#patrick zweig headcanons | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinytennisskirt · 9 months ago

Text

Sweetheart

girl dad!patrick x babysitter!reader

summary: the growth of a mutual ‘crush’ between babysitter!reaser and the father of the little girl she babysits. problem is, he’s about fifteen years older than her and they get along a little too well. he has to remember fucking a twenty-year-old is wrong, no matter how much he might want to. no matter what other feelings might be involved… he just knows what he wants and it’s hard to ignore it when she feels the same way.

warnings: unedited from the notes app and i accidentally switched tenses so ignore that!!! and SMUT. tension. flirting. age gap, obvi! sex. sex. sex. rough.

babysitting for DILF! Patrick, his house is a little cluttered and messy but it’s his. He’s fixing his screen door when you come by, he’s got a nail clenched between his teeth, he’s not worried.

he thought you’d be younger, sixteen, maybe, but you’re twenty and a half, he deducts from asking about your birthday. he still thinks you’re gorgeous before he does the math, he’s a bit of a dirtbag that way…

tells you all about his daughter and what she likes to watch, what she likes to eat, says you can order pizza if you want and as long as she’s asleep by midnight, he’s happy. he’s more carefree than other parents you babysit for. you find your eyes resting on the muscle of his upper arm as he shows you around the house just so you can find your way. part of his introduction is just flirting, his face getting a little close to yours with that smirk of his.

you’re standing your ground and he likes that. he’s only half-aware of his intentions. asks again what your hourly rate is and when you tell him, he tacks four dollars onto it. you’re saying thank you, but he says he’ll be back by 1:30 and he’s out the door.

his daughter, dark curls and freckles is standing on the steps. she’s a happy girl, she’s polite and she’s smart, like- gifted smart. she’s silly and has hobbies of building cubes out of paper. she teaches you how and soon you’re in a pile of paper cubes.

she’s in bed by ten just because you asked her to be and she’s not fussy at all, just silly when she brushes her teeth. she has a good sense of humour and makes good references. as you tuck her into her pretty pink room with lots of books, she tells you she has ice cream in the freezer and that you’re welcome to it because she only pretends to like the flavour her dad buys her- eating it would help her out. she’s only six but her brain is amazing. you hope you see her again.

she goes to sleep and you turn off her lamp and slip out of her room. the hallway is dimly lit and you find yourself looking at the pictures on the wall. patrick was or is a tennis player, there are trophies on top of cabinets and old player photos. old player IDs and he was… hot. not that he wasn’t now, he was, but he was your age in these photos no doubt… came naturally to find him attractive. you continue down the hall and his daughter starts appearing in photos and he looks a little older but you’re noticing that there’s not a single photo of her mother.

it’s just them, you deduct. she’s not in any picture so she must not be in the

picture. you get the small tub of ice cream from the freezer and eat it on the couch, finding a show you’re fond of and watching it, finishing the small bit left, twirling the spoon around in your mouth.

you get up and look around the house a bit more. observing the clutter of books where his daughter sits on the couch, walking to where there’s a bit of sports equipment, tennis rackets, a few looking a bit… broken. smashed. you wondered if he broke them himself. your fingers traced over the pictures on the kitchen wall. he looks good without facial hair, you note, but you prefer him with. he looks like a great dad, the various photos of him and his daughter in various places, the beach, outside of a restaurant, pictures of her holding up his trophy while sitting on his shoulders. a duo for sure.

you wash your dishes in the sink and decide to maybe tidy up a bit, cleaning a few other things. you wipe down the counters and make the clutter into piles. you busy yourself until you hear the key in the lock. you’ve made the living room neat and tidy and you don’t know what to do when he comes in and he looks over everything. you just stand in the centre of the living room.

“she was really good,” you say, hand on your stomach. “she really likes broccoli, which i didn’t expect, but she showed me how to make paper cubes and she was in bed around ten, so i cleaned a little bit.”

he looked a little rustled, his shirt a little more wrinkled and his curls a little more all over. you assumed he’d had a good night out. he looked good, though. lucky woman, you were thinking. “yeah, i see.” he chuckled, setting his jacket down on the back of the couch.

you’re young and you’re shy and he can tell you’re nervous, “it’s okay? you don’t mind, i hope you don’t mind.”

“i don’t mind,” he grinned, pulling out his wallet, “it looks good, i never would have done it.” he steps closer, close to you, just in front of you, looking down at you. you’re under his gaze and he keeps eye contact with you as he pulls out his wallet and you’re a little taken aback by how intense it is. “i owe you how much?”

you state your old rate and he just grins, dimples on his face. the ones you only saw in his photos with his daughter. he smells like cigarettes and cologne. something about the way he looks at you makes you feel a little weak. your eyes fall on his hand as he flicks through bills, handing you about $60 more than you were owed. his bonus and a second bonus for the cleaning. “you don’t have to… i usually tidy up where i babysit.”

“well, i didn’t ask you to, nor did i expect it.” he says, grinning down at you. it’s smug and he smells good and he’s looking at you like you’re a meal and you kind of like it but he’s… an older guy. he has a daughter and she’s asleep and he’s tall and you are staring. he’s hot. he’s really hot and he’s looking back at you, “thank you. i’ll probably need you again in a week, are you free?”

you blink, “i’m free.” you tell him. “thank you… again. i really should be going.”

“do you need a ride home? she’s okay to be alone for a few minutes.” he’s still close, he’s still standing over you.

“thank you, but i’m okay. i just walked over, i listen to music there and back.”

“you’re sure? it’s late.” his grin is all consuming. you’re sure it’s stealing your thoughts as you continue to blank.

“i’m sure. thank you again. for everything.” you step past him and he turns with you as you go and slip on your shoes.

“thank you,” he says, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “have a good night, alright?”

“i’ll try. goodnight mr. zweig,” you smile as you pull open the front door.

“patrick.”

“hm?”

“call me patrick.” he repeats, nodding.

“goodnight, patrick.” your smile grows into a grin and you slip out the door. he hates how he feels about you. you’re cute, he notes, but you had something about you. something he observed when he was handing you your pay that told you there was something more to you. more than nervousness and doe eyes and mid-length skirts. maybe not. but you’d be back here next week.

he heard how much his daughter liked you the next day. she rambled on and on about how pretty you were and how sweet and nice you were, how good your food was. patrick found it good to hear, the other babysitters often couldn’t handle her, but you seemed to with ease.

the next babysitting gig you were wearing a baby tee. a short sleeved, almost cropped t-shirt and jeans and you greeted him as mr.zweig again and this time he didn’t correct you. he told you to help yourself to anything in the fridge and that he’d be back around 1:00 this time. your bright eyes lingered on his hands, his forearms as he spoke, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. you couldn’t help it, he was gorgeous. and tall. he was very tall and very strong looking and maybe, just maybe it couldn’t hurt to have a small crush on him. only natural right?

he wasn’t oblivious. he saw the way you nodded when he was speaking. the way you fidgeted with the ring around your pinkie finger. you were gorgeous and you were sweet but you were young. too young. and he was going out on a date with a woman who was in fact, age appropriate. he wasn’t opposed to watching the way your hips moved or the way your ass looked when you went upstairs to find his daughter, but he was opposed to doing anything about it. you were a good treat. that was about all he could let himself think.

you had a good time with his daughter and once again put her to bed just a little earlier. 9:30. she didn’t mind, you did so much with her that she was right out. you swept, did some dishes, nothing too noticeable. you’re sprawled out on his couch when he gets back, you don’t even hear him come in. he nods, watching you watch tv for a minute before he makes himself known. he doesn’t want to startle you, so he jiggles the doorknob and pretends to shut the door so you wouldn’t know he’d been watching for a moment. you turn your head and sit up. “no rush,” patrick says with a smile. “how was she?”

“excellent.” you reply, sliding your hands down your thighs and onto your knees. “she’s amazing, i’ve never met any little girl so well-behaved and so smart. she’s very well-rounded. you did a great job.”

you almost made a grown man bashful. he smiled, looked at the wall, “she doesn’t get any of it from me. it’s all her mom.”

“oh… how long has it just been the two of you? i assumed… from the pictures.”

“her mom left a year in,” patrick replied.

“so it is from you.” you answered. “must be, who else?”

“must be.” he said, a bigger smile creeping up his face. “so you come over, watch a kid and flatter the parents, hm?”

“yes but only when i feel like it.”

“does it work?”

“with you, yes.” you were more bold, he noted. last time he’d made you nervous but he was standing just far enough away where you could hold your own. he wondered, stepping closer, if he could change that. he did the same thing as last time and stood over you while he went though his wallet for his money.

he hands the money to you, “that’s enough?”

you look at him with those wide eyes again, “mhm. yes. more than. thank you.” he was right, all it took was the close proximity to make you nervous. “you know i wasn’t trying to flatter you?”

“i’d prefer you pretend you were so i can pretend to hate it.” he chuckled, “thank you.”

“for?”

“she really likes you. you’re good with her. i’ll need you again in two days, are you free?” he smiles down at you. his eyes linger on your lips, slightly open. he found himself thinking impure things as he stared. he wouldn’t stop himself. there was no reason to stop himself. what a treat you were to have around, he reminds himself. such a pretty thing.

you smile at his ask, “i can be. i’ll text?”

“sounds good.” he nods. “need a ride home?”

“i’ll be okay.” you nodback. “thank you though.” you pick up your sweater and get your shoes on. you’re sweet, patrick wonders why you’re so okay with walking. it would cut the time to get home in more than half. aside from time alone with you, he does have a daughter and he would like it if you got home safe. “goodnight, mr. zweig.”

“patrick,” he corrects you again with that gorgeous, sly grin of his “please.”

“patrick.” you say, locking it in. but it feels wrong. too personal. “goodnight.”

“goodnight, Y/N.” he answers. your name on his tongue feels so strange to hear. you’re pressing your back to the door. god, he’s fucking hot. the other parents you’ve babysat for are very much so married and both balding, the boys your age weren’t so charming. this might be a problem, you developing a small crush�� earlier it seemed fine, but faced with him. dear god.

you were back there a few days later and was patrick mistaken or was your short a little shorter? a tank top, completely reasonable for the heat, but it hit just above your belly button, just under if you weren’t moving. it’s not like it was inappropriate, if anything what was a babysitter if not hot? patrick remembered his babysitters from back when he was a kid and yeah, they were always hot and older and just out of reach. you fit the genre today expect not the older part. you were younger- much younger. at least your skirt was mid-length.

he looked at you, “you know my rules. that i really don’t have any and i’ll be back at 1:00, 1:30 latest.”

“leaving some room for a kiss goodbye,” you said under your breath. he caught that.

“something like that,” he smiled. if he didn’t know better, it was a pass at him for going out with women. it made him grin, in fact. it had some affect on you and you’d only seen him how many times?

you wouldn’t do anything, you knew that, but he seemed to look better and better every time you saw him. at first it was black polo t-shirts and jeans and he’d moved to long sleeved shirts with the sleeves rolled up and he smelled so fucking good, it was hard to ignore. you looked another way at his response, knowing he’d heard you, but what did it matter. could have meant anything… he could fire you if he thought you were bitter or judgemental.

his daughter was so excited to see you, she practically leapt into your arms. she was a thin girl, short in stature, it was no big deal. the perfect saved by the bell moment. “y/n!” she exlaimed. she was so happy to see you, it made patrick chuckle a little. you held her to your hip and something in him shifted just a little, seeing her resting in the crook of your hip like that. it flashed through him like a blast of heat and then it was gone. “you have to come see what i made today. a big cube!” she was so excited.

patrick shook off whatever the hell he just felt, snapping back to reality. “alright, honey, i’m heading out.” he told his daughter. he advanced a step to ruffle her braided hair. you wondered if he braided it himself… the thought was interrupted by his hand sliding over your waist just for a split second, enough for the leverage to kiss his daughter on the forehead. before you could think, his hand was gone and he stepped toward the door, grin on his face. “have fun. if you end up eating the ice cream, save me the last few bites.”

“okay!” she called to her father as he opened both doors, waving enthusiastically at her as he shut them behind himself. the second he was gone, she turned to you, “you’re eating it, not me.”

“deal,” you nodded at her. and you went upstairs to go see her big paper cube. You had her in bed at 9:30 again. you went to lay on the couch, kicking your feet up, your eyes settling on the picture of patrick on the wall. he was a good looking guy at your age. freshly shaved, not exactly baby-faced but compared to now, entirely baby-faced. you wondered what his type was, his daughter was such a little copy of him. she was a pretty little girl, long eyelashes and pigmented lips. her nose wasn’t exactly a button nose, but it was only a little bigger and it was perfectly proportionate.

you got up, looking at the pictures on the walls again. him, clean shaven, holding his daughter as a baby, big smile on his face. you smiled just a little at it. and the one of him holding her up in the air like she was simba from the lion king. she said her father helped her with the big cube… he was a good father. and she was lucky to have him.

you went and you got the tiny ice cream tub from the kitchen along with a spoon and you followed the pictures down the hall again. the pictures turned more to tennis memorabilia as you got closer to the end of the hall, where his room was. you found it really admirable that he never brought a woman back to the house. you stared at the door, just a little curious, but you weren’t that kind of person, so you continued to eat the ice cream and sat down on the couch again, snooping through his DVDs instead.

you left him about a cup and a half serving in the tub and watched pineapple express and thirty minutes or less and he came home at 1:05am. you turned, eyes meeting his before any words were spoken. he smiled just a little, “how was she?”

“perfect. you’re raising an angel, did you know that?”

“news to me,” he said, dropping his wallet and keys on the table by the door, adjusting his belt just a little. your eyes lingered on his hands. “here i thought i just had a daughter.”

“well, your daughter is an angel. she showed me her big paper cube, she’s very proud but she made sure you got your credit.” you said, moving your feet to the floor.

“i just held it together while she taped, she’s very authoritative when she needs to be.” he headed more into the house and you rose to your feet. “but she’s good with you. she likes you a lot, she doesn’t let me go a day without hearing about something you said or something you like.“

“ooh, and what do i like?” you said, moving around the couch to meet him on the other side. his hand was in his pocket, he grinned a little, that dimple on his face on full display.

“she says iced tea and chinchillas.”

“ooh, i do like those things.” you smiled a little. “she knows me.”

you were so peppy, he wasn’t one to want to get rid of that, but he was looking forward to his favourite part of the nights with you. he stepped forward, the same fashion as always, close to you. grabbed his wallet again, went through his bills. pretended not to notice the way you instinctively pushed your hair behind your ears. you were met with the scent of his cologne again. “she really does like you, you know. do you watch kids during the day? i have something to attend to on wednesday and i need you friday night. you’re free then?”

“i think so.” you nodded. “and i do watch kids during the day, i would love to come by and watch her, how long were you thinking?” your sentences lost their pep and spice at his closeness.

“i’ll let you know,” he nodded, handing you the money and meeting your eyes, sly grin on his face still. you were so pretty, all doe-eyed. “i paid you until 1:30, by the way,” he said, watching you eye the money in your hands. “to spare the thirty minutes kissing goodbye before i came home.”

you pressed your hand to your head, “i am sorry i said that, it’s not my place.” you were more apologetic than you’d been when he was several feet away the first time you thought it him.

he just grinned, knowing he made you feel bad for something he didn’t take to heart. “you were right. no shame in it.” he said. “how are you getting home?”

you uncovered your face, “bus today.”

“you know who rides the bus at 1 am?”

“me?”

“not tonight.” he said. “i’ll drive you.” he didn’t even ask this time. “c’mon.” he tossed his keys up and snatched them out of the air and it was hot. he was too hot. too hot to be in a car with for the ten minute drive.

you swallowed hard, grabbing your jacket and slipping out the front door, patrick locking it behind him. he had a camera outside his door, she’d only be alone asleep a little while. “you don’t have to drive me home, mr. zweig,” you spoke up once you were more than a few feet away. “i usually make it just fine on my own.”

“i’d feel better seeing you get home safely.” he said, opening the passenger door for you. you hadn’t thought him the type to. “you live with your parents?”

“no,” you said, getting in. his car was a little messy but it was mostly papers and an empty cigarette carton or two. you moved them to the back seat. “i have an apartment off aberdeen street.”

“mmm, yeah i know where that is.” he nodded, starting the car. “just want to see to it you get home alright. i haven’t been the best with it, but you’re the best babysitter we’ve met and i can’t have you going missing or see you in the obits.”

“morbid,” you noted, smiling. “i’m that good? is that your thing, babysitter comes over, watches your kid, and then you flatter the baby sitter?”

patrick grinned wide as he reversed, which was hot, his arm on the back of his seat as he did. “yeah, but only when i feel like it.” he rebutted. you smiled.

“and does it work?”

“you tell me,” he answered, your heart skipped a beat. he was probably the hottest man you’d ever seen in your life and you had to come to terms with that. you swallowed hard. he was good with callbacks.

you couldn’t even answer his question. you had to straighten out, recalibrate. he understood your silence. maybe he’d overstepped with that last one. “does she like tennis?” you asked him.

his smile got humble, “i tried. she’s not a sports girl.”

“that’s fair. neither am i.” you nodded. “tried, couldn’t.”

“also fair.” he chuckled. “so what kind of girl were you?”

“were or am?” you asked. he hated that he wanted to know so badly… he hated wanting to know anything about you, but he wanted everything. the image of his daughter resting on your hip flashed in his mind again. “i think more… writing. reading”

“anything good?”

the conversation continued, going over books and ones he skipped reading in highschool. that and tennis, his career. you were impressed. and he pulled into the lot of your building, putting the car in park.

“thank you for the ride,” you said, just a little desperate to get away from him. all the closeness and the conversation god he was so fucking hot. the car smelled like him and the cigarettes and you were just a little bit dazed.

he chuckled, watching you undo your seatbelt, his eyes on the exposed skin of your waist. “i’ll see you wednesday?”

“i still need a time,” you nodded, “but i’ll stay flexible.” you said, opening the car door. you could smirk when he wasn’t so close to you. he smiled back. “see you then. thank you again for the ride home.”

“you’re welcome, sweetheart,” he grinned. and he was evil. he knew it. he watched your expression struggle to stay the same, those pretty eyes wide. you smiled a little nervously, shutting the door and fully reacting once he couldn’t see you. you tried to compose yourself, but your body felt like it had burst into flames. you waved, going into your building as fast as you could. the entire ride up the elevator, you were thinking about it. replaying it, repeating his sentence in your own voice just completely thrown. it was a lot. sweetheart.

fuck. you took a cold shower but it wasn’t enough to keep your hand from diving between your legs. back arched, sweetheart echoing around your head. imagining those hands of his on your throat, wide, strong. he probably tasted like cigarettes and god, the thought of it was more than enough. it was only the first time of a few that night that you did the same thing.

the next morning you woke up feeling just a little confused, but he was the first thought in your head. and what was two more times before breakfast?

you got up eventually, grabbing your phone off the counter where you’d left in such a haste last night. you looked over the new messages in your phone,

was thinking 3-7, that work for you?

with freshly washed hands, you typed back

sounds good.

so casual. and you got there at 2:55pm on wednesday. patrick was dressed for tennis, leaving with his rackets. “you still play.” you said, looking at his things. “game day?”

he let you in, smiling, “practice. hi.” he noted your skort and tank top. more skin. “have you had lunch?”

“no, actually, i was just going to wait until dinner-“

“there’s hot dogs on the stove,” he said. “help yourself.” he seemed like he was in a rush, grabbing his water bottle. “and iced tea in the fridge. yours.” he said, grabbing his keys. he stopped in front of you, close to you, smile on his face. it clouded your thoughts a moment. “see you at seven.”

“see you,” you replied warily, blinking hard. he looked you up and down before leaving. you slowly made your way up the steps. it was a good thing his daughter was so happy to see you, you would have read into that.

she talked to you all about her drawings, showing you one of yourself. she was so sweet. she talked to you all about her drawing of her dad, her tennis rackets oddly detailed in crayon. you spent the afternoon together, you helped yourself to one of the cans of iced tea in the fridge.

patrick was back by four, just a little sweaty. you hated that. after last night’s sex imagery, seeing him all sweaty was a horny girl’s nightmare.

“dad!” his daughter greeted him by jumping up on him. he dropped his bag to pick her up. “me and y/n made hot dog people. come eat, come eat.” she said. you pressed your lips together to stop from smiling when patrick shot you a semi-confused look. he carried her into the kitchen, you grabbing your purse, getting ready to go. you had just finished making dinner, which you didn’t have to do, turning the hot dogs from lunch into a topping for the macaroni and cheese you’d made. that and broccoli. simple, something little miss picky eater would have.

“wow,” patrick nodded, looking at the hot dogs that had been cut strategically in person. he looked at you, sitting in the chair at the table with her on his knee. “you did all this?”

“all this?” you chuckled, “of course not, i had help.”

“i stirred,” his daughter nodded.

“very good.” patrick nodded. “think you’re going to be a chef?”

“maybe,” she said, a little sing-songy. “i’m

good at stirring.”

“she’s so good at stirring,” you nodded. patrick chuckled, eyes set on you. “i’ll get going.” you said, checking your purse for your phone. “you guys enjoy. i’ll be back tomorrow, so no need to pay me.”

“n- why don’t you stay for dinner? i didn’t hire you to make us food and run.”

“please!” his daughter leapt off his lap and pulled you to the chair. “eat!”

you smiled, “thank you. i really can’t though, i have to run! i’m so sorry, baby.” you crouched down to her height. she pouted. “if i didn’t have to go meet my mom, i’d be here eating our food, i promise.”

“your mom?”

“my mom came to visit me today, she’s at my apartment waiting. i’m so sorry, baby.” you said, wrapping your arms around her. patrick watched the way her arms wrapped around you too. she really, really liked you. “i’ll see you tomorrow night though. i’ll be here early, we can make dinner again and everything. whatever you want.”

“can we make pizza?”

“it’s a friday night, why not?” you smiled. it was cute. “i’ll bring the ingredients tomorrow.”

“yay!”

“yay is right.” you kissed her cheek and cupped her face just a little before standing up again. “you enjoy your hot dog people.” you said. you looked at patrick, who hadn’t seen you in action with his daughter yet. he was a little bit in awe. she loved you. it was more than a like. the other babysitters were tantrum material but you were an angel just the same as his daughter. he hated how he was thinking about you after something so pure, thinking about you. eyes lingering on your thighs, your waist. thinking about you, something so fucking paternal in him wanting you. it was dark. “i’ll see you both tomorrow.” you said, giving him a little look. it was cheeky. like you knew something.

“thank you,” patrick nodded.

you nodded back, waving bye to his daughter before slipping out the door. patrick would be lying if he didn’t give into himself that night. his hand pressed to the shower wall, hand pumping as the water poured over his body. he hated himself for it, but it was your image that pushed him over the edge. his daughter fast asleep, his thoughts were disgusting. he felt disgusting, it’s why he chose the shower. you were too young. and well he was a bit of a dirtbag, the age gap was enough to even throw himself off.

you, your little shirts and little skirts, the way you looked in jeans, the pout to your lips, your eyelashes, your eyes that screamed innocence when he got too close. fuck, it was dirty the way he thought about you. he thought about fucking you on that couch you were always on. the extent to which his mind went was so fucking wrong, so wrong, he reminded himself. he went to bed guilty. a grown man turned guilty.

patrick was glad he had a date the next night. someone to fuck his age to get you out of his head. he was never more glad for a sad date. his eyes fixated on you. “gonna let me in?” you smiled. he realized he was just standing in the doorway after you knocked. a near-bashful grin spread up his face, turning sly. “you know, you’re paying me by the hour and it’s 5 right now. you’re paying me to stand outside your door.”

he smirked, moving out of the way to let you in. he smelled good, date night cologne. you almost rolled your eyes. “i pay you enough for it, don’t i?”

you giggled a little, “true! i’ll go back out there if you want.”

he chuckled, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves. “i wouldn’t hate to see it. if you didn’t make a promise for pizza to little miss upstairs. all she’s talked about.”

“oh i love that, i’m so excited,” you said, putting the bag of ingredients on the table. “i was thinking of making you one too, are you a fan of pepperoni?”

“big fan,” he nodded. “olives too.” he looked into the bag of ingredients, pulling them out.

“you don’t have somewhere to be?” you asked, coming to help pull things out of the bag with him. “hot date?”

“something like that,” he answered a little monotone. “i’ll be back at one.” he nodded, backing away. you nodded back, following him to the door. god, he needed to leave for his date before your eyes got to him. your hand trailed the back of the couch, walking with him. “that’s okay?”

“you’re asking me?”

“you look like you’re about to tell me my curfew,” he replied, grabbing his wallet and keys.

you smirked just a little. your mind wandered down to his hands, the hand that had your waist just days before. your eyes met his, “oh yeah. come home when the streetlights come on?” you joked, that gorgeous smile his main focus.

he grinned, “i’ll try,” you were so cheeky, god he wanted to fuck that grin off your face, he had better be gone before he did. “have fun with the pizza, help yourself to the drinks in the fridge. she’s in the backyard.” he held his keys a little too tight in his hand.

your smirk stayed. he’d never been more glad to be going out as he drove over with your voice in his head. he ordered a drink as soon as he could.

your pizza night went well. it was good, delicious, even. she was a good little helper, obsessed with getting everything perfect on her dad’s pizza. you smiled. she slept early again, tired from all the pizza and karaoke and dancing. you were a little bit tired too. you hopped on that couch and you were out like a light.

you woke to patrick’s hand gently on your shoulder. you blinked a few times, rubbing your eyes. “oh my god, i fell asleep.”

“you’re okay,” he chuckled. “it’s a good couch for it.”

“great for it, apparently.” you nodded, sitting up. “i’m so sorry, that’s so irresponsible of me.”

“it’s late, it’s understandable.” he replied. “i’ll drive you home.”

you tilted your head, with a smile, “kicked out so fast. i’m so sorry for falling asleep on your couch, if i’d known it would ruin the way you see me, i would have never even sat on it.”

he chuckled, “okay, c’mon. i’m not kicking you out, i’m getting you home in one piece.”

“i appreciate it,” you smiled genuinely. “but i’ll be okay.”

“you were asleep about two minutes ago,” he said. “you’re not going home alone.”

you really couldn’t handle another ten minutes alone with him in his car. your hand was still cramping from the other day. he gestured the way of his car. “you had fun?”

“so much,” you told him. “she insisted on making your pizza ‘happy’ which took her about thirty minutes because the smile didn’t look right. your pizza is resting on the stove. she devoured hers and probably half a bag of mozzarella cheese.”

“she loves cheese,” he chuckled. “i’ll need you again tomorrow, is that okay?”

“tomorrow night?” you asked. you stepped closer to him, a twist of fate he didn’t expect as he grabbed his wallet. it was that time of night, but it was you who moved forward on him.

“tomorrow night,” he said. you fought the urge to ask if it was the same woman. it wasn’t your place to ask. he looked at you, the way you were looking up at him, so fucking perfect and so fucking… he felt his pants tighten at his growing erection. fuck. he hated that you had him like this. such a fucking grip on his mind, his emotions. it was so frustrating, beyond frustrating. “that’s okay with you? short notice.”

��i wasn’t busy.”

“you’re never busy.” he smiled a little. “you know most girls your age go to the bar. flirt. drink.”

“i’m not legal drinking age,” you reminded him. fuck, that was too true. couldn’t be more fucking true. you were only twenty. “i’m well aware of what girls my age do. i find the time between, believe me.”

he chuckled, “yeah?”

“yes. i do all of those things you mentioned and more. i’m a riot. a party girl. you know this money pays for my coke addiction.”

he held the door for you, grinning, “glad to be of service. you know how obsessed little miss upstairs is with the snow queen from narnia.”

you laughed, hand on your stomach. he kept his smile smug. “that’s good!” you laughed, leaning against his car. he locked the door and walked down the few steps. he stepped close, your laugh faded away as he reached around you to open the door for you. you were trapped between him and his arm and the car. you blinked a few times and he smirked as he walked to his side of the car and got in.

you got in with him, buckling up. fuck. he was good. you almost recovered from the close contact, he put a cigarette between his teeth as he backed out of the driveway. you thought that was hot. “you smoke?” he asked, pulling onto the road, lighting his cigarette.

“no.”

“mmm, good girl.” he said, blowing smoke out the window. he grinned to himself. if you weren’t wet before, you were now. your breath caught in your throat and you felt your cheeks and ears burn. fuck. fuck. fuck. it was all you could think about. good girl, he knew exactly what you wanted to hear and it was a good thing it was exactly his vocabulary. if he gave in right now he’d pull over and fuck you to pieces and you know what, you’d take it. you almost veered the car off the road yourself.

your throat was dry. your brain was screaming to kiss him at every red light. fuck him here in his car in the middle of the road and get dragged away only by cops with tasers and guns and batons. your whole body was hot, white hot, burning.

he just smiled to himself as he drove. he didn’t mind the silence, it had a good reason. it had flustered you so badly, you couldn’t crack any witty little cheeky jokes. he said goodnight and watched your ass as you walked inside.

the desperate need to get off was so wild you almost called an ex. like you were drunk on some strong alcohol his words reverberated around your brain it called for bad decisions and a need to fuck SOMETHING. like you were a creature, you needed something, someone inside of you now. it couldn’t be him, he was gone.

no, he was too old, it wasn’t because he’d gone home to his perfect, lovely daughter because he was a grown man with a six year old daughter and he was technically your employer and fucking him would be wrong. but it would feel so good. you had to resort to your own hands, sliding down into your underwear on your couch in your apartment. fingers rubbing your clit vigorously. you breathed hard, thinking about him fucking you in his shitty car on top of all the papers and cigarette cartons. fucking you so hard your head hit the car door repeatedly. he could have. if he had done anything to you after saying those two words, you would have let him do anything he fucking wanted to you.

you slept like a baby, knocked out after several rounds, enough to dull the need to be fucked to a low hum. he messaged you. before you went, though.

3-8?

perfect.

you replied short and sweet before passing out.

the next day you were back at his. he was in the driveway, you were just a little late. it wasn’t a big deal. he said goodbye, very friendly, very normal. you went inside and did various crafts and activities with his daughter, letting the good girl thing slip your mind.

he was back by eight. eight on the dot. talking about his mom being in town. you didn’t inquire. you had to meet some friends for ‘drinks’ at her place. you said goodbye to his daughter, smiling and telling her you’d see her soon. patrick thanked you for making chicken, paid you extra plus bonus for the pizza ingredients the other day. he didn’t seem like he really had this kind of money to be giving you, but you took it.

in taking everything else, you said goodnight and headed over to your friends house. had a can or two of a pre-mixed margarita, talked about things with your friends. it wasn’t until the conversation turned to something you needed to show them a picture of when you realized you didn’t have your phone. you looked around everywhere- your phone was expensive, you didn’t have the money for a new one. you got up and looked around and then it hit you. your phone was probably at patrick’s.

you didn’t have his number memorized. “do you need it?” your friend asked. “can you get it tomorrow?”

“i guess i could, but that’s my uber home and all of my cards are in the back, i wouldn’t have bus fare, i wouldn’t have- fuck.”

“just go honey, we’re not going anywhere!” your other friend chimed in. “i literally only have enough for you to get one bus, but get a transfer to come back?” none of them could drive impaired. or would. you shut your eyes. you hated the idea of showing up unannounced. but you took that bus fare. and you got on a bus over to patrick’s. you walked down his street trying to rehearse what stupid thing you’d say about this. forgetting your phone- like an absolute idiot. you had no idea where it even was but you came straight from there to your friends so it could be three places and the bus was not an option you could seek out.

you walked up the front steps and quietly knocked. you tucked your hair behind your ears and folded your arms over your chest. the evening air was chilly for a tank top and a skirt. it was a moment before he answered the door, it was around midnight so you knew he’d be up. or you hoped. it was stupid to even have come, but the margs were hitting just enough to screw up your decision making.

he was surprised to see you at the door. opened the screen door. “hey,” you said. “i’m so sorry about this, i’m so sorry- i know it’s late-“

“yeah- are you okay?” he asked, looking to see how you got there.

“i’m fine, i just… i think i forgot my phone here.” you said. it wasn’t the smoothest delivery. your eyes wandered down his body, eyeing his true build, hidden underneath those other shirts. the one he was currently in was tight, a black t-shirt. and sweatpants. he was muscular but it was all soft, soft features. one of those dad bods that bad definition not to pass as a true dad bod, but one still. holy fuck, this was a terrible idea. he grinned, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “it’s so stupid, i know.”

“happens,” he chuckled. “you want to come in and look for it?”

“could i? i would be so quick,”

“i’m not in any rush,” he replied. “c’mon.” he stepped out of your way, holding the door as you came into the house. most of the lights were off aside from the adjustable dim ones in the kitchen. he turned on the lamp in the corner. “she’s with her grandma at the hotel tonight.” patrick said, starting to look around. you looked over at him. “is your ringer on?”

“i have it off when i’m with her,” you replied. patrick smiled. it was sweet. “fuck, i really am so sorry about this mr. zweig, i-“

“how many times before you call me patrick?”

“hm?”

“patrick.” he restated. “i’m not calling you ‘miss y/l/n’.”

“very true, i’m sorry sir,” you said, leaning in a little as you passed him, looking up on the mantle of the fireplace.

“that’s worse,” he chuckled.

“i think you like it.”

oh, it kicked into existence. hard. that fire you’d felt before lit up in his body. you were so smug when you thought you could be. it was all witty and teasing and the need to fuck that teasing smile off your face was back. you were too young, he reminded himself, watching you bend to look under the couch cushions. fuck, why did you have to be so…

the margaritas maybe made you a little bold. not too much, you were still you. he checked the table, looking around more for your phone. “what does it look like?”

your laugh from the other room was so pretty. “red!” you called back. red phone… red phone… patrick was so glad to be separated from you by a wall. he was hard just thinking about you. having you here was dangerous, his daughter away, nobody could stop him from doing what he wanted but himself. his morals. you were twenty years old. barely fucking legal. he was almost 20 years older than you. but you followed him into the kitchen, pretty doe eyes and pouty lips and worried eyebrows and he could have fucked you on the table when you looked at him. “nothing? again, i’m so sorry for coming in like this.”

“it’s fine,” his words were a little more forced than natural. “bright red?”

“dark red,” you replied.

“flashy?” he meant if it had anything to make it stand out.

“no sir.” you put your hands on your hips and turned around, looking on top of the microwave, behind the stove. anything. you and that tiny skirt, what the fuck was he supposed to do with himself? twenty, in a little skirt on the tips of your toes looking in high up places. the skin of your waist showing as you stretched, finding nothing. “fuck, it’s really nowhere.” you turned to patrick again, pressing a hand to the side of your face. “tell me you hid it and this is funny and that i didn’t drop my phone with all my cards on the bus on the way to my friend’s. i’m begging you.”

he shook his head, grimacing a little. but you were standing just below him, close to him. you looked up at him, observing his expressions while thinking this all over. you’d been so stressed you forgot patrick was hot as fuck. and it almost took you by surprise to snap back to reality here, where he was looking at you like there was something he wanted from you. it was extremely flustering, you blinked it off and went back to the living room to check again. patrick went down the hall and checked the bathroom.

“found it,” he called from the bathroom. you were glad this was over, you needed to get out of this house before the idea of being home alone with him sunk in. him in his tight black undershirt… him in his sweatpants, you tried and tried to ignore the print. he handed you your phone and you slid it into your purse.

“thank you so much,” you nodded, eyes meeting his. his eyes were dark. “again, i’m so sorry to disturb you this late and without warning.”

“anytime,” he was so excited to have you get the fuck out of his house. he watched your hips move as you walked out of the bathroom and down the hall. “where are you off to now?”

“i’ve got to go meet my friends again. i’m probably going to get the bus back, i have a transfer.” you showed him the little white slip of paper, your back pressed to his wall by the door. you looked him over, trying not to think about his ‘sweetheart’ and the way his ‘good girl’ lingered in your brain. you felt that fire ignite in your lower stomach. you had to say goodbye. and fast.

“let me drive you?” he offered. he didn’t know why. he’d probably crash the car. something about the night, something about the way you looked in this lamp light, the idea of being alone.

“i’ll be okay,” you said, stepping just a little closer and it wasn’t even voluntary. “it’s a short trip. a few stops.”

“remember what i said about the obits?” he tsked. “i’d rather see you here at my house than in that section of the newspaper, thanks.”

“here at your house?” you smiled. “it’s either die or be here at your house, i love that.”

“what can i say? i like you here.” he shrugged. you tilted your head. he cleared his throat, “you’re good with her.”

“so you’ve said.” you nodded. “thank you.”

“no problem, sweetheart. and i’m driving you.”

“you’re not driving me,” you replied.

“but i am. c’mon.” he picked up his keys.

“mr zweig,” you reasoned, pressing your hand to his chest. your heart beat hard in your chest as his choice of words. “i’m fine.”

it was getting harder and harder to remember why fucking a twenty year old felt so wrong. he looked down at you, your hand on his chest. mr. zweig, like it was the worst thing on earth but the hottest fucking thing to come out of anyone’s mouth. he looked at you, his chest rising and falling like his restraint was an exercise, like it was a fight. it might have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. your magnetic force was pulling him in and soon he’d have to chain himself to something so he didn’t do anything that’d get him in trouble. you were too fucking young. too young. too young.

you stared back. and the moment felt like forever. you could make it back alone but you weren’t sure if you candle heading back to your friends when you felt like this. that ache was back, the one that felt like drugs, like alcohol, like gambling, like the edge of an addiction, knowing the hook, the high is right there. your restraint was prettier, just a reminder that he wouldn’t. you’d let him, but he wouldn’t. it was more cut and dry to believe it was a crush and as much as you wanted him, he wouldn’t. for his daughter, for the sake of the springs on his bed, you hoped. you let out a breath between perfectly parted lips, shrinking into it.

he couldn’t. he wouldn’t. the problem was that he would. he would. he wanted to. he needed to. the second you were gone he’d go feel disgusting about it as he fucked violently into his hand, crude imagery plastered on the inside of his eyelids and he’d go to bed guilty and vile and disturbed. but you were right here and you weren’t gone yet. it was the same feeling, knowing you’d probably take the bus home just to find peace with a showerhead or even the fucking doorman of your building. you’d take anything at this very moment. what patrick wouldn’t give to have some trashy woman in his bed right now. he could call one of his dates up to fuck- he would have given so much to have been with one of them right now. because looking at you, he couldn’t… you were too pretty to be fucked by him, he’d ruin you. you were too young for him. too young and too pretty and too perfect.

he wouldn’t. you were fantasizing just looking at him. your body in flames, burning in a pit of lava, absolutely rolling in hot coals. you needed to stop. you needed cold water. ice water. liquid nitrogen. cryogenic freezing.

“i think you should go,” patrick managed. his voice was cold but not cold enough to cool you down. but he was right. you should go. the idea you’d leave was the same as believing it was all over and a guard was let down. you had the same feeling, moving just slightly to put your shoes back on, but only getting so far as an inch.

it was spontaneous and it was harsh, but it was insanely mutual, the way you kissed. you’d believed you’d get peace and that you could leave, no, wrong move. very wrong move. he kissed you with a force that pinned you to the wall, lust masking the impact of your head against the wall. hungry, starved, violent, he kissed you, hands on your waist, gripping hard as they moved down to your ass, squeezing, grabbing. fast, messy, sinful, his hands under your ass, he lifted you up against the wall.

it would have taken more than the jaws of life to pull the two of you apart. it was fast paced, like the both of you were in some sort of vicious caged battle, your arms around his neck, fingers curled right into his hair. you’d never been kissed or touched like this before. you were moaning from just the kiss and he swore the god he’d never been harder in his life. neither of you could wait, there was no time to just kiss, you weren’t teenagers, you weren’t patient or naive or curious, you were demanding, grabbing at each other like a lifeline.

he stepped off the wall, carrying you the best he could, too distracted to actually know which way his room was. he could have you on the couch, he was impatient, so were you. he let your feet down, your hands desperately clutching his shirt, pulling him down the hall as you kissed nonstop, breaking only for small breaths and for your shirts being stripped as you walked backward. his big hands cupped your face, pressing you against both sides of the hallway while your hands fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. there was no time for any of this.

it was animalistic. it was the basic need, it was desperate. you crashed into his closed door and patrick swore to god he’d destroy anything in the way of him fucking you right now. he would have either kicked his door in or fucked you against it, no problem, but you reached behind you and opened his door so he didn’t have to do either of those things. he was blinded by lust, your hand down the front of his boxers within seconds of being in his room. you crashed backward onto his bed, crawling over him in your skirt, your hand stroking him up and down, but he had no need for it.

in seconds you were flipped onto your back and you were working together to kick your skirt and underwear off, gone to the same abyss his pants and boxers went. you were too young, patrick reminded himself as your bra came off. too young for him, too young, to pretty, too perfect to be fucked so hard by him. but he had you and there was no stopping him. it was a mistake, it was wrong, but there was nothing in his way as your hand slid down over his chest, following the trail of hair. he kissed your neck enough to make you cry out as his teeth followed his lips, leaving what would be nasty marks by morning.

your legs open, ready for him, he didn’t waste a single fucking second more, grabbing your hips and fucking into you. you swore to god you felt stars with how hard his first thrust was. he filled you to the brim, you weren’t sure you had any more space of all of him inside of you. you felt him stretch you out from the inside and you had no time to adjust to just how huge he was as he was instantly pounding into you. “good girl, taking all of it so perfectly,” he groaned. your nails were already in his back, desperately grabbing for something. your moans were loud and fucking pornographic. he wouldn’t have thought something like that could come from your pretty mouth. he wasn’t very considerate for your young, tight pussy as he thrusted into it with a violence only seen in the most gruesome of acts. he’d wanted to fuck women before, but he’d never needed to fuck someone so badly in his entire life. and it showed with the sheer force of which he fucked you. “you feel so fucking good.” he assured you with a decency that was not genuine whatsoever. it came from a place that disgusted even himself. you were only twenty…

“oh my god!” you exclaimed. you were sure he was actively bruising your cervix. it hurt so fucking badly but it felt too good for you to care. you saw stars, they spun and danced as your pleasure took over your entire body, legs wrapped around him, shaking already from the impact. skin on skin, loud as you both were, groaning, moaning, dirty little strings of words slipping from his mouth as he fucked you. “fuck me, fuck me- fuck!” you couldn’t help the noises you made, pathetic, reduced to just a moaning mess and a puddle of a girl who had only thought this was a violent crush.

“so wet for me, you wanted this so fucking bad, hm?” he taunted, evil grin on his face.

“uh-huh,” you sighed, hardly able to say the words. “s-so-“ you knew you had something to say but it was gone, erased repeatedly with every thrust into you. you’d have a witty response if it wasn’t for how good and all-consuming this was. “god-“

he fucked you with all of his pent up frustration, his hand sliding up the soft skin of your neck, pressing just gently, but enough. you were moaning loudly, the headboard hit the wall hard, and that hand on your neck moved to shove his fingers in your mouth. it was enough to make you into something even less, taking them in your mouth like you should. “so good for me, so pretty- fuck-“ he groaned, strong thrusts not faltering for a second. “this what you wanted?”

“m-mhm,” you said, pretty lips closed around his fingers, struggling to feel so much at once.

“so fucking perfect, guys your age fuck you this good?”

“god- fuck- no,” you moaned. he took his fingers away. he lifted your leg up, fucking into you with a new angle that spread goosebumps all down your skin. you were being fucked dumb- you were sure that you were forgetting your own name actively. losing yourself in this. patrick had never fucked anyone so hard in his life, feeling himself reach the furthest point inside of you over and over and over. “patrick-“

his name moaned from you gave him new momentum and you couldn’t help the constant warm rushes that ran over your body like pulses, like waves on a shore. your body was a solar system of exploding stars. the hands that travelled your body were sure to leave bruises on you by later… harsh and strong and not letting go, fingers in your flesh. it was only fair, your nails dug into his back, he was probably bleeding. “gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he said, grinning over his own groans. if he’d been anyone else the question would have been stupid, sex is never that good, but this was. no clitoral stimulation needed he was hitting every right spot in the right way. you felt it like a knot coming undone, like all the stars that were exploding were both imploding and exploding rapidly, like a blinking threat for the collapse of a universe. dramatic, an imperfect display and an unfair comparison but so fucking needed. you nodded hard, mouth open, breathing hard, kissing him when you could. it was messy, uncalculated, but so fucking perfect.

out of desperation, you lifted your hips the best you could to meet his harsh thrusts. needing to finish, needing this more than you’ve ever needed anything. you couldn’t help the grin that spread up your face, even in the heat of things. you won. he caved, you won. and he couldn’t fuck this smile off your face. you only held it as long as you cut put off finishing, the friction, the feeling building up to crash around you. it was full-body, felt entirely. your nails dug into him harder and he waited just another moment to spill into you. you felt it hot between your legs as he continued to pump in and out of you, so much cum that it seeped out before he could pull out. he didn’t think about anything but you, how wrapped up he was in this, how fucked he was. he’d lost to a pretty twenty year old. as if this was some sick game. you’d both gotten what you wanted, but the cost was greater.

it was the hardest orgasm you both had ever felt, both of your ears ringing, breathing heavily, feeling all of it. to the greatest extent possible. he pulled out and collapsed beside you, his back stinging as it hit the bed. your smile returned as you tried to catch your breath, the stars dancing out of sight slowly. “oh, i’m fucked,” patrick breathed, hand falling onto his chest.

you laughed breathily, “other way around.”

he chuckled over his harsh breathing, chest rising and falling deeply. he rubbed his face, but it couldn’t erase the fact he had sex with a controversially young woman. what was worse? the fact he had needed to fuck her so badly or the fact he didn’t feel any better about it afterward? or the surprise third thing that was the urge to keep you close?

“okay, listen-“ he said, propping himself up on his elbow turning your way, but you grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him into another kiss. a second kiss, with a different meaning than the first one. it was still hard to breathe but he didn’t mind, grin spreading up his face, a little sly, dimple showing. he felt a little less ashamed with this kiss in the way. it was different. oh he was soooo much more than fucked now.

taglist: @kaaaiiaaa @swetearss @xoxog0ssipg1rl @lalalandofive

#challengers #patrick zweig #challengers x reader #tinytennisskirt #patrick zweig smut #dilf!patrick #dilf!patrick zweig #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig headcanons #girl dad! patrick zweig #patrick x reader #art donaldson x reader #challengers fic #challengers x y/n

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diyasgarden · 9 months ago

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Request

Patrick being down bad for his girlfriend and everyone knows it. She is oblivious to it.

Hiii!! I had so many ideas for this, that I decided to compile into one big headcanon list. If you ever want me to write something based on this, let me know.

Patrick and you are in what you view as a casual relationship. Maybe you were friends before this or if you randomly met at a party or some event, but you know his reputation so you just assume that whatever is going isn't serious for him. You're still having fun, so you don't really bring it up. There is a small part of you that wants to know, but you don't want to ruin whatever is going on. Plus, ignorance is bliss.

On the other hand, Patrick just loves being around you so much. He hasn't even processed it properly. Something about you is just so endearing to him (that even if he isn't aware of how much he likes you) it is obvious to everyone around. He isn't great with saying all of this (which is probably why you don't catch on), but his behavior blatantly exposes how he feels.

He constantly wants to spend time with you. When you guys start your relationship, you're both glued to each other's side. Constantly going on. Him constantly at your place. A lot of time in bed...yeah literally glued to each other. You think it's sweet, but don't think too much about it.

He also just loves holding you. His hand is always on you in some capacity or another all the time. In private. In public. He's holding your hand or holding your hip or even pulling you into your lap. You also don't think much about this. Even when your friends raise their eyebrows and look at you with a grin, you just shrug it off. You've seen how he has no sense of boundaries with people he is close with. This is just another example of that, you reason.

But as you both continue to see each other, it becomes more and more clear that he wants you to be a genuine part of his life. This means he invites you to his games. You don't think much of it. He is tennis player. Of course he is going to invite you to a game or two. You tell your friends this, but it becomes a little harder to explain when he asks if you want to stop by when he practices too. He loves seeing you by the court when he plays, regardless if its an actual game or just a practice. He's smiling at you, waving at you, even winking. To everyone else, it's him obviously showing whatever is going on between the both of you, you just assume it's him being the unserious person he is.

On top of that, he also genuinely wants to be a part of your life. In every way that counts. This means that anytime you invite him to something, he is 100% coming. That new restaurant you want to try? He's booking a table already. A friend's party? He'll be asking if you want him to bring anything. A boring family gathering you don't even want to go too? It's okay, he'll make it fun for you. Anytime you tell your friends your plans with him, they find it adorable how he's willing to do all of this for you. You brush them off, saying he just wants to keep you company.

He also takes an initiative to actually connect with the other people in your life too. Even if his only interest in them is the fact that they're connected to you some way. Your friends indulge him because they think its endearing how much he's trying. You assume he is talking so much because he is so extroverted (but you miss how he frowns a little bit when you only introduce him as Patrick).

Not to mention, your interests suddenly become his interests too. You like art? He's on the Wikipedia page of every artist you like trying to find out as much as possible. You like reading? He bought your favorite books to check them out. You like a certain sport? Now he knows all the rules now. Film nerd? He's watching any movie you've mentioned.

He likes to discuss these things or even join conversations you have with your friends about it. You think it's a sweet gesture and tell yourself he just wants to be able to make conversation or jump into conversations you're having with others. All the people around you know he just wants to show you that he cares what you care about. Especially because he keeps looking at you during these conversations, as if tracking your reaction to every word he says.

You only realize how down bad he is couple months into the relationship when he asks you to come to some event his parents are hosting. It's a first for both of you. He doesn't like going to these events, avoids them when he can. But when his parents insisted on coming to this one, all he wants is to invite you to come with him. He's never done this before, with anyone. You say yes, at first thinking he's just doing so because you invite him to so many things, but when he introduces you as his girlfriend with this goofy ass grin it fully sinks in how much he likes you. It's silly that after everything he does, this is the thing that made you have a eureka moment, but hey, at least you figured it out eventually.

#challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig headcanons #diya's headcanons

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t1ts-4-donaldson · 3 months ago

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Dad Patrick Zweig is itching my brain rn, don’t know how he’d act but I just see him with a little girl sat his shoulders or hanging haphazardly onto her dad’s arm while he’s strolling around campus between classes.

sitting on his lap while he sat through Art’s tennis practices his sunglasses perched on her tiny nose sporting a homemade team donaldson shirt

sipping on a Red Bull in the cafeteria together after, Art would chastise him whenever he saw her try to lick the rim of the can Patrick shrugs it off

He’s a teenager that accidentally knocked up a one night stand now has toddler latched onto him and honestly a lot of girls would find it hot he’s able to keep his baby calm while sitting through an hour long lecture patting her back while she’s laid on his chest fast asleep or the sight of one of his hands helping her with a bottle whenever she gets fussy she’s so small in his arms it emphasizes his biceps. All they know is Patrick would be 10x better father than any of their loser boyfriends.

Comforting hot dad riles me up (WHY I DONT KNOW!)

people think he’s a little too chill but adores his baby she’s his priority and wouldn’t ever let her get hurt I know it.

Please tell me more I need to yap about dilf Patrick

#challengers #patrick zweig x y/n #patrick zweig x reader #hannasmusings #challengers x y/n #challengers x reader #dilf!patrick #patrick zweig headcanons #dad!patrickzweig

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heartz4shauna · 1 year ago

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pov: you’re patrick’s.. situation

༄ can’t stop talking for the life of him. you could be trying to sleep, an important exam in the morning and he’d continue talking, “yeah. and then i wasn’t sure what to say, heh, you know? anyway..”

༄ he’s always asking you for favours and you wanna say no and that he still hasn’t payed you back from the last time. but he swears that he’ll pay you back. promise.

༄ flirts back with people in public, purposely in front of you to make you jealous.

༄ one hand always on your thigh

༄ possibly the most annoying person to date but he thinks it’s endearing when he whines and complains to you

༄ not big on compliments. usually only gives them when you’re half naked

༄ talks about you but never uses your name. his friends only know you as the mystery chick

༄ is into arcade dates. he says it’s because he’s a master at air hockey and not because he’s broke

༄ if you’re at the mall, he just staggers along behind you holding your bags

༄ movie theatre dates are tragic for you. if something is remotely funny he’ll burst out laughing and the whole theatre will turn and give him a look

༄ prefers to keep you private “it’s better for me” he says, though he flirts with anything that breathes

༄ his love languages are physical touch and acts of service

sorry these are so short i hate him explodes him with my mind

#daisy writes again #challengers #patrick zweig #challengers x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers x you #patrick zweig x you #challengers headcanons #patrick zweig headcanons #challengers x female reader #patrick zweig x female reader #patrick zweig challengers #wills him to explode

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russsiangirl · 11 months ago

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patrick zweig x reader headcanons! ( older and younger included. )

thinking about patrick zweig and you having some sort of arranged relationship..

he's still with his family, maybe on holiday break from boarding school

your parents don't wanna risk the chance of you running off to be with some 'hoodlum' so they talk with the zweigs and boom! thats how you two ended up dating

well, dating might not be the best word to describe it

patrick is the literal opposite of what you want in a guy ( for now )

he's crass, has no etiquette ( outrageous! ), smokes AND disrespectful - like he's just such a prick!

i mean he has to be compensating for something,, he's not.

you try to avoid him as best as you can but he's always there, lurkin..

eventually you agree to one date. just one, that's it.

he takes you to some bougie place and you're shocked, i mean yeah he's rich, but you didn't know he was this rich, richer than you.

you learned some shit about him, he played tennis, had a best friend at boarding school, bla blah blah, usual rich boy shit

you decide to have some fun with this though

patrick zweig teaching you tennis :3

you purposely fuck with him on this, just to be mean

wear lil tennis skirts that show just the right amount of skin, act dumb so he has get up behind you and hold you by the waist so he can show you the 'proper stance'

nothing about this demonstration is proper, he's right behind you, practically pressing himself up against you, and you can smell the sweat mixed with his god-awful cologne and it's so enticing

wtf is so great ab this man!! he is js a man !!!!!

you don't know either, but lets just say that there wasn't much tennis played that day. or ever

y'all aren't dating, more like smth 'casual'

he so sends texts like 'you up?' at like 4am in the morning, why tf are u awake go back to sleep

sometimes you just wanna throttle him

i KNOW for a fact that he's a dick

he angers you on purpose, does shit to make you mad just because he likes seeing you that way

he's the type to leave after a fight and come back only to not talk to you, like bro where is the apology. where is the groveling and desperation.

he's such a tease as well, always poking fun. 'fun', its not fun when hes coming up behind you when you're with your friends and hes pressing up against you like bro! now is not the time to be a freak!

its different if y'all met when y'all were older though,, bc god i have a love-hate relationship with older!patrick.

like he's such a bum, sleeps in his car

but also like i feel the urge to take care of him

and force him to take a shower.

you probably met bc you were at the challenger and remembered him from the juniors us open! which he won! also the challenger was happening close to where you lived

you didn't know he was playing here, the only reason you went was bc your friend had accidentally bought an extra ticket and you thought 'why not'

he sees you and he's like 'woah' bc who wouldn't be at the sight of you, you're the next target

he chases you down after the game and is like 'here's my number, you can call or whatever..'

well you do, lets say you've been having a bit of a dry spell and patrick is oh so willing to help! ( he's a freak. )

this relationship is rocky though

he's not doing well in tennis and he's, broke..

he's also not big on words of affirmation,, or romantic gestures

he's still crass like he was when he was younger, never grew out of it.

always so forward in the way he talks

arguments with him are so mean :(( calling you allll sorts of mean names that have you in tears

can't resist tho, bc it's patrick zweig

yeah guys,, i love patrick zweig !!!!! like and repost ofc if u liked it

#akilina talks!#challengers 2024 #challengers movie #writing #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig headcanons #challengers smut #challengers fanfiction #challengers x reader #patrick zweig smut #implied smut

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minnie-cai · 26 days ago

Text

TIMECAST - Golden Age Of Piracy

To Plot A Storm

cartographer!patrick zweig x pirate!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Smoke still clings to the deck like a sulking ghost, thick with salt and gunpowder. You step over a shattered beam, boots slick with the blood of men you didn’t bother to ask names for. Your coat flares behind you, wind catching the torn edge, and you drag it shut with one hand as your eyes settle on the mess of uniform and attitude they’ve dragged to the brig.

He’s not what you expected. Not a sailor. Not a soldier.

He’s slight, sharp-shouldered, glasses somehow still perched on his nose despite the scuffle. He’s got ink on his cuffs and an expression like he’s trying very hard not to breathe through his mouth. His jaw is clenched with the moral outrage of a man who just saw a library defiled.

“Captain,” Bones says dryly, nudging the prisoner forward with the butt of a pistol. “Says he’s a cartographer. Naval, but civilian. Won’t shut up about his qualifications.”

“I am a cartographer,” the man snaps, glaring sideways. “Royal Navy Contracted, Oxford-trained, and absolutely not a combatant.”

You crouch to his level. Tilt your head. He flinches when your coat brushes his knee.

“Tell me, Oxford, do you often chart your way into pirate fire?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were on a Navy ship.”

“I was documenting longitude discrepancies in the Meridian approaches.”

“Ah.” You grin. “So you were being annoying.”

His lips twitch—tight with frustration. “I was being accurate.”

You reach for the keys at your belt, consider, then toss them to Bones without looking. “Put him in the brig. If he talks too much, gag him with one of Mira’s socks.”

Bones grimaces. Patrick sputters. You walk off before either of them can say more.

The next time you see him, he’s sitting stiff-backed in the brig, surrounded by men who smell like sweat, salt, and a complete lack of respect for the Queen’s English.

He corrects Mira’s grammar within three minutes.

By the fourth, he’s being used as a hat stand.

You crouch again, just outside the bars. He glares at you through his spectacles.

“I believe this is a violation of the conventions on treatment of civilian captives.”

You pick at a nail. “I believe you’re too mouthy for a hostage.”

“I’m only mouthy because I’m surrounded by people who can’t distinguish between ‘less’ and ‘fewer.’”

You blink. Slowly.

Then: “I like you.”

His jaw drops.

You stand, smiling. “You’re not worth a ransom, but I think you might be worth keeping.”

You find him in the navigation room the next morning, hair mussed from sleep—or a lack of it—lips pursed around some complaint you don’t let him finish.

You slap the rolled parchment onto the table between you.

“What’s this?” he asks warily.

“A mystery,” you say. “And a job.”

He adjusts his spectacles. You watch his fingers, delicate and ink-stained, as he unrolls the map.

His eyes narrow. “This is nonsense.”

“That’s not how you say thank you, Captain, for not throwing me to the sharks.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “There’s no such island. Not here. Not anywhere. These coordinates are impossible.”

You lean in, close enough to smell the starch still clinging to his collar. “Then explain why every man I’ve ever known who’s gone looking for it never came back.”

He looks up at you, visibly weighing your madness. “Correlation does not imply causation.”

“I’m not asking for causation, Professor. I’m asking for a course.”

He hesitates.

“I help you,” he says slowly, “and you don’t let Mira hang me off the mast by my britches again?”

You grin. “Deal.”

It takes less than a day for the crew to nickname him Professor.

It takes less than two for him to correct every single one of them at least once.

Niko, trying to explain a compass reading, gets a full two-minute lecture about magnetic deviation and hemispheric bias. Mira starts calling him “Fancy Charts.” Bones pretends to take notes just to mess with him.

You don’t stop them.

You enjoy it.

You enjoy him.

Watching him stumble across the deck like a newborn deer, watching his horror at the hammocks, watching him try to hold dignity in a shirt Mira dyed pink by accident.

He corners you on the fourth day, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Your crew is impossible.”

You smirk. “Aye, but they’re loyal.”

“Loyalty doesn’t make them grammatically sound.”

You grin wider. “That so?”

“I counted seventeen misuses of ‘ain’t’ in a single conversation.”

“I counted one man still breathing because he’s useful.”

He pales slightly, but squares his shoulders. You like that, too.

You step closer. “Say ‘ain’t’ one more time, Professor.”

He glares. “I refuse.”

You lower your voice. “Coward.”

“I prefer precision.”

Your breath brushes his cheek.

He doesn’t step back.

A week in, a storm brews.

Patrick warns you.

You ignore him.

It hits like God’s own temper tantrum, and the crew—bastards that they are—shove the two of you into the charting room and bar the door.

“Don’t come out,” Mira yells through the wood. “Not ‘til one of you admits something or murders the other.”

You pace.

He fidgets.

Rain drums the deck above. Lightning flashes against the parchment on the walls. You can hear Bones laughing outside like it’s a tavern brawl.

“I told you this would happen,” Patrick says.

“Yes, and I ignored you.”

“Well that’s encouraging.”

“I didn’t say it was a good decision.”

He scowls at the maps. “You could at least admit when you’re wrong.”

You cross your arms. “That would break the natural order of things.”

“You are infuriating.”

“You’re obsessed with commas.”

“They matter!”

“You don’t.”

It slips out sharper than intended. He flinches. You regret it instantly.

The silence that follows is heavy—heavier than the storm.

“I know I don’t,” he says finally, quietly. “Not out here.”

You stare at him.

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor. At his own boots. Like they’ve betrayed him too.

You step forward. Touch his arm. He doesn’t pull away.

“You do,” you say. “You matter.”

He blinks. “Why?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Because you make good maps.”

His lips twitch. “That’s not very romantic.”

“I’m not very romantic.”

“You flirt by threatening to stab people.”

“And yet here you are.”

When the storm breaks, he’s still in your room.

He stays.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t have to.

Later, you catch him correcting Niko again—with patience. Mira nearly faints from shock.

Bones starts calling him our cartographer.

You don’t correct that, either.

You watch as Patrick begins to stand without swaying. As he stops flinching when Mira tosses him food. As he argues back with Bones. As he sharpens Niko’s compass without being asked.

You watch him become crew.

He still yells about grammar. But now, they laugh with him.

You think it’ll be the island that kills you.

It’s real.

Against all odds, it’s real.

Looming in the fog, full of cliffs and secrets and the kind of beauty that always spells disaster.

You send the rowboats out anyway.

You and Patrick walk the shore alone, maps in hand, pistols hidden beneath your coats.

You find ruins—ancient and strange and not on any chart.

He stares at them like a man seeing god.

You stare at him.

And when he says your name—not Captain, not you, but your actual name—you kiss him.

Hard.

Messy.

Desperate.

He kisses back like he’s trying to catalogue it.

You tangle fingers in his hair and forget how to be cruel.

You return to the ship in silence. The taste of him still lingers. But neither of you says what it means.

Days pass. You’re supposed to be focused. Charting, sailing.

Instead, you’re watching him.

He’s leaning over the map table, candlelight catching in his hair, the salt-wind curling his shirt at the edges. You were supposed to be talking about currents. Instead, you’re watching the way his throat moves when he swallows.

NSFW content past the divider

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You move behind him slowly. No warning. No sound. Just presence.

He stiffens when he feels your breath on the nape of his neck—but doesn’t step away.

Your fingers brush the curve of his waist.

He exhales. Not startled. Something worse. Something deeper.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low and taut like a line pulled too tight.

“Do you?”

“You think if you get close enough, I’ll fall apart.”

You lean in—until your chest brushes his back, your hands splayed flat on the table on either side of his hips. He’s trapped, but not resisting.

“I don’t want you to fall apart,” you murmur. “I want you to come undone.”

He makes a sound—half breath, half break.

You don’t touch him yet. Not properly. Just the heat of your body behind him. The whisper of knuckles grazing fabric. His spine arches ever so slightly—like a compass needle tipping toward something it shouldn’t want.

You place a single hand on the small of his back. Lightly. Like blessing or blasphemy—you’re not sure which.

He shudders.

Your mouth finds the space just beneath his ear. “Still think I’m doing this to win?”

“I think,” he says, strained, “that you don’t know how not to.”

You drag your fingers along his side, slow and reverent. As if his skin is ink you’ll smudge if you go too fast.

His head drops forward. He breathes like he’s drowning and doesn’t want saving.

“I hate how you touch me,” he whispers.

“No you don’t.”

“No,” he agrees hoarsely. “No. I don’t.”

You turn him, finally—his breath shallow, pupils blown, every inch of him begging for more and too proud to say it. You kiss him like it’s a storm you’ll never survive. Like the only way to map the contours of his body is by tracing every inch with your palms, your mouth, your teeth.

He kisses you back like he’s memorizing coordinates he’ll never write down. Like he’ll never get another chance.

Your hands are in his shirt, his fingers twisted in your coat. There’s no gentleness left—just gravity. Just need.

When he gasps, you catch it with your tongue.

When he claws at your belt, you let him.

When he says your name like it’s both a curse and a confession—you swallow it whole.

His breath is shallow as you pin him between your body and the edge of the map table. The charts beneath his hands crinkle—carefully drawn lines smudged beneath shaking fingers.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows, hard. “Say what?”

“That you want this.”

His eyes close, lashes trembling. “I’ve wanted this since you first threatened to throw me overboard.”

You smile. “Romantic.”

His reply is a gasp—your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers, fingers skimming skin that’s too warm, too soft for someone so sharp. He shudders violently, breath hitching as you cup him through thin cotton, his body betraying him completely.

“You’re already this hard for me?” you murmur against his throat. “Pathetic.”

“You’re cruel,” he breathes, but he rocks into your palm like he wants more of it.

“You love it.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone, then lower—tongue tracing the bones of him like coastline. You unbutton his shirt slowly, lazily, like each layer is a secret you’re peeling away. He watches you with glassy eyes, skin flushed, trembling under your touch.

You bite at his ribs. Kiss his stomach. He twitches violently when your mouth brushes just above the line of his cock, still trapped in those proper naval trousers.

And then he begs.

“Please,” he whispers, voice raw and ragged.

You undo his trousers and push them down slowly. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and he groans like it hurts.

You wrap your hand around him and his hips buck helplessly. He grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white, charts slipping under his grip.

“You’re going to come just from this?” you whisper, amused.

“I’m going to come,” he chokes out, “from you.”

You lick a stripe along the underside of him, slow and indulgent, and he nearly folds in half. Your tongue circles the head, and when you take him into your mouth, his breath leaves him entirely. He makes a sound—utterly unguarded. Desperate.

You set the pace—slow, deliberate. Letting him feel every flick, every press, every inch of heat and pressure. His thighs are trembling. He reaches for your shoulder, unsure if he’s asking you to stop or stay.

You pull back, spit and pre-come glistening on your lips.

“You’re not coming yet,” you say.

“Why not—?”

You silence him with a kiss, dragging him toward the cot. You push him down and straddle him, skirts bunched around your hips. He stares up at you like you’re the sun—too bright, too close, too much.

You guide him inside you slowly, watching his eyes roll back, his hands flying to your hips like instinct.

You’re tight. Warm. Wet. And the way he fills you—perfectly, painfully—makes your breath catch. You sit fully down on him, grinding once, deep and slow. His hands tremble against your waist.

“I want you to watch me,” you tell him, rolling your hips again. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

He watches.

He watches like you’re myth. Like you’re map and monster all at once.

You ride him slow and hard, using him for every inch of tension he’s ever made you carry. Every argument. Every correction. Every moment you wanted him and hated that you did.

He’s saying your name now. Over and over.

“Please—Captain—please—”

You grab his wrists, pin them above his head. Lean down until your breasts brush his chest, your lips an inch from his.

“Do you want to come inside me, Patrick?”

He groans like the question hurts. “Yes—God, yes—”

You fuck him harder.

Until the table rattles. Until the candle flickers. Until the whole ship might as well be listening.

And when he comes, it’s with your name in his mouth and your body wrapped around him like a storm.

You follow seconds later, clenching around him, your voice in his ear like thunder.

You collapse beside him, both of you breathless and ruined.

And still—still—he has the audacity to whisper, “You misplaced a modifier back there.”

You bite his shoulder. He yelps.

You’re both smiling.

You lie tangled together in the humid dark, legs draped over maps neither of you are going to be able to use without remembering how your sweat soaked through the parchment.

He’s quiet.

Which is new. And suspicious.

You brush a curl from his forehead. His skin is damp, his breath finally slowing.

Then he says, “If we’re being honest…”

“Mmm?”

“That was… grammatically chaotic.”

You grin. “You want to revise my syntax, Professor?”

He hums. “I’d start with the way you incorrectly placed your—ah—emphasis.”

“Tell me where I misplaced it and I’ll pin you down again.”

He opens his mouth.

You straddle him before he can answer, press your hand to his chest, feel his heart lurch like a ship pulling from shore.

“Go on,” you say. “Be precise.”

“I was going to say—” His voice cracks as you roll your hips gently. “Gods, Captain…”

“I like it when you call me that,” you murmur. “Say it again and I’ll misplace something else.”

He groans.

You kiss his jaw.

And suddenly the teasing stills—just for a moment. You press your forehead to his. Let the silence stretch.

When you speak again, it’s quieter.

“You okay?”

He nods, mouth soft. “You?”

You nod back.

And neither of you say the word feelings, but it hangs between you anyway—unsaid, but not unacknowledged.

You lean in again, press your lips to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re mine now, compass.”

He looks dazed. “That a declaration?”

“That’s a threat.”

His smile curves slow and deep. “Then threaten me again tomorrow.”

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amymbona · 8 months ago

Note

patrick is so satalite coded like???? spinning around warring for you to pull me iiiinnnn!!!! a satelite orbiting tashi and arts life 💜 ughhh i love my relentless king <3

You got a new life? / Am I bothering you? / Do you wanna talk?

Basically Patrick attempting to telepathically reach out and contact Art and Tashi, knowing exactly what the answer be. He's sure they don't wanna see him again, even though he's unsuccessfully attempting to hide it behind that carefree facade.

Spinning out waiting for you to pull me in / I can see you're lonely down there / Don't you know that I am right here?

It seems that he's waiting precisely for that moment when something begins crumbling between Art and Tashi, when there is a gap he could crawl into. He desires to feel important, to feel like he belongs. He so desperately wants to belong.

And he is still doing the same thing, trying to be the big man, to be the alpha, the macho, to show them that they can't live without him. Even though he is the one who can't live without them.

I'm here, right here / Wishing I could be there for ya / Be there for ya

Can't they see how desperate this man is getting? Can't they see that all he wants is to finally be seen and be accepted, be taken back so their little three-way could function the way it did before. He wants to be the man in the relationship, to be viewed as someone important that they can't live without.

#ask #patrick zweig #patrick zweig headcanons #art donaldson #tashi duncan

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tacobacoyeet · 2 months ago

Note

Hi Ava!

I'm a new fan (diya put me on) but I regularly enjoy your writing. Every time I get tagged in one of your fics get so excited and they actually got me through some really stressful times recently. I'm so so so happy that you got 400 followers and I can't wait to support you while you get the 4 billion more that you deserve😌. Seriously, you are an incredible writer and I'm just so happy to be here :)

Gender Preference: Male

Fandom Preference: Any that you write for :)

Abt me:

I’m Indian and my Tamil heritage is something I am super proud of.

I’m super super super driven to succeed in life (lowk a trauma response but whatevs) and people who slack for no reason piss me off.

I’m studying poli sci and law and I’m incredibly passionate about justice.

I WILL NOT DEAL WITH A MAN’S BULLSHIT. I WILL MAKE MY OPINIONS KNOWN.

Im super extroverted

I love fantasy books and im like the #1 ASOIAF (book series GOT is based on) fan in the world

I have a lot of traditionally male interests like sports but i'm still pretty girly and I love makeup and clothes

I love cooking and food is one of my favorite things in life

I love the finer things like nice restaurants and designer clothes but i WILL go to town on greasy fast food in the same jacket ive had since seventh grade.

There is nothing in the world i hate more than a man who makes you his whole life. I need someone who actually has their own life yk?

im just a silly gal and I love to laugh like 90% of my time awake is spent laughing.

okay first of all... don't look. i'm crying. this is so sweet, thank you SO much. and of course thank you diya! now, hear me out...

i ship you with patrick zweig!

you probably met because he made some fuckass out of pocket comment about how he loves 'ethnic girls'

but you're immediately clocking his shit

and you expect him to get all mad and what-not but he actually... apologizes? and you educate him?

and that ends up blossoming until... bam! that's your man!

you two do a lot of flirt-fighting so you're always challenging each other and pushing each other to be better

you're always each other's first choice for that 1am taco bell trip (because it's the height of desi cuisine, duh)

and whenever you're at his matches and whatnot you're loud AF in the crowd and that man is OBSESSED. probably misses a point or two because he's just all like yay yippee!

and whenever you can't be at his matches... it's fine. he's still in love with you. and you're still in love with him. and nothing is wrong, because you both know you'd probably go fucking crazy if you spent every last second together

buttt of course whenever you are together and you're supposed to be sleeping neither of you can because you're both laughing your asses of at the stupidest tiktoks and whatever awful jokes you're trading back and forth

yay patrick!

#a writes #ava's 400 follower celebration #i'm all emotional now wtf #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig headcanons #patrick zweig #patrick zweig ship

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artstennisracket · 3 months ago

Text

dilf!patrick who gets his act together the second you tell him you’re pregnant. he quits smoking and throws his pride out the window to ask his parents for a seat on the board

dilf!patrick who is a first time dad and loses all of his egotistical confidence when his daughter is born and realizes he doesn’t know as much about life as he thought

dilf!patrick who realizes that he never wants his daughter to be with someone like him so he decides that she can’t date until she’s 35

dilf!patrick who only wants to give you the best money can buy so you end up with a $2000 stroller, $700 car seat, and a new range rover to be your mom car because “only the best for my babies”

dilf!patrick who lets you plan out the nursery however you like and puts all the furniture together himself instead of letting the delivery people do it because “i know better than those knuckleheads”

dilf!patrick who takes always takes the nightshift, changing diapers, making bottles and putting the baby back to sleep to let you sleep the whole night

dilf!patrick who doesn’t let you work anymore after you give birth because “being a mom is a full time job” so he just makes sure you have his black card to pay for whatever you need

dilf!patrick who always comes running when you text him that the baby is asleep because he already knows what that means ;)

dilf!patrick who develops a slight breeding kink after being able to cum inside you for 9 months without any (other) consequences

dilf!patrick who wants another baby just to see you pregnant again because it’s the most beautiful you ever looked even though “you always look beautiful, it was just different knowing you were carrying our child”

maybe dilf wasn’t the right word to use here but I literally don’t know what other way to put it

#challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig headcanon #dilf!patrick

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fruitjoos · 9 months ago

Text

meeting your family for the first time

summary: what it’s like when the trio meets your family for the first time over dinner

warnings none

– When Art met your family, it felt almost too easy. He walked in with that effortless charm, the kind that made everyone feel like they’d known him for years. Within minutes, he had your father laughing with those awkward dad jokes that usually fell flat but, somehow, Art made them work. The conversation flowed naturally, and he answered every question. About Stanford, about tennis, about the future, like he was born for it. He never missed a beat, balancing humor with just the right amount of seriousness, like he’d studied this moment and knew exactly how to handle it. Underneath the table, his hand found yours, warm and steady, his thumb brushing your knuckles in quiet reassurance. You gripped it like a lifeline, even though he didn’t seem to need any saving. The whole time, it felt like he belonged, like this was his family too, and for a moment, you wondered if maybe it was supposed to be this simple, this smooth.

– When Tashi met your family, the day unfolded with an ease you hadn’t expected. The room filled with laughter, a kind of warmth that felt rare. They took to her immediately. It wasn’t just her smile or the way she made conversation flow effortlessly, it was the substance behind it. She was sharp, driven. A natural leader, they said. And that she played tennis, competitively no less, seemed to seal the deal. They saw that dedication and imagined the same would rub off on you. Throughout dinner, Tashi kept glancing your way, her eyes soft but steady, checking to see if you were enjoying yourself. You were. Her presence seemed to put you at ease in a way no one else ever had. Every time her eyes met yours, you felt the corners of your mouth lift into a smile, even when you weren’t trying. It was easy, maybe too easy, and for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you’d found someone who could carry the weight with you, without even knowing it.

– When Patrick met your family, the atmosphere felt off from the start, very vague. He tried to break the tension with a few jokes, but they came out cruder than you’d anticipated, and your family’s polite chuckles were more out of obligation than amusement. He slouched a bit too much in his chair, chewed a little too loudly, and when he reached for the bread, you caught your mother raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t that they didn’t like him, they just didn’t know what to make of him. He wasn’t the type they had pictured for you, and you could feel that judgment, quiet but sharp, in every lull in the conversation. After dinner, as you both stood by the car, you tried to soothe his unease. “Don’t worry about it, they’ll come around,” you said, more for yourself than for him. He looked at you, genuinely puzzled. “Wait, they didn’t like me?” He hadn’t noticed at all.

#challengers #challengers headcanons #challengers fanfic #art donaldson x reader #tashi duncan x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #tashi duncan #patrick zweig #art donaldson headcanons #tashi duncan headcanons #patrick zweig headcanons #challengers x reader

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newrochellechallenger2019 · 3 months ago

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valentines day with patrick zweig ♥

● wakes you up with breakfast in bed, heart shaped (sort of) pancakes

● sends you to run an 'errand', making some silly excuse so he can set up the boudoir for you both

● leads you down a trail of red rose petals through the house and back to bed, a gift bag with some new sex toy and a box of chocolates resting on the sheets

● spend the whole day in bed, testing out the new toy and new positions, 'it's what saint valentine would've wanted'

● after a dinner of valentines chocolate, you force him to watch your favourite romcoms which you know he only pretends to hate

● you get drunk on red wine and tell each other all the things you love about each other till you've run out of breath

● always surprises you with a gorgeous piece of jewellery before you fall asleep, a pair of earrings or a necklace or both

#wanted to post these earlier but oh well #merry's moodboards ✻#merry writes 𓋼𓍊 #i have no motivation #if you're in line for texting aus stay in line #challengers 2024 #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig headcanons #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #valentines day #headcanons #moodboard #challengers movie

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tinytennisskirt · 10 months ago

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best friend!patrick zweig who is totally not in love with you…

headcanons with a plot <3

warnings: mentions of sex, kissing, marijuana, smoking, casual touches, jealousy, and silent yearningggg

- insists that he drives you home even if you’re the slightest bit tired. you yawn at his place- you’re not driving home. he says it’s to keep you safe but really, he just wants more time with you.

“it’s like twenty minutes out, i’ll drive, it’s nothing.”

“i’m perfectly fine to drive! i just yawned, i’m not tired.”

his foot is down. “yeah, that’s not happening.”

“you’re going to take a bus home? patrick…”

“i’ll take a taxi if it makes you feel better?”

“uh huh.”

- he follows the sidewalk rule. he’s never heard of it before but he does it, just on his own.

- saves you the last slice or even bite of anything he’s eating that’s worth it. he orders a really good burger, the very last bit left is yours. ordering a pizza, the last slice is yours. even a slice of cheesecake, the last bite is yours. bonus points to him for making sure the last bite contains all elements of what he had. the burger has all toppings left on the last bite, the cheesecake has the crust and the caramel drizzle, etc.

- doesn’t get why you choose such shitty men to go out with and waste your best dresses for the wrong eyes. he plays it off as caring about you, but he’s jealousss

“i have another date tonight with tony,” you tell him. he looks up from the can of ravioli he’s opening.

“tony with the hair or tony with the fake hair?”

you tsk, “with the hair.”

“the guy with the weird moustache who runs the laundromat? really?”

“he’s nice!”

“just nice shouldn’t cut it. and doesn’t he have the weird butt-chin thing? come on.”

“he treats me well! compliments me, pays for things…”

“yeah okay, with the laundromat money, you’re sure it’s not going on credit?”

by the end of the conversation he’s telling you that you look nice, a little defeated, but he means it. he can’t talk you out of it truly without first admitting he likes you and secondly, admitting to you he likes you.

- he’s always down to spend time with you. he might say he’s busy but he’s not. and when he is, he moves things around just to see you, but he won’t tell you that.

- he buys the drinks you like just to keep them in the fridge. he buys more every time he goes out so the stock of it keeps growing and soon enough it’s taking up two shelves in his fridge.

“i’m going to make something to eat for dinner,” you say, opening the fridge. and the fridge is near-full of your favourite drink. he usually gets it for you, you’d assume he just had a few but no. he has so many. and the thing is, he doesn’t like the drinks. so it’s just really weird. there’s a million of your drinks and then in the empty spaces, ketchup, mustard, milk, ground beef, cheese, and two red peppers next to the can of opened redbull. what for? who knows. you walk back out to where patrick is sitting and he looks up from his phone.

“we can get groceries. don’t have much right now,” he reaches for his keys and you laugh just a little, which stops him. you hold up one of the drinks and he just stares at it, knowing you know about the shelves upon shelves of it. “they were on sale, fuck off.”

- any time you’ve slept at his place he either gives up his bed and sleeps on the couch, or if you fall asleep on the couch you always wake up the next morning with a comfy blanket over you and a proper pillow under your head. he won’t move you, he’s too afraid to wake you. or on nights when you know you’re staying over or even on a whim, he’s used to giving you his clothes to sleep in because he knows you like the fit of them. they’re comfortable.

- without you coming over, patrick wouldn’t do any of his chores. he’s only motivated by the idea that you might come over and think he’s a slob. you already know he’s a slob, but he does a good job at hiding it. it always smells a bit like febreeze when you come over and not that you mind it- it smells good. but it can’t mask the slight cigarette scent and the scent of his cologne which is without a doubt on every surface he’s ever layed on.

- he’s the guy you can go to for honest opinions because he’ll always shamelessly side with you. a fight with a friend who was clearly in the wrong? he doesn’t even try to see the other perspective, he’s on your side no matter what. your ex and his new girl? he thinks she’s ugly and a downgrade and he’s an asshole for posting the grocery store flowers he got for her. he’s jealous, but he’s good knowing your ex fumbled you.

“they’re yellow.”

“he got her yellow chrysanthemums?”

you chuckle and look at him. “you know what flowers those are?”

“saw them the other day at the store. on sale, $5. same ones, look at the wrapping.” he says, pointing at the laptop. “he’s broke and she doesn’t even know it.”

you laugh. he’s glad to hear it.

- when you go out to bars he pays for your drinks. says you deserve it- you do come over and cook all the time so why not?

- patrick is known to crack a few jokes but when you’re serious, so is he. you’re upset? he’s listening, he won’t make fun of you unless he knows it’ll make you feel better. he’ll sit next to you, let you talk, cry, get really angry, get really sad. he’s there. and he’ll comfort you in whichever way you need. it’s his softer side, the one you bring out. lets you lean against him, he’ll even hug you if you ask.

- he’s a GOOD HUGGER. he gives amazing hugs, they are so enveloping, so comfortable. his arms wrap all the way around and not only do his arms squeeze you the perfect amount of tight, but his hands as well. he’s always warm but not hot, and he smells like good cologne and slightly of cigarettes. he’ll take any chance to hug you and you’ll gladly have it.

- struggling not to think about fucking you when you’re trying on dresses for a date. he’s thinking ‘what will these guys think when they see you?’ and his mind is on one thing that they’ll be thinking. but his mind is on it too, when you come out in a little black tube dress and you ask him if it’s too short. it’s too short for sure.

“what about the cleavage though? too much? not enough?”

“hm?” he’s not paying attention to your words.

“the cleavage. too much?”

“yeah. maybe try a turtleneck.”

yeah yeah it’s wrong to think about sex with your best friend, but the dresses, each shorter and showing more skin than the next we’re making him so incredibly horny. he doesn’t do well with that. goes home and fucks his own hand at the thought. helps to distract himself from the fact you’re out on a date with someone else who might actually get to take off that dress :(

- he’ll show up at your place with whatever it is you say you’ve been wanting and he will make a night out of it. wings? he’s at your door with them in an hour. drinks? yeah he stopped for a six pack of whatever he grabbed. he’s always down to get food. you want to go out? he’ll pick you up to go get whatever it is you’ve been wanting. a good excuse to actually work on bulking. not that it’s date-like.

- he’s got a photo of you in his wallet. it’s a platonic thing, he swears to the girl he takes on a date. she’s pretty but she’s not you. the photo of you sitting pretty with a potted plant doesn’t give off ‘available’ and yeah he kisses her but she is not you. he leaves early and calls you on his way back. he’s pretty sure he’s fucked forever because he’s realizing he only wants you.

- he’s protective at parties. he’s already watching you dance and have fun but when you come there with him and start flirting with guys it provokes him just a little more than it would if he were sober. he’ll walk over and slip his arm around your shoulder or even your waist if he’s had enough to drink and he’ll ask the guy how he’s doing and he’s 100% running interference pretending he’s just out of it from the alcohol and it isn’t the fact he’s jealous.

“hey man,” patrick usually greets the guy, hand resting on the small of your back. he’s always got a big smirk on his face, tongue against his cheek. “what’s up?” the move usually scares the guy off and you playfully hit or elbow him, but it’s worth it.

- his doors are always open to you. you have a key if you need it. so when you show up, soaked from the rain, upset over tony the laundromat guy being the dick patrick was so right about him being (despite not knowing the guy at all), he wraps you in his arms and he listens to the whole story. you’re complaining about genuine men being so hard to find and he’s sitting right there. he just brings his hand to rest against his jaw and looks off to the side at something as you continue speaking and he’s listening, he just hates what he’s hearing.

- he’ll take off whatever jacket he’s wearing if you’re cold. he won’t be happy about it- or look happy about it, but he might be a little happy about it… he’ll complain about what he’s going to do in the cold but the sweater or jacket is on you within five minutes of your ask.

- he’ll begrudgingly do whatever you ask of him. like he does not want to get up at 4:50 in the morning and drive to the hilltop to watch the sunrise. he wants to stay asleep, snoring in his bed, but you wake him up and he hates it, but it’s you and it’s the sunset so he goes with you. but in his still-tired state all he can seem to focus on is the light of the sunrise hitting your skin. he’ll either do it super slowly or begrudgingly, sometimes he might even say no. but it never stays a no.

- again. can’t stand that you keep giving your time to men who don’t know how to treat you. he goes to the bar, he drinks about it a little, he talks to the bartender about you. the bartender knows you by name, knows your favourite album, knows you go out with guys who aren’t him, and he knows you’re beautiful, having your features described by a drunk patrick who uses his hands a lot to gesture. it’s weird when you go to the bar with patrick another night and the bartender already knows your name and the drink you want.

- drunk patrick uses all the self control he has not to tell you he wants you. he almost lets it slip with unfinished sentences. does everything he can to fend himself off, but he’s very close to you when he’s drunk, his already-bad spatial awareness so much worse while impaired. his face always close to yours, nose sometimes hitting yours, he comes so close. hands reach for your waist when he’s near you. you don’t mind it- it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. it’s a different feeling. you manage to wrangle him into his bed and make him drink water. he’s talking to you like there are important things you need to know before he absolutely passes out.

“if that tony guy comes around again i hope he knows i owe him a broken nose,” he’ll say and he’s grinning and you’re just rolling your eyes at him, he’s so stupid. “you have to stop dating these guys, fucking douchebags. i know i’m not much better, but at least i don’t wear axe body spray and pick you up in a beat up honda.”

“patrick, you drive a honda,”

“mine isn’t beat up.” he says. so honest. you laugh at him and hand him back the cup of water. but he says it, “you deserve more than that kind of guy. want you to have someone who really gives a fuck, you know?”

“if i could find one,” you say. half-oblivious, half-looking for him to say something that’ll have meaning. it’s the first time his drunk mind is telling him the feeling in his chest is heartache. oh my god, he feels like such a girl- he just grins, dimples on his cheek crawling all the way up. he covers his face.

- when you’re hanging out with mutual friends, smoking, talking, he’s always taking the seat next to you. your friends all know he’s into you- most of them suspect you’re already dating on the down low, the way you guys are so close. you’re sitting on the couch and his arm is up on the back of the couch behind you, your hand sometimes resting on his leg, you have your own conversations on the side and you’re laughing and leaning toward each other. it’s obvious. he’s obvious. YOU are obvious. and oblivious! painfully.

- patrick will shave his beard for your birthday. he’ll trim it regularly but on your birthday he shaves it all off, it’s an annual thing. bare-faced and you find it so so fun to see him without.

- the dress you wear on your birthday is a little too perfect. the mix of you and your hair done and your makeup and the intention of drinking with your girl friends and asking him how you look before you leave. you usually ask him before you go out. he’s going out with you and your friends, but he comes over a little early, just how things are. he’s always honest.

“you look… wow.” he’s looking at you. you’re standing in front of him, little dress, perfectly fit to your body. and you’re smiling, doing a little spin. and you’re beautiful and god you’re so fucking hot. patrick fears for the possibility of his sober thoughts becoming drunk words later. you’re already unbearably fucking beautiful what is he going to do with himself?

- he’s a touchy drunk. not with everyone, not the same way he is with you. when he drinks his hands are magnetic to you, resting on your hands, hand on the small of your back, your waist, your arm. like i said before, you’re used to it, you don’t mind it, but it’s different when he’s staying somewhat sober because he’s afraid of how he’d act if he had more than three shots. he wouldn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with- it’s not that, it’s the fact he’s scared if he drinks tonight that you in your element, dancing, laughing, having fun in that little dress would provoke him to spill all of his secrets. he’s got a stoic form of self-understanding he’s taking to prevent anything dumb from falling out of his mouth under the influence.

- he does, however, fend off the creepy guys or just the assholes who try and buy you more drinks or even talk to you. he won’t let them get so far as to ask for your name. you whine but he just tells you, “you wouldn’t want to talk to them sober.” and you’re like hmm true. the defender position includes closing your tab, getting you home, and getting you inside safely. and usually you take care of him when he’s drunk or high, but he takes the opportunity very seriously. before he’s helped you get to bed but this particular time you’re asking him to undo the zipper on your dress and you’re lifting your hair.

he’s not going to tell you no, so he undoes the zipper and in seconds you’re stripping in front of him unabashedly and he turns around, arms folded, grinning to himself because of course this was happening. he is not an asshole, so he won’t turn around until you’re dressed, but when he turns around you’re only in one of his shirts that he’s been wondering where it went- and your underwear and you’re asking him to come sit with you because it’s still technically your birthday (it’s not).

he will, but he doesn’t want to stick around too long. despite the lack of alcohol, there’s still a pull to tell you how he feels, but that’s girly. and you’re drunk. he puts you to bed after making you drink water.

- he’s the kind of guy to keep a condom in his wallet- he’s never going to use it, it’s probably expired and worn in front his wallet being in his pocket but he has it in there. in fact it’s right behind the photo of you.

- he also has a stolen street sign in his living room from when he was on tour after high school. it’s custom for all guests visiting his place to slap it before they enter the room. if you don’t, there’s no consequences, but it’s just wrong not to. he will, however, catch YOU on it if you forget. holds you to it in whichever way he can.

- he’s totally debating on kissing you almost every time he’s with you. it’s getting progressively worse every time he’s with you he swears he’s going to do it but he doesn’t want to. (he wants to sooo fucking badly, it’s insane). any time you pass him by, every time you say his name, when you sit next to him, when you’re talking to him about anything, engaging with him, looking him in his eyes. it’s a struggle not to.

and you’re friends, longtime friends so the casual touches get to be too much, even. you cup his face with your hands saying he needs to shave and he’s only staring at your lips.

or you sit sideways next to him on the couch facing him and your hand is on his shoulder and you’re so close to him when you talk he really could just reach over and kiss you.

you sit on his counter while he’s making spaghetti and you’re eating the shredded cheese out of the bag and it’s weird but the height your at, it would be perfect.

- you are the cause of his biggest grins and most laughter. you don’t even have to try. he enjoys your company more than anyone else’s. platonically, romantically, in every way. you are his best friend. you get him on a level even art didn’t.

- he’ll pick you up whenever you need him to. doctors appointment, from a friend’s- so when your self-proclaimed final attempt at a date ends up terribly, he’s the first person you call. you’re all pretty for another piece of shit and patrick has to pretend he’s not happy the guy was so weird. you get in the car and his eyes fall on your collarbone and your thighs and you yourself catch it. his eyes. you pull a knowing little look. “shut up,” he says, driving away without even letting you get your seatbelt on.

- he’s not a door holder very often. maybe for old ladies and kids, and the occasional friend, but he’s holding every door open for you. he even opens the car door for you most times. get back to his place, you don’t want to go home yet, he holds the door for you on your way in. you hit the street sign on the wall before flopping down on his couch. it smells like citrusy febreeze and a bit like his cologne. out of his personal needs of restraint, he tosses you one of his comfy shirts and shorts so you can be out of that little dress. and after you take them to his bathroom to get changed, he’s still feeling the same way about the way you look. it was not the dress’ fault.

- the thing with patrick and other women is he’s never been afraid to go up to a girl, hit on her, he’s hardly been afraid to kiss a girl. he’s pretty confident all around but you are so different. the need to kiss you is all-consuming. he wonders if he should talk to you about things first when he’s never considered more than the flavour of a girl’s lip balm in the past. you make him nervous, sitting there in his clothes. i say there, but you’re next to him, hair behind your ears, talking about how you think you’re done with dating and you’re going to wait until the perfect guy falls into your lap. you’re playing some angle but he’s thinking that it’s a good thing. the conversation turns to joking, he’s teasing you, you tease back it’s just normal.

- of course patrick has a snack pantry. if he doesn’t have groceries, he has snacks. at a random point in conversation you tell him you could really go for an oreo right now and he’s so on that. so you both take a trip to the kitchen and you’re looking in the cabinet and you find the oreos and share them while continuing to talk at the counter. you’re going on about how strange your date was and how you felt if you stayed you’d be on a true crime document and the conversation begins to turn to thanking him for coming to get you. but like mentioned before, he’d always come get you. didn’t matter how far you were but he wouldn’t say that.

“it’s different, it’s not like you picking me up from the dentist, it’s you picking me up when i know you were busy.” you say. he smiles because he really wasn’t that busy- he was just out with friends of course he’d drop them for you. “i just want you to know i’m grateful is all.”

“don’t need to be-“ he says with his mouth full of oreo. “it was nothing, i was nearby anyway.” he wasn’t. he sped. in his honda.

“you’re so weird,” you giggle. “why can’t you just be normal about people thanking you for things you do? you go out of your way far too often.”

patrick chuckles to himself, shutting the package of oreos. he doesn’t do it for anyone else. “how do i be normal about it?”

“you could say ‘you’re welcome’, maybe?” you say. he nods. “i say i’m grateful for you and the things you do for the people you care about, namely me and you say ‘you’re welcome’.”

“we’re rehearsing?” he straightened himself as if getting ready and you pressed your hand to your forehead, smiling. “go for it. say how grateful you are for me and the things i do for you. only you.”

“so stupid, just say you’re welcome.” you giggle, throwing your hands up in the air in defeat. he grins, a sly grin, dimple on full display, gorgeous. he turns away from you to put away the oreos (if you weren’t there he wouldn’t have put them away). he shuts the cabinet door. “patrick?”

“yeah?”

and he’s met with your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

- the way patrick kisses is very passionately. that’s who he is. he kissed a lot of girls in high school, met a few on tour that were worth making out with. his kisses are full of passion. but this kiss is from you, so he receives it like a gift. surprisingly politely. he’s never ever been caught so off-guard by a kiss. he didn’t see it coming at all. it’s a small kiss, a few seconds of lips fitting together perfectly, but you pull away. his face stays close to yours. he’s never had a kiss like this before. in the crowd of girls he’s ever kissed. it’s never felt like this. and it was so small.

“i’m sorry,” you say, hushed, but you’re smiling, so how sorry are you? he grins and in an instant, you’re kissing again, deeper, more, hands in his hair and his on your waist, holding tight. it’s all he’s thought about for a month on end. there’s something better than drugs and it’s this, patrick thinks. your back against the pantry door, him against you.

- he’s never been so in need of a kiss before. he’s never been kissed like this before. it’s somehow everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s never gotten from every girl he’s ever kissed. and the thing about patrick is, like mentioned, he’s a moderately horny guy but this to him is all he wants. he only wants to kiss you. a few minutes pass and he’s doing something he’s never done and that’s talking it out with you. but as soon as he admits he likes you, he’s telling you to shut up because you’re giggling and it’s adorable and you can’t be calling him out on his crush like that…

- you admit to being a little oblivious and maybe admitting to repressing feelings because you weren’t entirely sure- and he’s instantly on making fun of you for it. he makes fun of himself for not seeing it sooner or for making a move sooner but there’s no room for apologies between another kiss. a kiss full of laughter where you just can’t stop laughing but you also won’t stop kissing him and it’s kind of perfect.

#challengers #patrick zweig #challengers x reader #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig headcannons #patrick zweig headcanons #tinytennisskirt #patrick zweig fluff #josh o’connor #challengers fic #blurb #patrick zweig blurb

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