☆Hello people who do not live here.☆

Your day couldn’t have felt longer, Thursday was your most packed up day, with practice all morning and the absolute worst classes ever in the afternoon. But you were heading to Tashi’s room, meeting with her and Art. Your energy will soon be restored when you finally see them.

After a few month you guys had become an actual group of friends, not only tied by your situation with Patrick anymore. You mostly had different classes, they didn’t have most practices in common either, but you always found time to meet every other day. And Tashi being your best friend since middle school, you often would just live in each other’s room.

You don’t bother waiting after knocking on her door, this was your dorm just as much as it was hers at this point, always studying hanging out in here when you get sick of the dreadful silence of the library, just like you would go to her place after classes when you were in highschool.

“Hi guys,” you say noticing Art is already here. “Oh, she talks to us now? Thought you were too good for us,” Art says dramatically. “I miss your practice once and your world collapses,” you tease him sitting on the floor in the vacant spot they had left in their little circle of gossip. “You’ve missed more than one. My biggest fan won’t even support me anymore,” and it was Tashi’s turn to be dramatic. You rolled your eyes as she placed a hand on her chest like it hurt. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you say matter-of-factly, “Plus I’ve never missed a match,” you jab accusingly, but still playful at Tashi, referring to the several matches Art had disputed that she did not attend to.

“Besides I don’t think I can survive any more of your practices with that dickhead around,” you admit with a huff of air full of desperation. “It’s like he goes there only to fuck with me… Like, just because I’m friends with Olivia and she dumped his ass, like come on,” you scoff searching for reciprocated exasperation in your friend’s eyes.

You met Olivia through one of Tashi’s tennis friend, she was just the nicest, shyest most calm person you had ever seen and somehow, she was with that clown of a guy. He treated her poorly, dragged her to the worst parties where she had to drive him back to his dorm and carry his slug body up the stairs when he got wasted. He would show her off until she made one mistake on court, then he wouldn’t even glance at her.

But on a blessed Monday, she snapped and dumped him, on court, with the whole tennis team as a witness. It was a lot of fun, to you mostly. And it was the first time you ever saw her raise her voice ever. He cried crocodile, vile, manipulative tears until she left, then he opted on crushing his racket on the ground. And after that, every tennis practice you showed up to, without any exception, he would jab comments after comments at you, because he was convinced you had manipulated his little baby into dumping his ass. Mind you, she came up with that on her own and you only were the most supportive friend because duh but that’s it.

The more you showed up to practice, the more tempting it was becoming to absolutely crush his face on the ground, just like he did his racket, pieces scattered on the floor, unrepairable. So, you decided against going for some time, in case you ever acted on your impulses.

“I guess we’ll have to wait for Patrick to show up,” Tashi said shrugging, throwing you a teasing look like it was a dirty little secret, like Art wasn’t right here. Art fed on the teasing and added, “She won’t even look at us anymore, unless he’s here.” You denied it, called them dramatic some more, even used the words don’t be jealous now but then a week later, Patrick was on campus, squatting your room as per usual. And when he begged for you to come at practice with him and everything, you broke under the pressure of his pleading eyes. He said please twice. That’s all he did for you to agree. It took a 2-minute-long conversation at best.

You receive nasty looks from Art and Tashi when they see you siting on a bench by court. Naturally Patrick asks what’s all the fuss about and that’s when you tell him about Olivia and Dickhead. And yes, that’s his name.

Olivia greets you too. Besides a few shared meals you haven’t seen each other in a while so she’s happy to catch up. Whispering on how your not boyfriend boyfriend is doing great, even against Art.

Art is basically the rising star of the men’s Stanford tennis team, and you’re pretty sure she likes him but considering Dickhead is always finding a way to shark his way in her life, she hasn’t dared to do anything about it yet. BUT there’s this party, and you guys are going to celebrate after Tashi’s big win last week and as Patrick is back on campus it feels all quite fitting. Maybe you invite her hoping these two can have a few dances together because there’s no way Art doesn’t find her cute. Okay maybe you’re a little too invested in this matchmaking scheme but look at them, they’d be so cute. You’re definitely not busying your thoughts with this to dodge the dazzling smile that creeps up your face every time Patrick turns to you after he’s made an impressive move on court.

Your cheeks are fine, they don’t feel like they burn or anything… No sign of any exacerbated feelings or bodily reactions to his every doing and saying, after a month or so of waiting for him to come back from tour. Yes, because now Stanford is his starting point and tour just little side quests. That’s how you like to see it when you’re not lying to yourself.

The party is at some rich kid’s place, music playing loudly outside, drunk people around the pool making it a drowning hazard. You guys decide to stick to getting drinks from the kitchen and then dancing, far from the pool. Pairs form naturally and Art ends up dancing with Olivia. Finally, these two get closer and work through the tension of the past months eyeing each other, before going back inside to talk probably.

This puts you in a really good mood, jumping and dancing without a care in the world with Patrick. But an hour in you notice someone in the distance, Dickhead. Of course, he had to be here spoiling your fun for you and your friends. Tashi and Sam, her not girlfriend girlfriend are farther in the busy crowd. You leave them be, they need time on their own, so you drag Patrick inside to get another drink. He doesn’t protest. Effectively avoiding the gaze of your arch nemesis.

But soon enough he notices how tense you are. You keep looking outside the patio door while you’re both sat on the couch. He only has to follow your gaze to understand. But Art and Tashi said it’s a no no subject, makes you a little too angry they said, no more talking about it they said. So he really tries to keep your mind off of it, stealing kisses, looking at your sparkly eyeshadow while tasting your cherry lipgloss on his now sticky lips.

But you just want to punch a wall because you know Dickhead will make a scene about Olivia and Art. “Patrick?” you ask, mind occupied, “Yeah?” he answers happy that maybe you’re finally back to reality with him.

“Remind me why I can’t drown him in the pool, again?” he huffs a laugh, of course your mind is still set, “Well I am not stopping you; you could break him with a pinch to his forehead”. That makes him warm with pride, you really could. To his words you abruptly get up murmuring an okay be right back, eyes focused on your target, setting your drink on the coffee table, “Go in the car so that if I lose he doesn’t pick a fight with you,” realising how serious you are being he answers, “What? No, I was kidding, don’t actually demolish that guy,” he says hurriedly getting up. He looks outside in hopes of finding Tashi. The only one who seems to have an off button to you.

You scowl back but he convinces you when he says, “Don’t wanna let that dickhead hold you from competing, alright?”, he offers to lead you to the kitchen, get you a refill of water this time and go dance some more, forget all about that prick.

Dickhead keeps staring your way and gossiping to his friend about his ex. From a distance you can still notice the vein popping on his forehead at the view of Art back from inside the house with Olivia. Patrick tells you to be the bigger person. You whisper shout in his ear; I got the bigger legs alright. You proceed to mock gymbros who skip leg day, “You don’t look like you skip leg day though,” you whisper in his ear playful, looking him up and down, the music numbing your anger. Patrick doesn’t waste the opportunity to kiss you unabashedly, tongue slipping past your lips and hand grabbing at your ass, because coming from you that’s probably one of the best compliments ever. It does fuel his ego.

Once the crowd of dancing people dissipates a bit, Olivia comes to find you, Tashi and Sam, leaving the boys on their own. She’s a giggly mess by the time you reach a calm and deserted part of the garden. She doesn’t have to say anything for all of you to scream happily, finally these two worked it out after months of pining.

That’s when you hear uncharacteristically loud screaming in the distance. Art facing a drunk and angry Dickhead, trying to reason him like he even has any when sober. You girls all walk-run pushing through the crowd of curious party people that formed close to the pool. Olivia gets in between them, and Dickhead has the audacity to grab at her wrist and to yell at her.

That’s more than you needed to push him off her “Don’t fucking touch her”. He stumbles back a little but he’s quick to respond, “Or what? You’ll punch me?” he sounds really amused, mocking pout on his face, feigning being scared by putting his hands up, not taking you seriously one bit. He puts his hand on your shoulder, you push him off again, harder this time.

It's slightly harder than you had planned but you were really starting to fume and a man thought clever to put his creepy abusive hand on your friend and your unconsenting shoulder, so fuck it. He’s so fucking proud he got a rise out of you he goes back to you straight away. God you just hope he throws in the first punch so you can just blame his future swollen beaten face on self-defence.

Not that you would be entirely wrong to fight him, but you proficiently knew how to hit without breaking anything, one knock on his big shallow head, a quick fight. But no, you wanted to fucking end him, make a show for everyone who was soon going to encircle the fight, shouting drunkenly to cheer for their victor. No one was going to stop you, or only after you would’ve thrown a couple hits at least, hopefully.

And like you predicted it, he plunged, aiming at your ribs, you let him hit you, even when you could’ve easily delved, but no, now it was all fair game. He threw the first punch so now you’re just defending yourself. He just handed his ass to you, on a fucking silver platter. The show is so on. You can hear your friends in the back telling you to let go but you’re not the bigger person here. No, you just have the bigger legs.

You try your best not to touch his face too much though. It’s way easier to get away with it if he seems less fucked up than you. Because he absolutely is the type of little shit to go to the administration about it. Shit like this could mean being expelled from the boxing team if you seemed like the attacker.

Fortunately for you, his head his shallow. Would probably sound hollow if you hit it so he keeps aiming at your face while you concentrate on his ribs and stomach. After he could get a couple punches in, you stop pretending you can’t easily avoid them and start writing his will with your fists, even letting yourself hit his jaw once as a sweet treat for your patience. You did spend months waiting patiently to do this, really good behaviour on your part.

You still reason yourself and throw the final hit to his chest, winding the air out of his lungs which lays him on the muddied grass beneath you. “If you ever fucking touch her or talk to her again, I’ll pop your fucking knees off, understood?” you say breathless, spitting blood on the side for the badass effect.

Tashi and Art fly to your side, holding back their breath at your bruised face, and discreetly snaking their arms around yours. Just in case. His friends hold him back up and while you’re trying so hard to calm down, cool off for your friend’s sake. You hear the crowd cheering around you, like they watched a gladiator fight a lion in the arena and come back alive.

But Dickhead apparently has a death wish because he starts badmouthing Tashi and her victory last week, pushing his friends off of him and walking your way. Your friends know better than to keep holding you and you decide to end him for good. You push him off in the pool before you disable the ‘poor’ guy and all his future dickhead lineage.

You go back inside before he can talk shit again, fuming nonetheless, rummaging for tissues to stop your nosebleed.

Patrick is absolutely losing his shit, in a state between awe and worry. You’re not his girlfriend, but you’re not not something and he doesn’t how to be worried like a not boyfriend boyfriend… He’s losing his shit because besides you absolutely owning the guy you still got hurt, only because you had to hold back for a piece of shit of a man. And more secretly, he’s losing it because you beat the shit out of Dickhead, thought for approximately 0.1 second before you went back to tear him apart when he insulted Tashi and because it is so fucking hot how scaringly strong you are.

In every fucking sense of the word, you’re physically strong, relentless with a tenacious sense of justice. Taking hits like their a brush to your cheek. He also gawked at the fact that if they let you, you would absolutely go back and fight his dickhead friends too. Breaking them one by one. Fuck. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little turned on right now.

But fortunately, no one cares what happens in his pants at the moment and no one will ask him either. Tashi and Art are like little working bees, handing you tissues for your nosebleed, a glass of water just because, it can’t hurt right. Art is panicking a little, it’s his first time seeing you actually angry, he’s even a little shocked one could say. As for Tashi, unbothered queen that she is, she tries her best to hide how worried you had her. But more than anything she tries to hide, without success, the glint of pride in her eyes. Her bestie is a fucking badass. And now that she can see you’re more angry than hurt, she can let it slip that you fought someone like it was middle school all over again.

Patrick doesn’t remember when your hand landed in his, but he’s never letting go. He squeezes it from time to time, telling himself it’s somewhat grounding to you. His way of saying I’m here without adding to the buzzing attention of your best friends.

And as his own head is clouded with unhelpful thoughts at the moment, maybe it’s for the best if he doesn’t try to form sentences as of now. So, he holds your hand and gathers himself back enough so that he can nurse you back to a less angry ticking bomb of a raging woman once you go back to your dorm.

He wants you to feel better, to cool down. Hoping, deep down, that you’ll keep some of that reckless energy for later. Maybe. Why not? Just to try. Patrick was only but a curious guy, every facet of you, he wanted to experience.

Before he could come back to reality, Dickhead held by two of his friends goes by through the living room, which had become your temporary hospital. Dickhead manages to threaten, “Your boyfriend is next” as if you couldn’t just get up and end him all over again. Wait, you are up, back to earth Patrick. Fury flames back into your eyes, “Touch him and I will fucking-“ Patrick cuts you off before you can say more, “Learn when to fucking leave buddy. If you ever want a fair game, I believe we’re both tennis players,” he has a devilish grin on his face.

Your enemy is his enemy, power couple activity: crushing Dickhead on court or during a fierce party fight. Sounds good to him. Dickhead’s friends, tired of his shenanigans, drag him out of the house before anything else can happen and you sit back down, calmed by Patrick’s intervention. Your hands are still tied together. Patrick could feel how you tightened your grip when he talked, not letting go, just in case. Fine. He was fine. God, he just wants to go back to your dorm, clean your wounded lip, give you a little massage to ease your nerves, maybe definitely have you suffocate him by sitting on his face to calm you down before sleep. He’s so thoughtful and selfless. Bonus points if you could be a little mean to feed his memory bank he uses when he’s on tour on sleepless nights. Missing you. Alone.

Your voice echoes in his head, effectively bringing him back to reality, your hands pivoting his face so he would face you when you speak, “Do not pick fights with him if I’m not around, alright? He can’t fight for shit but he’s a big guy, okay?” you’ve rarely looked more serious.

“Don’t worry, I’ll just beat his ass on court. I’ll make sure you’re here to watch,” he’s so smug about it you can’t help but smile. “Okay, but only if I’m here,” you present your pinky. “I promise, baby,” he intertwines your pinkies ceremoniously. Now you feel like you can lounge back on the couch, a little relieved.

Patrick can’t get over the fact that you hadn’t thought twice when Dickhead threatened him, you hadn’t thought hey maybe I should sit that one out. No, you were ready to do it all over again. That’s hot. Maybe everything you do is hot, maybe the fact that you could also technically take on Patrick in a matter of seconds – not that you would have reasons to – was awfully hot too. Just a thought he had the first time he met you that popped back in his mind tonight.

Then his mind wandered to how hot it was how protective of him you were; no fight is more important than your public image, than future sponsors, than anything… Damn, a little reckless, but he matched your freak on that. And when Dickhead called Patrick your boyfriend, you didn’t correct him. Yes, you were fuming with anger but still, he noticed, he lingered on the possible deeper meaning. He could be delusional in his own mind. No one was there to stop him.

Now that most of the adrenaline had evaporated from your body, soreness overtaking you, the pain in your face and ribs rising to kick your ass, you were ready to get going. “Let’s get out of here,” Tashi didn’t drink tonight as the group’s assigned driver. Patrick has his arm locked into yours, your life support until you can fall back into the backseat of the car, maybe pass out for a bit.

Patrick takes the seat beside you, your head rests on his shoulder without thought, hand finding his again, he doesn’t protest. Tashi starts the car and soon enough you’re back at campus and out the car heading to your respective dorms. Waving off Art and Olivia. You wonder whether or no they’ll be heading to the same room yet again tonight.

Tashi offers to stay with you, even when she was supposed to spend the night with Sam, and you with Patrick. But he says he’ll do just fine at playing nurse and putting you to sleep. It wouldn’t be his first time treating your wounds and dealing with your fiery temper. It rarely ever erupted but when it did, it was always with the maximum magnitude. Tashi sent you a look meaning you sure? and your nod must’ve been convincing enough because she patted your head with a smile and let you go with Patrick.

Entering your room, the first thing you do is fall back on your bed. Now that adrenaline has mostly left your body it feels sore all over. “Why don’t you go take a quick shower? Then I’ll patch you up,” Patrick suggests extending is hand out to you to help you get up, “Okay, mister nurse”.

You opt for a rather warm shower because your body is all tensed up. Usually, you would warm up before a fight, have gloves to prevent your metacarpals from hurting too much, and an opponent with your own weight and boxing attitude. The ‘rogue fight’, something you hadn’t done in ages, had really taken a toll on you. But hey, you still crushed the guy, so let’s say your ego skyrocketed tonight and nothing else happened. You felt like your first ever professional fights, and it felt great.

After your anger outbursts and social justice heroism at school got you expelled, your parents chose to sign you up for boxing lessons, hoping it would help manage the ‘energy’. It did. Also, you met Tashi in the new school you went to, so it was very worth punching those kids when you were ten. They were mean to girls and fucking racist too anyway, so they had it coming.

When you come out of the bathroom, in comfortable pyjamas, you have a stupid grin on your face, high on memories. Patrick changed into one of your shirts that was laying on the chair where the worn but still too clean for the machine pile of clothes is, paired with only a pair of boxers because why not.

You hand Patrick his ‘patching you up kit’ sitting in front of him on your bed. “I’m ready. What do I get if I stay patient through the whole thing?” you joke but it’s based on true events. He always takes forever for a few face and knuckle bruises so what is it gonna be tonight. “We’ll see,” he says more playful than usual, his face still serious and concerned. But maybe he’s just as tired as you are and it’s cracking through his nurse roleplay he likes to do.

He starts by dabbing the little cuts on your face with an alcohol-soaked cotton, picking a bright pink hello kitty band aid for the cut on your nose. “Good as new, hothead,” he says while kissing your forehead, the only space on your face that has no forming bruise.

“Yeah right,” you huff a laugh, you saw your face in the mirror after the shower, your bottom lip is busted and swollen, your nose no good for breathing anymore and a dark bruise is forming under your right eye. Safe to say you look a little rough.

While you’re thinking about your blemished face, he’s thinking about how he’ll kiss you without hurting you, too much it is. You see him staring so you can’t help but deflect, “Considering going to Art’s, huh?” you try to joke all the while he’s going a little crazy thinking of all the things he’d let you do to him right now.

“How’re your stomach and back?” he asks, still playing nurse apparently, absolutely unfazed by your previous comment. You let him have a look at the bruise on the left of your stomach, spreading right under your ribcage, “This one’s pretty bad but my back is only a little sore.”

“Okay back facing me, shirt up miss,” he’s smiling like an idiot, having way too much fun with it. “What for?” you roll your eyes, but you still turn your back to him. “Well, you must be sore, so as a very professional nurse I’ll give you a massage,” he doesn’t even wait for your answer before smothering his hands with arnica cream.

“How can you be horny right now? My face is fucking busted,” the judgment in your voice is very present but you still lift your shirt up all the way to your shoulders, bunching up the fabric at the front.

“You brutalised a man twice your size and got battle scars,” he states like he's narrating an epic victory of yours, hands working at your shoulders like you're something sacred being enveloped in a balm for history to remember. You don’t really know what to say, simply revolving in the feeling of his hands releasing the built-up tension in your muscles. Such a qualified nurse after all. While he’s working his way down your back, a few satisfied sighs leave your mouth, and he talks to himself, “You’re so hot.”

“Says the hottest nurse” you quip back, unserious. But him, he’s very serious so in a moment of pure Patrick boldness he says, “Why don’t you get rid of that shirt so I can work on your stomach?” You look at him over your shoulder, in disbelief, “Slutty nurse today, are we?” you tease him, but you still take off your shirt, which falls at the foot of the bed. “Slutty but professional nurse. My only goal is to deliver you from your pain,” he says while applying the arnica cream on your stomach, hand hiking higher each time, massaging right under your tits.

“What do you suggest to take my terrible pain away?” you say innocently playing along with his little deranged and obsessive fixation on treating you after fights. He guides you to his lap, where you go with ease. You have practice. You look down at the feeling of him before looking straight into his eyes, “You like playing nurse that bad, huh?” you can’t help the smirk which finds your lips. “I do. Wanna take care of you. Let me.”

Patrick slowly lays down, dragging you down with him but he doesn’t kiss you. No, he takes off his shirt and let’s his hands travel to your hips to try and hike you up towards his chest. He looks at you as you’re straddling him, chest bare, bruises reminiscent of your burning impulsivity. You’re nothing but a goddess of war on top of him. He’s admiring the view.

“Cat got your tongue. What do you want?” you coo, titling his chin farther up until your eyes meet. “Use me. Fucking woman handle me,” he pleads before nipping at your thumb.

“God, I didn’t know I left such a good impression. Should I use your pretty face?”  you smile pretty and devilish, biting your lip because what the fuck was that sculpture of a man doing in your bed begging to be used by you. You were never just one thing or another, you both liked to experience and try new things and that’s how this was still going on after a few months. Surely, nothing else but sexual osmoses.

You get rid of the rest of your clothes before straddling his face, not without a little bit of apprehension. He notices your hesitation. “It’s sit on my face, not hover over it, baby. Come on, shut me up,” he huffs out with a wink, hungry to please. “You asked for it,” you say as you descend, his lips finally grazing your core. He teases your clit, sucking and biting it. But soon enough, he starts lapping at your entrance. His hands on your hips and thighs inviting you to rock back and forth on his face which allows your clit to grind on his nose. God you love that nose. Your hands quickly find the headboard to help steady yourself.

After a series of fuck and so good he gets out of you, he knows he’s found his rhythm and he repeats it. Or rather, he keeps on meeting yours. And let’s say, you were a passionate and fervent rider. Patrick wasn’t one to complain though, feeding off your eyes shutting for a few seconds, head thrown back before looking straight into his eyes again, moaning gibberish filth to him.

He needs your praise so bad, he’d do anything for it – like not asking for air when he clearly needs it. His head getting a little dizzy, thoughts all the more fuzzier. Closing his eyes as he hums against you, sending piercing vibrations through your body. His hand travels south to his painfully unburied dick, but you halt your movements.

“Uh-huh hands on me, who said you could touch yourself?” you ask, and he knows getting back to work is the only proper answer to your disbelieving and teasing tone.

Patrick starts to suck, nip and lap at your clit. Making sure that if it had a soul, well now it doesn’t anymore.

One of his frivolous hands doesn’t find its way back to your hip and teases at your entrance, now slick enough that he could easily push two digits in. Keeping up with the frenetic rhythm your own grinding set.

“Fuck don’t stop- just like that. So good,” that’s how you let him know you were getting close, hand going through his hair. Your fingers brushing his locks felt like the softest praise too him. Your rhythm slowly started to falter, becoming messier and harder to maintain as your thighs started to clench and tremble with pleasure. His own satisfied moans vibrating through your core sent you over the edge. Your hand pulls at his curls instinctively, needing to keep him as close as possible while you come on his face. This only motivates him to carry on his movements, accompanying you as you ravage his face with your juices. He was a starved man fed tonight.

It took a few minutes for the both of you to steady your breathing. He started licking again when you decided overstimulation wasn’t on the menu tonight and you got off him and the bed all together. “You got a little something here,” you tease him pointing at his mouth like it’s the only visible messed up part of his face right now.

It takes you picking all your clothes from the floor before he speaks, “What are you doing?” amusement audible in his voice because he really doesn’t get it, does he? He’s still laying on the bed waiting for you, kicked puppy look in his eyes. “I got off. Now we can sleep,” you say simply sliding your panties up your legs. He said use me, you did sooo…

“Wait! I’ll make you come a second time I promise,” he pleads finally sitting up, “Fuck don’t make me use my hand, please please please,” he grabs your wrist which stops you from putting back on your shirt. He’s looking up at you but you’re perceptibly unmoved by his panic which only fuels his need for you. Challenge accepted he thinks, he’ll change your mind.

“I’ve been rock hard for the past two hours, you can’t do this to me,” he practically whines gulping down his pride. God he’ll do anything for you to fuck him right now.

“I can actually, I used you and now I’m done,” you explain to him, voice honey soft while you straddle his lap going to your side of the bed, but his hands are glued to your hips, planting you right on his erection. So you play with it, because of course you’re not done with him, but he wanted rough and mean and he’s being fed exactly that. It’s just very good customer service when you think of it. You grind down his boxers and his head flies back down meeting the pillow again, relief and pent-up tension both visible on his face.

He's not sure if you’re doing this to keep him awake and hard for the whole night or if it’s a door to a possible round 2. He hopes it’s the second option and he doesn’t waste the opportunity; he’ll get whatever he can. “Baby please,” he tries so hard not to buck up his hips into you, “Let me be inside you, just the tip- fuck anything,” he begs, his best rehearsed pitiful pout on, thumbs moving in circles on your thighs. Somehow, even when he’s pathetic he’s still getting his way. He is exactly where he wants to, and he absolutely loves that you try to fuck with him and his ego.

“And how do you plan on making me come a second time with just the tip, huh?” you challenge again, and that’s exactly when the smirk comes back on, saying we both know it’d be enough. “I have fingers princess, they do wonders I’ve been told,” his right hand hikes up your inner thigh, fingers leaving a trail of featherlight touches on their way, sending shivers down your spine. He stops his fingers at your panties, waiting for any form of permission for him to get back to work. He holds his breath like you’re about to decide whether he shall live or not. “Alright, just the tip then,” you sound smug because all you can think about is how long he’ll last like that, half fucked.

Your shirt and panties fly yet another time while he races to put a condom on. From the night table to his dick in seconds. He has practice. You straddle him again but this time Patrick drags you down with him, at last kissing you just like he’s wanted to the whole night but didn’t get the chance to. Not soft, not patient, all clashing passion and dancing tongues. He pushes down on your lower back and ass with his hands, effectively urging you to grind down on him. This makes him groan into the kiss, so you do it again, mouth wandering to his jaw, kissing and nipping at the sculpted skin. You reach down between you, positioning his attention seeking tip in front of your entrance.

He can’t say that he’s surprised when you only sink down the tip but Patrick’s a greedy man, he genuinely hoped you would’ve forgotten after a heated making out session. “Happy?” you ask him, devouring his neck not caring about leaving marks. He’s never really minded anyway, why wouldn’t he want people to know he gets you so worked up you almost redden his whole neck. Like a thirsty little vampire.

“Yeah, just the tip- ah fuck,” how can it feel so good when you’re only taking like a 10th of him. He’s barely exaggerating, on the feeling that is. Your palms are placated on his chest to help you slide up and down his body, with the quickest pace you can manage without losing him on the way. It’s almost painful how much energy you have to master to not devour his whole length. You so want to use his lap like a fucking trampoline right now, but you concentrate on his tense face, his eyes roaming where your bodies barely connect, like he’s putting all his will and power into not bucking his hips up. He focuses on rubbing your clit, matching your pace, so you can feel good too. Cute.

“I swear I can cum like this,” he admits grinning at how you observe him. Like if your makeshift puppet came to life and was still doing everything you wanted. A sort of appreciative mockery. “Yeah?” you tease but you wish maybe he wouldn’t like it so much so that he could finally beg for the real thing, what you want too in fact. Patrick wasn’t sure how this felt for you, but now he could see just how hard it was keeping up your torture and forming words.

He feels compelled to just serenade you, “Yeah so good, feel too good when you do whatever you want with me,” he breathes in your neck, punctuating his words with wet kisses along your pulse point. He’s not allowed to leave marks this high up your body. “Pussy on tour can’t fucking do this to me fuckkk,” he looks into your eyes when he says this, like it’s not just some dirty admission but a romantic declaration. Well, it’s Patrick we’re talking about so maybe it is. “Wanna ruin you for anybody else,” you bite his lip to make your point heard and felt, clenching around his tip like the cherry on top.

“Do it, m’not stopping you.” Patrick has barely finished his sentence before he feels you sink down his cock. You halt your movements a mere second, adjusting to his size, before you’re properly riding him. “Fucking finally,” he groans not that he wouldn’t have begged for it had you not made the decision for the both of you. But it feels too good knowing you want him so bad you don’t even care to wait longer.

His thumb is still occupied with your clit while his other hand travels between your hip and your thigh, before exploring higher as you don’t need any help riding him. He plays around with your tits, groping one after the other so none is left jealous and needy. He pinches your nipples, which does make you moan a little louder with your head thrown back, eyes shut, lost in the feeling. “Fuck I’ve missed this,” you admit. Your face feels hot with effort, and your hair has cascaded out of its crunchy enclosure, tickling your shoulder blades, curls scattered across your face, starting to stick with sweat.

“Yeah? Miss me even when you have a dick on campus?” he asks all casual, like he hasn’t been waiting to ask about that jackass perfect boy you fuck when he’s not here to do it right. You started seeing him when Patrick told you he had met the same girl again on tour, what are the odds, unknowingly pushing you in the arms of the sweet down bad for you Liam.

Liam is on the men’s tennis team, he’s soft spoken, has been asking Art about you since day one, funny in a smart way and you share a class together. And when you want to forget a certain someone for one night, well you share a bed too. He’s more of a go on romantic dates and commit type of guy but your relationship with him is simply physical. He knows you’re not here to commit after how your last relationship situationship left you broken, but you know he’s waiting for you to drop Patrick.

You don’t really plan to do that though. The situation suits you perfectly, friends with benefits here, fuck buddies there, it’s fine. You definitely don’t want the slutty bratty fucked up one with commitment issues to be your exclusive lover boy. Noooo.

“It’s different,” your answer mindlessly, you really don’t want to think about Liam right now. All you want to think about, and feel is under you, starting to rut back into you. “Yeah, I’m bigger,” he moans, grin tainted by smugness on his too proud face as he feels his balls slap against your ass. He can’t fucking help it. God life is so easy when your dick is that big, you can just talk about it all the fucking time. It’s always relevant somehow. “No, it’s not what- we do it differently,” you whine out, he’s such a pain in the ass, “I can be a mess with you.” You can be a mess with your room, your temper, your appearance, he doesn’t give a shit, Patrick takes you as you are and vice versa. He likes it even.

He picks up his pace, you meet him halfway, slapping sounds echoing in your dorm room. Your tits are now all up in his face, hands clasped on his shoulders, your nails digging in his skin. He revolves in the feeling. “Fuck yes, my hot fucking mess,” he huffs, he wants to feel you cum around him so bad, “I always need you, baby. Too fucking perfect.” Your pussy flutters at his words. If you keep clenching around him like that, he’ll fucking lose it.

“Yeah? You miss me on tour?” you say in jerky breaths. “You have no idea. All I can fucking think about,” he groans struggling to form words with you meeting all of his thrusts halfway like you can’t fucking wait for him to go all the way up on his own. Too fucking greedy. “Patrick I’m close,” you whine in his ear, breathing down his neck. He hits that one spot a few more times and feels your walls squeeze him like you want to drain him. He fucks you through your orgasm and when you whisper wanna feel you too, cum for me baby he’s over the edge in seconds, filling the condom full. He chants breathy moans and dirty grunts in the crook of your neck, bodies sticky with sweat, chests connected.

You both take a couple minutes to come back down from your high. Your thighs are so sore now, but you still find the strength to get off him. Back on your feet to rummage through the mess that is your room to find your clothes, you miss the feeling of him, now sweaty but cold. You feel his hand tug at your hand, “Come back to bed, I’m cold. We can shower tomorrow,” he’s already starting to dose off.

You wish you could just do that, but you really need to use the bathroom and a glass of water right now. That picks his interest, “Can I have one too?” he grumbles. You just take the whole water bottle, and look for a little snack, the ride left you satisfied but also very hungry. “Pat do you want a snack too?” you ask going through empty packets and wraps. God you really need to lock in and clean your room. The month has been rough, okay?

“Well, you do come back with the water, right?” he asks, apparently back to life and not sleepy anymore, malicious grin spreading to his lips. You throw him a seriously look, “We’re going to sleep Patrick,” you scoff. “Course baby,” he says taking your water and snack offerings one after the other before throwing his arm over your waist to hoist you closer to him. “I’ll take my breakfast in bed tomorrow morning,” he whispers in the back of your neck as he spoons you and moves on from his flirty admission just like that saying more serious, “We’ll have to do something about the room though, it’s worse than last time.”

Once he understood that when you get angry at him the best he could get out of it was being kicked out to sleep at Art’s, he started acting how he would at the Academy. So still a little bit of a messy roommate, always a brat, but he wouldn’t wait for you to do everything around here. Hence calling it the room and not your room. He even helps you clean up if you help him not shrink down his clothes in the laundry. You both clean his car too when you have time.

This way, he can also go through your stuff without being too suspicious, which gives him the opportunity to leave his post-it notes everywhere in your room. Like the one in your first aid kit that says hurt again? Call nurse Zweig, or the one on your sport’s water bottle that reads DRINK ME. On his favorite dress of yours a note says hot, and he also leaves some on your papers and textbooks at random pages cause why not?

You don’t have time to answer him before you can hear him snoring softly behind you. That leaves you facing your wall, full of photos and post-it notes: miss me? followed by a series of numbers. His number. And a little red heart that looks like an anatomically accurate one. When you mocked him, he said it’s mine, be nice. So now it’s pinned to your wall now. A red string connecting the pin in the wall to the heart in your chest. And he’s blissfully unaware, in his sleeping wonderland.

Credits to me!!!🌻

Dividers from: @cursed-carmine

Anything I write is mine, do not copy, translate or put into AI.

The sunlight was fucking bright, god… Who left the curtains open like that? Ah yes, Patrick actually. When he just had to smoke his last cigarette before bed, for real for real this time. And now they were open, and he was awake… Before his alarm could even ring… Sucks to be me. That’s what he thought until you turned around, still in your sleeping wonderland, to burry your face in his chest unconsciously hiding from the waking sun. Breathing softly. Okay maybe he was fine or whatever. He tightened his hold on you, careful not to suffocate you to death.

He has 15 more minutes before he needs to get up. Patrick used those precious minutes to press his chin at the top of your head, occasionally nuzzling his nose in your hair, which smelled like coconut oil and your shea butter shampoo. He loved how he could unabashedly be sweet, you didn’t know, and he could feel whatever he felt. He hadn’t looked into it too much, he just knew he liked slow mornings with you. Talking of mornings, soon he’ll need to strategically and sneakily get out of bed. Get ready while NOT waking you up.

He shut down the alarm before it had time to startle you awake. Slowly, oh so slowly rolled you out of his embrace, not without regret. Patrick grumpy as ever stretched out, reluctantly sitting up, walking with little to no will towards your bathroom. His steps felt heavy. His mind was light though, blanked by sleepiness and the feeling of you wrapped around him lingering.

Patrick must admit, the quiet atmosphere of the morning, the chanting of early birds, the almost unnoticeable buzzing of nothing around him felt peaceful. Like a little tap on the shoulder before he had to go through loud traffic to the garage which detained his car, before driving all the way back without Art’s company.

Because his best friend is driving him there. Art being an early bird — or at least, not a morning hater like Patrick — didn’t mind the little adulting adventure. The adventure being Patrick picking up his repaired car in exchange for all his money.

Once dressed up and ready, he opened the bathroom door very fast. Still careful not to bang it into the poster plastered wall next to your desk, which was your dinner table on occasions. You had told him it was the only way it wouldn’t creak horribly and turn your dorm room into a cheap haunted house.

Now that all the room’s evil traps, set up to wake you, had been thoroughly avoided, he picked up a blue post it note along with his hoodie (which was now yours really). He is still allowed to wear it from time to time. How generous of you. Patrick wrote “back in an hour, see you at breakfast sleepy”. You were all meeting for breakfast, a cute habit straight from Art’s mind for when everyone is on campus. But with Patrick and you being sleepy heads it often ended up being a brunch. Tashi and Art had both gotten used to your night owls sleeping habits at this point, but this actual morning breakfast was more than welcome.

Patrick drops his offerings on your nightstand for you to wake up less alone, less cold, less without him taking 2/3 of your bed. You never stop telling him how cramped up you guys are, but he knows you don’t really mind. And he loves when you feign annoyance, so he doesn’t say anything. He just makes a show of taking even more space. Often leaving you between a wall and a hard place. *wink wink* Who said that?

With those sweet little thoughts in mind, he kisses your temple and leaves to meet Art by his car.

When they finally arrive at the place you guys always go to for breakfast, Tashi is already waiting at a table. Your table really, because somehow you always sit here, by the window. She’s surprised they’re actually on time.

After a few minutes you finally arrive at the table, you ordered for the group. You always eat the same things to the point where the order is inked in your brain. You sit next to your best friend, and Patrick smiles to himself when he sees that you’re wearing his your blue hoodie he left for you this morning. He doesn’t say anything, you don’t say anything. But deep down, you both know, you guys are fucked.

Credits to me!!!🌻