Chapter Text
When Pete gets an idea in her head, Patrick has learned that it's just easier to go along with it. She doesn’t want to go to the mall and drive in pouring rain, but Pete called her at about seven am on a fucking Saturday and demanded an audience. Patrick barely convinced her to let her take a shower before they went anywhere. By the time Patrick’s done in the shower, Pete’s in her room.
“Pat let me in.” she explains, laying in her back across Patrick’s bed with her head off the edge. Her hair is cut short, the littlest bit of length hanging down towards the floor. She’s holding a magazine over her face, arms in the air, and for a moment, Patrick can’t help being a tad annoyed. Pete makes it look so easy, being so effortlessly cool.
Patrick stands frozen in the doorway, skin warm from the shower and her face warmer with embarrassment. She holds her towel tighter across her chest, taking careful steps to her dresser. She tries not to look at the strategic rips in Pete’s jeans or the exposed strip of stomach below her belly button. it’s not easy to do, never was - but it’s a lot harder now that she knows how close her stomach is.
“I don’t know how I feel about you being on a first name basis with my mom.” Patrick mumbles as she fights with the drawer. It’s been stuck for as long as she can remember, and knowing Pete is right behind her makes her nervous.
Pete must hear her struggle and finally look up, because as Patrick yanks on the drawer with her arms tight to her sides trapping the towel, she whistles. Patrick looks over her shoulder, glaring. Pete’s roller to face her on her side, leaning up on her elbow with a wicked smirk that goes right to Patrick’s stomach.
“Damn, babe,” Pete coos, crawling to the foot of the bed to lay on her stomach with her, “Look at you, I could just eat you up.”
“Shut up, idiot.” Patrick mumbles, ignoring the matching heat on her face and between her legs. That’s made only more difficult when Pete decides to stretch her arm out and give a sharp tug to the back of her towel. She whips around with a squeal, slapping her hand.
That, of course, doesn’t work either. Pete grabs her by the wrist and pulls her back to the foot of the bed. Pete kneels on the edge of the mattress with her cool smile and burning hot skin, and puts her hands on waist, right above her hips. Patrick squirms a little, shifts from one foot to the other as Pete leans in close.
“Actually,” Pete says quietly, stepping off the bed and turning them around, and guides Patrick to sit back, “I think I might do that anyway.”
Patrick, despite the immediate heat that starts in her gut and flows outward, points at the door. Pete doesn’t have to ask, taking long, swift steps to lock the door before jumping right back into place. She drops to her knees and yanks the towel open without a word. Patrick yelps, scrambles for it, but Pete is already grabbing the back of her thighs to shove her onto her back and spreading her legs.
Pete's tongue is electric and graceful, licking and swirling with precision. She makes these pleased little sounds when she eats Patrick out, soft hums that vibrate around her clit. It's different than the noises she makes when the roles are switched. She's a lot louder than Patrick and likes to talk during. It’s all good things, all on topic and undeniably dirty.
It's fun having a girlfriend. A real one, who meets her after school in the parking lot in her ripped pants and tiny tee shirt and maybe a cigarette hanging from her lips. A girlfriend who insists on having her face in Patrick’s neck 24/7 and can’t seem to be able to spend a day without her.
Patrick doesn’t think she ever liked someone like she likes Pete. No one has ever grabbed her and pulled her close, stared deep into her eyes like a happy ending in a movie and said, “You are so beautiful, Trick, I don’t know how you could even be real.”
Admittedly, Patrick hasn’t kissed a lot of people in her life. One boy she sort of went out with got a hand up her blouse on their third date and she jumped so hard she put a hole in his lip. He didn’t talk to her after that. However, when Pete slipped her hand under her tee shirt for the first time, right after midnight on her 18th birthday, and gently held her breast in her palm, Patrick didn’t bite - she moaned out loud and had to cover her mouth.
Similar to how she is now, lying on her back now with her knees in the air and palms slapped over her lips. Pete is so good at this, Patrick thinks every time, as she gasps into her hands and tries to buck up against her face. Pete holds her down, looking up at Patrick while her tongue licks over her with a determined ferocity that makes Patrick come so quickly it’s embarrassing.
Pete promises she loves it, loves that she can make Patrick react like that. Patrick believes her - it’s hard not to when it seems like all Pete ever wants is to be naked.
Her heart is still racing, her body throbbing with aftershocks, when Pete lets her up and tells her to get dressed. Patrick tries to reciprocate, reaching for her belt, but Pete kisses her so she can taste herself on her lips and says, “Later, baby, promise. I still wanna go to the mall and buy you something cute.”
Blushing, Patrick agrees and gets dressed, hot under Pete's intense attention and very aware of her eyes trained on her. She throws her clothes on quickly, doing a sniff test on her hoodie before pulling it over her head and leading Pete out of the room. They say goodbye to her mother, who seems completely unaware of what just transpired under her roof and climb into Patrick’s car.
If Patrick had realized Pete’s intention was to buy her something at the mall, she might not have agreed to this in the first place. Pete drags her into store after store, all the ones Patrick would absolutely never step foot in - one’s that she’s surprised Pete even walks into. She seems dead set on finding something cute, whatever that means in Pete’s mind. Patrick is starting to figure out that cute to her means “a pink dress.”
Patrick is just about ready to whine and bitch and moan until Pete gives up, when they go into one more store. Pete promises it's the last one, they can be done after this, and disappears with a kiss on her cheek to sort through the racks. Patrick sighs, her hands squeezed together in fists in her hoodie pocket as she looks around.
The thing is the clothes are cute. They look soft and comfy, but they’re the kind of dresses and tops that would look good on Pete, with her perky little boobs and slim waist that fills out into hips that sway naturally. Patrick can’t help watching when she walks away, she’s just so... well, hot. Her girlfriend is like, really hot and it's a little mind boggling that someone like Pete wants to be with her.
Dresses are always too low cut for Patrick, too tight around her torso that her breasts mushroom out of her already ill-fitting bra. Even if the actual dress part of it fits right, her chest will always be in the way, the edge of the fabric cutting under her upper arms - which is another problem. Sleeves hurt. She doesn’t enjoy pulling at the hem until she hears the threads snap enough to fit better.
It still usually doesn’t sit comfortably. She can stretch it out as much as she wants, they’ll always shrink in the wash.
Then, then, if she magically finds a dress that fits her boobs and her arms, it doesn’t fit her waist. She’s wide - wide shoulders, wide hips, wide fucking thighs, that make her look like a cardboard box when it falls straight down, too baggy for her stomach. Patrick doesn’t feel like looking like an 18-year-old grandmother in a muumuu, which is usually what happens.
It just never works out and leaves Patrick pushing the hangers along the rack without actually looking at the clothing on them. She doesn’t have to investigate very hard; she can just tell when something is going to hug her sides too tight and emphasize the rolls on her back under her arms. She knows what fabric is going to roll up or down her stomach, which makes it all the more difficult.
It’s not fair - elastic waists roll, zippered ones cut into her skin under her belly button and leave a red mark that’s sensitive to the touch. She hates church for a lot of reasons, but the worst has got to be being talked at for three hours while trying to jam her thumb under the waistband of her skirt in a futile attempt to stretch it out. Of course, the clothes are cute. They just don’t look cute on her, no matter what Pete argues.
Patrick turns around, ready to dismiss the entire store and the day itself, to go home and hide under her blankets and try not to be hungry, when she sees... something. It's not a dress but hangs on one of those double hangers. A skirt and a matching top. It's sort of a pinky red color, and Patrick doesn’t think it's called plaid, but it's like a checker pattern. Like a picnic table. She can’t think of the word, but she’s sure Pete will know it.
She touches it gently. The top looks a little low, with the appearance of having cups inside but upon further inspection, doesn’t. Patrick is a little grateful for that, checking off a mental list in her head. Sewn in cups are always a losing bet - her boobs either fall out or settle too low so the seam is across her nipple instead of underneath. She’s pretty sure it's called ruched, when the top is all crinkled like that.
The hems are all stretchy, too, but the strip of fabric is wide. Even the puff sleeves look like it wouldn’t squeeze too tight. The waist of the skirt is the same, like it won’t fold over itself, and it looks like it might go past her knees. It's... simple. Easy. The only problem is that the model wearing it next to the rack has a thin bit of her stomach exposed, under fake breasts and around her ribs.
Pete suddenly comes up behind her, throwing her arms around her neck and talking loudly next to her ear as she says, “That’s so cute, Trick! Do you like that? You’d look sooo good in that, baby, try it on!”
Patrick blushes the same color as the dress, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. No, no way - its - look at the mannequin.”
She points up at it, as if Pete isn’t standing directly next to it, but Pete is undeterred. She goes for the rack, sorting through them and saying, “Come on, if you really hate it, then we’ll go, but this is the first thing you’ve actually looked at!”
Pete finds one that looks like the right size, and Patrick blushes. Of course, Pete knows what size she is, holding it up so Patrick can see the offending XL that’s mocked her for her entire life.
But Pete is smiling from ear to ear, brown eyes absolutely shining at her with excitement and something close to absolute glee that Patrick can’t say no to. She takes the hanger with a huff, her face burning as she mumbles, “Fine, but it's gonna look awful and if I freak out, it's your fault for causing me psychological damage, you know.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Pete plants a kiss on her cheek and grabs her hand. “C’mon, the fitting room’s this way.”
Patrick finds herself shoved into a stall with a curtain, not a door unfortunately, but the walls do go all the way to the ground. She faces away from the floor length mirror as she steps out of her sneakers, taking her time pulling her jeans down and hanging them up. She looks at the outfit again and feels her hands shaking a little bit.
She must be stalling too long, because from outside the curtain, Pete quietly asks, “You okay, Trick?”
“Yes.” Patrick answers too quickly, too sharp, and Pete asks again if, she’s sure. Patrick insists, finally peeling off her shirt and frantically taking her bra off.
As soon as she pulls the top on over her head, Patrick’s face prickles with heat, all the way to her ears and the back of her neck.
It... fits. Her boobs are contained, with just the littlest bit of cleavage on display without being too much for Patrick to handle. The elastic sits right under her shoulder blades, the love handles Pete loves so much trapped under the fabric. It’s a little tight, but not excruciatingly so - just snug enough to stay in place. Even the sleeves aren’t unbearably uncomfortable.
She grabs the skirt quickly, pulling it up her legs to her waist. She fusses with it, isn’t quite sure where it's supposed to sit. It's too high when she pulls it up to meet the top, but then it's way too low down her stomach when she puts it where she wears her jeans.
“How’s it look?” Pete asks, and Patrick huffs a little.
“Can - can you come in?”
Pete is pulling the curtain aside right away, stepping into the small space and putting the ring back on the hook to close it. When she turns around, her face drops and so does Patrick’s stomach.
“It’s awful, I knew it would look terrible.” she says like a sob, grabbing her bra off the hook. “I wanna go home, Pete. This was a stupid idea, I told you I can’t wear shit like this.”
Pete’s voice is soft as she puts her hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, smiling like she’s in a dream as she shakes her head. She takes the bra from her, putting it back and insisting, “You’re so wrong, baby, you look so good.”
“I - I don’t,” Patrick huffs, pulling at the skirt so it slips down her sides, “I don’t know where this goes.”
“Aw, babe - c’mere.” Pete turns her around to face the mirror and Patrick is face to face with herself for the first time.
Her ponytail is a mess, and her face is too pink for this color, and she can’t look away from the exposed skin of her stomach. Pete pulls the hem up her sides, leaving a few inches between the clothing.
“Right there, Patrick.” she says, resting her hands over the bare skin. “It's supposed to sit on your waist.”
With it sitting where it's supposed to, the skirt stops just above her knees. Patrick looks back over her shoulder at her, frowning. Pete asks what that face is for, and Patrick admits, “I thought my waist was here.”
She puts her hands lower on her sides where her jeans go, and Pete laughs. Patrick rips away from her, throwing elbows but Pete is stronger and faster than her, and gets her arms around her waist with ease.
“You’re so fucking cute, Patrick. Those are your hips. They start here,” her hands rest under the elastic of her skirt and slide down over the fabric, “and curve so pretty all the way here,” her hands stop where Patrick thought her waist was, under where her stomach hangs over and creases, “and these are your gorgeous thighs,” her hands creep lower, staring on the outside of her legs and sliding inwards, until her fingers are grabbing the meat of her thighs, and lowers her voice, “that look so pretty around my head.”
Patrick tries to squeeze her legs together under the skirt, watching Pete’s hands curl into the skirt and feel her through the fabric. She mumbles, “I - I don’t know, Pete.”
Pete keeps going, sliding up her sides this time, until her fingers tickle the hem of the top. Patrick shivers a little, her touch gentle on sensitive skin that isn’t used to being out in the open. Instead of going for her tits like Patrick expected, Pete reaches for the sleeves, sitting high on her shoulders, and says, “These are supposed to go down here, by the way.”
She tugs them down, so they hang down around her upper arm, revealing her shoulders and collarbones. Pete squeezes her arms, leaning down to place a dry, lingering kiss on her shoulder, and another one on her neck. Patrick feels herself pulse between her legs, getting wet as quickly as she usually does when Pete touches her like this.
“God, look at you.” she sighs like a whisper, her fingers dragging all the way down her arms to her wrists and back up, smiling at their reflection. Pete looks like she’s in another world, like she can’t believe what she sees. Like she loves what she sees.
Sometimes, Patrick looks at them next to each other and thinks that they really do look good together. This is one of those times, as Pete’s tan hands gently hold her waist and her lips brush over her neck. Patrick grabs onto her wrists, looking for anything to ground herself as Pete whispers, “The only thing I would change-”
Patrick immediately tenses, ready for the worst thing she could possibly imagine. Of course something is wrong, something’s always wrong when Patrick tries to actually look cute. This was stupid, so stupid, a waste of time and nothing but another knock to her already low confidence.
Pete’s hands drop to her hips as she continues, “- are these pesky panty lines.”
Patrick squints in the mirror. She can barely see them, but Pete’s fingers trace the outline through the skirt. “My - what do you mean?”
“I mean you should take them off.” Pete says in her ear before nipping at her lobe. “See what it looks like without them.”
Probably not that different, Patrick thinks to herself, as Pete tugs at them through the fabric, yanking them down enough to be askew anyway. She can’t believe she’s considering it, let alone actually doing it, as Patrick reaches under her skirt and drags them down her legs. The gust of air from the skirt falling back into place makes her shiver, distracting her enough that she doesn’t turn around and punch Pete in the face for grabbing her panties and putting them against her face.
She can hear the breath Pete takes, humming on the exhale as she puts them in her back pocket. “I love the way you smell, baby, just as pretty as the rest of you.”
Pete’s being much quieter now, one arm around her waist to pull Patrick back against her chest. Her other hand slides down her thigh, fingering over the hem of the skirt. Patrick squeaks when her hand slips underneath, and Pete clicks her tongue, shaking her head.
“You gotta be quiet baby, or we’re gonna get kicked out and I can’t buy this for you.” she tells her, her palm sliding up the inside of her thigh. “And I really want to buy it for you. I wanna buy you the prettiest dresses and panties,” her hand goes higher, higher, and Patrick lets her legs open for her, “and then rip them off and flip your skirt up and make you cream.”
Patrick blinks at her, confused. “Cr - do you mean scream?”
“No, baby.” Pete laughs sweetly as she smiles, then shrugs. “Well, yeah - that too, but I know what I said.”
“What... does that mean?”
Patrick can see the way Pete’s eyes roll, followed by a quiet, thick chuckle as her hand suddenly cups her where her thighs meet. Her fingertips go right to her hole, brushing and tickling over the hair as she says, “I’ll explain another time, when I get my hands on a strap.”
Then, Pete pauses, and her eyes light up. Patrick can practically see the lightbulb go off before she whispers, “We should go to Spencer’s next, while we’re here.”
“What - why?”
“I told you why.” Pete kisses her neck again, dipping the tip of her middle finger inside her so Patrick has to bite her lips to keep from moaning. “I’ll pick out a nice small one for you, maybe a pretty red one to match.”
“M-Match what?” Sometimes, Patrick really feels her age, or maybe she feels how much older Pete is than her.
“Your skirt,” Peter answers, her finger slipping in deeper, and Patrick’s knees almost go out, “And your pretty pussy, of course.”
Again, it does not take long before Pete has her shaking and her thighs straining to spread further, her ass pressed back against Pete’s crotch. She’s got a hand on Patrick’s breast as the other pumps into her, her palm rubbing against her clit. Patrick has to bite into the meat of her hand to keep quiet since they’re, well. Still in a fucking dressing room.
But the idea of Pete fucking her, spreading her legs and laying on top of her, filling her up is... an interesting thought. Interesting enough that Patrick comes on her hand and chases for more when Pete pulls her finger out. Pete lifts her finger to her mouth, sliding between Patrick’s lips with ease. Patrick doesn’t have to be told, she sucks it clean and Pete hums with approval behind her.
“Good girl.” she mumbles, kissing Patrick’s cheek. “Put your clothes back on, baby, I’ll be right outside, okay?”
Patrick nods, turning her head to catch her lips in a real kiss, and then Pete’s gone, slipping out of the dressing room with a smug smirk on her face. Patrick turns back to the mirror, touching her face when she sees how flushed she is. She has to fan herself a little bit and can’t help but think that maybe this outfit does look pretty cute. As she takes the skirt off, she realizes with a dizzying blush that Pete didn’t give her underwear back.
When they check out, Pete puts the dress on the counter along with a few items Patrick did not see her grab. She only gets a glimpse of them before the cashier puts them in a bag, but they look... frilly. She can guess.
The only thing worse than having the cashier look at a pair of panties that are obviously for her being bought by her girlfriend is being asked by the cashier at Spencer’s how old she is. She tells the truth that she's 18, but he gives her a look like he doesn't really believe her, but ultimately decides he doesn't give a shit. All that means is that she’s allowed to be standing in the far back corner of the store with shelves filled to the edge with some of the most horrific looking penis-like objects she’s ever seen.
Really, it feels like hundreds of different kinds of dildos, some in bright neon packaging that are clearly a joke, and some that are clearly not. The one covered in spikes that calls itself a “prehistoric prick” looks like a gag. The nondescript black box Pete takes from behind the display does not. Looking at the box affixed to the shelf, a small red... shape juts out of what look like straps of some kind.
Oh. Oh.
She must say something out loud, because Pete looks up from reading the small text on the back of the box and asks, “What, are you okay?”
“Is that why it's called a - a,” Patrick lowers her voice, glances over her shoulders as if someone she knows will show up behind her, “a strap on?”
She expects Pete to laugh and crack a joke, but she just smiles, soft and sweet. Pete puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight, and says, “Yeah, baby. It's like a harness. What do you think,” she holds the box up for her to see, “do you like this one?”
Patrick isn’t sure what there is to like or dislike about it. She’s seen a dildo, usually a prop for a shitty joke made by shitty guys at the house parties Patrick has been brought to. They were gross, thrusting it at their own crotches and making exaggerated moaning sounds, and all Patrick could say to about it was, “It just seemed like they wanted to use it but didn’t wanna put it in their butt, but like - then they pretended to be a girl? I don’t get why that’s funny; it just sounds like they want to put it in their butt.”
Pete and Joe laughed hysterically, agreeing through tears. They laughed so hard that they spent most of practice giggling, and no one got much of anything done.
Now, however, it doesn’t feel like a shitty joke. It feels very real in her hand, surprisingly light. She tries to imagine it strapped around Pete’s hips, a hot red cock jutting out where her pussy (Patrick doesn’t like saying that out loud, it feels rude) is supposed to be. She... can’t imagine it, but she would very much like to see it.
Patrick nods, smiling up at her. Seeing how excited Pete is, how she seems like she’s bouncing in place at the idea, is giving her a confidence she isn’t familiar with. Pete wants this, wants her and her body for every wrinkle and roll, wants to buy her pretty things and dress her up to take it all off - it's overwhelming. Pete makes her chest flutter in a way that makes her understand why it's called ‘getting butterflies.’ She makes her feel... good. Pretty. Adored.
She glances around again before she reaches for Pete’s face, holding her cheek and kissing her quickly. When Patrick steps back, Pete looks bordering on hysterical the way her eyes get so big, and she smiles so wide.
Hushed, she gasps, “Baby!” as she slides her arm around her waist and pulls Patrick into her side. “You’ve never done that before.”
“And it’ll be the last time if you don’t calm down.” Patrick shoves the box into her hands, blushing the same color red as it. “Let’s go already, you said we could get lunch.”
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll get you something to eat.” Pete coos, ducking her head to nip at the top of her ear, nose in her hair. “I’ll take care of you.”
Patrick never doubted that, even though they’ve only known each other for about a year and a half. Even though she’s had to peel Pete up off the floor after she’s had too much to drink or help her clean off her knuckles when she punches someone at a show. It's always something, but Patrick has to say, she’s always felt cared about.
On the other hand, when they go to the fucking Wetzel Pretzel for lunch, Patrick keeps looking at the black Spencer’sbag, laying at the top of the other bag. On the dress. And the panties. There’s a moment that Patrick thinks about it, about everything that’s gone on today and for the last few months, and almost wonders if this was the goal.
But Pete’s foot bumps under hers under the table as she holds out a mini pretzel with a hot dog in it and says, “Stop thinking about it and eat your lunch.”
Patrick does, opening her mouth for Pete to pop the pretzel in with a big smile. She leans on her palms, elbows on the table. Her tattoos are dark, stark on her skin, as sharp as her grin as she says again, quieter this time, “Good girl.”