#am i too late?

[leftoverghosts]

i am drowning

there is no sign of land.

Patrick's announcement hit you like a tennis ball to the gut. He had just gotten back from winning the junior US Open, but instead of celebrating together, he was ending things between you. The sharp sting of disappointment cut through your heart as you struggled to make sense of it all. This wasn't the end of your relationship, though.

find part two here.

patrick zweig x reader. patrick x tashi. mentioned tashi x art.

warnings: angst. like angst for the sake of angst. sex at the end. some curse words. not for minors. p in v sex. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. patrick sleeps with reader for a bed.

nori says: hiiiiiii, i've been lurking in the challengers tag and now have something to contribute. this is heavily inspired by the break up scene in whiplash. it just feels so patrick coded. also, i love tashi, it's not her fault that the boys were weird about her. send me ideas if you want to! xoxo.

word count: 4,818

2006, September. Per Se Restaurant, Manhattan.

“Also, Patrick has a girlfriend.” Art had told Tashi, and Patrick had responded with “I do not”.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“I can’t believe your dad let us use his reservations. This is the coolest thing ever! I feel so grown up,” a cheerful voice interrupts Patrick’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment. Sitting across from you now, celebrating his triumphant win at the Junior US Open, he can't ignore the guilt and doubts that gnaw at him. Though you were never officially a couple, there were undeniable feelings between you two and Patrick had pursued you relentlessly. He couldn't resist your sweetness, especially since you’ve been friends for so long and despite being just a teenage boy with wandering eyes fixed on tennis skirts, even he understands that you genuinely care about him.

Patrick thinks with all the agony that the thing between his legs can muster, that he’s an asshole, that he shouldn’t of fucked up this situationship only to chase after a girl who made him compete for her attention. Part of him hates himself for betraying your trust and pining after someone else, but the other part of him is drawn to Tashi in a way he can't explain. She gets him, but more importantly, she understands true tennis.

Patrick fidgets with his cup of water, tracing your name on the condensation as if it holds some sort of salvation. But deep down, he knows that no amount of apologies or excuses can change what he has done.

"Listen, I have to be honest with you," Patrick finally speaks up, his voice strained with emotion.

You pause, feeling a sense of unease settle in your stomach as you wait for him to continue.

"I can't keep pretending that this is going to work out. My dreams of becoming a professional tennis player are consuming more and more of my time and focus. And when I am with you, all I can think about is training and winning matches."

As his confession sinks in, your world tilts on its axis. The realization hits you with startling clarity - his passion for tennis surpasses everything else in his life, casting a shadow over what bloomed between you. You always knew that tennis was important to Patrick, but you never fully understood just how significant it was until now. Your mind flashes back to all the times you thought tennis was just a hobby for him, a way to cope with his parents' high expectations. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you realize that this is not how you imagined your relationship with Patrick ending. You try to hold back your emotions, but they overflow despite your best efforts.

"You'll probably start feeling like I'm ignoring you and get mad that tennis is more important to me than our relationship," he continues, regret evident in his eyes. "And if you ask me to ease up on my training, I won't be able to comply because this is my passion. It's what I was born to do."

"Where is this coming from, Pat?" you ask, your voice trembling with hurt. You had never wanted to come between Patrick and his dreams, but now it seems like there was no other option.

“It’s been building up for a while.” In the midst of shattered expectations and unspoken regrets, Patrick's gaze meets yours fleetingly before retreating, unable to withstand the weight of your hurt and disappointment. The truth hangs heavy in the air - priorities laid bare, futures diverging like roads leading into different horizons. "Because sooner or later, we will start resenting each other for not understanding our priorities. It's better to end things now before they turn toxic."

"I can't believe this, I thought we were in this together." Your palms are clammy and your heart races as you try to process everything. You had been nothing but supportive of him, rearranging your schedule whenever he came home from the academy just to spend time with him. But now he’s telling you that it wasn't enough.

"We were, but I wanna be one of the greats.” He sighs.

“And would I stand in your way?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I would, you're sure about that?” You ask, wishing this would just stop. “Yes.” He reaches out to take your hand, but you pull away, unable to bear his touch after what he's done. "I'm sorry," he mutters, his face contorted with guilt and sadness, and the knowledge that he’s a liar. That this conversation is only happening because he’s chasing greatness and Tashi Duncan.

"I'm just a naive girl to you, aren't I? Someone who will never measure up to your grand ambitions.” As the words tumbled out of your mouth, your voice quivers with hurt and disbelief. You couldn't comprehend how someone that you love could make you feel so worthless. “You'll leave me behind as you chase after greatness," you cried out, feeling utterly small and insignificant in his eyes. “You don’t understand me. You never have." His accusation is like sharp, dagger-like punctuation mark, ready to cut off any lingering hopes and pierce through the heart of your relationship.

You look at him, feeling a mix of anger and heartache. "Why did you even bother pursuing me then? If your tennis career was always going to come first?"

"I'm sorry," he finally says, his voice heavy with remorse. "I never should have said those things."

His apology hangs in the air, hollow and insufficient. The bustling restaurant fades into the background as you try to comprehend the sudden change in your reality.

"Sorry doesn't fix this, Patrick," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick runs a hand through his curly hair, frustration etched across his face. "I know, I know. I'm messing everything up. It's just... there's so much pressure. The tennis, my parents, the academy. And now..."

He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You lean forward, searching his face.

"And now what, Pat? What aren't you telling me?"

Patrick's blue eyes meet yours for a moment before darting away. "There's someone else," he admits quietly.

Your heart shatters into a million pieces, each shard piercing your chest with unbearable pain. The revelation hits you like a serve you never saw coming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You struggle to find words, your mind reeling from the betrayal.

"Someone else?" you finally manage to choke out, your voice barely audible over the clinking of glasses and murmur of conversation around you. "Who?"

Patrick shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. "Her name is Tashi. We met at a party after the tournament. She's... she understands tennis in a way that—"

The name strikes a chord of recognition. Tashi Duncan. You've heard whispers about her – the rising star in the tennis world, known for her fierce determination and unmatched skill on the court. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. The late-night phone calls, the distracted looks, the growing distance between you and Patrick

"That I never could," you finish for him, bitter understanding washing over you. Of course. Of course it would be someone from his world, someone who could match his ambition step for step.

"I think she could make me really happy," Patrick says, his voice pleading for you to just get it.

“You know, I really do hope that you make it. I hope you get to be number one or whatever,” You let out a wet scoff, he could have at least let you finish your meal. “But I’m glad that I’ll never understand you, Patrick.”

With those words, the conversation comes to a halt as you both sit in stunned silence. The waitress brings over your food, but neither of you have an appetite anymore. Patrick pushes his plate away, his stomach churning with guilt and regret. He realizes now that breaking things off like this is a mistake, he’s a coward, he shouldn’t have met up with you in person.

2019, August. Parking lot of a Roadside motel, New Rochelle.

Patrick slams his fist against the side of his beat-up Volkswagen Tiguan in frustration, feeling the sting of anger and disappointment course through him. His phone remains pressed to his ear, waiting for you to pick up, but it rings on with no answer. He begins and deletes a desperate text to you, twice, before finally you're calling back and he answers on the first ring. “Hey! Got a weird favor to ask you. Your new place is near Westchester, right?” His voice trembles with nervousness as he taps his fingers anxiously against the car door.

“A whole year, that’s a new record for you. Run out of money already?”

“Shit,” he swears under his breath, trying to use some charm or magic to convince you. “You know how the tour goes. I’ve been struggling to stay afloat. But uh, how’ve you been?” He forces a smile through the grimace as he thinks about his current financial state - a checking account with only $70 left. It’s a far cry from the greatness he once promised he was leaving you to pursue.

“Go to hell, Patrick.” The line goes dead and he pulls the phone away from his face, staring at it in disbelief as if willing you to call back. He knows you, so he waits anxiously until a notification with your name appears again on the screen, accompanied by a new address.

Same day. Private residence, Bronxville.

Everyone knows that Patrick's parents have stopped providing financial support for him, and even though your own father would be furious if he knew you were aiding this deadbeat, you can't bring yourself to let him go without. It's only the occasional bit of cash for gas or food, but Patrick always finds a way to repay you in ways that you didn’t even know you needed. There is an unspoken agreement between the two of you that hangs heavily in the air.

Despite everything, you can't turn him away completely, even knowing he will never truly change. Tennis is his first, great love and with the Donaldsons in town, you can't help but think Tashi might still be his second. And you, you are nothing more than a temporary lifeline – a benefactor to someone who will never truly appreciate your sacrifices.

His heart races with guilt and desperation as he parks his car and approaches your door. He knows he doesn't deserve your help, but the familiarity of these meetings brings a sense of safety.

You watch from your living room window as Patrick's battered Volkswagen pulls into your driveway. The sight of him emerging from the car, all scruffy charm and desperate energy, sends a familiar pang through your chest. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter to come.

As Patrick approaches, you open the door before he can knock. He stands there, looking simultaneously sheepish and hopeful, his eyes searching your face.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks for... you know."

You scoff at his attempt at gratitude, your bitterness cutting through the air like a knife. "Is that supposed to be a thank you? I didn't know you knew how to use manners," you retort, your tone dripping with resentment. It's not like you to be so angry, but Patrick always has a way of bringing out the worst in you.

You step aside, allowing him to enter and close the door after him. Patrick's eyes dart around your new place, taking in the tasteful decor and the obvious signs of your success.

"Nice place," he comments, his voice tinged with a hint of envy.

You shrug, maintaining your emotional distance. "It serves its purpose."

Patrick nods, fidgeting with the hem of his worn t-shirt. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words and shared history.

At thirty-two years old, in the final stages of your cardiology fellowship, your father still treats you like a child who is expected to become an astronaut neurosurgeon, or some other fantastical career straight out of a Barbie movie. Meanwhile, your mother constantly laments about not having any grandchildren to spoil, as if that is the sole purpose of your existence. You often snap back with sarcastic remarks, such as suggesting that your cat could use a new diamond-encrusted bowl, a sharp retort that only serves to deepen the tension between you. The truth is, you yearn for an escape just like Patrick did. If you had any talent for tennis, you would have run away long ago.

Patrick clears his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "I, uh... I really appreciate you helping me out. I know I don't deserve it, after everything."

You let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You're right. You don't deserve it. But here we are."

He takes a step closer, his gaze intense and pleading. "I never meant to hurt you. Everything just got so complicated, with tennis and Art and Tashi and—"

"Don't." You hold up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't want to hear about her. Or about tennis. I’m not sixteen drooling over you anymore. I don’t need to pretend that I care. That's your world, Patrick. It always has been."

He looks down, shame and regret etched across his handsome features. "I know. I fucked up. I fuck everything up."

Despite your anger and resentment, a part of you softens at his vulnerability. You've known Patrick for so long, seen him at his best and his worst. And even after all the heartbreak, there's still a connection between you that refuses to die.

"Why do you keep coming back here, Pat?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Why me?"

Patrick lifts his gaze to meet yours, and for a moment, you're transported back to that fateful dinner at Per Se, when your world first began to crumble.

"Because you're the only one who really knows me," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "The only one who sees past the bullshit and the bravado. Even when I don't deserve it."

Your heart clenches at his words, the irony in them isn’t lost on you.

“I still hate you.” You say as you step forward and wrap your arms around him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. Patrick stiffens for a moment before melting into the embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "For everything."

You close your eyes, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability, of connection. Tomorrow, you'll go back to your separate lives - you to your fellowship and the weight of your parents' expectations, Patrick to his endless pursuit of tennis glory and the shadow of Art Donaldson. But tonight, in the quiet of your home, you can pretend that things are different, that the choices you've made haven't led you down such divergent paths.

As the embrace lingers, the air between you shifts, charged with a familiar tension. Patrick pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, asking a silent question. Your breath catches in your throat as his gaze drops to your lips, and you know what comes next.

It's a dance you've done before, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of your lives. And as Patrick leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, you let yourself surrender to the moment, pushing aside the hurt and resentment that has festered for so long. His hands roam your body with a desperate urgency, as if trying to memorize every curve and contour before this fleeting connection inevitably fades away.

You melt into his touch, your own hands tangling in his curly black hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, a clash of tongues and teeth. Patrick's fingers find the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to caress the soft skin of your waist.

A moan escapes your lips as his touch ignites a fire within you, a burning desire that consumes rational thought. You tug at his clothes, needing to feel his skin against yours, to lose yourself in the physicality of the moment.

Patrick responds in kind, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck as you head towards the bedroom. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing, until you fall onto the bed in a heap.

For a moment, you stare at each other, chests heaving, eyes dark with want. His lips trail scorching kisses down your neck, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin.

"Pat," you gasp, arching into his touch as his hands touch wherever they can reach.

He pauses, hovering above you, his eyes dark with desire and something more, something akin to regret. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

But you can't. Because despite everything, the hurt and the anger and the years of distance, you do want this. You want him, even if it's just for tonight, even if it's a mistake you'll regret come morning.

"Don't stop," you breathe, pulling him back down to you.

Your shirt is discarded, followed by your bra, as Patrick's hands and mouth map the newly exposed skin. He lavishes attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around each nipple until they peak into hardened buds. You writhe beneath him, your nails digging into his broad shoulders as the pleasure builds.

Patrick's lips trail lower, blazing a path down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He pauses, glancing up at you through his lashes, silently seeking permission. You lift your hips in response, and he tugs the denim down your legs, taking your panties with them.

Exposed and vulnerable, you fight the urge to cover yourself, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. But Patrick looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, his eyes filled with a reverence that steals your breath.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs, spreading them wider. "I never deserved you."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you, his tongue delving into your folds, lapping at your most sensitive spots. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he works you with expert precision, stoking the fire that burns within you.

Patrick slips a finger inside you, then two, curling them just so as his tongue continues its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensations are almost too much to bear, and you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge, your body tensing in anticipation.

"Pat, I'm going to—" you gasp, your words cut off by a moan as he redoubles his efforts, determined to unravel you completely.

And then you're shattering, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of blinding ecstasy. Patrick works you through it, his fingers and tongue gentling as you come down from the high, your body trembling with aftershocks.

He crawls back up your body, pressing tender kisses to your skin as he goes. When he reaches your lips, you taste yourself on his tongue, a heady reminder of the intimacy you've just shared.

"I need you," you whisper against his mouth, your hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. "Please, Patrick."

He helps you undress him, kicking off his jeans and boxers until he's as bare as you are. His erection springs free, hard and heavy against his stomach, and you reach out to wrap your fingers around him, reveling in the velvety softness of his skin.

Patrick groans at your touch, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Condom," he grits out, reaching for his discarded basketball shorts.

You wait impatiently as he rolls the latex over his length, your body thrumming with anticipation. When he settles between your thighs again, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of fullness. Your breath hitches as he slowly pushes forward, stretching you deliciously as he fills you inch by inch. A low moan escapes your lips at the exquisite sensation of him inside you, his thick length pulsing with need.

Patrick stills for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed against yours as he struggles to maintain control. "God, you feel incredible," he rasps, his voice strained with desire. "I've missed this. Missed you."

The confession tugs at your heart, a bittersweet reminder of the connection you once shared, the love that never quite died despite the pain and the years apart. You cling to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, urging him deeper.

He begins to move then, his hips rocking against yours in a steady rhythm that builds in intensity with each thrust. You meet him stroke for stroke, your bodies moving in perfect sync, as if no time has passed at all. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the mingled gasps and moans, the whispered words of encouragement and praise.

Patrick's mouth finds yours again, his kisses deep and demanding, as if he's trying to pour all of his unspoken emotions into the press of his lips. Your fingers tangle in his curly black hair, tugging lightly as the pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter within you.

He shifts the angle of his thrusts, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. Patrick hisses at the sting, but it only seems to spur him on, his movements becoming more frantic, more forceful.

"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come around me."

Obediently, you slip a hand between your bodies, feeling the heat and sweat radiating off of Patrick's skin. Your fingers glide lazily over his chest and down towards the area of need. However, unsatisfied with your own rhythm, Patrick's fingers boldly enter your mouth, collecting the saliva and making you involuntarily gag. Without hesitating, his fingers make their way back down to their intended destination, gently nudging yours out of the way. His thumb finds your clit, tracing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. The added stimulation sends electric shocks of pleasure coursing through your body, causing your inner walls to flutter around his throbbing cock.

You arch into his touch, your hands now exploring the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his happy trail.

As Patrick moves within you, his eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, you can almost pretend that this means something more than a temporary escape, a fleeting connection in the midst of your fractured lives. But deep down, you know the truth.

This is all you can ever have with Patrick - stolen moments of passion, brief respites from the weight of your respective burdens. Tomorrow, you'll go back to being strangers, two people whose paths diverged long ago, held together only by the tenuous threads of history and desire.

With each deep thrust, Patrick stokes the fire building within you, pushing you closer to the brink of release. The fingers of his other hand dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he drives into you with increasing urgency, chasing his own climax.

"I'm close," he pants, his breath hot and ragged. "Give me another one. Come with me, baby. I’ve got you."

The endearment slips out unbidden, a echo of the past, of the tender moments you once shared. It's enough to send you tumbling over the edge, your walls clenching around him as euphoria floods your senses. Patrick follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he spills himself inside you, his hips jerking erratically with the force of his release.

As your breathing slows and reality seeps back in, the weight of your history, of all the unspoken words and unresolved hurt, settles heavily in the room. Patrick rolls off of you, disposing of the condom before collapsing onto the mattress and pulling you to him.

For a long moment, you lie tangled together, chests heaving, hearts racing in sync. Patrick's weight is a comforting presence, his face buried in the crook of your neck as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside.

But as the haze of desire dissipates, reality begins to seep in, cold and unforgiving. You feel Patrick tense against you, his body growing rigid as the magnitude of what you've done settles over him. He moves away from you, tugging on his boxers in swift, mechanical movements.

The silence that stretches between you is heavy with unspoken regrets, with the bitter knowledge that this changes nothing. You pull the sheet up to cover your nakedness, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable in the harsh light of aftermath.

You turn your head to look at him, taking in the familiar lines of his profile, the curl of his lashes against his cheek. "What are we doing, Pat?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sighs, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I don't know," he admits, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I just... I needed this. Needed you."

Your heart clenches at his words, a bittersweet mix of longing and resignation. You know you should put a stop to this, to the cycle of hurt and temporary solace that keeps bringing you back together. But the pull between you is too strong, the history too deep.

"I can't keep being your escape, Patrick," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "I can't keep pretending that this means something more than it does."

He turns to face you then, his lake blue eyes searching yours, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in their depths. "What if it could?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if we could make it mean something more?"

For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine it - a life where you and Patrick find a way to bridge the gap between your worlds, to build something real and lasting. But the dream fades as quickly as it forms, the harsh realities of your lives intruding once more.

"I wish things could be different," Patrick murmurs, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "I wish I could be the man you deserve."

Your eyes search his face for a glimmer of the boy you once knew, the one who stole your heart with his reckless charm and unbridled ambition. "We both made our choices, Pat," you whisper, your fingers reaching over to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "We can't go back.”

Patrick moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to you, shoulders hunched with the weight of his thoughts. You watch him, your heart aching with a familiar longing, a desperate wish for things to be different.

“I don’t even know what you really want from me. I doubt you do either. You’re just latching onto me because I’m something steady to grab a hold of.” Your voice is soft, tentative. “Look at me, Pat.”

He flinches at the sound of his name, as if the mere utterance is a painful reminder of the intimacy you've just shared. "Don't," he says, his tone flat, emotionless. "Please, just… don't."

You swallow back the words that threaten to spill out, the confessions and pleas that will only fall on deaf ears. Because you know, deep down, that Patrick will never be yours, not in the way you want him to be. His heart belongs to the court, to the thrill of the game, to the relentless pursuit of greatness that has consumed him for as long as you've known him. And the more it alludes him, the more desperate he is to obtain it.

And you? You're just a temporary port in the storm, a fleeting respite from the chaos of his life. A reminder of the girl he left behind, the love he sacrificed on the altar of his ambition.

Patrick stands abruptly, reaching for his discarded clothes. He dresses quickly, efficiently, his movements sharp and purposeful. You watch him in silence, a lump forming in your throat as the weight of the moment settles over you.

“Will you stop?” You sit up, pulling the blanket around you. “Just sleep here for tonight, Pat. You’re being difficult for no reason.”

Patrick's steps falter as he turns to you, his grip tight on the fabric of his shirt. His face is a mix of anger and frustration, but then it transforms into a vulnerable expression that catches you off guard. He runs a hand through his hair before letting out a heavy sigh. "I know I shouldn't ask after what happened between us...but will you come watch me play tomorrow?"

[sith-disease-palps]

jumping on the bandwagon (inspired by this post)

[simalayan]

[hero-of-the-twlight]

You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

[bacchuschucklefuck]

couldnt draw my thang for mid-autumn so treated myself to a calne redesign instead

[mariorsomething]

[zeropro]

[krysmcscience]

Call this the Whoopsie AU (it's barely an AU)

I mean. Narinder never explicitly SAID the Lamb would stay dead... :3c He probably should have been more specific. >:3c

Part Two:

Well. The Lamb tried, but...sorry, Nari, the crown hates you now. Shouldn't have been so quick to lend it out, I guess. :D

Aaaand Part Three:

'Isn't he just adorable?' -The Lamb, probably, while their followers smile and nod and internally scream at the brand new hellcat they now have to share living space with...

Anyway, nothing says 'Dead To Me' like following a person around to loudly remind them of how dead they are to you. Right? Right. Narinder's got this all figured out. <:]

[hinamie]

corvidae

[gascreates]

a new star

[forgettable-au]

CHAPTER TWO | The Scientific Method

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 73-77)

* His brother is annoying.

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[leftoverghosts]

you are coming down with me

hand in unlovable hand.

You learned quickly that just because someone says they're leaving doesn't mean they actually go. Patrick's on his way to being the greatest washed up tennis prodigy you've ever known, but that doesn't mean he's unwilling to drag you down with him. The worst part about it all, is that despite your protests, you're really letting him derail your life willingly.

find part one here.

patrick zweig x reader. patrick x tashi. mentioned tashi x art.

warnings: reader is lowkey terrible, like let patrick breathe idk. gaslighting. angst. like angst for the sake of angst. more sex. not for minors. p in v sex. some curse words. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. patrick sleeps with reader for a bed. not beta read.

nori says: hiiiiiii, again. who knows where all these words came from! send me ideas if you want to! i opened my asks. xoxo.

word count: 3,898

2008, August. Watermargin House, Cornell University.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling as Patrick's voice drones on about his latest frustrations with the tour. The familiarity of this scene is both comforting and suffocating - how many times have you found yourself in this exact position, listening to him vent while your own emotions simmer beneath the surface?

"I just can't seem to get my rhythm back," Patrick sighs, running a hand through his curly hair. "Ever since that fight with Art, it's like I'm not even the same player anymore."

The mention of Art's name sends a pang through your chest. You remember the whispers that circulated last year, rumors of a falling out between the once-inseparable duo. But you hadn’t pressed Patrick for details, afraid of what truths might come spilling out.

"Have you tried talking to him?" you ask, your voice carefully neutral. "Maybe if you two cleared the air-"

"It's not that simple," Patrick cuts you off, shaking his head. "There's too much history there, too many things left unsaid."

You swallow a scathing remark, literally biting into your tongue, knowing that engaging with his self-pity will only prolong this unwanted conversation.

Still it takes every ounce of patience to fight the urge to point out the irony in his words. Isn't that the very essence of your own relationship with him? A tangled web of unspoken feelings and missed opportunities?

You remind yourself that you just want to enjoy spending time with him. After all, he's driven five long hours from Flushing to Ithaca just for this visit.

"Besides," he continues, oblivious to your inner turmoil, "I don't need Art to be a great player. I just need to focus on my own game, push myself harder."

"Why don't you just give it up?" Your annoyance reaches its peak as you move in closer to him on the bed, trying to reason with him.

"What?" Patrick sits up abruptly, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Tennis." You grab for his hand, desperation creeping into your voice, but he pulls away. You meet his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to back down. "You're miserable, you're lost. Is this really the life you want? My parents were talking and my dad could hire you at the company. He likes you, mostly, and it would be better than working for your own father."

"Why were they talking about me? Why do they care?" he asks, his tone laced with irritation.

You shoot him a look that says ‘because of me’ and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"They're concerned.” You sit up, embarrassed, “I'm concerned."

"Yeah well, we're not together. I told you," he points a accusing finger at your face and you swat it away. "I told you that one day you would try to make me give up tennis. But you still don't understand, do you?"

"Maybe I don't want to?" Your voice cracks as tears threaten to spill from your eyes. "Look at yourself, Patrick! You're always here, taking advantage of me whenever it's convenient for you. You're using me for a place to stay."

"And what about you? You want me to be just like you?" He scoffs incredulously. "Losing sleep over school and choosing a major just to please your daddy? Sorry for not letting daddy dearest buy my way into some fancy university. God, you're insufferable!" He explodes with anger. "I don't see you complaining when I'm earning my keep. You sure as hell scream loud enough. And now, kicking me while I'm down? That's just low, even for you."

His words cut deep and your anger flares up inside of you. Yes, some nepotism may have been involved, but you worked hard to get into Cornell. Just like Patrick worked hard on tennis, with less impressive results.

"You know what? If I'm so insufferable and can't seem to say the right things, why don't you go and fix whatever mess is going on between you and your lap dog? That Arthur guy?" You spit out the name with venom.

"I don't have to take this from you." Patrick makes a move like he’s going to get up and leave, but he really just shifts away.

You both know he’s got no where to go.

You close your eyes and sigh, before opening them again to glare at him. "No, you don't have to take this. But look around, Patrick. I am the best thing you've got. You act all high and mighty on that horse of yours, but it's made of piss, shit, and broken dreams. It's crumbling beneath you. You need to grow up."

There is a tense silence as you both struggle to catch your breaths. And then, unexpectedly, he speaks again.

"Art."

"What?" It’s your turn for confusion.

"His name is Art. Not Arthur." He mumbles, dark eyebrows drawing together.

"You're kidding me." You actually laugh, mouth opening so wide he can see your uvula.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make light of the situation. I just...I don't know." He trails off. "You would get upset if someone mispronounced your name.“

"You’re a child, Patrick." You shake your head in disbelief.

He opens his mouth to retort, but no words come out. Instead, he slumps back against the pillows, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

2010, May. The Statler Hotel, Cornell University.

At your graduation earlier that day, Patrick caused quite a stir when your name was called. His boisterous cheers echoed through the crowd and caught everyone's attention. Even your mother joined in, both of them overflowing with joy as you crossed the stage to receive your degree. You couldn't help but beam with pride, grateful for their support.

However, as the day progressed and you sat down for dinner with your parents, tension began to simmer between them and Patrick. Despite your best efforts to keep things light and make jokes about physically harming anyone who might ruined this special day, it was obvious that money was a sensitive subject.

Patrick's professional success may have been stagnant, but he seemed to have no shortage of money. His flashy watch and designer suit only added fuel to the fire. Your father couldn't hide his curiosity about Patrick's financial situation, while your mother fiercely defended him.

Despite your father's disapproving glances towards Patrick, he played the role of the perfect boyfriend, charming both you and your mother with ease. But you couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't right. As everyone made small talk, you could feel Patrick's possessive gaze on you, making you blush every time his pinky grazed near yours on the table.

It was like waiting for a ticking time bomb to explode.

You’re not, not together.

Patrick calls you his partner and you smile along, but the arrangement is still new and sometimes unpleasant. He can be distant or unavailable at times, but for now that's fine because you have your own busy life. You’ve found a happy medium, it's all that really matters.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

He had barely taken his hands off of you the second you were alone.

His tongue swirls around your clit as he devours you, lapping and sucking with single-minded focus. You arch your back, hands gripping the sheets, lost in the exquisite sensations radiating from your core.

"Patrick, oh god..." you moan, voice breathy and wanton. He hums against your sensitive flesh in response, the vibrations making you shudder. The scrape of his scruffy cheek against your inner thigh sends electric shivers up your spine.

Two long fingers slide in and out your slick heat, curling to stroke that spot that makes your stomach clench. His mouth never lets up, alternating between broad licks and targeted flicks against your swollen nub. It's too much, the dual stimulation rocketing you higher and higher until you're trembling on the precipice, thighs quaking around his head.

"That's it baby," he rasps, voice rough with need. "I want to taste you." His words are your undoing. Your orgasm crashes over you in intense waves and you cry out, fingers twisting in his dark curls as you shake apart against his talented mouth. He works you through it, groaning at the flood of your juices on his tongue, licking and sucking until you're wrung out and oversensitive.

Finally, he pulls back, lips and chin glistening with your essence. His eyes are wild and dark with lust as he surges up your body to claim your mouth in a filthy kiss. You taste yourself on him and it only stokes the embers of your desire.

"I'm going to fuck you so good," he promises against your lips. "Fuck this brilliant, sexy girl of mine until she can't remember her own name, only mine."

"Patrick," you whimper to please him, chest rising and falling as you stare at him with half lidded eyes.

In an instant, he's hovering over you, slapping his thick cock against your inner thigh as a promise of what’s to come. Against your better judgement, you’ve long since given up using protection with him. You’re on the pill and you trust him enough to keep you safe.

You hiss as he positions himself at your entrance and pushes forward, stretching and filling you completely. A matching sound escapes his lips as he begins to move. Each thrust is deliberate and powerful as he sets a relentless pace, hips snapping into yours over and over, driving you into the mattress.

One large hand slides down to grip your hip, tilting you to just the right angle. He grinds against you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit with every thrust. Your head falls back against the pillow, a wordless cry escaping your lips at the added stimulation.

"You feel so good," he pants, "I never want to stop fucking you."

His praise washes over you like a warm hug that you’ve been desperately needing. Patrick leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, his breaths coming hot and fast against your face. His penetrating gaze locks with yours, the usual clear blue eclipsed by blown pupils. In that moment, it feels like he can see straight into your soul, laying bare all your secrets and desires.

"Never," he vows fiercely. "I'll never stop fucking this perfect pussy."

He feels like heaven, stretching and filling you so completely. Your nails rake down his muscular back as he pounds into you. "Patrick," you whimper again, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, deeper. "Please..."

Patrick captures your lips in a searing kiss, tongues tangling urgently. His hands move to grab your breasts squeezing hard in the way that you like, as his tongue delves deeper into your mouth until you feel like you could choke on it. He swallows your cries as the coil inside you winds tighter and tighter.

"I'm close," he grits out through clenched teeth and you could laugh, because sex is the only time he’s a great communicator. "Give it to me, baby." It's not a request but a command that your body is helpless to disobey.

He’s always been good at taking care of you in bed, so it’s no surprise when his hand slides between you, calloused fingers finding your sensitive bundle of nerves. The action has your second climax building embarrassingly fast. As your walls start to flutter around him and he groans, thrusts becoming erratic.

"Now," he demands, pinching your clit. The sharp burst of pleasure-pain catapults you over the edge. You come with a silent scream, back arching off the bed as ecstasy consumes you.

You always lead the way, but he follows right behind, spilling hot and thick as he moves to suck a mark onto your neck.

For a long moment, you both just cling to each other, hearts hammering, skin slick with sweat. Sated. Content.

As the euphoria of pleasure begins to wane, a familiar melancholy seeps back in. The uncertainty and fear that this bliss is fleeting and he will slip through your fingers like grains of sand. Patrick must sense it too, because he brushes a tender kiss to your temple.

Suddenly, making you jump, the catchy beat of B.O.B's "Airplanes" fills the room as Hayley Williams' voice echoes through the air. You cringe at the reminder of the outside world invading this intimate space. Blindly reaching out, Patrick fumbles to turn off his phone. It's a new experience for him, not used to the flat display and lack of buttons on his iPhone 4 compared to his old Motorola Razr.

"Oh shit, I have to take this," he mutters, finally grasping the phone and realizing it's his manager calling. Sighing, he leans over and gives you a quick kiss before padding off to the bathroom with his dick swinging freely in the air. Whatever conversation takes place, he returns looking upset.

"You had your ringer on while we were having sex?" Your words come out sharper than intended, fueled by months of pent-up frustration and hurt.

"I was waiting for a call about my Nike deal," he sighs exasperatedly, lazily kicking his boxers up into the air and catching them before slipping them on.

"Was that the call?" You ask with an attitude, not willing to let him off easily. He hasn’t even cleaned you up yet, his spend dripping out of you and onto the sheets.

"I don't want to talk about it." His voice is low and warning, a clear sign for you to drop the subject.

But something inside you snaps. A lifetime of pent-up frustration and hurt boiling over. "Of course you don't. You never want to talk about anything real, do you? It's always just going to be tennis, tennis, tennis with you."

"That's not fair," Patrick argues, sitting up to face you. "You know how important this is to me-"

"And what about me, huh? What about what's important to me?" Your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "I'm so tired, Patrick. I'm tired of watching you chase after something that's never going to make you happy."

"You don't know that," he insists, but there's a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "I could make it big, I could be somebody-"

"You already are somebody, you idiot. At least to me." The confession hangs heavy in the air, raw and vulnerable. That night, he fucks you again with a newfound intensity, as if trying to prove that at least for that moment he is fully present and with you.

2019, August. Phil’s tire Town Challenger, New Rochelle.

You finally take a seat, arriving late because you needed some time to gather your courage before coming, and your eyes are immediately drawn to a woman across the way. The first glimpse of Tashi Duncan in person is like staring straight at the sun. Her radiance is so bright and captivating, it's almost embarrassing how your cheeks flush with a rosy hue. And yet, she probably doesn't even know who you are, just another face lost in the crowd compared to her glowing presence.

You force your eyes away, looking to the court where Patrick is locked with Art in a heated rally. The sound of tennis balls thwacking against taut strings echoes through the air, punctuated by the occasional grunt of exertion.

As the next set begins, you can't help but glance over at the woman who presence haunted your early twenties. She's leaning forward, elbows on knees, utterly engrossed. You wonder if she feels that same magnetic pull towards Patrick that you do, that undeniable chemistry.

Admittedly, you have no idea what is going on, but you know that Patrick is good at this. You finally see why he could never give it up.

You watch, transfixed, as he moves across the court with a grace that belies his muscular frame. His footwork is precise, each step calculated and purposeful as he chases down every shot. The sun glints off his sweat-slicked skin, highlighting the ripple of muscles beneath his black Impatto shirt.

It's a sight to behold, and for a moment you forget to breathe. This is a side of Patrick you've never seen before - the fierce competitor, the athlete in his element. The intensity in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the coiled power in his body waiting to be unleashed. It's mesmerizing.

He wins the point with a blistering forehand down the line, letting out a primal roar of triumph that sends shivers down your spine. The small crowd erupts in applause, but Patrick barely seems to notice, already focused on the next point.

As the match wears on, you find yourself unwittingly mirroring Tashi’s actions and leaning forward in your seat, hands gripping the armrests tightly. Each point feels like a mini battle, a test of wills between two warriors. Patrick is relentless, chasing down every ball, firing off winners from impossible angles.

You feel like a bitch for ever thinking you could replace this. He’s in his element, and with Arthur Donaldson across the court, he’s alive.

You watch on as Art, or Arthur, as you pettily call him in your head raises his racket like he’s going to smash it, but he stops himself.

“Advantage, Zweig.” The Umpire calls out and you can hear how shocked the crowd is.

“Art Donaldson never smashes rackets.” A woman whispers to her friend in the row behind you. You don’t care about Arthur, your eyes are glued to Patrick. He’s smiling. Truly smiling, like he does when he’s balls deep in you and giving it to you really good.

He’s got Art exactly where he wants him.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The joy of Patrick's win lingers in the air as you make your way to his car. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as he walks. And though you’re complaining about him being damp from his post match shower, You can't stop smiling, knowing that this moment will be etched in your memory forever.

Patrick tells you about the match, how he had been studying Arthur's moves for weeks and finally found a weakness to exploit. You listen intently, amazed by his determination and skill. You let him have this, because it feels like the two of you have finally tipped over the precipice.

"I have something important to ask you," he says with a slight nervousness in his voice.

Your heart skips a beat. It feels all too familiar. But then he continues, "I know I’m the worst, I’m selfish and I don’t listen to you, but I can't imagine my life without you. I was serious when I said I wanted to try again.”

“Patrick, I thought we talked about this?”

“I talked to your dad.” He says cutting in, a hopeful look in his eyes, and you give him a questioning stare. “He’s going to help me set up a foundation, I’ll start teaching some little brats to play when I’m not on tour.”

“None of those kids could be a bigger brat than you were— are.” You counter.

"Touché," he admits with a smirk, but then reaches for your hands and starts rubbing his thumbs over them soothingly. "But this is a chance for me to have a real job, something more tangible than just chasing a dream. I'll have control over my schedule and still be able to play tennis. And it'll be good for us too."

"For us?" You sigh, unable to resist smiling at his persistence.

"I mean, unless you plan on living alone in that huge house forever." His playful tone falls serious as he meets your gaze, you can't help but soften at his sincerity.

“You’re going to have to pay me rent.” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He nods eagerly. “Anything for you. What do you say we celebrate my win in the backseat?" He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and your eyes flicker towards the cramped space behind you.

You can't help but roll your eyes. "You're not very romantic," you remark dryly, but the heat between you is undeniable.

"I know," he grins sheepishly. "But I promise I'll make it up to you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

His cock drags deliciously against your inner walls with each powerful thrust as he fucks you from behind. It’s the only position that makes sense in the small space. You're lost in a haze of sensation, the slick slide of his thick shaft stretching you open again and again. Patrick's hands map the curves of your body reverently, calloused fingers trailing down your spine before reaching around the front to tweak your sensitive nipples.

"You're mine," he growls against your ear, bending forward to seal your back to his front, punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "This sweet pussy belongs to me. Say it."

"I'm yours," you gasp out, arching your ass into him. "Only yours, Patrick."

He rewards you with a sharp nip to the side of your throat, sucking and licking the sting away. You know it will leave a mark, a visible brand of his possession, and the thought only turns you on more.

His hips pick up a relentless rhythm, driving into you with single-minded purpose. He's like a man possessed, lost in the slick heat of your body, chasing his release.

"Touch yourself," Patrick commands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. It’s a repeat of the command he gave you last night, but you’re more determined to be good for him. Your fingers move like his did, in tight circles, flicking and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves. Electric pleasure zings outward, heating up the warmth in your belly.

"That's it, just like that," he praises, arms wrapped around your middle. "Fuck, you look so sexy right now. I could watch you touch yourself forever."

His filthy words spur you on and your fingers move faster, matching the frenzied pace of his thrusts. He pushes you down, a hand to the back of your neck to keep you in place. You can feel your orgasm building, pressure mounting with each stroke as his thighs smack against your ass. Patrick shifts the angle of his hips and stars burst behind your eyes as he hits that perfect spot deep inside.

"Patrick!" you keen, face pressed into the car seat. "I'm so close, don't stop!"

His voice was deep and gravelly as he spoke, each word dripping with desire and determination. "Never," he vows fiercely, his hand gripping your waist tightly. His eyes were filled with an intense hunger as he gazed down at you. "I'll never stop fucking this perfect pussy," he groans, his body pressed against yours in a primal need for pleasure.

One, two, three more thrusts and you shatter, clamping down on his pistoning cock as relief crashes over you in intense waves. You cry out his name like a prayer, trembling and shaking in his strong arms as you ride out the aftershocks. Pat spills himself deep inside you with whimper, biting down on your shoulder.

"I love you," he whispers against your temple, so quietly you almost miss it. "I’ll say it more. I promise."

Your heart swells at his rare admission, at the raw emotion in his voice. "I love you too," you murmur back, trying to catch your breath. "Always have, always will."

[songthursh]

Alright, I will start with this one then - everything starts with the glorious revolution and everything starts with the night watch 🌸

[starry-bi-sky]

don't you want to be a cult leader? - danyal al ghul au

this is mostly a joke post but i thought it was funny and had to share so--

his first mistake was, obviously, inheriting his father's inability to see an injustice and stand still. -- actually, danyal's first mistake was his lair being so big. a mountainous island with a large temple in the center resembling his old home in Nanda Parbat? With sprawling foliage and rivers and streams and waterfalls galore? What was he going to do with all that space? Let it go to waste? He had plants there! Native trees of the ghost zone growing from the soil! He couldn't let it all be left unchecked!

So naturally after helping a fellow teenage assassin ghost -- who he later learns is named Akihiko, -- from Walker of all people, he sent them over to hang low at his lair until it was safe enough for them to wander around the Zone. Walker couldn't get through Danyal's astrofield if his life depended on it, and trust him -- he's tried. Danny was clearing out debris from his stupid transport vans for weeks.

Honestly it wasn't so bad, he and Aki really quickly became fast friends and Danny loves having a sparring partner close to his level again -- he hasn't had this much fun fighting since he left the League. Aki was very dedicated and levelheaded, the both of them clicked really well because of it.

Nonono, the real trouble began after Danyal met some long-passed League members and allowed them to come join his island as well. Apparently they had made a few enemies of the zone, and maybe Danyal still felt some loyalty to the League. He couldn't just let them be left to rot. Their zealotry could be overlooked so long as they kept it contained and helped him take care of his island.

And it.. snowballs from there? He meets a teen squire aptly calling himself Ambroise -- whether that was his living name or not is yet to be seen -- who died during feudal france, who is just about as dramatic and passionate as every french stereotype makes them out to be. He calls Danyal "my moon and great muse" -- which is both flattering and little uncomfortable, but Danyal's grown up in the League as the Grandson of the Demon Head, he is used to mild worship. he passes it off as nothing more, nothing less. -- and while his energy is overwhelming on the worst of days, he helps Danny draw out of his shell more in ways that Sam and Tucker still struggle with.

Him and Aki butt heads a lot, but the two seem to hold the other in at least some positive regard, so Danny doesn't worry too much about them fighting while he's gone. It only becomes a mild issue when Aki also begins calling Danny "my moon". It's a little sweet, so Danyal brushes it off.

Then he takes in a troupe of ghosts some time after he defeats Pariah Dark and they begin calling him "great one" just as the yetis do in the far frozen. This is where he meets the twins -- a pair of sibling ghosts who call themselves Trixie and Missy (short for Trick and Mislead) -- who aren't quite as passionate as Ambroise but more energetic than Aki. Eventually they also start calling Danyal "my moon" and attach themselves to his hip, even within the living. They like to hide in his shadow and cause trouble for the rest of the students. He makes sure they don't hurt anyone.

He's pretty sure Aki is jealous, same with Ambroise, but he can't be too certain other than the fact that they become much more lingering (re: clingy) whenever he visits the island.. Something he's trying to do much more often these days due to the increasing amount of people living there now. Since when did he become so popular?

Then there's Pēnelópeia from the Greater Athens, who ran away from home and joined his Island after he ran into her while she was being chased by Skulker -- and he's pretty sure the reason was because of her chimeric appearance. Her strange eyes and mismatched wings and lion's tail and talons. She assimilates into his friend group very easily, she gets along well with Ambroise and Trixie and Danny usually finds the three of them climbing the trees to pluck the most fruit from the top. They can fly and he knows it, but they prefer to climb.

Then finally there's silent poet Akkara who comes from ancient mesopotamia, who gets along most with Aki -- which is no surprise there considering their similar personality dispositions. he watches Aki and Danyal fight each other and leaves comments on this or that that he notices. He writes Danyal poems on clay tablets and leaves them by his room.

They're one big mismatched group of outcasts, and Danny's got the other ghosts on his island to tend to, because they're living on his island and he wants to be hospitable even if he struggles with that. But he spends the most of his time with them.

Sam and Tucker are making fun of him. Tucker jokingly tells him 'careful Danny, at this rate you're gonna start a cult'. Danny really wishes he had taken that joke more seriously.

He just. keeps. collecting people. Wayward souls lost in the zone, looking for shelter or refuge from something or other -- whether that be another hostile ghost, or a past afterlife, or just a purpose. Danyal finds them, he takes them in, offers them a place on his island until they are ready to leave. Many seldom do. He's not complaining -- he has the space, and it feels like it's only ever growing.

His close friends, his "inner circle" as he's heard the others call them, keep insistently calling him "my moon". He starts calling them his stars, because then it only feels fair. They're his stars, this is his constellation. It becomes a thing; little star halos begin forming behind their heads, picking them out from the rest. He loves them so much, it's hard to place. Sam and Tucker are also his stars, but they reside in the living realm, they're his tie to Life. Meanwhile, his friends here know what it's like to be dead, and sometimes its nice to relate.

Those living on his island keep calling him "Great One" and he's beginning to notice zealotry in their care for his island. He really, deeply appreciates it. His close friends gain nicknames -- as his stars, it's only natural for him to pick them out from the cluster in the skies. Akihiko, his Sirius and bright star. Trix and Missy, Castor and Pollux, the twins and troublemakers. Ambroise, his zealous Antares and close friend. Penelopeia, chimeric and loyal Vega. And Akkara, his Arcturus and strength.

It's ridiculous how long it takes for him to notice; he is, of course, a deadly trained assassin. He is meant to be observant -- and normally he is! But somehow this becomes a blind spot. One that becomes too big to be dealt with by the time he realizes it.

He should've noticed when Aki, his Sirius, stood beside him one day while Danyal looked over his island and saw the sprawling spirits carrying on about their afterlife and bowing to him as they saw him, and said: "I looked down into the depths when I met you; I couldn't measure it." They aren't one for flowing prose, it took him so off guard he was silent for over a minute before he finally spoke.

Danyal should've recognized devotion for what it is, and yet he didn't. He should've recognized it when Antares began spouting praises about him, crowing about his radiance and resplendence to the heavens. He just brushed it off as Ambroise being Ambroise. He should've recognized it when Trix and Missy nearly broke Dash's leg after he knocked Danyal's books out of his hands, he excused it as them being protective. Of them coming from times where such violence may have been customary -- after all, that's what he used to be like. What he was still like, sometimes, when his emotions nearly got the better of him.

He should've noticed it when the people living on his island followed his word like gospel, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. When his friends gifted him a shawl with the moon phases delicately embroidered into it, with silver, shimmering thread and moving stars lovingly stitched into it. Their constellations seen clear as day in the dark fabric. When he found small shrines dedicated to him -- but they lacked any image of him beyond stones carved to look like moons, so he ignored it. When the religious imagery began popping up.

He really, really should've noticed it when a bunch of cultists accidentally summoned Antares, and Antares had turned to him when he arrived and called them heretics. But he was so centered on the fact that they had kidnapped one of his stars, that he hadn't paid much attention to what Ambroise had said.

Sages say that faith is blind, they should also say faith in you is even blinder.

It really only hits him one afternoon while he's sitting in Sam's room studying with Tucker, Missy and Trixie lounging at his feet, Aki sat on his right, Penelopeia braiding his hair, Ambroise draped against him, and Akkara lurking over him. Its one of the rare few times they're all in one room together.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He looks up from his textbook. "Oh Ancients," he says in no amounting shock. Everyone looks up to him.

"I've become my grandfather."

[glimzo]

this is so on brand for her

[anbaisai]

It's not even actually their birthday

(Based on a conversation I had with a friend + Jamil's 2024 birthday present to the player)