asheepinfrance

[asheepinfrance]

i just think that yknow a kiss would save him. a kiss from me. art if you can hear me from my mansion that i have you should come over

[asheepinfrance]

i’m obsessed with you you’re so funny hi

i feel like a celebrity just spoke to me first literally what is happening

[asheepinfrance]

ART LET'S SHARE BRAS i say kicking and screaming as the guards drag me into a padded room

i just love calling art’s pecks his tits. like yes those ARE your boobs let me bite them pleeeaaasseeee

[asheepinfrance]

uh oh.uh oh guys. guys she's doing that thing again. guys she's doing that thing where she talks about art. ruh roh raggy. anyway this is like barely an art thing but he's just so ... sigh. he's the sweetest (in my brain and no one else's). also thank you to @popcorntales for choosing who to write for for the day. anyways hope you enjoy <33

You really, really wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Not right now. It makes it hard to think, and that’s just about the most important thing you could be doing. Or, maybe, it’s a blessing in disguise. A little sign from the universe not to let yourself think yourself into a hole. He looks at you with such fucking awe and it’s sickening. He’s still waiting on your reply, which you cannot seem to formulate. It’s not like you can’t say what you’re thinking, it’s that you’re thinking nothing. Your head is static, the soft, empty space tickling against the insides of your skull. 

“What?”

He chuckles, because it’s apparently very funny. All you feel is mortified. He’s still holding tightly onto both of your hands, which you’re sure are dampening his with newly formed moisture, knees bumping yours when he readjusts himself slightly on that dark brown armchair. He absolutely insists on keeping it, even though it’s an eyesore and doesn’t even remotely fit with the rest of the living room’s decor.

“I said I wanna have a baby. With you.” He says it so sweetly, like he’s trying to soften them up so that when they come down, the idea sounds like the best one you’ve ever heard. It’s not intentional, really, because he just tends to talk to you like you’re going to scurry off if he raises his voice above a murmur. In this instance, he’d be right. 

It’s not that you don’t want kids. It’s that you aren’t made for them. Of course, it’s entirely natural to question your own ability to parent a kid, it’s not like people get much experience until they’ve finally had one of their own. But they take that risk. They stare over the edge of that cliff of creating a new person to add to the ever-growing population, a person who they hope to raise to be lovely, and dive-head first despite their fears. You, however, are perpetually staring. And what stares back isn’t the face of a child with Art’s smile and your eyes. It’s the eyes of your mother.

“Art, I don’t-” You don’t have to finish the sentence. He knows. He tries to look calm about it, because he knows it’s a two-person thing, and he can’t be the only one to want it. But god, does he want it, and he thinks he might just cry. “I can’t do that to a kid.” He can’t understand that for a second. Do what, exactly? Be their mother? You could. You can. He’s seen you with his younger cousins at family gatherings, laying flat on your stomach while they’re sat criss-cross on the floor, rolling toy cars over the carpet. He’s seen you help little girls who get separated from their parents at the mall, wiping away their miniature tears with a gentle thumb and a gentler smile. You’ve got so much love to give he’s convinced you are love. And what a privilege it’d be to have his child experience that the way he does. 

What is a mother, really? Is it just the woman who has you? Or is it something more complex? Is it the woman whose eyes are in yours? The woman that everyone insists you have the humor of, even if you never laugh at the some jokes. The woman you look at old photos of and thank for putting aside that previously seen youth for your creation. You would qualify your mother as your mother, of course, but not your mom. Never mom. Moms are loving. Moms brush your hair when your fingers are too little to wrap around a brush. Moms put bandaids on scraped knees. Mothers just watch over you when they must. You cannot be someone’s mother. You cannot risk making a child so miserable that they walk into adulthood with just a mother. 

But then again, there’s Art. Art who sees the tears falling down your cheeks before you feel them. Art who’s wiping them away. Art who’s got the most beautiful eyes and you kick yourself for having just complained about them. Art who insists that you are the sweetest woman to ever grace his presence, if not everyone’s presence. Art who’s wrapping you into a hug that you’ve needed since you were five and your mother said you were told for them. 

Maybe you could do it. Not for him, not for you, but for the collective us you’ve made. After all, if Art Donaldson says you can do something, than you can. You could chalk it up to his being incredibly biased in your favor, of course, but why bother? Art is smarter than that. Art sees the world with clearer vision than most, right past their skin and into their brains. Into the meaning behind a smile, the twitch of an eye, the melting of a person against another. He’s smart enough to know that you are love, even if only he can see it. And he’s smart enough to make you agree with him, too. You’ll finish this conversation later, even if you’ve both decided on the answer. Just this is more than good for now.

[asheepinfrance]

JEFF BUCKLEY performing Grace on The Late Show, 1995.

[asheepinfrance]

oh hell yeah

patrick zweig is so How Soon Is Now by The Smiths if you think about it.

[asheepinfrance]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

THAT RIGHT THERE IS EVIDENCE YOUR HONOR

[asheepinfrance]

a masterpiece i fear?? i love this?? they're such assholes its delightful

So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he’d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You���re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

[asheepinfrance]

god.

you showed up after work, im bathin' your body/touch you in places only i know

art wipes the sweat from his brow, satisfied with temperature currently in the sauna. he flexes his shoulders, muscles relaxing with the heat. art quickly feels himself getting a little too warm, wrapping his towel loosely around his waist and stepping out of the sauna with a sigh of relief. art runs his fingers through his hair, pulling the wet strands away from his face. he sits down on the bench next to his locker mustering his energy to go shower and rinse the sweat off of his body. he flinches slightly when a hand is placed on his shoulder, relaxing when he looks up and sees your face. "how'd you get in here?" art questions you, not mad that you're here. "just pretended i was going to the women's locker.. you told me you would be the only one here today so i thought id come surprise you.." you lean down, kissing the heated skin of his shoulder, admiring the freckles that are scattered over his back. art stands up, dropping his towel on the ground and holding out his hand to you, "come shower with me?"

you're wet and you're warm just like our bathwater/can we make love before you go?

you get up and follow him into the shower room, smiling up at him as he turns the faucet on, shivering at the first droplets of cold water before it turns warm. art rests his head on your shoulder, running his hands down your wet skin. "glad you're here.." he mumbles into your skin, slowly starting to rock his hips into the small of your back. "please can i.." art snakes his arm towards your stomach, moving it down to cup your cunt, nimble fingers trying to swirl around your clit. you moan, tipping your head back onto his shoulder behind you. nodding, you help art guide himself into you, whining at the stretch as art grips your hips so tight he may leave bruises in the shape of his hands. he shudders when he presses himself fully into you, balls smushed up against you in a way that makes you moan and back your hips into him. "you're so fuckin' warm.." he groans into you, obviously exhausted after a long day of practice but you can tell this is what he needs, moving his hips quickly and sharply into you. art moves your body for you, almost using you for his own pleasure, but you don't mind, happy to just have him holding you in the warm rinse of the shower.

the way you say my name makes me feel like im that -/but im still unemployed

"art.." you moan his name, almost feeling like it's being punched out of you with the strength of his thrusts, knowing that if someone even peeked into the locker room they would be able to hear what was going on. you try to hold onto him as best you can, with both of you sliding against each other with the water making your skin slick. art gathers himself enough that he's able to rub at your cit again, and the feeling of his fingers, his cock, his body lean and strong behind you and the water.. it's almost too much. it’s so much stimulation that you find yourself unable to stop your orgasm from crashing over the edge and art is right behind you, pumping ropes of his cum into you and fucking it back in even after he’s got nothing left to give. he doesn’t stop until there’s a creamy ring at the base of his cock and it’s leaking out all over the inside of your thighs, quickly getting washed into the drain. you look behind you and art is almost pouting, sad that evidence of all his hard work went, literally, down the drain. you lean up to kiss him softly, smiling against his lips. "cmon art, ill make it up to you" art matches your smile as you lower your knees to the tiled floor of the shower <3

[asheepinfrance]

oohhhhhhhhhhh ohhhhhhhhh my baby boy (adult man) oh my sweet sweet wittle guy d'awwww oh you mushuhsugnsuhbubby oh bubby

[asheepinfrance]

jewish patrick posting on main and I will not apologize. I don't really like this one but I wanted to write this because the idea's been swimming around my little jello brain since the holidays. still not proof read and banged out in like a half hour, so it's sloppy but i just want it out there. anyways, as always hope you enjoy this late chanukah fic because better late than never, and feel free to leave tips and such :) much love

Patrick can categorize his fond childhood memories into two categories: the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy (specifically the moments involving Art, girls, beer, or a combination of the three), and holidays. Not the fake holidays, like the massive Christmas party his parents threw each year for “networking” purposes with their primarily Catholic business associates, but the real ones. The ones he’s had to explain to his friends, and the ones he winces at when they horribly butcher the ‘ch’ sound in. 

He can vividly remember being scooped onto his father’s hip, a ball of high energy, wide smiles and a head of curls that grew upwards more than they did down, his mother steadying his hand as he lit the skinny candles stuck into place on the menorah, an heirloom from his paternal side. The fire would shine back in his warm, brown eyes and turn them a deep, rich amber, and he’d scurry off to find whatever incredibly extravagant gift he’d been bought. 

So when it’s finally the first few days before the big old First Night of Chanukah, within your equally big First Holiday Season together, and Patrick’s giddily propping up the menorah near a window, he can’t help but feel a little rush of excitement at getting to explain everything when you say, “Hey, is that the Chanukah thing?” He gives a quick nod, a grin he’s just barely holding back on his lips, as he continues putting everything in proper order. He had to make sure his mom would approve of the set up, whether or not she’d see it. If his mother would approve, meaning not be utterly horrified, that means it’s passable.“Mhm. Don’t you worry, I got you all these sweet-” 

“So it’s like Jew Christmas, right?”

He turns to you slowly, eyes wide and pained like you’d just admitted to cheating. No, actually, this is worse. “Baby… my love…”, he places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly, “Never say that shit to me again.” It’s not a genuine threat… mostly, but the comparison irks because, no, it’s not ‘Jew Christmas’. It’s Chanukah, and Chanukah’s Chanukah. So he makes a decision, then and there, to become your personal Chanukah guide. And he takes his position remarkably seriously.

When you return from work the next day, shoulders sore from your increasingly-heavy purse, all you really want to do so bury your face into Patrick’s lap and sleep there. He, though, has other plans, pulling you inside by the hand before you even have the shot to get your boots off. It smells like… hashbrowns?? The scent’s enough to get your mouth watering and your stomach seemingly clawing at your abdominal walls, but Patrick holds you in place. “Eyes closed,” he says with that stupid, gorgeous smirk that you will kiss off of his face later. Not right now, though. You’re too tired. “Patrick, really, can I just-” He presses a finger to your lips, a grin that’s just trying to goad you into doing as he said. You don’t comply though, so he reluctantly hands you a coin. “It’s a little chocolate coin. Go on, try it, they’re terrible.” You unwrap it gratefully, hands faltering when you stare down at the circular candy. “Patrick… why is it… dusty?” You gaze in mild horror at the mysteriously powdery, gray looking thing. That cannot be safe to eat. He shrugs, unphased, padding towards the kitchen. “Oh, they’ve all got this weird, mystery gray shit on them. Ignore that.” You choose to put it on the coffee table when he’s not looking. Just in case.

The rest of the night is just as uninformative as anything taught by Patrick ought to be. He explains the hashbrowns as latkes, and when you ask “What’s the difference?”, his apt reply came: “I dunno.” It’s sweet, though, that he made them for you (he hopes you don’t find the McDonald’s bags from which they came) and when you question, “Why no gafiltee fish?” he looks at you like you’re the most precious idiot he’s ever come across. You guess you know what he must feel like now. “You don’t eat that on Chanukah, babe. And that’s not how you say it, either?” I bite a hunk off a hashbrown, exasperatedly, “Then how do I say it, hm?” He thinks it over a moment with a hum and a tap of his chin. “Oh, you know.” Jackass.

He’s insistent you light the candles for him when the time’s come, but you wave him off. He takes it in stride, mumbling something that must be Hebrew under his breath as he lights them. He’s got a radiant energy to him like you’ve never seen before. One that’s letting that same little Patrick, with the wide smiles and curls that grow upwards, relive childhood just a moment. You think you get the appeal now, even if you’re still thoroughly uneducated, when you see the flickering flames light his eyes up that perfect shade of amber, and he smiles like he’s finally let some weight he’s been carrying for ages go. You wrap your arms around his stomach, chin propped on his shoulder, and you both stand and stare at the small fires flitting about like fireflies tied down by string. It’s perfect because Patrick’s perfect, and there’s still seven more nights of this to go. Gifts are given, accompanied with strings of “I love you”s in his direction and softly spoken “yeah, yeah… I know”s back in yours. But the knit sweater he gifts you is nothing in comparison to just a single kiss, and when he pulls back complaining with a scowl, and a “You taste like McDonald’s hashbrowns, babe”, you can’t even find it in yourself to be mad about them not having been homemade.

[asheepinfrance]

need that? which one... you'll never know (its both)

[asheepinfrance]

mhm. mmmmhm. m-hm. mhm yeah. yeah mhm. yeah yeah uh huh.

[asheepinfrance]

michaela faistina

YALLL

[asheepinfrance]

i'm so sorry im a chronic cornball but genuinely i just wanna say thank you for reading my stuff to those who have. it's so insane to me that any singular sentence i write could be enough to hook someone's attention enough to get someone to read the rest, much less enjoy it. i'm so, so happy that there's a community of people who actually want to see more of what i've got to say. i've got more works of my own (tomorrow is for the jewish! patrick girlies, i stand with you- jewish girl who is projecting) and also please please please feel free to ask for things! i absolutely love getting out of my comfort zone and seeing interpretations of the trio that i wouldn't have had on my own. i'm open to just about anything that falls under the category of being legal. again, thank you all for reading. i'm excited to share more and (hopefully) provide something fun to read. :)

[asheepinfrance]

if you look really close you can see my head right there what who said that

Busting it open is crazy….

[asheepinfrance]

nurse... nurse she's out and she's art posting. god... oh god nurse. Anyways I wrote this in like 20 minutes and did not proof read it but i love my boy! i love my little rat man! and he deserves a little post. will have a patrick post soon :))

Being 18 is fucking weird, man. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. There’s still acne cropping up where it’s most noticeable, sweat when there’s no heat, but with all the added pressures of legal adulthood, and, worst of all, a just-above-teenage mind that insists on wandering. If Art could have gotten through a single senior year English class without staring at that one girl in the third row and having to cross his legs, which he swears is subtle, he’d be convinced of miracles. But it’s summer break now, and that means he’s free to do as he pleases. As he pleases, for the time being, is lounge on his porch steps, throwing a tennis ball up… and then down… and then up again… then back down. Fascinating stuff, really. That’s just about as satisfying as a sticky, early-June day can be until he sees just about the prettiest girl, like, ever, walk by. She must be the most gorgeous thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s convinced of it. She’s practically strutting down the sidewalk, which is so uneven it should be considered a safety hazard, like she owns the place. Does she? Who cares. Pretty girl. Pretty, pretty girl with pretty, long legs and pretty long hair and oh jesus christ, why is she looking this way-

 “Hey, you, uh… dropped this, so…” Oh god, she’s standing so close. When did she get all the way here? If he reached out a hand just the slightest bit, he’d be touching her soft-looking thighs and it’s enough to leave him panting. Thank god it’s hot, at least he’ll have a valid-sounding excuse for it. He’s vaguely aware that she’s holding out a tennis ball that he’d apparently dropped… he genuinely didn’t notice a thing. “Yeah, I- Huh! Yeah, thanks.” And now he’s standing there, and she’s standing there, and he needs to get her to talk again. He didn’t memorize her voice the first time. “Do I know you?” He leans back on his palms, knee over knee, and he’s sure he looks absolutely badass. The smile that grows on her face shows it’s something more akin to ‘child with a playground crush’. “No, I’m just visiting. My cousins, I mean. His name’s Cooper, you know him?” Cooper. As in Cooper Friedman with the giant glasses and chronic B.O? How the hell are they related?? “Cooper? Aw, man, that’s my best bud. We should all… hang out or something while you’re in town. You know… since me and him already hang out all the time…”

She quirks a brow, barely suppressed grin on her face. “You hang out with Cooper?” He’s about to insist that yes, they’re just the bestest of friends, when she laughs. She laughs and it’s so real and raw and human and he can feel his lips curling into that stupid, mousey smile he’s so unconfident about. She doesn’t seem horrified by it. Win. “You’re too pretty for that shit, dude-”

“Art! It’s Art.” How cool and not desperate sounding at all. Awesome, bad-ass, tough guy behavior, really. “Well then, you’re too pretty for that shit, Art.” Oh wow. Oh wow, she said his name. She said his name and he finally understands the universe. The universe is one pretty girl saying your name with the sweetness usually reserved for someone much nearer and dearer than a perfect strange. 

Oh my god. Did she say pretty? The realization hits him in the stomach like the many poorly-aimed (purposefully or otherwise) tennis balls that he’s taken to the gut. He’s sat there gaping like a fish, and she tilts her head with a grin, seemingly unbothered. If anything, she’s amused. He’ll happily make a fool of himself around the clock to see her smile like that. After a few more seconds of fool-making, she just shrugs the interaction off, seemingly having found as much entertainment in him as she could. She offers him a little finger wave, a smile that’s just a bit different than the other ones, and a “Bye, Art” that could kill a man. Specifically, a man named Art Donaldson, who’s still staring at her with stars in his eyes. “Yeah… yeah, bye” and he’s still grinning and he has to repeat his senior-year English routine of crossing his legs. She doesn’t mention it when she walks away, so she must not have seen. He’s silently thanking the universe for his subtlety. 

She absolutely noticed.