#guys … thinking about professor! patrick zweig ..

[cowboyfaists]

god this made my hole weak i mean my hole weak uh— i mean my hole weak, uh no my hole weak, i mean, MY HOLE WEAK I MEAN MY HOLE WEAKNI MENA MY HOLE WEAKIMEANMYHOLEWEAK MY HOLE WEAK HOLE WEAK HOLE WEAK—

i mean … this made my whole week! nailed it #firsttry !!

[ghostgirl-22]

new age gap art was so good. i’m wet. and i think it’s only fair that art get used by TWO people twice his age. 👁️

(this is me asking for a threesome part two please i you want)

Thank you Anonnie, my love <3 and you know what—you’re so right and you should say it louder and more often <3

CW: Age gap kink, daddy kink, exhibition, student/teacher dynamics. A lot of other things i probably have to discuss in therapy. Anyway if the idea of this makes you uncomfortable obviously DONT READ.

Unrelated but I swear writing this made me crazy. I flirted heavily with the idea of never posting (or being seen or heard from again) so honestly if you fuck with this at all thank the always lovely Mel @artstennisracket <3 for reading and encouraging me to post 😭 And if you hate it blame her jk! if i regret it i can still private it…right? right?!!!

——

It was supposed to be one time. Is what Coach Patrick keeps saying. Even though it’s been so… many… times.

“I’m not that guy,” Coach says. It’s a random Thursday night. The last day of spring training camp. Not everyone stayed in town but Art did and he worked really hard. So hard. Now he feels so pleasantly sore it all feels worth it. 

He’s leaning over the balcony of Coach Patrick’s giant home in the hills. All the chardonnay he snuck from Patrick’s dinner glass is starting to wear off because he feels a little less dizzy. He’s trying to take in the view of the city but he can’t stop looking back at Patrick all stretched out on his patio furniture in only his boxers, half finished cigarette in his mouth. He looks like a fucking tribute to the human form, the thin line of the surgery scar on his knee not withstanding. so relaxed and casual. Like he didn’t just make Art come so hard he nearly blacked out.

Art’s barely able to keep still for the euphoria of just the memory of it. He’s rocking back and forth against the railing before he finally gives up on the view and approaches Patrick on the deck, climbing onto his lap. “What guy?” He asks as Patrick adjusts himself to take on Art’s body weight. 

“Mm,” Patrick pinches the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger like it’s a joint and gazes up at him. “You know, that fucking pathetic guy… like… a professor with a full blown midlife crisis who needs to fuck his barely legal TA just to feel young again… claiming ‘well it’s because she’s the only one who really gets me.’” 

Art grins. 

“Shut up,” Patrick says, before Art can say anything. 

“You mean you don’t feel young when you fuck me?” He goes for the cigarette but Patrick shifts it out of his reach.

”Behave yourself.” He says sternly.

“I am,” Art says. “I just want to try it.” 

“And I just want to win a grand slam but neither of those things is gonna happen. You already got drunk on dinner wine. I’m not here to enable you sweetheart…”  He takes another drag and uses his free hand to push Art’s t-shirt up, rough fingertips grazing along his abdomen. The way he blows the smoke out, bored and casual and so goddamn cool. 

“How do you do it like that?” Art asks. 

“Do what?” Patrick asks, looking over Art’s body, slides his palm down his chest, over his tummy.  

“When you smoke…I don’t it’s um…” Art squirms a little. “I like watching you smoke.”  

 “Yeah?”  Patrick slides his palm down lower resting it where Art’s cock is, he’s semi hard again. “God, already?” Patrick laughs. “Twenty years old… of course smoking turns you on. Everything fucking turns you on.”  

But the fabric between them is paper thin and Art can feel him…and god he’s fucking growing.  

Art can help himself, he starts wiggling. He’s dreamed of sitting on him and feeling it grow hard from the first time he saw Coach Zweig lazily manspreading on the bleachers while his assistant, Coach Meg, talked his ear off. 

“Daddy, please lemme suck it a little,” he says anxiously. Pretty sure he’s not still talking about the cigarette. 

“Jesus Christ,” Patrick mutters, he immediately puts out the cigarette on the side garden table, grabbing at Art’s waist. “Come here.” It’s happening so rapidly now, the way Patrick is filling out. Even though Art knows how big it is, it still makes him feel a little crazy. 

Art leans in,still wiggling. “You gonna fuck me, daddy?” He bites down on a grin as Patrick grips him, bruising tight to steady him.  

“Jesus. I should fucking gag you.” Patrick says against his lips. 

“With the whole thing? Like every single inch?” Art whispers, playfully, nuzzling his cheek against the gentle scratch of Patrick’s beard. 

“Fuuucking, stop with all of that.” Patrick groans. Art loves his dirty mouth.  Loves the way the he says “fucking” when Art drives him crazy. So punctuated. like it’s two different words. “Fuck-ing sit still.”  

Patrick pulls him into a bruising kiss and Art pushes his tongue in right away. It’s insane actually, the way he’s still not fucking done growing. Art feels impatient. He plays with his waistband ready to get his boxers off so Patrick can fuck him again.  

“Mm… slow it down.” Patrick hums, steadying him. “Go get a fucking condom. The ones i left on the coffee table.”   

Art doesn’t really want to get off of him. “Please. Can’t we just—“ 

“What? Can’t we just what? you want me to fuck you raw?”

”Don’t you want to come inside me, daddy?” Art asks lightly. “Don’t you wanna fill me up and watch it spill out…the way you did that one time when you couldn’t wait and…”  

“God.” Patrick bucks his hips. “You have to stop fucking talking. You’re gonna make me do something I shouldn’t. Now fucking get up.” He says forcefully. “Go get me the fucking condom. And honestly this is the last time, okay? I can’t keep doing this shit.”

“Got it. Last time okay,” Art smirks.

Patrick gently pokes a finger into his ribcage and Art sticks out his tongue before climbing off his lap. He’s tenting as he makes his way into the house. He pads into the open living room and stops in his tracks. 

She’s absolutely impossible. Standing in the doorway. Seeing her in real life. In person. She can’t possibly be real. Taller than he expected, tall like a runway model, and like a runway model looking effortlessly beautiful in an oversized sweatshirt and shorts, her shiny hair tied up in a loose bun. Her wide brown eyes sweep over his form before she looks back at his face. “What the fuck?” She demands.

“Hi uh—“ Art goes tongue tied. He looks back at the patio and then at her. He can feel his skin heating up. “You’re um— I’m um— s-so pretty.” He stammers. Then feels his skin get even warmer.

“God he’s a fucking idiot,” Tashi mutters. She lets her tennis bag slide off her shoulder and drop to the ground before she makes her way past Art to the patio door. Even in person, the way she moves, so poised and graceful like a dancer.  Impossible.

“Are you fucking serious Patrick?” She calls from the doorway.

“Tash!” Patrick sits up right away, stepping into his flip flops. He hurries towards the house. “Oh shit baby… baby you… you said you’d be home on the weekend I—“ he steps in the room breathless. 

“Stop. Don’t baby me. What the fuck is going on?” she demands.  

“Uh well…” he glances at Art and then back again. “you know the usual…”

“Oh the usual…right,” Tashi repeats. “Isn’t this your fucking player Donaldson? Aren’t you coaching this kid? Patrick?” She demands, moving into his field of vision when he tries to look away from her. 

“Well…yes but—“

She huffs a laugh. “Are you serious, Patrick? Are. you. fucking. serious?”

As fast as his heart is racing, Art is still kind of thrilled that she recognizes him. 

”Baby it’s not—“ Patrick starts.

”How old is he? Is he fucking 18?”

“Yes he’s… no, he’s…” Patrick takes a deep breath. “He’s older. He’s not a teenager.” 

“Oh does that make you feel better?” Tashi snaps. “You’re 31 fucking years old, Patrick. Do you feel better about yourself cause maybe he’s 21?  so it’s all good.”

“No,” Patrick swallows and rests his head against the patio door all pouty. “Mm baby I feel like shit, I really do.” He whimpers softly. And even that sounds sexy. “I didn’t mean for it to…. I didn’t mean to.”

”Yeah really?” She says, stepping closer to him. “You feel like shit? Huh?” Art watches as she cups her palm over his cock and he takes a deep breath. “Yeah that’s what I fucking thought,” she whispers turning away when he tries for a kiss. 

“Baby, please,” Patrick says and then he lets out a deep sigh. “Fuck.” He breathes.

Her gaze falls back on Art, rounding on him. He tries to adjust himself. He can’t believe this is how he ends up meeting her. Even before he ever met Coach Zweig and started crushing on him he was in love with her. 

He’d been playing tennis since he was 5 years old but he never really cared about tennis until he watched her win the US Open. He was barely 12 years old and watching her play for the first time. This powerhouse of a performance on the court…. Never rattled, clean, precise but also capable of the impossible. The perfect blend of superior technique and unbridled talent. She absolutely demolished her opponent, some Russian girl he never saw or heard about again. It had affected him so much that afterwards he started taking tennis seriously (he’d also started masturbating, the first time right after the match when he’d snuck into his bedroom and lay on his stomach, rubbing himself into the mattress thinking about her perfect form). 

“How old are you?” She says, dragging him back into the present. her tone a little softer but not much.

“I’m uh…20?”

”Are you asking me?” 

“No well I just turned 20 so I um…can I tell you I um— I love your— i love your backhand.” God. He’s falling apart every time she looks at him.

She squints. “How many times have you been in my house?”

Art looks around, his gaze falling back on Patrick just behind her, Patrick shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

”None,” Art blurts. 

“Right,” she mutters dryly and Patrick rolls his eyes clearly disappointed with him. “How many times has he fucked you?” 

Art bites his lip. “I’m s-sorry.” 

“Okay that’s not an answer, show me on your hands, is that easier?” She only sounds mildly condescending like she’s speaking to a child. “How many times has he fucked you?” she asks again.

Art shifts, “uh… i don’t… i don’t have enough fingers.”

She laughs. ”You’re fucking disgusting, Patrick. I think you should know that.” She says without taking her eyes off Art. 

“I know and I’m—and I’m not gonna do it ever again Tash I’m—” Patrick starts.

“He’s your fucking student. God, I bet you get off on that, don’t you?”

”Tashi—” Patrick says.

”There are thousands of guys out there, Patrick. Shit, if thats what you want, there are thousands of twenty year olds who don’t go to Stanford, who don’t play tennis, who aren’t on your team, or your fucking star player. But you choose something so fucking off limits anyway. Jesus.” She teases her fingers gently into Art’s hair and it makes Art shiver, he can’t help leaning into the touch.

“God do you fuck him at the school?” She asks softly.

”Um…” Patrick hums.

“Patrick can you just answer the question.” 

“Yes, yes,” Patrick breathes. “A couple times.”

“You like that pretty boy?” She asks Art. “Coach Patrick taking such a special interest in you.” 

“Yeah,” Art whispers, helpless. She smells so good, god, her lips look so plump and soft, he’s fixating on them. The way he did when he was a teenager with a Duncanator poster on his wall, one hand down his pants. Except now she’s actually in front of him and just so fucking real.  

“Does he fuck you before practice? Or after when you're all full of adrenaline?”

“B-both,” Art says anxiously, “before, after, sometimes in the middle.” 

“Yeah?” Tashi asks, she sounds a little breathy. “Lemme guess, he sneaks you into his office? Sits you on his lap and pretends to work while you cock warm him. Let’s his stupid big dick get so hard you cant sit still?” 

“Mmmm,” Art hasn’t done it like that but now he fucking wants to. The more she talks the more he feels dangerously close to touching himself in desperation, he wants to fuck her so badly but instead he blurts out, “Can— can I kiss you?” 

“Oh you wanna kiss me? You fuck my fiancé repeatedly and now you wanna kiss me? Why?” 

Patrick takes a breath, Art can see he’s white knuckling the handle of the sliding glass patio door, eyes fully dilated, as he looks between them, a crooked little smirk on his lips. 

“B-because I-I love you,” Art stammers weakly. 

Tashi giggles, it's a bubbly surprising sound. “God.” She looks down, Art follows her gaze to the tent in his boxers. “You hear what your barely 20 year old is saying to me Patrick?” She whispers, her knuckles grazing along the thin fabric covering his shaft making him gasp. 

“I know baby,” Patrick sighs, his voice pitched soft. Art glances over and notices his other hand, he’s stroking his dick idly. Art feels so suddenly dizzy with arousal he thinks he might fall down. 

Tashi catches it too. “Oh wow Patrick…you’re incredible…” she says. “Are you fucking jerking off?!”

“I’m just… a little… yeah…I’m sorry…” Patrick says, raising his hands defensively. “It’s just… it’s hot...”

“God, I catch you in our house fucking your 20 year old player and you don’t even have the decency to feel ashamed for more than a minute. I bet you watch him run around the court, not even a little bit ashamed of yourself. God it probably gets you fucking hard knowing you just finished inside him. You probably spend all practice trying to hide it. I mean fucking him before and after practice?? Jesus Christ you know how fucked up that is? How fucking wrong it is?”

Even as she says it, Art is breathing heavier, leaning closer to her… he’s so turned on. He likes it. Likes the whole idea of it and it’s clear she does too. Her cleanly manicured fingers gently brushing along the fabric barely containing him.   

”Of course I do, I—” Patrick starts, softly. 

“Of course you do,” Tashi mimics. “But you get off on it anyway. There’s something really fucking wrong with you.” She says. Every nerve in Art’s body is firing off as she continues to barely touch him. 

”Mm I know, I know. I’m real fucked up baby, I know.” Patrick sighs, but he’s absolutely jerking himself off again.   

“Yeah and you should be ashamed,” Tashi sighs, walking Art backwards towards the sofa. He stumbles over the rug at the last minute and drops onto it haphazardly. He almost cums when she straddles him with her thick thighs, her round soft ass settling on his lap. He has to bite his tongue so hard. 

“Pretty boy. He’s not even old enough to fucking drink. And you’re shoving your dick in him.” She grips at Art’s length over the fabric of his boxers and starts jerking him properly. 

“Oh—oh god,” Art cries out. 

“Holy fuck Tash,” Patrick moves to sit beside them on the sofa. 

“Do your teammates know why you’re getting all of this special attention?” She asks softly in Art’s ear. He’s overstimulated with Tashi on top of him, Patrick right next to him. 

”He—he doesn’t give me attention,” Art whines. “He’s really fucking mean. He— he— makes me run laps even when i… when i don’t even do anything wrong.” 

“So he works you harder?” Tashi smiles, her grip tightening. “Good.” She moves a little faster and he groans, biting again on his already achy tongue. “Who else knows?” 

“N-no— no no one. I promise.” Art stammers out the lie. He actually talks about it all the time with his roommate and his best friends, the ones that knew about the crush before they ever started fucking. He can’t shut up about how good it feels, how big it is, how easy it is to make him cave.

“You sure? He’s fucking you all over campus. Probably fucking you at away games. Probably sliding you his second room key so you can sneak into his hotel room. Because he’s fucking reckless. Because he wants to get caught. Because you get his dick so hard he forgets to use his fucking brain.”

“Ah no daddy, daddy doesn’t fuck me when I—when I have to play when I have a—he doesn’t fuck me when I have a game.” He’s dangling on the edge but mercifully she stops jerking him for a minute. 

“Patrick,” Tashi says, turning to glare at him, her tone carefully measured. “What. The. Fuck.”

“I swear I didn’t fucking tell him to call me that.” Patrick says. 

“oh pat your f-fucking sick,” she whispers, eyes falling back on Art. He gazes up into her deep brown eyes, breathless, bouncing his leg eagerly. “Fuck I can see why you…,” she sighs softly, touching Art’s cheek. He turns to kiss her palm and she smiles and slides her hips forward, grinding all along his length, the clothing hardly a barrier. It’s almost like he can feel her pussy. His brain is ready to fall out of his head. “Ohhh,” is all he can manage before he’s seizing up, spilling warm and wet all over his boxers. 

“Jesus, you’re a mess huh?” Tashi giggles softly. “Like a pretty little puppy.” 

Her face is so close Art presses his lips to her cheek. She sighs and turns to kiss him properly. Art gasps against her lips. They’re as soft as they look, softer even. He slips his tongue into her mouth, warm and wet. She tastes like cinnamon. Her tongue sliding along his feels like heated silk. He’s certain if he hadn’t just finished he would blow his load at just the touch of her mouth. He can feel her fingers in his hair while he’s nervously grabbing at her waist. 

“Fuck yes,” He hears Patrick groan softly. 

His heart is pounding like crazy. He can imagine trying to explain this to his roommate… to anyone. “Tashi Duncan caught us. And then she jerked me off and we made out while Coach watched and touched himself.” No one would believe it. He doesn’t even believe it. He wants to touch her more, he tentatively fingers the waistband of her shorts, but he’s so scared she’s going to realize what she’s doing and make him stop. 

“Mm puppy,” she breathes, breaking the kiss and rubbing her thumb over his lips. He sucks the digit inside his mouth, keeping her gaze. She watches him for a miniute and then says. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

whoops guys it’s two parts. i did say a billion words. perhaps. maybe. if y’all like this. and idk Mel convinces me to post

[callahanisms]

pretentious(?) cinephile patrick zweig.

call it a college au i guess

technically, he's a business student. he's just minoring in cinema studies, which was your major. you always hated the business school kids that came into your literature class (because film is literature) and thought it would be easy. and then they'd be surprised that they were failing because they didn't do the readings and when they participated, it was with shallow commentary. you don't even want to recount how many racist, misogynistic, queerphobic things were said in the class (in general too).

which is why patrick zweig pisses you off.

patrick zweig actually loves film. and unlike the other business boys, he understands that wolf of wall street is a cautionary tale.

"i wouldn't want to end up like him." he said. "doesn't mean i can't enjoy the movie."

patrick zweig actually has good taste in film. okay, maybe not "good" taste because "good" is always subjective. he's a bit of a film snob. you can't believe that he likes Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles. you really hated the movie, mostly because it felt like an eternity. that might have also been because you were high watching it. sometimes weed has that effect.

at first glance, he seems like the kind of guy to dismiss foreign films because of subtitles. except you learned that he regularly consumes—and seeks out—foreign cinema. he grew up on foreign cinema.

"my dad's big into french films. that's how i started watching them." he explained to your french cinema professor.

you swear he's in every cinema studies class possible. and he recognizes you too.

"excited for this semester (y/n)? i'm looking forward to the syllabus."

now, patrick being patrick, he mostly skims the readings. rarely does he closely read. he finds himself getting distracted easily. and it's not really helpful with the multiple times you've worked with him whether it's as discussion leader or doing a group project.

there's the rare occasion you've seen patrick zweig in business class. and to say the least, he looks miserable. sometimes, he's so bored that he's doing the readings for your class.

"why don't you switch majors?" "because business school is just to appease my parents."

you don't 100% believe his answer. or maybe he's right in thinking that it will appease his parents. you're not all too knowing about his home life. you guys just have class together. until...

"wanna smoke?"

a joint before your screening. you guys were watching Spike Lee's School Daze for the race and american film class. he's never seen it. you have. maybe the colors will pop even more if you took a hit.

"sure."

so you guys find the smoke corner and light the joint. you inhale and make small talk. patrick zweig isn't the asshole he seems to be. he carries himself with such douchebaggery that it seems to be a defense mechanism. and you learn during that smoking session that he isn't really pretentious. he's just really passionate.

"i hate Prometheus." he says. "what? how can you hate Prometheus? Prometheus is so good! it's like right up your alley!" you cough as you inhale. "listen, i may be a film snob. and sometimes i can be an asshole about it. but ridley scott is a bigger asshole than me." patrick takes the joint to inhale. when he blows, the smoke sort of billows around him. it frames his frankly gorgeous face. "lean into the haunted house of the Alien franchise. don't try to turn it into something deeper when it already had such interesting themes."

School Daze was a watch. patrick had a lot of thoughts, but he seemed to barely express them in class. he saved it for his letterboxd review.

"you have letterboxd?" "duh." he glances at you as you guys are walking to the bus stop. "what's your username?" "ppzweig." "you can't be serious. that's so immature of you!" but also so on brand for patrick zweig. "i made the account a long time ago okay! i'll follow you back if you follow me."

so you do follow him.

you learn quickly that patrick reviews for nearly every movie he watches. the exception are rewatches (if there isn't anything left to say) and films that just didn't really interest him or were terrible. oh and you see through his reviews that he really hates tarantino. actually very surprising! patrick always had something to say though. you loved terrorizing him when he walked into class.

"hey so why did you rate Alien: Resurrection four stars?" "what happened to hello? how are you?"

side note: i did make a top 10 list of films that i think patrick would have. idk how character accurate this is but he strikes me as such:

Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Trainspotting (1996)

Night of the Hunter (1955)

Citizen Kane (1941)

Amélie (2001)

A Clockwork Orange (1972)

Boogie Nights (1997)

Taxi Driver (1976)

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Lady Snowblood (1973)

[amymbona]

I often think about being rivals with Patrick Zweig - enemies, if you will - the two of you constantly making each other's lives hell on Earth, but in the end, Patrick ends up being the person glued the closest to you.

Imagine this, you're both at Stanford, at the best way to become successful tennis players. Everything seems to be going wonderfully, except one little detail - your condition. Nobody really knows about it, only the professors and coaches were informed, but you've sworn it's nothing serious. It's been a long time since you fainted or had any kind of seizure, so you convince yourself nothing can go wrong.

However, you have underestimated yourself. The Stanford experience is so thrilling and yet devastating at the same time, not allowing you olro have a full moment of proper rest. Most of your time is spent on the court or at the gym, pushing yourself to your physical limits - because that's what tennis is about - constantly overstepping your set boundaries to move forward every day. To be the best.

But not every day is all sunshine and rainbows, especially since there is a certain guy who's only life goal seems to be to piss you off. Snarky remarks as he passes by, insulting your style of playing, calling you names... You're not even sure why he's doing this, but you start doing it back. Each time you pass each other in the hallways or meet at the court, people almost have to hold you two back before one of you causes some serious injury.

You despite Patrick Zweig with every inch of your body, absolutely fucking hate him, and you make sure to look the best when you know he's looking. You're pretending to be at the Wimbledon, the whole world watching you, but instead, it's just Patrick. He notices, of course, he notices every time and only smirks, feeling so proud. You're doing all od that just for him? That's adorable.

And then he sees it, the falter of your breath, the sudden hesitation when you stop mid-serve, placing a palm on your chest. You probably think no one is looking, that no one is watching and seeing your little moment of weakness - but it's okay, you'll catch your breath soon. Or you think so.

But after that moment, Patrick begins noticing it every time he sees you, everywhere you are, his eyes are glued to you, only waiting to see the hitch of your breath, the sudden wide pop of your eyes - and he's not quite sure whether he's spying on you to have a laugh or potentionally save you. He keeps being an asshole, perhaps even a bigger one - and perhaps it's the sadistic part of himself that kinda wants to see you in distress - but he's also using the close proximity as an opportunity to check on you.

Until one day, when he is completely fed up with your aloof attitude, after seeing you stagger on your feet while playing, and corners you in the locker room, "You think you're some kind of superhero? Can't you just take care of yourself?"

At first, you're totally confused. Where did this come from?

"I'm not fucking blind. Don't think I haven't seen you almost black out back there."

And then you have to literally beg him not to tell anybody. You almost cry, realising what kind of power Patrick suddenly has over you - he could make you the most pathetic girl at Stanford, completely ruin your career, because nobody would willingly support a sick girl - and it should be making him feel good, it fucking should! But Patrick can't find it within himself. He can't bring himself to exploit the sudden knowledge, to blackmail you and finally assert his dominance. Instead, he calls you stupid ten more times before storming away.

Ever since that encounter, Patrick seems to be everywhere - as if he wasn't before - but now, he's not even attempting to hide it. Just trailing after you like a lost puppy that's not really lost. Somehow, he's there for every practice or yours, comfortably watching from the bleachers and raising a brow every time you finally look at him. A silent question. You good?

Sometimes, Patrick jogs after you, hooks an arm through your casually - somehow making it look like he's ready to strangle you - and whispers in your ear, "Take more breaks next time. You look terrible," and then he pulls onto the strap of your tank top to let it snap against your skin, and runs away while calling you an idiot again.

It pisses you off, for so many reasons, but the main one is your biggest rival seeing through your defenses, aware of your vulnerable state. You cry a bit as well but convince yourself that what you need to focus on is tennis, simply. You still haven't face in big issues so far, so what could go wrong?

Thank God Patrick chooses to follow you once again, to lurk at the side of the court when you're playing one of your bigger matches. On the other side of the net is some other girl you only know the name of, but she's really good. That's bad. You need to be better. And you try so hard to be better, to be the best - and you completely lock in, that at one moment, you begin seeing stars. Nobody seems to notice the growing struggles, nobody but Patrick. But before he could call out, before he could do anything, you're on the ground - unconscious.

Patrick is the first one by your side, slapping your cheeks so you wake up, and when you do, you look so cute and distressed. Your face scrunches in a mix of frustration, pain and surprise - it's Patrick? He's the one by your side, holding your head in his lap and stroking your hair almost delicately. And then he is the one helping you walk to the infirmary, an arm around your waist, letting you lean against himself.

It's such a comical situation, Patrick Zweig being the person taking care about you, holding a damp cloth on your forehead to calm you down a bit, commanding you not to get the fuck up and let the blood circulate through your whole body. He's not going to tell anyone about this, but he really enjoys taking care about you - his vulnerable girl - like this.