Best friends brother Patrick who got tipsy with you because your best friend ditched your plans to hang out with her new boyfriend and maybe you’re feeling vindictive and want to get back at her because she’s been such a bad friend. And patrick is so comforting. Soothing you, agreeing that yes—she has been a bad friend lately. She has been selfish and choosing a dumb boy over you shows that. His comforting little pep talk moving from the living room couch to his bedroom because he has a better tv in his room anyway. And neither of you know how it happened but suddenly you’re on his lap pulling at his hair while he grinds up against you, licking into your mouth. Injecting you with whatever the fuck he hypnotizes the other girls with. The kind of charm that makes you forget a twelve year friendship for her older brother’s lips on her neck, begging her to sit on his face. He’ll make you feel better.
You’re nervous.
“I’ve never done that before.” You shrug. You’re in college and you know Patrick is much more experienced than you due to his two and a half years on you and the fact that he has never not had a girl around.
“You don’t have to do anything. All me.” He thumbs the waistband of your sweatpants and you shrug.
You don’t know about being so close to him in that way. But god—the way he pulled whimpers from you with just his mouth on yours. And he’s shirtless and strong and the boy you’ve had a crush on the longest.
He guides you down onto his face and you see him wink at you. So cocky. Hands on your ass and his tongue splitting you apart, you yank on his hair and try to not suffocate him. But he pushes you onto his mouth further. Laps and sucks and licks your clit in such a way you never know what’s coming next. Spit dribbles down his cheek and he’s telling you something but you can barely hear it.
“What?” You asked, dazed.
Patrick smacks your ass. “Grind on my tongue. Use me.”
You gain confidence like that. On top of him. In control of him. Using his tongue to get yourself off while he fumbles with the tie of his pajama pants to pull his cock out.
“You’re so fucking hot.” He says. “Spit in my hand.”
You’re glad his tv is quite loud because the sounds coming from you, his mouth, his hand stroking his cock—are wet, lewd, disgusting. Watching his hips jerk as he cums on his stomach, tongue lapping lazily at your cunt is enough to make you finish. Chest heaving, feeling drunk.
cw (18+) : dom!patrick, sloppy penetration, belly bulging, creampie, general filth, reader has afab anatomy
patrick zweig who holds your legs open as he curls over your body and gently rolls his hips, slowly stretching your insides with every thrust. his brow pinches together in a way that makes him look older—older, rougher, and meaner—even if all he truly wants to do is to make you feel good (and play with your body). the look that washes over his face when he begins to properly fuck into you could fool just about anyone..
his calloused palms grip the back of your calves, his fingers curling around your flesh, his eyes fluttering as he feels your walls suck him in deeper. warm, wet, and convulsing against his cock that pummels into that squishy spot nestled upward in your entrance. he knows exactly how to move to get you squirming and mewling like a kitten; it’s easy for him to fuck you into a puddle of fluids—he does it every time. he pushes down on your limbs to fold you in half, and keens like a greedy whore when he feels how much tighter the position makes your cunt. he nearly whimpers.
“fuck, ohh—fuck!—“ he withers atop you for only a moment, slowing down with a shudder so he doesn’t finish too soon, “y’feel so good.. gettin’ me close.. take my dick—just like that—you’re gonna make me come..”
he swallows around a low growl, and you watch as his toned abdomen visibly flexes each time he roughly feeds his length to your cervix. the way he relentlessly bumps it is almost uncomfortable, but the boiling pleasure collecting in your gut drowns out everything other than how much you’re feeling and how wrecked he sounds while he keeps you in place. his right hand leaves your leg, knowing you won’t move a muscle without him coaxing you into a new position, and begins messily swiping his fingertips over your swollen clit. your back arches up like you’re being electrocuted and he smirks in that devilish way he always does when he knows he’s doing something right. it’s cocky. it’s arrogant. his tip catches on a soft area inside your pussy before wholly slotting into it, and then he's jack-rabbiting. the slap of skin-on-skin is obscene. he moves so fast it’s like he’s vibrating. a flood of heat laps at every nerve in your frame, and you let out a broken cry as the very last thing you hear before your ears start to ring from the ecstasy is the sound of him chuckling and cooing.
“feels that good, doesn’t it? shit, it’s like you’re trying to milk me,” he lets his gaze wander down your lower body as his digits circle your bud and his glistening shaft slides in and out, covered in your release, “i love the way you sound when you come.. it’s got me throbbing, you know that?”
then his eyes fix on something that doubles—no, triples—the satisfaction he feels and causes his balls to draw up: the sight of his curved cock pushing up from the inside of you and causing your lower belly to subtly bulge out. he licks over his lower lip, his jaw slacking. he moans, broken and higher in pitch than moments before, then his free hand leaves your other leg and moves to press down over the focus of his affection. his knees shake on the mattress when he feels himself bury deep in your overstimulated hole.
“oh my god, i feel myself fucking you,” he breathlessly gasps, his orgasm rushing from base to tip, his milky load rising readily to paint your womb, “c’mere—touch—fuck—fuck, fuck, gonna come inside you—im gonna come—gonna—HAAH—“
in the last few desperate pumps of his hips that he gives you, he scrambles for your hand that fists the sheets and replaces his touch on your stomach with your own. he watches the way you writhe and hiccup as you revel in the way your pussy is being used like a toy. he throws his head back, his pelvis snaps against yours, and then it’s all over.
“coming,” he huffs in a drawn-out cry, and you get to feel every kick of his release under your hand. thump, thump, thump, throb, throb, throb under your palm. it’s never-ending; it almost makes you wail. the warmth of his seed spreads throughout your insides like a warm bath, and you gather all of the remaining strength in your brain to watch as patrick’s face crumples with every wave of his climax, his head dropping back down. his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose is crinkling with the effort of remaining upright and not collapsing over your chest.
he sucks a breath in through gritted teeth, hissing, when he gets to the tail end of his orgasm. the sensitivity becomes too much, and he can’t handle the way you continue to spasm around his softening length. his cheeks puff out as he blows a steady breath of air, trying to get the room to stop spinning, and in the next instant he’s looking down to your face. his hands slide up your torso and cup the sides of your neck before he leans down and kisses you. his tongue licks languidly against yours, smearing his spit over your palate. you feel him groan into your open mouth. he only pulls away once he’s gotten his fill—once he’s tasted and swallowed enough of your whining to sate him for the rest of the night (or so you think). his gaze is hazy when he looks down into your eyes. his cock twitches at the sight of your spent expression, then that dumb, snarky smirk is back.
“so good for me,” he hums, “flip over and ill give you two more?”
the heavy nod of your head that follows is all he needs to get his arousal stirring again.
oh to be manhandled ( in a good way) by Patrick. He's so athletic, stamina 😈
And patrick WOULD manhandle tf outta you…you’d be shy and anxious to tell Patrick you want him to toss you around, use you. You love his strong arms and how he carries himself and you’re pretty sure he would be okay with it—but what if he’s not!!
Making out with him early on in your relationship and his hands find their way down to your ass, squeezing the skin while he pushes his tongue into your mouth, groaning into the kiss. You whimper when he pulls you further down on the bed by your waist, pushing his knee in between your legs while he tears his shirt off. Patrick must have noticed how your eyes got big and lustful and he teases you about it.
“Yeah?” He bends down, grabbing your chin with his strong hand. “You like when I toss you around?”
You nod, unable to say it out loud. And that’s the best sex you’ve had to date—patrick pushing your hips down and not letting you up, hands all over you, fingers shoved in your mouth. He drags his fingers down your body to play with your clit, squeezes your face in his hand and demands you open up so he can spit on your tongue. And when he fucks you from behind he doesn’t let your hips fall.
“If you want it to feel good you gotta listen to me and keep those hips up.” He all but growls into your ear as he pulls you back up, smirking against your ear because he knows his fingers rubbing your swollen clit is making it impossible.
in need of a rough older pat to creampie me... #ovulating
Simply yes 🩷
Dilf!neighbor!patrick who has noticed you’ve been going on a lot of dates lately but obviously nothing is working out because it feels like twice a week there’s a new car rumbling up your driveway. So Patrick brings it up one morning as you’re going on a little stroll and he’s out on his walk. You’re embarrassed because you don’t want to seem like you’re easy or desperate but you tell him the dating world is hard for people your age.
“Not that you’re old or anything.” You backtrack, refusing to meet his gaze. He’s shirtless and covered in a thin veil of sweat. Hasn’t shaved in a while and his hair has grey peppered throughout. Of course you’ve noticed he’s hot; everyone in the neighborhood has. Husbands hate when their wives bring him up.
“It’s tough for people my age too.” He replies. It separates you two: he’s much older and you’re much younger. Forty-five and twenty-five. Twenty years. Nothing insane, but it feels wrong for him to flirt with you. Wrong for you to eat it up.
Maybe you let it slip that you’re not necessarily looking for anything serious—you just want a good, casual hookup partner. And to that, patrick perks up. A sweet young thing like yourself probably hasn’t been fucked properly. Hasn’t felt lightheaded and breathless after an orgasm. If so, he would’ve seen the lucky culprit coming back. You’d never let that go.
Somehow, you end up in his house the very next day and he offers you coffee or water or anything you want. You politely decline, too nervous. You’re certain you know what his intentions are and you’re more than willing to have sex with him. But is this weird?
Patrick’s hands are so big as they brush your hair away from your face and trace the outline of your cheekbones, your jaw, the curve of your neck. He mutters that you’re very pretty, and you feel shy and small. Weird, because you’re pretty sexually experienced.
Then suddenly his lips are on yours and you’re on his lap and you mindlessly grind against his cock because it feels so good. He’s the type to make you work for it; his hips are still and he’s intentional about turning you on so much that you feel sick with need, arousal soaking through your panties. An embarrassing amount.
Patrick rubs your pussy through your underwear and you yank on his hair. He grabs your wrists and tells you to be patient. He’s firm about it and you nod, mentally noting that you’d never let another man talk to you this way. But with patrick, it doesn’t feel like a choice. If you want your reward, you listen.
Eventually, the reward is you on your back, your legs slung over his shoulders as he stuffs his cock inside you, stretching you perfectly. It hurts but it feels so good to hear him grunt as he presses you nearly in half. Your thighs tremble and he makes fun of you for being so sensitive. So wet, yet he’s pushing so hard to fit himself inside you.
You scratch and claw at the leather of his couch and he scolds you.
“Relax.”
As if that’s easy to do when he’s watching every inch of himself become hidden inside you, slow, mean thrusts that make your pussy pulse and tingle.
“Fuck me—“ you beg. Maybe he’ll be mad; you don’t care.
“What do you think I’m doing, sweetheart?” He’s making fun of you.
“Harder.” You nod, thinking maybe, hopefully—he’ll agree with you.
A sharp snap of his hips. “Like that?”
You gasp and nod again. And as much as he loves to make you wait and beg he wants to cum and you’re driving him fucking crazy. So he does go harder, his hand grabbing into the arm of the couch as he ruts into you with so much force the cushions become loose and dislodged. You arch your back and try to squirm away because it’s too much and he’s hitting that spot inside you that you’ve only been able to find with a dildo and lots of time.
“Hold still.” He forces your hips down and you oblige, but it’s so hard and you tell him you’re about to cum.
“Me too,” he says. He asks if he can cum inside you, and drunk on him, you say yes. Please do.
So he watches himself spill inside you, a week’s worth of pent-up desire. You watch where you’re connected and patrick curses because you’re looking so doe-eyed and lustful and surprised. He smears some of it on your lips and you think you’re in love with him.
oh he’s soooo mean to you—mean enough to make you tear up and look away from you so he doesn’t see your glassy eyes and your nose starting to run, scrunching up. Says you’re so annoying, high maintenance. makes fun of your outfits and the shoes you wear, the way you run, walk, eat, sleep, talk.
and it sucks because he’s your best friend’s brother and god—they couldn’t be less alike as siblings. all the sweetness, generosity and kindness stuffed into her five-foot-seven body while her older brother was a complete dick.
“I’m serious,” your best friend tells you, swiping mascara through her dark lashes. “You just have to tell him he’s a dick. obviously none of this is your fault but he needs to know that it bothers you.”
You sigh, taking a swig of the cocktail she made you: vodka and la croix.
“He knows he’s bothering me. That’s the point. He’s a fucking psycho.”
“I wish I could help. I mean he was rude to me growing up but I just tried to ignore it I guess.”
it was hard for you to admit it to yourself: it bothered you so much because you were so fucking attracted to him. Growing up he was awkward and average. Average height, average build, average shaggy dry brunette hair and pale skin. he was scrawny and had bad skin and didn’t know how to talk to girls.
and that was how it was for eighteen years until you came to his high school graduation, a school out in upstate New York. his family offered for you to go and stay at their lake house and you of course obliged, not having seen Patrick since you started high school yourself.
on that strangely cool morning in early June patrick was suddenly charismatic and strong, over six feet tall. He had bulging arm muscles and even a tattoo on his bicep. His smile was effortless and free from the shackles of braces that he swore kept him single before he moved away. it wasn’t even that he had grown into himself that was the issue: it was that he knew it too.
you downed the rest of your drink.
“He gets away with everything.”
“as do all zweig men,” she brushed her hair out. “trust me, it’s not new.”
that night, you got tipsy. Not drunk, but confident. Carefree and confrontational. as you took your shoes off at the zweigs’ front door, you stomped upstairs.
“Going pee,” you lied. Really, you knocked at Patrick’s door, waiting awkwardly. Almost turning away, you felt stupid. He was probably out right now—I mean god, it’s midnight on a Saturday.
“What?” His tone was one of annoyance; he smelled of weed and his sweatpants hung low on his waist. No shirt.
“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that you’re a dick.”
Patrick peered over your head, as if to make sure nobody could hear them.
“Oh okay.” He scoffed. “You really got me.” He threw his hands up in a faux surrender. “Is that why you really came up?”
“Yes, I’m sick of you being an asshole.”
“You sure you didn’t just want me to see your mini skirt and that little top of yours?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
Patrick stretched his arms above his head.
“It’s called banter by the way.” He filled the awkward silence.
“There’s a difference between banter and being a douchebag.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Patrick said, quite earnestly. His eyes were droopy and pink from his high. “If I’m being honest I just like to see you riled up. You’re so fucking high-strung.”
“High-strung? I don’t think so.”
“Mm,” a tone of disagreement. “I like when you’re embarrassed. It’s cute.”
“I’m not high-strung at all.” You avoided his confession.
“Anyone who’s friends with my sister is exceptionally high-strung. If you’re not, you should smoke this joint with me.”
You gnawed on your lip. You’d never done that before but patrick was looking so enticing and he was inviting you into his room—the room you’d only ever seen through passing glimpses as he went to take a shower or snuck a girl in behind him.
“Fine,”
And Patrick wasn’t kidding about his little thing for embarrassing you. It wasn’t ten minutes until you were on your stomach on his bed while he fucked into you, hair yanked into his fist as he peppered filthy kisses onto your neck and watched you beg for him, for more. He liked to push into you, deep enough to make you shudder, then stop. Watch your ass preen back and listen to the hollow gasp erupt from your throat as you crumpled his sheets in your fist.
“You’re so fucking pathetic.” He groaned, smacking your ass harshly. “And you love when I tell you that.”
“No—“ you whimpered. “I don’t—you’re mean—“
“I’m mean?” He grabbed your chin, yanking your bottom lip down with his thumb. “Then maybe I should stop—“
You shook your head, cheeks flushed with so much blood you felt lightheaded.
“Atta girl, just what I thought.” Then he clasped his hand over your mouth because he heard his sister moving up the stairs, wondering where you were. And Patrick knew that embarrassed you.
summary : patrick is disgusted with himself that he finds a christian prude like you so attractive. luckily, you’re not that hard to break
warnings : NSFW 18+, i am not responsible for your media consumption, religious trauma and religious themes, loss of virginity mentioned multiple times, masturbation (m), dry humping, no use of y/n, baby used 3x, umm not proffered sorry :3
would be pretty rad if u reblogged btw
Patrick wanted you. No, he’d say he needed you. Almost as much as he needed to wreck you so badly that your pretty lips would never speak of the church again.
That you’d never enter another service with those flowy dresses that still manage to drive him crazy because he knows what you’re trying to hide underneath them. That you’d never again put a hand on his chest when you two are kissing all sloppy, hot air and breathing too hard in the summer heat, and pull back, hair tousled from his hands and pink lips all wet and your voice shaky just to say - “we can’t,” - and pull his hand that’d been slowly migrating to the waistband of your shorts.
Ever since his mom started forcing him to go to the services after fighting a guy at the academy, he thought it was all so fucking stupid. (Not the religion as much as the people because he didn’t focus too hard on the preacher after he found you.)
He thought all Christian girls were long dresses and purity rings and fucking prudes — and, you are, to an extent.
But it made it hotter for him. He saw you — sitting there on a bench nearby, listening intently with wide eyes like the preacher knew everything, hands folded obediently over your Bible.
Your long dress and the sliver of skin just above your ankle, the only visible part of your legs. He almost died on the spot. Of course, his dick thinks first and somehow that single piece of skin makes his dick twitch. In church. He’s going straight to hell.
But then, the shame. Thinking for one second a prude like you might be able to be attractive to him felt like a slap in the fucking face. Church girls are always too good for anybody. Always waiting for the right one. Saving themselves, or some bullshit like that.
That’s why he was so surprised when you agreed to a first date after a half assed proposal and a flashy smile. Then even more surprised when you took it upon yourself to arrange a second date, before the first one even ended.
And it’s an understatement to say Patrick’s fucking crazy for you.
The first few dates were almost five months ago now. Patrick would say he’s a relatively patient man, and he enjoys make outs just as much as the next guy. But there’s just so many “we shouldn’t”s he can take when he’s constantly that fucking hard around you. He feels like an animal. All the time. Patrick jerks off — obviously. He’s eighteen years old. And before you it was more than average. But now, just a quick kiss in his truck before Bible study and he’s speeding to get home and shove those panties he’d stolen from your hamper in his face. He can’t help himself. By now, all his girlfriends had given up something.
Even in 9th grade, his girlfriend of about 3 weeks was just itching to get his hand in her pants. And obviously he went with it.. but you’re different! You’re kind and gentle and sometimes you meow back to stray cats and he starts thinking that, ‘okay, maybe christian girls aren’t so bad’. But it just can’t be true. Because he fucking needs you, and you won’t give it to him. Nothing other than kissing and his hand gently groping you through your t-shirt before you giggle like it’s a joke and swat his hands away. It’s not a fucking joke.
He, honestly, has an endless list of what he wants to do with you. To you.
Because, honestly, it’s what he thought about the first time he saw you. And now it invades his mind. Constantly.
Like when he’s sprawled out on his bed late at night after not seeing you for a day or two and all he can think about is how fucking bad he wants you there right now. He teases himself for a while, running his fingers along his lower stomach and dipping into his waistband just to see how it feels like he imagines you will. He imagines your sweet voice and your pretty mouth and your shaky hands and the body he’s traced as much as you’ll allow, and then the body he hasn’t. He imagines how fucking perfect you’ll be when you finally give it up to him. On your back in his truck, in the sluttiest panties you could find in your underwear drawer. He imagines the way you’ll be strumming with excitement after being forbidden to even touch there for all eighteen years of your life. He imagines the way you’ll be soaked through your panties, the soft cotton sticking to you like a second skin before he peels them off and finally sees you.
He squeezes his dick the best he can through his sweats at how fucking tight you’ll be. About how you’ll feel different than all the girls he’s been with because even though some of them were also virgins — they weren’t you. They weren’t untouched, they weren’t completely dirtied by him. You are. The only person to have kissed you for so long or let you touch him wherever when you got too curious, even though you would never try below the belt.
He thinks about what your virgin pussy would feel like. Gushing all over him and squeezing him tighter than his fist ever could. Pulsing and throbbing around him. Leaning down and kissing your tears away as you get used to his stretch. Permanently ruining your perfect body.
He gets off on that. His breathing picks up, forcing his freehand over his mouth as his hips jerk up into his hand, no matter the two layers of fabric separating him. He comes like that, whining into his palm and squeezing his length through his sweats, feeling his body tremble and release into his boxers.
He has a lot of fantasies about you. More than he should, probably. Definitely more than the girls he’s been with.
You told your dad you’re going to hang with a girl friend of yours and instead sit in Patrick’s truck on some dirt road outside town, slowly navigating to the backseat after some talking. Dragging your mouth along his as you plant yourself in his lap. Catching his bottom lip between yours so lewdly he groans into your mouth.
“Mm,” he hums into your mouth, moving to kiss down your jaw. “Can’t wait til you finally let me fuck you.” You whine softly, tilting your head to the side to give him more room. “Bet you’re tight as fuck.”
It gets heated enough that you start touching him, letting your hands roam places of him he thought you might never lay hands on. It’s not a lot to anybody else, but the feeling of your soft hands touching him over his shirt after so many months of your hands in his hair and on his face, it might be the best fucking thing he’s ever felt. Your hands drift a little too low, grazing his waistband just enough that it gives him an extra heartbeat in his dick, beating unsteadily against the seam of his jeans.
“Fuck,” he hisses, head tipping back against the seat, his hands on your hips loosening involuntarily. He lets out a little frustrated whine that makes your stomach flip. “Don’t go too — too low.” He mumbles, gripping your hips tightly again as he catches himself slipping.
“Why?” You hum, sliding your hands back up, then back down. You’re curious, who can blame you? You’ve been shielded from anything borderline sexual and the entirety of the male anatomy since you were a baby. Now here sits your boyfriend — all flushed and needy and whining, apparently.
He scoffs, glaring at you like he’s mad. He’s definitely not mad. “You know why,” His breath hitches when a thumb peaks into his waistband. He groans your name softly, hips shifting.
You pause for actions. This.. is definitely sinful. Making out was pushing it, of course — but this is really pushing it. You notice your hands are shaky where they aren’t firmly pressed against him and your heart is achy feeling.
You push a few more fingers into his waistband, feeling the hot skin under his jeans. “Jus’.. wanna see.”
“Yeah?” He nods senselessly, running his hands down your sides to grip your ass. “You wanna see?”
You meet his eyes. His chest is heaving and his eyes are wide like you know everything. He huffs again and glances down at his lap, your hand still in his waistband. “M’ so fucking hard right now.”
You can’t find it in yourself to pull away. He’s so wanting and he looks so fucking good with his brows furrowed like he’s in pain, lips parted, sweat growing on his hairline with the heat swirling around you in his stuffy truck.
“Okay,” you breathe. You’re going to have to pray for this later. “Show me.”
He catches your eyes again, his head tipped back slightly against the headrest. He slowly reaches for your hand, taking your wrist in his big hand and guiding it lower.. then even lower. Til you feel something firm and throbbing under your palm through the fabric of his jeans. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something you’ll regret and have to pray away.
He keens and spreads his legs even wider when you press the heel of your hand into him. His breath picks up instantly. “Shit. Can — let me take them off, baby. Please. Then no more.”
You glance up at his face. His green eyes seem dimmer than usual, eyes half lidded. He looks.. sexy. You never thought you’d use that word.
You nod without thinking, retracting your hands to let him take them off. He reaches down quickly, pulling his shirt up to give him room, pinning the fabric between his torso and his arm, then reaching down to unbuckle his jeans.
You let your eyes roam what you can see already. Dark, coarse hair growing down and disappearing into his jeans. It makes your stomach flip in a way you can only describe as primal. There’s a V shaped line parallel on each side of his lower stomach. It feels like opening a present, to you, the way his body is so effortlessly beautiful. God is funny that way.
Patrick finally shoves the jeans past his hips, belt jingling as he tries to settle into the seat behind him. He’s got these gray boxer shorts on that have a little wet patch on the front.
Now, you’ve never seen this before. Excluding the covers of Playboy magazines in the gas station which you promptly avoid. But he looks big to you. He’s got the cotton stretching around him, pulled taut. It’s definitely bad how you wanna pull them down, too.
His hands coming to rest on your thighs, rubbing them. You notice he’s breathing harder. “..well?” He huffs. You can tell he’s trying to break the tension but it seems impossible when your first real life dick is one very thin fabric away from your real life hands.
You glance up at him. He’s beginning to form beads of sweat along his hairline, dark curly baby hairs sticking to his forehead. There’s a faint pink along his cheeks and nose, underneath the freckles painting his face, then some pink on the tips of his ears too. You’d like to lick the sweat off him. Oh. That’s not a good thought.
You can feel dampness start to pool in your panties, your thighs clenching together as he stays tense. You shift on his lap, swallowing and trying to not make a big deal out of how you can literally feel your pussy throbbing over a real life boy. Not a TV scene of a heated make out from your favorite rom-com.
A real boy.
In this moment, you cannot seem to fathom why God would make Patrick so incredibly teasing. Or why he would make your paths cross if he knows it would lead to this.
You swallow, hands resting on your thighs. “..should we..?”
His eyebrows furrow for just a moment before he seems to get what you mean, nodding vigorously. “Yeah. You want me to take ‘em off?”
You hesitate for a moment, an uneasy kind of feeling in your stomach. But there’s a much more intense, hot feeling between your legs. One outweighs the other and you nod.
He reaches down, watching your face. Because in some strange way he wants to make sure you’re still okay with this, even as hard as he is right now. It wouldn’t be the first time he went home with blue balls.
It’s terribly slow how he peels his boxers off. Slowly, more and more hair gets revealed until — the real thing comes out. It’s a little bit more strange looking than you imagined, but it still makes your stomach flip.
His dick comes out of his boxers, springing up fast before it slaps against his stomach. Your first thought is he’s huge. You haven’t seen any before, but he feels big. And it looks kind of heavy and it’s got those big, weird, thick veins running up it. He’s leaking from his pink tip and the dark hair curling all around it makes it much hotter to you.
“Oh god,” you mumble, breathing harder. You’ve suddenly forgotten all about youth group and your pastor preaching of the deadly sin that will corrupt your innocent, youthful body. Lust. It felt like he was really speaking at you, specifically. After a night with Patrick, and you feel like you two didn’t do anything unforgivable or anything — but the thoughts you have about him definitely are. The positions you imagine yourself in. The way he’d sound and the way he’d look when he finally sinks into your pussy and fills you.
“Baby,” Patrick mumbles, chuckling a little. It’s a laugh, sure, but he seems a little stressed out at the lack of attention to his dick. He gently rubs the sides of your thighs. “It’s not gonna bite you. You wanna touch it? Just to try?”
You look back up at his face. His brows are furrowed, a smile tugging at his mouth. You look back down. It’s.. kicking. You didn’t know it could do that.
“So.. just grab it,” you mumble, reaching out. You wrap an unsteady, nervous hand around him. Just the top, to see what it does. You can feel your heart beating hard in your chest.
But almost immediately, his lips part. His smile fades and he lets out a little sigh, suddenly a lot more breathy than usual. His head tips back against the headrest and he lets out a little ‘yeah’. That must be good.
You glide your hand down. It’s easy considering how wet he is all over. You glide your hand back up, back down. Patrick just grips your thighs tighter and groans a little louder. The sound makes you wanna hear more.
“Squeeze — squeeze me a little. Need pressure.” He mumbles, opening his eyes to look at you. He thinks you look incredibly pretty with his dick in your hand.
And you do as he says. You squeeze him a little, focus more on the top than anywhere else, since it seems like he enjoys that spot more.
“Fuck,” he whines. “That’s good. Yeah.”
In any other situation, with any other girl, Patrick might’ve fixed it. How bad your handjob is. He might’ve adjusted her grip or throw her off his lap and asked her why all the practice she’s had with other guys is fucking useless.
But he doesn’t. Because it’s so bad in a way that it’s good. That it’s hot. Because it’s you. Because you have never, in your entire life, have been this close to a cock and your inexperience is making his dick kick in your palm. The idea of ruining you, of this being the start of that, is making him so fucking hard.
You just focus on his face. The way his eyebrows are furrowed all pretty and he’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His chest is heaving and he’s making these little muffled sounds that you’ve never heard him make before, but they sound perfect.
You’ve never heard him before. Not like this. Nothing more than a little grunt or a sigh when you’re kissing. Not full on moans and whimpers. It’s nice.
It’s weird to think about how you shouldn’t be doing this. Because it makes you feel guilty, of course. You’re ruining yourself, making a mess of the church and God will have to forgive you for this. But, at the same time, you feel.. empowered. Like a child sneaking off with a stolen candy bar, or something. The giddiness of doing something so forbidden you get shamed to even think about. It’s making between your legs feel all warm and needy.
He’s got his eyes on yours. Watching the way you’re breathing through your mouth, too, and the way you blink at every new sound that slips out of him. Watching the way your eyes are all nice and wide and innocent like he’s god himself.
He reaches up, threads his fingers into your hair, and shoves your mouths together. He swallows down the surprised sound you make, kisses you until you melt into it, and pushes his hips up into your now paused hand. He groans softly into your mouth, licking into it and feeling you shiver like you always do. His hands slide up your back to feel the overheating skin. You feel him everywhere, all over — it’s overwhelming but at the same time, the best thing you think you’ve ever felt.
You break away to breathe, kissing down his jaw.
This is the farthest you’ve ever gone. I mean, you have his bare dick in your hands. That’s no light feat for you. He doesn’t want to let this moment go where you’re all needy and wanting and pliable — to go to waste? No. He can’t let that happen.
“Baby,” he huffs, rubbing your thighs now. You hum against his neck, shifting on his lap. “Do you want — do you want me to try..”
You glance up from where his shoulder and neck meet. He is horny. Obviously. And even with how bad he does want to be inside you right now — he also doesn’t wanna fuck this up forever. Who knows how you’ll react. Saying he wants to fuck you versus actually trying is much different. Catholic girls are unreliable, dodgy prudes, as we know.
“Do you want me to touch you? Too?” He mumbles, chest heaving. His dick still standing at attention as you slowly work him with your hand, but coming to a halt at his base as you work over that question in your mind.
“Okay,” you breathe before you can even think.
He reaches out slowly. He doesn’t go underneath any clothes yet, but cups your clothed pussy. It’s obscene to him how hot you are down here.
You let out a soft gasp, gently rutting your hips against his palm once with a shiver. It feels to him like you’re holding back, trying to contain yourself. He smiles a little and presses his palm onto your clit, smile growing at the soft whine you let out.
“You touched here before?” He mumbles, gently rocking his hand against you.
Does he have to say these things? Ugh. “..a few times,” you glance away.
He doesn’t wanna overwhelm you, of course not! But he can’t stand the idea of you not knowing how good he can make you feel. Or the idea of himself not fucking a Christian virgin. It would be a waste.
“C’mon,” he mumbles, sliding his hand up to the buttons of your jean shorts. “You’re all wet. Lemme take care of you.”
He begins to undo them.
Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest like a cartoon. You catch his eyes. This isn’t really what the preacher said it would be like. It isn’t what you said it’d be like when you vowed to be abstinent until marriage. The preacher made it seem like it was disgusting and vile. Like lust was a deceiving, cunning, inhuman thing, or you should be ashamed for wanting something like that. Something gross and intimate and sexual — something you should only share with your future husband.
But it doesn’t feel like that to you. It feels natural.
When you kiss Patrick, it’s not like you have to tell yourself what to do. It doesn’t feel like the devil when you’re mouthing at his jaw and pretending to be shifting in his lap to hear that needy little moan he always lets slip. It feels almost like the opposite. Like God put you two on his earth together to make each other happy, to please each other. You like that thought.
You move around to peel them off until they’re laying on the floor somewhere.
God, you’re beautiful. You’re wearing these pretty white panties that have a little bow on the front. Patrick has to look away when he sees how fucking wet you are — your panties are soaked all the way through, just liked he’s imagined, see through so he can see your perfect pussy he’s been fantasizing about for months.
“God.” He groans, raw, rough. It takes him a few seconds to focus back on you again. He slowly reaches out, lets his fingers glide against your damp panties, feeling the overwhelming heat coming from you.
You let out a little gasp, brows furrowing slightly. This feels much different when the hard seam of your jeans digs into you on a bumpy road. That feels good, too, but this definitely feels better. A lot better.
You’d only touched yourself purposefully a handful of times but tried to stay away from that. No matter how good it felt. You knew it was a sin, a horrible one at that, to surrender to your flesh’s wants instead of obeying God’s word. So why aren’t you pulling away now?
“Holy shit,” he whispers, gently finding your clit through the fabric and rubbing small, soft circles.
You let out a breath, chest heaving. You find you want more. A lot more. Your hips roll forward, into his hand, and he applies more pressure happily.
You know you shouldn’t be doing this. At all. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your hands leaving Patrick’s forgotten cock to grip onto his shoulders instead, using him as leverage to get off easier.
Patrick is in fucking heaven. He’d dreamt of this for a very, very, very long time (only a couple months, actually, but that’s an eternity with his sex drive). His mouth is open, huffing and studying your face with his eyes to make sure you’re still enjoying what he’s doing. This is great. But his real heaven would maybe be having your pretty mouth on his dick, watching your beautiful eyes water and you gag around his fat cock, having never done that before.
Shit. Maybe he’ll get you to do that next time. On the knees you’ve only ever prayed to your God on before.
“Hold on,” he hums softly, putting his freehand on your hips to stall you. You groan softly, hips slowing gradually and he smiles a little at your reluctance. “We can — we could do it at the same time.”
You nod and reach down to his dick again, but he laughs, shakes his head, and grabs your hand gently. “No, baby, I mean..” He takes your hips in both his hands, lowering you down til you’re sitting on his dick, perched between his thighs.
You can feel his rock hard outline underneath you, pushing apart your pussy lips through your soaked panties and nestling deeper inside you, where it’s more sensitive. You gasp softly, hips already rocking to their own accord.
He swallows and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding. “Yeah.. and jus’ move.”
So you do. You can feel every ridge on him, every vein pulsating with need underneath you. His voice is low like you’ve never heard it before. “There you go, baby. Yeah. That’s good.”
You catch his eyes. Locked onto your face, like they have been all this time, rolling your needy sexes against each other in a way other teenagers your age wouldn’t blink twice for. But it’s different for you, much different. He knows that. He can see the sparkling cross hanging above your shirt right now, actually.
You don’t stop him as he pushes up your shirt, over your bra, and traces your torso with his big, rough hands. He’s all over, unlike in a way you’ve ever had him, overwhelming and hot and humid.
“So pretty, baby. D’you feel good?” He huffs, brows furrowing as you keep moving over his dick. Patrick actually doesn’t enjoy dry humping that much, it usually gives him some awful sensitivity on his dick and he enjoys the real thing much more. But this is you. You’re all wet and warm and slippery wearing your cute panties, and he’ll take what he can get. He won’t say it doesn’t feel good. It feels great with you. Maybe he just wasn’t into those other girls all that much.
It’s only now you notice the small sounds you keep making, rolling your hips all the way back to grind his length along your swollen clit — breath hitching when his tip catches between you. “Yeah.” You breathe, nodding intensely.
“Fuck.” He whines, grabbing at the your tits through your bra. He’d love to take it off.. but he won’t let himself ruin all of you in one night.
Sparks of heat flood your lower body, pussy throbbing with need as you try to push yourself lower, harder against him. His head tips back and hits the glass behind him with a soft thud. He just lets you rut against him, using his dick to get yourself off. His hands fall to your hips, just letting you take the reins.
Pressure is building quickly in your core. You’re louder, now, and so is he, groaning into the hot air like you’re both in heat. You move your hips faster, chasing that sweet release you’ve never felt before, letting it overwhelm your body and senses. Letting your hands dig into his shoulder, rutting against him like an animal.
You can tell it’s happening for him, too. His fingers jabbing into your sides and hips and ass to keep you moving. His hips beginning to thrust up below you as his breath quickens, whispering soft little praises meant just for you into the air that make you throb. “That’s so fucking good,” He mumbles, breathy, eyes locked on your soaked panties. His eyelids are heavy like he’s struggling to stay awake. “Keep going baby. Gonna make me come.”
His words make your stomach flip. It’s a little bit crazy to you (and him) how fast you went from this innocent, cross necklace wearing, Bible thumping prude to… whatever this is. Humping his dick to get off like a fucking dog. He likes the fact he can make you do that. Make you wanna take off your long skirt and dresses so he can get his hands all over where you haven’t even touched before.
It happens suddenly, when you’re focused on his face, and itching up on something you can’t name but feels fucking amazing. Your hips still and then jerk, him bumping into your puffy clit as you come. It washes over like a wave, intense explosive pleasure that washes over your whole body and leaves your pussy throbbing with need after.
He seems to do it too at the same time because he lets out this amazing sound almost right after you, cursing your name and shoving his hips up into your sticky panties.
You stay like that for a moment, a little startled by the sudden cum all over you, but overall relaxed. You let your hands drop from his shoulders and rest your head against his chest. His hands slip underneath your shirt on your back, feeling the overheated skin there. His breath is hot against your shoulder as he catches his breath.
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?
This went a different way than I wanted it to but I think it turned out well. Patrick is evil in this.
Patrick was in a mood. You could tell from the moment your coach had stepped upon the court, his lips dipping down, lines painting his forehead. He had you running laps for most of the training session, barely paying attention to you, his eyes glued to the display of his phone.
"Ten more," he mumbled distractedly even though you were panting, teetering on the edge of exhaustion. You hadn't hit one ball until now and it didn't look like Patrick planned you to anytime soon. When he didn't hear your steps he looked up from his phone. "Do I need to repeat myself?"
You bit your tongue at the dark look in his eyes and turned to do another set of sprints, already huffing.
"I don't wanna hear you huffing and puffing. I am your coach, you do what I say."
"I didn't even say anything," you mumbled under your breath but luckily Patrick didn't hear and you resumed your sprints.
You were growing more irritated as time passed, your body was aching, skin growing thinner with every comment he threw your way.
'Lengthen those steps', 'Arch your back', 'Lousy footwork, are you a circus athlete or a tennis player?'
Some of his comments had you falter and stare at him in shock. It wasn't like you couldn't take criticism and nobody was perfect. But usually Patrick was very satisfied with your work. You flourished in his praise, playing better when he complimented you.
He could be charming, hell Patrick Zweig without his charm and easy going nature was unthinkable. You'd watch him flirt up the secretary who made you sign in every time you entered court multiple times and you were sure that he took her home some and then at least twice.
It wasn't like you were paying awfully close attention to him and his social life—you might have spent a few nights stalking him on the socials but a girl was curious. You liked watching his old matches a lot, it was one of the reasons you wanted him as your coach in the first place. He was aggressive and maybe a little hot headed but you liked him that way. You could see a lot of his younger self in him now.
But the way he was acting today was uncharacteristic. You finished your last sprint, approaching him breathlessly. Your hair was sticking to your sweaty skin and you pealed them of your neck irritatedly.
"That was the lousiest work in a long time," Patrick murmured, muscly arms crossed in front of his broad chest. You gaze narrowed slightly and he caught the movement, arching one brow. "You got something to say about that?"
"No, coach." You gritted your teeth through it, holding your side to somehow ease the stitch. His gaze flickered to your side.
"Let's start working on your forehead, we know you need it," he grumbled and walked towards the bucket filled with tennis balls. You stood there, mouth open.
"If we hadn't just waisted hours on me running along the court I wouldn't need to." The words slipped past your mouth without you wanting it to. Patrick froze, back to you, before slowly turning around.
"What did you just say?" His tone was sharp, muscles tight with tension.
There was no going back now. "Well, if you had paid attention to what I was doing, instead of letting me run around like a madwoman we could've played sooner." You sounded less confident now, even though the irritation still glowered in the pit of your stomach.
Patrick approached you slowly, like a panther stalking its pray. You didn't move but didn't back down either, waiting for him until he invaded your space. "You want me to pay more attention to you?"
Your cheeks heated as you blinked. Was he—? His hand gripped your chin harshly and pushed your head back, your eyes on him. "I don't have time for the little girl crush you have on me. I tell you to do sprints, you do sprints. I tell you to arch your back more, you arch your back more. If I tell you to fucking jump off a bridge, you jump off a bridge, got it?" His chest was pressing into you as he loomed over you, his gaze thunderous as you swallowed. He watched your throat move slowly.
"Didn't hear you," he pressed.
"Got it," you said around the hard grip of his hand. He finally let go and turned around. "Get into position."
You rubbed your jaw as you glared at his back. You should’ve known better but today you just couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut "Jesus, just because you don’t have anything else to fuck besides your hand—“ you grumbled and turned back into position.
Patrick stopped in his tracks before slowly turning around. "What did you just say?"
He could hear your breath hitching from the other side of the court, his brow arching. He waited for you to speak again and the tension was palpable, reeking of regret.
"Cat got your tongue?" He inched closer, slowly and this time he didn’t look angry. There was something calculating about the steps he took. You were fucked.
Your hearting was beating in your throat as you watched him approach. "I'm so—"
"Sorry, are you?" He stopped in front of you, looming impossibly above you like a vengeful god. He was gonna kill you, you knew it. You should've just kept your damn mouth shut.
"You're done." Patrick said casually.
"I—what?" You repeated dumbfounded at the loss of reaction.
"Having a hearing problem now too? You're done for today." He went to turn around and leave but your hand shot out, grasping his muscled forearm, nails driving into his skin.
"But I didn't even play! You can't just have me run drills for half our session and then send me home."
His eyes darkened, glaring down at your hand on his skin. Slowly you retracted your hand but you stood your ground. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that, okay? Please don't send me home now."
"Go get changed I'll drive you home." There was no room for protest in his voice.
*
There was no arguing with Patrick when it came to this. Twenty minutes later you were sitting in his jeep, the air stuffy and filled with awkward silence. You were silently waiting for the other shoe to drop. Patrick wouldn't let you get away with disrespecting him like that and yet he was driving silently, eyes on the road, no indication of punishment lingering in his actions.
Afterwards you realized he was lulling you into a false sense of security.
He took the next turn sharply, your body jostling in your seat, skirt riding up your thighs and you quickly went to push it back down by the hem. Patrick stopped at a red light and you glanced over at him. He still wouldn't look at you, half his face stood in shadow the other lit up like the devil.
"Say something," you whispered into the silence. You couldn't take it anymore, this brewing tension, thunder loading before it split the world in two.
"What do you want me to say?" He eccalerated a little faster than necessary when the light turned green.
"Anything. Be angry at me, scream, shout...I don't know something else than whatever this is," you huffed frustrated.
"You want me to get angry?" Patrick glanced at you.
"You are angry at me but for some reason you're holding back. Usually you aren't. Just punish me so we can get over this weird silence." You realized he had parked the car at an abandoned parking lot, no person in sight, only a lone paperback rolling across the street.
"You want to be punished?"
You turned back to look at him, suddenly feeling uneasy with the new tone in his voice. You frowned. "Of course I don't want to be punished but if that's what you need to forgive me, then please."
"Okay, take your panties off." The words came so quick you wondered if you imagined them.
"Wha—"
"Take them off. You want instructions? You want punishment? Take. them. off." He looked deadly serious, waiting. You had to be crazy for obliging but your hands went for the zipper at your skirt.
"What are you doing?" You froze at his words, looking at him. He looked bored, eyes narrowed at your fingers that were gripping your skirt like a lifeline. "Did I say to get your skirt off?"
He waited until you answered verbally. "No."
"So, are you able to follow orders or not? Take your panties off, leave the fucking skirt on."
Your heart pounded but not in fear as you reached beneath your skirt and pulled your silk panties down your legs, stepping out of them slowly. Patrick watched with dark eyes, his hand was palming his hardening cock over his jeans and your core pulsed at the sight.
"Good. Knees apart, come on give me that." He grabbed the panties out of your hands and you swallowed. He didn't do anything with them, only tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans before watching you again.
"Now take those prodigy fingers and touch yourself for me, will you?"
"I—” You swallowed the rest of the sentence at his sharp look and your fingers travelled up your thigh to disappear beneath your skirt. You flushed when you found yourself already shamelessly wet. Your fingers slipped through your folds for a moment, a surprised breath leaving your lips.
"How long have you been wet?" He asked. You blinked at him through the fog gathering in your brain, despite his looming presence you had almost forgotten that he was here in the car with you. Fuck. Your coach was giving you instructions to touch yourself in his car, parked in an abandoned parking lot.
"I-I don't know."
"Bullshit. Don't lie to me, sweetheart. Fuck yourself, wanna hear your fingers slip inside your cunt."
You moaned softly as two fingers slipped in easily, your walls squeezing around them desperately as you listened to his words.
"Since when?" He pressed.
"When you had me run drills," you admitted with flushed cheeks.
"Good girl," Patrick rumbled and a moment later he lifted you out of your seat and into his lap. "Keep going." You obliged, fingers pumping into your cunt as you felt him pull his hard cock out of his jeans. You could feel the thick head brush your back and you leaned into him making him grunt.
"Don't move," he ordered and you bit your lip on another moan, nodding. The soft squelching of your fingers fucking into your cunt accompanied the silence in the car. You could feel Patricks hand pump himself behind you, hips moving in rhythm and you wished you could see him.
"Is this what you wanted—fuck," he grunted. "Being a fucking brat all day long so I would punish you?"
"Yes," you sighed, fingers picking up speed as your thumb drove over your clit repeatedly.
Patricks hand sped up, every time the head of his cock slipped through his fist it bumped against your back, making him moan hotly into your neck. The car shook with both your movements, windows fogged up from your labored breath.
"Pull out," he ordered suddenly and you stopped.
"What? Why?"
"Pull out."
With a soft whine you withdrew your fingers, your cunt squeezing around nothing when Patrick shifted you in his lap. His cock dragged from your ass through your cunt, coating it in your wetness before you felt the head of his cock at your entrance.
"Happy now?" Before you could answer he slammed into you with one hard jerk of his hips. You cried out, hands finding his thighs, nails digging into his jeans.
"This is what happens when you don't listen," he grunted as he bottomed out. He didn't give you the time to adjust, already slamming into you at a rapid pace.
"Patrick—" you whined and his hand grabbed your hair, pulling your head backwards.
"You think you get treated nicely when you act like this? If you want praise don't act like a fucking child. I don't have the time to train someone who doesn't want to win." His thrusts became punishing, balls slapping crudely as the car jumped with every trust.
Your hand inched to your clit but Patrick slapped it away. You tried looking at him over your shoulder but his grip on your hair was too tight.
"You don't get to touch yourself, you haven't earned it today, baby." The pet name felt ironic with how he treated you.
The band in your tummy drew tighter with every punishing pump of his hips, your body coiled tight and offered to him like a sacrifice but you knew you wouldn't be able to come without touching yourself.
"Please," you whined, eyes turning blurry.
"Please what?" He grunted. He was getting close, his thrust growing sloppy.
"Please, let me cum, Patrick. I'll do anything, I swear don't—ahh—don’t do this," you whimpered and you could almost feel the evil smirk spreading on his lips.
"Are you crying?" He asked with delight, one hand trailing gently over your cheeks to catch the tears. His tilted his hips, brushing that right spot and you cried out, tears now flooding endlessly as he overstimulated you to no ends but didn't let you cum.
"If you cum from this, I'll drop you as my player," he grunted, cock pushing back inside you.
"What?" Your eyes widened before another hard trust made your toes curl. Oh god, he was going to make you cum without touching yourself but you weren't allowed to.
"You heard me. I'm almost there, hold off and you're forgiven."
"Patrick," you whimpered, walls drawing tighter and tighter around his pistoning cock.
"Jesus, you squeeze me so tight, baby, feels so good—fuck," he grunted as he drove his cock in again and again.
You were crying, every muscle in your body tight as not to cum and you prayed you wouldn't.
"Oh fuck, here it comes—fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick drove into you like a mad man, his teeth finding your throat and biting hard. You felt his cum fill your insides, pump after pump and you couldn't suppress the full body shiver as you quietly came apart on his cock. His cum slipped out, sticking to your thighs as he groaned into your neck one last time, before his teeth let go of your skin. You shivered overly sensitive with every puff of breath of his that hit the back of your neck.
You were still pulsing around him, every shift and breath making you flinch and shiver.
He gently placed your hair over your shoulder before lifting you off his cock. He tucked himself neatly away before he turned you around in his lap.
"What's wrong?" He asked softly, eyes deep and lazy as he cleaned your cheeks of tears. You were still silently crying.
"I didn't make it," you exhaled between hiccups. Patricks lips drew into a lazy smile.
"One strike. You'll do better next time."
"W-what?"
Patrick gently brushed your hair.
"You think I'll punish you one time for that fucked up sentence?" He chuckled deviously. "You got two more to go baby." He pressed a gentle kiss against your temple and your cunt clenched again in sweet anticipation.
tw: dubcon, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, rough sex, missionary, dacryphilia, evil patrick lowk
wc: 1.4k
Patrick Zweig, certified douchebag, walking ego, the kind of guy people love to hate.
He’s been stitched into your life for as long as you can remember, a constant presence from childhood scraped knees and shared secrets to late-night drives with the windows down, always there but never really looking at you, not until one unfair, universe-altering moment when you grew up and everything about you shifted into something he absolutely did not have permission to want.
One day you were just his friend, familiar and safe, and the next you were everywhere, in the way your voice lingered in his head when he was supposed to be sleeping, his hand slowly sliding into his boxers when his thoughts betrayed him late at night when the room was quiet and he had nothing to distract himself from the fact that his best friend had become devastatingly, inconveniently hot.
He hates that part of himself, the disloyalty of it, the way his mind drifts to you when it shouldn’t, when you’re off-limits, so he does what Patrick does best, he shoves it down, buries it under layers of arrogance and indifference, convinces himself it’s nothing more than a fleeting thought he can drown out with alcohol and noise and bodies that aren’t yours.
He ends up in random bars with random blonde girls hanging off his arm, their voices buzzing annoyingly in his ear while he nods along, empty-eyed, wishing desperately it was you sitting there instead, your laughter, your sharp comebacks, the easy smiles you gave him when you thought no more me was looking.
But Patrick would rather choke on his own pride than admit that, so he keeps the act up, keeps pretending he doesn’t care about anything or anyone, least of all you.
Until the night your boyfriend breaks up with you and you show up at his apartment, shattered and shaking, and the second he opens the door you break, collapsing into him like muscle memory, sobbing so hard your tears soak straight through his shirt.
Patrick doesn’t hesitate, he never does when it comes to you—his arms coming up instantly, holding you like it’s instinct, like it’s always been his job to catch you when you fall.
He feels awful for you, truly, but he also feels something dangerously close to hope because this, this closeness, has been missing for years, and now you’re pressed against him, practically in his lap, your lips swollen and trembling, your eyes red and glossy, your face tucked into the crook of his neck like it fits there perfectly.
He tells himself he’s just comforting you, just being the friend he’s always been, even as his hands move slowly, rubbing soothing circles into your back, sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer until your body is molded against his, grounding you, shielding you, letting you sink into him.
His touch lingers longer than necessary, warmer than it should be, but he justifies it easily, after all, his job is to make you feel better, to make the world feel less cruel for you in this moment, to help you forget about your idiotic ex… and if, for once, he lets himself pretend that you belong right here with him, just for tonight, well—he figures he’s earned that much.
Patrick keeps you close, one arm firm around your waist as your sniffles quiet, and when you mutter something about feeling stupid he pulls back just enough to look at you. “Hey—no,” he says, voice low. “Don’t do that.”
His thumb brushes under your eye, gentle despite himself. “Just forget about him. Look at me.” You do, and he scoffs softly. “That guy was a dickbag idiot who didn’t know what he had right in front of him.”
His hand tightens at your hip, grounding. “I would never treat you like that. Never make you feel small or disposable.” He leans his forehead against yours, quieter now. “You deserve better. You deserve someone who actually sees you.”
Patrick trails his hand over your jaw, tilting your head up to face him, his mouth inches away from yours. “Let me make you feel better, I know what you need.”
His hand slips under your shirt, fingertips gliding along your skin, his eyes looking into yours for permission. You were too overcome with emotion and internal turmoil to notice the sly look beneath his eyes. “Let me make you feel good, hm?” He murmurs in your ear, laying you back down against the couch.
Patrick's hands slide underneath your shirt, pushing it up and out of the way. His hazel eyes rake over your chest, his pupils dilating as he drinks in the sight.
He lets out a low, gravelly noise, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin. "God, you're so pretty." he says, his voice rougher than normal. "And all mine."
Your voice cracks, your hands pressing against his chest to still him. “Just the tip? Please?”
A shiver runs down your spine as Patrick's warm breath brushes against your ear, goosebumps erupting on your skin as his hands trail lower, to the waistband of your shorts. "Just the tip, baby." he repeats, his fingers teasing and taunting. "Promise."
His hands push your shorts down, tossing them haphazardly behind him. Patrick groans, his eyes rake over your body, his thumb lazily rubbing your clit over your panties as your hips buck.
Patrick lazily pulls his pajama pants down, just enough so he can free his aching cock from his boxers. He spits in his hand, stroking himself absentmindedly, thumb rubbing his tip. He spreads your thighs, making room between them so he can slot his body.
Patrick grins, rubbing his tip through your wet folds, spreading his pre-come all over, mixing your wetness with his. “I don’t have a condom,” he states, not even bothering to rummage through his drawers, “but don’t need one, right? it’s jus’ the tip.”
Patrick slides himself in, head tilting back and breath growing ragged as you clench around him. Fuck, he only had his tip in and you were so tight, so warm, how was he expected to just fuck you with the tip?
Patrick slides out, left hand gripping your hip to keep you still as he slides back in, only fucking you with tip. His right hand slides up your body, flicking and pinching your nipples to keep you distracted as he slowly slides in more and more.
He rolls his hips like he has no care in the world, easing more and more of himself into you. Patrick lets out a string of moans when he gives up and just snaps himself into you.
His eyes are hooded when he presses his chest against yours, breath hot when he murmurs in your ear, “Shit, sorry. Can’t help it, you’re—“ he grinds into you, “so warm, wet.”
Your mind, hazy in pleasure, not noticing when he fully sheathed himself into you. Your hands weakly pawed at his back, squirming beneath him. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, his hazel eyes nearly black with lust.
His strokes are fast and hard, his hips slapping against your ass with each thrust. He leans forward, his hand reaching forward to grip your hair. "This is what you're really here for, isn’t it? Just wanted me to hold you when you cried about your sorry ex—“ he fucks you harder, “had to hide how hard I got when you started crying.”
"My pretty little girl." he growls, his thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna fill you up like this every day. Make you come like this every day."
His thrusts become faster, more unhinged. He can feel his orgasm building, his breaths becoming shorter. Your orgasm creeps up on you, Patrick letting out grunts when he felt you clench around him. "You're so fucking tight. So perfect." he groans, his hips slapping against you with wild, hard thrusts.
You come, hard. Eyes rolling into the back of your head as you let out moan after moan. Patrick pulls himself out, stroking himself rapidly before spilling all over your stomach and chest, not stopping till he was pumped dry.
Patrick flops beside your body, his hair slick to his forehead and arm slung over your waist. Not even a minute later you hear his snores penetrate your ears. Patrick never was much for aftercare.
Patrick would 100% thrive of Art being in love with his girlfriend!
yeah he absolutely eats this shit up.
patrick clocks it immediately, probably even before you get together. and okay yeah he loves you but maybe the competitiveness is why he pursued you so hard in the first place. where most guys would feel threatened/off-put by their best friend having a thing for their girlfriend, he's glowing. it's a little cruel but he has a thing for kissing you extra hard in front of art, muttering dirty things in your ear about what you're going to do later just loud enough for art to hear it. it's his own twisted form of foreplay.
and you're not dumb. you know art's into you. there's something painfully sincere about his longing because he's so transparent about it. patrick loves that too. he's not above making comments like "you good, man?" when he catches him clenching his jaw at the way patrick's got a hand on your ass.
patrick's not worried in the slightest about losing you either. he trusts you, sure, but more than that he trusts himself. he knows art could pine forever and still never touch what patrick has with you—the messy intimacy, the shared history, the way patrick knows how to unravel you with a few choice words and that magic touch. he knows it turns you on a little, too. whispers "you know he's in love with you, right?" when he's knuckles deep in you after art heads to bed for the night. you roll your eyes and tell him to shut up and leave him alone, but if anything, patrick's ego just makes you want him more.
he knows he's an asshole. you know he's an asshole. but art yearning from the side lines gets you both going, which is exactly why you don't bother silencing yourself when your boyfriend is pounding you into the mattress and his best friend is 'sleeping' in the room next door.
dry humping with jud bc it's not a sin if there's no penetration 😇
Him in his vestments, neck and cheeks flushed while you’re mostly naked on top of him. You’re only wearing a skirt and your bra is undone. He’s trying not to look at your breasts but it’s easy anyway. You’re pressed against him in more ways than one. Forehead flush against his as you rock against his erection, your tits are squished against his chest. He’s built under his clothes, you can feel it. But god—you wish you could see him. He whimpers into your mouth and all but gnaws on your lips to keep himself from groaning. And he needs to shut up because you shouldn’t be in the confession booth with him—church service starts in 30 minutes.
⚡︎ — REQUESTED. during a practise session, patrick has you setting pretty on his lap. it comes as a surprise to no one that he wants more than you just sitting there.
⚡︎ — cw .ᐟ 18+. 1.1k words. smut. unprotected p in v. creampie.
⚡︎ — notes .ᐟ um so i'm already obsessed with my band!au pls send more reqs <3
"can you get off his dick for like," art groans, guitar in hand—stood behind the microphone, facing patrick's drum kit. "two seconds? need to fuckin' practise."
"we are practising," patrick smirks. yeah, he might be holding his drum sticks and sat at his kit, but actually focusing on the songs he's playing is the furthest thing from his mind.
your arm stays around patrick's neck, twisting around to look at art's growing annoyance. "was i or was i not singing that whole time?" you taunt, speaking into the microphone into your hand as if to prove your point.
"tashi, help me—please," art whines, as patrick continues to ignore him.
patrick's hands move to rest on the top of your thighs, squeezing as he keeps you there—sitting pretty on his lap. his lips start trailing up your neck, leaving wet kisses behind.
"oh, give me a fuckin' break," art groans—again. you can tear tashi faintly laugh, still strumming the bass in her hands.
the sticks in patrick's hands drop to the floor, as he grabs the back of your head. bringing your face to his, lips attacking yours without a care in the world.
his tongue slides into your mouth, as your arms fully drape around his neck again—microphone dropped from your own hands, hitting the floor with a thud and hit of feedback through the amps.
"fuck this shit." art mutters, setting his guitar down on it's stand, and storming out the door. tashi only laughs, and slowly follows suit. "you owe us an hour of practise!" she teases, as the door closes behind her.
"fuck me, finally." patrick murmurs against your lips, all smug and smirking as his hands trail up under your shirt.
"you're such a dick," you mumble, fingers trailing up and down the bare skin of his back. his skin hot and sweating from the half hour of playing before patrick couldn't ignore the way you were sitting on his lap any longer.
"you want my dick, you said?" he taunts—twisting your words as he always does. pulling back from your lips to look into your eyes. his already darkened, smirk heavy on his lips.
"why didn't you just say so, baby?" patrick mutters, as his hands move to grab a fistful of your ass.
his lips attach to your neck again, mouth sucking the skin—leaving a new mark next to the fading hickey he left last week. he'd paint your entire body blue and purple if you let him.
"stand up a second, baby," patrick mumbles against your skin, guiding you to your feet with his hands still groping the fat of your ass.
his fingers move to the zip of his jeans as you stand, your hands in his hair—eyes looking down to the brunette before you, lip between your teeth.
that smirk doesn't leave his lips, as he hastily frees his growing boner from it's constraints. patrick's hands grab at your hips, pulling you back down onto his lap.
his head falls back slightly, as the lace of your panties meets his member below your skirt. your arms tighten around his neck, rolling your hips softly against his.
"such a dirty little girl, aren't you, baby?" patrick teases, big hands guiding your movements against him. "gonna let me fuck you right here, where anyone could see?"
your lip is caught between your teeth, nodding softly down to him. soft hums escaping you as his tip bumps your clit with each roll of his hips.
"god, you're fuckin' perfect," he mumbles, as his hand reaches below your skirt. pulling your panties to the side, sliding himself through your slickness, before he positions himself at your entrance.
"say please." he murmurs, holding himself there. eyes on yours, gulping as he looks over your features—eyes all but begging him.
"patrick, c'mon—"
"i said," he mutters, the hand resting on your hip moving up to grab your face. fingers pushing your cheeks together, forcing a pout on your lips. "say fucking please."
his cock is twitching—desperate to buck his hips up and force himself into you, but he doesn't let up.
"please." you whisper, brows furrowed and begging.
as soon as the word leaves your hips, he's pushing himself into you. both hands on your hips, forcing you up and down on his lap.
you can't but cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders. the pain of the stretch quickly turns to pleasure, as his length hits your g-spot with every thrust.
your moans echo around the room, and you're fucking grateful that art didn't want to record the audio from today's practise session. patrick's fucking clever, he'd find a way to hide your moans in the next single if he had them on tape.
"always take me so good, princess," patrick coos, as his lips messily meet yours. teeth and tongues sliding over each other, as his hips jackrabbit up from the stool.
your eyes squeeze shut, eyeliner smudging as his speed increases. your hips desperately try to match his thrusts, rhythm off—clinging onto his body as patrick bites down on your lower lip. sucking it into his mouth, before your head falls back in bliss.
"fuck, pat—" you moan, eyes glued to his—breathing heavy. "so fuckin' good—shit."
"yeah?" he breathes out, hands on your hips as pace slows, letting you grind against him. his curls growing slick to his forehead, chest heaving as he lets you use him.
"mhm," you hum, hips rolling back and forth against him. clit bumping the base of him, brows furrowing.
patrick doesn't warn you—hips jutting up harshly, his tip hitting against your g-spot roughly with every thrust. his forehead falling against your shoulder, lips aimlessly kissing at every bit of skin he can reach.
"gonna fuckin' come, baby, fuck," he mutters against your skin, the words barely hitting your ears before his load splutters up inside you.
patrick stays there, catching his breath before pulling his head up to meet yours again. "you're too fuckin' pretty on my lap, baby." he mumbles, pushing your hair back behind your ears.
soft blush washes over your cheeks, as you place a haste kiss to his forehead. "all sweaty." you mumble, scrunching your nose as you lean back.
"oh yeah, and who's fault is that?" he teases, with a soft smack to your ass. you roll your eyes as you stand up from his lap, re-adjusting your skirt as you do.
patrick smirks up to you, covering himself back up as he zips up the fly of his jeans. you lean down to kiss his lips again—softly, as his hands gently caress the back of your thighs.
only does the sound of both of your phones chiming pull you away from him.
opening up your phone, to see two new messages from: CHALLENGERS
art: new band rule
art: NO MORE FUCKING DURING PRACTISE!!!!!
douchebag pat convincing you to send him nudes first so he can give you advice on how to turn on bf!art, freak!
oh my god, yeah.
you're so naive and patrick knows you have the biggest crush on art. have for years. patrick tells you one day that it's obvious, your staring.
and then he kept talking to you, giving you tips.
be less obvious, he likes the chase.
compliment him, but don't go overboard.
he likes it when you banter. make fun of him in a flirty way.
you took all of patrick's advice, and you sort of think you would never have gotten art's number if it weren't for patrick's help. but now you have it, and you're just unsure of how to proceed.
you text patrick, who gave you his number just for this reason, nothing else. he just wants to see a shy, pretty girl like yourself get what she wants, and for his best friend to get laid. that's it.
hey! you text him.
i wanted to ask you about art
patrick is quick to answer. Whats up
what kind of stuff will keep art interested in texting me? im bad at this
Just don't think about it too much.
a second thought of his rolls in.
He should be asking you questions too
i know its not a big deal but i rlly like him
I know you do
i dont wanna seem desperate
I know you dont
ur not being very helpful patrick
I dont want you to get mad at me. What I'm gonna tell you is going to sound really bad
what?
If you wanna keep him interested you prolly should send
send? you weren't following.
send what?
Nudes
your face flushes and you didn't realize your hands were becoming clammy, your teeth chewing your bottom lip, bringing fresh blood to the surface.
ive never done that idk if i want to
You don't have to do anything you dont want to. I'm just telling u the truth.
you appreciate patrick's honesty, you guess. but this is all new to you, and you would never want to send him something embarrassing or weird.
you think for a minute.
would he like that? i dont wanna be weird & that seems weird
I promise he would like it.
im not a model or anything
Trust me. He would like it.
you do trust patrick. he doesn't have to do this for you, spend his time explaining love and lust and art donaldson to a dumb, naive virgin.
like what? should it be my butt or my boobs
Both
im not going to spam him w pics
Just do it in one
admittedly, you're confused.
He explains how; he says to shoot from below, holding your phone kind of below your ass so the camera captures your tits too. You'd never say tits, and you feel strange taking these kinds of pictures. But doing it fresh out of the shower makes the most sense; your hair is wet and you have yet to get dressed.
i took one. when's a good time to send it? dont want ppl to see
Does it look okay? he asks.
idk never done this before
You should let me see. I know what Art likes.
no way you cant see it
Its not a big deal I'm just giving you tips.
You debate doing it; maybe he's right and it's not a big deal. he's been so nice to you these past few weeks, listening to your complaints and making sure you got his number. it feels like what you want is coming to fruition and it would be so idiotic to sabotage it right now. right?
You press send. You're so desperate for Art, the repercussions don't need to be addressed.
at home, Patrick gnaws on his fist before throwing his head back. God, he thinks you're so sexy. and your desperation makes him so hard. the way your ass is so perfect, the first thing in his view. Droplets of water pebble on the surface of your skin, and you're shyly holding your tits up with your arm, a sweet, innocent smile on your face.
Patrick is shamelessly hard on the couch, Art in the next room over.
"Art." Patrick slaps his shoulder, showing him his phone. He shouldn't do it, but fuck, he shouldn't have done any of this. "If you don't fuck this girl soon I'm all in it."
