#deranged melody hours

[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]

Kitty event gifs of the LADS LIs Part 2

Rafayel

Sylus

[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 ….

[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

[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.

[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.

[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

[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?

[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]

Me btw

his idea of fun

[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 to kiss every inch of her face, neck and chest while I make her cream around my fingers 🫶

I need her to sit on my face.

[esotericcasuist]

Locked Safes and Broken Combinations

Neon lights pulled me from the highway. Enough distance that I wouldn't have to shake hands with the devil, at least not tonight. Instead, the whiskey pooled and the smoke settled. Enough distance to forget black eyes and shattered rubies, at least for a moment. Vacancy. More than I could say with whiskey soaked veins and bloodshot eyes. No one was home. Only loose marbles rolling across splintered floorboards. Only ghosts stuck haunting desolate corridors.

I needed a respite. A pause from the perpetual loop of always being one step behind. I was close, but not as close as I wanted to be. Especially with a head so deep in the fog I could barely see my own hands. The spinning room made me question if I had entered a seaside Fun House instead of a dingy motel. All that was missing was the carnival music and the maniacal laughter of a deranged clown. A track the ghosts will have to mimic instead. The carpet was faded, as was everything else in the room. I managed to slink out of the suit jacket I'd been wearing for who knows how long. With every pill, sip, and drag, time slipped away. How long had I been away playing this cat and mouse game? When was the last time I had eaten or slept?

After minutes that felt like hours, I moved from the bed to the desk with a stumble. Fumes depleted, I held myself straight in the chair with a pen in hand. What I was doing, I had little to zero knowledge. I was looking for a star while buried underground. Hope had fallen from it's place in the sky only to land in a minefield. Every last bit blown to pieces. Still, I scribbled. Words I knew could never reach the shattered gem who's eyes they were meant for. Delirium at it's finest.

Little bird, I'm back in the tunnels. Unmade. Bodies on bodies. Drowning in the mud. Dead eyes reflecting new moons. Whiskey pools, smoke settles. Unmade. Under my wing, there's nothing, little bird. No faces, just broken pieces.

I wanted to continue. Explain to Ruby why her father was just a little boy hiding in an abandoned house. I tried to continue but my hand stopped working, the ink dried out, and Eilin's voice cut through the wind breaking windows.

"Pages of regrets."

Dreams layered beneath delusions held reality in a chokehold. Grey irises stirred hurricanes between four walls. Scattered papers fall on their own accord from the desk to the faded carpet. Before the words could pass from a quivering throat, her voice struck again with a cigarette lit between her lips.

"27. 13. 42. 55."

Greys deepened until nothing was left but black. Death and decay holding firm the stunned gaze of a lost boy. Which each number dropped between exhaled smoke, the room spun faster. There was no laughter, no sweet melodies. Just death and regrets.

"Never did you let me in. I knew the code, I had the key, and still, you never let me in. You think some letter to her is going to resolve you? Of what? You can't even hold your own fucking head up. Look at you. Pathetic."

Without enough time for her words to settle, the room's spinning stopped and the dark clouds fell as if gravity itself stopped working. Her corpse sits on the corner of the bed adjacent to where I had fallen onto the floor. The room became cold as if a layer of ice froze over everything. I couldn't speak. I tried screaming. Lungs weren't working except for breathing. I could breathe.

"I married a curse and that was my fate. But Ruby and . . . they deserved better.

THEY DESERVED BETTER."

Her screams pierced the windows in the attic, shattering glass in locked rooms. I was left against the wall, pinned by my own fear. As screams faded, I remained hesitant to open my eyes. But what I found when I did was nothing except the room has it was before. Back in the tunnel, left with broken pieces, drowning in the mud.