patrick zweig x fem!reader, 1.5k words (18+) ⭑ in which — patrick gets a surprise when he comes home from training to find you’ve missed him. a lot.
a/n: not proper smut but nsfw warning anyway, mdni !! guys…im feeling hashtag freaky about him
In your defense, it’s not your fault.
It’s not your fault that you miss Patrick so much. It’s not your fault that he’s been gone all day and you’ve been stuck at home with nothing to do but miss him. It’s not your fault that he’s got a big match coming up that he’s been training for over the past two weeks, gone every day from early morning til late at night. And it’s certainly not your fault that you haven’t had sex with him in a whole week and a half because he’s been too exhausted every night to do anything but collapse into bed, dead to the world.
It’s also not your fault that Patrick’s pillow smells so strongly of him.
You’re lying on his side of the bed, totally morose, feeling pathetic and needy. You started on your side of the bed but slowly inched over until you were on his, your face smushed into his pillow. You’re wearing one of Patrick’s big soft tshirts; his cologne lingers on the collar and makes you feel so much worse.
He texted you an hour ago.
I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll be home late again tonight.
You’d gotten mad and thrown your phone across the room. It’s still in the corner on the floor. You haven’t bothered to pick it up.
You’re not mad at him, exactly. And you know it’s selfish to be this greedy about him. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you first started dating; he’s totally dedicated to tennis and that’s perfectly okay. And any time he’s not playing tennis, he’s with you, so it’s not like he’s abandoned you. And it’s not like he’s purposefully not prioritising you. He’s just busy, but once this match is over he’ll be a free man again. So really, you should be satisfied.
You’re decidedly not satisfied.
You bury your face in Patrick’s pillow and breathe in his scent. His strong, heady cologne, his coconut shampoo. It’s intoxicating. Almost as if he’s right here with you, as if he could wrap his arms around you and kiss you hard and make you feel good, give you the one thing you’re craving.
A dull ache has built between your legs at the thought alone.
Then you remember; he’s not here at all. You lift your head from his pillow, dejected. Your body thrums with want. You think about Patrick and imagine what he’s doing right now — he’s definitely wearing those tiny shorts he always wears for training, the ones that ride up his muscular thighs in a way that makes you clench your own thighs together every time. He’s probably sweating, inky curls sticking to his forehead, and breathing hard, his chest heaving with every panting breath he takes.
He might even be shirtless in the locker room, slick sweat dripping down his abdomen, down down down and disappearing into the waistband of those cruel shorts.
It’s the thought of the shorts that sets you off. Suddenly desperate, you roll onto your stomach, grabbing Patrick’s pillow and shoving it between your legs. Thankfully, he sleeps with two pillows, and the one underneath smells just as strongly of him as the one now pushed between your legs.
The lump of the pillow in between your legs is enough to make your core throb. Paired with Patrick’s second pillow, which you’ve buried your nose in to breathe in his scent, and his shirt clothing your otherwise bare chest, you’re suddenly awash with a tidal wave of almost carnal desire.
You roll your hips into the pillow once, slowly, sucking in a long breath through your nose, Patrick’s scent filling your lungs like a drug. And it’s not him, it’s nowhere near what he could give you, but it still feels so good.
So your roll your hips again. And again, and again, until you’re hot all over, and the room feels much too hot, too, so you sit up and tug your pyjama shorts off, kicking them off the end of the bed and not caring where they land.
Stripped down to your underwear and Patrick’s shirt, you move back on top of his pillow, your thighs squeezing it as if it could make you feel as good as Patrick does. Your lack of shorts means less fabric between you and the pillow, and your hips become more desperate in their movements, rolling into the lump of Patrick’s pillow in slow, circular motions that feel just right on your aching heat.
If you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in the scent of him, you can picture Patrick underneath you. His muscled thigh in between your legs, or maybe his toned stomach. You on top of him, and him looking up at you like you’re made of starlight. Sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, bare chest rising and falling, and his big strong hands on your hips, guiding them for you.
Before you know it, you’re moaning Patrick’s name into his pillow. Your hips work frantically to chase the friction you so desperately crave, rutting eagerly into the soft pillow over and over. It’s not enough, but it’s close, and you’re so pathetically needy that you’ll take anything right now.
You’re so caught up in chasing your high that you don’t hear Patrick come in.
He’s expecting you to be asleep when he gets home. It’s late, and he doesn’t want you to wait up for him. In fact, he’d asked you not to wait up for him. So when he drops his keys in the bowl by the front door and moves quietly to the bedroom, he’s shocked at the state he finds you in.
You’re desperately grinding his pillow, stripped down to your panties, your face buried in his second pillow. You’re sighing and gasping in a way that suggests you’ve been at this a while, murmuring his name while your hips roll into his pillow again and again.
Patrick stands in the doorway, leans against the frame, and fucking smirks.
He watches you for longer than is probably fair. His shorts get tighter the longer he watches. Suddenly, he’s not as exhausted from a full day of training as he should be. The sight of you, so needy for him that you resorted to using his pillow in place of him, makes him feel wide awake and electric.
After a few minutes he takes pity on you.
He clears his throat. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”
You squeak in surprise and roll over onto your back. Your chest heaves, hard nipples poking through your — his — shirt. Your plush thighs fall apart and Patrick sees that your panties are soaked through already.
“Patrick,” you say, breathless.
Your cheeks are flushed. Patrick thinks it’s fucking adorable.
“Hi,” he muses, grinning something awful. He drops his bag on the floor, then pushes off the door frame and walks to the end of the bed. “Missed me, huh?”
You go red in the face. “Patrick,” you whine. You throw an arm across your face and hide behind it.
Patrick’s grin grows. He loves it when you whine his name like that.
“What? It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed. I missed you too.”
He takes your ankle in his hand, pushing his palm up up up your shin while bending over the edge of bed, leaning over until he’s lying with his chest in between your legs and his hand on your thigh. He props himself up on one elbow. His thumb digs into the warm, soft skin behind your knee.
You give up hiding from him and sit up onto your elbows. You’re flustered, but your eyes are hooded as you look at him. You’re practically buzzing with desire. Your body is hot with it.
“You did?” You ask, bashful.
“‘Course I did, honey.”
He hooks his hand under your thigh and lifts your leg so it's bent up on the mattress. You’re putty in his hands, letting him move you as he pleases. He grabs the pillow you’d been using in place of him, and drags it across to you.
“Lift your hips?” He asks.
You do as he says, and Patrick pushes the pillow under you so your hips are raised off the bed a bit. Then he crawls over you until he’s hovering above you, one hand on your hip and the other holding himself up. The bed dips with his added weight.
He slots a knee between your legs. You’re holding your breath.
“So needy,” he teases softly, fingers moving inwards to toy with the waistband of your underwear. He pushes his thumb over the wet patch in the fabric. You shudder underneath him, eyelashes fluttering.
“Patrick,” you whisper, your voice all soft and breathy with want. You wrap your hand around his forearm, warm fingers pressing into his skin. “Please.”
Patrick grins. You’re so pretty when you get like this. All breathless and wanting. He’s going to give you exactly what you want.
“Mhm. You just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?” He says, coy fingers tugging at your panties. “M’gonna take good care of you.”
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