with words, but he’s there. which is more than anyone’s ever been for him. when he cries—because it does happen—it’s silent. violent. chest-heaving, face-covered, biting his wrist so you don’t hear it. but you do. and you never say anything. just hold his hand. and he lets you.

⟡ he marks you up with bruises, but not because he wants to show you off. because he wants you to remember. wants you to look in the mirror and think: i’m his. wants you to touch the sore spot on your hip and feel heat rush between your legs. wants you to know what he can do to you. what you let him do.

⟡ he doesn’t think he deserves you. not really. not with his past, his track record, the way he still wakes up in cold sweats dreaming about white powder and blue lips. but he’ll be damned if anyone else touches you. not a fucking chance. not in this life. not while he’s breathing.

⟡ he has two different drawers in his nightstand: one full of drugs, one full of things for you. the first is a mess—scales, wraps, rolled bills, old tabs, roaches. the second is ordered. your favorite gum. a heating pad. your favorite mascara he bought by matching it to a photo on your instagram story. a pack of backup socks, because you always forget them. he never mentions it. never brags. but the drawer’s always full. always waiting.

⟡ patrick likes watching you put on lip balm. not in a creepy way. but in that silent, trance-like way where his jaw tics and his fingers flex and his eyes darken just a little. especially when you do it slowly, lazily, while sitting on his lap in his apartment. he’ll tilt your chin and swipe his thumb over your mouth afterward like he’s testing it. sometimes he’ll say pretty. sometimes he’ll fuck you after. sometimes he won’t do a damn thing—just sit there, visibly restraining himself.

⟡ he keeps a mental catalog of how you react to different highs. he knows your laugh on molly vs your laugh on weed vs your lsd laugh (which always starts quiet and then rolls into your chest like a wave). he knows what snacks to keep around. he knows your body gets cold exactly 31 minutes after peaking. he lays out blankets before it hits. tells you he’s just “getting cozy.” but it’s never random. he’s watching. always.

⟡ he’s your first real heartbreak waiting to happen. and you know it. but you love him anyway. and somehow, impossibly, he starts to believe maybe—just maybe—you’re the first thing that won’t break him.

[lvrrgirlll]

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

[lvrrgirlll]

please read!

hi everyone! i have been sitting on a lot of conflicting emotions due to recent events, and i feel like i should try and articulate them. forgive me if my words make minimal sense, as i am all over the place about this situation.

i have been on tumblr for a long time. i joined as a minor. i was active for a while, and then i left for years, and came back after i turned 18. with that being said, i know, firsthand, what being on a platform like this at a young age can do to you. i have had both positive and negative experiences. my perceptions of a lot of important parts of life have been heavily impacted by my decision to be on this site and consume certain media before i was ready. it is not good for you.

i cannot change my experience. i cannot change who it has made me. i can, however, do my part to make sure that the other minors on this site are not going to have to go through the same experiences that i had to.

i run a blog that is advertised as being 18+ only. the bio section of my blog, as well as all of my nsfw writing, indicates that i am not comfortable with minors interacting with my work. 'mdni' stands for 'minors, do not interact.' i am asking, once again, that my boundaries are respected.

my blog is not mdni because i am choosing to ostracize younger people. my blog is mdni because i do not wish the trauma that i have experienced on anyone else. my blog is mdni because you, as a minor, interacting with my work when i clearly ask you not to, will cause me to live with the guilt that i may somehow cause strife for you in the future.

it is not your fault that you are lost in a space that does not do much to shield you from things you are not meant to see. it is your fault if you know you aren't supposed to see them, and you look anyway. i don't care if you think you're mature for your age. so was i. i don't care that you've been desensitized to explicit content. so was i. that doesn't change the fact that you are under 18 years old. that doesn't change the fact that i have specifically asked anyone under 18 to not interact with me, and you're doing it anyway.

do not lie about your age. do not interact with mdni blogs if you are not allowed to. you're hurting other people and you're hurting yourself.

i apologize for the long post. unfortunately, these are words that had to be said. to those of you who read this, have a great day. if you are a minor and you have read this post, please do your part. i, and other creators, do not have the capacity to go blog by blog to figure out whether or not we're being lied to, nor should we be obligated to do so.

thank you.

[lvrrgirlll]

cordeliaa!!! i have missed u my love how are u <3

jo omg!! i've missed u too <3 life has been hectic lately tbh, hence the absence from the blog, but now life is hectic in the "i miss my tumblr besties and need to return" way, which I couldn't be more grateful for. i'm beyond eager to dive back into my writing :)

[lvrrgirlll]

just fell across your blog and feel like i’ve stepped into paradise,, as a the 1975 die hard, an asthmatic w dublin in ecstasy as my favorite song and art donaldson’s legally wedded second wife i can’t understate the value of your work and your mind.. MWAHHHH

Oh my goodness HELLO you don’t know how much this means to me <33333 I’ve been in such a slump with my blog and this literally snapped me out of it like that! MWAH MWAH MWAHHH

[lvrrgirlll]

chef zweig… the way too young, way too successful, way too messy chef of downtown manhattan… yeah…

[lvrrgirlll]

the queen’s gambit (challengers-esque)

@itsrensfairygardenn and my brain baby, because beth harmon is our savior and spirit animal!! watch this space!!!

[lvrrgirlll]

Hi everyone! Just wanted to give a little update since I’ve been m.i.a. on here as of late. My life’s been actually so crazy lately, I’ve been wanting to hop back on here and update everyone and whatnot but I just kinda needed to process everything (also doesn’t help that final project season is starting for me 😖😖😖)

Hopefully I’ll be more active soon, but I just wanted to tell everyone I’m alive and still here! Just less active unfortunately (come summer I’ll be on my tumblr grind, trust) (also arthur la chimera fic soon?)

Feel free to message me/send asks/whatnot… I just might not be as quick to respond </3