#emo patrick zweig

[pittsick]

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”

[cherriblossomm]

emo!patrick👻

[obsessmess]

me when they act like I’m not there

[222col]

loser video games pining converse loner small town mindset midwest emo lame sid from skins

meet bot six— patrick zweig. loser. hides away in video games, thinks they're better than the real world. only has one friend, and that's already more than anyone thought he'd have.

now playing… the sweet escape — gwen stefani ♬.ᐟ

[diyasgarden]

lowkey headcanon that Art had a very short lived emo phase while at the academy (he never dressed like it but I feel like he was really into Evanescence for like a week or two before Patrick made some snide comment about it) but post-Tashi’s injury Patrick starts listening to “My Immortal” like in his car or something and tears up because he’s missing Art 💀

(This was originally meant to be a request but then I just yapped, sorry!)

i love a good yap, especially when it has me nodding my head violently going yes!

Art would find out about Evanescence and some other emo bands through the myspace page of another classmate at the academy. Never out-right admitting he was into it, but buying a CD or two and playing them when he's alone in the dorm. It's the type of thing he knew Patrick would make fun of him for, so he'd always try to hide it. Not with much success though, considering he was able to sneak two weeks of listening before Patrick found the CD. And Patrick probably found it endearing, but in true Zweig fashion teased Art to the point he reserved listening to emo music for when he was back at his grandma's house.

As someone who also loves the idea of Art loving musicals, I posted this about Patrick listening to showtunes reminiscing of Art right before New Rochelle, so I 100% see him listening to "My Immortal" right Tashi's injury.

Patrick "listening to music and yearning" Zweig

[curtisberzattos]

the small detail in the book that darry checks ponys math hw every night because he's really good at math always makes me emo bc even in their personalities it makes sense that darry is analytical/math and ponyboy is really good at english/ writing. and even that darry was waiting next to his bedside when pony was unconscious in bed like ahhghgd luckily all the bway actors totally embody the characters or i would rly miss those details in the musical. what are ur hc about paul and darrys friendship? bc any "which could mean nothing" relationship is sacred to me!!

WHICH COULD MEAN NOTHING!!!! god paul and darry where do i even begin. all of my thoughts for them can be summed up by this:

anyways.

•clear path- the front bottoms core friendship

•they are very art donaldson/patrick zweig coded to Me. in the sense that their shared interest (a sport) brought them together and they never really examined their relationship outside of that context. "we're not talking about tennis" "what the fuck else do i have to talk to you about?" but make it football

•their friendship was never very emotionally deep. toxic masculinity and all, discussions of feelings/worries/anything too personal were super rare

•paul’s love language is gift giving but he plays it off like he has too much junk and doesn't need it so darry doesn't feel bad about taking it. darry's love language is quality time- practice, studying, lounging around, anything.

•^ the one exception is the madras shirt. that was originally given out of pity because paul noticed that darry acted like a soc, but his style gave him away as a greaser and paul didn't really wanna be seen with him like that (he got over it tho because darry cant just wear that one shirt every day)

•darry had a crush on him. he didn't know it and always interpreted those feelings as being irrationally jealous of paul. do i wanna be him or be with him stuff. was it reciprocated? 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

•that being said, they are chronically envious of each other. darry is jealous of paul economically (he hates being poor) and paul is jealous of darry socially (he want to be as well liked as darry is)

•they begin falling out of touch after graduating. when paul goes to college he pretty much gets a whole new friend group, all but cutting darry out and replacing him

•nail on the coffin (no pun intended) is when he doesn't come to the curtis parents' funeral. that's when darry decides to hate paul because being angry at him is easier than mourning his best friend alongside everything else he's lost

•paul, who is kinda oblivious does not recognize this as the consequences of his own actions, resents darry for unilaterally deciding their friendship is over

• all that being said, i think an eventual reconciliation is possible. it'd definitely take many years post canon, but maybe one day when they're older and wiser they can work it out in the remix <3

(also that detail of darry checking pony’s homework is one of my favorite things EVER i've written about it at length: shameless plug)

[fandomnoire]

rhi. she/her. 90's baby. black 365. southern af. writer. rambler. bibliophile. queer if i had to name it - but i prefer not to live in a box :). depressed thot. silly bitch (complimentary). coffee addict. hopeless romantic lovergirl. emo gangster. acab.

this is a sideblog.

mdni.

currently on my challengers shit.

mission statement

my fic recs/reviews

masterlists under the cut

(previous kpop-centric masterlist)

patrick zweig

five more minutes (drabble)

[pittsick]

emo boy patrick … but like REAL emo boy.

my chemical romance in his earphones, black chipped nail polish on his nails, secret tumblr account where he posted cryptic poetry. raccoon eyeliner smudged from concerts, thrifted band clothed, wore black skinny jeans from the girls’ section, had a self-cut side fringe which looked weird because of his curls so he straightened his hair. he had a corkboard full of wristbands and hand-scrawled setlists, and once skipped a family event just to see Sleeping With Sirens in a basement venue four hours away.

[pittsick]

Can we do those ‘what is (character) doing right now’ with you?

Like if I asked what scenemo patrick was doing right now at whatever time it is for you, What would he be doing? (:

omg that’s actually soooo cool? i never played that game but absolutely, i love this!! 😽😽

Patrick Zweig @ 12:58 AM:

He’s in his dimly lit bedroom, the only light coming from a lava lamp and the cold glow of his laptop screen. He's wearing an oversized hoodie with the sleeves chewed at the cuffs, sprawled on his bed, legs tangled in a tangle of plaid blankets. An old Bright Eyes album is playing quietly in the background.

He's deep in a rabbit hole on some obscure message board, reading conspiracy theories about a band that broke up in 2008 under mysterious circumstances. A half-empty mug of cold black coffee sits by his bed, forgotten.

He’s supposed to be asleep—he’s got college class in the morning—but he just keeps scrolling, eyes flicking between forum posts and a sketchbook lying open next to him, half-filled with charcoal-smudged drawings of crying angels and fucked-up flowers.

Every now and then he texts his friends something cryptic like “do you think ghosts miss people too” or sends a voice memo that’s just the sound of rain and his breathing.

[pittsick]

ohhhh maybe giving scenemo!pat his magic cross piercing. he’s hard partially because you’re pretty and have your hands on his dick, and partially because he’s a bit of a whore for pain. you notice, one thing leads to another, he’s fingering you in your back office while you try and give him care and healing instructions.

summary: when patrick gets his magic cross piercing and things leads to one another, he’s fingering you in your back office when you try to talk to him about the aftercare.

pairing: scenemo!patrick x afab piercer!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.1k words. genital piercing. pain kink. clinical setting. professional boundary violation. dirty talk. brat behavior (Patrick).

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes

You’ve done plenty of intimate piercings before—Prince Alberts, frenulums, ladders—but something about this appointment has you tightening your thighs the second you read the form.

“Magic cross.”

And the name on the intake? Patrick fucking Zweig. Scene hair, chipped nail polish, three belts on his jeans and none of them functional. He’s got eyeliner smudged into the corners of his eyes and a grin that belongs on someone who’s been suspended from at least three high schools.

It’s not his first time at the shop; he had been here for his labret piercing a few years ago and an eyebrow one that he didn’t keep—but you hadn’t been the one piercing him at the time. A shame.

“I want the full cross,” he says again when you sit down on your rolling chair. “Horizontal and vertical. Gimme the pain.”

You arch a brow, snapping on a pair of gloves. “You know that’s four holes total, right?”

Patrick shrugs, fingers already at his zipper. “Yeah. I’ll try not to nut on your gloves.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. You’ve seen dicks in every shape and size—but not every client moans when you disinfect them. Not every guy twitches under your touch and breathes out, “fuck, you’re kinda making me hard just with the prep.” But Patrick does.

You ignore him. Kind of.

The setup is clean. Tools lined up. Two needles, two straight barbells, all sterilized. You mark him quickly—two vertical dots, two horizontal, all across the head—and give him a look.

“You ready?”

Patrick lies back with a deep exhale. “Ruin me.”

You pierce the vertical pair first. He lets out a guttural sound as the needle slides through, but it’s not a cry of pain—it’s pleasure. His cock jerks in your grip, fully hard now, tip glistening like he really might cum from the needle alone.

“Shit,” he pants. “That—fuck—that hurts so good.”

You keep your head down, focus tight, thighs clenching. Slide the jewelry in slowly, threading the bar through the fresh holes one by one. It’s precision work, and you do it perfectly—even as Patrick groans under you and clenches the edges of the padded bench.

Then come the horizontal. He’s sweating by the end, but still rock hard, his chest heaving like he’s been edged.

“Jesus,” you murmur, wiping him down and snapping off your gloves. “You’re a freak.”

“Compliment,” he gasps. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, fighting the throb in your own core. “Get dressed. I’ll give you care instructions in the back.”

By the time he walks into your cramped little office, he’s redressed—mostly. His belts are hanging undone, button half-fastened. He sits with a slight wince but a smirk still plastered across his face.

You clear your throat and grab the aftercare sheet. “No sex for at least six weeks,” you start, professionally.

He raises a brow. “Not even hand stuff?”

You ignore that; well, you try your best to. It wouldn’t be professional. “Clean with sterile saline twice a day. No touching unless it’s to clean—”

Patrick leans back, legs spread slightly, his tongue pressed to his lip ring. “So like, hypothetically, if I were the worst patient you’ve ever had—”

“Already are.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“—and I touched it anyway… and got really fucking hard again, just thinking about your hands?”

You blink at him. He’s already moved closer with the rolling chair, almost between your knees now, voice low and syrupy. “Would you let me show you how good my fingers are, since you were so gentle with me? Think of it as a payback.”

You open your mouth to say no. To say it’s not professional, you could get caught—yet, you can’t stop thinking about how Patrick reacted to you piercing him, his cock hard, his comments. So your legs unconsciously spread for him and you sigh like permission.

Then his hand is between your legs as soon as he sees your expression and you realize you’re soaking through your underwear. You have been since Patrick’s first dirty comment.

“Fuck,” he hisses, like it’s hurting him how wet you are. “You’re into this, huh? Got off on making me moan for it?” He’s smirking now. You don’t answer. You can’t—not when two of his fingers slip under the band of your panties and slide right in, like your body’s been waiting for it.

You gasp, legs spreading even more before you can stop them, hips bucking into his hand. Giving him more space.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he whispers, transfixed. “Holy shit—did stabbing my dick actually get you this wet?” It’s like he can’t believe it, licking his lips and the silver ring of his labret.

Your breath shudders. “Patrick—”

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies, already curling his fingers just right. “Promise.”

You brace your hands flat behind you on the desk, head tipping back as he starts to move. His fingers are rough and metal-tipped—cold rings sliding against your folds as he pumps into you, fucking you open like he’s trying to earn an A+ in making piercers cum in their own office.

He finally gets up from the chair just to lean in close, breath hot against your ear. “Should I stop?” he whispers. “Or should I let you finish telling me about cleaning it while I ruin your panties?”

You bite your lip hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t stop,” you grit.

He laughs—sweet, fucked-up, giddy. He angles his fingers again and you nearly choke on your own moan. Your thighs clamp around his wrist and he groans like he felt it in his own cock.

“God, you sound so good,” he pants. “Can’t believe I came here to get stabbed and ended up with my fingers in the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You try to glare but it melts into a whimper. He speeds up, fingers rubbing against your walls to find the perfect spot that you’d make you cum. When he does, you see white, thighs shaking and whimpering.

Your orgasm builds sharp, fast, the kind that climbs with no warning. You clutch the edge of the desk, head spinning, thighs trembling more and more as he keeps working you—slick and messy, knuckles deep, wet sounds echoing between your moans.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Give it to me. Let me feel you cum on my fingers. You earned it, didn’t you?”

You fall apart with a broken sob, clenching around him so tight he curses. Your body jerks with it, trembling as he fucks you through the high, eyes dark and locked on yours like he’s watching art happen in real time.

When it’s over, you sag forward, chest heaving, thighs twitching. He pulls his hand out slow, sucking your wetness off two fingers like it’s dessert.

You stare.

“You’re gonna clean those before you touch your piercing, right?” You can’t help but ask, professionalism coming back into your mind.

He grins. “You gonna spank me if i don’t?”

You grab the aftercare sheet, eyes rolling and smoothing your skirt down.

“Maybe.”

[pittsick]

metalhead!art and emoscene!patrick spit roasting reader.. 🌬️🌬️

WHO SAID THAT!??

pairing: metalhead art x afab reader x scenemo patrick.

cw: +18. mdni. spit roasting. praise. dumbification. oral sex. fingering. nipple play. spanking. spitting. double penetration. anal sex. no protection. dacryphilia. dirty-talking. name calling. impact play.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist

The dressing room still reeked of weed and sweat. Thin walls rattled with the muffled bass thumping from the club’s main floor, but the crowd had started to scatter.

You weren’t paying attention to the noise anymore — not when Art had you bent over the ratty old couch, fingers curled into the cushions, and Patrick had just grabbed a fistful of your hair like he owned your throat.

“Fuck,” Art muttered from behind, thick fingers spreading your slick folds. “She’s soaked. You dripping for us already, baby?”

You whimpered as he smacked your pussy hard — a wet slap echoing off the walls. You jolted, legs trembling. Patrick laughed, low and cruel, already tugging your top down to expose your tits.

“She’s too eager,” he said, eyes gleaming under his smudged eyeliner. “Like a good little slut. Bet you’ve been waiting for this all damn night.”

You had. The second Art had dragged you backstage and Patrick followed, eyes raking over you like he wanted to bite down and mark, your stomach had twisted with heat. They were complete opposites — Art in his black jeans and band tee soaked through with sweat, hair wild and long; Patrick in eyeliner, shredded sleeves, too many belts and that stupid scene mullet.

But they had you caged in between them now. Hungry. Mean. Ready to ruin.

“Tell him you want it,” Art said, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You gasped, body clenching around the sudden stretch. “I— I want it—”

Patrick leaned in and spat into your open mouth. “I know you do.” You moaned, swallowing like you were trained to, tongue peeking out for more.

“Fucking nasty,” Patrick laughed, tapping your cheek before reaching down to stroke his cock, already hard and leaking. “She likes it. Look at her — brain’s already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” Art curled his fingers inside you, scissoring slowly, knuckles dragging against your slick walls. “She’s dripping down my hand, dude.”

You could barely keep your legs steady. Your tits bounced with every shift, nipples aching from the way Patrick had twisted them in punishment for hesitating when he talked to you. Your throat was sore from the sounds you were making — moans, whines, whimpers — but you didn’t stop. Not with their attention burning into you. Not with Art’s voice deep and low in your ear and Patrick’s cock brushing your lips as he moved closer.

“Open wide,” Patrick said, fingers on your chin.

You obeyed instantly, mouth slack, tongue out. He slapped your cheek with his cock twice — wet, heavy, cruel — before feeding it to you slowly.

“That’s it,” he groaned, sliding in inch by inch. “Choke on it. Gag for me, sweetheart.”

Art pumped his fingers harder, curling them just right. Your walls clamped down, body jerking with need, throat choking on Patrick’s cock while Art worked you open like a toy.

The couch creaked beneath you as Art stood, lining up his thick, aching cock with your fluttering hole. He rubbed his tip along your slick folds, brushing against your clit which made you moan around Patrick’s cock.

“She ready?” Patrick asked, hand twisted in your hair now, shoving you deeper onto him.

Art chuckled darkly. “She’s begging for it, man.”

And then he pushed in — slow but forceful — splitting you open on his cock. Your cry was muffled by Patrick’s dick buried in your throat. “Fuuuck,” Art groaned. “Tight little pussy, clenching so fucking hard.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Spit was dripping from your mouth, down your chin, smeared across Patrick’s thighs. Your cheeks were flushed and wet, brain gone, body pinned between them.

“Dumb little hole,” Patrick muttered, hips jerking. “Can’t even think, can you?”

You tried to shake your head. Couldn’t. Just gagged again, letting him use your throat while Art started thrusting hard from behind — heavy, punishing slaps of skin-on-skin. Your ass stung from earlier — Patrick had left his mark there too — and now every thrust made your pussy clench tighter around Art’s cock.

Art grunted, one hand gripping your waist tight, the other smacking your ass with bruising force. “Fucking take it.”

Patrick pulled out of your throat, letting you gasp for breath before slapping your face with his wet cock again. “What are you?”

“Y-Your fucktoy,” you whispered, drool on your lips.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m your fucktoy!”

Art spanked you again, but this time lower — right over your pussy — and you screamed, walls tightening around him. “Jesus,” Art hissed. “She likes that.”

Patrick grinned. “Told you she was nasty.”

You were drooling and moaning, breasts swaying from the force of Art’s thrusts. Patrick bent down and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, teeth grazing over the tender skin, tongue circling and biting.

“Can feel her squeezing,” Art groaned. “Fuck— gonna make her come like this.”

Patrick pulled back and grabbed your chin again, spitting into your mouth one more time before tapping your cheek. “No coming yet,” he snapped. “You want that cock in your ass next?”

Your eyes went wide — you nodded frantically. Art growled low, pulling out with a filthy squelch, slapping your pussy again to watch you flinch.

Patrick grabbed the lube from the bag he'd dropped earlier. “On all four. Ass up, baby.”

You obeyed, legs shaking, hair a mess, lips swollen from sucking cock. You could hear Patrick slicking himself up, and Art was already pumping his cock slowly, watching you with blown pupils.

Patrick knelt behind you, spreading your cheeks. “Tight little hole,” he muttered, rubbing the lube in, circling your rim with a slow, mean finger. “You ever get fucked in both holes at once, baby?”

You whimpered, shaking your head.

“You’re gonna now.”

Art moved in front of you, cock in hand. “Suck me first.” You obeyed instantly, mouth wrapping around his tip, tongue flicking over the slit. “Good girl,” he moaned, fingers tangling in your hair. “So fucking obedient.”

Patrick pushed the first finger into your ass and you gasped around Art’s cock, body clenching from the stretch.

“She’s tight as fuck back here.”

Art was already breathing harder, watching your eyes flutter. “Stretch her.” Patrick pushed a second finger in. You moaned loud, hips jerking. He smacked your ass hard.

“Stay still.”

You whimpered and nodded.

It didn’t take long before Patrick was satisfied. He lined himself up behind you while Art pulled your mouth off his cock with a wet pop. Patrick shoved in — slow, then all at once — and you screamed, nails clawing at the couch. It burned. It was perfect.

Art moved to sit under you, a bit uncomfortably with Patrick behind but he made it work. His cock pushed back inside your pussy. The sensation was overwhelming — both of them deep inside you, filling you completely, grinding against each other through the thin wall of your body.

“Fucking ruined,” Patrick hissed, voice ragged. “Taking us both like a perfect little cum dump.”

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks from how full you felt, how good it hurt. They started moving. Patrick’s rhythm was brutal — spanking your ass in time with every thrust — while Art fucked you with groaning need, pelvis slapping your clit every time he bottomed out.

You could hear them moaning, swearing, talking about you like you weren’t even there.

“She’s dripping down my cock,” Art muttered.

“Can feel your dick inside her,” Patrick groaned. “That’s so fucked.”

You could barely breathe, mind spiraling as they spit-roasted you on their cocks.

“Gonna come?” Patrick snarled, yanking your hair back.

You choked on your own moan, nodding frantically.

Art was panting. “Come all over our cocks, baby. Let us feel you milk us dry.”

That did it — your orgasm tore through you like a scream. You cried out, body spasming, every muscle locking tight. Your pussy clenched hard around Art, ass squeezing around Patrick. They didn’t stop.

Patrick was first — he groaned loud, hips slamming into you one final time as he spilled inside, holding your hips in a bruising grip.

Art was next — a low, broken sound as he came inside your pulsing cunt, hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

They both stayed buried deep for a moment, panting. You were limp between them, body trembling, drool on your chin and cum dripping down your thighs.

Patrick pulled out first, smirking at the mess. “She’s already.” Art stroked your cheek gently, then grabbed your chin. “Look at you.”

Your mascara had run, lips swollen and wet, face flushed. You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Still with us?” he asked softly, stroking your hair. You nodded, a fucked-out smile pulling at your lips.

Patrick chuckled, zipping up his pants. “That was fun.” Art helped you sit up on the couch, gathering you in his arms, holding you close.

“You did so good for us, baby,” he murmured, kissing your forehead.

Patrick moved closer to you with a towel in hand, ready to clean you up just like you deserved and grinned. “We should do that again sometime soon.”

[pittsick]

scenemo! patrick fucking scenemo! reader at a ptv concert in the bathroom cause he’s just so hyped up😈

summary: what happens when patrick, your boyfriend, gets a bit too hyped up during a pierce the veil concert? too much sweat, too much heat and the both of you ends up in the grimy venue bathroom for a quickie? teasing turns into mirror sex. it's messy, mean, and drenched in eyeliner and spit.

pairing: scenemo!patrick x scenemo!afab girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.2k words. semi-public sex. unprotected piv. fingering. mirror sex. degrading and name calling. dumbification. dacryphilia. drooling. messy makeout. impact play (thighs and cunt slapping). humiliation. implied choking. dubiously clean setting.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover (to be added)

The air inside the venue is hot and choking. The bass is vibrating through the soles of your creepers, and the pit's sweat clings to your fishnets like glue. Bodies crash into each other like waves, but none of it feels real. Not when Patrick’s hand is pressed tight to your lower back, guiding you through the chaos like he owns you. (It feels like he does).

He’s wild tonight. His hair’s freshly dyed black with streaks of blood red, sticking to his damp forehead, and his eyeliner’s already smeared from sweat, cheeks red from how hard he was screaming lyrics during Bulls in the Bronx.

His shirt’s a shredded Pierce the Veil tank, barely hanging off one shoulder, and cropped, showing the bat tattoos across his pelvis and the sweat glistening on his chest. You’d only meant to find him near the barricade—but the second your eyes met, you knew he was not going to behave tonight.

He pulls you close in the shadows of the venue bathroom hallway, the door marked Staff Only swinging open without hesitation. “Get the fuck in,” he mutters, voice rough and low from yelling over the music. He’s not smiling, but his eyes—lined and blown wide—are drinking you in like you’re something worth worshipping and destroying.

The lock clicks behind you, and your back hits the sink.

“Couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore,” he growls, body already crowding yours. “You, pressed up against me in the pit—lookin’ like you wanted me to ruin you right there.”

Your fingers curl into the faded fabric of his shirt, and he kisses you like he’s mad—like this has been building all night. It’s messy. Sloppy. Tongues clashing, teeth clacking, his lip ring dragging across yours. You can taste energy drink and smoke and Patrick, sharp and hot and fucking addictive.

His hand slides up under your skirt—black mesh layered over red plaid—and he groans when he feels the heat of you. “Already wet?” he mocks, licking a stripe up your neck, biting down just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “You such a little concert slut, baby. Got off just from me singin’ next to you?”

You whimper, but that only makes him grin. “Aw. Don’t go dumb on me yet.”

Patrick spins you around to face the mirror. His body’s heat stays pressed to your back, and his hand snakes around to cup you between the thighs. You meet his eyes in the cracked glass—his eyeliner running, his pupils wide, and his smile mean.

“You see that?” he murmurs into your ear. “That’s what I do to you. Look how fuckin’ ruined you already are, and I haven’t done anything yet.”

His fingers tug your panties to the side—black lace soaked through—and then he’s sliding one finger in without any type of warning, slow and deep, until your hips jerk forward from the sudden pressure.

“Shit—Patrick…”

“Nuh uh. No talking. Just watch.” He curls the finger, and your mouth drops open as your thighs shake from being on your feet during this. “There we go. You’re already fallin’ apart. I should’ve done this hours ago.” As if he thought about doing this in the pit, while everyone was screaming and having fun.

You try to grind back against his hand, chasing more friction, but he pulls back with a tut.

“Desperate little girl. What, you think I’m gonna let you get off that easy?” You feel yourself clenching at his words, like degradation makes you all wet and he knows it.

He slide two fingers this time—slipping in slick and smooth—and his palm grinds against your clit as he starts pumping, slow and controlled. Every wet sound is amplified in the tiled room, and you can’t even pretend not to be enjoying it. Drool drips from your lip, and Patrick lets out a breathless laugh.

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ mess,” he whispers, mouthing at your neck. “Look at yourself. Whimperin’ in the mirror like a dumb little toy. You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?”

You nod—pathetic and eager—and your mascara’s already smudging from the heat and the tears gathering in your lashes. A whimper escape past your lips and Patrick smirks, like he knows what that means. Like he knows how much you fucking love this.

“I knew it,” he growls. “You love being used, don’t you? Love gettin’ fucked up against a goddamn sink while a thousand people are outside.”

He curls his fingers again, hitting that spongy spot with each thrusts of his fingers, and your legs nearly give out at the feeling. He catches you by the hips, holding you up easily, his hard cock grinding against your ass through his skinny jeans.

Then he pulls away. You whine at the loss, but he’s already undoing his belt—quick, clumsy, desperate—and shoving his jeans just far enough down to free himself. His cock is hard and you wonder how long it had been before he had enough and dragged you here. It’s leaking pre-cum, red at the tip and so appetizing.

He strokes once, twice, eyes fixed on your reflection. It’s depraved, disgusting.

“You want it raw, don’t you?” he pants. “Want to feel me fill you up with everything I have, uh?”

A strangled noise get pass your lips and you nod your head at him—his eyes wide as he watches you in the reflection of the mirror. “Please, Patrick, I need you.”

That gets him. His jaw clenches, and he slams into you with a filthy growl, burying himself to the hilt in one long, slick thrust. You cry out, head snapping forward against the mirror, but he grabs your chin and forces you to look. To see how filthy you are for being fucked here; in this grimy bathroom, with so many people outside.

“No hiding,” he spits. “Watch yourself while I fuck you like the filthy girl you are.”

He sets a rhythm—fast and punishing, hips slapping against your ass with every stroke—and the sound echoes around the tiny bathroom like music. His nails dig into your thighs, and he starts slapping them, rough and rhythmic, until your moans turn to sobs.

“That’s it. Cry for me, baby.”

The mirror fogs with your breath, with sweat, with heat. Your mascara runs in twin tracks down your cheeks, tears falling freely now, and he loves it. You can feel how hard he gets just from seeing you break, his cock twitching inside you, brushing against your walls with every thrusts of his hips.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he coos, voice cruel and amused. “Just stuffed full of cock and droolin’. You’re pathetic.” His voice echo in your ears, and you feel humiliated but God, how good it feels.

You babble something incoherent, and that makes him laugh again—low and dark.

“God, I love you like this.”

His hand sneaks back between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight circles before his hand slaps onto your bud of nerves. Not once, not twice but thrice—slaps harsh enough to make you whine and moan. You arch into him, legs shaking, but he holds you in place with a hand on the back of your neck. The other keeps rubbing, fast and merciless.

“Gonna cum?” he taunts. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

You nod, sobbing, thighs quivering.

“Then cum. Be good for me.”

Your orgasm hits hard as soon as the words escape his mouth—white hot and dizzying—and you scream against the mirror, hips jerking back into his as he rides you through it. His fingers don’t stop. Neither does his cock. He keeps thrusting, keeps mocking you, keeps slapping your pussy and thighs until you’re cumming again—too fast, too much, too overstimulated.

You’re gasping, crying, drooling down your chin as he fucks you straight through it, your head hitting the mirror gently with each movement.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, voice cracking now. “So fuckin’ deep you’ll feel me for days. You want that? Want me to cum in you, no condom, like a filthy little whore?” Once again, the humiliation makes you clench around his cock and you hear a hiss coming from his mouth. You squeeze him so good.

“Yes—please—Patrick—”

He slams in deep, one final thrust, and groans against your shoulder as he cums, cock twitching inside you, hips jerking in uneven spurts. You can feel his semen filling you, mixing with your own release, close to dripping down your thighs.

For a moment, all you can hear is your breath and the distant throb of music outside. The sink is cold against your lower stomach. Your thighs are trembling, almost giving up under your weight. Patrick is still buried inside you, panting against your neck, arms tight around your waist.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

You hum, too dazed to speak.

He pulls out gently, letting you sag against the sink, and catches a glimpse of the mirror—your tear-streaked face, your ruined makeup, your dazed little smile. He leans forward and kisses your shoulder, still breathless. One of his hands lifts up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, before he press a kiss to your jaw.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly, and he chuckles, kissing your cheek this time.

“Cool. Wanna get back to the concert? They are playing King For A Day now. It’s your favorite song.”

[pittsick]

hi mika! I’m not sure if you take request from anon but anyways, I hear that your sick and I hope you feel better, feel free to complete this whenever! :) <3

but reader x scenemo!patrick, what’d it would be like to give him a blowjob w his magic cross piercing and like just teasing it? sorta like that other piercing request!

cw: mdni. +18. 1.3k words. afab reader. messy and disgusting oral sex (patrick receiving). deepthroating. gagging & choking. saliva play. facial. ball play. dacryphilia. titjob. piercing kink. hair pulling. degrading. breath play.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

You’re on your knees, palms flat to the floor between his spread thighs, staring up at the pretty curve of Patrick’s cock like it’s art. Filthy, wet, twitching art—complete with a shiny silver cross piercing right beneath the head.

You’d thought about it a hundred times since he told you he had one. But seeing it? Inches from your face, slick with precum, throbbing from the way your breath ghosts over it?

Obsession. Instant.

Patrick’s leaned back against his headboard, hoodie bunched under his arms, his jeans shoved down to his knees. He watches you with that lazy, cocky smirk, hair tousled, lip ring catching the light.

“You’ve been staring for like a full minute,” he drawls. “You gonna suck it or frame it?”

You wrap a hand around the base and give it one slow stroke. It’s heavy, warm, already hard, and leaking for you. The piercing glints with a tiny droplet clinging to it. You swipe your thumb through it and smear it down the underside of his cock.

“Just admiring the jewelry,” you murmur, leaning in.

You lick him slow—tongue tracing along the vein on the underside, then curling up over the head, flicking over the cross like it’s something to taste. The metal’s cold, contrasting sharp against his flushed skin.

Patrick’s hips twitch. “Shit.”

You smile up at him as you suck the tip into your mouth, tongue circling that little barbell until he groans, hand sliding into your hair.

Your spit’s everywhere already. Slippery trails run down his cock to your knuckles as your hand strokes the base. Drool pours freely from the corners of your mouth as you pull back and dive in again, a slick schhlkk sound ringing out every time you move.

“God, you’re so—fuck. You’re gonna make a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just let your mouth go slack, letting drool pour down from the corners of your lips as you sink lower. The piercing bumps against your tongue and you gag softly as he hits the back of your throat.

You answer by forcing yourself down further, feeling the stretch, the sting as the tip nudges the back of your throat again—and then you push past it, letting him slide deep into the tight heat until your nose brushes his pelvis and his bush.

Patrick’s breath hitches. “Fucking hell. You’re choking already?”

You pull back just enough to gasp and stroke him with one hand. Spit strings from your lip to his cock, glistening. Your voice is hoarse and breathless when you say, “Told you I was curious. Wanna see what that piercing feels like when you’re fucking my throat.”

Patrick huffs a laugh, but it’s strained. “Yeah? Mouth open then, baby.”

You take a deep breath and do just that—relaxing your jaw, widening your throat, letting him guide your head back down. His hand tightens in your hair as he starts moving his hips, slowly at first, then faster. He thrusts into your mouth like he owns it.

And you let him.

His cock slides in and out, the piercing catching against your tongue every time. Your gag reflex is in full revolt, and tears drip down your chin to mix with the stringy spit and leaking precome coating your chest. You’re making the loudest, wettest sounds—obscene, gaggy, messy.

You gag, loudly, every time the cross hits the back of your throat, eyes watering almost immediately. Spit floods your mouth and spills out past your lips. It’s messy. Disgusting. Perfect.

“Fucking look at you,” Patrick groans. “Drooling all over yourself—shit, yeah, just like that. Fuck.”

You moan around him, letting him rut deeper, harder. You feel your throat bulge, spit bubbling at your lips, tears sliding down your cheeks. You’re a total wreck. You know it. He knows it.

You hum around him once more, loving the strain in your jaw, the ache in your throat, the way spit bubbles at your lips. When he pulls back for breath, his cock pops from your mouth with a glck, covered in a web of drool that connects it to your lips.

You pant, eyes glassy, spit smeared across your cheeks and chin, breasts glistening from where it dripped down before he pushes your head down on his cock; throat clenching when his pierced tip hit the back again. You gag.

But god, it turns you on how wrecked he looks too—mouth open, breath ragged, the tiniest tremble in his thighs. His whole body is wired like he’s about to snap.

You pull off with a gasp, coughing once, spit dangling from your chin to the head of his cock. You pump him slow, keeping it wet.

“Wanna taste your balls,” you rasp.

Patrick blinks. “Jesus—”

You cut him off by ducking your head and sucking one of his balls into your mouth, wet and hot. You swirl your tongue around it, moaning softly as you stroke his shaft. Then you move to the other, taking it deeper, messy as hell, drool soaking your chin and dripping onto the sheets.

His voice breaks. “That’s so fucking filthy. You’re—fuck, baby, you’re unreal.”

You pull off, mouth open, tongue hanging out as you jerk him off over your tits. Your chest is slick—spit and precum smeared between your breasts. You press them together and look up at him.

“Fuck them,” you whisper. “Use them.”

His breath catches. “Fuck…”

Patrick slides his cock between your tits, guiding your hands to squeeze them tight around him. You press them together and lean forward, sucking the tip into your mouth every time it pops up from the valley of your cleavage.

It’s obscene. Sloppy, wet, loud.

Your tongue teases the cross every time it reaches your lips, and you can feel him twitch more with every stroke. His cock slips between your tits and into your throat in a steady rhythm, his groans getting louder each time.

Then he grips your hair again and pulls you back up to his cock.

“Mouth,” he growls. “Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

You open wide without hesitation, spit already pooling on your tongue.

He slides back in and you take him deeper than before. The piercing bumps the back of your throat and you gag again, loudly, tears streaking your face. But you don’t stop.

You want it.

You want him to wreck your throat.

So he does.

Patrick starts fucking your mouth hard. His hips snap forward, fast, messy, desperate. His balls slap your chin. His cock sinks all the way down until your lips are stretched wide and your throat is bulging around him.

You’re crying. Drooling. Choking. Wet squelch, schlkk, glck sounds fill the room like a symphony of sin.

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“You’re—fuck, you’re crying on my cock,” he pants. “So fucking messy, baby. Gonna come all over that ruined little face.”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched full. Your hand slides up to fondle his balls as he fucks your throat harder, faster. Every thrust makes you gag, and you can feel the way his thighs start to shake.

“Open wide,” he groans. “Wanna see that tongue, baby. Gonna—gonna fucking—fuck—”

He pulls out just in time.

You open your mouth, tongue out, eyes wide and soaked with tears as Patrick jerks himself twice—and then he comes.

Hot, thick ropes land across your tongue, your lips, your chin. Some splashes your cheek. Some hits your tits. It’s everywhere—warm and messy and dripping. You hold still until he’s done, until he stops twitching, until his hand falls from your hair.

Then you look up at him—completely fucking wrecked—and let the cum spill from your tongue down your chest, mixing with spit and sweat and everything else you made between your bodies.

Patrick’s staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Chest rising and falling fast. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and blown out with lust.

“You’re insane,” he breathes.

You smile, wipe a finger through the mess on your tits, and suck it into your mouth. “Told you I was curious.”

He leans back against the headboard, totally gone. “If you ever wanna test out a different piercing… just let me know and I’ll get it.” He jokes, chuckling.

You smirk. “One at a time, baby.”

[pittsick]

hiii mika! been a silent follower for a while and i love your writing & bots with all of my challengers-addled heart 🥹 anywho, i’m being a little risqué and sending you a p link that i think suits scenemo!patrick PERFECTLY. if this makes you uncomfortable i totally understand, and please feel free to ignore this ask lol 😭 but if not, could you perchance write a little blurb for me 😼 this with scenemo!patrick has been living in my head rent-freeeeee ugh. he’d be so titty drunk

https://x.com/sultryvlds/status/1917710655697694874/mediaViewer?currentTweet=1917710655697694874&currentTweetUser=sultryvlds

oh my god? my first p link, i’m screaming! i’m not uncomfortable at all, so you don’t have to worry! i’m actually amazed by your brain because this is LITERALLY scenemo Patrick, yep! 😫

cw: +18. mdni. afab reader. piv unprotected. reader riding patrick. nipples play. praising. dirty-talk.

Patrick doesn’t even try to hide his love and obsession for your tits.

Your shirt's halfway off—just bunched around your shoulders—and he’s already mouthing at your tits like he’s been starving. His fingers press deep into your hips, keeping you flush against him as you straddle his lap, but his focus is completely elsewhere. His tongue circles your nipple, slow and teasing, before sucking it into his mouth like he wants to bottle the sound you make.

“Fuck—Pat,” you gasp, grinding down against the hard line of his cock beneath you. You feel the cold metal of his lip piercing every time his mouth brush on the skin of your breasts, his hips twitching up as you rock against him.

“Mmh,” he groans against your chest, refusing to let go. “You know I can’t focus when these are out. You’re evil.”

“You’re the one who pulled my bra down,” you shoot back breathlessly, but it’s kind of useless—he’s already latched onto the other nipple now, spit-slick and flushed pink, flicking his tongue over it while his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass like he can’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

Patrick’s eyeliner is already smudging beneath his lashes, a little halo of chaos under those greedy, half-lidded eyes. He looks up at you from your chest and mutters, “God, you’ve got the best fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen. I’d die right here.”

“You’re not even inside me yet,” you laugh, but it turns into a moan when he gives a sudden sharp suck, tongue curling, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs clench.

“Don’t care,” he breathes. “Just wanna stay right here. Live here.”

You roll your hips in slow circles, dragging your soaked cunt against his cock, feeling the fabric of his sweats dampen with you. He groans so loud it rattles your ribs, hands flying to your hips again to still you.

“Baby,” he pants. “Please, you keep grinding like that and I’m gonna blow before you even get me inside.”

You grin and lean forward, kissing the tip of his nose. “Then let me help.”

Your hand slides between you, tugging his sweats and boxers down just enough to free him. He’s flushed and hard, leaking at the tip, and his breath catches when you slide your panties to the side, line him up and sink down slow. “Fuuuck—” His head thunks against the back of the couch, mouth falling open.

You take him inch by inch, grinding down until he’s buried deep inside you, your thighs tight around his, your hands planted on his chest.

“Feel good?” you tease, rolling your hips once, slow and steady.

He doesn't answer with words—just groans and grabs at your tits again like a man possessed. His mouth latches onto the nearest nipple again, sucking hard this time, moaning against your skin like you’ve got something better than oxygen in your chest.

“Christ,” he mumbles around you, “they bounce so fucking good when you ride me. Can’t stop watching—can’t stop touching—”

You start to move in earnest, riding him with a steady grind, and Patrick’s whole body twitches beneath you. His hands grip your tits tight, squeezing, thumbs flicking over your nipples as his mouth chases them, switching from one to the other like he’s in a trance.

“You’re fucking obsessed,” you laugh breathlessly, pleasure curling low in your belly. “You’re titty drunk.”

Patrick moans like you just praised him. “I am. God, I am. Look at you—fuck—riding my cock like it’s nothing, letting me use your tits like this—”

You angle your hips just right, grinding down to get that perfect spot, and his cock twitches inside you. “Feel so good,” you pant, running your hands through his hair, tugging on it to keep his mouth exactly where you want it. “You love it, don’t you? Love sucking on my tits while I fuck you stupid?”

“Yes—fuck yes,” he gasps, letting go with a wet pop just to breathe before diving back in. “So perfect. So hot. Wanna make you cum just like this—just from my cock and your tits in my mouth.”

His praise lights you up from the inside, heat sparking at the base of your spine as you bounce harder now, tits jiggling with every motion. Patrick whines against your chest like it’s divine punishment.

“You sound desperate,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss your way up his jaw, catching the smudged black of his eyeliner on your lips. “Is my pussy that good, baby?”

He nods rapidly, eyes glazed. “So good. You ride me so good. Can’t think—feels like heaven.” He lets one hand trail from your chest to your clit, rubbing fast, sloppy circles, eyes never leaving the way your tits move with every bounce.

“Wanna feel you cum,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Wanna feel you clamp down on me while I suck your tits—please, lemme have it, babe—please—”

You don’t last long like that, not with his cock hitting all the right angles and his fingers working your clit like he’s done it a thousand times. Your orgasm crashes through you, loud and soaking, your whole body shaking as you grind through it, grinding down deep and gasping his name over and over.

Patrick cries out, grabbing your hips to thrust up into you hard—once, twice—before he cums too, groaning into your chest like he’s praying. His mouth goes back to your nipple.

The room goes quiet but for your shared panting and the wet sound of his mouth still lazily suckling at your tit like he’s not ready to let it go. “You’re insatiable,” you mumble, petting his sweat-damp hair.

He pulls off with a dazed smile. “Can you blame me?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “Best fucking pair in the whole fucking area. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

“You’re such a little perv.”

“Yeah,” he sighs dreamily. “Your little perv.”

[pittsick]

Patrick x hello kitty reader

(i feel seen lol)

i love love love this so yes, of course i can do some!! hopefully they are as good as art’s ones 🫶🏻🥹

(mdni)

★ ── He mocks your Hello Kitty obsession constantly—but it’s always with that shit-eating grin and stars in his eyes. “Oh nooo, your Sanrio shrine grew again? Should I be worried I’ll come second to a plush cat with no mouth?” He says this while secretly browsing eBay for rare Hello Kitty merch you don’t have yet.

★ ── He steals your pink stuff. Constantly. Your fuzzy Hello Kitty hoodie? Gone. The pink clip-on bow? On his belt loop now. He’ll stomp into a show in a black and hot pink mess of clashing patterns and say, “What? I’m her accessory.” He’s not even joking.

★ ── He lives for the contrast. You show up to his basement gig in head-to-toe bubblegum pink, fishnets under a pastel skirt, Hello Kitty bag slung over your shoulder—and Patrick can barely function. You’re his favorite contradiction. You kiss like a daydream and scratch like a nightmare. He’s obsessed.

★ ── He lets you paint his nails sparkly pink—but only if he can finger you after. “Fair trade,” he says, one hand glistening and the other already pulling your panties aside. The polish gets chipped by the end of the night. He likes it that way.

★ ── He bought a Hello Kitty vibrator “for you.” It’s pink, ridiculous, and has a bow on the handle. “Found it online. Very educational. We should test it out.” He gets hard just holding it. He won’t admit it, but watching you cum with something so saccharine makes his skin shiver.

★ ── Your room gives him sensory overload—in a good way. It’s plushies, glitter, soft lights, pink everything. He acts like he’s above it until he’s crawling into your bed after a bad night, face buried in your stuffed animals, mumbling, “Your Pompompurin smells like you. I’m not leaving.”

★ ── He has one (1) Hello Kitty tattoo. It’s not even ironically placed. It’s on his hip. You didn’t know he had it until he pulled his jeans down to show you. “Got it after our third date. Seemed inevitable.”

[pittsick]

maybe some emo!patrick comforting reader during a slump or a depressive episode? i just think he’d care a lot:(

that one hurt to write, not gonna lie </3

It was three in the afternoon and you were still in bed. Not asleep, not resting—just there. Flat. Like your bones had turned to concrete and the air in the room was too thick to breathe. The curtains were drawn, your phone was dead somewhere, and you hadn’t eaten since… yesterday? Maybe?

You didn’t hear Patrick come in.

You barely noticed him until the mattress dipped beside you and a cold hand gently brushed the hair from your face.

“Hey,” he murmured. His voice was soft. Careful. Like he was trying not to break something already cracked down the middle. “Didn’t answer my texts.”

You blinked slowly. Swallowed. Your throat felt dry and hollow.

“Phone’s dead,” you mumbled.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask why you hadn’t plugged it in. Just sat there with his knees pulled up, eyeliner still smudged from last night, hoodie too big and fraying at the cuffs. His rings were cold where they brushed your cheek again.

“You been here all day?” he asked gently.

You nodded, staring past him, eyes fixed on nothing.

Patrick didn’t fill the silence. He just let it sit, let you exist without needing to explain it. That was one of the things about him. Underneath all the noise—the aesthetic, the shows, the chain wallets and chipped black nails—he understood quiet. He understood what it meant to sink sometimes.

“I brought snacks,” he said eventually, digging into his messenger bag. “Like… garbage snacks. Gummy worms, Cheez-Its, some gas station sushi that’ll probably kill me.”

That got the tiniest twitch from your mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

He noticed.

“I also brought your hoodie,” he added, pulling your favorite one from under his arm. The one you’d left at his place weeks ago. It still smelled like his cologne—cheap, sharp, distinctly him.

You shifted, just a little, and he took it as permission. Carefully, he tugged the blanket back and slid beside you, wrapping the hoodie around your shoulders and curling up behind you, arms loose but steady. Not gripping. Just… there.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he said quietly, voice brushing the back of your neck. “I wish I did. I’d fucking set the world on fire if it meant you’d feel okay again.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t need you to fix it,” you whispered.

Patrick nodded against your shoulder. “Okay.”

You lay like that for a while. No pressure. No expectations. Just breathing in sync. His fingers drew lazy shapes on your arm—stars, maybe. Lightning bolts. Something soft. Something grounding.

Eventually, you found your voice.

“It’s just hard,” you said. “Everything’s too loud or too heavy or too much, and I can’t fucking keep up.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, babe. You don’t have to keep up right now. Just breathe. Just be here. With me.”

You closed your eyes and let yourself feel him—his heartbeat against your back, his warmth bleeding into your skin, the quiet fierceness in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

Maybe you didn’t need to be okay yet.

Maybe this was enough for now.

Patrick’s lips brushed your temple. “We’ll ride it out together,” he said softly. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

And somehow, in that heavy silence—pressed close, held tight—you believed him.

Even if the world didn’t make sense today, Patrick did.

And that was something.