i got range @d3ad0n5rriv5l - Tumblr Blog

Jul 14

Just listen to this, my friend. Patrick is your best friend from high school, and he's the typical virgin/nerd/geek (I suppose I would use the Patrick take this to your grave era.) who has no luck with girls and the reader (female, please). She's his best friend. So Patrick asks her for flirting tips and they end up kissing or something? I hope you like the idea, yay!

~I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

Heyyy, My anonymous internet friend. I totally loved your idea!!! Took me a minute to write it out, sorry about that, but tbh I had so much fun writing it and I had no idea when to stop! So, like, warning: this one-shot might be a bit longer than it should’ve been. But I really hope you like it anyway! 💙

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This Was Just Practice Until It Wasn’t

Patrick Stump x fem! reader (also it could be gender neutral)

summary: Patrick wants to ask a girl to prom, but he has no idea how to flirt. So he asks his best friend for help. Things don’t go exactly as planned (or maybe they do).

Warnings: slow burn, slightly long, minor awkwardness.

Type of fic: friends to lovers. fluff. slow burn. slice of life

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★☆゜・。。・゜・。。・゜★

It was unusually cold for a May afternoon in Chicago. The wind slipped through your jacket, carrying the scent of recent rain mixed with wet asphalt. Like every Wednesday, you walked the two blocks that separated you from Patrick’s house—your best friend’s place.

It was almost a ritual: you’d hang out to play video games, read comics, and he’d always save a moment to listen to the gossip you brought along—both the celebrity drama from those teen magazines you read and the real-life mess from your high school classmates.

But lately, Patrick had been way too focused on prom. And you, acting as his emotional support system, had listened to him over and over again talk about how he didn’t know how to talk to girls. Which, honestly, was true. What you didn’t understand was why, all of a sudden, it mattered so much to him.

When you arrived at Patrick’s house, his mom opened the door almost immediately, looking genuinely happy to see you. No surprise there—she adored you. You’d been her son’s best friend forever, through everything, and she’d practically watched you grow up.

“____! I’m so glad you’re here, sweetie,” she said with a warm smile. “Patrick’s been holed up in his room since he got home from school. Maybe you can get him to come up for air.”

You returned the greeting just as warmly and stepped inside the Stump house.You went upstairs and reached his bedroom, gently pushing the door open. Patrick was sitting in front of his monitor, hunched over and completely absorbed, his headphones on.

You dropped your backpack in the corner; he didn’t even notice you were there, totally locked into whatever he was reading. You stepped closer, leaning in to see what had him so focused… and you couldn’t help but laugh.

It was a post on some stupid forum, the title written in giant, apple-green letters:

“How to Flirt with Women.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed, laughing to yourself at how ridiculous the whole situation was. Who even wrote posts like that? And worse—who read them seriously, without irony? The answer was right in front of you: just… Patrick.

You waited until he finished reading the entire article, and the moment he took his headphones off, you commented casually:

“You’re more desperate than I thought…”

Patrick jumped so hard that, in less than a second, he was standing right in front of you, staring at you like you’d just scared ten years off his life—eyes wide, one hand pressed to his chest.

“FUCK—w-wait, what?!” he blurted out. “____, how long have you been there just… watching me? Are you insane or what?”

You burst out laughing at how nervous he looked and raised both hands in surrender.

“Relax, dude. I didn’t see anything incriminating… at least nothing I didn’t already know.”

Patrick pulled off his cap to fix his hair, then put it back on immediately. His face was bright red.“You have to knock!” he whined, nervously adjusting his glasses.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I will next time… I swear,” you said dismissively, still smiling. “So—what were you reading so intensely, by the way?”

You stood up and walked toward the computer, fully intending to read the post yourself.

Patrick immediately stepped in your way.

“____, no, please… don’t do this. I’ll give you whatever you want,” he begged, trying to physically block you from reaching the screen.

But there was no way he was beating your curiosity—or your need for a good laugh.

“Step one… out of four,” you started reading, already laughing. “No way—these steps are illustrated. This is amazing.”

“____!” he kept pleading, very clearly being ignored.

“‘Be aware of how you present yourself. Stay clean and hygienic.’” You laughed out loud. “Dude, this is so stupid… it’s insanely vague and generic.”

Patrick stopped responding. He just walked over to the bed and buried his face into one of the pillows.

“This is humiliating. Let me know when you’re done making fun of me.”

You kept reading for a bit longer, still laughing, but eventually you closed the browser window and turned back around.

“Stop crying, baby, I’m not gonna make fun of you anymore—just—” you let out one last giggle, covering your mouth with your hand. “Tell me why you suddenly care so much about this stupid dance. And this whole… casanova thing. It’s weird. I’ve never seen you like this, and I lived through your damn puberty, Trick.”

Patrick lifted his head just slightly, his hair flattened against the pillow. His face was red, his bangs wrecked, his dignity clinically dead.

“I wanna… you know… go out with girls,” he muttered, like the words physically hurt. “I wanna… I don’t know, experience that. Everyone does except me.”

You blinked, softer now. “I mean… yeah, I get that. I just think you’re taking it way too seriously.”

Patrick let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s easy for you to say…”

“Why?”

“Because you’re… you’re really pretty.” It came out rushed, like an accidental confession. “I mean— I guess,” he added quickly, trying to put the fire out. “And you’ve gone out with a bunch of guys. Idiots, by the way… but still. You’ve been on dates.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled—soft, almost without meaning to—like that awkward compliment landed somewhere you weren’t ready to look at yet.

Patrick swallowed hard, like your smile just spiked his blood pressure. “I kinda wish I was more like Pete, you know?” he murmured, staring at the floor. “He just… gets girls. He’s like a dating Jedi or something. He goes anywhere and suddenly there’s someone to flirt with, and they always go along with it.”

He twisted his mouth, defeated. “Maybe there is something wrong with me. Don’t you think?”

You shook your head firmly before he could spiral any further. You walked over and sat down on the bed next to him, close enough for him to feel you there.

“Wow, Patrick, listen to me. Don’t be an idiot. There is nothing wrong with you.”

No jokes this time, no teasing—your voice was serious.

“Pete is just… a different kind of person. And he’s, like, five years older than us? He’s lived more, done more. You can’t compare yourself to that.”

Patrick looked up at you without saying anything, wearing that expression that screamed: I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but I still feel like a total loser.

“You wanna start going out with girls? Totally fine. Seriously. But if you start by comparing yourself to someone else, you’re already doing it wrong.”

The blond sighed. “Then where do I start, if it’s not reading stuff online?”

Your smile came back when you realized he genuinely thought that was the most reliable option.

“First of all, people who actually date and have game or whatever aren’t writing posts on forums, Trick. They’re busy, you know, actually going on dates and doing stuff. So step one: forget all that crap you just read.”

He nodded, clearly seeing your point. “Okay. Then what?”

“Well, flirting is basically trial and error, dude. Even Pete has to have at least one super embarrassing story,” you patted his back and tugged at his T-shirt to make him sit up. “And I’m pretty much the only girl here, unless you wanna practice with your mom.”

Patrick followed your pull until he was sitting right in front of you.

“That’s disgusting, _____,” he said, making a face, still trying to erase the mental image of his own mother in any kind of romantic context. “So… your idea is that I… flirt… I mean, with you?”

“Yeah, why not?” you shrugged. “Last time I checked, I’m a girl, so let’s do this.” You nudged him to make him stand up. “Get off your ass and try.”

Patrick obeyed, standing in front of you while you stayed seated on the edge of the bed.

You were doing everything you could not to laugh, but Patrick wasn’t helping. He was completely stiff, adjusting his glasses every two seconds, his eyes darting all over the room.

“So… what do I do?”

“Start by relaxing.”

You lightly tapped his leg with the tip of your sneaker. “Picture this: I’m a girl you like at prom, and you wanna ask me to dance. Simple.”

The blond huffed. “Yeah… simple…”

“C’mon,” you pushed.

He took a deep breath and stepped toward you, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hey. Hey—! Uh…” he started, already wearing an uncomfortable smile. “So… uh… it’s a dance, you know, and—” he made a hand gesture neither of you understood. “And… and I wanted to know… if you wanted… to dance.”

Patrick finished the sentence and just stood there, frozen, like his entire life depended on your answer. You raised an eyebrow, trying —with everything you had— not to burst out laughing.

“Wow...” you said slowly. “That was… definitely what not to do in front of a girl.”

He immediately brought both hands up to his face, completely mortified. “I knew it! What the hell was that? I suck. It was obvious… I screwed it up before I even started.”

“Oh, c’mon, it wasn’t that bad,” you said with a soft smile as you stepped closer. You placed your hands on his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Listen, stop being so dramatic. You’re just… way, way too tense. Breathe.”

He looked at you for a few seconds, lips pressed into an involuntary pout.

“You know what… forget it. This is stupid anyway. I’m gonna die without dates, without girls, just me, my video games, my comics and… my guitars.”

You bit your lip. It was impossible not to feel that overwhelming tenderness watching him spiral like a walking bundle of nerves.

“Don’t laugh, please… this is really bad,” he whined.

“No— I’m not laughing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just…”

You didn’t say the truth: that nervous, sweet boy was giving you butterflies.

You sat back down on the edge of the bed, crossing your legs, looking at him like he was a math problem that had suddenly become really interesting.

“I mean… what are you actually scared of, Trick?” you asked, tilting your head. “Is there… someone you like?”

Patrick froze, blue eyes shining somewhere between panic and embarrassment.“What— what? No! No… there’s no one. Why— why would you ask?”

You shrugged again. “That would explain… all of this,” you let out a small laugh. “And I know there is someone. You’re really bad at lying.”

Patrick swallowed, clearly uncomfortable, and looked away toward the window. “Well… maybe there is someone,” he muttered, his voice low and shaky. “I don’t… I don’t know… it’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” you said, a little quieter than before. “I get that.”

You weren’t going to deny it— you felt a small sting in your chest when he said that. Even if you didn’t want to admit it, part of you had been hoping Patrick would say there was no one. That it was just a phase, him wanting to meet girls without taking it too seriously.

Or maybe you were hoping he’d say that, after all this time, you were the one he liked.

“But like I said… it’s… it’s complicated,” he added, tripping over his words just to break the awkward silence that had settled between you. “I’m not even sure I actually like her.”

“How complicated?” you pressed, not really understanding why you kept pushing. You wanted to know, even though you knew anything coming out of his mouth could hurt… a lot.

“I mean— it’s not like you’re into some married thirty-something, right?” you joked, trying to lighten it.

Patrick turned red instantly, shaking his head. “No! God, no…” He let out a nervous laugh, eyes fixed on his own hands. “It’s not that…”

“Then what? C’mon, it can’t be that scandalous.”

“I… I’d rather change the subject…”

“Hey—” you started, your tone making him look at you — fast, nervous, but look at you all the same. “I don’t know who you like, but… she’s lucky. Like, really lucky.”

“Lucky?” he repeated, incredulous, like the word was way too big for him.

“Patrick, you’re sensitive, you’re kind, you pay attention to people…” The words came out on their own; it had always been way too easy to talk him up. “And you play guitar and drums. Honestly? That’s pretty hot to most girls.”

“Hot...?” Patrick laughed, but his head dropped, and the sound came out crooked, almost hurt. “Please, ____… don’t say that.”

“What? What did I say?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“You say those things just because… you’re trying to make me feel better.” He swallowed. “I know it’s not real. You don’t actually think that about me.”

“And why are you so sure about that?” you insisted, not breaking eye contact.

“Because I just know.” His voice got small. “I’m not that kind of guy… the kind girls fall for.”

Before you could reply, he kept going, fast, clearly trying to dodge the moment: “Whatever. You wanna play something? Mom got me Ultimate Mortal Kombat 3 a couple days ago.”

You watched him for a few seconds. That quiet disappointment hiding in his blue eyes poked right at your chest. And even though playing sounded tempting, you’d already made up your mind.

He stood up and started toward the console, but you stopped him, grabbing his hand.

“No.”

He looked at you, surprised, like he’d never expected you to say that to him.

“I’m gonna help you with this, whether you like it or not.” You walked over to the stereo, flipped through Patrick’s CDs, and picked one with slow songs. You popped it in and hit play. A soft track filled the room — the kind they’d play at any school dance.

Patrick frowned. “What are you doing?”

“What has to be done,” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m not letting you tear yourself down like this. You are going to prom with that girl, even if I have to spend all day teaching you how to—”

“No… please, _____. I don’t wanna dance.”

He cut you off, backing away. Like, literally retreating like a scared little bird.

“Sorry, Patrick, but here’s the thing: at prom, people dance.” You laughed, raising an eyebrow.

Patrick froze as the music filled the room, like the air had suddenly gotten too thick to breathe. He wiped his hands on his jeans. Again. And again. Like he was fighting his own body.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he muttered. “And… and my hands are sweaty. Like, really sweaty. I can’t touch anyone like this.”

“Patrick, relax. No one’s ever died from sweaty hands.”

He swallowed so hard you could almost hear it. “But—”

Before he could keep going, you took his hands and pulled him closer. “Shhh, stop talking and put your hands here,” you laughed, guiding them to your waist.

Patrick went completely still, watching every move you made with focused panic.

“This feels like a personal space violation,” he muttered.

“That’s kinda the point,” you replied, resting your hands on his shoulders. “It’s supposed to be romantic.”

You took a slow step, setting the rhythm. Patrick tried to follow, but he moved half a second late, making both of you stumble.

He took a deep breath and tried again — still awkward, but paying more attention to you than the music. You could feel his fingers at your waist, tense at first… then a little less.

“At dances,” you explained as you swayed gently, “girls usually rest their head on their date’s chest. You know — romantic moment, straight out of a ’90s movie.”

Patrick let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, okay, but…” he glanced down, “I’m kinda… too short for that.”

“Patrick,” you said, holding his gaze. “That doesn’t matter.”

And without warning him, you rested your head against his shoulder.

Patrick froze. Like—full stop. He forgot how to breathe. His fingers tightened at your waist for a second, unsure, startled, like he was afraid he might break something.

“See?” you murmured, not lifting your head. “Still works.”

“Yeah…” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The music kept playing, soft, wrapping around you both. The movements turned smoother, almost natural.

And then the song ended.

You didn’t pull away.

Truth was, neither of you wanted to.

He didn’t let go of your waist, and you didn’t move your hands from his shoulders.

You just stayed there, sharing the same air, like moving would crack something fragile. Something important.

And then — either the universe being sneaky or just dumb luck — the next track on the CD started playing.

Damn U, by Prince.

Soft. Slow. Stupidly romantic.

You couldn’t help a small laugh.

“Well… if this song plays at prom, you’ve basically got it in the bag,” you murmured, your head still resting on his shoulder.

“I don’t know about that… unless I learn how to dance without embarrassing myself,” he laughed, sounding oddly calmer.

You lifted your head slowly, just enough to look at him. “Honestly? That was… actually pretty good.”

“Seriously?” he asked, suddenly brighter — like a puppy that just got praised.

You nodded, smiling.

Without really noticing, you kept slow dancing, moving to Prince’s syrupy melody. Patrick looked calm, but his heart was pounding hard against his chest with you this close.

Your eyes met for a second, and he couldn’t help it — he glanced at your lips for the tiniest moment, and it completely threw him off.

“____,” he murmured, soft and careful, like he was scared you’d disappear if he spoke too loud. “I have a question… maybe… kind of a dumb one.”

“Tell me.”

“When do you— I mean…” His words tripped over each other, and he let out a nervous little laugh before going on. “When do you know it’s the right moment to… you know… kiss… kiss a girl?”

The question caught you off guard, and you felt that sharp twinge again, right in the pit of your stomach.

“About that…” you replied with a slightly sad smile. “I guess you just… feel it, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze awkwardly bouncing between your eyes and your lips.

But your mind was already somewhere else to really notice.

“Yeah, I get it… since it’s my first time, I mean…” he went on, scratching the back of his neck, nervous. “I just… don’t wanna mess it up.”

“Do it when you feel safe,” you said softly. “No rushing it. Just… wait for that moment when you’re close and you catch each other’s eyes.”

And then you really looked at him.

There was no way not to.

Patrick looked so vulnerable it made your chest tighten.

He bit his lower lip, nodding at every word you said like he was trying to memorize it all.

His fingers tensed at your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. Every syllable out of your mouth was a sweet kind of torture; he was painfully aware of how close you were. He could smell your perfume — something vanilla, something coconut — wrapping around him, pulling him in a little more.

He leaned in, just an inch. And it felt like the whole world leaned with him.

You stopped breathing. Literally.

You stayed perfectly still, just to make sure this was actually happening.

And then… he stopped.

A spike of insecurity froze him halfway. He pulled back with a nervous huff, eyes wide.

“Shit, I’m sorry, it’s just—” he swallowed, ears burning red. “I don’t know if I should… I mean… can I?”

You turned your face slightly to the side, letting out a soft laugh you couldn’t fully stop.

That laugh hit Patrick like a punch to the chest.

He pulled away immediately. “I–I’m sorry… I’m such an idiot,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

He walked over to the bed and dropped onto the edge, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. Completely embarrassed, totally wrecked, he muttered a few choice insults about himself under his breath.

You walked over slowly, your chest tight with a mix of tenderness, disbelief, and way too many feelings at once.

“Patrick…” you called.

He didn’t answer.

You knelt in front of him to be at eye level and rested your hands on his knees. He still wouldn’t look at you.

Gently, you took his wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. “Hey…”

“No, please...” he said quickly, shaking his head a little. “I’m so sorry, I-I I don't want to hear...” The words spilled out fast, panicked. “I just… I thought—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You cupped his face and kissed him.

No thinking. Just did it.

Patrick froze at first, like his brain completely short-circuited. Then he reacted, hands coming up to your arms, touching you shyly, like he still wasn’t sure this was real.

His lips moved just a little — uncoordinated… but honest.

It was a short kiss.

No tongues, no rush, no gasping for air.

Just a simple, innocent kiss, full of everything you’d both been holding back for way too long.

When you pulled away, you were still inches from his face.

The song had ended and the room was quiet.

Patrick blinked a couple of times, still processing what just happened. “Wow… did that really just—” he didn’t finish the sentence.

This time, you both laughed at the same time.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be so… awkward.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “God, stop apologizing. It wasn’t awkward. It was… cute. In our own way.”

Patrick let out a short breathy laugh, clicking his tongue. “Sure,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It's not awkward at all.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt easy. New.

Patrick dropped his gaze for a second and, shyly, leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours, like that was the safest place in the world.

“So…” you said with a small smile, “you said you had Ultimate Mortal Kombat?”

“Three,” he answered, suddenly way more animated, grinning as he got up to hook the console up.

You settled onto the bed like always. Backs against the wall, knees bent, the screen glowing in front of you.

Only this time, it was different.

Your legs ended up tangled without either of you pointing it out.

Your thigh pressed against his. His knee resting lightly over yours.

Neither of you said a word about it. Patrick handed you a controller, and when your fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away right away.

He smiled to himself, eyes on the screen… but clearly more aware of you than before.

“Get ready to lose,” you said, scooting a little closer so your arms touched.

“Tch, says the number one loser,” he shot back, just as competitive as ever.

And while the fight raged on the screen, your bodies stayed relaxed, intertwined, comfortable.

Like this new space between you had always been there… just waiting for you both to step into it.

You weren’t just best friends anymore.

But you didn’t need to know exactly what you were, either.

For now, that was enough.

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