"…Let me guess, you’re what they mistake for as charming?"

[ Open ]

"What does it take for a guy to get a blowjob around here?"

[ Open ]

"What does it take for a guy to get a blowjob around here?"

Patrick eased down to sit on the floor beside her, looking over the book. Cinderella. How bad could it be? All little girls loved princesses. She didn't seem very confident, however, and he just offered her a grin. "Show me which words you have issues with. I might not be the smartest tool in the toolshed, but I'll see what I can do."

||Open

"No i’m bad …really bad. But I guess I can try." Avery replied as she took a deep breathe, scurrying up to the closest bookshelf, finding an easy picture book. And out of coincidence it was her favorite story…. Cinderella. Soon the tiny girl went over to him and sat down right next to him opening the book. "Are you ready to laugh at me?" She asked him as her confidence became lowered quickly immediately once she saw the word that were upside down and moving around.

The kid was cautious, sure, but more than that, he was desperate. Desperate for an ear. Desperate for someone to believe him. Desperate for company. Desperation was bad. Desperation was weakness. Desperate was a place Patrick didn't want to be, but a place he knew he would end up if if he spent much longer in Briarcliff. This place had a bad habit of pulling people to the end of their rope. 

Patrick gave a small nod, then shifted in some, secretly--hell, if the nuns even caught a whiff of what they were saying, they'd be bent over Sister Mary's desk, pants around their ankles. And that wasn't a place Patrick wanted to be…at least, no place Patrick wanted to admit to. "And what's a guy got to do to get in on the action?" Patrick asked, far too eager to be out of this hell hole. 

[ kittheinnocent ]

I just wanted to let you know that I think your take on Patrick is absolutely amazing. You're spot on with both his acts and his choice of words, and it makes me cry whenever I read through your threads or headcanons.

[[ omg, I don’t know how to respond to this. You’re too kind! Thank you so much for your support! God knows us writers are an insecure bunch and it means the world to have someone in your corner. THANK YOU. ]]

Time to be tactful, Patrick. Win her over without seeming completely desperate. 

                     "Patrick. I was killed by a lunatic. And I'd do whatever it takes to get out of here."

                                                         Great job with the whole subtly bit. 

[ resurgenceandmud ]

      There's that spark of homicidal rage--good. Anger keeps the blood flowing. Keeps his heart rate up. Keeps him healthy. Except neither of those stipulations apply to him, and it's all fake--a mimicry of what he once was in life. It used to be, he felt this way and he'd go out and cum in some twink's mouth and he'd feel his head on his shoulders again. Now, he beats up high school fuckups to feel anything. 

      It's shit. It's all bitter, useless shit. And even as Tate mocks him and he feels the rising need to pound his face in again, the nagging in the back of his head that tells him this is all fake deflates his drive. 

      "Not anyone," Patrick responds, his voice caught in a low growl. "Just you. You fuck up everything you touch and then you wonder why no one likes you." Petty, blunt--it was all Patrick had when he wasn't using his fists. 

        Just as he’s feeling his vision completely go black he feels the pressure realize, his ears ringing as he holds in the first breath of air. His face is colored in a disgustingly blueish tint and he stays with his back against the ground until he catches most of his breath, gritting his teeth in the shaking pain he got with each breath. He’s inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth, and for a while Tate forgets Patrick’s there, mumbling in his blindness. 

         A laugh escapes the boy’s bloody lips as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his pulse still pounding in his ears. He knows Patrick’s position here; he’s frustrated with everything, he’s empty, and nothing can seem to fill this void he’s constantly feeling. And rather than sympathy Tate finds pleasure in this weakness, and he swallows with a few extra catching breaths before speaking. 

         ”Isn’t it excruciating?” he says, his tone surprisingly superior as if he hadn’t been the one pinned to the floor, gasping for breath; but he’s ready not for Patrick’s attack, if he’s even going to strike him again. “So empty, so numb, isn’t it? You thought beating the absolute shit out of someone –– anyone, really–– would fill this emptiness but now all you feel is even more empty, right?” He laughs again, his throat itchy as he does so. Tate gasps, swallowing and wiping his mouth again as he stares up at the man, his narrowed eyes showing pleasure, which is contrary to his defeated position, his bloody and already-bruising face. 

◎

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"Your ability to see the bright side of everything. 

                   Granted, it also annoys the crap out of me sometimes, but. One of us should be an optimist.”

Teddy Sears

Send a ◎ to hear what my character likes about your character the most.

Shit. Patrick's maternal instincts were going in overdrive over this little brat. He couldn't help it--there'd been a time when he and Chad would have killed for a kid. Literally. And now that they'd all but given up, here was something small, helpless, and lost--but with a little sass--all but fallen into their lap. 

Still, in effort not to seem to eager, he cleared his throat and tried, "I'm sure you're not that bad. Come on…go find a book. Show me what you can do."

||Open

"Yeah but  It’s sad not having anyone to say they love you and will do anything for you. My mommy and daddy never said that.." She started looking into his eyes with her small emerald ones. "Or to at least have an older brother or sister would be okay as well.. I just want someone who can do things and love me like their kid.." The tiny seven year old whispered now looking at her hands that had scabs on her knuckles from washing her hand repeatedly . "I’m not really that smart…I can’t really write or read well."

Patrick hesitated. He didn't ask for help. it wasn't in his blood. He could barely ask for directions most days. But…well. What did he have to lose? He hesitated, then finally admitted, "I see things sometimes. Things that can't possibly be there." A hesitation, before, "Do you think it could be the meds?" Anything but being insane.

[ seen a ghost ]

"Correct" Oliver confirmed giving him a reassuring smile. It wasn’t unusual for people to feel a little strange in their first session but it normally dissolved fairly quickly depending on what the trepidation was for "Nothing you’ll say will go outside of this office unless it needs to"