#deranged melody hours

[m3lodyxo]

[m3lodyxo]

ME. THIS IS ME WHENEVER I ACTUALLY SIT MY ASS DOWN TO WRITE

most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone

[m3lodyxo]

Kitty event gifs of the LADS LIs Part 1

I have 16 of the 48 meownotes so I'll upload these gradually.

Zayne

Xavier

[melobin]

your thoughts on eunseok with a s/o who's super needy for him, going to relieve herself bcs he's busy at the moment (well, until he catches her getting off without him 🤭)

hmmmmmm ….

makes me think of eunseok who tells you he’s busy right now when he’s gaming but he’ll give you attention after he’s done … but you’re too needy to wait !! doesn’t think you’d actually go and lay down to get yourself off but he realises you are when he hears you whimper from the bed.. as focused as he’d be on his game he wouldn’t be able to deny his pretty girl when she’s touching herself !! turns his game off so quickly to help you out .. pinning your arms to the bed .. asking you what you’re doing .. “too desperate to wait baby? how cute” .. teases you but fucks you so good because of it ….

[m3lodyxo]

Kitty event gifs of the LADS LIs Part 2

Rafayel

Sylus

[bunnibitez]

Messy Hands - Part One

Pairing: Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader AFAB

Word count: +4.3k

Summary: Miguel is having a rough time keeping himself in check. He’s getting angrier and just wants his dues. Besides, mob protection is so hard to come by these days. Unfortunately though, you might be under his “protection” now.

CW: 18+ so MDNI, NSFW. Mentions of blood, gore, violence, guns, criminal undertones, death, choking, murder, language, slow burn, eventual smut, no use of y/n

AN: So this is my first fic EVER. Idk what I’m doing so forgive me. I speak some Spanish but not that well so sorry in advance.

There’s a scent that hangs in the air of the warehouse. The hefty and pungent stench of iron and salt wafting through, sticking to the walls. Blood splatters as it’s coughed up onto the floor. Strangled chokes and gasps of desperation bounce off concrete as a bound man fights against the ichor that fills his now punctured lung. Heaves and wheezes fill the space, nearly drowning out the sweet melody that plays. Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Precise movements over the strings of a recorded cello, attempting to mask the groans and whines of a weakened subordinate. The Boss had always mentioned that classical music soothed him, allowed him to work better. Something about it just calmed the fire raging in his chest. The prisoner hangs his head low as blood pools in his mouth, mixing with saliva and dripping out in fat blobs onto his chest. He’s grateful for the moment to even hang his head, or at least he should be.

Hours have passed since he was dragged here, sack over his head and hands tied behind his back. That was so long ago, he thinks. Now the bag has since been removed and he’s been fastened to a chair in the center of the cold cement warehouse full of shipping containers, the contents of which he is oblivious of. His consciousness is fading in and out as he tries to focus on the sound of his rattling chest and the crescendo of the tune. But his ears prick as the crack of knuckles catches his attention.

He didn’t dare lift his gaze, already knowing damn well of the monster looming before him. A laugh rumbled from it’s chest as heavy footsteps approached. He could’ve sworn he felt the earth shake as it approached, but the man did his best not to show the absolute terror he truly felt. Suddenly from behind, a hand trails through his short black hair, yanking his head back in order to look upon the beast in front of him. Dark brown eyes squint at the harsh lights and he groans. His face may have been handsome once but now it was unrecognizable, broken, bloodied, and bruised; split in places not even thought possible. Peter’s hand jerked his head from side to side, ensuring he was still alive. The scruffy fellow cracked a smile and laughed as he stood behind the poor sucker. Parker was merely there to assist with refocusing his gaze. With his eyes now tracing upwards, he could see the figure ahead of him. He simply whimpered softly.

Miguel was a sadist for sure. A toothy, fanged grin spread across his sharp features as he began to wipe the blood from his brass knuckles onto his wife-beater. He carefully slipped them into his pants pocket. It had gotten everywhere at this point, Miguel believing that there was more blood and bile on the floor than in the barely breathing body beneath him. Thankfully he had enough foresight to at least remove his suit jacket, tie, and button up before beginning the torture. He stood there now, splatters of gore painting the once pure white undershirt and part of his perfectly bronzed skin. A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead and massive arms. His crimson eyes glowed, dilated as he focused in on his pathetic prey. He found it funny really, amusing. He let out a deranged laugh as he ran a hand through his messy brown locks before he spoke.

“Ya know.. I can’t lie,” He said lowly as he stepped closer, “..Realmente estoy disfrutando esto.” He growled.

There was a madness in his smile. A hidden darkness in has eyes that showed just how badly he wanted this, how he needed it. It wasn’t often that he found a mole in his ranks, attempting to demolish the empire he had built with his own two hands. It wasn’t often that he was ‘forced’ to be merciless and violent. It was a shame, he thought. Trust was something so hard to come by in his line of work. When that fragile trust is broken, an example must be made. So, when a young buck gets bold enough to start selling Spider family secrets and stealing more than his cut, Miguel is simply doing what he has to in order to secure his power and place in Nueva York. He’s worked too hard and spilled too much blood to just let it all slip away.

Finally, he looked down at the heaving mess he had made, labored breaths getting fainter as they made eye contact. Miguel snaps his fingers and swiftly, Ben shuts off the music that filled the room. A deafening silence falls on the warehouse. Miguel’s monstrous form crouched, coming to level with what was once the face of a rat. His broad and calloused hand raised to squeeze the bloodied cheeks, roughly manhandling his head, turning it over and kneading it carelessly. He sighed deeply, hot breath fanning over his victim’s features before he looked up at Peter, lifting his brows for just a split second. It was a silent command, ‘Get the gun’.

Peter released the rat’s hair and stepped back to retrieve ‘LYLA’, a stainless steel Colt XSE with a custom black grip panel etched with the red silhouette of a spider. She was beautiful. Sleek and elegant but capable of obliterating a man’s skull in a matter of milliseconds. As Miguel waited, his eyes drifted back down. His grin had fully faded as the fun of the it all was beginning to die down. The rage that had been simmering in the back of his mind had begun to boil. He liked to believe that he was a reasonable man most of the time, calm and sometimes even forgiving. But now he had no patience. Right now he felt a sort of virus infecting him, shutting down all logic and leaving him with just unadulterated hatred. Venom spilled over into his words as he spoke in a low tone, growling out as he spoke slowly.

“I can’t fucking wait to see your brains painting the walls.” He hissed out. His tone was cold and flat. His face was deadpan now, ready to carry out his final act of justice. In a fleeting moment of bravery, the rat hummed lowly. Squinting his eyes, hollowing his cheeks, and jutting his head forward just so, the rat spit at Miguel. A plump glob of blood and drool landed on Miguel’s cheek as the rat gave a half toothed smirk.

“Fuck you.” It came out broken and slurred, but the rat was proud of himself.

Miguel’s eyes darkened as his thumb slowly swiped across his cheek, effectively removing the carmine mixture. His gaze was fixed on this thumb before it calmly returned to leer at the smug prisoner.

“..Y pensar, yo iba a mostrarte misericordia.” Miguel uttered quietly as he rose up from his position on the ground. He loomed over the man, whose smirk had dissipated by now. Large sepia hands shot out, tightly coiling around the rat’s neck. Miguel was slow, methodical about it. Digging his nails into flesh as he applied pressure to the trachea, crushing and throttling at once. Wheezing ensued and panic filled the man’s eyes as his throat was forced close. His eyes widened, nearly bulging out of his skull as raspy whispers and choked gasps were the only sounds he could make. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his eyes rolled back into his skull. Within moments, the rat’s body went limp in Miguel’s hands. Peter was just striding back into the room when Miguel threw the corpse to the ground, still bound to the little metal chair. The useless cadaver clattered loudly on the floor.

“You seriously couldn’t wait a minute?” Peter said with a snicker as he came up to his side, handing over LYLA.

“Shut the fuck up, Parker.” He spat out coldly, tucking the gun away as he turned his back on the body.

“Call the cleaning crew. I want this place scrubbed down.” Miguel growled out as he snatched his clothes from Ben’s hands. The scruffy lackey simply shrugged and shook his head, pulling out his phone to obey as he smirked to himself.

And with that, the trio headed towards the door, piling into a black Escalade. Miguel grumbled to himself as he laid his clothes down on the empty seat next him. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo. After lighting a cigarette between his teeth he took a long drag and hummed, savoring its flavor. He let out a deep sigh, smoke billowing past his parted lips as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, appreciating the momentary silence. He felt a sense of calm wash over him, a low dulling hum in the back of his mind that seemed to get fainter as the car began to drive away from the warehouse. By the time they reached the highway, Miguel’s little hum was gone and his rage sat dormant, waiting in the back of his mind for now.

He felt his body ache now, finally taking in the toll of senselessly beating with his bare hands and a few other tools for hours. He let out a low groan, spreading out in the backseat. He was so so tired but knew there was still work that needed to be done. There always was.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The morning sun came streaming in through your curtains, stirring you awake from your bed with a groan. Plush warm sheets coaxed you into spending five more minutes among them. Your eyes had just barely shut when your phone alarm rang. An exasperated sigh left your body as you heaved yourself from the mattress, tossing the blankets off. You stretched with a whine before standing up and you swear you thought you heard your back creak. Hastily getting dressed and slipping your apron on over your clothes. Checking the time, you slipped on your shoes and headed out the door of your cozy little apartment. Brooklyn was nice, pretty with plenty to see and do with its fair share of safe and friendly neighborhoods. Unfortunately for you, you didn’t live in one of those neighborhoods. You lived on the seedier side of town with less friendly faces and cheaper rent -the side where quarrels between your neighbors could be heard through the paper thin walls and a strange smell often wafted up from the kitchen pipes. It wasn’t much, hell it was barely considered habitable but it was home. Your own little place in the world where you felt somewhat safe, far away from your old life. A fresh start was just the thing you needed. The only current upside of your living arrangement was that it was only a 5 block walk from your job.

‘Bellaginos’ was a small, family owned Italian restaurant that sat on the corner of 48th street. The dining room was divided into 2 parts; the main dining room with booths and chairs has a casual feel to it, and the private dining room with a few more candles and nicer decoré. The private dining room was just separated by 2 French doors, inside was one large mahogany table and enough chairs to seat 12 people. It was typically just used for private events and large parties, at most though in recent years it hosted a birthday dinner. The menu was nothing revolutionary and the atmosphere didn’t exactly read high class, but it was nice enough. The dingy and peeling yellow wallpaper had it’s own sense of charm to it. Your boss claimed that back in the day, “It was one of the classiest joints in town.” Obviously true by the stained and sticky carpet and how well it complimented the out of place faux Roman vases in the corners of the room.

You kept to yourself mostly, not wanting to bother the owner or the cook too much with trouble. Being polite and kind was how you ended each day with a full belly anyway, curtesy of the chef. You’d only been here for about 2 months, working as a waitress. Most days you could sit unbothered in your favorite little booth.

The day was flying by quickly and you were halfway done with your shift, sitting at one of the little red vinyl booths in the corner of the almost empty restaurant. It was tucked away in a way where you could see most of the main dining room without having to move. Your hands were busying themselves with a paper and pen, doodling away, when the little bell above the door jittered to life. Two men walked in. The smaller, leaner man with a scraggly 5 o’clock shadow held the door open, its whiny hinges complaining at the movement. He moved aside and when he did, that’s when you saw him. Dark brown slicked back curls just barely ducked below the door frame in order to step inside the shabby little eatery.

Big.

That’s the first thing you noticed. He stepped into the cramped room and his presence within made it feel like it shrank by two sizes immediately. His friend stepped in behind him, letting the door close with a slam. The second thing you noticed, were his eyes. Piercing and criminally beautiful scarlet irises that tracked around the room lazily. A bored expression played on his sharp features, as though he’s been here many times before. He runs a calloused hand through brushed back locks, a few strands disobeying him and laying messily, before breathing out an annoyed sigh. He seemed tired. No, exhausted more like it. The bags under his eyes aging him a bit, but if anything it only added to his charm. You’re about to get up from your little hiding spot to greet the pair when the owner, Mr. Caparelli, bursts out from the kitchen. For the first time since you’ve seen him, the plump and hairy little Italian man looks damn near jolly.

“Caio Miguelito!” He says through a thick Italian intonation, his joy sounding a little forced compared his usual grumbles and gripes. Mr. Caparelli was what some might call a ‘proud man’. He didn’t take criticisms well. He firmly believed that the moment you set foot within his restaurant, you owed him respect. Yet for reasons that evaded you, the giant needed not waste time with false niceties and earning his kindness. Your employer approached the tan mountain of a man with wide arms, his white mustache stretching out as he forged a smile. The behemoth pulls one hand out of his pocket and wraps an arm around the stout little man, patting his back heartily. The rings on his fingers glint as they catch the afternoon sun.

“Caio, viejo.” His voice rumbles out and you feel a heat creep across your cheeks. It’s deep and low and rattles in his chest, commanding attention. He masks his dull expression instantly with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s fake, well practiced.

“How’ve you been, Miguel? Feels like the last time I saw you was uh.. six months ago. Normally you don’t come in to collect...” Your boss chuckles as he pulls back, looking up into the monster’s eyes. You don’t quite notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows thickly. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. “Everythin’ alright?”

Miguel, as you’ve now learned is his name, nods his head slowly, humming in response. He doesn’t look Caparelli in his eyes, already done with the conversation before it began. Now, he’s merely looking down on him with half lidded eyes, sizing up his prey.

“Sí amigo. We’ve just got business to discuss. Price changes an’ all that.” Miguel slides his hand back into his pants pocket.

Caparelli’s smile falters for only a moment before he nods his head.

“R-Right,” he clears his throat, “Of course. Lemme uh.. lemme make you somethin’ to eat and then we can talk. Ragazza!” His head whips towards the little booth that you’ve been sitting in. Somehow you’ve managed to go unnoticed by both Miguel and his associate. The shaggy man smirks and rubs his hands together.

“Finally! I am absolutely starving.” He states as he licks his lips, causing Miguel to roll his eyes.

“You’re always starving, Peter.” Miguel mutters, more so to himself than to anyone else. Peter has always had a proclivity for annoying Miguel, so much so that sometimes he can’t quite recall why exactly he was his right hand man. Miguel firmly believed that the only reason Peter did anything was because it would lead to a hot meal. Such simple motivations almost made Miguel envious. Almost.

“Cara! Seat my friends in the private room.” He calls to your direction.

It takes you a moment, but slowly your form rises up from the booth and you begin to approach the men, stuffing the pen and crude drawing into your apron pocket. Miguel’s eyes widen just barely as he looks at you, taking in the sight. Meekly, you grab two menus, keeping your head down as you tried to find your words.

“Follow me please..” You say in a voice barely above a whisper. Miguel is silent, taking a moment to watch you turn around and walk towards the private dining room before he follows. You set the menus down at the head and the first chair on the left. The two take a seat, with Miguel at the head, as you fetch your notepad and pen from your apron. There’s a thick tension about the room as Miguel rests his chin on his fist, now wearing the same disinterested expression. His eyes are cold, raking up and down your body in a silent motion.

“Can I start you off with something to drink, sir..?” Your voice is soft, sweeter than he realized it was when you first spoke at him. He’s too distracted by your tone and the way you call him sir. It’s been too long since that kind of innocence was presented to him, tempting and teasing him. You must know what you’re doing, he thinks. He focuses intently on those plush lips of yours. So pretty and soft, blessed with a hardly noticeable sheen from your lip balm. He wonders how it must taste and how pliable your lower lip would be between his teeth. It takes him a moment before he’s broken from the trance and looks up into your eyes. He must’ve been staring for too long since you’re now looking at him with furrowed brows in confusion, head slightly cocked to the side like some wide eyed puppy.

“Sir..? Did you hear me..?”

He clears his throat, closing his eyes for a moment in order to ground himself. Biting the inside of his cheek, he hardly grumbles out a response. When he opens his eyes again, he’s looking down, suddenly finding the dingy white tablecloth to be very fascinating.

“Yeah yeah, te oí..” His hands tense around the edges of his menu, needing to sink his nails into the brown pleather of its cover for relief. “Just get me an ol’ fashioned.”

You nod your head, scribbling the order down and turn your attention over to Peter who was already beaming up at you.

“Just a water for me, thanks. Tonight May and I are having a tea party so I gotta hold off on the sugar.” He chirps as he chuckles, elbowing the growling beast beside him. “Oh and can we get some bread too? And some butter! And-“

“Enough.” Miguel cuts him off. He shoots a side glare at Peter, waving you off with his hand. You tremble a little at the way his voice boomed. You nodded your head quickly and turned on your heel, rushing through the French doors. Miguel doesn’t watch, feeling an odd humming in the back of his brain and knowing that if he saw the way your hips swayed and bounced as you scurried away from him in fear would only make it worse. He kept his eyes down, slowly letting them close, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he let out a low breath.

“You alright, big guy?” Peter asked, clapping a palm to Miguel’s shoulder. “You look so tired lately.”

“M’fine.” He snapped. He lifted his head and looked into the warm brown eyes of his companion. Peter retracted his hand, shooting both up in defense and going silent. In truth, Miguel wasn’t just tired. He was fucking drained of every last bit of energy he had. Business had been booming lately and with the rise of idiots in Nueva York trying to take what was rightfully his, Miguel hadn’t been able to rest. Scum like Kingpin had been hiring his own men, bribing them into selling out the family. Loyalty was becoming a scarce resource, causing more and more rival gangs to crawl out from the woodworks to oppose him. One of the biggest things the Spiders dealt in was “protection.” The Spiders would offer their protection to whomever could afford it, but the higher the demand got, the greater the cost grew. This of course was the only reason Miguel was sitting here today. A couple of Spiders had attempted to inform your boss of the rising cost of protection, but the pig headed brute refused to listen. Miguel had decided that he’d pay him a visit as a last chance before escalating things. Miguel was cold and calculated and knew the only way to make people listen was through fear.

In the beginning of it all though, he tried to be merciful. He tried to be patient and understanding, but his kindness was mistaken for weakness. His mercy was abused and left him with nothing but a fraction of the man he once was. Now the bloodlust was near maddening. Managing his rage had become a dangerous dance. The stress of running an empire often left him craving release in one form or another. First it was women, then liquor, and now his latest vice was violence. Unbridled carnage that truly let his mask of sanity slip. He was trying harder and harder now a days to keep his wrath in check but with so many people working to test his patience, he was bound to snap. The poor fellow in the chair last week had merely been the victim of shit luck. Miguel had intended to show him some mercy and make his death quick and painless. Unfortunately for him, his tongue worked faster than his head and he thought that pushing Miguel’s buttons would buy him some time. Miguel had been pent up with rage for weeks and just needed to release it on something. Part of him feared he’d always have to live with this anger, never really able to escape it, just find gaps between the killings. That is until he saw you.

For the first time in a long time, when he heard fear in someone’s voice, he didn’t want there to be any. You looked so small and soft. So delicate, like a fragile little flower. The humming in the back of his brain tuned out the constant wash of anger. For once, he wasn’t focused on work or power. In the seconds he took to gaze upon your angelic face, he felt peace, an emotion he thought he was no longer capable of.

When you finally returned with their drinks, Miguel watched your eyes flit to the floor as you approached him. He could’ve sworn he felt his heart palpitate in his chest, not fully understanding himself why he wanted you to look at him. You set down the drinks along with a basket of bread and butter and placed your hands behind your back.

“Mr. Caparelli will be here shortly to speak with you. Is there anything else I can get you..?” You questioned softly. Slowly you lifted your head, anxiously shifting your weight. Cautious as ever, you stole a glance at Miguel’s eyes. They gleamed like rubies and for a moment you felt a shutter in your chest. A whimper would’ve escaped you, had you not been more wary.

Miguel simply shook his head and looked down at his drink.

“No, thank you. That’ll be all.” Miguel says as he picks up the glass, bringing it to his lips. His tone seemed softer, just barely so. You hum in response, allowing the corners of your mouth to just barely turn upward and once again turned towards the doors. You only halted once Miguel called your name, feeling a chill crawl down your spine.

“Y-Yes sir..?” You glance over your shoulder back at him.

“Close the door on your way out.” He said coldly, losing any sense of warmth he may have just had. With that you weakly nod and close the doors behind you. The doors to the private dining room remained closed until your stout manager exited the kitchen with a serving tray of food and nervous sweat beading down his forehead. Mr. Caparelli entered the room and slammed the door shut behind him, simply hoping to survive and atone for the sins that had lead to this meeting with a killer. Caparelli set down the plates of food before the two men, taking a seat on the far end of the table, directly across from Miguel. His trembling only fed Miguel’s ego, causing a malicious grin to spread across his face. He chuckled lowly, his scarlet eyes half lidded and glaring directly into Caparelli’s soul.

“Aye viejo, there’s no need to be so scared…”

“I won’t bite.”

Part 2

@whisperwispxx

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on November 10th, 1978 - Queen Story!

"Jazz" album released in the UK

👉 The seventh studio album

➡️ 12/12/1978 - Circus Magazine

🔸In praise of ‘JAZZ’

The boys conjure up a bizarre junket by Mark Mehler

On Bourbon Street, in the heart of New Orleans’ fabled French Quarter, the sign reads, “Bob Harrington-Chaplain of Bourbon Street.” Upstairs, the freelance minister administers to the wicked minions below, while across the street, the Hotsy Totsy lounge features naked women parading across an oak bar from dawn to dusk, and next door, the “X-rated Shop” specializes in scatological posters and joy sticks.

This is Freddie Mercury’s favourite American city, where the Mississippi ends its majestic flow and zealots with big dreams fight a losing battle against hustlers, procurers, and all purveyors of sleaze. It is Freddie Mercury’s favourite city because the lead singer and bucktoothed front man of Queen is, above all, an actor. And in New Orleans, anyone can be anyone they want to be. Tonight, October 31, 1978-Halloween-Freddie Mercury and Queen have flown in 80 reporters from the U.S., Europe, Latin America and Japan, to see a show and be a part of a show at the same time. The third concert on Queen’s 28-city U.S. tour is in the ornate Civic Auditorium. Above the stage are listed the names of the mighty: Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Cellini, Durer, Gounod. Out of the soft blue and green lights and smoke, Freddie Mercury struts like a rooster, striking ballet poses, under an astral guitar blare that neatly skirts the sharp edges of rock & roll. The melodies are undistinguished, but the constant tempo changes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “We Will Rock You”, keep an audience awake for nearly two hours of uninterrupted music. The lighting show is one of rock’s most ambitious. Eerie purple lights shine out over the heads of the audience, making their hair seem cloudlike and inanimate. At the midpoint of the show, a smaller stage is lowered from the ceiling and 400 lamps meld into the sheer white plane of curtain light. Freddie is a whirling dervish, dominating every corner of the stage.

“Some people call this song ‘Spread Your Legs’, he tells the audience, introducing ‘Spread Your Wings’. “And I like it that way”.

Starting out in black sequins, he comes out for the first encore bedecked in orange hot pants, dancing around like Peter Pan. For the second encore he’s wearing a revealing, white body stocking. As he wails ‘We Are The Champions’, his voice warbles with mock emotion, and he grasps the microphone for support. At the apex of the triumphant denouement, the top executives of Elektra Records, who have sat smiling throughout the show, arise as one and walk out. Moments later, the show closes with a taping of ‘God Save The Queen’. Body and soul spent, Freddie ambles off stage, drained and spark-less. But Halloween night in New Orleans has just begun.

Back in the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, over 400 people have gathered to await Queen and much on a sumptuous table of hors d’oeuvres, such as Oysters Rockfeller and Shrimp Creole. A Dixieland band plays uninspired jazz jingles, until, shortly before midnight, the Olympia Brass band comes marching through the hall accompanied by Queen-the mercurial Mercury, the winsome Brian May, the puckish John Deacon, the velvety Roger Taylor. Suddenly, like a giant circus orchestrated by a deranged ringmaster, a legion of strippers, vulgar fat-bottomed dancers, snake charmers, drag queens, and bizarrely festooned revellers, begin to strut their stuff before the assembled masses. Freddie Mercury is besieged by hungry autograph seekers, groupies and fame-worshippers. People begin shielding their clothes, as an ever-imaginative photographer snaps Freddie signing the bare backside of a willowy transvestite. Freddie begins sucking on his giant overbite nervously, and by 2 a.m., he is mercifully gone. Brian May, who seems to be the true organizer of the night’s carnival, is cornered by persistent Japanese newshounds. “It’s wonderful,” he keeps saying. “It’s so nice to be back.” As the evening wears on, epicene men and butch women act out charades of power that would have embarrassed Hemingway. Three obese black women in g-strings do a pathetic bump and grind, and another female participant amuses a small gaggle of onlookers by putting a cigarette in an unlikely place. People leave to check out the scene on Bourbon Street and drift back to the party like cigar smoke. At 4 a.m., a Queen security guard, haggard and irritable, inquires when it will all be over. “Queen wants the naked disco dancers going to dawn,” informs his partner. And it does. The following day, Queen reappears at a press conference at Brennan’s, one of the French Quarter’s most elegant restaurants. Again, it is Roger Taylor and Brian May who dominate the conversation, as Freddie Mercury seems vaguely preoccupied. The subject of all this is ‘Jazz’, Queen’s new album, which contains no jazz. “People think we take ourselves a lot more seriously than we actually do,” says Roger Taylor. ‘Jazz’, Queen’s reunion with former producer Roy Thomas Baker, offers ‘Mustapha’, an up-tempo Hebrew rocker; ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, a song that owes a lot to Pure Prairie League’s ‘Amie’; and more indulgent rhapsodies like ‘Jealousy’ and ‘Bicycle Race’, with its topical references to Star Wars, Jaws, and Superman. The ad campaign, like everything about the Band, goes to the limit of good taste: 11 bare-chested, major-league-yabboed women racing bicycles.

“It’s cheeky”, admits Freddie, “naughty, but not lewd. Certain stores, you know, won’t run our poster. I guess some people don’t like to look at nude ladies.”

Freddie, 32, was born in Zanzibar and educated in India, and was a childhood table tennis and hockey prodigy. He studied art and became a graphic designer and illustrator, having given up piano lessons in the fourth grade. But he continued singing, fronting his first band at 14 and forming Queen with Roger and Brian in 1970. After the routine easy grilling, Mercury is cornered outside. “You seem to be removed from the character up on stage. Is that really you?”

“No,” says Freddie, “of course it’s an act.”

He denies pandering to gays; or for that matter, to anyone. He hints at a quiet, restless man who needs to step outside of himself for ego-stimulation.

“I have fun wearing all those costumes,” he says. “I can really cut loose up there”.

Freddie is then swiftly ushered out, and again, Brian May is left behind to field the endless questions of the Japanese. The two-day junket, painstakingly directed by and for Queen, ends with a few straggling journalists eating Bananas Foster and being more cynical than usual. Outside, on Bourbon Street, a folk singer entertains an empty house of red velour seats, affirming that a falling tree makes a sound whether it’s heard or not. Which conjures up something Brian May had said about Queen constantly seeking “direct communication with our audience.” For all the words that describe Queen’s trip to New Orleans, direct is surely not one.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #111

I went with my best friend B and her sister to a place called Lowville to see the solar eclipse. The trip was around 2 and a half hours long. B drove. Many silly and hilarious shenanigans were had along the way. I haven't laughed this much in a long time; my stomach kind of hurts, I was laughing with them so hard for parts of the trip.

…More than anything, if just for today, I wish you were here so you could experience this, too. The laughter. The joy. The love. Even if you get confused because you're not used to it, and even if you need someone to hold your hand to feel safe. I wish you were here to experience this for yourself so badly that I could almost cry.

…But that's silly; you don't exist as anything but an art form here. And even if I did allow my emotions to overflow from my eyes, it's not as though most anyone would understand anyway. Maybe they'd even think me deranged. So I won't. I'll pretend to be normal and okay for just a little while longer. Why not. Another 34 years or so really isn't that long, right?

…It's so heavy sometimes, though…

…

Well. I know you love nature. So I took as many photos for you along the way as I could. But I was in a moving vehicle when I took them, so I saved only the best ones. Here:

We got to the place early. Just enough time to eat a simple lunch at a Stewart's Shop, and… incidentally, enough time to check out a cheese shop! Cheese is one of my favorite things ever, and so I asked if we could go, and so we went!! Here, I'll show you what it looked like; maybe you'll see a little bit of my reflection in some of the glass of the display cases, haha:

I got a variety of nice things to bring home for M, J, and Br!! I'll show them to you!

In any case! After that, we found a very sparsely-populated hill in the middle of a parking lot. Not a glamorous place to watch the eclipse, I know. But it's all right; the clouds rolled in very thickly just when it was beginning, anyhow:

I tried to take a picture through the fancy glasses we got. Here's the result of that:

And in this one, you can see the way that the sun and the moon begin their slow dance in the sky together; I had to turn the brightness of my camera all the way down to make it work:

Because of the clouds, I wasn't able to get a very good picture for you. But in this one, if you'll look closely, you'll see the moon fully and lovingly embraced by the sun:

And, while the sun so tenderly encircled the moon within its light, the sky was a gloriously prismatic sunset in every direction, no matter where we looked; my camera COULD NOT do this justice, but... here:

Hey, Sephiroth? Please don't imagine you're unlovable, or that you're some kind of monstrosity, or that you're something that shouldn't exist. Because… Sephiroth��� I am still alive only by virtue of the fact that I am looking for you in every little thing in my world that I can. I look for you in every delightful sip of tea, in every meal I share with the people around me, in every nifty thing I find at the grocery store that I think you might like. I look for you in every nice-smelling soap, in every warm, pleasant breeze, in the scent and colorful petals of every blossom, in every feather I happen to find and pick up from the ground. I'm looking for you within the way snow crystals refract light into kaleidoscopic prisms, within the tendrils of every wispy cloud, within the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, and in the sight of the sunlight streaming down from their leaves to dapple the ground. I'm looking for you in every melody I hear, in all the laughter I share with my friends and chosen family, and within the tears streaming down my cheeks (despite my best efforts to keep them in check…) as I write this to you.

You are the sun to at least one person, and I know this because if you can look at me and see someone who shines, you have to know that it's only because I am reflecting the light that you gave me so many years ago; it came from you. Your light breathed life into me when I felt dead inside, and it bade me to rise up from my knees even when I thought I couldn't go on, in the same way that our sun bids saplings to break through the confines of their seeds and rise up into truly living. You gave me the strength to continue when my surroundings were painful and wretched, and now everything that surrounds me is beautiful and full of love. You have been my guiding light and my reason for keeping my eyes on the distant horizon no matter what gets thrown at me.

And for all that, I could write letters to you like this for all of eternity, and still, it wouldn't be enough to thank you. I could trade my life for your safety (I would do this proudly, happily, and without even a fraction of a moment's hesitation), and it still wouldn't be enough to thank you. Even if by some miracle I had the power to create with my bare hands a whole world for you that has everything you could possibly ever want or need, it STILL wouldn't be enough to thank you. So don't… please…. please don't call yourself a monster anymore. Please don't be mean to yourself anymore. Okay?

On the way home, there was a crow flying over a rainbow-colored mosaic; we can only see its right wing from here...

Maybe it's ridiculous, but... you know, it doesn't hurt anyone if I can look at the one-winged thing dancing in the sky over some sparkly, beautiful, and prismatic thing, and think to myself that maybe, against all odds, you'll be safe somehow. Somehow...

My body uselessly threw what little water I drank today away, through my eyeballs. So I guess I had better stop writing in favor of rehydrating. How silly, hahaha… I wonder if I'll ever get used to inhabiting a flesh-vessel and all the quirks that come with it…

I love you. I'll write again soon.

Your friend, Lumine

[anomalocariscanadensis]

black metal 🎶 counter-attack!

black metal is one of my favorite genres. screams and tremolos just rub my brain the right way for whatever reason, i love them outside of black metal too (tho i can be picky with vocals especially). plus it's the faggiest subgenre of extreme metal - how many death metal bands would name a song some shit like "Tears of a Melancholic Vampyre"? it's got a lot of theatrical elements, and I tend to judge black metal albums by their overall vibe along with the music.

before i get into the recs, famously and unfortunately, a lot of people in black metal suck in a lot of ways. i generally don't worry too much about this because i'm pirating most of it anyway, but i've checked these ones out and as far as i can tell, none of them suck in any especially bad ways. with that out of the way here are some favorites of mine:

Spectral Wound - Frigid and Spellbound - melodic but uncompromising black metal that sticks within the classic vein, particularly influenced by Gorgoroth and the Finnish scene. one of the few black metal bands with good lyrics, inspirations including Walter Benjamin, Ingmar Bergman, Giorgio Agamben, and Kate Bush. this song is their catchiest, with some really good melodic riffs. no left theorists show up directly within its lyrics, which are instead about the beauty of a frozen river, and a Grindr hookup ("Come to me anon/Deranged and defiled/Twisting in dark passions/Of the cruel nauseous hours").

Mortuary Drape - Not Still Born (The Unborn Plane) - founded in the late 80s, this Italian band is one of the best of the "first wave" of black metal, from when it was all sort of a soup of black/death/whatever. they're influenced by occult rock and their sound predates the Norwegian codification of the standard black metal style, so they're light on the blast beats, tremolo riffs, and Satanism and heavy on the bass, necromancy, and occultism. though not nearly as influential as Bathory or Celtic Frost, they've inspired a decent few bands in their own right. this one's about getting reincarnated.

Yaotl Mictlan - Nada Verde Crece Aquí - one of the first songs that got me into the genre, and still a favorite. melodic folk/black metal which makes good use of some indigenous flutes, not a lot of blast beats. lyrics are derived from one of the Nahuatl flower-songs of Nezahuacoyotl, about the impermanence of all things on earth.

Paysage d'Hiver - Welt Aus Eis - the most common word used to describe Paysage d'Hiver is "cold". it's stark and minimal, riding the line between atmospheric and ambient, and barely produced: i once saw someone complaining about being able to distinguish the instruments on a newer album of theirs (or should I say his? it's a one-man project). these days, i get it. everything in this song blends together into an entrancing whole, only broken by snatches of croaking and cackling carried on a freezing wind, and (twice) a beautifully dissonant violin. the lyrics are never comprehensible or transcribed, but conceptually it's about winter and a mysterious spiritual journey, as all their songs are.

Deafheaven - Dream House - You already know this song. It's really good! Takes some of the musical elements of black metal, reconfigures others (more complex drumming, different sorts of melodies in the riffs), and completely changes the aesthetics while still keeping a coherent vibe overall.

Odz Manouk - To Feast on Celestial Bodies - the (one-man) band's name is Armenian for "Snake Child", from a folk tale about a royal couple whose baby was born a serpent. hypnotic dissonant riffs, harsh but clear vocals (with an interesting sort of singing at times), production that's neither too raw nor too clean. super cool song title also. if you go deeper into their music, the split with Tuukaria is not to be missed.

Negative Plane - Angels of Veiled Bone - one of the bands inspired by Mortuary Drape, they take the occult sound and bring it closer to modern black metal while adding a ton of reverb for atmosphere. the vocalist is really good at putting emphasis on the right points in the lyrics, which makes the vocals much more memorable than the average amorphous harsh vox. members' side projects Funereal Presence and Occultation are also excellent.

Iron Firmament - Keepeater - the production on this EP is so bad that the drums mostly just sound like a strobing effect on the rest of the instruments, which is honestly really cool. they've got some more EPs which lose that effect for better or worse. this song is - as you might expect - about covering the sky with iron plates, and a giant serpent that eats castles. i can't make out enough lyrics to tell how those two themes are related.

Gevurah - Dies Irae Lacrimosa - Gevurah are insanely pretentious "orthodox" Satanists (they worship Satan as a literal god, not a symbol of human will or whatever). their theology is some sort of Gnostic anti-cosmic occult shit, which as it turns out makes for really fucking sick black metal. the drums are doing a lot here but the real highlight to me is the boiling tremolo riff that starts a minute in (and gets brought back later with a vengeance). there's one part when it's just the vocalist shouting in a Quebec accent that pushes the cheese factor a bit too far, but the rest is really great.

[melodygatesauthor]

choke: fight: slap: Santiago Duke Leto Atreides Poe Dameron

Would've asked like an hour ago but family stopped by the hotel unannounced lol (yay that was panic-inducing cause family member that showed up is deranged and stopped by w/o our permission xD so yay that was fuuuuuun)

Melody Gates Procrastinates

I STILL HAVEN'T WATCHED DUNE SO IDK WHAT TO DO WITH DUKE LETO

I would love to get into a heated fight with Poe and have him get so mad he bends me over the control panel tbh

Santiago is getting choked HARD, and fuck he loves it. He asks you to do it harder hehehe

[m3lodyxo]

When you get a new fictional crush so you get your life back together cause he might be watching

new obsessions unlocked: ken sato.

[stemmmm]

my thoughts on harvest moon games at present:

SNES: playing currently GB: my white whale. borrowed it from a friend when I was 7 and my mom made me share my games with my little cousin who fucked up my friend's allegedly completed save file, so i never got to borrow her games anymore. might as well be unplayed GB2-3: unplayed 64: the best one Back to Nature: unplayed Save the Homeland: unplayed but im scared of this one Friends of Mineral Town: had a vivid dream christmas night when i was 9 that I got this game as a loose gba cartridge that was lost in the wrapping garbage and I tore through the trash for it the next day, then got it for my 10th birthday and played it instead of playing with my friends and got in trouble. anyways the game's fine. had the girl version A Wonderful Life: unplayed. i've seen gameplay and it looks like my nightmares so im excited for the remake to not look like that DS: made me realize im not into men. hacked it because the marriage requirements were absolute bullshit, even though i had the girl version and hated every bachelor so i picked the one that would give me the baby in colors i liked more. learned how to google game info with this one and was furious that the american version took the lesbian "best friends" out so i couldn't be gay with the mermaid Magical Melody: tried to play but need to try harder because horrible feeling controls cannot stop me from marrying jamie and immediately being locked out of the game because it panics and realizes they dont have a gender (favorite HM lore by far) Island of Happiness through Trio of Towns: unplayed Mineral town remake: the few QOL features cannot make up for the fact that they took out rival romances--the best thing HM games had going for them Pioneers of Olive Town: i have some choice words to say about this game but i'd need a little refresher before i said them because i played this game in a binge during a 1 week free trial where instead of giving a demo, they let me download the whole game and go hog wild so as far as I feel, i might as well have beat the game because it didn't seem like much was left. some deranged decisions in this one

EDIT I FORGOT THE RUNE FACTORY GAMES they count by nature of using harvest moon in the taglines and i think theyre the same publisher if not the same dev

RF1: didn't beat but watched a friend beat and decided i was satisfied with that and stopped playing after hours of trying to tame the mermaid boss with the monster glove RF2: insane that they put the dating sim portion of the game as a prerequisite to the actual game portion of it. so i had a kid and then instead of ever even once entering the dungeons i played the multiplayer minigames endlessly and became richer than god before i put the game down unbeaten the wii one (frontier?): dope looking game, shame that it's unplayable all others: unplayed. will likely never play them bc the screenshots of the way your farm looks on google make me want to vom

[prussianmemes]

Orchid, mahonia, edelweiss :)

1) orchid ⇢ what’s a song you consider to be perfect?

oooh, that's sort of a tricky question. I've got a lot of favorites, my liked playlist is always a hodgepodge of ambient music, czech boomer rock, and soviet-era pop and synth music, with a whole bunch of oddities from different time periods and nations sprinkled in.

I have so many favorites, but so many I can't say I'm always in the mood for them. So if I had to pick a song that always gets me, no matter the time place and situation?

I've posted this before - but I adore the lyrics of this song and the meanings behind them. The little piano melody, the beep boop, and the way her words roll off one another with the tempo - aaaag it's great.

2) mahonia ⇢ what place, thing, activity inspires you most and how do you express yourself when it does?

that's hard to say, and I don't think anyone could name one thing in particular. what inspires you? what drives you?

when i look at my fascinations for various historical settings, i think there's a common trend of a society emerging from incredible hardships, but continuing to thrive and move forward with great purpose and enthusiasm. were there any periods in our national history so dynamic, where anything could happen, but in which society moved forward with great purpose as during the birth of the first republic or the peak of the čssr in the closing years of the 60s?

what of my other interests? of medicine, in a world burdened by untold amounts of suffering, to be given the opportunity to try and ward off the burdens of those already struggling to keep their head above the water, to give relief? and what of your own desires? of the complicated dance of love and human connection? the struggle to live your life with enough purpose, where you can feel at the end that or was all worth it?

i don't really know how to answer this question, it's maybe too broad for me. but i'd like to think i'm doing my best to work towards the promises i've made to myself, so i can live having known that what connections i made and impact i had on others were positive.

3) edelweiss ⇢ how’d you think of your url/username? what’s it associated with to you?

I originally made this blog back in 2015, when I had just barely turned fifteen. I was a bit deep into my prussophilia phase, and if you peek at the archives, you can see that it was originally a blog where I posted these prussian shitposts; whatever was in the style at the time. By 2017 I had basically all but stopped posting about the German monarchy, as to be honest it was a bit deranged. Now that's not to say I've lost my germanophilia - despite what it sometimes looks like I've still got that part of my subconsciousness.

the process of de-LARPification from 2015-2017, as called for by nikolai podgorony at the XXVII congress of spedebol

today? It's completely devoid of any meaning for my blog. I keep it because it's the url everybody recognizes me by, and like the louis wain cat pfp and my online handle sp00n.exe, if you use it for long enough soon enough you find that it's the only thing you can use.

any changes have not been popular, to say the least, I wonder what random people following me in the last few years have thought?

thanks for the ask! this was a fun way to kill an hour.

[m3lodyxo]

I need a slow burn, hurt to comfort, sad ending, heart-wrenching, violently crying, throwing up and screaming till your throat is raw love story with this man where you die in his arms taking a bullet for him or something 😔 look at him.

And it's gonna be right after a heartfelt moment between the two.

Please if there's a fic of this man receiving love and care from us SEND ME THE LINK. i CAN'T anymore.

I need a good cry but also just let me hold him

"I could fix him" *loud incorrect buzzer* I've accepted him as he is (I'm sorry to my mutuals, I can't anymore. The voices are louder than reason)

[m3lodyxo]

I need soft cuddly Peter like I need AIR.

PLEASE. I'M BEGGING.

all these pictures of you

tasm! peter parker x reader

summary: the amount of photos peter has of you versus him is a problem you've taken upon yourself to fix

masterlist | requests are open! buy me a ko-fi!

a lazy sunday. a much needed one, considering the bruises peter had collected the night before.

damp air begins creeping out from under the bathroom door just as peter begins washing his hair - you can tell from the familiar crash of the shampoo bottle he always drops.

you fight the feeling of heavy eyes stubbornly, the sound of peter's shower threatening to lull you to sleep without him - only disrupted by the piercing ringing coming from peter's side of the bed.

it takes a while to track the noise of an alarm peter probably forgot to turn off in the mess of duvets, your fingers tapping the screen frantically once you find peter's phone.

there's only one big crack on his screen this time - peter's gotten better at taking care of his phones ever since he started calling you while out on patrol.

your own phone is elsewhere, either left behind in another room or out of battery and you need something to keep you awake until peter gets back. he should be almost done by now but each second feels like an eternity with such soft pillows under your head.

peter's password is muscle memory - if he could get your face to unlock his phone he would. instinct pulls you to the camera app to snap a few stupid photos but curiosity leads you to the contents of the rest of peter's gallery.

it's you, unsurprisingly. other than a few stray screenshots and some beautiful nature shots, it's you. you with a drink in your hand, you watching something on your phone, you with your back turned to peter.

dozens upon dozens, multiple scrolls worth of pictures of you - all of them probably the best anyone's been able to capture of you.

peter takes every picture of you with care - you're not sure there's a single photo where even the lighting looks off. even photos taken in five seconds tops were better work than you could've ever done.

you try to remember how many photos like these you have of peter. there's no shortage of photos of him on your phone but you're pretty positive the closest thing you've ever gotten is the photo currently on your lock screen - peter winking at you through a tall glass.

the bathroom door opens with a creak and peter sighs happily as he pads out of the bathroom, freshly washed and dried hair falling over his forehead even as he tried to push it away.

he's barely out a few seconds before he's jumped into bed with a groan muffled by the thick covers. it's not long before his face appears next to yours, sporting a cozy smile that makes your insides warm.

"watcha looking at?" peter hums, settling against his pillows and attempting to pull you into his arms.

he's surprised at your resistance, questions in his raised eyebrows as you only hum a response and lift yourself to hover over him.

you hoist yourself up and back up, aiming peter's camera carefully.

"what're you doing?" peter laughs, instinctively covering his face.

"shhh," you whisper, pulling peter's hand off carefully. you're really not sure how he does it but you do manage to get some photos of peter with a half-decent composition - though you'd argue that his face makes up for your lack of precision.

you let yourself lean into peter now, back to his chest with his arms wrapped securely around you as you analyze your new pictures. peter is greedy, nudging his nose into your skin right above where he kisses it.

"what's this about, hmm?" peter hums against your skin.

"nothing," you mumble, sending yourself all the photos. "you're just pretty."

peter's quiet, unusually so. his hand comes up from your waist to take his phone back and set it on his nightstand, arms coming to turn you towards him.

he's careful with you, hands holding your face, thumbs rubbing over your cheeks.

"come on, how can i not kiss you for that one?

[soranihimawari]

Break-In

Word Count:6.4K Pairing:timeskip!iwazumi x reader Warnings: mentions of stalking; break & entering; security breach; 🔞nsfw ending scene

『Good evening Mr Iwazumi. My name is unimportant, but I thought you might like to know I have access to all your media accounts, bank records, oh? and your personal schedule...

Hmm, who is YLN, YN?』

No one had wanted to be part of the security breach from Human Resources. The department had received multiple e-mails and phone calls from various public relations teams when the news spread to the general public via media outlets. Unfortunately, you were working at the time with a Parisian bound Olympic team. You were suggested to assist the sports medicine team in your home country of Japan. It had been years since you had visited home, however since your parents later in life chose to separate legally, you’ve been making trips to visit your mother and her parents over the course of your university years. Your father chose to remain back in the states due to being granted tenure and department head promotion for his university job. The same university where he was employed was the one with a fellowship program where you were able to continue your education in sports medicine. Always an avid track and field participant, you have overcome both physical and mental hurdles to be accepted into the program where your degree hails from. 

Currently, you are at the center of the concerned team members, assisting in passing out water bottles. You’re listening to the captain and the coaches talk about current travel plans for practice matches around the city, only contributing here and there until your fellow sports trainer, Iwazumi Hajime, is called a little later into the coaches' office. A representative from the Human Resources department along with a social media public relations consultant is present. You’re assisting in the clean up routine for now as you wonder what is going on in that office. Surely, you've been invited out by a few members to the local pub down the street for a post-practice outing. You mention you’ll text Iwaizumi later tonight before packing your items, heading out with the ace and vice captain of the team. 

Hours later, while in the comfort of your home your phone vibrates with a melody attached. You had just boiled some hot water for your nightly cup of chamomile tea dressed in nothing but a simple camisole and shorts. Picking up your phone, you see you have several missed calls from a few members of the team (whom, your mind thinks, were a bit more drunk than others) and a few texts from… 

“Iwazumi-san?” you mumble while the kettle begins to whistle. 

All the message has is an emoji (you and the team had introduced the keyboard to his phone the other day) of the Red Cross (❌) on it. There is no mention of whether or not it was a typo, but alas you decide as your tea seeps, to give him a call instead. 

“He always said I should call,” you muse. “Maybe I should tell him the team might be dealing with a hangover tomorrow…”

Down the road, a baffled and irate Iwazumi had just parked his car in the underground parking structure of his apartment complex. He recalls the words of caution the HR Rep and team social manager had said. As far as the athletic trainer can remember, he hasn’t met anyone, romantic or otherwise, who would have developed a delusional idea of cloning his phone. The only one he could think of in recent terms was your recent camaraderie and partnership with him because of the work you two signed up for. A stalker for the team or a deranged fan might have had more information tucked away elsewhere and it’s that particular wavelength he is apprehensive of. Sure, in high school he had a taste of the fan-lifestyle thanks to Oikawa being the pretty boy setter he was (and still is). However, Iwazumi Hajime, twenty-seven years young, head trainer for an Olympic bound team, is about to learn the ramifications of having his personal information leaked. What does that entail, he wouldn’t know. Perhaps that’s why, as he enters the elevator to proceed in going to retire for the night, he receives a peculiar call from you. 

“Hey,” his voice is tired, he claims this as you hum mentioning you made tea. 

“Are you ok?” 

Your question almost has Iwazumi fumbled his keys out of his hands. You clear your throat justifying your answer in the veil of co-workers’ friendship. He chuckles at that and he is reminded of the first time he had met you…in the office of the advisor at Irvine. 

Once inside his residence, he slips off his shoes and you hear his bag slide off his shoulder. 

“Iwa,” you place your half empty cup back on the counter. “You don’t have to tell me the details of you don’t want to…”

This makes his heart rate pick up just like in the office hours, or what seems like days ago now.

“What was that meeting about?”

“…”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand. He hears you sigh on the other end. 

“Tell me when you’re ready. I should go, it’s late.”

You withdraw by a centimeter and until he is advised to break his silence on the issue (it’s still in the observation stages of the investigation), he keeps up the facade in this call. He bids you good night, unsure if he will do the same.

Morning comes with the news chimes in the neighborhood going off. Your phone buzzes with back to back notifications from the group chat: five names is all you see. Five names, all of which you know because you saw them yesterday. One of which shocks you because of the nature of his keeping personal and professional life separate or as separate as can be. Suffice to say you knew Iwazumi was pretty popular amongst the female student body and the boys while you think about it. Your mind races in fleeting pocket memories and for all that is holy, some poor sap in a tabloid magazine probably had (somewhere along the way) misconstrued your relationship. “We’re friends” or “we met in university” conversations always ended with the players, even coaching personnel, wondering when you two would be honest with yourselves. Truly, the secretive romance rumors were not so lucrative since the vox populi seemed to take to social media scrutinizing the way you’re never more than a few feet apart during interviews even going so far at one point you two wore similar colors to a function hosted by the JVA. The stylists thought it would be fun since the theme of the party was “mirror.” You had dismissed the idea of going until Miya opened his mouth to ask if he can take you as a date. Iwazumi is within earshot when he says you can’t because, ‘yn is going with me.’ You stutter, yet recover quick when you read through your prickly friend’s sentiments. Playing along, Iwazumi can’t help the cough that comes out of his mouth when you make a mention of remembering he said in passing: ‘we were going to wear teal, ivory, and mint green, right?’ 

That was the last social function of the spring you think, minus the press tour for the Parisian games and even at world championships. Iwazumi couldn’t have made any enemies since then, right? This wouldn’t be a publicity stunt by anyone on the team either…

“Fuck me,” you sit up in a jolt, immediately dialing your partner in the training department. Your phone’s email counter now begins to rise to an alarming high as your texts keep getting flooded by family and players alike. 

“I know,” is all that is said when you hear him pick up on the other side. “Stay there, I’m almost at your place.”

“Bring coffee asshole,” you grit your teeth and though you say it affectionately, he is ultimately reminded he has truly never seen you lose your composure. Sure, he’s seen you stress cry, but when you open your door roughly fifteen minutes later, your eyes are glazed out of frustration. Holding up the drink carrier holding a peace offering of trenta sized hazelnut espresso concoction and an everything bagel with blueberry cream cheese, you do not dial back your anger. 

The door is closed behind him and the deadbolt is secured. He walks into your kitchen, sitting himself on a barstool facing the counter. You stand between the counter and the stove, sharp bonsai leaf green eyes observe your casually dressed attire: the white polo with red shorts and black belt was similar to the one you wore on beach trips in university. You noticed he came dressed still in the dry-fit undershirt and newly washed jeans from earlier that week. 

“Iwazumi,” your voice is scarily monotonous. “Sit and explain.”

He listens like an obedient pet. If you could draw, you’d make a caricature of him as a hedgehog with a deflated expression. On the other hand, he might be bold enough to call you a tiger’Now he knows why your father is a docile man—your temper is inherited from your mother. 

“Now,” you growl before taking a bite of said bagel, sliding your phone with the breaking news articles plastered everywhere on the site. 

“One chance to tell me everything from the top, Hajime,” you raise a finger before taking your first sip of the hot beverage he brought. 

“We’ve been through a lot worse,” you finally take a good look at your first friend from abroad—iwazumi looks like a psychopomp ready to rue the day: the lack of sleep is evident in the dark circles under his eyes, his jaw is tense, and for what it’s worth, you can tell your tactful (or rather inefficient, but justified rage) onslaught of a greeting was perhaps not a good call. He seemed to be blindsided by the media hoopla catching wind of the fact there was a security breach in high profile athletes’ information. Sure, breaches were created to test the waters of firewall security systems in an OS. Somehow, a tech savvy bot was able to unzip and reallocate specific targets, ie Olympic status athletes. Your friend explains this to you as calmly as he could, apology on the tip of his tongue before you lean forward to silence him with a finger to his lips. You’d think you’ve gone mad, but when you shake your head, you say something a bit more provoking: “so what’s the play Haji?”

He scoffs when you retract your hand. The bagel is nothing but crumbs at this point and your coffee is almost gone when you come round your kitchen counter. He watches as you lean your back against the edges, arms crossed while he swivels around to turn at least three quarters toward you. 

“I just told you everything,” he hands you your phone back. “And your immediate response is ‘what’s the play?’”

“Don’t be so surprised,” you turn off your phone entirely now before sliding it in your back pocket. “I’ve known you for better half of seven years, heh.”

Leaning down to knock your temple against his, gently in the form of trying to let your brains catch up with this impertinent information. 

“And this is not the worst thing that's happened in those years?” 

He is dumbstruck, almost pulling away from you to show you his phone with his own messages and emails with counters almost in the hundreds by now.

“No,” you are suddenly face to face with him. You were honestly trying to bring some lighthearted humor back, but alas this is a grave breach in personal privacy, unaware of what would happen when you see your reflection in his rather glazed eyes.

Dangerously too close if you think about it; his pretentiousness loosens to give into curiosity. Iwazumi and you can’t recall who initiated locking lips with the other, both of you sort of let it happen. 

“Ha-hajime,” you cup the sides of his face, gently yet firm when you pry him away from you. 

His voice murmurs your name back and you’re unprepared for the ramifications his tone does to your heart. Iwazumi studies your flushed features before coming back to his senses like an Icarus falling into the sea. His eyes flutter close, lashes tickling your palm; mind you, he is trying to think of any excuse really, yet he comes up with none. Seven years is a long time to look at love in the face and just ignore whatever underlying pretense there was. It becomes suddenly apparent to both pirates once he readjusts himself to hold you properly by your natural waist. He wants nothing more than the world to disappear, even now as the perplexed look on his brow gives way to witnessing his typically sharpened features melting away—you do now know why the lines are so easily blurred. You hear him hum tiredly, exasperated by the shit-show that is about to occur once you return to work. 

“Lay low,” you advise. 

You run a hand through the back of his head when he presses himself more into this simple embrace with you. 

“Stay out of sight,” he frowns when he says this against the fabric of your shirt. 

“We can talk about this later,” you continue, tapping his lips with your other hand. 

This time, you feel his muscles twinge upwards into a small smirk. 

“I’ve got your back,” you remind him kindly when he lets you break free of his gentle grasp. He chortles a bit before making the move to wrap up this morning greeting.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you tease when you escort him to your door. 

“I’m not,” shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns abruptly before you unlock the door. He bends down to press his lips to your cheek, whispering a secret loud enough for you to hear. With that, Iwazumi departs from your place, a little more confident in his steps.

A team meeting is called immediately at noon. You’re included in the must-attend listing as though you’re the one about to receive the scolding of a lifetime. However, you’re the odd one out considering you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with not only Iwazumi, but Miya, Ushijima, Hinata, and one more you’re not yet familiar with, but you choose to pick your battles wisely for now. 

“You too?” seems to be the general consensus while everyone stands awaiting further instructions or rather, for whomever called this internal meeting to begin with. You all find your answer once the doors open and in walks the coach, their assistant, three representatives?: one from the JVA, the other two were from HR and the media manager. Now it occurs to Iwazumi why you might have asked the question, “what’s the play?” to him. His stomach knots on itself almost as much as Hinata’s when the meeting is called to start by the coach. 

Before going into much more detail, Ushijima and Miya glance at each other because though they are single at this point in time, they had been known around the rumor mill as a hot and cold duo more so than another certain jackal this year; yet if Hinata was here as well, then it is also because of the outlying ramifications of one series of people all tied to them–family. Families outside of this room are no longer safe, go figure. All this talk and legal jargon could make your head spin, yet it doesn’t. 

“Ms YLN, you’re awfully quiet,” the coach’s assistant points out. The boys were already holding files of the information that was leaked about their privatized personal records. Clearly the boys beside you are going through all the documents there and some of it is pretty damning from women being photographed at games to private dates outside the purview of the public to even travel tickets. Hinata is quite young, but the horrified faces of Ushijima; Miya’s color drains from his sunny disposition; to finally Iwazumi’s trembling fists. There was something on all of them and the only reason why you don’t speak up is because you’re about to say something extremely stupid (or brilliant).

“Just because I have no files in my hand, doesn’t mean I am unaware,” your voice seems to snap the boys’ attention real quick. “Truth be told, I knew something was afoot when Iwazumi-san was called into the office yesterday.”

The assistant is about to say something when you decide to not give anyone else a chance to speak, planning to thwart the insinuations any farther.

“If you think I had something to do with it since I am the only common denominator, then I will do you all a favor,” you take your phone out of your pocket to turn it on.

As the tech comes to life, your phone sounds off with different tonalities of various degrees, however when one particular chime goes off, you don an expression that is seldom let out. 

“I’ll sit this one out if you get internal affairs involved,” you are eerily calm as your words carry the weight of a block of dried ice. “The athletes have a lot of stress placed on them once it was made known they would be representing their home country for the games, so whose brilliant idea was this to leak the story to the press?”

Your question raised a valid point, one that perhaps might not have crossed the minds of everyone in that meeting, yet here you were presenting a fact outside of the normal wheelhouse. In the later half of the meeting your refusal to say anything further than what you had said is a true neutral ground. You don’t budge, rather you repeat the question you asked any opportunity you can:

“Clearly if this was one of those publicity stunts, we would have made it known to the players, Ms. YLN.”

“And yet I find it rather interesting that none of you thought of involving internal affairs in this matter from the start, and since you’re so bright, mind telling me whose idea it was to leak this information to the associated press?”

This goes on until the meeting is adjourned with you coming too close to being either fired or suspended for a time, much to the dismay of your friends behind you. They know you didn’t do anything, hell Hinata, Miya, and Ushijima vouch for you being at their little pub crawl the night before, so they swear on your sobriety you had nothing to do with this if that was what the assistant was trying to do. For now, the contingency plan is to have the guys keep their distance away from you and your hours were going to be reduced (at least while the investigation is underway to make sure nothing else was leaked) until the case draws to a close. The coach reminds the athletes themselves they have the world watching when returning home while Iwazumi learns the basics of managing his time with each of them individually for the remainder of the off season/pre season conditioning training going on. 

Things go pretty quiet after that: Miya, though he was young and up and coming as he is, might have sacrificed a relationship outside of work, but he bounced back eventually; Hinata chose to spend time with his family outside of volleyball for a little while; Ushijima stayed to do what was expected of him; and Iwazumi chose to take the path of least resistance and adhere to the proposed schedule of training. You were mostly put to use the gym in the early mornings or well into the night once main practice was over to observe and make notes of individual practices. Though it was a rough couple of months, you all along with the team don't really interact with each other the same way you used to. You’re mostly left out of the team dinners, the social media pages go ahead with contractual rumors and affiliations for sportswears once more, and for the most part you become like a living breathing poltergeist. 

You’re in the gym one night, body now attuned into working out late, a half empty ball rack is at the side of the court you’re standing on. Empty water bottles line the opposite side of the net. A few scattered balls roll away with each serve you had successfully aced. Your hands weren’t as calloused as before, but since you decide to go back to your roots as they say, you learn to hone your anger in a different light. It’s not until you’re a third of a way deep in the new ball bag you hear him call out to you.

“You never told me you played,” Iwazumi steps into the court.

Shrugging your shoulders, you give the ball a good bounce or two before tossing it high in the air–that’s when he sees the surgical scar on the back of your heel. It pokes out of the socks you wore and Iwazumi can’t place what’s worse: knowing you had to give up the sport or resigning to prove you can play again. Your serves are powerfully direct when gravity takes over and the speed gun clocks your serve around 115mph. You’re not just good, you’re on par with some of the best servers out there. Peacefully your feet touch the ground and Iwazumi approaches you, only to hug you from behind. 

“We never really had a chance to talk,” is how he opens this side of the conversation. “And I know it’s killing me and you with both of us trying to upkeep this schedule.”

“I know,” you bow your head a bit. “I know, Iwa, but you really have to stop coming here—”

“To convince you otherwise?” He holds you a bit tighter now. 

“When you know the answer?” An aggravated sigh leaves your lips. “Hajime, listen. You and I both love and respect this team from day one, right?” 

You feel him nod when you lean back to look up at him. 

“But we both know we can’t go public unless one of us leaves and,” you glance back at the empty court. “I won’t let you lose them.”

“YN.”

You hand him the ball that was about to be in your hands. 

“I resigned this morning.”

“You’re kidding. C’mon,” he tries to see if you’re actually joking, yet your silence is all he needs. It’s not long before you’re handing him the ball from the other side of the court. 

“Seriously?” he seemed so despondent the more you began to clean up. You explain as you go telling him how you’ve started receiving texts from him, most of which were not from him. Some of the messages were pretty illicit in terms of the content, none of which you know he would never send, yet when it was brought up, your concerns were brushed aside. When you tried again and failed, you decided to start flagging the messages. 

“And you never thought to tell me?” 

Iwazumi isn’t upset, you didn’t speak up, you did. It was the actions of those who would rather save face for the athletic department for an internationally revered country for their continued contribution to the growing interest in a sport. 

“I tried,” you pick up a volleyball and place it amongst the bag at your feet. 

You showed him your call log from a few weeks ago to be exact. He remembers that call, yet it was the end of a rough day and he recalls asking if you want to go for a bite before your shift started. However you were stuck waiting at the appointed place for over an hour when he was held up by the new juniors under his supervision. The assistant coach finally pulls them away to speak to him privately for a short while. 

“So excuse me for trying to interrupt whatever life has in store for you,” you are bitter when you twist your face into a forced smile that never reaches your eye. “But you weren’t there for me, Iwa. Do better.” 

The night janitor was heard whistling down the halls. His shift must have just started when he saw you and Iwazumi taking down the net. You kept your back to the door because though you may be a proud person, you don’t have the capacity to let anyone else know how a breakup before a relationship could even start wounds you both. 

“Is everything alright?” 

Clearing your throat, you speak up. “Y-yeah. Just talking to an old friend. I’ll be going soon, ok?” 

Your acting is sublime as the janitor reminds the athletic trainer he needed to sign in all visitors who don’t have a badge, yet when you hear the old man say, “they’re quite a catch Iwazumi-san. You’re lucky to have found your match so young.” 

Iwazumi doesn’t have the heart to disagree which truth be told, but he corrects the old man.

“They’ll come around sonny,” the janitor says. “People do crazy things when they’re in love.”

Iwazumi glances back at the door, apologizes to the old man (he makes a mental note to get his name say after tomorrow) over his shoulder as he runs off to find you. 

YLN, YN, twenty eight and three quarters old, ex-athletic trainer for the Olympic bound Japanese Men’s Volleyball Team, is a person of great importance in his life, the internal workings of Iwazumi’s mind finally sees you in the world of black and white. So when he sees you half a city block ahead of him, the man sprints fast enough to a) startle you and b) tells you to be quiet so he can remind you. 

“Remind me of what?” You ask, more wittily delivered if you were being honest. 

Iwazumi rolls his eyes before shaking his head when he pulls your body protectively over to his. 

“Comfortable?” 

You nod, your face is unabashedly flushed the more his intensity radiates off of him. 

“Good.”

One final word of warning is the last thing you know of before you’re caught in a silencer of a kiss: it is a ruggedly formed one until you quit overthinking for a time. 

You remembered that time the day the news blew up your phones, the whirlwind meetings that went on and all this goes on while you both try to protect your images both on and off the court. Your friends notice the change in Iwazumi going so far as to ask him by proxy how you were doing these days; you don’t go to team functions anymore because your name was not added to the list (Hinata finds this out at the end of practice a couple weeks before sports fashion gala was announced and Iwazumi declines attending); self practice hours held with you had Miya and Ushijima vying for your attention until Ojiro and Sakusa join for a more balanced two on two match and it’s then you decide to showcase your little secret when Miya provokes you to “try an’ get a service ace against me” (and you do much to his dismay, four times over to prove it wasn’t a fluke); all those stolen glances Iwazumi did when his new juniors walked through those doors as if you’d pop in at any moment was the final straw for him. 

It’s not until you reciprocate his affection you catch him by surprise. There is something refreshing about the way his warmth balances your rage filled blood, believe you me, he understands more than he lets on. Although you pull away with eyes closed, you take a fist full of his shirt and pull him back to you. You don’t break, not yet, because there will be time for that too. 

“Don’t cry,” his voice soothes your anger until you feel a coarse curled finger flick away a stray. 

“Don’t give me a reason to,” your voice cracks a little more than you thought. You’re about to crumble back because you tried everything in your original playbook, so you’re left with the only path you thought was plausible. Iwazumi finally pieces it together in his mind’s eye and he can only imagine the horrified slap in the face look you give your collective superiors who brush your claims aside. No wonder you’re on the precipice of a spiral, yet just as you’re about to drown, you maintain your tactfulness, hoping to bid the place you’ve come to love to work in a final goodbye. 

Iwazumi reacts to the rigidness of your body as you let him try his luck in comforting you: he readjusts his hold from earlier–his hand that held you by the shoulders earlier slides down to the small of your back. Meanwhile with the other, the same one he used to flick away the tear, he invites you to hide away from the very real world around you. A car or two passes, for all you know this might be one of the last times you’d get to spend together, so as you calm yourself down, you make a small request. 

“Give them hell,” you kiss the corner of his mouth, pressing your phone on to his chest. 

It takes less than seventy-two hours for the following to occur: first, on behalf of the team, a press conference had been scheduled with the intent of the investigations coming to a close. Second, the majority of those who are involved are asked to wait until the end to answer any and all questions the news outlets needed to know. Third, and this one was the piece de la resistance, a zip file containing all text exchanges between the person claiming to be ‘Iwazumi, H.’ had been sent to all reporters on the roster for the day. You’re at home, typing up an updated version of your resume and reviewing it one more time before deciding it was time for a break. You received a new phone graciously bought by an old friend who just came back from Sendai to cheer on her former classmate, unbeknownst to you said friend passed along your new phone number to a certain athletic trainer. You recognize the phone number when you’re asked to turn on the local city news no later than five-forty in the afternoon. 

The conference room was abuzz with flashes here and there, microphone reverb was cut to a minimum when the floor was open for questions.

“I'm with the Orange City News, this question is for your athletic trainer: Iwazumi-san, how has your life changed since the leak? Are there any new developments you can speak freely of as of right now?” 

Iwazumi places what seems to be a phone on the table and you nearly drop the glass you’re about to pour some apple cider in. Leaning back in his chair, there is an air of nonchalant business about him, you hear him decide to go through with this. It was the answer to your question which seemed so long ago, “what’s the play?”

“A few months ago, when the initial news of the leak was made known to me, I found out the same morning you all did,” chuckles were heard everywhere but it soon died out the moment it was made clear the young man was deathly concrete in his demeanor. Whispers of, “wait, really? You didn’t know at all?”

“I didn’t know what was leaked or how much information was already made known to everyone, but I try to keep my work life and private life separated. And yes being well known as the athletic trainer for this stellar team is a bonus, but when you try to hurt me, you instead inflict trust issues onto my person, nearly causing them to spiral into an unhealthy mindset you can’t just apologize and recant,” he flips over your phone which he had kept up with charging and whatnot, even called in a favor to a friend in the city precinct to backlog your messages. “Not when I’ve had to pacify their worries over take out, or practice attempting to receive their killer serves, who knows how to prioritize the needs of the team usually putting in the work even when they were stuck with the flu for two weeks, or,” and now he’s a bit more reserved before he continues. “Or bribe them to open their door with their favorite breakfast meal I’ve memorized since sophomore year abroad, all because some idiot thought they had the high ground in taking pleasure at tearing down an important member of our team.” 

Your phone rings and though you pick up, you have a sly grin of approval. 

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” you turn your tv off once you hear several chimes go off. 

The zip file and backup evidence of the messages that clear your participation in all this is sent privately to those journalists attending. Back carbon copies are sent to the managers, the board of directors of the JVA, and even a baffled coaching staff. Following Iwazumi’s answer, though he never says your name explicitly, he bids everyone good day, pressing the phone he used to call you to his ear.

“You still there?” 

“Mmhm.”

“Good because I’m due for a vacation.”

You chuckle into the receiver. The commotion surrounding the files that were airdropped as a power move resulted in more legal action than originally thought. 

“I hear Argentina is fabulous this time of year.”

Iwazumi hums approvingly before saying a quiet, ‘start packing now love’ when he ends the call. He walks into the gym away from the brewing shitshow only to be ambushed by two familiar faces. 

“Sawamura,” the former ace nods at the first-year detective. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Eh, well,” the former captain has this shy smile. “Don’t tell me you think I’d miss the opportunity to right a wrong for an old rival…pro bono as they say?” 

“Oya?” Another voice calls not too far behind the detective. “Send me a postcard when you see Oikawa-shenshu. Tell the pretty bastard to pick up his phone every once in a while!”

“Yeah yeah,” Iwazumi waves the two former captains off (one known for instilling a firm foundation, the other known for scheming) as he crosses the empty court with a victorious smile. He’s driving back to you with the future becoming more promising than before. Sure the team will make do for a few weeks as their athletic trainer(s) set off on a much deserved break. Iwazumi sends a final text to the team while he’s sitting in his car: ‘rest assured hell week is coming’ is cryptically sent to everyone. A smiley emoji is tacked on courtesy right after he sends a ‘and don’t worry, I’ll send your greetings to yn when I see them.’

The drive from the stadium does not take longer than twenty minutes, so when your door opens, you are greeted much like before. With your preferred blossoms in hand, Iwazumi’s unmistakable hair protrudes behind it, all of which you find amusing. 

“Flowers?” you question while taking a hold of the bouquet. “Does your significant other know you buy me flowers?”

“I hope so,” he smugly says. “I just think they’re neat.”

You roll your eyes before kissing his cheek when he walks through the door frame. Without giving it much thought, he toes his shoes off at your entryway before heading to the living room. His suit is still pressed from before the press conference and he does fill you in on what his old friends had said. You’re listening intently as you fill a nearby cubed vase with water. 

“Sawamura said he’d call once there are more developments on promising leads,” Iwazumi reassures you when you come round to join him on the couch. He holds your hand as if you’re going to pass him by. You give yourself a moment to pause before shaking free from his grasp. 

“Not good enough,” three words that would stop the world, his world, from spinning.

“Excuse me?”

Iwazumi glances up at you bewildered as your demeanor seems to wilt a bit. 

“YN, they’re going to do the best they can to find–”

“How come you get to stay and I was asked to resign?” 

Your interjection came with a fiery ferocity which you expanded upon. You go through the motions of talking it out with Iwazumi by your side to listen to rambles and go off as you’re pacing the living room. The fact that someone was delusional enough to have a mark on you whether it was intentional or not, the team still kept all of their players and out of fairness thought it was best to see if they could force you to resign, yet you are a boulder unwilling to move. 

“Genius comes in many forms I suppose,” you stop in front of Iwazumi for the nth time. “But if this turns out to be a stunt, contractually or not, I resign for no reason and I don’t know what’s worse than that.”

Whatever you just said made Iwazumi’s face contort in a sort of conspiracy theory way. If what you say is true, then it is plausible the members of the committees who had you all under surveillance minus internal affairs, would have access to what had been leaked. You might have stumbled upon the answer around the same time, give or take a few seconds, as the both of you exclaim the name of one of the common denominators: the assistant coach. 

“Can you prove it?” you whisper to him. 

Iwazumi scoffs as he pats the empty space beside him on your couch. 

“For you, I will,” he answers you, a tired smile and all. You sit down beside him, resting your head against his arm, almost leaning into his shoulder. He rests his cheek atop your head with a delightful hum; his hand rests palm up on your knee and this time, when you take it, you intertwine your fingers. 

“Would you like to stay like this for a while?” you ask, although you know the answer.

“As long as we remain stalker-free for the rest of our days, sure, why not?” you could feel his fond smile through every word.

Elsewhere, the names of the tertiary parties involved have less than a half days time to gather all necessary documents because slander is added amongst the charges of breaching the laws of privacy. Your phone records as well as Iwazumi’s are kept sealed until the trial is set to begin. It’s been a wild two-three months since dealing with the damage control for this security breach, and luckily those who were questioned did face irrevocable jail time for slander and stalking. To this day, you and Iwazumi are thankful to have supported each other throughout the ordeal especially since it drew you together.

.

.

.

𝔸𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕒, 𝟚 𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣

Considering the generous offer of one Oikawa Tooru, you wake up, in a shirt not your own. Strong coffee, as you’ve learned to love during your stay here, has been brewed just to your liking. You are lazily flipping over in bed as the wind caresses put face and a slight chill is sent down your spine; you hiss at the absence of company you kept, the same person who and you quote, ‘fuck like you love me.’ Oh, after a few drinks after dinner, did Iwaxumi do that. Four times, four times?! You sat up quickly, throwing the blanket over your legs. Your thighs, littered in teeth marks and firm bruises made you let out a shaker breath. You feel so sore the higher your eyes and hands climb toward your core. There, unmistakenly, is a dull ache from where you remember you embarked on the physicality of this relationship—“god damn it, yn,” you inarguably stifle a laugh. He wore you out, you don’t even remember half the pet names he called up, but up until yesterday, you thought your college friend was a serial monogamist, and you knew why now.

As you let the memories of last night’s tumble in the sheets with Iwazumi blind your memories, he knocks on the door. The bastard has this pot on his lips asking if you’re ok or if you woke up too sore after something you both consented to.

“‘M fine,” you pat the space next to you. “You?”

He sits down, kissing the spot behind your ear, teasing you with a gruff, “mmhm.” The guest room still smells of sex and candied sin, but that doesn’t stop you nor Iwazumi from exploring each other with the intent of making another mess. You turn three quarters of the way to rest comfortably in the space of his lap, clothed erection you can graze by and feel he’ll become hard the longer you’re on him like this. Teasing him by tracing your hands over his chest, down his defined abs, then the waist band of his boxers had you greedily mumble, “already? hajime, we haven’t had breakfast yet…”

“Don’t care,” He sighs back into your mouth, hands supporting the small curve of your back. “You started this, we’ll pause after one round, eat, then come back.”

“Mm, sounds promising,” you tilt your head to one side. The buttons where the shirt was clasped together easily pop off the second you push iwazumi’s compliant body down. You settle yourself at an angle you know you could take him as you feel him drag down his waist band.

“So pretty boy,” The bold name makes him almost buck up into you. You feel the raw aching tip graze your uncovered sex. Leaning down to kiss his clavicle, your expression darker than his, you squeeze his member with one hand the other on his shoulder. Your hand adjusts the grip until you almost easily slip him into you. His eyes roll a bit as he feels you pump him just a smidge. “Think you could let me ride you for a few hours?”

A shaky breath followed by a most haste kiss has you continue preparing yourself to take him, all of him, at once. You groan from the slight, but pleasurable sting as does he. Your breathing is shallow like his as you let him set a steady rhythm that works for you both. His hands hold your waist while gently telling you encouraging words, “It’s better if you do it like this,” and a hip stuttering, “didn’t think I’d get to see you so fucked out this early.”

“Waking up alone sucks,” You breathe as you lace your fingers around iwazumi’s own. Prying his grip off your hip this time, you press a kiss to his palm before placing it on his neck. He’s a bit surprised, but now that he knows you like being choked a little, he presses down a bit.

“Nngh!” The very same cry from you as he is mercilessly curling up into you had your head in a tizzy. He’s come alive and you can feel his member pulsating at how your gummy walls stick him back in. His fingers still on your pulse point when he squeezes it again, another blissful cry has him wiping away glossy tears from your face.

“Keep making noises like that and I’ll fuck you from behind in the bathroom so you can watch your pretty face see what I do to your body,” It’s a beautifully prompted threat. Your orgasm has you in a metaphorical choke hold as your stamina increases with every pull and push of Iwazumi’s free hand. The one that holds you against him is not not dominant hand; that one sneaks between where you two are joined, locating a spot where if given enough attention, you’re driven off the metaphorical edge. You’re sinking your teeth into his shoulder and you feel him tense up.

“S-shit, ‘m close too, hol’d on, yeah?” You wearily nod. “Where?”

“Fuck! Inside,” you don’t have time to worry about the consequences. (It’s not like you don’t plan on birthing this man’s children, but if you two keep going at it like this, you just might. He’s just that good in the sack.)

Breathing like you both ran a marathon, your abused center still pulsates as the combined fluids never threaten to spill out. You confess you don’t care what happens in the future as long as you’re in it together. Iwazumi’s, catching his breath, sort of laughs into your shoulder.

“If you wind up with a scare, we’re at least know how to fuck again to make you a mommy,” He hears you laugh. It’s the purest one he’s heard since this vacation began.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Iwazumi kisses your temple. “C’mon princess, coffee awaits.”

You concur, lazily draping the used sheets around your shoulders once Iwazumi reluctantly leaves the room. Glancing around you, despite the updates of the court case, you’re glad to rest in a paradise all on your own doing. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come back here with a family all your own—with the silly athletic trainer dancing in his boxers to “last Christmas” on the pop lite station.

Iwazumi is many things to you, but right now, a thief of your heart seems to be the most accurate.