#pianist screaming hours

[sweepinguptheemeraldbar]

"Falk is totally a Tumblr Sexy Man."

- My friend Ray, after I told her about Powerwolf Tumblr

[youaremystar1024]

ATEEZ GOLDEN HOUR PART.2

...how am I supposed to react to this... 🥵🥰

YOU CANT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!!! The group photo too... Sir, feel free to step on me (Im such a whore for them 😬) This will definitely be the soty!!

Ot8 Ateez hard thoughts under the cut

♡: overstimulation, use of sex toys, punishing, finger/tongue-fucking, oral, makeout, sub!reader, tattoo

------------------------♡------------------------

The way Hongjoong watches you from across the room as you fuck yourself on the sex machine he bought you. He grabs your hair, revealing the "captain" tattoo under your chin. Joong loved that tattoo specifically because everytime he eats you out, he makes your back arch beautifully as you display yourself for only him to see. He doesn't let you cum until tears spill down your face due to overstimulation

They way Seonghwa demands you to undress yourself and kneel in front of him. He presses your breast with the tip of his shoe, rubbing your sensitive, puffy nipples with the rough material, which makes you a whiny mess right before him. You're always trying to get caught...such a horny slut for mommy...

The way Yunho pumps his thick and veiny fingers into your tight hole, making you throb and pulsate around his digits. Even his fingers alone can send you close to your climax, but this is always just the beginning...He preps you so you can take his cock like the perfect cockslut you are for him

The way Yeosang holds you down and ties your hands together with his neck tie. After removing the tie, you can see his angry veins covering his neck. He admires your figure and showers you with his sweet kisses. He would give you gentle licks along your pussy, savouring the taste that belongs to only him

The way San stares at you hungrily as you suck his length at a fast pace. You swallow him so good as if you were made for each other. San can't take the pleasure anymore, then he bucks his hips and fills your insides full of his delicious load. He kneels down and attach his lips to yours, sharing his taste through your swollen, pink lips.

The way Mingi spreads your legs open and groans at the sight. He traces his fingers along your core like a pianist. He dives into you and tongue-fucks you for the rest of the night, making you gasp for air. Hearing you scream his name sends confidence down his shaft, making him harder for you

The way Wooyoung makes you sit on his face as he eats you out like a meal. You love it when his nose presses against your sensitive clit. He slaps your ass and leaves a trail of his marks along your thigh. Wooyo would get so pussy drunk as the mixture of your arousal and his saliva drip down his face.

The way Jongho stands above you, examining which toy to punish you with. He would give you loving kisses while sliding the vibrator along your wet folds. He teases your clit continuously and makes you clean up the coat of arousal on his fingers.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Song carried on breeze

(Part 2)

Word count: +1800

Summary: Azriel invites the famous pianist to a city tour, ending up showing her his most favorite spot

Warnings: none

@azrielappreciationweek Day 6: Song of the wind Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

Part 1

On the agreed day, at the agreed place, Azriel waited for Allison. He was quite nervous, constantly smoothing his clothes, wings rustling behind him. He spent hours in bath, washing every centimeter of his skin and especially wings that were quite dusty lately, and even longer in the closet choosing clothes for the day. He didn't want to look too polished nor too casual. This day was very important to him, even small mistake was unforgivable. He didn't want to be too pushy, but if he was honest, Allison's music wasn't the only thing he was genuinely interested in.

"Does it really look casual?" he whispered to the shadows and they answered, gently touching his shoulder.

"Don't worry, boy. You look great. She will certainly like it."

"But doesn't this shirt scream: It's date? Or this trousers? She accepted only because it's a city tour."

"The reason why she accepted is debatable, but calm down. Everything is fine." The shadows rolled and swirled around him, trying to put him at ease.

"What about hair? Messy? Overdone?"

The shadows pushed a few unruly dark strands back. "Perfect! Don't be nervous. That lovely female will be smitten by the city as well as by your charm and appearance. Yesterdays she couldn't take her eyes off of you. We noticed."

Azriel rolled his eyes. "You are mistaken. She-"

"She's coming! Be natural and relaxed and everything will be fine."

The shadows slowly swam forward to welcome Allison, gently caressing her hands. She looked lovely in light blue dress, her long hair styled into a complicated hairstyle. Azriel's heart stuttered at the sight of her, the breath hitched. Dreamy smile tugged corners of his mouth, before he scolded himself. He mirrored her kind smile and went to meet her.

"Hi," his voice was husky, so he cleared his throat. "You look beautiful."

"Hi," she giggled as she took him in. "You look good, too. Are they always so friendly?" She offered her index finger to the shadows and they immediately wrapped around it. "So lovely!"

"They are very curious, but if it bothers you I can call them back."

"Nonsense! They are adorable."

Azriel's smile grew wider. It didn't happen every day that someone liked his shadows, even calling them adorable. His family was used to their presence and cool touch, but strangers tended to shiver and inched from their reach.

"Are you ready for the tour?"

She stepped to his side and looped her arm through his. He didn't expect it and went rigid, holding his breath. His eyes immediately fell to his scarred hand without glove, her soft perfect flesh so close to his damaged one. She paid no attention to that though.

"Now I'm ready," she blushed.

He inhaled deeply to shake off some of the tension, heart in his chest racing for life.

"So let's go." He sounded breathless.

Allison pressed even closer to him as shadowsinger was leading her to the first place on his list. As a musician, there was no doubt she would fall in love with the Rainbow at first sight. The lights, the colours and the atmosphere of the place immediately captivated her. Her big eyes shone with joy and wandered all around, the questions about different shops and galleries seemed to be endless. Azriel patiently answered all of them, his eyes never leaving her face. She fascinated him. Despite of her calm exterior, she was just as expressive, spontaneous, lively and breathtaking as her music.

Slowly proceeding, they moved to the best cafe in the city with iconic view to catch a breath and refresh. Then passing through the biggest market place, Azriel took her to the most beautiful garden with thousands of blooming flowers and trees that was part of the city's biggest gallery. Azriel wanted to show her much more, but the time was merciless. When they left the gallery it was already evening, dim lights shone like stars above them.

It was time for the dinner, so he took her to his favourite restaurant where he had reserved the best table. The restaurant was located on a hill, its terrace offered a perfect view of the city with flowing Sidra river beneath. There was no better place to end the tour.

Allison sparkled with joy as they ate, the praises and the thanks for showing her such beautiful places seemed to have no end. Her gaze was switching between him and the view, unable to resist and wanting to see the both.

When they finished the meal, Azriel wasn't ready yet to take her to the hotel and say goodbye. He needed a little more. During the day her hand gradually slid down his arm until they walked hand in hand. Leaving the restaurant her small hand naturally grabbed his bigger one, almost shyly they strolled down the street in the silence. She seemed to be just as reluctant to say goodbye as he was. Suddenly he got an idea, his legs came to stop. She glanced up at him with a quiet question.

"There's one more thing I'd like to show you, but.. Are you scared of heights? Do you trust me?"

Her red lips curled up into a smile. "Even with my life," she whispered into the night. "And I'm not sure whether I'm scared or not. I've never been so high to get scared yet."

"That's great because the next place I want to take you to, is up there," he pointed to the star-studded sky with the full moon.

Allison only nodded with shining eyes and stepped closer, giving him permission. Azriel swept her into his arms. She was even lighter than he thought. His heart stuttered at the feel of her warmth, her delicate scent filled his lungs. If he died then and there, he would die a happy male.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers lightly touching ends of his hair, playing with them.

"I'm ready to see this beautiful city through your eyes," she sighed, not knowing yet that the city wouldn't be the most fascinating aspect up there. But she noticed the hint as soon as Azriel's wings rustled.

The huge wings spread behind his tall figure, wide and majestic, strong and beautiful. At that moment Azriel changed. His features relaxed, all tension completely gone. His lips curled into a soft smile, the most genuine one he showed her so far. A long sigh left him, almost a moan as gentle evening breeze caressed sensitive membranes.

He flapped his stiffened limbs, testing them and stretching, muscles on his back danced under the tips of her fingers like strings. Something wild, untamed and beautiful awoke in depths of his eyes that sparked in dark. Hazel colour melted into warm honey, liquid gold whirling in his eyes, mesmerizing her.

Azriel looked at female in his arms with one-sided boyish grin, slightly bent his knees and shot to the sky. The flight was steady, his movements so smooth that Allison felt like floating. The silence of the spring night was disturbed only by soft flapping of leather wings.

Cool air brushed through his hair, playing with the dark strands and Azriel closed his eyes. Flying was a freedom, the only reminder that there was something really magical in this world. It meant everything to him. The day he would lost this ability, would be his last. He couldn't live without this, without this feeling. He never shared it with anyone, but he guessed that his brothers felt the same way. All Illyrians had to feel this way otherwise the wings wouldn't be so sacred to them.

He gleamed with joy, steadily rising to the night sky. When he flew, everything seemed to be possible. Sometimes he liked to imagine that if he wanted, he could touch the shiny dots scattered all over the sky or even the moon itself. For him, flying was as breathing, natural and irreplaceable.

He got so lost in his feelings that he almost forgot about the female pressed against his chest. He opened eyes to check on her, finding her gazing back at him. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the stars above them, full lips slightly parted.

"Are you enjoying the view?" he teased her. Even his deep voice reflected the great change in him, suddenly gaining a velvet undertone.

He felt her body tensed in his arms, knees pressing together, but she only scoffed. "Very much so," she replied, her voice trembling.

"Scared? Should I fly lower?"

"No, this is perfect."

"In such case, you should look around," he suggested softly, the blush creeping up his neck.

It was the very first time someone gazed at him like that, let alone someone he was attracted to. His mouth went dry and there was that tickling sensation in his lower belly. He didn't need to check to feel how hard he was. He only hoped that it would fade away before she noticed his scent. Through the thin material of her dress he could feel her heartbeat, throbbing as fast as his and he instantly felt at ease. It was good to know that he wasn't the only one affected here.

Even if only for a short time, he allowed himself to dream and hope.

Allison reluctantly did as he suggested, her breath hitched. The darkened city spread below them in all its glory. Thousand of lights flickered in the windows of houses of residential areas. Cafes, restaurants and shops scattered in its center shone like torches in the maze of streets. Even from up above they could find the Rainbow that shone the brightest among them. The gardens did light up shows during this season to attract visitor and especially couples in love. The blooming trees looked like puffy cotton clouds from above. And amidst all this, glimmering Sidra meandered serenely like milky way in the sky.

"It's.. incredible," she whispered, her voice full of emotions as her fingers dug with urgency into his flesh and he wished that it would leave a permanent mark on him. Suddenly she started to hum a melody.

Goosebumps rose all over Azriel's body, tears stinging his eyes. He didn't need to ask to know that it was a completely new composition inspired by the beauty of night Velaris below them. But then she turned to him, her gaze locked with his as she continued. This song wasn't only about the city, it was also about him. His lips parted and first tear rolled down his cheek. When she finished, she leaned closer and gently pressed her lips to his.

Azriel's heart stopped for a moment or two just to start pounding hard later. He hesitated only for a brief second before his lips moved, kissing her back. A groan vibrated through his chest as she lightly bit on his bottom lip, breaking the kiss.

"I think I'll call it Song carried on breeze."

[nochukoo97]

muse; chapter one

pairing: biker!jungkook x pianist!reader

summary: the first time jungkook meets you, the prelude to his interest in you; you take notice to jungkook’s significant presence, he’s in your mind as you play your étude

word count: 2k+

masterlist!

prelude;

You’re trudging down a dark alley at 11pm at night. Normally you would never let yourself walk through this alley when it turned dark, but your teacher just had to hold you back for another two hours to perfect your recital piece.

You could walk the safer route, one that was closer to shops that opened for 24 hours, where there was light and a few wandering souls. But it would have taken you a good half an hour longer to walk that route, you weighed your options and decided that making a run through this alley was a better choice.

How wrong were you for thinking that.

Now you find yourself cowering under the tall stance of a man, his cigarette smoke blowing onto your face as you cringe at the smell.

“So, what brings a pretty lady here tonight? Are you looking to get kidnapped?” The man above you chuckles, looking back at who you presume are his friends. They only look at him as if what he was doing was normal, as if they were used to him always doing this.

You’re clutching on tightly to your binder of sheet music, the only other thing you had brought with you besides your phone.

“No, I just wanna go home,” You pick up the courage to spit back at the man, not wanting to let yourself simply give up and fall under his control.

“Damn, we’ve got a spiteful one today,” He laughs, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Don’t need to act so tough baby, you won’t stand a chance fighting against me,” He leans down, whispering into your ear as you feel his hot breath blow onto your neck. You want to die.

As he leans down, you get a better view of his friends, making eye contact with a man, piercings clad his eyebrow and lip, his short sleeved shirt revealing a tattoo sleeve.

He looks at you as if impressed, an amused smile on his face as he nudges his friend to look your way.

You decide it's the perfect time to jerk your knee upwards, causing the man leaning on you to groan, stuttering back as he clutches his crotch.

You don’t take notice of a loose sheet music that falls out of your binder.

“Hah, Minjae, looks like you got a tough one today,” The tattooed man’s friend laughed at him, as Minjae, now you know his name, scowled at the guy.

There’s five people standing against the wall, most of them have a cigarette in their hands, you notice.

Minjae slowly gets back on his feet, and you decide it's time for you to make a run.

You’re sprinting off before anyone can catch you again.

“Hey! Come back!” You can hear his voice echo through the alley, but you’re far too quick to let the man catch you.

Jungkook chuckles to himself, watching Minjae groan as he fails to catch you.

“Jeon, taking an interest in her?” Taehyung nudged the man, who brushed him off.

But he wasn’t wrong, Jungkook did find you amusing.

“I’m gonna go back,” He grumbles, stomping on the cigarette to put it out. “Got to go to work early tomorrow,”

“Or you just want to see that girl, you never leave later than 12am, Jeon,” Jimin calls him out.

Jungkook only sends him a warning glare before he gets on his motorcycle.

There’s a white piece of paper that stands out from the dark concrete of the road, he picks it up.

Prelude in C minor.

etude;

Maybe you should have learnt your lesson the first time you ran through this alley. But it was in the middle of the night again, you didn’t want to go home any later than it already was.

Maybe you were also curious to see if the tattooed man would be there.

But instead you find yourself being dragged into the corner right before the entrance of the alley, you scream in shock at the sudden pull.

There’s a hand pressed over your mouth, muffling your scream.

Great, you’re getting kidnapped today, how smart of you to try to walk down this very alley yet again.

“Keep quiet if you don’t want to get caught by him again,” There’s a deep voice next to your ear, it’s different from Minjae’s voice. You don’t recognise it, but you can’t turn around to see who it is, the arm wrapped around you restricting your movements.

You take notice of your surroundings, you can see the entrance to the alley you were meant to go through. Who the hell stopped you?

You look down, the hand over your mouth following the tilt of your head. Tattoos? The arm around you has a full sleeve of tattoos, there’s an orange flower that stands out to you.

Tattoos, Shit. It can’t be him right? He was Minjae’s friend, why would he prevent his friend from preying on you if it seemed so normal to the rest of his friends.

But you were proven wrong when you managed to turn around, the familiar face that stood out to you that day, his lip piercing reflects the street light next to you.

His eyes stare down at you, scanning your face.

“Why are you- Why did you do that?” You have a million questions to ask the man before you, you don’t know which to start with.

“What do you mean why? Then am I supposed to watch you possibly get harassed by that dick?” He scoffs, why were you being ungrateful when he practically saved you from trauma?

Jungkook’s amused you didn’t even thank him immediately. Normally he wouldn’t even bother giving the girls Minjae creeps on a glance.

But maybe because this time it wasn’t anybody else, it was you.

Maybe he was interested in how you fought back Minjae instead of cowering under his stance, like what everyone else was.

He noticed you because you stood up for yourself, it seemed as though you were almost fearless.

“Aren’t you his wingman or something? You’re meant to side with him,” You frown at him, he lets his arm around you slack next to his body.

“Don’t ever say that again, I fucking hate that dude, I’m only hanging around him because he helps me pay my rent,” Jungkook sighs, he reaches into his pocket to light a cigarette.

When the smell of the smoke reaches you, you scrunch up your nose in disgust.

Jungkook notices your expression, waving his hands to dissipate the smoke in the air.

“Why do you smoke, you’re killing your lungs slowly,” You frown at him, he lifts the cigarette near his mouth to take another drag but pauses when he hears you.

“So concerned for me?” He smiles at you teasingly, as your eyes widen,

“What? No, I just, It’s just a fact!” You’re stuttering out a response, can’t even keep composed under his gaze.

“M’kay,” The man in front of you muses, he drops the cigarette to the ground and stomps on it with his boots.

There’s a moment of silence, before he speaks up again, “Why did you even think about running through there again?”

He’s right, it’s because you’re so desperate to get home quickly you would risk getting kidnapped rather than walk a little more.

“It’s just a faster route to my apartment, there isn’t any bus service near here so I can’t take a bus either, the other way to walk is a whole thirty minutes more, and I don’t want to waste my time,” You fiddle with the hem of your skirt, the weight of your bag becoming evident, as your shoulders slightly ache.

“Think smarter, risk your life or walk an extra half an hour,” He nudges your forehead lightly with his finger, tutting at you as you stumble back a little at the light touch.

“Don’t scold me,” Jungkook watches you pout at him, he chuckles to himself and reaches his hand out to ruffle your hair.

You’re pretty cute for someone who had been so fiesty before, Jungkook likes this side of you.

Shit. Your ears become warm at his touch, they’re red by now for sure.

“Can’t promise you I won’t run through that alley again though, sometimes time is crucial too you know?” You laugh in response, as he raises his eyebrow.

“And a little bit of thrill and adrenaline to end my day isn’t too bad,” You add, laughing to yourself as you kick the rock next to your shoe.

“Oh? So you’re depending on me to come and protect you every time you do so huh?”

“Maybe?” You smile sheepishly up at him, he only shakes his head and smiles back in response.

“Have you seen Jeon? Where the fuck is he?” There’s a loud voice that echoes from the alley, you can’t make out who it is from how dark it was, but it seems as if the man before you knew who it was.

“Fuck, we gotta go, follow me,” He grabs your hand before you can protest, you feel his calloused yet warm hand envelope yours, his rings make contact with your hands, the coldness contrasting to his touch.

You could get used to this.

After turning the corner, Jungkook rushes over to the black motorcycle parked against the wall.

“What! I am not going on that,” You cross you arms as you stare at the Harley Davidson in front of you.

“Come on, if Minjae comes out and sees me with you he will quite literally chop my fucking head off, maybe yours too,”

Your eyes widen at his words, you want to live to see tomorrow.

So you comply with the man, whose name you don’t even know yet, but he slots his helmet over your head, it’s a little big and makes your head bobble when he lets go.

“Sorry if it’s a little heavy and big for you, I don’t carry a spare helmet with me,” He explains, head tilting slightly to clip the helmet.

“It’s fine, but what about you?”

“I’m okay, you’re precious cargo so I need to make sure you have proper protection,” He smiles, patting the top of the helmet as you choke on your spit, flustered by his words.

“Type in your address on my phone,”

He hands you his phone, you notice the edge of the screen slightly cracked, before quickly typing in your address and handing it back to him.

“Hold on to me tight, if you don’t wanna fall off,” He shouts over the loud sound that blasts when he starts the engine, you nod and obediently wrap your arms tighter around him.

“Thanks for sending me home and saving me,” You hand him his helmet back as he smiles sweetly at you. Your stomach feels funny.

“No problem, I’ll keep a lookout for when you decide to make a run again,” He laughs, making you roll your eyes at his words.

It’s silent for a while again as you both look at each other.

“Jungkook,” He stretches out his hand

“Huh?”

“I’m Jungkook, thought you should know my name if we were going to see each other often,”

You shake his hand, giggling a little by the awkward gesture

“I’m ___,”

“Pretty name,” He muses, now he has a clear view of your extremely red face as you chuckle nervously.

“I’ll go back into my apartment and you should probably go back to your friends before they come here and find you, goodnight Jungkook, see you soon?”

He nods back at you, “See you around,”

You shut the door, after entering your apartment, immediately settling in front of your piano, telling yourself you’d play this one piece and quickly go to bed.

Étude Op.25, No. 4

You can’t help but reminisce what had just happened, it feels as if his hand was over your mouth again, his arm was around you. You felt safe in his embrace, you wanted to run through that same alley a million times to meet him a million times more.

Jungkook was your muse, your drive to play this piece, Étude.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

I had an idea and nothing to do with it so I'm sharing it: Pianist!Reader who becomes a neighbour to Gaz and Soap.

Soap: demands Reader plays Flower of Scotland at all hours of the day

Gaz: slips classical music suggestions under the door, denies having done this

Soap: battles that bitch Karen at 1A who complains about constant noise by assembling and disassembling guns As Loud As Possible

Gaz: goes with Reader on the long, ardous quest to buy a new piano (is armed with a bag that contains three water bottles, snacks, tissues, random collection of sheet music stolen from Reader, a notebook and pen, a recorder, measuring tape)

Gaz and Soap and the rest of the 141: somehow get dragged into carrying a fucking baby grand up five floors of stairs with Reader screaming at them DON'T DROP THIS PLEASE THIS COSTS MORE THAN MY ENTIRE LIFE LOOK OUT FOR THE CORNER DON'T SCRATCH THE WOOD!!!!!

Ghost: about murders Reader. Gets piano up the stairs instead.

A BABY GRAND, ANON??????

------

You aren’t going to pull your hair out. You’re not. You’re so stressed you’re almost not breathing, but you can be calm. So calm. You’ve never been so calm in your-

The big guy, Simon, grunts and shifts his weight, and the bulk of the piano tips, ever so slightly toward the wall.

“Please-”

“If you ask me to be careful one more time,” he grunts up at you, before you can say anything else, “I will throw this thing back down the stairs.”

Above Simon, Johnny and Kyle are looking more than a little winded. They’re so close to the apartment, just half a flight and a couple of meters of hallway. You have faith that they’ll make it. You have to. It’s not like they can stop. You’re trying not to hover, at the top of the stairs, but it’s so fucking hard.

A firm hand takes hold of your elbow and draws you away, toward your door. You try to resist, but John, the other man you met today, is guiding you away.

“Let’s clear the hall so that they have the space they need when they get up here.”

Something gives an ominous thump behind you, and you try to turn back. “But-!”

“Nope,” he says, clamping both hands on your shoulders and marching you away.

[natashaslesbian]

First Position

From the ‘Tiny Dancer’ series

Summary: Natasha takes you to your first ever dance class, unfortunately it doesn’t go well

Word Count: 1.2k

Parings: (Little/Kid Reader x Mama Natasha)

Angst/major fluff/comfort

Warnings: none I think :)

————

“Alright baby girl come here let’s get you ready” Natasha called as you came bolting towards her. Today was your first ever ballet class, you were so excited! You had your new pink leotard on and your mama had your tutu packed up and ready to go in your little dance bag. “There we go beautiful” Natasha said as she placed the last pin in your bun “you wanna go get your shoes” you shot out of the room quicker than Natasha could blink. You burst into your room and picked up your ballet shoes. “Got them mama!” You said with a beaming smile as you returned “oh baby girl I meant your outside shoes, your sneakers?” You were so cute, so eager to get to dance class that you forgot you’d need outdoor shoes first. “It’s ok” said Natasha as she came down face to face with you to help you into your ballet shoes “I guess mommy can always carry you” you giggled as Natasha tickled your tummy and hoisted you up into her arms

You couldn’t sit still the entire car journey to the studio, you were shaking with excitement. Natasha was in awe of you, her grown up little princess all ready for her first ballet class. Your mommy had shown you photographs of when she used to dance and you decided straight away that’s what you wanted to do. Natasha protected you from the truth of her formal dance training but she was made up she would get to see you flourish just like she did in a much happier and safer environment. You had imagined for weeks what your first class would be like, the teacher, the pianist, the other kids. The car pulled into the parking lot and you tried your hardest to wriggle out of your booster seat. You had dreamt all last night about this very moment. “Mama! Mama! Come on!” You beamed up as your mommy opened the car door and helped get you out. “Ok, ok let’s go!” Natasha said as she carried you into the building.

The second your mama put you down you were off, running over to introduce yourself to all the other little ballerinas. Natasha smiled as she watched you patter away on your little feet, she introduced herself to Miss Taylor (a highly recommended ballet teacher) and left you in her trusty hands. You waved to your mommy as she left the room to work on her latest mission report. She listened to the classical musical flowing from the studio and tried to push away the lingering anxiety of her memories. You were completely safe and she knew that - but she still insisted she stays just outside the room. You are here entire world and she would lay her life down to protect you from any harm.

The hour raced by, Natasha completed her mission report and got started on some reading assigned by Fury. The other parents arrived gathering outside the studio doors; peaking their heads through the windows to get a glimpse of their dancing angels. Natasha packed up and waited for you to come running and tell her all about your first ever dance class. You were the first one out and rushed into your mamas frame. She curled into you and asked if you had a good time but when she felt you shake your little head and pealed you from her body, she was heartbroken to find tears streaming down your face “oh my darling” she said as she came down to your level “what happened y/n/n?” You began crying your little heart out and Natasha scooped you up right away “wan-wanna go home!” You cried “alright sweetheart let’s go” Natasha said as she carried you back to the car.

Once you were safely strapped in your car seat, Natasha passed you your favourite stuffie in the hopes it would calm you down. But you didn’t want widow bear, you wanted your mommy. You started to scream and kick, just wanting to be held. “Ok, ok, ok” Natasha cooed “come here baby” she said as she pulled you back out of the car and into her arms. She sat with you in the passenger seat, stroking your hair and whispering soothing words, until you grew tired and fell fast asleep. Natasha was devastated, you had never cried yourself to sleep. She knew you must be really upset and was desperate to get to the bottom of it.

You woke up an hour later, tightly wrapped up in your mamas arms. “Hello beautiful” Natasha said gently helping you wake up “did you have a good sleep?” You nodded and buried your face into your mommy’s neck. Natasha spent a few minuets bringing you out of your sleepy state before she spoke up again “do you wanna tell mommy why you were so upset after ballet class?” You began to tear up again at the memory and Natasha gently shushed you. “Other girls were- were meanie” you whispered. “what did they say baby?” Natasha was furious “they laughed…at me because I could-couldn’t do the spins well” you hiccuped through your quiet sobs “an-and one of them said I was stupid. Am- am I stupid mama?” Natasha’s heart shattered at your question, she looked down into your teary y/e/c eyes and lent down to place a kiss on your forehead “oh y/n you’re not stupid. You’re not stupid I promise, it was very wrong of them to say that darling. Don’t you listen to them ok, you’re not stupid babygirl, you are very very smart and such a special little girl. I am so proud of you y/n/n” you smiled at your mommy’s words but didn’t quite believe them after what the girls had said at dance class.

You spent the rest of the evening being pampered by your mama with cuddles and chocolate treats and all your favourite movies. Natasha got you wound down for bed with a bubble bath and the softest pair of pjs that you owned. After tucking you into bed (Natasha’s bed that you begged to sleep in tonight) your mommy pulled out the big book of fairytales to read you a bedtime story, it was one of your favourite parts of the day. “Mama?” You interrupted half way through the classic tale of Goldilocks. “Yeah?” Natasha said, pausing her reading “can I go to ballet class again?” Natasha was surprised by your request “you wanna go again baby?” Natasha asked “yeah, wanna try another time” your mommy smiled, you were the bravest little girl. Natasha was so proud of you “of course you can go again, but I think we should find you somewhere else to dance, yeah?” You nodded and agreed with Natasha. You were glad you wouldn’t have to see those mean girls again. “Alright then, now you get some sleep” said your mama as she laid a final goodnight kiss to your temple “I love you so much tiny dancer” you leaned up and gave your mommy a kiss on the check, your way of telling her that you loved her too.

Once you were snoring softly, Natasha crept over to her computer and began searching for another place for you to dance at. She found a small club called ‘Main Attraxion’ and decided she would get in touch with Emma, the owner, in the morning. After leaving herself a reminder on a little sticky note, Natasha climbed back into bed with you and pulled you close to her chest. You subconsciously wrapped your tiny arms around your mamas neck and the two of you slept peacefully in each others arms.

————

Another little story from the Tiny Dancer series. There’s a few little sprinkles of details from my dance background:))

- Astara🩷

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word��despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

[lu3ky777]

Makoto knew that Shuichi was too much of a pussy to ever do anything to Kaede. So when Makoto goes to Kaede's music room and sees that her rear end is exposed to him from picking up some music sheets she dropped. He decides to rearrange her organs with his massive cock and rearranging her pussy and a hole that Shuichi never touched, her asshole.

Makoto came into the music room to listen to Kaede's music… but he got a front row seat to her sizable ass, she was reaching for something way underneath the piano and was completely mooning Makoto. Makoto knew Shuichi didn't really satisfy Kaede, at least not in ways he could~ so that's the justification he used when he walked over and spanked Kaede with his ENORMOUS lucky rod getting hard as he let it hang out of his pants. “Hey! What the-” Kaede was alarmed as she turned around quickly to see it face first, that huge cock and Makoto smiling sweetly.

Makoto groped Kaede's tits madly as he made out with her, it was surprisingly easy to make Kaede forget Shuichi. Though she was more focused on Makoto's now fully erect mass of cock, she had stripped down to her panties and bra while Makoto had gone shirtless. “Makoto maybe we should head to my room or-” SMACK another spank to her ass from Makoto who was oddly quiet “We’re doing it here because this is where you made me hard ok?” Kaede nodded as Makoto ripped off her panties and pinned her to the ground for the mating press of her life.

Makoto was ruthless as he fucked her hard and fast making the pianist scream melodically like Sayaka so often would for him~ Maybe Makoto had a thing for musical girls? He wondered if he should talk to Ibuki, or maybe even Hiyoko since she was a dancer~ Hell why even stick to the arts? Makoto's ravenous hunger made his imagination go wild as he imagined what he COULD do as he slammed Kaede's pussy into his own cock stuffer. Kaede's pussy was forever turned into Makoto's, but he had one more present for Kaede~ SPURT as he came inside her, filling her womb with more cum than Shuichi had in his many times of fucking Kaede. Each drop was more fertile than Shuichi's whole load~

Makoto pulled out of Kaede still rock hard, Kaede however was lost in pleasure as cum cascaded out of. Makoto picked up Kaede who drunk like leaned against the piano as Makoto began to tease her ass. “Makoto- Shuichi never used that sp-” SMACK to her ass as he began to fuck her ass rapidly “That's the point, I need to stretch out both of your holes~” Kaede was a drunken mess again slobbering all over the top of her Piano which she would have to clean later. Makoto kept slamming her ass for a couple hours till he finally gave up his load inside her, watching her lean over the piano and use it to catch her breath. Makoto however had simply pulled up his pants and left… well not before taking a picture and giving that ass one more SPANK

Later that night, after Makoto had gotten done fucking his girlfriends Sayaka and Kyoko, he had gotten a text from Kaede with her showing her nude ass next to a sleeping Shuichi with his tiny cock out with a caption that read “I just got done with this boy, will you show me how a MAN does it~” Makoto knew he wasnt nearly done fucking that night~

[staruwhite]

One of the perks of the port mafia being such a big organization is the fact that there's space for anything inside that building.

And if you're the Demon prodigy... Well, let's say you can have a bit of a say in what to use some rooms for. Being Mori's golden child meant privilege, even if Dazai didn't use any of them. Living in a container in the middle of nowhere, preferring to use his hard earned executive pay to drown the sorrows in alcohol with Oda and Ango instead of getting some other place to live, not being close with almost anyone. That's the demon prodigy everyone knows. The monster they all feared.

Mori would try to keep him happy. Evil expects evil from others, and he knew what Dazai was capable of. The moment you're in his sights, you can say goodbye to your family. And yet, he seemed sure that Dazai had no emotions. It wasn't humanly possible for that to happen. Then again, he was never considered human in the first place, was he?

In the end, not taking into account Dazai's feelings would be what led Mori to lose him.

But not right now, at least. Not today.

Today, all that happened is that he made a request. For the first time, he decided he wanted something.

Deep inside, Dazai prayed for it to not be destroyed.

Mori would comply. He gave him what he wanted and, as he asked, promised not to tell anyone who was it that asked for it. Not like a mafia leader's promise was to be trusted, but it was all Dazai had.

The piano arrived shortly, finding its place in a mostly empty room. One away from most common places in the building, as Dazai requested. Sooner than later, rumours spread of a piano room that suddenly materialized. Dazai feigned ignorance, keeping up his usual mask in front of everyone. No one should know, after all, that the demon prodigy could have a heart.

Chuuya kept hearing about that "mysterious piano", his curiosity growing. By the time he had an hour to spend by himself and go check it out, it was already 3:30am. Most workers left to go home, and, being honest, the building with this little light seemed almost eerie, like he shouldn't be here. Much less in the part no one ever even goes to.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound. A soft touch of piano keys in the silence of the night. One that Chuuya wasn't ready to hear. He stopped in his tracks and looked at the closed door in front of him.

He was told the piano was in the room behind it, maybe it was true after all, but the sound of the soothing melody behind the door was enough to keep him there.

Who was playing? He took a step back, being as silent as possible, not wanting to disturb whoever was letting their heart out with that music. Instead of going in, he sat beside the door and tried to think.

Not like he knew everyone in the mafia... But he did know quite a few people, and none of them were pianists before joining, or even know how to play the piano as far as he knew. Not Kouyou, or Hirotsu, or...

It couldn't be him.

It was true, no one knew anything about Dazai's past. He could've been a pianist, maybe. Hell, if he's the demon prodigy then maybe he's also a music prodigy?

But it can't be him. Chuuya scratched that thought as he closed his eyes. That Mackerel is too annoying for something as calming as this. And even so...

The music grew louder, Chuuya's eyes widened. Whoever was in that room was pouring their soul into every note, drop by drop. He wondered if they'd ever run out of it. And that was all the reason he needed.

Someone as closed off as Dazai wouldn't just scream their heart out like this. Someone like him shouldn't be able to make Chuuya's heartstrings resonate, or make his breath falter with a mere sound.

Though this was no mere sound in Chuuya's ears. Someone was dying in there, and he felt no right to interrupt.

Just as it grew louder, the music went back to a softer sound. The calm after the storm.

Maybe they weren't dying. Maybe they were coming back alive.

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of someone at the end of the hall. His eyes shot towards the noise and he stood up. There was something telling him that, whoever it was, they shouldn't be here. No one was allowed to listen to this.

Was it a wave of protectiveness? Jealousy that others would also be able to listen to a stranger's heart? He didn't know.

What he knew, however, is that other people wouldn't be as gentle as he was with it. They'd go in and find out who it was. And even if Chuuya was dying to know, he was pretty sure the person inside didn't want anyone to interrupt.

He'd have to take the blame and hope they'd understand.

With a deep breath, he knocked on the wall behind him. As if alerting the one inside of something. Maybe he should've learnt morse code or something, but it worked. The person inside stopped playing abruptly, Chuuya mentally apologised and then left in a rush, using his ability to make his steps lighter.

Maybe he'd find out whoever that was some other day. Hopefully.

For the following day, he kept thinking back to that piano. It didn't really distract him, but the thought was constantly there. The feeling too.

He went back. Same place, same time. And to his surprise, the same song was being played. A smile found its way to his lips as the cycle repeated itself. He was pretty sure the person inside must know there was someone else outside, listening in, and in some way he did feel like he was intruding and should leave... But he didn't.

It became routine. A stranger playing the piano and Chuuya sitting outside, letting the music heal his tired soul even if for a few minutes. Then when someone would come, Chuuya would alert them and then leave.

He even started humming the melody by the third time he heard it. "They must like that one," he figured out. And unknown to him, he started humming it while out on a mission with the damn Mackerel.

Dazai on the other hand, was surprised Chuuya seemed so... Quiet. The redhead was usually loud in every sense, flashy and annoying. He found himself almost lost when his attempts to tease him were blocked by some wave of tranquility that the other boy was feeling.

That is, until he heard the humming. He didn't want to react, but he couldn't help it. He glanced at him, eyes slightly widened. And Chuuya noticed, of course.

Damn human emotions.

"What's with your face, mackerel?" Chuuya looked forwards again, focusing on where they were going.

"Didn't think slugs had enough culture to know Chopin," Dazai replied, looking away. "Where did you get that from?"

Chuuya made the connection in his head, but decided not to say anything.

"Chopin, eh...? You know the song?"

"Why wouldn't I? I'm obviously-"

"Which one is it then?"

Dazai was slightly surprised at the way Chuuya interrupted him. He was used to him sometimes speaking over him, of course, but those times were shushing him or screaming insults at him when he pissed him off. To be interrupted this calmly felt new, and in a sense, he didn't like it.

"Raindrops."

"Huh? That's the name? You're not messing with me, are ya?"

"Why would I mess with a tiny slug? You already have enough with being so small!"

Dazai kept trying to rebuild the facade. It wasn't completely working, but it covered the most vulnerable parts of him. Chuuya groaned.

A part of Dazai felt relieved. He was still the same Chuuya he knew.

They spent the rest of the mission bickering like they always did. Both of them knew now what the other would be doing late at night, but none wanted to speak of it.

By nighttime, back came Chuuya to the hall next to the piano room. He sat down and waited, a bit surprised that the song wasn't already started when he arrived. Did he mess up?

Now he knew who was in there. And now the one inside knew who was outside. Maybe the knowledge made them a bit more wary of what was going on?

Dazai looked at the keys in front of them, black and white like the world he's used to know, and sighed, making a choice. If he was going to open his heart to someone... At least, let it be Chuuya.

The song sounded... Different. Maybe it was the fact that Dazai's mind was screaming for him to stop before it was too late. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled with each note.

Maybe it was how his heart ached more than usual today.

Bandaged fingers caressed each key as his bleeding soul was forced to pour it all out. All his hurt, sorrow and fears laid out for anyone to listen.

He knew only one person would, though.

By the end of it, he was looking down at the keys, hot tears falling on his hands. He quickly wiped them away when he heard a familiar knock, though this time was on the door.

Chuuya opened it, taking in the sight of Dazai sitting in front of the piano, the moonlight from the window creating the perfect silhouette. He closed the door behind him.

"I can finally see the piano. Looks expensive."

The silence grew tense, even if Chuuya tried to keep it light. Dazai stared at him and, for the first time, Chuuya saw a scared child instead of that monster everyone seems to know.

The eye that wasn't covered by bandages was wide, looking at Chuuya like a deer in headlights. He pursed his lips and sighed, taking a step forward as Dazai flinched back.

Chuuya stopped. He was used to this behaviour from when he was with the sheep. Sometimes kids with a lot of trauma would freeze like this, scared of everything, when something triggered them. Chuuya cursed himself for being the reason this time.

"Hey, I'm not gonna do anything weird. It's just me, idiot."

That seemed to calm him down, just a bit. Chuuya carefully approached him, step by step and with a soft demeanour, then offered a book. Dazai looked at it, methodically controlling his breathing.

"What's that?"

"Just take it..." Chuuya placed it on his lap and looked away. Dazai held it and caressed the cover. "It's... I keep a diary."

"Chuuya gave me his diary? What for?"

At that, Chuuya glanced at the piano, his gloved hand caressing one of the keys but not pressing it, as if he didn't know how.

"I'm no musician. Or artist of any kind. I've listened to your heart... But there's nothing I can give in return, so there. My diary."

Dazai looked up at him, his brain never thought the chance of an exchange like this with Chuuya of all people was possible, and yet here they were.

He offered the book back to him.

"It's not a fair exchange."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Chuuya retorted, his eyebrows knitted.

"You listened. I can't read it, I should listen too."

"The hell you want me to do? Read it like a bedtime story?"

"Don't read. Just tell me."

Chuuya froze.

From the first moment he heard him play, he had no choice in what to listen to. Everything was out in the open, so that's what he heard. Yeah, this time was different, but Dazai still chose to pour everything into it. And now that he was offered the same in return... He gave Chuuya a choice.

He could choose what to tell and what not to. What to show and what parts of his heart would be kept hidden. Even if he already knew what he'd do.

With a sigh, he sat down on the small bench, shoving Dazai aside to make room for himself.

"Where do I start...?"

During that night, they both gained more understanding of the other. They shared stories, laughs and sorrows. A deeper bond between them, one of unshakable trust.

Deep down... They both prayed for it to never break.

//hi hello hi!! I treated myself to some writing of an idea I had a long time ago, so here we are! I always thought Raindrops would suit Dazai so I had this thought. Hope you enjoyed! <33

[astrophysicist-guitar-god]

'Freddie Mercury felt like a god. Then he started behaving like one,' by the man who signed Queen

By NORMAN J SHEFFIELD, Founder of Trident Studios where Queen first recorded // PUBLISHED: 17:00 EDT, 20 July 2013 | UPDATED: 17:16 EDT, 20 July 2013 (x)

NORMAN J SHEFFIELD on the amazing story of how one of Britain's best loved rock bands made it big

Freddie Mercury used to say there was no question in his mind that Queen would be a success

I was sitting in my office one day in 1971 when I got a call from my brother Barry down in the studio.

‘Norman, come down and have a listen to something,’ he said.

John Anthony, Trident’s A&R man, had discovered a band called Smile.

At the start, the lead guitarist was an astrophysics student from Imperial College called Brian May, the bassist and singer was an art student called Tim Staffell, and the drummer was a biology student called Roger Taylor.

It turned out that they’d now reshaped the band.

Staffell had been replaced by this little Indian-looking guy with a big, operatic voice and they had a new bass player.

John had asked for their demo. It was raw but there was definitely something there. I’d opened Trident Studios in 1968 in Soho.

Its cutting-edge facilities and happening vibe were attracting the greatest talents of the era, from The Beatles and Elton John to David Bowie and Marc Bolan.

The four guys who came into my office a couple of weeks later were an intriguing mix of characters.

Roger Taylor was a really good-looking kid, with long blond hair and charm. Brian May was tall with a mane of curls and a little introverted but clearly very intelligent. The bass player, John Deacon, was also quiet. I could tell right away that the fourth member was going to be high maintenance.

His real name was Farokh Bulsara. He was born in Zanzibar and educated in India. The family had immigrated to England when he was a teenager. He’d gone to Ealing Art College to study art and graphic design. He was also a gifted singer and pianist.

When he joined the band, he immediately gave himself a more rock ’n’ roll name: Freddie Mercury.

He was charming, acted a bit shy and reserved at times and spoke in quite a posh, mannered voice. When he relaxed he had a very sharp sense of humour and spoke at a hundred miles an hour.

Queen turned out to be every bit as good - and demanding - as we'd anticipated. Things had to be one hundred per cent right, otherwise they wouldn't be happy

They’d rightly decided to ditch Smile as their name. I nearly choked on my coffee when I heard their new one: Queen. The world wasn’t as enlightened then as it is today.

We were worried that it would be a real turn-off, especially given the band’s look. Freddie apparently had a girlfriend but we were pretty certain he was gay.

But the name wasn’t up for negotiation. I agreed to offer the Queenies, as we christened them, a loose kind of arrangement. There were times when the studio was ‘dark’, usually at 2am. So we said: ‘We’ll give you this downtime in the studio to see what you can do.’

They turned out to be every bit as good – and demanding – as we’d anticipated. Things had to be one hundred per cent right, otherwise they wouldn’t be happy. They’d spend days and nights working on the harmonies.

Arguments would start about the tiniest little detail. They’d start screaming, shouting and chucking things. Sometimes it would blow over in a few minutes, but at other times they would stew on it, not talking to each other for a day or two. They’d always sort it out, however. It wasn’t personal, it was about the work.

The more adulation Freddie received on stage, the harder he became to work with offstage

Freddie used to say there was no question in his mind that Queen would be a success.

‘There was never a doubt, darling, never,’ he’d say with an imperious wave of his hand.

The title of their first album was simply Queen.

Another suggestion had been Dearie Me, Freddie’s catchphrase, which was quite funny but the band were a hard enough sell as it was.

They spent ages arguing about the album sleeve. The front cover was a single image of Freddie on stage, with two spotlights in the background.

For the back cover the boys put together a collage of snaps of themselves.

Freddie had driven everyone to distraction fretting over whether he looked ‘gorgeous enough’ in them.

By the end of the year they were on the road with Mott the Hoople, but Queen were getting more encores and bigger cheers than the headliners.

They were due to go to Australia for a gig when Brian suddenly developed a really high fever. His arm had swollen up to the size of a football and doctors diagnosed gangrene.

At one point it was touch and go whether he would lose it. Luckily the crisis eased and he was allowed to fly.

However, the gig was a disaster. The local DJ introducing them had clearly taken against them because he introduced them as ‘stuck-up Pommies’. When they got on stage, the crowd turned against them, too.

The boys were mightily relieved when they got on a plane back to London. For some bizarre reason, the British press had been tipped off that Her Majesty the Queen was arriving at Heathrow. So when they saw four knackered musicians emerging through Customs, they weren’t too happy.

On their first tour of America, Brian’s health was deteriorating. Our worst fears were confirmed when doctors announced he had hepatitis.

The rest of the tour had to be cancelled. It was a disaster, professionally and personally. Then, when they came back to London in August, he had to have an emergency operation for an ulcer.

The opening track on A Night At The Opera attacked their management

But on October 11, 1974, EMI put out Killer Queen, from their third album, Sheer Heart Attack.

Within weeks it had given the boys the thing they’d most wanted – a No. 1 single.

As Queen hit the road again, this time as a headline act in their own right, it was clear they were on the verge of major success.

But the more adulation Freddie received on stage, the harder he became to work with offstage.

The tour came to an end at the famous Rainbow Theatre in London. The day before the gig, Freddie was being even more pedantic than usual.

‘Oh, stop being such a tart, Freddie,’ Brian said.

Freddie was outraged. He tossed back his head, waved his arms and stormed off in a strop.

When it was time for the soundcheck, Brian turned the mic on.

‘Freddiepoos, where are you?’ he shouted.

Freddie appeared immediately with a face like thunder. He flounced on stage, gave Brian a vicious look and then just got on with it. That’s what they always did.

In 1975 they went to Japan and found 3,000 fans waiting for them, all chanting the band’s name. It was like Beatlemania. Freddie had finally found the acclaim he’d craved all his life. He felt like a god. Unfortunately, he soon started behaving like one, too.

The more successful they became, the more agitated Queen had grown about money. One of the most heated rows came when John got married. In the run-up to the wedding he announced he wanted me to spring £10,000 (about £90,000 in 2013 values) for him to buy a house. I didn’t react too well.

Then Freddie demanded a grand piano. When I turned him down, he  banged his fist on my desk. ‘I have to get a grand piano,’ he said.

Norman J Sheffield: By the time I realised things were badly wrong it was too late

I wasn’t being mean. We knew there was a huge amount of money due to come flooding our way from Queen’s success. I explained that some of it was already coming in but the vast majority of it hadn’t arrived yet.

‘But we’re stars. We’re selling millions of records,’ Freddie said.

‘And I’m still living in the same flat I’ve been in for the past three years.’

The amount of money we’d invested in the band was huge.

We’d advanced them equipment and salaries right at the beginning and had continued to pour money into them for four years.

The fact the band owed Trident close to £200,000 (£1.75 million today) didn’t seem to register with Freddie.

I can remember the conversation.

‘The money will come in December,’ I said. ‘So wait.’

Then came a phrase he would make famous around the world in years to come, although no one would have known where it was born.

Freddie stamped his feet and raised his voice: ‘No, I am not prepared to wait any longer. I want it all. I want it now.’

By late 1975 I was hearing that they were making all sorts of derogatory comments about Trident.

Then I heard a track from A Night At The Opera called Death On Two Legs. The opening two lines summed up what was to come.

‘You suck my blood like a leech/you break the law and you breach’, then, ‘Do you feel like suicide?’ it went on, ‘I think that you should’. It was some kind of nasty hate mail from Freddie to me.

Soon Bohemian Rhapsody roared to the top of the UK charts and stayed there for nine weeks. A bittersweet moment, it came as news was beginning to leak that we had split from Queen.

We should have talked more. And I should have been more attentive to their feelings. By the time I realised things were badly wrong, it was too late.

In March 1977 the company settled with the band for the sale of all of its future rights, the rights to the old albums and the settlement of the management debt.

Freddie’s dream finally came true and he became a very wealthy man. When he died, no one was sadder than me. He may have been a monster to deal with, but he was also a genius.

I did see him once, in the years following our fallout, in 1986, when I took the family to their Knebworth concert. He was friendly, as if the rows of the past were forgotten. It turned out to be their last live concert, which meant I was at their first and last.

Years later, after his death, I went to the Freddie Mercury Memorial Concert at Wembley, where I saw the three remaining members being photographed.

John Deacon pointed at me and said: ‘And if it hadn’t been for that man we wouldn’t be here.’

Brian and Roger looked at me and nodded. That gesture went a long way towards exorcising the ghosts of the past. 

(Extracted from ‘Life On Two Legs: Set The Record Straight’ by Norman J Sheffield, out now and online from Amazon and in bookshops priced £14.95 for paperback, £7.49 for Kindle.

A limited-edition hardback is also available at £24.95. For more images, visit facebook.com/lifeontwolegs)

[noonaishere]

Music of the Heart [J.YH] - prologue | a long time ago… in a town far, far away…

“How was your violin lesson, honey?” Your dad asked as he looked up from the newspaper.

You shrugged. “Fine.”

You walked through the house and into your room, putting the violin case down where you normally left it next to your desk. You laid face down on your bed for a moment and sighed, the chastising from your teacher still in your head. ‘Lift your elbow!’ ‘These are the glissandos of someone who hasn’t practiced!’ ‘Do you think Paganini became the world’s greatest violinist with the amount of effort you put into it?!’

You grabbed your pillow and screamed into it.

“Hey.”

You sat up to find your brother, Intak, standing in the doorway.

“Mom said dinner’s ready.” He left.

You took your jacket off, threw it on the bed and went to the kitchen.

“I got a call from your violin teacher today,” your mom said as she placed the last plate on the table and sat down. “He told me you haven’t been practicing.”

You stared at your plate, wishing you were anywhere else. Swimming in the ocean near a shark feeding frenzy, perhaps.

“T/n?”

“I have been practicing.”

“He told me you haven’t been improving.”

“Honey, you need to practice.” Your dad added.

“Maybe I’m just not cut out to play violin then.”

Your dad sighed and looked to your mom for help.

“Honey, playing the violin will open up so many opportunities for you.”

You looked up at her.

“Take your father and myself for example: concert pianists and ballet dancers acquire a level of prestige that other jobs simply don’t have.”

“And what if I don’t want that kind of prestige?”

She scoffed. “Now honey, everyone wants that kind of prestige.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at your mother.”

You anchored your gaze onto your food since there wasn’t anything else you could do.

Your mom continued. “Your father has played concerts all across the globe, and I’ve danced all across Asia and Europe. I would have danced elsewhere too, if I didn’t give birth to your brother and you.”

You fought hard not to roll your eyes again. It was an age-old tale belonging only to her; that birthing your brother and yourself had ruined her waifish body and so she could no longer dance. An age-old tale that, to look at her, seemed to be a fabrication; she was about as thin as she was before she had either of you. The envy of most of the moms at your school because she seemed to never gain weight.

“Look at your brother,” your dad said. “He plays cello and he loves it.”

Your brother smiled at you.

“Well, I play violin and I don’t.”

“You understood the rules, honey.” your mom began. “You could choose between dance or an instrument, and you were kicked out of dance, so now--”

“Now I’m stuck with violin.”

“Don’t say it like that.” She said firmly. 

“That’s what it feels like.”

“You’re being disrespectful.” Your father reprimanded.

You turned to him with a blank expression.

“We have careers in the arts--

“Had.” Your mother corrected.

“Yes, honey, had. So did all of your grandparents. It’s in your blood.”

You looked back down at your plate. After getting yelled at by your violin teacher for two hours, you already didn’t want to eat. Now you just wanted to throw up.

“That’s why you need to go to violin practice. And that’s why you need to practice more.” Your mom said.

“If it’s in my blood, then why aren’t I just naturally good at it?” You looked up at your mom.

She chewed her food thoughtfully.

You watched her.

“Art is about effort, and passion--”

“--And about being forced to do something and not being allowed to deviate from the path someone else chose for you.”

She glared at you as she lowered her spoon back to the plate.

“Art is about not being able to experiment with style or form, it’s about being made to do something by someone else. Right?”

“When did I say that?”

“That’s what you’re telling me right now because you won’t even entertain the idea that I might want to play a different instrument. Or that I might not even want to be in the arts at all.”

She stared at you, expressionless. “Go to your room.”

The two of you locked eyes. She looked at you passively, the cold air of a parent who knew they would always get what they want because they are the one in charge. You? Your face was one of indignance. You knew that you were trapped. There was a world waiting for you outside your cage but you’d never see it as long as you lived under her roof. For a moment, you thought of saying something, starting a fight because it was the only thing you could do; at least you’d get to speak your mind.

You stood angrily, nearly knocking over your chair in the process. You stormed off to your room and slammed the door behind you. Before you could even make it to your bed, your legs gave out from under you and you collapsed, like a child in prayer your arms sprawled across the bedspread as your fingers came together and grasped the fabric in two fistfulls and you held on. Instead of calling on some higher power, you cried.

A few hours later, you were done crying your eyes out. The feeling of emotional release that crying provides already given way to feeling trapped again, and you knew that there wasn’t anything you could do. The only way to stop crying would be to change the situation you were in so you no longer had a reason to cry, and you couldn’t even do that until you graduated.

Because you could do nothing else, you lay on your bed listening to music. Contrary to whatever idea of you your parents had in their head, you genuinely liked music. You loved it. You were a true ‘music is my life’ child who used music as a way to ground themselves in nervous situations, listened to aggressive music when they were angry, and used it to change their mood from sad to happy.

You listened to songs over and over for hours as you deconstructed them in your mind, paying close attention to how they worked, what notes and chords made the listener feel what feelings, the use of metaphor and idiom the lyricists used to create a story. You liked so many different kinds of music. You didn’t like the idea of being the kind of person who only listens to one kind, if only because there was so many thousands of years of music that have existed throughout human history and it would be stupid to think that one band or genre that exists in the brief blip that is now could be the be-all end-all of human emotion and experience. Not listening to as much music as you possibly could would be a truly stupid decision, in your eyes. Humans have loved music since the first person realized they could make noise that was pleasing to the ears and share it with the other people around them; there was something sacred in that. Learning to make music shouldn’t be for - as your parents thought - fame and prestige. 

As you thought about how much you loved music and how much your parents just didn’t have the same mindset, a song you vaguely remembered adding to your playlist came on. A distorted bass note opened the song before sounding like it was spinning out of control into a flurry of electric guitar and drums, but the bass was still there in the background, stabilizing the song with its chunky, heavy sound. You picked up your mp3 player and looked at it, Around the World by the Red Hot Chili Peppers; it must have been one of the albums one of your few friends in band class let you rip from their cd collection like contraband, since your parents didn’t let you buy anything that wasn’t art music. Of the three kinds of music - art music, folk music, popular music - in your house you were only allowed to listen to one: art. Classical, baroque, romantic, opera: those were the genres that were permitted. The worst part was, there were movements and pieces that you genuinely liked, but all of it had been tarnished for you. You were a caged bird; the lines of the staff were the bars of your cage while the notes that rested on them were notes you wished to sing, but because you were not allowed to experience the emotion that would bring about song, they were meaningless.

You navigated to the album and played the rest of it. However you ended up with it, it had some amazing songs. Right On Time started with the weirdest sound you’d ever heard: a bouncy springy sound that you couldn’t identify. You got up and sat at your computer and entered a bunch of music terms trying to figure out what it was before just searching “RHCP Right On Time cover” and finding that, to play the song, the bassist was hitting his thumb against the strings and pulling the strings away from the instrument.

“Slap bass?” You said out loud, to no one.

It was so cool, and you loved the sound. Maybe you could play bass instead of…

No... No. You knew your parents would never let you play a rock instrument. There was no ‘prestige’, the thing most important to them. A word you had come to hate. 

Wasn’t the point of art to release your own creativity in a way that other people could experience it? Wasn’t the point of art to make others laugh, cry, think, and experience something? Wasn’t the point of making art to have a good time? For two artists who constantly extolled the virtues of art, their idea took on a decidedly commodified definition. Art wasn’t about creativity or pleasure to them, it was about physical and social capital. Even then, people in rock bands made millions of dollars and had fans who loved them. But you already knew what they’d say if you tried to make that point: that wasn’t the right form of social capital. It wasn’t the love from old money millionaires who could become your patron, throw all of their money at you, pay you to write or play things they want, put you up in the best hotels so you could play to a mere few hundred people at the fanciest concert hall. It was about the elitism. It was about being better than someone else. It was about accepting the cage because it was gilded.

Watching the cover over again, you felt something. Something that you had never felt for ballet or the violin. You wanted it. A sense of ardor that made your face flush and the heat rise from your neck. It was almost embarrassing how strong the feeling was. You had felt dead inside from the conversation at dinner and from crying afterwards, numbed by the idea that your fate was inescapable, but now your very being felt alight. Desire, tinged with anger. A conflagration of understanding what you wanted after having it kept from you for so long. It was just so cool.

You wanted to learn what he was doing, you wanted to play what the bassist in the video was playing, you wanted to be in command of such an instrument that could make noises so low you could feel it like a second heartbeat in your chest. But you could never have that. Not while you lived in your parent’s home, anyway.

You thought for a moment. You had birthday money. Actually, you had a lot of birthday money since your mom never let you have any of it. And you knew that she kept it hidden in her sock drawer because you snuck after her and saw her put it in there one year. She wouldn’t have had any reason to move it, right? And also…

It was your money.

You peeked into the kitchen and saw your mom cleaning dishes, your dad was in the living room watching the news, and your brother was in his room with the door closed. You snuck into your parent’s room and found the money exactly where you knew it was. You took a bunch of it out and put paper you had cut to the correct size in its place, hoping she wouldn’t notice. At least, she wouldn’t notice until your next birthday, and that was almost a year from now. That gave you a year to think of what you were going to say when she found out and screamed at you.

You calmly walked back to your room, and only exhaled once you closed your door and stood against it. Now, you could hear your heart hammering in your ears from the sheer panic of getting caught. You took a deep breath and looked around your room; you didn’t want to put the money in your wallet and risk losing it, so you needed to hide it somewhere she wouldn’t think to look. You opened your desk drawer: too obvious. Between the mattress and the boxspring: she’d see it when she was cleaning. You had it: you never pulled the bottom drawer of your dresser out all the way because it just had things that were only really for dressing up, which you didn’t do often. You could tape it to the underside of the panel the drawer above rested on. 

You wrapped the money up in some paper and taped it to the panel, far enough from the entrance that it couldn’t be seen. You tested this by pulling the drawer out, and found that it was well hidden. Step one: complete.

Step two: now you just needed to figure out a time when you could go to the music shop in the next town over. You couldn’t go during the week, so it’d have to be a weekend. But you also didn’t have a car and the music shop was pretty far away. You’d have to walk back with it. That was no problem, but what were you supposed to do with it once you brought it back?

You certainly couldn’t keep it at your house, your parents would kill you. 

But if someone could hold onto it for you…

  main cast | masterlist | next

Send an ask or leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! 🎵

[sweepinguptheemeraldbar]

✨️Falk being Falk✨️

A compilation from Oberhausen, 18/10/24

He is having a thought!

Frolicking through the meadows

"Oh look! A squirrel!

"I am a literal GOD"

Bugs when you lift up a rock

He skedaddle away

"I am one with the keyboard and the keyboard is one with me"

"'Aight, imma head out"

Pyre content sold separately.

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … November 23

1876 – Manuel De Falla, Spanish composer, born (d.1946); Pablo Picasso is quoted as saying that he considered de Falla the shyest man he had ever met, "even smaller than myself, and as modest and withdrawn as an oyster shell ..." He was said to have been involved in a ménage á trois with composer Maurice Ravel and pianist Ricardo Viñes.

De Falla became close friends with Diaghalev and Massine, with whom he collaborated on The Three-Cornered Hat. It was, incidentally, immediately after the first performance of this ballet, that Massine announced his engagement to Lydia Sokolova, who had just performed the leading role, and was then dismissed from the Ballet Russes by the enraged Diaghelev.

1924 – The famed British-American anthropologist Colin Turnbull was born on this date (d.1994). Best known for this groundbreaking books The Forest People & The Mountain People, Turnbull was also one of the first anthropologists to work in the field of ethnomusicology.

Turnbull was an unconventional scholar who rejected neutrality. He idealized the BaMbuti and reviled the Ik, and described the latter as lacking any sense of altruism, in that they force their children out of their homes at the age of three, and gorge on whatever occasional excesses of food they might find until they became sick, rather than save or share. However, several anthropologists have since argued that a particularly serious famine suffered by the Ik during the period of Turnbull's visit may have distorted their normal behavior and customs, and some passages in his book make it clear that the behavior and customs of the Ik during the period he describes were drastically different from what was normal for them before they were uprooted from their original way of life.

Turnbull with MButi children.

In the US, he lived with his professional collaborator and partner of 30 years, the African American Dr. Joseph Towles, as an openly gay, interracial couple in one of the most conservative areas of the 1960s - rural Virginia.

During this time he also took up the political cause of death row inmates. After his partner's death in 1988, Turnbull, strongly affected, gave all his belongings to the United Negro College Fund. In 1989, he moved to Bloomington, Indiana to participate to the building of Tibetan Cultural Center with his friend Thupten Jigme Norbu, elder brother of the 14th Dalai Lama. In 1991 - 1992, he moved to Dharamsala, India where he took the monks' vow of Tibetan Buddhism, given to him by the Dalai Lama. He was then given a buddhist name.

He died in Virginia in 1994, aged 69. Both Towles and Turnbull died from complications of AIDS.

1926 – Roger Englander (d.2021) was an American director and producer. He won a Primetime Emmy Award and was nominated for five more in the category Outstanding Directing.

Born in Clevelend, Ohio, Englander attended Cleveland Heights High School where he studied piano, trumpet and French horn; he also conducted the school orchestra. He studied drama, composition and theory at the University of Chicago and graduated in 1945.

Englander produced all 53 episodes for Leonard Bernstein's Young People's Concerts at CBS from 1958 until 1972. Earlier, he was the prop manager for Bernstein's production of Benjamin Britten's Peter Grimes at Tanglewood in 1946. He staged several of Gian Carlo Menotti's operas, including The Telephone and The Medium for WPTZ (Philadelphia).

Englander wrote Opera, What's All the Screaming About? in 1983. He also directed several episodes of Omnibus and produced episodes of The Bell Telephone Hour which earned him a Peabody Award in 1959.

Englander died in February 2021, of pneumonia at the hospital in Newport, Rhode Island, at the age of 94. He was survived by his long-time companion Michael Dupré.

1933 – The New York tabloid Broadway Brevities, under the headline "Fags Tickle Nudes," published an article warning that "Pansy men of the nation" were invading steam baths and turning them into replicas of the orgy houses in Rome at the time of Nero.

Joe Zee (R) and husband Rob Younkers

1968 – Joe Zee is a Hong Kong-born Canadian fashion stylist, journalist, and producer, known for Entertainment Tonight (1981), FABLife (2015) and Celebrity Style Story (2012). Zee served as creative director of Elle for seven years. He became editor-in-chief and executive creative officer of Yahoo! Style in April 2014. He resigned from Yahoo in June 2017.

Zee was born in Hong Kong and at the age of one, moved to Toronto where he grew up. He began working in fashion in 1990, at age 22, and ultimately moved to New York City enrolling at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

In the mid-1990s, Zee met stylist Lori Goldstein at an Allure party, and soon became her assistant.

He was described in a New York Times profile as a leader in the mass market and digital transformation of fashion: "a chatty and approachable ambassador of fashion who has aggressively thrust himself in front of hoi polloi using Twitter, blogs, v-logs and—most visibly—television."

Zee was a recurring character as boss of the reality series The City. He has also appeared on episodes of Ugly Betty, Mistresses, and General Hospital as himself. He was one of the co-hosts of the ABC daytime talk show The Fab Life.

In 2010, he made an appearance on Gossip Girl as himself.In 2015, he released his book That's What Fashion Is: Lessons and Stories from My Nonstop, Mostly Glamorous Life in Style. Zee is married to Rob Younkers, host of Logo TV's Secret Guide to Fabulous

1989 – On this date the Natural Bears Classification System was unveiled on a Usenet group. The NBCS or "bear code" is a set of symbols using letters, numbers and other characters commonly found on modern, Western computer keyboards, and used for the self-identification of those who self-identify as "bears" in the sense of a mature gay or bisexual man with facial or substantial body hair. This classification scheme was created by Bob Donahue and Jeff Stoner, and was based on the way in which star and galaxy classification systems used characteristics of an object to derive a classifying identifier.

The format of the NBCS is a sequence of space-separated descriptions that each take the form, "XMme" where X is a letter indicating some trait; M is an optional magnitude indicated by either a number or a sequence of + or - characters (the former are used for rankings that have a broad, but discrete range while the latter is used for more comparative measurements); m is an optional modifier such as "v" which indicates variability of the trait; and e is any extra (such as a parenthesized magnitude that indicates a range from the magnitude outside the parentheses to the magnitude inside).

The format includes physical traits such as "B" for beard density/length, "f" for body hair (or "fur"), "t" for height (or "tallness"), and "w" for weight. It also includes personality traits such as "d" for "the daddy factor" and sexual preferences such as "k" for "the kinky factor."

A sample bear code is: B4 d+c e+ f+ g++ k+ m w t+ r (+?)

Translation: Reasonably thick beard, definite Daddy, cub tendencies, (endowment) gets attention, above average fur, loves groping/pawing/touching, (Kinkiness) loves most things, (Muscle) some definition, Blue collar, average weight, tall, (sex) plays under special circumstances.

1998 – The Georgia Supreme Court voted 6-1 to overturn the state's sodomy law. In the majority opinion, Chief Justice Robert Benham wrote, "We cannot think of any other activity that reasonable persons would rank as more private and more deserving of protection from governmental interference than consensual, private, adult sexual activity." Since the decision was based on the Georgia constitution rather than the US constitution, the decision could not be appealed.

2009 – On this date the city council of Charleston, South Carolina passed ordinances expanding the city's existing policy prohibiting discrimination in housing to include age, sexual orientation and gender identity. How important is this? In American history there is probably no other conservative city than Charleston. The Civil War was virtually born in Charleston and it is a city that was founded on the slave trade and the institutionalization of the most conservative, landowning families.

But that was then and this is now. Although the state is still a conservative hotbed, Charleston is a more cosmopolitan and urbane city. It also has a spirit of liberalism and openness. So this can only be seen as a sign of how far we have come.

The council also passed a public accommodations ordinance prohibiting discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, national origin, familial status, disability, age or sexual orientation. Charleston joins a number of other cities in the south with comprehensive anti-discrimination ordinances including Charleston WV, New Orleans LA, Atlanta GA, Covington KY and Columbia SC.

2014 – In Brazil, the world's first largest same-sex wedding with 160 couples takes place in Rio de Janeiro. It was the fifth time mass same-sex weddings were held in Brazil. (The following year 185 couples married.) Claudio Nascimento of Rio Sem Homophobia (Rio without Homophobia) says, "It is an affirmative action to call attention to all of the achievements and challenges in the area of civil and human rights of the LGBT community." Brazil broke the Guinness World Record for the largest pride parade in 2009 with 4 million attendees. Same-sex marriage has been legal in Brazil since May 16, 2013, though it had already been legally recognized since 2004.

[nitrateglow]

Halloween 2023 marathon: 19-21

The Hands of Orlac (dir. Robert Wiene, 1924)

Concert pianist Orlac (Conrad Veidt) is excited to return from touring to the arms of his loving wife Yvonne (Alexandra Sorina) right before he suffers injuries in a train crash. While the accident does not kill him, it destroys his hands. His hands being key to his livelihood, Orlac despairs, but the doctors are able to graft new ones onto his wrists. All well and good, with one problem: the hands were taken from the corpse of a guillotined murderer, Orlac is uncomfortable with them from the outset, and once he learns of their origins, Orlac is becoming paranoid that the hands will influence him to kill. Driven to madness by his fears, will Orlac resort to violence?

The Hands of Orlac has a great premise and a great lead actor in the compelling, expressive Conrad Veidt. The atmosphere, though not as surreal as Wiene's The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, is decidedly nightmarish and suffocating as the protagonist's paranoia consumes him.

If only the pacing wasn't the worst.

Like, there's slow pacing and then there's submerging your movie in molasses. Orlac runs almost two hours long and much of it is just dedicated to Veidt's very deliberated mannerisms and reactions. I love Veidt-- he was one of the greatest actors of the silent era-- but the scenes of him staring in horror at his hands and whatnot just go on forever and to no real benefit to the story.

And that's unfortunate because this is a very mature, subdued psychological horror film, more about inner conflict than external monsters or psychopaths (though the movie does ultimately have a villain). In some ways, it's ahead of its time: the urban gloom on display here foreshadows the film noir movies of the 1940s and 1950s. However, it's so slow that I had a hard time getting into it.

The Island of Lost Souls (dir. Erle C. Kenton, 1932)

Edward Parker (Richard Arlen) is having a bad week: his ship sank, the captain of the ship that rescued him doesn't like him, and now because of that he's been marooned on the Island of Dr. Moreau, a small bit of land not present on any sea chart. Dr. Moreau (Charles Laughton) seems an amiable, jovial fellow, but what is to be made of the tortured screams in the night or the cowering, abused "natives" who seem to view Moreau as a god? Turns out, Moreau is trying to speed up evolution with his experiments on animals and he hopes to prove his creations can mate with humans by offering Parker his sole female subject, Lota (Kathleen Burke).

The Island of Lost Souls is quintessential pre-code horror, right there with The Most Dangerous Game and the 1932 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It's gruesome for 1932, dealing with vivisection, inter-species sex, and animal cruelty. Imagine any of THAT flying come the enforcement of the Code.

This is one of very few older horror movies I find genuinely unpleasant even if it doesn't outright show Dr. Moreau cutting up his experiments while they're still very much conscious. Screams are ever present on the soundtrack and they aren't cheesy horror movie yelps. The moans and screaming in this thing are chilling. The humid jungle atmosphere is also palpable, creating a sense of suffocating entrapment. As much as I love many of the classic Universal horror movies, they don't have that same sense of dread and evil this one still possesses.

The Penthouse (dir. Peter Collinson, 1967)

Crooked businessman Bruce (Terence Morgan) and his shopgirl mistress Barbara (Suzy Kendall) find themselves at the mercy of two thugs who break into the penthouse apartment they use for their adulterous liaisons. Tom (Tony Beckley) and Dick (Norman Rodway) are childlike yet ruthless, getting Barbara intoxicated while they tie Bruce up and make him watch. Or rather listen, because boy do these fellas love monologuing.... lots and lots and lots of monologuing.

Yes, the guy who directed The Italian Job made a home invasion movie. It also sucks. Like, oh my GOD, this was designed to torture me, I swear, and not in the way the filmmakers intended. It feels like a college assignment turned into a movie.

Okay, let me be nice first. Visually, this is of interest. Not the quality of the image-- the YouTube upload looks like it was dragged up from VHS hell-- but from what I can see of the compositions and the camerawork, this is a visually dynamic movie doing its hardest to make you forget the script is based on a stage play.

But that's impossible because this is one of those movies where the characters never shut the hell up. They monologue endlessly about Societal Ills and Important Class Themes, occasionally breaking up the lecturing with oddball criminal antics, pot smoking, and violence. It's like an attempt at a "hipper" (for 1967) and more intellectual version of The Desperate Hours, where an ordinary middle-class family is held hostage by criminals as motivated by class-based bitterness as they are by money or freedom. But holy crap, does. It. Drag. 100 minutes of dragging.

Admittedly, the dynamic between Tom and Dick is a little interesting. They're the types who finish each other's sentences and genuinely seem to relish each other's company as they bond over doing these terrible things. They were fascinating to watch when not burdened with pretentious monologues about how baby alligators being flushed down toilets represent society's outliers.

Martine Beswick shows up in the last section as the third accomplice "Harry." Other reviewers claim she brightens up the film, but her appearance is so brief and much ado about nothing at all that she didn't make watching this any more entertaining for me.

The Penthouse feels like a parody of the worst kind of "elevated horror," boring nonsense masquerading as a social statement. Parts of it are memorably bizarre, but there's not enough of that for me to recommend it.

[itsuki-minamy]

"CRUSH ON BABY" (PART 4)

NOVEL: REI RAIRAKU (GORA) / ILLUSTRATION: HIROKO UTSUMI

TRANSLATION: NARU-KUN

* List of Chapters

"You said it had nothing to do with me. It's true that your life has nothing to do with me. What matters now... Hibiki asked you to compose a song, right?"

Yozora widened his eyes.

"Why...?"

"I heard the live concert staff talking about it. It seems that Hibiki wants to sing a song that someone else composes. The other party is a friend of a former pianist. Yozora Kamijo. You were at the last concert, right? You were with the friend from Hibiki, a hairdresser. If Hibiki's desired partner is not you, just say no."

When Yozora fell silent, Miike laughed.

"I see. After all, it's you."

Yozora was in a state of being cornered in the back because he had gotten into the counter. Cautiously, he asked, "So, what's up?"

"How's the progress?"

"Eh?"

"Are you making it? A song for Hibiki."

"No, I've given up on music..."

"Do not be silly!"

Miike, who had been muttering up to this point, suddenly became furious.

"They're looking for you though! You're talented! You're a human who can become anyone! Everyone wants it and you throw it away like trash!"

Miike screamed with a sore throat. At the same time, the door to the bar was flung open as a thud of footsteps was heard.

"Yozora!"

It was Hibiki who jumped. The two of them widened their eyes when they saw Yozora and Miike facing each other.

After a few seconds of silence that left everyone speechless, Minase was the first to speak.

"What are you doing? The inside of the counter is not a place for customers to enter. Please get out of there first."

Minase spoke in a low and calm voice, but Miike didn't look at Minase. He was turned towards Hibiki, and his expression trembled a lot, reflecting confusion. His eyes clouded with impatience, his confidence distorted as if he was scared, and a forced smile appeared that seemed to deceive him.

"Hey, Hibiki..."

"Minase is right. Get out of there."

Hibiki let out a forceful voice, but Miike shook his head tearfully.

"No, Hibiki, you don't have to worry about a thing. Because I can make your wishes come true. I will bless Hibiki."

Miike took a step towards Yozora with a ghastly look in his eyes.

"Promise you'll make a song for him."

"Stop!"

Hibiki raised his voice like a howl.

"I have no intention of making him do it. Stop being stupid."

"Hibiki! It's my fault you weren't satisfied with my song! I thought of Hibiki so much when I made it! You said you didn't want it unless it was Kamijo Yozora's song!"

Miike's breathing became rough and his shoulders rose and fell.

"I've been playing the piano with all my might. Ever since I was little, I've practiced for hours every day. I've endured strict instruction! But if Yozora Kamijo was present at the competition, the prize would always go to Yozora Kamijo. Even after graduating from a music school, I couldn't find a job in music, and when I was asked to perform from time to time, I had no intention of doing it, I was just trying to use it for free... What the hell happened with my early 20s playing the piano?!"

After yelling for a while, Miike suddenly calmed down.

"But then I discovered Hibiki's song. At first I thought rock music wasn't real music, but after hearing Hibiki's song, I changed my mind. There's something about music that moves people."

Even Yozora agreed with the last part of Miike's words. Hibiki's songs are intensely up-tempo and you can feel a ray of sadness and sweetness. Sung in Hibiki's mysteriously colored voice, it seems to appeal to the emotions of those who feel they lack themselves.

"Blessings to you, who was supposed to be someone, now you are nothing."

Miike muttered a passage from Hibiki's song lyrics.

"I couldn't be anyone. But Hibiki's song gave me a blessing. So this time, I will bless Hibiki. Hibiki's success is my success."

Miike's melancholic eyes fixed on Yozora, closing the distance.

"Do it! Make a song for Hibiki! It's the duty of someone with talent!"

Miike's hand grabbed Yozora's neck and shook it.

Miike's expression resembled that of a crying child. Sound obsession. He was jealous of Yozora. Resentment for the current situation. They were scrambled and bursting.

Hibiki moved as Yozora was shaken.

He kicked the swinging door of the bar and went inside to stop Miike.

"Enough, idiot!"

Hibiki pulled him back and his hand released from Yozora's neck. Inside the narrow counter, Hibiki and Miike crouched on the floor. At that moment, Miike's arm hit the knife holder.

A small knife used to cut fruit slipped from the knife holder, falling on Hibiki and Miike, who were on the ground.

"Ah.", a small voice was heard to escape.

At that moment, Yozora felt as if the world had gone into slow motion.

He believed that he could hear the sound of blood coming out of his body and could clearly see the trajectory of the spinning knife as he fell.

Yozora desperately reached out and grabbed the knife that was about to fall on Hibiki and the others.

"Oh!"

He was unable to grasp the handle of the knife. However, he was able to catch it by grabbing the blade.

"Yozora!"

"Yozora-kun!"

Hibiki and Minase yelled at the same time.

Yozora threw the knife into the sink and yelled at Hibiki and Miike, who were still struggling on the ground.

"Don't do things that hurt people who are making music! You, idiot!"

Hibiki and Miike were together for a moment in Yozora's sword curtain.

"Eh? Did he scold me too? No, I mean, you did something that hurt Yozora!"

Hibiki immediately came to his senses, pushed Miike aside, jumped up, and grabbed Yozora's wrist. A small pain welled up in the palm of his hand.

"I'm fine. It's just a little cut on the palm of my hand. It's a scratch."

Yozora looked at Miike, who had sunk to the ground. Miike was stunned and looked towards Yozora, letting Minase pull him off the counter.

Yozora sighed and withdrew the hand that Hibiki had held, looking at his wounds again. The part where he struck the blade was a thin blood-red streak, but a large band-aid was enough.

Yozora said to Miike as he took out a first aid kit.

"I can't play the piano like I used to."

Miike's reaction was slow, but he felt the eyes of Hibiki and Minase looking at Yozora.

Since they met again they had never asked him why he stopped playing the piano.

They chose to stay close to him without stepping on the soft inside of Yozora.

He put a Band-Aid on the wound on his palm and gently pressed his left arm with that hand.

"When I was in college, I had a more serious injury than a scratch like this. It wasn't a major scarring injury. I've recovered to the point where I can go about my daily life without any problems. But… my fingers don't move like before."

They all held their breath and remained silent. Yozora looked at his left arm. There's nothing wrong with living a normal life, but he can't move his fingers enough to play like he used to.

"If only I could play the piano, I could still play. But the coveted pianist Yozora Kamijo can't play anymore. That scared me, so I threw everything away and ran away."

The world of pianists is tough. A large number of piano students graduate each year, but among them, only a handful of people, such as sand, can earn a living as performers. Like Miike, many people who wanted to make a living from music couldn't find a way to do it and drifted away as if they were nothing.

Yozora was aware that he was a lucky pinch. That's why he suddenly fell from there and got scared.

Still afraid, before he was hurt by facing reality, he had let go of everything and run.

He stopped all acting activities, dropped out of college, cut off all the friendships he had, and set out to disappear. He started working in a bar so he could hide at night and live in silence.

"What's that?"

Miike let out a hoarse voice.

"What's up... that... uh, but... they're still looking for you..."

Sobbing all the while, Miike whimpered. Minase let go of the hand that was holding Miike.

"I understand how you feel."

Miike raised his tear-stained forehead and saw Minase. Minase had a calm expression.

"I also played the piano. My mother wanted me to be a pianist. I grew up with the obsession that I had to be someone at the piano. But I couldn't become anyone."

Minase smiled and extended a hand. Miike grabbed Minase's hand with a swinging motion, as if he was possessed, and stood up.

"Even though you couldn't become a pianist, you still wanted to be someone. Did you think that if you could become someone who gave songs to professionals, you would find value in yourself?"

Minase said with a kind smile.

"But you won't get any blessings as long as you curse yourself that you are nothing."

Miike shook his head, leaning helplessly against the wall and bowing his head.

Yozora looked down with mixed feelings.

"Ah."

Suddenly, he let out his own voice, different from the voice that Minase addressed to Miike.

"Ah, are you alright with the time of the live concert?"

"Damn, no."

Yozora was startled and looked at the clock. There were only about two minutes left before the scheduled live performance start time.

"Idiot! What are you doing?!"

"Why?!"

As Yozora and Hibiki trembled, Minase looked at Yozora and said.

"Yozora-kun, can I ask you something?"

With Minase's words, Yozora remembered that his basic transportation was a motorcycle. However, he wondered if he should dismiss that situation and turned his gaze to Miike, who was still leaning against the wall. He nodded to Yozora.

"Ok. I'll keep him here."

"T-thank you! Wait downstairs!"

Yozora ran up the stairs inside the store to the top floor. The upper part was a warehouse, and served as a liquor and food store, as well as a place to store personal belongings. He took the motorcycle key and helmet from the desk, pulled out the spare helmet from the back of the room, and headed down the outside stairs.

He tossed one of his helmets at the waiting referee and started the motorcycle's engine.

"On board!"

Hibiki immediately got behind Yozora.

He shifted into gear, twisted the throttle to increase engine speed, and started the motorcycle. He ran the shortest route to the concert venue, where there wasn't much traffic.

"Yozora!"

In the wind, he called out to Yozora with a loud voice.

"What?"

"I'm sorry!"

His voice sounded like he was shouting because he wasn't beaten by the wind, but he could tell from his tone that he was unusually depressed.

That was an incident caused by one of his fans. It wasn't unreasonable, but it can be said that it happened because Yozora and Miike had a connection in the past. Half of it was the case with Yozora himself.

It was impossible to talk about it while he was running, so he chose silence for now. Hibiki said "But..." with a serious voice.

"I won't ask you to compose a song for me. Yozora, if you don't think it's funny, it's meaningless."

Fun.

Yozora felt strangely aroused by those words, which seemed to come naturally.

It was a very small and important relief, like waking up from a long, heavy sleep and seeing the sunrise through the window.

The motorcycle arrived in front of the live concert venue before Yozora could reply. Hibiki said "Thank you!" and he ran across the living room, jumping two steps.

Yozora straddled his motorcycle and looked up the stairs to the basement where Hibiki had disappeared.

"Because it's definitely a lot of fun."

From the depths of his memory, the voice of an elementary school boy emerged.

The time when he simply enjoyed playing the piano was the time before he became a promising young pianist, when he spent his time playing to the sound of the piano without worrying about being perfect. Composing music was fun back then, and he was glad to see that the set of sounds he created could move people's emotions, so he made several songs. He even performed his own songs in small recitals.

Somewhere in the waiting room of a recital, a strange boy came and told him. He believed that he told him that he was going to make music. He was so dim that he couldn't remember if it ever happened or not.

Yozora did not take the boy's words seriously. He didn't even remember how he got it. However...

― Do you remember ten years ago? I started playing music that day when I heard your song. Make me a song.

Hibiki remembered that sound from ten years ago.

He really started playing music, after playing music for ten years, he still touched many people's hearts.

Now that he thought about it, the person Hibiki wanted to compose music with wasn't the rising star Yozora Kamijo, but a 15-year-old boy who enjoyed playing his own music.

++++++++++

The case of Shuichi Miike's escape was solved by putting him in the hearts of the four people who were there.

Hibiki rushed to the concert venue on Yozora's motorcycle, and it seems that Minase, who remained at the venue, had a long conversation with him.

It is said that Miike's behavior after that was calm and he even apologized, perhaps because his head had cooled down and he had calmed down, or because Yozora and Minase's words resonated with him.

Just in case, they asked him to take a picture of his ID card with his cell phone to keep his identity, but he said he probably wouldn't use it.

"It's the first time the three of us have met outside, right?"

Tuesday of the week following the incident. Hibiki said that as he waited for Yozora together with Minase in the plaza in front of Shimokitazawa station.

The three of them promised to go out to eat on the regular holiday of the Beauty Salon where Minase works. As an apology for the incident, Hibiki planned to treat them to a feast and made a reservation at a highly recommended Italian restaurant.

"Well, the shop I made a reservation at is on the first street, so even if you don't have to meet me in front of the station, you just need to wait at the bar and I'll drop by."

"Yozora-kun was the one who suggested we meet, right?"

"So..."

For a moment, the two of them silently gazed at the scene in front of the station. You can also see people handing out fliers for theater companies and people playing guitars in the street. Shimokitazawa is a city where many artists who love and nurture their own world gather.

"Minase, you don't play the piano anymore."

Hibiki said that in a low voice.

It is up to the individual to continue or stop doing something. It wasn't his intention to intervene, but remembering the tears he felt when he faced Miike, the words came out of his mouth.

"Yes."

Minase nodded slightly.

"That day, ten years ago, I decided to stop aspiring to be a pianist."

Hibiki opened his eyes and looked at him.

The expression on his face was very calm and serene.

"I went to the same piano class as Yozora-kun. I knew Yozora-kun was a genius. But that day was the first time I was there when Yozora-kun performed a song that he did himself in front of a lot of people."

Minase looked up at the sky with eyes that seemed to see something dazzling. In the darkened sky, little by little, they began to appear.

"It was a shock. I knew Yozora-kun's acting skills were amazing, but that's not all... I felt like I was punched in the head because I played the piano with such joy. When I saw how much he liked to do sounds, I realized that it was difficult for me to play the piano."

Minase smiled shyly.

"Originally, becoming a pianist was not my dream, it was my parents' dream. It was inevitable that I would get tired of facing the keyboard without feeling. Listening to Yozora-kun's recital, I realized that I could never be like him and In a way, I felt relieved."

"I see."

"But that's why I was glad to see Hibiki, who heard the same performance, decide to start making music. I felt like you were picking up what I let go, albeit selfishly."

― Strive you.

Even now, Hibiki remembered what he said in a thoughtful voice.

"Next time, come visit us. Because I have a piano. It might not be bad to play the piano without anyone forcing you, you know?"

"Fufu. That's right."

As Minase laughed softly, the sound of the piano echoed in the plaza.

Sounds danced in the air.

Hibiki widened his eyes. Colorful sounds danced in the air. Hibiki knows the flow of that throbbing sound.

Hibiki and Minase looked at each other. The same guts that Hibiki had floated on Minase's forehead.

The two looked towards where the sound came from. A street piano installed under a building with pictures of musicians painted on the walls. Facing that, Yozora sat down.

Hibiki held his breath and quietly walked over to the piano. In order not to disturb the performance, in order not to interrupt the music, he gently approached.

When they got to the point where they could see Yozora's profile, Minase took a deep breath. Yozora's eyes shone like stars in the night sky as he danced his fingers across the keyboard. Not as innocent as ten years ago, but certainly the seed of someone who enjoys music.

What's playing is the song that Yozora first played at a Christmas restaurant ten years ago. The memories that had faded were revived by Yozora's performance, taking on a lively form.

Hibiki narrowed his eyes and his entire body was bathed in Yozora's music.

When Yozora finished playing the last note, applause broke out. Before he knew it, people had gathered and were clapping enthusiastically.

Yozora stood up and bowed in embarrassment.

"As expected, my fingers don't move like before. There are also blank spaces."

When Hibiki couldn't say anything, he moved closer to him and laughed.

"But it looked fun, Yozora-kun."

Yozora lowered his eyes and nodded, "Yes.".

"I liked to play the piano."

Yozora muttered as if he was going to chew it.

Did he remember the promise? No, either way, it was fine.

"Hey, Yozora. Make me a song."

Wanting to expand the range of his own music, looking for new possibilities for the band, those things were impressed, Hibiki raised the corners of his mouth and laughed, saying that like a child.

"Because it's definitely a lot of fun!"

[lackyghost]

Unknown: God damnit, Shitty Hair! You left my fucking window open and Queenie got out!

Todoroki Touya stares down at his phone with a confused frown in place, brows pinched together and his fingers hesitating over the screen.

He looks around the back of the dressing room at the rest of his band.

Himiko Toga, their bassist, has her headphones on as she scrolls through her phone, blonde hair already up in her usual spiky side buns, cat-like eyeliner in place around her golden eyes; all ready for the performance coming up.

Hikiishi Magne, their drummer, sits next to Himiko, her large, muscular frame swarming the petite blonde next to her. Magne’s red hair is loose around her face, falling to her chin as she reads something on her phone, pushing up the triangular sunglasses on over her dark brown eyes.

One of their guitarists, Sako Atsuhiro, is quietly sitting on the floor while his soft brown eyes diligently scan over the setlist for the umpteenth time; his cropped brown hair already adorned with his usual top hat, which matches his three piece vest suit.

Shimura Tenko, their pianist, is holding his phone up for a selfie; pierced tongue out, peace-sign up with his free hand, head tilted to show off the scars over his right eye and across both lips, one wine red eye closed in a wink, his wavy pale blue hair falling loosely around his shoulders.

Touya sighs and looks down at his phone again. He has the set list memorized—it’s been the same for the past three weeks of their headliner tour and he doesn’t feel the need to go over it again.

With nothing else to do, he shrugs to himself and leans further back against the velvety armchair he’s been lazily sprawled across for the past half hour.

Touya: Who is this?

Unknown: It’s Bakugou, you fucking idiot. I lost my goddamned phone, I fucking told you this earlier. Had to get a new number, it was fucking bullshit.

Touya: Wrong number.

Unknown: Fucking… seriously? Damn it. Any chance you have the number of a guy with shitty red hair?

Touya: Uh, no?

Unknown: Worth a shot. Whatever. I’ve got a cat to find.

Touya: Alright, then. Good luck.

Unknown: Whatever.

The door slides open, and the entire band looks up expectantly. Their manager, Aizawa Shouta, stands there, his curly black hair tied back in a messy bun, eyebags on full display as he steps inside with a coffee in hand that clearly isn’t going to cut it.

“LOV, you’re on in ten,” Aizawa says before chugging half of the drink and sighing. “Get your asses out there, problem children.”

“Will do, sensei!” Tenko says with a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t call me that,” Aizawa says as he rubs his temples with his free hand.

“Right, let’s do this, guys!” Himiko says as she jumps to her feet.

They all move quickly and smoothly, with the practice of a band that has been playing together since they were in high school; nearly twelve years now.

Tenko, as their self-proclaimed ‘social media manager’ keeps his phone in his back pocket while the rest of them set theirs down on the vanity counter.

Himiko grabs her beloved, blood red bass guitar, Atsuhiro carefully lifts his sleek black and burnt orange guitar, and Touya swipes up his black guitar, painted with iridescent blue flames.

They all walk together out of the dressing room and head down the wide hallway toward the closed stage doors.

Magne turns to give them all her warmest, most encouraging big sister-esque smile.

“Let’s do our best,” Magne says, eyes sparkling behind her sunglasses.

“We always do, Mags!” Himiko says cheerfully.

Atsuhiro nods sagely. “We will ensure that tonight is—”

Everyone else joins in to finish his phrase, “—Magic for the masses.”

Atsuhiro smiles and Touya snorts, while Toga pushes one of the doors open just enough for the screams of the crowd to flow in. A massive, somewhat maniacal grin breaks out across Touya’s face as the lights dim.

They make their way onto the stage, nothing but silhouettes to the audience. Magne goes to the raised drum platform behind the rest of the band, Himiko and Tenko go to the left, the blue-haired man takes his place at the piano, Atsuhiro stays toward the left and Touya steps up to center stage.

Touya looks around at his friends, getting nods from everyone to confirm they’re all ready to go.

Touya sucks in a breath as he wraps his hand around the microphone, and he feels his bandmate’s energies go up before he even starts shouting.

“I hope you’re fired up, Osaka, because we’re the LOV!”

The stage erupts with music and he starts belting out one of their most popular songs, his smooth baritone coming out with a hint of a growl as he plays his guitar, fingers dancing across the strings.

The light above shines down on him, almost blinding against his snow white hair, reflecting off of the silver piercings lining his ears, his left eyebrow, his lower lip, nose, and dimples.

The v-neck black t-shirt he’s wearing clings to his muscular frame as he plays. It leaves much of his chest and arms on display, letting the audience take in his heavily tattooed form.

Intricate, lace-like mandalas run up both arms, across his chest, up his throat and jaw, covering his lower lip and cheeks; all done in black and a deep plum-purple.

His eyes, lidded and almond shaped, hold vibrant turquoise irises that are practically on fire as he sings; the color nearly glowing in its intensity.

—

Touya makes his way back to the dressing room with the rest of LOV; all panting, sweating, and high on the adrenaline of another sold out show.

They quickly shower and pull on clean clothes before heading out with a row of security guards, walking past a line of fans screaming for their autographs.

Each member has their metallic permanent markers ready to scribble hasty signatures—Touya’s purple, Himiko’s red, Magne’s silver, Tenko’s gold, and Atsuhiro’s orange.

Touya, as the son of a rather famous CEO, doesn’t use his real name on anything related to the LOV, he simply goes by Dabi, which is fortunately easy to quickly scrawl out as he typically uses the English letters.

As much as he enjoys people knowing how amazing he is, he still doesn’t like crowds. Or people, really. So, he’s relieved when they make it to their tour bus.

“I’m fuckin’ tired,” Touya grouses as he heads straight for his bunk. “Don’t stay up stupid fucking late, you morons.”

He climbs into his claimed cubby bed and pulls the curtain shut. He can’t sleep just yet, he needs to calm his mind, so he tugs out his phone with the intention of reading an e-book, but finds several unread text messages.

Unknown: Fucking found her. I know this ain’t Shitty Hair, but Queenie deserves the recognition. [Image attached].

Touya opens the picture and blinks in shock at the absolutely massive black Maine Coon cat, looking more like a goddamn panther than a housecat. It’s sitting regally on a faded green sofa, it’s red collar shining proudly on its neck, complimenting its orange eyes.

Touya: Holy shit, she’s fucking majestic.

Unknown: I know. Not sure why the fuck you think you need to text me that at fucking midnight. You performing a fucking séance?

Touya: Not a bad idea. But no, I work late.

Unknown: Gross. What the fuck job keeps you up this late?

Touya: I’m in a band.

Unknown: Uh-huh. Cool.

Touya: Yup.

Unknown: Well, I’m gonna block you now. Ain’t interested in texting some brat in a garage band.

Touya: What the fuck? I’m 28, asshole.

Unknown: Good. Felt like a fucking creep for a second there.

Touya: I have no evidence to deny that.

Unknown: Oi, fuck you.

Touya: Hey, you texted me first.

Unknown: Whatever. I kinda like texting someone who doesn’t fucking know me.

Touya: But for all I know, you’re a fucking stalker.

Unknown: Oh no. You caught me. I’m a stalker. Because I love you, Kenji.

Touya has to smack his hand over his mouth to smother his laughter, and he can’t even function enough to text back for several minutes.

Unknown: Oh, shit, is that your actual fucking name?

Touya: No, I just had to take a moment to learn to fucking breathe again.

Unknown: You’re an asshole.

Touya: Takes one to know one.

Unknown: You know what? Fair.

Touya: At least you’re not one of those major assholes who pretends they’re really a nice guy.

Unknown: Those are the absolute fucking worst.

Touya: 100% with you there. Well, I need sleep now. Goodnight, stalker.

Unknown: I hope you suffocate on your own pillow.

Touya snorts softly, shaking his head and scrolling back up to the top of the list for the name the person had given earlier.

Bakugou.

Doesn’t mean anything to him, but he updates the contact name and plugs his phone in for the night.

—

Touya wakes up the next morning to his alarm, and quickly silences it so it doesn’t wake the whole damn bus. He groans and climbs out of his bunk, finding Aizawa seated in the long sofa that takes up half the living space, sipping a coffee and looking dead on his feet like always.

Aizawa taps one finger on the hotel key cards on the long table. “Take whatever one you want. We’ve been parked for a few hours. They’ve got a good gym, open 24-hours, and you have permission to use the kitchen after hours.”

“Thanks,” Touya says with a grunt as he swipes a random card.

He goes to his bunk and opens the cabinet underneath to withdraw his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He swipes his phone charger from the little outlet in his bunk shelf, and rushes off the bus.

Tour buses are the worst fucking part of touring.

His phone buzzes in his pocket shortly after he reaches his room and he tugs it out after scanning his key card, checking his messages as he shoulders the room door open.

Bakugou: I need an objective third-person perspective on something for an article I’m writing. So, I figured, why not ask that random unknown asshole.

Touya: Just get on with it.

Bakugou: Do you personally believe people who take the time to focus on their physical health tend to overall have better mental health?

Touya: What the fuck? The brain literally releases hormones that help with emotional stability during exercise. It is literal science.

Bakugou: I write articles online. Science means nothing to these people.

Touya: Sounds like you need a better site to post on.

Bakugou: Shut up. I fucking will eventually. But bills are a fucking thing, and I have to sleep and eat and all that bullshit.

Touya: Sleep is for the dead. Stay up late and use that time to get that shit started.

Bakugou: But sleep…

Touya: You using that as an excuse ‘cause you know you’re shit at writing?

Bakugou: Fuck you, I’m awesome! [Link shared.] Asshole.

Touya follows the link, flopping down onto his bed as he reads the article. The one he’d sent has a lot of shares on social media and it’s well written and factual, but it lacks feeling.

Touya frowns and goes up to the author, Bakugou Katsuki. He pauses briefly at the author photo—a handsome man with wild, spiky pale blonde hair, a fierce scowl on his lips, and red eyes largely obscured by black, thick-rimmed glasses.

He’s cute, and young, maybe twenty years old. Touya shrugs and goes through Bakugou’s other works listed on the Chiba News site.

He loses track of time reading through the posts. Some topics are muted while others are full of passion and clearly show the man’s desire to help others, even if those ones are worded harshly—Touya is actually pretty impressed by them.

He grabs the link to his favorite, one about the healing qualities of rock climbing, and sends it to Bakugou.

Touya: [Link shared.] When you write about shit you actually care about, it’s fucking good, doll. If you want to get that fucking blog going, go for it. If it’s good, I’ll share the fuck out of it.

Bakugou: Doll? Don’t fucking call me that!

Touya: Why not? You’re cute.

Bakugou: Shut the fuck up. If you’re gonna start making fun of me, I’ll fucking block you.

Touya: I suppose ‘cute’ is an objective term, doll. And, objectively speaking, from my third-person gay perspective, you’re cute. Now shut the fuck up and get started on your blog.

Bakugou:…Fuck. That was kinda hot.

Touya: Text me when the blog is up and running.

Bakugou: Ugh, whatever, asshole.

—

“You’ve been smiling a lot more lately,” Himiko says, nudging Touya’s shoulder with her own.

Touya looks up from where he’d been smiling at his phone screen and scowls at her out of spite.

Tenko and Atsuhiro are still getting dressed for their show and Magne is seated at the vanity nearby, putting on her makeup.

“It’s been nice,” Magne says, giving Touya’s reflection a soft smile.

“Shut the fuck up,” Touya grumbles.

“Who is it?” Himiko questions. “We’re not gonna judge. It’s just you and your friendly neighborhood lesbians here to support you.”

Touya snorts and shakes his head. “It’s just this guy who texted the wrong number.”

“And you didn’t immediately block the guy?” Himiko asks curiously.

“He has no fucking idea who I am,” Touya says. “He just sends me pictures of his cat and tells me random shit about this blog he’s trying to start.”

“What kind of blog?” Magne asks.

“Personal care or some shit,” Touya says with a shrug. “He works for some news company in Chiba, but he’s fucking wasted there. I told him to start up his own blog.”

Himiko and Magne exchange surprised looks and Touya eyes them before groaning loudly. He runs one hand through his hair and drops his phone on his lap.

“Fucking spit it out,” he snaps.

“Nothing!” Himiko says, waving her hands and grinning at him. “Is his blog up yet? Can we read it?”

“He’s still building it, says it’ll be done and his first one posted tonight,” Touya says, sighing.

“Please send it to us when it’s up,” Magne says, eyes sparkling. “I love reading blogs. If this man’s writing has your interest, he must be phenomenal.”

Touya opens his mouth to respond, and then the doors slam open and Tenko walks in, strutting cheerfully with Atsuhiro trailing behind him, looking absolutely done with Tenko’s shit.

“What’s up, my beautiful LOV family?” Tenko chirps. “My beautiful, wonderful, gor—”

“Spit it out, Tenko,” Touya growls.

Tenko laughs excitedly and bounces on the balls of his feet. “So, there’s this cat café downtown that has a Corgi on site…”

—

Touya is trying his fucking best to ignore the cameras as he and his bandmates leave the cat café, cat-eared headbands on all of their heads—Atsuhiro’s poised atop his hat.

It had admittedly been strangely therapeutic to sit and pet cats while sipping on a hot chocolate, but someone obviously ratted them out, because as soon as they’d stepped outside, the paparazzi swarmed them.

“Please, we just want to get back to our hotel,” Magne says placatingly.

“Yeah, come on, we’ve gotta get ready for our second set here in beautiful Nagoya,” Himiko says, turning the charm level up to eleven.

One of the paparazzi steps forward and grabs Himiko’s arm. She yelps, Tenko squawks furiously, and Touya darts over and grips the man’s wrist in an iron vice as he glares daggers at him.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off,” Touya snarls.

“Oh—oh, I was just…” the man trails off as he releases her, the man’s eyes are wide and panicked, as they should be.

“Go back to whatever fucking sewer you crawled out of,” Touya spits out as he shoves the man’s hand away.

He puts himself between his friends and the rest of the paparazzi as they make their way past, scowling and glaring at anyone who gets too close.

Himiko quickly grasps Magne’s hand and the large woman rubs the blonde’s back soothingly as they speed-walk away from the crowd. Touya flips the leeches off over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Himiko says quietly as soon as they’re free of the cameras.

Touya grunts angrily. “Fucking assholes should know better than to just grab someone like that.”

“I have alerted Aizawa to the situation,” Atsuhiro says as he continues typing on his phone. “He will likely be unimpressed by the physical force used, but I personally believe it was handled well.”

“You should’ve twisted his arm and left him with a sprain,” Magne says, voice low and furious as she continues holding Himiko close. “That was so messed up, honey.”

“No one has the right to grab you like that,” Tenko says, scowling angrily. “Handsy bastard.”

Himiko sighs and smiles softly. “Thanks, guys.”

“Hey, no one messes with our family,” Tenko says seriously. Touya snorts and Tenko narrows his eyes at the white-haired man. “Hey, you’re our mother, Dabi, you should take this more seriously.”

“The fuck!?” Touya shouts as the rest of their group laughs.

“You make sure we eat our vegetables and tell us to go to sleep on time,” Tenko says, scowl replaced by a shit-eating grin.

“You do yell at us when we get behind on our laundry,” Atsuhiro adds thoughtfully.

“You’re the best mom,” Himiko says with a grin.

Touya wants to shout and curse at them, but he knows that they need this distraction to get past the little incident, so he settles for kicking Tenko in the shin and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

He has a few new messages from his group chat with his younger siblings, which he ignores in favor of opening up his chat with Bakugou.

Bakugou: It’s up and running, asshole! [Link Shared.] Fuck off with that ‘can’t do it’ bullshit.

Touya grins to himself, opening the link and blinking in surprise at the mountaintop photos. They aren’t the greatest shots, but the view is gorgeous.

The article is Bakugou’s introduction, with a little backstory about learning to become a better person, and the contemplative powers of exercise, especially when done outdoors. The blog is well written, full of passion, and Touya doesn’t even realize his expression has gone soft until he feels someone poke his cheek.

He looks up and realizes the band are all staring at him.

“What?” He says, narrowing his eyes.

“Is it the guy?” Himiko asks curiously.

Touya grunts. “First post is up.”

“Oh, send it to me, please!” Magne says.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Tenko says, eyes bouncing between Touya, Himiko, and Magne.

“What’s new?” Himiko drawls, and Tenko squawks indignantly.

“I would also like to read it,” Atsuhiro says, staring thoughtfully at Touya.

Touya growls lowly and quickly sends the link off to their band group chat. “Fucking fine. I sent it to you assholes.” He goes back to his chat with Bakugou. “Now fuck off, we’re here. Go to your rooms and get ready to fucking go.”

“Yes, mom,” Tenko and Himiko say in unison.

Touya flips them off and veers away from the hotel elevator toward the stairs so he can avoid their stupid, smug faces.

Touya: That’s some good fucking shit there, doll.

Bakugou: Obviously.

Touya: I mean it, it’s really fucking good.

Bakugou:…Thanks. Or whatever.

Touya: Make sure your friend shut your windows so Queenie doesn’t get out again.

Bakugou: Fuck.

Touya: Well?

Bakugou: I may need help hiding a body.

—

“Thank you, Nagoya!” Touya yells at the end of their third and final set in the city, his voice echoing throughout the stadium. “You’ve been fucking awesome! We’ll see you on our next tour!”

Magne waves before linking arms with Himiko, Tenko turns around to take a selfie with the crowd, Atsuhiro bows, and Touya flashes a killer smirk and flips the crowd off.

It was a good night.

They all shower and change again, gather up the gear that they don’t trust the crew with, and head out to sign some autographs from across the fences, taking selfies with some people.

They all keep close to Himiko as an extra defense, and she is positively glowing with happiness when they finally reach the bus.

“All right, go the fuck to sleep,” Touya says as he makes his way to his bunk. “If I hear you assholes out here talking for the next hour, I’m going to punch Tenko.”

“Hey!” Tenko yells.

“I thought you wanted us to sleep, why’re you motivating us to be loud?” Himiko questions, winking teasingly at the blue-haired man.

“I hate all of you,” Tenko grumbles.

Touya snorts as he climbs into his bed. He tugs his ‘privacy’ curtain shut and retrieves his phone.

Bakugou: Fuck, my blog is going fucking crazy! It’s only been two days and I have thousands of subscribers! What the fuck!

Touya: It’s good fucking writing.

Bakugou: Fucking LOV shared it. What the actual fuck!

Touya: Yeah, I told them to read it.

Bakugou: Hold on a fucking minute You know the fucking LOV?

Touya snorts out loud, and then tells Tenko to fuck off when he asks what’s wrong.

Touya: Yup.

Bakugou: Fuck… That’s actually fucking cool.

Touya: You a fan?

Bakugou: One of my favorite bands. Shitty Hair and I go to their Tokyo concert every year.

A weird, bubbling feeling makes its way through Touya’s innards and it takes a moment for him to respond.

Touya: So, you’ll be at one of them this year?

Bakugou: Saturday night show, the tour-ending one. Dabi does this thing where he throws his shirt out into the crowd at the end and I fucking caught it two years ago. He’s hot as fuck.

Touya can feel heat rising in his cheeks and he sets his phone down so he can scrub over his face to attempt to force away the weird feelings that message brought up. His phone buzzes a couple more times and he takes a moment to compose himself before picking it back up.

Bakugou: It’s a little tight on me now, but it’s fucking soft. [Image attached.]

Touya opens the attachment and his jaw drops as he takes in the man in the picture.

It’s definitely the same blonde-haired, red-eyed man from the Chiba News website, but he’s smirking at the camera and there are no lenses obscuring his high cheekbones or dimming the color of his irises, which are nearly flaming in their intensity.

The image is angled to show his black v-neck—Touya’s shirt—which is so tight on the man it’s practically painted on over his plush pecs, molding to the dips and curves of a defined six pack, and pulled tight over the swell of his shoulders and biceps.

Touya drops his phone on his face.

“Himiko!” He yells as he rips his privacy screen open, tearing the already abused fabric further.

“Whoa, what’s up, Touy?” Himiko asks as he half-falls to the floor.

“I fucking… I can’t…” he shakes his head and rushes over to the sofa, shoving his phone into her hands before falling onto his ass. He covers his face with his hands and groans loudly.

“Holy shit,” Himiko says.

“Lemme see!” Tenko yells as he scoots closer. “Holy fuck! He’s hot! Wait, Touya, you good, man?”

“I believe he’s gay panicking,” Atsuhiro says.

Magne moves from the couch and crouches at his side, wrapping one arm around him and gently rubbing his arm.

“You’ll get through this, honey,” Magne says softly.

“Oh! He’ll be at our concert on Saturday!” Tenko says.

“We could give him VIP passes,” Himiko says with a shrug. “Then you could meet him in person after the show.”

“Fuck no,” Touya says, looking up abruptly and nearly smacking Magne in the chin. “He doesn’t even fucking know it’s me he’s been talking to.”

“But you know he has a crush on you,” Tenko points out.

Touya pushes off the floor and swipes his phone from the blue-haired man. He frowns down at the text chat, which Tenko and Himiko had been casually scrolling through.

“No, he’s got a crush on a fucking rockstar, not me,” Touya grumbles.

Another message comes through and the chat auto-adjusts so he can see the latest message.

Bakugou: I know I’m intimidating, but I ain’t gonna bite.

Touya: Shut up, I was just wondering how you have time to write when you must live in a fucking gym.

Bakugou: It’s called being dedicated.

Touya: Just not to your blog.

Bakugou: Fuck off. It’s up now, isn’t it?

Touya: Sure is, doll.

Bakugou: Stop fucking calling me that.

Touya: Pfft, not gonna happen. Well, it’s past your bedtime.

Bakugou: Ugh, I hate you.

Touya: Night, doll.

Bakugou: Whatever. Night, mystery asshole.

—

Touya is awake and dressed shortly before the bus pulls into their hotel in downtown Tokyo; not the fanciest place as that would draw too much attention, but one with a decent gym.

He has on black jeans, a plain black t-shirt, black sunglasses, and a black cap when he hops off the bus with his duffel slung over his shoulder. He spots Aizawa’s car pulling in and walks over to wait for the man.

Aizawa steps out and blinks at him. “Something wrong, kid?”

“Just really need the gym,” Touya says.

“Alright,” the older man says with a sigh. “Come on.”

Touya nods and follows the man in. The front desk attendant is an average sized man with hulking muscles and bright red hair spiked up tall. He has wide, almond shaped eyes and crimson irises. When he spots them, he flashes them a grin that shows off filed teeth.

“Reservations?” He asks, voice deep, but somehow bubbly and light.

“Yes, under Aizawa,” the man says, giving the redhead a critical look.

His eyes widen slightly, and he nods and starts typing on his phone. “Right.” His eyes flick up to Touya for a moment and he purses his lips. “LOV, huh?”

Touya crosses his arms. “What of it?”

“I assume there won’t be an issue with the press showing up, correct?” Aizawa asks, leveling the man with an intense stare.

“Nah, don’t worry about that, man,” the redhead says, waving nonchalantly.

He grabs a few key cards and scans them into the computer, and then holds one out to Touya and the rest in a stack to Aizawa.

“Thank you,” Aizawa says tersely as he walks off toward the doors to head back to the bus.

Touya turns toward  the elevator, but the chatty redhead apparently has other plans. “You’re Dabi, right? The singer?”

Touya tenses and slowly turns back around. “You want a fucking autograph or something?”

“Oh, definitely,” the man says with a smirk. “Especially after that incident outside the cat café, your autograph is worth a ton right now. Girls and guys swooning over the knight rescuing the damsel.”

Himiko isn’t a fucking damsel,” Touya snaps. “Those assholes are all trained in self-defense. I made damn sure of that.”

The guy blinks in surprise and cocks his head. “Wow, that’s really manly. Anyway, can I get an autograph to sell online?”

“Whatever,” Touya grouses as he walks back to the desk.

“I’m Kirishima Eijirou, by the way,” he says as he pushes a blank piece of paper and a pen toward him.

Touya hesitates for a moment and then grabs it, signing Dabi, as well as the kanji underneath.

“Worth more with both,” Touya says.

“Hang on,” Kirishima says. “Could you sign… one more thing?”

Touya frowns. “Why?”

“My friend and I are going to your show on Saturday,” Kirishima says, and Touya nods. “He’s a huge fan, but we can’t afford VIP tickets, but an autograph would really make his day.”

Touya’s contemplative silence must’ve come off as hostility, because the guy’s nervousness quickly turns into irritation. “Look, you don’t have to be a jerk about it. Bakugou’s a good guy, he shouldn’t be pining after some asshole celeb anyway.”

Touya’s eyes widen, and he is very thankful for his sunglasses. He grunts and pulls out his phone, bringing up his very short text conversation with Aizawa.

“The fuck did you say your name was?” Touya questions.

“Um, Kirishima Eijirou,” he says, a little uncertainly. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna try to get me fired, man?”

“I’m giving you and your fucking friend VIP passes,” Touya says. “The fuck is the guy’s name?”

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he says, face lighting up. “Sorry for calling you an asshole and stuff.”

“It’s fucking accurate,” Touya says with a shrug. “You got an email for me to send this shit to?”

—

It takes forever for Saturday to come, and it simultaneously comes too quickly.

Touya’s bandmates had congratulated him on giving out the VIP tickets. He’s never given tickets to anyone before, not even his siblings. Aizawa seemed weirdly pleased by the gesture, and had given Touya an approving nod after he’d requested them.

Bakugou had freaked out and blown Touya’s phone up when Kirishima told him the news. They’d been texting as usual over the past few days, with Bakugou sending his latest blog posts as soon as they’re up, sending him pictures of Queenie multiple times a day, and both of them talking about random shit.

They’d gotten into an hour-long debate about the best mountain ranges to climb, Touya insisted Mount Nantai has the best view, and Bakugou couldn’t refute it because he hasn’t climbed there before, and that had the blonde raging while Touya felt smug.

But, on Saturday, Touya is all nerves, and Bakugou texting him pictures of himself in various outfits is not helping his anxiety any.

Kirishima is there, helping to take the photos, wearing a horrifically bright blue and white top, khaki shorts, and bright red Crocs.

Touya informed him he thought as much, and the redhead had abruptly stolen Bakugou’s phone.

Bakugou: Excuse you, I look amazing.

Touya: Your fashion sense is fucking atrocious.

Bakugou: Yeah, I’m sure you always look amazing, ‘Mystery Man.’ Have you guys seriously been talking for almost a month without him knowing your name?

Touya: I’ll tell him later.

Bakugou: Fucking Shitty Hair waited until I was fucking laughing over his shitty outfit to take my phone. I don’t know why I go places with him. Are you seriously gonna tell me your name?

Touya: Soon.

Bakugou: Ominous.

Touya: Just call me Kenji.

Bakugou: Fucking hell, I forgot about that.

A knock on Touya’s door pulls his attention away, and he quickly shoves his phone into his pocket and crosses his room, swiping his duffel up off his bed as he goes. He pulls it open, not surprised at all to find Tenko.

“C’mon, man, time to go!” Tenko says, his own gear over his shoulder. Touya huffs and steps out, tugging the door shut behind himself. “Man, I miss my bed.”

Touya groans. “Yes, the fucking bus always fucks up my back.”

“Seriously,” Tenko says as he stretches his shoulders out. “And I miss Keigo. He’s gonna stay up until I get home tonight. Er, well, tomorrow morning, I guess.”

“No wonder he always needs makeup to cover his eyebags,” Touya says with a snort.

“Hey, his eyebags are beautiful and I love them, even when they’re not hidden behind his eyeliner art,” Tenko says with a chuckle.

“Gross,” Touya says as they get onto the elevator.

Tenko just shrugs. “Hey, you get to meet your texting friend after the concert, right?”

“Yup,” Touya says plainly.

“You nervous?” Tenko asks; half-teasing, half-seriously curious.

“Oi, fuck off, I’m never nervous,” Touya bites out.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tenko says.

Touya grumbles to himself, and tunes Tenko out as they make their way through the lobby and out the doors to the awaiting bus. The short ride to the venue will be the last time they see the damn thing until their next tour.

The ride to the arena is quieter than usual as all of the LOV spend the time sending out texts to friends and family members, making plans to meet up over the coming weeks of freedom before they have to get to work on more songs.

The bus pulls up to the back doors of the venue, and the band climbs out, heading straight for their dressing room with their pre-picked outfits in tow.

They have zero shame in changing around each other, so none of them give a single fuck as Tenko locks the door and they strip their clothes off.

Touya pulls on a pair of tight black jeans, held up by a white studded belt, and one of his black v-neck shirts. He grabs his guitar, setting it against the wall and leaning next to it as he scrolls through his phone.

He finally responds to the multiple texts from his sister, agreeing to go stop by for a family dinner in a couple weeks while their dad will be on a business trip.

Then he goes back to his favorite text chat.

Bakugou: Shitty Hair and I are at the concert. Probably won’t hear my phone if you text.

Touya: Go have some fucking fun.

Bakugou: Yeah, yeah.

Touya sighs as he pockets his phone, bored as there really isn’t anything else to do.

He looks around the room, everyone else is done pulling on their clothes and Magne has moved on to doing her makeup. She’s the only one of them who spends time on a full face, but nights like tonight when they have extra time, Himiko will likely let Magne paint her up.

Touya walks up to the long mirror and grabs his eyeliner pen—marked as his with a little strip of blue washi tape—and he lines his eyes in a thin outline of black, just to make the turquoise of his irises pop more. He’s always liked the look.

Tenko and Atsuhiro follow suit, putting on their own little bits of makeup. Atsuhiro is a basic bitch, simply powdering his face so he doesn’t look greasy.

Tenko keeps it pretty simple, lining his eyes and spritzing his hair with something that Touya thinks smells like decaying flowers; but Tenko likes it, so whatever.

Touya plops down on the far sofa and decides to kill the time with an e-book on his phone.

—

“Magic for the masses,” LOV says in unison, grins firmly in place on all their faces.

The lights inside the stadium are dimmed and Himiko pushes the stage door open.

They walk to their places, confident and energized. They want to go out with a bang so they have to make sure this concert doesn’t lull in any way.

Touya takes his spot, fingers clasped around the neck of his guitar as he waits for his friends to nod their readiness to him. The auditorium is mostly silent as the crowd waits for the usual start.

He sucks in a sharp breath, which reverberates around the auditorium through the microphone, and he roars out their opening.

“I hope you’re fired up, Tokyo, because we’re the LOV!”

—

Touya is soaked in sweat and panting heavily as their last song fades out. The crowd is going nuts, and Himiko lets out a loud whoop as she jumps in the air and pumps her fist.

“Thank you so much, Tokyo!” Himiko half-sings into the microphone, leaning up against Touya’s side.

“Come on, let’s celebrate the end of this tour with a selfie!” Tenko yells. Touya groans and Atsuhiro turns to give him an unimpressed look. Tenko laughs and looks back at the tattooed man, waving him closer. “Come on, Mister Cat Café hero!”

“Oh, shut up!” Touya yells as he steps over to where they’ve gathered on the left side of the stage, backs to the crowd.

“Dabi! Shirt! Dabi! Shirt!” The audience chants, and Touya runs a hand through his hair; it comes out soaked in sweat and he grimaces slightly.

“Dude, you started it,” Tenko says, barking out a laugh.

“For fucks’ sake,” Touya grouses, but a smirk twitches his lips up in the corners.

He tugs his shirt up over his head and the crowd goes nuts as his tattoo-coated torso and back are put on display, shining brightly across the multiple screens. Touya balls the shirt up, coils back, and throws it as hard as he can. Someone catches it and screams loudly.

“Thank you, and good night!” Magne says, waving at the crowd.

“Wash that fucking shirt, you sicko!” Touya yells, flashing the crowd a vicious grin as he flips them off.

“Never!” The person screams out.

Touya, Tenko, and Himiko crack up laughing as they make their way to the exit. It’s impossible to completely fight back the smiles.

While they all love touring, it’s always an exhausting few weeks. It makes Touya incredibly thankful to live in a country as small as Japan—he knows that places like America have tours that last months, and that sounds like a fucking nightmare.

The group splits up in the locker room, quickly showering and changing.

Touya pulls on a pair of black jeans and a loose white t-shirt before meeting the rest of LOV in the dressing room.

Then the nerves start really setting in.

He’s about to meet Bakugou.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Touya says, groaning and running his hands through his hair.

“Whoa, calm down, Touy,” Himiko soothes. “You’ll be fine.”

Tenko nods his agreement. “Just pretend he’s an NPC and act casual.”

“We’ll be there the whole time, honey,” Magne says with a soft smile.

“Magic for the masses,” Atsuhiro says, and everyone turns to look at him. Atsuhiro shrugs. “I’m asexual and have no helpful input. But know that I support you.”

Touya snorts loudly and Tenko cackles, while Himiko and Magne just shake their heads.

“Come on, mom, go get us a new dad,” Tenko chirps.

“Stop fucking calling me that!” Touya yells as he storms toward the door, face red with embarrassment and anger. Tenko pops up alongside him and opens his mouth to say something else that would undoubtedly be stupid, and Touya wraps his arms around him in a headlock. “No, you’re a fucking idiot. Shut the fuck up.”

“You gonna give me a timeout?” Tenko wheezes.

“I fucking might!” Touya snaps before releasing his best friend.

They reach the doors and Aizawa hands out their markers. Touya takes a deep breath and tries to force down his simmering panic, attempting to hide it behind a smirk.

Tenko and Himiko go up front and shove the doors open, letting security keep them open for the rest of the band, and the fans outside start screaming excitedly.

Touya forces himself to keep his eyes only on the things he’s signing as he goes so he can keep an air of ‘cool rock star’ going instead of ‘anxious man with crush on someone he’s never met in person.’

“Oh, you! Thank you for the VIP tickets!” A familiar voice yells out and Touya looks up at the owner of the folded, brand new LOV t-shirt in his hands; Kirishima.

“Ah, what’s up?” He says as he signs it. “Selling this, too?”

Kirishima grins. “It’ll get me way more than the paper!”

Touya cocks a curious brow. “How much did the paper get you?”

“50,000¥,” he says proudly.

“Damn,” Touya says.

Kirishima grins and starts turning to the side, eyes still locked on Touya’s. “Oh, by the way, this is—hey, stop hiding behind me, that’s not manly.”

“Shitty Hair, I will fucking kill you,” a deep, gruff voice snarls out.

Touya peers around the redhead at the blonde man attempting to hide behind his larger friend, a pink blush across his cheeks. Touya smirks and cocks a brow at Bakugou.

“Oh, scared to say hi?” Touya taunts.

“Oh, damn,” Kirishima says lowly.

“Fuck you, I ain���t scared!” Bakugou shouts.

“Come on, it’s your birthday, live a little,” Kirishima says.

“It’s your birthday?” Touya asks curiously.

“21 today,” Bakugou confirms as he finally rises to his full height, just a little shorter than Touya.

He’s wearing the shirt he’d gotten from the concert last year, and holy fuck, does it ever look amazing on him. Bakugou follows Touya’s gaze down, and flushes dark red as he crosses his arms.

“Fuck off,” he growls out.

“Cute,” Touya drawls, and ignores the growled retort from the blonde as he turns to one of the security guards. “Hey, I’m letting only these two across. Blondie and Red. No one else.”

“Got it, Mr. Dabi,” the guard says.

“Come on,” Touya says, motioning for them to hop the small guard rail.

“Fucking… seriously?” Bakugou says uncertainly.

“Don’t question him, Baku-bro!” Kirishima says as he hops over. “Come on!”

Bakugou grunts, but climbs over the rail, gracefully like a damn cat; the movement showing off the flexing muscles in his arms. Touya tears his eyes away and looks to his band, further down the line.

“Okay, you two, fucking follow me while I finish signing shit,” Touya grouses.

“Thanks, man!” Kirishima chirps.

Bakugou just grunts, but follows when Touya starts walking, making his way down the line. When he finally reaches the smaller, more private space at the end and meets up with the band, they all give him curious looks.

“Not a fucking word,” he warns them, and they all nod. He turns and gestures to the two newcomers behind him. “This is Bakugou and Kirishima.”

“We know,” Tenko says and Touya shoots him a warning look. The blue-haired man just grins and steps closer to shake their hands. “Ah, you both have good hands.”

“What the fuck,” Bakugou mutters.

“Your guys’ music is awesome,” Kirishima says with a huge grin.

“Thanks!” Tenko says cheerfully as he steps back. “Well, I must go and make my way back to my dear, beloved husband.”

“Shut up,” Touya says, waving him off.

“Okay, mom,” Tenko says, smacking Touya on the arm and pouting when he hurts his own fingers.

“I will be riding back with him,” Atsuhiro says. He nods to Bakugou and Kirishima. “It’s a pleasure. I hope to see more of you.” He turns back to Touya. “Goodbye, mother.”

“Stop fucking calling me that!” Touya yells as he flings his marker at the man. Atsuhiro chuckles lowly as he walks off behind Tenko.

“Mom?” Bakugou echoes, amused and confused.

Touya rounds on him and drags one hand down his face. “Don’t. It’s a long fucking story.”

“He’s our band mother,” Magne adds unhelpfully. Touya glares at her, and she ignores it. “It’s lovely to meet you both, but Himiko and I are also heading home.”

“Good luck, Touy!” Himiko says with a wink.

“Crash and die,” Touya deadpans.

“We’ll text you when we get home safely!” Himiko calls over her shoulder.

“I hope your smoke detectors fail!” Touya yells.

“Have fun, mom!” Himiko shouts, turning to walk backwards so she can flip him off.

“I’m quitting!” Touya hollers. “Fuck all of you!”

Himiko’s manic laughter echoes across the night air and Touya turns back to a very confused and amused Bakugou and Kirishima. Touya scowls as he tries to figure out what to say.

“So,” Kirishima drawls. “Are we gonna do something cool, man?”

Touya tilts his head as he considers that. “I guess. I’ve still got some food on the bus.”

“You’ll let us see the tour bus?” Bakugou asks incredulously.

Touya stares blankly at him, noting the way the lights behind him illuminate the edges of his pale hair like a halo, and then he nods and turns, heading toward the bus.

The two follow close behind him, and when they get to the large vehicle, Touya waves the driver off, telling him to just leave it for the night. None of their equipment is on it anymore, anyway.

Touya leads the way up into the bus, going straight to the fridge and pulling three covered bowls of white stew from his special mini-fridge before popping them one at a time in the microwave.

While he heats the food up, he watches as Bakugou and Kirishima take in the bus curiously,

“What’s it like living in this?” Kirishima asks.

“Fucking horrible,” Touya grouses. “We stay in hotels whenever we can.”

“I was surprised to see you at my hotel,” Kirishima says. “I kinda figured a band famous like yours would stay in the ritzy places.”

Touya shrugs. “Just need a gym, a kitchen, and beds.”

The microwave beeps for the third and final bowl, and he pulls it out, drops spoons into them, and holds two out for the other men. Kirishima thanks him and Bakugou grunts out something that could potentially be considered a ‘thanks.’

Touya grabs his own bowl and makes his way to the sofa, plopping down and crossing his legs up as he starts eating. Bakugou and Kirishima follow suit, sitting at the opposite end from him.

“Not terrible,” Bakugou says after swallowing his first spoonful.

“Seriously, I would love to eat like this every day,” Kirishima says with a sigh.

Touya snorts. “Then learn to cook.”

“Wait,” Kirishima says, eyeing him with amazement. “You cooked this?”

“That’s why I like hotels with a decent kitchen,” Touya says with a shrug.

“I can see why they call you the band mom,” Kirishima says, giving Touya a smirk.

“Oh, fuck you,” Touya snaps.

“Shitty Hair’s got a point,” Bakugou says, eyes glittering with mirth.

“Not sure why you call him that when your hair looks like a damn dandelion puff,” Touya grouses.

“I will fucking kill you,” Bakugou growls and Touya laughs.

“I’d like to see you try,” he says, smirking.

Touya and Bakugou quip back and forth through the entire meal, and it feels so natural, like they just fit together perfectly. Touya doesn’t often feel comfortable around anyone but his bandmates.

When they finish eating, Touya grabs their bowls and takes them across the small space, dropping them in the sink.

He turns to face the other two, crossing his arms, and steels himself. “So… how’s Queenie?”

“How’s…” Bakugou trails off and turns to Kirishima, brows knitted in confusion.

“I didn’t mention your cat,” Kirishima says, shrugging.

Touya scrunches up his nose and rubs the back of his neck. “I have no fucking idea how to do this.”

“Do what?” Bakugou says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Wait, didn’t Mystery Man say he was sending your stuff to LOV?” Kirishima says.

“Oh,” Bakugou says, blushing lightly. “Um, fuck—yeah. You probably had to read some of my shit.”

Touya frowns, not liking the weird, unexpected tone of self doubt. “The fuck?”

“I’m a writer,” Bakugou says, scowling in a way that’s distinctly anxious. “I write blogs and stuff, and this guy I’ve been texting—”

“Shut up,” Touya snaps. “I’m Kenji. Or what-the-fuck-ever name it was.”

Bakugou blanches and Kirishima throttles the blonde as he screams. “You’re the mystery man!?”

Touya winces at the obscene volume. “Jesus, calm the fuck down.”

“I’ve been texting you?” Bakugou says weakly. “I’ve… holy shit… I’m wearing… fuck.” He covers his face with his hands and groans loudly. “Are you going to put a restraining order on me or something?”

Touya blinks and cocks his head. “The fuck would I do that for?”

“I wrong numbered you and we’ve been texting for almost a fucking month,” Bakugou says, moving his hands to run them through his hair.

Kirishima narrows his eyes at Touya. “If you’re doing this to mess with my best bro…”

“I’m not,” Touya says, rolling his eyes. “The fucking assholes who call themselves my friends have been mocking me for my fucking crush on the phone guy.”

Bakugou’s hand stills and he blinks, eyes sliding up to meet Touya’s. “What?”

Touya huffs and sighs. “That’s why I gave your friend the fucking tickets. He said your name, made it a lot fucking easier to meet you.”

“Wait, wait,” Kirishima says, face morphing into a grin. “You’ve both had crushes on the guy you’ve been texting.”

Touya blinks. “Both?”

“Eijirou,” Bakugou hisses.

“Oh, he’s being going on nonstop about the mystery man,” Kirishima says, grin growing impossibly wider.

“You like me?” Touya asks uncertainly as he eyes the blonde.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bakugo says, squinting at Touya. “You managed to kick my ass into actually start up my own blog, and you shared it and it’s barely even up yet and I’ve got a fuckton of followers and ad requests and other companies asking me to write pieces for them.”

Touya nods. “Yeah, you’re fucking talented.”

“Well, I just ordered myself a taxi,” Kirishima says cheerfully as he hops to his feet. “Baku-bro, please text me details later.”

Touya watches him leave before looking back at Bakugou, who is openly staring at him now. Touya sighs and walks over to sit on the sofa again, leaving only a half meter between them.

“I’m gonna go climbing up Mount Nantai next weekend,” Touya says. “Wanna come with me?”

“Fucking… seriously?” Bakugou says, frowning.

“Obviously,” Touya says. “I wouldn’t have gone through this trouble if I didn’t want to get to know you.”

Bakugou huffs, but nods. “Fine.”

Touya grins. “It’s a date.”