Shouldnt You Be Prostituting Yourself For A Place To Sleep Tonight? Part 2

“shouldn’t you be prostituting yourself for a place to sleep tonight?” part 2

patrick x reader

a/n: thank you for enjoying this enough to warrant a part two😭❤️

his vulnerability is palpable now, the bravado he used to wear like armor has long since crumbled, leaving him raw and uncertain. "thanks for letting me come over," he says, voice low, almost unsure. you offer him a small, tentative smile, still unsure of what to say. it feels like meeting him for the first time again, only this time, he's a little more broken, and you're a little more cautious.

"it's fine," you murmur, though the awkwardness lingers like a thick smoke, curling in the silence between your words. it’s strange, how once you shared everything, and now you can’t even find the right way to ask him if he's doing okay.

he shifts, clearing his throat, his eyes flicking toward you, and for a moment, it’s like the old patrick peeks through—a faint shadow of the boy who used to tease you relentlessly, just to see you smile. “you know, you haven’t changed much," he says, voice soft with an edge of something you can't quite place. you laugh, but it’s a nervous, light sound, and you shake your head.

"you have," you reply, maybe more bluntly than you meant to. his smile falters, but he nods, gaze falling to the floor. “yeah,” he whispers, “i guess i have.”

your eyes linger, skulking over his unshaven beard, his bright blue eyes still brash, yet weary. the same eyes that used to gaze at you with so much love, affection. now with caution.

for a moment, silence wraps around you both again, the weight of what’s been lost too heavy to carry into conversation. and then, in a voice that's just a bit too careful, he tries to break the tension, offering a half-hearted flirt. “you ever think about… us? like, back then?” he asks, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart twist. you don’t answer immediately, and he fumbles, quickly adding, “not that i’m—i don’t mean…”

you smile gently, shaking your head. “i do,” you admit quietly, and for a moment, the tension softens, the past stretching like a bridge between you both. but you both know it’s not the same anymore.

he leans back, sighing, a small, tired laugh escaping him. “i missed this,” he says, almost too softly, and there’s a warmth in his voice that you haven’t heard in so long. you smile only the tiniest amount, exhaling gently.

smoothing out your jeans, you glance toward the small, cozy bedroom down the hall. “you can take the bed,” you say, almost too quickly, trying to avoid any more awkwardness. “i’ll sleep on the couch. it’s fine, really.”

patrick’s brows furrow, his eyes narrowing slightly in offense as he straightens up on the couch. “what, do you think i’m some kind of barbarian?” he says, his voice laced with mock indignation. “you seriously think i’d let you sleep on the couch in your own house? come on.”

you open your mouth to protest, but before you can get a word in, he stands up, crossing the room with a sudden burst of energy. “i’m a gentleman!” he exclaims, a playful edge creeping into his tone. “do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? i would never let you do that.”

you blink, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “patrick—”

he cuts you off with a dramatic wave of his hand, his expression shifting into something more earnest, though there’s still a spark of mischief in his eyes. “no, no. we’ll both take the bed. but—” he raises a finger, like he’s just come up with the grandest idea, “we’ll put up a partition, like we’re children or something. afraid of cooties.”

you can’t help but laugh, the tension easing a little. “a partition?” you ask, crossing your arms, amusement dancing in your voice. “and how exactly are we supposed to do that?”

he glances around your living room as if searching for something to use. “pillows,” he says, nodding decisively. “we’ll make a wall of pillows. you stay on your side, i stay on mine. it’s foolproof. totally respectful.”

you raise an eyebrow, trying to stifle your laughter. “and you’re sure this is the best solution?”

“absolutely,” he grins, the first real smile you’ve seen from him all night. it’s like a flicker of the old patrick—confident, playful, always pushing boundaries just enough to make you laugh but never too far. “you’ll see. i’m a perfect gentleman. nothing to worry about.”

shaking your head, you relent, half-amused, half-unsure how you got roped into this. “alright, fine. but if you cross the pillow wall—”

he interrupts with a hand over his heart. “i solemnly swear, i won’t cross the pillow wall. i’ll be on my best behavior.”

you roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile pulling at your lips. “okay, okay. let’s do this.”

as you both make your way into the bedroom, you can feel the strange mix of nostalgia and vulnerability between you. patrick starts arranging the pillows with a kind of exaggerated seriousness, making you laugh despite the lingering tension. for a moment, it feels like you’re back in the past, before everything got complicated.

when the bed is finally set, with a lumpy, but passable pillow barrier between you, patrick flops down on his side, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “see? foolproof,” he mumbles, his voice softer now, as if the weight of the day is finally catching up with him. “thanks for this, really,” he adds, quieter, more sincere.

you lie down on your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin, the soft hum of the city outside filling the quiet space between you both. “it’s no problem,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling, your heart beating a little faster than you’d like to admit.

there’s a long pause, and you almost think he’s fallen asleep when he speaks again, voice low and tentative. “i don’t… i don’t really know how to be this person anymore,” he admits, and in the darkness, you can hear the vulnerability in his words. “but i’m trying.”

you turn your head slightly, looking toward the wall of pillows that separates you. “i know,” you say softly. “and that’s enough.”

for a while, neither of you speaks, the air between you settling into something that feels less awkward, more familiar. the silence feels heavy, but it’s a comforting weight, like you’re both slowly relearning how to exist in each other’s lives.

and somewhere between the rustling of sheets and the soft rhythm of your breaths, you fall asleep, the pillow wall standing firm, but the distance between you both somehow feeling a little less vast.

—

the morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, and you blink awake, feeling the warmth of something—or someone—pressed against you. your heart skips a beat as you realize the pillow partition is gone, and you and patrick are clung to each other, bodies entwined like vines, arms wrapped so tightly you feel like you might snap apart if you move. it’s like the earth itself has cracked between you, splitting the continents, and you’re clinging to the only thing that’s keeping you from drifting away.

for a moment, you stay still, your heart hammering in your chest as you process how close you are. patrick’s arm is draped over your waist, his leg tangled with yours, and his breath is warm on your neck. he stirs, and suddenly, you feel him realize the situation too. his body tenses, and then, almost in slow motion, you both awkwardly pull away, limbs fumbling as if you’re unsure where one person begins and the other ends.

you clear your throat, sitting up and avoiding his gaze, hoping your flushed face isn’t too obvious. but then you glance over at him, and his situation is definitely not helping matters—patrick, fully aware of his morning wood, shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “uh, sorry, i—” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, clearly embarrassed. “it’s, uh, it’s morning, you know?”

you laugh nervously, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “yeah, i know. it’s, uh, fine.” you quickly get out of bed, trying to pretend this is totally normal, not at all weird or intimate or… whatever it was. “do you, um, want to take a shower?” you ask, eager to shift the focus.

“yeah,” patrick says, a little too quickly. “that’d be great.”

you lead him to the bathroom, still feeling a little flustered. “towels are in the cabinet,” you say, pointing without making eye contact, because the sight of him is making your heart do weird things again. “just, uh, help yourself.”

as he steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, you exhale, trying to calm the fluttering in your stomach. get a grip, you tell yourself. it was just… sleeping. innocent. but the way you held each other, like the world would break apart if you let go—that wasn’t just sleeping, was it?

shaking off the thought, you busy yourself by heading to the kitchen to make breakfast. you crack some eggs, fry up bacon, anything to distract yourself. the sound of the shower running helps, but it also gives you too much time to think. you don’t have clean clothes for him. what’s he going to wear when he comes out? you wrack your brain, and then it hits you.

when patrick finally steps out of the bathroom, damp and only in a towel slung low around his hips, your mouth goes dry. he’s standing there like some kind of ridiculous rom-com cliché, water droplets still clinging to his chest, and you can feel yourself blushing again.

“sorry,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his wet hair. “i don’t have any clothes…”

you blink, tearing your gaze away. “right! uh, hang on. i… might have something.” you dart past him to the closet, rummaging around until you find them—his old college clothes. you’d kept them, hidden away at the back, not thinking you’d ever have a reason to pull them out again. but here they are, and you’re holding them in your hands.

“here,” you say, handing them over. “they’re, uh, yours. from… college.”

patrick looks at the clothes, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “you kept these?”

you shrug, trying to play it cool, but the warmth in his voice, the look in his eyes—it’s making your heart race again. “i guess i did,” you mumble, turning away before he can see how flustered you are.

“awww,” he teases softly, pulling the clothes from your hands. “didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “just put them on,” you say, trying to sound exasperated, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you. “breakfast is almost ready.”

as he disappears back into the bathroom to change, you lean against the counter, heart pounding in your chest. what is happening here? this was supposed to be just an awkward sleepover. a kind gesture to an ex boyfriend going through hardship. but it’s starting to feel like something else entirely. and the fact that you still had his clothes—his old clothes—it’s stirring something deep inside you, something you thought you’d buried a long time ago.

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“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.

everywhere i go, i am reminded of him

dating art donaldson (social media au)

a/n: wanted to try something new! if you like it, request more and i’ll make whatever 😘😘 reblog appreciated!!!!

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