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pparacxosm · 1 day

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wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast.

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and bemused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently.

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

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inchidentally · 20 hours

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"short and easier to read" babe I am so sorry to you and everyone else for how my insane posts come out - it's why I link to so much stuff bc it is a struggleee for me to not write just run-on sentences ;__; but I do get what you mean and I promise I tried my best - it's def shorter than the og and in smaller bites if that helps ??

(I actually wrote this on someone else's laptop so it's got proper punctuation and capitalization and everything!)

For those who don’t know: Oscar is an acts of service guy Lando is a words of affirmation guy. Let’s remember that someone’s love language is how they choose to express themselves, not what they should demand of others!

Oscar is also very much not a PR guy, for anyone totally oblivious to the obvious (and that all his "greatest hits" in PR were done unintentionally or bc he's awkward or bc his mom is cooler than him). For example, Oscar brings up his girlfriend of 4-5 years a fair amount but it’s almost hilariously not gushy or romantic (having a “cuddle” is as far as it goes lasfgjlsagfl). But he’s said himself that for the most part he’d prefer not to have too much private life available to the public. *His downtime with Lando joins in with all his other social life in being extremely limited to the public.

The “thanking the sponsors” thing is one of Oscar’s safe, approved speeches he pulled from Andrea so that Oscar doesn’t have to do spontaneous on-camera speaking. Sorry but not all of us are good at it and it’s wayyyy easier to just have some rehearsed pre-approved soundbites. He tends to have a few that he repeats for a while until he updates the list lsafjslafhlafh.

He also very openly struggles to do on-camera speaking and no one knows that better than Lando who’s had to help him a huge amount.

It does seem to be mostly cameras that make him stressed bc he was fine thanking Lando for his help in Baku at the fan stage in Singapore and overall he can use more of his dry humor when he's speaking to people rather than just to a camera.

Lando’s recent inclusion of Oscar in his media responses to this degree is a reaction to Hungary and Monza - normally, his post race responses focus on himself and his own performance (which is literally normal and the default for drivers!!). The recent emphasis on teamwork/Oscar is something he feels he needs to do with his own PR work right now. He’s a smart man who’s been doing this a long time, so his reasons are valid no matter what fans think. He’s not sitting there working out or analyzing Oscar’s PR, just his own.

People are absolutely running away with themselves over Monza and ignoring that apart from that one moment, Oscar is widely popularly seen as the supportive teammate role. To the point where last year and even part of this year, Lando was criticized by a lot of fans for not acknowledging Oscar enough.

Going off of that, let’s show how easy it is to take PR and media to make one of them look bad by turning it around onto Lando (!! this is for an example, I do NOT endorse hating on Lando for any of it !!)

Lando openly disliked being referred to as the “older teammate” and kinda left Oscar to his own devices so much last season that Oscar wouldn’t know where he was going a lot of the time and even semi-joked “my teammate’s abandoned me” (again, reminder this was not a source of drama for anyone but fans). He got called a little duckling a lot bc he’d tail Lando closely so as not to lose him. In fact it started irking some people that Lando would spend so much time with Carlos or Daniel and not getting to know his new teammate and helping him out with his rookie season of F1 the way Carlos did for Lando.

In every team photo where Lando has had a podium and Oscar has had nothing (and sometimes due at least in part to team orders!) which is very often! the comments sections have always had plenty of ‘Oscar is such a great team player, always happy and showing up for Lando no matter what’. So the whole ‘Oscar doesn’t do enough for Lando’ narrative is extremely recent and at odds with the rest of reality.

Please read the very first part of my enormous full post bc Lando didn’t thank Oscar for his Miami win, he praised his driving.

Even though at Silverstone this year Lando got on the podium and Oscar didn’t, Oscar made the fan stage all about bringing Lando out of his disappointment and even said he did the shoey “to make us feel better” and then dedicated the top row of his IG that week to photos and videos of him and Lando. Special note that this is in no way Oscar’s home race and he was solely seeing it as emotional for Lando and McLaren - and he had zero reason to personally be very happy after that weekend.

I’ve seen Melbourne this year get mentioned in the team orders discussions on my fyps, so that’s a handy example in many ways: Despite Melbourne being Oscar’s literal hometown race - and Lando even filming some Quadrant stuff at Oscar’s childhood karting track where a corner is named after him* - this year Lando didn’t acknowledge Oscar really at all over the weekend until someone mentioned him at the end of the podium press conference. Lando acknowledged that Oscar following team orders made his (Lando’s) drive a bit easier in Melbourne this year but said that he was faster than Oscar and deserved third over him anyway. (Good contrast to Hungary and even Carlos stating that something an undercut due to pit strategy shouldn’t erase one teammate being faster/more dominant in a race in order to give the other teammate the win!) He did PR work with pretty much everyone except Oscar actually, even doing promo for his (Lando’s) dad’s electric scooters on the new dotmov acc. Kind of like him being on a similar PR campaign at Singapore this year because of a sneak preview of Quadrant rebranding and announcing the Landostand at Silverstone - he went for the biggest PR hits and posted Daniel on his jpg account, did a golf day with Carlos and Max F and was more active on socials than he had been for months. All while only having Oscar in one photo out of the whole weekend’s carousel despite the McLaren double podium. You could even read into him cutting Oscar and Oscar’s trophy out of two of the shots if you wanted! (He did include Oscar in the big group photo after the podium celebrations.)

*I saw some ppl say he didn't include Oscar in the Melbourne karting filming bc McLaren doesn't cross over with Quadrant, which isn't true. Zak has shares in Quadrant and Bianca has been included in the Quadrant rebranding launch with Lando's Singapore helmet design.

See how easy that was to flip it around?? If you’re even slightly biased against a driver or never see flaws in another- or are dying for two teammates to hate each other - then confirmation bias will always find plenty of “evidence”! Because the reality is that after the Austin GP, Lando found his “older teammate” mode and began helping Oscar out with his rookie year. In Melbourne, Lando spent his first day filming for his .mov account including the Oscar jersey and merch he came across - and Oscar mentioned how he and Lando talked about Lando filming at his old track. (Again, not PR coordinated or filmed, just mentioned!) And that after the Singapore race this year, they beamed at each other every other second of that night, filmed a deliriously happy post race video and joked in the cool down room - I honestly doubt have even noticed yet what the other has posted to IG salfhsalfafa. All of the negativity fans are coming up with is their own personal spin and does not resemble how Lando and Oscar are behaving to or speaking about each other.

They base their relationship on their conversations and interactions solely away from the public and the cameras and don’t do any inflammatory commentary about each other. They bragged about the door in the team hub that separates their drivers rooms from everyone else and leaves them open only to each other. Their communications only matter to each other when in private.

Segueing on from that: media and social media are literally PR. Lando is extremely skilled at it now and Oscar is not at all naturally skilled and is still learning. Lando is quick to be able to adapt his media responses, Oscar is not and often sounds stilted and uncomfortable. But it still has nothing to do with how they think of each other and talk to each other personally.

And “Landoscar” has never had the typical PR bromance aspect that we all love in other teammates, and it never will. Lando and Oscar mention but don’t broadcast or package their downtime together and they don’t share their private dynamic with fans or the media apart from the glimpses we see in more relaxed content. It’s just their choice! And just like it doesn’t mean Lando and Oscar are less friends because they don’t PR their relationship, it doesn’t mean the friendships who do utilize PR are less friends!

And tbh that’s a good note to leave on: that seeing two drivers with no PR to gain from openly liking and respecting each other should mean that we as fans place less importance on the PR responses they give to media and put on social media. So many people want them to hate each other (Netflix even begging them outright) and rivalries get far more headlines and fan engagement, that if these two didn’t like each other or even were blah about each other, they wouldn’t waste time trying to fake it (side note ppl actually thought this joke was deadly serious for a short while). F1 isn’t team sports, no one really cares if drivers or teams appear “friendly” unless they’re desperate for money/engagement to keep them afloat (even there, Alpine prove it clearly isn’t a priority to have friendly teammates when you’re lower down the grid!)

There is absolutely nothing to be gained for them in faking the smiles and laughter and twinning. Equally there’s nothing to be gained by us as fans in judging them and their relationship based on their PR responses and PR work. Lando beams and smiles the same at Oscar after all of Oscar’s awkward, stiff debrief speeches and I kind of want one of these crazy stans to say to him that Oscar is a bad team player and doesn’t show Lando enough appreciation just to watch what his adorable face does in response (don’t do that I’m joking).

#inchreplies #(did a screenshot bc I never know what shows up in posted submissions)#landoscar #I pray this is more coherent I'm sorry guys #this is why it takes me forever to write fic #to make my brain work right with words is a monumental task #mostly it's grammar syntax etc but jfc what is going on in my brain #inchidentallyanessay

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onepiece-writting-forest · 24 hours

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7 - ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ɪᴛ

Summary: After meeting Law's kind-hearted uncle, Rosinante, you learn more about his complex family history. What was supposed to be a casual, cozy game night after quickly takes an unexpected and more intimate turn.

Tags: Rosinante as a fashion designer ( I love writing him), Law teasing the living shit out of you, n.sfw, oral, subtle confession.

a.n.: I had to add Rosinante, I love him so much can't put it into words. Also their relationship going further, the slow burn is even making me impatient. By the way the game is really cool, you should give it a try.

>>[ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴᴅᴇx]<<

You strolled leisurely down the bustling street, wrapped up in your cozy jacket as the cool breeze nipped at your cheeks. With your headphones in, you hummed along to the music playing softly. You were in a good mood. Since the party, you and Law had been keeping in touch, messaging back and forth. It was nice, even though you quickly realized texting wasn’t exactly his thing.

His replies were always short, straight to the point, with almost no emojis or playful banter. But he responded. Which was all that mattered.

As you wandered past a few shops, your eyes scanned the window displays without any real intent to buy. You stopped in front of a store you hadn't noticed before. The name caught your eye—Corazon, written in sleek, silver lettering that shimmered in the afternoon light. The store oozed elegance, the kind of place that seemed almost too fancy for you.

You glanced at the items on display: high-end fashion pieces, bold yet sophisticated. A particular bag, held by a male mannequin, caught your attention. It was gorgeous—luxurious and far beyond what you’d ever spend. One look at the price tag made your jaw nearly drop. The cost of that tiny bag was probably more than your entire wardrobe put together. But, wow... it really was beautiful.

As you admired the bag, something out of the corner of your eye made you pause. You squinted, trying to see past the mannequin. Was that…? No way.

It was Law, standing inside the store, chatting casually with a tall, blonde man. You blinked in surprise. What on earth was he doing in a place like this? You knew Law wasn't exactly rolling in money. He still worked a delivery job and shared an apartment with his friends. This store didn't seem to match his laid-back, practical style either.

You stared a little longer, curiosity got the better of you. Unfortunately, the blonde man must have noticed your watching them. He pointed at you, a slight look of confusion on his face. That was all it took for Law to turn around, his eyes locking onto yours.

You froze on the spot, your heart doing a weird flip as if you’d been caught spying. For a moment, you weren’t sure what to do, yet you forced a shy smile, raising your hand in a small, awkward wave.

Law flashed you a quick smile back, and turned to the blonde man inside. Before you had a chance to react, he was already pushing open the door and stepping out to greet you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, standing in front of you with that familiar casual grin, hands tucked into his pockets as if this was just another ordinary day. But beneath that calm exterior, his heart skipped a beat. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but seeing you here was a pleasant surprise—one he hadn’t realized he’d been hoping for.

“Hey,” you replied, looking up at him with a warm smile of your own. “Nice to run into you like this.” There was something about the way you smiled that made his chest tighten just a little. He kept his face neutral, though—typical Law.

“Spending your hard-earned cash on designer stuff now, huh?” you teased, chuckling as you glanced back at the luxury store.

Law shook his head. “Just visiting my uncle.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise. “Your uncle? He works here?” You looked back at the store, where the tall blonde man—Law’s uncle, apparently—was now beaming at the two of you from behind the glass. He waved enthusiastically, clearly delighted, his hand gestures wildly inviting you inside.

“He owns the store.” Law corrected you, which made your eyes go even bigger.

“I didn’t know your uncle was into, well… fashion,” you said, raising your eyebrows.

Law grinned; a bit sheepish. “Yeah, it’s not exactly something I bring up in conversation.” He glanced back at Rosinante, who was still waving energetically, looking like he might burst through the window any second if you didn’t respond.

You laughed, noticing his uncle's antics. “Uh, does he want us to come inside or something? Because he’s... definitely trying to get your attention.” Your tone was playful but with a hint of irritation, as Rosinante’s exaggerated hand movements grew more intense.

Law sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, let’s go before he breaks something with his windmill arms.”

Despite wanting to enjoy the moment alone with you, Law knew his uncle well enough—Rosinante wasn’t going to let this pass without an introduction. Part of him was amused, but another part felt a little nervous. Rosinante always took it upon himself to vet the people Law kept close, and his enthusiasm for the task could be... overwhelming.

Law held the door open for you, allowing you to step inside first. The store was even more luxurious up close, with its sleek black and baby pink color scheme that somehow worked together perfectly. It was the kind of high-fashion boutique that felt worlds away from your usual shopping spots. You followed Law further inside, weaving past mannequins draped in designer clothing, until you reached the back where Rosinante stood, practically glowing with excitement.

"Hi! Are you one of Law’s friends?" Rosinante greeted you with an infectious enthusiasm, extending a large hand for you to shake. His energy was so warm and welcoming that you couldn’t help but chuckle as you took it.

"Yeah, I’m Y/N," you said with a smile, matching his upbeat vibe.

“Oh, what a beautiful name for such a pretty face.” Rosinante exclaimed, his voice full of genuine warmth. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Rosinante, but you can call me Rosi. I’m Law’s proud uncle.”

You glanced over at Law, who sighed softly but wore a small, amused smile. Clearly, this wasn’t his first rodeo with Rosinante’s over-the-top introductions. But from what you could see, it didn’t seem to bother him too much. If anything, he seemed... comfortable.

"Law never mentioned you," you teased, grinning at him, half expecting a cheeky response. Law just rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk. Family wasn’t something he brought up often—probably ever—but you figured it was a good chance to learn more. And Rosinante seemed like the type who’d be more than willing to share everything.

“Well, technically, we’re not blood related,” Rosinante said with a chuckle, causing you to glance between the two of them in surprise.

"You’re not?"

Law stepped in to explain, his voice calm. "Rosi’s a family friend. He took care of me when my parents were busy with work." And his sick sister. Yet he let that part out, no reason to mention that.

"Busy running the city hospital," Rosinante added, his voice suddenly tinged with a touch of nostalgia. His eyes softened as he looked at Law, clearly reminiscing. “God, you grew up so fast. I remember when you were just a little grumpy kid running around my place...” His voice cracked a little, as if he might get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. Wait, what did he just say? "Your parents are doctors too?" you asked, turning to Law, surprised by the new revelation.

Law nodded casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. "Yeah."

You processed the information for a moment, realizing how little you actually knew about him. He’d always seemed so private, and you hadn’t wanted to push. But this? It felt like a significant piece of the puzzle.

"So," you teased lightly, raising an eyebrow at him, "are you planning on going back after you finished uni?" You laughed, but there was a hint of curiosity in your tone. You somehow hoped his answer would be no, you just got attached to him.

Law chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, not exactly my plan." He didn’t elaborate, but his tone was firm, like the subject wasn’t up for debate. He noticed how you slightly relaxed, apparently content with his choice.

“Hey, Rosi, I’ve got some things to catch up on with Y/N. Mind if I come back another time?” Law’s voice cut through the conversation. He sounded casual, but there was something in the way he said it that made your heart skip a beat. The thought of spending some spontaneous time alone with him made you a little excited, though you tried to keep your expression neutral.

Rosinante, ever the observant one, nodded with an easy smile, though there was a glint in his eyes—a knowing look that you couldn’t miss. He had seen something, understood something. And from the way he glanced between the two of you, it was clear he already had his suspicions. After all, Rosinante knew Law better than almost anyone.

Law was notoriously private, barely letting anyone into his inner circle unless they were family or people he’d known for years. You, on the other hand, were new. Yet, here you were, already comfortably in his orbit.

“Sure, sure,” Rosinante said, his voice warm but laced with that subtle teasing tone, as if he was already in on a secret. “Take your time. Come by whenever.” He gave you both a little wave, as if to send you off with his blessing, but not without a sly grin in Law’s direction.

Law sighed quietly, his usual unbothered expression intact, though you caught a flicker of embarrassment. “Let’s go,” he murmured to you, holding the door open once again. You could feel Rosinante’s gaze on your back, almost as if he was silently cheering you both on.

As you stepped out into the street, the cool air hit your face, and you couldn’t help but chuckle. “Does your uncle always look like he knows something?” you teased, nudging him lightly.

Law let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “He’s got a wild imagination, that’s for sure.”

You shot him a playful grin, feeling that familiar, easy energy settle between you as the two of you walked side by side down the street. The cool breeze tousled your hair, and the comfortable rhythm of your footsteps matched.

You decided to sit somewhere in a café, and when you reached your destination, you already knew what was coming before it even happened. Predictably, Law swooped in and paid for your drinks before you could even react, despite your usual protests.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that,” you groaned, eyeing him as he slid your drink across the table. “I swear, every time.”

He smirked, nonchalant, already settling into the chair across from you. “Next time,” he said casually, leaning back as if this wasn’t the hundredth time he'd promised.

“Liar,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes playfully. “You always say that.” You nudged his leg under the table, a little harder than usual for emphasis, but he just laughed, the sound low and relaxed. His leg didn’t move though—neither did yours, both of you comfortable with the quiet, subtle contact.

“So, what have you been up to?” Law asked, pulling you both back to the conversation.

You shrugged, leaning into your chair. “Just the usual. Uni stuff. It’s not easy being the first non-doctor in the family,” you teased, throwing him a mischievous glance. “Must be rough growing up with not one, but two doctors in the house.”

Law raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow, that was subtle,” he deadpanned, though there was a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Can you blame me?” you said with a smirk. “First, I find out about your medical dynasty. Then your uncle’s some high-end fashion designer? What's next? Secret agent grandma?”

Law snorted, rolling his eyes dramatically. “No, that's pretty much it.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll find something else. Just wait,” you teased, shaking your head with a laugh.

He leaned forward slightly, his smirk softening as he met your eyes. “You really dig into people's lives like that?”

You leaned in, matching his gaze, grinning. “Only the interesting ones.”

“Oh, so you’re interested in me?” Law's voice dropped into that deep, raspy tone that always caught you off guard, but this time you held your ground, meeting his gaze with a teasing glint in your eyes. He was trying to play it cool, but you could tell he was testing you, seeing how far you’d go.

You leaned in a little, lips curling into a smirk. “Mhm, no, I’m only interested in your inheritance now.”

Law chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down your spine. The kind of laugh that wasn’t just amused, but knowing. “You’re too smart for a sugar baby,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a challenge.

Without missing a beat, you shot back, “And you’re too handsome to be a sugar daddy.” You could see the slight shift in his expression—the momentary flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Got him.

His grin widened, and for a second, there was a glint of something almost dangerous in his gaze, like you’d managed to break through his cool exterior. With a lazy wink, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as if conceding defeat.

“Touché,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes hadn’t quite let go of that spark of surprise. You took the win and took a sip of your cup with a satisfied grin.

“Hey, by the way, this new game just came out.” You set your cup down, resting your chin in your palm, eyes bright as you looked at Law. The way you casually leaned in, your lips softly curving into a smile as you spoke, made it almost impossible for him to focus on anything else. You started explaining the game, voice animated, your eyes darting around like you were trying to visualize it in front of you.

Law sat there with his usual lazy, laid-back look, though inside, it was a completely different story. His chest tightened, warmth creeping through him as he watched you. He wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth—he was distracted by the way your smile lit up your entire face when you turned to him, by how softly your lips moved as you spoke. It was almost unfair how easily you could pull him in without even knowing it.

“…Mh?” he mumbled, only half-aware after you finished speaking, still dazed by the feeling you were stirring in him.

You raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. “Did you even listen to a word I just said?”

“Sorry,” Law smirked, quickly covering his flustered moment. “I got distracted by my spying grandma behind that plant over there.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, clearly not buying his excuse. “Uh-huh. Sure you did.”

Shrugging off his teasing, you sat up straighter and continued. “Anyway, I was saying… Wanna come over and try it out with me? It’s co-op, so we can play together.” You gave him a hopeful smile, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your cup.

Law grinned, leaning back in his chair as if considering your offer. “What game are we talking about again?” he asked, eyes sparkling with mischief. He was clearly teasing now, knowing full well you’d already explained it.

You groaned, throwing him a mock annoyed look. “Just come over, I’ll show it to you myself. You’ll love it.”

His chuckle was deep and warm, the kind that always made your chest flutter. He nodded slowly, still holding onto that playful glint in his eyes. “Alright, alright. Is Saturday good for you?”

“Saturday’s perfect.”

The weekend finally rolled around, and you found yourself prepping your apartment for Law’s visit. You weren’t trying to impress him; those days were long behind you both. Still, you tidied up a bit, grabbed some snacks and drinks, and hopped in the shower before pulling on something comfy. Just your usual—nothing fancy, but enough to feel good.

When the doorbell rang, you rushed over, opening it to find Law standing there, looking as he always did after work—tired but relieved. “Hey,” he greeted, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Just finished my shift.”

You could see the exhaustion etched in his face, though there was a noticeable sense of ease now that he was with you. “Come in,” you said, stepping aside to let him enter. You watched him set his motorcycle helmet down near the door, moving with a kind of practiced laziness.

“Was it stressful?” you asked as you headed into the kitchen to grab him a drink.

Law had already collapsed onto your couch, sinking into the cushions like it was his first real breath all day. “You could say that.” His voice trailed off as he rubbed his eyes. He looked like he was trying to muster up the energy to enjoy the evening with you despite how drained he was.

“Beer?” you called from the kitchen.

“Whatever you’ve got,” he replied quickly, then continued once you re-entered with two cold bottles. “Thanks… yeah, it was one of those days. Someone got the wrong order, and I was the lucky guy who got yelled at. As usual.” He clinked his bottle against yours with a weary smile before taking a long sip.

“That sucks,” you said, settling next to him on the couch. “Why are you even doing deliveries? Isn’t your family pretty well off?”

Law hesitated, glancing at you. You’d already seen glimpses into his family situation, but there were still parts he wasn’t ready to lay bare. He let you in a little, he still trusted you after all.

After a brief pause, he shrugged. “Don’t like being a burden.”

You tilted your head, curious. “From what I’ve seen, you’re basically living off coffee and fried eggs, how is that being a burden.”

That earned you a small grin from him, though it didn’t fully reach his tired eyes. “Family member got sick when I started uni. Meds were expensive, and my parents weren’t working as much. Didn’t want to add more to their plate.” He let out details about his sister well-being, intentionally not having the energy nor wanting to think about it.

The way he said it so casually and shrugged along, like it wasn’t a big deal, wasn’t left unnoticed by you. You could tell there was a lot he wasn’t saying—things he wasn’t ready to share yet. Which you respected. Law didn’t want pity, didn’t want to dive into the storm he was clearly holding back. He appreciate that you didn’t dig deeper, and left it at that.

“Well,” you said, matching his casual tone, “one day you won’t have to do deliveries anymore. Just gotta get through uni first.” You offered him a small, encouraging smile, which he returned with a nod—though his was weighed down by more exhaustion than optimism.

“Yeah,” he muttered, taking another sip of his beer. “We’ll see.”

After a beat, Law glanced toward the console you had plugged in, clearly ready to shift the conversation. “Wanna play?”

“Definitely.” You beamed, putting your drink aside as you jumped up to grab the controllers. Once you bent over to reach for them, Laws eyes darted to you. You shorts crawled up your cheeks, exposing that sweet flesh of yours. He took his time mustering the pretty sight you gave him.

Law grinned slightly to himself. Just the distraction he need after dipping into a sensitive topic of his.

“Here,” you said, tossing him one of the controllers with a grin. It flew a little too close for comfort, almost landing on his crotch. Law caught it at the last second, shooting you a mock-outraged look.

“Could you please be more careful with my future children?” he deadpanned, though the smirk on his lips told you he was more amused than annoyed.

“Sorry,” you shot back, laughing. “Didn’t mean to risk bringing more know-it-alls into the world.”

Law rolled his eyes, grinning as he leaned back into the couch.

You booted up the game, explaining it as you went along. “So, it’s called It Takes Two. It’s this co-op puzzle game where you play as a couple trying to fix their relationship while helping their daughter. I’ve seen some clips—the story’s pretty heartbreaking, but the design is awesome.”

Before you could finish, Law had already claimed the character selection screen. “I’m playing the chick,” he said, selecting the female character—the mother—without hesitation.

You raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “The mom?”

“What?” Law shrugged. “She’s got the better design. I like the colors.”

You shook your head with a grin. “Fine. Guess I’ll be the dad, then.”

As you got the hang of the controls, it didn’t take long to notice that Law was less interested in teamwork and more focused on messing with you. Every time he jumped on a button to create a path for you to cross, he'd mischievously move off just as you reached the edge, causing your character to plummet back down to the start.

“For fuck’s sake, Law!” you laughed, half-exasperated, half-amused, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “We’re supposed to fix our divorce in the game, not make it worse!”

Law chuckled, eyes gleaming with amusement. “It’s just too much fun watching you fall.” His grin was infuriatingly smug, the kind that told you he had no regrets.

“Oh, sure,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “and I’m supposed to trust you now?”

“Promise I won’t do it again,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. But the glint in his eyes told you otherwise, and you could already sense the next trap coming.

Still, you pressed on. When you reached the next precarious platform, you hesitated, knowing full well that he could mess with you at any moment. Just as you took a leap of faith, the path began to disappear beneath your feet once again, thanks to Law’s mischievous antics. But this time, you barely managed to land on solid ground.

“Ha!” you exclaimed triumphant. “Nice try, jerk.”

When it came time for you to help Law, you couldn't resist dishing out a bit of revenge. You let him fall repeatedly, or simply walked ahead without him, laughing to yourself every time his character met an unfortunate fate. Progress in the game ground to a halt, but that hardly mattered. Watching the frustration build on Law’s face was the real reward.

“Come on, Y/N, we haven’t even finished the first proper map,” he groaned, shooting you an annoyed look as his character plummeted once again.

You grinned, enjoying your moment of power. “Beg for it, sucker.”

But instead of giving in, Law's expression shifted, a playfulness lighting up his eyes. He leaned back slightly, his voice lowering in that all-too-familiar teasing tone. “Thought you were the one who liked begging.”

Heat instantly crept up your face as his words registered, the memory of that one shared night crashing into your mind. You had no doubt what he was referring to—how he’d relentlessly teased you until you’d given in, basically begging him to fuck you.

“Was just a one time thing.” You quickly tried to regain your composure, but the embarrassment lingered, especially with the way he was looking at you—so calm, so confident about his teasing. And there you were, struggling to keep up with the game and the sudden heat spreading across your skin.

Law leaned in slightly, his voice a playful murmur. “Sure, if that helps you sleep at night.”

You rolled your eyes, desperate to steer the conversation away from the memory that now seemed to hang between you two. “Alright, alright,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Let’s get back to the game before your ego gets too big.”

“You didn’t seem to mind big—”

“I swear to God, Law!” You burst into laughter mid-threat, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him, hitting him square in the face. Law barely flinched, his smirk only widening. He knew exactly how to push your buttons, and while it drove you insane, you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed it.

Law pulled the pillow off his lap and chuckled, tossing it back in your direction. “Then stop being a dick in the game.”

You grinned, grabbing the pillow with mock determination. Leaning in like you were about to launch another attack, you readied yourself to retaliate, but Law was quicker. He sat up sharply, grabbing your wrists and holding them firmly, his grip tight. That smug grin never left his face.

“Go ahead, try,” he taunted, daring you. You pushed against him, but it was no use—he was stronger, and with little effort, he tipped the balance, sending you falling back on the couch. The pillow tumbled onto your chest as Law moved to pin you down, his hands still wrapped around your wrists. His body hovered over yours, the proximity sending your heart racing. You could feel the warmth of his breath, just inches away from your lips.

His gaze locked onto yours, that teasing glint now more intense, more focused. “Now,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, almost commanding tone that made your stomach flutter. “Help me get our daughter back and cut the crap.”

You weren’t going to let him have the last word so easily. “Make me,” you whispered, trying to sound confident despite the thudding in your chest.

Your eyes flicked to his, trying to gauge just how serious he was. His grip on your wrists tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he was in control now. The way he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your lips, sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel the heat radiating off him.

He chuckled, lowering his head to nuzzle against your neck. “You sure?,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin.

You shivered as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot behind your ear, sending a wave of tingles down your spine. You could feel one of his hand sliding lower, tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, while the other held your wrists in an ion grip. The sensation was both comforting and electrifying, making it hard to think straight.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” you murmured, tilting your head to give him better access.

Law’s fingers tightened briefly on your hip before releasing “Too late,” he replied, his voice thick with promise.

You couldn’t argue with that. The way his touch made you melt beneath him, the way his presence set your heart racing—it was impossible to deny the tension between you. And as much as you wanted to maintain your pride, the truth was too tempting to ignore.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with lust. Looking at you as if you were his little prey. “Stay still.”

Law’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your waistband, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. The unexpectedness of it all made you gasp, your breath hitching as he traced slow, deliberate circles around your navel. His eyes never left yours, watching intently for your reaction, that smirk still plastered on his lips.

He moved his hand lower, brushing against the sensitive skin just above the edge of your shorts. You squirmed instinctively, but he held you in place, still pinning you down, while his fingers moved teasingly close to where you needed them most.

“Stop playing and get on with it,” you muttered, half-heartedly struggling against his hold.

Law chuckled softly, leaning in closer until his breath tickled your ear. “Patience, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice husky and seductive, making it clear what your place was. With one swift motion he slid off your short, making them tangle at your ankle before you kicked them off.

Goosebumps spread over your skin as his fingers dipped into the waistband of your underwear now. He explored the curve of your hip, his touch both gentle and insistent, before slipping lower, his fingers finally finding the warm, wet center of your desire.

“Fuck,” you moaned, arching your back as he pressed against your clit, circling and teasing with known precision. The sensation was overwhelming, and you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second, completely forgetting about the game.

Law’s free hand moved to cup your face and released your hands, his thumb stroking your cheek as he continued his ministrations. “You want more?” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction, seeing how easily he could tame you.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your hips bucking slightly as he increased the pressure, pressing harder against your aching need. “God, Law… please…”

He didn’t answer with words, instead choosing to show you exactly what you wanted. His fingers slid inside you, filling you as he began to move with purposeful slow thrusts. The feeling was intoxicating, and you could feel the heat in your body building rapidly, threatening to overtake you.

He leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and lingering. The taste of you on his mouth was heady, and you couldn’t help but kiss him back, hungry for more of his touch.

“Now…,” Law said, breaking the kiss and looking down at you with that same intense gaze. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you were ready for what was coming next. But Law’s eyes locked onto yours, and you found yourself unable to resist. Slowly, you parted your legs, giving him full access to your vulnerable core. With a lift of your hips, your underwear was quickly slipped off as well.

Law didn’t waste any time. He positioned himself between your thighs, his hands resting on either side of your hips as he leaned in. You could see the determination in his eyes, the raw hunger that mirrored your own desires.

He lowered his head and took you into his mouth, his tongue flicking against your clit in a way that made you cry out immediately. The sensation fogged up your mind, making you circle your hips against his tongue. God, he knew exactly what he was doing.

He started off slowly, teasing and tasting, his wet muscle exploring every inch of your folds. The warmth of his mouth combined with the pressure of his tongue drove you wild, and you couldn’t help but pull at his hair, desperate for more.

Law’s hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as he picked up the pace. His tongue worked relentlessly, circling and probing, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing second. The sound of your moans filled the room, mixing with the wet, slick noises of his mouth working its magic.

“Oh God, Law… I’m gonna…” you gasped, your body trembling with the force of your impending orgasm. Before you knew it, you felt two of his finger back inside you, gently pumping in and out as his tongue was still playing with your clit.

That were enough to push you over the edge. Your entire body clenched as wave after wave of orgasmic bliss washed over you, your thights tightened around his head, as you came. Law didn’t stopped, his relentless tongue ensuring that you rode out every last bit of pleasure until you were left a shuddering, panting mess beneath him.

When you finally came down from your high, Law lifted his head, his lips glistening with your juices. He looked down at you, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“You going to listen to me now?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement as he he wiped off the rest from his chin and licked his lips clean.

You could only nod, too exhausted to form coherent words. Law chuckled, leaning down to kiss you, this time soft and gentle.

“Good,” he murmured against your lips, giving you one last peck before pulling back. Law straightened up, moving with a casual ease that almost made you grin. He bent down to collect your scattered clothes, handing your shorts and underwear back to you without a second thought.

“Thanks,” you muttered, still breathless, as you slowly sat up. A light dizziness settled in, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. It was hard to fully process what had just happened—how quickly everything had escalated, only for him to shift gears just as smoothly.

Before you could even catch your breath properly, Law dropped the controller back into your lap and unpaused the game as if nothing had transpired. He sat back down beside you, this time closer, his leg pressed against yours. Without a word, he allowed you to lean into him, your head resting on his shoulder while you tried to recover from the whirlwind of emotions and the intensity of the moment.

“You’re good at this…” you mumbled, commenting on how effortlessly he had made you cum just moments ago. Law glanced at you, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he finally focused on cooperating with you in the game.

“You’re worth it,” he replied without thinking, the words slipping out so fast that even he froze for a second. His character in the game stopped moving entirely as the weight of what he’d said settled in the air between you.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback, your heart skipping a beat. Did you just hear that right?

Law’s usual confidence faltered as heat rose to his cheeks. He quickly turned his attention back to the screen, avoiding your gaze, but the way he shifted told you he wasn’t used to being this exposed. His attempt to play it off only made it more endearing, and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered uncontrollably.

A soft smile crept onto your lips, one that you didn’t even try to hide. Without overthinking it, you leaned in and gently kissed his cheek, the warmth of your lips lingering against his skin.

“Okay, we gotta split here—” you said, turning your attention back to the game, picking up right where you left off.

As you explained the next steps, you caught the subtle shift in Law’s expression. A small, genuine smile began to form on his face as he relaxed next to you, sinking into the couch with a new kind of ease. The tension that had filled the space between you earlier now melted away, replaced by something softer, something unspoken but deeply understood.

He listened to your instructions, but his mind kept drifting back to what he had said. And as he glanced at you, his smile deepened ever so slightly.

Yeah, you were definitely worth it.

tag list: @mars-mizuko, @tadomikiku, @hopelesslover06 , @loraleiii (Let me know in the comments and I’ll add you 🖤)

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deep-hearts-core · 2 days

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The Competitive Barbershop Music Explainer, and Why More of Tumblr Should Be Obsessed With It.

I've been threatening this for now almost a year, so here it is. You probably have an idea in your head of what a barbershop quartet is: maybe you’ve seen The Music Man, or possibly the Louie Zong Hatsune Miku song. But barbershop exists as a hobby these days, too, and there are parts of it that are deeply cool and nerdy. Some of you--gasp--might actually enjoy it.

What the hell is barbershop music?

Barbershop music got its name from the Black barbershop social space out of which it evolved. In the early 20th century, groups of guys would get together and harmonize as a way to pass the time. The style later got appropriated into white culture (I’m going to come back to this, keep reading) and evolved into what most people think of when they hear the phrase “barbershop quartet”.

Barbershop got a lot less popular after the 1960s or so, but it’s not gone! Today, it’s overseen primarily by the Barbershop Harmony Society (formerly the Society and Preservation for Barbershop Quartet Singing in America, but… that’s long…), which organizes contests and codifies the “rules” of what barbershop is and how it’s different from other a cappella. Those rules are mostly music theory stuff, which I won’t go into here for fear of boring people, but if anyone is curious my askbox is open :D

It’s not just quartets, either. There are also choruses that sing in the same four-part style, following the same music rules as the quartets, and they compete too. This is how I got involved.

Why is Tumblr supposed to enjoy this?

Reason #1: The competition. I’ve been on Tumblr for several years, and do you know what we love? Ranking things, picking favorites, and watching talented people do their thing. It’s actually kind of similar to Eurovision--there’s a jury and a points system, and people get mad about it every year; there’s a qualifying round and a nerve-wracking calloff; it’s even international! BHS operates in the US and Canada, and most competing groups are from here, but there are sizable scenes in the UK, Sweden, Australia, and Aotearoa, as well as smaller organizations across Western Europe and beyond. The Japanese organization held its first ever competition this year! Regional contests happen all over once or twice a year, culminating in the international competition the first week of July, where quartets and choruses battle it out to be the best of the best. People have favorite groups and try to guess where people are going to place each year. If you’re me, you can even do the Eurovision fan thing and overanalyze the running order.

Reason #2: The talent. Listen, many of these people are incredibly talented singers. Take The Clementones from Denmark, for example, who delivered amazing Addams Family character work this year. Or Smoke Ring, the New York City-based quartet trying to singlehandedly make barbershop sexy again. I could give you so many examples of singers who can hold long notes forever and ever, but I’ll show restraint and only link two: Vocal Spectrum and Midtown. And of course I have to link this fucking amazing Hunchback of Notre Dame medley. Many singers also arrange songs specifically for their own groups. If you’re a music nerd in any way, this is for you.

Also, if you enjoy niche subcultures or #hobbydrama, there’s so much to rotate in your brain. This is part of what hooked me initially.

But it's racist/culturally appropriated!

Well, you’re not wrong… but so are a lot of things. Bear with me for a second. I'm not going to come out and blindly defend the history and say oh there's nothing wrong with the organization we can't blame them. The organization was segregated for a long time. Women were only allowed to join as full members in 2018. The Black origins of barbershop singing were actively obscured by SPEBSQSA for decades and have only recently become well-known to most members. Hell, when the BHS went co-ed a splinter organization formed to try and keep the hobby all-male. There is bad history.

BUT. People are trying. There's a sizable contingent of young queer people who do well and become well-connected within BHS--including Smoke Ring, who I linked above. They’re causing a nonzero amount of controversy and are visibly queer and something new and unapologetic about that. More and more nonwhite people are joining and finding success competitively. Academics on the subject actively spread the history that barbershop is a Black genre, and this is increasingly common knowledge especially among young barbershoppers. The most successful barbershoppers in Aotearoa (BHNZ) are predominantly Māori and Pasifika. The BHS board, while they do not have any real understanding about how to execute this at all, does at least want to reckon with the history and is, in theory, trying. For all its many, many faults, there are good people here who are making change.

Ok fine, you've got me. Now what?

Go click on all the links in this post and then let the YouTube algorithm do its work. Also, send me asks! I can go on about this shit forever and ever.

Here are some more suggestions for you:

the chorus performance that first got me interested

Panic! at the Disco but it’s barbershop

these guys also do Spiderman!

girls who will step on you and you will like it

the air raid warden song from that one tumblr post

air raid warden guys sing about ducks

totally not never gonna give you up. what? what are you talking about?

the first ssaa group to medal in bhs have since changed their lineup but this performance reigns eternal

And if you like to sing, see if there's a chorus (click here for SSAA only) or chapter nearby. I won't get preachy and say you'll have a great experience no matter what. Sometimes people suck; I have the luck to live in a major city on the East Coast and I can say with reasonable confidence that not everyone is going to be as chill as my people are. However, this is such a small space that everyone will be excited about a new person coming in and will likely give you a little leeway.

I've only been doing this for a year and a half, but I can easily say that I love it and it's changed me. So, even if you scrolled to the bottom of this post rolling your eyes because I should just shut up about this already, thanks for listening. <3

#shispeak #barbershop music #barbershop quartet #the newfangled four #hobbydrama #because i go to contest at the end of the week and the brainrot is unfortunately very real

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bluejackals · 1 day

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post-chunkban pt2

continuation of this. word count 1202

notes: I think the european cathedrals inspired images and plagues in myhead

---

But where would that leave him? Alone on this cold cliff, purposeless again, without even the lump of hope sitting in his throat that Parrot meant it when he said he wanted Wifies as his best friend. Yes, Wifies might have Ken, and Ken is warm and wonderful and loyal down to the bone, but this is someone who doesn’t know what he is who says he wants him. This is Parrot, whose eyes are the sun, and Wifies can’t give that up.

The strength—and perhaps also shame—of that revelation sinks him to his knees, right there on the rock. He looks up at Parrot, who is so bright it hurts Wifies’s eyes.

For whatever reason, Wifies’s tear ducts have never been removed. Maybe it made the escape rooms feel more real to the viewers, if his eyes could water and he could cry.

So he cries now—unwillingly, shamefully, truthfully. The tears scorch his face before being torn away by the wind. No, he’ll never be able to give the sun up.

“I can’t,” he says. A confession to the figure staring down at him in all his shame. “I can’t.”

Can’t tell him, can’t kill him. Would he be doing this if he knew?

“You have time.” The words sink into his veins. He shivers. Time, time, time. It feels like he’s always running out of it.

He can’t be truthful with Parrot, but he can do this—make his way to him. Even if he has to crawl on his knees.

He manages to stand a few feet away from Parrot, ignoring any residual aches from the stone. It feels like layers of him slough off with the grit of the rocks as he does. Parrot’s eyes follow him the whole way.

Wifies takes the feather.

It’s like flipping a lever. Parrot’s wings relax and he lets out a colossal breath and the morning light hits Wifies in thick, gauzy beams. Wifies has to blink a few more times, both to adjust his eyes and to clear away any residual from the crying. It helps to clear his head too.

“Hey,” Parrot says.

“Hey.” Thankfully, Wifies’s voice doesn’t crack.

Parrot rolls his shoulders. “So. Um. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I don’t know that much about any of this. I don’t—I guess if you don’t mind explaining what that was?” Wifies is very curious. This is knowledge untouched by anything from his past; this is knowledge he can swallow whole.

“Sure. Wanna sit?”

When Wifies nods, Parrot rummages around in his inventory and pulls out two white carpets, setting them on the cliff and pinning them down with stray stones. Wifies takes the one further from the cliffsides.

There’s a crunch as Parrot bites into an apple with a thoughtful expression on his face. He looks calmer—not forcibly calm like he’d been yesterday, not impassively calm like he’d been just now. Wifies realizes he also feels calmer. The churning in his stomach has reduced to lapping waves, barely present.

“Mm. Okay. I—when I say I, I mean avians—shed feathers all the time. Those random feathers don’t really mean anything on their own.”

To prove his point, Parrot rattles a wing. A lone piece of fluff falls out. “See? I obviously don’t moult all of them all at once, or else I’d look stupid and I wouldn’t be able to fly.”

“Like an actual parrot,” Wifies observes.

Parrot chuckles. “Yeah. But anyways, feathers that are freely given have significance. There’s a bunch of rituals with different meanings and stuff that are used when giving feathers. So ‘what just happened’ was one of those.”

“Which one?” The question tumbles out of Wifies’s mouth. He’s having fun learning this. Maybe too much fun. It feels like too much fun. “Sorry, I—”

“No, that’s a good question,” Parrot says. “You should get to know that.” He takes another bite out of his apple, throat bobbing when he swallows. “There’s not really a set name for it, I guess. I’ve been calling it the ‘Beginning’ ritual in my head. The feather given is one of the smaller ones because accepting it is accepting the beginning of something, whether that’s an alliance or a promise, and it’s done at dawn because that’s the beginning of a new day. It’s pretty self-explanatory. I’ve done it a few times.”

He tucks the finished apple core away. “I only use it for promises and relationships. There are other ways to make alliances that aren’t this serious.” A small smile. “I mean, you saw how dramatic that was, right? And I had to time it perfectly.”

“But it was beautiful,” Wifies says. Beautiful and terrifying.

“It’s meant to be, yeah,” Parrot murmurs. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did. A lot.” He means it. Then his curiosity nudges him towards another question. “I feel like ‘Beginning’ implies a next part,” Wifies muses. “Are there related ones?”

“Yeah. There’s at least two more parts. The feathers given get bigger and bigger. People who get really serious will go up to a primary.”

An unasked question materializes, hanging in the air between them. Will you? Will I?

Parrot’s headwings drift towards his face like free-floating curtains, then abruptly snap back. “I’ve…yeah. I’ve gone that far. I’d—I’d do it again.” He stares at Wifies. “If it felt right.”

Maybe that lightness Wifies felt after the ritual was the removal of Wifies’s ability to maintain a neutral resting face. He must’ve shown some kind of question in his expression. “That’s…thanks for the information.”

Wifies has a very, very good guess of just who has one of Parrot’s primaries. But it would be beyond rude to ask Parrot, so he thanks the heavens that he doesn’t have that loose of a tongue.

“Do you have any specific questions now?” Parrot asks. “Since you know some basic stuff.”

“Hmm. Actually, yeah. What’s the proper way to store this? Or wear it? I’ve seen people with earrings. Is that how it works?”

“It’s up to you,” Parrot says. “A lot of people just keep the first feather in a pocket somewhere on them so it travels with them through respawns. Turning the later feathers into jewelery is more common.”

“I’ll stitch it into my jacket cuff, if that’s okay?”

Parrot blinks, then smiles. “Yeah, that works. That’s a pretty innovative way of doing it too. Remember, it’s first and foremost supposed to be a gift to you, so you can do whatever.”

Right. The feather is Wifies’s. He doesn’t have that much to his name—a painful history, a prong of the trident he and Ken used in there, the clothes he wears. But now he has this as well. Something warm blooms in his chest. It’s his. Just like the trident fragment. And Ken might be happy to hear about it, because Ken always tells Wifies he should have more things.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Parrot.”

Parrot nods. “Thank you too, Wifies.”

Wifies blinks. “For what?”

“Being you.”

It’s so—Parrot. It’s a little corny and honey-sweet and Wifies’s stomach does what can best be described as a floppy somersault. Parrot didn’t say “thank you for being Wifies." It makes all the difference.

#bluejackals writes #parrotx2 #wifies #unstable universe #who do you think wifies thinks has one of parrot's big feathers it feels pretty obvious

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d0rkd3rk · 12 hours

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About my post about how shitty Co09: the flip-side was. Someone asked about the Jeffery part and that "he was always a weirdo" and "it was implead he had a foot fetish before!"

So because of that im gonna rant about it between other things.

I get the point that Jeffery its a full ass incel weirdo, you don't even have to be big brained to notice because that's the whole character deal, he's the geeky weeabo incel, but still i feel the foot fetish thing had crossed a line, idc if it was implead before still it hadn't to be showed it, but if it was wanting to show it then do it in a funny way without litearlly sexualizing someone (that someone being Jecka who turned into a foot hoe because of that and was plain disguisting). They hadn't should do Jeffery more of a creep or other of the characters more unlikable

Talking about Jecka and a little other stuff that annoyed me, they made her suffer througth out the full game and finals, it's just pure suffering to her. Nicole just got out of character, they had make her so much unlikable between other characters (not saying Nicole was good before but still theres a difference between character who makes bad things/its a bad person to whatever happend there). They made Crispin more annoying, wich i wanted to drown him more than usual. His schizobabble about stuff that make him sound cool in his head annoyed me more than the medium level usual..

The whole game feeled like they forgotted that had a establised a canon. Also still talking about Jeffery: I feel like they had made him a little more miserable than normal, example, the ending were he dies because of Nicole, own JEFFERY'S MOTHER hated him its just so sicking about it. Imagine being an asocial person with diffucults to interact with other ppl, then get killed and your own mother says that about you, doesn't sound kinda fucked up guys?.

But anyways ig my rant ends here, ty for reading it.

#class of 09 the flip side #jeffery class of 09 #jecka class of 09 #nicole class of 09 #crispin class of 09 #co09 #co09 the flipside #i just like Jeffery that much #his actions are bad? yeah i won't defend him for it #but i feel that he could be redeenm #also sorry if the english its bad #it isn't my first langlue

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prettypinkporkchop · 2 days

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Love love love u 🥹 can u do one where She doesn’t have a good relationship with her family but embry and his mom love having her over

LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU TOO!

"I think it's about time for you to move out. You're an adult now." Your mom sighs, leaning on your doorframe and crossing her arms.

You look up to her from your bed and nod in agreement. "Yeah. I've gathered that. Been trying but it's fucking hard." You spit with attitude.

She rolls her eyes and walks in. She grabs the vase of flowers that Embry gave you and drops it on the floor. It shatters everywhere. You lift to your feet and start fuming. You fists clench in anger.

"Why would you do that?!" You scream.

She shrugs her shoulders with a smirk and then goes to your door. Before she shuts it, she says, "Clean that up."

You run after her, but your dad steps in front of you. "Kid, calm down." He grabs your shoulders and looks you in the eyes.

You shrug him off of you and try to hold back tears. "Look, we are just tired of helping you so much. You work now. And what, Embry? He's a man. Maybe he should get out of that weird gang of his, get a real job, and his own house." He chuckles.

And with that, you've had enough. You walk to your room and fill up your purse with stuff you need. You run out of the house, ignoring your parent's questions. You get inside your car THAT YOU PAY FOR, and drive off.

Tiffany absolutely adores you. It is just her and Embry. Embry plans on buying this really adorable house not far from his mother. Obviously, it's not a quick process. You stay there more than you do at your own house. Tiffany has even offered you a place to live. You've turned them down because you're not sure how Embry would feel about moving in with him after just a year.

You knock on their door, and Embry answers it. "Baby! You good?" He looks over your face once he sees the sadness.

"No. I'm not sure how long I can take this." You fall into his arms and sob.

He holds onto you and rubs your arm. He slides down slowly to the ground, holding you in his crossed legs. He leaves kisses on your head. "My sweet baby, I love you. Can you please just stay here?" He asks for the first time.

You look up at him with red eyes and cheeks. You're surprised he asked. It's only been Tiffany and you've figured he wasn't ready for that move yet.

"Embry, are you sure?" You sniffle.

He smiles and holds your cheek. "Baby, the moment I imprinted, there was no way I could lose you. I would've married you on the spot." He says.

You grab onto his neck and kiss him softly. He kisses you back before pulling away. "Mom's coming." He whispers.

The front door opens all the way, and you look up to see Tiff. "Hey, come inside. You're letting the bugs in." She says. She grabs a hold of your arm, lifting you up and pulling you to her chest. "C'mon baby. I'll make you a plate of dinner." She cooes.

You nod your head and slowly let her go. Embry wraps an arm around your waist, softly taking a squeeze at your love handle.

You guys sit at the table and eat the food Tiff made.

"Holy shit, this is so good." You say with a mouthful.

She bats her eyelashes and leans into you. "Thank you, sweet girl." She giggles. She moves back into her chair and then eyes the both of you. "So, when's the wedding?" She smirks.

"Mother!" Embry laughs and then grabs your hand.

"That's a great question." You face Embry.

He looks back at you with a smirk. "Soon." He says.

"I LOVE having you over, y/n. Honestly, if Embry ever makes you upset, tell me. I will actually disown him." She laughs.

You burst into laughter, too, and Embry picks up a piece of his food and throws it at his mom.

After dinner, you guys chill in the living room. Watching bits and pieces of Coraline.

"Y/n, I'm serious! You're more than welcome to live here. And when Embry gets that house, it's just you two!" She says, setting down her phone and lifting the small blanket over her arms.

"At this point, I think I will. I can't even thank you enough for everything you do for me. I love you." You lean into her body and hold her tight.

"You're my favorite. I love you too." She giggles while looking at a glaring Embry.

"Do you need help packing, baby?" Embry asks.

"It would be appreciated." You smile at him.

You go home that night and sleep there for the last time, planning on waking up and packing.

"Hey, I made breakfast." Your mom says while flickering your light to wake you up.

"Okay." You groan and pull the covers over your head.

"Oh yeah, also, I'm borrowing your car today. Mine broke down. I have to get to work." Your mom says.

You sir up and stare at her like she's stupid. "Hell no, you're not. I pay for that, and I have plans today."

She rolls her eyes and slams your door shut. "Fucking brat." You hear her yell.

Bitch ended up taking your car anyway. You call Embry.

"She's gone and took my car. Can you come over and help me pack?" You ask.

"Yes, baby. Coming now." He says. You can hear him shuffling and then keys dangling.

"Also, drop me off at the nursing home. I'm grabbing my car from her." You laugh.

He chuckles at your plan. "Bet." He says.

You don't have much in your room besides clothes and some random trinkets. You've got it all packed in two backpacks, a duffle bag, and some crammed in Embry's truck. You two hit the road to the nursing home.

He drives through the parking lot, finding your car and stopping. "How are you going to get the key?" He asks looking at you.

"Easy. She leaves them in the console like a dumbass. I've always told her she's gonna get them locked inside one day." You smirk.

You get in your car and drive off. Embry follows behind you. You drive to his house and see that Tiffany is gone. She's at work or grocery shopping. But Quil and Jacob step out of the house with their hands in their pockets.

You step out and look at them with confusion. "Is there a party here?" You laugh.

"Nope! Here for support and to help unpack." Quil smiles.

You walk up and hug both of them. "Thanks, guys."

Embry walks up and stands beside you. He softly grabs your chin to make you look up at him. He presses his lips on yours. You kiss him back and grab his hair. He pulls away and Quil and Jacob start gagging.

"Let's get to unpacking." He softly pats your bottom.

YUP YUP! I HOPE THIS WAS OKAY?! BE HONEST?

#twilight #embry call #jacob black #jared cameron #paul lahote #sam uley #seth clearwater #twilight wolfpack #leah clearwater #quil ateara #embry call x reader

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teecupangel · 2 days

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Hii teecup!! Hope you're doing well!!

May I ask some a/b/o AltDes stuff please (alpha! Altaïr and Omega!Desmond) because there's not much of it out there :'D

Now I'm sure Altaïr would more open minded and much less of an asshole to omegas then most of the people back in his days..... HOWEVER, please hear me out, what if he wasn't

He could be low-key about it, unlike most alphas who are very vocal and open about their 'opinions' on Omegas and such. He's very aloof when it comes to omegas in general, not having strong feelings on anything (very Altaïr behaviour honestly). That is until he meets Desmond.

Now instead of time travel, this time Desmond was born in Altaïr's time. This means Desmond would be raised as a traditional and submissive omega, but he still fought back. He could be born in Alamut (because Eagle of Alamut XD) as the son of the mentor (who is not Diya al-Dīn because he would never) who trained and became an assassin... sort of because idiot bigots.

Desmond is the best assassin in his entire brotherhood, BUT he's not officially an assassin. His father/mentor isn't as strict like most and let him get away with his antics, usually.

That is until Desmond was 'of age' and that's when it starts getting bad for our boy. His dad became more controlling and won't let him sneak off to do missions or fight anymore. He was to be married to whoever the assassins could use as allies. Basically just a bargaining chip. Desmond would fight back harder then ever, even with one of the best assassins guarding him and monitoring his move all the time, he would still be able to sneak off to continue doing missions to make them see just how capable he was.

He could runaway, he probably should runaway, but deep down all he wanted was for his father to love him again. To look at him with pride and treat him like a son again. (Altaïr would use this fact as an advantage later on)

But then it all comes crashing down when he finally gets betrothed. (Idk who he should be betrothed to LMAO it could be whoever. Someone very powerful that the assassins could use)

And all was going to shit for Desmond but it all went to super shit when Altaïr showed up. Because oh boy, Altaïr was a Strom of his own.

Now I honestly don't know how he and Altaïr meets, but it definitely left an impression on Altaïr because he was smitten from the first time they made eye contact. Man was obsessed from here on out kajsksjssoakakak.

And uhh yeah that's all I've got, plot wise

Some notes.

- Desmond pulling all the alpha assholes like catnip.

- Altaïr, manipulating Desmond as a sign of affection

- Malik suffers because we love him <33

Honestly teecup, I just wanted a toxic a/b/o au but it grew plotty legs and ran out of my grasps, my apologies.

And that's all for now!

Sorry in advance if my English is very trying, I'm typing on my phone and it's not the best experience.

PS please make it as toxic and horny as Tumblr allows you to, and I would give you my kidneys.

PPS if you think you know who I am by how I write..... No you don't/lh

As horny and as toxic as Tumblr would allow it? I don’t even know the limit of Tumblr’s tolerance hahahaha

So for this one, if you want Desmond to be born in Alamut as a son of the mentor but not Diya al-Dīn, we can make him the son of an older brother of Diya al-Dīn instead. Born more as a way for the older brother, who was passed over because Diya al-Dīn was more worthy of the title, to try and get power with his son being the next in line for the imam since Diya al-Dīn was still childless at that point.

Diya al-Dīn would be the kind uncle who tried to do right by his nephew but can’t truly intervene because his brother was controlling and had a firm grasp on Desmond’s every day life. It was going well, all things considered.

Desmond wasn’t a genius nor was he inherently talented but he was a hard worker and he always went beyond what was required of him.

His father rewards his hard work by giving him a bit of leeway, all the while making him drink medicinal tea that was meant to change him into an alpha.

It didn’t do anything but hide his scent… which had been easy to do in the first place because those not yet of age only had a hint of scent to show their ‘status’.

Diya al-Dīn tried to be accepting of Desmond’s wish to be an Assassin even if omegas aren’t exactly… well… only omegas that could control their ‘base instinct’ could become Assassins which was hard for an omega without the help of some kind of medicine that would leave them in pain or groggy.

Desmond, unfortunately, is one of the omegas that cannot be medicated. Even if he drank more than he should, that only leaves him in unbearable pain.

That’s why his father pivoted from Desmond becoming the next imam to having some talks with certain powerful rulers. Finding Desmond an alpha that would take him as their official wife or one of his concubine.

His father was less picky of Desmond’s standing and more interested in creating a political bond with a powerful ally (whether he plans to use this to usurp Diya al-Dīn or he simply wants more power outside of the Brotherhood is up for grabs)

And he finally finds one but Desmond would enter into that household as a concubine. His marriage proposition wasn’t a good one all things considered, the alpha was a powerful one but it was well known that his official wife and the older concubines were dangerous. Newer concubines either die from poisoning or accidents or childbirth and, more often than not, their children would not survive more than five summers.

So Desmond escapes. Maybe, just maybe, Diya al-Dīn had a hand in the patrol routes that night and it left certain large windows of opportunity for Desmond to use.

Alamut, of course, will look for him. That’s why Desmond would try to hide from them.

That’s how he meets Altaïr.

He was desperate and his heat was upon him. Altaïr’s scent was overpowering and he could feel it within him that this was an alpha that would fight tooth and nail to keep his omega safe.

He wasn’t a romantic.

He had already accepted the very idea that his alpha would not love him.

He doesn’t need it.

Love did not bring his omega parent any happiness, no matter how overflowing their love for Desmond’s alpha father had been.

What he needed was an alpha who would take care of him and any child he would bear.

So he used his scent to weaken the alpha’s defenses.

It was Desmond who made it impossible for Altaïr to resist.

And so Altaïr claimed him.

Unorganized Notes:

Desmond escaped a few weeks after Altaïr killed Rashid but before AC Bloodlines. (So late Sept, early Oct)

He was on his way to Alamut to talk to Diya al-Dīn about being the new mentor (he doesn’t want to be the next mentor) and they actually spent Desmond’s heat in a random abandoned home

Alamut Assassins found them afterwards and, by that point, Desmond was sooo thoroughly claimed that there was no way to say that Altaïr wasn’t his alpha.

This also changed Altaïr’s desire to not be the mentor because the easiest way to keep Desmond by his side is to be the mentor of Masyaf with his marriage to Desmond being a way to ‘mend’ the broken relationship between Alamut and Masyaf.

Desmond’s father was not pleased but fuck him, by law, Desmond was now the property of his mate and Altaïr has no qualms killing the asshole if he doesn’t stop yapping about how he raised Desmond and should have the final say on everything.

He returns to Masyaf and… sorta kicked all the Flowers of Paradise. To be more exact, they were transferred to another part of the fortress while the entirety of Paradise became Desmond’s new home. (Desmond and his most definitely growing child)

That is the second headache Malik got.

The first one was the fact that Altaïr returned with Alamut’s blessing as the mentor (which Altaïr had stressed he would never take) and an omega mate (which he had always said would never happen)

Desmond is free to go anywhere in Masyaf but he will always have guards on him because security reason.

Desmond believes Altaïr’s affection stemmed from the fact that he did more or less coerced Altaïr to biting him during the throes of heat-induced passion so he wants a child to further keep Altaïr ‘happy’ and satisfied (not knowing that the mentor title isn’t passed down from father to son in Masyaf, he honestly believe Altaïr is Rashid’s adopted son)

Altaïr was never fully enthralled during Desmond’s heat. He has been trained to have high tolerance as part of Rashid’s plan to make him the ultimate ‘attack dog’. He marked Desmond fully knowing Desmond was desperate and was trying to ‘seduce’ him.

Honestly, Altaïr just wanted Desmond because his scent had been the sweetest ambrosia he had ever smelled and he believed that meant they were meant to be.

And he will not let anyone get between them, no matter who they may be.

#desmond is being manipulative #it has no effect on altaïr and really #altaïr is manipulating desmond into thinking it does lol #i have no idea if this is toxic enough for you #this has more plot than horns or toxicity #sorry ‘nonny’#i hope you like it anyway #no usual tags because #altdes

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