synopsis: in which patrick gets very turned on by the fact his best friend has a thing for his girlfriend while lingerie shopping. surprise surprise.
tags: 18+ mdni, patrick x girlfriend!reader, art x reader insinuated, kind of mild degradation, fingering, creampie, patrick talking about art as dirty talk, mentions of artrick
wordcount: 3.3k words
notes: ok so this is not at all on my original advent list but it was floating around in my head and it was the only thing i've felt inspired to finish. merry christmas n i'll try to catch up on posts after tmrw :P also will probably write a part 2 to this if anyone cares bc it was supposed to have patrick letting reader fuck art in the lingerie he picked out but i don't have time to edit that rn
HAD IT BEEN anyone else dragging Art through a mall to buy Christmas presents for their girlfriend, he would’ve told them to get fucked.
And yet, here he stands, trailing behind Patrick as he strides ahead of him, all long limbs and misplaced confidence. The store they’re in is absolutely fucking ridiculous. The stench of perfume is making him dizzy, and he’s staring very hard at a display of silk robes he absolutely does not want to be processing. Everything is red—red fabric, red signage, red lighting—and he’s half convinced the display exists to make him feel guilty for reasons he can’t even articulate properly.
Patrick, meanwhile, looks like he’s having the time of his life.
“This place rules,” Patrick says as they halt in front of the display, spinning on his heel to flash Art a cheeky grin. “Don’t look like such a fucking prude, Donaldson,” he continues when he’s levelled with a flat look. His hands come up to cup his own chest, giving a mocking squeeze. “Capitalism with tits. How fun is that?”
Art grimaces. “Can you not say that?”
Patrick laughs shamelessly, loud and bright, slinging an arm around Art’s shoulder to steer him further into the racks of bras and panties before Art can escape. “Relax, man. It’s a store, not a strip club.”
“This is worse,” he mutters, ducking his head. “There’s teenage girls in here, man. It’s weird.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Patrick dismisses with an eye roll.
They stop in front of a wall of neatly arranged lingerie sets. Patrick squints, tilting his head like he’s actually thoughtful now. It’s a little weird to see him put thought into anything, even if it’s a lingerie set for his own amusement. Art’s never seen him actually put effort into buying a gift for a girlfriend before.
He refuses to acknowledge the way his stomach twists with jealousy. Or arousal.
“So,” Patrick says. “Red or black?”
Art stiffens beside him, eyebrows pulling tight together. He tears his eyes away from the wall, shooting his friend a look as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Why are you asking me?”
Patrick blinks. “Because you’re here?”
“That’s not a reason, asshole.”
A slow grin blooms on the brunette’s face, the kind that makes Art’s heart sink. “C’mon. You’re good with opinions,” Patrick insists. “You love opinions.”
Art exhales through his nose. “Not about my—about your—about this.”
Patrick’s grin only widens wickedly. “Wow. You didn’t even say her name. That’s impressive repression.”
“Don’t,” Art says around a clenched jaw.
Patrick holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just buying my girlfriend a Christmas present, man. Jesus.”
“I know that,” Art snaps, then immediately softens his tone. “I know. It’s just—“ He gestures vaguely at the gaudy display. Every time he looks at a bra, all he can picture is the way your tits would look spilling out of the lace cups. Jesus, this is a disaster. “I shouldn’t be involved in this.”
“Why not?” Patrick tilts his head innocently.
“Because it’s… personal, Pat.”
All he gets in return is an unconvinced hum. Patrick reaches out and plucks a black lace set from the rack, holding it up between them. Art’s eyes flick to it on instinct and then away just as fast, ears burning an adorable shade of red. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a thong so small.
Patrick notices, of course. “Oh, this is great,” he laughs. “Is Artie embarrassed by a pair of panties, hm?”
“No,” he protests immediately, ducking his head when a few shoppers glance in their direction. “Don’t be a dick.”
Patrick ignores him, much to his chagrin. He considers the fabric, turning it slightly. “You think this is too much?”
Art groans, lifting his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “I think you should buy whatever she likes.”
“That’s such a non-answer.”
“Because I’m not answering.”
Patrick lowers the lace and looks at his friend properly now. There’s something sharp behind his eyes—amusement, yes, but also awareness. He’s always been good at reading the space between things. Between people, more accurately.
“I know you’ve got a thing for her. You don’t have to be weird about it,” he says, far too casually.
Art’s heart drops straight into his fucking shoes. “I—“ He tries, then stops to suck air into his lungs. He forces himself to breathe before continuing. “That’s not—“
Patrick cuts him off with a half-assed shrug. “It’s fine.”
“Fine..?” Art echoes lamely.
“Yeah. Fine,” he repeats, easy. “I’m not mad.”
“You should be. I mean, hypothetically, if I did. Which I don’t.”
Patrick snorts. “Why? Because ‘hypothetically,’ you’re plotting on how to steal her from me in the middle of a Victoria’s secret?”
Art winces. “Obviously not. But—“
“Look, man, you’ve always had good taste.” Patrick grins—so unapologetic it’s almost disarming. “It tracks.”
Art’s gaze drops to the floor, jaw tight. “Right. I get it. I have no discretion whatsoever. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
“Don’t I? Kind of my brand,” Patrick dismisses. He turns back to the wall, grabs a red set this time. He holds it up next to the black one to display them side by side. “Okay. Help me out. Which one says ‘I’m about to get laid?’”
Art lets out a helpless, humourless laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
His gaze flicks between the two sets. Neither of them leave much to the imagination, but the black set has a much more sheer bodice. The kind that leaves your nipples poking through the fabric. On the other hand, the red is a more solid colour bra and panty. He has to resist the urge to adjust himself, pretending like he's not stirring in his jeans at the thought of you in either set.
“Red,” he finally says, defeated. “Red’s… more her.”
Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
Art realises what he’s insinuated a second too late. Before he has the chance to scramble and elaborate, Patrick beams. “Perfect. Red it is.” And yet he hands both sets to a passing sales associate. “We’ll take these.”
“Both?” Art blinks.
“It’s Christmas.” Patrick claps him over the shoulder in a patronising gesture. “You did great.”
“Fuck off,” Art mutters under his breath.
He watches Patrick saunter up to the counter to pay, confident and infuriating and completely sure of his place in the world. Art hates him a little right now. He exhales heavily, forcing himself to trail after him.
He should’ve stayed home.
—
Patrick barely celebrates the holidays. Or so he told you last year, back when you were hooking up and it seemed like a valid enough excuse to not bother sending you a text to wish you a Merry Christmas. Thus, it should be suspicious that he, of all people, suggested you watch a Hallmark movie.
You reason that he just wants to make fun of it. You’re sprawled on his bed, half-watching some shitty holiday romance you’ve both been roasting for twenty minutes, when Patrick disappears into his closet with suspicious enthusiasm.
“Okay,” he says, voice echoing slightly. “Close your eyes.”
Immediately, you’re suspicious, gaze snapping up to where his head is poking out of the open door to make sure you’re following instructions. “Patrick, if this is another stupid prank—“
“Eyes,” he warns, laughing. “Jesus, you’re so uncooperative.”
You’re expecting something stupid, but you close them anyway, smiling despite yourself. You hear rustling, followed by the unmistakable crinkle of a gift bag.
“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “Open.”
You do—and immediately your breath catches in your throat. He’s standing there with a small red bag held out in front of him, grin sharp and pleased (and maybe a little unhinged. You’re right to still be suspicious.) The tissue paper poking out of the top is a deep red.
“I don’t like when you smile at me like that,” you accuse when he hands you the bag. “Makes you look like you’re up to something.”
“That’s because I am,” Patrick says easily, lopsided smirk bearing down on you as he nods at the bag. “Go on. Don’t be a pussy. It’s just a present.”
You roll your eyes, deciding not to dignify that with a response. You lift the paper out to peer inside, and your stomach swoops at the sight. Lingerie. Red. It looks soft, delicate in a way that feels intentional. Thoughtful, even, not just some skimpy set to get you out of at the first opportunity he gets. It’s pretty.
“Oh,” you say intelligently.
Patrick watches your face closely, eyes bright like he knows something you don’t. It’s unsettling in a way that makes your thighs clench together. “Too much?”
“No,” you deny quickly. “No, it’s—wow. It’s really… wow.”
He grins, pleased. “Good.”
You pull it out a little more, examining it, heat creeping up your neck to burn your eyes. “This is not what I expected. Though if you were to get me any present, lingerie seems fitting.”
That’s probably a jab, but Patrick sinks down next to you, undeterred. “Yeah, well, I wanted to get you something you wouldn’t buy yourself. You always avoid those stores at the mall.”
You grimace. He’s not wrong. You’re not above flaunting a nice set of lingerie, but the process of buying them is so awkward, and you’re too afraid of running into someone you know and awkwardly fumbling over why you’re buying a thong.
You glance at him. “You put thought into this?”
“I resent how shocked you sound.”
You huff a laugh under your breath, looking back down at the lace. “I just—when did you even have time? I thought you were swamped with training.”
Patrick’s grin turns slow and dangerous. “Oh,” he says. “Funny story.”
You squint. “Patrick.”
“Art helped me pick it out,” he continues casually. “We went after training one day.”
Your head snaps up. “You took Art lingerie shopping?” You demand. “For me?”
The thought of Art, always so sweet and afraid to look you in the eyes, picking out lingerie for you makes your heart stutter in your chest. You want to hit Patrick for putting him through such a thing. You can just picture it. A pretty pink blush on his cheeks as he’s surrounded by mannequins drowned in silk, listening to Patrick speak obnoxiously loud about tight-fitting underwear and bras that are easy to take off.
You groan, covering your face in mortification. “Why would you do that to him?” You peek at him through your fingers.
Your boyfriend shrugs. “Because it’s funny.” And then, more lightly: “And because he’s totally got a thing for you.”
Your stomach drops. “Patrick—“
“What?” He says, just as innocently as when he’d brought it up to Art a few days prior. “I’m not mad.”
“That’s not—“ You stop, exhaling as your hands fall back into your lap. “That’s weird. You can’t say that.”
“I can,” he replies. “I just did.”
You stare at him, searching his stupidly handsome face for jealousy, tension—something. But Patrick just looks amused. Confident. Annoyingly secure.
“I got you two. But he picked the red,” Patrick adds, nodding at the set now laying beside you. “Didn’t even hesitate.”
Your face burns, eyes darting down to the fabric. “He did not.” Now, it makes sense why it’s not something obscenely skimpy. You have no doubt whatever else Patrick picked out will wreck your self esteem.
“Said it was ‘more you,’” Patrick hums.
You groan, dropping back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I’m never looking at him again. You need to find a new friend. Preferably one you haven’t picked out underwear for me with.”
Patrick leans over you, hands braced on either side of your head as he stares down at you with that shit-eating grin of his. “Relax. It’s kind of flattering.”
“For you, maybe.”
“For both of us,” he says. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot. And I know you’re into it.” Your mouth opens to protest, but he beats you to it. “Don’t lie. You’re a little freak.”
He ducks his head, planting a kiss right by your ear just so he can breathe into it. “Turns you on knowing he’s got a thing for you.”
“I told you, that’s weird.”
“So? You are weird,” he reasons, giving your lobe a playful bite. “It’s okay. I’m into it too.”
“You are?” You reply sceptically, head lolling to the side to catch his eye.
“Mmm. I get to fuck what he can’t have. Why wouldn’t I be into it?” He says, kissing his way down your jaw, low words murmured against your skin in between presses of his lips. “Poor Artie, pining for my girlfriend. I bet he thinks of you all the time.”
Patrick’s hand snakes down, cupping you roughly over your pyjama pants. You don’t have time to stifle a gasp of surprise.
“You think?” You reply weakly.
He smiles to himself, tongue flicking out to taste your neck as he works his way down. All it takes is a few choice words and he’s got you. Hook, line and sinker.
“Uh huh,” he confirms, fingers rubbing lazily over your throbbing heat. You’ve never resented a pair of shorts more for getting in the way. “He’s got plenty to imagine, right? Like that time in Boston when we won the semis. Bet he was going crazy in the room next door listening to you cry on my cock.”
Your face flushes, and you squirm weakly against his hand. “The walls weren’t that thin.”
Patrick kisses his teeth in disagreement. “Afraid they were, babe. He could hardly look at me the next day. I wonder why. Do you think he touched himself? Got off to the sound of my girlfriend being fucked like a slut?”
“P-Patrick—” You whine. It’s hard to tell whether you’re protesting about the fact he’s talking about his best friend masturbating over you or because he still hasn’t touched you properly.
“Bet he did,” he muses, teeth grazing against your neck. Finally, he has mercy—mostly because this little fantasy is already turning him on too much. His fingers push your shorts to the side, sliding between your folds. You’re embarrassingly wet for someone who’s pretending to be upset about this line of discussion. “Pictured himself in my position. How’d we do it? Doggy? I’m sure he heard the headboard rattle.”
Two thick fingers sink into you without warning, and your back arches up off the mattress with a moan. Patrick’s an expert at taking you apart, regardless of whether he’s feeling patient. Judging by the erection pressed against the inside of your thigh, he’s probably not.
“And the other day,” he continues, fingers pumping into your tight cunt lazily. “You should have seen him picking that out. Redder than a tomato. I know he was picturing you in it.”
“Art’s not a pervert, Patrick. He’s not like you, having some fantasy in the middle of a Victoria’s Secret—” His fingers curl, and you break off into a breathy whine.
“Art’s the biggest fucking pervert I’ve ever met,” he laughs, kissing his way back up your neck until his face hovers above you. He watches the way your face twists with pleasure, jaw going slack and eyes hazy. “He’s just better at hiding it.”
“Can you just stop talking?” You plead breathlessly. “Just fuck me already.”
“Aww. Poor thing. Are you that turned on thinking about it?” He teases, fingers withdrawing—though he gives your pussy a playful slap for good measure just to watch you jerk.
“It’s not a… displeasing line of thought,” you admit reluctantly with the hopes that it’ll hurry along his teasing. It seems to work as he sits back on his heels, pushing his pyjama pants down to his knees. Your mouth dries at the sight of him—always so intimidating being presented with his cock like this. You wonder what Art’s looks like. Is he as big? As girthy? Does he have as much hair as Patrick does curling around the base, or does he manscape? Is it—
Fuck, you’re awful for even thinking about it. Patrick’s an awful influence on you.
His eyes twinkle down at you, mischievous and knowing, as his large hands hook under your thighs and drag you closer to him. “No? And here I thought you said it was weird,” he teases, hitching your legs around his waist.
“I stand by that. It’s kind of insane that you’re about to rearrange my guts and we’re talking about— haah.” Your words cut off to suck in a sharp breath as the blunt head of his cock presses into you in an agonisingly slow glide. Patrick watches himself disappear into you, smirk faltering as he groans at the tight warmth of you squeezing him.
“What’s a little dirty talk between partners?” He says, his own voice a little breathy.
That’s the most unreasonable excuse you’ve ever heard, but Patrick’s already fucking into you in earnest. The bed creaks underneath you, your heels pressing against his back as his cock splits you open.
“He’s not as big as me, you know,” he says, and you’d roll your eyes at the brag if you hadn’t been fantasising about what Art’s dick looked like a minute ago. “But I’ve heard he’s pretty good with it. Picks up a lot of girls with that pretty face. Nice body, too, I guess, if I was a girl—”
“Are we talking about you wanting to fuck Art now?”
“God, no.” He laughs, a bit stilted, and you want to press on that further. But Patrick’s fingers slide through your folds, gathering the creamy slick at your entrance that gushes around his length to wet them. Then he drags them back up, rubbing at your clit. “But you’d— shit, just like that, baby— you’d fuck him, right? If we weren’t together?”
“He’s— nghhh, fuck— pretty,” you gasp out in affirmation. “I guess I would.”
I guess is an understatement. Patrick laughs, a rough sound broken up by grunts of effort. His balls slap against your cunt with each snap of his hips, bottoming out with each thrust and leaving you breathless. You can feel the ridges of his cock dragging along your walls every time he moves.
“Yeah? How would you do it?”
You try to think about it. Distancely, your brain is able to conjure up an image of you perched atop him, his head tipped back in ecstasy as you bounce on his cock. Or him nestled between your thighs, mouthing at your pussy like a drowned man finding air.
“Ride him, I think,” you manage in between moans.
“You want him to be your good boy?” Patrick smirks down at you, and a particularly hard thrust has you crying out. “Tired of getting fucked like a slut? Want a little action on top?”
“Please,” you manage to grit out. You don’t have much ground to stand on considering you’re clawing at his back while he ploughs into you, but you try anyway. “As if I’m not on top of you all the time.”
“But we both know who’s calling the shots,” he shoots back.
“Fuck, I hate you,” you whimper, the approach of your orgasm silencing any other argument. “Right there, Pat, m’gonna cum—”
“Then show, baby, don’t tell.”
Patrick fucks you through it when it crashes over you, his name spilling off your tongue in a cry of pleasure. Your cunt flutters around his throbbing cock, squeezing him as your back bows in pleasure. Shame lingers in the back of your brain about the fact you’re getting off on something so disgusting, but the feeling of his length grinding so deep you swear the head presses against your cervix drowns it out.
Then, with a grunt, he bottoms out one final time. “Fuck, that’s it, ah—”
You feel the heat of him spilling into you, pulse after pulse, and despite everything said in the last ten minutes, it still manages to leave you feeling claimed. At the end of the day, you’re still his girlfriend, regardless of whatever the fuck you just talked about.
He doesn’t bother pulling out—not yet, at least—and braces his hands by your head again, ducking his head to give you a kiss. You breathe heavily into his warm mouth as his tongue dips into yours.
“Hope you like the lingerie,” he murmurs against your lips.
You laugh weakly, because how is that relevant right now?
Extraño mucho debatir con alguien acerca de arte, de pensamientos , de opiniones, de teoría, de política, eso es algo que mi entorno cercano no muchas veces puedo hacer, y que hacia cada tanto con mi ex. Sumarme a conversación, salir más enriquecida, o simplemente ser terca con mi opinión es algo que me divierte mucho
i see i see. so this whole season of bridgerton is about how you can’t have a fully functional relationship with someone if they exercise power over you: lady danbury & the queen; sophie & benedict; varley & lady featherington.
Reminder: in life you can and will fuck up, sometimes catastrophically. But you will never ever have a “erasing 68 years of credibility, love, cultural impact and devotion over a moroccanoil sponsorship” level of fuck up.
INTERNATIONAL FOLLOWERS im gripping you by your arms. Mutuals I'm grabbing you by the shoulders, and those of you I feel close enough to I am tenderly holding your face in my hands. In two days (the 30 of April) natflix is going to air an Argentine show based on, I think, the most famous argentine comic, El Eternauta, and I want You 🫵 to watch it
la cantidad de gente imbecil que vi en los últimos días diciendo "jajaj vieron que se puede hacer cosas sin el INCAA " en relación al eternauta. tipo tenés que tener el cerebro pero reeeee chamuscado a ese punto
sabes cuántas producciones como el eternauta se podrían hacer si tuvieras apoyo como lo daba en su momento el incaa? mirá hasta se podría vivir de las artes en Argentina
Yo no entiendo cómo crean algo tan bonito que muestra lo que pasa cuando gente del sector público y privado trabajan juntos, donde el mensaje es justamente la fortaleza a través de la unión (y la reivindicación de nuestra identidad), y la gente sale a decir esto. Encima les llegas a llevar la contra y son este
aparte lo tiran como para cerrarte la boca tipo "jajajaja vieron como no se necesitaba al INCAA para hacer esto?!!!" tipo, si no fuera por las muchas maneras que no solo el incaa apoyó las carreras de muchos de los que están metidos en la producción del eternauta, ya sea los que están en cámara y la producción. Si no, que también me rompe el corazón el pensar que tenemos que depender de financiación extranjera para poder llevar a la pantalla a historias nuestras
lo que pasó con Ainda Estou Aqui, donde Ancine (equivalente al INCAA brasileño) ayudó a financiar la película, y todo lo que vino con eso, no solo en términos de los premios que recibió internacionalmente. Si no que hizo la introspección con el cine, en una parte de la historia de Brasil que a muchos les cuesta poner los ojos. Se hizo con tanto cariño y cuidado, recibió tanta celebración de parte de la gente de Brasil, y fue algo que pagaron ellos mismos si lo querés poner en términos simples.
me rompe el corazón porque hay millones de historias como El Eternauta entendes? y te ponés a pensar en todo lo que se podría hacer si no se pensara que apoyar al incaa es de kuka o de socialista o el insulto que quieran tirar.
Igual se olvidan que una de las únicas dos películas que ganaron un Oscar de producción nacional, el secreto de sus ojos, fue también producida por el INCAA.
Muchas de las producciones que apoya monetariamente el INCAA son de la ENERC. Yo me anoté al examen de la ENERC. Lo dan más de 600 ingresantes por semestre. Entran 30. No son ningunos improvisados. Hacer cine no es fácil. Encima todavía hay sectores de la realización cinematografica cuya educación no se fomenta lo suficiente, como efectos especiales, porque el estado no tiene interés en fomentarlo. Literalmente el aspecto de la realización que más en auge está. Es como autosabotear la ciencia ficción nacional.
Ahora yo digo, si el cine que produce el INCAA fuese malo, no sería quizá la solución que tengan más recursos para realizar mejor cine, en lugar de menos? Cómo puede ser que cualquier producción que requiera efectos especiales tenga que llegar de la mano de privados?
Posta dicen eso? Que giles a cuerda, por dio. No hay serie del Eternauta de este nivel altísimo sin el INCAA activando cosas décadas antes. Literalmente la dirige Stagnaro, que mierda tienen en la cabeza, no saben nada.
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