#or at least Patrick used fem wording

[fobnsfwdoodles]

choking request anon here: oh my god. holy fuck. you nailed it (like patrick nailing m—) okay anyway im gonna be thinking about that drawing for a while thank u so much

Everytime y'all give positive feedback I do a big cartoon PHEW!

especially when it was your request! Yay!!

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face. The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him. Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick. His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.” You glace up to meet his gaze, 

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp. Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panites, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack. He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall. The title digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs. They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit. You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out. You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm. His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly. You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs. He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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[scoonsalicious]

Like A Fairy Tale

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dating Bucky Barnes had been like living a fairy tale, but as he distances himself from you and your relationship, you come to the realization that maybe fairy tales aren't meant to come true.

Warnings: Language to make Steve blush, mentions of alcohol use, implied sex, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 3.4k This is my very first posted fic, and I am very nervous but I hope you like it! If I've missed any warnings, please tell me so I can add them. Much love and thanks to my bestie @jmeelee for indulging my obsession and dropping everything to read this when I sent it to her <3 Please pardon any spelling/grammar errors.

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3 I write for 18+, so minors DNI. _____________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, being Bucky Barnes’ girl had felt like living in a fairy tale. He was everything your younger self had ever dared to dream of in a Prince Charming– attentive, affectionate, kind, and oh, how he made you laugh! You were the envy of all of your friends, the very definition of #couplegoals, and you thanked your lucky stars every night that the two of you had found one another, despite all the odds.

But fairy tales aren’t real. 

You weren’t sure exactly when it started, but somewhere in the third year of your relationship, after you’d moved into a handsome brownstone in Brooklyn together, after you’d adopted a fluffy white kitten, Bucky started pulling away from you. The steps that took him from you were small at first– he was taking on more and more missions, opting to stay gone for longer periods of time. Days would go by, and they’d turn into weeks, then a month or two at a time would go by where you wouldn’t see him. 

At first, it hadn’t been terrible– Bucky had always made sure to contact you each and every day. A video call whenever he could, a phone call or text when he couldn’t, but slowly, so slowly you barely noticed, the calls stopped coming all together. Sure, he’d answer when you called him… when he could, which wasn’t always possible on a mission, and you hated acting needy and taking him away from his work, so eventually, you stopped reaching out, too. 

When he was home, you were like ships passing in the night. You always offered to take time off of work so you could spend some time with him before he was set to head out again, but he never wanted you to jeopardize your career on his account. Your reunions would always be passionate, but short-lived, a few hot and heavy nights before he took off once more to save the world. 

You tried not to let it bother you. You really, really did. His job was so important. People’s lives relied on him. Where did you get off getting upset over that? So, you kept it to yourself. Until you couldn’t. Not any more.

“Y/N,” your best friend, Lainy, cornered you at her annual New Year’s Eve party, “where’s Barnes? He’s been leaving you to go solo for months now. I don’t think I’ve seen you with him since Mark’s St. Patrick’s Day Party.”

Ouch. “He’s working, Lainy,” you told her, not wanting to admit that March had been the last time the two of you had gone out together, let alone spent more than three days in a row in each other’s company. 

“Yeah, he was ‘working’ over the Memorial Day trip, and the 4th of July BBQ, and Jack and Alice’s wedding, and your aunt’s funeral.” You cringed internally as she applied air quotes to ‘working.’ “And he was ‘working’ on your birthday, and Christmas. Babe, he’s been leaving you alone for almost an entire year. What’s going on? Are you sure there isn’t someone else?”

The worst part was, you knew there wasn’t, or at least, no one individual. When he’d first started distancing himself, of course another woman was the first thing that came to your mind, and you weren’t proud of yourself, but you’d gone through his phone to search for evidence of an affair… multiple times, and repeatedly came up with nothing. And bless Bucky’s heart, but he didn’t have the technological know-how to hide an infidelity from you. Granted, that didn’t negate the possibility that he was randomly hooking up with people while he was away. You’d have to be stupid to not consider the possibility.

You could have asked Steve. You didn’t think Captain America had it in him to lie to you about something like that, but you didn’t want him reporting on your suspicions back to Bucky, nor did you think you could stand to see the look of pity in his eye if he had to tell you that yes, Bucky was cheating on you while you anxiously awaited his return every night. So, you kept the suspicions to yourself. 

Your conversation with Lainy had left you deflated. Here it was New Year’s Eve, and you were alone, the man you loved god knew where– just not with you. How many more holidays and milestones and everyday nights were you going to spend by yourself, waiting for a man who never seemed to want to be home with you anymore? This wasn’t the kind of life you wanted, the kind of life you deserved. 

You made your way to the kitchen to refill your glass of wine. You’d probably already had too many, but you needed to drown the despair that was slowly filling you up. As you poured an exceptionally generous glass, a man entered the kitchen. You recognized him– Harris, a cousin of Lainy’s who had flirted with you relentlessly for years before you had started seeing Bucky. 

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up upon seeing you, “it’s been awhile.” He enveloped you in a friendly hug. “How’ve you been?”

You smiled and exchanged pleasantries, catching up on the overall brushstrokes of your life. 

“I’m sorry about your breakup,” he offered gently, after you’d exhausted the usual small talk.

“My breakup?” you asked, brow piqued.

“Last few events I’ve seen you at, you’ve been alone. I assumed you and Barnes…” he left the thought floating, the implication hanging in the air: Barnes has left you alone, I assumed you broke up.

You huffed out a laugh. God. Was your relationship actually over and you were the only one dumb enough to not see it? 

“If you aren’t seeing anyone,” Harris continued, “I would really love to take you out. You’ve gotta know I’ve been into you for ages, and I figure if I don’t shoot my shot now, who knows when I’ll have another chance.”

You cocked your head and looked at him, taking in his earnest demeanor. Here was a man who genuinely wanted to spend time with you. Why were you waiting on someone who no longer wanted to be around?

“Um, I might have to get back to you on that, Harris,” you told him before excusing yourself. You needed air. 

You found yourself on Lainy’s balcony, the air deceptively mild for the end of December in Manhattan. Alone with your thoughts, you pulled out your phone and dialed Bucky’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

“Someone asked me out on a date tonight,” you said into the recording, your voice choked with tears you didn’t want to shed. “And I think I might say yes, because, honestly Buck, what are we even doing anymore? You’re never here, and I’m always alone. I tried. I tried so fucking hard to not let it get to me, because your work’s important. I know that. I do, and I’m not begrudging you for your job. But… but I can’t keep on like this. I can’t even remember the last time we spent more than three days together. Isn’t that crazy? Three days. Everyone thinks you’re cheating on me. Did you know that? You’re away so much that everyone I know is convinced you’re fucking someone else. Maybe you are, or maybe you already left me, but I’ve been too stupid to notice; if that’s the case, you could have just told me.” 

You kept your composure as you left the message. You weren’t angry at him; you never could be. You were just tired. So tired, and so lonely. 

“All I know is that it’s another night where I’m all by myself, wishing you were here, wanting to talk to you, to feel you, and you’re just… not. You’re off doing something, or someone, more important than me, and I used to be okay with that, but I can’t be anymore. I deserve more than waiting on you, Buck. I deserve to be someone’s priority. I really wish I could have been yours, the way you were mine. 

“So, let’s just call it, okay? Your heart’s obviously not in it anymore, and mine is too tired of being hurt and alone. We’ll have to figure out what to do about the house. I’m keeping Alpine, though. You haven’t been here for her, either, and it wouldn’t be fair of you to take her if you’re never going to be around.”

Inside, you could hear the rest of the party as they counted down to midnight. When they reached zero, the night erupted in fireworks, and you could hear cheers and cars honking their horns throughout the city below you.

“Huh,” you said into your phone, “it’s midnight. Happy New Year, Buck. I hope it ends up being a good one for you, and I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you decide you didn’t want to spend this last one with me.”

You hung up the phone and the tears finally fell as you slid down the balcony railing until you were crouched on the floor. You weren’t sure how long you sat there crying, but eventually Lainy found you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and ushering you into her spare room. She helped you change out of your cocktail dress and into a spare pair of pajamas, and helped you wash your face before tucking you into bed. She left you with a glass of water and a kiss on the forehead, promising that tomorrow would be better, that the next best chapter of your life was about to begin, but as you drifted into a fitful sleep, you couldn’t find the will to believe her.

You woke the next morning with a throbbing headache, the alcohol and the tears doing nothing but dehydrating you into agony. You grabbed your phone to check the time, but the battery had died in the night. From the slant of the sun coming in from the guest room window, it looked to be late morning or early afternoon. 

You changed back into your dress, thanking Lainy for her help and making a small joke about doing the walk of shame in your clothes from the night before. You avoided her questions about what had happened, promising to go over it at length at the weekend after you’d had some time to process. You weren’t in the best headspace to get into at the moment.

Fortunately, your best friend knew you well enough not to pry, and you said your goodbyes, plans for brunch on Sunday having been made. You weren’t eager to get back home, to be surrounded by reminders of Bucky, when all you wanted was the man, himself. But he was your ex-boyfriend now, you supposed. You were going to have to come to terms with that sooner than later. Besides, Alpine needed to be fed, and you weren’t going to abandon her.

Your keys clicked in the lock as you opened your front door. “Al, baby,” you called, kicking off your heels and closing the door behind you, “Mommy’s home. You hungry, sweetie?”

You began making your way back toward the kitchen when a loud crash from upstairs got your attention. You rolled your eyes; what had the cat knocked over now? 

But then there was the roar of a body barreling down the upstairs hall and toward the stairs, leaving you frozen where you stood. You cast a glance to where you’d left your phone in your purse by the door. Too far away to reach in time to call for help as the intruder came pounding down the stairs. 

A massive figure rounded the corner, nearly knocking you over.

“Bucky?” You blinked, sure your eyes were playing tricks on you, but no– there he stood, and he looked like shit. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. He’d obviously been wearing the same clothing for at least a day, if not more.

“Y/N,” he breathed, throwing his arms around you and wrapping you in an almost bone-crushing embrace. “Sweetheart, I was so worried.”

“What are you doing here, Buck?” you asked him, pulling away from him. God, you wanted to let him hold you, but you just couldn’t. Not anymore.

Bucky cupped your face in his hands, blue eyes desperately searching yours. “I got your message. Doll, it fucking broke my heart. I came straight home, but you weren’t here, and I was terrified that you were gone; that you’d left me for good.”

You scoffed. “I’m not the one who leaves, Bucky.”

He flinched at your words. “I know, Baby. I know, and ’m so sorry. I had no idea. I shoulda known what leavin’ you so much was doin’ to you, ‘cause it was doin’ it to me, too. When I heard you say that people– that you– thought I was cheating on you, that I had neglected you so much you thought I found someone else, that I could ever love anyone else, ever want anyone else– I’ve never hated myself more, doll. I can’t stand that you even had those thoughts in your head for one second, because it’s always been you. There’s never been anyone else. You’re it.”

“Then why have you been gone?” you asked him in a whisper. “If there’s no one else, and I’m it, why don’t you ever want to be with me? Why do you keep leaving?” 

Bucky ran both his hands along his face. “God, it feels so stupid now,” he said with a sigh. “But I was trying to save–”

“Trying to save the world, yeah, I know,” you interrupted him, annoyed. “Trust me, I’m well aware that I can’t compete with that. But I needed to know you thought we were worth saving, too, and you never did.”

Bucky started laughing then, and you scoffed. “Wow, you don’t have to rub it in, Bucky.”

“No, no– Sweetheart, no!” he shook his head. “That’s not it, at all. Hold on.” He went to the foyer and grabbed his go-bag; you had missed it when you walked in. Coming back to the kitchen, he put it on the table, opening it up and extracting a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

It was a real estate listing for a farmhouse Upstate, with acreage on the Hudson. You and Bucky had talked about what kind of house you would buy if the situation had ever presented itself, and it was almost as if you’d dreamed it up.

You looked from the paper back to Bucky. “I don’t understand,” you told him.

“It needs pretty extensive renovations,” he told you. “I wanted to take on enough overtime to have the money for them and make a good dent on the mortgage, but it needed more work than I originally thought. And, I have to come clean– I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with you about where I’ve been spending all my time.” He looked up at you through his lashes, head bent down in shame.

“But… but, you said there wasn’t anyone else,” you stammered, heart ready to beat out of your chest. 

“Oh god! No, and I mean that! There isn’t, I swear! God, I’ve fucked this up so bad!” Bucky tugged at his hair in frustration. “I’ve been going on extra missions, but sometimes, Sam, Steve, and I go Upstate to do some work on the house, to cut down the costs so I could still make my timeline.”

“You already bought it?” you asked, your voice flat. You were in shock. “You want to move out? Away from me?”

Bucky moaned in distress and drew you to him again. “No! God, I’m doing this all wrong. I want us to move there, together. To make it the perfect house. The perfect home for me, my wife and our stupid fur baby.”

You stilled at his words. “I’m sorry, your what?”

Bucky smiled at you sheepishly as he reached back into his go-bag. “I’ll have you know that I had an entire plan. Was gonna have the house ready by Valentine’s Day. Take you up there as a surprise, ask you properly, but I fucked that up, so…” He brought his hand back out, holding a small burgundy velvet box. He opened it to reveal a vintage engagement ring, a sapphire instead of a diamond. Your favorite stone.

Bucky got down on one knee. “Y/N,” he began as his voice choked up a bit with emotion, “I know I fucked up for the last eight months. I would completely understand if you can’t forgive me, but I need you to know that I love you. I have only ever loved you, and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making up for the fact that, even for a moment, I let you think that you weren’t the most important thing in my life, my number one priority. Will you marry me?”

“Buck…” you began, not sure how to phrase what you were about to say. “What about your job? I can’t keep coming in second to the rest of the world, and I get that it’s selfish of me, but–”

“I quit,” he said simply.

“What?” Your eyes were wide with shock at his statement. 

“The second I heard your voicemail, where you said you wanted to call it because I was never there, I told Steve I was done, that I needed to start putting you first. It wasn’t even a question. I’m officially retired.”

Your mouth hung open. You had hoped he would cut down on his missions, but for him to have quit completely… You gently tugged him to his feet, taking the ring box and running a finger across it.

“It’s lovely,” you told him softly. “Absolutely perfect; exactly what I would have picked for myself.” Bucky beamed at you, pleased. “But I can’t accept it.” His face fell as you gently placed the ring back in his hands. 

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes growing glassy. “I… um, I understand. I fucked up, hurt you. I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I still want to be with you, you idiot,” you admonished him. “But you did hurt me, and we’ve been apart for a long time. We need time to find our way back to each other again, okay? Ask me again on Valentine’s Day, just like you originally planned. Don’t do it now just because you fucked up.” You leaned up on your tip toes and kissed him. “And if it helps make you feel better, I’m probably going to say ‘yes,’ anyway.”

Bucky grinned at you. “Really?” he asked. When you nodded, he picked you up and spun you in  a circle before pressing his lips to yours as if he hadn’t touched you in months. “I promise you, Sweetheart, I’ll do anything I can to make this up to you, I swear it.”

“Anything?” you asked with a smile. “I think I know where you can start.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked you. “And where’s that?”

“Take me to bed, Bucky Barnes,” you said, kissing him again.

Without a word, Bucky swung you over his shoulder and ran with you up the stairs, your squeals and giggles echoing behind him.

Much, much later, when you lay sated together tangled in limbs and sheets with Alpine snuggled next to your heads, Bucky played with your fingers as you rested your head on his bare chest.

“So, Doll,” he said, kissing the pads of each of your fingers, “you gonna tell me who had the nerve to ask my girl out on a date?” 

You laughed. “Lainy’s cousin, Harris. I suppose I’ll have to text him now and tell him I’m not interested.”

“Hell no, you’re not interested,” Bucky chuffed. “Gonna have to remind that punk you’ve already got a boyfriend. The position has been filled.”

“That’s the thing, though,” you said, planting a kiss on his nose. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, do I?”

Bucky’s face fell. “But I thought you said–”

“I’ve got myself a fiance.”

Bucky tightened his grip around you, drawing you even closer to his warmth. “Yeah, okay. I gotta admit I like the sound of that a lot better.”

Your entire relationship with Bucky Barnes might not have played out like a fairy tale, but in that moment, you were more sure than ever that you two would get your happily ever after.

[midwestprincesss]

how did it end?

part 1 || patrick zweig x fem!reader

"you cannot love somebody into loving you"

summary: your relationship with patrick has been on and off for ages. you knew him and he knew you. you love him but he only loves you when he can get something out of it. but then, can that even be considered love?

a/n(READ THIS BITCH): random ass specific fact about the reader but she is skincare obsessed like me. acne prone girlies yk what im talking about. btw I KNOW PATRICK DOESN'T GO TO STANFORD BUT WE WILL PRETEND HE SPENDS A LOT OF TIME THERE OK. also this series will only continue if u guys give me feedback. and hype me up. cause i have no motivation. patrick girlies help me i know ur out there💪 also this first chapter is like. they're friends but pining. no angst yet oopsie

2004, stanford college.

being in love with patrick was difficult. really, really fucking difficult. it was almost like you had to put in an effort to be in love with him. nevertheless, you didn't. to you it just felt easy. you wish you could get rid of the feeling, but it doesn't seem to want to go away.

patrick zweig could be very easily described in one word: player. and by that i don't only mean tennis player.

but he was easy to love, too. if we ignore all the mixed signals he always gave you, he's actually a sweet guy.

he remembers your coffee order. he listens to your problems. he calls you to check up on you. and he takes care of you while you're out partying. and after that. and in the morning. he holds your hair and rubs your back as you puke out whatever the fuck you drank last night. he gives you his clothes. out of all the girls he knows, he gives you his clothes.

this was one of those times.

saturday morning.

you woke up with a horrible headache and with a certain curly-haired boy next to you. you try to remember what happened last night, but you give up after about three minutes of staring at the ceiling in silence. who cares, really? at least you woke up in your bed, and not on a random bench outside. not that patrick would ever let that happen.

he has the key to your dorm. he spent most of his days with you, so you figured it would be totally fine for him to have it.

you rub your eyes sleepily as you look to your left- patrick was not sleeping either.

"morning." he said, simply. you groaned in response.

"glad you asked, and you're welcome." he said sarcastically. "you got fucking wasted, like usual. i had to carry you from the party. not that you couldn't walk, but you just insisted on it. when we finally got here you threw up all over yourself. and then in the toilet, like three times, i think."

your eyes widened in disgust. you looked down at your clothes, expecting to find a now vomit-stained white dress on. to your surprise, you were wearing a dark green tee - you remember you've seen it on patrick once- and a pair of uncomfortably large boxers. you're surprised they didn't fall off while you were sleeping.

"patrick." you said, terrified. "please tell me i took my makeup off before sleeping. or at least washed my face." patrick sighed. 'blah blah blah i have sensitive skin blah blah blah i'll break out if i sleep with my makeup on' you always told him, whenever he was sleeping over.

"you didn't." he said. then went quiet for a few seconds, but just for his own amusement. he thought you looked cute when you were worried. but worried was not a big enough word for the look on your face- you were more like, mortified, maybe? so he decided to stop joking around. "i took your makeup off. i couldn't find those circular white thingies you do it with so i used a towel-"

you cut him off with a laugh. you could actually kiss him. maybe you shouldn't, though. your breath smelled like actual shit. looking to your right, at the nightstand next to your side of the bed, you noticed your earrings and necklace and rings arranged neatly next to eachother and you swore you felt your heart flutter.

you knew patrick cared about you, but you didn't think he would be so attentive. usually, you don't get so drunk, so you can actually do what you need to do by yourself. even then, he insists he should do it for you. but you always refused him, partly because you didn't want to bother him but you were also pretty convinced he would not do things properly. he proved you wrong.

"for how long have you been awake?" you ask him.

"i'm not sure whether i even slept. you kept talking on your sleep. and tossing. and turning. and stealing the blanket. i think you even slapped me once-" he started laughing as you started muttering apologies, but he immediately told you not to worry about it.

you sighed, then you both went silent. you examined his face- he really did seem tired- droopy eyes, dark eyebags, eyelids partially closed. but still smirking at you. no one and nothing could ever wipe that shit-eating grin off his face.

"you look cute." he broke the silence, letting his thumb linger on your cheek.

"i feel like shit." you snickered, hiding your face in your hands but he immediately pulled them away, kissing your knuckles.

that took you by surprise. sure, you and patrick were affectionate with eachother, but this felt way more intimate than usual. what was going on with him?

suddenly, you looked at the time. 10:30 am. you were late for breakfast. like, really late. you figured there wouldn't be anything left in the cafeteria by now.

"shit. we'll have to starve until lunch, patrick" you told him, a hint of irony in your voice.

"don't worry, i'll go get us something from the supermarket." he said as he got up, pulling a grey hoodie over his head. he took his keys and wallet then looked down lovingly at you as you still rested on the bed. "call me if you need anything else" he said , kissing your forehead then leaving. leaving your dorm, but also leaving you swooning over him.

you were in it for good.

[coryosbaby]

I Wanna Be Your Dog

Teammate! Patrick Zweig x fem! Reader (minor mention: Patrick Zweig x reader x art Donaldson)

18+, MDNI !!

Content warning . Pervy dom Patrick, major scent kink, wedgies, use of the word mutt once or twice, spanking, anal. A hint— a HINT— of a foot kink (I swear it’s not what it looks like). weird bullying tactics/ dynamics & teammate rivalry. Patrick is gross and unhinged in this

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves to get filthy. If you ever come to him for a release, expect it to get sloppy and downright fucking disgusting. He loves to shove your nose right up against his pubic hair, all curly and dark, while he ruts against your face like an animal. He loves that you do anything he asks of you (outside of tennis, at least). So when he slides his cock up against your face for the first time— “cmon, baby, breathe that shit in… thaaaats it. You love that, don’t you? You dirty little girl-”— you exhale sharply and mewl. The idea of TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG shoving his cock down your throat shouldn’t be as appealing as it is.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG who lets you use his thigh to get off when he’s fixing one of his tennis rackets. The actual fixing doesn’t last long, obviously, because you get mad and you get bratty and you make fun of him for losing to you the day before. Patrick’s muscled thigh soon acts as a chair for your pussy as he guides your hips with one hand, the other wrapped around your throat and squeezing — “Can’t run that mouth now, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought, brat”— as he feels the sticky trail of arousal you leave on his hairy leg. TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG also makes you clean up your mess afterward, ass perky and up against his face as he forces your tongue against his thigh and begins to peel your underwear to the side. Spreading apart your cheeks and tonguing your cute little asshole as you bury your face into his crotch for a more comfortable position.

And that’s when you feel the wet patch on the front of his briefs against your lip. His big fat cock is just aching for a nice, creamy cunt to come and choke it. He tells you that, too, and presses your legs down onto his hips, your hands against the floor holding you up so he can slide right in.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG who drags you into the sauna after a game. Just sits you down right across from him, rubs it in your face that you lost, and then stands right in front of you and drops his towel. All sweaty and musky and warm ughhh. And you can’t help but shove your face against his dick and let him hump against it, your tongue laving over his balls and making him cum all over your chin and neck. Doesn’t even give you anything to wipe it off with, just slaps your cheek lightly and says, “good job, kid” as he walks off (because TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG KNOWS you despise that nickname and the way he dumbs you down).

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves to do this mean thing where he comes up behind you, sweaty and gross, and sticks his hand down the front of his pants. He shoves his fingers in your mouth— “taste that shit? Fuckin’ beat you again at practice, you little fuckin’ loser-“— swirls it around on your tongue then pokes the back of your throat until you gag. You push him off of you and swear up and down at him, but your panties are already soaked and you know you’ll be at his house later that night.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves to shove your head against his sweaty armpit after you beat him at practice. He gets so mad and acts like a five year old. It makes you giggle until he’s holding you there and calling you a dirty mutt for “cheating”.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves to shove his head between your thighs. No matter the day or time, he’s always got that tongue working wonders on you. Whether it be on your pussy, clit, ass. He doesn’t care! In fact, he prefers when you just finished tennis practice. If you have a hole, especially when it’s sweaty and warmed up, TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG is gonna stick his fucking tongue in it.

He’s good at it too. Uses his fingers and crooks them just right, absolutely devours that pussy like it’s his last meal. Clit swollen and throbbing as he takes it between his lips, chin and beard drenched in slick. His honey, as he calls it. The nectar of the Gods.

He loves putting his tongue on your little furled asshole, stretching out your rim and GODD is it the hottest fucking sight for him. TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG, ladies and gentlemen, is an ass man. A fuck-it-and-fill-it-with-cream-then-eat-it-out-of-you type of ass man. And I don’t mean with just yours, if you get what I’m saying. You’re his little whore and he’s gonna stick your mouth wherever he wants it to be (and you have zero complaints).

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG is kind of a weird guy. Sometimes he bites the ends of your toes when he’s got your legs hiked up in the air and drilling into you. What can he say? He likes the pink nail polish you have on and the golden bracelet wrapped around your ankle.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG’s favorite position is doggy. Loves to watch your ass bounce as his balls slap against it ‘n the way your little asshole opens and closes like a pretty flower with each thrust. He also likes the way your back arches and how easy it is for him to wrap his biceps around your neck and choke you until you nearly pass out. TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG also loves when he’s got you in missionary and you shove your fingers into his mouth. He sucks on the digits while his eyes roll back and he grunts out a curse. He bites down on them when he finishes.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves when you beg for it. Spit slick lips sliding against his with a breathy whimper— “please, please, please, Pat, need it-“— as you take all eight inches deep in your tight little snatch, lips stretched obscenely around his length. Cunt drooling with your third—fourth?— orgasm of the night, eyes rolling back as your nails scrape down his broad shoulders. Abolishes that fucking pussy cus he’s so desperate to shoot his load.

TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG loves to cum all over your face and tits. Practically drenches you in his fucking cum, plays with it with his thumb and feeds it to you as it drips off his fingers. Messy creampies in your sore little pussy, spreading apart your hole so he can admire the sound it makes as it gushes out of you. Stuffing your ass full of creamy white cum and plugging it with a cute lil’ diamond anal plug. Ughh I need him

Lastly, TEAMMATE! PATRICK ZWEIG gives you wedgies. He bullies you so obscenely— sometimes he does it in front of your other teammate, Art. He’ll invite the man over, talking to him about the most random topics before girls are brought up. They’ll start talking about hookups, one night stands. You come back from a bathroom trip when they’re talking about pussy, and Patrick takes a swig of his beer and yanks you down on top of him. You grumble— no one is supposed to know ! But Art is Art, you guess, and he isn’t a completely terrible guy. He can keep a secret.

Patrick twists you and shapes you against his lap until you’re splayed across him, much to your annoyance. Your tummy presses into his thigh and your bare feet graze Art’s knee as Patrick directs the blonde’s attention to you. “yeah, but this one’s tight man. So wet, too—“

“Pat, if you don’t let me up, I swear to God—“

“You’ll what?”

He taunts you, flipping up your skirt and letting out a whistle. Art’s just as much as a sick perv, but he’s less open about it, so his cock tightens in his jeans and his eyes widen.

“She’s got such a cute little ass. She’d probably let you fuck it if you gave her a few wins on the court.”

You growl, but not before you’re whimpering when Patrick’s long fingers hook into the middle of your panties and pulls. Your underwear is pushed forcefully in between your cheeks, burning a little but also putting so much delicious pain/pleasure friction on your swollen clit. Patrick licks his lips when he sees the way your cunt lips practically swallow the fabric— he’s almost jealous of it as it becomes soaked with your slick. You press your head into your hands, embarrassed because of the company. Patrick ignores it, though, and his hand comes down on your backside as he holds you up by your panties. ‘N Art can’t help but let out a little chuckle when you begin to squirm, his fingers barely, just barely, leaving feather light touches on your outer thigh.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Quit it, guys, ‘s not funny!”

“Maybe,” Patrick chuckles, grabbing Art’s hand and pressing it against your skin so he can touch you properly. You can’t deny that Art’s hands feel good when they trail up to your ass and give your plump cheeks a nice squeeze. “But you’re adorable, sweet cheeks, and I think Art wants to watch us fuck.”

The three of you never speak about that night, but there are a lot more of them to come— literally.

:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi @kaithoughs @jamespotterismydaddy @wildgirllz

[lovrre]

Agreement prt1

Art Donaldson x Fem black reader

Warnings: cursing, infidelity(kinda), slight smut (fingering) sub ish Art. Slight he loves her more trope, needy Art and probably some other stuff

Word count: 2k

Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.

Author note: GUYS GUYS, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. MY WRITERS BLOCK HAS BEEN SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTANDDD, But I’m finishing all my requests and unfinished fics soon so stay tuned. 😚

Sitting on the bed in your brand new silk pajamas, you found yourself distracted, just like you had been the day before and the day before that. You played with The edge of the book you were attempting to read,mindlessly repeated the last sentence over and over in your head trying to retain anything. The loud television and the whirring of the ceiling fan only added to the chaos. Plus the freezing cold air conditioning of the hotel room made it impossible to concentrate.

In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of focus, you clumsily reached for the remote, hoping to silence at least one of the distractions. your eyes falling on your fiancé who was sleeping peacefully, his dark hair all messy, in his crisp white t-shirt that matched perfectly to the expensive hotel sheets, he looked so sweet,so innocent. You thought if he slept more, maybe everything could work out

Mike slept while snuggled into your side. Like he often did when you two shared a bed, You had attempted to remove him several times but every time he ended right back at your side so you gave up, In any other scenario his action would seem romantic but they only made you feel worse than you were already feeling. In an effort to relieve some guilt you liked to reminded yourself your engagement was never out of love but business. But then again the line did blur in the beginning of your relationship. Before you left for Stanford, you and Mike got caught up in the act of pretending be in love.

After that you could never really tell real from fake with him, he didn’t like you talking to other men. He’d shower you with really expensives grift but then leave town and not answer your calls or text for days. But when no one was watching he’d try to hug and kiss you. The whole thing was confusing, You had known idea how he persived your relationship but you knew You Felt guilty, without all the technicallys, you knew that you still lied,

The people ate up the role you and Mike played. occasionally you’d have to leave campus and go out in public holding hands or sharing kisses in the rain. But it was all for show, at least on your end. Your Dad made sure to reminded you That, it was the love sick tennis player in love with his coaches daughter that sold tickets. kept the stands full of women hoping to catch the world win romances in action. Also Brought in a large number of his clientele. He promised It wouldn’t be forever unless you wanted to be. And Really how could you complain? 20 years old engaged to One of the wealthiest and most talented tennis players in the world and he wasn't bad looking either. Before all this, you weren't too keen on love anyway, so what were you really missing out on?

~~~

Ten months before

Patrick serves but Art's attention is elsewhere. The ball zooms past Art for the second time, prompting Patrick to turn around and finally see who's behind him. His gaze lands on you, playing tennis alone on a smaller court. The sun shining off your smooth, glistening skin, and your pink tennis dress gracefully flowing with each jump and run.

"Oh, I get it," Patrick chuckles, glancing back at Art. "She's hot. You should talk to her, maybe offer her a lesson. She could use it," Patrick suggests, looking back at you as you let another tennis ball from the machine fly past you . "I think I've seen her somewhere before," Patrick mutters, tapping his racket against his leg.

Still in a daze, Art jogged over to your court. "Oh, you're serious," Patrick murmured watching as he went over to you following closely behind him. "Hi," Art greets, slightly out of breath walking up to the net. "Hi?" you respond, slightly confused, giving him a small wave.

"Are you new here?"

"To the school or the court?" You ask

"Both."

"I'm new to both” you say a little breathless wiping sweat from your forehead.

“I just transferred," you explain.

"Where did you go before?"

"A small community college in Virginia."

"What about tennis?"

"You have a lot of questions," you laugh, tapping your tennis racket against your leg.

"Im just curious “Art jokes.

"I'm just doing this because my fiancé is a tennis player. I thought I'd try to learn," you reveal.

“Finance?” Art questions.

“Yep”

“ how old are you like 20?”

“ actually 19, I turn twenty in a couple months”

“And you're getting married?” Art asked clearly dumbfounded

“Yes” you laugh at his forwardness

", is he a pro or college?", Art asked, assuming the answer would be college.

“Pro," you replied, letting your curls fall freely from your hair tie. Art couldn't help but admire how beautiful you were,too young to be tied down

"Anyone we would know?" Art asks following you as you walk over to the bench with your tennis bag. "Hmm, maybe," you hum, sitting down to tie your shoe. "Mike Fitts."

"Your fiancé is Mike Fitts!" Patrick exclaims a little too loudly. "Mhmm," you confirm, starting to tie your other shoe. "If Mike Fitts is your fiancé, why are you here?"

"Are you referring to the court or the school?" you ask, looking up at both Art and Patrick.

"Both," Art and Patrick respond in unison.

You chuckled as you stuffed your tennis racket into your bag. "Well, whether I'm engaged or not, I always planned to graduate college. And Mike is too busy right now to teach me, so I'm trying to teach myself."

The two of them nod in understanding as you stand up. "It was really nice meeting both of you, but I have class," you announce, throwing your tennis bag over your shoulder. "By the way, it would be great if you guys could keep the whole fiancé thing on the down low. I'm trying to keep it as quiet as possible for now."

"Yeah, no problem," one of them replies.

"Of course," the other adds.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you say giving them a small smile before turning around to leave the court.

just as you're about to walk away, Art calls out after you, "Wait! You said you're trying to learn, right? we could coach you if you want” Patrick gives him a look and Art ignores it waiting for your response.

You pause, considering the offer.

”the both of you?” you asked gesturing between them. Art gives you a nod. at that moment The risk didn't seem too big so you said

. "Sure," with small shrug

"How about tomorrow at 12:30?" you suggest, checking the pink Bvlgari watch Mike got you.

"Perfect," Art responds with a shit eating smile

“Ok see you guys ” you laugh walking out the court

~~~~~~

“Yeah see” Patrick says reading a newspaper. “Olympic coach, Dylan yLn, Daughter engaged to Olympics gold medalist Mike fitts” Patrick reads next to a photo of you and Mike smiling as you showed off your huge

engagement ring. “She wasn’t bull shitting”

“Let me see” Art says grabbing the newspaper. “She didn't have on her engagement ring when we saw her...” Art trails off

“You can't be serious” Patrick laughs

“What?”

“She’s engaged Art, not to anyone either,” Patrick leaned in on the table so only he could hear. “she’s engaged Mike Fitts!”

“I didn't say anything,” Art defends

“ you don't have to” Patrick says stealing a fry off Arts plate plopping it in him mouth.

”I know you,”

~~~~~

After that day, everything seemed to blend together. Art and Patrick dedicated themselves to training you throughout the weekdays for three entire months until you got tired of it and decided on once a week. You told Mike you found a coach but never told him who. Since they were kinda the only people you knew in the entire school, the three of you grew close fast. You started going out to bars and parties together. you had your most memorable college moments with the two of them. And then, your birthday arrived. Patrick had left for some torment and it was just you and Art.

You two were just having so much fun that night. On thing led to another And before you realized it, the two of you were constantly having “fun together”. It didn't matter where - in the dorm, in the shower, or even on the floor. It was bad, but you two couldn't stop

Trying to clear your mind you Let out a sigh. you carefully remove Mike from your side sitting up to taking a sip of you're water on the nightstand. Trying to ignore the ache of your core. This is how you spent every night away from him, needy, uncomfortable. You heard a knock at the door which almost caused you to spill water on yourself. You Quickly put your drink down and run to answer it before the person could knock again careful to be quiet not to wake up Mike.

You swung the door open to find Art standing there, hair slightly damp, with huge smile on his face. "Are you out of your mind?" you whisper, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind you. You can't help but notice his thin athletic hoodie and gym shorts. Slightly wet clinging to his skin as if he just stepped out of the shower.

"It's past one ,"Art huffed out , his voice filled with urgency and desire as he leaned in for a kiss. his hand gently cradling the side of your face in the process.

When the realization of what was happening washed over you, you pulled away, but still stayed close enough to feel his breath against your skin. "Art," you breathed out, eyes darting down the hall to check if anyone saw. Your hand instinctively found its place on his strong chest, you savored the feeling and the look of your manicured nails there, not knowing when you be able to do it again.

"I like these," Art hummed, playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. He rolled the fabric between his fingers, his big hand gracing you thighs in the process. The little touch sent shivers down your spine. You somehow composed yourself pushing him away gently with your index finger, creating some distance between you two.

He looked at you with sad eyes like a rejected puppy. "Mike’s sleeping inside," you whisper, worried someone could hear. "What does that mean?"

There was a long pause as you carefully choose your next words. Art stared at you intently, trying to decipher your expression. "You slept with him?” Art asks, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, I didn't sleep with him!” You whisper yelled, “He just showered and fell asleep," you explained,

"What's bothering you then?"

"I feel guilty."

"You didn't feel guilty at Stanford."

"Mike wasn't at Stanford."

“You care about Mike's feelings now ?" Art's asks furrows his brow, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and hurt.

" I don’t know… he’s been nicer lately and were supposed to be married in three days”

“You’re actually thinking about going through with it?” Art asked the hurt now evident in his voice.

“There’s nothing I can do now, I signed contracts, this isn’t just about us anymore I’ve told you this”

“What about the private investors?”

"That's just a 'what if,' a perfect 'what if,' but we don't even know if he's seeing someone."

“ If I win tomorrow?”

“Art If you win are lose tomorrow it doesn’t change anything, my Dad expects me at the alter on Sunday regardless, nothings gonna change that”

“But you don’t love him ”

“ I could” your words come out more a question, maybe a hope. “I loved you?”

“You love me” Art corrects

"There's too much at stake now, Art. This is my father's career. We don't come from money, this is all he has."

“You honestly believe this will ruin his career?”

“It could” you reply with a small shrug your voice cracking slightly.

“It won’t” Art response

“You don’t know that”

“ Don’t do this ” Art whispered closing the small space between you. He sounded so tortured, like he was pleading with you.

you hadn't realize it but tears welled in your eyes Threatening to spill any moment. When You blinked an a tear fell down your cheek. Art tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. The stress of the last two weeks had finally caught up to you. “it wasn’t supposed to be this hard” you murmured, your voice barely audible, tears streaming down your face as Art wiped them away.

“Do you love me?” his questions sounded genuine but you knew, he already knew the answer. ”more than i’d like to” you joke, using the back of your hand to dry your eyes.

“Then let me make you feel better,” Art whispered leaning down so he was directly above your ear.

“You’re right about what you said earlier, Mike wasn’t there at Stanford”. He paused for a second moving a piece of your hair out the way, “I was,” he hummed brushing his face against yours “just me and you” he whispered leaving a trail of kisses on the outside of your earlobe down your neck. Causing Your breath catch in your throat .“We had fun right?” Art question, his voice deep and breathy causing you to instinctively press your legs together as you leaned back against the door. “Art” you mumble trying to shake the sexual haze that was swirling inside you.

“I missed you” he whispered his free hand slinking up the side of you short griping your thigh, hiking your leg up slightly. “So bad…All day”

“we can't” you manage to breathe out unconvisingly.

“I’ll beg,”

“Art” you warned

“I’ll do anything baby” he mumbles leaving slowly kisses on your neck. “Anything you want me to” he says kissing under your chin. “ I need you” he hums kissing down your neck, ”don’t you need me?” Art asked kissing below your ear. You don't respond giving small nodd biting the inside of your lip. “Can I hear it?” Art asked, the way his voice sounded so desperate, Damn near whiney had you looking for friction. ”I need you so fucking bad” you basically moan pushing your body against his.

“I love you so much you don't understand” Art said smiling against you cheek. sliding his free hand down the front of your shorts. He rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your wetness on his fingers. You throw your head back with a quiet moan, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself. “Fuck your so wet” Art groans before pulling his hand from your shorts, sucking his fingers clean like it was second nature. You clenched around nothing at the sight.

“I missed that taste” he groans returning his hand to your heat. “Can I make you cum right here” Art huffed out peeping down the hall.

"Yea,” you breathed out, nodding your head feverishly. He could have asked you to drive to the moon in that moment, and you would have said yes. Art slowly pushed two fingers inside of you creating a medium pace before bringing his thumb to rub your clit, you moan lifting your hips to meet his fingers. “Fuck I could eat you out right here” Art groaned watching you Practically fuck yourself on his fingers. “Promise me you won't ever let him see you like this” Art goans leaving kisses on your collar done. “this is mine”

”You can bearly hear a word he's saying the feeling of his thumb on your clit and finger damn near touching you cervix was too much to bear. “I’m gonna cum” you moaned out grabbing Arts shoulder hard in an effort to ground yourself. “I can feel it,” Art breathed pressing his forehead against yours. He presses down harder on your clit causing you to buck into his fingers, letting out a loud moan You cum. his movement don't falter, he continues to pump them in and out while still rubbing your clit until he feels like you've finally had enough.

he removes his fingers from your pussy returning them to his mouth. “I’ll never get tired of that” Art laughs leaning in for a kiss, you return it, taste yourself on his lips. He gently places you leg back on the floor and you stumbled slightly grading his shoulder for balance. He instantly goes to your waist holding you steady. “You ok?” Art ask slight consern on his face. You don't respond afraid of what your voice would sound like after an orgasm like that.

You nod with a smile and Art led you to the hotel room directly next to yours, pulling out a key card from his pocket with a grin.

“You didn't,” you exclaimed as he opened the door.

“I did,” he replied, motioning for you to enter.

“How did you even know our room number?” you ask, stepping inside.

“I have my ways,” he answered, closing the door behind you.

“How did you afford this?” you asked, looking around.

“Are you going to keep ask questioning or are you going to take of your clothes” Art laughs , watching as you sit on the bed.

“You first,” you countered, settling back .

“Yes ma’am,” Art chuckled, starting to undress.

~~~~

Morning arrives and you found yourself back in your original room. Mike was in the bathroom getting ready while you fix your dress in the mirror of the bedroom. As you adjust the straps, you notice a hickey you hadn't seen before, one you forgot to cover up after coming back last night. You laid your hair over it and walk towards the bathroom to retrieve your makeup bag, slightly tripping as your sore legs gave out on you. "You good?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think I'm just sore from tennis practice," you say, reaching past him to get your makeup bag.

"You know no one expects you to play," Mike laughs while drying his hair with a towel. "I'm not doing it for anyone, I want to learn," your words come out more offended than you intended. "I just mean you could spend your time doing something else."

"Like what?" You respond plainly, walking out of the bathroom back to the mirror. "Like calling your dad and asking him what time he'll be here," Mike says from the now open bathroom. "Is your phone not working?" You asked rhetorically, pulling out your concealer . "I don't want to fight today, okay," Mike Replies sternly, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. "This is a big match," he mumbles while running his toothbrush under the water.

"I thought you said it was going to be 'nothing,'" you chuckle dryly, applying the concealer as his face was turned. "It is, but from what your Dad's been saying, he's been getting good. So I'd like to be on my A-game and not have you trying to start shit."

"Whatever you want honey" you respond, quietly laughing in disbelief. He had resorted right back to his old ways,How could you ever agree to marry someone like him, someone so vastly different from the man you spent the night with.

~~~~

soon as you and Mike were finished getting ready, your father called you to come downstairs to join him for breakfast. You and Mike both stood in line, slightly overdressed, picking out your favorite breakfast items. Mike only getting French toast, disregarding his strict diet. Suddenly, you heard a familiar laughter and turned around to see Art chatting with your father near the entrance. Your heart sank as your father motioned for you both to come over. After dropping off your plates, you and Mike walked towards them, feeling Mike's hand slip around your waist.

"I'd like you to meet someone," your father announced with a smile, putting his arm around Art's shoulder. "This is Art Donaldson," he introduced, "the man I'm competing against today." Mike stated extending his hand for a handshake, and Art reciprocated. Your stomach churned at the sight. "This is Mike, you know him, he's also my daughter's fiancé." Your father says with a smile.

"Stressful, huh?" Art jokes. "Oh, you have no idea," your Dad replies, laughing. "You're both at the same college, right? Stanford?" your Dad asked, nodding towards you. “maybe you could try your luck at training her because I just can't get through," your dad jokes. Art's eyes rake over you, as if looking at you for the first time. "It be my pleasure" Art smiles, looking directly at you. You to discreetly warn him with your eyes but You notice Mike's grip on your waist tighten, clearly not pleased. "Actually, I've been training y/n already, she's improving every day," Mike says, planting a quick kiss on your head.

"Really?" Art inquires, trying to keep up the act to the best of his abilities. "Monday through Friday," Mike replies with a smug grin. “How do you manage with your Busy schedule?” Art asks tilting his head to the side slightly in the process.

“You find time for the people you love,” Mike says with a fake smile. You had to physically hold back your laugh. But you played it off as wiping your face. He had taken a line straight from media training. Silence filled the air as the two have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“Well I wanted to introduce all of you, as I will officially be coaching Art starting next fall,"

Your Dad says in an attempt to break the tension. But it only makes it worse, Somehow Mike's grip on you tightened even more, now you were concerned he’d leave a bruise . "When did you make this decision?" Mike asked, his face showing no emotion but you could tell he was angry. "two weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the right moment to properly introduce you two. I know the timing is awkward with the match, but it's better to do it now than later."

Mike doesn’t say anything giving an expressionless nod. There was another awkward pause before you decided to speak up. "It was nice meeting you…Art?" you trail off , purposely sounding unsure. He nodded with a knowing smile. "But our food is getting cold," you joked, trying to escape the suffocating tension. "I wouldn't want to keep the couple from their food," Art said, while a smiling again only looking directly at you. You wanted to scream, he was being so obvious and the way Mike was already acting, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. "You two eat, I have to go handle some things, I won’t be long" your father said, gesturing for you and Mike to sit at the table before walking off with Art.

Once the two of you sit back at the table you feel caught. "I don't want you near that guy," Mike says, taking a sip of his coffee. You roll your eyes and stab at your scrambled eggs. “He was basically eye fucking you the whole time, and it doesn’t help that your dress is so tight”

“I think you forget sometimes this isn’t real,” you reply, taking a bite.

"Lower your voice," Mike warns, glancing around to see if anyone heard.

"You didn't care about it being real when you accepted the gifts," he scoffs, "or in Virginia."

"It was once, Mike. And every day, you make me regret it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You don't get to control me just because you buy me shit. Anyone can buy me shit."

“I told you i’m not doing this with you today” Mike laughs dryly standing up from the table. "I'll see you later, okay babe?" he says a bit louder, forcing a fake smile as he plants a kiss on your head before walking away. You try your best not to flinch when he touches you. Once he's gone, your phone buzzes, and you glance down to see an unsaved number. It's a text from Art.

“meet me at the restaurant next door in 20, alone.”

Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS

[rubytuby]

surprise

patrick zweig x fem!reader 

word count: 3.3k (LOL)

warnings: established relationship with patrick because i'm lazy, art is your best friend, mentions of getting drunk but it's college so like to be expected… also allusions to sex haha but um i just love to write a cutesy plot.

note: i am normal about patrick zweig, i feel so normal about him #needthat. jokes, but i am in love with him its so bad, i wish he was real. also please don't be offended by my tashi erasure, still love her, but she didn't exactly fit in here. obv this is not canon bc you're dating patrick in stanford era instead of tashi, anyways, hope you enjoy <3.

FEBRUARY 23 2007, STANFORD

The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the tennis courts as you and Art wrapped up your practice session. Both of you were drenched in sweat, Art slung his tennis bag over his shoulder and jogged over, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin.

“So uh, want to walk back to the dorms together?” he asked, sounding overly eager.

You squinted at him, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Sure, but I need to shower first. You know, make it seem like I haven’t been pushed to my physical limits,” you said, gesturing to your sweaty attire.

Art laughed. “You have a single, why don't you just wait until you get back to your dorm?”

You groaned, shoving your racket into your bag. “That's the problem. The maintenance guy showed up at 7:30 this morning to tell us they’re shutting off the water from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. only on my floor for some urgent plumbing issue.”

“Damn, that sucks. Are they even allowed to do that without giving anyone notice?”

“That's what I asked, but apparently, giving us 30 minutes notice is considered adequate. So, technically, they can,” you replied, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “I’ll be quick, though. Just need to rinse off. If you don’t wanna wait for me to chill, you can walk back to the dorms. I won’t be offended.”

Art shook his head. “I’ve got time, I’ll wait. I’ve gotta call someone anyways,” he said plopping down the bench and pulling out his phone.

“Alright weirdo, if you’re sure,” you said, dropping your tote bag next to him. “I’ll be super quick.” With that, you darted off to the girls' locker room.

As soon as you disappeared, Art pulled out his phone and dialed Patrick’s number. The phone barely rang before Patrick answered, his voice tense with impatience.

“Are you guys on the fucking way yet or am I going to have to wait longer?”

“Hello, sunshine!” Art greeted cheerily. “Your beloved is taking a quick shower. We’ll be there in about 25 to 30 minutes.”

Patrick groaned loudly. “Why didn’t you just tell her to shower in her dorm? I’ll lick the sweat off her if it means not waiting any longer.”

Art grimaced at his best friend’s comment. “The water’s out on her floor. She said she’s literally only rinsing off and changing. Just be patient. I’ll text you when to leave so we can time it perfectly.” A sigh rang out on the other line.

“If this plan doesn’t work and I’ve been hiding from my girlfriend for a couple hours for no reason, I’m going to seriously hurt you,” Patrick grumbled, staring out Art’s dorm window.

“Well she definitely thinks you're in New York visiting your parents,” Art paused, “I just had to talk her down from buying a plane ticket, so I think we’re good.”

“I told her I just got into the city a couple hours ago when I actually got to SFO. She was so upset yesterday when I said it’d be five days until we saw each other. She called me a fucking asshole, so I dont know what to do anymore.” Patrick said as he flopped onto Arts bed.

Art scribbled on his worksheet, humming in response. “Well, at least you know that she definitely misses you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure if she misses me or just wants to slap me in the face,” Patrick replied, exasperated.

Just then, Art saw you coming out of the locker room, chatting with one of your friends on the team. “Hopefully not the latter. Anyway she’s out. See you at 15. Don’t be late,” Art said flatly before hanging up, knowing Patrick and his unfortunate untimeliness. 

Art smiled up at you as you approached. “Who was that?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

“Our shared lover,” Art replied with a laugh, haphazardly shoving his worksheet and phone into his bag as he stood up.

“Aww, any exciting updates from Pat? He still stuck with his parents for another five days?” you teased, sticking your tongue out playfully.

“He just got to the city. He mentioned playing on the East River courts and paying someone to hold a spot for him,” Art lied smoothly.

“Sounds about right,” you said, sighing. “Anyway, I was talking to Nathalie over there…” you squinted, linking arms with Art as the two of you started the walk back to your dorm. “She mentioned a frat party happening tonight. Since Patrick’s trapped in New York, I figured why not go?”

“There’s going to be a keg stand, a ton of alcohol, and some shitty DJ or something,” you added, glancing at a group of students touring the campus before turning back to Art.

Art nodded, slightly wincing at the mention of the keg stand. “Wow, sounds like a lot of fun,” he replied sarcastically, earning a nod of agreement from you.

“I was planning on skipping it, but Nathalie really wants me to go. I thought if you came with me, it might actually be fun. Better than wallowing in my room wishing Patrick was here,” you admitted, biting your lip.

"Well, we had fun at that party last Friday, you remember right?" Art asked, smirking.

"Remember is a strong word," you replied, shaking your head with a laugh. "I think I have bits and pieces from that night. I do remember waking up still drunk at noon with my t-shirt on backwards and you snoring next to me in bed. Also like 5 missed calls from Patrick."

Art flashed you a lopsided grin. "Well, your bed's comfy, but I thought I was going to roll off in the middle of the night."

"Well, I stayed in my corner, I was flush against the wall as you were all sprawled out making yourself at home on my bed," you teased, nudging him playfully.

As you approached your dorm building, you noticed Art’s phone buzz. He glanced at it quickly, fumbling to put it away as a smile grew on his face. “What’s with the grin, weirdo?” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing. Just a funny text,” Art replied too quickly, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”

“Who, me? Who said I’m lying, I’m the picture of innocence,” Art said defensively.

You shook your head. “Sure you are. Anyway, I think I’m gonna drop my stuff on the floor, crawl into bed, and maybe take a nap. Maybe we can think about that party, I can call you at 11 so we can pregame.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Art said with a nod. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

You smiled gratefully as the two of you ascended the stairs to your floor. Art talked animatedly about his plans for the weekend while you half-listened, preoccupied with thoughts of collapsing onto your bed and taking a deserved long nap.

"Yeah anyways, I'm thinking of catching up on some studying, this english class is kicking my ass," Art continued, unaware of your drifting attention. "Maybe I’ll go on a run later though. You could join me if you wanted, if you’re up."

"Maybe," you replied absentmindedly, reaching a hand into your tote bag sifting for your keys.

As you reached your door, frustrated with your bag, you dropped your tennis bag and lifted your whole tote up, practically sticking your face in it to find your keys. "I hate these fucking tote bags, I can’t find shit," you grumbled to Art, feeling a tap on your shoulder.

Startled, you turned around with a scowl— until you saw Patrick standing there, a mischievous grin on his face. "Patrick! What the fuck? What are you doing here-” you exclaimed, letting your tote bag fall to the floor and throwing your arms around him in a tight hug.

Patrick laughed, hugging you back just as tightly. "Surprise" he exclaimed, holding you close, smiling at Art over your shoulder.

You pulled back slightly, giving him an incredulous look. "You asshole! Trapped in New York with my parents, my ass!" you shook your head, playfully hitting him on the chest.

Patrick held his chest dramatically and leaned in, kissing your cheek lightly. "All part of the plan," he murmured. “Plus, I had a little help," he added, nodding towards Art, who was standing nearby with a smug expression.

You turned in Patrick's arms to face Art, scoffing in shock. "Art, you were in on this? You’re such a liar," you exclaimed.

Art shrugged. "Hey, I was just hosting him at my dorm while we were at practice. Technically, I didn’t lie—I just omitted a few details," he explained, grinning.

"How could you do this to me? Traitor!" you said dramatically, though a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Patrick wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, pulling you closer against him and resting his head on your shoulder. "Come on. You know it was worth it," he said, his tone teasing.

You sighed playfully, shaking your head at the pair of them. "I guess I can forgive you both this time," you conceded.

Patrick’s hand gently brushed through your hair as he settled his head into the curve of your neck. “You know I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me,” he said softly.

As you lingered in Patrick's embrace, you paused. "Wait, where's all your stuff?" you asked, pulling back slightly and turning to look up at him.

Patrick grinned, nodding towards your door. "In your dorm," he replied casually.

“Wow, Breaking and entering," you quipped, crossing your arms squinting at Art.

Art interjected with a laugh, "Actually, perfectly legal entering. You're the one who gave me a spare key."

You shook your head, "That's for emergencies, Art," you retorted, shooting him a mock glare.

Patrick turned you around to face him, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. "Come on, admit it, you're impressed," he teased.

You sighed, "I'm shocked you guys were able to pull this off, honestly," you admitted, shaking your head with amusement. Patrick laughed softly, rubbing your back soothingly.

Reluctantly pulling away from Patrick's arms, you grabbed your tote bag from the floor, turning to face Art and Patrick. "As much as this hallway talk is very exciting, I seriously need to find my keys. I'm exhausted," you declared half-joking.

After a brief search through your bag, you finally located your keys nestled among your belongings. Patrick picked up your tennis bag with a playful grin, indicating his readiness to follow you inside.

"Alright, Art, thank you," Patrick called out over his shoulder as you unlocked the door.

Art waved casually. "Have fun, be safe you two. I'll see you later," he replied as he walked down the hallway.

As the two of you entered your dorm room, you barely had enough time to place your bags on the floor before Patrick closed the gap between you and him and crashed his lips onto yours. His hands pulled you against him as he pressed your back against the door, placing his hands on either side of you almost boxing you in. His kisses were sloppy, teeth colliding as his lips moved against yours, hands desperately roaming your body, as if he couldn't get close enough to you.

You responded eagerly, melting into his embrace, your own hands finding their way into his hair, tugging him closer. His lips moved hungrily against yours, his tongue tracing your lower lip, hands roaming over your back, then up to cradle your face, pushing strands of hair away as he deepened the kiss.

"Patrick," you managed to gasp between kisses, your chest rising and falling with each breath. "I... I need to put my stuff away," you painted, reluctantly pulling back

Patrick leaned back, a mischievous smirk on his face, moving over to lean against your desk. "Sure," he murmured, his gaze lingering on you as you took out some things from your bag. "So, how was practice?" he asked, his voice low, as he looked you up and down.

You scoffed, a hint of satisfaction playing on your lips as you organized. "Heinous. I keep getting paired with this girl on the team who can't return any of my serves," you replied exasperatedly, glancing over at him.

Patrick raised an eyebrow, "maybe you should just go easy on her."

You shook your head, clicking your tongue in frustration. "I've tried to go easy on her, but she can't even play me when I do that. She acts like it's my fault she can't play for shit," you paused to sigh.

Patrick grinned, tracing a hand up and down your arm. "We both know you're too good for stanford women's tennis," he murmured, moving from the desk to stand behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips and giving them a quick squeeze.

You whipped your head around, rolling your eyes and scoffing at his comment. "Careful," you say firmly.

Patrick put his hands up in mock surrender, his cocky grin never faltering. "Alright, alright. Sorry, my bad," he said. "You're right."

As an unspoken apology, Patrick moved closer, his hands gently moving up to your waist as he leaned in to kiss your neck softly. His lips left a warm trail on your skin, "I missed you," he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against your ear. “So much.”

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him better access, closing your eyes briefly to savor the sensation. "I missed you too," you hummed, your voice softening as you turned to face him fully. Your hands came to rest on his chest. "You know, I wish you would’ve just told me you were coming," you teased, carding your fingers through his hair.

Patrick's playful demeanor softened as he gazed into your eyes, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Sorry again," he murmured sincerely, his breath mingling with yours. "Do you still love me?" he asked, clearly teasing and testing you.

You couldn't help but smile, your fingers threading through the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. "I still love you, even with your elaborate lies," you replied, planting a sweet kiss on his lips. "But I have to say I knew something was up. Art was being weirder than normal."

Patrick hummed, his hands gently caressing your sides as he leaned in for another kiss.

"Hey? Are you even listening to me?" you asked, blinking up at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Patrick paused, his forehead resting against yours as he looked into your eyes. "Sorry, what did you say? I was a little distracted," he said, smiling.

You laughed softly, giving him a light shove. “I said Art was acting weirder than normal. I could tell he was hiding something.”

He shook his head and grinned, suddenly, he scooped you up over his shoulder, eliciting a surprised laugh from you as he carried you to the bed. Playfully flopping you down, his hands on either side of your head as he leaned in to kiss you again, his lips warm and insistent.

"So, what's our plan for tonight?" he asked between kisses, his fingers tracing light patterns on your sides.

You sighed softly, your words catching in your throat as his kisses became more fervent. "Well, there's this party my friend invited me to," you managed to say, struggling to speak coherently. "But last time I went out with Art, it was a shit show," you paused, trying to focus as his lips trailed down your collarbone, "but you're here, so we can do… whatever you want," you finally managed to say, your voice breathless with desire.

"Can we?" Patrick teased, his tone dripping with innuendo, his kisses becoming more urgent and needy.

You sighed deeply, rolling your eyes. "You know, you're impossible," you muttered, shaking your head. "But yes, we can."

Patrick grinned triumphantly, his hands roaming over your body as he leaned in to kiss you again, his hunger for you evident in every touch and movement. "Good," he murmured against your lips. "I think I just want you to be myself tonight."

"Freaky," you quipped, biting your tongue to hide a laugh.

With a self-assured grin, Patrick swiftly removed his T-shirt, revealing his lean and tan body. His gaze never left yours as he leaned back in, his lips finding yours with intensity. Your fingers traced lightly over his chest as you meshed together, and through kisses, you opened your eyes for a moment, gaze fixed on the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

"You've got more freckles," you observed with a playful smile, pulling back slightly, teasingly tracing each tiny mark with your fingertip.

Patrick grinned warmly, his eyes crinkling as he removed his lips from yours pulling you into a tight hug. "You're so cute," he murmured, squeezing you against him. His hands gently moved up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he pulled you closer, lips looking for another kiss with a soft sigh of contentment slipping out. His gaze, filled with adoration and longing, locked onto yours, silently expressing his deep affection.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," he whispered, his voice low and filled with awe. You locked eyes with him, your own expression softening as you smiled, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

Without breaking eye contact, Patrick's hands moved to the hem of your T-shirt, his touch almost insistent. He lifted the fabric, exposing your skin to the cool air and his heated gaze, with the T-shirt slipped over your head and thrown to the floor, forgotten. His gaze traveled downward, taking in the sight of you, bare-chested in front of him, a cheeky grin began to spread across his face. 

You rolled your eyes, whacking his arm. "Are you 13?" you teased.

Patrick laughed, unfazed as his hands and mouth roamed your newly exposed skin, his lips moving back to your collarbone, placing soft kisses along its length. Your remaining clothes were shed in a flurry, falling to the floor as you both moved with urgency desperately reconnecting.

Finally, as your kisses slowed and the two of you were breathing somewhat heavily, you rolled onto him, resting your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you close, with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

"I love you," Patrick murmured softly, placing a lovingly sweet kiss onto your forehead.

You met his gaze with a soft smile. "Is that just because we had incredible reunion sex?" you teased lightly, a playful challenge in your voice. "Or do you love me all the time?"

Patrick laughed, his fingers moving up and down on your back. "Only for the sex, it's usually worth the plane ticket," he teased back, with a smile. "Just kidding. I love you all the time," he replied earnestly, as a grin started forming on his face.

Leaning up from his chest, you pressed a sloppy kiss against his mouth, your hands tangling into his hair as you felt the corners of his lips curve into a smile against yours. "I knew it," you murmured against his lips, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"Say it back," Patrick urged with a playful grin, attempting to deepen the kiss, but you playfully pulled away before he could capture your lips again.

Rolling your eyes theatrically, you feigned annoyance, though your smile betrayed your true feelings. "Fine," you replied, leaning in to kiss him once more. "I love you too, freak."

[makeyoumine69]

Till Death Do Us Part (Chapter One)

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Innocent!Fem!Reader; [no y/n]

SUMMARY: After moving in with Patrick Bateman in his luxurious Upper Manhattan apartment, it didn't take long for you to get into trouble, as your future husband couldn't stand anyone being bossy in his own home.

CONTAINS: Arranged marriage & enemies to lovers trope, explicit sexual content, violence, mild gore, dub-con, Patrick being a dick, drugging, toxic behavior, dirty talk.

WORDS: 3.3k

A/N: Here's the first chapter of the writing project I've been working on for the past few months! I hope you enjoy the journey!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

Life is such an amazing thing.

Sometimes it can bring us challenges that seem impossible, but what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Do people always say things like that? Well, maybe they do, but in your case, that was exactly what your family told you the day you found out that you had to marry Patrick Bateman—a ghost from your past, a boy who used to bully you, then an arrogant Harvard student best known for the number of girls he fucked.

Not to mention how much you hated him and everything associated with him whenever your mother tried to start a conversation about the good old days when you were a kid playing with Patty, ah, the childhood nickname you used to call him. It all felt like memories from your past life, not your present one.

How you were going to survive it all now, only God knew.

1987, New York.

Patrick stared down at your sleeping form on his couch, a plastic cover over the expensive fabric you slept on. It had been a few days since you had moved into his apartment. The man remembered clearly when his mother told him about the arranged marriage. It had happened a few days after she had told him about his breakup with Evelyn. The whole situation made him angry. Patrick never wanted to get married, and if he had to, it certainly wouldn't be to a girl like you. Memories of your moments together during childhood and high school flashed through his mind. They were pretty blurry—just like any other memory of his, but he knew that there weren't any positive memories. 

Patrick ran his hand over his face, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. He tore his eyes away from you and moved quickly into the kitchen, tying his robe tighter around his waist. 'She's not even blonde,' he thought bitterly as he began his routine of brewing a fresh pot of expensive coffee.

The sudden sound of the coffee maker made you jerk back onto the couch, but the moment you opened your eyes, a bitter realization washed over you like a tidal wave—this was not a dream and you were really in Patrick Bateman's apartment. And you were about to marry him, which was actually the worst thing that could happen to you.

Carefully, you got up from the soft furniture and went to the kitchen to check on your future husband, trying to pretend to be a good fiancée, just like your family wanted you to be. "Good morning," you mumbled as you watched him take the ice mask out of the fridge. "Did you sleep well?"

You bet he did, because unlike you, he slept in the big comfortable bed while you slept on the couch, although it was your choice, but at least you expected him to be a gentleman and offered to take his bed, which never happened.

Slightly annoyed, Patrick kept his focus on the coffee pot, his gaze fixed on the way the coffee grounds turned to liquid. He tensed noticeably when he heard a second voice and turned to look at his future wife. Blegh. 'Actually, I didn't sleep at all, Rebecca. I spent all night chopping up a hard body in the back alley of Barcadia,' he thought to himself, his face stoic. "I slept well." He spoke, his voice steady with a hint of annoyance. 

The pot banged, letting him know it was ready. He mechanically grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured himself one, dropping two Xanax pills into it before taking a sip. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, calming his nerves and replacing the usual mask he wore. The man spun around to face you. "There should be some oat bran in the top cupboard…but I think you could stand to skip a few meals." He smiled, his eyes remaining empty as they bored into you.

Frowning, you rolled your eyes at his comment and turned to leave the kitchen. "I'm not hungry."

‘What a fucking arrogant bastard,’ you cursed and went back to the living room where you noticed a magazine with wedding dresses. God, now you remembered that you probably fell asleep reading that stupid magazine with the ugly dresses—they really were ugly and you didn't care if they were high fashion.

When you saw him join you in the living room, you tried to ignore him at first, but then you heard the sound of clothes being taken off—the sight of Bateman's perfect body clad only in white underwear embarrassed you, but you still didn't move.

"I had a thought—maybe we can postpone our wedding a little?" You asked suddenly, looking at him as he began to stretch out on the floor. "I have exams in my internship and I need to prepare for them."

For a while, the only sound in the room was Patrick's heavy panting as he began to do crunches, the way his muscles tensed with each movement, stirring something strange in your core that made you claw at your skin to distract yourself.

"No, negative." Bateman spoke, not bothering to look at you. "Your family and my family were very specific about the date," the man said before moving onto his back and doing crunches. He huffed as he moved, his abdominal muscles tensing and flexing. As he worked himself up, he suddenly stopped and huffed, moving to sit on the floor. "Why don't you make yourself useful and put in that Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape?" He asked, pointing at the TV; his eyes then drifted to the magazine. "You might as well pick something. If you don't, we'll just dress you in a cinched garbage bag. An expensive garbage bag."

With a wry smile, you scoffed at his statement about the wedding and dressing up in an expensive garbage bag. But the last thing you wanted to do was argue with him when you had to work and study today.

"Garbage bag doesn't sound bad from what I've seen in this magazine," you commented briefly, getting up to turn on the TV. "I don't understand why this wedding is even necessary. I'll survive if I don't get my picture on the front page of the Times." Your muttering was soon interrupted by the sound of the movie.

You looked at the cover of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape for a while—it looked pretty scary, but cool, and you were genuinely curious why Bateman was so obsessed with movies like that.

"Do you watch anything else besides horror movies?" Your tone was artificially friendly because inside you didn't really care. "I mean…I don't think it's weird, just…asking."

Bateman watched you move before quickly grabbing the remote from the table. He started tapping the forward button and watched as the scenes on the TV flashed by. Frowning, the man sighed when you started complaining again. "The wedding is necessary because both our families want it. Why is that so hard for you to understand?" He asked condescendingly, his focus shifting from the TV to you. You were attractive, he supposed—nice tits, a full ass, an…okay face. But he knew he could do better. 

Patrick looked back at the TV before it played his favorite scene—near the end of the movie where the final girl screamed bloody murder as Leatherface wielded a chainsaw over her head. The sound was like music to him. He paused the tape to answer your question. 'Porn,' he wanted to say, but instead he said, "I don't know…maybe…not really." Then he turned off the TV and got back on the floor. 

Something about the scene seemed to rile him up, because he started doing his stomach crunches much faster. Small beads of sweat ran down his temples as he groaned softly until he finished—doing 50 in just one minute. Then Bateman moved over to start doing push-ups, the muscles in his back rippling through his skin. He paused for a moment before sighing and stopping his routine. "Price and Daisy," he paused again, unsure if that was the name of Price's new girlfriend. Maybe it was Carmen? Dalila? He couldn't remember and frankly, he didn't give a shit. "Um, they have reservations for four at Barcadia…tonight at 7:00. So…you know…try to wear something nice."

Abashed, you almost dropped the pencil at your fiancé's request. "Something nice?" You repeated, looking down at your medical book. "You mean wear something that makes me look like a slut?"

With a muffled chuckle, you put the book down on the coffee table and lay back on the white couch. You were completely indifferent to social life, in your opinion it was just a waste of time and money, and you never understood why your family was so obsessed with it.

"Who is Price? I don't even remember all your 'friends'," you grimaced at the last word and kicked your legs in the air. "You can take Courtney instead of me or any of those other chicks you always hung out with."

Memories of the Harvard years flooded your mind without permission. Patrick, surrounded by an endless number of girls, walking in front of the main building. Damn it! Why did you even remember all that shit? But then another memory came to your mind, there was a charity banquet your family attended where you finally met Bethany, the girl Patrick had been dating since they were at Harvard. Bethany was so beautiful and slim, just like the model. 

Caught up in your thoughts, you seemed to miss what Bateman was saying. "If you said something, could you please repeat it?"

Patrick furrowed his brow, the lines in his face creasing slightly as he frowned. "I'd rather have a slutty wife than someone who looks homeless." He scoffed and stopped working out, deciding that he was done with his exercise routine. His face suddenly felt very heavy, as if the small amount of oil was wearing him down. He had to wash up immediately.

"Timothy Price-" Bateman spoke as he quickly walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open to answer any more tedious questions you might have. He casually opened his medicine cabinet and began to scrub his face with his expensive ointments. "A dress will be here in a few hours. I want you to try it on. If it doesn't fit, call my tailor. His number is on my nightstand." The man shouted, put the mask on his face and let it sit for a few minutes. 

When Patrick heard your ranting again, he groaned in exasperation. He quickly stormed out of the bathroom, the shiny mask still on his face. Bateman grabbed your hair in his fist and pulled it, tugging your head back so you could make eye contact with him. "You…get…dressed." He spoke slowly, slowing it down for you. "If the dress doesn't fit, call a tailor." Patrick pointed to his bedroom door and let go of your hair.

Bateman's sudden anger scared you to death, but you didn't even make a sound. It was only after he released you and returned to the bathroom that you allowed yourself to sob barely audibly, covering your face with your hands.

‘I don't want this marriage. Fuck, I should have accepted to marry Vincent when I had the chance, but my stupid family would never allow me to marry an ordinary man, not a fucking billionaire.’

Crying, you stood up on shaky legs, wanting to wait for Patrick to leave and call your ex-boyfriend or maybe your brother. You hugged yourself before slowly sneaking into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Unfortunately, your hands were shaking so badly that you splashed water all over the kitchen counter and floor. A paralyzing fear of his rage made you panic, and you had to quickly find something to clean up. When you couldn't find anything and heard his approaching footsteps, you decided to act desperately and before you knew it, you took off your top, leaving yourself exposed as you were not wearing a bra. Then, you crouched down to clean the floor with your fucking shirt. You didn't care because it was just a piece of cloth; his anger was much more frightening.

Irritated as hell, Patrick went back to the bathroom, his angry expression returning to his stoic one. He hardly thought about his sudden act of violence. It was the only way to get you to listen, but he couldn't deny that he got a little thrill out of it. 

As the man peeled off the mask, he thought about what would happen if he pulled a little harder. If he broke your fucking neck and chopped you up and threw your parts in a river. Or maybe he could nail you to the ground and let a bunch of hungry wild pigs eat you until there was nothing left. He soon finished peeling off the mask, crumpled it up in his hand, and threw it away. 

A short time later, Bateman came out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the kitchen. He noticed that you were no longer on the couch, which annoyed him. The thing that annoyed him most about you living with him was the lack of control he had. You could just do whatever you wanted and go into any room. Touch all his possessions. Patrick stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening slightly at the sight; his eyes trailed down your body, your curves. The man felt a sudden heat between his legs, his boxers suddenly feeling tighter. 'Damn it,' he thought. Aroused, Patrick ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, deciding what to do. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he had an idea. Maybe now he could show you who was really in control. Smirking, he stepped closer to you, his crotch in your line of sight. He stepped on your shirt, stopping your movements. "Worry about that later…if you're going to strip in my house, you should do it in the bedroom." Bateman spoke quietly, pulling up his boxers. "Go." He pointed to his bedroom again.

As soon as you heard his voice, you instinctively covered your breasts and glanced up at his almost naked form—he looked even bigger from that angle.

"Don't touch me," you whimpered suddenly, crawling back a little. "Say what you want, but please don't touch me." You used Bateman's confusion to slowly get to your feet, leaving your wet top on the floor as you didn't dare ask him to let you take it. 

'Gosh, his eyes are literally glowing with rage. Or maybe it's not anger?' A brief thought flashed through your mind as you retreated into his bedroom without turning around.

In the bedroom, you sat carefully on the edge of his large bed, picked up a random robe and tried not to think about how many women had been fucked here, as you were about to throw up from such a realization. Patrick didn't follow, so you sighed with relief, thinking that he would probably leave you alone—finally. And that meant that your plan to call her ex-boyfriend was still relevant.

Meanwhile, after watching you leave, Bateman quickly opened his cupboard, grumbling as he shoved food away. "Where's that…" he muttered before grabbing the drugs he was looking for. Ecstasy. Perfect. Patrick then took out a flute-shaped wine glass and poured his most expensive champagne, placing two pills inside and watching them dissolve. The man knew that you probably wouldn't be very… willing with what he wanted to do—not without help. 

Soon Bateman walked into the bedroom and saw you on the bed. With an artificial affection, he handed you the glass, a warm smile on his face. "Here. It's my most expensive brand. It's a... peace offering for what I did to your hair." The man purred, touched one of your locks, twisted it around his finger and pulled away. "My behavior can be…erratic at times." 

There was something strange about his sudden tenderness, but you felt too upset to think clearly. Scared of his recent rage, you took the glass and before you decided to try it, you gazed at him, knowing that something bad was going to happen, but you didn't really have a choice.

"It's very…very sweet," you commented, looking at the glass and licking your lips. "Is it supposed to be that sweet?" Frowning, you studied him with your big doe eyes before closing them for a moment. The taste of this chapmange was very strange, even after you drank more. "Aren't you going to drink as well?" You asked, feeling your head start to spin.

Snickering mischievously, Bateman watched you drink and nodded. "Of course, but I'm sure you've never had this brand. It's quite high-end." He confidently turned away from you and walked over to the camera on the tripod, pointed directly at the bed. The man pressed the record button, a tradition he had for every session. It didn't matter if it was a random prostitute or his future wife. 

Then he moved to a dresser on the other side of the room and opened the drawer. His finger brushed against the objects inside: three different knives, a bent coat hanger, matchsticks, dildos, vibrators, lube, and a box of condoms. He took the box out, leaving the drawer open for later. "I'm not thirsty," Patrick remarked. "Besides, I have to be at work in a few hours. I really can't get drunk." He smiled and sat down beside you again, running his fingers down your back, feeling your spine through your skin. "You have a really nice body."

Stunned, you shivered at his sudden touch. "W-what are you doing?" You asked, but didn't flinch.

'God, how many times did I imagine us like this in college? How many times had I imagined being his wife? And now my life had decided to punish me in such a cruel way because the boy I'd fallen in love with since childhood was a completely different man, and now I had to marry him.'

Bateman sneered suddenly, his warm expression turning to one of annoyance. "Nothing. Can't I touch my fiancé? Or are you one of those…after-marriage women?" Patrick smiled again. He didn't think he'd ever want to be intimate with you, but you really did have a nice body. Besides, he'd have to get used to it.

"Mmh, I shouldn't drink too, because I have to go to the hospital today…" you mumbled and turned to face him, only to gasp at how close he was. "Patrick…what's in that box?" You pointed at the small box in his hands.

The man laughed and jabbed his finger at the glass in her hand. "You've already drunk half of it!" Patrick murmured in an amused tone. "I'll call for you. I'll tell them you have a cold. Then he looked down at the box in his hand and shook it. "Condoms. You probably don't want to look pregnant at the wedding. It'll ruin the photos and stretch out your dress." Bateman leaned closer to you. "I think you and I should…you know…get it on. What do you think? If you're going to marry me, you might as well get used to my cock."

"Did you say…cock?" You almost choked on your drink. "We...we didn't even share a bed, and you're suggesting we have...sex?"

The champagne seemed to begin to cloud your mind and you didn't even notice that you had finished your glass. Then, all of a sudden, you tried to get up, but almost fell to the floor.

It was over. It was so fucking over.

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

[pinkzier]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ TASHI, ART, PATRICK + LOVE LANGUAGES

Warnings; Separated, Sex, I wrote all as fem!reader but you can imagine however you want!!

Tashi knows that she doesn't always have enough time with you, she is always busy with work, having to train art and all her commitments, but she is a woman who is constantly praising you with words of affirmation, especially if she is your coach, always telling you how proud she is of you even when you make something wrong, Words of affirmation for her are the way to say she loves you.

As much as Tashi likes or wants quality time, she doesn't have it, she almost never stops at home, making this difficult, but she always takes you to all her games (stanford) and takes you to see her practicing art or anything else stupid so you can be with her but in the few moments she spent with you, you would spend 2 hours straight on her lap, while she told you how stressful training art was.

But she's also a big fan of giving gifts, it's not like that would put a dent in her pocket, sometimes she comes home with an outfit that you've wanted for so long but never even mentioned to her, but she noticed by the way your eyes lit up, sometimes gifts aren't so humble, like one time she was traveling around the world a lot she literally bought you a private plane so you could go out with your friends whenever you wanted, she could literally be poor if she buys gifts and things whenever she thought you deserved it.

Tashi doesn't know how to do acts of service that well, she doesn't have that much experience with her, but for you she makes an effort, Before you wake up, she prepares a morning coffee for you or at least tries to (she tells Lily's nanny to make it and say that she made it) or takes you to a restaurant and tells them to do something specifically for you, and as much as you like how she tries to do some things for you, you think it's better not to let her try to do things for you, last time she spent more than 10 eggs in a cake, just for you, and you can't say that this woman has a daughter like that.

Tashi is not a big fan of physical touch, but she doesn't hate it with you, she doesn't mind hugging you or anything, she just thinks she doesn't know how to do it right, but cut this woman some slack, she patted your shoulder after you've done something right in front of her daughter and she spent the whole week talking about you.

In other cases, she unconsciously puts her hand on your thigh and gives you a gentle squeeze to warn you about something or just because she's bored, and the last time she hugged you out of her own free will was when you were feeling really bad and she hugged you, she was all stiff and looked like a statue, maybe she needs to learn more lmao.

Art loves both giving and receiving words of affirmation but I truly believe that he becomes so silly and idiotic when he is praised or any small thing that you praise him for, he gets so blushing and laughs like a child, he always texts you after you two seeing each other or after you see each other for a short period, things vary like:

How did you play so well today?! it can't be the same person haha :)

you were so beautiful today💗

( It is canon, art uses Heart and smiley emojis, I don't make the rules)

In the same way as Tashi, he is always very busy whether training or dealing with commitments for quality time, but when this man has holidays he is so cute that you feel sorry to refuse him, he invites you to his house, for picnics or invites you to the most luxurious restaurant in the world and says "I'm sorry for taking you to this, I don't know if you liked fancier restaurants" when in fact this was the most expensive restaurant you've ever been to.

He called you every weekend to his house so you could be together and supposedly watch a "new movie" (you and him fucked)

Damn, this man loves giving gifts that sometimes you feel like scolding him in all honesty, he buys everything and you don't even ask, every week that you see each other he has a bag from a brand that you know is worth more than the salary of 10 men together, and have you ever tried to tell him to try to do something by hand and he made a bouquet with money?????

Surprisingly or not, but he is so good at acts of service that you think surprising. whenever you sleep with him, you wake up with him in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and talking about acts of service and about gifts I faithfully trust that the gifts from him vary over bouquets or anything else cliche and again I don't make the rules.

Oh my god, are we really talking about Art Donaldson if he doesn't like physical touch? This man is like a puppy always wanting your attention, whenever you are walking and you are a few centimeters in front of him he hurries up his steps and grabs your hand like a child.

Every minute he's hugging you, his hand is always on your wrist when you're doing something and you can't hold his hand, and when you're having sex it gets worse, he puts his face on your neck while giving sloppy kisses on your neck and he never wants to take his hands off your waist or your thighs, and after sex it gets worse, he falls on top of you and simply sleeps with his face in your neck😭

Patrick is a man who loves to tease you, he don't mind praising you, and he loves words of affirmation, but he's not direct, he's an idiot, like, when you do something he's proud of he teases you by saying "Maybe you made it good, but it could be better" But he is so proud of you that it hurts, but he will never admit it!

This guy is an idiot and won't leave your side for even a minute, He is intentionally obsessed with quality time, always insisting on going out with you to stupid places and art is always there, Your house/dorm looks like his too, he just comes in to be with you.

He's definitely not the most romantic type in the world, so he doesn't know how to give giving gifts, but he does what he knows, He doesn't have the best conditions in the world so he doesn't buy anything that expensive, but the things he does, no matter how cliche they are, are from the heart.

This guy is really good at acts of service, He loves doing things for you, sometimes he asks art for help, he never told you that but one time he called you to his and art's dorm and made art stay in a closet for 2 hours straight so he could show you something what he did.

He's not like art but he's not like tashi either, he loves to hug you but he's not obsessed with physical contact, he always has a hand on your ass or on your wrist, He also loves being with you on top of him, whether it's just talking to him or even having sex, he just likes to feel you on him.

[ghostfacesvalentine]

First time - Multimuse x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Multimuse x Fem!Reader

Warnings: nsfw, dom/sub dynamic, sort of ddlg? No non con, but reader begging to slow down bc overstim, mmm i dunno.

Type: blurp

Request: N/A

Word Count: N/A

Prompt: No prompt, just smut abt when or how reader came to call the muse “Daddy” for the first time.

Notes: I mainly just kind of included muses I would think to be the more dominant ones, at least ones that I could write easily for. Maybe I’ll make another one, idk. So sorry if your fav didn’t make the cut ily.

Michael Myers: Honestly what else was there to call him. As soon as you saw him, the way he towered over you as you looked up to him helplessly. It was no different from when he was tangling his mangled fingers into your scalp, gripping whatever amount of hair he could. Looking down to you through the holes of his mask as you felt him deeper you could almost swear you were going to split. “Daddy.” You repeated like a prayer as he’d hit the right spot, feeling your legs flinch deliciously as your folds clenched around him. Even after creaming all over him, you repeating his new nickname would only cause him to pin you down to the floorboards even if you’re screaming and begging him to slow down because you were overstimulated. Michael would be absolutely feral.

Billy Loomis: Kind of has a softer approach, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be any less torturous. It’s almost like he’s trying to get it out of you. Billy knew when he lusted for you across the classroom that he’d have you in a puddle of your own arousal in no time. Bonus points if you’re shy. He’d be gentle at first, running his finger tips all across your tender spots, watching you intensely, so much so it makes you kind of uneasy at first. Still, to be sitting on a picnic table, exposed to him as you were, there was something so hot about it. When his fingertips plunge into you after almost a half hour of sloppy wet kisses, you were stunned at the self control he managed to have. After a few pumps he traces your arousal around the outer parts of your folds, with a devilish smile when he notices your pout. “Daddy please” You beg, your hand gripping onto his wrist. Something in him flicks, he has you exactly where he wants you. “Please what kitten?”

Patrick Bateman: He’s used to making all the calls, you always trusted that he knew best. Sometimes it felt like Patrick liked to make all the shots more than he lead on, but that didn’t mean he didn’t annoy you at times. “Don’t forget we have that dinner reservation at 7. I don’t like to eat much later than that, it messes with my schedule.” He’d call out from across the room as he worked on his button up. Rolling your eyes as you were trying to make your makeup work. “Yes daddy.” It takes him a second to register before you feel him behind you, his hand wrapping around the front of your throat. He didn’t understand what came over him, but all he knew was that if he wanted to see you pout, he wanted it to be because he was making you hold back your orgasm. Grabbing you by your throat and pulling you back against his chest, his free hand would make of your panties. “What a fucking brat.” He’d mumble into the side of your head as he’d expose you in front of the mirror you were getting ready before.

Poison Ivy: Calling her daddy probably wouldn’t be the best idea, but she would know what you meant. Sometimes it would just slip out and she understood. Ivy would even use it as an excuse to prolong your orgasm. “Daddy, please, I can’t” You’d cry out as you clenched for the fourth time in a row, afraid you had nothing left in you. Lifting your head to see Ivy’s lustful smile as you came undone so pretty, you knew she wasn’t stopping any time soon. “Oh baby, when will you learn that’s not my name.” She’d hush into your neck as her tongue would make work of your sensitive spots. Her free hand would plunge into your open cry-filled mouth to muffle your moans of the nickname. That’s the only time she didn’t want to hear it, but she can’t help but keep you riding your waves of pleasure.

Steve Rogers: He’s already kind of a kinky boy, as soon as he saw you, he was fantasying of you in a short skirt and over the knee socks, picking you up and pounding mercilessly into you as you screamed for him that it was too much, but you both knew it felt too good to stop. It wouldn’t be long for you to find yourself in that position. Steve’s super serum made it all the easier to pick you up effortlessly to keep you from squirming away as you felt his dick plunge deeper into you causing your eyes to roll back into your head. “Daddy, okay- Please-” You’d cry out, not knowing what you wanted, just knowing all you knew was Steve. With every thrust, he just became more unhinged, then when he felt your folds clench around him as you squirted all over him, seeing your eyes fumble out tears, you both knew “Steve” was no longer his name to you.

Bucky Barnes: Kind of similar to Steve, but not so much. He’s a tiny bit more gentle. Bucky would rather have you coming undone onto him, watching your eyes beg for him to keep going, hitting that spot his fingers graze when they curl a certain way. Seeing you clench your nails into his arm as you cream for the third time and whimper out “Daddy” with swollen lips and tear-filled eyes, not looking away from him. “Come on baby, another one for daddy, you know I love your pretty pies” Dirty words would flow effortlessly from his lips, he’d leave so many pretty marks on your neck as you whined out his new nickname.

Loki Laufeyson: He’d catch you in a vulnerable position, mainly focused on making you orgasm. “What is it sweetheart? Like that?” He’d almost mock as you nod, indicating his fingers were helping you. “Sorry what was that?” He’d ask, frowning as he’d look to meet your eyes, when you wouldn’t, he’d take his hands from your core, causing you to whine. “No, daddy, please I need it.” You’d beg, grabbing onto his wrists and pulling him back to where he was. Any other time this would be unacceptable, but he wanted to see you undone so bad. More than that, he wanted to hear you again, so he’d work with his fingers, then remove them, or slow down only to hear you whimper out “Daddy-” Your frustration causing you to meet his eyes, almost angry “I wanna cum on your hands.”

Cloud Strife: By no means would it be intentional, but when he’s pounding into you, your face digging into the mattress as his head is hitting your g spot, you couldn’t help but whine out “Daddy, like- like that” Which only makes him grab your hips and bring them closer to his, digging his dick further into you. He must be doing something right if you’re breathlessly crying out. Not to mention, he’d take it as praise and I would infer that he has a praise kink. When you wouldn’t moan any more, he’d grab a fistful of your hair and bring you back up to him “Do I stop?” He’d tease as his face met your damp cheek.

Bruce Wayne: You’d be begging to get his attention, crawling onto his lap, usually you weren’t this demanding, but you yearned to feel his warm hands on your body, it didn’t matter where. He put up less of a fight, you both knew climbing onto his lap or trying to get his attention while he was investigating was a big no no. Somehow you felt like maybe he wanted you to keep going too. You felt your sensitive spot graze onto his lap as you pulled yourself closer to him. “Daddy, please I wanna play.” You mumbled out, not knowing what his reaction would be, then feeling an abrupt shift, his hands landing onto your hips, planting you onto his bulge. You saw the twinkle in his eye, not knowing where it really came from until he’s pushing his dick as far as your fold would let him, bent over his desk in the bat cave “thought baby wanted to play?” He’d mumble to you as he’d pull your hair all together in a fist to pull you back by.

Jason Todd: Honestly, just meeting him and you kind of knew that was him. It was when you were giving him the silent treatment that he pulled you onto his lap, holding you still against his growing bulge “What’s wrong bunny?” He’d mumble as he would try to find your eyes. This being your first time being handled by him, you felt your center puddle, then throb when you felt your sensitive parts grind so gently against his bulge. Pursing your bottom lip, you found the courage to look him in the eyes only to see his lips curl into a smile. Jason would nonchalantly rock your hips back and forth on his lap, acting as if he was still trying to get an answer out of you. “Did I do something?” He’d ask as if he didn’t know what he was doing. “Daddy please-” You’d surrender, pleading to feel anything else but your arousal stain your clothes.

[m3lodyxo]

Salvation for the damned

Priest!Sanji x fem!Reader smut

Minors, do not interact!!!

Author's note: This is my first smut, go easy on me. I'm not used to actually posting what I write. Ever since I saw @hunnismokah 's fanart of Sanji as a priest I haven't had a WINK of sleep. She has unleashed something feral into the world.

Warning: if you're uncomfortable with themes of religion, I'll advise you to scroll away.

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"What is troubling you, my child?"

Sanji fancied himself a man of God. From a young age, he knew his role in life was to serve The All Mighty and help lost souls find the right path again.

He gave an Oath, and swore his body, mind and soul to The Lord, in promise to never stray from the path of light. And Sanji was a man of his word. Hence why he was sure you were sent by the Judge Of All, to test his strength and devotion.

Oh, you were the most angelic being he had ever laid eyes upon. Or at least so he thought, because, in truth, he saw you as a temptation crafted by The Devil specifically to torture him. And as much as he prayed and kneeled before God, begging for expiation, you wouldn't leave. As hard as he cried out to the heavens for a chance to atone, his screams were never heard.

You would always creep into his dreams, where he was most vulnerable, and force him into sin. You were a foul succubus, the daughter of Satan, and you have come to ensure his fall.

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"Father, I must atone for these terrible sins I've committed against the Holy One."

He hadn't expected you to turn up so late, looking deeply troubled near the Church's entrance. He let you in without a second thought, and as soon as you reached the altar, you dropped down to your knees, your hands clasped together, looking up at him in desperation.

His face softened and he smiled ever so slightly. He was glad you finally decided to turn yourself over to The Light. Sanji lifted his hand over your head and spoke with firmness in his voice.

"Speak now child, lay yourself bare before The Lord and share your troubles. Pray that He may forgive you."

He felt closest to God during confessions. It was as if The All Mighty spoke through him, accepting the wrongs of those before him into his heart and engulfing them in pure holy light.

"I've been plagued by impure thoughts, Father. The sin of Lust and Desire has claimed me and shackled me in its repulsive hold and I have become its slave."

Through the silence, a shaky breath was all that could be heard. Sanji felt his body shudder and pool in a cold sweat, a chill running down his spine. His knees were so weak he thought he might keel over any moment now, had he not been holding Saint Patrick's Cross so tightly in his other hand.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Sanji composed himself. Right now, he had to help this poor woman redeem herself before The Lord.

"Very good, my child. The first step to redemption is seeking out the forgiveness of God. Stand."

You did as you were told immediately, without asking a single question. Good. The expectant look in your eyes could melt the resolve of the most cold-hearted man, had you only wished to do so.

"For your heinous crimes, you shall face punishment, and you shall suffer, and you shall be freed. Now, are you ready to carry out God's task?"

Oh, that spark in your eyes. He could almost feel the devotion radiate off your body into zaps of energy. Almost. "I am ready, Father. I swear that I will do whatever it is The Lord asks of me."

Before you even finished speaking, he had already turned around and instructed you to follow him.

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Not before long, you found yourself in his private quarters. Just as you were about to question why, he called out to you, and you answered. Sanji was sat at the edge of his bed, looking up at you with a gentle smile adorning his face.

"Kneel, child."

You sank back to your knees, reaching out with your hands and hesitantly placing them atop his own, all while looking at him. He extended his hand to you and gently cupped your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

Breath caught in your throat, you dared not utter a word, lest all kinds of sinful thoughts escape through, in-between your teeth.

"Do you know what you must do?" You could feel his thumb brush across your plush lips and pull the bottom one down.

"Yes, Father."

Sanji felt your hands drag up his thighs and settle on the zipper of his pants. He held back a groan at the feeling of your hands on him, inhaling sharply once you pulled his cock out and sat up on your knees to press a featherlight kiss to the tip.

You licked your lips and pressed one more kiss to it before wrapping them around the head, sucking lightly. He let out a gasp and shut his eyes, basking in the way your perfect lips wrapped so well around the head of his dick. Sanji felt you pull away and opened his eyes only to see you spit on his cock and wrap a hand around to stroke him. Your palm so soft and gentle, your pace slow and sensual, easing him into the feeling of your skin pressed to his. He was trying so hard not to let out soft moans of pleasure as you touched him, your skin igniting a spark in him that ate away at his soul deliciously so.

He could feel sin seep through his skin and into his heart, pulling him away from all that he deemed right, enticing him to beg for more. But he couldn't allow it, couldn't allow to lose himself to such carnal desires.

His resolve, however, faltered the second you took him into your mouth again. Enveloping his cock in its warmth and continuing to stroke whatever you failed to fit with your hand. Sanji let out a whine, and pressed his palm to the back of your head, keeping you in place. You had long since closed your eyes, basking in the feeling of him filling up your mouth, making you imagine what it would feel like for him to bury himself deep inside you and claim you as his.

Oh, you've dreamed of him for so long. You knew it was wrong to want a man of God, selfish, to wish he'd devote himself to you instead. You'd stay awake at night, desperately pumping your fingers to feel even the slightest relief, but your body knew what it wanted. And it wanted it badly.

Whatever you did, you couldn't satisfy your hunger for the man, and tonight, after hopelessly trying to chaise you high for hours and failing miserably, you decided enough was enough. You had to have him.

Snapping back into the present, you moved your tongue against him, hearing him let out yet another sinful cry, tears threatening to spill over his eyes. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing. Sanji tugged on your hair, and a moan escaped your throat, making him mewl in ecstasy.

He could feel a knot begin to form, like a balloon ready to burst, so he pushed you away, panting.

You looked up at him, confused. Had he not enjoyed himself? Did he perhaps change his mind? Maybe he finally realised how wretched you were.

"Come, sit." You wasted no time in hastily removing your bottoms and straddling his lap. Sanji placed both his hands on your hips, pressing gentle kisses to your neck and collarbone. A sigh left his lips when he felt your fingers swiftly undoing his ponytail and running your fingers through his long, golden locks of hair.

You aligned yourself up with his cock and sank, taking him in inch by delicious inch, filling yourself. Once you finally fit him all inside, a breath of relief left you.

He was still pressed closely to your chest, holding you tightly and squeezing your hips as if you'd disappear should he let go. And his grip became tighter once you started moving. Sanji felt like he'd lose his mind by how tight, wet and warm your walls were, pulsating and squeezing around him and greedily sucking him in.

"Father...please." Your voice was so weak as if the wind was knocked out of you, leaving you gasping and craving for more. He groaned and tried to meet your hips with his, thrusting up into your cunt in chase of the pleasure engulfing him whole.

"Fuck, you feel so good my sweet." He was quickly losing himself in you. Breathing in your scent and feeling it fill up his lungs, it was almost as if his mind was spiralling into insanity.

"Call me by my name...Let me hear you say it." You could barely register what he was asking of you, too drunk on the feeling of the man you've been craving for so long finally giving you what you've been wanting.

"Sanji, please don't stop." A shameless whine interrupted you. You couldn't form coherent thoughts anymore. All you could think about was him and how good he was making you feel.

He just kissed your forehead and began fucking into you harder, hitting that special spot deep inside you every time. He knew you were close by the way you tightened so much around him, it was evident.

"I know darling, 'm close too. Fuck- Been dreaming about this pussy for months. Been dreaming of filling it up to the brim with my cum. Is that what you want love? For me to paint your insides white?"

All you could do was throw your head back and moan like an animal in heat, desperately moving your hips to chase that high.

"Use your words, sweetness. Tell me you want it." He didn't falter in his movements, keeping up the brutal pace and abusing your cunt, set on hearing you.

You locked your eyes with his, barely able to keep them open. "Want your cum Sanji, please give it to me. Want you to fill me up." He groaned, hearing you barely get out the words, too focused on the pleasure he was giving you.

"Since you asked so nicely, you better take it all." You could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as you tipped over the edge, his words alone making you lose your mind. You moaned out his name again and again, like a prayer and he felt that knot finally snap.

With a final thrust of his hips, Sanji came, spilling deep inside you, painting your walls white. You felt your insides warm up as you milked him of every last drop until he was spent.

With both of you panting, he gripped your face with one hand to make you face him again and asked. "What do you say now?"

"Thank you, Father."

[zweigsangel]

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: from the first moment he sees you, he wants to go out with you at all costs. but it’s not that easy.

warnings: cursing, use of y/n and that’s literally all, patrick deserves more cute stuff!!!

patrick had never believed in love at first sight. he always thought it was just bullshit. that was until he went to stanford to visit art and saw you playing with him. you were wearing a white miniskirt that highlighted your perfectly tanned legs, each step you took revealing their toned elegance. your brown long hair was tied up in a high ponytail, and it swayed with every movement you made as you tossed the ball. patrick understood, then and there, that love at first sight wasn't just a myth—it was real, and it had just happened to him.

“are you just going to stand there and watch, or what?” your voice snapped him back to reality. you turned around, holding the racket in one hand and resting the other on your hip, squinting at patrick because of the bright sun. art, on the other side of the court, was covering his mouth to stifle his laughter.

a smirk spread across patrick’s face as he stepped closer. “i’m patrick,” he said. “i know.” you replied nonchalantly, hitting another ball towards art, your movements graceful and precise. you didn’t even spare patrick a glance.

“and you are?” he asked. “y/n,” you sighed, turning back towards him. “art, could you please take your boyfriend away from me?” you said, directing your words at the blond guy.

patrick’s smile widened, unable to hide his amusement. yes, he was already head over heels in love.

every time he went to stanford, patrick found any excuse to talk to you. and he asked you out every single time, despite you always refusing. but patrick loved a challenge and was determined to win you over, no matter how many times you turned him down.

one afternoon, while you were taking a break from practice, he approached you again. “c’mon, let me take you somewhere,” he suggested, leaning in casually. you took out your water bottle, savoring a long sip as you looked at him.

“no thanks. ‘m busy,” you replied. “i didn't even tell you when,” he persisted. “i’m always busy,” you said with a shrug. you picked up your racket, signaling that the conversation was over. patrick just stood there, watching you with that persistent smirk on his face.

"why won’t you just say yes?” art asked as the two of you walked down the dormitory hallway towards your room. being patrick’s best friend, it was obvious he would try to convince you in every possible way. “i know you probably haven’t heard the best things about him, but at least give him a chance,”

you rolled your eyes dramatically, a sigh escaping your lips, and replied as you reached your door.“not even if you fucking paid me.” the door creaked open, and you stepped inside. before art could respond, you turned back and added, “actually, maybe if you paid me.” you laughed, the sound echoing softly in the hallway as you closed the door, leaving art shaking his head with a smile on his face.

patrick had even started slipping handwritten notes under your door. ‘i won't stop until you say yes, just so you know,’ one read in his unmistakable scrawl. you shook your head and grabbing a pen, you scribbled a quick reply on the other side of the note: ‘find another bitch who will say yes.’ you slid the paper back under the door, imagining the determined grin that would spread across patrick’s face when he read it.

it was a day like any other, and you were training with a teammate. you were focused on the game when the sound of footsteps caught your attention. turning around, you weren't surprised to see patrick approaching you quickly, hands hidden behind his back.

“again? will you really never give up?” you asked, chuckling as you wiped a bead of sweat from your forehead. patrick brought his hands forward, revealing a bouquet of flowers. you tried to hide a smile, but the gesture was so unexpected that it was practically impossible. you took the flowers and placed them gently on the ground next to your sports bag.

“fine,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. patrick’s face lit up. “now go,” you added, placing your hands on his chest and giving him a gentle push. “i’ll pick you up at 7,” he said as you turned back to continue your practice.

as you resumed playing, you couldn't help but laugh when you heard patrick’s excited cheer echoing as he walked away, his victory finally achieved.

[sceletaflores]

"Dependence Is Weakness, Darling."

pairing: older!patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: it wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. it was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. and as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

—or: it's been a little over twelve years since you've seen patrick zweig.

word count: 7.8k (hopefully this is long enough lol)

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex but in a loving way, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), semi-public sex (fucking in a car, you know i had to...), angst, swearing, cigarette smoking as a love language, slight mommy issues lmao, hints of mean!reader cause i still live for that shit, love confessions, rain scene cause i'm corny as hell, porn with SOOOO much plot, no use of y/n.

author's note: this might me the filthiest thing i've ever written lols. i actually DID get a couple asks for some more angsty patrick fics and ofc i love writing angst i'm just a girl i live for that shit. look at me doing what was asked of me and not just whatever i wanted! i'm a giver, what can i say. this fic was revived because of a few anon's who demanded it and i'm so glad they did. you guys got me to give this a second chance and i'm so proud of how it turned out. extra special shout out to @bii-aan-ckaa who fiercely advocated and waited very patiently for this! i'm so obsessed with you and your beautiful kind words. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

Fifteen minutes. 

That’s how long you can stomach sitting in the sticky booth of the bar watching Patrick Zweig flirt with a woman you don't recognize across the dimly lit room. Fifteen measly minutes until you were giving your friends some lame excuse of needing fresh air and leaving the table to escape out into the alley.

It’s been a little over twelve years since you’ve seen Patrick. A little over twelve years since you turned your back on him with tears spilling down your cheeks and your favorite racket a mangled, smashed mess gripped tightly in your shaking hand as you walked out of his life forever. 

Or at least what you thought was forever, you guess you were wrong.

To put it lightly, your relationship with Patrick was…complicated. You met him the summer before you started at Stanford. He was tall with green eyes and curly hair and he was kind of an asshole but he made you laugh, so you let him fuck you anyway. At the time, you thought that was it. One really good fuck with a really hot guy you’d never see again.

You thought you were hallucinating when you saw him on the campus courts two months later, when he sauntered up to you with an unmistakable “I know what you look like naked” smirk on his face. He was just as tall and had the same green eyes and the same curly hair and was an even bigger asshole than he was before. You still let him fuck you anyway.

You never thought you’d get sucked into the storm that was whatever the fuck was going on between Art, Patrick and Tashi. Never thought that it would completely ruin your self esteem, your tennis, your everything.

You weren’t particularly close to Art or Tashi in college. Sure, you were all in the same circle. That didn’t make you best friends. Art was nice enough, but he never went out of his way to talk to you. You and Tashi were on the same team but that didn’t mean anything. You respected the hell out of her and her game, and you could tell she felt the same. Even with that respect, there was still a tiny part of you that resented her. 

She was number one, the pride and joy of Stanford, had a constant slew of brands and scouts up to her ears. It seemed like no matter how hard you worked that she would always be number one. It felt like you were always just inches behind her.

Clawing and scratching your way through the ranks since you were twelve to be second best was never the plan. Your mother made sure to remind you of that every chance she got.

Then slowly, she started beating you at more than just tennis. Patrick wanted her, it was more than obvious. At first you didn’t care, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was just a guy you fucked, he could do whatever he wanted. You were friends. There wasn’t a problem.

When you realized you knew more about Patrick than just how he worked dick, then there was a problem. 

At first, all the things you knew about him were boiled down to the vulgar little tidbits you’d notice when he fucked you. You know that he has a birthmark on his lower back. You know when he’d be close because he’d always bite your shoulder before he came. You know his favorite position was really missionary even though he told everyone it was doggy.

Knowing all that was fine.

You also know that he’s allergic to kiwi. You know that he only holds his cigarettes with his thumb and his pointer finger. You’d always know when he was nervous because he’d start tapping his fingers on his thigh. You know that when he’d listen to music he loved, that his right hand would drum along to the beat just a little bit faster than his left would.

You knew all those things because you were falling in love with him, and Patrick Zweig is not someone you fall in love with. Especially not with Tashi Duncan in the picture.

You tried your best to push it down, to pretend you weren’t hurt every time Patrick chose Tashi over you. When he’d miss your games because he was with Tashi, when he’d blow you off to go meet Tashi, when he started to stop returning your calls or replying to your texts. All things you never cared about before started slowly eating at you. You felt awful most days, holed up in your room wallowing in self-pity. Your GPA was steadily dropping as the semester went on. Even your tennis started slipping, and you lost your winning streak to a fucking scrub. When you finally cracked and broke down to your mother over the phone one night she just scoffed.

“Well what did you think would happen when you started to depend on that boy? Dependence is weakness, darling.”

Dependence is weakness. You blocked Patrick’s number that same night.

It all came to a head when he blew up at you after Tashi’s injury. Everyone was pretty shaken up about it. You’d never forget the way it buckled, the way the sharp snap rang through the court, the way she fell to the ground screaming. You’d never seen her cry before. 

Patrick found you later that night, all alone on the practice courts trying to burn the day out of your mind by serving balls till you collapsed. It was the first time he talked to you in weeks. He was pissed. Screaming at you, calling you every nasty thing he could think of, getting up in your face. It was a fucking mess. You both said some things that should have never been said, but it ended when Patrick accused you of somehow being the cause of all of it.

“You hate Tashi, fucking hate her. You wanted something like this to happen. I bet you’re just over the fucking moon that she’s finally out and you can take her place. You can finally be number one seed and you're fucking ecstatic, aren't you? You’re so fucking pathetic, so desperate for validation. Maybe if mommy paid attention to you for once, you wouldn’t be so fucking needy. You're just a sad, delusional fucking runner-up, grasping at whatever shreds of importance you think you still have.”

You stood there, stunned by his outburst, each word hitting you like a physical blow. It was insane, nothing but Patrick blowing things way out of proportion in the midst of his anger.

You wanted to scream, to deny it vehemently, but the hurt and frustration choked off your words. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in you. Vision blurring out everything but Patrick's face twisted up with rage as he glared at you, his words lingering in the air like poison. 

You told him about your mother because you thought you could trust him. You thought he was the only person that really understood you, his dad was a piece of shit too. Him using something so delicate as material to hit you where it hurts was the last straw.

You blew up, all the things you’d been keeping bottled up for months finally boiled over in you swinging your racket down on the green concrete over and over until there was nothing left of it to break. You didn’t even look at Patrick as you walked away. You never saw him again.

You’d love to say it was also the last time you thought about him, but that would be a lie. As much as he hurt you, and as much as you hated him for it, your mind refused to let you forget him.

You still smoke Camel Blues because that was your guys’ brand, even when you should have quit years ago anyway. You still buy the same color lighter, pink. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than an easy choice, that it’s a good color. It’s not at all because you can still hear Patrick’s teasing voice in the back of your head bitching, “I can’t believe you make me use a pink lighter.” when he always forgot his and had to borrow yours. 

It’s not based on a compulsive need to be reminded of him every single time you use it. It’s just convenient, okay.

You know deep down that they were the only remnants of a past that you still couldn’t fully let go of. As much as you tried to bury those memories, they lingered, melded into the corners of your mind like stubborn stains. 

It wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. It was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. Patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. And as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

Even twelve years later you’re still trying to convince yourself that dependence is weakness, that you were better off without him. But sometimes, in the quiet moments like this when the smoke curls from your cigarette and the pink lighter flickers in your hand, you wonder if he ever thinks of you, if he regrets how things ended between the two of you.

Maybe it's not that you can't escape Patrick's grip on you after all these years, it's that you just won't.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear the heavy door to the bar swinging open, or the sound of gravel crunching underneath approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” a deep voice rings out from your right, “someone pinch me.”

Your whole body tenses, your cigarette freezing a few inches away from your lips. Something like fight or flight starts to quietly buzz beneath your skin. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, even despite the gruffer, more grown up tone that wasn’t there the last time you heard it.

Your heart’s already kicking into overdrive when you finally start to hesitantly turn your head, time almost slowing down as your eyes sweep over the alley. You kind of don’t want to believe that your luck is this shitty. That maybe it was all in your imagination, that you were thinking about him so much you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there, that he was still back in the bar feeling up that blonde girl. But it can never be that easy, and sure enough, there he is.

Patrick Zweig is standing a few feet away from you with both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a wide, achingly familiar grin lighting up his face.

You’re quiet for a few long moments, completely shocked into silence. Your mind races with a million different things you want to say but can’t find the voice to. You should be causing a scene. You should be losing it, screaming, crying, throwing things, slapping him hard across his unfairly handsome face. But you don’t, too surprised to even move. 

Patrick speaks again, taking several steps towards you. “It is really you, right?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth pulling into an easy, lopsided grin. To anyone else, the laid back, carefree tone he was going for would sound genuine. You can barely pick up on the stunned, almost breathless edge lacing his words, like he also can’t believe you’re standing right in front of him.

He steps into the light shining from a dingy lamp above the door, it basks around him in a yellow orange glow.

Same eyes, same ears, same Patrick.

For years you’ve thought about this exact moment, what you’d say if you ever saw him. You lose all of that practice the closer he gets. He’s less than a foot away from you now, an expectant look on his face. He’s waiting for you to say something. 

You feel like running, like stubbing your cigarette on the pavement and making a break for the door. You already ran from him once, but old habits die hard. 

You don’t run, you refuse to take the easy way out. You’re a grown woman, you’re stronger than you were in college, you’re going to the goddamn Olympics. It’s only Patrick for Christ’s sake.

“What are you doing here?” It sounds harsher than you meant, but that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve kindness from you. 

“Tennis.” Is all he says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Camel blues. “What are you doing here?” He parrots back, smacking the bottom of the carton, plucking the one that shakes out between his long fingers. “I’d think that Miss. Team USA would be too busy for bar crawls.”

You bristle, eyes narrowing skeptically. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or not. “It’s not a bar crawl,” you shoot back childishly, feeling defensive under his heavy gaze. “We’re celebrating.”

Patrick just nods, letting out a small hum in lieu of replying. He's close enough now that you can see gray strands streaked through his hair. He looks older, a few barely there wrinkles creasing his skin as he pops his cigarette between his lips. “Got a light?” he asks around the filter, holding his hand out expectantly before you even answer.

It’s still just as annoying. You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically as you fish your lighter out of your skirts pocket. You place it in the open palm of his hand, ignoring the fireworks that go off at the base of your spine when his fingers catch on your wrist as you pull away.

He mumbles out a half-assed thanks, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. If he notices the color, he doesn’t say anything. It feels wrong that he doesn’t tease you about it, staying silent as he tosses it back to you when his cigarette finally lights. You ignore the hurt blooming in your chest as you pocket it.

Patrick takes a deep inhale, the tip of his cigarette burns bright red. The way his lips wrap around the filter has heat spreading through you. “Shocked you’re still smoking,” he waves his free hand at you vaguely, smoke flowing from his lips as he speaks. “It’s not super admirable.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s really how you want to start this?

“Start what?” he asks coyly, leaning his shoulder too close to you against the brick. He’s playing dumb, the smirk on his face gives him away. 

You say nothing, not trusting yourself to speak. He has a beard now, sort of patchy and fairly new looking. You wrinkle your nose up at it. 

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s acting like this. All calm and collected like he’s catching up with an old friend, like he didn’t say all those horrible things to you. As if every single word he said that night isn’t still engraved in your mind and carried with you through your whole career. 

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, taking another slow drag. “Have you seen either of them?” His voice is hesitant, like he’s treading the water of your boundaries by bringing this up. “Or am I your first?” He lets the innuendo hang in the air, trying to joke his way through something neither of you really want to talk about.

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the part of the street you can see through the alleys opening.

You don’t need to ask who “them” is.

You just shake your head no, not wanting to have to say anything out loud and make this into a whole thing. The smoke from your cigarette swirls through your lungs, warm and familiar. 

You’ve seen them both at multiple tennis events. Things like matches, and galas, and charity auctions. Hell, they watched from the stands when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You just make sure and avoid them like the plague, always running the other direction the second you see a short bob and cropped blonde hair.

You’ve been in the same room with them countless times over the years but you might as well have been in separate worlds. The only “contact” you’ve had with them since you all graduated was weirdly ominous.

Art followed you on Instagram after you got your third career slam, but he doesn’t like any of your posts. You’re one of the mere twenty accounts in his following. You never followed him back. 

Then, when your career first started taking off, the press somehow learned about your past with Tashi. They started using it to their advantage when picking headlines for any pieces written about you. “The only woman in the world to beat Tashi Duncan!” It pissed you off to no end. It was stupid, a way to get clicks on their sad little gossip sites. And it wasn’t even fucking true.

They finally stopped when you threatened to sue their asses. Apparently, Tashi noticed.

She sent you flowers. You threw them out.

Patrick nods back, taking his own slow drag. The sound of traffic hums in the background, the music from the bar bleeding through the wall mutely. 

“Congrats on that,” he says casually, looking you up and down slowly. You fight not to squirm under his gaze. “On making the team. That’s some serious shit. I always knew it’d be you, out of all of us.”

It’s a blatant lie. You were always four out of four in college, the one person in the group with the least potential for stardom. If it wasn’t for Tashi’s injury, she’d definitely be in your place — on top of the world.

He’s trying to pacify you, to butter you up. All it does is grate on your nerves and leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

“Did you just come out here to interrogate me? To mess with me?” you ask sharply, frustration starting to get the better of you. “Do you want a fucking autograph or something?”

Patrick laughs, throwing his head back. “Nope, I wanted to catch up. It's been a while.” he shrugs, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “I just know how much you like talking about yourself, that’s all.”

You pause, picking up on the clear implication of his words. “Excuse me?” you question, turning towards him.

“Just saying,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “When we were younger everyone always thought I was this arrogant, cocky, self obsessed prick…” he trails off, an infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. It does nothing to soothe you, only adding fuel to the fire of your anger. “And they were all right, I was. But, that’s also exactly what you are right now.” he finishes, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

You feel it, all the emotions swirling inside you of at seeing Patrick again threatening to burst. Anger and misery waging a war in your stomach. The wind is starting to pick up around you, making goosebumps break out over your skin. The fabric of your skirt swishes around your thighs. You feel clammy, but it has nothing to do with the temperature drop. 

“Was?” you ask, condescending and mean, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “You really don’t think you’re still all of those things?”

Patrick chuckles, shoulders shaking with amusement. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it. “I’ve changed, Patrick.” you say sternly, brows furrowing in displeasure. Your tone is hard, frustration seeping into your words. Considering the last time the two of you spoke, this was almost going well. It’s just like Patrick to ruin something before he needs to.

You know distantly that you could deescalate the situation, but maybe you’re more alike than you thought. Maybe you’re just too greedy to keep the peace. “So fucking sorry that I’m not the same person I was in college, but I actually chose to grow up.”

Patrick snorts, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose. “Yeah, clearly.” he mutters under his breath, it’s condescending and sarcastic. It pisses you off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask sharply, cigarette now forgotten and steadily burning away at your side. 

Patrick shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still so lost. I sure as shit don’t have a red, white, and blue track suit hanging in my closet, but at least I know who I am.” He doesn't sound angry, only sure of himself, like he may have been thinking about this for a while. His face is passive, body relaxed as he leans against the hard brick.

Your jaw clenches, anger running hot through your veins. He doesn’t know anything about you, hasn’t for over ten years. He doesn’t have the right to try and talk down to you, not after all the hard work you put in to get to where you are.

“My wrist alone is worth ten million. What are you worth now, Patrick?” You’ll be embarrassed about bringing up status later, you always try to stay as humble as possible, but you’re too mad to care. You just need to hurt him, to hurt him like he hurt you. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that Patrick’s parents cut him off a while ago, that he’s been slumming it ever since. “I know exactly who I am, I’m a fucking Olympian.”

The venom in your tone is sharp, each word from your lips like a knife stabbing through the tense air trying to draw blood. “You’re a fucking nobody, Patrick. You’re irrelevant. Washed up. Buried. Forgotten.” You pause when your voice starts to shake, taking a deep inhale of smoke to try and calm yourself. Your hand is shaking too, ash falls from the burnt out tip down to the gravel. Patrick just watches you, his expression doesn’t change. Smoke billows from between your lips, blowing away with the wind. “We’re not on the same level, not anymore.” 

Patrick’s unfazed, staring back at you with his cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between his fingers, letting his arm drop to hang at his side. “I’ve been thinking about you.” he says casually, head lolling to the side lazily. He looks at you through his lashes, eyes sweeping over your face slowly. “I was just thinking about you, and now you’re here. Right fucking in front of me.” he shakes his head with a dry laugh. “You look…” he trails off, green eyes taking in every inch of you. “You look amazing.”

Your pulse flutters wildly, you feel so light headed, like you could pass out any second. “I’ve missed you, missed you everyday since that night.” His expression is that same half cocked grin from before, all smooth bravado and easy smiles as if he’s not staring at you like you’re the very blood coursing through his veins. All the air drains from your lungs, mind racing what feels like a thousand miles per second. 

He sounds like he means it. He looks like he means it. He can’t possibly mean it.

A loud chant ringing through your skull is the only coherent thing screaming through all the mess. Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fucking fall for it–

“Well I don’t miss you.” A lie. “You were nothing to me, Patrick.” Another lie. “You were just easy dick.” Your stomach twists painfully, like your body is physically trying to stop you from lying to yourself any further.

His face stays neutral, it frustrates you to no end that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Patrick had a terrible poker face in college, you could read him like a book with a single glance. It was one of your favorite things about him, how expressive his face always was.

Now he’s just staring down the bridge of his nose at you passively, the picture of indifference. It’s another reminder of how long it’s been, that he’s lived a whole life without you in all that time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you as he does.

His lips are slick and pink, just how you remember them. The beard isn’t so bad, it makes him look more rugged, more like a man. It’s the most drastic change in his appearance, far different from the smooth skinned pretty boy he was before.

He exhales, a long stream of smoke blowing past your ear. “What are you still doing here then?” he muses with a small shrug. He leans in even closer, slowly, like you were a cornered animal he didn’t want to spook. You can smell him, something woodsy with a hint of musk. You can see the clusters of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, almost completely faded. “If I’m nothing,” he clarifies, simple, easy. “Why are you here?”

It’s a loaded question, one he obviously knows the answer to. It’s a dick move, forcing you to confront what you’re really feeling. Your eyes start to sting, complicated emotions welling up in your throat. “Fuck you Patrick.” you whisper weakly, all the bite in your tone getting lost in your dejection. Your lip wobbles warningly, you try your best to stifle it. You refuse to cry in front of him.

Patrick’s face does something funny, turning his eyes to the sidewalk. “I need someone like that again. Someone that isn’t afraid to fucking check me, that wants me to do better and not because they just see a check or a legacy or whatever the fuck else my parents expected from me. Someone that wants me to do better because they actually believe in me.”

The honesty in his voice takes you by surprise. He gets more worked up the longer he talks, chest rising and falling a lot faster than before. Rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his hardened exterior.  “I fucked up that night, I know. Now my life’s a fucking mess, and I need someone to help make it make sense again.“ 

You scoff thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as you fight back tears. “And I’m that person?” you ask skeptically, brow raised in question.

“You always were,” he replies easily, his face forming into a sad smile. He almost sounds like his old self. Your brain flashes the image of Patrick leaning outside the door of your science lecture, waiting to walk you back to your dorm. He’s smiling wide enough to show teeth, looking down at you with brilliant green eyes, just like he is right now.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the boy that broke your heart on a tennis court twelve years ago. 

He was the boy that held your hair back when you threw up after drinking too much at a frat party and still stayed the night even though you didn’t hook up, his chest pressed against your back like a security blanket the whole night. He was the boy that let you make friendship bracelets on the handle of his favorite racket, and secretly kept the one you made for him braided around the neck for weeks until you finally noticed the fraying blue strings still in place when he forgot his tennis bag at your dorm room one night.

Suddenly he wasn’t anything but the boy you fell in love with when you were eighteen years old.

You swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribcage. Your cigarette falls from the slack grip of your fingers, plummeting to your feet where it burns out on the pavement. 

It’s like you lose control of yourself, like all your morals get shot out of a cannon into the sun. You’re lunging forward before you know what you’re doing, fisting the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him down to meet you halfway. Your first kiss with Patrick in twelve years.

It’s a mess of teeth clashing together roughly, with way too much tongue and spit to be classified as romantic. It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s fucking filthy and it’s exactly what you need.

Your tongue forces its way between Patrick’s lips when he gasps in shock, mapping out the familiar territory of his mouth like muscle memory. His big hands fly up to hold onto your hips as he eagerly returns your kiss, pressing you up against the brick and sucking your tongue lewdly. He tastes like smoke and bottom shelf whiskey. You moan into his mouth, wetness starting to seep through the thin material of your panties.

You stay like that for a while, just kissing until Patrick slides the hard line of his cock against your hip strategically. You moan at the size of it pressing onto you through his jeans, breaking the kiss to inhale a couple lungfuls of air. “You’re not fucking me in an alley.” You say bluntly as he trails wet kisses down the side of your throat.

He laughs, nipping at your collarbone teasingly. “My car’s a block away,” he offers between kisses.

You think about it for a second. Deciding on whether or not you’re going to let Patrick fuck you in the backseat of his car like you’re two horny teenagers and not full grown adults.

“Lead the way.” Is all you say, finally letting yourself smile when Patrick starts to drag you away from the bar. 

You shoot your friends a quick text letting them know you decided to head home early, already in the uber you ordered when you’re actually letting Patrick drag you across a blessedly empty parking lot to an old SUV parked in the middle. A completely one-eighty from the Porsche he used to drive.

He takes a second to press you against the door, capturing your lips with his again. It’s a slower kiss, sweeter than the one you shared outside the bar. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach when he cups your face, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. He fumbles blindly for the car door with his other hand, pulling it open and pushing you into the back. He follows closely, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

Patrick’s back on you in less than a second, yanking at the buttons of your shirt impatiently, fingers too big to work them through the holes as fast as he wants to. He lets out a frustrated growl, grabbing both sides and pulling hard. The buttons all go flying in different directions, landing in different spots around you.

“That was three hundred dollars,” you mumble against his lips, not wanting to stop kissing him for even a second. He looms over you, broad and all encompassing. He sits up to yank his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and popping open the button of his jeans.

“You can buy another one,” he says simply, shucking his jeans and boxers off all in one go. His dick is long and lovely, tip red and drooling pre-cum that drips all the way down to his balls. Your mouth waters, desperate to taste it, to feel the weight of it on your tongue and down your throat. You push it to the back of your mind. There’s no time for that, both of you too keyed up to do anything other than fuck.

Patrick leans down, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. He turns his attention to your pulling skirt down, panties going with it and getting tossed onto the floorboard carelessly. His eyes zero in on your bare pussy, wet and on display. The cool air shocks your system, making you want to press your thighs together but Patrick’s hands keep you spread open.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, moving to roll the knuckle of his right index finger over your slick entrance, just barely rocking it into you. You gasp, your whole body trembling with need. “Just like I remember.” He mutters to himself, pushing in the smallest bit deeper. 

Your leg kicks out, patience starting to wear thin. “C’mon, Pat.” you mewl sweetly, bucking your hips up in a clear invitation. “Fuck me.”

Patrick shifts up onto his knees, silently shuffling closer to your spread thighs. His cock juts out from his body, so thick and heavy that it doesn’t point straight up, instead hangs angry and red between his legs. His big hands slide halfway up your thighs, you shiver at the way they skirt across your skin lightly. He presses you backwards by them, leaning over you with your legs slung across his shoulders.

His cock drags across your inner thigh, trailing a sloppy line of pre-come as it does. You nearly wail, wrapping your arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders as you beg for him to give you what you want.

“God Patrick! Put it in. Please, put it in. Let me have it, please, fuck–,” you beg frantically, arms tightening around his shoulders like you’re trying to drag him impossibly closer to you. He goes willingly, burying his nose in the soft skin of your neck. He presses a small kiss directly over your pulse.

“I’m gonna give you this cock, baby.” he whispers lowly, hot lips brushing against your skin with every word. He slides the head of his cock through your wet folds, stopping to rub it over your swollen clit a few times. “Gonna get all up inside you and fuck you exactly how you like.” He slides the length down, letting his tip catch on your empty, clenching hole.

You’re so damn worked up, writhing and pushing back and begging Patrick to just fuck you already, that you can’t take anymore teasing. Your hole contracts around the tip of his dick like it’s trying to suck him in. He sinks in deeper, slowly feeding every thick inch into your aching cunt.

“God,” Your name falls from his lips in a shuddery breath that fans over your fluttering pulse. “You still smell the same.” It’s the same stunned, breathless tone from when he first saw you. He presses his face cheek to cheek with yours, the rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin. 

Patrick moves his hips against you slowly, deep strokes that drag every thick inch of him against the walls of your cunt. The tip of his cock stabbing that sweet spot inside you that makes stars glow bright on the ceiling of his car each time you blink. The angle has his balls pressing against your cunt as he fucks into you, the excessive pre-come leaking from his tip mixing with the sticky wetness of your juices leaves an obscene ring of creamy white around the spread hole of your cunt. It sticks wetly to the base of Patrick’s cock with each thrust, shining back at you on his skin when he pulls out.

The slow thrusts feel amazing, but you know it’s not enough. You need him to pound into you, to bully his big cock into your cunt like he’s getting back at you for shutting him out. You need him to fuck you. 

“Harder, Pat…” you whine breathlessly, clawing desperately at the polyester seats.

He groans loudly, hips immediately speeding up, getting rougher, meaner. He leans up to get more power behind his thrusts, breaking your tight hold on his shoulders. “This is where you belong,” he grits out, sweat dripping from his forehead to fall onto your heaving chest. The sharp smack smack smack of his hips bruising your ass gets louder, the lewd noise filling the car. “Where you should have been this whole fucking time, spread open on my cock.”

The only thing you can even get out anymore are pleading whines and loud moans of Patrick’s name as he pounds into you like he’s trying to kill you. The harsh snap of his hips inching you further up the backseat until your head’s knocking against the doors handle on each mean thrust. Your feet bounce by his ears, body almost completely folded in half so all you can do is lie there and take it.

The car rocks steadily, anyone who spares a glance at the SUV will know what’s going on inside. 

Patrick sneaks a hand between your legs, fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You scream, throwing your head back in pleasure as the calloused tips over his fingers work you over. “Fuck yeah,” Patrick mutters, turning his head to lick and bite at your ankle. “You’re so fucking sexy, so fucking beautiful. I missed you so much, missed this pussy.” His voice is pinched, hips fucking into you impossible faster.

The wet squelching noise of your cunt is filthy, splattering against Patrick’s heavy balls with each thrust. “I know she missed me too, didn’t she baby?” he taunts, eyes wild and blown out. “Taking my cock so well, squeezing me so fucking good.”

“Close,” you gasp out. Patrick pitches forward, licking into your parted lips as he rubs tight circles over your clit faster. He kisses you sloppily, smearing spit all over your lips and chin. His sweat drips onto your face and mixes with your own, it should be gross, but it makes you even wetter. The primal part of your brain overjoyed to be claimed by him. He lifts his fingers up the tiniest bit, smacking them over your clit with the smallest amount of force.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, back arching off the seat wildly as you gush around his cock. You claw at his back desperately, nails raking down his skin hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake.

“Shit– that’s good, milk it out of me baby, work for this fucking load.” he groans, hips not slowing down as he chases his own release. His breath puffs over your skin, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter the closer he gets. You whine, trying your best focus on clenching your cunt over his cock in your fucked out state. “That’s it, baby– God – you’re gonna make me come, squeezing me so tight I can barely fucking move…” he growls, teeth sinking into your neck hard.

You hiss sharply, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure starts to become too much. He licks over the bite mark, like he’s apologizing. “Gonna fucking come inside you, fill you up so good, fuck–”

His rambling dissolves into a loud groan, hips giving one last thrust as he buries himself as deep in your cunt as he can. You feel rope after rope of warm come flood your insides, painting your walls with it. It feels like hours, him unloading into you with cut off moans and grunts. 

You're still desperately trying to catch your breath when he finally starts to pull out of you as gently as he can. The red tip of his cock popping free lets the river of his come leak out from your abused hole, spilling out of you to drip onto the car’s seat.

Patrick curses at the sight, scooping the white, creamy mess onto his fingers so he can fuck it back into you. You hiss at the over stimulation, thighs squeezing together around his hand. Your chest is still heaving, breathing erratic as you slowly come down from your orgasm. Patrick tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, smiling warmly as he takes you into his arms and shifts around until he’s sitting up against the door with you curled into his chest.

The windows are steamy, melting all the streetlights outside into a swamp of warm colors on the glass. They shine through the car like sunlight piercing through a stained glass window. You feel light and hazy, like you’re in a dream. Patrick’s body grounds you, firm and familiar against your back. It’s quiet for a long time, only the sound of soft breathing fills the car. You're scratching your nails through the hair on Patrick’s chest when he finally breaks the silence.

“There’s…” he says into your hair, trailing off near the end. He’s idly tracing shapes on your lower back. A circle, a square, a circle, a diamond, a square, a heart. “There’s this challenger in New Rochelle in a couple weeks, I’m entering it. You should come.” 

Your heart drops, the delicate cloud encompassing you and Patrick forcefully ripped away in less than a second. You’ve already heard of this challenger, seen all the publicity it’s been getting since Art’s name came up in the conversation surrounding it. The ‘Phil’s Tire Town Challenger’ is all anyone can talk about. 

If Art’s there, she will be too. Sitting in the stands in a classy Ralph Lauren two piece, watching her husband and Patrick on the court, looming over the two of them for the first time in years. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing her. You can’t stomach the thought of Patrick seeing her, terrified that the second she spares him a glance you’ll be right back where you were in college, an afterthought left in the dust for something better.

Your stomach lurches violently, you feel nauseous. The heat of Patrick’s backseat becomes almost unbearable, making it harder to breathe. You rip yourself away from him, tearing through the backseat to find your clothes. 

Patrick startles, sitting up with a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what's wrong?” You can feel the warmth of his hands hovering over your back, not sure if he should touch. “What did I do?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Your throat feels tight, chest constricted and heavy as you try to take in lungfuls of air. You tug on your skirt and panties haphazardly, grabbing the first shirt you find strewn across the car's floor and yanking it on. You know it’s not yours but you don’t care, too busy trying to shove your shoes back onto your feet and push open the door all at once.

Patrick questions you the entire time, voice confused and insistent as you tumble out into the parking lot. The cool air feels like a life jacket, the smell of rain fills your nose as you try to steady your erratic breathing. You’re still trying to tug your right shoe on as you start to speed walk away from his car.

You can hear the sound of feet slapping behind you on the pavement as you walk. A strong hand wraps around your bicep, whipping you around. Patrick only has his pants on, shirtless and barefoot in his haste to catch up with you.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes searching your face closely. It makes tears burn hot at your waterline, blurring your vision and falling to trickle down your cheeks when you try to blink them away.

“This was a mistake, Patrick.” your voice is thick with emotion, you try to wrench your arm out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, not squeezing tight enough to hurt but to try and keep you in place. You need to leave, to get as far away from Patrick as you can before you’re in too deep. “Please, let go.” Your voice is small, shaky and weak and so unlike you. The panic from the car is still wrapped around you, growing tighter every second you spend with him.

Patrick shakes his head wildly, raindrops slowly start to fall onto his bare shoulders. “No, fuck no! We can talk about this. We just need to talk–”

“Patrick stop!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, loud and desperate as you double your efforts to free your arm. “Please just let me go!”

You don’t know if it’s the way you said it or the look on your face, maybe it’s a bit of both, but something makes Patrick let you go. Dropping your arm from his grip and letting his own hang limply at his side.

Rain starts to come down all around you, large drops hitting your skin and soaking the cotton of your shirt. You let yourself meet his eyes, they're sad in a way you’ve never seen before. The green turned dull and lifeless. It looks wrong on him.

When you can’t stand the hurt look on his face any longer, you leave. Walking away deeper into the rain, small puddles splashing up around your shoes with every step. You hope Patrick doesn’t follow you, that he lets you go. You’re doing him a favor by making the choice for him, it’s easier this way.

“You know, I think I really loved you.” He calls from behind you as the rain really starts to pick up. His voice almost gets swallowed by the thunder, you wish it would have. 

Against your better judgment, you look back. Patrick hasn't moved, still standing in the middle of the parking lot. The rain is making his hair stick to his forehead, starting to seep into the denim of his jeans to darken the gray. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, voice tiny and pathetic. Patrick probably couldn’t even hear you over the wind whipping through the air. He stares back at you, there's too much distance for you to see the look on his face. You turn on your heels and keep walking.

It’s nostalgia in its sickest form, the dark familiarity of the situation washing over you with the rain as you walk away from Patrick again. Ignoring every call of your name and desperate pleas for you to come back is new, you can’t tell if it hurts more or less than the silence of last time.

You wrap your arms around yourself, tears mixing with the trails of rain running down your cheeks. It’ll make it easier to convince yourself later on that you weren’t really crying, that it was just the rain. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will all be behind you. Patrick will be fine, he doesn’t really love you. In a few weeks he’ll go to the challenger and forget all about you. 

You hear your mothers voice ring out in the back of your head as you walk.

"It's for the best, my love. Dependence is weakness."

You hope to God that she's right.

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[countrycrackheads]

anything for the bowers gang, like pick any prompt I’ll literally read it

Riding In Cars With Boys

prompt: You accept a ride home from Belch, much to the rest of the gang's dismay.

A/N: I haven't written anything in a very long time, so I am rusty. Spare me. Fem. reader btw. I apologize to any masc. readers.

It wasn't every day that you get offered a car ride home, much less from a boy. Even less from a bully. Granted, Belch Huggins has never bullied you a day in his life. He preferred to watch silently with disdain. Though the same couldn't be said for his buddies, who had been mildly bullying you since middle school. But despite Belch never bullying you, it still came as a surprise when the tall lug bulldozed over to you in sixth period, mumbling something about having a ride.

"What?"

There was an awkwardness that filled the air. Belch stared at you, his eyes wide while his cheeks reddened. The poor sap was fumbling over his words before clearing his throat.

"I said," his voice much louder than his previous mumbling, "Do you have a ride home?" He quirked his eyebrow, albeit a bit sassy, coming from him.

"Oh, sorry I didn't hear you the first time..." you admitted, surprised by his sassy behavior. "I don't have a ride home. Why?"

"Well, y'know..." He shrugged, jutting his head a bit. "I could give 'ya a ride. We live on the same street anyway, and our mamas are friends 'n' all." He glanced away awkwardly, refusing to make prolonged eye contact.

Naturally, your eyes snapped wide open at this offer. Was thee Belch Huggins seriously inviting you into his beloved car? The same car that he curb stomped a kid for leaning against it at a party, not knowing it was Belch's car. A quick snicker came from your mouth, but it was quickly stifled.

"B-Belch seriously, I-" You paused as you tried to regain your uncomfortable laughter. "I don't really know. Y'know, it's a small town, and people would talk if they saw us together in a car."

Belch sneered at your response like he was offended. "So? Talk is cheap and if anything, you should be lucky that people would even talk about you being in a car with me." His confidence surely caught you by surprise, your jaw dropping at his response. Just how many times was Belch gonna surprise you today?

"Okay, fine. You win Huggins. I'll let you give me a ride home, but no funny business." You huffed, blowing a stray piece of hair out of your face.

"Funny business?" Belch's eyebrows furrowed. "I ain't doing that in the car with the guys there. That's just plain 'ol embarrassing."

His disgust was mildly amusing, but you couldn't focus on that. Oh, no. Rather, you were focused on the part where he said that the guys would be in the car too.

"What? The guys? As-... As in your friends? As in the Bowers gang?" You stumbled over your words like a fool, making Belch grin.

"Yeah, no shit. Why? You scared?" Belch was amused now. Of course he was. All those assholes loved when people were scared of them. It was like it turned them on, the sickos they were. However, for Belch, it wasn't the fear from you that made him grin, it was the chance to swoop in to your defense.

"Well, you don't worry about that doll. I'll have them handled." These words of reassurance were oddly... sweet? Was Belch Huggins being nice to you? Before you could reply with your gratitude for this offer, he walked back to his desk.

When that bell rang, signifying the end of the school day, you almost metaphorically shit yourself. Sure, your palms got sweaty and your heart dropped to your rectum, but at least you didn't shit yourself. Not yet, at least. Instead, you hesitantly got up from your seat and began making your way to the school's parking lot. It was at said parking lot that you saw Victor Criss in front of Amy Belch's car.

'Why is Criss all alone?'

Your question was quickly answered when you heard some commotion coming from the front lawn. A quick glance showed Henry Bowers, pyromaniac Patrick Hockstetter, and Belch Huggins bullying on some middle school kids. And with another quick glance, you realized it was Bill Denbrough, the kid with the missing brother. This realization of who the kid was made you sigh to yourself, feeling pity for the kid but also guilt 'cause there was no way in hell anybody could help this kid from Henry's wrath.

Pushing your feelings aside, you came up behind Eddie Kaspbrak, who was currently about to get burped on by Belch.

"Belch?" You raised your eyebrow at him. "Don't be disgusting. Mind your manners."

Belch looked at you, immediately straightening out his back and sheepishly smiling. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Go get in the car. We'll be there in a jiff."

The sound of your voice caught Patrick's attention, who turned his reptilian gaze from Stanley Uris to you. All you could do was keep your head down as you weaved through the bullied trio of middle schoolers towards Amy.

Victor sneered when you got too close to Amy. "Watch it, skank." He moved in closer to her, his disapproving eyes glazing over your figure.

"Uh... sorry, I-" You backed up, intimidated by a literal twig with the most disrespectful mouth on the planet.

"Cool it, Vic. She's my neighbor. I offered her a ride." Belch's voice spoke up from behind you. You looked over your shoulder to see the trio of bullies heading your way.

'Fuck fuck fuck. This is a joke. Maybe it's not too late to back out?'

But before you could say or do anything, Belch's hand was on your shoulder while he stared down at Vic. "Didn't your mama teach you how to talk to ladies?" Belch asked, his tone teasing.

"Yeah, but I don't see any ladies around." Victor grinned as his eyes landed on Hockstetter. "Nevermind."

"Eat my shorts, flamer." Hockstetter scowled at the short blonde, his eyes narrowing before shifting onto you. "And who's this, Belchy? You got a little girlfriend you ain't tell us about?" His hand reached out, catching onto a piece of your hair. You instinctively flinched, shutting your eyes as you expected the worse. This made Patrick chuckle deeply, a huge predatory grin spreading across his features.

"Step off! She ain't my girlfriend," Belch replied defensively. His reddening cheeks surely didn't help his case, but the boys didn't bring it up. Belch, embarrassed and upset, quickly changed the subject as he batted Patrick's hand away from you. "Henry, you're sitting in the back today."

"Like hell I am!" Henry exclaimed, his dull eyes suddenly full to the brim with rage. "I ain't sitting back there with Hockstetter!"

"Like I wanna sit with you!" Patrick argued back, his eyes shifting quickly to Henry. "What's the matter, Bowers? Scared? I won't bite. Not unless you want me to." He was still grinning.

Before you could witness Henry flipping his lid, Belch pushed you towards the passenger's door, which he so kindly opened for you. "Get in before Henry's notices," he said as he languidly watched the arguing duo of boys. You complied, quickly getting into the passenger seat. Belch checked that your feet were inside before slamming the door shut. This loud noise caught the attention of the gang, and some few other passersby.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Henry was speaking through gritted teeth, the vein in his forehead almost popping from his skin.

"Giving a pretty girl a ride in MY car. Now, do you guys want a ride or not? I'll gladly leave you all behind." Belch huffed before walking to his side of the car and getting in.

The boys begrudgingly hopped into the back of the car. Henry forced Victor to sit in the middle because "fuck that. Patrick's gonna bite me".

The first few minutes on the road were dead silence except for the occasion mumbled curse whenever Belch got frustrated at the other drivers. Fed up with the silence, Henry kicked your seat, making you flinch. This reaction brought chuckles out of the boys.

"Put in a cassette," Henry grumbled. There was some silence before you glanced back at him.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch-"

"Put in a cassette! Can you hear me now?!"

"Ok..." You turned back to the front and hesitantly opened the glove box, your eyes focusing on Belch. He seemed to have noticed your nervous glance, so he nodded his head a bit to let you know it was okay to check his tapes. With much more confidence than before, you opened up the glove box and searched for a tape. Finally, you produced a tape that said 'metal madness' on it. Without hesitation, you pushed the tape into the slot, then pressed the radio's start button. Seconds later, The Four Horsemen by Metallica came on.

"I don't like this one," the blonde pancaked in between two psychos complained.

"That's too fuckin' bad," the psychotic Blondie on his right said with a sneer.

"I thought we couldn't cuss in front of ladies," Hockstetter chimed in with a teasing smirk.

"If she can even count as a lady," Vic mumbled. You paused and turned to look at him, your lips slightly parted in shock.

"This is why you never get any play, Criss. Even Belch gets some puss once in a while by offering girls rides." Patrick looked at Victor, then at you.

"What?" You stared at Patrick before glancing at Belch.

"He's kidding. Don't take anything he ever says seriously," Belch explained, shaking his head in annoyance.

"Was I kidding about the part of you getting puss or her being pretty?" Patrick began to chuckle to himself, especially when he heard Belch groan at his question.

"Have you ever considered shutting the fuck up?!" Henry roared out angrily as his arms jutted out towards Patrick's neck, strangling the pyromaniac.

"Harder! Harder pussy!" Patrick yelled at Henry as he choked out.

"What the fuck?!" Victor screamed, caught in the middle of this chaos.

Belch sighed and glanced at you apologetically, but to his surprise, you seemed elated to be witnessing this. You watched in shock for about 10 seconds before bursting out into pure amused laughter. At the sound of your laughter, the gang's bickering stopped. Henry slowly let go of Patrick's neck, frowning to himself as you laughed at them.

"What're you laughing at?" Henry grumbled like an angry child, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You guys fight like siblings," you explained through small pants as you tried to catch your breath from all your laughing. "It's really refreshing to see you guys this way since all I ever see if you guys terrorizing kids at school. It's nice to know you guys are like this with each other, too."

There was a prolonged silence before any of the boys spoke again.

"Yeah, yeah. Eat your heart out," Victor mumbled. Admittedly, he felt flustered by your laughter. Even more by your explanation. Henry had also felt flustered, so he stayed quiet the rest of the ride. Hockstetter didn't really care, he never cared much about anything except for.. a certain junkyard fridge.

After a few minutes of less awkward silence, Belch came to a stop in front of your home. He turned to look at you with a small smile. "This is your stop."

"Yeah, thanks so much, Belch. I really, really appreciate it."

"No problem." There was a pause as he watched you get out of the car. "So, same time tomorrow?" He asked as you grabbed the door.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." You smiled at him wide before shutting the door and going to your front door, leaving behind a car full of flustered boys... And Patrick.

[terr1ble-lie]

Mind reader

i usually post on wattpad and use tumblr for reading or speaking my mind, so sorry my followers who just see this

Patrick Bateman x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut/NSFW, dubcon, degredation, forced proximity. the mains ones, if you think i should add any more let me know <3

you and bro are trapped in a elevator/lift together. you hate him, he hates you. but he always knows how to pass the time.

(It’s been to long since I’ve seen this movie, so bare with. read through once or twice but there probs still a few mistakes)

You and Patrick Bateman had never gotten along. You were all he hated in a woman. Strong minded, opinionated, *a human being opposed to an object*. Good thing for him, you hated him just as much. Objectively at least. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t get something out of his controlling and rude nature. Though you’d never admit that to yourself. It’s everything you stand against. But that was half of the appeal…

Much to your utter disgust, and no doubt his own, you two were stuck in an elevator together. It had stopped working between floors. And you two would be in here for at least an hour. Or so the mechanic on the emergency call told you.

“Just my damn luck..”

You annoyedly mumbled to yourself. Running your fingers through your hair.

“You read my mind”

the words uttered from his pampered mouth held no emotion whatsoever. It wasn’t a surprise.

“I can’t think of anything I’d want less in all fairness. Reading your mind would no doubt drive me to jump until the damn lift drops”

*here we go again…*

“The fact that you 're even considering that means you’ve thought about it at least once.”

He sounded smug, like catching you in a lie. Though you didn’t let it show how much such a small comment got on your nerves

“It’s not like there’s much to think about when we are trapped together in such a small space” 

You grumbled. mind spiralling to try and distract you from your current circumstances though it wasn't much of a distracting, judging by the fact your eyes locked straight onto him. A hungry gaze masked by judgement wandered over to his slightly taller, and a lot broader, body. You were stood leaning against the closed door. He was standing straight on the other side, no more than 3 ft between the two of you. Of course this was a perfect opportunity to check him out, not like he’d get anything but an unnecessary ego boost from it.

Your eyes dragged over him from head to toe. Lingering on the way his tailored slacks tighten over his toned thighs. You wondered how much the man could lift. But the thought was soon pushed from your mind as your eyes landed on another part the pants strained against. 

letting your gaze stay in his bulge for longer than you were willing to admit to yourself. You felt like the type of people you so despised. Checking others out as if they were a freshly cooked steak. You took your self disgust as a cue to avert your ever-more interested eyes.

But that glance was all you needed for your mind to spin.

Sadly, said glance was also all he needed too.

“You’re as a subtle as a brick”

He broke the silence. Your face immediately flushing, albeit subtly. Ironic.

“Don’t pretend I haven’t caught you getting more than an eyeful of all the women in this office. They should put you on a damn leash” 

she retorted. Shifting in her stance to cross one ankle over the other as her back arched off the door in return. Your poor shirt straining against your full chest at the movement. The small gaps in the fabric give a clear enough view to see the ash grey bra you wore. This time it was the bateman's hungry eyes drinking in the sight.

“Dressing for comfort over appearances? Maybe you're not as much of a slut as I thought”

You scoffed at his comment. Running her hand through her hair once more before responding, reluctantly.

“Proving my damn point”

“I never said I didn’t. Keep up.”

You felt your fists clench in self restraint as he continued nonchalantly insulting you. One of the many reasons you fantasised about the man begging for mercy from you. In any and all ways. Who could blame you though, right?

Entertaining him with a response would both add to your annoyance and his smugness, so you decided against it. The fact he continued shouldn’t have been a surprise. And this time he took a step closer.

“You should wear lace tomorrow. Black, balconette style. Easier on the eyes”

He quips. It did nothing but make your damn blood boil. you were always quick to react.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

The scoff scoff drew a twitch from his eye. It was barely noticeable but enough to make her feel proud for getting a reaction.

“I was thinking the same about you. Although I’m sure it would be easy enough to make you”

“What do you m-“

You were cut off by a strong hand lacing in your hair and tugging you to the side sharply. Your head kept to the left, the side of your neck exposed. And  much to your surprise, the movement drew a involuntary whimper from her throat

“hmm.”

he took another step closer so his body kept you cornered against the door of the lift. His grip tightening in your hair and pulling you down further. your hands darting up the grab his wrist in a feeble attempt to get away from him

“Get your damn hands off you me you sick bastard-“

you were once again cut off. His free hand strikes you hard across the face and draws another, more pained whimper from her. A grimace formed on your lips as the sting flooded the sensitive flesh of your cheek. And you glared up at him. 

He showed nothing. Not even a smirk. And despite it all, the dreaded ache of arousal coiled in the dip of your pelvis in a way you've never felt before. 

Your breath was heavier, hotter. And then he finally chuckled. It was mocking with nothing real behind it. More a show of dominance than anything else.

“This will pass time I guess. Kneel, whore”

You whined in response to his venom laced words. Shaking your head as much as you could with his grip still in your hair, as strong as it was. To nobody’s amazement, this didn’t sit well with the man.

He wrapped a leg to coil around yours before giving you a sharp jab in the back of the knee with his heel. Taking a swift step back to give you enough room to fall to your knees. His hand never leaves your hair for even a second.

“I can see it in your eyes. Dont lie to me.”

Before your protests could leave your mind, he’d already unzipped and unbuttoned his slacks. Freeing his almost concerningly hard erection. He really was getting off on forcing this out of you. And to your disgust, you were too.

Without a second thought you presented your open mouth for fucking. Your rational thought now completely clouded by arousal and you accepted this was in fact  happening. And he accepted the invitation with open arms, and legs. Invading your mouth with his painfully large cock. 

You gagged, the result of his negligent speed of thrusting into your mouth and instantly hitting the back of your throat. 

the feeling of your throat tightening around him in attempts to purge him of your insides was almost euphoric. Expressing his pleasure in an almost inaudible grunt. 

He used his grip on your locks to guide your head to meet his thrusts. Beginning to fuck your face as if you were nothing but a toy to him. And it suited you. That was all you were to the tall, brunette businessman taking advantage of your less and savoury kinks.

His pace increased. The spare, large and veined hand of his bracing himself against the door of the elevator you were once leant on. your satisfyingly tight throat meeting every snap of his hips. 

You moaned around him. The depraved noise sends a subtle vibration right through him. 

“Do that again..-“

He spoke between the heavy breaths synced with his thrusts. And you knew it wasn't a polite request. And you happily, instinctively obliged. More moans being forced from your Pre-cum soaked throat.

He never lost control of his thrusts. The only thing he gave as warning of his climax was the distended groan he let out before his grip on your hair tightened very painfully. Soon your throat was warmed and coated in ribbons of cum. And he glared down at you. A silent demand you followed almost eagerly. Taking great care to keep your eyes locked with his as you swallowed every last drop. within two attempts. It was difficult while he was still in your mouth.

He removed his cock eventually after he was satisfied you’d taken him fully. And as quickly as it all happened, his tailored slacks were zipped up once more and his back was against the far lift wall.

Your jaw was left aching. Your expensive lipstick smudged down your chin and mascara gathering at the corner of your eyes. But you stood. The action of you standing made you realise the lift was moving up again. That trademark ding ringing out as you finish readjusting your skirt.

You turned around just as the door slid open. Wordlessly pushing past the people crowded around waiting to see if you were both ok. You hoped you walked fast enough that your ruined makeup looked like the blur of movement. 

But Just before you were out of earshot, you heard that painfully familiar voice ring out from behind you

“Maybe you couldn’t read my mind but I sure as hell read yours”

You hated that he was right.

[sweetyyhippyy]

Swayze Moves. Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader. *FLUFF*

Summary: Steve's fiancé has a bad day at work. He does his best to cheer her up.

Word Count: 654

TW: Tooth rotting, extra cheesy fluff.

Note: I saw this tiktok and immediately thought of Steve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steven’s poor fiancé had come home from work in a horrible mood, understandably so. 

She had ranted and raved that a customer called her a dumb bitch because she had forgotten a side of ranch. Another table ran out on their bill, which means she was responsible for taking care of it out of her pocket. And she got stuck covering for Kelly’s shift without being asked. 

All she wanted to do was have a big bowl of ice cream with all the yummy fixings and go to bed. 

The stereo plays in the back while Steve went through the cassette tapes they both owned, looking for the one that he needed. Once he finds it, he takes out the current tape and replaces it with the new one, seeking the track he wants to play. 

She sighs as she’s cutting the strawberries for her treat, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “Steve, could you not mess with the music please?” Her tone had been spicier than she meant for it to come out.

He fast forwards the song to the part that he knew would perk her mood up. Steve comes up from behind her, jumping up on the counter next to her and straightening his legs out. 

She gasps as Steve comes into her view, raising her eyebrows at him, confused as to what he was doing. “What are you doing?” 

“What are you doing?” Steve asks in a sultry tone, biting back a laugh that wanted to creep out. 

“I’m wondering why you’re on the counter.” Snorting a laugh. 

“You’ll see, honey.” Steve wiggles his eyebrows at her suggestively. He points toward the stereo on the other side of the room, drawing her attention that way. “Sylvia? Yes, Mickey?” He mouths along to the song playing in the back. 

She finally starts to piece together what he was doing. A smile spreads across her face while she watches him. 

Steve slides off the counter and onto his feet, swinging his hips back and forth, rather sensually she might add. “How do you call your lover boy?” He looks to her to finish the line, only to be met by her giggling to herself and shaking her head. 

Steve gasps, raising his arms in disbelief that she missed her queue. “And if he still doesn’t answer, I simply say…” He points to her, encouraging her to play along with him. 

“Baby, oh baby.” She finally responds, closing the gap between her and Steve’s body. 

Fully into this little game he started, Steve starts to play the air guitar along with the song much like Patrick Swayze does in the movie, one that he would never admit to enjoying. 

“My sweet baby, you’re the one.” She throws her arm around his neck, swaying her hips along with Steve’s. 

Steve wraps his arm around her lower back, smiling at his fiancé. “I know you had a shitty day, I just wanted to make you feel better. Take your mind off everything.” 

Her fingers rake through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You did, handsome.” She stretches to kiss the top of his nose sweetly. “I love seeing you pull out your best Patrick Swayze moves.” 

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s a secret between the two of us, okay?” 

“Aww,” She says in fake disappointment. “You mean we aren’t going to recreate that at the wedding for our first dance?” 

“Absolutely not! That’s just for us in the middle of the kitchen.” 

She rolls her eyes in sarcasm. “Can we at least watch Dirty Dancing tonight?” Batting her eyes at him sweetly, knowing Steve could never say no to her when she pulled out those eyes at him. 

“Alright, fine. But not a word about how hot Patrick Swayze is, got it?” Pointing his finger at her, trying to act fake tough. 

“Sir, yes sir.”

It was definitely going on their wedding playlist.