#patrick zweig i can save you

[jordiemeow]

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you understand me, Father?"

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

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

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

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

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

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

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

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

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

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

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Father? Are you alright?"

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

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

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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[girliism]

nerdy!art who based on his physique and good looks should be getting any and every girl he wants but instead he chooses to hide away in his books. he’s top of all his classes and does extra credit work for fun on the weekends, according to his roommate patrick he’s kind of a loser that needs to get out more. patrick invites him out to a lot of parties but art just ends up in the corner nursing only one drink before leaving early.

you were the opposite everyone on campus knew you. you went to every party thrown but you weren’t some slut you just liked being around people. now you weren’t stupid by any means but you also weren’t top of your classes.

“what do you mean i’m failing.” you looked at your math professor who just told you that if you don’t pass this upcoming test you’d fail his class. “i don’t think you’re understanding the material very well that’s why i assigned you a tutor.” a tall blonde with thick rimmed glasses walks up to your professors desk. “this is art, i’ve asked him to help.” art gave you a small wave. you’ve seen art around campus sitting under trees reading or stuck in the corner at a party. he was quiet only spoke when spoken to, you had no idea he was even in this class.

art cleared his throat. “you can come by my dorm tomorrow if you’re free.” art held on the door for you to walk out of. “tomorrows fine with me. you’re patrick’s roommate right?” art nodded “cool! i can get your dorm number from a friend of mine.” you smiled big at him. art gave you a closed mouth smile back before you guys waved goodbye.

“can you please not be here when she comes over.” it was saturday the day of yours and art’s tutoring session and he’s been cleaning up their dorm. “right i forgot you’re having a girl over.” patrick says raising eyebrows up and down before placing his cereal bowl in the sink not bothering to wash it. art pushes his glasses back up his nose bridge. “we’re just studying.” he mumbles going to wash patrick’s dish. patrick ended up leaving so art had the dorm to himself when you showed.

you sat on the couch in their dorm studying the place instead of the math problem art was trying to explain. “you got lucky pairing with zweig this dorm is partially an apartment.” art stopped talking to look around his dorm before shrugging going back to teaching you. “ugh i’m so jealous i’d kill for a dorm this big-” “you like to distracted yourself from your work when you don’t understand it.” art said cutting you off. you just stared at him not knowing what to say. art senses the awkward tension he created. “i’m sorry i didn’t mean to make you feel bad just if you payed attention i think you could really get it.” art spoke softly and you just nodded finally shutting up and listening to him.

studying with art was kinda fun. every saturday you’d meet at his dorm and listen to explain more in depth what your professor didn’t. at first art was very rigid but after a while you got him to loosen up. he now laughed openly with you and made stupid math jokes.

“ART!” you ran over to where he was sitting under a tree. art closed his book standing up when he saw you rushing toward him. “look what i did.” you shoved you test paper in his face smiling. “a B congratulations you’ve officially passed.” you couldn’t contain the squeal that came out of you when you pulled art into a tight hug. “no thanks to you. how will i ever repay you.” you pouted. art just shook his head saying there was no need. you gasp. “delta phi is having a party tonight you have to come and hang out with me.” the second art heard the frat name he was already declining. “parties aren’t really my thing.” art scratches at the back of his head. “bullshit dondalson, you saved me from failing which mean we have to celebrate. you’re coming weither you like it or not.” you gave art an excited smile and he gave you a nervous one back.

(a part 2 will be happening 🙏🏽) part 2.

[tinytennisskirt]

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.

[love-quinn]

THE GOOD WITCH

featuring . . . ! patrick zweig, art donaldson, remus lupin, rafe cameron, steve harrington, spencer reid, aaron hotchner, tasm!peter parker, dodge mason, dave lizewski

─── hello hello how are we ??? i’ve been a huge maisie peters fan for a few years now, and since she’s been teasing her next album i thought i’d do something fun to kind of commemorate the good witch before we move on to MP3. i’ve also been experiencing some major writers block :/// so! to combat that, here are some fics that are VERY VERY loosely inspired by some of the songs from the album <333 i hope you enjoy !!

TRACK ONE : THE GOOD WITCH [patrick zweig x reader]

when all i do is think about the past, create a universe that you can live in

you’ve done a lot of growing in the 4 years you and patrick have been broken up. you’re hoping he has as well because you’re still desperately in love with him.

TRACK TWO : COMING OF AGE [dave lizewski x reader]

baby i am the iliad, of course you couldn’t read me. so i’ll leave you behind but that don’t mean it’s easy

dave’s had a crush on you since he could remember, but he’d driven you away with his superhero duties. you’re the TA of his class and he’s determined to get it right this time.

TRACK THREE : WATCH [spencer reid x reader]

nobody actually happy and healthy has ever felt so desperate to prove it

you’re trying to show the team that you’re fine after spencer’s return from prison. if you were coping well, you probably wouldn’t have to try so hard.

TRACK FOUR : BODY BETTER [art donaldson x reader]

i can’t help thinking has she got a better body? has she got a body better than mine?

your boyfriend patrick is convinced that you have a thing for tennis players. you say the same about him. it doesn’t help that you’re both sleeping with one.

TRACK FIVE : WANT YOU BACK [remus lupin x reader]

and what was cheap to you, to me was all i had. the issue is i know all of this and i still want you back

remus was punishing you for something that wasn’t your fault. you should hate him. unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to.

TRACK SIX : THE BAND AND I [dodge mason x reader]

told her you were just a friend, told her i was homesick. i hadn’t thought of home twice

after moving across the country to go live with your aunt and participate in panic, you’re wary of the boy who works at the diner she owns. he’s wary of you too.

TRACK SEVEN : YOU’RE JUST A BOY (AIKTM) [aaron hotchner x reader]

don't you see what i'm giving up and you can't even text? don't be surprised now i'm giving up, god, what did you expect?

aaron isn't a bad boyfriend, he just tends to get caught up in his job. you wouldn't mind his constant abandonment so much if he didn't always forget to tell you.

TRACK EIGHT : LOST THE BREAKUP [tasm!peter parker x reader]

so, i'm feeling and i'm dealing with the heart you broke, while you do press-ups and repress us and take off her clothes.

for peter parker, you're it: the one that got away, the best thing that ever happened to him. now that you're broken up, he expects that you hate him. he could be right; you can hate someone and still need them to save your life.

TRACK NINE : WENDY [rafe cameron x reader]

then you're evasive on the phone until you're sorry on the floor. so i'm throwing you a bone cause you want me and you're sure. if i'm not careful i'll wake up and we'll be married and i'll still flinch at the sound of a door.

it's been unspoken and set in stone for as long as you'd known each other: you and rafe were in it for the long haul. you've loved rafe since you were young. now that you've grown up, your feelings haven't changed, you're just waiting for him to grow up as well.

TRACK TEN : BSC [steve harrington x reader]

i'm gonna throw you down the river, your mom can watch it over dinner, golden boy you've dropped the ball. i am annie fucking hall. if you don't love me, what was april?

steve thought breaking up with you after his experience with the upside down would be his best bet of keeping you safe. unfortunately for him, you don't know how to keep your nose out of his business.

these will come out every so often depending on how well they do lmao i hope u like them ik this is different than the stuff i’ve done so far :]]] ty to @robinsgrl and @xxepherr for letting me yap abt these as much as i like :]

[artdonalldson]

White Mustang

Patrick Zweig x Reader

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

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

Inspired by White Mustang by Lana Del Rey

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

WORD COUNT: ~2.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do. You watch every move he does.

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

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

But deep inside, you wish he did.

---

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

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

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

You blink. “I—what?”

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

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

“You’ve seen me?”

He shrugs. “Hard not to.”

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

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

A scrap of paper. A number.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could say the same about you.”

He shrugs. “Well there's free alcohol”

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

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

---

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

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

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

“You know who I am?”

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

“I’ve heard things,” you admit.

“Yeah. People always hear things.”

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

“You think they’re true?” he asks.

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

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

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

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “Fair.”

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that feels more dangerous.

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

You huff. “I’ve almost got it.”

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause before you mumble.

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

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

“Neither. Just… more human.”

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

“I kinda like it.” you say quietly.

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

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

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

You turn to him. “Should I be?”

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

“You haven’t ruined this,” you say.

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

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

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

---

It happens after a loss.

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

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

Not a question.

Not a request.

But you follow anyway.

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

You stand near the door a beat too long.

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

“I know. But I care about you”

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

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

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

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

And then he crosses the room.

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

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

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

And this time, he does

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never slow down like this.”

“And why is that?.”

He smiles — something small and sad.

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

---

Later, you lie tangled in sheets and shadow.

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

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

You blink.

“What? Why?”

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

“And if you did?”

“I’d ruin it.”

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

“Maybe not.”

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

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

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

“You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“Then don't let me go.” you whisper.

—

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

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

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

You sit up slowly. “Patrick?”

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

“That’s not what I wanted to ask”

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

Patrick stands. Stills. Then, softly:

“I told you not to trust me.”

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

“You told me a lot of things, Pat.”

He hesitates. Like he might come closer.

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

But he doesn't.

---

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

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

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

He doesn’t text.

Doesn’t call.

Doesn’t check in.

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

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

You scare me.

I never slow down like this.

I ruin good things

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

“Hope you're doing okay.”

You delete it.

> “Was it real for you?”

Delete that too.

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

Maybe it's time to move on.

---

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

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

For a second, he doesn’t notices you.

But then he looks up.

And stops.

Your eyes meet for a moment and no one moves.

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

Then he smiles. Small, tired… Real.

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

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

He winces. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Yeah.”

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

He steps a little closer. Not too close.

“I wanted to call you. A lot.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

“I’m good,” you say. “Really.”

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

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

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

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

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

You take a step back.

“Take care, Patrick.”

“You too.”

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

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

“I still think about you”

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

---

THE END

[tacobacoyeet]

PATRICK X READER

So basically after the match with art Patrick gets back on the road and his car breaks down in this town in upstate New York, and it’s like a cute suburban summery Springey town where everyone knows eachother and reader is walking down the street and sees this and goes to ask what’s wrong and he explains and they walk together to the mechanic and the reader explains what’s happening to the mechanic and the mechanic of course knows her TRUST THE PROCESS and he says he’ll fix his car if he comes everyday and helps with cleaning the cars cause I guess he needs a guy for that and he said he can sleep on the couch in the staff room and then he’s there for a few days and reader keeps coming back to check on him and they get well acquainted and stuff and even after his car is fixed he sticks around the town because he actually knows quite a few people now since his stay but him and reader are always flirting and giggling and ugh just fluff fluff fluff and they get together and Patrick gets his life together and stuff and they’re just idiots in love and then he gets a stable job and real friends and they get a cute apartment together and and he proposes with a real ring cause he saved up from his real job and tennis just becomes a hobby and they all live happily ever after pls I need this the birds are chirping I need a romcom

sun on the sidewalk | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: i'm gonna throw up this is so cute. thank you for the beautiful request. i feel like i just wrote the prequel to slow, sunday morning. patrick zweig you deserve every possible joy

warnings: honestly nothing other than my usual inability to proofread

It starts with smoke. And heat. And the unmistakable sound of something giving up.

Patrick grips the steering wheel a little harder, like force alone will stop the sputtering. Like glaring at the dashboard will reverse whatever's going wrong. It doesn’t.

He eases the car off the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath tires that can’t be bothered to behave anymore. The engine coughs once, then twice, then dies.

Silence.

He swears under his breath, leans his forehead against the wheel, and exhales through his nose. It’s hot. The kind of sticky, back-of-the-neck spring heat that pretends to be gentle but leaves you sweating through your shirt anyway.

He’s in the middle of nowhere. The GPS stopped working twenty minutes ago. His phone is on one bar. There are wildflowers in the ditch and a hand-painted sign about a pie sale nailed to a telephone pole.

This is hell.

Or somewhere vaguely prettier than hell, which somehow makes it worse.

And then, as if things couldn't get more disgustingly warm, someone speaks.

“Everything okay there?”

A voice. Not in his head. Not a hallucination. Real. Bright. Curious.

He looks up and sees you.

You’re walking down the sidewalk like you don’t know how to rush. Like the whole street’s moving at your pace. The sun clings to you like it’s trying to impress you, catching in your hair and kissing each individual pore on your face. You’re holding an iced coffee and wearing sneakers that have definitely seen better days—scuffed white with a hopeful pink lace swapped in on one side—and there’s a ribbon tied around your ponytail like it’s still 2003, like nostalgia’s just part of your outfit.

He blinks.

You blink back.

He says nothing.

You smile. “You’re not from here, are you? What's your name?”

And just like that, it begins.

“I’m gonna guess that car isn’t supposed to be making those noises,” you add, nodding toward the still-smoking hood.

He slides out of the driver’s seat and shuts the door behind him, a little too hard. “Thanks. Didn’t notice.”

You raise your eyebrows, but your smile doesn’t falter. “So that’s a no on everything being okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair, already regretting talking to a stranger in what appears to be the real-life set of a Hallmark movie. “It died. Or passed out. Or decided it hates me. Take your pick.”

You laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long.

“You want me to call someone?” you ask. “There’s a mechanic two blocks over—Greg. He’s usually booked solid unless you bribe him with cinnamon rolls or threaten him.”

Patrick looks at his phone, like it might save him. It doesn’t. No signal. No apps loading. A single bar that blinks like it’s mocking him.

You tilt your head. “You could also come with me? It’s not far. I’ll even throw in a free tour of Main Street, population: cozy.”

He exhales slowly, like it pains him to say, “Fine. Lead the way.”

You set off without hesitation, and he falls into step beside you. The sidewalk is warm beneath his shoes, dappled with light slipping through the trees overhead. A flag flaps lazily in the breeze outside the post office, and somewhere nearby, wind chimes tangle with the distant sound of laughter. The whole street smells faintly of lavender and fresh-cut grass, like someone pressed summer into the cracks between the bricks. You wave at two people in the span of a block. One of them hands you a paper bag with a scone in it. You hand it to Patrick.

He frowns. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” you say, grinning. “But you clearly need it.”

He doesn’t thank you. But he eats it anyway.

“Patrick,” he mutters after a minute.

“Hm?”

“My name. You asked earlier.”

“Oh.” You glance at him, the smile in your voice again. “Hi, Patrick. I’m the girl who’s going to save you from your terrible luck and overheated death trap of a car.”

He doesn’t say it, but your laugh lingers in the air a little too long. There’s a question tucked somewhere in the corner of your mouth when you look at him—like you’re waiting to see if he’ll let it bloom. And for the first time that day, he doesn’t hate where he's ended up.

---

The mechanic’s shop is the kind of place that smells like gasoline and pine-scented air fresheners, with an old bell that jingles when you walk through the door and a dusty fan that spins slow in the corner like it has nowhere else to be. The air inside is thick with heat and old stories. It’s sickeningly warm in the way only small-town spaces can be—like a hug you didn’t ask for. There’s something about it that makes Patrick feel exposed, like the walls are watching to see if he’ll flinch first. The windows are streaked with handprints and the walls are papered with calendars from ten years ago.

Greg is leaning over a car when you step inside. He’s older, broad shouldered, with a beard that’s more salt than pepper and a red rag slung over his shoulder. He glances up, wipes his hands, and grins when he sees you.

“Well hey, sunshine. Who’s the stray?”

You gesture to Patrick. “Broken car. Bad mood. Might bite.”

Greg chuckles. “Sounds like my kind of project.”

Patrick looks deeply unimpressed.

You roll your eyes and explain the situation. “His car’s smoking and dead on Elm. I figured you’d know what to do.”

Greg gives a long whistle. “Haven’t had time to breathe all week. Got too many in the bay as it is. But... I could use someone to hose down the mud off the SUVs and wipe out the inside of that disaster over there.” He jerks a thumb toward a battered Ford Explorer with its doors wide open and a mysterious smell floating out.

Patrick raises a brow. “You want me to clean cars?”

Greg shrugs. “You want your ride fixed? I’ll do it, no charge. But you show up every day until it’s done and put those arms to use.”

You glance at Patrick. He’s clearly calculating just how much he hates this.

Greg adds, “I got a couch in the break room if you need a place to crash. It’s not a hotel, but it’s better than the pavement.”

Patrick opens his mouth, probably to say no. But you beat him to it.

“Sounds like a deal to me,” you say. “Right, Patrick?”

He gives you a look like he’s rethinking every life choice that led him here. Then sighs.

“Fine.”

Greg grins. “Great. You start tomorrow. Try not to scare the customers.”

The next morning, Patrick wakes to the sound of someone slamming a toolbox shut and the smell of burnt coffee strong enough to peel paint.

The break room is dim and a little too warm. He sits up on the couch—a sagging old thing that creaks like it’s judging him—and rubs the back of his neck. His shoulder aches. His back’s worse. He’s slept on worse floors, but not recently.

Greg’s already in the shop when Patrick trudges out, holding a mug the color of regret. The mechanic nods at him without looking up.

“Mop’s in the corner. Hose is out back. Explorer’s still waiting on its last rites.”

Patrick grunts something vaguely human and gets to work.

It’s not glamorous. Not even close. The Explorer smells like stale gym socks and a half-eaten burrito. He spends twenty minutes just trying to scrape melted gum off the passenger-side floor mat. The sun is already high, and by noon, his shirt’s stuck to his back, his hair’s damp, and he’s seriously considering setting the car on fire instead of finishing it.

That’s when you show up.

“Wow,” you say, leaning against the doorway with a grin. “You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

He glares. “I think I have tetanus now.”

You toss him a water bottle. “Greg says you haven’t taken a break.”

“Didn’t know I could.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to supervise your union-mandated lunch hour.”

You hold up a brown paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

He eyes it warily. “What is that?”

“Sandwich. Chips. Cookie. A little townie affection.”

“Is it poisoned?”

You smirk. “Not unless you count the gluten.”

He takes it. Sits on the curb out front while you plop down beside him.

For a minute, there’s only the sound of cars passing by, birds overhead, the soft crinkle of wax paper.

Then—

“You’re not what I expected,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him. “Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes another bite, chews, swallows.

You lean back on your hands, looking up at the sky like it’s something worth admiring. “Well, I’ll try not to be too devastating if I end up on the bad side.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. The first real one.

The rest of the afternoon is more of the same: buckets of soapy water, a streaky squeegee, and Greg barking instructions from across the shop while a local radio station plays somewhere in the background—oldies, but not golden. Patrick doesn’t complain. Not out loud, anyway.

You hover for a while, chatting with Greg, sneaking Patrick another water bottle, watching him like he’s some strange little animal who might dart off if you get too close. He doesn’t.

When the sun starts to slant low, and the shop begins to quiet, you offer him a ride to the convenience store around the corner. “Unless you want another dinner of vending machine chips and passive-aggressive Post-Its on the fridge.”

He considers. Nods.

At the store, you make fun of his choice in granola bars. He mocks your obsession with lemon-flavored everything. The cashier knows you by name and throws a piece of gum onto the counter with a wink. Patrick doesn’t ask. You don’t explain.

On the walk back, the air cools just enough to make you both shiver, and he doesn’t pull away when your arms brush.

Not that night.

Not anymore.

The next few days pass in a rhythm Patrick never meant to find. It creeps in soft as dust, folding into the cracks he didn’t know were open—morning creaks from the break room pipes, the scent of soap and motor oil, your voice humming some half-remembered tune from a decade ago. It's not just routine. It's a lullaby he never asked for, and now can't shake.

Wake up. Scrub something. Fix something. Swear under his breath. Try not to throw a wrench at Greg. Eat the sandwiches you keep bringing him—different every day, but always wrapped in a wax paper and a paper towel with a stupid doodle on it. A sun with sunglasses. A smiley face wearing a mechanic's cap. Once, a cartoon version of him with a speech bubble that said: "I clean cars now."

He scowled when he saw it. But he didn’t throw it away.

Some afternoons, you stay. Sit on the same patch of curb. Talk about nothing. Or everything. It depends on the day. He learns you work at the local bookstore part-time. That you love bad movies and name all your houseplants. That you’ve never left this town for more than a week, and yet you don’t seem afraid of the world at all.

And people know him now. That’s the strange part.

Mrs. Keller from the bakery waves to him when he walks by. A middle schooler on a bike nods at him like he’s a regular. The postman calls him “mechanic lite.”

He doesn’t correct them. Not anymore.

And you?

You still show up every day. Sometimes you bring lemonade. Sometimes a new playlist. Sometimes nothing but yourself, hair pulled back and a little wilted from the heat, smile soft like you’re surprised he’s still here. Sometimes, your hand drifts to the hem of your shirt when you talk to him—fidgeting, like there’s something you’re trying not to say. Once, he thinks he catches you watching him when you think he’s not looking. You turn away too fast. He pretends not to notice.

So is he.

---

It happens on a Wednesday.

He’s elbow-deep in soap suds and old pollen, wiping down the side of a dented minivan while humming to whatever’s playing on the radio—something embarrassingly catchy. You’re sitting cross-legged on the curb, sipping peach tea and sketching something in the margins of a receipt.

“Am I allowed to ask what you’re drawing,” he calls without looking over, “or is it another deeply unflattering portrait of me?”

You grin without missing a beat. “That depends. Are you still pretending you’re not flattered by the attention?”

He glances at you then, one eyebrow raised, water dripping down his forearm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you say, “you haven’t run.”

That makes him pause. Just long enough.

You stand up and dust off your legs, walking toward him like you’ve got all the time in the world. “I made another playlist for you, by the way,” you say casually. “All songs about emotionally unavailable men who fall for girls with soft voices and good intentions.”

Patrick snorts. “Sounds fictional.”

You shrug. “Guess we’ll see.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you, the tilt of your mouth, the gleam of challenge behind your eyes.

And for the first time, he lets himself wonder what would happen if he kissed you. If you’d taste like peach tea and summer sun. If your hand would curl into his shirt or if you’d laugh against his mouth and ruin him for good. The thought roots itself somewhere between his ribs and doesn’t leave for the rest of the day.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But the air between you shifts—subtle and sudden all at once. Like a door cracked open. Like the sun peeking out after too many cloudy days.

It’s just a look.

---

The days keep stretching, warm and gentle and impossible to hate. Even the work seems lighter now, even when it’s still miserable. Patrick keeps showing up. Keeps pretending it’s just because of the deal, the couch, the lack of other options.

But everyone can tell it’s not that.

Greg starts making jokes. Little ones. "Don’t forget your fan club," when he spots you walking down the sidewalk. Patrick rolls his eyes. Doesn’t argue.

One evening, you walk him back to the shop after grabbing iced coffees. The air’s thick with honeysuckle and soft light. He says something dry. You laugh too hard. He doesn’t mean to, but he smiles, big and full and real.

You notice. You always do.

“I knew there was a human under there somewhere,” you tease.

He shrugs. “You caught me on a good day.”

“Lucky me.”

There’s a moment. Small. Private. Nothing happens, but it feels like something almost does.

You step closer just to bump your shoulder into his, and he bumps you back without thinking.

Neither of you says anything about it.

The next morning, you bring him coffee without asking. His order is perfect.

He doesn’t ask how you knew.

He just drinks it.

And smiles.

---

The shift comes in quiet places. A hand brushing his when you pass him a wrench. Your laugh carrying from the break room when you read aloud the horoscopes from the back of the town paper. The way his name sounds coming out of your mouth now—like it belongs there.

One night, it rains. Hard. Sheets of it, loud on the shop roof, steam rising from the pavement like the town is exhaling.

You're there, of course. You always are. Perched on the bench just outside the garage bay with a paper cup of hot chocolate and a flannel too big for your frame.

He joins you without speaking. Just sits beside you, close enough your arms press from shoulder to wrist. You don't move.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Then, softly: "You know you could leave, right?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the way the rain runs down the curb.

“I know,” he says eventually. “But I don’t want to.”

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He looks at you, really looks. The soft curve of your mouth. The way your cheeks are pink from the cold. The quiet waiting in your eyes.

And then, finally, finally, he leans in.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just close. Intentional.

Your lips meet like the moment had been sitting there for days, waiting.

And when you smile into it, he kisses you again.

It doesn’t go further. Not yet. Just lips and breath and the gentle press of something blooming too carefully to name. But after, when the rain starts to fade and you’re both sticky with warmth and quiet, he doesn’t pull away.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and he lets you.

Later, back inside the shop, he finds himself folding the blanket on the break room couch like it matters. Like making it neat will make this real.

The next day, he finds a note tucked into the sandwich bag: About time.

It’s not signed. It doesn’t have to be.

You grin when he sees you that afternoon, but there’s a flicker in your eyes—hope curling up under caution, like you’re not sure if the kiss changed everything or nothing at all. And he does something completely reckless: He grins back.

---

The day the car is finally ready, he doesn’t go get it.

Greg tells him that morning, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that used to be white. "She's all set," he says. "Runs better than it has in years."

Patrick nods. Says, "Cool."

Doesn’t move.

Greg raises a brow. "You gonna take it for a spin or just let it sit there looking pretty?"

Patrick shrugs. "Might stick around a little longer."

Greg grins, wide and knowing. "You don’t say."

He wipes his hands on his rag and gives Patrick a long look. “Didn’t think you were the sticking-around type.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything.

Greg just nods, like that’s answer enough. “Good. Kid like you needed somewhere to land.”

That night, he brings in the folding chair from outside the garage and sets it next to you on your usual patch of sidewalk. He’s got a soda this time. You’re already halfway through a milkshake.

He doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn’t explain himself. Just sits.

And when you lean over and bump your shoulder into his, he bumps you back.

Then doesn’t move away.

---

Two days later, Greg offers him a real job.

“You’re decent with a wrench,” he says, handing Patrick a new shop shirt with his name embroidered in red thread. “And you haven’t scared off the locals. Figure that qualifies you.”

Patrick stares at the shirt for a long second. The name stitched in red feels louder than it looks. Realer. He brushes his thumb across the thread like it might vanish. And then, something shifts.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a slow release of tension he didn’t know he’d been holding. Like his shoulders drop for the first time in months.

Then he nods. Once.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The next day, he takes a photo of it hanging in the break room and sends it to you with no caption.

You reply: look at you. a real mechanic now.

Three weeks after that, you help him move into a one-bedroom above the diner. It smells like maple syrup and old paint, and the radiator hisses like it’s got opinions, but he doesn’t complain. You hang a string of fairy lights in the window. He lets you.

One night, he looks around the place—at the worn-in couch, your shoes by the door, the mug you keep forgetting on the counter—and realizes it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.

He wakes up early the next morning and takes the longest route to the shop. Just to see the sun hit the street the way it always does.

And he smiles.

He doesn’t tell you he’s been saving. Not at first. Not when it’s new and fragile, this thing between you that feels like light pooling in a place that used to be dark.

But the truth is, he’s been tucking bills into a coffee can hidden under the sink. Folding up twenties like prayers. Every oil change. Every brake pad replacement. Every tip from some guy in a pickup who thinks Patrick’s too pretty to know how to work a socket wrench.

It takes a few months.

But he does it. He finds the ring.

It’s simple. Nothing flashy. Silver band, oval stone, the kind of thing that looks like it was always meant to be on your hand.

He doesn’t plan the moment. Doesn’t want to.

It happens on a slow Sunday morning. You’re still in pajamas, half-asleep, sitting on the floor of the apartment eating cereal out of the box and humming along to a song on the radio.

And Patrick—grease-stained, heart-full, steady for the first time in his life—sits down beside you, pulls the ring out of his pocket, and says:

“I want to stay. For good, this time. And I want to do it with you.”

You blink. Stare at the ring. Then at him.

“Patrick,” you breathe.

“I know. I’m not good at speeches. Or planning. Or, like, living in the world like a normal person. But I love you. I love this. And I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to keep waking up beside you.”

You set the cereal aside. Crawl into his lap. Kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever known.

And say yes.

BONUS SCENE

Years later, the house is white with green shutters and a porch swing that creaks like it remembers every visitor. There’s a dog named Pickles—some kind of lab mix with too much energy and a heroic commitment to stealing socks. The living room smells like lavender and sun-warmed wood, and someone is always barefoot. Someone is always humming. Someone is always in love.

Patrick stands in the kitchen, barefoot and half-awake, flipping pancakes with one hand while balancing a toddler on his hip. The kid’s hair sticks up like a sunflower and his smile is all you. Another one waddles through the room with a juice box clutched in both hands like it’s sacred.

You walk in wrapped in a robe, sleepy and radiant, and kiss Patrick on the cheek like it’s a ritual. Because it is. Because it always has been.

There’s a knock at the door. Patrick calls, “It’s open!” and in come Art and Tashi—matching sunglasses, tote bags of fresh fruit and croissants, and the kind of ease that only comes from showing up for the better part of a decade.

“Brought blueberries,” Tashi says, lifting the bag.

Art lifts his coffee. “And salvation.”

Patrick smirks. “You’re late.”

“You have toddlers,” Art says. “Ten minutes late is practically early.”

The kids squeal when they see them. Pickles lets out one bark and then rolls belly-up. And for the next few hours, it’s coffee and crumbs and the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

Later, when the house hushes under nap time and the light turns slow and golden across the porch, Patrick leans against the railing, arms folded, watching the breeze chase itself across the grass.

You come up behind him, soft-footed and sure, and wrap your arms around his middle. Rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“You stayed,” you whisper, voice akin to the first ray of sun peeking past the clouds in the morning.

He turns, presses his lips to your forehead. Breathes you in.

“Of course I did,” he says. “Where else would the sun hit just right?”

---

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

[soaraes]

mornings in. — patrick zweig. (a short(er) blurb)

nsfw mentions — mdni ageless blogs included. <3

[just a thought… masterlist !]

you definitely wake up around close to noon or past noon. patrick has never been a fan of waking up early. so when he doesn’t have to, he takes FULL indulgence.

room is fully cozy, warm-ish lighting with the sun shining through the windows.

you two have a love-hate relationship with your windows and the way that the sun shining through the glass can be both annoying and beautiful.

cuddling position when waking up varies obviously, but the most common way he finds himself waking up is his head in your chest, with his arms around you.

i imagine patrick to be a snorer. as in dad-like snores.

incoherent mumbling before even waking up.

once waking up, it’s cuddles galore. kinda wants to be in your skin. loves skin on skin contact.

patrick could EASILY stay like that for hours on end, sometimes you simply let him.

lying in bed for hours on end, skin on skin. mindlessly chatting, sometimes mindlessly scrolling until you two get unbearably hungry.

big into cockwarming, one of his favorite ways to wake up.

loves the feeling of his cock being buried in your warmth, getting hard, and since he’s inside you and acts like a plug; he can just cum in you whenever !!

it’s awesome, it’s great, eats you out afterwards sometimes. gets him hard all over again.

patrick does not know how to cook to save his life, so you have been trying to teach him as time goes on.

you think pancakes would be far too complicated, so you give him the task of scrambling eggs.

tries to be fancy and make tries to make an omelette instead because he keeps playing around, insisting he can.

he cannot.

eggs start to burn, he starts freaking the fuck out, silently.

the burnt eggs are trashed, and he actually listens the next time.

scrambled eggs are indeed successful, he wants to cook the sausage patties next.

cooking sausage is easy to him, pretty standard since the colors of the meat changes when cooked.

once breakfast is done, you guys eat.

isn’t against having food sex !! WHO SAID THAT…

loves loves loves syrup all over you, just so he can lick it all up, delicious.

one time patrick actually put a peice of egg on your nipple and then proceeded to suck + bite at both with his mouth <3.

after breakfast, it could be back to skin to skin. patrick hates being productive on these kinds of days, so it most likely goes back to that.

overall just loves to spend lazy mornings like this with you because it’s just so cozy and intimate and he can never get enough of it.

hope you enjoyed, bye. <3

[gamesetart]

hngnngngnng sweet and easy universe……

need Pat to fuck you and tease you about how he knows you’re thinking about Art even while Patrick is stuffed deep inside your little pussy. He’s so mean, teasing about how Art isn’t going to be as deep as he is, he’s not going to know what the fuck to do with pussy this tight, this wet, this sweet.

It’s adorable that you don’t even care that Art’s not going to fuck you better than Patrick can. You’re in love with each other. But Patrick doesn’t have to love you to make you feel good, he just has to love your pussy <3

Well yes! 😁🫶

well. yes. (again, had to break the laptop out for this ur so yummy)

"a terrible sweetness" (a patrick interlude)

tags: patrick zweig x fem reader, p in v, mild daddy kink, implied patrick zweig x art donaldson, implied art donaldson x fem reader. nsfw. minors DNI.

You didn't ever mean to fuck him more than once. Patrick was supposed to be a hookup, a momentary balm to soothe your seemingly insatiable need. He's a frat party fever dream, a fantasy through amber-coloured glass. And he's a saved contact on your phone and a text message at one in the morning:

patrick (frat) 1:47 am

in town, wyd?

So you start to fuck him a little more regularly. With Art's permission, of course, you're a lot of things, but you're not a cheater, for fucks' sakes. It's weird for Art, grabbing lunch with Patrick knowing he's been inside Art's girlfriend, and probably will again before his weekend visit is over. But he almost likes it. Because that's his Patrick and his girl. You've managed to inextricably connect two of the most important people to him, and by having both Tashi and her boyfriend, you've tied the final knot. The four of you, all tied together because you can't keep your pretty hands to yourself.

"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?" Patrick taunts, scissoring his fingers open inside you.

Some days, he doesn't bother with much prep - the tight feeling of him bullying inside you, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, is dizzyingly addictive - but there are nights where it's like he can read your mind, and he finds sick satisfaction in drawing things out so he can tease you. About Art, his Art, his sweet Artie, your lovely, doting, idiot boyfriend, who, for all the goodness in the world, wouldn't ever be able to fuck you like Patrick does.

And he likes knowing he's caused all of this. Patrick knows Art better than Art knows himself. Fucking you is like fucking a part of Art by proxy, and the fact that you're both thinking about him is almost laughable.

"I'm always thinking about him," you return, balling your hands up in your sheets.

He's got you splayed out on your bed, his body between your spread legs, his hand reaching between your bodies to fuck in and out of you with two quick, strong fingers. Patrick's head is right above yours - you could have kissed him, if you wanted. But that's not really what he's for, sweet presses of lips while you 'make love'. Patrick is for the clash of teeth and tongues while you fuck. His eyes are impossibly beautiful, bluish green, the pupils ringed with a sunburst of hazel and gold.

"So am I," Patrick spits back, and it makes you clench around him, hearing confirmation of that single unifying detail, the single nexus between the two of you.

Art.

"But he can't fuck you like I can," Patrick continues roughly.

He pulls his fingers from you, much to your disappointment. (And excitement: not cumming on Patrick's hands just means you'll cum more around his cock.) He brings the slick, shiny digits to your lips, smiling roughly at you.

"Clean that off for me, will ya, doll?"

Patrick likes that he can treat you in a way he can't treat Tashi. She's a lot of things, but she won't let him degrade her. Not the way he degrades you; he's using you as much as you're using him, and he won't let you forget it. He likes that when he holds his fingers up to your mouth you suck them willingly into your mouth and swirl your tongue around him to really make sure you're licked all of yourself off him, likes that you seem genuinely disappointed when he takes them away. Like a dog losing it's favourite toy.

He lines himself up, dragging his cock meaning up and down your slit. Kisses it against your clit, slaps it there for good measure. You moan, eyes fluttering shut, rolling back in your skull. Patrick knows what he's doing, always does. Patrick knows how to fuck. Patrick knows how to make you feel so, so good.

His palm slaps across your face, not very hard, just as a reminder. The crack of skin forces your eyes back onto his smug face.

"No, no, keep your fucking eyes open," he goads. "I want you to look at me, and think about him, when I fuck you."

It's with that promise that Patrick finally spears himself in you, all at once, bottoming out in one rough, steady thrust. It takes everything in you to keep your eyes open as you all but scream, walls stretching to take him, clenching around his cock when he finally lands home. He gives you no time to adjust, though, pulling out again, almost all the way, and slamming back in.

"He couldn't fuck you like, this could he?" Patrick groans. His eyes are half-lidded and his pupils are blown so wide they look black. Lust. That's all this is. That's how you like it.

"N-no," you gasp, rolling your hips up to meet him. "Not like this, fuck, you feel so good."

"Yeah, I do," Patrick says, dragging a hand down your body to palm at your tits, rolling one nipple between his fingers.

The thing about Patrick is he fucks you like he doesn't care about you. Which, to an extent, he does, you're dating his best friend and you've slept with his girlfriend and you're actually really funny and smart and interesting so he can see why Art likes you, but Patrick isn't in love with you. You both know it.

"So good, so fuckin' good, god, you fuck me so good, you're so big," you chant helpfully.

His hips move with a fluidity that is almost mesmerising - strong, fast, powerful. He's a hurricane. You can't bend Nature to your will, but if you're very clever, you can learn how to move with it, to learn to ride the waves, match the tide. That's what you have with Patrick. Organised Chaos.

"He wouldn't know what to do with all of this," he pants. "And when he does fuck you, you're gonna miss me. Because no one's gonna fuck you as deep, no one's gonna take care of this sweet little princess pussy like I do."

The idea of that gets you both going. For Patrick, it's the idea of Art's sweet, blushing face, his fumbling hands, his shaky moans, moans Patrick's become too familiar with at the Academy, the late nights when Art thinks no one can hear. But Patrick can. Patrick always can. For you, it's the idea of the tables turning. It's the horrible, taboo idea of Art finally, finally fucking you, and getting a reminder of Patrick. You can practically see him in your head, the expression he had when he was fucking himself into your sheets.

You know Patrick's right, and it hardly matters. You're in love with Art, not Patrick. One of these days, you'll probably marry him, (he's won you over to the idea, honestly, the whole kids and a house life. With Art, the idea becomes sweet.) and you'll have a gorgeous wedding and his ring on your finger. You're not going to marry Patrick, he's not for that. He's for this. For the now - college dorms and too much beer, texts too late at night or too early in the morning. So you tell him.

"Yes, yes, fuck, you're so good," you whine, and every word comes out shaky and fucked. "No one's ever fucked me so good, only you, Patrick, only your cock, god."

"Yeah, that's it, baby, tell me how good I fuck you," Patrick moans. "Tell me how well I cuck your fucking boyfriend."

That's it. That's all it takes for you to cum around him, because it's gross, and it's a fucked-up thing to say, and it's so mean, and you're trying to picture Art saying something like this to you, doing something like this to you, and you can't. Patrick fucking laughs when you clench around him, shaking. But he doesn't stop. He fucks you straight through it, and then he just keeps going. It's unfair, the fact that he has the stamina of a fucking race horse when he wants it. You've had nights where you've cum four times before he's cum at all, and by the end of it you're only half there.

You don't really have words, but you try. What comes out is a broken, "Patrick-- fuck, Art-- can't-- fuck."

"I bet he wants to put a baby in you," Patrick teases, slamming in and out like he wants to break you. "Bet he wants you to make him a daddy."

He's starting to think maybe he's thinking of Art while he fucks you, too. Keeps seeing images of Art in his head - Art writhing under him, Art begging for him, Art's voice, not yours, chanting, "fuck, yes, daddy, daddy, fuck!"

Patrick slips one hand down to play with your clit. It makes you sob, voice climbing another octave. Your whole floor probably hates you. Your RA probably hates you. Your neighbours definitely hate you, and maybe they hate him too. They're probably all jealous.

"Come on, doll, you've got another one. Cum on my cock. Pretends it's Art's."

He's kind of pretending your cunt is Art's ass, so you'll at least be even. You sob, legs shaking, hands fisting in the sheets so hard they might rip. It's good, so good, too good. Your entire body is on fire. You're clenching around him, and it's like every thrust drives his cock right up into your cervix.

You gush around him right as he fills you up. You're on the pill, of course, but for a moment you pretend you aren't, pretend it's Art emptying his balls into you, filling you up, pretend you're making Art a daddy. It's a nice thought.

You're never going to marry Patrick Zweig. It's probably why he fucks you so well.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

pleaseee kisses prompts 14, 15, and 33 with patrick zweig 🙏🫠

Sure :D

Prompts: An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it; a kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished; a fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick.

Warnings: Fluff; flirty Patrick; fake dating; smooches

Summary: Finding your plus one to a wedding at the last minute on Tinder had been dicey, sure, but you couldn't have anticipated this.

"Would you cut it out?"

"No." Patrick's refusal was muffled as he chowed down on another two mini crab cakes. You glanced around nervously, concerned that anyone you knew might see your plus one shoving every hors d'oeuvre that he could get his hands on into his mouth.

Finding your plus one to a wedding at the last minute on Tinder had been dicey, sure, but you couldn't have anticipated this.

The trade was straightforward: Patrick was your plus one to your friend's wedding, and you let Patrick shower at your place and crash at yours (or cover the cost of a motel for the night—he was cool with either).

But now, you were considering cutting ties early. If Patrick kept this up, then it defeated the whole fricking purpose of having him go with you in the first place. You didn't think that anything could be more embarrassing than showing up to a wedding alone while your ex was attending with his new girlfriend, but the way Patrick was stuffing his face was quickly proving you wrong.

"Seriously," You hissed, leaning in and elbowing him in the side, "You're either gonna choke, or I'm going to choke you."

Patrick grinned as he chewed, dusting off his fingers.

"Okay," He agreed before chasing the swallow with a swig of his beer. "Okay, you're right. I'll slow it down."

"Thank you."

"Need to save room for dinner, anyway. And cake. Are people still doing cake at weddings?"

"Sometimes."

"You think they will?"

"Honestly, they seem more like a dessert bar couple. They'll probably have a little cake for themselves."

"Explains why I haven't seen one." He folded his arms on the high table, glancing around the others mingling at cocktail hour. "Seen the ex yet?"

"No."

"You should've shown me a picture, I could keep an eye out for him, too."

"Better if you don't know what he looks like. Then you can be genuinely surprised if I introduce you."

"You don't trust my acting abilities?"

"With all due respect, you could be Ted Bundy 2.0 for all I know."

"Fake cast and missing puppy story not included."

You smiled in spite of yourself, and Patrick grinned.

"Tell me about yourself," He urged.

"What for?"

"Gotta pass the time somehow—especially if you're going to poo-poo me from the pu pu platter."

"There isn't a pu pu platter in sight."

"Can you just appreciate the joke?"

"It was a fine joke."

"C'mon. I mean, you're funny, you're gorgeous," He raised his hand, waving toward you, "Why does someone like you need to surf Tinder to find a plus one?"

You smiled, looking down at your drink.

"First of all, thank you."

"Anytime."

"Second of all...I don't know, since my ex left me I've been focusing on myself."

"No hoe phase?"

"Hoe—ly shit, you seriously talk to people you don't know like that?" You scoffed.

"I just mean, you know. Sometimes after a breakup, you wanna fuck around a little. Nothing wrong with that. It would explain why you're on Tinder."

"Oh? Is that you're on Tinder?"

"Honestly? No."

"Why, then?"

Patrick shrugged. "I like sex and sometimes I have trouble finding somewhere to sleep."

"How's that working?"

"Better than you'd think."

"Does the sex thing always happen?"

"Not always. I'm happy to crash on a couch."

"Mm."

"Not that I mind it when it happens. Thanks for answering my question, by the way."

"What do you mean?"

"About the hoe phase. You just said 'the sex thing' like it's a creature from the black lagoon."

"I did not—" You began to wind up for the next round of argument, but were cut off by the sound of your name being called. You winced, steeling yourself and urging, "Don't look."

"That the ex?"

"Yes."

"Perfect," Patrick stood up straighter, straightening his jacket. "Showtime."

"You sound way too excited—"

"Hey!" Your ex spoke up behind you, and you slapped a smile on, wheeling around and greeting, "Jeremy, hi!"

"How's it going?" Jeremy began to lean in for a hug, but went still when Patrick curled his arm around your waist. Your stomach flipped at the gesture, keeping your eyes carefully trained on Jeremy's face.

"It's going great, how are you?"

"It's good, it's good."

"Where's Francesca?"

"Oh, she's grabbing a drink."

"Awesome."

"You want another one, baby?"

Patrick's question threw you for a loop for a second, but you shook your head, smiling.

"I'm good, hon, but thanks."

"I don't think we've—met?" Jeremy's voice tipped up, and you had to fight off a laugh.

"I don't think you have. Jeremy, this is Patrick."

"Hi."

You watched Jeremy hold his hand out to shake, but Patrick just tightened his grip on your hip, drawing you a little closer as he offered, "Nice to meet you."

Jeremy's smile faltered as he drew his hand back, tucking it into his pocket.

"You two been together long?"

"Oh, gosh, a few months," You flubbed.

"How'd you, uh—How'd you meet?"

"At a match. I'm a tennis player."

"Oh! You any good?" Jeremy asked.

"He's the best," You answered without missing a beat.

Patrick chuckled softly, nose nudging against your cheek. "You're gonna make me blush, sweetie."

"Good," You smiled at him. A thrill shot through you as Patrick's eyes dipped to your mouth, and before you knew it, he was leaning in for a gentle kiss. You let your eyes slip closed, your lips working tenderly against his. Patrick's hand slid from your hip, sliding lower and palming your ass. You drew back, giving Patrick a warning look before turning to look at Jeremy again as he cleared his throat.

"I should go find Francesca."

"Sure! It was great seeing you."

"You, too—and nice meeting you, Patrick."

"Charmed," Patrick cooed. The two of you watched him turn, disappearing into the crowd.

"...That was good, right?"

"Yeah, it was good...Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Get your hand off of my ass."

"Sure." He gave it a pat before turning back to the table, eyeing a passing server's tray. "Is that shrimp cocktail?"

--

"That wasn't so bad."

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Little bit of both." Patrick leaned against your front hall wall. You took him in for a moment, taking in his loose tie, and his jacket where he was holding it over his shoulder.

"I think we were very convincing, so," You tipped your head from side to side. "You're right. It wasn't so bad. Thank you."

"Hey, sure. You can just venmo me."

"What?"

"For the motel."

"Oh! Oh, of course." You fished into your purse for your phone, biting your lip. To be honest, you'd been rethinking that particular part of the plan all evening. You hated to admit it, but Patrick was gorgeous, and had been so goddamn charming. He'd been funny, had made conversation with the other guests at your table, and he'd been perfectly affectionate—kisses on the cheek, the lips; a hand on your back, your waist. A time or two, he'd gazed into your eyes in a way that had felt so sincere and...Real.

Sure, he'd driven you nuts at the beginning of the evening, but he had grown on you.

"Um," You spoke up. "I was, uh...I was thinking."

"What about?"

"About the sex...Thing." You glanced nervously toward Patrick just in time to see his expression melt into flirty intrigue.

"Oh yeah?" He goaded. "What about it?"

You couldn't just come out and say it, right? You set your phone down on the counter and strode toward Patrick before you could talk yourself out of it. You grasped his rough cheeks, drawing him in for a kiss. He went without hesitation, dropping his jacket and curling his arms around you. You groaned softly, sliding a hand up into his hair and letting him steer you back against the wall. You parted your lips as Patrick's tongue probed them gently, his leg slotting between yours and rocking it back and forth.

You rolled your hips down against it, whining softly against his lips as his hands skimmed over your body. Patrick began to draw away, but you leaned up, catching hold of his lower lip with your teeth and giving it a rough bite. His hips jolted against yours, groaning low in his throat as you soothingly slipped your tongue along the skin.

"Do you still want me to Venmo you?" You asked.

"Not really. You still want me to crash on the couch?"

You hummed, pretending to contemplate before you let your hand slide from his curls to his neck.

"How about we start on the couch."

[saintzweig]

patrick def gives the vibes of someone who owns a motorcycle and comes to pick up his gf from college classes with it

i haven't been able to stop thinking about this since i got it so thank you for that

patrick wasn't exactly subtle with his want for a motorcycle– showing you the ones he comes across on his for you page, scrolling through websites and pointing at ones you see when you're in public. you've told him once that you don't like motorcycles or people who willingly ride the death machine but it was foolish of you to think that was going to stop him, after all he's a kid with health insurance and lots of money.

he hasn't told you he was going to buy one because he knows you'd try and persuade him not to, figured he can just deal with it after. so he shows up one day right outside of your campus, just in time for your last class to be dismissed. you were walking with your friends when the conversation faltered and they stopped in their tracks to stare at the very attractive, tall figured clad in leather jacket and a sleek black helmet next to a motorcycle in the same color and finish. you didn't even realize it was your own boyfriend until you recognized that it was the jacket you gifted him for his birthday.

"patrick friedrich zweig, no you did not"

he could only laugh and smirk at your reaction as he takes off the helmet, you swear you heard one of your friends whimper. it didn't take long for him to convince you to go on a ride with him, offering you your very own helmet in your favorite color and a promise to watch all seasons of new girl with you.

OR!!! forty-something patrick zweig (grayish hair and beard if you get me) who's finally got himself settled somewhere, sold his dingy car that he's lived in for how many years and saved up enough for a motorcycle as a reward for himself.... showing up unannounced outside his controversially young girlfriend's university. revving as he drove away with your arms wrapped tightly around his torso. you were definitely the topic the next day, with people coming up to you to ask where and how you met your sugar daddy ...

[applereid]

— SAVED BY THE BELL, PATRICK ZWEIG.

scenemo!patrick x popular!reader . the scenemo patrick character belongs to @pittsick !! i love him so much and i watched challengers because i was so interested in his character. lol! i hope you like it!

A sharp thud hits the back of your head, causing you to mutter under your breath, “What the hell…”

You turn around slowly, already knowing who the culprit is. And right on cue, there he is. Patrick Zweig, slouched in his seat with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lip ring. The smudged eyeliner around his eyes only seems to make his icy stare more deliberate as he tilts his head and gestures with his brows toward the crumpled paper that hit you. His lips silently shape the words: read it.

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean down and pick up the offending note. You unfold it beneath your desk, your brow arching as you squint at the glittery green ink scrawled across it.

:: skip lunch with me? :P

You glance back at Patrick, unimpressed. He’s already watching you. Slowly, deliberately, he forms a circle with his fingers and pokes his tongue through it, giving you the most immature, suggestive grin imaginable.

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. And when you open your mouth, ready to deliver a biting remark, the teacher’s voice slices through the classroom like a whip.

“Mr. Zweig. Do you two have something you’d like to share with the class?”

Patrick sits up straighter, feigning innocence with wide eyes. You follow suit, turning back around in your seat.

“No? Then perhaps pay attention.”

You both nod in silence, and the rest of the class resumes without incident, except for the crumpled note still in your hand, clenched tighter now.

When the bell rings, you don’t even glance back at Patrick. You grab your bag and stride out. The hallway is buzzing with students rushing toward lunch, laughter and conversations echoing off the lockers. But you don’t head toward the cafeteria.

Instead, you follow the quieter path you both know too well. Down the side hall, through the unmonitored stairwell, and into the vacant classroom you’ve claimed more than once.

The door clicks shut behind you, followed by the sound of the lock turning.

“Okay, okay. Listen, i’m sorry,” Patrick says with a laugh, just as your hand comes down in a slap to the back of his head.

He winces dramatically, rubbing the spot. “Ow! I said sorry! I didn’t know she’d actually catch us!”

“You’re lucky she didn’t make me read that note out loud, dumbass,” you snap, letting your bag fall with a thud as you cross your arms and lean against the teacher’s desk.

Patrick pouts, stepping forward and bracing his hands on the desk beside you, trapping you in that familiar, charged space between his arms. His voice softens.

“I mean it. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond, but the look in your eyes challenges him to try harder.

He brushes a lock of hair from your face, and his touch lingers as his fingers trail down to your side. Slowly, he sinks to his knees in front of you, his hands finding your hips.

“How can I make it up to you?” he murmurs, thumbs circling gently over your jeans. He’s impossibly close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your body, even through the denim.

You remain still, defiant even now. But he only chuckles under his breath. “I like when you act tough,” he says, voice husky.

He leans in, pressing soft kisses to the front of your jeans, eyes never leaving yours. It’s maddening. And it works. Your breath catches, your fingers weaving into his hair almost instinctively.

“Patrick-” you whisper, voice tight with warning… or something else. Desire, maybe?

But the moment shatters with a bang on the door.

Your heads snap toward the sound. And right on cue, there she is. Your teacher, face pressed to the small window, eyes wide with fury as she yells through the glass, demanding the door be opened.

Patrick groans and rises to his feet, exasperated but amused. He snatches up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder as he gives you one last look.

“Saved by the bell,” he smirks, licking his lip before pulling the door open.

The teacher storms in. You barely register the chaos that follows. You’re still standing by the desk, untouched, heart racing, thoughts a mess.

And Patrick? He’s already halfway down the hall, grinning like he’s won something. He knows you’ll both more than likely get detention for this. And he plans to do just what he did to get you in trouble in the first place. Cause he’s Patrick. But he’s yours.

[idciminlove]

Take a Slice

Part Three- Catch

f!reader x Tashi Duncan x Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig

Cinnamonacid on AO3

warnings- age gap, flirting, possessive behavior, implied sexual relations but no sex, etc.

It seems like your dreams have finally come true.

Tashi had already started to walk away, not letting the two men respond. They both chased after her.

“Wait, what? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Art asked.

“Let me go with you.” Patrick insisted. Tashi paused, turning on her heel and facing them.

She looked at Art first, soft and reassuring. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a possible coaching opportunity. Nothing serious.”

Then, her gaze shifted over to Patrick. “No.”

“What? Why not?” He frowned.

“Because you come on too strong and I don’t want you scaring her away.”

“Bullshit.” Tashi gave him a dirty look. “Okay, maybe sometimes I can be a little blunt, but it’s just one of my charms. And you’re one to talk about scaring people away. You’re intimidating as hell. If you look at her like you’re looking at me right now, you’ll send her running.”

She leaned in close to him, tilting her head up so their eyes were level. “I’m the coach here. Not you. You should know that out of anyone, Patrick. Especially after I saved your ass and your career. So don’t try to interfere with one of my potential proteges. She’s mine. Stay away.”

She was right. Patrick knew that. He could fight it all he wanted, but time and time again, she had proved to him that she wasn’t his peer. Not when it came to tennis, at least. She had chosen to forgive him, to train him and help him win not one, but three grand slams in the span of a year. She made his career, bumped his rank up from 271st all the way to the top 5. He owed her everything.

So, he slumped back, letting her walk past. “Fine. Just don’t come running to me when she says no.”

She didn’t even bother to look back at him. “I won’t.”

–

You paced back and forth in the parking lot as you listened to your mother’s voice. You were still high from the win, still feeling the rush. Pride bloomed in your chest as she spoke.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. I knew you could do it! The next thing you know, you’ll be at the olympics!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve still got a long way to go.”

“Well, with how hard you’re working, I’m sure that’ll be very soon.”

“Thanks, Mom.” You smiled to yourself, before you noticed something in the corner of your eye. You looked over, spotting your coach waving at you. You felt your heart jump in your chest as your eyes fell to the woman standing beside him. It was Tashi.

You could hardly process what your mother was saying, her words turning into white noise. You could barely speak. “Mom? I gotta go.”

“Okay, call me later?”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you more than anything, sunshine.”

You hung up and fumbled with your phone as they walked over, unsure what to do with it or your hands. You were completely starstruck.

You must’ve looked like an idiot, standing there and gawking as your coach introduced you, but you couldn’t help yourself. You spent years and years dreaming of this moment, knowing that it was just a fantasy, that the chances of it actually happening were damn near impossible, and yet, here you were with Tashi standing mere feet away from you. She was even more gorgeous in person.

You could hardly even hear what your coach was saying over your racing heart, blood thumping in your ears. “This is Tashi Duncan and she’d like to speak with you.”

You nodded dumbly, watching as your coach walked away, leaving the two of you alone in the empty parking lot. You’re going to lose it.

“Congratulations.” She reached over to shake your hand. You hoped she couldn’t feel how sweaty your palms were.

“Thank-” You cleared your throat. It felt dry and tight, making it even harder for you to speak. “Thank you.”

“I know you don’t have a lot of time right now, so I’ll get straight to the point. I was impressed with what I saw out there today, and I’d like to coach you. Here’s my number, if you want to talk.”

She handed you her business card, it was pale white, her name imprinted on it in gold letters, along with a number. You flipped it over to see another number scribbled in black pen. “The number on the front is for business, for the foundation and such, so the best way you can reach me is through my cell. I hope we can talk soon.”

With that, she left. You watched her go, before staring at the card in your shaking hands.

Holy shit.

–

You sprinted over to Anneliese the moment you got the chance, after all the interviews and pictures and such. She was standing in the parking lot, waiting with the other girls for your bus to arrive and take you back to campus. Thankfully, the ride wouldn’t be too long, since you were only an hour out from Stanford.

You screamed her name, grabbing her hands. “What? What is it?”

“Tashi fucking Duncan talked to me! And she gave me her number!” You squealed, handing her the card.

“Holy shit! This is way better than an autograph!”

“I know, right? I guess she was impressed with how I played today, and she said she wanted to coach me. And look at the back, that’s her number- her personal cell phone number!” Anneliese’s jaw dropped.

“That’s amazing! And her cell phone too? Oh my god, she totally wants you.” You couldn’t help but get flustered, giggling nervously. “Noo, I wish though.”

“I don’t know, giving someone your personal cell phone number? As a professional and a celebrity? That’s bold. She better not steal you away from me.”

You threw your arm around her, pushing her body against yours, rolling your eyes. “You know that no one could ever steal me away.”

You looked around, making sure no one else was listening, before you leaned in closer, pressing your mouth against her ear. “Not from my pretty girl.”

“Stop.” She giggled and pushed you away, her cheeks all cute and rosy. “Make me.”

The bus then pulled up, getting everyone’s attention and ending your little banter session. But with the way she was looking at you, you knew there was much more to come.

–

You should be exhausted from the day. It was mentally and physically draining, in almost every way possible, and yet you still couldn’t sleep. You sat up in bed and made sure to be quiet, to not disturb Anneliese, who was asleep beside you. You stared at Tashi’s card on the table. Then, you grabbed your phone and put her contact in.

A few days later, you managed to work up the courage to text her. You sent her your name and a reminder of who you were, just so she wouldn’t mark it off as spam.

You: I’m ready to talk

She didn’t reply immediately, which wasn’t surprising. She was a busy woman. But that didn’t stop you from checking your phone constantly, opening the chat to see if she sent a read receipt or anything.

An hour or so passed and and just when you were about to give up, you saw the three dots appear, making your heart rate instantly spike.

Tashi: Great

Tashi: What day/time works best for you?

Tashi: I know just the place to meet

[girliism]

rockstar!patrick zweig is a cocky bastard who thinks the sun rises and sets on his ass, all because he can play a guitar semi well. you could never understand why your friends fawned over him, saving and sending you multiple edits of him. like yes he is hot… in a looks like he hasn’t showered but still smells really good way.

so you really couldn’t help the way you had to squeeze your thighs together when you turned to be faced with his crooked smile. “kinda shitty they left you here by yourself.”

“they’re just getting drinks.” you respond eyeing the way patrick’s fingers were lightly trailing up and down your bare thigh

“you guys looked good up there, the concert was amazing.” you compliment trying to distract yourself. “thanks.” he smiled “which set was your favorite.”

“none, i’m not a fan.” patrick’s fingers stop right at the hem of your mini skirt. you were lying of course, your favorite set had to be when the song started out as a soft whisper before the drummer beat down hard on his drums kickstarting the whole song. but he didn’t need to know that.

“why did the fuck would you come our concert then?” his words came out harsh and you kinda regretted lying to him. “ it’s just i’m not really familiar with your music you know, i only came for my friends.” you stutter out shrugging.

he holds eye contact with you not faltering, suddenly the room feels hotter the music way louder in your ears. patrick laughs “you should have just said that. we’re having a another one tomorrow you should come you and friends, get more… familiar. backstage passes included.” that same cocky smile on his face.

it was only natural you found yourself the next day in the storage closet backstage with patrick zweig’s fingers deep inside while your friends fan girl over tashi and art in the green room across the hall.

and that all i genuinely have no idea where this is going i’m kinda just writing random stuff hoping it molds itself into something 😭 part two part four

[callahanisms]

pretentious(?) cinephile patrick zweig.

call it a college au i guess

technically, he's a business student. he's just minoring in cinema studies, which was your major. you always hated the business school kids that came into your literature class (because film is literature) and thought it would be easy. and then they'd be surprised that they were failing because they didn't do the readings and when they participated, it was with shallow commentary. you don't even want to recount how many racist, misogynistic, queerphobic things were said in the class (in general too).

which is why patrick zweig pisses you off.

patrick zweig actually loves film. and unlike the other business boys, he understands that wolf of wall street is a cautionary tale.

"i wouldn't want to end up like him." he said. "doesn't mean i can't enjoy the movie."

patrick zweig actually has good taste in film. okay, maybe not "good" taste because "good" is always subjective. he's a bit of a film snob. you can't believe that he likes Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles. you really hated the movie, mostly because it felt like an eternity. that might have also been because you were high watching it. sometimes weed has that effect.

at first glance, he seems like the kind of guy to dismiss foreign films because of subtitles. except you learned that he regularly consumes—and seeks out—foreign cinema. he grew up on foreign cinema.

"my dad's big into french films. that's how i started watching them." he explained to your french cinema professor.

you swear he's in every cinema studies class possible. and he recognizes you too.

"excited for this semester (y/n)? i'm looking forward to the syllabus."

now, patrick being patrick, he mostly skims the readings. rarely does he closely read. he finds himself getting distracted easily. and it's not really helpful with the multiple times you've worked with him whether it's as discussion leader or doing a group project.

there's the rare occasion you've seen patrick zweig in business class. and to say the least, he looks miserable. sometimes, he's so bored that he's doing the readings for your class.

"why don't you switch majors?" "because business school is just to appease my parents."

you don't 100% believe his answer. or maybe he's right in thinking that it will appease his parents. you're not all too knowing about his home life. you guys just have class together. until...

"wanna smoke?"

a joint before your screening. you guys were watching Spike Lee's School Daze for the race and american film class. he's never seen it. you have. maybe the colors will pop even more if you took a hit.

"sure."

so you guys find the smoke corner and light the joint. you inhale and make small talk. patrick zweig isn't the asshole he seems to be. he carries himself with such douchebaggery that it seems to be a defense mechanism. and you learn during that smoking session that he isn't really pretentious. he's just really passionate.

"i hate Prometheus." he says. "what? how can you hate Prometheus? Prometheus is so good! it's like right up your alley!" you cough as you inhale. "listen, i may be a film snob. and sometimes i can be an asshole about it. but ridley scott is a bigger asshole than me." patrick takes the joint to inhale. when he blows, the smoke sort of billows around him. it frames his frankly gorgeous face. "lean into the haunted house of the Alien franchise. don't try to turn it into something deeper when it already had such interesting themes."

School Daze was a watch. patrick had a lot of thoughts, but he seemed to barely express them in class. he saved it for his letterboxd review.

"you have letterboxd?" "duh." he glances at you as you guys are walking to the bus stop. "what's your username?" "ppzweig." "you can't be serious. that's so immature of you!" but also so on brand for patrick zweig. "i made the account a long time ago okay! i'll follow you back if you follow me."

so you do follow him.

you learn quickly that patrick reviews for nearly every movie he watches. the exception are rewatches (if there isn't anything left to say) and films that just didn't really interest him or were terrible. oh and you see through his reviews that he really hates tarantino. actually very surprising! patrick always had something to say though. you loved terrorizing him when he walked into class.

"hey so why did you rate Alien: Resurrection four stars?" "what happened to hello? how are you?"

side note: i did make a top 10 list of films that i think patrick would have. idk how character accurate this is but he strikes me as such:

Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Trainspotting (1996)

Night of the Hunter (1955)

Citizen Kane (1941)

Amélie (2001)

A Clockwork Orange (1972)

Boogie Nights (1997)

Taxi Driver (1976)

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Lady Snowblood (1973)

[castiwls]

Better man .ᐟ

Paring; patrick x reader

Prompt; 'i hold onto this pride because these days its all I have'

Requested; no

Notes; requests are open again!

Masterlist | Taylor Swift masterlist

You hated the way your heart seemed to pick up when you’d opened the door. The way you could feel your chest tighten slightly as you stood in shock for a moment.

You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. For your own pride you’d promised that if Patrick zweig ever came knocking you would slam the door and not look back.

And you’d been so close to doing it. So close to saving your own pride but he’d been quicker.

He shot you that same boyish smile which used to make you melt, the same smile he’d used when he’d told you that nothing had happened.

The same smile he’d lied to your face with.

He’d stood there with that smile and his best impression of a kicked puppy as he’d pleaded. “Just for tonight. I haven’t got enough for the motel.”

You knew you should have shut the door. He survived just fine without you normally so there was no reason to take him in - yet a small part of you couldn’t do that.

You couldn’t leave him in his car all night, it was cruel.

Maybe Patrick deserved it - a part of you thought he did - but one look at his face and you were folding.

Patrick had happily made himself at home as you’d watched from the kitchen. His eyes stayed locked on you from where he sat, his fingers drumming against his leg subconsciously.

“Whatcha makin’?” You jumped slightly at the sudden closeness of his voice. You hadn’t even heard him cross the space from the couch to the fridge where you stood.

Patrick grinned slightly his fingers brushing your waist as he leaned over your shoulder to look at the contents of your fridge.

“We could get take out?” He mused like this was normal. Like it was normal to be discussing dinner options with your ex-husband on a Tuesday night.

“Can you pay for takeout?”

“I can pay you back.”

A sigh left your lips as you closed the fridge. “C’mon that pizza place you like is open.” He pressed as you turned to face him. “Just gimme a week okay? A week and I’ll pay you back.” He leaned down slightly, his nose almost touching yours as he spoke.

His voice was quiet, the same tone he used whenever he wanted something. A tone you’d come to realise he used when he knew he was in the wrong.

He’d used the exact same one in Atlanta when he’d reappeared at 6am. “Nothing happened. Just went for a walk.” He’d said as he continued to pepper kiss across your neck.

You’d barely been able to get a word out before he’d managed to pull you under him and quickly make you forget anything besides white-hot pleasure.

You’d should have ran then and there but you didn’t. You didn’t because you loved him and a small part of you thought that maybe he loved you to.

He’d come back to you still. Hadn’t he?

“Five days.” You said after a moment, swallowing down the pit growing in your stomach as old memories flashed through your mind. “You have five days Patrick.”

He huffed moving back but nodded. “Alright. I can do that.”

“Great.”

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *

Patrick Zweig was the worst person alive.

He was the worst person alive and yet you still found yourself shifting towards him subconsciously.

By the time you’d both finished the food his arm had somehow found home on your shoulder and your head had somehow ended up on his chest.

His thumb rubbed absent circles into your shoulder as you both watched the movie.

Well, you watched the movie. Patrick seemed pretty engrossed in watching your expression as you watched the screen. Your lips were drawn into a slight pout as your fingers absently fiddled with the sleeves of your (his) hoodie.

“You're not gonna make me sleep on the couch hm?” His lips ghosted over your ear as he spoke. You shifted slightly so you could face him.

A small sigh escaped you as you took in the pleading look on his face.

You knew you should push him away. You should be firm that he was staying on the couch.

He’d broken your heart and trust in the worst way possible yet seemed to be able to weasel his way back into your life no matter what you did.

The worst part…you still loved him. You loved the way he still held you like he used to, the way he wanted to sleep in your bed.

He’d continued to come back to you even after you’d pushed those papers in front of him.

He did almost everything right but you knew deep deep down that he knew he was in the wrong for that night.

Somewhere in there was a better man and you sometimes got a taste of that.

Patrick smiled, his thumb brushing your cheek.

He had you hook line and sinker yet…

“I am.”

His face fell ever so slightly and for a moment you saw the same person who had stood in your kitchen and declared that he had done nothing wrong. The same man who had looked you in the eyes and told you that you could never be her.

You may have been a weak person when it came to Patrick but you still had just enough pride to enjoy the look on his face as you stood from his hold and grabbed a duvet and pillow from the cupboard.

“Goodnight Patrick.”

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag babes! @guiltyasdave • nsfw under the cut! 18+ MDNI!

wip #1 • show me a little bit of spine! feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

'five x-men walk into a bar, only three walk out…'

oops i don't have a sneak peek for this one...sorry chickens.

this is an official part two to "all's fair in love and viscera" cause i can't leave them alone to save my life! i finally decided on the name crimson for this specific reader, and the au as a whole will be called the to the bone universe (that’s also how it’ll be tagged on my acc!!!)

this is jealous!logan getting down and dirty in a bar bathroom after a special someone makes a move on his girl...wink wink nudge nudge. a special guest! a very special guest, cause what better way is there to get a man off their ass and admit they like you than dirty dancing with another man in front of him.

think degradation, biting, pain kink (obvi wtf). there's also some emotional constipation and just a hint of angst. it'll be so fun!

wip #2 • says he needs it bad (oh so very bad) feat. sub!logan howlett (& crimson!)

'it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…'

double oops i don’t have a sneak peek for this one either…pls forgive me!

this is also apart of the to the bone universe but it's more like a non-connecting little blurb than another part...if that makes sense lol i just wanted to write more crimson!

all this is thanks to a lovely anon who sent in a req desperately needing me to speak on sub!logan. it's funny because ofc i'll speak on sub!logan wtf who do you think i am. it's honestly one of the fluffiest, softest things i've ever written...established relationship is really locking my ass down. it's still filthy though don't worry! think riding, think pain kink, think light dustings of a breeding kink. i really don't know how to explain this lmao it's gonna be great trust me!

wip #3 • hunting for sport... feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

'there's a big bad wolf somewhere in these woods...'

You scramble backwards, stuck watching the way the brush starts to rustle as he gets closer. You push yourself back to your feet, muscles screaming in protest as you break into a sprint. It's all in vain, you know it is. He's only playing with you, letting you tire yourself out. He’s known where you’ve been the whole time, could smell you the whole time, could hear you the whole time. The two of you have been at this long enough now, his patience is starting to run thin. He's right behind you, if the violent thrashing of the brush over your shoulder getting louder is any indication. The dull sound of claws ripping through the forest floor growing closer and closer before the entire woods suddenly tilts on its axis.

this is also in the to the bone universe! can you tell that i'm really into this au? i physically can't stop writing them...another little fic that's outside the events of parts one and two :))) who would i be if i didn't write a chase fic for this man? that's the real question. more violence heavy than the other fics listed, i got bit by the freak bug and i need to write nasty sexy violence sorry babes.

wip #4 • give it to me like a man! feat. dbf!patrick zweig

'patrick comes to your college graduation party, he gives you the best gift...'

“Yeah, I've been pretty busy since the season started. Lot’s of traveling and shit, you know?” Your dad hums in agreement, nodding his head lazily. “For sure, my schedule has been killer this season.” He brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Patrick are in the same boat. Only your dad’s boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing to cushy televised matches and Nike shoots while Patrick is floating on a dinghy to some barely media covered ITF matches. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?” Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow motion, your palm grinding over the tip through the denim. “Yeah, daddy.” You say, voice going light and airy around the edges. Patrick thinks it’s being said to your dad, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re already looking at him. Eyes half-lidded and shiny as your fingers brush over the metal of his zipper.

the long awaited dbf!patrick lol i know i've been dragging this damn thing out for like three weeks but it's the most "done" fic on this list so maybe maybe MAYBE it'll actually be posted soon...

anyway this is nothing but pure filth. just straight up nasty no plot at all pure sex and fucking hard gross style. lots and lots of dirty talk, degradation, risk play, sort of public sex, a barely there daddy kink...just me being nasty on a google doc for no reason!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing (it's technically thursday but like oh em gee who cares just do it anyway chickens)