Shouldnt You Be Prostituting Yourself For A Place To Sleep Tonight?

“shouldn’t you be prostituting yourself for a place to sleep tonight?”

patrick x reader

a/n: send submissions! i’ll do them all😻

The restaurant is dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting flickering shadows across the polished wood of the tables. It’s the kind of place you wouldn’t normally find yourself in—a little too expensive, a little too perfect, a stage set for lovers who whisper empty promises over wine and imported appetizers. But tonight, you’re here for a work dinner, the kind where everyone pretends to enjoy the pretense of sophistication while trying not to check their phones under the table.

You’re swirling the last sip of red wine in your glass, your attention only half on the conversation drifting around you when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of someone familiar. It’s a face you’ve tried not to think about for the past few years, a face that, despite all your efforts, still lingers in the corners of your mind when you least expect it.

Patrick.

Patrick Zweig.

For a moment, you think you must be mistaken. The Patrick you knew wouldn’t be in a place like this, and certainly not in the state he seems to be in now. His once easy confidence is gone, replaced by something hollow, something broken. He’s sitting at a table near the back, across from a woman who’s laughing too loudly, her voice cutting through the murmured conversation of the room like glass. She’s wearing a dress that clings too tightly, a shade of red that demands attention. But it’s Patrick that your eyes keep returning to.

He looks stronger than you remember, yet his clothes hang on him as if they belong to someone else. His hair, once neatly kept, is disheveled, and his face is drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. But it’s the way he holds himself that strikes you most—the slumped shoulders, the defeated tilt of his head, the way his eyes dart nervously around the room as if he’s waiting for something, or someone, to catch him in the act.

Your heart clenches, the memories of your time together rushing back with a force you weren’t prepared for. You’d broken up in college—two people who once fit together so seamlessly, only to unravel when life’s pressures became too much. He’d gone one way, and you’d gone another, each of you convinced it was the right thing to do. But now, seeing him here, something unspoken grips your chest.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. His parents had cut him off after some fallout you never got the full details of. You’d heard whispers about how he’d been scraping by, taking odd jobs, doing whatever he could to keep his head above water. There were stories, too, about the dates—the endless string of women who’d taken him in for a night or two, offering him a bed to sleep in, a reprieve from whatever storm he was running from. It was ugly, but it wasn’t hard to believe. Patrick had always been charming, able to talk his way in and out of any situation. But this—seeing it play out in front of you—was something else entirely.

The woman reaches across the table, her hand landing lightly on Patrick’s wrist, her fingers trailing in a way that’s meant to be seductive but feels rehearsed. Patrick forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You know that smile. It’s the one he used when he was hiding something, when the weight of whatever he was going through became too much to bear, but he didn’t want anyone to see it.

You can’t look away. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this one moment, to the space between you and him, even though he hasn’t noticed you yet. And maybe he won’t. Maybe it’s better that way.

But then, as if he senses something, his eyes flicker upward, locking with yours. For a second, there’s no recognition, just a tired man glancing at a stranger in a crowded room. But then you see it—the flicker of surprise, the widening of his eyes as realization dawns. His body stiffens, his smile falters, and for a moment, everything between you, all the history, the pain, the love that once was, hangs heavy in the air.

The woman, oblivious, keeps talking, her voice a distant hum in the background as Patrick stares at you. You can see the conflict in his expression—the way he’s torn between the person he used to be with you and the person he’s become. His eyes, once bright with mischief and hope, are clouded now, dulled by whatever desperation he’s been forced to live with. He looks away quickly, his hand pulling back from the woman’s touch as if he’s been burned.

You don’t move. You can’t. Part of you wants to go to him, to ask him how it came to this, to offer something—anything—that might help. But the other part of you knows that whatever he’s going through, he won’t let you in. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Patrick shifts in his seat, his hand brushing through his hair in a gesture of discomfort. He stands suddenly, mumbling something to the woman that you can’t hear from where you’re sitting. She looks up, confused, but he doesn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he walks away from the table, from her, from the façade he’s been clinging to. He doesn’t look at you as he passes, his steps hurried, as though he’s trying to escape before reality catches up with him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

You sit there, the noise of the restaurant returning to its normal volume, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations filling the space he left behind. Your heart is racing, your hands trembling slightly as you set your wine glass down.

In the years since your breakup, you’d often wondered what had become of him. But this? This was never what you’d imagined. The boy you once loved, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who kissed you under the stars like you were the only person in the world, had become a shadow of himself.

You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again. And maybe it’s better that way. But as you gather your things to leave, you can’t help but feel the weight of his absence, a heaviness that settles deep within you.

The night moves on, but something in you stays behind, lingering in the space where Patrick once stood.

-

You leave the restaurant with the night heavy around you, the cool air brushing against your skin like a reminder of all the unspoken things weighing down your heart. The city moves in its usual rhythm—cars humming by, the distant chatter of people spilling out of bars and cafés—but you’re somewhere else entirely, trapped in a haze of memory and the sight of Patrick, so different and yet somehow the same.

You walk slowly, your mind spinning in circles around what you just saw. Each step feels disconnected, like you’re walking in a dream, the world blurry at the edges. You think about the way his eyes looked when they met yours, the brief flicker of recognition, and how he walked away without a word. Part of you aches to let it go, to chalk it up to the past, another chapter closed. But then there’s that other part of you, the part that still remembers the way he used to laugh, the way he used to hold you like you were something precious. That part won’t let you walk away so easily.

By the time you reach your apartment, you’re pacing, your phone in your hand, staring down at it like it might hold all the answers.

Does he still have the same number? Should I call him?

You sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the blank screen. Your fingers hover over the numbers you know by heart, the muscle memory still strong. You wonder what you’d even say if he picked up. Would it matter? Would he even care? After everything that’s happened, after the years that have passed, does it even make sense to reach out?

But then you think of the way he looked tonight—lost, adrift—and something inside you shifts. You can’t just walk away. Not like this.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you dial the number. The phone rings, once, twice, a hollow sound that echoes in your chest. For a moment, you think it will go unanswered, that he’s long since moved on, changed his number, disappeared into whatever life he’s carved out for himself.

But then, on the fourth ring, there’s a click. Silence hangs in the air for a beat too long before his voice comes through, low and hesitant.

“…Hello?”

Your breath catches. It’s him. There’s a weariness in his tone that wasn’t there before, a tiredness that speaks to everything he’s been through. But it’s unmistakably Patrick.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry, the words you’d rehearsed in your head crumbling under the weight of reality. “Patrick,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, barely above a whisper. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause on the other end, the kind that stretches too long, heavy with the unspoken history between you. You wonder if he’s going to hang up, if he’s regretting answering at all. But then, finally, he speaks.

“Hey,” he says, the word drawn out like he’s trying to find his footing in a conversation neither of you ever expected to have. There’s a tremor in his voice, something fragile.

You close your eyes, steeling yourself. “I saw you tonight,” you continue, your voice steadying, though your heart is racing. “At the restaurant. I wasn’t sure if I should call…”

He lets out a breath, one you can almost hear over the line. “Yeah, I saw you too.” he mutters, and you can hear the exhaustion, the weight of whatever he’s been carrying.

There’s a stretch of silence, the space between you filled with the static of the phone line, and you can almost picture him, sitting somewhere dark, head bowed, running a hand through his hair the way he used to when he was nervous.

You’re not sure how to begin, how to bridge the years and the pain that’s grown between you both. “What happened to you, Patrick?” you ask quietly, not out of judgment, but from a place of deep, aching concern. “What are you doing?”

His laugh is bitter, a sound that cuts through the air like a dull knife. “I don’t know,” he admits, and there’s a rawness to it that surprises you. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

You shift, leaning forward, gripping the phone tighter. “I heard things,” you say cautiously. “About your parents. About…everything.”

He’s quiet for a moment, the weight of your words hanging in the air. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost broken. “Yeah, they cut me off. I don’t even blame them. I screwed up—badly. I’m a shitty, has-been tennis prodigy. And now I’m just…” He trails off, the words dying on his lips. “I’m just trying to survive.”

You close your eyes, his pain seeping into you through the phone. You can hear it in every word, the way he’s been scraping by, doing whatever he can to stay afloat. The Patrick you knew, the one who seemed so invincible, so sure of himself, is gone. In his place is someone who’s been stripped bare, exposed to the harshest parts of life.

“I saw you with her,” you say, the words gentle but deliberate. “That woman.”

Another pause, this one heavier, more deliberate. When he finally responds, there’s no denial, no attempt to explain it away. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s…not what it looks like. But it’s not far from the truth either.”

You wince, a mix of sadness and helplessness flooding you. “Patrick…”

“I know,” he cuts in, his voice tight, almost angry—at himself more than anything. “You don’t have to say it. I know how far I’ve fallen.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I was going to ask if you need help. If you’re okay.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. You can hear the faint sound of his breathing on the other end, the way he’s struggling to hold himself together. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, almost a whisper.

“I don’t know if I’m okay,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ve been okay in a long time.”

Something in you breaks at his words, the vulnerability in his voice. You close your eyes, leaning back against the wall, the phone pressed tightly to your ear. “Let me help,” you say softly, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them.

“I don’t deserve your help,” he says, his voice cracking. “Not after everything.”

“It’s not about what you deserve, Patrick. It’s about what you need. And I want to give you what you need. I know we’re not together, but I still care about you.”

There’s a long silence again, but this time, it feels different. Less heavy. Less broken.

“…Okay,” he finally whispers. “Okay.”

And in that moment, something shifts between you—something tentative, fragile, but real. Something that might just be enough.

patrick and art

mike faist, ceo of costar affection: a (very long) series

i’m just gonna keep updating this every time i find more lmao

late night rambles

art donaldson x reader

The alarm blinked, casting a soft red glow across the room: 3:00 AM. You and Art were wide awake, tangled in the kind of conversation that only comes at impossible hours of the night, when the world feels like it’s theirs alone. The air was thick with summer warmth, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the distant hum of crickets. They were sprawled out on the floor of Art’s bedroom, tennis rackets leaning haphazardly against the wall—relics of a day spent practicing under the sun.

“I’m not even tired,” Art mused, his voice low but clear, breaking the comfortable silence. “Hard to be in your company. You make me feel... I don’t know, energised.” He chuckled, nervously running his fingers through his messy curls. “Is that cringey? That’s cringey, right?”

You laughed softly, rolling onto their side to face him. “A little. But it’s okay. I’ll allow it.”

They’d been friends for seven years—since that first summer at tennis camp when they were just kids, bonded over their shared love for the game and a mutual disdain for the camp’s cafeteria food. Now, at 17, everything was the same, yet different. The conversations were still effortless, but beneath the surface was something heavier, unspoken. A shift they both felt but neither would dare mention.

Art glanced sideways, watching the way you absentmindedly fiddled with a thread on the hem of your shirt, your eyes focused somewhere between the floor and the stars you couldn’t see. “Remember when we’d stay up this late, just talking about which player we’d want to be? I always picked Federer. You were obsessed with Sharapova.” He grinned.

“I still am. She’s a queen,” You replied, your smile stretching wide, though your voice carried a teasing edge.

There was a pause, one that wasn’t uncomfortable, but loaded with memories. Art shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow. “You know,” he began, suddenly serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but... you’re my favorite person.”

You felt a warmth rise in your chest, like a balloon inflating slowly, filling the space between them. You wanted to say something back, something witty, or maybe something just as sentimental. But instead, you swallowed it down and rolled your eyes. “Okay, now that’s definitely cringey.”

Art laughed, but it was softer this time, a bit more vulnerable. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but it’s true.”

You could feel the weight of the moment settling around them, the unspoken confessions tucked away in the spaces between their words. For all the ease they had with each other, there was a new kind of tension, a nervous energy that felt both thrilling and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something they weren’t quite ready to name.

“So... what happens when we grow up?” You asked, breaking the silence.

Art blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happens when tennis isn’t the thing holding us together anymore? When life gets in the way? I don’t know, I guess I’m just wondering if this—” You gestured between each other, “—stays the same.”

Art hesitated, the question sinking in. He sat up fully now, legs crossed in front of him. “I think we’ll always have this,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll change, but I think it’ll be... better. Like, deeper or something. You know?”

You nodded slowly, your heart beating just a little faster. You weren’t sure if they believed him, but you wanted to. So, so badly.

“Besides,” Art added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood, “if nothing else, I’ll just stalk you at every tennis match. You’ll be winning Wimbledon and I’ll be in the crowd, holding a You Go Sharapova 2.0 sign.”

You laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. “Yeah, and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“Rude,” Art teased, but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and real, a quiet hope that maybe things didn’t have to change as much as they feared.

The alarm blinked again: 3:15 AM. Time kept moving forward, but for them, it felt like they were suspended in something timeless. Neither was ready to say goodnight, not yet. Instead, they basked in their contentment.

I need to know how patrick and art would react to finding out reader wear glasses after you've always worn ur contacts around them...

your contact refill getting messed up so you have to wear your glasses for a few days and art and patrick haven’t seen you in them. you show up to their house for dinner and you’re wearing your big frames and they just kind of stare at you.

patrick pokes at your nose. “well hello there four-eyes.”

and you’re already self conscious because you’re not used to wearing your glasses so his little comment annoys you but they’re just staring at you the whole night—something about how they frame your face and make you look so sweet and cute makes them feel all hot and bothered.

they both bite their tongues, not knowing how to compliment you without making it awkward. you’re all just friends. but as you go home and they shut the door, art immediately brings it up.

“did you think that—“

patrick interrupts. “that her glasses are really fucking hot?”

“yeah.” they both say.

“fuck me i’d love if she would just—“

“yeah me too.” Art agrees without knowing what he’s really agreeing to.

and when your contacts come in, they protest.

“I just feel like the contacts are probably drying is all. like i’ve heard stuff where they get stuck in peoples’ eyes.”

“they’ll probably make you blind who even knows what’s going to happen.”

“glasses are kind of like an accessory it adds to your outfits i think.”