#Patrick’s sister AU

[artdcnaldson]

ugh "leverage" to ensure she won't go tattling to patrick. especially as he starts getting meaner and meaner, he tells her it's to make sure she doesn't back out and tell on him. because patrick would genuinely kill art if he knew what he's been doing to his baby sister.

i know it doesn't really fit in the canon of the other parts to this au, but hear me out anyway... what if he agreed to fuck her, properly this time, in her sweet little pussy. BUT he needs said leverage to make sure she keeps quiet about it (truly he just needs to immortalize taking her virginity so he can watch it back for the rest of his life). so he "agrees", he's the one to bring it up lol, on the condition that he can record it. y'know like really shitty, amateur, pov style, on her creaky dorm bed and pink, frilly sheets. shaky and grainy, but it's good enough for him. it's not like he would ever actually post it anywhere or show people, but she doesn't know that.

he gets off on how nervous she is when he points the camera at her, she's blushing and trying to hide her face. but he just slaps her cheek and manhandles her to look right down the lens of his shitty phone camera. tells her to moan louder around his big cock, tell the camera how good he feels, really just stroking his own ego. makes her tell the camera exactly how he's making her feel, can't cum unless she asks into the camera. he nearly cums right inside her when she tells him he's too big and it hurts :(((((

yummy yummy yummy

-🐞

OHHHHHHH <3 I had to let this simmer. This had to ruminate. Had to really let it sit and grow legs or whatever wine people say idk

RATING: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v, degradation, making a sex tape, loss of virginity, world’s worst aftercare), mean!art as always, uncomfortable power dynamics, DUBCON due to coercion

He catches you leaving one of your classes, chatting happily with a few girls as you walk. Their eyes widen as he approaches, smacking his gum, looming tall over them. You murmur a quick apology and bound over like an obedient little pet, falling into stride beside him as he walks.

“What class is that?” He asks, nodding back towards the building. Most of the time he forgot you even attended the school beyond cheering at his games and floating around his dormitory like a ghost.

“Peoples and cultures,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s an anthropology course I’m taking. It’s actually really interesting, like, these past few lectures have been—“

“What are you doing tonight?” He interrupts, not really caring beyond the simple answer to his question. He has a one track mind, and for the moment he’s just thinking about getting in your pants.

He watches you think, then shrug. “Um… nothing, I guess? Why?”

Art stops by a tree suddenly, tugs you by your wrist to stop with him. “Do you promise if we fuck you won’t tell Patrick?” He watches as your eyes widen, as sheer need and excitement makes you practically vibrate out of your skin.

Frantically you nod. “I’d never tell Patrick, I’d take it to my grave, I swear,” you say, totally earnest, bouncing on the balls of your feet as he looks at you.

“God, I want you so bad,” he hums, brushing your hair back behind your ear. You melt beneath his touch, gaze all half-lidded and soft. “I just… I think I’d have to have some leverage, just to make sure no one ever finds out.”

You tilt your face, resting it on his hand, your eyes half-lidded and dazed with need. You hum a soft, “Mhmm,” without even knowing what he’s implying, what he’s asking of you. But he hears what you’re thinking, all dumbed down and needy— yes, Art, whatever you say Art, anything you want, Art.

He wants to do it in your room, that night. He walks you back to your dorm and tells you to get your roommate out, make sure she’s busy for however long you need. He’d text you when he’s on his way.

So you’re just… fucking vibrating with excitement, cleaning up your dorm, changing your sheets, fluffing your pillows. You light three warm vanilla sugar candles so the dorm smells nice and sweet, put on your roommate’s SEXXXMIXXX <3 CD that she had burned in High School (and kept your fingers crossed it was still relevant). You took the longest fucking shower of all time, scrubbed your skin until it stung, shaved you’re entire body, wondered if maybe he wouldn’t like bald pussy, then worried that he’d hate if you kept the hair even more. Moisturized, then put on pretty, light makeup— lipgloss, mascara. All in the span of time it took for him to text you.

Art :) <3

omw

You feel a little dizzy by the time he’s at your door, already wet just anticipating what you were about to do. He grins down at you, at your silky little pajama set, pink and lacy around the edges. Smacks his gum, trails his hand along the sides of your waist.

“Pretty.” He looks smug as he rubs the lace between his fingers. “You got all dressed up for me, huh?”

It’s amazing how timid and shy you can look as you stand in front of him, biting onto your lip as you nod. He shuts the door behind him and guides you backwards until you knock against your bed and laugh nervously. Jesus, he’d already fucked your ass, your throat, he’d done things to you that even the dirtiest fucking sluts on campus wouldn’t dream of allowing. But you’re all shy because he’s finally going to fuck you properly?

You gasp as he tugs down the neckline of your top, exposing your tits to the cool air of the dorm. So cute, soft. Your nipples already hard and sensitive, so just the lightest pinch makes you let out a pretty moan.

“Remember what I said about leverage?” Art says, and you nod slowly, dreamily. “I want to film it.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you think back to the pictures he’d taken of you just a few weeks prior. “And you’d… what? Like post it if Pat finds out?”

“No, no, only if you tell,” he corrects. Even then… he doubted he’d actually ever post it anywhere. He had a tennis career to consider, after all. But the important thing was that you believe he will. “It’s just to make sure this stays our secret.”

You swallow, consider it. You didn’t plan on telling Patrick, so it was fine, right? He’d hate Art, and you didn’t want that. You would never want that, no matter what.

So you nod softly. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’d… yeah, I understand. Okay.”

God, you’re easy. So fucking easy it makes him a little sick to think about. What if he wasn’t Patrick’s friend, if he was some frat house asshole who would take advantage of how bad you wanted him? You’re so lucky he’s a good person.

He uses your own fucking digital camera— pink and decorated with little heart stickers. Turns it on and records you as you slip off your sweet silky pajamas, revealing soft, smooth skin beneath. You’re so shaky, so nervous. You can’t even look into the lens.

“No panties?” He asks, lips quirked into a grin. He steps forward to slip his hand between your thighs, to cup your pussy in one big hand. God, you’re so fucking wet, just like you usually are. He could just slide right in without any resistance, just bury himself right inside that tight little pussy. “Jesus, you’re a fucking mess, just dripping for it, aren’t you?”

You moan, relishing in the feeling of his hands on you. Art never touched you, not to get you off, at least. So the feeling of his thick calloused fingers against your cunt makes you whine. He breaches your entrance with just a fingertip and grins at the feeling of you clenching around the intrusion, desperate for anything he’ll give you.

But the relief is gone as soon as you’ve gotten it. He pats your thigh, nods to the bed. “Go lay down. Let me film you stretching yourself out for me.”

“Art,” you whine once you’ve laid down, embarrassed as he trains the lens on you. “Do you have to film this part?”

It just makes him double down, grinning smugly as he settles at the foot of the bed. “C’mon, just fucking do it. Show the camera how fucking wet you get for me.” You hear the whir of him zooming in as your hand slips between your thighs, as lithe fingers slide through your soaking wet folds and you tease your clit. He groans softly, grinning at the sight on the camera. “Alright, spread yourself out now. Show me how small and tight you are.”

You whimper pathetically, but obey. Your fingers form a V as you spread your lips, revealing the pretty, drippy hole of your cunt. He doesn’t even have to tell you to start fucking yourself, you just do. Pretty, manicured fingers disappearing inside the tight channel of your pussy, slow and easy as you pant and gasp sweetly.

“Can you do three?” He asks. He zooms the camera out, makes sure he gets all of you— your tits heaving with each breath, the slow grind of your hips to meet your fingers. You nod softly, press a third finger alongside the other two. He grins at the sight of the stretch of your cunt around them, how your body works to accommodate them. “God, it’s a tight stretch, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You moan as you pump your fingers slow, in and out. Wet to the point of it sounding obscene. Slick dripping out with each thrust, making your fingers glisten.

He can hardly take sitting there and watching, but god, he’d love it later on when he was alone with only the video to keep him company. But who knows? Maybe he’d fuck you once and never want anyone else. He already felt that way… kind of. You were so eager, so obsessed with him. You touched him like it was an act of worship. He couldn’t get that from easy pussy.

He sets the camera down on the foot of the bed while he undresses, tugging off his sweats and tee shirt, mussing up his hair in the process. It’s not lost on him, the way your fingers speed up at the sight of his cock, how needy and desperate you are.

“How bad do you want it?” He asks as he picks up the camera.

God, he’s mean. You whine when he grabs your wrist and makes you slip your fingers from inside of your cunt. Empty, needy, desperate. “Please, fuck me, Art.” You’re embarrassed, of course you are. He has a camera focused on your needy little expression, one hand on your thigh all warm and possessive. “Please, I’ve been so good for you. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I just need you, I need you inside of me. Want you to be my first. Please, Art.”

He’s not sure where he wants the camera as he notches the head of his cock at your wet little hole. Part of him wants to film the second he buries his cock inside of that tight fucking cunt, but the other wants to film your face, watch how pretty you look as you take your very first cock.

And god, you’re trembling beneath him. Visibly shaking with anticipation, or nerves, or need. He runs a hand along your torso, cups one of your tits in his hands and thumbs over your sensitive nipple. “What, are you cold?” He teases.

“N-no,” you stammer, meeting his gaze. “Just— I just want it so bad.”

He films your face, which was the right call, he decides. He has to think about it technically, or he’ll risk blowing his load one pump in, like a total fucking loser. You’re so tight around him, clamping down on his cock as he sheaths himself within you, inch after inch. And god, that angelic face of yours— mouth agape, wet and pink and pretty, the tiniest furrow between your brows, lashes splayed against your cheeks as you moan, soft and sweet. “Hurts,” you practically whimper. “God, Art, fuck, it feels—“

He films where your cunt swallows him, stretched to the point of obscenity around his thick cock. It shouldn’t even be able to take him, not when you’re so small, so fucking tight. It’s a fucking miracle you’d even taken a toy before. He’d make you film that next. All desperate, fucking yourself on silicon while you drooled over a picture of him. It was sweet that you’d been trying to prepare yourself to take him and you were still a shaking, needy mess.

Tears well in your eyes as he thumbs at your swollen little clit, he feels your pussy clench around him, already so fucking keyed up. He should be good. He should make love to you, nice and slow, like a good boy. He’s starting to think he’s not a good boy, not at all. “Just lay there and take it, yeah? Just look nice and pretty for the camera.”

You cry out when he pulls back only to drive back in, hard and deep. His pace is relentless as he fucks into your cunt— warm and wet and tight and fucking perfect. He honestly shouldn’t have waited, he should’ve fucked you the first night you offered yourself up to him— sweet and needy and clinging off his shoulder like you were his girlfriend.

“A-Art, fuck—“ You cry out, fisting your pretty hands into the frilly duvet, as he bullies himself into you. “Oh, god, fuck, A-Art, it’s too much— I-I can’t—“ A strangled moan seems to rip itself from your throat as your head falls back against the pillows.

He grins. “Yeah? Don’t tell me, honey, tell the camera.”

You whine, turning your head away as embarrassment rips through you. It’s mean, keeping it trained on you while you’re so fucking vulnerable. He grabs your chin, holds it in place as he fucks into you, deeper, rougher. It punches out gasps from your pretty open mouth— Ah! Ah! Ah! Over and over and over.

He pops your cheek, not too hard, but enough to draw your attention back from him and away from your dizzying thoughts. “Tell the camera how good it feels to have my big cock in that little pussy of yours, yeah?

“It feels— ngh— I love it,” you have pretty fat tears slipping down your cheeks as he drills into you. “You’re so big, I— God, fuck— I feel you in my stomach. Here—“ You grab his hand, move it to press against the bottom of your stomach. He can’t feel anything, not except warm skin beneath his, but he groans at your words, at the implication that he’s so deep he’s in your fucking guts.

He has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He knows he’s going to cum, knows that he’s not going to last or show off epic, manly stamina and impress you. Not that you give a shit, but he wants to set a standard for whatever fucking loser you fuck next. He’d have next time, and as many other times as he wanted. You’d keep coming back for it, for him.

He struggles to manhandle you the way he needs while holding onto the camera. He tosses it into the sheets so he can press your knees up to your chest. “Hold them— yeah, that’s it, fuck— feels good.” You’re so obedient, holding your legs up for him so he can get deeper. Your eyes roll back, flutter shut. He fumbles to grab the camera, to immortalize you like this.

Your cunt squeezes around him, makes his rhythm falter as he struggles to fend off his orgasm. God, he just wants to bury himself deep and rut into you, to cum deep and hard, leave you dripping with him. It’s about him… but it’s about you too. He’d be good, he’d make you cum.

“Tell me how bad you need to cum. Fucking beg me for it,” He groans, rubbing at your clit with a calloused thumb.

You whine, squeezing around his cock as he draws you closer and closer. “Need it, Art. It feels so good— you’re so fucking perfect, feel so perfect inside of me. Wanna cum for you, around your cock, wanna show you how good you feel. Please, please, god, I want it, I want to feel it, Art. Want you to cum inside of me, need it so bad— I fucking dream about it, about you. You’re so much better, you’re everything I want, Art, fucking claim me. I want you to.”

Art wanted to pull out. He did. He was going to glaze your pussy with his cum, get it on video, swipe his fingers through it and make you taste it. But Jesus Christ, you fucking ruined that idea. He cums suddenly, practically collapses on top of you as he fucks into your cunt, spilling himself deep inside of you. And like the perfect fucking toy you are, you cum too, milking him for all he’s worth, walls clenching down around his cock as he lazily ruts into you.

He pants, stays buried inside of you as he tries to catch his breath. He’d never cum inside someone before— he was too afraid of knocking someone up. He’d always had the self control to pull out, but he lost himself in fucking you, in the tight grip of your pussy around him. Christ, that was bad.

When he pulls out, a thick gush of his cum follows, pearly white, dripping down your ass and to the bed. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, you’ve tugged a blanket over yourself shyly. Looking so demure, so sweet, batting your lashes up at him expectantly.

The camera lays dropped and forgotten on the bed, he goes and presses the stop button on the camera and you grab at his arm. “Do you want to stay the night?” You ask with a shy bite of your lip. “I told Izzy to fuck off, so she’s with her girlfriend. We’ve got the dorm for the night, so you can stay.”

Art makes a face akin to annoyance as he redresses, tugging on his boxers and sweats. His shirt is somewhere… he can’t focus. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, you swallow as heat floods your cheeks. “Yeah, I mean, I know,” you stammer. “I just thought…”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t do that, then. This is just about fucking.

Art watches the sad little nod, the tiniest twitch of your nose as you fight the rush of tears to your eyes. “I know that, Art,” you say sadly, and you’re trembling again. “I just wish you’d stay for a bit. I’m… I feel a lot right now. I’ve never… I’ve never felt this before I just want—“

“What do you want? A hug, a kiss?” He watches you sniffle sadly, nod and mutter a watery, yeah. He sighs, stops searching for his shirt, and pulls you against his chest. You feel so warm, so vulnerable as you shake and cry hot tears against his chest. He frowns, pulls back, and presses his lips to yours, quick and chaste. “I’m not doing this again if you keep acting like this.”

You sniffle and nod. “Okay, I know, I won’t do it again.” He kisses the crown of your head. Grabs a random shirt from the top of your laundry basket, grabs the camera, and heads for the door. You watch him leave with a pouty, wobbly little frown and get up to redress. You find his Stanford Tennis shirt partly beneath your bed and pull it on. It’s big, fits you like a hug, smells so boyish and warm. You lay back down on the bed he just fucked you on and breathe deep, let his smell flood your senses. It feels a little like being wanted.

AURRRRR this was so much longer than I thot <3

Anyways. Love pat’s sister au, feel free to send me any asks you want about these messy bitches <3

🐞 anon i love u

[diyasgarden]

Patrick Sister's AU by @artdcnaldson

I don't know how much I like this, but this AU is such a brainworm for me . IT IS SO YUMMY. It was kind of hard to find pictures to describe how it feels but know its dark and mean and smutty and angsty. So yeah....GO READ

[zweiginator]

being forced to go to a fancy gala with your mom and stepdad, and of course--your step brother, patrick. wearing a long, silk dress that hugs your body. the satin material almost seems to caress your tits.

and patrick has noticed you're beautiful. he's not an idiot. he's a boy in his twenties who still wakes up with morning wood like it's clockwork.

he has been very careful around you. maybe because his dad pulled him aside after he broke up with his last girlfriend. told him he needs to be more gentlemanly. work on how he's perceived. boys who act like this don't get pretty wives and good children.

patrick never claimed to want those things, however. but he is intentional with his gaze. doesn't let his eyes linger, although they beg to.

the dress, though. it's the product of dreams. satin and emerald green and low cut but still modest. tight yet flowy where it needs to be.

patrick drinks far too much champagne. pretends to care about the surface-level conversations he's halfheartedly contributing to. is he excited about going on tour? what about college?

who fucking cares? -- is what he wants to say.

he loosens his tie and goes out back for a smoke. the air is breezy and cold for early august. it feels good in his hair. and you're out here too. looking out onto the water. your heels sit beside you, one toppled over.

"hey." patrick says from behind you.

"oh, hi pat." you turn around, leaning your back against the railing. rusted metal bars that dig into your palms.

his cigarette is limp between his lips. the flame extinguishes itself, but patrick doesn't bother to relight it.

"your dress is really nice." he says. "the color really suits you."

you look him up and down. his hair is nicely done, styled but still messy in its own regard. his tie is crooked but his suit is pressed nicely, perfectly tailored. an easy shade of black that isn't hard on the eyes. but it contrasts nicely with the hazel in his eyes.

"your get-up isn't so bad yourself. you clean up nicely."

the way you look at each other in this moment confuses you. both of you. watching the wind blow the chimes hanging from a nearby gazebo and the moon wane as your chests rise and fall. wondering if you would have ever crossed paths if not for your respective parents doing it for you. thinking about summers tangled in each others' sheets--what could have been.

but you're step siblings. and it will never be. it can't. patrick nudges his elbow against yours, and you grab onto the swell of his bicep. he walks you back inside with his suit jacket over your shoulders and you both pretend, in your own innocent way, that you can love each other, like that. for the night.

[clonethemidwife]

ok. so. au number 3 (tattoo shop au) is now complete! i do have some bonus content that’s not written but to which i am not opposed to writing should you all want that.

but let’s talk about the behemoth mother of all fics: the church au.

i love this au and it would go on indefinitely if i let it, however there are other things i would also like to write, so… i have to figure out how to wrap this up. my question is: would you all prefer a fuller picture of life with fr and mrs turner with some time jumps or a shorter term happy ending that leaves the future open to interpretations? I can write either (but i won’t write both). please let me know. you can also feel free to send me a message 😃

[fanficwolf105]

Happy Birthday Zoya🎶

[thenightwolf51]

"Danny was born a Wayne" AU except he's Bruce's grand uncle. The result of a one time drunken affair, shortly before Kenneth Wayne's death, to a young unmarried woman who gave the baby up for adoption.

(Whether the Fenton's, and therefore Amity, were just ahead of their times or the DC timeline is shifted a bit so that DP happens in its cannon era is up to you. Dealers choice, though now that i know about her i just love badass widowed prohibition leader Laura Elizabeth Wayne)

Danny grows up knowing hes adopted and loved by the Fentons but something (dealer's choice) happens and he loses his family and friends (maybe the whole town goes too?). In an attempt to avoid a Dan situation he flees into the Infinite Realm and doesn't stop.

He just wanders, time passes in its weird Realms way, not that Danny truly notices. A protector spirit thats lossed everything it protected. Its a wonder he doesn't fade and he actually might've if it wasn't for his human side.

But its a tug at his core that brings him from his near catatonic wandering. Gone before he can even understand it but enough to shake him back to himself. Enough to know that hes nowhere near ready to go anywhere familiar so he continues on, his wandering no less pointless but at least he's aware again.

What feels like a relatively short time later he gets another tug, and this time he manages to follow it.

He follows it invisibly through a natural portal that drops him somewhere in New Jersey and all the way to a fancy hospital room in the gloomiest city he's ever seen.

In there he sees his half brother Patrick Wayne, though he wont figure out their connection for a few more years, holding little Agatha. She's adorable in her little dress and pigtails and her sweet face causes that familiar tug he recognizes from what must have been six years ago given the girls age.

Then a nurse comes in and hands a little bundle to what must be the mother (whos name i cant find) and Danny takes one look at the little core tugger who brought him here and just melts. Even without knowing yet that this is his last remaining family, his instincts latch on and he vows to protect and care for the Waynes.

And he does.

He finds his forgetful brother's documents and keeps Aggy company when everyone else is busy and soothes baby Thomas so his poor sister-in-law can get some more sleep. He ices fevers and bruised knees and helps on later games of hide and seek.

He very rarely becomes visible and only to the children. His grief over the Fenton's convinces him its better to protect his new family from the shadows.

Danny explores every inch of the manor, including secret passages and an underground cave system. He claims a forgotten room in the back of the attic as his own, which over the years fill up with knickknacks, heirlooms, and pictures of the family. Even a gift or two from Agatha, who hadn't stopped believing in their shadowy guardian like her brother did when Danny felt they were too old to see him without drawing suspicion.

The manor becomes his haunt and he always knows where each family member is within it. And when any guests have some no good intentions.

And when baby Bruce is born tugging at his core and with the bluest little eyes, he welcomes the fussy little thing. And makes sure dear Martha never knows just how fussy baby Bruce really is, otherwise she might've never had a full nights sleep.

Danny blames himself for not being there when Thomas and Martha die, and promises to never leave Bruces side, practically becoming the boy's living shadow. Watching over him as he gets older, secretly aiding him in his training. Danny feels a bit of pride when Bruce takes some inspiration from the old stories Thomas told him of the shadowy Wayne family protector when creating his Batman identity, glad his nephew still remembers him even if he hasn't shown himself since the now young man was six.

Danny continues to protect and care for the family in a variety of ways over the years even as the family grows.

Lightening Alfred's workload, softening Dick's falls, calming Jason's temper both pre and post pit, hiding Tim's coffee when the boy hasn't slept in far too long, providing plenty of shadows and hiding nooks for Cass, helping Damian hide the litter of kittens he found.

And no one seems to know he's there, except maybe Cass and he's pretty sure Alfred has been know since he first started working for the family. No one knows, that is, until Duke Thomas moves in and lookes right at him watching invisibly from the sidelines.

(@omnicrafts @dcxdpdabbles @hdgnj @ailithnight @nelkcats @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 i dont know, the main point of all this is that Danny's been protecting the Wayne family for decades and no one, except maybe Alfred, knew until Duke moved in)

[peachhcs]

yesss i loved that side angst plot where samy just starts being scared to tell will stuff and is holding back because she still is nervous from him breaking up with her out of the blue

part 4! i actually love, love writing angst, so here's another blurb about the injury & i can add more if you guys want a fully developed fic

au masterlist

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5, part 6, part 7

ever since the headline dropped, will couldn’t sit still. he paced back and forth in the living room waiting for any update about samy. there had been nothing from gabe since the two talked when it happened and there was nothing from the family either.

the blonde was growing worried. why wasn’t anyone calling him? did they forget about him? did he not matter in telling because he wasn’t there anymore?

will was really starting to spiral.

patrick walked into the common space where he saw the younger sharks player looking a bit too pale then usual. “will? you okay?” the older man wondered.

the blonde spun around, “huh? yeah. sorry. i’m fine.”

“you don’t look fine. everything okay, kid?” marleau was basically will’s unofficial mentor and guardian living with him for a year, so he did want to make sure the boy was truly okay.

“well..my girlfriend, samy, got hurt in her game and i haven’t heard anything from anyone about how she’s doing,” will finally expressed his concern. patrick frowned.

“oh no. what happened?”

“i guess she hurt her shoulder when someone hit into her. they cut the stream and she needed to be helped off the field,” the blonde continued which made patrick’s frown even deeper.

“well, shit. that’s not good. you haven’t heard anything?”

will shook his head. just as he did though, his phone started buzzing on the coffee table making the entire wooden structure vibrate. he grabbed it, not even looking to see who was calling while patrick listened in.

“hello?”

“hey? will?” it was luke and for a second, a moment of relief rushed through the blonde, glad he was finally hearing someone’s voice.

“yeah? what’s up? is she okay? how is she? is it bad?” he rushed out all of his questions in one breath, patrick quickly squeezing his shoulder so he’d slow down.

“um, yeah. well..maybe. it’s been kind of crazy. she’s in surgery right now—“

“wait, surgery?” the boy’s mouth hung open, eyes bouncing over to marleau.

“the doctor said she tore a tendon when she got hit and fell. they said immediate surgery was needed..i dunno all the details though. mom knows more than i do. you can talk to her if you want," luke said but his voice faded out of the blonde's mind.

will's heart sunk at the idea of samy needing surgery and he wasn't there to be with her. sure, she's had surgery before back when she broke her elbow when they were younger, but that was different back then.

"will?" luke pulled the younger boy back into reality.

"sorry, i-i'm good. i hope the surgery goes okay," will's voice fell quiet, the only thing keeping him grounded was patrick's heavy hand on his shoulder.

"we'll keep you updated. i'll have her call you when she's well enough."

"yeah, thanks," the two hung up.

"so is she okay? what surgery?" marleau wondered as he watched the younger blonde sink onto the couch looking way worse than he did 5 minutes ago.

"shoulder surgery. she tore a tendon, i guess," will's voice faded off.

"shit, that sucks. i hope she gets better soon," patrick sympathized and all will could do was blankly nod.

the day went on and the whole time will waited for another call. he stared at his phone like it'd disappear if he looked away. the hours ticked by and the more worried the blonde became when no updates came. he constantly checked samy and luke's locations that were still at the hospital in boston. eventually, gabe and ryan's locations ended up there and for a split second, something in will's heart twisted seeing them there.

he knew they were close and treated samy like a sister, but it was something about seeing them getting to be there for her and he couldn't that spun his brain hard.

finally, will's phone buzzed. he grabbed it from the coffee table again, running to his bedroom and ignoring marleau and his wife's eyes following him in concern.

"hey, will," it was gabe. not samy.

the blonde deflated just a little bit, "hey. what's up?"

"we just saw samy. she's doing well. surgery went well," gabe cheered and first, there was relief flooding through will's chest, but that feeling was quickly followed by..hurt?

why hasn't samy called him yet?

"really? i'm glad. did she just get out?"

"yeah, she got out like four hours ago. ryan and i just saw her for an hour. seems to be in good spirits," the hurt continued building as gabe kept talking.

"oh."

"i think she was happy to see us after her mom hovering over her since she woke up," the darker-haired boy laughed and will couldn't even manage a fake laugh.

"she hasn't called me," the blonde couldn't stop the words falling from his lips. gabe fell silent for a second.

"oh. i mean she probably will soon. she's probably still coming to and stuff," for some reason, his words didn't sound convincing to will because four hours was plenty of time to come to and call your boyfriend to tell him you were okay—at least in will's opinion.

"yeah, right," the sharks player muttered.

"i can put her on if you want? we were just about to leave the lobby," gabe offered.

"no, it's okay. i'll call her later. she's probably tired and needs to rest," the blonde mumbled as he glanced at his clock and saw that it was almost 10pm in boston.

"yeah, yeah. don't sweat it, smitty. ryan and i are gonna head out, but we'll talk to you later," gabe's chirpy mood returned.

"yeah, talk to you guys later," they hung up.

will dropped his phone and that twist in his chest turned into more of a painful knot. the thoughts he had earlier began plaguing his mind. why wasn't she calling him?

[pparacxosm]

sigh like a chime

(postcanon!patrick zweig x infant halfsister’s au pair!reader; idk either man; came to me in a dream; title from the sound of music let’s all act shocked; major tw for suicide talk; tw depressive behaviour; tw disordered thoughts about eating; tw vague implication of alcoholic dependency; patrick zweig is generally not doing so hot; like at all; tw strained father son dynamics; tw grown adults projecting childhood trauma onto a baby; warning you now: this is a long one !! ; make a day of it; atp coexisting; lily donaldson being a weird little girl ™; tw airports during holiday season; whoever came up with the headcanon that patrick was late for his circumcision and it got cancelled i owe you a kidney; so cw smut obviously; cw religious ((Christianity, specifically Catholicism + Judaism briefly)) motifs; tw splicing of said motifs with the aforementioned smut; tw vomit)

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” Patrick tells Tashi, “I really am, you know I mean that.”

He paces her kitchen impatiently, running fingers through dark, dishevelled hair.

At such times, he still looks like the boy wonder sprinting carelessly across electric blue asphalt, eyes shimmering, as if he were part of that riot of colour. Some of his athletic maturity is replaced with the facetious, callow mannerisms of a hungry novice who wants to skip the necessary steps. Who wants to swallow experience and spit out the bones.

Tashi straddles a stool at the vast marbletop island. She’s pattering away like bulletquick rainfall on her MacBook. She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Patrick makes an effort to rein in his temper. He drops into one of the stools. He swivels left and right and cranes his neck, staring up at the coffered ceiling moulding.

“It’s almost Christmas, Patrick. Go home.”

I am home, he wants to say, but that would be revolting and stupid and he doesn’t even really mean it. Art and Tashi aren’t home for him. Nothing is. And he likes that, he likes being a nomad.

Lily clicks in like a pony. Lily—well, Lili, Lieselotte—is also the name of his little sister. He likes the coincidence. The trick of the mind he can perform, imagining an alternative family. 

Family is just being nomads together.

“Hey, I told you no tap shoes inside,” Tashi says, eyes still swimming through the pixelmire of her computer screen.

Perhaps Patrick ought to feel flattered by her attention at all. His familial woes are just as perturbing to Tashi as Lily fucking up the flooring with her ball changes.

Patrick’s still quashing his irritation. She doesn’t even fuck him, anymore. He actually doesn’t fuck much of anything at all, of late. What with how tired he is all the time, how his flesh and bones deplete with each exertion. In a way, that’s her fucking him. But it’s also just the scorn of getting older.

It gets harder to shoulder things. His patience corrodes quicker. He should lean forward, take that laptop, and lob it across the room. She’s not even wearing those stupid bluelight glasses she’s supposed to be wearing.

“Do you just not care about anything?” It’s a petulant attempt at stoking her, but it’s too meandering and abstract to really matter, let alone take effect.

She doesn’t respond for a whole five seconds, still typing, and when she does, it’s a distracted whisper of, “What?”

Her power over him is such that she can afford to be so blindly condescending. But it still stings.

He groans into the air, and it’s such a thundering sort of noise that Lily spares him a weirded out scowl on her way to the pantry. “Do you really want me in Germany? I’ll sit on my ass and start drinking beer again all day, Coach.”

Three years into their partnership, he often uses her title to signal his annoyance.

Tashi sighs like she’s disappointed. Not disappointed that he’s trying, but the fact that he’s making such meaningless, childish stabs at it. Instead of just going for it. As in, yes, smashing her MacBook over his knee and yelling pay attention to me! She’d respect that more and he knows it.

But, anyway, she lowers the screen halfmast and looks at him. “Are you jeal—”

“I’m not jealous of the baby.”

“Okay…”

“But he’s sixtyfive, Tashi! It’s ridiculous.”

Tashi does something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking her head. She rolls up the sleeves of her sweater and narrows her eyes at him. “And how old did you say the new wife was?”

“Thirtytwo, Tashi.”

Tashi laughs properly now, dropping her head and dragging her thumb and forefinger over her lashes. Patrick smiles at her amusement, albeit at his expense.

“That is pretty ridiculous.” She looks up at him again, clearing her throat, “Don’t try to bullshit me and pretend you don’t still drink beer.”

He wants to contradict her, but he decides he wants to make her laugh more. “He met her because she was his masseuse for a hot stone treatment.”

Tashi sputters, her giggles spilling everywhere, and she’s waving her hands like she’s calling timeout.

“And then he calls me,” Patrick continues, before miming a phone to his ear and straightening and dragging his voice down like an anchor with an affected distinguished rumble, “And goes, Son, I am moving back to Germany. I have love again.”

“I have love again!” Tashi wheezes, her elbows thunking on the marble and her face falling into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

“Like it’s a fucking disease.”

“It is.” Art’s voice still manages to quaver delivering a glib oneliner. Maybe because he doesn’t mean it. Patrick’s willing to chalk it up to his brisk stride as he enters the kitchen. Always a fucking pep in his step these days, the fucking asshole.

Patrick doesn’t turn his head. He feels a sharp instance of vertigo when Art’s hand lands on his shoulder. But both the touch and nausea are gone as soon as they arrive, and he passes off the motion of his own hand going to grab Art’s fingers as a scratch to his nose. Tashi’s too busy wiping her tears away to have noticed that, thank God.

“Oh my God, please tell him,” Tashi cackles, still gathering lost breath as Art slides her bluelight eyeglasses onto her face and enswathes her body with his, caressing her arms with his knuckles.

“He knows,” Patrick says dismissively, even though that’s a lie. He hasn’t told him.

“What do I know?”

Tashi recounts the story with the engaging enthusiasm of what Patrick is beginning to recognise as schadenfreude. But even that is still a salve, and he feels a little foolish for forgetting its effect. Not just the laughter, but all of this. He wishes they would just throw him a bone and let him stay for Christmas. He feels like a dying dog made to live too long. He offered to dress up as Santa, but Lily herself informed him that she’s far outgrown such folly and resents his assumption otherwise. She’d kicked him in the shin with the metal plate of her tap shoe. He’d let her.

Art’s smile quirks up at the image. Mean old Mr Zweig laid nude across a spa bed, cock jumping for the meek masseuse.

“Bet he slipped her eight grand to fold the towel a little lower,” Art mumbles into Tashi’s hair, the strands buttery against his lips.

She makes a face at this. She raises her hand to swat his arm reproachfully.

But Patrick only chuckles. Spares a glance over his shoulder to where Lily is sprawled on the couch, gripping the handles of her shockproof iPad case with the focus of a pilot at the yoke of a plane, her little head swallowed by a pair of AirPod maxes. Turns back and looks up at Art with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Probably had her stroke his dick with two hot stones,” he murmurs.

Tashi thinks that’s even less funny. But Art thinks it’s even more funny.

He laughs very loudly and does a less than polite impression of an old German bastard wincing and coming.

“Ah—” he hisses, “The next one up my bumhole, yes?”

It sounds like a botched Hitler lampoon, and it’s ostensibly a caricature he’s done many times before. Sometimes, they spend whole days just wading through their ancient morass of shared memories and inside references and running gags. Sometimes, even now, it's just easier that way.

Patrick laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.

They do let him stay for dinner.

It feels like they’re mocking him, but he’s hungry. So he stares into the middle distance and listens to Lily spiritedly declaim facts about deep sea turtles. She keeps surreptitiously slipping Brussels sprouts from her plate onto his. It wouldn’t be his place to mention it. And, for her part, she quaffs down her mashed potatoes like an endurance test. He tells her they’re not going anywhere. She kicks his shin again and he’s pretty sure she should have taken those shoes off by now.

He watches every gentle graze of Art and Tashi’s limbs and shoulders.

He sighs and chews his sprouts until his jaw aches.

There are worse things in his head to beat himself up with than wishful thinking.

“What’d Sassy say?” Art asks as he uncorks a Montrachet.

The corner of Patrick’s mouth quirks up almost imperceptibly. Like the reflexive twitch of a bad muscle. But he can tell Art discerns it by the way he starts to chuckle preemptively. That grin that spreads across his face like fire on dry grass.

Patrick huffs. “She said she hopes the baby chokes and dies.”

“You’re killing me, Sas.”

It’s December eighteenth at JFK. Patrick feels like a fucking sardine. Everyone is everywhere. The emetic odour of tarmac and jet fuel embues him. His fingers are red and stiff and so tightly coiled around the stainless steel handrail of the escalator that he thinks they may just pop off like caps. There’s an acetous chill to the nighttime air, and he probably should’ve worn more layers, but the sweat on his back is already soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t mind. It’s better than being late.

Patrick’s dad used to enforce punctuality like a jailhouse warden. Saskia knows that.

He has his phone tucked to his ear against one shoulder.

His sister’s voice across the receiver sounds warped and liminal. His stomach is grumbling.

“You’re fucking me, Sas, you’re fucking me right over,” Patrick says. “What’s in Brazil?”

“Well, warmth, for one.”

“What about me?”

Saskia laughs. That loud, tocsin laugh she used to do when he’d wet the bed. “You boycotted the christening, Brutus.”

“Why would I fly to Germany to watch a baby take a bath?”

“Why are you flying to Germany now?”

Patrick’s teeth are on edge as he schleps his weighty duffel toward the terminal. He fishes a cigarette out of his windbreaker pocket and shoves it through his lips. He wants to spark it, even though Tashi’s psychologically tortured him into quitting, and he’d get thrown out for sure. There’s a line of security guards at every corner, and he’s seen the German Shepherd sniffer dogs.

He chews on the cigarette instead. Grinds the tip between his molars to get that stark jounce of nicotine even if it’s mostly tobacco and paper.

Saskia is saying something in his ear, and he’s only halfpretending to listen. His eyes are fastened straight ahead, singeing holes into the back of a woman’s head. Her hair is pulled into an absurdly tight ponytail. And he is so taken by the movement of the strands as it bobs with each step that he is only dragged back to reality when Saskia says his name loud enough to stab his eardrums.

He blinks. “What, bitch?”

“Paddy, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t wanna throttle the little shit. I’m pushing forty and I cried because he bought it a fucking babysize tiara.”

Patrick closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. He swallows a bit of that tobacco wad on his tongue. He nearly gags. He belatedly catches that a couple of security guards are looking at him with some suspicion. He holds up a finger as if to say, sorry, and turns around to walk away.

Saskia’s still on the line, and she starts singing something, though he doesn’t understand why. He has to hold the phone a good foot away until she shuts up.

“Wh—” he scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Hey, maybe you’ll get along with it.”

“Unlikely.”

“Maybe you’ll get along with dad.”

“Un—fucking—likely,” he retorts.

He ducks into a corner of the empty terminal and drops inelegantly onto a hard plastic seat. He is hyperaware of the sweat fumes under his arms, the way his track pants cling too snugly to his thighs.

“Actually, hey,” Saskia says, and he can hear her perking up. He imagines her in a hammock in Rio. She’ll burn so bad. No earthly SPF could ever keep her from shedding like a crimson serpent. “She has this au pair.”

Patrick glances up at the TV monitor over his head.

Departures to Berlin 23 30, it reads, flashing jarringly in red LED lettering, accompanied by a blinking graphic of an airplane taking off.

He makes a noncommittal grunt. “That tracks,” he mumbles.

“I’m saying you don’t have to be lonely,” says Sassy, “Make friends! She’s nice. Bit young.”

“Reckon dad’ll try to knock her up next?”

Saskia laughs herself to piggish snorting. The bigeared little boy within him, tugging at the pantleg of his sister’s pyjamas for attention, is vaguely mollified by that laughter. Albeit at his expense.

He should spend the flight feeling guilty for not getting a gift for the baby, but he listens to a true crime podcast instead.

They’re talking about a young girl who was found unconscious by the side of a road. The truck driver who spotted her was a little drunk at the time, and he was afraid that if he called the cops he’d lose his job, so he just moved her body further up the road where someone else could find her.

Apparently, she was still alive, but the truck driver thought she was already dead.

It’s not certain if she would have made it, had he done The Right Thing, but maybe it would've made a difference.

“He should've just called the cops and driven away,” one of the hosts says.

“If you’re reporting an accident, you can’t just remove yourself from the premises,” the other one replies.

“Well no, but if you report a homicide—“

“Same thing. Also, how can you just leave a person bleeding by the side of the road?”

“Was she visibly bleeding?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head back. The clouds roll by like lambhide.

He can picture it clearly, driving away from this fucking mess, leaving a body by the side of the road. He’d do it if he could. But he thinks he’s the body.

He shudders with a pang of cold. He doesn’t know why this image sticks. It’s like ghosts, floating in between the clouds.

Saskia texts him. Suffocate the baby with a pillow. Also delete that text. And that one.

And he, the body by the side of the road, doesn't say anything.

The plane jostles a little in a patch of turbulence. They descend into Berlin at eight in the morning.

His knees hurt from keeping them bent at an angle for so long, his ass is going numb. He should feel sorry for himself, being alone like this.

As he deplanes, a few fellow passengers glance in his direction, their noses wrinkling. He can’t tell if it’s the bitter rot of cigarette between his teeth or his sudor stench or his mouldering heart.

People converge in the baggageclaim like a throng of cattle. Patrick shoulders through. Swallowed up and spat out and alone again.

No one pays anyone any attention. Everyone is hurrying to make this flight or get to the next. When Patrick finds a men’s room, he realises he should be glad for that. In the reflection of the large mirror above a long stretch of white porcelain sinks, he can see shadows like cosmic abysses under his eyes. Some of the veins in his arms—which are sticking out from under his sleeves like pythons—are slightly swollen and purple.

His duffle bag bangs against his hip as he shuffles onto the tarmac and joins the taxi queue.

Berlin greets him with an onslaught of sleet.

His bones rattle like clicking spoons in the cold. He’s cursing under his breath and trying to remember the last time he was sincerely back in Germany.

Not just a brief cut across for a match, a layover, a hamfisted excuse to see his sister.

He was probably nine.

Patrick lumbers up the walkway to his father’s home. It looks like it’s been shoveled already today but has endured several hours of snowfall since. That and—well—he guesses his dad’s playing humble now.

Sas had dubbed it a latelife crisis. But it’s not shabby. In fact, it’s nice. It’s no limestone portico. Far cry from the august Georgian Revival mausoleum he and Sas gleaned their nascent wounds in.

Lili gets a Hallmark ass two story colonial, strung with Christmas lights. Deep green door, ornate bronze knocker, festooned with a wreath. The doorbell echoes through his empty bones like a deathknell.

His teeth chinkle like coins as he waits.

When the door opens, he releases a protracted, puerile whine. “Fuck.”

You’ve never been cause of such overt disappointment.

It’s almost flattering.

But your smile quickly metamorphoses into a grimace.

His shoulders are drooping and he looks liable to topple facefirst to the snowswathed gravel at any moment. His eyelids keep fluttering, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the urge to just shut down.

“Is this the right house?” he groans, pained and shivering.

You’re marginally certain this is your boss’ son and not a homeless vagrant.

Either way, you’re nodding emphatically. “Of course it is.”

In the kitchen, he stands in the corner like a newly housed stray. Hands tucked into his armpits and chin touching his chest as he watches you spark up the cooktop through snowdappled lashes.

The powdered creamer, as you pour it into the teacup, reminds him, too, of snowfall. You keep flicking him conspicuously concerned glances.

“So you’re Patrick…” you say, spooning sugar.

He clears his throat and hums in a way that says, yeah, I’m not too thrilled about it either. His head is bowed, his eyes fallen shut, and he’s swaying vaguely on his feet. He looks like he’s making devotions. The kettle sings.

His fingers are bonetight around the cup and saucer. He lifts the cup and presses it to his cheek, like leaching the warmth from the ceramic. When he sips, you’re reminded of cats lapping milk.

There’s a moment of silence, and it’s awkward. And then he sneezes—once, twice. His throat clicks.

“Uh… tennis,” you try, folding closed the box of Five Roses.

The steam plumes up and curls around Patrick’s face, flushed and sallow. He clears his throat again, his eyes unfocused. He glances toward you and knows he should reply, but the only thing that comes out is a damp, congested sniff.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Tennis,” he repeats, the word muffled by the cup still pressed to his lips.

You nod slowly, rapping your knuckles rhythmically against the counter. “Wimbledon,” you say then.

Patrick scrunches up his face as if he’s in pain. He’s trying to force some simulacrum of synapse action in the conversational skills faculty of his brain.

“Yeah,” he manages. He takes another gulp of tea and tries to clear his throat again. It hurts. Everything hurts. He hurts.

You nod some more. You can’t help but think that this feels a bit like a tennis game. You and he, volleying oneword utterances back and forth. “Impressive,” you offer, cocking your brows at him.

“Thanks,” Patrick mutters.

He does actually want to be witty. And he does actually want to be charming. And he wants to make a good first impression. But right now he wants to sleep, preferably through a few decades. Certainly, the last few of his father’s life. Which, speaking of,

“Hey, where is the bastard?”

He glances around, as if to see his father lurking in a crevice somewhere. You raise a brow. Could it be an affectionate nickname? Perhaps. But you’re starting to connect some dots.

You smile like you’re trying not to provoke a sabertoothed creature. But Patrick can see in your eyes that he’s amusing you, which he doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind.

There’s a vast window above the counter, pictureframing an expansive, snowshrouded back garden that, knowing his dad, is probably a rigorously manicured viridescent green in the warmer months. How warm do things get in Germany these days?

He squints against the luminous white splay as you point beyond the glass. There’s a distant brown pinprick that lets him know this property is larger than it seems. Larger than it needs to be. But the kid needs frolicking room, he guesses.

“He’s in the den,” you say.

Patrick throws the rest of his tea back like a shot, placing his cup and saucer onto the counter with a twinkling thunk.

“Alright, then let’s go.”

“My balls are gonna freeze off before we even get there,” Patrick hisses.

Every step forward sends his feet an inch deeper into the snow, and you watch him shake out his running shoes with displeasedness. You laugh at him, and he turns back to face you, and he makes this face that could either be a smirk or an indication of great turmoil. You are struck by his ability to wear that lopsided grin in his current circumstances, to look at you like that. Well, like what? You don’t know.

It’s just that the scarf and wool peacoat you’re wearing make you look like a well-loved heirloom doll. He can see the faintest wisps of your breath in the bitter air. Your smile is so kind and so warm, he thinks, smiling wider.

He appreciates you joining him on his doormat pilgrimage. A better guy would tell you that, but he just turns around and keeps footslogging.

Together, you trudge forward across the sprawling, sleety landscape.

The door to the den is unlocked.

Patrick casts a glance back at you before he pushes it all the way open, hitting the opposite wall with a hollow bang.

It creaks a little on its hinges as it opens into a long corridor. He takes a step in first.

“Hello?” Patrick yells, his voice lilting. “Armed robbery. I have guns and knives and… bombs. Got your pretty nanny.”

You feel the little smile on your face quavering with amusement as you close the door shut behind you.

The floors are clad in dark oak panels. The walls are lined with copper sconces. There’s an ostensibly hideous and probably hilariously expensive rug in the middle of the floor and Patrick makes a show of wiping his shoes clean on it. 

“Sure as fuck not taking this thing,” he mumbles, digging his hands into his pant pockets. 

He glances toward a long sideboard on the side of the corridor. It’s laden with antique trinkets and mahoganyframed pictures, and he reaches out to prod at an ivory figurine sitting at the edge.

You stay in silence for a few moments, looking at him. 

Then, the faint creak of footsteps comes from upstairs, and you both look up at the ceiling. Seconds later, it fades to your right, and, soon enough, there appears Rupert Zweig. Cashmere jumper, tapered joggers.

There is no denying the family resemblance. And if the way Patrick’s eyes narrow as his father descends the staircase is anything to go by, he is not gonna wanna meet—

“There you are,” says Rupert, corners of his eyes crinkling. He stops at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets. The two regard each other like snipers. You have the sharp sensation you shouldn’t be here, but where would you go?

Patrick clicks his teeth wryly. “Here I am.” His hands are also in his pockets. Their deportments are uncannily kindred.

You think Patrick shouldn’t be so putout by that. Rupert Zweig is a handsome sixtyfive. Tall and broad and still in trim, despite most his days being ornamented by cognac and cigars. His silvery hair sheens like tinsel, and has not thinned much to speak of, if at all.

You figure maybe they’ll hug, as Rupert approaches. You know Rupert to be a hugger. But he only claps Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick’s bones look like they’ve been swapped for concrete, and he watches his father give him a once over, like surveying an old car.

“I hope things are well with you,” Rupert says. Which isn’t strange paternal commentary. But his voice is tinctured with a concerned edge at the overall impression that his only son has been dragged along the pavement by the tail of a motorbike and then beaten with sticks to boot. I thought things were better, now, he’s really saying.

You think it’s concern, anyway. You, too, know Rupert to be quite concerned, and caring. But Patrick takes it as scorn.

He wears a bitter smile. “Things are peachy, Pa.”

His nostrils flare, he shifts his shoulders. Like he wants to shrug his father's hand off, but is keeping still for the sake of seeming mature.

And then it happens. A pule from the ether like the resounding stroke of a viola.

You perk up. “Oh! I’ll go—“

“Yes, dear, she’s with Giselle in the drawing room.” Rupert’s eyes crinkle, a kind brush of his fingers to your elbow.

Patrick—you glimpse, as you shuffle past him and out the passage—looks furious. And a bit queasy.

In the drawing room, Patrick stares at Giselle’s hands. She’s twisting her emerald engagement ring around her finger. The stone is big as a pebble, its facets winking.

He doesn’t let himself look to where you are. On an ivorycoloured foam playmat on the ground, doing something that is causing the baby to squeal and giggle like a strident string of bells and clap her pudgy hands together. He can hear the yarn of drool gurgling from her gummy mouth.

An angeltopped pine tree scintillates with fairy lights in the corner.

Giselle is slender porcelain. White sweater, skinny jeans, milkblonde hair. She crosses her legs at the ankles, knees to the side, like she’s the fucking queen of England. She is polite to varying degrees of genuineness.

“Lili’s so happy to see her big brother.”

Patrick’s knee shudders violently. Cut the shit, Giselle, he wants to spit.

But he knows he won’t. He doesn’t feel he can. Maybe it’d be easier, if she really was just some nympho naif. Then he could call his dad a perv and move on.

But no. Giselle is three years his junior but tenfold his put-togetherness. There are two infants in the room, and neither are her.

The room is so warm and well lit. There are bookshelves teeming with hardcover tomes whose rapiersharp corners look ostensibly untouched. A globe of the world, a framed Picasso original. Baroque vases and potted ivies and the permeating waft of jasmine and rose and leather.

It’s an intimate microcosm of his father and Giselle’s interwoven lives. Their very fumes amalgamate. And then there’s that puny thing, gossamer flesh, babbling like a brook. He doesn’t look. He can’t.

When his dad walks back in, Patrick is on his feet like a springing coil.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” says his dad, handing Patrick a set of keys.

Patrick shakes his head and feigns remorse. “Nah, Sas asked me to water her plants, so.”

Rupert looks like he’s going to say something, but decides against it.

“Right,” he nods and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a slim silver case. He flips open the lid, revealing a neat row of hand rolls. He plucks one between his long fingers. Patrick would say no, if he offered, but resents his father’s lack thereof enough to head for the door.

You think he’ll say bye to you, or maybe offer just a parting wave, but he doesn’t.

You hear him and his dad at odds like a cobra and a mongoose in the hall. You daub tender kisses onto the fleshy pink soles of Lili’s feet. You discern misty fragments of Patrick’s scathing whispers.

“... newage, hippie bullshit... nice guy act... fucking sweatpants... —christen the baby! What the fuck are you doing christening the baby? You never even took us to temple!”

However Rupert responds, on the other hand, is vaguely inaudible. It’s just a deep, cautiously placating rumble of syllables. 

You hear a bit more mumbled venom before the door creaks open and slams shut.

“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but I’m fucking onto hi— where is your alcohol?”

Patrick’s disembowelling every cabinet in his sister’s kitchen. On all fours like a hound rooting in the snow. He can hear the hot waft of tropical winds from Saskia’s end of the receiver. Crash of surf. Squawking birds. The staticky tempo of Brazilian phonk in the background.

“Ugh, Paddy,” Saskia mumbles like she’s disappointed.

He tears the fridge door open so fervently, the cord comes loose from the socket. There’s nothing there but bottled water, yoghurt, and salad dressing. He makes a strangled noise of agony into the ear piece.

“Saskia May,” Patrick groans with a sonnet’s desperation, resting his head against the icy fridgeshelf, between the organic grassfed butter and the handcrafted balsamic glaze, “I know you may be in a fucking beachside cabana right now, dipping Portuguese cock into your piña colada with the little umbrella in it and then sucking it off, but it is late here, and it is winter, and I am dying.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see the baby?” she asks.

“No, well, I saw her, just…” Patrick’s withdrawing all her earthenware now, “I just didn’t look.”

“What, like the fucking Basilisk?”

“Sassy, for the love of God, tell me you’ve left even a drop of liquor in your home.”

Saskia laughs, and he can hear the chime of ice. “Did you meet the au pair?”

Patrick stumbles back to the stillopen, halfway gutted fridge. He identifies with it. He sticks his head back in. “She thinks I’m a mess.”

“Wow, what a stupid whore,” his sister laughs. As everything, it is at his expense. He’s in emotional arrears, but it’s okay. It’s all okay.

He hears Saskia’s inbreathe. Marijuana? Probably. He doesn’t mind her lungs. He doesn’t mind that she’s always been more beautiful than him. He doesn’t mind that she’s warm in Rio. He knows it’s harder for her. She never got to be Rupert’s little princess. He wants to protect her in that asinine way baby brothers think they can protect their sisters. In that asinine way Patrick Zweig thinks he can protect everyone.

“Have pity on me, Sas.”

She directs him blindly like a game of Marco Polo. He wades through the ransacked bombsite he’s made of her kitchen. Avocados rolling across the slate floor. Spilled milk, which feels symbolic.

He unearths the bottle of Gordon’s dry gin from under the sink. Holds it aloft like a holy grail.

Patrick can’t remember the last time he set foot in a church, if such a time has ever occurred. Part of him expects the parishioners to take one look at him and know he doesn’t belong, for them to demand he leave.

For the things he has done, the things he has felt, the things he has wanted. Certainly for the things he cannot bring himself to believe.

He is struck by the towering stonework of the cathedral. The wooden cross in the apse is immense. Behind it, stained glass windows paint the icedover morning in vivisected coloursplays. Soft motes of sunlight waft in shafts from the ceiling.

He never thought he’d see the day—the Zweigs done up in their Sunday best. His mother would laugh herself to tears.

Rupert’s broad shoulders are ramrod straight, his argent hair slicked back handsomely. Giselle is wearing a ribbed knit dress in eggshell. Princess Lieselotte—finally, a worthy heir—is wearing a knit tunic dress embroidered with blooms, a scallopcollared ivory shirt underneath, and a crocheted woollen baby bonnet.

They look like an affiche for Norman Rockwell.

At first, he’s still trying not to meet the Basilisk’s gaze, but then he gets this disarming glimpse. The peonypink hue of her. Her comically outjutting little ears. Gibbous blue eyes, lapping up the world through cornyellow lashes. Those are Giselle’s. But the rest…

Unlucky little shit, Patrick tells her telepathically. And now he is looking straight at her, like the spell has been broken. He needs to let her know he’s onto her, and her bullshit doting father. You look like dad.

But what that means is she looks like Patrick, too.

He watches you hold her in your arms, rubbing your nose against hers.

Giselle had had you press Patrick’s shirt—his father’s shirt; of course he didn’t pack a buttonup—for him this morning. He was only kind of embarrassed. But he sat carefully in the car, leery of creasing your hard work. 

The linen of your skirt reaches your ankles. You’re wearing this creamcoloured slouchy knit turtleneck, and you’ve got a little lacy chiffon infinity veil halfway canopying your hair. Patrick is pleasantly amused by all this fabric. All the things he cannot see. Because of God, or the cold, or God and the cold.

The Zweigs find their pews, stopping frequently to greet their fellow churchgoers, and whisper inquiries after names Patrick doesn’t know. He shakes half a dozen hands if he shakes one, introduces himself as ‘Rupert’s son’ more times than he can count.

You, too, are pleasantly amused. Because Patrick is notably discomfited. You fish your little pewter cross necklace from beneath your collar. You hold it between your fingers and out toward him like an exorcist.

“He can smell your fear,” you whispergrowl, fauxominous. Lili giggles all saliva in your arms. That’s the voice you use when you pretend to be the babyeating ogre. She takes the cross between her tiny teeth. Patrick watches. You smile. “And so can she.”

Patrick looks at you for a moment, feigning indifference. “They’re both smelling how little they matter to me.”

Your smile widens.

Patrick—who has never endured a mass—takes his cues from the brush of your shoulder on when to stand, when to sit, and when to supplicate himself. The priest oscillates from English to Latin and back again. Seemingly on a whim. When Patrick fumbles trying to find the right page for the hymn, you tilt your book slightly so he can read along. 

He thinks the rosary looks good where it dangles from your lithe, supple fingers. Looping and weaving through your pretty knuckles like drops of blood. 

You are flawless in your devotion.

You slip to your knees with a fluidity that makes his tummy fasten.

You sing quietly and sweetly and when you turn to Patrick to wish peace upon him, your grin is so sweet and earnest it takes a moment for him to contend with that blessing.

Everyone falls down to the hassock again and Patrick is beginning to find the rhythm of the whole affair. At least enough to let his thoughts maunder and his body be at mercy to the motions.

It’s soothing, in its way. He can almost understand it. What blessed relief in lifting your human pains to be scoured clean.

The priest closes out the sermon with a few nice words about Jesus. Guy’s birthday’s coming up, after all.

Patrick leans forward a bit to glance at his father’s fingers, tapping on the dry leather of the psalmbook.

In the photo, little Lili is wearing a white linen nightgown that mantles her whole, like a tiny tarp. His dad cradles her, and everyone’s standing around a marble pool. He can see Saskia off to the side, hosting a very conspicuous hangover behind her mask. You’re in the picture, too. Apparently, you had been Giselle’s doula, in the beginning, and you just ended up sticking around. Which he finds more than a little strange. Patrick often sees life as a series of measures to get further away from his family.

On the edge of the photo, he can see the broad back of a becloaked man, plashing his fingers the water.

Patrick feels an inkling of discomfort at the sight of that man.

“She still sleeps in that dress, actually,” you say, rocking the babe.

The wallpaper of Lili’s room is printed with pale pink linework of woodland creatures. He’s straddling the vintage nursery rocker—a plush weathered lamb; it used to be his and Saskia’s—and his knees are hiked comically high on either side of him, his slacks riding up his ankles.

Patrick stares at the baby girl in this framed photograph. She looks too small—almost tenuous—underneath the white shift. Her eyes are flushed and still wombswollen.

“What’s the point?” he asks, trying to imagine that man softly slooshing water over her boneless head.

You smile. “It’s to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?”

You lower Lili into her French Provençal style woodcarved bassinet.

You look up at him, eyes flitting over his face. “Shame, I guess.”

It doesn’t quite make sense. A fullimmersion baptism means commitment. You have pledged yourself to God. You are bound to follow His laws. Shame is essential to these laws. Isn’t it?

You don’t know why he’s still here. Giselle is taking her Sunday nap, and Rupert’s playing solitaire or reading Guy Sajer or something in the den. Lili, too, is dead to the world. You need to do the laundry. The laundry room is too strait for him to be lingering, leaning against the doorframe, interrogating you. He likes watching the linen of your skirt gather at your feet as you crouch to the floor, depositing the armfuls of bedding into the mouth of the washing machine. All that fabric.

“It’s a different kind of shame,” you try to explain. “I can be ashamed of myself, of my body.”

“Why are you ashamed?”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know. I’m alive.”

“Alright. And this helps?”

“A little, yeah. It takes you out of your body. Then returns you to it. And you feel brand new. Like you belong to Jesus.”

You laugh a little at the concept, but he can tell you treasure this belonging, deep down.

He walks toward you, taking the empty wicker hamper from your hands and setting it aside. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed in the first place.”

You shrug, noting his proximity. “It’s probably good to feel shame from time to time.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

He doesn’t ask you if you feel ashamed right now. Face smushed against the top of the palpitating washing machine. If you said yes, he’d be unhappy. If you said no, he’d be unhappy.

He’s happy, now, hiking your skirt up around your waist, shucking your gauzy tights halfway down your thighs. Best not to ruin it.

So he doesn’t ask if you’re ashamed. He doesn’t ask if you’re a virgin. He does ask if you’re on birth control, and furrows his brows as his strong hands caress the flesh of your ass.

“Why not?” he laughs, dragging the beige skin down his rigid cock, rubbing the deep blush head against your hirsute pussy and bending over you. “Isn’t that shit free here?”

He burrows his head beneath your sweater, kissing your back through the cotton of your longsleeve. He doesn’t search for more bare skin, just keeps a good grip on that which he has, fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips.

He fucks into you and feels your body shudder around him with the jostle of the machine.

He doesn’t ask of shame or chastity or how long Giselle and Lili usually nap for, how far his dad is into The Forgotten Soldier. He does, however, feel it necessary to ask,

“Feels good, right?” Even though you’re drooling against the zinc and your hoarse groans are rivalling the churning noises. You roll your eyes but they stay there, your lashes fluttering.

“Yes,” you pant, clutching the edge of the machine. “It feels good.”

He bends over you, pinning you, elbow to elbow, his chin resting on your clothed shoulder. Your veil slips off your head and drapes around your neck. He quickens his pace. “It’s fucking big, isn’t it?”

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes look like they want to fuck your eyes. His mouth hovers over your drooling mouth as if to kiss you. The shaggy hair of his crotch abrades your tailbone.

“Verdict’s still out,” you say, voice quavering, and you let him lave your tongue sloppily with his.

His sister has a guestroom, but he sleeps in her bed. Reads her Audre Lorde and Laurie Colwin. Uses her toothbrush. God, she’d kill him. But he likes the transgression of violating her space. He doesn’t use her vibrator, or anything. He finds it, but he doesn’t use it.

He has his few ways of having people. So he’s always taking what he can get.

That’s why he fucks the nanny in the laundry room, and lets Art’s kid bruise him with her tap shoe, and sits on the kitchen tile drinking Saskia’s gin.

He has to hold on to the granite countertop, as he straightens from his haunches. His back is a wreck, but the ache is nothing compared to the relief and vindication and victory he feels. He can’t say for sure what the prize is. Maybe it really was just your pussy, and that’s where this all starts and ends, which is fine. The feeling of winning is so rare and precious and precious and rare and, as he unscrews the cap and raises the bottle to his lips, it’s as if he’s just slain a mighty monster.

He places the little tiara he’d filched from Lili’s room on Saskia’s mantel.

He’s less than compos mentis come Christmas Eve.

He lays in Saskia's bed for a bit, inhaling lime and ambergris, trying to figure out what to do with himself. He checks his phone: No Service.

He sighs and tumbles out the sheets like a rockslide. He figures he might as well go for a run before the blizzard clocks in since there’s nothing else to do. His feet already feel numb and damp. Everything has felt numb and damp the whole time he’s been here.

Running buzzed probably isn’t his smartest idea, but it doesn’t feel like his worst one either.

Patrick frenetically tugs two pairs of thermal leggings on. The radiotor whirrs but the house is still arrestingly gelid. He pulls on his sister’s comically inflated neon orange down jacket.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he whispers.

He loots and pilfers some mittens, goggles, and a neck gaiter from Saskia’s closet. She could never take to professional athleticism, but she’s a reasonably devout runner, and is partial to a halfmarathon or two most years. Which means free activegear for Paddy. He walks to the front door and slips on his dank shoes.

He steps outside once he feels decently covered head to toe, a skill he’s found refining itself as the week has shouldered past him.

Patrick strides the roadside briskly for almost a mile. His legs feel halfway atrophied, so he gives them time to warm up. The neighborhood seeps into copses of snowdusted forestry. He feels the beauty of the landscape flicker through him like a spark.

He starts jogging.

He has no mapped course, no mile time to hit. He just wants to move forward. For once. His goggles fog up with entrapped bodyheat crowning the cold air but he doesn’t fix them. The compressed insulation of his clothes, the whirring thump of his shoes to the tar—it engenders a strangely hypnotic effect. He realises, only after miles have elapsed, that he's forgotten to turn any music on. He doesn’t need it now.

He comes upon a clearing in the trees that discloses a river he hadn’t recalled.

He abates to a walk before stopping completely and removing his goggles. 

He knows a breathtaking scene when he sees one. That was never his problem, the discernment of the good thing. It was never even the obtaining of it. It’s that—well—if Sas actually had left plants for him to nurture, they’d be dead by now.

But anyway. The river.

Snowfall has burgeoned somewhat, but light is still breaking through. The sun reflects tenderly off the surface of the frozen water as if it’s all being illuminated from beneath the ice.

Patrick swears he can see evidence of a current still rushing below, but he can’t be sure that’s all too possible at these temperatures.

He tries to take a picture for posterity (or Lily; she’s ‘into vistas’ lately), but all the light is so strange and coruscating. Hardly anything can be captured in earnest.

Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

He pulls his gaiter down and doffs his hat. Allows his florid skin a few moments to feel the glacial squall, the moist sting of melting snow. He thinks he’s missed this weather, harsh as it may be.

He takes the opportunity to check his watch, vaguely hoping the GPS tracker’s been running. And hope seems to count for something here.

4.7 MILES

A surge of accomplishment and anticipation shimmers through him. He grins, breathless, at the thought of being able to tell Tashi that he’d done a cool ten miles. And the prospect of being able to eat a guiltless meal is emerging as an actual possibility. 

Patrick gears back up and begins to walk again in the direction he came. He takes advantage—always taking advantage, always taking what he can get—of the trodden path he’d made in the road. The surer grip of his shoes.

His head starts feeling strange as he’s walking. As though it’s sloshy inside, like the dirty snow he sees on the curb. But he pushes forward and chalks it up to temperature. Picks up the pace again. 

He finds himself less mesmerised by his own footfalls now and slips his AirPods in. Slips inside the eye of his mind. His sister used to have a ‘(What's The Story) Morning Glory?’ CD. Patrick’d scratched it, probably. He hopes Oasis can get back together some day. It's not so hard to reconcile. Mostly, anyway.

About a mile into the returning trek, Patrick feels his legs suddenly get heavier. He’s felt as much before. He assumes he’s just hitting the wall. It’s a little early for him, at such moderate mileage, but he knows inclemency and altitude can do things to a body.

He’s deliberate with his strides as he proceeds. He wants to be sure that his torpid legs are parting with the ground. 

It’s around the two mile mark that his spine rattles with an odd enough sensation—sharp, like an incision down the length of it—to bring him to a stumbling halt.

Patrick’s clumsily reaching around and groping at his neck and back the best he can through his layers. It feels almost like someone has poured water on his skin. Soused him like a baptism.

He tells himself he needs a second to breathe. Starts walking again. Eventually feels very marginally centred enough to pick up the pace. His knees feel like cinderbricks. Dense and angular. But he should be capable of making it home. Or at least determined enough to do so. He’s seeing houses again. He can’t be more than a mile out.

He’s thinking of raiding Saskia’s toiletries and snorting her cornucopia of bathsalts when a billow of abject nausea rolls through him. He’s stumbling again.

He moans vaguely with turnsickness. The trees are blurring together.

He sways.

Sidesteps jerkily over the curb into a stark white alloy of fresh and shoveled snow.

Doubles over.

Dissolves to his knees, bracing himself on his palms. All fours again.

He maintains this position for several minutes. He’s heaving in and out forcefully with his eyes screwed shut. It feels a bit prayerful. He’s praying to be made to vomit. Just wants to feel better and move on and he’ll never touch his dick again, he prays. Which isn’t true, but need it be?

Things go sloshy again, and warm, this time. Overwhelmingly warm, actually. He flounders in the wet, rips off his gear, and uses his bare hands to grab handfuls of snow off the ground and push it onto his face. The heat feels like bloodshed.

Patrick tears off his jacket. Patrick lays his entire body facedown in the snow. Everything is numb and damp.

“Oh my goodness, Patrick?”

One imagines the voice of God to be a little less frantic.

He’s confused by how weak his muscles feel when he tries to push himself up. How he only sees lucent whiteness when his eyes flicker open. Shit, is this it? He thought for sure he’d end up at the other place.

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!”

Oh, alright. So not yet. Not yet, and certainly not Heaven. Close, though, with how relieved you sound. He is the body on the side of the road, and you’ve stopped to triage him instead of driving off. He squints up at you. Floral puffer. Scarf and muffs. You look like a fairytale illustration.

His blood’s gone cold in his extremities, and he’s mumbling, “Sorry.”

“You’re a mess.”

There it is.

For your part, you don’t sound malicious, or anything. You say it like a forgone conclusion, a fact of the matter. The way a person in an Ionesco absurdist play would say, oh, it looks like I’m wearing pants right now.

He tries to make a stab at indignity. Like maybe if he denies that he’s a mess, that should suddenly make him clean. What blessed relief. But all he manages is a whimpered grunt of protest.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Patrick shakes his head, suddenly aware of just how wet he is.

“Patrick, tell me.” You sound concerned, but not in pieces. He knows this is all coincidence. That you simply happened to be driving by. But the fact that you’ve found him prone in the snow, the fact that you knew to call his name, knew it was him who’d ambled to the woods and buried himself in the ground like a coldblooded mountain climber, like a defiant zealot, staring into Earth, his back to God, taunting you with his dickish solipsism—he thinks all this should terrify you. He isn’t dead. Not yet. But maybe he’d already made up his mind. Perhaps you’re just picturing him as another baby. Something small and soothable. “What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Patrick shakes his head again and takes your assistance in getting up. All his things are gathered in your arms.

“You’re soaked, Patrick. What were you doing in the snow?”

He looks around and feebly brushes some of the debris off of his leggings and thermal pullover.

“I... I don’t know? I’m pretty sure I started feeling sick, and then I got hot, so I took all my shit off,” he explains. He’s all nonchalant about it, too.

At first, he won’t tell you where his sister’s house is. You’re going all Nuremberg on him, like he really is a baby who will drop the knife if you tell him no sternly enough. But he soaks through the polyester of your passenger seat and grins and defies you. It’s like he’s challenging you to take him back to his dad’s. Like he’s a kid acting up in school for attention.

It takes a while. You circle the block twice. Then he sees the way his fingernails tinge cobalt, and thinks of how disappointed his father’d be. Concerned, you allege, but he doesn’t buy that.

Still, he confesses like a sinner.

He asks you—as you stand on the concrete steps to the quaint, Tudorstyle home, and he holds his cap in his teeth and fishes the keys from his pocket—not to hold the state of the place against Saskia. He says there’s a lot of damage he can do in a week. He’s always making a mess. Messing things up. Has he messed you up? He doesn’t ask, but has he?

He’s even sorry for fucking you. He doesn’t tell you that, either. And he’s about to do it again. But he is sorry. That has to count for something.

You stink. Not in a really bad way, not in a noticeable way, but the stale perfume and deodorant have turned into a cool film against your skin, trapping your sweat and guilt and other gross things which you’re too tired to name. You’ve been out buying gifts all day. You’re always so last minute. You feel like you might fall asleep on Saskia’s couch.

News says blizzard’s on its way. News is all choppy static pixel kaleidoscope, too. Even if you left right now, you wouldn’t make it home before the roads got dangerous.

You’ve heard enough hypothermia horror stories to know he should be taking a shower right now, warming himself up in increments. And you’ve heard enough suicide horror stories to know you’d be wrong to leave him anyway, after how you’ve just discovered him.

Was she visibly bleeding?

He doesn’t look like he’s about to call it quits.

On the contrary, he looks relaxed, calm, selfpossessed, sitting on the arm of the couch, one knee drawn up, cigarette dangling between fingers. Also his cock is out. He’s naked.

Has he already made up his mind?

How many times has he lain like that, in the snow, lucid about his slide into the abyss? 

He finishes his cig and takes a knee by your feet. Your bare feet. You shouldn’t have taken off your shoes. They stink.

You try to tuck your feet under you, but he reaches out and grabs your ankle and tugs like you’re the baby.

“What happened to your leg?” you croak, your voice a little fraught.

His thumb keeps brushing up and down the arch of your foot, like trying to ease your tension. He leans back and looks down, past the leavening weight of his dick, to the navy bruise bloomed through the hairs just below his knee.

You watch that Cheshire cat smirk spread his mouth apart. “Violent tap dancer.”

You do kind of wish he wouldn’t do the whole slapping your pussy and calling you a good girl thing. It feels weird and Freudian and it even makes you feel kind of guilty.

Not because of his stupid uncut Jewish cock all swollen against his thigh, nor the virgin’s innards mangled in a manger at this very moment two thousand years ago. You know that’s not how you measure innocence. There’s something idiotic about that, something primeval and pathetic, something no one should be proud or ashamed of.

It’s just that he doesn’t seem fully committed to the pastiche.

He spits a thin globe of saliva right onto your clit. His fingers sweep through your coarsehaired folds. Slow, methodical, like a cartographer mapping the world with his compass and pen.

Then, he raises his fingers and strikes them down against you. You flinch, you whimper. He groans straight into you.

“Good girl. Good girl.”

And it's hot, sure, but he could stand to be crueler.

You’re this nice twentysomething with no real bearing on his life. You pray. You care. You wipe his sister's shit. He suspects he didn’t take your virginity, but he could easily imagine he did, if he wanted to. That he’s teaching you something. This could all be a lot more plastic and pornographic.

But it isn’t. Not really.

He climbs over you, all over you. He’s all over you like the flu. He wants to crawl inside of you, burrow and fester. His knee is pressed between your thighs and he’s breathing into your neck, his head tucked under your chin. His nose is the colour of raspberry syrup and he drags the cold tip of it up the column of your neck.

He smells like smoke and snow. Like sweat and musk and something stale and dry.

You crane your neck with a piercing cry when he bottoms out. He cracks your hips open like a lobster claw. You feel his fevered heartbeat thumping through your body. He seems to think the heat of your flesh is enough to warm and cure him.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you slaver into his hair.

“I don’t get sick,” he assures you, puffing throatily. “I never get sick.”

He licks Saskia’s bathsalts from the swollen underside of your tits. You gather palmfuls of warm water and pour them over his freckled skin, watching it bloom florid. Are you clean now? Are you shameless? Has the stink gone? Sort of.

Maybe, for a second there.

But Christmas day seeps in like another reek. You feel bad when you catch whiff. You feel the stroke of midnight in your bones, and you think you can hear Carol of the Bells. You feel especially bad, because you’re holding onto his shoulders and fucking yourself on his unhewn cock, the bathwater swashing tepid around you. And he licks the silver crucifix in the dewy valley of your breasts into his mouth, and sucks on it, and looks at you like he’s trying to make a point. He sees you frown.

The pendant glints between his teeth as he says, “Don’t worry, He’s not paying attention. It’s His birthday.”

And you duck your head to laugh.

The water ripples. He wraps his arms around you in a halfway embrace, halfway detainment. You can tell he is worried you will find your morals and leave him cold.

But you won’t.

He’s big enough that he won’t just slip out of you, even in the water. You’re all steamdizzy, eyes halfmast. You watch rivulets of condensation dance down the tiling.

Are you really about to fall asleep on this man’s cock in his sister’s bathtub? Perhaps. There is something grounding about his heavy presence in all four corners of you. You feel that mollifying pressure in your head. Your hands scrabble and slip all over the skin of his shoulders. You kiss all these droplets off his skin.

“I think I’m about to throw up,” he whispers in your ear.

You pull back and sigh. He does look quite waxen and wheyfaced. You feel bad. You were starting to think that you alone could break the fever.

Your knee knocks against the tub. He has to tug himself out of you. He clambers out of the water, puddles splashing everywhere. He slumps to the ground like marmalade, his arms drape the toiletseat, his head in the bowl. Runnels drip off him and sop the bathmat. He spits and heaves. Then he retches. There is nothing solid to the bile. When was the last time he ate something? His viscera slops out of him and into the water. The gin scalds twice as sore on the way up. He sounds horrifying. His lips drip with mucus.

He feels your soft, moist flesh against his back. Your arms around his toned middle. You feel his ribcage tremble against you.

He feels the bone of your chin against the crown of his head.

Patrick knows this is all very repulsive. He's not sure why you're holding him. Maybe you're picturing a baby again.

“What would you get me for Christmas?” he murmurs, his heavy breath echoing around the toilet bowl.

You can smell his puke.

“Um— well... you know, Giselle actually—”

“No,” he grunts stubbornly. “I mean, if you could get me anything, what would you get me?”

“I don’t know,” you say, pressing your wet breasts against his wet back. The humidity is starting to disperse, the trickles cooling off. You do get sick. You get sick quite frequently, actually. This will definitely make you sick. He’ll be gone soon enough, and that’s probably for the best, but who will hold you in your ailing?

“Come on, babe.”

You drag your fingertips down the hair on his abs until you reach the thatch between his legs. “I don’t know… A hot stone massage?”

And it’s cruel and stupid and funny—it’s something only a few people would ever understand. He and Art and Sas and Tash and you. Maybe Lili, one day.

You and Patrick burst into laughter at the same time. He chuckles until he’s wheezing. The sound of it catches in his throat like a fishbone. This is what constitutes a happy moment for him.

“That’s perfect,” he mumbles into the shitter.

[chained-sweater]

two-bit headcanons? :3

two-bit headcanons

notes: bro, this guy's underrated as hell. :( time to write some hcs for them! :D

— a really good dancer

— does very good voice impressions (canon)

— very close with their little sister shannon (she's 8 in my au)

   ↑ their mom works a lot and shannon usually hangs out at her friends' house, but sometimes if they aren't available, two babysits her. he lets her paint their nails, do their hair, etc etc. he does all sorts of girly things but he don't give a shi bc they love her sm

— never really made a connection with girls until he met marcia

   ↑ from the very moment he saw her, it was just like an instant click. he couldn't stop thinking about her after they parted and feels terrible for ripping up her number. he sees her again post-canon and apologizes for never calling and to make up for it, he takes her on a date and long story short, they start dating (WHERE MY MAR-BIT SHIPPERS AT??)

— actually kinda misses their dad

   ↑ mr. mathews wasn't abusive, but he wasn't the greatest dad to have. he did actually try to support his family and be there for them, but he and his wife (her name is martha in my au) always got into arguments and it really had a bad affect on two. i mean, he and his dad did argue from time to time, but they were quite close. mr. mathews left a month before shannon was born. (two-bit was eleven at the time.) usually two-bit doesn't talk/think about their dad but when they do it's kinda hard for them 'cause they actually did have a good relationship and had a strong bond that collapsed the moment two realized his father wasn't coming back.

— straight, but super duper supportive of their friends

   ↑ he once threw hands with a soc for calling out darry (it was a miracle they weren't arrested)

— dallas is his buddy

   ↑ these two are WILD when they're together. keep away from them at all costs.

— made a bet that soda and steve were dating with dally and when stevepop came out, two marched right up to dally, held out his hand and said "they're datin', five bucks, pay up"

   ↑ dallas was PISSED

— they're one of the only ones who can get darry to act his age (dallas is the only other person)

   ↑ the two of them are childhood besties and sometimes two'll drag darry out to hang out and reminise of the good ol' days (nostalgia)

— had a pet goldfish. keyword "had"

   ↑ fishy had to go bye-bye via the toilet :(

— kleptomaniac (canon)

— math wizz. it's their favorite class at school.

— did gymnastics for like, three years and is insanely flexible

— double-jointed

— st. patrick's day is their favorite holiday aside from christmas (i hc them to be half-irish)

— allergic to peanuts (as well as like, everything else. poor guy has so many allergies.)

— messy. very messy. never cleans up after themself.

end notes: that's all for today. thanks for the ask, anon! ❤️

[artdcnaldson]

ARARARRARARARRARA

HIS RACKET

stop. ✋. i am unable to control and contain myself. i need mean mean mean art to fuck pats sister with his racket after losing a match because she was distracting him. she was constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs, short short skirt, flashing him her pretty panties. need him to taunt her and tell her how his racket barely fits in her tiny little virgin pussy :(((( but stuff her full of it anyway :((((( he really is doing anything to keep himself from putting his cock in her :(((( i need him i feel sick and horny. it's now his favorite racket and his lucky charm i'm dying

-🐞

RAHHHHHHHHH

Like god. Just thinking of you showing up to one of his matches in a little denim miniskirt and one of his Stanford tennis shirts you stole <3 you look so sweet, you cheer the loudest every time he manages to get a point.

He usually wouldn’t be able to see you very well from down on the court, but, god, you’re front row and he can see the flash of white panties beneath your skirt, the bounce of your tits when you excitedly cheer. And maybe you were earnestly cheering for him, you didn’t even realize what you were doing, but that brainless look you give him when he confronts you after the match just frustrates him even more.

“I’m sorry you lost, Art,” you say as you follow him inside his dorm like a lost puppy. The fact that he didn’t stop you was exciting, like maybe he as going to break finally, that he saw how much you cared. “But you looked so great out there. You should’ve won. I think the line judges totally fucked you ov—“

He has you pinned against the door and you go quiet. “I would’ve won,” he says firmly. “If you hadn’t been flashing your panties like a fucking groupie.”

Your brows furrow. “Oh… I didn’t mean to.” Which was a lie. Of course it fucking was.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes you fucking did. You’d do anything if it meant you’d have something filling your pussy.”

Something flashes in your eyes. Excitement? Shock?

His hand moves between your thighs, feeling the damp spot on your panties. “How long have you been wet?”

A shaky breath escapes you as his fingers press against the seam of your pussy, avoiding your clit with each pass. “Art—“ you whine, embarrassment dripping from your tone.

Why should you be embarrassed, though? You were the one slutting yourself out for his attention, weren’t you? Flashing your panties, throwing yourself at him at any chance. He’d done much worse to you, touched you in ways that were unforgivable. At least, they would be to Patrick.

It’s infuriating, that you have the audacity to act like some demure fucking virgin. Like you haven’t fucked yourself on his bed, haven’t gotten off to him degrading you and cumming down your throat.

But you don’t even have to answer. He knows that you’ve been soaked since the second you sat down in the stands, that your little body has been absolutely thrumming with need and want. That you’d dressed that way with the intentions of getting him so riled up he’d need to take it out on you.

And he would. He’d give you something to stuff you full, keep you satisfied.

“Lay down,” he says, and you obey so easily. You settle on top of his bed, chest heaving with anticipation. He slips your panties down your legs, he can practically smell your need. He wants to just bury his face between your thighs, lick at your core until your taste is all he knows. Make you cum again and again and again until your clit feels numb and you beg for him to stop. “You want me to fill you up, hm?”

You nod, irises practically swallowed by your lust-blown pupils. “Mhmm. Please, Art.”

A smile spreads across his lips. “Yeah? And you’ll take anything I give you, won’t you?”

You nod, almost frantic. “Yes, anything.”

He wants to save the image of your expression in his memory forever. Your wide eyes, the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip. As he grabs a racket from his bag. It’s new, the handle freshly wrapped. You let out a soft noise, involuntary as you look at it. “Art—“

He tosses the racket a few times in his hand. “I thought you said anything?”

You make a face. “I don’t think it’ll fit. I’m a v—“

“A virgin,” he finishes for you, dripping condescension. “Sure, but I know your fingers aren’t cutting it when you fuck yourself. What do you use, huh? Did you and your little friends buy pink sparkly dildos at the mall?”

Your face burns and you look away. It’s too specific of a description, and you know he knows. That he’d snooped one of the times that he had to carry you back to your dorm and found your stash of toys and the fucking spank bank under your bed. Which was mortifying in and of itself— you had fucking clip outs of him from the campus newspaper and posters of the Men’s tennis team in there. You hated that he knew just how obsessed you were with him.

“It’ll fit,” he says. “I’ll even warm you up first. I’ll give you my fingers. I’m not that mean.”

Your tongue darts out, wets those pretty lips of yours. And you nod.

His finger slides in so easily that he almost moans. You’re so warm, so tight around him, slick and obscenely wet. One finger and you’re reduced to mewls and whines. Little pants of yes, so good, thank you, art art art.

Your body accommodates him so easy, opening up like a flower for him. A second finger plunges inside your cunt and your juices drip down his fingers, down your ass. You’re wetter than anyone he’s been with before. It’s not just that you’re a virgin— he’d fucked virgins before— it’s that you’re so fucking obsessed with him.

“You really are tight,” his voice comes out a little shaky, affected. How could it not when he has three fingers knuckle deep in your sweet, virgin pussy? When your walls clench and flutter around the intrusion, when you get wetter and wetter so his fingers squelch with each thrust in? “I don’t know if it’ll fit. But we’re gonna try, aren’t we?”

Yes, Yes, Yes. The response falls from your lips like prayer, like worship.

He waits until you’re all pliant and relaxed beneath him, moaning prettily. When your pussy feels supple and opens like it needs to take more. He grabs the racket and he almost backs out, almost stops himself, but you look at him with hunger and want. You need to impress him so badly— to accept whatever he gives him.

There’s a first time for everything. He tries his best to slick up the handle with lube, not that you’re lacking in that department. He watches your cunt pulse, your hole clenching as he practically jacks off the tennis racket. Oh, you want it so bad.

“Hold your legs up,” he instructs. You’re chewing on your lip as you do, tucking your hands beneath your knees, leaving your cunt exposed and glistening in the shitty light of his dorm room. “Relax. You wanted it, so lay there and take it.”

He presses the handle against your cunt, listens to the slightest intake of breath as it breaches your tight entrance, as your body stretches to accommodate it. It’s a stretch, god, it’s obscene. Your tiny little pussy wrapped around the handle like it’s a dick.

“Ah, f-fuck—“ You’re whimpering, crying for it, little feet kicking as he presses it in deeper. “Big— it’s big.”

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and you’ve pushed that limit many times before. He’s fantasized about it before, the idea of it. Of some faceless, nameless woman lying all spread out beneath him, crying out with pornstar moans while he fucks her with the handle of his racket after a game.

He blamed Patrick for that one. For planting that seed.

But now he has you. Lying beneath him with your face screwed up in pleasure, your mouth ajar as he pushes it deeper, deeper, deeper. “Tell me how it feels,” he goads once it’s fully sheathed inside of you.

It takes a moment for the question to register— he sees it in the lazy blink in your eyes, how they’re glassy when they meet his.

“Mmm… so— so full,” you moan. Your expression is akin to disappointment as he slowly withdraws the racket, only to push it back in. Your eyes roll back, toes curl and flex.

“You don’t feel gross? No shame at all?” He asks.

You should. You definitely should, but right then you can’t find it in yourself to. You shake your head. “I just— nghh— just want whatever you give me.”

God. You shouldn’t tell him that, shouldn’t willingly hand over that much power. His head swims with it.

“No fucking self respect” he mutters. “Jesus Christ. Such a fucking slut.”

But that just encourages you. “Just your slut, Art, all yours.”

God, you’re so fucking wet, dripping down to your asshole, down onto the sheets. He figures he could make you squirt, that you’d let him play with your pussy until you gushed like a fountain. He could probably do anything he wanted and you’d take it with a smile.

“You need t’ cum?”

You nod quickly, moaning. “Fuck— yeah, so bad, Art, so fucking bad.” Your cunt squeezes around the handle of the racket, like your body is trying to suck it deeper. “Touch me— touch me, I need—“

He knows what you need. And he shouldn’t. But what the fuck is he holding back for at this point? He moves his free hand to your clit, rubs in firm circles as he shallowly thrusts the racket.

The cries that escape you are like music to him, so delicious, so fucking debauched. Your feet kick pathetically, your back arches off the bed. It’s almost adorable.

“You have ten seconds before I stop,” he warns. You cry weakly, grind your hips up against the handle as he fucks you with it. He counts aloud, watches the way your breath heaves as you get closer. He can practically feel your racing heartbeat in your clit.

“C-cumming, cumming—“ you whine. He’s at two— your body is right on the edge, you want it so bad.

“Come on, give it to me,” his voice is low, rough with need. He meets your gaze, and he grins at how wrecked you are, how pathetic he can make you.

You cum just like that, leave a ring of cream at the top of the handle as he fucks you through it. He reduces you into weak moans, makes you go limp beneath him.

When he eases the handle out, he marvels at the sight of your pussy, smeared with arousal, swollen and open for him. He rubs his thumb against your clit and he watches your hole twitch for him, still wanting anything you can give.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. He should have taken a picture.

[diyasgarden]

Art’s Sister AU by @artdcnaldson

This AU is so cute cute cute <3

[deepseagirl60]

I really want to write some Hangster/Sereshaw fics for a03. Here are some of my headcannons.

- Kissing on the tarmac after Jake saves Bradley & Mav. Everyone is clapping and shocked these finally figured out they are in love with each other.

- Jake kisses Bradley after he tells Give' Em He'll on the tarmac and they again after he save him and Mav and they go on their first date.

- Bradley asking out on a date Jake in front of everyone at the Hard Deck. Penney and Mav help Bradley set up the Hard Deck.

- 10 Things I Hate About You AU with Jake as Kat and Bradley as Patrick. Bob wants to date Nat, Jake's stepsister but can't unless Jake starts date. Javy helps Bob by enlisting Bradley to help woo Jake until it all blows up and Bradley has to get Jake back.

- Fake dating au Jake needs a date to his sister's wedding and they share one bed and cute kids all help Bradley and realize they should date for real.

- Alpha! Bradley & Omega! Jake falling in mpreg they hook up at the Hard Deck and mate and the Jake get pregnant with Bradley's baby.

- Bradley and Jake have a fight at the Hard Deck and they argue in the rain and they confess their feelings and then make love in Bradley's Bronco.

- Tom & Pete think it's time to play cupid with for their son Bradley. They know Braldey and Jake are in love with each other because they act just like young Pete and Tom. They do different things to get them together it would be like a 5 +1 fic.

- Dancer or Cheerleader Jake falls in love with college or nfl football player Bradley.

- Cowboy Jake and Cowboy Bradley fall in love.

I have more headcannons. Is there any other ideas you think I should write? I would also need a beta too. If anyone is interested.

[acourtofkindness]

Thank you for sending in all the stories, here you can find the collection! Some of these are one-shots, some are longer stories, just click your way through them and also check out their other fics!

A Court of Vice and Victors

by @wishcamper Acosf rewrite where Nesta actually gets help and she and Cassian have a healthier dynamic, plus an Illyrian murder mystery

Pages Turned

by @climbthemountain2020 A character study on Nesta Archeron, the hardships she's faced through her life, and how they've shaped her as a person.

Could You Love Me While I Hate Myself

by @witch-and-her-witcher Humans have just been freed from servitude to the fae after years at war on Prythian and times are desperate for Nesta Archeron. With Feyre MIA and Elain a shell of herself, her options are becoming increasingly limited. When one of the young fae warriors, Cassian, who has carved a name for himself on the battlefield proposes to her after recognizing a mating bond between them, Nesta doesn't see any choice but to agree to take him as her husband and move herself and her sister to his home Court and the wilds of Illyria. War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

Firm and Fragrant Still the Brambleberries

by @foundress0fnothing When Nesta became a nurse at the start of the war, she could not have predicted a patient as challenging as Lieutenant Cassian Davies, nor he a nurse as captivating as her. As the same war that brought them together threatens to tear them apart, Nesta and Cassian must navigate the complexities of love and duty to find the way back to each other. A WWI historical AU.

Wreck My Plans, That's My Man

by @c-e-d-dreamer Drummer for the Bat Boys, Cassian has a large following, but sometimes Nesta doesn't appreciate fangirls calling themselves "Cassian's future wife."

It Looks As Though You're Letting Go

by @Darkcat18 (on ao3) Everyone is born with an arrow on the back of their hand which points to their soulmate at midnight on their eighteenth birthday. After her parents' disastrous marriage and her father's subsequent depression following the death of her mother, Nesta realized a soulmate is nothing more than guaranteed heartache and ruination. On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she packs up her car and leaves her family and life behind forever. What she doesn't count on, however, is having a soulmate like Cassian, who may be the one to prove to her that a soulmate is what she needs.

I Guess It's Half Timing (And The Other Half's Luck)

by @moodymelanist Nesta and Cassian have a steamy one-night stand while out celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, but their lives are changed forever once Nesta realizes her period is late. Follow along as Nesta and Cassian navigate preparing to become parents, balancing their other life stresses, and figuring out their feelings for one another!

Amidst the Madness

by @This_Immortal_Hope (on ao3) Love and war have always followed the same rules: Quick to ignite, slow to extinguish. There aren't many things Cassian has dared to openly want in his 500 years of existence. Not even the position he currently occupies as Lord of Windahaven (far too lofty a spot for nothing more than a well-blodded bastard, if you ask the other Illyrian Lords), but from the second Nesta Archeron stepped foot in his camp, the entire world ebbed into a single truth. She is his. He is hers. Everything else - the war he is meant to lead, the people relying on him, the legacy he should be fighting to protect, cease to exist the second his eyes are caught in roiling silver flames. There is pain in this female, his female. And retribution will be exacted. Rhysand has his war, and now so does Cassian. Whether the two align ... only Nesta can give that order.

Sweetest Con

by @separatist-apologist Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before. She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

The Whole Truth

by @TheTeaQueen (on ao3) A beautifully heartbreaking story about what if Papa Archeron used/sold Nesta back in their village, and the IC learning this truth. It features Rhys and Nesta sibling bonding over their respective SA traumas. And Cassian helping Nesta to heal and feel comfortable with touch again

The Nesta Variation

by @persegrace (on ao3) A modern AU where Cassian is a military vet and Nesta is a former ballet dancer. They're both dealing with trauma, and meet in AA.

Ultima Ex Nobis

by @fieldofdaisiies Six years into a global pandemic which was caused by a mass fungal infection that turns hosts into zombie-like creatures and makes the whole of Prythian collapse, the former army general Cassian Cadell is tasked with one very special mission – escorting Nesta Archeron, one of the few immune survivors, across a post-apocalyptic Prythian to a group of people of the name L. Their identity is unknown but they can make an antidote.

you make my motor run

by @wilde-knight When Nesta and Cassian are set up on a blind date, neither of them can imagine their families feeling whole again. But with sparks flying between them, will they finally be able to imagine the road ahead?

[crimeofacentury]

MASTERLIST OF BOTS!!

CHALLENGERS ☆彡

Ghost face Artrick : art and Patrick as Scream Ghostface who pay you a visit...

Party Art Donaldson : you and art share a kiss at a frat party...

Baby Daddy Art Donaldson : you and Art are expecting from a one night stand….

Sugar Daddy Art Donaldson : older-divorced! Art Donaldson is your coach AND sugar daddy…

NEW! Fanboy Art Donaldson : Art is your biggest fan…

DC ミ★

Barry Allen : somethings changed about you…

MARVEL / XMEN : ☆彡

Baby daddy Charles Xavier : you and Charles are expecting from a one night stand….

Peter Parker : someone’s got a crush on the new girl…

HARRY POTTER ミ★

Daphne Greengrass : a modern AU where you just got posted on Hogwart express…

Marvel x Marauders James Potter: the reality stone somehow transported you to a magic, British place… with someone who looks exactly like your dead ex…

Puffs Wayne Hopkins : he really really really wants to go to Hogsmeade with you…

GLEE ☆彡

Quinn Fabray: she’s just curious about the new girl, that’s all…

OCS ミ★

Marvel Carmen Connors : a supe who REALLY hates superheroes…

Ice Skater James Butler : your little sister does his makeup…

One day I’ll do a full intro to all of these bots but for right now this will do…

[s4bbatical]

YOUR GIRL | Part 2. Patrick Zweig x Female!Reader

Pairing: Patrick Zweig x female!reader, Tashi Duncan x female!reader (platonic)

Summary: After your parents announce their divorce, you're sent to New York to pursue your passion for the arts at NYU. Your cousin, the infamous tennis player Tashi Duncan, introduces you to her insufferable colleagues at a house party in the upper east side. Already a sore thumb from rural Canada, Patrick can't help but find interest in an untouched territory.

Word Count: 5,5k

Warnings: Sexual tension, profanities, mentions of cigarette use.

MINORS DNI

Notes: The timeline is inaccurate in comparison to the film, this is an AU. All characters introduced are barely in their early 20s, unless stated otherwise. No use of y/n.

Part 1. Part 3. Part 4.

CHAPTER TWO: “Everything is Embarrassing”

"Could've been my anything, now everything is embarrassing."

It had been two weeks since the house party scene had unfolded, and to no avail, you could not stop thinking of those green eyes. They watched you in the back of your mind no matter what you did, whether it was homework or taking a shower. They never leaved you alone.

The worst part is, you hadn’t even seen him since the gathering. The constant recollection of how he stared at you, haunted you more than the idea of his presence itself. It was embarrassing.

-

You found yourself walking into a coffee shop not far from your grandparent’s home, willing to perform in the corner of the space by convincing yourself that you’d get any of your homework done.

You ordered a black coffee, not in the mood to drink anything heavy as your stomach already felt uneasy with the deadlines you had waiting for you.

Tashi had agreed to sleep over, on the condition you’d be willing to meet her at the recreational space provided by NYU later that day. You two had a family gathering the next day, so it made sense. Plus, she loved you like you were her sister. She was more than happy to spend time with you.

Tashi was already training even though it was the off season. You envied her drive, but wouldn’t dare doing half the things she did. Your uphill treks to even make it to your classes were more than enough.

You stared at your laptop screen, feeling the blue rays burn your eyes into your skull. You read the first paragraph of your paper at least five times over, hoping you’d find a spark in you to write the second one. One would think that writing a paper on a topic you actually enjoyed would be a walk in the park, that is, if the park was burning in flames.

You end up scrolling on your phone not soon after, somehow ending up on Patrick Zweig’s Instagram page by diving deep enough on your cousin’s profile. You hated to admit that this wasn’t the first time you had done this within the past two weeks.

You feel yourself get worked up slightly as you scrolled past the photos of him on the court, sweat and lean muscle encapsulated perfectly within the professionally taken photos.

Your thumb slips as you attempt to refocus on your task at hand, accidentally liking a family photo from two years ago. You gasp quietly to yourself.

“Shit!” You whisper, removing your like from the photo before putting your phone face down on the table. Shockingly, you manage to find a jolt of energy to continue writing your paper in fear of looking at your phone once more. You heard your phone vibrate, but refuse to look at it.

An hour goes by, you've grown tired of looking at the words on your screen again. Without thinking, you pick up your phone to look at your notifications.

pat_zweig started following you.

Your eyes widen at the notification, hesitantly unlocking your phone and opening the Instagram app. You decide to follow him back, feeling as if your chest was about to explode by how fast your heart rate had gone up.

You watch as you receive a new DM.

pat_zweig: thinking of me are you?

You put your phone back down, shaking your head. You begin to pack up your belongings, seeing it was nearly time to meet up with Tashi and it takes nearly an hour to get there from your current location. Your face surely had gone red from the interaction, wanting to disappear into the hole of the earth and become one with the dirt.

You begrudgingly exit the café, walking over to the subway to get yourself to the West Village.

-

You approach the large recreational center, using your student card to get inside.

You notice students from different skill levels and sport backgrounds exercising in their own bubbles, paying no mind to each other unless necessary. You walk over to an empty bench, sitting down as you scan the room for Tashi. She was nowhere to be seen.

You remember there’s a tennis court in the next space over, picking up yourself back up.

You walk over to the next heavy set of doors that led to an outside lot attached to the building, pushing them open to reveal the court. You still don’t see Tashi.

You sigh, pulling out your phone to see if your cousin had texted you; nothing from her end. You scan the space again whilst walking into the bleachers. You set your bag down, deciding that she could find you here.

Off season apparently meant nothing to these people, watching them work up a sweat in the late September breeze. Your mind is so set on the schoolwork you left behind that you don’t even notice exactly who is playing until you begin to focus on faces.

Your eyes land on Patrick.

He was on the furthest court away from the door, which is why you hadn’t noticed him at first. He was playing a round against Art.

You watched closely as he smacked the ball, hard. His muscles moved with every decision he made, your eyes wandering down to his exposed legs, specifically his thighs.

You felt your face flush again, finding somewhere to sit before anyone could notice you fixated on the sight in front of you. You pull out your phone and text Tashi quickly.

where r u? i’m sitting by the tennis court

You look up right in time to watch Patrick begin to chase around Art after their game ends. As Art falls to the ground in a dramatic feat, this is when Patrick finally makes eye contact with you. He slows down, now only about 20 feet away from you. You could see that smirk from the top of the empire state building if you tried hard enough.

You knew he wanted to talk to you, and a part of you wanted him to, like a child playing with fire. Before he has a chance to approach you, Tashi appears from what seemed like thin air with her bag around her shoulder.

“Sorry, I was in the locker room.” She says, approaching you with a smile.

You snap out of your daze, looking up at your cousin. "Took you long enough." You force out.

“Let’s go, I am starving.” She says, signaling you to follow her.

You get up once more, moving your messenger bag across your body. The two of you climb down from the bleachers and make your way to the exit. You quickly glance back as Tashi opens the doors, looking at Patrick.

He was watching you closely, his eyes sizing you up. He waves at you with that diabolical smirk once your eyes meet again, just like he did at the party. You mentally kick yourself, despising the excitement you felt from this situation. Tashi would be immensely disappointed in you, to say the least. You look away.

“Hello, you okay?” Tashi asks, waving her hand in front of your face as the doors closed behind you two.

You blink repeatedly, coming to. “Yeah, sorry. My essay has drained me mentally.” You smack your cheeks lightly, attempting to straighten out your brain and rebuke any thoughts of that mischievous bastard.

Tashi laughs at you. “Okay you weirdo.” She says, linking arms with you. “I drove today, by the way. No shitway for us.”

Tashi has referred to the subway as such for as long as you could remember. She grew up better off than you, avoiding public transit whenever she could. However, she always willingly rode the subway with you when you visited. It was apart of the experience, you had always reasoned with her. Since you were now a local until further notice, the desire to do so wasn’t as strong now that you had to take the subway yourself nearly every day.

-

The car ride was long but bearable. Tashi had let you choose the music, also letting you complain when she apparently had no good CDs. They were her parents CDs, anyways. It didn’t matter to her.

You felt your phone vibrate on your lap, lifting it up to see what notification you got as Tashi droned on about her own studies.

pat_zweig: do you always look that hot and bothered, or is it because of me?

You gulp quietly, side eyeing Tashi to make sure she wasn’t taking notice to what you were doing on your phone as you continued to nod in agreement to whatever she was saying.

You: do you always speak to women like this, or are you just born this way?

You didn’t really want to put up a fight with Patrick, but you found it only fair to at least try to drive him away on your cousin’s behalf.

pat_zweig: only to the ones id like to see underneath me to be honest

You gasp loudly at the aforementioned text, causing Tashi to become concerned.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” She asks quickly, taking her eyes off the road for a second to look over at you.

“Nothing! Nothing.” You laugh nervously, holding your phone screen away from her sight. “I just uh, I realized I had something due sooner than I expected.” You say curtly, pulling gently at the neckline of your sweater. You stared at the message over and over, taken aback by his crass response. You quickly text back.

You: wowww you’re really ambitious! you should direct that energy towards your personal goals in life and actually make something of yourself

You knew that you were being rude, but you had a feeling he enjoyed being ridiculed by you. It was quite obvious that you couldn’t say anything that would make him leave you alone. Quite frankly, that’s the last thing you’d wish for him to do.

pat_zweig: what if my personal goal is to know what it’s like?

You hastily put your phone in your pocket as the two of you approach your grandparent’s home, your body burning to the touch.

“Do you need help with that assignment?” Tashi asks once she parked her car and turned off the ignition.

“What assignment?” You ask, confused by her question.

Tashi gives you a quizzical look. “The one you seem really worked up over. You’ve barely spoken for the last five minutes. You don’t do that.” She points out, gesturing towards you.

You laugh again. “No, it’s fine, sorry. My mind is just–“ You whistle, pointing your finger out the window. “–elsewhere today. Ignore me.” You say, stepping out of the car and closing the passenger door.

You retrieve your bags from the backseat, Tashi giving you a look like she didn’t fully believe you. Albeit, she did not question you further.

As the two of you have dinner with your grandparents, your mind keeps wandering back to the message. Your imagination gets the best of you as you thought about what it is like to have his calloused hands on your exposed skin, the same flames as before licking at your core. Deep down, you wanted to find out.

“Excuse me, I have to use the washroom.” You says suddenly, getting up to exit the room and run upstairs.

“Don’t be long! We still have dessert!” Your grandmother exclaims after you.

You felt your heart race as you closed the door behind you, sitting on the ledge of the bathtub as you unlocked your phone. You go to text back Patrick.

You: and what exactly is it that you’d do in order to find that out?

This was getting messy. You knew you were doing something you shouldn’t have, and it only enticed you more to the situation.

-

Patrick didn’t text back right away. In fact, he didn’t at all until you and Tashi were in your room a few hours later, staying up watching rom coms.

Tashi was laying beside you, her eyes barely staying open. Jennifer Hudson was meeting Matthew McConaughey for the first time in How to Lose A Guy In 10 Days when your phone buzzed again. You looked at it instantly.

pat_zweig: what are you doing rn?

pat_zweig: i’ll answer your question in person

Your eyes flicker between Tashi and the movie before responding.

You: i’m busy sorry

pat_zweig: not busy enough to be ignoring me though, right?

You don’t respond right away, your mind drifting off over the imagery he has given you. Patrick sends you another text.

pat_zweig: you’re thinking about it, aren’t you

You: about what?

You knew exactly what he was referring to, but something about trying to make him say it out loud made it even better.

pat_zweig: you know what i mean, you're smarter than that

pat_zweig: are you sure you’re busy?

You look over at Tashi. She’s fallen asleep without you even realizing it. You purse your lips in deep thought, weighing out your options. You respond back.

You: i can’t tonight

You watch as the typing bubble reappears then disappear multiple times before he finally messages you back.

pat_zweig: enjoy that dream world of yours in the meantime then

pat_zweig: goodnight

You feel your cheeks warm up, placing your phone face down on the bed beside you.

You begin to think about what would it be like; to be underneath him, over him, in front, his head between your–

You flip over to bury your face in your pillow, attempting to suffocate the thoughts out of your mind. Without trying, you end up falling asleep.

-

As the morning rises, you and Tashi busy yourselves with school assignments for the earlier half of the day.

"Stop moving or this portrait is gonna look disfigured." You state, Tashi readjusting herself in your desk chair once again. You had to paint a subject for your visual studies course, figuring your cousin would be a great example. Except, she could not sit still for the life of her.

"Sorry, the coffee is getting to me." She admits, keeping her face straight as you continue to paint the base of the image.

"Just let me get the color grade right, then you can get up." You say, sticking out your tongue slightly as you focus on the canvas.

Your grandparents and Tashi's parents liked to host family gatherings every couple of months or so, preferably when it was still warm outside so they had an excuse to use the barbecue. The entire house was expected to be in attendance, meaning you and your grandparents. Tashi explained that her parents were more than happy to do so, considering your appearance in their home of New York.

"Okay..." You lay down a few more strokes before humming in approval. "You're free to roam now."

Tashi gets up instantly, stretching out her back. "I'm grateful you asked me to do this, but don't make me do it again please." She pleas, groaning slightly.

"Noted." You say, putting the paintbrush into your jar of murky water.

"Girls! Are you hungry? I'm making appetizers for later." Your aunt Diane exclaims from the bottom of the stairs.

"Do you think she made pigs in a blanket?" You ask Tashi excitedly, who laughs at your facial expression.

"Coming, mom!" She yells back, exiting the room with you trailing behind.

The two of you enter the kitchen, seeing all kinds of ingredients laid out on the counter. Your grandmother was assisting Diane, your grandfather outside with Tashi's dad Mike as the two hovered over the barbecue. There were in fact, pigs in a blanket on the counter. You reach your hand out for one.

"Careful baby," Your grandmother warns. "They're fresh out of the oven. Wait a few minutes."

You nod, retracting your hand. "What time is everyone supposed to be here at?" You ask, sitting on a stool.

"About an hour, just a few more family friends is all." Diane explains. "I invited Michelle and her folks. I haven't seen her in quite some time, I'm very ecstatic." She muses, a smile forming on her face.

"Who's Michelle?" Tashi asks, taking a grape from a nearby bowl and throwing it into her mouth.

"An old friend of mine from college. Her son actually goes to NYU too, tennis player as well." Her mom says, pointing her knife towards Tashi before going back to cutting tomatoes.

"What's his name? I might know him." Tashi states.

"I honestly can't remember, honey. He's coming too though, I believe. You'll see then if you know him or not." Diane shrugs.

Your phone vibrates, pulling it out of your back pocket.

pat_zweig: any wet dreams of me last night?

You roll your eyes, turning your body away from the conversation between your family members.

You: that would actually be a nightmare. so no, thankfully

pat_zweig: you're really good at pretending you don't give a shit about me

pat_zweig: keep it up and i might get hard ;)

You scoff, putting your phone back in your pocket. Unbelievable.

Your grandmother says your name, earning your attention. "Can you mix up the caesar salad for me while I get these tarts going?" She asks with a drawl of her Brooklyn accent.

"Course." You say, getting off the stool and catering to your grandmother's needs.

-

The door bell rings. Not realizing it had already been an hour, your aunt makes a noise of excitement as she heads over to the front door. She begins greeting people you have either last seen when you were 14, or have never met at all.

You felt like your head was metaphorically hit with a large stone when you see a familar head of black curls step through the threshold of the front door. You hear Tashi choke on her water behind you.

"Grandma, what's Michelle's last name?" You ask quickly, turning away from the scene to face your grandmother.

"Oh, Zweig I think. Why?" She says casually, having no idea about the chaos that was about to ensue.

Tashi locks eyes with you, although you knew you didn't look nearly as pissed off as she did over his presence.

"I'm going to help dad outside." She says calmly, quickly walking through the sliding door that was already open.

You debate whether or not you should follow your cousin, but you didn't wish to create a situation. "Is Tashi alright?" Your grandmother asks.

"She will be." You sigh, turning back towards the guests. It would be rude of you to not say hi, after all.

Patrick looks at you, standing beside his mother. That's where he gets his looks from. You think to yourself.

"Michelle, this is my niece." Diane introduces you, Michelle stepping forward and engulfing you in a hug.

"Your Steph's daughter? Gosh, you are quite the stunner." Michelle says, rubbing your back briskly before stepping back. "This is my son, Patrick."

Patrick smiles innocently. "Oh, we know each other already." He says nonchalantly.

"Oh really? You must know Tashi then," Your aunt glances around. "I'm not sure where she went, though." She hums.

Michelle and Diane rejoice in conversation, wandering off to the backyard to join the men. Your grandmother had began bringing out snacks to the dining table, leaving you and Patrick alone in the kitchen.

He leans against the counter, a little too comfortably close to you. "Long time no talk." He muses, grabbing a grape from the bowl behind you and popping it into his mouth. A grin spreads across his face when he realizes how tense you are.

"Did you know I'd be here?" You ask with a flippant tone. "It's like you get off by making me uncomfortable." You suggest, crossing your arms.

Patrick shrugs. "Don't know," He leans in close. "you didn't seem that uncomfortable last night." He glances down at your lips before making eye contact once more. "Also, no, I didn't know. Pleasant surprise." He murmurs before stepping away, heading towards the backyard.

You let go of the breath you didn't realize you were holding, deciding to preoccupy yourself by helping your grandmother arrange appetizers on the dining table.

-

More family members arrived over time, nearly everyone either outside on the lawn or sitting around the dining table with drinks.

You had decided to stand on the balcony connecting to the master bedroom, having a cigarette so the smoke wouldn't be a disturbance to anyone. You watched carefully as Patrick entertained one of your younger relatives, trying not to laugh as the kid threw his stuffed animal at his face. He feigned being hurt, earning a hug from the little boy. It warmed your heart a bit, seeing this side to him. You hear the door open behind you, turning your head to see Tashi.

"I cannot believe he showed up, seriously." She scoffs, looking over the scenery. "He knew this was my family's gathering, it's like he enjoys being the piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe or something." She says bitterly, taking a sip of the diet coke in her hand.

You tilt your head side to side, somewhat agreeing with her. You blow out smoke. "At least he isn't trying anything," You attempt to reason. "But I get it. If I were you, I'd wanna kick him in the nuts or something too." It wasn't far from what your feeling yourself.

After a few moments of silence, Tashi speaks once again. "I think I'm gonna head home, I have an early day tomorrow anyways." She sighs, looking over at you. "Are you gonna be alright?" She asks, clearly referring to the threat down below.

"Oh, yeah." You reassure. "These bad boys?" You flex your arms as your cigarette hangs out of you mouth. You put your arms back down and hold out your smoke to continue speaking. "They'll protect me."

Tashi laughs quietly, nodding. "Okay then. I'm heading out." She pulls you in for a brief hug. "You smell like cigarettes." She comments, her nose scrunching up a bit.

"Hm, wonder why." You say, raising your brows as you inhale the cigarette once more.

Tashi smiles at you. "Okay, bye." She says, returning back into the house.

You put out the cancerous addiction into the ash tray on top of the side table to your right, resting your arms on the railing. You look back down, watching your relatives mingle with one another. You smile, yet felt heavy without the presence of your mom around. You were pretty good at calling her every other day, but it just wasn't the same.

You make eye contact with Patrick, who holds up a pack of his own smokes, gesturing to your current location. You roll your eyes. You knew it was best if he smoked where you were than anywhere else. You nod, watching him grin as he disappears into the house.

A minute later, he joins you on the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him. He doesn't say a word, putting a cigarette in his mouth. He pats down his pockets, looking for a lighter.

You flick yours and hold it up, allowing Patrick to lean in and light his smoke without you even looking at him.

You listen to him inhale then exhale, standing right beside you.

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?" He says, no indication of arrogance in his words. He actually might be genuine for once.

"Mm, yeah." You mumble, resting your chin on the palm of your hand.

He leans over the railing to make eye contact with you. "You okay?" He asks, noticing your lack of sarcasm.

"Yeah, it's fine." You say, looking back down at your family members. "It's stupid, I just miss my mom. That's all." You say nonchalantly.

Patrick nods, inhaling his cigarette again. "She's back in Canada, right?" He asks.

"Yep, unfortunately." You say, looking over at him as you purse your lips. "I'm surprised you haven't made a lewd comment yet." You remark, a small smile playing on your lips.

It was odd, there wasn't any tension to slice with a knife. The air was peaceful between the two of you.

Patrick chuckles. "I figured right now isn't a good time. Besides, there's children present." He gestures towards the young children running around the legs of parents who attempted to hold conversation while their kids yelled.

"I don't think they can hear you, nor would they know what you were even saying." You point out, debating whether or not you have another cigarette.

Patrick hums. "I suppose you're right." He says, putting his cigarette out in the ash tray.

You look at each other for a long moment, complete silence taking over. You clear your throat and stand up straight, running a hand through your hair.

"Can I ask you something?" You say, your stomach flipping over as he nods. "Why..." You struggle to find your words. "Why do you do the things you do?"

He furrows his brows at your question. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"How come you like flirting with everyone? You slept with my cousin over the summer and now you're going after me. Why?" You ask. You didn't have any cruel intentions behind your words, you simply just wanted to know why.

Patrick goes silent, his gaze looking down at the ground. "I, I don't know." He mumbles before looking back up at you. "I think I like knowing I have that ability over people." He admits, shrugging. "I'm not trying to achieve anything, I just can't help myself." He says, scratching the back of his neck.

You nod, looking away in thought. "Right, makes sense." You say.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He inquires, sounding nearly offended by your statement.

"Manwhore." You simply say, holding back a smile.

"Oh shut the fuck up." He quips, shaking his head. "You're really something, you know." He adds, looking at you with a certain fondness in your eyes. You were meeting his level, you knew it was entertaining to him.

"I'm something to Patrick Zweig? God bless America." You say sarcastically, placing your hand over your heart.

He mocks you in a high pitched tone, rolling his eyes. "Most women would've caved in by now, even Tashi did." He states, a shit eating grin on his face.

"Hey seriously, don't speak of her like that." You say sternly, clearly upset with his words.

His smile falls, wincing at your words. "Sorry, I'm sorry. That was a low blow, that wasn't cool. Sorry." He says. "I mean it." He adds, his words with a clear indication of regret.

You hum for a moment. "I guess I forgive you." You say, rubbing your arms. The breeze had gotten colder over the course of two weeks, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He says, a half grin on his face now. "Are you cold? We can go back inside. I think the party is dying down anyways." He points out, grabbing ahold of the door handle.

"Yeah, I should get back to my homework anyways." You state, stepping inside once Patrick opened the door.

The two of you make it out to the hallway, hearing the faint commotion of family downstairs.

Patrick stands awkwardly in the doorway as you enter your bedroom, unsure of what he was allowed to do.

"You can come in, just don't try anything please." You warn him, walking over to your closet to find a change of clothes.

"Course." He says, entering the room. He may be a horny asshole, but he knew when to respect boundaries. "Do you, want me to close the door or...?" He asks timidly.

"Please." You request. "I need to change, so I'd also appreciate it if you stood and faced the wall in the corner." You add, gesturing him towards the other side of the room.

Patrick raises his eyebrow, closing the door before facing the corner beside it. "Go ahead." He says, muffled by the wall.

You watch him as you undress, making sure he doesn't attempt to sneak a peek at you.

"Okay, you may turn around now."

Patrick slowly turns to face you, your outfit now a baggy shirt and some worn out sweatpants. "Wow, what an outfit." He says sarcastically, going over to your bed to sit on it.

"I was trying to impress you." You say with the same amount of humor in your voice, walking over to your desk.

"Are you actually gonna do your homework?" He asks, leaning back against your headboard.

"Yeah, the fuck?" You remark, sitting down in your desk chair.

"Wow." He lets out a low whistle, resting his hands behind his head as he crosses his legs. "Shocking."

"What?" You ask.

You both knew exactly what the other was thinking, but your pride was too big and his ego was too inflated for either of you to say anything about it.

"Nevermind." He says, closing his eyes. "Your bed is comfortable, I might just sleep here tonight." He muses, opening one eye.

"Hm, sorry, there's no flames to recreate the heat of Hell where your apartment must be." You retort, turning to face your laptop.

"You're really funny, I like that." Patrick comments, smiling at the back of your head. "You ever consider stand up?"

"Only if I get to make fun of you on stage for two hours straight." You quip, looking over your shoulder with a smile.

Patrick laughs quietly, standing up from your bed to lean over you, watching your laptop screen. "I cannot understand why a research paper is more exciting than my presence." He says, placing one hand on your chair and the other on your desk beside your hand.

"You'd be surprised." You say humorously, looking up at him.

He looks down at you, his face illuminated by your desk lamp. God, he was one attractive idiot.

He smirked, leaning his face in closer. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." He murmurs.

"I was just about to say the same thing." You whisper. You both hesitantly move in closer, finding yourself slowly losing the battle.

Patrick was not an easy man to ignore, and you were rapidly becoming unsure of your ability to control yourself. His lips just barely graze yours, teasing you slightly. You're about to go all in-

Until someone opens the door.

You both pull away from each other. Patrick is now standing as stiff as a board, his hands stuck to his sides as he pretends to look at your laptop screen. You stared at Diane with wide eyes.

"Oh, sorry you two." She raises a brow. "Was I interrupting something?"

"Nope. She was just showing me her research paper. Boring as hell." Patrick states, walking over to the door. "Is my mom looking for me?" He asks.

"Yes, I was about to say. She just wanted to say goodbye, and if you needed a ride to your apartment." Tashi mom says, eyeing Patrick closely.

You begin to laugh, covering your mouth.

Patrick's ears turn red, laughing awkwardly at Diane's words. "She's so sweet, considering my crappy Volkswagen is in the shop right now." He explains through gritted teeth, making sure you knew he wasn't getting rides from his mom consistently at the proper age of 22. "I'll get going now, goodnight Mrs. Duncan." He says, then looks over at you. "Goodnight." He winks at you before disappearing from view.

She watches him go down the stairs, turning to face you again. "What an interesting man that Patrick is." She states, crossing her arms. "He wasn't trying anything, was he?" She asks cautiously.

"No ma'am, I wouldn't let him do such a thing." You assure her. Like mother like daughter. You think to yourself.

"Alright." She whispers, uncrossing her arms with a smile. "Mike and I are heading out now. Call me if you need me." She states as she quickly walks over and hugs you, placing a kiss on your head. "I love you a lot."

"Will do. I love you too." You respond, smiling.

"Bye baby." Your aunt says before she exits your room, closing the door slowly behind her.

You groan loudly a few moments later, dragging your hands over your face in frustration towards no one but yourself. You almost succumbed to the powers of Patrick Zweig, and it was pissing you off.

"Stupid motherfucking pretty boy motherfucker." You mutter bitterly to yourself, grabbing your makeup wipes off your desk to clean your face. "You will not win! Your charms don't work on me, you bitch!" You exclaim, pretending he was still in front of you. You rub the makeup off your face and discard the used wipes in the trashcan by your desk.

Your phone buzzes. You sigh loudly, rubbing your forehead.

"I swear to god." You mutter, grabbing the cellular device.

pat_zweig: next time there will be no interruptions

pat_zweig: goodnight ;)

You toss yourself onto your bed, grabbing your pillow as you scream into it.

You will be the death of me, Patrick Zweig.

-

i know i wrote this but why is he lowkey pissing me off too LMFAO

anyways, thank you for your patience everyone. A whole 24 hours.. blasphemy. I'll get right onto part 3, no doubt about it. also!! over double the amount of the previous word count because i am very grateful for the responses i got. much love you guys.

as always, let me know how you like it, and if you have any suggestions for future pieces lmk! huzzah

much love, isabel

[poppy-metal]

poppy… cats patrick sister au is calling for blurbs from ur sexy brain… need to know ur musings on mean art

I love mean!art <333 I have a swimmer!art ask I'm cooking over I think if he was giving swim!captain he'd be so fucking annoying. golden boy, but he's a fucking demon. those obnoxious speedos - his fit body - the stupid cross necklace he wears that's a complete sham because he fucks a different girl every weekend. claims it's because he's trying to find a girl worth his time but he's just a slut.

thinks you're beneath him because you don't see to have any goals - really it's because you called him a vapid pretty boy in high-school and he's never forgotten - he hates you. hates that he thinks about you when you're not marriage material. a "bad" girl. you give your body to every guy that gives you attention (but not him) and you're a slag and a sleaze and he's fucking awful to you.

you think its funny you get under his skin so much. you would fuck him if he wasn't so insufferably obsessed with perfection and his own self image. it's hilarious that everyone thinks he's just sooooo nice when you know hes got a nasty spirit. he's not the towns golden haired prince when he's glaring at you like you're fucking dirt and calling you a bitch.