#THIS IS HEAVY LMAO

[milfyclaus]

on our lady and her relationship with her own femininity - a meta looking at the character of lady a. c.omstock through the lens of religion, victorian womanhood, and pseudo science of the era.  or - a rewrite of an old meta that i needed a refresh given that i was in high school when i wrote this originally.  given the historical content from many sources in this post, please proceed with caution as it will contain heavy examples of misogyny and medical sexism. this post will also contain mentions of child birth, child rearing, pregnancy, and infertility.  THIS IS A MONSTER OF A META. GOD BE WITH YOU, YE WHO READ THIS.

Lady Comstock, within the narrative of of Bioshock Infinite, is shown to be a paragon of virtue - the wife of the cult’s prophet, the mother of the messiah; the ideal woman in all respects - the perfect mother, wife, and citizen and a model for all within columbia to emulate. While in the canon shown to the player within the game shows that she has been dead for near twenty years (providing Zachary the ability to use her corpse as a political prop, which is another discussion for another time) - it does not allow much exploration into Lady Comstock’s relationship with this mantle of holy mother, reconciling that with her own past, and the relationship she has with her own femininity and how she views herself under the influence of victorian upbringing and societal norms. 

By 1912, Lady Comstock’s perception of her femininity, self, and womanhood is incredibly - horrifically - skewed; almost self-hating while deifying. I will split this meta into 3 sections - her past and victorian ideals, Mary’s role in faith (and thus, Amelia’s within the cult); and some culminating thoughts on how all of these factor into and impact Amelia near twenty years into her role as mother of the messiah within the narrative of Infinite.

PART I: PAST REVELATIONS AND VIEWS OF THE ERA.

Not much is known of Lady Comstock’s past within the canon of the game - it boils down to a single voxophone singing praise to the prophet, her redeemer, and is left open-ended for audience interpretation for as to what, exactly, she was seeking forgiveness for. the transcript of said audio diary is as follows: 

“To those who loved me, I was the most generous of souls. There was no pain I would deny them. No betrayal I would not gladly give. And when I had scorched the hearts of all who loved me, the Prophet said, “There is nothing you can do for which I will not forgive you, for God has granted me sight, and through His eyes, even you are loved.”” (Unconditional; recorded in universe on April 1st, 1893)

Without reading too much into the audio and its implications, one can rightfully assume that Lady Comstock, at the very least, played with the affections of others for her own amusement until she was left alone due to her actions towards others. Aside from Daisy Fitzroy mentioning that Lady Comstock had ‘experienced hardship’ in her youth, nothing more is said about her past. The most popular fanon interpretation (one that i also subscribe to) is that this voxophone refers to promiscuity. Given that the character of Lady Comstock is based off of American socialite and political figurehead Alice Roosevelt Longworth - a woman known for breaking many social rules in her day; in addition to several affairs throughout her life, which she did not hide and were common knowledge in high society, I agree with this interpretation of the audio diary. With Alice’s proximity to the white house, the social consequences for this would be less severe, however - turning back to Lady Comstock, in my own canon, this voxophone does refer to her engaging in multiple affairs with multiple partners with the express intent of playing with their affections and publicly betraying them for her own gain and amusement. 

I have already discussed here why Lady Comstock must be of the upper class for Zachary to gain the traction he needs for his cult to flourish. with that in mind, most of high society could turn a blind eye to affairs - provided they remained discreet, which Lady Comstock at the time was not. The consequences of a promiscuous woman were more than just of the social variety, leaving her isolated; but of a moral variety as well. Elizabeth Lee (who received a BA from Brown University in ‘97 and wrote most of her material during a summer research group) also had this to say:

“Women were portrayed either frigid or else insatiable. A young lady was only worth as much as her chastity and appearance of complete innocence, for women were time bombs just waiting to be set off. Once led astray, she was the fallen woman, and nothing could reconcile that till she died.” “This preoccupation developed into an ideology that legitimised unequal power relations in the economic and political sphere even as it glorified women’s role in the domestic and “moral” sphere. It is easy to see, therefore, how the myth of women’s salvatory and redemptive potential victimized women.” (Langland, Patriarchal Ideology and Marginal Motherhood in Victorian Novels by Women).

The Victorian Era had given rise to the cult of domesticity and the role of the ‘angel of the house’ - in engaging in torrid, obvious affairs, Amelia directly defies these societal expectations, and brings the ire of that society upon not the man involved in the affair, but the woman. Though these affairs, Amelia would have made her social worth and capital null and void - an ‘unwoman’; with nothing to remove that mantle from her in life. She would have been considered the lowest of the low; and become a fringe society member. In addition to this, women with sexual drive were considered ‘ill’ and ‘unnatural’; disrupting the ‘order of things’ through their anomaly - 

 “… there can be no doubt that sexual feeling in the female is in abeyance … and even if roused (which in many instances it never can be) is very moderate compared with that of the male…. The best mothers, wives, and managers of households, know little or nothing of sexual indulgences. Love of home, children, and domestic duties, are the only passions they feel. As a general rule, a modest woman seldom desires any sexual gratification for herself. She submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions. (Boumelha; Thomas Hardy and Women. P. 14). “Middle-class women who, by mid century, were giving birth 'confined' within the home, now achieved true womanhood if they responded emotionally to their infants and bonded with them through breast-feeding and constant attendance. Motherhood was seen as an affirmation of their identity.” (Abrams, Ideals of Womanhood in Victorian Britain).

Victorians, in addition to the moral consequences facing women who engaged in affairs and were connected with their sexuality and desires, also believed that women who were as such had something wrong with them on a medical, biological level - and subscribed to the belief that women were biologically destined to be subservient mothers - in addition to that, the Victorians also placed intrinsic value to a woman’s chastity: 

“And how is the vice of unchastity confined within boundaries so rigid in the case of the female sex? … it is because even an unchaste man will marry none but a chaste woman.”  (Boumelha; Thomas Hardy and Women. P. 19). “Even if Victorians did not subscribe to the idea of the Angel in the House, they were attracted to the implicit idea of women’s redemptive or salvatory potential.” (Langland, Patriarchal Ideology and Marginal Motherhood in Victorian Novels by Women).

Amelia, through her affairs, is victimised by this victorian mindset - and was not only removed of social capital and status, but ostracized from society and isolated with the consensus being that no matter what she did in the future that she would never be considered a ‘true’ woman - no amount of confession or repentance could change that. She would be, in the eyes of society, ‘damaged goods’; and nothing short of death could change that. With that in mind, we lay the societal groundwork and environment that Amelia grew up surrounded by, and was conditioned in.

PART II: MARY, MOTHER OF GOD; HER ROLE IN THE CHURCH, AND LADY A. COMSTOCK, HOLY MOTHER. 

After the elevation of Columbia and isolation of the cult, Zachary Hale Comstock reveals that Lady Comstock is to birth the messiah in seven days time - a girl who shall ignite the world and cleanse the sodom (re: Earth) below in flame. This prophecy and the action of Elizabeth being brought to Columbia cements Lady Comstock as the cult’s holy mother - the modern day ‘Mother Mary’ for the people to rally around.  Pope John Paul II wrote an encyclical on Mary’s role in the church which can be found here. Given the cult’s proximity to Catholicism in game canon, I have chosen to reference this in regards to Lady Comstock’s role within the cult as the mother of the messiah and the ‘mistress of forgiveness’. 

Mary embraces each and every one in the Church, and embraces each and every one through the Church. In this sense Mary, Mother of the Church, is also the Church's model.

Mary is thus present in the mystery of the Church as a model. But the Church's mystery also consists in generating people to a new and immortal life: this is her motherhood in the Holy Spirit. And here Mary is not only the model and figure of the Church; she is much more. For, "with maternal love she cooperates in the birth and development" of the sons and daughters of Mother Church. 

Amelia, with this position within the cult in mind, is also positioned socially at the helm of society - and in an environment where religion is one with all things in every level, she is to be a model for the women of Columbia and a piece of living, breathing propaganda - all that they are should aspire to be. She is, all at once, the perfect vision of a wife, mother, woman, and citizen in all that she does and must be above reproach in temperament, manner and history - and while she certainly has left things at the proverbial riverside, Amelia’s past is, according to the society she has grown up in and continues to be in, an unforgivable act. It should be noted, of course, that in my canon, lady comstock downplayed her relationships with others, her affairs, and lied in confessional to Zachary Hale Comstock - fearing another rejection after living as a pariah for so long.

Be that as it may - Lady Comstock must be, much like Mary, above her own humanity; a model to all and the spirit of the cult and its reach - for not only is Lady Comstock mother to the lamb (Elizabeth); she is mother to Columbia and all its people - it is her divine and (only) purpose within the cult and its hierarchy - and to fail or waver in that duty - or to question the prophet, who is both god and the church/cult embodied - would, of course, mean she has outlived her usefulness.

The Mother of that Son, therefore, mindful of what has been told her at the Annunciation and in subsequent events, bears within herself the radical "newness" of faith: the beginning of the New Covenant.

Lady Comstock, as the figure/spirit of Mary within the cult, bears the heavy weight of carrying it with her in all forms - Zachary may be a more tangible figurehead than God, and even redirects attention from Amelia to himself, but the narrative remains the same - she is the one to birth their messiah, it is her that carries the future of the cult and prophecy - and with that weight upon her, it is a venerated position meant for an ideal - not a living, breathing person to live up to and occupy. Indeed, Lady Comstock’s role within the cult goes beyond mother to the lamb - but becomes mother of the city and its people; with several referring to her as ‘sweet mother of Columbia’ and ‘mother of forgiveness’ et cetera, et cetera (all Marian-esque titles, might I add).  But Mary, of course, is not just a mother to the messiah and a carrier of the faith - but also a mediator between god and mankind - entreating to god for man, guiding christ to ensure he looks out for man. Mary is the balance - the bridge - between the holy and the mundane; and as such, Lady Comstock serves that same role - and does so, as far as iI can see within canon perception of her as some omnipotent entity ("You won't hide long from her! She knows no blindness!" "Her eyes are open even in the grave! You will not escape!" "I will shine her light on you!" "She sees in channels! Yes, she does!" Which, in canon, she has become in death a saint of justice and in that way they would be praying to her to intercede on their behalf in order to gain god���s justice; but again, Amelia the saint is a separate conversation for another day - and I have already discussed her narrative role as caritas) has her acting on behalf as a conduit for the loyal and devoted when the prophet is ‘busy’; or the prayers are not ‘important’ enough for him to act upon.

Thus there is a mediation: Mary places herself between her Son and mankind in the reality of their wants, needs and sufferings. She puts herself "in the middle," that is to say she acts as a mediatrix not as an outsider, but in her position as mother. She knows that as such she can point out to her Son the needs of mankind, and in fact, she "has the right" to do so. Her mediation is thus in the nature of intercession: Mary "intercedes" for mankind.

The teaching of the Second Vatican Council presents the truth of Mary's mediation as "a sharing in the one unique source that is the mediation of Christ himself." Thus we read: "The Church does not hesitate to profess this subordinate role of Mary. She experiences it continuously and commends it to the hearts of the faithful, so that, encouraged by this maternal help, they may more closely adhere to the Mediator and Redeemer." This role is at the same time special and extraordinary. It flows from her divine motherhood and can be understood and lived in faith only on the basis of the full truth of this motherhood. 

Of course, this role is steeped in the fact that she is still a mother to the city, the faith (read; cult), and to its messiah - it is because she is a mother that she intercedes on behalf of man, and in that vein, it is also why Lady Comstock is shown to be that same mediator in the balance between god and man - because she is a mother; and not just any mother, but the mother of mothers within the cult. Above all else, her role is that of holy mother - mother in all ways, mother of all things; perfection and humility incarnate - and selfless, as only any holy mother can be. 

PART III: SIMPLY, AMELIA. 

Now that I have discussed the environment and views in which Amelia was raised in and formed by - as well as her role within the cult, we can discuss how all of this has impact her at her core; her identity, and her relationship with herself and the societal ideal of womanhood that she has found herself to be exemplifying. The years of social shunning and shame and the sudden exaltation of herself by the masses has, to put it lightly, twisted her sense of self and her views on herself.

Amelia was 16-18 during the time she found herself ostracized from society - two years of being treated as lower than dirt; two years of being reviled and shunned; of having all manner of comments and insults hurled her way by “polite society”. While obviously, her treatment of her flings was not the greatest - she did not deserve the outright disgust from the people around her, who would have simply been neutral on the matter had she been a man. Not only that, but having friends and those who had watched her grow up - people she had respected - and eventually, her own family; not only turn away from her and leave her alone, but to insult her and shun her at every turn? That would deeply effect someone at any age; let alone an upset teenager who is lashing out at the world. Give it enough time, and no matter how much she might pretend that it does not effect her, it will - and Amelia begins to internalise these thoughts, these insults, these actions - believing that she deserves this; that she is everything that has been said about her, that she is unforgivable, and nothing could reconcile that now that she had left the good graces of society, and all that she understood about womanhood - that there was nothing beyond duty, motherhood, and rearing children; and now that she had strayed from this path, there was no recovering, or going back from this no matter what she did to attempt to fix it.  With all of this in play, it did leave Amelia open to being indoctrinated into the cult under the guise and appeal of finally finding redemption and getting a second start - a clean slate. She would have had no support system, no family looking out for her in order to keep their own reputations unsullied, and would have been at a very low point mentally/emotionally. This leaves her vulnerable - and it is all too easy for Zachary to draw her deeper into the cult once he finds out she has money to spare. Even with all this talk of redemption and clean slates, however, Amelia knows at this point that what she has done is unforgivable to the eyes of society - and fearing losing her chance at this second chance, she would lie to Zachary; claiming that the gossip was hearsay spread by men who she had spurned. This omission is understandable - but she continues to internalise these thoughts and beliefs, having no one to healthily discuss her emotions and thoughts with.  Her self-view continues to twist upon entering Columbia - the sudden exaltation; the prophecy that she is to bear the Messiah; first met with elation, but then sadness and despair as it becomes clear in game canon that she and the Prophet cannot conceive. Zachary mentions this in audio briefly:

“The Archangel tells me that Columbia will only survive so long as my line sits the throne. Yet Lady Comstock produces no child. I have done what a man can do, yet there is no child! I have asked Lutece about the matter, but even she refuses to help.” (A Broken Circle; recorded in universe on September the 10th, 1893; a month before Elizabeth’s arrival in Columbia)

The implication here is that Zachary blames Amelia for their failure to conceive - something that was common to do at the time with couples struggling with fertility. Amelia, too, blames herself - believing that her indiscretions have manifested into infertility; and that for lying to Zachary about the extent of these affairs, that God, himself, is punishing her with infertility - as all she knows is that women who have ‘fallen’ in the way she has never receive grace. 

With that in mind, it can also be argued that her outburst in Rosalind Lutece’s home after Elizabeth’s arrival in Columbia was as much anger and hurt at the thought Zachary had had an affair with her, but a projection of her own thoughts and feelings towards herself on to Rosalind. 

I have touched on the fact Amelia does not enjoy the deification she has received within the cult and in Columbia - it makes her uncomfortable at a base level; for she does not believe that she deserves it. Elizabeth is not ‘her child’ (though she comes to accept that she is indeed her daughter years down the road) - the messiah is a lie, the prophecy is a lie; and she, too, is a lie - but at every turn, she is praised as mother, above all else - when she knows this to be a lie; and believes that God, again, is punishing her for her transgressions. It is a heavy thing, to go from a social pariah to the apex of society - the ideal in everything. All those expectations would be crushing - and they are. Amelia has no resources or ability to cope with the self-loathing she feels internally, nor any ability to cope with or compartmentalize the devotion the public shows her - and it is killing her; and the blind adoration she receives does not sit well upon her shoulders. It is uncomfortable, to say the least - and has, over the years, twisted into self-loathing as she understands herself to be ‘unwoman’ in the eyes of society, while exemplifying womanhood within the cult - and endeavours to redeem herself by acting and being as she should, resulting in an unhealthy relationship with herself and her own sexuality. 

Going deeper into that, Amelia treats herself with distance - she is not herself, her desires are not hers, and has become, in years, very much a voyeur into her own life - she has numbed herself, frozen herself; and in attempting to become this caricature of a woman and mother that Columbia has asked her to be: unerring, perfect - and above feeling. It manifests in certain ways - namely in her appearance, as she attempts to reclaim her femininity and own womanhood and exist with it in peace.

But if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering. Luke 7:38 ESV

Hair was also a symbol of womanhood in the Victorian Era with extreme importance placed upon it - Amelia covers hers, grows it long; wears it in elaborate styles - it is an intrinsic part of her; an extension - a visual representation of her reclamation of what she feels was taken from her. She’s got an unhealthy attachment to her hair - won’t let scissors near it - it is a core part of her identity. In addition, she dresses, of course, as she must - never too gaudy or ostentatious; always down to her toes, up to her neck, and down to her wrists - always blue, as a symbol of motherhood, of femininity. This, of course; is not as important to her as her hair - nor is it as important to her as the repression of her own sexual desires and appetites; which she cannot get rid of and are a great source of destress for her when they do surface, as she is constantly fighting against herself to be as she believes she is supposed to be: devoid of any desire. 

But at the end of the day, she still finds that she does hate herself - and believes, at her heart, that it will only take one small thing to send her back to the state she once was in, for she has never achieved grace - and feels altogether undeserving of the title of mother, and all that it implies. 

[homkamiro]

Heavy language

[varpusvaras]

Jason gets shot once with a gun with enough punch that it completely pierces his armor on the side, and there is a moment of panic because oh that was definitely his kidney right there, but Jason just keeps going like nothing happened and takes the guy down and then turns around like what are you guys staring at.

And he still doesn't look like he even noticed it.

"Jesus Christ Jason lay down!"

"What? Why?"

"What do you mean what, why? You just got shot!"

"What? Ah, damnit, I hate fixing up these, bullet holes in armor suck"

"Be less worried about bullet holes in your armor and more about bullet holes in you!"

"Relax, it didn't even hit me."

"What?"

And Jason proceeds to strip off his body armor and show that a lot of it is just, you know, armor and padding. His actual bodyline is a lot further in than where his armor makes it look like it is. And he is very confused over why everybody is confused about this because this is the whole fucking point of armor? You know, to shield his actual body? So he doesn't take the brunt of the hits? Oh, what is he even talking about, of course you would be confused, you spandex-wearing weirdoes.

Later they ask him what else is a lie, because apparently Jason is not actually a hulking mass of muscle, and Jason proceeds to take his boots off, and immediately shifts from being 6'2+ to just 6 feet tall.

"Why are you wearing platform combat boots?!"

"I stepped on glass and other shit too many times while wearing those pixie boots! Not anymore! Nothing can get through these soles! Oh and also I like the height."

[horrifically]

this perfectly encapsulates the online experience

[hermit-frog]

[wackarat]

I have been seeing posts about how a certain frame in the TF2 comics should make heavy and medic hug so-

[karos-4art]

me like heavy n sniper interactions... even tho they don't exist so i had to make myself one!!!

this is an idea from 2021 :D please enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

e x t r a s:

draft from 2021 - october 2024

PANEL REDRAW!!!!

[i-like-eyes]

The mercs show off baby photos

Inspired by a post by prajjna

[gophergal]

It's really a coin toss which he means

(edit November 2024: please look at my newer tf2 art im begging this cant be my legacy)

[batfamhastwitter]

Part 12 and the second and final part of the Bats&Birds Q&A! Thank you again to everyone who submitted questions, I really had a blast with this!

Prev ~ Beginning ~ Next

[ruthytwoshakes]

happy pride everybody, hope you had a good one! And I hope everybody's excited for disability pride month this July :)

We can't forget our friends and family in Palestine during the celebrations. There is no Pride in Occupation. And happy pride to our family in Palestine, we won't forget about you. Stay strong and fight like hell. I love you.

donate to the fundraiser below and join your local Palestine solidarity group. Hani Al-Sharif, his wife, and five children need to evacuate. They are very far from their goal. Any amount helps.

[mobius-m-mobius]

#happy anniversary to remembering this actually happened 😘✌️

Loki S2 Anniversary x Episode 5 - “Science/Fiction”

[sceletaflores]

where there’s sparks, there’s fire!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: you can’t tell if patrick hates you as much as you hate him. every time you see him he’s constantly talking to you, touching you, trailing behind you. but he’s only doing all that to piss you off. you think back to tashi telling you it’s obvious that he wants to fuck you. you don’t see it. patrick wants to fuck everyone, you’re not special.

—or: patrick zweig is a slut. you can't stand him.

word count: 4.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), public sex (doing it in a coat closet lmao), more hate sex, swearing, fighting as foreplay, light choking, light hair pulling, degradation, even more hints of mean!reader cause i really do live for that shit, tashi and reader are cute besties always, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: i originally wanted to post a tashi fic next but i realized i don't have any like actual full on plot filled patrick works lmao i felt bad neglecting him and my patrick girlies so yeah. once again had literally so much fun writing this, like i hardcore love this niche!!! i ride so hard for it!!! the tashi fic i'm working on also falls into this category lols and yes this is fourth of july themed and it's late shut up i cannot write fast for the life of me...anyway! to the anons who requested something like this, hope you love it! okay bye mwah xoxo.

Patrick Zweig is a huge slut.

Everyone knows that. He doesn't even go to Stanford but he's still somehow managed to sleep with a third of the girls on campus, maybe even more than a few guys too if the rumors going around are true.

You hate him. Hate isn't even a strong enough word. You loathe him. You despise him. You detest him. Pick any other fancy synonym, the point still stands. You just really fucking hate him.

It blows your mind that someone as sweet and angelic as Art would be best friends with someone like him. Someone who's so obnoxious, so arrogant, so crass. Art’s the guy that goes out of his way to protect you from the gross frat bros at parties, only to bring his very own as a plus one.

Sigma Nu throws a rager every year on the fourth, extending invites to those who are still in Stanford for the summer. The women’s tennis team is always invited, and Tashi always ends up convincing you to go. Well, she’s less convincing than she is more forcing you, but it’s basically the same thing to her anyway. She did your makeup and wrestled you into a Hollister dress, vowing to get you laid as she straightened your hair.

Tashi’s almost more invested in your sex life than you are, constantly hand-picking guys on campus for your consideration. She actually offered up Patrick once when you told her you wouldn’t fuck any of the guys on campus at all. The two of you were practicing, she suggested it as casual as ever while returning your serve. You were so shocked you stopped in your tracks, letting the ball fly right past you. She assured you she wouldn’t mind if you did, that what the two of them had was quote “Nothing serious, he’s just a really good fuck.” and that you should “Totally do it. He definitely wants to fuck you, I can tell.” 

You just brushed her off, ignored the way she smirked knowingly at you over the net. Your cheeks burned as you served again, you wrote it off as annoyance. As if you would ever let Patrick Zweig fuck you.

You lost Tashi when she took off to the bathroom, texting you that she’d be a while thanks to a long line outside the door. You were leaning against a wall nursing a half-empty cup of jungle juice when he came up to you. You can’t remember his name, you think it starts with a B. Something like Brandon? Or maybe Brian? One or the other.

He’s Sigma Nu’s secretary, you sit three seats down from him in your economics lecture. Tashi says he has a crush on you, and he’s nice for a frat guy but he’s definitely not your type. He’s been droning on about his upcoming trip to his family's summer house in Cabo for almost ten minutes. You try your best to seem interested, humming and nodding every couple seconds. You’re in the middle of tuning him out when a loud, familiar voice calls out your name. 

“There you are!” Patrick Zweig shouts from a few feet away, ugly American flag patterned flip flops smacking against the ground as he makes his way over to you. He’s wearing a bright red button down and white cargo shorts you scrunch your nose up at. He’s tanner than the last time you saw him, legs long and even more toned. “I’ve been looking everywhere for that pretty face.” He coos sweetly, his hand that isn't holding a bottle of Bud Light comes up to pinch your cheek.

You scoff, smacking his hand off your face. “You found me, so you can go bother someone else now,” you say, rubbing your cheek lightly. “Bye.” You press, waving your hand dismissively when he makes no move to walk away.

Patrick grins, unfazed by your reaction, he steps in even closer. “Yeah, I missed you too,” he says breezily, his breath smells like cheap beer and camel blues. He’s just as tall as you remember. He has tacky blue shutter shades resting on the top of his head. His eyes rake over your body shamelessly, lingering on the low dip of your neckline. “Cute dress.” 

You ignore him, rolling your eyes before turning your attention back towards Brandon/Brian. He’s silent now, eyes flicking between you and Patrick skeptically. “Are you like, together, or something?” 

You laugh loudly, quickly shaking your head ‘No’. Patrick beats you to speaking though, “God no, man.” he says through a laugh, dark curls bouncing as he shakes his head. “I came over here to warn you.” He continues, voice and expression going overly serious like he’s not talking out of his ass.

Brandon/Brian’s brows furrow, clearly confused. “Warn me?” he asks, head tilting to the left slightly. His puka shell necklace makes a small clicking sound as he moves. 

Patrick nods his head gravely, clapping his free hand down on Brandon/Brian's shoulder a little too roughly to be considered friendly, shaking him back and forth like a rag doll. “Yeah, best of luck trying to get inside that snatch, man.” he says earnestly, jerking his head in your direction. “Cause’ she’s really fucking picky–”

You whip your head in his direction to cut him off, grimacing in disgust. “You would say snatch, you sick fuck.” you snap, red solo cup crunching quietly in your hand. Patrick just laughs, dropping his hand from Brandon/Brian’s shoulder. Anger stews inside you the longer he looks at you with that stupid shit-eating smirk on his face. 

You can’t tell if Patrick hates you as much as you hate him. Every time you see him he’s constantly talking to you, touching you, trailing behind you. But he’s only doing all that to piss you off. You think back to Tashi telling you it’s obvious that he wants to fuck you. You don’t see it.

Patrick wants to fuck everyone, you’re not special. Sure, he may feel the constant need to be a horn-dog when he’s around you. That doesn’t mean anything. Patrick’s just gross, constantly making crude comments or lame innuendos. What Tashi fails to see is him making sex jokes around you is just another way he can piss you off. It’s not an open invitation into those god-awful shorts. 

Patrick takes a small step back, big hands raising in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Put the claws away,” You try to ignore the way him saying your name in that goddamn infuriating condescending tone makes your cheeks start heating up. Patrick leans his shoulder on the wall next to you, looking down at you with a small grin on his face. “I actually wanted to congratulate you on cracking the top twenty.” He takes a long sip of his beer, head lolling to the side lazily as he swallows. “Lucky number 14.”

You’re not too proud to admit that Patrick is kind of hot, especially in this lighting. He’s objectively a hot guy, and he knows it. All tall and firm looking even in his horrendous outfit. But he’s kind of cute too, in an ass-holey way. His hair's a mess of soft-looking black curls and his ears stick out from his head sort of endearingly. He’s close enough that you can see he’s got a little brown in his eyes, and long lashes. There’s a handful of freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose. 

His big, strong nose that looks like it could work wonders between your legs. Or at least that’s what you’ve heard from Jen in your chem lab. Maybe this jungle juice is stronger than you thought.

Patrick's smirk widens, wolfish and dirty like he can see what you’re thinking. “That’s pretty impressive.” he continues, his tone a mix of genuine admiration and teasing. "Especially for someone who's always so...busy." He lets the last word hang in the air, a clear innuendo that makes your blood boil all over again.

"Busy training," you snap back, not willing to let him get under your skin any more than he already has. "Some of us have actual work ethic, Patrick. We put in the hours on the court instead of fucking anything that breathes, you know? So we don’t look like idiots that get their ass handed to them on tour by nobody scrubs."

You can feel the heat start to simmer in your stomach, anger and frustration bubbling beneath the surface as Patrick's presence continues to grate on your nerves. The tension between you is thick, amplified by the chaotic energy of the party swirling around you. You see Brandon/Brian take a long, awkward sip of his beer as he steps away, turning on his heel to quickly disappear into the sea of bodies crowding the living room. You roll your eyes internally, pussy.

Patrick grins, not deterred in the slightest. “You’ve been keeping up with my matches?” His voice is low and pleased sounding, shiny green eyes slowly getting swallowed by the black of his pupils. 

You pause, owlishly blinking up at him in silence. You’ve been caught. Shit.

You can feel the immediate warmth of embarrassment burning hot on your cheeks as you cast your gaze to the floor. “Only when I need to cheer myself up, a losing streak that high is actually laughable.” You mutter to the floor, lightly swirling your drink in your cup. 

Patrick laughs loudly, throwing his head back in amusement. “Still thinking about me though.” he says matter-of-factly, a lazy grin taking over his face.

His audacity sends another wave of anger and embarrassment through you, your grip tightens around your cup. "Only because you make such a spectacle of yourself," you retort sharply. "It's hard not to notice when you're crashing and burning so publicly."

Patrick's grin doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. "I'll take what I can get from you," he says, his tone a blend of amusement and something else that you can't place. "But seriously, congratulations. You deserve it."

His unexpected sincerity throws you off, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. It's rare to see Patrick in a light that isn’t coated in sarcasm or sleaze. You catch a glimpse of something genuine in his expression, something that almost resembles respect, and it confuses you.

It confuses you, and it makes something warm start to burn in your stomach. You can’t afford to feel any warm, fuzzy feelings around a guy like Patrick, not if you don’t want to get majorly fucked over the second he gets bored of you. 

You don’t know how to react so you do what makes sense, you lash out.

“God, will you just fuck off and leave me alone Patrick,” you say, tone over-dramatic and long-suffering as you tip your head up to the ceiling in annoyance. “I’m trying to have fun.” A lie. The party kind of sucked compared to last years. You were planning on talking Tashi into leaving when she came back, but he didn’t need to know that.

Patrick’s cool exterior finally cracks, letting out a quiet huff of disbelief as a frown starts tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is your fucking problem? I’m being sincere.” The playful light in his eyes is gone, replaced by something darker.

You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head in amusement. “Maybe I’d believe that if you weren’t such an ass. I know you too well, Patrick.” You say, tone mean and condescending. You know he’s right, on some level, but that doesn’t stop you. 

Patrick is silent for a beat, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes you want to start squirming. He lets out a quiet, bitter laugh, bringing his beer up to his lips to take a long sip. You watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his lips look wrapped around the neck of the bottle. You feel a familiar heat start to pool between your legs, thighs clenching involuntarily as your mind envisions something else his slick, pink lips would look good wrapped around. 

He drops the bottle to his side, finally breaking the silence. “You know, now I do believe you.” he says casually, swiping his tongue over his lips lazily. “You must really not be getting any dick acting like this much of an uptight bitch.”

You reel back in shock, his words hitting you like a punch in the gut. The wave of fury that sweeps through you is almost tangible, your vision narrowing to a tunnel that begins and ends with Patrick’s infuriatingly smug face. “What did you just say?” you ask completely taken aback, voice low and rough. Your hand twitches at your side with the need to throw your drink in his face, anger and embarrassment lapping white hot flames in your stomach. 

Patrick just scoffs, heated gaze not breaking from your own. “You heard me.” He says, jaw set stubbornly. “You need like, emergency dick, or something to chill the fuck out for once.” 

You feel your heart rate spike, your free hand clenching into a tight wrist by your side. “You’re a fucking pig.” your voice shakes with anger, you feel sweaty and hot all over. The heat swirling between your legs is persistent.

Patrick laughs, a loud and infuriating sound. “Come on, we both know you’re fucking begging for someone to give you what you need.” He says like it’s obvious, you clench your fist a little tighter. He takes a step closer, voice dropping down to a whisper meant just for you. “I can help you with that. I can fuck all that bratty shit right out of yo–”

You’re reacting before you can stop yourself, hand flying up to slap him hard across the face. The loud crack pierces through the room, loud enough that a few eyes turn in your direction. Patrick's head snaps to the side, the shades resting on the top of his head fly off. 

Your heart stops, hands shaking with the realization of what you just did. You expect Patrick to flip out, start shouting and threatening to sue you or whatever else it is that rich people do. Time seems to slow down as he turns his head, and when he looks back at you, there's no trace of anger in his eyes. Instead, they're dark with something else entirely— something that makes your stomach flip.

He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate motion, and then he laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends shivers down your spine. A clear hand print grows steadily, red and angry on his cheek. "Fuck." he breathes, his hazy eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. 

You’re stuck staring at each other for what feels like hours, the music and chatter from the party reduced down to a low hum as you’re caught under Patrick’s heavy gaze.

He drops his beer bottle on the floor carelessly, hand shooting out to grab your wrist tightly and drag you away from the living room. Your cup falls from your grip, splashing down onto the hardwood in a red sticky mess. You fall into step behind him, letting him guide you into the hallway outside the living room before he lurches to a stop in front of a closed door, ripping it open and shoving you inside. Patrick follows quickly, closing the door behind him and bathing the coat closet in darkness. 

It’s a tiny closet, you’re pressed up against too many coats fighting for space on the tiny rack, kicking loose shoes around as you try to find your footing. “Patrick, I–” You start, but you're cut off by a strong hand gripping your forearm and whipping you around. Your back hits the door with a dull thud, you don’t have any time to react before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is the opposite of gentle, Patrick’s lips are almost violent as they move with yours. Your hands tangle in his soft hair, kissing back just as roughly. He hisses into your mouth as you twist the strands in your grip meanly, pressing you into the door harder. His tongue forces its way past your parted lips, claiming your mouth fiercely. He tastes like beer, his fingertips are rough and calloused on your skin, pulling you closer as if he wants to meld into you.

“If you don’t want this, say the word and I’ll stop right now.” He says against your lips, breathless and rumbly. His hands squeeze your hips reassuringly, his own version of sincerity softening the moment.

Yeah fucking right.

“Zweig,” you say slowly, yanking his hair roughly. “If you don’t shut up and fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’ll kill you.”

Patrick grins wildly, surging forward to connect your lips again. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt as the two of you kiss, working them open one by one until you get too frustrated and rip the two half-open sides apart. Buttons clatter onto the floor of the closet, Patrick groans into your mouth, breaking the kiss with a huff. “I liked that shirt, dick. You owe me twenty bucks.”

You’re not listening, eyes trained on the bare skin of his chest as everything seems to slow down for a second. Of course, you’ve seen Patrick shirtless before, when he’s on the court and it’s above ninety or when he’s taking up space in Art’s dorm. This feels different, a completely new situation where it’s actually okay for you to stare at the expanse of his torso. 

You can’t help reaching out to touch him again— running your greedy hands down his chest, his abs, the sharp ‘v’ cut of his hips that makes its way into the waistband of his shorts. Your manicured nails scratch through the dark hair of his happy trail, you can see the muscles in his stomach jump.

“Fuck,” you whisper breathlessly and immediately regret it. He was already insufferable— all you fucking needed was for him to know how you felt right now. How the sight of his barely undressed body is making your pussy soak through your panties.

Patrick doesn’t even gloat, just uses his tight grip on your hips to flip you so you’re pressing onto the door harshly. He impatiently yanks the skirt of your dress up, wasting no time in hooking a finger on the lace of your panties and moving the fabric to the side for easier access.

You hear him pop the button of his shorts open, his zipper following close behind. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” He says, sliding the thick tip of his cock through your slick lips, brushing himself against your entrance teasingly. “I’m gonna make you think twice about bitching me out ever again.” He seals his promise by grabbing your hair and yanking, causing a surprised whine to fall from your lips. His voice is so patronizing, but you aren’t getting mad like you should be. You’re just getting wetter, getting desperate with the need for him to get inside you right fucking now.

You grit your teeth in frustration, exhaling sharply through your nose. “I hate you.” You hiss, grinding back against his hard cock. You gasp raggedly as he starts to sink himself inside you, not stopping until his hips are flush against your ass. “Shit!” Your hands grip the door so hard you’re scared one of your nails will break. The stretch of him burns in the best way possible. You’d never say it out loud, not wanting to inflate his ego anymore than you probably already have, but he’s definitely the biggest cock you’ve taken. Almost porn-star big.

“I know.” He replies easily, hiking your thigh up with his hand as his hips start to pound mercilessly into the meat of your ass, not even giving you time to get used to the thick stretch of him. The loud smack of skin on skin fills the tiny closet easily, you hope to God the amount of clothes shoved in here somehow muffles the sound. The rough denim of his shorts scratches against your raw skin, adding to the sting of his hips.

Patrick was pounding into you in a way that makes you feel every inch of him. His cock felt impossibly big, filling you up like he was carving a place for himself inside of you. The sting in your pussy at the stretch of him is mind-numbing, you think you’d collapse from how hard your thighs were shaking if he wasn’t practically holding you up.

His big hand grips the sensitive skin of your inner thigh hard enough that it’ll probably be bruised by tomorrow. You distantly hope he’s high up enough that your tennis skirt will cover it, because if not it’ll be a hard thing to talk your way out of.

You throw your head back, a strained moan erupting from your lips. Your nails scratch at the paint on the door's edges, raking small lines down the wall. The loud squelch of your pussy’s overflowing wetness every time he sinks back inside you would be embarrassing if you had the mental capacity to care.

“Fuck yeah, keep making those slutty sounds, baby. Want the whole fucking party to hear how good I’m making you feel on this cock,” he mutters, hiking your leg up higher so he can pound into you deeper.

He drops your thigh, sliding his hand up your body and around your throat. You whine loudly, pushing back into his thrusts harder. Guys have tried the choking thing in the past, but Patrick’s hand is the only one that’s felt right. His long fingers curling around your throat like they belong there.

“Shit, fuck- don’t stop.” you mewl, lips parted in ecstasy. His hand squeezes a little tighter, not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to get your eyes rolling back into your head as your pussy weeps around the thick length of his cock.

“That’s it, taking my fucking cock like you were made for it,” Patrick grates through a groan, gripping your hips and pulling out from your tight hole to spit on where his cock bumps up against your entrance before plunging back in.  You jolt at the extra wetness, whining at how dirty it is. “So fucking tight— does it hurt, baby?” he asks in a barely breathless voice, laughter edging his tone. “Is my fat cock hurting your tight little pussy?”

“God– shit, yes!” you sob loudly, cheek rubbing against the wood of the door as you nod your head frantically. “Hurts so fucking good.” You stop caring about inflating his ego, letting moans fall freely from your lips as you get closer to the edge.

“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna come,” he grunts, his rhythm growing sloppy and erratic as his muscles tense. He wraps your hair in his other hand, pulling hard enough to make your neck crane back awkwardly. He leans forward, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I can feel you, fucking clenching up on me so tight,” he whispers, still pounding into you roughly. “I know you’re close. Do it. Come all over my cock like a slut.”

Patrick's hand tightens around your throat as he talks, cutting off your air for just a second. “Patrick!” Your voice sounds weak and strained, your hand coming up to wrap around his wrist desperately.

He pulls out abruptly, dropping your hair from his fist to frantically jerk his cock, burying his face in your neck. You can hear the lewd shlick shlick shlick of your wetness help his hand glide over the skin of his cock quickly. Patrick lets out a loud growl before you feel the sharp bite of his teeth sinking in where your shoulder meets your neck, muffling a loud groan of your name as he sprays hot come over the skin of your lower back and the swell of your ass. 

The feeling of Patrick’s hand wrapped around your throat as his come paints your skin has you catapulting over the edge. Eyes rolling back in your head as your convulsing pussy gushes wet over his spent cock. 

You drag in greedy lungfuls of air, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You came first.” You say breathlessly, voice scratchy and hushed. Patrick chuckles against your skin, swatting the tender flesh of your ass lightly. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He mutters half-heartedly, nuzzling his nose in your neck in a way that seems far too intimate for what the two of you just did. You don’t say anything.

Patrick eventually peels himself off your back, but the warmth of his body stays wrapped around you as he starts to gently wipe your skin clean. You’re ready to scold him for using some poor guy's coat as a come-rag, but when you turn your head to glare at him he’s using the inside of his own shirt. You wrinkle your nose, but a tiny smile fights its way onto your lips. So gross, you think with a sort of reluctant fondness.

He leans over to fix your panties back over your puffy, abused pussy. Your thighs continue to shake weakly as you try to stand on your own, still unsteady without Patrick holding you up. He gives you a sweet kiss on the back of your shoulder, smacking his lips loudly. You huff out a tiny laugh, pushing away from the door to face him.

You watch him as he languidly gets re-dressed. He looks well-fucked, his hair and clothes are mess, his face is flushed and sweaty. Your eyes trail down to where he’s buttoning up his atrocious shorts. 

The fabric around the crotch is darkened with your release, wetness soaking the denim around the zipper and front pockets. You gawk at it, a mix of terror and excitement swirling through your stomach. “You can’t go back out like that.” you say to his shorts, shame burning your cheeks. 

Patrick follows your gaze down to his crotch. A pleased smirk plays on his lips when he looks back at you. “I’ll text you later.” Is all he says, zipping his fly and turning towards the door. 

“You don’t have my number.” You say, tugging the skirt of your dress down over your hips. You can slowly feel the horny fog leave your brain, leaving you clear-minded and a little panicked.

He cracks the door open, but before walking out of the closet he looks back at you over his shoulder. “Art’ll give me your number. “ He says casually with a small shrug of his shoulder. You suddenly feel sick, wondering how many other people have heard that line before getting completely ghosted. 

Patrick must see the negative thoughts running through your mind play out on your face. He gives you an actual smile, one that has his eyes crinkling up the tiniest bit at the corners. “Promise.” He says with a reassuring nod, it’s the most sincere you’ve ever seen him. You bite your lip to stop from smiling at the hope blooming in your stomach, nodding back at him slowly. He throws you one last toothy grin before he’s walking out and closing the door behind him.

You sigh contently, staring at the closed door for a few beats before your phone buzzes to life from where it's laying on the floor. You bend over to search for it, blindly rooting around until you see the tiny display light. The ringing stops before you can answer, when you flip the screen up to check your inbox you have seven missed texts and two missed calls.

Four texts and two calls from Art, and just three texts from Tashi.

arty where are you? i’ve been looking for you are you okay? hello???

tash you know you're not invisible right? everyone saw your little show have fun <3

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini a/n: yes i did change the title leave me lmao love you!

[parisoonic]

they're still at the pub

[nouverx]

crawls in here

Humbly requests more of your human! Al bc I’m unapologetically obsessed with him👀….

GOOD because I am also obsessed with him

He's 29 Mimzy!! Run!!

[quimiri]

teamfortes :)