#Living in Argentina is a curse

[anothertina]

Hope you all are enjoying 2XKO, kick ass with Ekko for me (Alpha lab is not available here 😔)

[realcube]

PERFORMANCE ENHANCER (18+)

synopsis : while in paris for the 2024 summer olympics, ushijima is advised that ejaculation releases stress and hence boosts athleticism. so, the night before his match, he asks for your help.

tws/tags : ts! ushiwaka, cursing, vaginal, riding, size kink, creampie, oral (giving), rough sex, slight hair pulling, petnames, praise — minors dni!

note : this is for the summer olympics collab by @tetzoro. tysm for allowing me to join <3 fyi studies differ but it is mostly shown that sex has no significant impact on athleticism. also smut is labelled if you want to cut to it lol — wc: 6k

it was never a question as to whether or not ushijima would qualify for the olympics; you knew for certain he was going to be on that team, so the only query that ever crossed your mind was when should you start packing?

usually that kind of mindset leads to disaster and disappoint, but in this case you were right to make that assumption because next thing you knew, you and ushijima were on a chartered flight straight to france, along with the rest of the japanese volleyball team.

you were excited to explore paris — the city of love — with your husband. although you were well aware that this was far from your honeymoon, and in fact more like a business trip for ushijima. hence, training will occupy most of his schedule, and any downtime he may have, he'll likely spend with his long-distance best friend tendou, who you both haven't seen since your wedding two years ago.

having made peace with this fact, you hung around on the main street, poking around in some luxury stores while ushijima visited the chocolaterie tendou works at. his friend was aware that he qualified for the olypmics and would be coming to paris, but it was still astounding to see ushijima walk through the front door of his shop, in the flesh.

with a massive grin, they hug and catch up with each other, discussing all the new things that have happened in their lives since they last saw other. well, tendou did most of the talking, but ushijima did make a couple of brief contributions about his thriving marriage and volleyball career.

"so," tendou hums with his elbow propped up on the table and his chin resting on his knuckles, "how are you feeling about your match against argentina?" he quirks a brow.

"good."

despite his curt response and dry demeanour, tendou can tell simply by ushijima's subtle mannerisms that there is something weighing on his mind. "oh, c'mon, mr perfect. let's get deep!" he urges, and ushijima knits his brows in thought.

what he's experiencing is so complex and foreign, he can't quite put a finger on it. he needs a couple of moments to find a way to describe it. "stressed. representing japan in an international tournament is a lot of pressure." he's been under pressure before though and prospered, so he doesn't understand why this is any different.

"huh, who would've thought? the almighty super ace of the century is finally feelin' the heat?" tendou exaggerates his syllables and narrows his eyes to look at ushiwaka with an amused expression, but all he gets is blank stare in return, so he continues, "well, you've got no chance of winning if you're nervous, that's for sure."

he says it so nonchalantly, it causes ushijima to falter, "what?" of course, that's not his desired outcome, and tendou seems to know what he is talking about, so wakatoshi asks, "what can i do to win?"

"not lose." tendou titters to himself, but ushijima's piercing stare persists. "you need to release the stress! free yourself of all your worldly doubts. luckily for you, my good friend, i know how you can do that."

"how?" ushijima is quick to respond.

tendou smirks and leans across the table until his face is inches away from ushijima's. "you need to beat it."

"beat what?"

"masturbate!" tendou yells, accompanied with an exasperated sigh, as he falls back into his chair. despite how they were having this conversation in the back of the store, tendou exclaimed that word loud enough to cause some customers browsing in the front to tilt their heads. "when you finish, not only does it it release sperm, but it also lets out all your pent-up fears and worries."

ushijima raises an eyebrow in doubt, which prompts tendou to elaborate, "also, when you orgasm, hormones pump through your body that kill all the stress chemicals. that's why it feels so good!"

seeing that ushijima is still suspicious, tendou throws his arms up in defeat, "fine! don't believe me if you want, but just know this information was told to me by a reliable and knowledgeable source: shirabu."

"shirabu kenjirō?"

when tendou hums in agreement, ushijima takes a moment to reflect. last he heard, shirabu is a medical student, studying to become a doctor, and they don't let just anyone into med school. additionally, biology and health is in shirabu's realm of expertise, so it would make sense for ushijima to take his advice.

with a nod of resounding certainty, ushijima declares proudly, "okay. i will masturbate."

"great. glad i could help." tendou grins, leaning his cheek onto his hand, "but you don't have to do it yourself. that was just an example. you should do whatever will make you finish—..."

tendou's voice trails off as he searches for the right word, "hardest. so in your case, that might not be masturbating. i mean, you've got a real pretty wife."

though he wasn't keen on tendou calling you 'real pretty' in that suggestive tone, ushijima kept that comment inside, and instead said, "i think i know what you meant."

tendou wishes he could just leave the conversation at that and move on, but knowing his thick-skulled friend, he had to confirm, "what do i mean?"

"my wife should masturbate on my behalf."

"no!"

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eventually, ushijima may have understood what tendou was talking about. he was still sceptical about the whole thing but as the game grew closer and closer, he found himself becoming desperate for any solution to cure his volleyball nerves.

so, once the night before his match arrived, he figured there was no harm in trying.

you had just come out of the bathroom with your hair down and dripping, and your salacious body clad only in a short towel that didn't leave very much to the imagination; as your tits were threatening to escape with every movement you made, and the bottom of your perky ass was just peeking out. he watches intently from the bed. it's as though you knew what he had planned.

and perhaps you did, considering how he urged you to get in the shower as soon as the two of you got home from your excursions. due to the fact that he has a very strict sleeping schedule and needs to be in bed by 22 at the latest, which means you guys need to start having sex by 21. he lasts a while.

"(y/n)." the simple act of uttering your name in his husky voice already has you scrambling over to him, kneeling beside him on the covers.

"yes?" you respond with a cute twinkle in your eyes. ever doting and caring: one of the many things he loves about you.

"i am stressed for the game against argentina tomorrow."

you frown, already had the inkling that something was bothering him. "i'm sorry, toshi." you rest your head on his shoulder, nuzzling into him as you stroke his muscular chest, "it's completely normal to feel that way, especially since you'll be competing against your archenemy: tōru oikawa."

he isn't sure what you mean by that — him and oikawa are on decent terms — but he enjoys your comforting words so he allows you to witter on without interruption.

"i'm also sorry that you felt as though you couldn't tell me this sooner; we could've done something about it. still, if there's anything i can do to help now, just say the word."

"sex." he responds plainly, taking your request literally.

"huh?" you stutter, unsure if you heard him correctly.

naturally, ushijima misinterprets your confusion and takes the opportunity to explain what he was told, "tendou and shirabu said that ejaculation let outs tension, so i would like your help with that. tendou mentioned that i could do it on my own, but i would prefer to do it with you."

your jaw hung open and your eyes darted across your husband's face, unsure of what to address first: his sweet desire to make love to you on such a special night, or his impressive use of the word 'ejaculation'.

clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pressed a long kiss to his lips, tasting his minty breath, before squealing, "yes, of course we can!" you throw one leg around him so you are now straddling his lap. he smiles at your sweet reaction and places a strong hand your waist to hold you in place.

while running your hands reassuringly over his arms and admiring his toned biceps, you pout, "oh but toshi, we can't have you waking up all sore in the morning." you point out, however it's as though a solution to your problem occurs to you instantly as you blurt out, with wide eyes and a cheery smile, "but that's okay! i can just ride you, yeah?" you eagerly tease him by grinding your hips against his already throbbing erection.

using his grip on you, he puts a swift end to your antics, and your whole body is no match for the strength in his right arm alone. "that sounds like a lot of effort." ushijima was aware of how long he can go for, and it left him exhausted most of the time, so he can't imagine how you would feel after doing all the work for such an extended period of time. you were just his precious wife after all, deserving of being spoiled and catered for — in bed or otherwise — so riding wasn't an act he ever expected from you.

"it will be, but it's only for one night and i'd do anything for you." he reassure him while laying against his chest, as his hand stroked your back. with your ear pressed against him, you could hear the faint drumming of his heartbeat.

so selfless too, another thing he loved about you. he smiled when you leaned into his embrace, carefully running his hand up and down your spine, as though you were the most fragile thing he's ever touched and may shatter at any moment.

"thank you, my angel."

oh, this man is horny. typically he only calls you nicknames when he is fucked out. even then, they were mostly limited to 'dear' or 'honey'. not that you minded, hearing him call you by your real name was hot, also the scarcity made the times when he did call you petnames all the more sweet.

so to hear him call you 'angel' before you've even started is very telling as to how badly he needs you. more than he lets on, that's for sure. such a stoic man; even after years of being together, you still find it difficult to read him sometimes, but the way he hardens underneath you is unmistakable.

[NSFW]

wearing nothing underneath the robe, you grind down against his clothed cock and he almost winces at the warmth of your bare pussy. so sensitive that he can feel every curve and dip of your needy cunt, and he revels at how your folds kiss his firm length.

in order to supress his bubbling moans, he hurriedly locks lips with you, fixing his hand onto your back so he can pull you closer. the passion from your lips against his is addicting and the heat of your body against his just feels so right. he wants nothing more than for you to melt into him so you can become one.

though he doesn't like how he can't feel your pretty tits pressed against him, only the fluffy fabric of your robe. his hands find their way to your shoulders, where he roughly tugs off your robe in one swift motion, casting it to the side.

the fiery kiss only ends when you gasp at the sudden chilliness that washes over you. the cold is combatted by ushijima's strong embrace as he holds your delicate figure against his own. it's nice to be his strong arms, it makes you feel so secure and you fit into him perfectly.

meanwhile, ushijima is focused on the lewd sensation of your tits squished against him. being able to feel your hard nipples poke him through the thin fabric of his shirt made it difficult to resist flipping you over and fucking you from behind, with one hand messily tangled in your hair while it hits it raw. like he usually does.

his kisses trail from your cheeks, across your jaw and down your neck. naturally, at that point you pull away from his embrace so he can continue lower, until he had your bud locked between his teeth. sucking and flicking it with his tongue while his hand worked at fondling your other tit, slowly falling so he was caressing your waist.

now that you've retracted, you take this opportunity to tug at the elastic of his shorts, pulling at it just enough for his aching erection to spring free. you've experienced ushijima's size before, but it's still baffling every time you see it. how a nice girl like you could take a monster like him.

drool pricked at the corner of your lips at the sight of girth, admiring the beast in your hands. ushijima stopped sucking on your tits when he realised you had let out his cock, and he couldn't help but smirk as he watched you idly toy with it while staring intently.

his poor angel. he knew how nervous you could get sometimes before taking him and he wasn't one to rush you, so he sat in comfortable silence, admiring your gorgeous figure and stroking your hip with his thumb. though the more he looked at you, the more he longed to dive right back into your tits and have another taste. or push you onto your back and explore between your thighs with his mouth.

though his raging fantasies were interrupted as you finally take his cock. not into your pussy, but rather, your mouth. that wasn't what ushijima was expecting, but he'd never complain. not when it comes to your head. how the warmth of your mouth consumed him, and your tongue licked seductively down his shaft. of course, you were never able to take his whole length but that's not your fault; most amateurs couldn't. and he preferred it like this, actually. he liked seeing you with your cheeks puffed out — his coarse fingers brushing your stray hair away from your face so he could witness every lewd detail — and watching you struggle to deepthroat him, coughing and spluttering whenever you'd try. just a reminder of how diligent you are when it comes to pleasuring him.

a layer of your spit shines on his cock, coating him so nicely, as you continue to suck him off. your movements are slow but thorough, gripping him with his lips as tightly as you can when you drag upwards, and ensuring your tongue rubs properly against the underside of his shaft. you were doing so well, as a reward you received the occasional hushed grunt from your husband.

usually this gentle approach would be the correct one, as ushijima prefers a moderate pace to begin with, that gradually builds up into a frantic, hasty one. however, today there was just something so tempting about you that he couldn't resist. maybe it was the obscene way your plump lips wrapped around his girth. or maybe it was how your glossy eyes looked to him for approval after every frivolous attempt to deepthroat. at which, he'd always flash you a brief yet kind smile, sometimes even mutter something along the lines of 'you're so cute' or 'good job, baby.'

regardless, there was an allure about you that he couldn't quite explain, but it is what triggered him to abruptly grab you by the hair and yank you off his cock and into a rough kiss. he just couldn't get enough of those gorgeous lips, and he utilised his grip on the back of your head to pull you in as close as physically possible. he wanted to feel every inch of your nude body against him.

after your initial shock to his actions, you soon melt into the kiss and move your lips rhythmically against his, allowing his tongue to slip past your defences and into your mouth. and while all your senses were saturated by the intoxicating kiss, you almost didn't notice when ushijima's other hand — that was previously groping your ass — sneaked down between your wet folds and teased the entrance of your pussy.

you moaned into the kiss at the stimulation of your needy hole, but despite your longing, you knew it wasn't right. you exit the kiss only partly, and say, virtually still upon his lips, "toshi.. don't. you need to save the energy in your arms."

"i always have energy for you." he counters, as his finger threatens to penetrate you.

"let's not risk it." you smile, pushing yourself back so you are sat upright on his lap with each leg on either side of him. aligning his cock with your hole, you notice he's still slightly damp with your spit, but not enough to make for sufficient lubricant, so you run his dick between your lips, allowing him to soak up your wetness.

he grunted at how your wet folds stroked his length, as his hand wandered up from your shoulder to your face so he could cup your cheek. "can you handle it, (y/n)? it's okay if you can't." of course he's been in you before but in the past, extensive prep is required before you can even fathom the idea of taking him. and on this occasion, you've not undergone any preparation at all. "i don't want to hurt you."

he doesn't mean to sound patronising; that's just how he expresses concern. well, maybe he does mean it a little, but that is only because the bedroom is the place where he gets to be the smart one, considering how quickly you get fucked dumb by his massive dick, unable to speak right or think straight.

"i can and i will, toshi! i was made to fit you." you whine, and you were quick to try and prove it by letting yourself relax onto his cock. however, you reacted by jolting, as the tip alone had your walls stretching and sore. you bit your bottom lip to try cope with discomfort, as your legs trembled at the strain.

"made to fit me?" he smirked, amused by your proclamation and how it was immediately followed by proof of his doubts. the way your body writhed said more than enough. "it's too much for you, sweetheart."

using the back of your hand to cover your tense expression, you shook your head, "no.. it's not." you squeak and mewl as you lower yourself on his cock, the wetness caused by the congestive sensation being just enough to make the descent bearable.

"mmph— too big, toshi." you moaned, and hearing his name fall from your lips in such a dirty manner send all his blood rushing straight to his cock. a part of him wanted to grasp your shoulders and push you all the way down to his base. but the other part knew that he'd destroy your insides if he did that. he'll have to learn to be patient; the burden of having a wife with such a tight little cunt.

your sopping pussy clamping down on him caused a lustful haze to cloud his mind, so he was barely able to choke out, "hurts?"

you nod meekly.

a shaky sigh huffs out of his nose, as he tries to deal with your gummy walls swallow the head of his cock. his eyes were fixated on where you two connect, your hips were quivering yet you had barely covered half of him. slick from your moist cunt seeped down the rest of his shaft that you had yet to take. "you don't have to." he reassured you, a big hand grazing over the silky skin of your stomach, then resting to the side of your tit while he idly thumbed your sensitive nipples.

"but i wanna." you whine, sinking down on his cock ever so slightly, but even taking a couple additional inches caused an intense abdominal pain, resulting in quiet sobs hiccupping from you. it burned and stained your body in such a delicious way. your hungry pussy gnawing at his cock was addicting, and even when it poked you in the most personal and irregular places you still couldn't get enough. in fact, it made you want to fit his whole length even more, because seeing stars is always the goal with wakatoshi.

ushijima swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat while he was admiring your pretty pussy graciously accepting more of his cock. "my beautiful girl.." he cooed at you, paying close attention to the way your face twisted in pain as you sunk further down, fighting to reach the base, although you were getting closer.

more lubricant would've been useful, perhaps it would've got you started quicker like it usually does but a small part of him enjoyed you watching you struggle a bit; it's a display of how devoted you are. "do it." he grunted.

motivated by his firm command, you keep pushing down on his cock, no matter how tough it may be. your eyes are squeezed shut and your husband's strong hand cradles your ass just as you finally made it down to his base. your breathing is already heavy so you pause for catch your breath and marinate in the sensation of his cock brushing your cervix and visibly protruding from your lower stomach.

during this time, ushijima's clutch slipping from your ass, over your folds until he was rigorously palming your throbbing clit. you recoil a bit from his arousing touch, and grumble, "arms.." referring to preserving strength for tomorrow's match.

begrudgingly, he took his hand away. a whole night of sex without putting effort into pleasuring you didn't feel right to ushijima. the way he showed affection and that he cares about you is by rubbing that puffy clit, or letting you lie down while he stood at the end of the bed and ramming into you from behind, not stopping until he had you creaming all over his fat cock. so refraining from pleasing you didn't come naturally to him.

but he must not realise the effect his dick alone has you, especially without much lube — the friction of him dragging against your clammy insides was enough to have you teetering on your first orgasm already.

once you were ready, you braced yourself by placing your hands on his chest and used your knees and arms to supports you while you slid up his length. your insides freeing from his congestion was a relief yet simultaneously so empty, it's as though you craved it as soon as each inch withdrew from you.

"gah!— toshi, feels.." your words get lost in a chorus of your own staggered moans, "s' good."

wakatoshi normally wasn't very vocal in bed at all, so it was very telling that the combination of your tight pussy and unintentional dirty-talk already had him grunting and moaning shallowly under his breath.

as he watched you lift yourself up, he pet your leg soothingly, "that's right, princess— hnn—" he caught himself and clenched his jaw before an unwelcome noise left him, "keep going."

soon you were able to build momentum and start riding him properly. it took a moment to develop a suitable rhythm and to stop your yourself from wincing every time you sunk down on him, but once your hole built more slicker and wetter, it became easier.

it's not long before you're able to glide up and down his shaft with relative ease, whimpers bubbling in your throat from the luxurious satisfaction. at first you went steady, purposefully to savour each and every delicious inch of your well endowed husband.

going at your own rate and slowly bobbing on his cock was practical for you — enough stimulation to have your knees weak already. but your unrushed method wasn't doing it for him. not to say he wasn't entirely entranced by the way your pussy devours him and rubs against his raw flesh, but he need more of you in order to cum. he wants you to be bouncing on his dick until he's completely fucked your brains out and you've milked him dry.

"(y/n)." he states, while you were leaned forward, with your arms holding yourself upright on his chest while your hips got to work in rocking against him. your head hung low because you were concentrated on riding him, and your hair partially fell into your face.

but upon hearing his stern voice, you garner enough strength to lift your head to meet his molten brown eyes. he smiles at the lewd expression painted on your face; it served as a nice reminder that even a dribble of his cock was enough to drive you mad with bliss. he could tell by your watery eyes and your flickering grin that you fucking loved it.

"(y/n)." he repeats your name, though it's more breathy this time and he glances at the place where the two of you connect when he says it then, before he looks back at you expectantly. and of course, you know exactly what to you do.

you let out a deep sigh, drop your head and hope for the best — using your knees and hips to push yourself upwards so you can drop back down onto him at a heightened pace. every time his dick pierced into you, there was a meaty stretch of your walls — a salacious ache that you never could comprehend because as soon as you experienced it, you'd immediately shoot off his cock, then sink back down onto it, over and over again.

you didn't understand what you were feeling down there but you knew for certain was good. your back arched into the filthy euphoria and moans were spilling from you like a flood. "ngh— fuck! stop.." you whine, despite how you were responsible for the sharp jolts of electricity shooting through you; and you were the one hungrily bouncing on his cock like a desperate slut. impaling yourself with his length until your legs were shuddering beneath you.

when it got so fast, the riding became sloppy, you'd hardly touch the base before you'd pull yourself up. likewise, you'd rarely reach the tip before sinking down again. but you were just too eager to pay attention to these small details. alas your movements are no longer deliberate and every buck of your hips is senseless and fuelled by pure lust and hedonism.

it got harder when you could feel your orgasm impending. the pulsing in your abdomen wracking through your entire body, tingling and making it difficult for you to keep bobbing on his cock when your stomach was on the verge of exploding and your legs were ready to give out under you.

but ushijima's intense glare on your exposed, shaking figure brought you motivation to persevere. as well as his protective hands that stroked your trembling thighs, while gazing at you with adoration and desire. he wasn't a man of many words but the way he looked at you spoke a thousand.

and these sappy eyes only faltered when your walls clenching around his dick eventually led to him being knocked over the edge and spilling his first orgasm all into your homey cunt. a raspy groan was torn out of him and his eyes flutter close while his seed pump through your insides; the thick warmth spreading through your core caused your eyes to twist shut, and force of his load pushed you off his cock.

he had made a vulgar mess of his precious girl, your little hole was dripping with cum. to be stuffed with your husband's fluid love was so filling yet comforting — and you were truly stuffed, the volume of his load replacing the mass of his cock. "thank you, babe.." you pant, head still spinning from your frantic bouncing.

"thank you." he corrected, eyes trained on you still sitting atop his flaccid cock, but it hardened with every passing second, at the sight of your pert nipples teasing him as your chest rose and fell, or your pretty lips he longed to kiss passionately. "two rounds is hard-work, dear. i'm impressed."

perhaps you were just to fucked out to count. still, you gulp to clear your dry throat and splutter, "two?"

"yes." ushijima confirmed. though strand of his hair still clung to his shining cheeks and forehead, he seemed to have overcome the post-orgasmic exhaustion already. "so there's one more left."

you groan. you should've expected this considering usually ushijima can go for upwards of four rounds, but it's different when you are doing all the work. "but 'm tired!"

"two ejaculations are recommended to get rid of all the stress." he explains, but from how you wearily hang your head and you're quick breaths, he could tell you weren't listening.

"one more, (y/n)."

"but toshi!.." you whine in retaliation.

"yes, my angel?"

you narrow your eyes at him and although he wears that big, dumb look on his face you tell he knows what he is doing. he is aware of the effect those cute nicknames have on you, especially in his deep, husky voice. how can you refuse? plus a small part of you wants to keep going anyway, and not stop until you forget your own name,

you huff out your nose and lift your hips over his tip once more — which has already fully stiffened — then abruptly drop them, taking his big length in one swift gulp. one that caused you to recoil and squeal, and even wakatoshi to gasp slightly at being enveloped by your tight insides again so fast.

it's easier to fit him this time because your hole is already drenched with his cum and your own, but his dick was still as big as it was a minute ago, and it still strained your walls— having to contort beyond their means to accommodate his girth. " toshi, shhuh.. shit— too big!" you whimper.

"not for my girl." he grunts, a firm grip on the fat of your thigh while you frantically ride him, "make it fit."

"mph, mkay.." your knuckles white as you hold onto his shirt for dear life, mustering every ounce of energy you have to keep thrusting yourself up and down on your husband's mighty cock, but every part of you gave away your exhaustion: beads of sweat budding on your forehead, shaking muscles and rapid breaths.

ushijima could tell you were struggling and that only egged him even closer orgasm. though he was kind enough to offer you some grunts of reassurance between moans. "my perfect girl, go on.."

there were moments when then the bursts of pleasure were drowned out by the futility of repeatedly bouncing on his stubborn erection but you persisted, even when your legs had virtually gone numb and your sore pussy was still being rammed into.

"can't.." you whimper, your knees now beginning to wobble with each bounce, making your position unstable until wakatoshi steadied you by the ass.

"so tight, princess. i need you to." he grits, grabbing your ass to aid you in your staggered movements, guiding you up and down on his soiled length but even then, your aching legs prevented you from riding with any real vigour, "i'm close."

despite his encouragement, you couldn't find the strength to continue and your hips gradually decreased in ferocity until you lay dejected against his chest, feebly bucking your hips while his cock stirred inside your sticky walls.

you mutters all sorts of slurred gibberish that resembled 'sorry', with your face pressed against his chest as he rubbed comforting circles on your back.

"don't be sorry." he says, hands fixing themselves to your hips, "you're still going to help me, angel."

with his tight grip on your hips, he lifts you as though you're weightless and pushes you back down his length, all the way to base which makes you shiver as his tip intrudes your cervix. initially shocked, you gape at the determines look on your husband's face as he uses your weak body as his own little fucktoy, slamming you down on his cock over and over. but it doesn't take long for you to melt into the atmosphere and get turned on by the way he manhandles you, treating you like his personal property.

the power his strong hands hold over you is indescribable. his dick ploughs into your sopping hole at an ungodly pace — so fast and rough your tits shook and it left your limb neck nodding along with each bounce. yet all you could focus on his cock stretching out your insides, hitting all the right spots on your sensitive walls.

your hair thrashed about too, with every violent snap of ushijima's arms, and it wasn't long before the heat pooling at your core came gushing out. "tosh— hhn— 'm comi—" the words couldn't even form on your tongue completely before they were crushed and swept away in a flood of melodious moans and sobs.

as you climaxed, your back arched into him and your coated walls began to convulse around his brimming cock, which served as the catalyst to him shooting his second load into your already filthy pussy.

your tight cunt wrung him dry for every last drop, and even through his high, he held you through yours, as you twitched and screamed with pleasure in his arms from the most overwhelming and satisfying orgasm of your life. he kept you close, wrestling against his own muffled moans — they were hard to suppress when your hole clamped down on him like it never wanted to let go.

soon, the intensity had faded, and you were left lying on his chest, enjoying each other's embrace and listening to each other's heartbeat while he was buried inside you. once you both found your bearings, he looked to you for approval before easing you off his cock.

you hissed at first; the feeling of emptiness had become so oddly foreign to you. and it stung a little but it was so unbelievably worth it.

"thank you, (y/n)." wakatoshi mutters against your forehead, tickling you a bit, "i'm proud of you, and grateful to have you as my wife."

"i'm grateful for you too, wakatoshi." you muse, mind still a bit hazy, "proud of me for what?"

"for lasting so long. that must have been a lot of effort."

you scoff, idly tracing hearts on his chest with your finger, "yeah, right. i didn't even make it through the whole thing, you literally had to carry me at the end."

"that's because you're not used to it." he explains kindly, as he shifts his hand to take yours, stroking the back of it with his thumb, "but it's okay. you will receive plenty of training when we go home."

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BONUS

tw// oral (receiving)

the whole arena erupted into cheers when japan scored the final point against argentina and won the match! the audience were screaming and the players were all doing celebrations of their own — the atmosphere was simply electric and joyus.

from the stands, you looked at your boyfriend who was standing on the court, staring back at you with a cute little smile on his face. or at least, that's what it looked like from where you were sitting, so you blew him a kiss.

you later realised that it was probably a devious smirk, as that was the moment when the ejacultion hypothesis was confirmed, and he was probably thinking about the new pre-game ritual that had been established.

it's useful though. think of it like this: whenever he has a match, you also get some training!

but of course, you would only agree to take part in this 'pre-game ritual' if certain criteria were met. meaning that after every game, ushijima has to dick you down good and bury his head between your legs, eating you out for minimum ten minutes (twenty if he wins).

[shaisuki]

hello! Your writing amuses me a lot. Could you write a story where gojo, nanami, toji or Geto find out that their partner was kidnapped and they find her with some blow and they get furious?

Thanks and greetings from Argentina 😘

BRUISES AND DEAD BODIES

ft. gojo satoru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, geto suguru

content warnings ─── injuries, murder, gore, assault

ᝰ synopsis .ᐟ there's lines that cannot be crossed with them and involving you is a dumb way to die.

GOJO SATORU

enemies are easier to make than friends and since his birth, danger followed him everywhere. from bounty hunters to curse users and being related or being significantly special to the six eyes and limitless user, danger was just around the corner.

satoru is strong. unbelievably strong. he has the power to tip the balance of the world and thus, he have the power to protect especially to you.

but sometimes, fate would place a cruel situation to him. you disappeared out of the blue. it's not like for you to tease him with something serious knowing he can be dramatic at times and his instincts isn't he ignores and alas, he was right. you were a captive. some group bounty hunters had ganged up for the price of his head. if he kills himself you live. that's why they have said. a negotiation but there's no such things as a negotiation for him.

only an idiot would mess to gojo satoru and they are. they think using you as a hostage for someone like him would be an easy way to get what they want but gojo proves them wrong.

he sees you bound in a chair. sound asleep. soft breaths adding to your state while your chest heaves. you're alive and it's relief not until he sees the damage they had done to you. blue eyes shimmering. casting it's glow to the precipitants and it's too late to back now for underestimating him.

adding to his hidden rage was the visible bruises and the welts to your skin. they have chosen death. no room to think as his hands cups the head on one of them before twisting it off. the hard skull was no match for gojo's strength. the head pops like a can being crushed in his bare hands and at the blink of an eye. there was nobody breathing except for him and to his lover.

he gently scoops you in his arms. your soft, plump frame against his hard ones and gojo loved the position if only it was under normal circumstances.

footsteps echoes in the silent building where once rowdy bounty hunters had gathered. it's only a shell of the former building while their corpses filled the entire space.

fluttering your lashes open, you were instantly greeted by the soreness of your body. added by the bruises stinging in your skin and a tuft of white hair is the first thing you've noticed about him.

“satoru?” blinking your eyes to adjust in your surroundings and to confirm if it was him and you weren't wrong. it was him. “glad you're awake now.” he says cheerfully. “what happened to you? me, your amazing boyfriend had to save you from the bad guys.” puffing his chest and you weren't sure how you would take his boasting.

tired and defeated. you admitted your weakness. “i'm sorry. i let my guard down.” your face casting a solemn look and gojo ignores it. partly it was his fault and you got dragged into it. since the start of your relationship with him, you're already marked as a target. knowing you are gojo's achilles hell.

“don't worry about it. let's get you to shoko.” you shaked your head. “can it wait until later?” you ask him. “why?” he replied. “i'm hungry.” gojo chuckles at your predicament. bruised and tired and you wanted to eat and of course, gojo accepts it.

“okay, okay. let's get you something to eat and we're going to shoko.”

all the things he can do for you and there's no such thing as denying the things you want.

NANAMI KENTO

veins desperately clawed to the surface of his skin. they look like kernels of corn ready to burst at any moment and it isn't the only thing that is ready to burst.

he's calm and composed. he always is. this is how he handles his profession as a sorcerer. merely a bit of being teetered to the edge isn't enough to break him. of course there are times where he loses composure but it is nothing when it comes to you.

there's drips of bloods staining your face and you're unconscious body is sprawled to the floor and nanami isn't a saint to forgive for such animosity and he breaks.

his muscles bulge while wrapping that necktie in his palms. the perpetrator stumbles out of panic and in fear. nanami's raging from inside and outside.

his fist collided in the cheek. there's a crack can be heard as the one who assaulted you was planted on the wall. coughing up blood and skull was dented like a can being crushed in a hand. it wasn't enough and nanami punches again until only a bloody pulp of a body is only way someone can recognize it as a former body. if it is what is it

“mmm... kento. 'm sorry.” you weakly mustered to speak to him. “no. don't apologize for it darling.” his once face that was clouded with rage clears up. his features softening while he tended to the wounds he can heal.

inside nanami was scared. he didn't show it. how close you are for being parted to him and he can't accept if something happens to you again. it looks like nanami have to make sure this won't happen again even if it's the last thing he will do.

FUSHIGURO TOJI

“oi, oi.” toji began to get irritated. inspecting your face in his hands. moving it left and right to assess the injuries that you had taken from your captors. “a pretty face is all she had and you come destroying it.” even with that heightened senses of his, could he not tell you can hear him.

the sorcerer assassin's eye came twitching in irritation as he looks at your state. toji wouldn't care if someone would get beat up for his fault but it is different when it comes to you. “now which one of you assholes would go first?” the cursed spirit worm vomits one of the weapons in his arsenal and toji stretches his limbs. waving his weapon like a fan and hell broke loose.

“i just wished you didn't come and get me if you're just going to insult me.” rolling your eyes at him and you winged as he pulled your arm. “i did you a favor and you need to repay me.” he casually tells you. ignoring the remarks from you.

fuck. he's toji fucking fushiguro and you know how stubborn this man is when it comes to his selfish needs. you already forgot that it was his fault that you got dragged into his dirty business. “and i'm right princess. you're face is only the redeeming quality of yours.” good heavens. you just wished you were already dead. you can't fucking stand him and yet, you're here.

“come on now.” toji grabs you. not minding your injuries and how you squirmed against him. licking the shell of your ear. “you know what i want.” he whispers. taking the reward in his own hands.

GETO SUGURU

his expression unreadable. staring at your figure that is bound and bruised. how did it resulted to this when he got you locked and guarded all the time and some bloody monkeys took their revenge on him by using you.

geto's fuming inside and he smiles. although it doesn't reach his eyes and a wall appeared out in the thin air. humongous and hideous creatures began to pry the walls to open. with a flick of his finger, they began to attack whoever their owner desired to kill.

the screams. they were loud. screeching as they begged for their lives. it was like fork being rubbed in a surface and only to produce the most irritating sound but for him. that is what he calls a music to his ears. if they have chosen to leave you alone, this wouldn't happen. anyways it was bound to. considering how he was a threat for them in a long time and it would come soon for them to target you and he hated himself for that. getting dragged by the filthy hands of the scums.

all is fine, now. he have you in his arms now and those who dared to harm you again will face him and the hell he is about to unleash him. no one would be safe from him.

he kisses your forehead. you were sound asleep from all of that. gently patting your head to soothe you was comforting enough for him.

geto walks away with you in his arms and the pile of corpses behind him.

[girlactionfigure]

SEPTEMBER 4, 2024

Many anti-Israel protestors claim that the terrorist groups they support are merely anti-Zionist, not antisemitic.

The evidence shows otherwise.

Let’s take a look.

THIS IS A HAMAS FLAG...

…in the middle of New York City. Some Hamas apologists will tell you that Hamas no longer intends to exterminate all Jews, because in 2017, they “replaced their [openly genocidal] charter.” Well, lucky for you, Hamas is here to set the record straight. See, after releasing their “new” charter, Hamas co-founder Mahmoud al-Zahar assured the media that the 2017 document did not replace their original 1988 charter. 

Since 2017, Hamas has made openly genocidal calls toward Jews. In 2018, Hamas’s Al-Aqsa TV media channel predicted “the cleansing of Palestine of the filth of the Jews.”

In 2019, Hamas Political Bureau member Fathi Hammad said, “You seven million Palestinians abroad, enough warming up! There are Jews everywhere! We must attack every Jew on planet Earth –- we must slaughter and kill them, with Allah’s help.” In 2021, Hammad called, via Al-Aqsa TV, for the Palestinians in Jerusalem to “cut off the heads of the Jews.”

BTW, THIS IS ONE OF THE MANY THINGS THAT THE ORIGINAL HAMAS CHARTER SAYS...

"The Day of Judgement will not come about until Moslems fight the Jews (killing the Jews), when the Jew will hide behind stones and trees. The stones and trees will say O Moslems, O Abdulla, there is a Jew behind me, come and kill him. Only the Gharkad tree, (evidently a certain kind of tree) would not do that because it is one of the trees of the Jews." (related by al-Bukhari and Moslem)."

(Article 7)

Pretty explicitly antisemitic, wouldn’t you agree?

THIS IS A HEZBOLLAH FLAG (AND A HAMAS HEADBAND)..

…in the middle of New York City. Like Hamas, the entire purpose of Hezbollah’s existence is the destruction of the State of Israel. Unlike Hamas, however, Hezbollah, for decades, has carried out violent terrorist attacks against Jews not just in Israel, but also in the Diaspora.

Hezbollah’s most notorious attack was the 1994 bombing of the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA), the largest Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, Argentina. The attack took 85 innocent lives. Before October 7, the AMIA bombing was the single largest antisemitic massacre since the end of the Holocaust.

Given Hezbollah targets (non-Israeli) Jews worldwide, could it be that their problem is with Jews, not just with Zionism?

THIS, AGAIN, IS THE HEZBOLLAH FLAG...

...at the Princeton University encampment. If you’re still on the fence about Hezbollah’s true antisemitic intentions, fear not: Hezbollah Secretary General Hassan Nasrallah is here to clarify them for you.

“If we searched the entire world for a person more cowardly, despicable, weak and feeble in psyche, mind, ideology and religion, we would not find anyone like the Jew. Notice, I do not say the Israeli,” Nasrallah stated. Just anti-Zionism, huh?

Then there’s his infamous threat: “If [the Jews] all gather in Israel, it will save us the trouble of going after them worldwide.” 

We get the message loud and clear.

THIS IS "JEWISH" VOICE FOR PEACE, GLORIFYING THE HOUTHIS...

...using a photo that very clearly showcases the Houthi banner, which states, “God is the Greatest, Death to America, Death to Israel, A Curse Upon the Jews, Victory to Islam.”

“A Curse Upon the Jews” is pretty straightforward antisemitism, don’t you think? 

The Houthis are also personally responsible for ethnically cleansing the last Jews out of Yemen. Just anti-Zionism, eh?

THIS IS A PALESTINIAN FLAG WITH VARIOUS PORTRAITS, INCLUDING THAT OF YAHYA SINWAR...

…in the middle of New York City. If orchestrating the October 7 massacre, the biggest antisemitic massacre since the end of the Holocaust, is not evidence enough for you, there are other indications that Sinwar is not exactly a friend of the Jews.

In May of 2021, for example, Sinwar led a rally, in which the crowd was encouraged to chant, "We will trample on the heads of the Jews in front of everyone..."

There is also, of course, his infamous threat: “October 7 was just a rehearsal.”

Sinwar is the head of Hamas, which we’ve already established doesn’t really like Jews.

THIS IS A PFLP FLAG (AND A HEZBOLLAH FLAG AND A HAMAS HEADBAND)...

…in the middle of New York City. See that red flag? Yeah, that’s the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. PFLP flags are all the rage at pro-Palestine protests. Marxist Jihad. Super fun.

Yet, while the PFLP claims to advocate for a secular, democratic Palestine, the reality is much darker. When, for example, the PFLP, with the aid of West German terrorists, hijacked Air France Flight 139, en route from Tel Aviv to Paris, they infamously separated the Jewish from the non-Jewish passengers.Yes, you read that right: they separated the Jewish from the non-Jewish passengers. Not the Israeli passengers from the non-Israeli passengers. The Jewish from the non-Jewish passengers.

The non-Jewish passengers were let go. The Jews were kept hostage. That’s a pretty clear message.

THIS IS A PFLP FLAG...

…at the University of Pennsylvania encampment. If you’re still not convinced this is antisemitic, the founder of the PFLP, George Habash, quickly was there to set the record straight: “Killing one Jew far away from the field of battle is more effective than killing a hundred Jews on the field of battle,because it attracts more attention.”

You read that? He said “Jew.” Not Israeli. Not Zionist. “Jew.”

The PFLP live-streamed the October 7 massacre, and, as of several months ago, Israeli intelligence estimated that the PFLP was holding the youngest hostage, one-year-old Kfir Bibas, and his five-year-old brother, Ariel Bibas, hostage.

THIS IS A PALESTINIAN ISLAMIC JIHAD FLAG (AND A PFLP FLAG AND A HAMAS FLAG)...

…in the middle of New York City. Palestinian Islamic Jihad participated in the October 7 massacre. More than that, however, their entire ideology is antisemitic to the core.

See, Palestinian Islamic Jihad believes that a proper reading of the Quran indicates that Muslims are in an eternal struggle with their forever enemies, the Jews, and that the conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians exists because of this eternal struggle. 

To recap: Palestine or no Palestine, Islamic Jihad’s ideology dictates that Jews are the eternal enemies of the Muslims.

Sounds antisemitic to me, but what do I know?

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 

somehow we’ve normalized weekly antisemitic hate marches in broad daylight

[weneeya]

after so long w/ iwaizumi m.list | rules

note. omg i'm so sorry it's been so long since i've been active here, things had been a bit difficult for me but i'm trying to come back stronger than ever! i missed writing so much, i hope you guys will love this (and i hope i'm not too bad now lmao)

It had been years since you saw Iwaizumi for the last time. If you remembered well, it was when you both discovered that you weren’t going to the same city for college. I could have been okay, but Iwa wasn’t ready for a relationship with someone living so far away. He knew you would both get hurt in the end, or at least he thought so. 

After that, you disappeared from his life, and the ones of all of your friends. Because yes, you were obviously in the same friend group as him, and there was no way you could keep chatting with him like nothing ever happened. Disappearing was a way to protect yourself, and they all knew it. Nobody ever blamed you for this. 

But when Oikawa finally went back from Argentina, you couldn’t hide for much longer. You wanted to see your friend after so long, and he clearly told you that he would die if you didn’t come. So you showed yourself after the match he played against the Japanese team. 

It surprised everyone, but not Oikawa. He knew you would never skip the chance to finally see him again. What you didn’t know was that Iwaizumi was here too. Well, it wasn’t so surprising ; he was his best friend after all. But you didn’t expect him to be the coach for Japan. 

You hated this, because when you met his eyes, your heart beat exactly the same way he always did with him. It had been years, and you had moved on. So why? Why was your whole body reacting like it still missed him? You had to be an adult ; to stay calm and act like you were supposed to after years. 

You were about to say something when Oikawa stopped you before you could, finding an excuse to leave and Iwa all alone together. You cursed him in your head, swearing you would make him pay for that after. You both stayed silent for a moment, a long one, and a soft sigh escaped your lips, bre aking the silence. 

“We don’t have to do that,” you started, and you could see his eyebrows furrowing a little at your words. You were trying to be nice, you didn’t understand what was wrong with this. “I think we do, actually,” he answered, leaving you speechless. 

What did he want to talk about? You didn’t have the strength to hear him saying sorry and everything else. It was useless, and it would hurt just the same. You didn’t have the time to add anything, as he spoke before you could. 

“I always thought I made the right decision, and I was still thinking I had until you walked in here.” You stayed silent, because what were you supposed to say to this? You never expected those words to leave his mouth ; mostly because you were certain you’d never see him again, but also because it didn’t sound like him at all. 

He seemed to be searching for his words, and you swore you never saw Iwaizumi this nervous before. “When I saw you, I… I started to doubt every choice I made.” A sigh left his throat, and you looked at him a bit more softly than what you thought. You took a step closer to him, caughting him off guard, he had to admit it. 

“You felt it too?” You asked in a low tone, almost in a whisper, like you were scared that anyone else could hear you. And when you met his eyes, it was like all the complicated things tormenting his head had disappeared. “You did?” 

It was unexpected, more than anything else. You fell into silence, just like him, and it lasted for a few moments. The second after, you were running to each other. You almost jumped in his arms, and he caught you like you weighed nothing. Your arms got wrapped around his neck, your face hiding in his neck, while he was holding your legs wrapped around him, nuzzling his nose in your hair. 

How much he missed this, and you could have said the same thing. You never felt safer than between his arms ; and he was never feeling as good as when he had you so close to him. You both stayed like this for a moment, before you slightly pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. 

A soft smile was dancing on your lips as you looked at him, and soon, there was a light grin resting on his own. “I missed you so much,” he whispered with the softest voice you’ve ever heard, and you could feel yourself falling in love with him once again. “I missed you too,” you answered, before his hand found its way behind your head, pulling you closer to hold tight once again. 

It felt right to be here with him, because nothing ever felt more wrong than being separated from him. You both knew it, and Oikawa knew it too. How glad he was to have been able to hear everything he had provoked tonight. After all, he just wanted his closest friends to be happy, even after so long. 

thank you for reading!

[oomisluvr]

No Caller ID

Your job at The Agency was simple. In fact, there was only one rule: Don’t lose track of your field agent. Unfortunately for you, Agent K is a difficult man to find.

warnings: agent!sakusa x handler!reader, international espionage, i was going for a james bond vibe, no graphic violence but there is a teeny bit of violence, hq! cameos that aren’t important to the story but i thought were fun to include, open ending i think, flirting (???), honestly freeform, i wrote this in 1 sitting lol, sfw, 1.8k words!

You’re on a date the first time he calls you. 

The guy you’re out with is nice. Doesn’t interrupt you. Asks about your day. Laughs at all your jokes and pretends not to look down your shirt while the two of you eat. He works in IT, so you know he’s fairly well-off, too. 

It’s too bad this is just to keep up appearances.

Your phone rings with no caller ID and you have to stop your eyes from bulging out of your head. In this line of work, it’s best to keep personal calls separate from ongoing projects. For organization reasons. For safety precautions.

It’s for this reason that you have two cell phones. The first is for private calls, to keep up with the life your current alibi would be living. The second phone is for The Agency.

And you’ve never received a call from your second phone before.

You excuse yourself from the table with a practiced smile, adjusting your clothing as you stand. Your date nods. Understanding, as expected. He didn’t notice that you took your purse with you. He must think you’re coming back.

Exiting the restaurant, you pick up the phone with a nervous hand, unsure of what to expect, “This is Pluto speaking.”

“Pluto? Who the fuck is that?” A man’s voice grunts, panting loudly and very obviously out of breath, “What happened to Rin?” 

You clear your throat, “Rin has since left The Agency. I’m Pluto, his replacement.”

“That bastard. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding–” Sharp pops echo through the speaker. Possibly gunshots. The cursing that follows suggests that those were most likely gunshots. Everything is so loud.

“Agent K, if you’re requesting for backup, I can send over the twins–”

“Absolutely not. No backup, especially not from them.” Based on proximity, you can tell it’s K who fires next. Two quick rounds, followed by two dull thuds. Bullseye? “Everything is under control. Get me to Croatia before midnight tomorrow.”

The call ends.

The second time he calls you is to complain about the first time.

You defend yourself with all the aggression of a caged circus bear.

K quickly learns not to complain about your work.

Two months pass. 

Your job at The Agency was simple.

Fortunately, there was only one rule: Don’t lose track of your field agent.

Unfortunately for you, Agent K is a difficult man to find.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up!” You scream into the phone. You’ve combed through the security feeds of every private business, traffic cam, and ATM machine, but still no sight of him.

The ringing stops, an easy voice floating through the phone, “Hello?”

“Why the fuck aren’t you in Buenos Aires?” You all but yell, “I’ve been searching for you for hours.” It’s silent on the other end of the receiver. You continue your verbal assault, “Are you even in Argentina? In South America at all?”

K snorts. “Where do you think I am?”

You’re furious, “How did you leave the airport without me knowing? I booked your tickets myself. I made the passport you’re using–”

“Don’t worry about it.” He cuts you off, “Do you really want to know where I am?”

His tone calms you, just long enough to answer, “Yes.”

“A baby shower.”

“A… baby shower?” You repeat dumbly.

“Well, I’m not physically at the baby shower, that would be a breach of contract. I’m sitting in an unmarked car, about 100 feet from the festivities. Watching my little sister open her gifts. She doesn’t even know I’m here.” He sighs, and it’s so different from anything else you’ve heard from him. “Nobody does.”

People who do what K does rarely ever have families. Alive, that is. You wonder how old he was when he left home, if his parents know what he does for a living. If they even know he’s alive. 

Instead you ask, “Will you be having a niece or a nephew?”

He chuckles to himself, but it’s humorless. Empty. “That’s what I’m waiting to find out. I think the reveal is after they cut the cake. My sister is greedy enough to make everyone wait.”

You’re silent for a moment, at a genuine loss of words. The silence feels comfortable, and whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’ve gotten attached to Agent K. Fond, even. Just knowing he’s on the other end of the line, alive and breathing and not being shot at, gives you an enormous sense of relief.

You stare into the monitors ahead of you, at the sheer number of tabs you’ve opened, the energy you expended to make sure he’s safe.

“How did you get into this line of work?”

“Me?”

“Yes,” you can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice, “You.” 

Nobody has ever asked you that. Nobody is allowed to ask that, you think. “I had an internship the summer after I graduated. My boss at the time has some sort of connection to The Agency. She said I should apply and that she’d put in a good word. My interview was the next day, and I was officially hired by the end of the month.”

It’s silent for a beat, “You do realize you failed the test, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t supposed to divulge any personal information to me or any other agents,” He quips, “Especially not any information regarding The Agency.”

“Well,” You start, “You aren’t supposed to run away from missions and lie to your handler about where you are!”

K laughs. An actual laugh. “Touche. Though I’m not running away from anything. This is simply… a brief layover.”

“Whatever. I’ve already booked you a flight from Hyogo to Buenos Aires.”

“You’re sharp, Pluto.” There’s pleasant surprise in his voice, and pride flares in your veins at having caught him off guard, “How’d you know I was in Japan?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You repeat his own words back to him, “Your flight leaves at 8:30PM, Japan Standard Time. Think you can make it by then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” K huffs, “Is that all?”

“Yeah,” you say, “And I’ll be sure not to include this ‘brief layover’ in my reports.”

“Thank you.” He says, and you can tell it’s genuine. For a moment, you feel appreciated, before he adds, “And from now on, please refrain from using fishing boats as a means of escape.”

“Give me enough of a heads up and I won’t have to.” You fight back a smile, recalling your first encounter, and the angry call you got 16 hours later, “But if you ever lie to me again about where you are, I’m leaving you stranded.” It’s a lie. In reality, if it came between you and him, you’re the expendable one. 

“Deal.” He confirms, “Oh, and, Pluto?”

“Yes?”

“It seems like I’ll be having a niece.”

These days, your phone never stops ringing. Your second phone, that is.

“Where are you?” He preens through the phone. It’s the last question you’re expecting. You’re at a cocktail dinner for your job. The fake one. The one that The Agency placed you at to keep up appearances.

“Company dinner. Is there anything I can help you with?”

You’ve leaned over the balcony, nursing something with too much sugar and not enough alcohol. The venue is beautiful, probably some millionaire’s summer home, resting on a lavish hill and overlooking the ocean. The party blazes loudly behind you, a stark contrast to the stillness of the sea.

“Yeah. There is, actually.” He decides, “What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your clothes.” His voice is so smooth, sentences dancing off his tongue like a lullaby. “You’re wearing a purple dress, right? Say, is that silk?”

Your breath catches in your throat, your body suddenly alert at the implication of being watched, “Yes,” you find your voice again, making subtle movements to analyze your surroundings, “It was my mother’s.”

He hums, and part of you can hear a smirk in his voice, “Thought so.”

It bothers you that you’ve no clue what he looks like. How many times have you run into him without knowing? K was one of the most talented of this generation, able to adopt and shed identities as if they were clothing, able to blend into any crowd at any time, more dangerous than any traditional weapon. How many times has he been a friendly face on the street, a shadowy figure at the bar, and you simply had no idea?

“On your left.”

A man approaches you, dressed handsomely in a well-tailored suit. Shaggy orange hair falls into his bright eyes. His footsteps are quiet, practiced, holding a corsage in his right hand. 

Without sparing a moment, he transfers the flowers from his grasp to yours before spinning on his heels and disappearing into the crowd once again. Your words die in the back of your throat.

The corsage is simple, but pretty. Purple petals to compliment your dress. Tied around it is a small gift box. You return your attention to the phone, “What’s this?”

“A thank you.” He says, “And an apology. And something else. Open it.”

You do. It’s a cartier bracelet, thousands of dollars worth of gold. You flip it over to find your name engraved into the metal. Your real name. You gasp.

“Congratulations on the promotion.” He says your name so differently than anyone has ever said it. You trace the letters in your palm, just faint enough that only you would notice. Just faint enough that you could keep it, and not have it jeopardize your position.

“Just doing my job.” You conveniently left out that the company celebration was for you. Well, you and the five other people who received promotions this quarter. Of course K would find out.

”Don’t get smart with me,” He groans, “But consider it an apology as well. I would have loved to be there with you tonight. You’re brilliant, and I’m lucky to have you on my team.”

You idly watch the yachts float by, some illuminated with neon lights, and some brightened with floodlights. If you squint, you can make out the fishing boat just barely kissing the shore. And the shadowy figure perched upon it.

“Don’t feel bad,” You hum, “Something tells me you aren’t too far off.”

“Goodnight, Pluto.”

“Goodnight, K.”

The call ends. 

You clip the corsage around your wrist and return to the party.

i though this would be a fun little story! ok bye love as always, niko ♡

[mania-sama]

if you need me, dear, i'm the same as i was

Everywhere, Everything - Noah Kahan

➼ 01 - i wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat ❧ Information (Summary, Tags, Chapters) ❧ Next Chapter ❧ Word Count: 7,742 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Iwaizumi Hajime stumbles into the shower at three-thirty in the morning, attempting to yank the vivid memory of his dream out of his brain by pulling vainly at his hair. He succeeds only in inducing a pounding headache. Perfect. This is exactly what he needs on arguably one of the most important days of his career. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, and he steps out feeling worse than when he got in.

Unable to fall back asleep, he spends the next two hours doom-scrolling on Tiktok. He mostly gets stupid clips and gym videos, but that doesn’t come without its pitfalls. Every time he sees a girl and guy lifting weights together or playing around on the machines, Iwaizumi has the urge to throw up his dinner and sling his phone across the room.

The video where two best friends created a montage of their time spent traveling South America does make him curse out loud, sending him into a ten-minute spiral that he sincerely regrets.

The second the time hits six o’clock, he clicks his phone off with more force than necessary and dresses with equal parts aggression and perturbation. His fingers tremble, and his vision blur at the edges. 

He can still smell the airport, can still feel the throng of people moving around him with their suitcases rolling loudly on the ground. They all had a destination in mind: a place to be or a person to meet, setting out on a new adventure or returning home to their old comforts.

But not Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi was losing everything.

He shakes his hands vigorously as if he’s somehow shedding away his dream. His job demands the utmost attention and patience from him. He can’t risk fraying his nerves on the shit going on in his own head. His team needs him at his functional best, all prevailing circumstances considered.

He meets the Men’s National Volleyball Team in their main dining hall, determined to keep them on a proper eating schedule to help with both their diets and his own. Nobody commented on his admittedly picky eating and slightly shorter temper, for a bundle of anxiety is circulating through the players themselves. After two days’ rest from participating in competitive games, they have the most important match to play against one of the strongest teams in this year’s Olympics:

Argentina.

The Japanese National Team is good. The whole world recognizes their player powerhouses, and their ability to strategize and adapt has helped them immensely in the games they’d already played. But they aren’t going against the weaker teams anymore. This is the Olympic gold game. Everything is on the line.¹

And somehow, they hadn’t been seeded against Argentina yet.²

It’s been by pure luck and happenstance. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it likely won’t be the last. But still. It would’ve been nice to have played against them at least once before they had to fight for a shiny piece of metal. Their strategy is formed based solely on the games they’ve watched both in-person and on television instead of the lived experience of coming toe-to-toe with the unrelenting Argentinian players.

These facts are what the players are worried about, anyway. 

Iwaizumi Hajime is not a player.

No one on the team has mentioned it to him yet, and he prefers to keep it that way. They likely don’t remember that he and Oikawa Tooru, #13 of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team, played on the same team in high school. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t know that they were closer than just the ace and his setter.

Except for Kageyama and Hinata, maybe. But Kageyama is still far too awkward and anti-social to say something like that, nor does Iwaizumi believe he cares enough to antagonize him. As for Hinata, he’d mentioned playing beach volleyball with Oikawa a couple of times with a few unsubtle side glances at Iwaizumi. However, Hinata had never talked to him about it, and Iwaizumi had never pushed for him to do so. Iwaizumi thinks that if the opposite hitter wants to say something, he would’ve done it by now.

If God truly loves him, his team will stay both ignorant and away from him.

When Miya Atsumu sits down next to him, propping his chin on the heel of his hand and staring at him with an unnervingly knowledgeable gaze, Iwaizumi knows that God has forsaken him.

“You ate fast. You’re going to give yourself a stomach ache,” Iwaizumi comments before Miya can say anything. Letting him take control of the conversation from the get-go is a quick way for Iwaizumi to lose his goddamn mind.

“No, you’re eating slow,” Miya points out. Iwaizumi pointedly takes a large bite from his banana, trying very hard not to bare his teeth crudely. “Got a headache?”

Iwaizumi spares him a mean side-eye. “I’m getting there. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah,” Miya says, smiling, and fuck, Iwaizumi just let him take the reins so easily, didn’t he? His attempts at politeness always seem to blow up in his face. “Any advice you can give me about Argentina’s number thirteen? Setter versus setter beef, you know. I need all the help I can get.”

Iwaizumi considers his answer carefully. “You spend enough time alone analyzing their games, plus however long the team spends reviewing together. There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

And he believes this. They probably know Oikawa Tooru better than Iwaizumi does at this point. They see him from an angle that Iwaizumi never could and never will. He doesn’t have anything to add to their observations.

“Uh-huh,” Miya muses. Iwaizumi would punch him in the jaw if he thought that was something he could get away with. “No weaknesses? Nothing? I mean, you knew the guy for what, eleven years? You’re saying there’s nothing you can add?”

Iwaizumi’s food tastes like ash on his tongue. “Fifteen years,” he corrects despite himself. “He’s probably changed a lot since high school. I don’t know anything special about him.”

His bitterness is impossible to mask. He wants to wrap his hands around Miya’s throat and strangle the daylights out of him, but that would be unprofessional.

“Damn,” Miya says. Damn indeed, Iwaizumi thinks, stabbing his egg yolk. “Are you excited to be on the same court as him again? I know you don’t exactly keep in contact, so it’s been a while.”

“Have you been prying into my personal life?”

“I didn’t!” He exclaims, waving his hands lightly. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knew you two in high school. The rest is everything you’ve already told us, I swear!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t mention that in order to get that information, Miya had to have personally asked for it in detail. He’s far too wired to get into a debate about logistics with Miya Atsumu of all people.

“Sure,” he dismisses, stuffing the rest of his now-bland food down his throat. He gets up to put away his tray, nodding to the rest of the team as he passes with Miya trailing behind him. “I don’t feel any particular way. We haven’t talked in, like, eight years. He’s just like any other player on the Argentina team.”

“Wow,” Miya breathes, wide-eyed and very clearly holding back a laugh. Iwaizumi escapes into the throng of athletes and staff before he does something that will get him both fired and arrested.

He meets with them again in the Japanese-designated exercise room after he’s splashed water on his face and cooled down. Iwaizumi knows that Miya was riling him up because he was on edge himself. Miya thrived off of provocation, so when they were all fraying from anxiety, he automatically latched onto the first thing that he thought would make him feel better. It doesn’t make what he did right or okay, but Iwaizumi understands the reasonings behind his actions.

Luckily, Iwaizumi has fifteen years of experience in dealing dickheads like Miya. 

Fifteen years he can never get back. Might as well make good use of them.

His veins pulse with excitement and unease, watching the players carefully to make sure they don’t accidentally injure themselves. Bokuto Koutarou tries his very best to kill himself on the elliptical every time he’s on it, so he keeps a special eye on him.

He spends most of his time with Sakusa Kiyoomi, though, and not the trouble-makers who give him a migraine. Sakusa knows the routine by now: careful calf stretches with resistance bands and weights, then ten minutes on the Stairmaster. They talk through the exercises, and the outside hitter, thankfully, does not mention any significant pain or weakness. Iwaizumi doesn’t question the silence; he would’ve been able to spot if his muscles started convulsing on their own or if Sakusa started to favor a leg.

At the end of their session, Sakusa wipes off his sweat with his towel and turns to Iwaizumi. “Sorry for what Miya said. He can be a bitch.”

Iwaizumi squints at him. “Don’t apologize on his behalf.”

“I know,” he shrugs, “but he’s always trying to start something, and he’s not going to apologize himself. Truth is, he’s kind of excited to see Oikawa-san. He’s admired him for pretty much his whole life, and now that they’re facing off for the first time since high school, he doesn’t know what to do with all his… feelings.”

Sakusa’s face scrunches up at that last word, and it almost makes Iwaizumi laugh. Then he remembers that he’s going through the same thing tenfold with no one to console but himself. He still talks with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but it’s not the same when they aren’t there with him. Since Iwaizumi took this job for the national team, it’s been much harder to get together for drinks or simply be in their presence. Thus, all this excitement and “feelings”, as Sakusa puts it, have been left to be deciphered by his lonesome.

And he is certainly not going to Miya about his problems. Distant admiration and a close bond are two very, very different beasts. Most days, he’s not even sure Hanamaki and Matsukawa understand the depth of his old, broken unrequited love. He’s not sure anyone can.

“I get it,” is all Iwaizumi says.

The outside hitter eyes him up and down for a moment, his gaze burning and scrutinizing. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then aborts it abruptly by turning away to join the rest of the team heading out of the gym. Iwaizumi hears them say something about reviewing matches, but he doesn’t join them. Instead, he spends his time meditating, watching an old episode of Kitchen Nightmares³, and trying — failing — not to think about airports, blocked numbers, or unsaid confessions.

Then he meets up with the team again, and the thirty-minute warm-up session is over quicker than he hoped it would be. They file into Team Japan’s entrance to the Olympic court.

Iwaizumi thinks he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. He doesn’t have a mental breakdown. His heart is beating at a normal rate. He doesn’t pace around the tight corridor. His thoughts are clearer than the jumbled, anxious mutters of the players.

A horn blows, the gates open, and a stream of light hits his fattened pupils. His world goes white and blurry as he walks behind the players with the coaches and staff. When his vision clears, all he can see is the white and dark blue jerseys of the opposing team.

He doesn't know how he manages it, but he finds Oikawa’s brown hair and stupidly long limbs and jersey number immediately. Oikawa isn’t looking his way. His head whips around to view the crowd cheering in their seats, finds the drones in the air and the volleyball net in the middle of the court, and Iwaizumi thinks that in the last eight years of radio silence, nothing has changed.

Oikawa is right in his element, with the world watching him stand in the middle of their flashing lights. He looks confident in the way he never could’ve been in Japan.

Some things have changed.

“I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner, and you’re the absolute best setter. Even if we end up on different teams, those facts will never change.”

Iwaizumi joins the rest of the staff on the sidelines, clasps his hands behind his back, and waits patiently for the national anthems to start playing.

His feelings aside, this is the Olympic gold medal game. He is happy to be here. And by God, they will come away with their necks decorated in gold. They’ve trained hard enough. He’s trained hard enough, with so many years of schooling, interning, and working tirelessly to improve his reputation and status in the world of sports medicine. He deserves this as much as the players on the court.

“But I’ll still give my all to defeat you.”

Except the one person who has given up everything — his family, his friends, his nationality — to chase his dreams. Maybe he deserves it a little more than everyone else.

Iwaizumi tears up at his country’s national anthem, swaying slightly back and forth as if he hasn’t gone through this ritual half a dozen times before in these past two weeks. He watches from his peripheral for Oikawa, who stands stock-still during both the Japanese and Argentinian songs. Not once does he catch Oikawa looking back for him.

It shouldn’t hurt after eight fucking years, but bile crawls up his throat anyway and his legs try to give out from under him.

Nobody mentions it. Miya and Sakusa give him a discerning look, but he ignores them hard enough for his silent message to get across. He will not talk about it, and he will not let it affect the game.

Oikawa serves first.

“Bring it on.”

His form is perfect, the same as when Iwaizumi has admired it time and time again from his phone, laptop, and apartment television. He’s seen Oikawa Tooru on the large projector screens during strategy debriefs, both learning from Oikawa’s strengths and breaking down his weaknesses. It was torture to see him everywhere at all times. Close enough to idolize, but never to breathe the same air, share a cup of coffee, or feel the sweat dripping off his body.

Their suns set at different times. Their days were out of alignment. Their lives moved on separate planes. They survived eight years without a single word confirming if they were dead or alive; if they were doing alright or suffering from addiction; if they were married or still searching for a place to call home; if Oikawa missed Iwaizumi as much as Iwaizumi missed him.

Now, here they are, on the same court so many years after graduating high school, and his heart still races with that old, painful adrenaline of watching Oikawa’s power rattle the morale of the opposing team.

Hinata Shouyou receives the bowl with some difficulty, and they are unable to get a spike off before the ball has to go over the net. Oikawa flicks his tongue over his lips. Iwaizumi’s heart sputters.

He shouldn’t be so satisfied to see his own team struggle to set a tempo against Oikawa.

At twenty-seven to twenty-five, Team Japan takes the first set of five.

The brief intermission between sets allows the respective teams to cool off and regroup in preparation for the second set. Iwaizumi hovers over the players as they drink from their water bottles and catch their breaths. He doesn’t need any of them dropping from exhaustion or dehydration, nor does he need impromptu cramps or asthma attacks.

Before he has a chance to ask, Sakusa tells him that he feels fine. Iwaizumi accepts the answer without argument — no muscle twitching, no favoring, and honestly, Sakusa appears less worn out than the other on-court players.

His mind warns him against it, but his head moves on its own accord. He spots Oikawa on the Argentinian bench, wiping sweat from his forehead and drinking from his bottle while talking to his teammate. He seems fine, too. Healthy. Happy. Not giving a damn about the person he knew for fifteen years across the net.

Oikawa rubs his chest, right over his heart, in a contained circular motion. Iwaizuimi twitches and the edges of his mouth involuntarily fall into a frown.

“Head in the game,” Miya says loudly, slapping him on the back with far more force than strictly necessary. Iwaizumi glares at him, and Miya returns it in kind with a cruel grin. “Got anything for us now?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” Iwaizumi says. People press their hands to their chests all the time. He knows Oikawa is fine. Iwaizumi needs to keep his eyes focused on his own team. “Feeling okay?”

“Better than ever,” the setter responds. “Let’s win this bitch.”

The team laughs and repeats similar phrases before setting out on the court for the start of the second set. Oikawa enters with a confident, fierce stride on the Argentinian side of the net. Miya rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue rather childishly.

Argentina takes the second set, twenty-five to eighteen.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi echoes, not intending to be mean but succeeding in gaining a few glares nonetheless. “How’s everyone doing?”

Kageyama, who’d subbed in for Miya halfway through the set, answers first. “Like I need the gold medal in between my teeth.”

Iwaizumi stares at him, remembering the kid he was so long ago and the vitriol Oikawa harbored for him for being born with innate talent. They have both come so far to compete on the world stage, facing each other once again in a battle of control and mind games, serves and sets.

He can’t tell what either of them are thinking. Does Kageyama feel the need to prove himself as Oikawa had for the years that Iwaizumi had known him? What does Oikawa feel, now, on his bench with people Iwaizumi has never met?

Instinctively, he glances over at Oikawa, trying to gauge his reactions like he hadn’t been keeping one eye on him the entire match. His hand is gliding from the middle of his chest to his collarbone, then back again. He’s halfway draped onto the teammate closest to him, #6.

He doesn’t seem perturbed, but Iwaizumi reads Oikawa like they were still kids. Oikawa never settles for anything less than perfection. Iwaizumi sees it in the way his jaw tightens when he shakes the receive or his serve doesn’t land the pinpoint he wants it to. He sees it in the subtle side-eyes and glances at Japan’s #9 and #1 when he thinks no one is paying much attention.

And he knows that in fifteen years of being by his side, and in observing several years’ worth of recorded San Juan matches, Oikawa Tooru does not have a nervous habit of rubbing his chest. It’s always been below the hips where he slides his fingers back-and-forth, back-and-forth, creating a sandpaper-like sound that is honestly louder than it should be. It had annoyed Iwaizumi to death in their classes, since he usually sat behind Oikawa and therefore heard everything better than his peers. He had gained a habit of pinching Oikawa’s fingers together when he was physically able.

#13 of the Argentinian National Team sets down his water bottle and drops his hand to the side. The pads of his fingers start sliding, and Iwaizumi barely restrains himself from walking under the net and pinching him.

His other hand keeps working on his chest and collarbone, and one of his legs starts idly moving side-to-side.

“Hinata,” he calls, forcing himself to turn around and talk to his actual team. Oikawa Tooru should not, is not, his priority. That much is clear, for Iwaizumi has a wonderful career, players he cares about, and a match he really wants to win. “Let me see your arm.”

As his reply, Hinata coughs haggardly. He hasn’t been subbed once in the entire game yet. Iwaizumi figures he needs a little more time than the rest to catch his breath. Sticking his forearms out, Iwaizumi examines the spot where Hinata had received a strong spike at a backward angle; it elicited a pained reaction out of him, and Iwaizumi has to be sure it was nothing serious.

He pats Hinata’s elbow in approval. “You’re fine. Try receiving the ball like a normal person next time.”

The short man flashes him a grin and a thumbs-up before eagerly trodding off to consume what has to be a gallon of water. An objectively terrible idea to follow through with, but Iwaizumi fears he is far too late to correct that behavior.

Finding their #15 player, Iwaziumi gives Sakusa a hard once-over. Outwardly, he appears perfectly fine. They’d worked through all of the precautionary measures to prevent pain or injuries, but his cramps could strike at any moment regardless of how much effort was put in to stop them.

Sakusa catches his gaze and nods to him reassuringly. Iwaizumi warns the head coach, Hibarida Fuki, that Sakusa needs to be subbed out the moment Iwaizumi asks for him. The coach looks like he wants to argue, but Iwaizumi was born with a face that makes people listen to him if he glares at them hard enough. Hibarida acquiesces his demand without further complaint.

Sakusa works hard in the first few points of the match set, as if he knows, deep down, that this is the last he’ll play of the game. When Oikawa jumps for a set, his body piked in the air and muscles taut, Iwaizumi feels his gut twist with simple, innate intuition.

It catches the team off-guard when the setter dumps it instead of setting it off to either the outside or opposite hitter that had lined up to spike. Sakusa dives for the ball, missing it by the smallest centimeter from his pointer finger, and Iwaizumi calls for him to come in with only the smallest twinge of guilt.

The dump was amazing. The way Sakusa’s leg twitched on the ground for the smallest fraction of a second was decidedly not amazing, and neither was the way Oikawa stumbled when his feet hit the floor.

Sakusa sits close to Iwaizumi on the bench, his face contorted into something remarkable like a pout. “I feel fine,” he grumbles.

“You come from a family of doctors. I’ve worked with you for months. You know to trust me on this,” Iwaizumi says. “When your leg cramps, it’s better it happens here than sacrifice a play out there.”

The outside hitter rolls his eyes but says nothing. Iwaizumi is well aware of how frustrating it is for him to be forced from a game like this. He’d had his own bad days in high school volleyball, and he has no shortage of memories of dealing with Oikawa’s rages and breakdowns over his old knee injury.

Surgery does wonders, he reminisces. Due to the careful and precise timing that they had agonized over for quite some time, Oikawa didn’t even have to miss any of his high school matches from recovery and rehabilitation.

“I’m not playing collegiate. I can’t. I want to study sports medicine.”

“Why? Why is that so important to you when… If I promise to stay, will you play?”

“Nothing you do will get me to play again.”

He shakes his head and trains his eyes on the volleyball leaving Kageyama’s fingertips, only for it to be slammed to the ground by Bokuto. Impressively, the spike is received low by Argentina’s libero, and the game continues.

Iwaizumi is checking on Oikawa more often than he isn’t, he realizes about halfway through the set. Oikawa isn’t in the game at the moment, having been subbed out by another setter who is doing remarkably well. He doesn’t sit near his athletic trainer, so he obviously wasn’t pulled for a health concern.

Perhaps their trainer isn’t concerned, but Iwaizumi is done lying to himself. He is concerned, and it’s going to drive him to insanity before the game is over. There are all these little habits that Oikawa has never presented before. They couldn’t have developed overnight from his last match to this one. And then there is his breathing. The Argentina setter’s breathing is off-set — weirdly irregular in the rises and falls of his chest. Unless he’s having a panic attack, which Iwaizumi is quite certain he isn’t because Oikawa is showing none of his other overstimulated symptoms aside from his sliding fingers, then there is something physically wrong with Oikawa.

Or maybe Iwaizumi’s mind is simply looking for something to worry over. He’s never grown out of it. Of the twenty-seven years of his lived life, he has spent twenty-four of them concerned for Oikawa. He didn’t stop when they were deep in arguments about the future. He didn’t stop when they were thousands of miles apart, separated by an ocean and a twelve-hour time difference (and for two years, a four-hour difference and one long car ride away if need be). He certainly isn’t stopping now when Team Japan needs his watchful eye more than ever.

Besides, he thinks a little desperately. I’m too far away to see him clearly. It’s all a trick of the eye.

Argentina takes the third set at twenty-six to twenty-four. Oikawa set and served the last point, and Iwaizumi was well aware he had stared long enough for people to notice.

“Omi-kun,” Miya calls, making his way over to the benched player. “Here, water.”

Sakusa stands to meet him halfway, only to promptly collapse into Miya’s arms in an honestly skilled save. His fingers scrap at Miya’s elbows, and the panicked setter drags him back to the bench. Immediately, Iwaizumi gets to work stretching out Sakusa’s leg and rolling his calf muscles.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .” Sakusa gasps intermittently. With Miya at his side and the crowd falling into a hushed silence at the display, the whole scene kind of looks like he’s giving birth, and Iwaizumi is the poor midwife. “I didn’t— I didn’t even feel it coming. Shit. ”

Iwaizumi glances up at Miya. God, he even looks like the worried father who’s wondering what more he can do to support his laboring wife. 

Sakusa shrugs Miya’s hand off his shoulder, hissing: “Quit touching me.”

The rest of the team piles onto Sakusa to give him their strength and condolences. Sakusa, for his part, seethes from their pity and the overstimulation they’re causing. Iwaizumi barks for them to leave. Someone must have flashed an okay sign to the audience because soon the dome is overtaken by a sudden, thundering applause.

From the other side of the court, the Argentinian team gets up from their kneeling position and claps politely. Sakusa gives them little acknowledgment, so Iwaizumi half-bows for him.

Oikawa pointedly stares at the floor, one hand pressing against his chest while the other rests limply at his side after he finishes clapping. His back is now turned, away from Iwaizumi, and he can see the hunched shoulders and the uneven pacing of his breathing. It’s not exhaustion. He knows exhaustion like the back of his eyelids and can compare his players’ fatigued panting to Oikawa’s struggle for air.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same.

If Oikawa has a problem, Iwaizumi reminds himself, he has his own athletic trainer to attend to him. He hasn’t needed Iwaziumi’s support for eight years; he certainly isn’t going to randomly start now.

Sakusa is the one who needs him, because Sakusa is his player, and his player is gripping the bench with white knuckles and an expression of pain and frustration. This is something Iwaizumi can help with. This is the job he has spent his entire adult life training for.

As with all things in life, sometimes what someone needs isn’t physical. Sometimes what they need is a distraction.

“Help me with something,” Iwaizumi says, succeeding in capturing Sakusa’s attention. “Akaashi’s in the stands somewhere. We need to find him before Bokuto loses his head.”

Even though some of the team members have never met Akaashi Keiji in person (which Iwaizumi has, since they attended the same university and remained friends after), they all know what he looks like based on the astonishing amount of pictures of him Bokuto shows them every week. Iwaizumi has been watching the players closely, as per his job description, and has taken note of the wild swiveling of Bokuto’s head whenever there is even the slightest attention break from the game. While seated, his near-erratic behavior worsens tenfold. Instead of supporting his team from the sidelines, his wide eyes roam the crowd fervently.

If he doesn’t spot Akaashi soon, Iwaizumi is one hundred percent sure they are going to have a very dramatic meltdown. Which would be both embarrassing for their home country and an extreme hindrance to the team’s functionality.

Sakusa grimaces, looking rather oddly at him before turning his head to the audience.

“You’re attentive,” he says after a brief hesitation. “I hate it.”

“You hate a lot of things,” Iwaizumi responds neutrally.

The distraction does work, though. The outside hitter settles down into his normal state of being: slightly disgusted and irritated with everyone around him, as opposed to being extremely disgusted and irritated with everyone around him. While they are going through a round of dynamic stretches in the middle of the fourth set, Sakusa stops dead in his tracks and stares intently at one spot in the stands. “Found him.”

Iwaizumi sighs in relief. “Finally.” From where he is on the sideline, Bokuto looks about five minutes away from a predicted, total meltdown. “When we’re done with this, tell him the good news. I need to get Komori off the court before he passes out.”

The libero in question runs a hand through his hair, no doubt coming away with an exorbitant amount of grime and sweat. “Too attentive,” Sakusa says again, this time with more forced agitation to mask the layer of distress in his tone.

Iwaizumi is pretty sure he knows what that’s about, too, but doesn’t say anything to spare Sakusa the embarrassment and probable heart attack. They don’t really need a player dropping like that, even if said player is already sidelined.

He manages to get Komori off the court without incident, and the ruckus Bokuto makes after Sakusa points out Akaashi to him is far better than the other outcome should they have failed in their mission to locate Bokuto’s favorite human being.

His gaze slides back onto the court, finding Oikawa’s body immediately. He hates his heart. It twists in his chest with longing and unsubstantiated concern. The near-decade they’ve spent apart means nothing to his pulsing organ, as though it thinks he’s a child again and walking to Oikawa’s house to beat his ass at Mortal Kombat.

Although, the clogging in his throat reminds him more of when he rode the subway back from the hospital after his best friend’s knee gave out, or when he started prodding Oikawa to eat every day because teenage athletes are the most prone to eating disorders and Iwaizumi hadn’t seen him eat lunch once in the past week.

Twenty-five to twenty-three. Japan wins the fourth set.

The fifth set will determine it all, and it won’t be easy. His players look ready to drop. They’ve pushed themselves harder than they have this entire Olympic tournament. However, their morale and adrenaline are through the roof. If they can keep their spirits up through the next fifteen required points, they can win.

The last set starts, and despite everything — the trepidation making it hard to breathe, his whirling thoughts, the desperation to convince himself that he is hallucinating symptoms — Oikawa Tooru is still the best goddamn setter he’s ever seen.

Now that Sakusa has nothing better to do with the anxiety and pressure of the last set that will determine the winner, he speaks to Iwaizumi. “What is it?”

“What is what?” Iwaizumi asks somewhat absently, intently focused on the game in front of him. He never stopped loving volleyball despite the change in the profession. A part of him still wants to run out and hit the ball with every last bit of his strength.

Argentina calls a time-out to stifle the flow of the game. Oikawa sways, but they don’t take him off the court. They need him.

Sakusa grunts. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at Oikawa-san this entire game. What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi has half a mind to bite back with “ Why do you care?”, but doesn’t because that would be unprofessional. He knows Sakusa is restless, agitated, and worst of all, starting to perceive Iwaizumi as a threat to his personal security. According to him, Iwaizumi is too attentive, which means that he can reveal the secrets Sakusa wants to keep buried.

He isn’t that type of person. He hasn’t gone out of his way to find out anything about his players that doesn’t specifically pertain to their medical records, and even if he does find out the things Sakusa doesn’t want him to know, Iwaizumi wouldn’t spill it to the world. It isn’t his story to tell.

So, he answers with a little honesty no matter the insensitivity of the question, because that is the only way to make Sakusa cool down — to make him think that he’s gotten Iwaizumi to crack. “I keep thinking there’s something wrong with him. Medically, I mean. I’m sure it’s nothing. His trainer would’ve spoken to him by now if there was a problem.”

I’m sure it’s the eight years where I never got to check up on him coming back to haunt me, he doesn’t say. That’s a little more honesty than Sakusa deserves.

The game continues. Fourteen to fourteen. They are down to the last wire.

“Bullshit,” Sakusa says, surprising Iwaizumi. “How long did you say you knew him?”

He’s certain that Miya has already told him, but he responds anyway.⁴ “Fifteen years.”

“Iwaizumi-sensei⁵, you’ve been with this team for a couple of months and you already know each of us like the back of your hand. I’ve never met someone as hypervigilant as you. You know I’m going to cramp before I know I’m going to cramp,” he says. “You’re really doubting yourself about someone you’ve spent half your life with?”

Iwaizumi looks at the player, who’s giving him an open expression that conveys, plainly, you’re being an idiot.

Fifteen to fourteen.

Sakusa rolls his eyes at Iwaizumi’s dumbfounded face. “Trust your instincts, because from what I’ve seen, they’ve never led you astray. Hell, I’d let you perform open heart surgery on me, and you’re not even a surgeon.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the nicest thing Sakusa has said in his life. Ever.

Iwaizumi swivels back to Oikawa. He’s jumping in the air to set the ball for a spike, or a dump, or something that will bring his team to victory. Looking down, Iwaizumi finds his ankles swollen beyond normal. 

Open heart surgery.

“Holy shit,” Iwaizumi whispers, all of the air leaving his lungs.

Sixteen to fourteen. Team Argentina wins Olympic gold.

He’s on the court before Sakusa is. He’s across the net before Argentina can celebrate their victory. He’s grabbing Oikawa’s shoulders tightly before anybody else can get to him. Iwaizumi stares into his estranged best friend’s glassy, confused, uncomprehending eyes. 

He’s shaking Tooru’s shoulders, desperate as he yells: “You are having a heart attack!”

Tooru’s voice is strangled and hoarse between his gasping breaths in mangled Spanish Iwaizumi doesn’t understand. Not a second later his dilated pupils, distorted from his eye contacts, roll back to expose solid white sclera and red veins. He keels over, limp, and Iwaizumi starts screaming for a stretcher and an ambulance. Laying him on the ground, he puts his palms over Tooru’s chest to start compressions.

And suddenly, Hajime is fifteen again, hovering over Tooru as he sobs on the boards of the gym they use to practice volleyball during the off-season. “It hurts,” he’s crying, clutching his knee. “It hurts!” Hajime doesn’t know what to do aside from calling one-one-nine. He tells the operator their location and the details of their situation while he lets Tooru claw his forearm into welts, knowing that whatever pain Iwaizumi feels is being felt a thousandfold by his best friend.

And Hajime is fifteen and three-quarters, learning emergency CPR for his new part-time job as a lifeguard. He thinks that it could come in useful. He thinks that saving people isn’t a job he would mind.

And Hajime is sixteen, watching Tooru recover from his surgery, and he realizes he will never play professional volleyball. He wants to help people like Tooru forever — people who want to dedicate their whole life to a sport but have a body that strives to prevent their goal every step of the way. He can’t do that as a player on the court.

And Hajime is seventeen, trying to convince Tooru to eat a sandwich even though he is adamantly insisting he isn’t hungry. He discovers sports medicine isn’t just about the physical ills and pains. To be a good athletic trainer, he has to see every aspect of a player’s well-being, and that includes their mental health.

And Hajime is eighteen, standing alone in the airport and experiencing loss for the first time. In order for Oikawa to grow as an athlete, he has to cut away the weed strangling his roots. Hajime lets him without complaint. This is part of his new career, after all; if he helps athletes succeed, they would all, one day, leave his medical care.

And Hajime is twenty-seven, losing his best friend for a second time at the end of the first set of chest compressions. At least three ribs have cracked under his pace and pressure. He pinches Tooru’s nose, pries his jaw open, and breathes air into his lungs twice. His ring and pinky finger automatically find his pulse point.

Nothing.

Seeing that no medical equipment has arrived, he starts the second set of chest compressions. Oikawa’s bones creak and give way under his desperation. He knows CPR like the back of his hand; if the ribs are breaking, that means it’s working. It doesn’t get rid of the panic and pain at the thought of how much damage he’s doing to Oikawa’s body.

The paramedics are a second too late with their LUCAS device at the end of the last compression. He dives down for another round of mouth-to-mouth, recognizing, faintly yet viscerally at the same time, that Oikawa’s soft skin is pale and rapidly cooling.

At the junction between his neck and jaw, Iwaizumi searches for a heartbeat.

Breathe. Nothing.

Breathe. Nothing.

Then, the faint brush of life against Iwaizumi’s fingertips.

He helps the paramedics load Oikawa onto the stretcher. They roll him away from the court, leaving behind Iwaizumi in a daze. That wasn’t how he wanted to meet Oikawa again. That wasn’t how he wanted to talk to him, feel him, or see him; wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Oikawa’s lips on his like he’d dreamt about so many times in his teenage years and again, occasionally, in his adult life when he’s had too much to drink. 

The head coach of the Argentina team, Jose Blanco, Oikawa’s long-term idol, steps in front of him. “English?” He asks in said language, and Iwaizumi nods automatically. Blanco etches a small smile onto his face. “Thank you for your help. You saved his life.”

Iwaizumi stares at Blanco, all of the English he’s ever learned and spoken suddenly fleeing from his memory. How does he say that they aren’t out of the woods yet, that Oikawa’s heart could still fail at any moment and refuse to start beating again? How does he say that this may be the problem that finally kills the life Oikawa has sacrificed everything for? How does he say that he honestly fears the day that Oikawa can’t play volleyball anymore because he’s an absolute fucking maniac and would rather take his own life than let the universe sweep the rug out from under him?

How does he say that he’s currently living in a reality that is dancing too close to his worst nightmare?

“It was no problem,” he settles for.

“You are Iwa-chan, yes?”

Iwaizumi freezes. He hasn’t heard that nickname in nearly a decade. His high school friends never called him that unless they were teasing him, which faded a week or so after Oikawa left because while he was never the first to bring Oikawa up, he was always the first to cut the topic short. Takeru grew out of it in a couple of months. Nobody else in the right, sane mind would ever call the stoic, mean-looking, and too-attentive Iwaziumi Hajime Iwa-chan.

Except, of course, Oikawa Tooru, who always had a deep and utter hatred for giving his peers a modicum of respect.

It’s somewhat funny hearing the name come from a large Argentinian who lacks both the lightness in which Oikawa would say it and a Japanese accent to make the honorific sound natural. He almost laughs. He thinks that it must make Oikawa laugh, too.

Having rehearsed it in the mirror a thousand times and put it to real use a dozen more, his English introduction rolls off his tongue easily. “Iwaizumi Hajime, athletic trainer for the Japan National Team.” He sticks out his hand, which the head coach uses to bring him into a tight hug. And he doesn’t want to ask when they pull apart, because Blanco is chuckling lightly and he no doubt wants to celebrate his victory, but the words are tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “He… calls me that?”

“Oh, kid—” Iwaizumi is twenty-seven years old “—he never stops talking about you. Last night was horrible. He went on and on. I thought you were, uh, a woman. Guess not.”

Oh. Oh, God.

He doesn’t have time to process… everything since Blanco starts waving over his team. Iwaizumi tries to escape, but they all grab onto his hands or his shoulders or pat him on the back. He’s hearing a lot of Spanish and English, with the occasional horrifically pronounced Japanese word passing through their mouths. He gets the jist of it, though, as the captain of the team presses an object into his right palm.

Tómas Gallo pulls him in and presses a kiss into both of his cheeks. “Thank you, Iwa-chan. He would be honored if you took the gold medal in his place.”

Overwhelmed, he pushes away and returns to his team, who are huddled on the other side of the net. The world starts coming back to him in fractured pieces. He eyes the audience, who seem to all have their gazes trained on him.

It doesn’t really occur to him that he’s just saved the world’s best setter (not just by Iwaizumi’s standards. Not anymore. The whole world recognizes now what he’s sensed since they were seven years old on the city’s little league team). In the heat of the moment, and even still, with the lingering feeling of Oikawa’s bones creaking and snapping under his palms, of his still heartbeat and rolled-back eyes repeating in his after-vision, it’d only been him saving his best friend, just like he always has.

He looks down at his hand, finally registering that he’s holding something. Slowly unraveling his fingers, he stares down at the small keychain. It’s a miniature Japanese flag with Iwaizumi’s faded signature scribbled over it in black Sharpie ink. He’d slipped it unknowingly into Oikawa’s backpack just before he’d disappeared to the security checkpoint, leaving his entire childhood behind.

After several attempts to message him a day later asking about the flight, he had found out his phone number was blocked. He couldn’t view any of Oikawa’s social accounts when he had checked. When he had gone to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, they had shrugged and said they didn’t know anything, either.

Iwaizumi lets himself drop the keychain into his pocket. Setting his shoulders and calming his expression, he rejoins the team with an apologetic wave.

He thinks that he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. His heart isn’t failing. He doesn’t pace around the large gymnasium. His face is emotionless when everyone else seems to be looking at him with worry. His knees are pressing against the court boards. His fingernails are digging into his skin. Someone is wrapping their arms around his shoulders.

He breaks down on live television.

—

Tómas Gallo hands him Oikawa Tooru’s gold medal in a quiet hallway after the adornment ceremony.

On a count of three, Iwaizumi bites the gold medal with the captain of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team. His tongue accidentally scrapes the edge of the medallion. The cold metal tastes indistinguishable from blood.

It checks out, really. Iwaizumi has always believed that Oikawa's veins pulse with ichor. 

Gallo’s hand comes to squeeze Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He says: “Tooru says he could not have made it without you. We thank you for letting us have him.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t tell him that before he became Iwaizumi Hajime, twenty-seven years old and well-known among the most important people in the world of sports medicine, he was first and foremost Iwaizumi Hajime, three years old and playing in the sandbox when a boy wearing an alien-themed shirt dumped squirming worms all over him. He doesn’t remember it, exactly, since he was three and hadn’t developed that part of his brain yet, but his mother told him that he had tried his best to beat Oikawa to death with a plastic shovel.

He doesn’t tell Gallo that he could never have made it, either, if it hadn’t been for that little asshole and his handful of dirt-covered earthworms. Oikawa had stolen a piece of soul and shaped his future that day with his grubby hands, insufferable personality, and heart of pure gold.

Gallo doesn’t say anything more when the athletic trainer chokes down a sob.

—

“Oikawa-san is recovering from emergency surgery, Iwaizumi-sensei. He’s in good hands,” someone tells him. Their voice disintegrates like sand falling between his fingertips.

Iwaizumi breathes.

¹ In the real 2020 Tokyo Olympics, Argentina won bronze and Japan came in seventh. However, the real Argentina did not have THE Oikawa Tooru, and the real Japan didn’t have… everyone. Clearly, this is not the real Olympics. I will take my creative liberties where I can get them.

² Here, you can start to see my complete and utter lack of knowledge about volleyball. And the Olympics.

³ His roommate at UC-Irvine put him on Kitchen Nightmares and he hasn’t been the same since.

⁴ They will never admit it, partly because they think they are subtle, but everyone knows that Atsumu and Sakusa gossip with each other like the main characters of Mean Girls.

⁵ —Sensei, because that seemed like the most accurate honorific to use in relation to his job as a medical professional but not a medical doctor. If you believe this to be horrifically inaccurate, let me know and I’ll change it. I am obviously not Japanese. Usually I don’t even use honorifics in fics, but I decided to this time so I could empasize Iwa-chan.

[tetrakys]

Are we all secretly Argentinian? A brief history of VPN in Beemoov's fandom

Once upon a time, when only High School Life and maybe Eldarya TO were out, players were able to choose their own bank when making a purchase on the games websites. Some banks were extremely cheap compared to others, the cheapest of all being Argentina. This from the perspective of people living in other countries. As an example:

2800 Gold coins were worth 39€ or 49$ or 400 ARS 400 ARS were the equivalent of 27$ in 2016.

So, clearly, anyone given the chance would spend less with such a big discount. And the chance was indeed given, since it was easy to just select another country's bank on the website.

Fast-forward a few years, the option to choose a bank was removed, and people could only use the bank associated to the country they were connecting from. It didn’t take much time for people to realise that it was enough to change IP via a VPN to make the games think you were connecting from Argentina and still access its bank. Additionally, Argentinian's currency was getting more and more devaluated in time and prices were never really adjusted at the bank. So, those 2800 Gold which were worth 400ARS or 27$ in 2016, were now worth 11$ in 2019.

This VPN trick has been around for years now. Not all players were aware of course, and not everyone was comfortable in using a VPN or able to. But still, quite a lot of people were doing so. Some of them even made a business out of it, recharging other people's accounts using a VPN and taking a fee for their "service".

Fast-forward again, to 2022. The VPN trick escalated, the secret was not that much of a secret anymore, especially because people were freely talking about it everywhere, Discord, Facebook, all social media really, even TikTok videos were made explaining how to do it. Very simply, too many people were using it. Consequently, Beemoov worked on it and managed to remove Argentina's bank from most VPNs for people playing from Europe and North America. (NOT South America, as I vaguely remember it was mentioned that they were trying to protect the Argentinians living in nearby countries). This led to a crazy uproar, mostly from the biggest fandom affected, the French one. People were leaving tons of messages on all socials demanding the reinstatement of Argentina, and also sending curses and death threats to Beemoov employees. The most recurrent message was of people outraged that the company had blocked VPNs without telling their players and demanding dialogue and compromise. On the other hand, Beemoov replied that VPNs were never a functionality of the games, and they don't need to discuss it with players.

Approximate translation of Beemoov's official reply (neither French nor English are my mother tongues so feel free to double check):

"Goodmorning. The use of VPN isn't a functionality offered by the game, just like it isn't normal use of the game to circumvent the base tariffs. Thus it's normal and logic that the company would put a stop at this technique. (Without having to communicate it since it's not a functionality of the game that we are retiring or modifying, but the exploitation of a fallacy.) The tariffs that each country pays are established according to their buying power. Of the 2 euros payment that can be done by the players via VPN Argentina, the company only earns a few cents. And with just a few cents it's clearly impossible to cover the costs of the episodes production and business costs in general, pay our employees, and create new content for our players. Under these conditions, it's certain that the company would eventually go bankrupt. (Like many of you wish, but us not that much.) To give you a less abstract example, it's as if someone would accept to see their salary of 1329 euros (minimum wage, for example) drop to 44 euros. Do you think this person would be able to live without any problem? We are sorry if our base tariffs are not convenient for you and we understand that they are not accessible to all of our players, but these are what allow the company to survive and to make new content. Of course like in all free-to-play games you are not obliged to pay and you always have the possibility of playing for free (and this is thanks to the players who pay the normal price)."

Fast forward again to this year, August 2023. The economic crisis in Argentina has led to high inflation and 22% devaluation of currency. All businesses have had to up their prices, including Beemoov. Those 2800 gold coins that used to be worth 400 ARS ~ 27$ in 2016, and then 11$ in 2019? Are now worth 1.14$. Beemoov has had to up the prices and now these are costed at 6,800 ARS (or 19.43$), an increment of 17 times its original value (but still less than the 2016 dollar equivalent).

Consequently, we have seen now the rest of the fandom, the part that hadn't been affected one year ago, going ballistic. And the same kind of threats and complaints that were posted last year by the European fandom are now posted by the American fandom. One would assume that only the Argentinians are complaining, rightfully so, since they are the ones directly affected. But actually most of the complaints come from people living elsewhere who were either using VPNs for their own benefit or created a business out of it.

(these are from 4 different people I found with just a 5 minutes search, we really live in a capitalist dream lmao)

Additionally, people have been upset about the company's reply. This message has been circulating in several social media, and people wonder if it's true or fake.

I don't know who originally posted so I can't say if it's true or not. (Personally I tend to believe it is.)

(Using Google translate here because I don't know a word of Portuguese, so please correct me if this is wrong.)

"To be fair, Latin America is far from our biggest customer, but that's not the point. Beemoov was forced to take action after numerous abuses by players (and in particular 80% of purchases from Brazil) using VPNs to connect to Argentina and take advantage of this country's poor financial situation to buy APs and other in-game currencies. The few players currently residing in Argentina are unfortunately affected by the situation and we are very sorry, but we could not remain inactive in the face of a fraud of this magnitude that puts the company's sustainability at risk (payment of employees, office rent, work equipment, taxes, creation of new content, etc... Each of these must be paid in euros following the French currency - as we are located in France)."

People have been particularly offended by that "LATAM isn't our biggest customer" which isn't hate, it's a fact. Despite the LATAM fandom being big (second only to France by number of players), the currencies of all the countries involved are worth less than euros, and that's why it can't be the biggest client, it's just math.

Some math below for who is interested, but feel free to skip: For example 1300 gold are costed 200 in mexican pesos which is 10.7 euros. Similarly this same amount of gold is 30BRL in Brazil, which translates to 1.6 euros. Compared, 1300 gold in France are costed 19 euros. (On top of these there are also bank fees and currency exchange fees). This means that, if no one were using VPN, it would take two mexican players for Beemoov to earn the same amount as they earn from a French player. And even more, 12 Brazillian players to pay what they get from one single French player. (Again, I'm not considering bank fees, so these numbers should actually be higher). Of course this is just an example on one single purchase. It's not representative of the whole bank. But with some very hacky math, approximately I think that LATAM doesn't contribute to more than a quarter of Beemoov's revenue (and keep in mind that for the past year LATAM could use Argentina VPN and Europe couldn't). Of course, again, this is veeeery approximate, but I remember Brazil wasn't included in Uncoven, so I think that if they are cutting another bank in the future it might be that one. This is not the case for New Gen of course since we know Brazillian is one of the languages included.

So, where are we now?

VPNs are still being used of course, not Argentina but other countries (mostly Brazil, Turkey, and a few others). I don't think there's any stopping VPNs for good in the old games, but I'm pretty confident the company might've found a way for New Gen.

What do I think of all this?

These up here are facts. Now my personal opinion is that things aren't that black and white. I totally agree with the fact that the company has expenses and needs to pay salaries of their employees etc etc. At the same time it's also true that for whatever business when a product is faulty prices are lowered. Eldarya ANE has not the same quality as the other games, prices should reflect that but they don't. Similarly, some episodes are released very bugged, and people have to replay 3, 4, 5 times to get the illustration they would've been able to get in one playthrough and should be compensated for that. In Moonlight Lovers there was a crazy bug for more than a year, me and the friends I made guides with had to replay each episode at least 5-8 times. I don't even want to try to estimate the amount of money I wasted on that game otherwise I would curl in a ball and cry. The company should've provided compensation to us and all the players who played Moonlight Lovers during that year, but they didn't. So when episodes are bugged and people have to replay many times I see VPNs as morally justified.

But bugs asides, the point is that if VPNs were used only a few times, and only by those players who really would not be able to play otherwise, then nothing would've happened. But as always, when something is abused the "authorities" try to put a stop to it. (Because really it's crazy that a middle-class European via VPN spends only a few cents on each episode and then expects to see more content. This isn't only fraud against the company, but also disrespectful toward the players who pay full price and allow the games to keep existing.)

However, I want to end this post with a positive message, if anyone made it this far it's earned. During my deep dive in the fandom to write this post, I saw that the trolls, the haters, the death and violence threats against Beemoov workers or other players, the wishes to see the company go bankrupt and everyone left without a job, all these came from Europeans and Americans alike. Seeing all these curses and threats in english, french, spanish, brazillian portuguese etc warmed my heart. There is no racism when it comes to hate, humanity sucks everywhere 💕

[w3atherboy]

Saltenian Mage, a bastard and son of one. / Mago Salteño, hijo de un bastardo y un bastardo también.

I WILL EDIT THIS EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE FOR MORE LORE/CHANGING FACTS

● Roleplay blog of: Leonidas Garcia-Constantine.

● Small explanation: Son of a demon and John Constantine. Currently, a freshly 14 y.o sorcerer who's trying to get away from his parents mistakes and paths. Spoilers: he won't be able to scape.

● Where does he live?: Mostly in Salta (North of Argentina), but visits Gotham quite a lot because the city is cursed and the boy is half demon so he's often in a house that is kinda on the outskirts of Gotham. If you don't look twice, you would say no one lives there.

● Languages he speaks: Spanish, English and Portuguese.

● Pronouns: He/Him.

● Sexuality: Pansexual.

● Family: John Constantine (father), Dolores Garcia (dead, mother), @jillconstantinw (sister)

● Idols: Zee Zatanna, Harley Quinn and Red Hood.

● Position: Lawful Chaotic (sticks very deeply to his rules but no one knows wtf the rules are. He uses it for his advantage).

● Appereance: Slightly tan skin, blue eyes, curly messy hair, average Saltenian stature (aka: short in U.S.A terms).

● RP DETAILS:

He's a minor, please don't ask him sexual questions. Flirting is fine, but don't be too suggestive.

Bigotry in general is not allowed.

Please feel free to interact^^

Any roleplay account of Constantine or oc that happens to be a child of Constantine is free to make awkard greetings or questions

Have a good day

[possum-quesadilla]

Chapter 11 of Time’s Arrow, “Wait for me, I’m comin’, Wait, I’m comin’ with you”, is here!! Yeehaw!!!

Extras below!!

- The lyrics for this chapter’s title are either from “Wait for Me” (live version) or “Wait for Me (Reprise)” (album version) from Hadestown, for obvious reasons. Pick your poison!

- “The air around her felt so cold. She was sure death had never been so cold before.” - Once again, my silly theme of warmth. Beetlejuice didn’t realize he was giving off warmth and love just as much as he was receiving it.

- “Percy lay a short distance away, one paw outstretched to gently touch Lydia’s knee.” - Based on a weird, silly thing my own cat does.

- “None of them really seemed to mind as the cat strolled over to the rug, his nose loudly whistling as he sniffed at the air.” - Percy has a deviated septum that makes him snort when he’s excited, and whistle when he breathes through his nose! It doesn’t bother him too much. Partially based on my own cats.

- “ Lydia’s gentle whimpering sobs quieted when he raised his head and let out a loud, strange meow. (That kitten really did have one of the strangest voices she’d ever heard from a cat. Perhaps Beetlejuice had some sort of influence on him?) “… what is it?” She whispered, voice hoarse from crying.” - He’s got one of those weird, long, creaky meows. He did take after Beetlejuice. Also, familiar communication! He’s alerting her to Cyrus’ fur.

- “What’s up, Soos-” - She calls him ‘Soos’ as a nickname. It is one of those fun, weird pet nicknames that evolves over time. Also a reference to “Gravity Falls”.

- “She froze, letting out a loud gasp when her hand made contact with the carpet in front of Percy.” - She can use things like strands of fur to scry.

- “It felt like mere moments, it felt like it stretched out for weeks.” - Another instance of a character feeling how Beej often feels and being unsettled.

- “Deb could not guide them. “… I’m sorry, little ghosts. I care for you all and for Goose, but..” something dark clouded her eyes as she averted her usually bright eyes away from them. “… I can’t help you any more than preparing you. I can’t risk losing the precious, peaceful, fragile existence I carved out for Bela and I.” ” - The last sentence is a reference to “Good Omens”! Also, yeah, Cyrus is very powerful in the Netherworld and could ruin Deb and Bela’s unlives.

- “She nearly wretched as a pungent odor hit her open mouth, revolting and… familiar.” - Beej used to reek of the Netherworld.

- The various dead people - I made them up! Not based on any real people. They were fun to think up.

- “ “You two again?” She groaned, shaking her head. “What part of ‘pick a number and wait your turn’ do you people not understand? You cannot skip the line!” ” - This is a joke at the fact that they met in the movie, but not the musical. This version of Adam and Barbara have not, in fact, met Miss Argentina.

- Huge shoutout to @raineisinkless for her help with Miss Argentina’s dialogue <3

- Miss Argentina and Beetlejuice - Time works weird in the Netherworld. Beej was cursed and cast out long before she died, but since time there is nonlinear, he was in the Netherworld for when she first died and started working there. He was very nice to her.

- “She turned to the pale woman sat next to her, dressed in a beautiful blue figure skating gown stained red with the blood that constantly flowed from the gaping wound in her neck. “Patrice, take over for me. I’m taking my lunch for the year.” ” - Yes, she only gets one break per year. And Patrice is a reference to Miss Argentina’s original actor, Patrice Martinez!

- “Is she living it up on top?” - This is a reference to the Hadestown song, “Livin’ it Up on Top”.

- “The room they stepped into was pitch black. Not even the dim lighting from the hallway could permeate it’s darkness.” - It’s kept dark because demons have sensitive eyes. And they can see in total darkness! Well, most of them.

- “They growled again, the little supply closet suddenly feeling much hotter. “Shut up.” ” - They got very embarrassed at the implication that they care about Beetlejuice.

- “The other demons would swallow your souls whole if they knew you were here.” - Partial joke reference to “Evil Dead”.

- “I know it’s not like how we talked about, but-” - Surprise! Well, maybe not to some of you. They’ve been discussing becoming demons for a while now!

- “She heard their bones creaking as they did.” - They got bad joints.

- “Something brushed up against Barbara’s arm. “All you two have to do is shake my hand.” ” - Larry was being nice and showing Barbara where their hand is here.

- “Your souls need time to create and bond with your new bodies.” - Demons have their bodies and souls combined, which is why they don’t pass on to an afterlife! Their soul dies with their body.

- “Barbara gasped as a warmth flooded through her, hot and exhilarating in her veins.” - Hellfire!

- Altair and Vega - Their demonic names! Yes they have meanings behind them. No I will not elaborate currently. I will in a different post if I remember (or if someone asks me/reminds me)

- “Barbara yelped as it seemed fabric was passed over her head.” - Larry straight up tucked them under their coat here.

- “There were no stars or moon above to light their surroundings, just the dim glow of humming pink fluorescent lights somewhere just outside the alley.” - There are no stars in the sky because they’re all wandering the streets.

- “It was out of the kindness of my Hearth that I brought you two here.” - hehe, yeah, they say ‘Hearth’ instead of ‘heart’. As a joke on the fire in their chests.

- “He looked down at himself, glasses briefly slipping down his nose.” - A little bit of foreshadowing to his ears changing.

“‘Pollux’, in bright yellow. It seemed like half the sign had burnt out, and Barbara could just barely make out that it used to read ‘and Castor’.” - They were besties that made Deals and ran their Covens together. Then Castor died. Whomp whomp.

- “Barbara had to shield her eyes. Had neon lights always bothered her eyes that much? Maybe being stuck inside for so long had made them sensitive.” - Her eyes are getting more sensitive to light as she changes!

- “Adam was covering his ear with his free hand, gritting his teeth and softly complaining about how loud the lights were.” - Similarly, Adam is getting more sensitive to sound.

- “Thick, blue smoke, pungent and noxious. It smelled… herby, but Barbara could not quite place her finger on which herb it was.” - The blue smoke Cyrus and other demons smoke is actually something of his own creation! It’s how he gained so much power among demons. Perhaps I will elaborate in a Cyrus lore post since this is the last we’ll see of him in this fic! She knows her herbs, but not this herb.

- “It was dim, lit only by the sign outside, but somehow still Barbara could make out nearly everything.” - Again, demon changes! She can see in the dark now.

- “A particularly short demon manned the bar, ignoring one demon quite literally barking at them as they wiped a glass clean.” - Author demon sona cameo! I didn’t halt to describe them so I didn’t break the flow of the scene.

- “(Although, he wasn’t wearing blue like they’d said he was. He was instead wearing black wool cloak.)” - Uh oh. Where have we seen black wool before?

- “ “Where is he?” Adam repeated, gripping his wife’s hand tighter.” - A reference to the live version of “Wait for Me” from Hadestown.

- “You won’t find him. You could look for the rest of your un-lifetimes and you’d never find even a hint of him.” - A reference to the song “Home”, how Lydia mentions she could search the afterlife for an eternity and never see her mom.

- “Barbara wanted to punch that smug look off his face.” - Foreshadowing.

- “It was then that Barbara realized he was missing three fingers on the hand not holding the cigarette.” - HE FUCKIN’ GOT HIM GOOD!!

- “Barbara just about growled, the words coming out with a throaty noise.” - She can actually growl now!

- “The demon only paused when Adam involuntarily let out a strange little growl of his own. Cyrus slowly looked between the two of them, something glinting in his eyes. His smile wavered for a few moments. (Barbara thought perhaps she recognized… fear?)” - He is afraid of the power they both now wield. Perhaps this will be elaborated on later? Also Adam can growl now too hehe

- “His smile widened as his eyes flicked over to the Maitlands. “It was only made tolerable by the feeling of his intestines snaking between my claws.” ” - He said this to rile them up. Also, this has been previously mentioned by Beetlejuice as something Cyrus did! Just not directly.

- “Ah. Shit. Lydia didn’t mention how tall he was. That’ll make it much harder to reach him.” - Foreshadowing!!

- Adam recognizes the tale they’re recreating, hence his apprehension at first; Orpheus and Eurydice. Just with added stakes, since all three of them have to not check, not just Adam and Barbara.

- “She swore she heard the bartender whisper, “good luck”.” - :)

- “Yeah, well, die mad about it,” - A joking reference to a scene in “The Owl House” I accidentally mirrored here.

- “ “S-seven,” Barbara stammered, picking the first one that came to her mind.” - thank you @ten-chocolate-sundaes :) I wonder what he’ll do with this number

- “It seemed like days passed.” - because they did! Thirteen days to be exact.

- They’re deers!! Surprise!! All of the deer and star foreshadowing for Adam and Barbara is finally paying off!!!

[a-pint-of-j-and-b]

Nazareno Cruz y el lobo (Nazareno Cruz and the Wolf) | 1975 | Leonardo Favio | Argentina

"Nazareno Cruz is a young Gaucho living in a rural town. He is known for being the seventh son of his father, and so he is seen by the locals as the victim of the werewolf curse. Despite this he lives happily in the community. When Nazareno is about to turn 18 he meets Griselda and they both fall in love. Soon after, "Mandinga" (the Devil) presents himself to Nazareno and explains that his curse is real. Mandinga makes Nazareno a proposition: if Nazareno gives up his love, he will receive in exchange his freedom and many riches. Nazareno refuses the deal and eventually turns into a werewolf, becoming involved in a series of tragedies."

[kamthesheep]

My Introduction!!/Mi introduccion!!

[ENG]: Hi Tumblr people!! I hope y'all are fine :D You can call me Kamryn/Kam, a digital and traditional artist so here I will post drawings, comics and other silly little drawings (≧▽≦) 🎨🖌️

I'm Venezuelan and I live in Argentina so that means I'm spanish but don't worry with the lenguage cuz I first write the description in english and then the spanish traduction

I'm a minor (Specifically 12 years old) so don't be weirdos... -_-

Art tag: #Kamryn's silly drawings

Comics tag: #Kamryn's stories

Asks tag: #Kam silly questions

Gacha tag: #Kam's gacha curse

Free to ask me any question, say something to me or a request for a drawing :3

[My interests!]:

Chonny Jash - Tally Hall/Miracle Musical - VOCALOID - Murder Drones - The Amazing Digital Circus - Genshin Impact - The Walten Files - Lacey flash games - The Mandela Catalogue - Andy's apple farm - BLACKPINK - Little Witch Academia - The Promised Neverland - Bocchi the rock - Sailor Moon - Will Wood (And The Tapeworms) - Cult of The Lamb - FNAF

Bye bye and see you later!!!

[ESP]: Hola gente de Tumblr!!! Espero que todos esten bien :D Pueden llamarme Kamryn/Kam, una artista digital y tradicional asi que aqui publicare dibujos, comics y otros dibujitos tontos (≧▽≦) 🎨🖌️

Soy Venezolana y vivo en Argentina, eso significa que hablo español, pero no se preocupen por el idioma porque primero escribo la descripción en inglés y luego la traduzccion al español

Soy menor de edad (Especificamente 12 años) asi que no sean raros… -_-

tag de arte: #Kamryn's silly drawings

tag de comic: #Kamryn's stories

tag de preguntas: #Kam's silly questions

tag de gacha: #Kam's gacha curse

Libre de hacerme cualquier pregunta, decirme algo o sugerirme una idea para un dibujo :3

[Mis intereses/Gustos!]:

Chonny Jash - Tally Hall/Miracle Musical - VOCALOID - Murder Drones - The Amazing Digital Circus - Genshin Impact - The Walten Files - Lacey flash games - The Mandela Catalogue - Andy's apple farm - BLACKPINK - Little Witch Academia - The Promised Neverland - Bocchi the rock - Sailor Moon - Will Wood (And The Tapeworms) - Cult of The Lamb - FNAF

Bye bye y hasta luego!!!

[iwaoiness]

When Tooru likes Rosalía

Iwaizumi never thought it possible that anything could oust empanadas from the number 1 spot in Oikawa's TOP10 things I like most about Argentina.

Until Rosalia and her album El Mal Querer arrived during Tooru's second year in the Latin country.

Ever since he became obsessed whit her, there was no video call where Oikawa did not hum or sing a song. With the endearing accent that persisted in his Spanish, he sang voy a salir pa la calle, con la manita los aro’ brillando, en mi piel los corale’, me protejan, me salven, me iluminen, me guarden while he prepared to go out after Hajime helped him choose an outfit.

And also me da miedo cuando sales, sonriendo pa’ la calle, porque todos pueden ver, los hoyuelitos que te salen, like that day when he missed Iwa-chan so much that he couldn't disguise it and Jacob (Hajime's roommate and friend) uploaded a story to Instagram where Iwaizumi was laughing (so handsome, so ethereal) with naturalness and happiness and sweetness and with those tender dimples on his cheeks.

And de las luces sale un ángel que cayó, tiene una marca en el alma, pero ella no se la vio while preparing dinner following Iwaizumi's instructions via the video call

And when Oikawa was feeling playful, lying face down on the bed, with the laptop in front of him, he sang di mi nombre, pon tu cuerpo contra el mío, y que lo malo sea bueno e impuro lo bendecí’o, ya me abrazas sobre tu cuerpo, en la esquina de tu cama, and he enjoyed watching Hajime covered his face with his hands, his ears reddened and muttered curses in English because after so long, he understood Spanish too well.

Then, four years later, when Oikawa was giving up all hope of Rosalía releasing a new album, Motomami appeared, and Iwaizumi still remembers with a shudder Tooru's intense scream when it was released.

Now, with no trace of his accent, in fluent, melodious Spanish, Oikawa sang yo soy muy mía, yo me transformo, una mariposa, yo me transformo, makeup de drag queen, yo me transformo, lluvia de estrellas, yo me transformo as he swayed his hips and made his favourite smoothies in the kitchen of the new flat where he finally lived with Iwaizumi.

And there was one day when, while Hajime was talking to Kageyama on the phone about his hesitation to do a deodorant commercial, Oikawa sang out loud es mala amante la fama y no va a quererte de verdad, es demasia’o traicionera, y como ella viene, se te va to tease him a bit (just for old times' sake, not because he wanted to really annoy Tobio for interrupting them in their daily cuddling session).

And then he sang pa’ ti naki, chicken teriyaki, tu gata quiere maki, mi gata en Kawasaki as he and Iwa-chan walked to their favourite restaurant in Tokyo and Hajime, against his will, ended up humming the catchy fucking tune.

He also sang yo no soy y ni voy a ser tu bizcochito, pero tengo to’ lo que tiene delito, que me pongan en el sol, que me derrito as he went through his nightly skincare routine, with the song playing on his phone and Hajime by his side, brushing his teeth while looking at him in amusement through the reflection of the mirror.

And there was a time when Tooru not only sang baby, no me llame’ que yo estoy ocupá’ olvidando tus male’, ya decidí que esta noche se sale, con toda’ mis motomami’, con toda’ mis gyale’, but also joined the trend on TikTok (dragging Hajime of course). Both learned the choreography, recorded the video one Sunday morning and, in less than three hours, got more than 1M likes, 90k comments (20 of them from an excited Hinata), several calls from family and friends, a duo of Mattsun and Makki with their TikTok where both laughed trying to imitate them and Suna re-uploading the video on his social networks with the thumbs-up emoji.

And then came the RR album with Beso which Tooru had on loop for weeks, although Hajime didn't really mind, because the melody was soft (nothing to do with Chiken Teriyaki) and he loved it when Oikawa sang ya yo necesito otro beso, uno de esos que tú me da’, estar lejos de ti es el infierno, estar cerca de ti es mi paz as he wrapped his arms around Iwa-chan, smiled tenderly and looked at him lovingly before kissing him.

Although, when it was discovered that Rauw hurt Rosalía and they broke up, Oikawa (after venting his anger towards the male singer on his social networks) banned the album because in this house we don't tolerate infidels, Iwa-chan and replaced the RR album with the single LLYLM, with that fragment that Oikawa liked a lot and, during an April night, curled up on the small sofa on the balcony under the dark blanket of the sky, Hajime sang to him, low and soft, with an accent in his Spanish ay dame esa pulsera de flores, me la pondré en la muñeca, cuando despierte, así yo lo sabré, así yo lo sabré, yo sabré que fue real, será mi totem, lo sabes tú y nadie más.

But, instead of a flower bracelet, Iwaizumi carefully slipped a gold wedding ring onto Oikawa's ring finger and he, when noticed it, lifted his head from Hajime's chest, blinking in perplexity when he saw the jewel wrapped perfectly around his finger.

Is this...?

He shot his gaze towards Iwaizumi with a whirlwind of dizzying emotions swirling in his chest, where his heart was pounding so hard it could shatter ribs and pierce skin.

Hajime looked back at him, his olive green eyes shining with happiness in its purest state, and he widened his smile, that smile that expresses so much and brings out his dimples.

"Will you marry me, Tooru?" he asked him softly in Spanish, his voice trembling lightly, charged with the same emotions that stirred the setter.

Oikawa opened and closed his mouth, but the words caught in his throat, his lower lip began to tremble, his eyes to mist over before tears began to overflow and his cheks and nose began to blush. Tooru only managed to sob before he threw himself on top of him completely, hiding his face in Hajime’s shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and sliding his legs on either side of his hips. Iwaizumi’s strong arms immediately wrapped around Oikawa, aligning their hearts in that hug, bringing him the warmth, comfort, and security that Tooru grew up with.

Hajime was Tooru’s home that always kept its doors open for him.

"If I'd known you were going to propose I would have taught you Taylor Swift's discography." He whispered when finally found his voice and Hajime let out a wet laugh, his hand never having stopped stroking Oikawa’s back while the other still clutched at his waist.

"So that's a yes?" he asked and Oikawa sniffled, lifting his head to look him in the eye.

He smiled, with that cute curve to his lips that forced his eyes to narrow like half-moons and his reddened nose to wrinkle tenderly.

"As Rosalia sang at an awards ceremony" Tooru cleared his throat and Hajime laughed again before his boyfriend (now fiancé and forever his soulmate) cradled his face in his soft hands, his thumbs caressing his cheeks as their eyes met again "Si me das a elegir, entre tú y la gloria, pa’ que hable la historia de mí, por los siglos, ay amor" He inclined his head, nuzzling his nose with Iwaizumi's, who narrowed his eyes, lowering his gaze to those glossy lips that curved upwards "I'm staying with you" He finished in Japanese and Hajime mirrored his smile before their mouths melted into a kiss charged with all the love they had sown since they were two years old.

The same love that today, at the age of 29, blossoms like every spring in an explosion of colours and shapes.

[elbiotipo]

not a pointless rant, might be interesting to look at the history of obscenity laws in media. the Hays code in the US allowed some "immoral" acts to be depicted as long as it was portrayed negatively or "punished" in the story. maybe that led to more violence being more accepted in US media, both for not being deemed so immoral itself and for punishing acts that were? Japanese early 1900s obscenity rulings made a sort of test for whether or not something was explicit, which some argue led to unusual workarounds, and sexual material is still highly penalized. is that a group's values informing legislation or legislation as a tool for influencing values? relatedly imo, what language-cultural groups find obscene in the first place is varied. more powerful curse words can be related to sex, religion, or hygiene depending on the people group and their language. on top of all that, the political structures that create censorship or distribute propaganda have motivations to control narratives and demarcate "bad" people (dissidents and foreign actors) from "good" (upstanding citizens). I don't really have a point, you just got me thinking

No, this is a really important point. I'm not sure of our own obsecenity laws here in Argentina for example, but we've always been lax about that stuff, we always skirt the law so if they even existed I doubt they had too much influence in our art and only when (if) they were enforced, like when public decency laws were enforced against LGTB people, despite our constitution saying that the private lives of people are of no concern of the state (and this is also the basis of our current laws for equality of sexuality and gender). Which also is an interesting thing to consider; laws are only valid as long as they are enforced. For a silly example, I think TECHNICALLY piracy is illegal in Argentina, but you will not find a single example of the law being enforced, unless someone like the FBI really asks (yes, there's been a notorious case).

I digress. The main point that every culture has its own taboo topics. One interesting thing, though I might be incorrect since this is based in a conversation I had a long time ago: notice that there is virtually no depictions of drugs of any kind in Japanese media. Even in media aimed at adults. Compared to say, Latin American media where the depiction of drugs is so common is almost passé (negative, positive, just a part of life). But in Japan, as well as many other countries, this is not the case, drugs are very strictly controlled to a degree that we might find shocking, even with all the talk of "war on drugs" on the US and other countries.

Again, I digress. You won't ever find the perfect sweet spot of depiction of controversial or taboo topics that appeals to every culture and individual. There's some art that features those topics to shock or indulge, other to talk about it or have a conversation on it, other to pontificate about it in one way or another, other just because. I think it's better to understand why and how those topics are depicted, media literacy I think it's called?

[calyxthenerd]

Tell me crazy Fran and Marco backstories my dear friend

Okay, so, basically:

You know how they never mention Marco’s parents? That’s because he doesn’t have any, he never met the people who brought him into the world, he’s been in and out of orphanages since he was a baby, and then when he aged out of the system he moved around for a bit, first to spain, where he met Diego (because they never do explain how the two of them know each other), then to Argentina, like two years before the events of s2, that’s why he has that unbothered, go with the flow attitude, because he had taught himself not to get attached to anything, since stability was never a part of his life

And Fran is adopted, her birth parents were also Italians, but they were archeologists, and you know those rumors of curses being placed on people who dug up something they shouldn’t? They were in a dig somewhere in Mexico, and the curse on their site was that they’d be dead within seven days of finding this specific tomb, so when they were in their hotel, right before they were set to go home, they started displaying symptoms of a very rare disease that was thought to be extinct, and when they called for help, they were assisted by another couple, a housekeeper and a janitor, both Mexicans from birth, but they caught it as way, all four died on the way to the hospital, in ambulance called by the family staying in the room next door, but what no one would find out until the next day, is that the couple that worked in the hotel had a son who was just a few months old, waiting at home for parents who would never come, and since neither of them had any living relatives, he was placed in a government orphanage, where he would stay, until he was old enough to be on his own, he would then move to spain…

[evita-shelby]

Rules: Share your OC's full name and the meaning/origins behind it. Then (If you'd like) inculde any insights or symbolic meanings about their name you wish to share, or just your reasons for giving them the name that you did!

No pressure tags: @zablife @raincoffeeandfandoms @call-sign-shark @thegreatdragonfruta @red-riding-wood @runnning-outof-time @arcielee @assortedseaglass

Eva Leonor Smith Riley

Cw: use of a slur, mentions of suicide

For oc names i go with how the parents would name them given the society they live in and vibe. Eva was no different.

Eva gets two lastnames because of naming conventions in mexico, so its her father's surname followed by mother's maiden name.

So first name and middle name:

Eva: is the latin spelling of the hebrew words Chava/Hava meaning life or life giver.

While i could lie and say Eva’s name was chosen of the symbolism that she helps Tommy heal and grow into a better man, she is named Eva after Evita Peron, first lady of Argentina who after her dictator husband was overthrown.

She was rather influentian and there was a myth taht where her body was hidden(it was exhumed and stolen) flowers would appear there.

Eva's name also comes from a 1917 femme fatale played by Mimi Derba in La Tigeresa named Eva who pretended to be a poor woman to win the heart of a lower class man and then broke up with him, faked her death which drove him insane only for her (now married to a rich man) to visit the institution he was in for charity and he kills her in his mad rage.

While the femme fatale is more in line with s1 Grace , Eva reveals in Of Gods and Witches she seduced the president's son and when he discovered his father was gonna have her assassinated while under house arrest he commits suicide ala Antigone and Haemon. This all happened while she was secretly dating her best friend and cousin’s secret girlfriend, Antonia.

But in the fic, Eva is named Eva because her mother, Isabel, schemed to make herself go into labor in the Sistine Chapel(right ubder God's Creation of Eve)to get the current Pope (Benedict XV) attend the baptism and his successor the future Pope Pius XI to be her godfather because the archbishop of mexico refused to go to her family's estate to baptize Eva’s older brother Gabriel.

Leonor: is the portuguese and spanish variant of Eleanor meaning Torch, light and/or sun ray.

Leonor was the name of her great grandmother who descends from Emperor Moctezuma, the last Aztec ruler, through his son Juan Moctezuma who was made a spanish noble. Leonor Moctezuma, Eva’s great grandmother, was born to a member of the Moctezuma family and a Nahua secretary in Mexico City.

Last Names:

Smith: anglo-saxon 'to hit or strike' possibly related to a person who was a metal worker.

So Smith is a common English surname and the surname of a romani traveller king named Absalom Smith in the early 19th century. He died in 1826 with the title of king of the gypsies (please excuse the slur)and had been elected so in the early 19th century according to the Mamchester Times. He was a fiddler and his daughter Beatte Smith was so beautiful there is portrait of her in Belvoir Castle, Manchester.

The Smiths were apparently an important Romani family like the Boswells who the Shelbys claim descendance from and the Welsh Romani woman Tommy seeks to see if the sapphire was cursed is also a Boswell. Eva was originally going to be a Boswell but that would've made her a relative of Tommy and i decided against it.

Riley: anglicized irish last name meaning rye-clearing.

So Eva’s grandfather Patrick Riley was an Irish immigrant and oc nephew to John Patrick Riley, Captain of the Saint Patrick's Battalion who were composed Catholic Irish, Scotsmen. Freed slaves and men of color tired of the racism they dealt with in the US and defected to Mexico right before the Mexican American War in the 1850s.

John Riley immigrated to the US due to the Great Famine and despute being known for his great strength of character and morality died alone and penniless in Veracruz as the torture and defeat of his battalion at the hands of the americans left him with very severe trauma and teh letters D on both sides of his face branded onto his skin for desertion even though he deserted before the war.

It provides as to why Eva is of mixed race and how her grandmother who is old money ended up having red haired children and show how diverse Mexico actually is