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25. she/her. i follow from @patrickbtman

letterboxd

masterlist + important info below the cut

stanford era art sending patrick videos of himself fucking pat’s stepsister!reader ,, your mom married patrick’s dad ago when all of you were still in high school. it was abrupt to say the least, one day pat walks into his family’s estate for the start of winter break and all of a sudden there’s a girl his age glaring at him in the kitchen. getting close to you was like calming down a feral animal, but eventually you and patrick reached a closeness no one expected. art has always been an extension of patrick, so naturally the three of you became a little trio, especially when you have a little saltburn summer together at one of patrick’s estates before you and art go off to stanford and patrick heads out on tour.

and the thing is, art is more perceptive than either of you give him credit for. he sees the way you two look at each other, the lingering looks and the touches that last a little too long. so he starts testing the waters. he flirts with you, gets closer to you than he needs to when you talk, takes you out on the tennis court early in the morning to “help him practice” so when pat wakes up he sees you coming back inside laughing together. patrick fucking seethes every time, but he refuses to say anything. art even teases him about it when they’re alone, runs a hand up patrick’s thigh and says things like “don’t you wish this was her doing this to you?” and of course patrick caves, admits his wants when art takes his dick down his throat, but he never makes a move. he never crosses the line. so, art starts trying with you, too. he’ll sneak into your room (usually after he’s done with patrick) and touch you slow, pinch your nipples, ghost his fingers over your clit. he never goes too far, just gets you worked up and makes you cum on his fingers. all while whispering, “wouldn’t his fingers feel so good in this little pussy?”

he spends the whole summer working both of you up and still nothing happens, so when you and him are alone at stanford together he decides to push again. selfishly, he knows he’s also doing this for himself. he’d be deluding himself if he said he hadn’t wanted to fuck you from the moment he laid eyes on you. honestly, him keeping himself from doing it every time he dipped his fingers in your wet pussy should win him a fucking medal of honor. now though, now he has you with your chest pinned to the bed, sobbing directly into his shitty phone camera, begging for patrick while you fuck yourself back on his dick. “go on baby, tell pat what you told me,” he pants.

“please- fuck— please come visit pat, want- want you so bad- ‘m sorry i didn’t say! ‘m sorry- ‘m sorry!”

patrick’s never booked a flight faster in his life <33

RAHHH RAHH RAHHHH

Art takes one look at you and Patrick’s sappy, lovebird expressions and your refusal to ever actually fucking do something and he just snaps. He’ll be a good friend, he’ll fix it for Patrick, just like Patrick helped him with so many of his crushes that weren’t going to fucking go anywhere.

Of course you think Art’s hot, you think he’s sweet, and he’s smart, and he gives you all the attention you could want. And the best thing is, your mom isn’t fucking married to his dad. So you don’t mind when he kisses you, when he has you pinned onto your bed and moves his hand under your shirt to play with your tits. His mouth tastes like Patrick’s sometimes, and you always kiss him harder when he does.

And he knows— you know he knows how you feel about Patrick, because he teases you about it, always when he’s got his fingers buried inside of you and you’re right on the brink. Don’t you think Patrick’s fingers would feel so good stretching out your tight little pussy? Don’t you wish he’d just fuck you the way you want? Just pin you down and claim your pussy as his own? Oh, fuck, I can feel you clenching around my fingers, you want him so bad. You want your step brother bullying this little pussy, he’s so mean for keeping his cock from you, huh?

It makes you cum every time, gushing around his fingers, mouth open and pink as you cry out with pretty moans. Art licks inside, kisses you hungry and desperate while you fist his cock in your hand. You always want him to fuck you, but he just tells you not tonight. A good friend wouldn’t fuck their best friend’s crush, would they?

Patrick tries to keep it from Art, but he never can. Art hears him fucking his fist in the shower after you’ve all been at the pool. Listens to the wet sounds of Patrick’s lubed up hand gliding along his dick until he gets frustrated and says, “Art, get over here.” Art takes over with his fist, with his mouth. Almost lets Patrick cum before he pulls away. “Admit you want her first.”

Patrick just covers his face with his arm, groans out a pained, “Art—“ Because he’s killing him. He’s actually fucking killing him. When did the Art he met at the tennis academy, the one who sang in the choir for his grandma’s church and wouldn’t even swear until Patrick goaded him to, become this mean. “She’s my sister.”

Art grins. “Your step sister, who you want to fuck.” Patrick doesn’t get to cum until he admits it. He’s rewarded by Art’s hot, perfect mouth and the rare opportunity to cum down his throat. For being a good sport.

He thinks that’s it, you both accepted it, you’ll both just get it over with and fuck, and hopefully still include him since he was kind enough to encourage it. But you don’t. There’s still sweet longing glances and lingering touches. He walks in on you and Patrick giggling in your room, tossing sour patch kids back and forth and seeing who can catch the most in your mouths. Sits on the bed when you curl up and rest your head in Patrick’s lap, while he pets your hair and lets his fingers trace along your face like a boyfriend would.

You’re so lonely at Stanford. Patrick’s gone to god knows where, playing in low level tournaments, losing and sulking without you to comfort him. He calls you almost every night, and you ask him about if he’s seeing anyone. He just kind of goes quiet and says, “C’mon.” You know how he feels, he knows you feel the same way, and that you’re both horribly, painfully stuck.

You show up to Art’s dorm teary eyed and needing comfort. He misses Patrick too, you know he does. He’s the only one who understands. It’s two in the morning and Art’s all disheveled from sleep as he opens the door. His eyes widen— you’re just wearing one of Pat’s shirts, and jesus, you can’t just walk around a college campus like that. He ushers you in, closes the door behind him.

“I miss Pat,” is all you say, and suddenly your lips are on his and you’re tripping over clothes and bags in the dark room as he guides you onto his bed. He’s a little slow, still waking up, but his hands are warm and feel a little rough like Patrick’s do.

His phone vibrates on the bedside table, but he silences it with the press of a button. “Sorry,” he mumbles, leans forward and kisses you slow and hungry. His tongue moves against yours as he slides a hand into your panties, rubs at your swollen clit so you moan into his mouth.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. You nod, grind down against his fingers. “For me or for Patrick?”

You whine, can’t even look at him. “Both.” It’s shameful to admit it, that you’d been wet the entire time that you and Patrick had been catching up on the phone, that you’d thought about slipping your hands into your panties and touching yourself to his voice. But that was… you couldn’t do that. But Art could help.

He slips your panties down your thighs, eases one finger inside your pussy, then another. He thrusts them slow and deep, brings pretty mewls from your lips. “What do you need, hm?”

“Patrick,” you whine.

He nods, noses along the side of your jaw, and sucks on your throat. “I know, baby. Pat’s not here. You want me to make you feel better? You can pretend I’m him.”

So you do. You beg for it, for Art to fuck you. He knows you’re not just thinking about him, that you’re across an ocean with Patrick just as much as you’re in his bed. So sweet beneath him, crying out for him, for Patrick in equal measure. Moaning about how you want your stepbrother’s cock, about how much you miss Patrick, begging for Art to fuck you harder.

He’s so meannnn :((

Just lounging on the edge of the tub, occasionally turning on the hot water tap so the bath doesn’t get cold while you’re talking. He keeps picking berries off of the little charcuterie board you’ve made yourself, stealing little swigs of wine straight from the bottle. Your face is so hot you can feel it radiating off of your skin, which you blame on the wine and not on the molten arousal pooling in your belly. He doesn’t even know that he interrupted you, at least you’re pretty sure he doesn’t. The second the door swung open you had to practically tear your hand from between your thighs.

He’s going on and on about his plan to get Art to do pro doubles with him, how he really thinks they’d have a chance if they just did it together. Which is fine, but you’ve heard him talk about this a million times before, and you’re just sitting in a steadily cooling bath wondering when the fuck he’ll leave so you can finger fuck yourself into oblivion…. Respectfully!

“Am I boring you?” He asks, leaning forward. You’re properly covered by bubbles (not that it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before), but the way he’s leering at you makes your tummy flip. “Do you want me to go away?”

Yes. “No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine. Just… doubles, yeah.” He steals another berry, and you watch the liquid-y smear of red juice drip from his full lips. You swallow. Hard. He’s probably not saying anything important. And god, you just want to rub at your clit until the persistent hum of need is satisfied and goes back into hibernation for a few more days.

What was it even that set you off so bad? You try to remember if it was a book or a movie or even a goddamn song, but all that’s coming to you is Patrick. Patrick in your room, stripping off his shirt as he tries to get you to pick between two button ups he’s picking to wear out with Art. Patrick, leaning over you, smelling of the nice cologne you’d brought home from a trip with your mother to Paris. Patrick squeezing behind you at the sink so he could shave off a bit of stubble that had started growing back in. You’d dropped your toothbrush and he laughed like you were the biggest idiot.

Or maybe it was because you were watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Who’s to say?

Either way, you’re squeezing your thighs together, squirming in the tub. “Can you turn the hot tap on again?” You ask, but your voice comes out a little uneven. Patrick grins like he’s in on some sort of secret, and obliges. You finish your glass of wine.

“You’re gonna be so pruney when you get out of there,” he says. You lift your foot and turn off the tap with your toes. He grabs your foot in his hand and the motion nearly submerges your top half. “See? Your toes are all wrinkled. You should get out.”

“I should,” you say back. “Turn around.”

He doesn’t move. He just looks at you expectantly, like you’ve just challenged him to a game of chicken. Maybe you have. Your cunt aches with need, his leering gaze isn’t helping. You wonder what he’d do if you just… slipped a hand between your thighs, if you alleviated that craving. But you can’t do that. Even if you now he’d like it, that you’d like it just as much.

When you stand up, his eyes take in your entire figure, raking over you from your partially submerged calves all the way up to your eyes. He wants you to know he sees you, that he’s memorizing the lines of your body. You’re lucky you’re soaking wet, so he can’t make out the slick need between your thighs. “Can you hand me that towel?”

“Yeah,” he replies quickly, swallowing, mouth twitching with the need to say something. He steps closer and wraps it around you, tucking the end in so it won’t fall. He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight.”

You swallow, take a shuddery breath. “Yeah, goodnight.”

patrick books his flight immediately after talking to you, maybe even while he’s talking to you, but he doesn’t tell you. no, you find out patrick is visiting when you come back to your dorm after a grueling day of classes and find him sitting outside your door with a duffel and a bag from your favorite fast food place. his clothes are rumpled and it’s clear he hasn’t slept in at least a day, but his eyes light up when he sees you approaching in the hallway and he scrambles to his feet. the two of you collide in a hug so hard it almost knocks the wind out of you - he’s picking you up and spinning you around and for fucking once in the past few months everything feels okay again. he apologizes that your food has probably gotten cold, but he didn’t know when your class would be over. you usher him inside and it’s easy. it’s fun. you catch up, you eat, you laugh, you try not to remember how much you love each other.

that is, until you end up at some sorority party you promised your friends you would go to weeks ago. patrick comes with you, naturally, and again, it’s so easy to talk to him, be with him. the two of you flow together like nothing happened. in this dimly lit sorority house, you could almost live in a world where that’s true. you sip your horribly sweet jungle juice and watch patrick go shot for shot with some football player. you team up in beer pong and crush two frat guys who talked big enough game to bet money on it. by the end of the night you’re sufficiently drunk, but steadily sobering and patrick is absolutely sloshed. he’s stumbling and slurring his words as you two make the trek back to your dorm, his arm hung lazily across your shoulders so you can prop him up. he’s been looking for excuses to stay physically close to you all night and this is no different.

you haul a still very drunk patrick into your dorm and silently acknowledge that you have never been more thankful to have a single room. he’s giggling and looking at all the decorations on your walls, mostly photos you’d taken on a little digital camera you got for your birthday two years ago. he stops at one and points at it, looking back at you.

“‘s that from - hic - when we built that fort? with the blankets?” he asks, his eyes softening. it’s a photo of him sleeping, shirtless, in a pile of bright pink pillows under a canopy of pink blankets. the two of you had been hiding in the wine cellar during some stuffy gala your parents put on when you had the bright idea to steal a bottle of wine (or two, or three) and make a pillow fort in your room. you smile fondly at the memory and nod your head. right after you’d taken that photo, you settled next to him and he wrapped himself around you like a koala. it’s one of many photos of patrick scattered across your walls, you try not to think about how embarrassing that is.

that memory is the beginning of the end of your perfect little night. patrick looks at you, really looks, and slowly moves closer. you freeze in place, like if you make any sudden movements you’ll spook him and he won’t do what you’re desperately hoping he’s about to. before he can stop them, words spill out of his mouth. he tells you he doesn’t believe that you forgot about the voicemail you left him, that he hates himself for how much he missed you when he was ignoring you, that he needs you in his life so badly it scares him. he’s still talking as you coax him into your bed, under your pink frilly covers. every thought he’s ever had about you seems to be set free and said to the open air of your dorm room. he’s so emotional, so sappy and adorable about it, you barely know what to do with yourself. you kneel down beside your bed, so you and patrick are eye level, and run a hand through his hair.

he looks at you and for a split second his eyes flit down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. it’s you who takes the leap. you who leans forward and presses your lips against his. he returns it and for another moment you think it’s really happening, it’s finally fucking happening, he’s giving you permission - then he rips himself away, kicks off your blankets, and scrambles to his feet again like he had only 12 hours ago in front of your door. how different his face looked then and now.

“you should have stopped me. we can’t, i can’t. i can’t fucking do this with you. it’s wrong.” he’s panicking. he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be doing this, his heart is screaming at him to take it all back and get as close to you as possible but he forces distance. you try to argue with him, shoot back with anything you can to convince him to stop gathering all his shit like he’s going to bolt out your door any second. he stands with his hand on your doorknob and he hits you with one last blow.

“you should find someone who can actually love you.”

and all at once you’re alone again.

AUAUAUARRAGAGGAGHHHHN!!!!!!

Sappy love struck Patrick :(((

He’s so happy when he gets to Stanford and things feel normal, like you could move forward, like he can let things be good again.

He tries to push down his feelings at the party, to drown it in shots and beer and shove it down down down so he doesn’t do anything stupid. And maybe he should have thought about how drinking always makes him keen to act on every single idiotic idea he has.

Because you look so fucking good across the room, smiling and laughing with your school friends. You’ve got glitter in your hair, on your face and it catches the light so nicely. Pretty lipgloss he knows tastes like marshmallow. He wants to share a cigarette with you, so he can taste it like a kiss.

He doesn’t know why he won’t let himself have you. He knows, it would fuck over everyone else— his dad, your mom. It would taint his older siblings too, like there was a sickness in the family, a rot festering in the home. It would taint you— brand you with a huge fucking scarlet letter (he only half read the book, Art summarized it and he’s pretty sure he got the gist). He didn’t give a shit about hurting his dad, but doing something to hurt you you was unforgivable.

But of course, you want him. It makes it worse. So he drinks more. A second, a third cup of jungle juice. It tastes so sweet, he bets your tongue would taste the same.

By the time you’ve dragged him back to your dorm, he’s really feeling the full effects of the near gallons he’s had to drink. Stumbling and slurring his words as you ease him through the door to your single.

“Your dorm’s cute,” he slurs, then trips over the fluffy rug on the floor. “Can I smoke?”

“The windows don’t open, so no,” you say. He lost his pack at the party anyway, so the question is honestly pointless. He shucks off his shirt, tosses it at your desk, and collapses on top of your bed.

He looks at your wall, at the pictures hanging from flower-shaped thumbtacks. Some were your friends from Home-Home, before you moved in with the Zweig’s— friends and your childhood home and childhood pets. There were newer ones, of new friends, of you and Art after one of his matches, of the weekend trip when you and some friends went to the beach. But mostly, they’re of Patrick. You and Patrick, Patrick in his shitty myspace and facebook pictures… postcards he’d managed to send from overseas, postmarked a million times over. When he turns his head on the pillow, he sees you and him, in that stupid pillow fort when a transformer blew and the house lost power for two days.

"I'm sorry I ignored you," he says, and it feels like his tongue is too big in his mouth. "I didn't want to. I wanted... wanted to fly back here and fuckin' quit everything to just..."

"I know," you reply.

"I heard you fucking Art."

"What?"

"Couldn't even think about you or I'd get so fuckin' hard. Jerked off about it with him for, like, two hours."

"With Art?"

But he doesn't answer that. He just rambles on. "Think I love you, or I'm in love. That's so... it's scary. What the fuck am I s'posed to do with that?"

You freeze, kneel by his (your) bedside, all of the questions floating soft out of your mind. "Love me?"

His breath smells like a liquor store, his clothes smell like cigarettes and sweat. You want to curl into him and just stay there. "Yeah," he says. He's not looking in your eyes anymore. "Want to crawl inside your bed and stay here forever. Wanna kiss you like a— a boyfriend."

So you kiss him. Press your lips to his, soft and timid. His lips are slightly chapped, but soft. And right. Your hand moves to the back of his head, gentle, sweet. It's all right. It's what you've needed to do. He sighs against your mouth, like it's a relief, but it lasts only a few seconds before he pulls back.

It's like being doused in ice water, the way he looks at you. Like he's disgusted. "We shouldn't have... you shouldn't have fucking let me—"

"I did it," you say quickly, tugging on his arm. "I want it, it's not... we can."

He shakes his head and jumps to his feet, scrambling to find his shirt while you follow behind like a lost baby duck. "God, we really can't," he says firmly. "It's... it's fucking gross. We're fucked up. We can't."

"Patrick—"

"I shouldn't have come home."

Doing anything but having sex bc THEN it would be wrong

But shot gunning smoke into your moth, spitting tequila in his, going skinny dipping and staring, get naked and not doing anything just lying together. The worst is playing house when your parents are gone cooking dinner watching movies

RAHHHHHHHHH

I love thinking about them getting so intimate and close without ever actually fucking. Cuddling in his bed in just your underwear because “it’s so hot”, but then you’re all pressed together, still sweaty, and you slowly slip off all of the other layers until it’s just bare skin against bare skin 😌 just all close and sticky skin and it’s comfy and neither of you are going to make it weird haha 😁

My personal favorite is just sitting on the edge of the tub or outside of the shower while the other is taking a bath 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ I think Patrick loves perching on the edge of the bath while you sit in a comfy bubble bath. Loves to talk your ear off while you sip at a smoothie and eat comfort snacks 🙂‍↕️ and you love yapping while he’s in the shower too, handing him soaps and things while he’s in there, and definitely NOT sneaking peeks of his body, just like he does NOT peek at your tits when you’re in the bath.

auuayyfggghgg shotgunning <3 getting high and touchy and giggly. You’re all over each other, a little kissy and handsy, but never below the belt. Patrick’s the worst like this. Warm hands slipping under your shirt, maybe cupping your tits. Mouthing at your throat, mumbling against your skin.

PLAYING HOUSE!!!! You’re cooking and Patrick is mostly just observing. Handing you different ingredients and utensils as you need. It’s food he shouldn’t eat— too dense and not what he needs for the day on the court tomorrow, but he accepts it happily. It’s the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Ok last thought— going to the fancy rich people functions and galas and charity balls <3 you’re both all dressed up and a little tipsy off of the champagne. Sneaking out to share a cigarette outside, maybe skinny dipping in the country club pool while everyone else is distracted inside. Coming back to the party with wet hair and ruined makeup and smelling of chlorine and cigarette smoke.

art has this innocence about him that makes you fucking weak. you latch onto him, ask him for tennis lessons and when he's driving you home, you grab onto his arm and beg him to take you out for ice cream. he truly cannot say no to you.

art rarely gets his own cone. but sometimes you'll share, licking a long stripe of ice cream and handing it to art. it's sensual how he sucks the cold dessert into his mouth, a small, barely noticeable moan emitting from his mouth.

he can't say no when you ask him to come inside to watch a movie. you sit on the couch while everyone's asleep and cuddle under his arm.

no, you're not patrick's biological sister, but he feels bad. but god, the way you look at him with those big doe eyes when a sex scene comes on, like a silent beg for him to do something--he can't say no. he doesn't want to.

he pulls you onto his lap and kisses you. it's messy and wet and it seems like art doesn't quite know what he's doing. his hands hover over the small of your back, over your ass. you push them onto you, make him grab onto you. grind on his cock that is oh so hard against you.

"fuck--i shouldn't--" art gasps, shaking his head as you press open-mouthed kisses against his throat. but he can't stop and his hips buck up and he wants to pull your shirt up.

"why not? i'm not his real sister. doesn't matter." your words are breathy, and patrick hears them. he knew it was art before he even opened his mouth--he knows those moans.

and you're right. you're not his real sister. but then that means he should get to touch you too. but he can't tell you that he's jealous. and he can't confront you or art about it--so he fumes.

GODDDDDD this is so so yummy <3 sorry I took a bit to answer I had to let this one simmer <3

Because you and Patrick have been pretty close since your parents married— never really had that phase of contention and bitterness between the two of you. He was glad to have some sort of ally in the house to be on his side.

But then you start fucking Art. His Art who’s supposed to be his friend first. And you’re his step sister, not that Art seemed to fucking care before he decided to plow you.

So he seethes over it. Because what do you mean you’re inviting Art over to the house now, that you two have movie nights and cute little dates where you cook together, or work on puzzles like you’re seventy instead of twenty.

But it’s worse when you’re fucking— when he happens by your room and hears Art’s moans. He’s always so goddamn loud, of course he doesn’t have the decency to shut the fuck up about it in Patrick’s house.

Maybe he walks a little slower, maybe he feels himself getting hard when he stops and lets himself listen. It’s all muffled through the door, but he can hear the creak of the mattress springs, the wet slap of skin against skin. Art’s slutty moans, you whining and mewling for more. All— yes, art! don’t stop- feels so good- fuck!— like you’re in a fucking porno.