Someone Said Something About How The Em Dash (—) Is A Sign Of Ai Use But The Em Dash Is Literally My

chat i have soooo many drafts rotting and no motivation… ☹️

stanford!art x tutor!reader

stanford!art who won’t admit it but he actually is having a hard time adjusting to not having a roommate (aka not sharing a bed with patrick)

stanford!art who is having trouble managing his time between tennis and school and partying so the athletic department assigns you to be his tutor

stanford!art who is a lot nicer than you expect given his usual icy demeanor, once you get to know him he’s actually a sweetheart

stanford!art who gets distracted during your tutoring sessions whenever you wear a low cut top, eyes glued to your chest with his mouth hanging open a little. you laugh waving your hand in front of his face “hello? Art? you with me?”

stanford!art who takes you to your first frat party because “i can’t believe you’ve never been but now that i think about it your too smart and definitely too pretty to be hanging out with these people anyway”

stanford!art who thinks you can’t go shot for shot with him but he ends up tapping out first because “holy fuck y/n how’d you get ur tolerance so high?”

stanford!art who ends up stumbling back with you to your dorm room, rambling on and on about how pretty he thinks you are “your face is so distracting jesus. can’t even fucking concentrate. your eyes are so brown, so pretty like chocolate. i love chocolate, so good, sweet, creamy. do you like chocolate?” you laugh it off

stanford!art who admits he has feelings for you during your last tutoring session “do you have facebook?” your confused because you don’t what that is. “i- i’m just trying to ask for you number”

stanford!art who you’ve been seeing for the past 3 months and you’ve been to every stanford tennis match since

stanford!art who is the biggest munch you’ve ever met, eats pussy like his life depends on it, moaning, whimpering into you, and humping the bed when he can to get friction. your slick mixed with his saliva running down his chin

stanford!art who is the only guy you’ve ever met that cums from eating pussy

if you dont continue the black beauty thing i fear im going to explode

i honestly hated black beauty 😓

but if y’all REALLY want it, i have some ideas for pt. 2…

genuinely, how do you write smut??? i feel so stupid. this is why i stick to fluff and angst. this is hard 😔🙃

Thinking about art who grew up in the church choir or used to be a theatre kid

patrick bullies him mercilessly for it and hes screaming when he finds out that when he goes back to his home town on break from his tours, no matter how old or famous he gets, art still participates in the local theatre/panto, ...he might have grown out of it but he does it for his grandma.

Patrick secretly buys tickets because he needs to witness this

AWWWWW baby 🥺🥺🥺

When he goes home with art one time (he got caught cheating on one of his exams and his parents didn’t let him come home for their spring break skiing trip), Art’s grandma shows off all of the pictures of baby Art in his choir concerts and theatre productions 🥺 all the way back to a 6 year old art playing a wise man in a church nativity play. And then he’s flipping through and there’s little Art the summer before MRTA with whiskers and a lion costume in a production of the wizard of oz…. ANGEL!!!

And ofc there are shitty vhs tapes of all of it and Art is beet red with his face hidden in his shirt while Patrick watches him sing show tunes and hymns for hours.

Josh O'Connor | W Magazine (2025)

lucky you | tattooartist!patrick x reader

warning: oral sex, m! receiving

the back of patrick zweig's tattoo shop smells like ink, antiseptic, and cigarette smoke, the faint hum of a tattoo machine still buzzing somewhere in the front. it's dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent flickering slightly, casting long shadows across the cluttered counter and the worn leather couch pushed against the wall.

but none of that really matters—not when you're on your knees, fingers curling against the rough denim of his jeans, mouth stretched wide around his cock.

patrick leans back against the counter, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping the edge behind him like he needs something to brace against. he's trying so hard to keep himself together, to maintain that usual cocky, unbothered demeanor—but you can hear him breaking. his breath shudders every time you sink down, his jaw clenching as he fights the little moans and groans threatening to spill from his lips.

"fuck," he breathes, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. "such a good fucking mouth. all it's good for, yeah?"

the words send a sharp thrill through you, and you whimper around him, throat tightening as you take him deeper. he feels it—his whole body jolts slightly, fingers tightening at your scalp as he exhales a sharp, broken sound.

"shit—look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "making such a fucking mess."

sloppy doesn't even begin to cover it. your spit glistens along his length, slick and dripping down your chin, your tongue working him over with desperate, eager strokes. every time you pull back, a slick, obscene sound follows, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock before you take him in again, gagging softly as he presses deeper. patrick groans, low and guttural, trying to swallow it down, but he can't help it—your mouth is perfect, warm and wet and eager, and he's unraveling fast.

his shirt is bunched up just enough for you to catch sight of the ink just above his cock, black cursive letters etched into the sharp plane of his hairy pelvis: LUCKY YOU.

it makes your stomach twist with something dark and needy, makes your thighs squeeze together, makes your lashes flutter as you blink up at him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. patrick groans, his head tipping back.

"god—" his voice cracks, and you feel his thighs tense beneath your hands. his grip in your hair tightens, guiding you, pushing you down until your nose brushes against the base of him, until your throat flutters around him in a way that makes his whole body seize up.

it doesn't take much more than that. his breath catches, a curse tumbling from his lips, and then he's spilling hot and thick across your tongue, holding you there as he shudders through it. you swallow it all, greedily, eyes flicking up to watch the way his jaw goes slack, how his chest rises and falls in uneven pants.

when you finally pull back, licking your lips, patrick stares down at you, chest still heaving. and then—slowly, lazily—he smirks, shaking his head like he can't believe it.

"such a slut," he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, satisfaction. "think i might have to keep you around, huh?"

his thumb swipes across your chin, collecting a stray droplet, and he holds it up to your lips. you take it without hesitation, sucking the pad of his finger into your mouth.

yeah. he's definitely keeping you around.

my cute mouse that was granted a wish to be a man!

you’re here, that’s the thing

and i know you said that we’re not a thing but you’re here, that’s the thing - you're here that's the thing, beabadoobee

pairing: teen!patrick zweig x childhood bestfriend!reader

in which: you and patrick have spent summers tangled up with each other. you're in love, he's in denial. and yet— he's here, that's the thing.

warnings: patrick being an idiot

note: patrick and reader are 18-ish. this based off my favorite beabadoobee song, which is very patrick coded (in my opinion). this is my first fic, i hope you like it!!

“so we’re both here, aren’t we?”

you turn around, a stupid grin instantly blossoming on your face at the sight of patrick zweig standing a few steps above you on the staircase.

"you avoiding me or something? you haven't talked to me since you got here." patrick laughs gently.

"no, of course not." you tilt your head slightly, biting back everything you want to say and opting for a smile. you pat the space next to you and he sits down, all in comfortable silence.

whether you’re 10 or 18, you always end up here. with him. an escape from his parents’ suffocating parties and small talk.

patrick sniffs as he lights a cigarette. you scrunch up your nose, “we’re literally indoors, pat.”

patrick scoffs as pillows of smoke escape his mouth. “it’s my house. the window’s open, they won’t care.”

“summer house,” you correct and his eyes fly skyward.

“yeah, yeah. summer house. on the fuckin’, fuckin’— i forget- which island are we on?” patrick snaps his fingers in thought

“santa catalina,” you respond simply, picking at your nails because you don’t think you can look him in the eyes. your insides are already bubbling and he hasn’t even been here two minutes.

“santa fucking whatever-“ patrick snorts, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and passing it over to you. he doesn’t even ask if you want it or not— he knows you well enough to know that you’ll take a sip.

you wrap your lips around the bottle, and you can taste him. or you think you can. or maybe you just connect everything that reminds you of him to him.

the taste of beer, cigarettes, the subtle hint of his cologne— earthy, citrusy, and unmistakably him

you shut your eyes and swallow down the cold liquid, you try not to gag because you know patrick will make fun of you for it.

“i’ve missed you, y’know?”

you almost spit out your drink, your cheeks burn up and all of a sudden you’re 13 again. “really?”

patrick rolls his eyes again. “yeah, idiot. ‘course i missed you, you’re the only friend i have.”

“you have art?”

“that’s—“ patrick sniffs, “that’s different, you’re like a- a girl.”

“wow, i feel so special,” you can’t help but laugh. “where’s art anyways?”

“he’s staying with his grandmother for the summer this year,” patrick shrugs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. he turns to smirk at you- “why, do you miss him? did you want to see him?”

but you know him enough to know that under all that bravado is stupid, boyish jealousy.

“i’ve missed you too.” you let yourself admit.

he immediately smiles at that. “yeah, you did. you probably dreamed of me every night and fuckin’ cried to thought of me.” he cackles like a maniac, shoving you gently. now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

you reach for the beer bottle and you brush his hands—warm and calloused— and the touch lingers a bit too long. you pull your hand away as you take another sip, your fingers twitch. it’d be so easy to grab his hand right now. you swallow the drink down with your fantasies as you clear your throat.

“so how’s—“ you begin to say

“fuck, this is so stupid,” he groans. he reaches for your chin and tilts your head.

your eyes meet.

his are a shade of blue and green, like when the sun shines on the ocean. that sort of pretty. comforting. you’d like to swim in them. those eyes flicker to your lips. his thumb brushes over your chin, your insides flutter. and he almost— almost leans in.

“you’re being weird, is this because i kissed you last year?”

yes. yes. it is patrick. you want to scream.

“no, why would— i’m not being weird-“

“you are- you are being so fuckin’ weird-“

“patrick- i’m fine,” you scoff.

“it’s wasn’t supposed to be serious if that’s what you’re so concerned about— we’re not a thing. it was like a drunk thing.”

oh.

a drunk thing. not a thing that happened after years of tension. just a drunk thing. that's all it was to him. you swallow that thought like you could wash it down with the lingering taste of beer in your mouth as your heart throbs in your chest.

but yeah, you and patrick were never a thing. it’s something patrick had made clear several times. but each time was a new stab in the chest.

the kiss was a drunken mistake. it was the last day of summer break, you, art, and patrick around six and a half beers in with some weed in the mix, sitting on the sands of the beach. all drunk out of their minds.

you were talking about something stupid while art laughed. patrick stared at the waves crashing into the rocks before he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

it was soft. warm. right.

and even though you were both blackout drunk, you remember it so clearly. and so does he— he wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.

art had laughed at the action. "what, is this, like, a thing? you guys a thing now?"

patrick had pulled away at that point, his hand still on your waist, grip tightening with his jaw. "fuck, no. it's not like that."

your family left the zweig’s summer home the next morning.

and you couldn’t bear asking him about it over the phone in fear of ruining seven years of friendship.

so for the next 350 something days, you convinced yourself it was just some summer fling that couldn’t even be considered “a fling.”

you managed to convince yourself that you don’t care. but that doesn’t stop the burning, tingly sensation at your waterline and a tear or two from rolling down your cheek.

his entire face drops, almost comically. “why are you crying? no- don’t cry- what the fuck-“ he panics. he doesn’t know where to put his hands. they cup your cheeks then fall from your cheeks. hold your shoulders, then your hands. it’s almost like patrick’s brain crashed and he was malfunctioning. it would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much, just because of that stupid look on his face. you almost smile. "hey, no- stop that." he starts to laugh, that stupid laugh you fell in love with, and when notices your glare, he stops.

he chooses to stare at you in silence, reaching over to wipe some of your tears. you push his hands away, it's petty. he sighs. "i dunno what i did wrong, i- i thought you wanted it to be a drunk thing. you didn't— you talk about it after we did it. I mean— girls usually talk about this kind of shit, right? to-"

you look at him through your tears, in a 'are you fucking stupid?' kind of way and he shuts up. through your tears you manage to finally say, "imfuckinginlovewithyou, youstupidfuckingidiot"

patrick's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but not in— 'wow this girl loves me' confusion. no— more in a 'what the fuck did you just say, because i don't understand the words that come out of your mouth when you cry' kind of way. you breathe deeply, calming your shaky vocal chords, and wipe your tears. "i love you, you idiot."

patrick's dumbfounded. he opens his mouth to say something. closes it. opens it again— then closes it for good. he's like a fish. a stupidly handsome fish. then he finally manages an "oh." "oh?" you repeat, then the frustration spills out. "the fuck you mean 'oh'? i just said something that could change the trajectory of our friendship—" without warning, he kisses you. grabbing onto the back of your neck and shutting you up.

your hand drops and you grab onto his shirt. your mouth moves with his, and it's so... right. he tastes like the smoke of his cigarette, he tastes like the beer— he tastes like patrick.

when you pull apart and just stare at him, he laughs. fucking laughs. like an idiot. you roll your eyes. "i like you too." he smirks slightly, pushing a hand through his curls and sighing.

"i just told you i love you, and you're saying you like me?" you tease with a smile. "wow, patrick. i'm hurt." he cups your cheeks again, inching closer. "please don't start crying again."

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"i love you too." — tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

can’t believe some ppl only know mike faist from challengers. they don’t even know that max’s mom brought cookie cake for everyone :/