general notes: no use of y/n, mostly gender neutral readers, but some may lean more towards female readers. no particular characters, I just write for whomever I’m feeling for at the moment. my blog is open to all ages, but I’m not responsible for what media you consume so please be aware of when something is 18+. enjoy!
my inbox is always open for requests or just thoughts…
you’re distracted by Jake’s uniform— he’s distracted by you.
jake peralta x fem!reader. Dry humping w jake in his police uniform. Mdni; 18+
it’s rare when Jake gets to dress up in his full uniform, and it’s even rarer if he does, and is able to make it out the door in time.
to be fair, he really tried today. he had put on his cap and gloves, and was practically halfway out the door when you spotted him. the moment you see him with the all-black suit that was perfectly tailored to him, it’s not long before you’re right by his side with your arms wrapped around his neck. your faces are connected nose-to-nose as he jokingly states, with a wide grin, “the city needs me, baby.”
you smile too, a genuine one, and you can only respond to his ridiculous, yet familiar comment by planting a gentle kiss on his lips. It’s delicate, soft, and even innocent in some ways. A simple kiss goodbye. But all flies out the window when you slip a knee between his legs, pressing down as you breathe against his mouth,
“I need you more.”
you know he can’t say no to you— he never does. In a way, this has become a routine for the two of you. you ask, he denies, but in the end, he’ll always give into you. so he kisses you back, harder, quicker, large hands wrapping around the small of your back as your knee digs deeper into the crotch of his pants.
He pulls back when you begin to rub up and down, letting out a gentle hiss as he closes his eyes. His brows furrow for just a second, and then he laughs, a shaky scoff that vibrates within his chest.
“really don’t have time today, baby. gotta go to-“
“I’ll make it quick,” you pant in his face, looking up at him through your lashes. You place a quick peck on his reddened cheek, then his nose, and say, “don’t have to do any work, jakey, let me.”
He shuts up quick, though it was obvious, to you both, that he never planned on protesting against it much anyways. You unwrap your arms around his shoulders, turning around as you bend over at the waist. You wiggle back, just until your bare panties are met with a hardness through his dress pants. He curses under his breath, and it’s then that he knows he could never let you, his pretty baby, do all the work.
Your hands cling desperately onto the door frame as you begin to grind against him, lightly gasping as you feel him twitch through his pants. jake has to fight back his laughter, again, as he looks down at the sight in front of him, a twinge of pride blooming as he observes you trying your best to please yourself, to please him, but struggling with each short breath that escapes your mouth. He decides to let you try, make you work for it a little, at least for the moment, guiding your movements with a large hand on your lower abdomen to push your pelvis further into his groin.
you lift up your skirt to expose what’s left of your bare skin, and that’s when you hear him groan. Deep, guttural, and desperate. It’s the last thing you catch before Jake’s lifting you up from the ground, pushing the back of your head onto his shoulder with a hand around your neck.
“fuck that, baby, don’t worry, let me take care it,” he whispers, “I’ll take care of you.”
he begins to move, and you try your best to keep up with his firm and controlled shoves, but your feet are swinging mid-air while his metal badges dig harshly into your skin. it hurts, but his hard cock is rubbing at just the right spot, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure. An overwhelming flash of warmth travels down your body, and you could only squirm as his hot breaths brush the underside of your earlobe.
It’s still early in the morning, you suddenly remember, but you can’t seem to shut up when the rugged fabric of his pants is jutting fervently against your wetness. You squeal when his hand on your stomach pushes down onto your bladder, where a sneaky finger grazes your perked clit.
you yell suddenly, a little too loudly for a cheap apartment with paper-thin walls, and just then, you feel the inside of his police cap ram onto your face. his other hand wraps itself tightly around your waist to secure your position, and soon, all you hear is the rustling of fabric-on-fabric and jake’s quiet grunts.
you suddenly realize, you’re completely off the ground, trapped between the intoxicating smell of his shampoo and the hard shoves of his hips. you smile. you got what you wanted, like you always do.
“so good, jakey, feels- feels so good,” you mumbled incoherently. He chuckles with a huff, and knowing you can barely hear, asks, “yeah? feel good? want more? want me to give it to you?”
“yes,” you purr against the hard wall, nails scratching at the paint as you beg, “need it, please, please, need it right now.”
he continues grinding his clothed member into you with an unrestrained exasperation, letting his groans loose in the process, and when you manage to arch your back and meet his rough thrusts, he growls. With a final drive of his hips, the tight knot in your stomach snaps.
you writhe with a strangled scream as you cum, but Jake only holds you tighter, squeezing you to him as he drops the hat. He continues to prod against you sharply, while you snivel at the overstimulated pleasure pulsating in your pussy. You flail helplessly and your cunt flutters around nothing when he cums with a loud groan, and you tremble with a sigh as the dampness between you grow.
The two of you stay there for a beat, breaths becoming synchronized as you both come down from the dizzying feeling.
“you gotta stop wearing that uniform, jakey,” you manage to say after a while.
he releases you from his grasp, gently pushing you to the wall as he grabs a handful of your ass and pants into your neck.
“Never,” he breathes, tucking your hair behind your ear before placing a tender kiss on your cheek, “not if i get to do this every time.”
-
a/n: “fuck the police” well yes! In more ways than one pls!
Married!reader x homewrecking!patrick. Mentions of infidelity and alcohol. reader is married to art, Patrick does not gaf (kinda).
the first time you saw him, you were completely wasted.
It was after midnight at some random tennis after party— art had lost for the third time that month, and you were too busy drinking the shame away to assure your husband that it was alright and that you loved him despite it all.
you didn't mean to catch the stranger’s eyes. but once you did, it was hard to look away. he stared and smiled with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what you were thinking. perhaps you needed that.
when you asked, your friend whispered something about how patrick zweig was a low ranking player who was constantly fluctuating in the numbers. rich parents, supposedly, but his clothing certainly didn't show it.
the second time you saw patrick, you were slightly less wasted.
you and art had been invited to some prestigious gala for the most renowned tennis players. you knew it was just a way of showing off your wealth and status and had nothing to do with tennis, in fact, but still, you went, wearing your best dress that art especially picked out. The dress that he had bought and zipped up with a gentle kiss on your shoulder.
after excusing yourself from the overly full table stuffed with snobby comments and humorless jokes, you stood in the corridor of the ancient, expensive building, leaning into your reflection as you wiped away the smudged lipstick in the corner of your mouth.
he spoke before you could notice him.
“Still drinking, I see,” he tilted his head over to your half-empty champagne glass sitting on the plush velvet bench.
you swivelled around abruptly, brows furrowing when you saw the familiar eyes. “excuse me?”
he chuckled, then extended a hand, clearing his throat as a way to hide his growing laughter. “patrick. patrick zweig. sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything about your drinking habits. just that uh, the first time we met, you were downing shots like they were water.”
you sighed and mumbled your name before taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. “It’s the only way to get through these events.”
“I mean,” you continued, “I don’t play, but, even watching is stressful enough these days.”
He stuck his hands into his pant pockets, stepping a little closer to pick up the lipstick-stained glass and handed it over to you. “don’t worry. art’s talented and dedicated. he’s got what he needs, he just needs to find his rhythm, is all. and there’s always next season to get back out there.”
You took your drink from him hesitantly, a small smile spreading on your face as you questioned, “how do you…” he chuckled, fully, this time, before replying.
“we were partners, once. long time ago.” He paused. “now we’re just players on the court.”
you hummed in response. “Well-“ you started to say.
“can I walk you back?”
You stared curiously at him, at his dark curls and his pleading eyes, and finally, you smiled. “yes, you can.”
you pretended not to feel the gentle buzz in your lower stomach as he placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you back to your husband.
the third and final time you saw patrick zweig, you were sitting up on crumpled sheets and a tussled pillow.
“this is the last time,” you mumbled as you tied the hotel robe around your waist.
Patrick chimed up from behind you, still bare and tired and laying comfortable in the bed. “You’ve said that before.”
You turned around to find patrick smiling, grinning with the same expression that he had on the first day you saw him. his hands toyed with your underwear from the drunken night before, fingers casually fidgeting with the delicate lace.
“Well,” you pulled your panties from his grasp, “I mean it this time.”
you heard him grumble, then your attention turned to the tv projecting scattered talk of the latest tennis matches at a low volume. you began gathering your clothes in silence, looking under chairs and tables to find the remaining bits of your dignity.
“Hey, I forgot to ask— how did art do in the provincial championships?”
You paused in your actions, straightened yourself up, then turned to face him, throwing your clothes down onto the couch. “he lost.”
“huh,” he murmured. you looked down at your feet, hands coming up to your face to rub at your temples. next season didn’t turn out to be his season after all.
“Come here, honey,” he gestured you towards him.
you hated that you listened to his words, hated how your body responded and sat across from him on the bed.
“I win enough to cover the both of us. Consider my win to be his win. I’m willing to do that for him,” he wiped at your face, “for you.”
He lifted up his freshly lit cigarette, and you accepted a puff from his hands, blowing the smoke out right into his face. He mirrored your teasing smile, grabbing you close by the waist as his expert hands untied your robe.
He pulls back from your lips, resting his forehead on yours as his hand grazed the side of your face.
“do you think art wants kids?”
you chuckled breathlessly into his ear, fingers tangled in his damp hair. “what?”
His nails danced up and down your back before lowering between your legs. you closed your eyes and sighed, adjusting yourself onto his lap.
“I mean…” you breathed with closed eyes, focused on everything but your thoughts and your words, “I think he’s mentioned it once or twice before.”
Patrick’s other hand gripped the back of your neck before he spoke, forcing you to look down at him. You tilted your eyes in confusion, but your face quickly collapsed when he began to move, and with his pleading eyes and lips curled up, he whispered,
Perv!peralta x reader. When Jake and reader temporarily live together, reader’s things suddenly begin to go missing. Mdni; 18+
you first noticed the lingering glances.
you tried your best to avoid peralta in the late night, walking on tip-toes and staying confined in your room for as long as you could bear. You had already done him a huge favour by inviting him to live in your apartment while he searched for his own, so you figured it was best to keep things at least somewhat professional.
Still, the apartment wasn’t that big (it was New York, after all), and despite your best efforts, you encountered him more than you would’ve liked.
You’d often catch him in the kitchen late at night, pouring himself a glass of water while you awkwardly approached to grab a quick snack. The interaction is silent, and yet you were always uncomfortably alert. You didn’t need to look over at him to feel his gaze falling down your body, his gaze focusing primarily on the mound of your chest peeking through the thin pyjamas.
you took note of his loose grey sweats and the casual white tee he wore so well, but you were careful to not show your interest— even if he was obvious with his. The interaction would end almost as quickly as it started when he’d awkwardly raise a hand in greeting before retreating back to his guest room.
then, it was the persistant touching.
You’d be struggling to grab a cookbook perched on the top shelf of the cabinet, and before you could even ask for help, Jake is behind you, lowering the book with a soft hand on the small of your waist. “Thanks,” you’d mutter, eyes fluttering all over his face, and he’d say nothing except flash you a crooked grin.
Once, you were heading out for drinks and right before you could reach the door, he called your name with a tone of rushed urgency.
“wait, uh, you got a little…” he pointed to the corner of his own lips.
You quickly reached up to wipe away whatever was on your face, but after multiple attempts, he insisted it was still there, and so he walked over and slyly swiped it away with his hand. The pad of his thumb stayed on your lips longer than necessary, his eyes on yours longer than needed, and when he finally pulled away, you swear his fingers were squeaky clean.
your last straw was when your things began to disappear.
They were small things at first— the pen you used for all your police paperwork, the bowl you used every evening for dinner. Then, the casual robbery escalated to your bedroom.
The lace bra you wore on special occasions, the skimpy pair of panties you had hidden away deep in your drawer. There could only be one culprit, you knew that, and yet, you didn’t feel a need to confront him.
Instead, you began to wear the bra you normally wouldn’t wear on a random Tuesday, making sure the delicate lace trim was visible through your low-cut tank top. You reciprocated the endless touching; a light touch on his bicep as you laughed at his joke, or a press of your ass against him as you reached for a spatula.
You were more on edge than you had ever been, but there was always a delicious thrill that ran down your spine the second you both came home to resume the unspoken game.
You had almost forgotten about everything tonight, coming back late from a meeting that had drained the energy out of you. But on your way to your room, you couldn’t help but take an extra step towards the guest room. A sliver of dim light was visible through his half-closed door, and while you couldn’t see him, you heard him.
You hadn’t gotten any for longer than you’d like to admit, but you were still able to recognize the sounds of sex, all sloppy and dirty and wild. Except there was only one voice, one tone in the string of moans that escaped through the cracks and into your perked ears.
“Uh- fu- fuck, yeah, just like that.”
You remained frozen in shock for just a moment, staring at the door, then, through a sudden burst of adrenaline, you shifted your head until Jake finally came into view.
He was sat on the edge of the guest bed you had meticulously made that very morning, except now the sheets were wrinkled and undoubtedly covered in his sweat. Jake’s head was thrown back in a fit of indulgence, his eyes squinted closed as if the pleasure was painful to even think about. Your quiet breaths hitched as your eyes trailed down his open button-up, soft abs decorating his torso.
Then, you saw it. A pair of black panties, your panties, scrunched up in his left hand as his right pumped up and down his length. Rather than feeling disgusted or relieved that you had finally caught the thief using your expert detective skills, something much more dangerous was growing in the pit of your stomach.
You found your breaths linking up with his as they got more frantic, more hungry for a release that could never be matched to that of his imagination. You couldn’t tear your eyes away as he vocalized his thoughts, muttering your name as he pleaded, “please, just give it to me,” and “show me how much you want me, baby.”
You almost gasped when he loudly groaned one last time, his whole body shaking stiffly as he came, short spurts of white falling where your panties were now wrapped around his cock. You were carefully observing the way the aftershocks came over his body— heaving breathing, faltering hands, when suddenly, he turns his head.
He looks directly at you, and for a moment, panic flashes over his eyes as if he’s waiting for you to yell, to scream, to burst into the room and ask him what the hell he’s doing. But you don’t do that, and soon, any signs of anxiety dissipates from his eyes. There was only desire in his gaze, a heat that was dark and brewing and matched the one between your legs, begging to spill over.
As a corner of his lip lifted up casually, yours did too, and you knew, if you didn’t make the first move now, he was about to.
-
A/n: officially on winter break from school so I’m locking in on this acc (I’m lying.)
you don’t have what logan needs, but he still takes all that he can.
Cage fighter!logan x reader. Mentions of violence. Porn with a little bit of plot. mdni; 18+
thinking about being logan’s plaything in his cage fighting days.
It’s not uncommon for the fighters to have a girl around their arms as they enter the ring, and though Logan usually resists against the fan girls who clamour around him in a frenzy, he figures a sweet thing like you could only do him some good.
Not only does it piss the other fighters off, (they hate to see the king of the cage also have a pretty girl like you beside him) turns out, you’re not half bad for company either.
You’re an anxious little thing, brows furrowed and eyes teary before every match. Logan doesn’t bother telling you that he’ll be fine, that he’s going to win guaranteed, that his punch is as hard as metal. Literally.
He hates to admit it, but he finds it endearing, the way you’re so worried for him. through his nonchalant front, he still wipes away your tears with his large hands before every match and reassures you, cooing, “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
When logan gets in the ring, the fight goes exactly as he expects it to go. The other guy is destroyed before logan even shows his true strength. In a spiteful and humiliating position, the fallen guy comments something like, “I’ll fuck your pretty girlfriend dumb.”
Logan hears, of course, and though the guy is already bleeding and sprawled over the mat on the ground in a pathetic display, and though logan definitely didn’t consider you his girlfriend, he throws the announcer to the side and pounces. Through gritted teeth and a bleeding forehead, he catches your eye, shaking his head lightly before knocking the other guy out.
You wait for him in the small public washroom afterwords, arms crossed and pouting. As Logan approaches the door and sees your stiff pacing around the room, he knows you’re mad. And he knows it won’t stay that way.
“‘was so worried, logan,” you practically run towards him, “why’d you have to go after him like that? he could’ve really hurt you.”
He scoffs and flashes you the fresh wad of cash. “Hurt me? Please.”
He stays still for as long as he can bear while you dab at the wound on his head with your sleeve, silently hoping you wouldn’t notice the red cut slowly healing by itself. When you try to touch his face, to run a finger down his cheek and his stubble, he grabs your wrist harshly to stop you.
You’re confused, confused as to why he allows you to trail along to his every fight and wipes your tears with such a gentle hand, but refuses to let you in. He doesn’t give you much time to think, though, because as soon as you part your lips to speak, he’s picking you up from under your arms and sitting you down on the cold sink counter.
there’s an aggressive desperation behind his kiss, probably produced by the adrenaline of the recent fight and triggered by the soft whine he heard from you when his teeth knocked against yours. His hand reaches down between your legs and drags your panties to the side, and before long, you’re biting his shoulder and mumbling, “‘gonna cum, logan, please, let me cum.”
He does, drawing out your short orgasm with a few more pumps of his fingers and a graze over your clit. When he’s done, you’re practically already numb, head limp on his shoulder as you hear the metal clinking of his belt.
“You want this?” He asks, holding your head up by your chin as he tilts his head and raises his brows. “You want me?”
You nod feverishly, half-lidded eyes flickering as you breathe, “yes, logan. need you.” Your head falls back against the mirror, and he looks down with a grin at the sight in front of him.
he hooks his arms around your knees to bring you closer before you take him to the hilt in one go, burying a mewl into his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. The first thrust burns, always does, but only he can make you forget the pain in an instant. Soon, your hands are tangled in his hair, his beard is rubbing against your neck, and you’re begging, “please, lo, need it so bad. “ Logan fucks exactly like how he fights, thrusting into you so sharply your ass is sliding back on the metal counter with each movement of his hips.
He’s done this enough times to know what makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his back, but he still demands, every time, “that feel good, baby? you like that?” Of course, you don’t have to answer for him to know that it does, that it does feel good, so incredibly good, and that he’s hitting all the right spots in the body only he knows so well.
You aren’t the only one filling the room with lewd noises. Logan is panting too, the echoes of his each and every grunt reflecting off of every corner in the room and into your ear. It only makes your cheeks flush hotter, only encourages your hips to move more eagerly to match his pace.
It’s always when he’s just about there that Logan pulls back and looks down at where the two of you are connected, slowing down his strokes to slowly watch his bulging cock sink deep into your slopping cunt.
It’s the only opportunity with logan that you get to really look at him, to see the raw expression of euphoria on his face, teeth bared and mouth open. Some strands of previously gelled hair are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes rolling back with each press of his pelvis. Your eyes trace the sweat on his shoulder, the hair on his chest peaking from behind his white wife-beater, and the vein on his stomach that connects to the one on his dick.
You gaze flickers back at his face, and you extend a hand to guide his head towards you. He tries to turn away, as usual, and you hate that you know he’s holding back; limiting the noises he’s making, the pace he’s taking.
“Just use me, Logan. I know you want to,” you plead against his lips, inhaling a gasp as you press your lips onto his. You expect him to pull away, to push your head to the side and focus on finishing the other task at hand, but this time, he only pulls you closer, one hand around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He doesn’t give you much time to be shocked before he resumes his previous pace, drilling into you with the same vigor, albeit a bit more sloppy than before.
Logan pulls back to catch his breath, and at the same time, you clench tightly around him. A low groan escapes him, a noise so animalistic and fervent that you reach your high right then and there, shrieking as your legs begin to shake.
He’s close too, you can feel it in his breathing, so you let him fuck you beyond your orgasm, even if it’s getting to be too much and you’re losing your thoughts by the second.
“nobody— ah— fucks my girlfriend,” he suddenly growls, lifting you up from under your arms and shoving you against the tiled wall. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look into his hazel gaze as he spits, “n-nobody fucks you like I do.”
He plummets into you deep, leaning his lips in and making you swallow one last groan of his before you feel his warm release fill your insides.
When he’s done, Logan is supporting all your weight, your limp arms splayed around his sweaty back. You whimper at the emptiness as he pulls out, feeling his cum languidly drip down your inner thighs.
You’re too exhausted to realize what he just said, to react to what he just referred to you as, and as the fog of pleasure slowly unclouds Logan’s head, he’s glad he fucked you stupid enough to forget.
-
a/n: anyone else feel like they’re incapable of writing good smut? Hey Google how many other synonyms could there possibly be of the word ‘thrust’?
bodyguard!logan x reader. just assume that reader is some high profile public figure lol. mentions of smoking. use of the nickname ‘kid’.
you could no longer feel the expression on your face.
It was only when you passed by a window— an awfully tall glass panel with an elaborate gilded frame— did you notice that the pleasant smile that had donned your face for the entire evening was finally beginning to falter.
a flash and click of a camera went off behind you, and through the reflection of the window, you could see a reporter walking eagerly towards you. you quickly swiveled in the opposite direction, hands grasped onto the front of your long gown as your feet guided your body towards a dark and isolated corridor.
but, you weren’t scared or alarmed in the slightest at the empty and unexplored room you were entering. because you knew that wherever you went, he was right behind.
after endless fidgeting with the hatch on a pair of doors, you could only sigh in relief when it finally opened. you stepped out into the balcony, sighing as you felt the abundance of fresh air fall over you.
your silent lonesome didn’t last. before long— just like you had suspected— a quiet, but familiar pair of footsteps trailed out from behind.
“I’m fine, logan. I just needed some air,” you turned your head slightly to the side. “you don’t need to follow me everywhere.”
he aligned himself beside you, arms clasped together behind his back. “Actually, I do. according to the contract I signed with your father, you require 24-hour supervision-“
“Please, enough,” you cut off, head fully turned to face him as you felt a warm teardrop drip down your cheek. you could see the rapid rise of your own chest, the consistent motion getting faster and more panicked by the second. you gripped the metal railing of the balcony and closed your eyes, hoping the cold sting would distract from the embarrassment.
when you opened your eyes again, logan seemed to be standing closer than before. his previous— and usual— stern expression was long gone, replaced by one of genuine empathy.
His softened brows twitched. you watched as his hand slowly reached up towards your face, arm pausing for just a second before a pointer finger extended gently to your cheek. You looked away as the wetness spread across your flushed face, and when you heard the parting of his lips, you turned your head and swatted his wrist away.
you spun towards the sky, looking at no star in particular, but focused on the scattered beads in the nightfall regardless. All was completely silent and still for a minute, which provided just enough time for you to slow your breathing and dab away at the mascara you were sure had traveled down your face.
You had just made a decision in your head to leave and return to the spectacle when you heard the muted click of a lighter. you smelled the tobacco before you saw it, and when you did, nothing but a scoff could escape you.
“I- I don’t think you’re allowed to do that here.”
he shrugged, and simply took an experienced drag of the cigar in response. He leaned a little closer to you, supporting his weight on the balcony railing as he raised the lit object up to your face. “who’s here to stop me? Or you, for that matter?”
You laughed dryly, crossing your arms as you asked, “are you seriously offering me a cigar? I thought you were supposed to protect me.”
He bounced his arm in suggestion of the cuban again and muttered, “kid, this is me protecting you.”
your smile faded away as you took in his words, and after a long second, your hand came up to reach for the cigar. but before your fingers could hook around the shaft, Logan opened his mouth and moved his arm away.
“ah— slow down. i still have a job to do. It’s my obligation to at least teach you how to smoke it first, so you don’t puke all over the prime minister or something. Plus,” he bent his head in, lips angled towards your ear, “if you’re not holding it and you get caught, you can talk your way out of it.”
he retracted his head, raising his eyebrows as he took one last puff and switched the direction of the cigar to face you. “Don’t be shy, kid. Just put your mouth around it.”
You followed his instruction with skepticism, delicately wrapping your lips around the brown paper of the cigar with your eyes down. With a mouthful of tobacco smoke, you looked up from your downward gaze, and as your eyes connected with his hazel glare, logan’s proud smirk seemed to falter for just a second; the corners of his mouth dropped, and his lips parted for a minute too long before he spoke.
“Just… don’t inhale into your lungs like you would a cheap cigarette,” he whispers, “you’re meant to enjoy it.”
You exhaled, clearing your throat as you watched the smoke dissipate into the dark background of the sky. “enjoy what?”
You notice the hesitancy in his response, his arm pausing half-way to his face as his eyes flicker to the imprint of your lipstick on the stick. finally, he puts his mouth on top of the red stain, takes a puff, and breathes, “the taste.”
The moonlight reflected off of his slicked back hair, and it looked like a star or two were dancing around in his eye. It was only now did you see the prominence of his wrinkles and the grey in his beard that you had never noticed before.
you don’t know why you stayed silent. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t anything to talk about— your very recent breakdown provided obvious proof that you needed to talk. And if there was anyone you could and wanted to talk to, it had to be logan.
You broke the silence first. “So, why’d you take this job anyways?”
he chuckled. “Honestly, I’d like to say some sappy bullshit like ‘i love helping others’ but,” he purses his lips, “I’m afraid you’d find the real reason quite selfish,” he responds.
You laugh. “So, for the money?”
“Something like that.”
You sigh. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know anyone else who’d know exactly what to do when I’m freaking out, even if it’s by giving me a cigar at an event where reporters are swarming everywhere.”
He smiles, a lopsided one that only further emphasizes his wrinkles hidden within his beard. “I’m glad you consider me as a friend.”
You remained quiet. After a windy moment, you stepped closer to where he was leaning against the metal railing. You grabbed his wrist which contained the still-lit cigar, and turned your back towards his chest to take a hit. You look back to him, blowing the smoke into his face.
“a friend, right.”
now it was his turn to be silent, eyes frantically scanning over your face before lowering down to the hand around his wrist. His gaze jumps back to your eyes, a fog of something indistinguishable knitted between his brows.
“you know, I don’t really taste anything special. Just smokey.” you turned, pressing your chest against his as a casual hand toyed with the edge of his shirt collar. There was no space between the two of you, and yet there was no resistance, from either side, to step back and separate. “What’s it supposed to taste like?”
He tilted his head. “a little earthy. nutty,” his unoccupied hand fell upon the small of your back. “sweet.”
you couldn’t tell if he had more to say, but if he did, his words were all swallowed up by your lips on his. The hand on your waist tightly squeezed, pulling you flush onto him until the two of you were on the edge of practically falling over the balcony. both of your hands curled tightly around his gelled hair, tugging harshly as you silently gasped against his mouth.
the desperate roughness of his teeth scraped against your lip, and your respective chests rose up and down in synch with one another before he pulled back, his free hand coming up to caress the side of your hair.
“I’m supposed to protect you, kid,” he panted.
your fingers lingered over his chin, nails scratching at his overgrown stubble. You pleaded, “Logan, please, i’ve never felt so safe.”
you felt a sudden rush of coldness as Logan turns his head away. “I lied, you know. I didn’t exactly take this job just for the money. Your dad pays well, of course, but, that’s not why I stayed.”
He turns back, the star-splattered sparkle still twinkling in his eye as he mumbles, “you’re the selfish reason. you always have been.”
you pulled his forehead to yours, arms crossed around his neck to bring his warmth even closer. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty.
“Logan,” was all you muttered, and it was all it took before a low growl escaped through his chest and he drew your face in firmly by your chin.
You heard the faint drop of the half-gone cigar on the ground, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You tasted the sweetness on his tongue, just fine.
-
a/n: logan was canonically a bodyguard and I feel like we writers need to take more advantage of that fact
a manager comes in handy when art and patrick both need some help focusing.
manager!reader x college!art & college!patrick. ur honour reader is just doing their job!! mdni; 18+
you were glad that the change room was mostly empty.
one, because it would save a lot of unnecessary explanations on your part as to why you were in the boy’s locker room in the first place, and two, you'd rather not expose an ugly side of yourself in front of half the football team.
“don’t walk away from me, boys. there are only so many places you can hide.”
you cleared your throat as you reached their cubicle towards the back of the room, where they stood laughing with their backs towards you. it wasn’t hard to see past their feigned oblivion towards your presence, and you certainly didn’t want to play into the act.
you crossed your arms, taking a deep breath before you spoke. “art. patrick.” their chuckles quickly dissipated into the thick air, and they only glanced over to you briefly before turning back around and continuing to throw their discarded equipment into their locker.
you continued despite their attitude, “what happened out there? you guys were playing the two weakest players from an irrelevant school that i don’t even remember the name of, and you lost? as your manager, I need to-“
“We didn’t ask for one, okay?”
you choked on your words and stepped back every so slightly, taken aback by the brunette’s harsh tone. “what do you mean-“
“it means, we didn’t ask for a manager. For you. Never wanted one in the first place,” patrick states plainly. “and also,” he continues, pulling his sweaty shirt over his head before continuing, “I think you’re taking this a little too seriously, dear manager.”
you scoff at his mocking tone. "I’m taking the job that i was hired to do seriously, and that means-" you quickly turn to the side as they reach for their shorts.
“Want us to be honest?” art chimes.
you look over to him, relieved that they now had towels wrapped around their waist and frantically nod, “yes, art, of course. I need you guys to be honest if it means what just happened on the court won't ever happen again.”
art exchanges a quick look with patrick before answering.
“it’s because we’re stressed,” art says with furrowed brows. “with schoolwork, and practice, and a million other personal matters, the last thing we can focus on is playing a good game.”
You look over at Patrick, whose shoulders were shaking with laughter as he begins walking towards the communal showers. “Well,” you furrow your own brows, fidgeting with the sleeve of your shirt. “How can I help? I definitely can’t ask any of your professors to not assign homework, but if you need me to talk to-“
Patrick stops to turn back. He pauses for a moment, then tilts his head with a smirk.
“Come on, manager.” He begins to slowly step backwards, a hand resting at the base of his towel, “you know how you can help.”
you suddenly feel art walking up behind you, his presences accompanied with a gentle pat on your waist. “what do you say? wanna join us?”
His whisper sends chills down your back, and for a moment, you just stand and watch as art follows patrick and soon disappears into the steam. suddenly, you're following behind him, stopping in front of where they were rinsing under the water.
"so you want to fuck," you ask. A corner of your lip lifts up, and you have to squint your eyes against the humidity to see even a blur of their faces.
Patrick chuckles, wiping the droplets from his face before speaking. "we only want to improve our performance, that’s all.” he steps towards you, a delicate hand coming up to graze the side of your cheek, "isn't that a part of your job?"
you resist the urge to look down as you swat his hand away and lean your face forwards, feeling the warm mist spray all over your face. "so you'll win the game tomorrow, if we fuck?"
"if we all fuck,” art chirps from behind.
you stop with a scoff. For a minute, the two of them simply stare you down, unashamedly facing their bodies towards you and letting their eyes wander down your wet top. You drop your crossed arms, throwing your bag to the side as your hands began to reach for the buttons on your blouse.
"this is a one time thing,” is the last thing you mutter before you step out of your skirt, enter the tiled space, and plant your lips on patrick.
you meant your words in the moment, you really did.
but soon you’re sandwiched between the two of them, steam and the running shower consuming your every breath, and it’s hard to focus on the specifics when art is rutting into you from behind and Patrick is still looking down at you with the same, goddamn smirk he’s had since the day you met him.
if you didn’t know better, you would say you couldn’t even remember why you were doing this in the first place. Why you were letting art’s hands squeeze at your tits, and why you were letting patrick guide your hand towards his hardened cock.
When patrick pushes art aside and slams you against the cold, ceramic wall, you could almost laugh at his eagerness to sink himself into you. But you soon realize that any sound other than a moan is stuck in your throat as he lets himself into your warm cunt in one go. he nibbles at your ear, raspy grunts coming in waves as your face scraps against the tiles with each thrust.
promptly, art approaches from where he was palming his own dick by the side and behind to tease the head of his cock at your entrance, spitting at patrick, mumbling, “you said we would share.”
You gasp under your breath at the full intrusion, silent curses spilling out as you thrash against the wet wall. patrick and art build their own rhythm, and for a second, you wonder why they weren’t so synchronized out on the court.
Through sharp, whiny gasps, you whisper, “You guys better fucking win tomorrow.”
art laughs against your shoulder blade, and grumbles, “Or we can lose,” he groans, “and we can do this again sometime.”
-
a/n: I feel like I should be over my challengers phase by now but I fear… this shi is so nasty I lowkey can’t even look at myself in the mirror rn LMAO
art knows you like no one else. he knows you better than you know yourself.
standford!art x reader. mentions of alcohol. cheating on reader’s part but it’s valid bc her bf is an ass. art knows he can treat u better than ur shitty bf, and proves it.
“You have to know, right?”
“what?”
your words came out slurry and slow, and it took all your might to not let your squinted eyes close. through the sliver of what you could see, art sat opposite you, back against the side of his bed and beer bottle in hand.
you chuckled, “I don’t know what you-“
“That he treats you like shit.”
you stop in your sentence, choosing instead to fill your mouth with another sip of your beer. You gulp down the prickly liquid, wiping your mouth as you say, “you don’t know anything about us.”
He shrugs. “I know you’re spending a Friday night getting drunk with his roommate, rather than accompanying him to that fancy tennis gala he was invited to.”
you shook your head casually, taking another full sip before speaking.
“I’m wasn’t interested. You know I don’t play, right? i didn’t want to-“
“Did he ask?”
you laugh, running a swift hand over your face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he sat up slightly, scooting a little closer to where you were. you had your legs crossed, and you were drowsily leaning on the side of your boyfriend’s bed. he propped his elbow on a raised knee. “did he even ask you to go?”
you smile slowly faded as you looked down, sucking on the inside of your cheek as you tried to focus instead on the harsh, brown carpet of the room. Faded music could be heard from the other rooms, and usually, you’d be in one of those dorms, partying it down, but tonight, you much prefer the silence.
“No,” you whispered.
He cleared his throat and took another swig. “you know, with the way he talks about you and the way he acts around you, you would think everyone knows exactly how he feels about you. everyone except yourself.”
He chugged what was left in his bottle, tossing it to the side where a pile was beginning to accumulate. He stared straight at you with half-closed eyes and pressed his lips together. “honestly, sometimes, I think you know too. deep down. I think you know exactly what he’s thinking, exactly what he’s going to do to you, and yet you choose to ignore it.”
“Why?” He asks. there was a look of genuine concern and confusion of his face. his expression was pained, as if the idea of you suffering hurt him more than you.
You nibble at the bottom of your lip, hoping that the pain of the peeling skin would stop the tears from running. your actions were done in vain, as your tears had already begun to form and fall. Suddenly, you feel a warm finger on your face, gently swiping away at your dampened cheeks.
The pad of his thumb stayed on your cheek while the rest of his hand uncurled around your jaw. “You have to know, right?”
“Yes,” you sniffled, “of course I know he treats me like another one of his fan girls that he tosses away after-“
“No, not that,” he mutters.
“look at me.”
He guides your chin up until your eyes are parallel with his, and for the first time that night, you get a good view of his face. His overgrown blonde hair scattered all over his face, some across the front of his blue eyes. They seemed to not be able to concentrate in one place, flickering from your hair to your nose to your chin. You were sure that your cheeks were as flushed as him from the alcohol and the embarrassment, so much so that heat was practically radiating off of the two of you.
“what are you talking about, then?”
he sighed, dropping his hand from your face and slumping his head down at the same time. you could feel his warm breaths escaping his nose and hitting your cold knees.
Finally, he looks up, brows creasing as he responds, “how I feel about you.”
he parts his lips, struggling to find the words. “You have to have already known, right? I mean, all the times I’ve wiped away your tears and and comforted you because that asshole did something stupid again.” A beat passed.
“I know I can treat you so much better,” he breathes, “if you would just let me.”
Somewhere between his first question and his last, the proximity between of the two of you had closed. His arm suddenly wraps around your neck as he pulls you into him, digging his nose into the space where your shoulder and neck connects.
“Please,” he mutters.
chills spill down your body from his words, and you simply pause in all of your thoughts for a moment. Finally, you close your eyes and hug him tight around his waist as he tenderly rocks you back and forth.
you’re the one to pull back, and at first, you see a glimmer of disappointment in art’s eyes. but then you lean close, and closer, and, for the first time tonight, he smiles. He further guides your actions by placing a hand on the back of your head, not letting go even once your lips have connected with his.
your own fingers scratch at the back of his curls, and you swear he laughs against your mouth. You bask in the sounds of your mixed pants and the electric buzz generated from the delicate connection of skin in the otherwise quiet room, and it brought upon a lightness in the air, something you hadn’t felt since earlier that day when you first saw art in the dining hall.
“I know,” you mumble against his lips, stopping for a minute to catch your breath. You rest your forehead on his, eyes still closed as you caress his glowing face with both hands. he laughs again, harder this time, and you join him, repeating the same two words over, and over again.
-
a/n: hey google play the historically significant song treat u better by shawn mendes
you thought that you were already close with patrick and art; turns out, you could get even closer.
Boardingschool!patrick & boardingschool!art x boardingschool!reader.
it’s no secret that the three of you were close.
Everyone at school acknowledges it by joking that you’re practically their manager, because you’re on the bleachers at every practice, seated front row at every match, and the second the games finishes (usually in their favour), the first person they go running to is you.
in fact, you're all so close that you've developed a habit to follow them into the locker room after every practice. if anyone ever questioned your entry into the room, they’d both chime at the same time: “she’s ours.”
neither of them bat an eye when you sit down on the bench between the metal lockers and watch them get changed because it’s you, their little manager, and they didn’t ever hide anything from you.
You’d read them the daily school news, explain the daily school gossip, and update them on any homework they missed in the name of tennis practice. they’d thank you in their typical ways by ruffling your hair and throwing their sweaty shirts on you before sandwiching you in a suffocating hug.
You shriek and laugh and say, ‘stop it!’ but really, you’re too focused on the feel of their bare chests against you— slippery from sweat and hot from the heat— to care about anything else.
There’s always a brief moment after all the amusement when the laughter dissipates and you’re all just staring at each other. Your smile fades, and suddenly you’re painfully aware of their rapid breaths rising against you on either side, and the heat of it all fills the silent air with something else other than just audible breaths.
Today it’s patrick who looks over to art first, who returns his stare with pressed lips. you catch a flicker of something in their eyes, but they looked away before you could decipher it. However, it was clear that a silent agreement had been reached right in front of you. you suspect that for the first time since you transferred to the school, they were hiding something from you.
patrick breaks the silence first, turning slightly away from you to gently close his locker as he murmurs, “you know, there have been a lot of rumours on campus lately.”
You scoffed, stuffing your agenda into your bag before smoothing a hand over your hair. “Really? What kind of rumours?”
Patrick shrugged. He pulled a shirt over his shoulders, nodding his head towards art. “Rumours about us, mostly. Tell her, art.”
art purses his lips multiple rimes before speaking. “It’s just trash talk,” he pauses. patrick glances over to him one more time, flashing him a subtle glare before art finally continues, “there's talk about how the three of us are suspiciously close, or whatever.”
“I guess it’s not so much a rumour as it is true,” you responded. You tilted your head towards them both, eyes squinting with humour as you questioned, “you guys do consider us close, right? I mean, after all I do for you guys, I’m honestly glad that people are speculating and starting to appreciate my efforts.”
“It’s just,” Patrick turns back around, shuffling his feet to sit down across from you on the bench with legs on either side of the wooden plank. His hands are gathered in the middle, fingers attempting to itch closer and closer to your own without you seeing.
“We could be a lot closer, you know.”
You raised an eyebrow at Patrick’s sneaky hands, a slight smile still intact on your face as you asked, “How close can we get, pat? There’s a limit to everything. Even the sky.”
“he’s right.”
You almost jump at the sudden voice you hear in your ear. you cleared your throat as he slid closer towards your back. Art mirrored Patrick’s movements with legs on either side of the bench, but his hands fiddled with the edge of your hoodie as he rested his chin on your shoulder.
“We could be a lot closer.”
You observed the way art pressed his lips together, snuggling his face into the side of your neck as Patrick’s thumb rubbed circles on your hand. you hadn’t even registered that patrick was now grinning, guilding your unsuspecting hand towards his dark curls.
You instinctively wrap your fingers around his wet hair, and you almost gasp when you hear patrick whimper. He pants heavily against your wrist, lips tickling the tender skin as he breathes, “why don’t you come over to our dorm after class?”
You shake your head, dropping your hand from his head. “I don’t think-“
“Please,” art whispers against your neck.
You close your eyes, sucking on the inside of your cheek as you sighed deeply. For a beat, you simply listen to the sound of their synced breathing, taking in the familiar smell of the locker room, and the familiar smell of them. When you open your eyes again, Patrick and art are both eagerly staring at you, pleading with silence.
You suddenly laugh, smiling uncontrollably as you lean back against art and pull patrick closer by the hand that is still wrapped around yours. patrick gladly scooches closer until his nose is practically rubbing against yours, and he returns your laughter with a chuckle of his own.
“Okay,” you mutter while glancing back at art, whose mouth was agape with something adjacent to shock.
“so let’s get closer.”
-
a/n: “why don’t u come over to our-“ bags r packed.
patrick’s car was always in state of mess. the reason? probably you.
mdni; 18+. car action w patrick.
patrick’s car was a piece of junk. parts of the car seat were peeling, the windows forever had a sticky feeling about them, and the floor was often littered with fast food bags and cups.
and yet, you found yourself in the backseat of it, time and time again.
"your car smells like shit," you'd half-murmur to him, kicking away the various plastic containers with your feet as you attempted to crawl towards him. he'd sit back and watch you struggle for a second before dragging you onto his lap by the small of your back, strong arms wrapping around your waist and inhaling the sweet scent of your hair.
he'd grab your frantic wrists that are impulsively wiping down his dirty windows and hum a gentle 'shh' against your neck, whispering, "we're about to make it nastier anyways."
and you suppose he was right.
because once you were down on your knees and he was guiding your head towards him, once you were gagging and and forming a pool of saliva at the base of his cock, the sharp cups cutting into your skin no longer bothered you.
how could you even begin to care when you’re so focused on balancing yourself against the window as patrick drills into you from behind, a large hand on your lower stomach as he grunts, “you feel that? you feel me?”
You’d spit back at him, “you’re- you’re disgusting, patrick,” hand slipping from the condensation forming on the glass, your breath hitching as he grabs you up by the base of your neck and pulls your back towards his chest.
He pauses for a moment, and you take the time to catch your breath, body almost slumping over from exhaustion. You can feel the drum of his heart on your back, the scruff of his beard against your neck, and you can hear the grin in his voice as he mumbles, “you fucking love it.”
as he begins again from a new angle, a sharp yell escapes you, and you realize that you have no one else but yourself to blame for the mess in the car. the overwhelming pressure begins to build in your abdomen, and you mewl and thrash and bounce back against patrick, because there was no use in cleaning any of it anyways; after all, you’d just make another mess.
-
a/n: I rlly enjoy how we have all just accepted that patrick is a nasty fuck and that we all like it!
patrick loves playing with his favourite game: you.
patrick!zweig x reader. short drabble about how manipulative patrick can be. mdni; 18+
patrick kisses with the same confidence that he has out on the court.
he seemed to make everything in his life out to be a calculated game; but it was a game he was damn good at. he seemed to always know exactly what the person opposite him wants, and knew exactly how to use that against them. you’ve begun to realize that this is precisely how patrick always wins.
“all this for me, honey?” he’d murmur against your hair, hands fiddling with the short hem of your skirt and the low neckline of your top. he’d nibble and plant wet marks all over your body, leaving you gasping against the cold metal of the locker, thoughts long gone on who could walk into the unlocked change room at any moment.
your lips instinctively part when you feel the rough edge of his nails rubbing against your chin, and when he asks, “you all worked up like this from watching me play?” you could cry from how mean he’s being, practically pleading for an answer from you with a proud grin and sparkling eyes, knowing you can’t speak with his fingers down your throat.
except you can’t help but pull him even closer at his shameless actions, disregarding his damp body, slick with sweat. feeling him rub against you with his dark curls tickling your cheek, you loudly mewl, stopping yourself only by burying your face in his warm chest.
drool spills from your mouth and your teary eyes roll back as his hand moves up your thighs and pushes your legs apart. You smile and giggle sluggishly and try your best to to form a coherent sentence when he pulls back and demands,
“how else are you going to congratulate me for my win?”
but you know it’s useless to even try, because when his lips connect with yours once more, you know you’ve already lost the game.
-
a/n: this is for that one anon who said that there is a serious lack of Patrick fics I FEEL YOU AND I GOT U
patrick zweig has an interesting approach to coaching; it becomes even more interesting when it’s with you.
coach!patrick zweig x tennisplayer!reader. You desperately need a coach to help you, coach zweig seems to want something else 🤘🤘 (and you don’t mind ofc). Mentions of being broke #relatable. I imagine this to be set either before the challengers match, or after, either way works.
If it were up to you, you’d say that the place was a little sketchy.
if it were up to you, you would’ve left the moment you saw the lone beaten up car in the lot and the acrylic chipping off of the concrete ground.
But in the end, it really wasn’t up to you. The continuously decreasing numbers in your bank account was a constant taunt, a bullying reminder that if you wanted those numbers to change— to rise— you’d need a coach to push you into the championships.
Even if that coach choose a training spot that looked damn-near abandoned.
“hey. uh… patrick. patrick zweig,” he extended his arm.
You took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze as you dropped your bag onto the bench beside you. you smiled. “Shouldn’t I call you coach zweig?”
he smiled, chuckling at the ground, then shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. “whatever you want."
he cleared his throat, “so uh… what’s your plan here? I mean- what are your goals? why do you play tennis?”
You pulled out your racket and a couple of balls, setting them on the ground before quickly throwing your hair up into a ponytail. “Why are you coaching tennis?"
His arms crossed over his chest, and your eyes flickered to his biceps for a quick second before returning to his gaze. The silence was long, but surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward like silence usually is. he smiled, and laughed again at your innuendo as he bent down and picked up your racket.
Grabbing the handle from his extended hand, you grinned. “That’s exactly my goal, too.”
You bounced the ball as you walked towards the court, closing your eyes for a moment to feel the sun on your skin. The sun was hot; burning, even, but the wind offered a cooling solace. His crisp voice snapped you back to reality.
“So, let’s see your serve.”
The next hour completely diminished whatever doubts you had about patrick zweig. Despite his rather tattered clothing that proved he was a low-ranking player with no sports sponsorships on his back, and despite his racket that seemed to be slightly crooked— he knew the fucking game.
And he also knew just how to provoke you.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
Hunched over the ground with your hands on your thighs and sweat dripping onto the green floor, you panted, “what?”
“You’re getting sloppy. Having stamina is crucial to the game, you know.”
You chuckled. “I can keep going. No problem.”
“Then prove it," he tossed you another ball, your slippery hand barely catching it in time, "come on, keep going."
Your next hit bounced off the net. Your next serve was out. After the ball attacked the net yet again, you threw your racket to the side, curses spilling out from under your breath.
“Thought you could keep going?”
“Give me a break," you muttered as you crouched down to stretch your legs that didn’t need stretching.
“No.”
you groaned. “come on, coach, I’m in a slump. Give me five and I’ll get back on it.”
“You don’t get to slack off in a real game. And based off of how gently you just threw your racket, you probably can’t afford to, either.”
Your body snapped up. “the fuck did you just say?”
He laughed lightly, raising his hands up by his head defensively as he walked closer towards you. You mirrored his movements, stepping closer until all that separated the two of you was the net, flowing freely with the wind.
“Look, all I'm just saying is, I don’t usually get many students signing up to experience my coaching. Not because I’m not good," he swatted his arm as he spoke, his other arm using his racket as a cane, "fuck no, but because my going rate is pretty low. the lowest, even. I’m just making an observation.”
You rolled your eyes, furrowing your brows slightly as you rested your hands on your hips. patrick had a grin about him, a stupid, annoying smirk that almost made you believe he knew something about you that even you, yourself, didn’t know.
Walking a couple steps closer to him until you felt the harsh scratch of the net against your knees, you whispered, “don’t assume anything about me.”
Your eyes subconsciously fluttered to his nose, then his lips, before coming back up to his eyes. smoothing out your brows, a layer of subtle desire spread behind your stare. you muttered, “Maybe I wanted you to coach me simply because I like you.”
His expression softened with feigned surprise. “Oh, do you now?” His face came closer to you.
you finally had an opportunity to ponder over his face; his messy stubble all unkempt and long, the sweat on his forehead soaking his dark curls so perfectly on his face. or a moment, you weren't sure of where to go or what to do. In the end, he broke the stare-off with a murmur, “show me how much you like me, then.”
you didn't know if the heat spreading to your face was from the bright sun, his words, or from the blooming ache in your stomach. Either way, you stepped back with haste, grabbed another ball and prepared to serve.
A loud grunt came from you as you made your hit, and patrick reciprocated your energy, returning the ball with the same brutal force and speed.
Maybe he did poke at a sore wound. Yes, you were broke and young and desperate, but wasn’t he in the same situation? did he think you wouldn't notice the absolute state of the rented court and his shabby shoes?
But whatever it is that he did, it worked. Your feet were off the ground in an instant, and you heard the smack of the ball against the concrete before you even saw it. When you came back down, you immediately became aware of the sweat dripping down your face, your back, your legs, and the absolute relief of it all.
“There it is.”
You looked up. Patrick was smiling, widely, with that same old grin, like he was so proud that his trick had worked. as you began walking off the court, you couldn’t help but laugh, albeit dryly, at the whole situation. grabbing a towel from the bench and swinging it over your shoulder, you chimed,
“Hey, uh… coach, how much are you charging again?” you looked down at your feet, fidgeting nervously with your fingers as you mustered up all your strength to meet his eyes.
you tried to hide your shock when you finally turned your head to look at him, catching the sparkle of blue and a hint of something else in his eyes. he was standing close, really close, close enough for you to smell him and see him and practically feel him.
your eyes followed the movement of his arm as it reached towards your shoulder, his hand grasping one end of the towel and dabbing the fabric against your temple. he dropped the cloth, fingertips dancing over your cheek as he grazed a stray hair behind your ear, barely breathing a response,
“How much are you willing to give?”
-
a/n: I DO NOT PLAY TENNIS NOR DO I RLLY KNOW HOW IT WORKS. love the art appreciation but I feel like we need to step it up w the pat fics as well so I’m taking one for the team 🫡
red belonged to coriolanus snow. you, belonged to coriolanus snow.
capitoluniversitystudent!coriolanusnow x capitoluniversitystudent!reader. university rivals w immense tension. reader puts on a facade of deeply despising corio, but rlly its just unaddressed attraction. I would say corio is pretty character accurate, so expect manipulation, light sociopathic tendencies, possessiveness, etc. corio has an unexpected interest in reader and catches u bad-talking him, decides to claim his power... and u???
coriolanus had made it. he was attending the capitol university, had the ideal mentor, and possessed a reputation that regularly caused classmates to crowd around him and sing their praises. all of this was evidence to the bright future he would undoubtedly grasp, very soon.
he just hoped that you wouldn't ruin everything for him.
you, the new student who had transferred in the middle of the year. you, who absolutely refused to make eye contact with him, and always squirmed by him in the hallways. you, who never, ever, acknowledged any of the distinguished prizes coriolanus had won, and all the prizes he would soon own.
coriolanus had thought that after the 10th games, he would never have the issue of not having someone always at his feet. sure, they may have all just been after his money or influence, but at least he knew they were all on his side. all except you, apparently.
as he stared at you from across the room, sat straight and proper with a finger wrapped in your hair, he couldn't make himself focus on anything other than the tip of your pencil poking at your lips. and you, seemed to be focused on anything, and anyone, except coriolanus snow.
he barely registered the sound of his other classmates packing up their things and skidding back their chairs. it was only when he saw you grabbing your bag did he follow suit, heading quickly through the door and down the stairs, hypnotized by the swing of your ponytail.
he kept a generous distance behind you, making sure he blended in with the rest of the students heading to the cafeteria, but also ensuring he always had eyes on the nape of your neck.
he stopped when you stopped, squinting his eyes with suspicion as you headed into an empty classroom.
the door made an unpleasant creak when swiftly opened and closed. coriolanus stood still for a minute with his hand paused in the air. After a minute of contemplation, he gently twisted the doorknob to reveal a sliver of your familiar figure, sitting on a desk with your legs crossed.
"ah, you're here," a voice said from further inside the classroom.
you chuckled as you pulled your food out. "so I am. sorry it took me so long to get here. I was trying to get rid of red. I swear, he's trailing me."
The previously faceless voice finally appeared in frame. her hands came up to her face, and a mixture of a gasp and a giggled escaped her.
"seriously? god, what is his deal? whenever we have class together, he’s always staring at you," she snarked as she made herself comfortable on the desk across from you.
“and I mean, it's not even in a charming way. it just seems like he's... trying to figure out what's going on in your mind at all times. kind of creepy"
you hummed between chews. "be careful. remember who you're talking about. if dr. gaul or mr. plinth catches you talking even remotely bad about him, say goodbye to the desk you're sitting on and the stability of your future."
the other girl sighed. "you're right. he always has someone asking for his approval or begging for a reference. he's on another level from us.” She sighed.
“but you have to admit," she continued, "he has quite the face. I don’t even think I would mind him following me around all day. you’re too oblivious.”
"you’re horrible!” you joked, “but I’m not oblivious, I'm choosing to ignore him. I’m not into whatever game he thinks he’s playing.”
you chewed throughly before speaking again. “and I especially hate those who act as if they're above everyone. I mean, why is he always the one everyone asks for approval? why is he the ultimate reference? How special can he be? I’ll admit, he has more prizes and money than any of us, but how many of those prizes did he truly earn? He’s living proof that you can do anything, and be anyone, if you have the right people on your side."
she laughed at your words. "alright, alright. I won't force you to like him. but just know… your feelings are in the minority here."
"trust me, coriolanus snow will live just fine without my desire to get to know hi-"
the loud slam of the doorknob against the wall incited a gasp from the girl sitting across from you. you repressed the urge to roll your eyes when you saw the tall form at the doorframe. "speak of the devil," you mumbled under your breath.
"say that again."
"snow-" your friend began to say, but was promptly interrupted by the man.
"leave."
you scoffed, "don't tell her to leave-"
"leave. now."
your friend flashed you an exasperated stare, but not before she allowed a small smile to escape as she scrambled to gather her things, half-running out the door.
"great," you sighed as you brought another spoonful of food up to your mouth. but before it could touch your lips, coriolanus paced over and wrapped his hand around your upright wrist.
"continue what you were saying before,” he ordered. his grasp wasn't rough by any means, but it was firm, exactly how you imagined his grip would feel, which reflected the seriousness in his voice.
"what, I don't get to finish my lunch first?"
he flung his arm over to the side at your question, shocking you enough to drop the spoon. in all your bewilderment, you barely reacted when he grabbed the entirety of your food and threw it over your shoulder.
you heard the splat of sauce hitting the desk below you before you felt its coldness on your shoulder. you couldn't close your mouth, nor could you close the lid on your bubbling anger. you hurled away his arm and hopped off the desk, walking as far forward as the classroom would go.
"I told you to-"
"oh, I'll continue."
you swiveled around to face him, crossing your arms as he stood still by the desk, with his perfectly ironed pants and stupidly flawless, blonde, hair.
"I'll tell you exactly what I think about you, snow,” you huffed.
“I think that you're a scam. winner of the 10th hunger games, through cheating," you said as you counted a finger on your hand. you smiled at his shocked expression. "yes, I know you and gaul erased all the footage but, some people have surprisingly strong memories."
you slowly began walking towards him. "rich, through your conveniently dead friend." another finger. "honoured student of prestige, through corrupted power."
you raised the three fingers, staring stiffly into his eyes. "you're a scam, snow."
you stopped once you reached the desk. looking up at him through your eyelashes, you whispered with a pout, "and yet you still wonder why people don't like you."
you bent over to pick up your bag, but when you straightened back up, his hand was back on your arm. this time, his grasp was fierce, and he used tremendous force to pull you towards him.
you were so close that you could make out all the individual blue fibres in his eyes, and count each strand of his full eyelashes. you furrowed your brows, lips curling with an expression of disgust and disturbance. a pink flush occupied your cheeks, but you weren’t exactly sure if it was from telling him off so honestly or from the lack of space between the two of you.
"you're right," he scoffed lightly.
"what?"
"you're right, I said. I will live without your acceptance. I will live beautifully, in fact."
you sneered mockingly. "good for you, snow, good for you. not everyone has the privilege that you have,” you spat.
you tried to pull your arm away from his sturdy hold, but he only tightened the pressure, grabbing the small of your back to further press you against him. you couldn't help the gasp that came from you. you looked at him with the upmost confusion, lips parting slightly at the surprisingly tender caress of his hand on your hip.
he leaned down to you ear. "but... I don't want to. I don’t want to live without your acceptance. like you said before, it never hurts to have someone behind you. to catch you when you fall."
he drew back towards your face, staring unwaveringly into your eyes as he maneuvered your hand onto his shoulder, holding it in place with his own. "I can give you anything you want. I will, give you anything you want. money, power, glory. if only you wouldn't repress your feelings like this..."
with each breath of his that you felt grazing across your face, your eyelashes fluttered. for a split second, your eyes flickered to his reddened lips. your body seemed to relax against his, your head instinctively leaning towards. you hadn’t even noticed that his hand was no longer keeping your hand in place, but instead, you were the one desperately squeezing his shoulder.
his nose came down to touch yours, and your hands slowly brushed the back of his head. your fingers tangled themselves in his gelled hair, and your eyes automatically closed the moment you felt a brush of something against your lips.
then, coldness. the previously warm figure in front of you was gone.
your arms had been carelessly thrown off, causing you to stumble backwards. snow had backed up a couple steps, hands in his pockets as he smiled for the first time today. "and that is why everyone asks for my approval. this is why I am able to get anyone, anywhere they want, with a couple of sweet, simple words."
he stepped a little closer, extending a hand to grab your chin. his thumb moved up till it reached your lips, giving them a gentle nudge. "that's power, doll. corrupted or not, it has the same effect. not even you could deny that."
he turned around, and began walking towards the door. right before he stepped over the frame, he paused. slipping out his arms, he removed his red coat and twirled to face you again. "sorry about the stain. here, it's cold today." he tossed you the garment, giving you one last smirk. with a tilt of his head, he was gone.
you weren't sure you were ever going to be able to speak again. your own shaky hand came up to touch your lower lip, cold shivers spreading down your entire body at the newly formed memory. seeing your reflection through one of the windows, you knew you couldn't walk out with that stain on your shirt. so you put his jacket on, feeling that familiar warmth on your skin once more.
as you walked out the door, you gradually began to realize what this meant. red. he always wore red. he was the only student in the entire university who wore it, and wore it well. perhaps this was his intention all along. the subtle stalking, the staring, the provocation.
pacing down the busy hallway where everyone was rushing to get to their next class, you felt the glares of practically everyone in the building. first, focused on the blonde a couple paces in front of you, looking rather different than he had this morning, then on you, wearing the red coat that matched oh-so-perfectly with his red vest.
they all knew what it meant. you knew what it meant.
you now belonged to coriolanus snow.
-
a/n: so once again I have not read any of the books, so pls pls pls excuse any inaccuracies w how the university works and the exact details of what happened post lucy gray lol. anyways this is for all the ppl who don't want to fix him n actually will take him as he is, psychopath and all (me).
