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.

Oh!

everywhere i go, i am reminded of him

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

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

acting exercises

mike faist x actress!reader

Another press day. Another round of cameras, microphones, and the same recycled questions. It had become routine by now—sit in the chair, smile, deflect, repeat. But this time, the stakes were different. This time, you were seated next to Mike Faist, pretending, as you had for months, that nothing more than co-star camaraderie tethered you together.

You settle into your seat, smoothing the folds of your tailored suit as the interviewer approaches. His handshake is firm, his smile polite but perfunctory. The room is bright with stage lights, the kind that make everything feel more exposed than it should. You glance at Mike out of the corner of your eye, watching as he exchanges a casual word with Josh O’Connor. The three of you have done this dance so many times now, it’s almost mechanical—the smiles, the laughter, the shared glances that don’t mean what they should.

But then, there’s the secret. The small, electric undercurrent that hums between you and Mike, pulsing just beneath the surface. No one in this room knows about it. Not the interviewer, not the crew bustling around with cameras, not even Josh, who’s become like a brother during filming. Only a few close friends and family know the truth—that when the cameras stop rolling, when the world stops watching, the way Mike looks at you is anything but platonic.

The thrill of it buzzes in your veins. It’s almost too easy, this charade. Like an acting exercise you both excel at, slipping into the roles of co-stars, friends, professionals. But there’s something exhilarating about keeping the truth just out of reach, like dangling a secret in front of the world, daring them to catch on. The fans had begun to notice, though. Some had dissected every shared glance, every tiny gesture. The theories were out there, swirling online in a frenzy, but nothing concrete. Not yet.

"Nice to finally meet all of you! The movie was brilliant," the interviewer says, pulling you back into the moment. He shakes each of your hands, his enthusiasm palpable, but it’s the same script you’ve heard all day.

"Let’s talk Challengers. Your performances were all incredible."

The conversation begins, questions flowing smoothly about the film, the dynamic between your characters. You and Josh riff off each other easily, your responses playful and full of light, the way seasoned actors do when they’re deep in promotion mode. And then there’s Mike—quiet, thoughtful, answering in his usual understated way, the way that makes fans lean in, dissecting every syllable for something deeper.

But then, just for a second, his gaze flickers to you. It’s brief, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you feel it like a spark catching in the air between you. His eyes are dark, steady, and in that glance, everything is there—everything you’ve hidden, everything you’ve left unsaid in public. The nights spent together, the whispered secrets, the laughter that only you two share. The press day facade is a mask you’ve worn well, but beneath it, your real life with him simmers, waiting for a chance to break through.

You answer another question, something about the intense dynamic between Tashi and her lovers, laughing as you describe how complex the relationships are. But there’s an edge to your voice now, something just a little too knowing. Mike shifts in his seat beside you, his posture casual, but you know him well enough to catch the slight tension in his jaw.

The interviewer moves on, asking about the emotional weight of the film’s final scenes, and as Mike answers, you catch Josh shooting a playful glance between the two of you, as if he senses something, a teasing smirk barely hidden behind his professionalism. You wonder how much he suspects, how much anyone here really knows.

The interview drags on, each question blurring into the next, but that flicker of tension remains. You and Mike continue your careful dance, weaving through the conversation, but the air between you feels charged, like something about to break. And you realize, with a strange sense of excitement, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the world found out. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if this secret, this thrilling game, was finally exposed.

Because in the quiet moments, when the cameras stop flashing and the lights fade, it’s not the act that excites you. It’s him.

jealousy, jealousy

art donaldson x reader

summary: two ex-lovers reunite unexpectedly, leading to an emotional confrontation that forces them to face their unresolved past.

You clenched your fists at your sides, throat tightening painfully. You weren’t supposed to feel this way anymore. You told yourself it was over—over him, over the hurt, over the stupid idea that maybe, just maybe, things could have gone differently. But standing there, watching him from across the room, your chest constricted with a mix of fury and something far worse: longing.

How did he move on so easily? Why did it seem effortless for him to be laughing, smiling, living his life like you’d never existed? And why her? Why Tashi? Actually, it made perfect sense as to why it was her. She was gorgeously stunning. A tennis player too. Just like you, just like him.

Your jaw tightened just as Art’s eyes met yours. He was watching you now, his gaze sharpening into something cold, almost hostile. “Don’t look at us like that. At her like that. Don’t bring her into this,” he snapped, his voice low, the words slicing through the air like glass.

You swallowed, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, but your voice cracked at the edges. You hated that you sounded so small, so desperate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Art took a step closer, his expression hardening. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said, his voice rising, the anger simmering beneath the surface now glaringly obvious. “You can’t stand her because she’s happy. I’ve moved on. We’ve moved on. And you just—” He paused, taking a breath like he was trying to stop himself from saying something worse. His fingers twitched at his sides. “You need to stop.”

You flinched, the accusation stinging far more than you’d expected. “Stop what?” you shot back, your words more defensive than you’d intended. “Stop caring? Stop wondering why the hell you could just throw everything away like it meant nothing?”

Art’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “It didn’t mean nothing,” he ground out. “But this shit you’re pulling won’t change anything. Won’t change the past and it certainly won’t change the future. It’s not gonna make me come back to you.”

The words hit you harder than you thought they would, knocking the air out of your lungs. You took a step back, your vision blurring, your chest hollowing out with the weight of it all. For a moment, the room tilted, and you could barely breathe.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears pricked your eyes. You hated that you were falling apart in front of him. “I never asked you to come back. I just—” You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I just don’t understand why it was so easy for you.”

Art’s face twisted, his anger cracking into something that looked a lot like guilt, or maybe regret. His shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “It wasn’t easy,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “But what do you want me to say? We weren’t right. You know that.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, sliding down your cheeks. You hated him in that moment—hated how calm he could be, how he could stand there and say it like it was some simple truth, while you felt like you were falling apart at the seams.

“I know,” you choked out, wiping at your eyes angrily. “I know we weren’t right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Art’s expression softened, and for the first time, he looked like he might cry too. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before reaching out. “I miss you too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you shattered at those words, and before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, grabbing his shirt and pulling him toward you. Your lips crashed together in a desperate, messy kiss—one filled with all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, the regret. It wasn’t soft or tender; it was raw, a collision of everything you’d been holding back for months.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, tears mingling between you. Art’s hands were still on your arms, his touch gentle now, and for a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other like you didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Art whispered, his voice breaking again. “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, your heart aching in a way that felt unbearable. “Me too.”

Art’s gaze dropped to the floor, his breath shallow and uneven. The room felt impossibly small, the space between you both crackling with everything left unsaid. For a moment, neither of you moved, both caught in the whirlwind of shared heartbreak.

Then, as if driven by an invisible force, Art spoke quietly, his voice tinged with desperation. “Come back with me,” he whispered, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your arms. “We can talk, just… come back to my room.”

Your heart twisted at the words, a part of you wanting nothing more than to follow him, to forget about everything outside this moment. The hurt, the anger, the broken promises—they all flickered away for an instant. But reality snapped back too fast, too clear.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slowly, your body trembling as you stepped back from him, breaking the fragile connection. “I can’t,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m not a homewrecker.”

Art flinched at the word, his face contorting in a mixture of pain and frustration. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to explain, but the truth hung heavy between you, undeniable. He had moved on. And you couldn’t let yourself be the one to unravel what he had built, no matter how much your heart ached for the past.

“I’m not her,” you continued softly, wiping the remaining tears from your face, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “I won’t be the one who ruins things. You made your choice, Art.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but the fight seemed to drain from him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with regret, and he let out a shaky breath. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know.” You nodded, biting back another wave of tears, your heart breaking all over again. "But you did."

There was a silence between you, thick and unbearable, the kind of silence that felt permanent. And then, with a final look that said everything words couldn’t, you turned and walked away, leaving behind the pieces of what you once were, and what you would never be again.