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sceletaflores · 11 months ago

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where there’s sparks, there’s fire!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: you can’t tell if patrick hates you as much as you hate him. every time you see him he’s constantly talking to you, touching you, trailing behind you. but he’s only doing all that to piss you off. you think back to tashi telling you it’s obvious that he wants to fuck you. you don’t see it. patrick wants to fuck everyone, you’re not special.

—or: patrick zweig is a slut. you can't stand him.

word count: 4.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), public sex (doing it in a coat closet lmao), more hate sex, swearing, fighting as foreplay, light choking, light hair pulling, degradation, even more hints of mean!reader cause i really do live for that shit, tashi and reader are cute besties always, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: i originally wanted to post a tashi fic next but i realized i don't have any like actual full on plot filled patrick works lmao i felt bad neglecting him and my patrick girlies so yeah. once again had literally so much fun writing this, like i hardcore love this niche!!! i ride so hard for it!!! the tashi fic i'm working on also falls into this category lols and yes this is fourth of july themed and it's late shut up i cannot write fast for the life of me...anyway! to the anons who requested something like this, hope you love it! okay bye mwah xoxo.

Patrick Zweig is a huge slut.

Everyone knows that. He doesn't even go to Stanford but he's still somehow managed to sleep with a third of the girls on campus, maybe even more than a few guys too if the rumors going around are true.

You hate him. Hate isn't even a strong enough word. You loathe him. You despise him. You detest him. Pick any other fancy synonym, the point still stands. You just really fucking hate him.

It blows your mind that someone as sweet and angelic as Art would be best friends with someone like him. Someone who's so obnoxious, so arrogant, so crass. Art’s the guy that goes out of his way to protect you from the gross frat bros at parties, only to bring his very own as a plus one.

Sigma Nu throws a rager every year on the fourth, extending invites to those who are still in Stanford for the summer. The women’s tennis team is always invited, and Tashi always ends up convincing you to go. Well, she’s less convincing than she is more forcing you, but it’s basically the same thing to her anyway. She did your makeup and wrestled you into a Hollister dress, vowing to get you laid as she straightened your hair.

Tashi’s almost more invested in your sex life than you are, constantly hand-picking guys on campus for your consideration. She actually offered up Patrick once when you told her you wouldn’t fuck any of the guys on campus at all. The two of you were practicing, she suggested it as casual as ever while returning your serve. You were so shocked you stopped in your tracks, letting the ball fly right past you. She assured you she wouldn’t mind if you did, that what the two of them had was quote “Nothing serious, he’s just a really good fuck.” and that you should “Totally do it. He definitely wants to fuck you, I can tell.”

You just brushed her off, ignored the way she smirked knowingly at you over the net. Your cheeks burned as you served again, you wrote it off as annoyance. As if you would ever let Patrick Zweig fuck you.

You lost Tashi when she took off to the bathroom, texting you that she’d be a while thanks to a long line outside the door. You were leaning against a wall nursing a half-empty cup of jungle juice when he came up to you. You can’t remember his name, you think it starts with a B. Something like Brandon? Or maybe Brian? One or the other.

He’s Sigma Nu’s secretary, you sit three seats down from him in your economics lecture. Tashi says he has a crush on you, and he’s nice for a frat guy but he’s definitely not your type. He’s been droning on about his upcoming trip to his family's summer house in Cabo for almost ten minutes. You try your best to seem interested, humming and nodding every couple seconds. You’re in the middle of tuning him out when a loud, familiar voice calls out your name.

“There you are!” Patrick Zweig shouts from a few feet away, ugly American flag patterned flip flops smacking against the ground as he makes his way over to you. He’s wearing a bright red button down and white cargo shorts you scrunch your nose up at. He’s tanner than the last time you saw him, legs long and even more toned. “I’ve been looking everywhere for that pretty face.” He coos sweetly, his hand that isn't holding a bottle of Bud Light comes up to pinch your cheek.

You scoff, smacking his hand off your face. “You found me, so you can go bother someone else now,” you say, rubbing your cheek lightly. “Bye.” You press, waving your hand dismissively when he makes no move to walk away.

Patrick grins, unfazed by your reaction, he steps in even closer. “Yeah, I missed you too,” he says breezily, his breath smells like cheap beer and camel blues. He’s just as tall as you remember. He has tacky blue shutter shades resting on the top of his head. His eyes rake over your body shamelessly, lingering on the low dip of your neckline. “Cute dress.”

You ignore him, rolling your eyes before turning your attention back towards Brandon/Brian. He’s silent now, eyes flicking between you and Patrick skeptically. “Are you like, together, or something?”

You laugh loudly, quickly shaking your head ‘No’. Patrick beats you to speaking though, “God no, man.” he says through a laugh, dark curls bouncing as he shakes his head. “I came over here to warn you.” He continues, voice and expression going overly serious like he’s not talking out of his ass.

Brandon/Brian’s brows furrow, clearly confused. “Warn me?” he asks, head tilting to the left slightly. His puka shell necklace makes a small clicking sound as he moves.

Patrick nods his head gravely, clapping his free hand down on Brandon/Brian's shoulder a little too roughly to be considered friendly, shaking him back and forth like a rag doll. “Yeah, best of luck trying to get inside that snatch, man.” he says earnestly, jerking his head in your direction. “Cause’ she’s really fucking picky–”

You whip your head in his direction to cut him off, grimacing in disgust. “You would say snatch, you sick fuck.” you snap, red solo cup crunching quietly in your hand. Patrick just laughs, dropping his hand from Brandon/Brian’s shoulder. Anger stews inside you the longer he looks at you with that stupid shit-eating smirk on his face.

You can’t tell if Patrick hates you as much as you hate him. Every time you see him he’s constantly talking to you, touching you, trailing behind you. But he’s only doing all that to piss you off. You think back to Tashi telling you it’s obvious that he wants to fuck you. You don’t see it.

Patrick wants to fuck everyone, you’re not special. Sure, he may feel the constant need to be a horn-dog when he’s around you. That doesn’t mean anything. Patrick’s just gross, constantly making crude comments or lame innuendos. What Tashi fails to see is him making sex jokes around you is just another way he can piss you off. It’s not an open invitation into those god-awful shorts.

Patrick takes a small step back, big hands raising in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Put the claws away,” You try to ignore the way him saying your name in that goddamn infuriating condescending tone makes your cheeks start heating up. Patrick leans his shoulder on the wall next to you, looking down at you with a small grin on his face. “I actually wanted to congratulate you on cracking the top twenty.” He takes a long sip of his beer, head lolling to the side lazily as he swallows. “Lucky number 14.”

You’re not too proud to admit that Patrick is kind of hot, especially in this lighting. He’s objectively a hot guy, and he knows it. All tall and firm looking even in his horrendous outfit. But he’s kind of cute too, in an ass-holey way. His hair's a mess of soft-looking black curls and his ears stick out from his head sort of endearingly. He’s close enough that you can see he’s got a little brown in his eyes, and long lashes. There’s a handful of freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose.

His big, strong nose that looks like it could work wonders between your legs. Or at least that’s what you’ve heard from Jen in your chem lab. Maybe this jungle juice is stronger than you thought.

Patrick's smirk widens, wolfish and dirty like he can see what you’re thinking. “That’s pretty impressive.” he continues, his tone a mix of genuine admiration and teasing. "Especially for someone who's always so...busy." He lets the last word hang in the air, a clear innuendo that makes your blood boil all over again.

"Busy training," you snap back, not willing to let him get under your skin any more than he already has. "Some of us have actual work ethic, Patrick. We put in the hours on the court instead of fucking anything that breathes, you know? So we don’t look like idiots that get their ass handed to them on tour by nobody scrubs."

You can feel the heat start to simmer in your stomach, anger and frustration bubbling beneath the surface as Patrick's presence continues to grate on your nerves. The tension between you is thick, amplified by the chaotic energy of the party swirling around you. You see Brandon/Brian take a long, awkward sip of his beer as he steps away, turning on his heel to quickly disappear into the sea of bodies crowding the living room. You roll your eyes internally, pussy.

Patrick grins, not deterred in the slightest. “You’ve been keeping up with my matches?” His voice is low and pleased sounding, shiny green eyes slowly getting swallowed by the black of his pupils.

You pause, owlishly blinking up at him in silence. You’ve been caught. Shit.

You can feel the immediate warmth of embarrassment burning hot on your cheeks as you cast your gaze to the floor. “Only when I need to cheer myself up, a losing streak that high is actually laughable.” You mutter to the floor, lightly swirling your drink in your cup.

Patrick laughs loudly, throwing his head back in amusement. “Still thinking about me though.” he says matter-of-factly, a lazy grin taking over his face.

His audacity sends another wave of anger and embarrassment through you, your grip tightens around your cup. "Only because you make such a spectacle of yourself," you retort sharply. "It's hard not to notice when you're crashing and burning so publicly."

Patrick's grin doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. "I'll take what I can get from you," he says, his tone a blend of amusement and something else that you can't place. "But seriously, congratulations. You deserve it."

His unexpected sincerity throws you off, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. It's rare to see Patrick in a light that isn’t coated in sarcasm or sleaze. You catch a glimpse of something genuine in his expression, something that almost resembles respect, and it confuses you.

It confuses you, and it makes something warm start to burn in your stomach. You can’t afford to feel any warm, fuzzy feelings around a guy like Patrick, not if you don’t want to get majorly fucked over the second he gets bored of you.

You don’t know how to react so you do what makes sense, you lash out.

“God, will you just fuck off and leave me alone Patrick,” you say, tone over-dramatic and long-suffering as you tip your head up to the ceiling in annoyance. “I’m trying to have fun.” A lie. The party kind of sucked compared to last years. You were planning on talking Tashi into leaving when she came back, but he didn’t need to know that.

Patrick’s cool exterior finally cracks, letting out a quiet huff of disbelief as a frown starts tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is your fucking problem? I’m being sincere.” The playful light in his eyes is gone, replaced by something darker.

You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head in amusement. “Maybe I’d believe that if you weren’t such an ass. I know you too well, Patrick.” You say, tone mean and condescending. You know he’s right, on some level, but that doesn’t stop you.

Patrick is silent for a beat, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes you want to start squirming. He lets out a quiet, bitter laugh, bringing his beer up to his lips to take a long sip. You watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his lips look wrapped around the neck of the bottle. You feel a familiar heat start to pool between your legs, thighs clenching involuntarily as your mind envisions something else his slick, pink lips would look good wrapped around.

He drops the bottle to his side, finally breaking the silence. “You know, now I do believe you.” he says casually, swiping his tongue over his lips lazily. “You must really not be getting any dick acting like this much of an uptight bitch.”

You reel back in shock, his words hitting you like a punch in the gut. The wave of fury that sweeps through you is almost tangible, your vision narrowing to a tunnel that begins and ends with Patrick’s infuriatingly smug face. “What did you just say?” you ask completely taken aback, voice low and rough. Your hand twitches at your side with the need to throw your drink in his face, anger and embarrassment lapping white hot flames in your stomach.

Patrick just scoffs, heated gaze not breaking from your own. “You heard me.” He says, jaw set stubbornly. “You need like, emergency dick, or something to chill the fuck out for once.”

You feel your heart rate spike, your free hand clenching into a tight wrist by your side. “You’re a fucking pig.” your voice shakes with anger, you feel sweaty and hot all over. The heat swirling between your legs is persistent.

Patrick laughs, a loud and infuriating sound. “Come on, we both know you’re fucking begging for someone to give you what you need.” He says like it’s obvious, you clench your fist a little tighter. He takes a step closer, voice dropping down to a whisper meant just for you. “I can help you with that. I can fuck all that bratty shit right out of yo–”

You’re reacting before you can stop yourself, hand flying up to slap him hard across the face. The loud crack pierces through the room, loud enough that a few eyes turn in your direction. Patrick's head snaps to the side, the shades resting on the top of his head fly off.

Your heart stops, hands shaking with the realization of what you just did. You expect Patrick to flip out, start shouting and threatening to sue you or whatever else it is that rich people do. Time seems to slow down as he turns his head, and when he looks back at you, there's no trace of anger in his eyes. Instead, they're dark with something else entirely— something that makes your stomach flip.

He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate motion, and then he laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends shivers down your spine. A clear hand print grows steadily, red and angry on his cheek. "Fuck." he breathes, his hazy eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You’re stuck staring at each other for what feels like hours, the music and chatter from the party reduced down to a low hum as you’re caught under Patrick’s heavy gaze.

He drops his beer bottle on the floor carelessly, hand shooting out to grab your wrist tightly and drag you away from the living room. Your cup falls from your grip, splashing down onto the hardwood in a red sticky mess. You fall into step behind him, letting him guide you into the hallway outside the living room before he lurches to a stop in front of a closed door, ripping it open and shoving you inside. Patrick follows quickly, closing the door behind him and bathing the coat closet in darkness.

It’s a tiny closet, you’re pressed up against too many coats fighting for space on the tiny rack, kicking loose shoes around as you try to find your footing. “Patrick, I–” You start, but you're cut off by a strong hand gripping your forearm and whipping you around. Your back hits the door with a dull thud, you don’t have any time to react before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is the opposite of gentle, Patrick’s lips are almost violent as they move with yours. Your hands tangle in his soft hair, kissing back just as roughly. He hisses into your mouth as you twist the strands in your grip meanly, pressing you into the door harder. His tongue forces its way past your parted lips, claiming your mouth fiercely. He tastes like beer, his fingertips are rough and calloused on your skin, pulling you closer as if he wants to meld into you.

“If you don’t want this, say the word and I’ll stop right now.” He says against your lips, breathless and rumbly. His hands squeeze your hips reassuringly, his own version of sincerity softening the moment.

Yeah fucking right.

“Zweig,” you say slowly, yanking his hair roughly. “If you don’t shut up and fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’ll kill you.”

Patrick grins wildly, surging forward to connect your lips again. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt as the two of you kiss, working them open one by one until you get too frustrated and rip the two half-open sides apart. Buttons clatter onto the floor of the closet, Patrick groans into your mouth, breaking the kiss with a huff. “I liked that shirt, dick. You owe me twenty bucks.”

You’re not listening, eyes trained on the bare skin of his chest as everything seems to slow down for a second. Of course, you’ve seen Patrick shirtless before, when he’s on the court and it’s above ninety or when he’s taking up space in Art’s dorm. This feels different, a completely new situation where it’s actually okay for you to stare at the expanse of his torso.

You can’t help reaching out to touch him again— running your greedy hands down his chest, his abs, the sharp ‘v’ cut of his hips that makes its way into the waistband of his shorts. Your manicured nails scratch through the dark hair of his happy trail, you can see the muscles in his stomach jump.

“Fuck,” you whisper breathlessly and immediately regret it. He was already insufferable— all you fucking needed was for him to know how you felt right now. How the sight of his barely undressed body is making your pussy soak through your panties.

Patrick doesn’t even gloat, just uses his tight grip on your hips to flip you so you’re pressing onto the door harshly. He impatiently yanks the skirt of your dress up, wasting no time in hooking a finger on the lace of your panties and moving the fabric to the side for easier access.

You hear him pop the button of his shorts open, his zipper following close behind. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” He says, sliding the thick tip of his cock through your slick lips, brushing himself against your entrance teasingly. “I’m gonna make you think twice about bitching me out ever again.” He seals his promise by grabbing your hair and yanking, causing a surprised whine to fall from your lips. His voice is so patronizing, but you aren’t getting mad like you should be. You’re just getting wetter, getting desperate with the need for him to get inside you right fucking now.

You grit your teeth in frustration, exhaling sharply through your nose. “I hate you.” You hiss, grinding back against his hard cock. You gasp raggedly as he starts to sink himself inside you, not stopping until his hips are flush against your ass. “Shit!” Your hands grip the door so hard you’re scared one of your nails will break. The stretch of him burns in the best way possible. You’d never say it out loud, not wanting to inflate his ego anymore than you probably already have, but he’s definitely the biggest cock you’ve taken. Almost porn-star big.

“I know.” He replies easily, hiking your thigh up with his hand as his hips start to pound mercilessly into the meat of your ass, not even giving you time to get used to the thick stretch of him. The loud smack of skin on skin fills the tiny closet easily, you hope to God the amount of clothes shoved in here somehow muffles the sound. The rough denim of his shorts scratches against your raw skin, adding to the sting of his hips.

Patrick was pounding into you in a way that makes you feel every inch of him. His cock felt impossibly big, filling you up like he was carving a place for himself inside of you. The sting in your pussy at the stretch of him is mind-numbing, you think you’d collapse from how hard your thighs were shaking if he wasn’t practically holding you up.

His big hand grips the sensitive skin of your inner thigh hard enough that it’ll probably be bruised by tomorrow. You distantly hope he’s high up enough that your tennis skirt will cover it, because if not it’ll be a hard thing to talk your way out of.

You throw your head back, a strained moan erupting from your lips. Your nails scratch at the paint on the door's edges, raking small lines down the wall. The loud squelch of your pussy’s overflowing wetness every time he sinks back inside you would be embarrassing if you had the mental capacity to care.

“Fuck yeah, keep making those slutty sounds, baby. Want the whole fucking party to hear how good I’m making you feel on this cock,” he mutters, hiking your leg up higher so he can pound into you deeper.

He drops your thigh, sliding his hand up your body and around your throat. You whine loudly, pushing back into his thrusts harder. Guys have tried the choking thing in the past, but Patrick’s hand is the only one that’s felt right. His long fingers curling around your throat like they belong there.

“Shit, fuck- don’t stop.” you mewl, lips parted in ecstasy. His hand squeezes a little tighter, not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to get your eyes rolling back into your head as your pussy weeps around the thick length of his cock.

“That’s it, taking my fucking cock like you were made for it,” Patrick grates through a groan, gripping your hips and pulling out from your tight hole to spit on where his cock bumps up against your entrance before plunging back in. You jolt at the extra wetness, whining at how dirty it is. “So fucking tight— does it hurt, baby?” he asks in a barely breathless voice, laughter edging his tone. “Is my fat cock hurting your tight little pussy?”

“God– shit, yes!” you sob loudly, cheek rubbing against the wood of the door as you nod your head frantically. “Hurts so fucking good.” You stop caring about inflating his ego, letting moans fall freely from your lips as you get closer to the edge.

“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna come,” he grunts, his rhythm growing sloppy and erratic as his muscles tense. He wraps your hair in his other hand, pulling hard enough to make your neck crane back awkwardly. He leans forward, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I can feel you, fucking clenching up on me so tight,” he whispers, still pounding into you roughly. “I know you’re close. Do it. Come all over my cock like a slut.”

Patrick's hand tightens around your throat as he talks, cutting off your air for just a second. “Patrick!” Your voice sounds weak and strained, your hand coming up to wrap around his wrist desperately.

He pulls out abruptly, dropping your hair from his fist to frantically jerk his cock, burying his face in your neck. You can hear the lewd shlick shlick shlick of your wetness help his hand glide over the skin of his cock quickly. Patrick lets out a loud growl before you feel the sharp bite of his teeth sinking in where your shoulder meets your neck, muffling a loud groan of your name as he sprays hot come over the skin of your lower back and the swell of your ass.

The feeling of Patrick’s hand wrapped around your throat as his come paints your skin has you catapulting over the edge. Eyes rolling back in your head as your convulsing pussy gushes wet over his spent cock.

You drag in greedy lungfuls of air, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You came first.” You say breathlessly, voice scratchy and hushed. Patrick chuckles against your skin, swatting the tender flesh of your ass lightly.

“Shut the fuck up.” He mutters half-heartedly, nuzzling his nose in your neck in a way that seems far too intimate for what the two of you just did. You don’t say anything.

Patrick eventually peels himself off your back, but the warmth of his body stays wrapped around you as he starts to gently wipe your skin clean. You’re ready to scold him for using some poor guy's coat as a come-rag, but when you turn your head to glare at him he’s using the inside of his own shirt. You wrinkle your nose, but a tiny smile fights its way onto your lips. So gross, you think with a sort of reluctant fondness.

He leans over to fix your panties back over your puffy, abused pussy. Your thighs continue to shake weakly as you try to stand on your own, still unsteady without Patrick holding you up. He gives you a sweet kiss on the back of your shoulder, smacking his lips loudly. You huff out a tiny laugh, pushing away from the door to face him.

You watch him as he languidly gets re-dressed. He looks well-fucked, his hair and clothes are mess, his face is flushed and sweaty. Your eyes trail down to where he’s buttoning up his atrocious shorts.

The fabric around the crotch is darkened with your release, wetness soaking the denim around the zipper and front pockets. You gawk at it, a mix of terror and excitement swirling through your stomach. “You can’t go back out like that.” you say to his shorts, shame burning your cheeks.

Patrick follows your gaze down to his crotch. A pleased smirk plays on his lips when he looks back at you. “I’ll text you later.” Is all he says, zipping his fly and turning towards the door.

“You don’t have my number.” You say, tugging the skirt of your dress down over your hips. You can slowly feel the horny fog leave your brain, leaving you clear-minded and a little panicked.

He cracks the door open, but before walking out of the closet he looks back at you over his shoulder. “Art’ll give me your number. “ He says casually with a small shrug of his shoulder. You suddenly feel sick, wondering how many other people have heard that line before getting completely ghosted.

Patrick must see the negative thoughts running through your mind play out on your face. He gives you an actual smile, one that has his eyes crinkling up the tiniest bit at the corners. “Promise.” He says with a reassuring nod, it’s the most sincere you’ve ever seen him. You bite your lip to stop from smiling at the hope blooming in your stomach, nodding back at him slowly. He throws you one last toothy grin before he’s walking out and closing the door behind him.

You sigh contently, staring at the closed door for a few beats before your phone buzzes to life from where it's laying on the floor. You bend over to search for it, blindly rooting around until you see the tiny display light. The ringing stops before you can answer, when you flip the screen up to check your inbox you have seven missed texts and two missed calls.

Four texts and two calls from Art, and just three texts from Tashi.

arty where are you? i’ve been looking for you are you okay? hello???

tash you know you're not invisible right? everyone saw your little show have fun <3

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini a/n: yes i did change the title leave me lmao love you!

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homkamiro · 1 year ago

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Someone suggested making an infection AU with my tf2/mlp crossover and you know I can't resist when stuff's about gore

Forgot to mention! Demo's body is so intoxicated with alcohol that infected don't want to attack him at all!

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ilariyalavorowrites · 1 month ago

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Bright Lights (Chapter 2)

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, post-divorce healing, Pitt Fest is a warning of its own, medical inaccuracies.

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Word count: 2.0k

Universe: The Pitt

Reader gender: Female

Tagged: @questionably-intelligent69 , @dizzybee03 , @virgomillie , @mrsjosephmazzello , @sus-styles , @moonshooter , @hagarsays @that-sarcastic-writer , @ddrawers96 , @pear-1206 , @nerdgirljen & @penbridgertonn

Part 2 of 4

Previous | Next

6:30pm

Frankie gave no thought to the blood coating her clothes and hands; she needed to focus on keeping pressure on the wound. Her patient’s life depended on it; as the van was driven at a near breakneck speed. Her keen eyes kept checking the young man’s vitals as much as she could without her necessary medical devices. It was hard not to think back to Pitt Fest, to not think of what they had just escaped from by the skin of their teeth.

Despite not being shot, the experience would leave no visible scar, just as long lasting. Frankie would have to live with the knowledge and memory of the utter panic and devastation wrought by whoever pulled the trigger.

No amount of preparation or emergency medical training could measure up to facing an active shooting. She had felt helpless, as if she had been wading through waist deep water before another tidal wave had struck. Forcing her under, struggling to resurface as terrified people rushed past her.

Frankie, in her scramble for supplies, had mistakenly taken her partner’s jacket from the cab of the ambulance, only to use it as a blanket, carefully draping it over the shivering form of an injured festival goer who had delicately placed in the back of a van. One that would leave her, the one transporting her directly to the nearest trauma center.

She knew that her friend would have done the same; it was a replaceable article of clothing. She had done it to preserve body heat. To give the patient a fighting chance for making it to the hospital alive. Yet, she could not see the events that she had put in motion.

ROBINAVITCH, each letter was dripping in the blood of another.

It was far from a pleasant sight; she didn’t have time to linger on such thoughts as the blood of her patient soaked through the bandages that she carefully wrapped around the gushing wound. She pulled each layer tighter than the previous one to hold the dressing underneath in place. Her hands applied further pressure, but still the blood continued to flow. This wasn’t good.

“What’s our ETA?” She shouted out to the van’s driver. As she tried to calculate how long she had before her patient slipped deeper in the danger zone. Frankie felt every shift, every turn that the van took as they inched closer and closer to its final designation.

“Five minutes out” Keeping his gaze fixed on the road, the driver answered, carefully negotiating the many bends and turns. She still did not know the name of the Samaritan who had stepped up, swiftly offering his work vehicle to transport the wounded. It had a moment of showcasing the best of humanity as others followed by example.

With the passenger in the back on the other side of the patient, Frankie took a second to glance at them. “We’ve almost here” A tired smile graced their lips but their eyes remained fixed downwards upon the more severely injured party, the husband. From the little information that Frankie had gleamed from the wife, he had been shielding a mother and her young child, trying to get them out of harm’s way, only to take the full force of shot to the chest.

The wound was deep, but she couldn’t truly assess how serious it truly was. Frankie was certain of one fact, it hadn’t been instantly fatal as her patient was still fighting for his life. The very fine threads that held him still hovering between this world and the next. The minutes were ticking by; his life was ebbing in tandem.

“As soon as those doors open, let the staff do their job,” she confidently spoke to the wife, knowing that genuine sense of panic would rapidly descend as soon as they rolled into the ambulance bay. The EMT mask clicked back into place.

“I need you to take over, keep pressure on the wound whilst I checked him over” Frankie watched as she actively listened, replacing her hands upon dressing. “Sam, my husband’s name is Sam,” the wife said, smiling lovingly down at him, concern slide in beside it. Today would remain forever etched in their collective memories, regardless of the outcome.

“I’m Lara” Frankie nodded; at least she had their names; she could refer to them by instead of just wife or patient. “Frankie,” she replied as the van came to a screeching halt. The metal van’s chassis muffled the voices, but she could hear and distinguish a few words.

Red, Pink, Yellow

The emergency protocols were already underway; they were categorising all incoming traffic, trying to ensure that nothing was missed. As the back doors were pulled open, Frankie seized this opportunity to speak.

“Male, in his 40s with a single GSW to the chest” The words flowed naturally as if she was rolling a gurney through those ambulance bay doors with a doctor and nurse ready to receive her report from the field, just like any normal day. This was far from normal as she watched the doctor deliver his own assessment, taking her words to heart as someone slapped a red band on his wrist.

Frankie could finally relax as she silently watched the handover continue on as they carefully helped Sam out of the van and onto a gurney. Before his wife Lara followed, with a green slap band on her wrist. She smiled as exhaustion settled in as Lara briefly turned to mouth ‘thank you’ before disappearing out of sight. ----------------------------------------- 7pm

The chaos that erupted in an instant dwarfed the ordinary sounds of whistles and alarms. This was exactly where she thrived. Santos was born this for, as she rushed from patient to patient, noting the variety of injuries and wounds that came from a massive casualty. This experience would allow her to climb the ranks in medicine and discover her place in the field.

Whether that it was down here in the Pitt, facing the unpredictability of emergency medicine, or with a ten blade in her hand cutting away with the best in surgery.

It was intoxicating as she danced between the yellow and pink zones, focused on being present in the most pressing cases. Knowing that the chance to prove herself would come, then she could help alongside the attendings in the red zone.

Show off the mad skills that she knew she possessed. Some might see as arrogance; to her, it ran deeper, to the bone. This was a defence mechanism, a drive to survive against the odds stacked against her.

Trinity Santos had to be the best, at the top of every class. This was her way out, to provide to all her doubters that she could, no would make it as a Doctor. Her past did not define her, yet it shaped her through all she had endured.

None of that mattered here and now; she needed to remain focused, no matter how much her feet throbbed, no matter how much she wished she could find a quick space and take a quick five-minute nap.

Heading to the yellow zone

Pink, unconscious, with no visible wounds

Moving to up to red

The calls came from all around the department as gurneys whizzed past, new patients at the beginning of line and ones who had been there since the very start. Treatment changing by the second as their conditions either stabilised enough to bump the ever-growing surgery list or deteriorated in a blink of an eye. Thinking on the fly, improvising treatment, this was a rush but fall out would come, eventually.

Yet, it was something ordinary that caught her eye, a jacket that she had seen a fair few times through the shift. The standard issue jacket that all incoming paramedics wore. It was part of their identity, making them easy to see amongst the throngs of darting bodies that navigated the corridors of the department.

They had folded the jacket and set it aside, but as Santos approached, more details became visible. Dried out blood stains littered the fabric, yet it didn’t match the wounds on the patient laying in the bay. It was far too big; it would swallow them whole if they had been the one wearing it.

This was not its original owner. Without a second thought, Trinity slipped her gloved hands beneath the folds, lifting it up to get a closer look, only to find a name staring right back at her as the fabric unfurled. One that she had come to know in the last twelve and a half hours.

Robinavitch, Dr Robby. Countlessly questions arose as the sound of her name brought back to reality.

“Kid, are you alright? You were staring off into space…” Dana, the brisk but maternal voice at the very heart of the Department, trailed off as her gaze found their way on the jacket, to the embossed name. An awkward silent crept in without warning; Santos still with a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue.

The ever present charge nurse knew something; she held the key to her rapidly growing desire for answers to this most delicious of riddles. Yet, nothing came in the seconds that followed. Instead, a wall had risen suddenly between the two of them.

“I’ll take that, focus on the patients” Trinity had wanted nothing more than to bite back defiantly and prod deeper. Before she had the change to inquire any further down the rabbit hole, Dana had carefully plucked her prize and turned on her heel, making her escape. Trinity knew her place on the totem pole, one of the lowest rungs, but this encounter had been the strangest of the shift thus far. ---------------------------------------------------

6:20pm Pitt Fest

You had lost track of time; silence between gun shots and the piercing fearful screams had only gotten shorter. This was how you had been judging time by, as you wandered through the haze. A crippling sense of utter confusion, pain, and blind fear had overruled your innate desire to flee. That very human nature to escape from a perceived threat, one that was too real.

Jake

Leah

Frankie

Each face flashed before your eyes as you continued on stumbling past the turned over tents, tables and countless decorations and bunting spread across what once had been a pathway. You had to find someone, anyone, to make sure that they were safe. Your gaze shifted left, then right, searching for the smallest sign of life. You lost your radio in the first stampede, tramped under the many pairs of fleeing.

Your phone hadn’t been faring any better; the signal had long since jammed up as the number of people attempting to reach out steadily climbed by the second.

You had tried calling, texting Jake’s number a fair few times but it no longer connected, the messages remained unsent. Communication over the airwaves had broken down quicker than you had thought it might; all you could rely on was your senses. No matter how hard each step felt, you had to continue forward.

It was eerie to think about how less than an hour ago, music had flooded from every direction. New meeting oldies, merging into an interesting middle ground. It had been fascinating to watch as people danced along, stumbled over misremembered lyrics, and laughed like there was no tomorrow.

It had been a wonderful to witness as you had wandered through the thoroughfare as you had tried to retrace your steps back to the delicious notes of mouth-watering flavours that had caught your attention when you first had arrived. You had never found the vendor, you couldn’t remember even sampling any of the wide range of foods available.

So much of it wasted away, mixing with the mud and ground beneath your feet. Your stomach answered the question that hadn’t even been asked. The world started to spin as you took a few more steps, but your next thought never came, as a shoulder barged forcibly into you, knocking you clean off your feet.

Darkness consumed your vision, as muted voices mixed as you fell into the sweet embrace of the depths of the unconscious mind. ------------------------------------- If anyone wishes to tagged in any of the Pitt x Reader content, please reply or message me

#reader insert #angst heavy #angst with a happy ending #the pitt #author ilariya lavoro #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #dr michael robinavitch x reader #tw: angst #tw: hurt/comfort #tw: blood #tw: pitt fest #trinity santos pov #first time writing santos #OC heavy POVs for reasons #plot reasons

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thedaythatwas · 4 months ago

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on nagito komaeda and love

I just think it’s sort of funny that for a character whose (arguably) most well-recognized CG is this:

komaeda’s narrative so heavily centers love. and I don’t just say this because I’ve had komahina brainrot for years (though this is true!!). even if you don’t care about komahina, it’s tough to deny komaeda is a walking tragedy in large part because of the role that love plays in his life. his characterization is driven by the way his luck has denied him love, and how he seeks it out regardless. in that sense, I think that without understanding komahina as at least one-sided, you miss out on one of the juiciest, most miserable pieces of komaeda’s character development.

tldr; a love-centered reading of komaeda makes sense, recognizing komahina as “a thing” in DR2 (whether you ship it or not) is pretty important to understanding how komaeda operates, and I’ll try to prove it right here under this page break!!

Part 1: Komaeda’s Love Life (or, his life without love)

I think it’s safe to assume that if you clicked here, you know about komaeda’s absurdly miserable, tumultuous childhood, but I’ll do a quick recap just in case! meteor kills his parents on a plane, he inherits a ton of money. he’s kidnapped by a serial killer, he finds a winning lottery ticket in the garbage bag he’s thrown out in. he’s diagnosed with terminal cancer and dementia, he gets into hope’s peak.

in his free time events, komaeda *explicitly* frames his luck cycle as something that takes away the people he loves. it only “takes action” against him after his relatives have died (for the sake of this essay, let’s assume that komaeda loved his parents, or would have at least been hurt by their passing). by way of other close connections… well, his wording here implies that by the time of his diagnosis, he didn’t really have anybody in his life.

either komaeda didn’t allow himself to get close to anyone after the meteor incident, or he did, and they were taken away by his luck. at some point during his childhood, komaeda learned he should view himself as a death sentence.

so, how does this loss of love shape the komaeda we know? I’ll talk about this in terms of four of his defining (and connected!) traits in DR2 canon – the ones that really make his actions make sense: his self-loathing, his hope-seeking, his learned helplessness, and his certainty that his existence poses a threat to those around him. komaeda’s experience with loss makes him view himself as a source of death, which in turn fuels these tenets of his character. ultimately, his loss and the complexes that arise from it give him good incentive to push people away.

his self-loathing

komaeda hates himself. he views himself as worthless outside of his potential to serve as a “stepping stone” for the hope of the ultimates. he claims that this is driven by his beliefs around talent, which are in turn linked to the way his worldview rests on viewing hope as “absolute good.” the talentless (himself included) are only good for advancing the hope of the talented. still, his self-loathing is a bit more personal than that. take what he says and dig just below the surface, and it’s a clean cut trauma response all the way down. which leads us directly to…

his hope-seeking

komaeda is willing to do literally anything to serve hope. on the island, this (in short) means dying. this is where I prod at komaeda’s reasoning a bit more: komaeda’s willingness to act the way he does in canon also stems from his belief that his dying would be a net good for the world. his existence kills the people around him. his illness will kill him anyway. he has less than no value, and hope is invaluable. to go out for the sake of hope would give his wretched life purpose; it’s his dream come true.

and it’s no mystery why komaeda cares so much about hope: again, it’s a coping mechanism! komaeda’s belief that all bad luck is a necessary precursor for good luck and that hope will always triumph over despair is (as he himself says!) the only reason he’s managed to stay alive. I’ll say it again because I really can’t emphasize it enough – komaeda thinks that just by existing, he kills the people he loves. ouch!

learned helplessness / his existence as a threat

komaeda has, essentially, learned to submit to his luck cycle. all bad luck is good luck in the end – isn’t that amazing?! almost paradoxically, he’s hyper-vigilant about the negative impact his luck has on those around him. this is a tricky one. I make sense of it this way: komaeda’s perception of how much his luck impacts the people close to him isn’t inflated, like, at all. the supernatural way the world bends around komaeda to screw him over really does pose a danger to himself and others, and he takes measures to minimize that danger. his stated acceptance of his luck cycle is… well, again, he’s coping.

if komaeda really thought that all bad luck is ultimately good luck, he wouldn’t try to protect his classmates from his bad luck. but, as we see in island mode, he does!

but really, who could blame komaeda for lying to himself? I’ll restate the facts. komaeda thinks that luck is absolute power. he says that he’s powerless against it. his luck has taken his family, and it’s left him with nothing but money that he doesn’t want. he’s certain he’s a curse, and there’s no end to that in sight: so long as komaeda exists, he’ll keep on losing – murdering – everything he loves.

in the face of all of that despair, what can you do but abandon your self-esteem and pray for something good to come out of all of it? how else could somebody possibly survive carrying that burden, truly believing that load will never be lightened?

tldr; komaeda thinks his existence is a threat, and a big chunk of his personality is a frankensteined way of surviving the pain that comes with that. still, we should question how much of his worldview komaeda has really internalized without inner conflict.

Part 2: Enter Hajime Hinata

we get some answers on that front when we see that despite the clear and obvious danger it poses, nagito komaeda still finds himself falling hard for hajime hinata. that’s really, really loud.

I’ll preface this part by saying that you don’t need to actively ship komahina to understand what I’m trying to get at here. this said, I’ll be recapping an argument you’ve almost definitely seen before: komahina is definitely “a thing” – at the very least as a one-sided thing. to this, I’ll add the (perhaps bold?) claim that without recognizing that much as true, you’re missing out on a big part of what makes komaeda so interesting.

komaeda’s FTEs make it abundantly clear that komaeda has feelings for hinata. apart from his famed failed love confession, the fact that komaeda is willing to allow hinata to get close enough to learn about his views on hope and luck is telling.

(the smoking gun here hinges on trusting that komaeda was telling the truth during the time you spent with him; in so many words, that he only lied about lying. so, for the sake of argument, let’s assume this is true! there’s good proof for it, anyway.)

if you read his final FTE as komaeda flashing his soul to hinata and making a decision at the very last second to retreat, turning to old coping mechanisms to protect hinata from his luck, it’s sort of a komahina bombshell. that capitulation spells out for us that komaeda understands sharing his life experiences with hinata to be one of the most intimate things he could possibly do.

he recognizes the exact moment he lets hinata get too close – when his life story is finally told – and he does what he’s learned he needs to do to get them both out of that situation safely: he tries to make hinata hate him, and tells himself (and hinata!) that he did it for the sake of hope.

(and yet, komaeda let hinata approach him every FTE, knowing damn well that they were both playing with fire… very interesting.)

now, let’s say you don’t consider the FTEs to be integral to canon. I mean, you can really easily miss out on all of komaeda’s content if you choose not to hang out with him in chapter 1! so, for the skeptic, in the unskippable main story, komaeda tells hinata this:

komaeda cares about hinata despite everything. and I really, truly mean despite everything. at this point in the story, the fact that he still cares about hinata calls into question basically every single one of his core beliefs. he’s read his final dead room prize – not only does hinata not have a talent, we can presume that komaeda also knows hinata became ultimate despair along with the rest of them.

hinata has continually sought out komaeda’s company, even though komaeda knows himself to be worthless at best, lethal at worst. komaeda was willing to let him get closer, even though he knows how dangerous that is for hinata. he can’t help but let hinata try to know him.

isn’t he awful? to want what he knows he can’t have, even though that wanting has never done anything but cause pain? he’s really the lowest of the low, to love someone who destroyed the world, who makes him question the views that will allow him to do the only good thing he’s ever been able to do for it: to die for hope.

and yet, it’s a nod to how incredibly capable of love komaeda is that he’s still willing to reach out for it, no matter how many times it’s burned him in the past, and how much it hurts him in the present to want it. he understands more than anyone that his feelings can only result in disaster. reading komaeda as someone who can’t help but go on loving anyway makes his story hurt so much worse.

but, you miss a whole lot of that without an eye for komahina. seeing hinata as the eye of komaeda’s emotional hurricane (and keeping tabs on their connection accordingly) allows us to glimpse past the cracks in komaeda’s front. we see that komaeda’s worldview is less stable than he presents it as – hinata is where komaeda’s coping mechanisms, for better or worse, run up against a wall. that tends to be uncomfortable for a guy who’s just barely coping in the first place. then again, growth is supposed to be uncomfortable, isn’t it?

Part 3: The Future He Chooses

so, all of this considered, I think one of the most interesting ways you can flesh komaeda out post-canon is by asking how he’d find himself willing to accept love. whether that love is from hinata or the ultimates, whether it’s platonic or romantic, love is the thing that komaeda wants AND fears in equal measure more than anything. it’s the source of his self-loathing and his obsession with hope. it’s the reason he’s lived the way that he has for so long – lonely, and afraid of being anything but.

getting into a relationship wouldn’t solve komaeda’s problems for him, and that’s a good thing. it would force him to confront old ones, and probably create dozens of new issues for him, too. writing him through that makes for great character study!

hinata (or anyone else, for that matter) can’t love komaeda into loving himself, but he can give him a shoulder to cry on while he works through 22 years of fear and sorts through the wreckage of a worldview that’s long since stopped serving him. I don’t think his progress would be linear. but, I think that he could do it. komaeda learning to accept care is what his healing looks like.

(well. and physically recovering from cancer and dementia. but that’s neither here nor there!)

a post-canon komaeda learning to love narrative is also in line with the themes of DR2. hinata leads the survivors out of the neo world program because he makes the decision to choose his own future, creating a new version of “hope” for himself and his classmates. likewise, komaeda can make the decision to save himself. that is, if he trusts himself enough to actually touch and hold the thing that he’s never been able to stop reaching out for, anyway.

after all, hinata is lucky too. (and if it turns out he isn’t… y'all like angst fics, right?)

(shoutout to @cynopter for looking this over and confirming that I'm not spouting nonsense <33 thank you for reading my thesis of the week <33)

#ngl I'm a *teensy* bit nervous posting komaeda meta on here because you komaedologists really know your stuff!#if someone's done this already 1) oops and 2) I really hope I contributed to the existing convo at least a little #this essay was inspired by my friend's 3.5 hour long plot-heavy nagito playlist (chronological birth to death)#which I listened to in its entirety on a bus ride the other day #got me thinking wow. after everything. how on earth is he still capable of love? that's incredible. that's painful. fucking hell.#also if you read all of this I adore you! because what the hell I got so carried away #komahina #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #danganronpa 2

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