SYNOPSIS - your boyfriend is the perfect example of trailer park trash - a shame you can't get rid of him.
CONTENT - !smut. unprotected sex. oral!fem receiving. patrick is a certified loser.
WC - 2.8k
NOTE - tt!patrick might be my favorite thing right now...
There were a few words to describe your boyfriend; messy, arrogant, indulgent, unstable. The list is long, but deep down you knew that another word applied perfectly to him, loser.
Patrick Zweig was the kind of guy who, even having all the opportunities in the world, managed to ruin every chance of success in his life. Maybe it was hereditary – probably not, considering his parents had a successful home and a comfortable life surrounded by luxury.
Unfortunately the ability – or lack thereof – to ruin things went beyond his professional career, it reached his romantic life and inevitably affected you.
You like Patrick, genuinely, but with a guy who is emotionally unavailable and has no vision for the future, you can only take things so far.
You met him a few years ago, working as a waiter at a tennis event, in which he was one of the attractions. It wasn’t unexpected the way your eyes lingered on the tall and particularly attractive figure playing tennis, as focused on the match as an animal hunting its prey, although not as majestic as one. Still, there was something almost magnetic about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was exactly your type: tall, pale, strong in a discreet way, a smug smile on his lips and a pair of fascinating eyes.
Although focused on his match, Patrick was sharp and attentive to his surroundings, especially when it came to a pretty girl. Catching his attention was like starting a game of tag, and he was incredibly fast. About four months later, you already found yourself buried deeply in his charm. At the time you thought nothing could free you from the spell of his provocative gaze – luckily, getting to know his place changed your perception.
It wasn’t that you considered yourself someone who likes to judge someone’s living conditions, but you weren’t blind either and knew how to recognize a red flag when it was planted in front of you.
Patrick’s house was actually an old, stuffy trailer, located next to countless other small and dirty trailers. You thought to yourself “Everyone goes through hard times, right?” but it wasn’t just that, weeks and weeks of staying together went by and more you realized that the only thing preventing Patrick from finding direction in life was his own ego. Since he was obsessed with tennis and some supposed potential from years ago, with no apparent desire to find a job or settle into a decent home. In his mid-twenties and more lost and careless than a teenager.
But not everything about him was terrible.
The attentive way his warm fingers wandered over your skin, for example, was almost angelic. Except for the part where he resembled more of a devil.
It was something that left you deeply embarrassed — how little it took for you to succumb to him, all the dirty tricks he did so well. You could tell by his eyes that he knew how much control he had over your body. He drowned in pleasure in your resistance, precisely because he knew you would give in at some point.
And honestly, it was something that surprised even him; Patrick couldn’t come to an understanding of what made him so special to you. He’s not a dumb boy, he knows he got lucky with you and that lack of suitors is not a problem to you - he likes to believe that the reason you never left him for good was tied to how well he knew you, he spent months unraveling every secret wrapped in your body and every lie that fell from your tongue. Patrick knew you very well; even if he liked to pretend he didn’t.
Thinking about that is what led you to the situation you are in. You spent the whole week repeating to yourself what you needed to say to him – and convincing yourself that this would be the step you needed to take to reach some kind of spiritual evolution – you were going to end this confusing phase of on-and-off for more than 3 years once and for all.
However, if there was one more word good enough to describe your boyfriend, that word would be charming. Stupidly and ridiculously charming. He knew exactly how to get out of trouble with nothing but smooth talk and in rare cases like yours, a few touches.
— Alright. I’m just not sure what you want me to do with that.
You let out a long sigh before sitting down on his sofa bed, his eyes lazily following you.
— Nothing? I guess. I just wanted to do this the right way... — He interrupted you.
— Do what, exactly?
— …our breakup?
He let out a short, almost mocking laugh, running his fingers through his hair.
— No.
— No? No what? — You stared at him, incredulous.
— There’s no breakup between us. Not like this. — Suddenly, he stood up, walking to stand in front of you by the couch. — I’ve been listening to you talk for fifteen minutes and so far I haven’t heard a good reason for this nonsense.
You almost laughed — almost, because in a way it was comical how arrogant he was even while standing inside a world of shit. But you knew where he was going with this.
— So you’re saying you’re not going to let me break up with you?
— Come on, pretty girl. You can do whatever you want, you know that. — He crouched down until he was at your level. — All I’m asking you for is a good reason for it. You owe me that, don’t you?
You weren’t stupid. The closeness, the calm and low voice, his hands resting on the couch waiting for a sign that they could touch your leg. It was all familiar. It was everything you thought you could avoid today.
— I like you, Pat. You know that was never the problem between us, but… I don’t want to have a guy like you by my side ten years from now.
— A guy like me? What the hell does that mean? — You rolled your eyes.
— Someone who doesn’t have a realistic life goal. Someone who doesn't know what they want from life, and doesn’t know what they have to sacrifice to get it.
— Come on, I’ve already told you I’m just waiting for a good enough offer to kickstart my tennis career. I have talent. Baby, I have the chance to become one of the best in the world. You just have to be patient.
— Tennis is your dream, I understand that Pat, but it’s a fantasy. In seven years you’ll be thirty and you won’t have achieved anything important. Is that what you want? To live in this middle of nowhere until you die?
— Don’t be cruel, it doesn’t suit you. — He stood up, raising his hands to the back of his neck, making his shirt lift quickly and giving you a brief view of his abdomen.
— I’m not being cruel. But you need someone to tell you the truth without sugarcoating it first.
— Patrick. — Your hands grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, between your legs. — I just want the best for you. You know that, deep down.
— And breaking up with me is how you want to show your concern?
— To be honest, I didn’t even know this would be a big deal to you. — You confessed, avoiding looking at him.
He huffed a small laugh.
— What are you talking about? — He held your chin, bringing your attention to his face. — We’ve known each other for what? Three years? Almost four. Do you think I would keep you around for that long if I just wanted a good fuck?
— I don’t know. I can’t always figure out what’s going on in your head.
— Hm. Well, how about I show you?
Patrick’s voice was almost a murmur. His fingers let go of your chin to find the base of your neck as he leaned in to brush his lips against yours. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and coffee.
— I didn’t really come here for this... — You managed to whisper before closing your eyes, getting lost in the closeness of his body.
— I know, baby. — He replied before finally taking your mouth, with the controlling and messy way only he knew how.
Your nails slid along his lower back with the ease of someone who already knows every part of his body. He broke the kiss to carefully and attentively remove your pants and shoe, scattering wet kisses along the path of your leg before bringing his attention back to your mouth. The tips of his fingers squeeze your flesh, and each kiss is a test of patience - he kisses, lightly bites, licks, but never goes up to where you want. The air in the trailer grows heavy, the fan spinning in a distant hum while Patrick works slowly, dragging his mouth higher, closer, and stops.
— So beautiful for me. — He whispers against your skin, his warm breath tingling where his mouth just was.
Patrick moans against your skin before even the first contact. His mouth moves up slowly, biting the soft flesh of your thigh, feeling the warmth that already dampens the fabric between your legs. He kisses there, lightly, a wet tease that makes your hips lift on their own in search of more.
His mouth returns, higher now, his tongue dragging where the dampness already stains the fabric, slow, almost cruel in its control. Every movement is a test. Your fingers tighten in his brown hair, pulling hard, and the moan he lets out vibrates hot against your skin. His teeth catch the elastic of your underwear, pulling slowly, looking up at you halfway with that smile that knows exactly what it’s doing.
You give in. Your head falls back against the sofa bed, your eyes closing, and a low moan escapes your throat. In the exactly way that Patrick wanted to hear. He smiles against your skin, satisfied, and pulls your underwear down slowly, kissing every inch of skin that appears.
The first touch of his tongue is a nearly dry line, dragging from bottom to top without any hurry. You shiver, your fingers sinking into his hair, and he moans against you before repeating the movement, now wider, wetter, but always stopping one step before what you need.
— Dripping for me. Do you always get like this screaming at me, pretty girl? — He murmurs, his warm breath making you tremble.
His tongue returns, drawing lazy circles, and when you push your hips against his mouth, he pulls away - just a little, just enough for you to feel the cold air where the warmth just was. Green eyes meet yours between your thighs, a silent challenge.
— Don’t make me regret this, Pat.
The sentence comes out more vulnerable than you intended. A warning with the shaky voice of someone who has been here before. Patrick stops. His mouth goes still against your skin, green eyes lifting to meet yours between your thighs, and for a second the smile disappears from his face.
— I won’t.
The answer is low, without the usual teasing. He comes up slowly, kissing the path back to your mouth, and kisses you with a softness that disarms a hand on your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone while he holds your gaze.
And then he goes down again, even slower, and this time it’s different. His mouth finds you with a care that almost hurts, wet, long kisses, his tongue dragging with the patience of someone who wants to taste every part. Your fingers slide through his brown hair, tangling without hurry, and you let the weight of your body sink into the sofa bed while you enjoy the feeling. The wet sound fills the trailer, mixing with the dogs barking outside and your low moans. Your hips lift on their own, searching for more, and his free hand presses your thigh, holding you in place firmly.
His tongue finds the right spot and stops again always on the edge. You bite your lip, your whole body trembling. Your fingers gripping his hair, and Patrick moans against you, satisfied with the effect, before going back to working slowly, taking you closer and closer to what you really want.
When he finally stops teasing, Patrick takes you to the edge with the practice of someone who knows every piece of your body, and when you feel the tips of his fingers opening you more, his mouth sucking slowly, the pleasure bursts like a wave the moan escapes loud. Your hips pressing against his face, fingers dug into his hair as your whole body trembles under the wave he had been holding for so long. He kisses you through it, until you sink into the sofa bed, breathless, eyes still closed.
As soon as you open your eyes, Patrick is already standing. The old shirt lifts slowly — deliberately, revealing the sun-marked chest and the trail of hair that disappears into his shorts. He lowers his hand, unbuttons, and lets the shorts fall to the floor of the trailer without any hurry, green eyes fixed on you the entire time.
— Get up. — He asks, voice hoarse.
He sits on the sofa bed, leaning back, arms open along the backrest, his whole body an invitation. You move, your knee sinking on either side of his hips, and feel his heat against you — hard, sliding against your dampness while his fingers find your hips.
You lean forward, and your mouth finds his neck in a hot kiss before your teeth bite down firmly, without hurry, feeling the salty skin of sweat and his racing pulse under your lips. The moan Patrick lets out is rough, surprised, and his hands dig into your hips. The bite turns into a mark, then a bite again, while you begin to move slowly, going down and up in a rhythm that drags the heat from both of you. The sofa creaks low, following the movement of your hips, and each drop makes his moan thicken against your mouth.
His fingers move up your spine, holding your neck, pulling you closer. You bite again, lower this time, feeling his body tremble, and he responds with a thrust of his hips rising to meet you, stealing control for a second before letting you set the pace again. The rhythm shifts in an instant the hunger that was contained explodes into movement. Your hips drop faster, deeper, your body finding a rhythm that makes the sofa bed squeal along with you, and when the bite sinks into his shoulder, Patrick lets out a rough moan, fingers digging into your hips hard.
— Fuck...
He lets you ride him for a moment, green eyes half-closed, mouth parted, neck marked where you bit. But you know that look and it’s the same as always, that glint of someone counting the seconds before turning the game around. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, guiding your rhythm more firmly. And then he pushes his hips up, meeting your descent with a sharp thrust that steals your breath, and smiles — that lazy smile of someone who just reminded you who’s in charge. His pace grows from below, each thrust meeting you halfway, and the wetness between your legs drips warm with every collision, the wet sound filling the trailer along with your heavy breathing. The control you had slips through your fingers as he sets the pace from underneath, each thrust meeting your descent with cruel precision, dragging that perfect spot until you can't keep your eyes open.
As the rhythm speeds up, the sofa creaking, the wet sound of bodies colliding filling the trailer, Patrick’s whole body presses against yours, and when the pleasure finally breaks, you cling to his shoulders, biting your lip to not be too loud, your body shaking as he keeps pushing deep, once, twice, until he buries himself and comes with a rough groan against your neck, warm and full. He holds you like that, breathless, forehead resting against yours, fingers still tangled at the back of your neck. The fight keeps waiting somewhere in your mind, but for now, none of it exists.
Patrick’s fingers trace your spine slowly, a distracted, almost affectionate gesture.
— Still think you need to leave? — His voice comes out low, uncertain, like someone who already knows the answer.
Hi! I‘d like to request a fic. What can I request and how far can I go with the 18+ stuff?
Hii! you can request fics with any of the characters that I've already wrote for (it can also be of someone I didn't yet, but it's not guaranteed that I know them) and I'm really chill about any nsfw stuff (like... I'm really open to a lot) but normally I struggle to write smut... so it can take more time for me to finish your request.
Anyways, just mention the character you want, what's the genre of the fic and if you have anything specific in mind !
꩜ ─ A young couple fights to hold their relationship together as a memory loss virus spreads and threatens to erase the history of their love.
꩜ ─ Go Hyun-tak x fem!reader.
꩜ ─ Inspired by the movie Little Fish (2020). Doesn't follow the events on season 2. Fanfic/Smau.
1 ─ The beginning.
You stepped out of the car already holding your phone, checking if this was really the place of the so-called party. A whistle coming from above startled you; as you looked up, you noticed him with his usual smile, waving at you from the balcony of an apartment. Beside him were three other boys: one slightly taller with a wide smile on his lips, one wearing glasses who was much shorter than the other two, and another with a somewhat unenthusiastic expression — all pairs of eyes curiously fixed on you.
— Hey, are you dressed as a bride? — Hyuntak asked, noticing your costume.
— Oh, no! I’m Christine Daae!
— Who’s this Cristina? — The tall boy asked.
— From Phantom of the Opera… You don't know it?
The boys let out small chuckles together, shaking their heads.
— Come up, I’ll open the gate for you. — Hyuntak said, already disappearing from the balcony.
You walked, still slightly uncertain, toward the gate, which with a sharp buzz from the intercom, opened. A few steps ahead, you saw him again — this time up close, able to notice his casual clothes and his slightly flushed expression. He gave you a sly smile, looking you up and down, almost impressed by your effort to look ridiculously beautiful in white.
— Christine Daae, the opera singer that the phantom becomes obsessed with. Where’s your phantom?
— I left him at home today. — You laughed softly. — So, are you dressed as a guy who hates Halloween parties?
— Exactly. You’re the first one to get my costume, actually.
For a brief moment, the two of you simply stared at each other. The soft breeze from the building’s cold walls made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up — or maybe it was the intensity, masked by curiosity, in the boy’s gaze in front of you. The small, crooked smile on his lips was almost magnetic, even as you resisted the urge to stare at them.
— Are you going to invite me in or…? — He laughed nervously, scratching his hair.
— Of course, sorry, come in. I’ll introduce you to everyone.
Inside the apartment, you felt like you were stepping into a small piece of his mind. The white walls, with a few hanging pictures and some medals pinned up, felt strangely familiar — as if this place reminded you of home. A safe, peaceful place. It had an atmosphere that smelled like his cologne.
The boys were quick to introduce themselves, treating you as if you had been friends for years. Park Hu Min, or Baku as he liked to be called, was the most extroverted among them; his loud voice echoed easily through the cold walls, but not in a bad way — in an almost warm one. Yeon Si Eun was quieter, but just as polite. And Seo Jun Tae was as sweet as a puppy, with a soft voice and bright eyes.
The night passed effortlessly. As the hours stretched on and the moon shone brighter in the sky, you found yourself on the balcony, contemplating the feelings growing in your chest — unsure whether they were the effect of the many glasses of wine or something reserved especially for that night. You didn’t notice Hyuntak’s lingering glances on your back, much less his silent steps as he stopped right beside you.
The dark-haired boy admired you under the moonlight, noticing every detail of your face and watching the wind mess with your hair. He felt incredibly at peace — well, not entirely, because you wandered through his mind, stirring thoughts and feelings he had forgotten what they felt like.
Jun Tae appeared suddenly, catching both of you off guard. He placed himself between your bodies, looking up at the moon with a content smile on his lips. It was only then that you noticed Hyuntak’s eyes fixed on you, and he made sure to offer you a shy smile before turning back to the moon once again.
notes : I'm so excited to finish this... also y'all should watch that movie, it's a masterpiece!!
As you lay side by side, under the soft moonlight filtering through the window and the cool breeze brushing against your skin, you feel a kind of peace you once thought was impossible. But it’s in the quietest nights that your mind begins to plant cruel doubts - and before you can stop the words from slipping out, you confess in a painful whisper.
"I don't like touching my own skin… and I hate the thought of someone else touching it even more. It feels like there’s something rotten inside me, and sometimes it spills over onto my body. I’m scared that one day someone will feel it and realize it’s just another thing that’s wrong with me."
"Can I touch you?"
"Only if you promise not to lie."
"I never lie."
His fingers move with quiet reverence as they trace your skin. With the lightest touch, he follows every small bump along your arm, feeling the way you shiver beneath him.
Slowly, he maps the traces of time on your face — the faint lines left by laughter and pain, the tip of your nose, your warm cheeks, your faded brows, your dry lips. Then, gently, his hands come to rest in yours.
"Your skin has texture. Is that what you're afraid of?"
"It feels like more than that."
"Then you're not feeling it right."
notes: babies i actually hate writing with quotation marks, it doesn't feel right 😭 anyways, am i crazy or this is not really ooc? cause i could totally picture sieun being direct but also soft about your insecurities... right??
I was the anon that asked for the whc texts while the reader is at work and they are soooo cute!!! You crushed it, thank you so much for writing my requests, all your weak hero stuff is soo good 💖
thank you, I'm so glad you liked it !! you're a sweetheart!
Hi! I am absolutely obsessed with your weak hero smau's and I was wondering if I could make a request? 💖 If you want to, please could you make texts messages that the boys would send you if they missed you while you were working and couldn't check your phone? Thank you so much for considering it, you are so talented!
WEAK HERO CLASS SMAU.
synopsis - they text you while you're at work.
characters - Yeon Si-eun. Ahn Su-ho. Oh Beom-seok. Park Hu-min. Go Hyun-tak. Na Baekjin. Geum Seong-je.
notes: you're so sweet, thank you for the request angel 😭 I hope this is not as ooc as it feels tho....
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