Summary: heavily based on the lyrics of behind closed doors by lana del rey, patrick zweig takes genuine interest in one of the 'matches' his parents have thrown at him to try and rope him back to high society. she takes him and herself by surprise, finding she's not all spoiled, perfect, and innocent. nobody is rooting for them, but they don't care. if it feels good. then it can't be bad. behind closed doors.
Part Two: On their second date, socialite good girl!reader finds herself navigating unfamiliar territory as Patrick Zweig sets the pace. He’s determined to coax her out of her carefully curated shell and bring to her to try something new, but the drinks only blur the lines further. Tension builds as desire grows harder to contain. Reader drops a personal detail that drives Patrick a little crazy.
warnings: talk of touch, making out, drinking, smoking
His car was parked outside, so there was no way to hide from your parents that you were going out again, but after all, they did make the arrangement with the Zweigs, so as long as they didn’t know about the cigarette, you’d be fine. You walked down the steps. He didn’t say where you were going so you dressed somewhat nicely. A pink skirt and a cream-coloured knit sweater and you were already drawing the line toward casual, so you topped it off with your Vivienne Westwood necklace. Your father was in his study and you said goodnight as you passed him and told him to tell your mom as well. You kindly dismissed yourself, putting on tasteful socks and mary janes.
His first thought, in jeans and a t-shirt, was that you really were a princess, as you emerged from the double doors to your pillared front entrance. He was never a second-date sort of guy, especially not with the women his parents threw his way, but you were something different and he knew it. He got you to smoke on the first day, part of him liked how it felt to have aided in something so controversial. Proper girls don’t smoke, but you, you took that chance. You walked over to the car, his window down. “Can I get in?”
“Yeah, of course,” he nodded. He moved his sunglasses from the seat next to him as you hopped up into his car. Your skirt, though pretty, was just a little short, he noted. Well, short for girls like you. Maybe it was a sign, he thought. “You ever been to a bar before?” He hid his smirk as he drove away before you had your seatbelt on. Your eyes widened, was the prettiest sight. He chuckled to himself.
The bar was one of his favourites. Not too trashy, but probably just trashy enough. You already looked out of place on the somehow wet asphalt outside, your arms folded, looking up at the sign above the door. “They’ll let me in? I’m not 21.” You reasoned, looking at him. His smile was wide and gorgeous, god, you hated how much a look from him could make your heart accelerate. You were a weak woman, you thought. Weak.
“They’ll let you in,” he nodded. “I know the guy who runs the place, you’re fine.”
You walked with him to the entrance and he held the door for you. You smiled a ‘thank you’ and with adjusting eyes, looked around the dimly lit bar. It was a little busy, a little bit bustling, but Patrick was greeted in seconds. You could only think to yourself, watching him interact with his friend, that he was carrying himself in a manner that he was not thinking about you. He was with you one second and gone the next and it wasn’t like he meant to, but he still did. You tucked your hair behind your ear.
The floor was sticky, you noted, following Patrick just a little. He had a seat at the bar and when you came over, he helped you up onto the stool next to him. Truth was, he could not stop thinking about that kiss the other night- not for one second. It was part of why he was here with you now, a second date, a second chance to kiss you again. It only occurred to him after three minutes that you were talking to him. “Patrick?” You questioned, just a little curious as to why he wasn’t blinking.
His eyes met yours, rising up from your lips. He couldn’t help the smirk that broke out. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“You’re on campus next week,” he nodded. It was all he caught. You raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t listening. “I’m sorry,” he added at the moment of your expression. “Do you want a drink?” You could deduct he wasn’t all that sorry.
“I’m not 21,” you reminded him. He was older by a good amount, you remembered. “I can’t.”
“You can here, I cleared it with my friend when we came in. You’re 21 as far as he’s concerned.” He smirked, laying the bait. Could he get the girl in Mary Janes to take a shot with him? “You’ve drank before, right?”
You shook your head, “Only champagne, low percentage.”
“Without any pressure,” he leaned a little closer to you, his face just a little closer than it should be, his eyes flickering from your lips, back to your eyes, “Would you like to? Drink.”
He liked how flustered you got. He wondered if it was from him or the offer, but it was both. You blinked a few times and your nose got a little pink. “What would I…” You were taking the bait with such ease. He grinned. “No… But you can drink if you’d like, I don’t mind.”
“No?” He shrugged. Strong-willed girl. But he put his hand up to the bartender, “One Jaeger bomb and a pornstar?” He asked. The names made you blink extra hard. You flushed and turned away, he said pornstar so loud, everyone must have heard. It was… strange. It was embarrassing a little bit, but the bartender didn’t bat an eye, just started making drinks.
You turned back to him, a curious and quizzical expression on your face. “Is the second one for me?”
He nodded, “If you change your mind.”
“Alcohol is a gateway,” you told him.
“Who told you that?” He asked with a laugh as the bartender set the two drinks down. One was brown, the other was purple, which you guessed, was yours. “Weed is the gateway. Plus on the grand scale, nicotine is so much worse than a single drink.”
You twisted your mouth to the side. He was so hot. Every word out of his mouth was hot. You wished it was appropriate to kiss him right here and now, for no reason. “I’m not drinking that.”
“That’s fine. It’ll just sit there.” He smirked, taking the other drink and drinking half. “I know you have low tolerance, it’s not very strong. And you don’t have to.”
You looked at it, it looked good, honestly, garnished with a lime. “I feel like I wasted your money.” You leaned on your hand, your elbow on the bar.
Patrick shrugged, “So don’t waste it?”
“It’s alcohol,” you whispered. He chuckled at that. Only you would whisper about alcohol at a bar. It was cute. “I can’t drink it for another year.”
“Suit yourself, princess,” he said, finishing his drink. The nickname, again. You couldn’t hide the blush that took over your nose, your cheeks. He was a fan of it, how cute you looked when you couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. Princess. You were exactly that. And you got to talking more, genuinely, with sweet banter and stolen glances at lips when the other wasn’t paying attention and once you got into your music taste, Patrick was still sure you were a princess, but a different kind for sure. You weren’t like any upper-class girl he’d been forced to meet in his lifetime.
You liked some of the stuff he liked. Which was for sure not parent-approved. He found out you liked books and kept CDs under your floorboard, which was endearing. You said you got the idea from a show you liked. It was cute. He made a note to watch the show- which caught even him by surprise. His favourite thing was to uncover that you like eyeliner, but your father said it made you look like a whore, which was laughed at, instead of agreed with, (which you found refreshing). “I’d love to see it. No, kill to see it.”
“It’s not that special, but I feel so ugly without it, isn’t that weird?” You laughed. “I never wear it out. Ever. Only in my bedroom.”
“Yeah, it sounds hot,” he grinned, leaning forward. He was now two drinks in and your drink was still sitting there. He had pushed it a little closer and you’d be lying to say you weren’t tempted to drink it and to kiss him. “You should wear it out somewhere.”
“You asking me on another date?” Your turn to smirk. His eyebrows raised. Amongst all the surprising things he’d learned about you, this suggestion, this ask, took him most by surprised. It was more bold than he’d heard from you. He watched how your hand walked along the table, hesitating near the drink. He grinned.
“Might be.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.” He replied. You were a little flattered he wanted to see you again so soon. “If you’re free.”
“I’m free,” you nodded, pulling the drink slowly toward you. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek smugly. “I pick, though.”
“Dangerous.”
“Safer than a bar.” You nodded, looking down at the drink. He could tell you were contemplating drinking it. You picked it up, holding the straw to your lips. So close… too close. His eyes fell on the plush of your lower lip, how the straw pressed against it. Maybe it was the three drinks, but he knew he wanted you more than anything. You noticed him watching you hold the drink and giggled a little, turning away. “I was going to drink it.”
“You should,” he nodded, eyes moving between your lips and your eyes, “Won’t hurt.”
“Promise?” You said a bit quieter than your other words, with innocence so strong it almost knocked him into you. Maybe it was the shot he’d just taken. Your eyes are wide and they’re evil. And you drink the martini and you scrunch your nose just a little and he wants you. And with your low tolerance and maybe trying a shot, and a few sips of what he was having, you were just a little tipsy and you want him. Banter is banter, he makes you laugh and under the grit, he’s so charming.
You stand up with intentions to move over to the dartboard, but you don't get far, his hand catches your wrist and with a calculated tug, he pulled you into him.
It felt good to be so airy and spinny and to kiss him. Kissing him, walking backward into the wall. It felt dirty, his hand on the back of your head, in your hair, your hands grabbing at the front of his t-shirt. You rolled against the wall, your hand falling behind you to press open the door to the girl’s bathrooms. No idea how you got so far, but there was nobody in there- the bar was filled mostly with men. He was so good at kissing, better than any boy who wore a sweater vest, better than anyone you’d ever kissed before. His hands slid under your sweater, surprised to find you weren’t wearing any sort of tank top, pleased to have his hands slide easily over the skin of your waist and back.
All of this, though it felt good, being picked up and put on the counter, it was dirty. It was dirty and it was wrong, it was bad. The sink wasn’t wet, but it was disgusting for sure. Though all you could think about was how good it felt to be pressed against him, legs at his hips, your skirt slipping upward. Oh god, your skirt was almost up to your hips, thank god you wore shorts.
Your hands stayed around his neck, the buzz of the alcohol making your ears ring. The only noise was the muffled music of the bar and the kissing along with the heavy breathing. His hot hands on your skin felt so good, his tongue in your mouth felt dizzying in itself. He kissed you like you were the last person he’d ever kiss and it felt natural, the way you kissed him just the same.
Goes without saying that he was into you, more than his usual girls. Something about knowing what you were taught to do and undoing it felt like a drug. Felt a little like revenge without actually causing any real harm. Your skin was as soft as silk and you tasted like lime when he kissed you, he’d take it, with a side of getting back at his parents. Aside from that, he was feeling his heart beat hard in his chest as he was clouded over by passion. Everything, every sense, all filled with you, you, you.
His hand slipped down your hip, over your leg, back up your thigh- god, your skin was so smooth. He moved just slightly, making space between the two of you, his hand sliding over your thigh toward the inside, toward where it mattered, but you stopped him. Tipsy or not, you stopped him abruptly, hand on his wrist, moving away from the kiss as well. “Patrick…”
“I should’ve asked.” He mumbled against your lips. A response you didn’t expect from Patrick, let alone Patrick with a few drinks in him. “Just assumed.”
You felt yourself flush pink, your heart accelerated beyond the pace it was already at. “I’ve never…” You started, but the embarrassment caught up to you.
“Never what?”
You were out of it and honest, too honest, “Been touched.”
“At all?”
“Only boobs,” you nodded, then cringed a slight bit.
Familiar heat in your cheeks, but it was like a fire ripped through Patrick’s body as your blatant statement was absorbed properly. It lit something up, bright. “You’re a virgin?”
Oh, this was so much better than he thought. A grin spread up his face unintentionally and somewhat evilly, though he was overwhelmed with some new emotion. A stronger one, close to lust but more motivated by the unattainable. You nodded, your eyes soft and the next words from his mouth fell out in a breathy slip, “Oh, fuck-” And those large hands of his grabbed your face and pulled you into a harder kiss, stronger than before, more potent than it had been.
You took it gladly, passionately, not caring about the way he was fucking up your hair or your makeup. Skirt slipping up, hands behind his head, in his hair. You’d made out with other guys, but all those little sessions seemed so empty. All those guys were afraid of you, of ruining your curls and ruffles. But not Patrick… Not Patrick. He kissed you like he meant it and yeah things were spun a little different with this much in your system but it was better than anything you’d ever experienced.
He kissed you right, kissed you until a biker woman came into the bathroom, eyeing the two of you wordlessly as she passed. Oh, she must have thought you were trash too, you realized. You felt your lips, just a little swollen as you laughed into his shoulder. “We have to go,” you sighed, the dizziness still making your head spin. He was wearing cologne, a nice one, unexpectedly. He smelled nice. “Can we go?”
“We can go,” he nodded with his gorgeous, dimpled grin. He reached over to the paper towel and grabbed a piece to wipe the lip gloss off his mouth. You pressed your fingertips to your forehead, trying not to laugh at anything. Patrick looked at you, your nose pink, hair a little messed up, still sitting up on the counter in your skirt and your sweater. Yeah, you were hot, you could kiss and your hand placement was perfect, but right now, a little tousled, you were pretty. Maybe it was the drinks. You were beautiful. “C’mon.” He gave you your hand and you slipped off the counter. He paid with bills and rusted coins, held the door for you on the way out, and with a hand on the small of your back, he helped you into the passenger seat.
It was weird to feel so spinny. It was like your body was static and floating at the same time. It was strange, but kind of warm. All you could think about was kissing in the bathroom, how close his hand had gotten. It was all you could think about, all you could feel. It was like his hand was still there.
Patrick watched you press those perfectly manicured fingers to the plush of your lower lip. The night was still early, still young, and you were tipsy. Smoking and drinking could easily be checked off, As much of an accomplishment it was, he still couldn’t bring you home like this. He’d never see you again. Part of him, just a small part of him, knew that was something he didn’t want to risk. He’d made plans with you for tomorrow already. Plus, he had you right now and he could not stop staring at you.
Your eyes seemed fixed on some random point, he wondered what was on your mind but if it was anything like the way he was thinking, he understood. He was zoned out on you, on your eyelashes, on the way some of your hair was a little messed up, honing in on the colour of your lips without the gloss. You were too beautiful for him and he knew that. He knew it. Everything about you was so- too beautiful. It was definitely weird to think so much about anyone. Especially someone his parents ‘chose’, but they had no idea what they were in for. And you were you, and you were here in his car right next to him and he was feeling things that he usually wouldn’t have to deal with. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t a second-date kind of guy. Maybe it was the fact that maybe he could genuinely like you. Maybe.
“You’re staring,” you said, meeting his eyes. He must have zoned out too far. It was the alcohol. You turned in your seat, your knees to the side, facing him. He chuckled, looking away. “Your eyelashes are pretty.” You noted, elbow on the middle console, your face leaning against your hand.
“Yeah?” He tried to smirk, but it was more of a smile.
“And I like your freckles,” you continued. “I’m too honest, this is weird. Like I can’t control what I’m saying.”
He nodded slightly, “Drinking does that.”
“I should shut up.”
“I think you should keep talking.”
“Why?”
He almost laughed. “Why not?”
You were quiet and that smile of yours fell just a little as you looked at him. It didn’t disappear, just settled to something small. You were cute, it was all he could think. On top of hot, on top of everything, right now you were cute. It was killing him. “I think you like the compliments.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He reached down and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. Those same ones. With that reach, his hand grazed your thigh. As if you weren’t thinking about his touch already, god it was worse. The touched pricked up every inch of your skin, spreading out from where he touched. Sensitive…
“Fair.” You met his eyes. Something, everything was charged. It felt like a volt of electricity. It felt like hot and cold at the same time. It felt dangerous and wild and you still felt floaty so maybe it was all of that and more. Maybe it was good, maybe it was horrible. It felt horrible. To think about it so much, to look at him and want but want what? You hardly knew him, he was just a family friend’s son and he was nothing like you’d expected and that was somehow better than knowing? When was not knowing ever better than knowing and how did he make smoking nicotine and drinking seem normal and even worse, how did he make it seem hot? Why did it make you want to kiss him so fucking badly? You’d think you’d had enough but no. Dark curls, blue eyes, freckles, dimples, rusty coins and crumpled bills. You broke, giggling just a little. “I was staring now, oh my god.”
Patrick couldn’t help the smile that kept on his face. You needed water for sure- water or coffee or something sobering. But you were cute. “Fair is fair.” He replied, holding up the cigarettes. You could still feel his hands on your body. It was electric. “Back outside the car?” He knew you’d both just gotten in, but a cigarette was a cigarette. And any moment like that kiss the other night, any moment to kiss you, really, without a centre console in the way, was something he craved the same way he craved the cigarette. Despite making out with you in the bathroom, he was thinking about that first kiss. Part of him knew he wouldn’t be able to smoke again without thinking about it. You. Which was stupid, he was not your boyfriend- he wouldn’t be. You were not his. But he was thinking about it, you, the kiss, the parking lot, your waist. Replaying every second of just… kissing. Which also was not much like him.
His tolerance was higher than yours. Obviously. So he was feeling a little out of it, but not too much. And he wanted to kiss you, but thinking about it, he felt just a little bad that he’d gotten you this fucked up. It was a small feeling, overpowered by the fact you were pretty and that you wanted him, and that you were a virgin… But it was there nonetheless. He looked at his hand, “You just stay here a minute actually.” He said gently. Your eyes met his, pretty eyelashes fluttering. And you nodded.
Patrick grabbed his lighter and a dart and hopped back out of the car, the paper between his lips. You sat in his car, leaning your head against the plastic bit by the edge of the window as the world felt so spinny around you. It was a lot of feeling- him, the way he made you feel. You felt like you were doing so much wrong, like you were breaking all the rules, but it felt freeing. It was too bad you weren’t much informed on the Sunday Scaries.
You hummed a song that played over the speakers in the bathroom just moments ago, dwelling on every part of his touch, every little brush, every little graze of his lips over yours between kisses. How could something so wrong feel so right? You shut your eyes to stop the spinning- you didn’t even drink that much. You were drunk and you just wanted to kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him. And touch him and kiss him and probably kiss him again.
Little sparks of thought began to rise from the heat of your body. Ideas, wantings…. And you could see him reproaching the car through the windshield. So you sat up and tousled your hair.
