#Curtains 2007

[bloodnikki]

The musical nerd in me and the murder mystery nut in me hate the fact that Curtains is not more talked about.

It's a Comedy Murder Mystery musical that's setting is off Broadway production Of a western version of Robin Hood that is also a musical.

Like, come on People! The Cop is like fixing the musicals while being wowed and awed by being near actors. The cop is a theatre nerd!!!

[frenchublog]

Part 1

[i2-xmf]

[90s-2000s-barbie]

October 13, 2007

[waxdream]

I think if I was in Flatland, my orientation would be West facing. I would be upright in that situation, and in order to see eye to eye with a fellow west facing person, one of us would have to be upside down. Unless you subscribe to the book and not the film, so your eye would be in the centre of your side, and your mouth in the centre of your opposite side. Though that assumes even sides... I wonder if having an odd amount of sides would be slightly awkward? Like, your mouth wouldn't be parallel to your eye. So that brings us back to the orientation problem. And so, if I was perhaps a Heptagon, I would be west facing. I wonder if there's a social divide between east and west facing flatlanders? It would only effect every other generation though... but it might effect the triangles more, we do know that triangles have strict class divides based on angles after all. Then again, I'm taking a very 3D approach here. Upside down probably doesn't matter to Flatlanders, it would instead be 'does your voice come from my north, or my south?'. Would that matter? To a society where your lower class is only able to feel their way around, I bet it would. It could be a quick distinction, assuming two flatlanders are seeing eye to eye. Would they even know they were eye to eye? I'd assume they would, they have the ability to feel after all. But perhaps not, and if so, maybe it wouldn't matter in the lower classes, and only the upper classes who are trained in sight recognition. It could be like a life hack you use to determine odd or even sides, and then you triangulate to estimate angles. Perhaps like a party trick among high sided society - I bet there's a flatlander out there who can spot a Triacontagon by sight.

Of course, I'd be a chromatist line segment who identifies as a circle haha, so it wouldn't matter to me.

(The chromatism movement assigned line segments and circles the same paint colours, which can be read in the book as either 'women being put on a level with Gods' or perhaps, 'God is a man with the aspects of a woman', or my personal favourite being 'chromatist line segments are all trans men assassins with God Complexes'. When read under the eye of protofeminism, this book is awesome haha)

[moxymoto]

[cultivating-wildflowers]

cracking open “Are Women Human?” as a palate cleanser after reading Robert A. Heinlein

[itsaintmebabe]

pastel pink

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: oscar piastri x ballerina!reader

summary: oscar goes to a performance of swan lake and falls in love with the lead dancer who has no clue who he is or how formula one works

notes: this is just silly and kinda a celebration of 8 podiums in a row for oscar!!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: luna montana

liked by yourbff, user13 and 56,792 others

yourusername first show tonight!!!

view all comments

yourbff pls don’t break another toenail tonight i’m not emotionally ready to hold your foot again

↳ yourusername you’re acting like it wasn’t the most intimate moment of our friendship

yourmom hope you remembered to pack extra tights and snacks! dad’s already crying btw

↳ yourusername tell him to hydrate. it’s only act I

user9 you better flutter those arms like your rent depends on it

↳ yourusername joke’s on you it actually does 😭

user13 32 fouettés? in this economy?? ur braver than the troops

user28 swan lake opening night? girl this is basically ballet coachella

user12 i will be seated. i will be crying. i will be pretending to flap my arms in the lobby after

balletdirector just don’t fall off the stage this time and we’ll call it a win

↳ yourusername once again i fall ONCE and suddenly it’s my brand

liked by user86, user18 and 620,864 others

op81updates oscar seen with some other drivers at the royal opera house in london for opening night of the royal ballet’s performance of swan lake

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user19 do you think he knows what a fouetté is or is he just clapping when others clap

user24 big day for annoying people

user26 i saw him at stage door after the performance w some of the other drivers and it looked like lando was trying to hype him up to talk to the girl who played the lead?? idk her name tho sorry 😭😭

↳ user9 lando was 100% like “bro just say she was sick on stage” like he’s not helping at ALL

↳ user13 that might be @/yourusername???

↳ user3 IT IS Y/N

user7 i KNOW he googled “what to wear to the ballet” 30 mins before arriving

user16 r u joking i’m literally going tomorrow the universe hates me

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 62,398 others

yourusername i blacked out in act 2 but the audience clapped so yay

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yourmom i screamed so loud when the curtain dropped i think the elderly man next to me flinched. beautiful job sweetheart

↳ yourusername thank u for not tackling anyone on the way out x

user31 you did not have to eat the role like that… but you did… for us

user21 omg this is the girl that lando was trying to hype oscar up to talk to

↳ user3 the way he’s just lurking in the likes like babe SAY SOMETHING

↳ user17 no cause i get i wouldn’t know what to say either she’s gorg

user43 bro saw her in act I and activated drs on his heart

↳ yourusername what is drs and why does it sound like a medical procedure

↳ user37 HELP SHE HAS NO CLUE

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 129,994 others

yourusername chat what is drs help a girl out

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user12 deserved a trigger warning for the drive to survive jumpscare ngl

yourdad this the same aussie lad your mum mentioned? do i need to google him?

yourbff she's 3 google searches away from building a model of an f1 car in her flat i’m scared

user29 she’s asking what drs is while oscar is probably spiraling in a group chat like “do i explain it or do i stay mysterious”

oscarpiastri DRS is one of those things that’s easier to explain in person. over coffee. maybe tomorrow?

↳ yourusername ok yeah that sounds good!

↳ user64 i’m sorry WHAT

↳ user7 wait he kinda ate that up

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, user38 and 683,842 others

yourusername monaco for a little, barcelona soon!

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user59 i know that back…

yourbff girl if this is who i think it is you better tell me before the group chat burns down

user48 you have the life of a 2007 Barbie movie protagonist. i’m so proud of u queen

user36 THAT IS OSCAR. WE KNOW THAT BACK. STOP THIS.

↳ yourusername oscar who?? my pilates instructor’s name is ben tho

↳ user21 oh she hates us

user81 don’t care if this isn’t confirmed. this is MY headcanon now.

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 1,482,048 others

oscarpiastri rest week

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user34 okay they are barely even hiding it anymore

charles_leclerc monaco is good for the heart i see

user15 do you think we wouldn’t recognize the hair?? WE FOLLOW HER TOO OSCAR.

user21 this the same girl from the stage door rumor??? bc if so 👏🏼 good 👏🏼 for 👏🏼 you 👏🏼

lando i help you pick a perfect caption and yet its now two words wth

↳ oscarpiastri someone didn’t like your caption very much sorry

↳ lando she’s changed you, you used to listen to me

↳ oscarpiastri 🤷‍♂️

↳ user37 SHE????

nicolepiastri would love to meet your new friend in barcelona if she’s going

↳ oscarpiastri mum please

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 921,632 others

yourusername barcelona!

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yourbff “barcelona!” girl that’s a man

user92 girl just tag him at this point we're EXHAUSTED

user38 so you’re going to the spanish gp right???

hattiepiastri how did you make my brother look cool for once

↳ yourusername i think it might just be part of my talent imma try to get him out of the athletic shorts next

↳ hattiepiastri oh thank god

user12 the way oscar was like the first like oml

alexandrasaintmleux can’t wait to meet you this weekend!!!

↳ yourusername me too!! <3

user18 y/n who’s your fav driver??

↳ yourusername i think his number is 81 or 18 idk tho

↳ oscarpiastri ha ha very funny

yourusername just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 897,926 others

yourusername still tryna figure out all the rules but my love won!!!

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user59 “my love” YEAH OKAY THIS IS NO LONGER A SOFT LAUNCH

user37 you posted this and my jaw literally fell off its hinges

oscarpiastri baby where did you get the third picture

↳ yourusername your mum loves me

↳ nicolepiastri let me know if you want me to send any more love!

↳ yourusername OFC I DO

↳ oscarpiastri oh my god

↳ user9 BABY????

user41 i signed up for ballet content now i’m emotionally invested in an australian man winning car races???

user13 this caption is giving “I don’t know what a gearbox does but I will kiss him post-win”

liked by yourusername, lando and 1,932,984 others

oscarpiastri great result with great company in barcelona

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user61 great result? i’m gonna need you to define “great” because this is LIFE-ALTERING

lando glad it worked out because my favorite part of this whole thing was at stage door when you said “hi” and then stood there blinking at her for 15 seconds

↳ oscarpiastri that’s rich coming from someone who once said “bonjourno” to a ferrari exec

user76 she’s glowing. he’s glowing. i’m sobbing.

user93 they showed y/n during the race broadcast and had the “oscar piastri’s partner” thing and i literally jumped up from my couch

yourusername you should be covered in champagne more often

↳ oscarpiastri baby please 😭

↳ user48 bro is abt to get pulled aside by his pr manager

[hcneymooners]

⋆ thinking about model!cait & model!reader.

ꕮ you and model!caitlyn find one another unexpectedly, your friendship a perfect firework across an otherwise tedious skyline of existence. she has a strong reputation comprised of a perfect work ethic, but a "bitter aftertaste" of a personality. the coworker who says this is notorious for being vicious, so you smile palely and take the assessment with a grain of salt.

ꕮ model!caitlyn whom you first meet backstage at an indie designer's debut show, whom you keep running into backstage. she's softer than you expected with her deep blue hair tugged up into a topknot, balancing like an artist on a tightrope. her cheeks are dusted with a metallic blush that shimmers weakly every time her cheeks bunch and loosen, the movement repeated as she chews on an apple.

ꕮ model!cait who is the last to go on most of the time, as are you, so you watch as she keeps to herself amid fashion week and is the first one out at the end of every show. it's the same cycle of working up the courage to speak to her, to show her that you aren't whispering along with the rest of the girls sitting beside you, but your little streaks of bravery are blotted out by the hot lights of your twin vanities and there's nothing left by the time she calls her car.

ꕮ you finally see her at the right time, finally send her a tight smile that you meant to be fuller with a little wave. she's at the mouth of the door, head bent back as the movement coordinator orders her to be earlier tomorrow for rehearsals because she's opening this time. she's surprised at the soft spread of your teeth towards her, and reflexively she smiles back. congratulations, you tell her and your voice is strong. thank you, she says.

ꕮ and you think that's the end of things but then you get stuck in the open half of a prop plane with her. the set is an elaborate platform to showcase the newest alice+olivia spring-summer collection. the two of you swing like a pendulum across the floor, tumbling into one another. her body is lanky, almost awkward, and she smells deeply of iris, lime, and rose.

ꕮ "you smell good," you whisper with a hand on your stomach because you think you might throw up. she smiles, surprised, and you understand exactly why they scouted her.

ꕮ after that, your relationship grows almost lazily like ivy. you run into her everywhere: the grocery store, the members club right across your townhouse, the museum where you went to see the quilt exhibit. one day you just take her hand and interlink it with yours, promising her a delicious bowl of pho and saying that you'll teach her to haggle prices at the little market you're going to after this—the one owned by the khti with kind eyes.

ꕮ she follows you, lets you swallow her, and basks in the solidarity of finding someone who doesn't hate her for once. you find out more: that she's a nepotism baby (her mother is a top designer), that she dislikes a lot of who she walks for but doesn't think she deserves to complain, that she majored in philosophy and military history at university but dropped out in her junior year, that she's been thinking of going back. "go back," you tell her with a soft smile. "i'll go with you."

ꕮ you go back to school together: her to finish her bachelor's, you to get your master's.

ꕮ when you're off-duty, she calls you. it's always at the same time—she's very structured, you notice—which means you always find yourself rushing through the rooms of your home, trying to find where you last tossed your phone.

ꕮ it's 2007 then, so it's a thin slab the color of ice with the logo of the most prominent tech company at the moment. you're always worried you're going to drop it, that you'll lose her, so you memorize her number to call her from a pay phone when you're somewhere different in the world.

ꕮ on call, she tells you about the first time she walked paris fashion week, how her hands wouldn't stop shaking even after she'd made it back behind the curtain. you share your own story of tripping during milan, catching yourself at the last second while your heart drummed against your ribs.

ꕮ "i was there," she tells you, laughing gently. the words cut out a bit as she moves around, and without thinking, you speak to the ache in your chest and say, "i wish you were here."

ꕮ backstage becomes your sanctuary together. you learn to recognize the slope of her shoulders when a designer has been particularly cruel, and she learns exactly how you like your tea when you're running on your fourth show of the day. "chamomile, splash of honey," she murmurs, pressing the warm cup into your hands. her fingers linger against yours longer than necessary.

ꕮ you rest your head on top of her jutting shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as she adjusts the alligator clips in your hair so that you're more comfortable, switching out your perm papers for new ones so the stylists won't yell about the crinkles.

ꕮ there have been many times when you've sobbed into her lap or she into yours, bodies run ragged after doing 10-20 shows in a day or two. it's never too much work to soothe her or for her to coo at you, quieting you until you fitfully fall asleep.

ꕮ you start sharing hotel rooms to save money, but really it's because neither of you can stand the loneliness anymore. you always share a hotel room now with two beds, just for you to wrap around her in only one. these are the best times of travel: caitlyn in her cotton hollister boy shorts and her long-sleeved soccer camp tee, hair lumped into a loose knot at her neck as her chest rises and falls gently with her breath.

ꕮ you huddle closer every night, late at night. you order room service and critique the collections together. she has strong opinions about necklines, and you can spend hours discussing the politics of sizing.

ꕮ sometimes you fall asleep mid-conversation and wake to find her having tucked you in.

ꕮ the industry starts to notice your friendship. "the ice queen has finally thawed," they whisper, and you hate how they talk about her like she's a puzzle to be solved rather than a person. but she just squeezes your hand under the table at fashion week parties and whispers, "let them talk." you realize you'd let them say anything as long as she keeps holding your hand.

ꕮ your first kiss happens in taipei. you're both half-delirious from lack of sleep, sharing a pepper bun in the early morning before shows begin. she has a dot of sauce on her lower lip, and you reach out without thinking, thumb brushing it away and coming to your mouth so that you can suck it clean.

ꕮ "oh," she says softly, and then you're colliding, kissing desperately and tenderly among the crumbs and cups of cucumber water, dawn breaking over the city of azaleas. she breaks away because she can't stop smiling and you can't either, and her hair looks like blue fire in the sunlight. you kiss her again because you can and drag her by the hand down the street, your water sloshing as you try to make it to the show on time.

ꕮ together, you start to imagine a life beyond the runway. she talks about teaching military history to undergraduates, her eyes lighting up as she describes battle strategies and political maneuvering. you sketch out plans for your own vintage styling firm, something small and carefully curated with a tight clientele.

ꕮ "we could do both," she says, and you love how she always includes you in her future.

ꕮ life begins to slow down without either of you meaning for it to. it's subtle at first: you start saying no to castings that don't excite you, and caitlyn realizes she hasn't done a full fashion week in nearly a year.

ꕮ you find yourselves going to the same places more often—your favorite cafe, the record store that still carries CDs, the bookstore where cait always beelines for the history section while you browse vintage magazines.   

ꕮ caitlyn buys a dog before you do—a retired racing greyhound named laguna with eyes too soft for the world. you tease her about how predictable it is, how of course she'd choose a creature as long-limbed and elegant as her. but then you find a pocket bully in a shelter with a wiry coat and the sweetest underbite you've ever seen, and suddenly you have two. your inbox fills with emails from brands who want to feature them instead of you.  

ꕮ there's a video of you and caitlyn sitting on a blanket in central park, sharing a bagel slathered thick with avocado while your dogs sprawl between you. someone posts it on youtube with the title supermodels—THEY'RE JUST LIKE US and suddenly laguna and your little bully (you named her venice) have their own fanbase.

ꕮ people start recognizing you not for the runways, but for the dogs. “cait, i think we’ve peaked," you joke, showing cait a feature in a fashion mag about “all the best supermodels have turned dog moms.”   

ꕮ one day, cait tells you she’s serious about completing her phd. "i think i’m ready," she says, her fingers twisting the hem of your sweatshirt. you kiss her forehead and tell her you've been looking at spaces for your styling firm. "i think i'm ready too."  

ꕮ leaving modeling feels like shedding skin. at first, you both keep a toe in—an editorial here, a campaign there—but eventually, the industry moves on without you, and neither of you mind. 

ꕮ the mornings are slower now, filled with newspaper crossword puzzles and late brunches. your lives feel like the belong more to you than before. sometimes you still wake up expecting to rush to a casting, but then laguna whines at the door, and venice jumps onto the bed, and you remember you don't have to be anywhere except beside her.  

ꕮ you start teaching styling workshops, curating looks for indie films, slowly building your firm from the ground up. caitlyn, true to her word, finishes her degree and starts lecturing. she still paces when she talks, still moves like she’s walking the length of a runway, but now it’s in front of a room full of students who hang onto every word she says about ancient war tactics. 

ꕮ you don’t understand any of it, but still you’re proud of her. you sneak into her lectures with a ball cap that does nothing to disguise you, a polaroid camera in your hands as you take pictures of her for the keepsake box underneath your bed.

ꕮ your home becomes filled with old fashion week spreads pinned open like faded butterflies, shelves lined with history books, and a basket of dog toys that always end up in the middle of the floor. life is lovely. not perfect, but good nonetheless.

ꕮ and then one day, years later, you're walking through a square—maybe in new york, maybe in london—when you look up and see her face on a billboard. it’s an old campaign, maybe one of the last ones she did, and the sight of her, frozen in time, steals the breath from your lungs.   

ꕮ you call her.  

ꕮ "hey, baby,” you say when she picks up. "i just saw you on a billboard."  

ꕮ there's a beat of silence, then her voice, warm and teasing. “wasn’t expecting to hear that bit of news. tell me, was i beautiful all blown up and life-sized?”  

ꕮ you smile, tilting your face toward the sky. "yes. but they don’t know how much more beautiful you are in person."

© hcneymooners.

⚚ notes: for @marieeeluvsyou & @srooch.

[taleeater]

Heavy Sleeper

I wrote like half of this at 3am 6 months ago and finally decided to finish it 😅

Generation: Bayverse, 2003, 2007 TMNT

TMNT Donatello x Reader

Pronouns: Gender Neutral

Warnings: illness, fainting, fever, IV

Tags: angst, fluff, illness

Summary: You overworked yourself past exhaustion helping Donnie with a new project. Not that you minded. Or noticed, until it was too late.

Word Count: 3229

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It has been a long night. …..and a long morning. You had been spending the last few days with Donnie occupied in the lab, helping him with some of the smaller, more detailed work on his new security device. While you were busy soldering pathways onto extra small microchips at the workbench, Donnie was typing away creating the programming at his computer. It required a high level of focus. Which, honestly, you usually didn’t have. However, this project had all your attention, and you had been happily hyper focused on designing the little golden pathways on those tiny green wafer boards for almost 3 days straight.

Donnie was extremely grateful for your help. But he was suspicious how his energetic little dove was being so quiet and still while they worked. The thought came to him a few times that he should go check on you again, but he was equally engrossed in his own project and kept getting sucked back into the work.

Your trick was: caffeine. You had discovered in college that if you drank caffeine on an empty stomach, you could stay extra focused for hours on end. Obviously, this wasn’t good for your health. Or your stomach. But usually you would finish whatever project it was you were laser focused on within the day, so the strain on your body wouldn’t last that long.

This was lasting very long. Very very long. And you had no idea of the passage of time. There was no sun peeking through curtains to inform you that you had worked through the night, or disgruntled roommate checking in to wonder why you hadn’t emerged all day. Donnie’s brothers were very well used to his overworking tendencies, so they paid it no mind he was only coming out for coffee and pop tarts. What they didn’t realize was that you were still in the lair, all assuming you had gone home after the first night. So none had thought to go in to check on the lab.

Here lies the dilemma. It had been maybe 64 hours since you had slept or properly consumed anything besides coffee and a singular package of pop tarts, frequently forgetting about the pile of snacks Donnie kept leaving on your desk. Your back was stiff, muscles sore, and your throat was starting to feel incredibly dry. But all your attention being on finishing your project meant all your physical awareness was finely tuned out.

Except that little tickle in the back of your throat.

It started maybe 5…. 6 hours ago. It was a little bothersome, making you clear your throat and drink a little more coffee to soothe it. But it kept coming back. The tickle started to become a little painful, and clearing your throat turned into small dry coughs. You were drinking more and more coffee to try and wash down the feeling or maybe chase away the dehydration. Your lips started to feel dry, then your eyes, joining in with your uncomfortably dry throat. By the time evening rolled around, your chest was burning terribly, and a migraine had started to thrum with your pulse. Having finished your pot of coffee maybe 2 hours ago and hadn’t bothered to go make more, you were thinking you just needed to get more to drink.

You took a small pause in your welding to push up your goggles and wipe at your dry eyes, when suddenly your vision blurred. For a second, you suddenly found your body lurching to the side off your chair before you caught yourself on the side of the desk.

‘Huh… that was weird. Maybe I’m just tired. I’ll go make more coffee.’

Donnie had been bringing you refills whenever he had gotten up to make more, but you had finished your pot twice as fast as usual. You moved to the side of your chair to stand, and your feet touched the ground with your full weight. To your surprise, your knees almost buckled underneath you, and blackness started to creep in the edges of your vision.

Your body felt weak, and your muscles ached. Keeping a death grip on the edge of the table, you took a slow step towards Donnie’s part of the lab, then another. You blinked rapidly to try and chase away the encroaching darkness creeping in your vision, but too soon your eyesight went dark, and it felt like your brain was shutting down. Internally, you were panicking and fighting to stay conscious, but all you could manage was weakly calling out for Donnie before you blacked out. You didn’t even feel yourself hit the ground.

Donnie, on the other side of the lab, had pulled away from his computer moments before to rub a hand down over his face. This line of code was driving him crazy and he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. He briefly heard the scrape of (y/n) pushing their chair away from the table, and expected to hear your footsteps head past him to the small bathroom in the back of the lab. He took a moment to flag this line of code- again, for further meddling later. The genius turtle had to admit he was reaching his limits on staying awake and figured it was time he took himself and (y/n) to bed.

But where was (y/n)? They hadn’t come in to greet him yet. Were they just adjusting their chair? That was when he heard it.

“d….don nie…” your voice called out weakly, strained, and barely above a whisper before he heard a light thud from the other room. Had you dropped something? He quickly pulled himself to stand and made his way to the other room to check on what it was you needed.

There. On the floor. You laid still and unmoving on your side against the cold floor.

“(Y/N)!!!!” Donnie exclaimed. Startled, he rushed to your side and dropped down beside you, pulling you into his lap. “(Y/n)! (Y/N)!!!!” He shook you slightly trying to rouse your attention, but your eyes were closed and your body fully limp in his arms. Unresponsive. Quickly, he felt for your pulse, sighing when he found it, but worried by the heightened pace. Donnie scooped you up into his arms and quickly carried you towards the med bay across the lair.

He made his way out of his lab and passed the living room where Mikey and Leo were watching a movie on the TV, and Raph was making a sandwich in the kitchen.

“Huh? Donnie? Is that (y/n)? I didn’t see them come in… are they asleep??” Leo asked when he saw Donnie rush out holding you in his arms.

“No time. (Y/n) fainted in the lab.” Donnie rushed out and speed walked through the clear plastic panels into the med bay, ignoring the startled ‘WHAT’ echoed by Leo and Mikey, and what sounded like Raph choking on his sandwich.

He laid you out gently on the padded white exam table, 3 sizes too big for you, and rushed around the drawers and cabinets. He acquired a stethoscope, thermometer, blood pressure pump, and various other tools to properly check your health and brought them over to the table beside you just as his brothers rushed in.

“ANGELCAKES ARE YOU OKAY??? Ow-“ Mikey rushed in pushing past Leo and Raph and dramatically ran to your side before Raph smacked the back of his head.

“Mikey, chill out. Give ‘em some room.” Raph growled out, trying to pull his dramatic little brother back while Leo stepped forward.

“Donnie, what happened to (y/n)?”

Donnie was now wearing the stethoscope and had the end pressed to the rise and fall of your chest as your breathing strained.

“Hmm… heart palpitations… lungs… crackling sound… that can’t be good.” Donnie was muttering notes under his breath, reaching up to place his hand over your forehead. He found a scorching hot fever and his heart sank. Only then did he turn to Leo. “We… we’ve been working in the lab the past few days… pretty intensely….” Donnie winched. “In hindsight, we did not take as many breaks as we should have. It appears (y/n) has collapsed from exhaustion.” Donnie’s eyes went downcast. He looked equally tired, but guilt was weighing heavy on his shoulders.

“They’ve been here all along?? We thought they went home days ago. Aren’t they usually the one making sure you’re eating and taking breaks to sleep?” The shock in Leo’s voice was clear. You were usually so doting with Donnie, cooking his favorite foods and dragging him off to bed with you to make sure he was well taken care of when he got too involved in his work. It appears this time the tables were turned. “They were helping you with a project? Have they been eating enough?” Leo pressed.

That seemed to have caught Donnie’s attention and he suddenly turned back to continue his check on you. “Yes, I’ve been bringing them snacks whenever I’d get up for coffee. They must’ve been weakened from lack of rest and dehydration…. I’m going to check their blood pressure.” Donnie wrapped the cuff around your arm, and started to inflate it when you started to stir.

“Huh… that doesn’t look good.”

Your eyes fluttered open and you took a deep breath. The bright lights making you wince and shut your eyes again. You moved to bring a hand up to your face but was surprised to feel the tug of something around your arm.

“Mmh? Donnie…? What time is it…” You stretched, confused as to why your body ached so much. Why was he looming over you? And his room was never this bright or cold.

“(Y/n)! Thank goodness… Darling, when was the last time you ate?” Donnie held your shaky hand in his and gently stroked his thumb over your knuckles.

“Hm…? The uh…. Pop tarts you gave me…”

Donnie sighed in relief, remembering he had brought you a package of pop tarts to set on your desk just that afternoon.

“Right after we took a nap together.”

Then Donnie blanched.

“Sweetheart… our last nap together was almost 3 days ago. What happened to the snacks I was leaving on your desk…?” He asked, trying to be hopeful. They had disappeared each time he had returned, so he assumed you had eaten them.

“3 days…? Oh…. Um… they were in the way, so I moved them to the bench for later…. I must’ve forgotten about them.”

Leo slapped a hand over his face. He was realizing you and his brother had more in common than he thought.

“Mikey, can you please go make some soup? Raph, please let dad know that (y/n) will be staying over for the next few days.” Mikey did a mock salute and rushed to the kitchen to make some light chicken noodle soup and Raph left to find Master Splinter in his plant room. Leo went to grab some clean blankets and a spare pillow from their storage room.

Your breathing was labored in the now quiet room. You turned your head to the side to rest against the cool pillow as you gazed up at Donnie with your shiny dazed eyes, cheeks flushed and red. “I almost finished the motherboard… just gotta… add the red and yellow wires…” You trailed off as your eyes slid shut. They burned with exhaustion and the light was hurting your head.

Donnie leaned in close and cupped your cheek gently, and pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead. His brow furrowed with worry, but his eyes were soft with adoration. “You did an amazing job. I’ll finish it up later, you just get some rest. Okay?” His thumb stroked your cheek.

“Mh hm… don’t forget the… polyimide adhesive tape…’s under my jacket…” You mumbled as you easily slipped into sleep.

Donnie smiled at you. He loves you. He loves that you taught yourself engineering to help him out with his workload. But right now he was regretting it, seeing the heavy bags under your eyes as you slept soundly. He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

When you learned that it was difficult for him and his brothers to do the delicate work of designing circuit boards for their tech, he was surprised you immediately showed interest in learning. He admittedly didn’t take you very seriously at first. But then you started joining him in the lab on long nights to study books you had checked out from the library on basic engineering, he taught you how to assemble his tech and how to solder and weld the machines together into things that would help them on patrol and repair things around the lair. He still remembers the first thing you’d ever made. The poorly soldered little metal band he wore around his right pinky finger.

Leo came back in with the blankets in tow. “Should we move them to your bed?” He asked Donnie.

“Not yet, I need to set them up with an IV to get some fluids in them first. I suspect they’re very dehydrated, on top of the general exhaustion.” Donnie was swaying in place. He looked exhausted, and Leo felt worry for you and his brother. It had been a long time since you last let him overwork himself to this extent. He blamed himself for not checking in on his brother sooner.

”Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll set up (y/n)’s IV and keep an eye on them.”

”But (y/n)….”

”-Would want you to rest.” Leo finished with a knowing smile.

Donnie sighed and looked you over. Leo unfolded the blanket and draped it over you so you wouldn’t get cold. Donnie fussed with bringing the edge right up under your chin and fixed your hair. He didn’t want to leave you in here, but he knew Leo was right. He wouldn’t be much use to you if both of you collapsed from exhaustion, so he relented.

”Wake me up if you need anything.” Donnie stood up on shaky legs.

”Uh huh.” Leo put his hands on Donnie’s shoulders and led him out of the med bay.

”And I mean anything-“

“Of course Donnie, now go to bed.” Leo pushed him out in the direction of their bedrooms. Raph and Mikey in the kitchen watched as Donnie trudged and swayed towards his bedroom, and disappeared into the darkness swinging his door shut.

“Duuude. Do I gotta start hiding the coffee again?” Mikey said from where he was chopping veggies for your soup.

Leo pointed at Mikey, “No more caffeine for those two for a month!”

Raph grunted a laugh.

Leo had set up your IV, just like Donnie had taught him. After an hour and a half, your body had absorbed most of the fluids, so Leo felt satisfied enough to wake you up. He shook your shoulder a bit to wake you up. You were deep asleep. The soup at your bedside that Mikey had brought in had cooled to a safe temperature, so he wanted to make sure you ate something hearty before he sent you back to bed.

”Mmh?” You finally started to stir.

”(Y/n), wake up. You’ve got to eat something.” Leo coaxed.

Your eyes fluttered open and immediately winced at the bright light. Leo stood over you to shield your eyes from the overhead light as you adjusted.

“Where’s Donnie?” You asked a bit dazed, looking around. The tickle in your throat was now a scratchy and irritated pain. You coughed hard into your fist.

”He went to bed. Here, Mikey made you some soup. It should still be warm enough.” Once you had sat up he handed you the bowl.

“Try and eat as much of it as you can, so you can take your medicine.”

You hummed in response, stifling another cough. You balanced the soup in your lap and slowly ate, spooning the warm chicken stock and veggies into your mouth. It soothed your throat, and with a few more bites you felt less shaky. You ate slowly, but you managed to finish almost the entire bowl.

Leo looked pleased and handed you your meds to swallow. Mikey poked his head in through the door to check on you as well.

”How’s angelcakes feeling?”

You paused a long moment as you sipped at a glass of water.

“Better.” You croaked. You still felt absolutely dreadful, but, “the soup helped. Thank you Mikey.”

The orange ninja beamed. Raph also peaked in over his little brother’s shoulder.

Leo looked back to you and took the bowl and spoon from your lap. He checked your IV pack and saw that most of it was gone. Your eyes looked heavy again as your body begged for more rest.

”I think it’s time you got some more sleep.” Leo mothered you. He tried to lift the edge of the blanket to cover you as you lay down but your hand stopped him.

Your red rimmed eyes were distant, and you cleared your throat as you found your words. “….Can I go to Donnie’s room? Please?”

Leo couldn’t help but smile at the innocent request. “Sure thing. Come on-“ You sat back up and Leo removed your IV. He motioned for you to adjust yourself, and Leo wrapped you up like a burrito in the blanket before scooping you up and carried you out of the med bay.

Mikey chuckled and rushed over to open Donnie’s door for you and his brother.

”Special delivery!!” He called into the darkness of Donnie’s room. A groan echoed out as the exhausted purple turtle was woken up. Leo carried you in and Donnie scooted over to make room for you to be deposited on his bed.

”Thanks Leo… hey babe…” Donnie greeted you sleepily, sitting up in bed as he received you and untangled you from the blanket.

Leo quietly walked out of the room to give you two privacy, and shoved Mikey’s face out of the way so he could close the heavy metal door behind him.

You stifled a cough, and reached out for Donnie in the darkness. The purple turtle dipped down into your embrace, and smooched your flushed red cheek. His arms slid up your back, and he pulled you flush against him in a warm embrace. He patted around for the edge of the blanket, before pulling it up and covering the both of you. He sighed deeply as he relaxed again against the pillows with you wrapped up in his arms.

”Thanks for helping me….. but please don’t ever do that again.” He mumbled against the crown of your head.

”Do what?” You asked, already half asleep.

”Collapse.”

You hummed a little laugh and snuggled in impossibly closer.

”I’ll do my best…”

Donnie pressed another quick kiss to your head, and you both quickly slipped back asleep.

The End :]

[dreamwatch]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over The Rainbow event.

Pleasant Valley Sunday

Prompt: Green | Song: Pleasant Valley Sunday by The Monkees | Word Count: 2494 | Rating: T | CW: mention of car accidents | POV: Steve | Relationships: Steve & Robin, Steddie | Firefighter Steve Harrington, Corroded Coffin are the best and worst neighbours, little bit of angst for Steve because he deserves a treat, a little bit meta

Thank you so much to @vthx and @tinytalkingtina for helping me through this one! ❤️

Steve drives onto his street and the tension leaves his body.

The last of the sunrise has washed away leaving behind a bright crystal blue sky that he knows is going to stay cloudless all day.

He pulls onto his drive and climbs out of his car to the sounds of the neighbourhood waking up. It’s going to be warm today, there’ll be the smell of charcoal burning in the air this afternoon. 

Steve opens the door and is greeted by the smell of pancakes. He smiles to himself before toeing off his shoes and dropping his keys in the bowl on the entrance table.

“Hey!” shouts Robin from her place over the stove. “Just in time.”

“You’re going to make some girl really happy someday, Robin.”

Robin stands stock-still and glares at him.

“Or not,” he says with a smile.

They sit at their table, yellow curtains flutter in the gentle warm breeze.

“So, tell me about last night’s adventures.”

He takes a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice, and Robin really is a kitchen goddess whether she likes it or not.

“Quiet night actually. One drunk kid chained to a streetlight, one gas leak, and one cat.”

Robin wipes her mouth with a napkin before getting out of her seat and padding to the other side of the kitchen to the large whiteboard. She uncaps a marker.

“Tree or storm drain?’

“Tree,” he says, and Robin drops marks a line under the ‘tree’ column.

“Trees are winning this month.”

“Summer,” he says, getting up and dropping his dishes in the sink. He stretches, his back cracking with a satisfying pop.

“Okay, I’m going up, see you in eight hours.”

He showers the night off himself, opens his window and pulls his black out curtains before climbing under the light summer duvet, the cotton crisp and fresh against his skin. Robin never understood how he could sleep with the noise from the street, no matter how many times he tried to explain it to her. 

It’s a quiet neighbourhood, large houses all politely spaced out, and for the most part his neighbours skew older. Sundays here are sweet things, and the sounds wrap him up and make him feel warm and alive.

Mrs Gray will be pruning her roses next door; Mr Greene across the street will have the windows thrown open, the sounds from his television set will catch on the breeze; Mr Squire will mow his lawn. The sounds are soothing to him, calm and ordinary, numbing. After a long night, after the roar of flames, or the screams of people trapped in an overturned car, being wrapped tight in these noises   fills him with normality and safety and warmth.

His eyes slip shut while the mothers across the road complain about how hard life is…

Steve wakes with a start, ready to gear up, ready to—

His heart races and his breath comes heavy for a moment while he tries to work out what woke him. 

There’s a horrible metallic screeching, an awful shrill whine and banging loud enough he think something is going to come through the wall.

A terrible minute later his sleep addled brain connects the dots: music. Or a close approximation. 

Steve wanders onto his driveway and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the noise is coming from.

The house next to Mr Squire has had a For Sale sign on the lawn for a month or so, Steve hadn’t noticed the sign had come down, but now he can see the garage doors wide open and a bunch of long haired assholes are in there murdering their instruments.

On Sunday.

His day of rest.

Absolutely not.

Steve storms across the street in his slippers and check sleep pants, and fuck anyone that has a comment to make about it. 

“Hey! Assholes!”

They don’t even register him over the noise, and they’re so caught up in their playing that they can’t see him standing on their drive with his hands on his hips and and thunder on his face. He tries shouting some more before he decides to escalate his intervention, storms into their garage and pulls a line of plugs out of a socket bank.

“What the fu—“

“Hey, you can’t do that man!”

“I can and I did. Have you any idea how loud you are? It’s,” he checks his watch mid rant, “eleven thirty in the morning.”

Some runt sitting behind the drum kit shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah? It’s not like we’re doing this at eleven thirty at night, man. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that I came off a night shift and I’ve had about three hours sleep before being woken up by whatever the fuck this is. It’s unacceptable.”

“Says who?”

Steve turns toward the voice, and ends up face to face with a guy with long, sweaty curls grinning innocently at him, and the fucking audacity of him.

“I say!”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else complaining. Do you speak for the kingdom? And if so, on what authority?”

Someone sniggers and Steve hates this, hates being made fun of. Long hair must see it and the grin softens.

“I’m just kidding.” He wipes his no doubt sweaty hands on his jeans and leans over for a handshake. “Eddie. That’s Gareth, Jeff and Matt over there on bass.”

He doesn’t want to tell them his name, he’s not here to make friends with these dicks. But Robin would be disappointed. He takes the offered hand.

“Steve. Look, I’m not here to stop you having fun, but it’s Sunday and this is a quiet neighbourhood and I am trying to sleep. Please, can you… turn it down, or better yet just stop.”

Eddie looks regretful and for a second Steve wonders if he’s actually sincere.

“We really have to get the practice in, but maybe—”

Steve scoffs, cutting him off. “I don’t think there’s any amount of practice that’s going to fix that noise.”

Perhaps he went too far, if the scowl he gets back from Eddie is giving him is anything to go by.

“You know, I was going to cut you some slack there, Steve, but just for that I think we’ll have to practice a little more.”

He wanders over to the power bank and switches them back in. 

“Count us in, Gare.”

Steve stands in the garage speechless as they turn their back on him and the screeching starts up again.  He storms back across the street, slams his door behind him, closes all his windows and climbs into Robin’s bed at the back of the house. 

“I’m telling you, Rob, you have never heard noises like this.”

“I don’t know, I’ve heard you having sex, Steve.”

“Hey!”

They’re wandering around Krogers, Steve pushing the cart as Robin picks up random jars and cans that are definitely not on their shopping list.

“I told you, they’re a heavy metal band. Apparently they’ve been signed to a label and everything.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mrs Gray told me.”

“She’s spoken to them?”

“Oh yeah, thinks they’re lovely young men, actually.”

That does not sound right. 

Two weeks later it happens again.

After the way he ended things last time he debates whether it’s even worth crossing the street, so he tries closing his window first, blocking out the yelling and thumping war cries that they’re trying out today. But without the mellow, familiar sounds of his neighbourhood he just can’t zone out enough for sleep to come back to him.

Steve thinks about going back to Robin’s room again, but he can’t do that every weekend and nor should he have to. Why is he letting himself be driven from his own bed by these pissants?

So he goes over to them, again, and they fight, again, and Steve comes back to his own home that he has lived in and enjoyed for close to five years in peace and quiet, and sleeps in his best friend’s bed.

Again.

The thing he cannot get his head round is how all his neighbours seem to not care. This is clearly not a battle he’s going to win on his own. 

On his next day off he goes on a mission, knocking at all his neighbours doors, starting with Mrs Gray.

“Oh, they’re such sweethearts,” she says.

Did Steve take a knock to the head?

“What?”

“Oh yes, lovely young men. The little one, what’s his name? Garth—”

“Gareth,” he corrects her, why is he doing that? He shouldn’t even know the little pricks name.

“He’s been mowing my lawn for me, you know how my back is getting.”

“But I mow your lawn for you.”

She beams and pats him on the arm.

“I know! And now you don’t need to, dear. Now you get all that time back for yourself. It’s time you found a nice girl to settle down with. Or a nice boy.”

And Steve is absolutely not having that conversation with his neighbour today.

It’s the same story as he goes door to door; Eddie climbing Mr Greene’s roof to adjust his TV aerial; Jeff fixing Mr Squires lawnmower; Matt playing street hockey with some of the kids to give their mothers a break.

They’re taking over his neighbourhood, one neighbour at a time.

Steve parks in his drive, shuts the engine off and gently drops his head onto the steering wheel. It’s about eleven steps to his front door and he just doesn’t have the strength, mentally or physically, to walk it.

Images flash, rapid and harsh, things he desperately tries not to see again. He breathes, deep and slow, tries to count his breaths like his therapist taught him. When the images stop and his heart rate lowers he goes inside.

He showers, and climbs into bed and he listens to Mr Squire’s lawn mower and he hopes it will be enough to help him sleep.

He wakes with a start to the sound of screaming. For a horrible moment he’s back on the highway, trying to cut open a door but then the sound registers properly.

Those fucking assholes.

Before now it’s been an annoyance, a pain in his ass he could do without, but today it’s so much more. Today’s it’s the universe coming for him, prodding him in all his soft parts.

He grabs his baseball bat and crosses the street, and slams it it against the garage door. The music stops immediately.

It’s Eddie that rounds on him first this time.

“What is your fucking damage, man?”

“My damage? My damage is you! I have asked you, I have pleaded with you, I have practically begged you. What is wrong with you people?”

“What’s wrong with us?” Gareth shouts as he rounds the drum kit, “You’re the one swinging a baseball bat, man!”

“You know what, screw this, I’m done trying to be reasonable with you assholes.”

“Okay, bye bye Mr Reasonable, sorry we disturbed your precious beauty sleep!”

Steve rounds on him and Eddie gets in between them, pushing his arm against Steve’s chest.

“While you were sleeping, I was cutting someone out of a car wreck.,” he spits out. “I’m not sleeping to be pretty! When you don’t get enough sleep you’re shitty music sucks more. When I don’t get enough sleep people die!”

For the first time in weeks the garage is silent.

Eddie drops his arm.

“You’re a—”

“Firefighter.”

“Shit, we didn’t—fuck. I’m sorry man. We’ll pack up it up now, absolutely. You head on back to bed, get your beau— sorry, I didn’t mean— not that you’d need it anyway.”

If he wasn’t so worn down Steve could have raised as smile at that, but he’s drained.

He walks away to the sound of birds singing.

Steve sleeps the day away and by the time he wakes up he feels cleansed. Feels like he can take a deep breath again.

He hears voices as approaches the kitchen and is surprised to see Robin and Eddie sitting at the table together.

“Hey! I finally got to meet Eddie. And he brought you a gift.” She casts him a sly grin before hopping off the breakfast stool. “Bye Eddie, lovely to finally meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” 

Steve scowls at her before she leaves him alone with Eddie. He pours himself a coffee and takes Robins seat at the table.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Eddie replies. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, eventually.”

There’s an awkward pause where neither of them know what to do, until Eddie seems to snap out of it and pushes a small box toward him.

“I just wanted to drop these over and say we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to be assholes, honestly. Our labels breathing down our back and we’re supposed to be writing and getting ready for a tour and so they thought it was a good idea to move us all into a house together. I feel like I’m living with The Monkees.”

Steve laughs, the first genuine one in a while. 

“Oh yeah. Which one are you?”

Eddie almost looks offended.

“Mike, obviously. You even have to ask?”

“Kind of hard to tell without the hat.”

“Fair.”

There’s a moment of silence again, but this time it’s comfortable.

“Can I open it?”

“Of course, it’s yours.”

He takes his time unravelling the carefully tied bow to find four cupcakes, each with a little fire engine on. Steve shakes his head with a small laugh.

“And I’ve spoken to the label about getting set up with a better practice room. So you won’t have to worry about the noise again.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot.”

Eddie nods and raps his knuckles on the table. His hair is tied up, revealing his pale neck, and he has the biggest brown eyes. He smiles at Steve when he notices he’s being looked at and a dimple reveals itself. 

In all his anger and exhaustion Steve had never noticed how cute he was.

“I know you’re busy firefighting a lot of the time, but there’s a really cool bar in the city and maybe…,” Eddie shrugs awkwardly. “Maybe you could let me buy you a drink to make it up to you. Cup cakes don’t seem suitable compensation.”

Steve feels his cheeks glow.

“Sure. Sure, I’d like that.”

There’s a gap in the blackout curtain, just enough to know it’s morning. He can hear Mrs Gray singing to herself; Mr Greene’s TV set is playing and he can just make it out over the sound of Mr Squire’s lawn mower.

“How the fuck do you sleep with that noise, dude?”

Steve giggles and wraps his arms around Eddie, pulling him closer before kissing the back of his neck.

With a contented sigh Eddie pushes himself back against Steve’s chest, and Steve has a new sound to add to his Sunday chorus.

****

Ok this was a struggle bus and didn't end up anything like I'd planned but I ran out of time and so here we are. I'm sticking to angst!

@the-unforgivenn❤️

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[i2-xmf]

[urbanrelics]

HAUT FOURNEAU 4

I adore visiting blast furnaces. They are the most spectacular sights I've ever got to witness. The intricacy of the engineering is quite simply astonishing. This particular specimen in Belgium, which has been under close surveilance since it was shut down in 2008, has been preserved in a remarkably good condition. Almost immediately after the closure, an interest group was established that wanted to preserve the blast furnace as an industrial landmark.

This blast furnace company, which is a defining feature of the city of Charleroi, was founded in 1836, during the heyday of the European steel industry. Like all other steel companies in the region, this blast furnace was also the subject of numerous takeovers and mergers. These mainly took place in the 1960s and 70s. It always remained a flourishing company, competitive on a global scale. However, the takeover by the Duferco group in 2001 heralded the beginning of the end…

The site was then operated under the name Carsid. After a fire in 2007, the furnace was temporarily shut down to carry out the necessary repairs. At the same time, capacity was increased and a number of environmental investments were made. The installation would now be operational for another ten years. Barely a year later, the blast furnace was shut down again, due to “poor prospects”. Due to the economic crisis and the declining demand for steel, the operation of the blast furnace company was no longer deemed profitable.

A “temporary” closure and the search for a buyer should bring relief. After more than three years of uncertainty and economic unemployment, the curtain finally fell for the blast furnace. Since HF4 is one of the best preserved blast furnaces in Europe, the Walloon government is striving to preserve the furnace as industrial heritage. Although a ministerial decree has been published to this effect, the demolition work on the site is progressing steadily…

Unfortunately Charleroi is one of the poorest cities in Belgium. There is no budget for the necessary sanitation and preservation works, which would run in the millions of euros. The futures is looking bleak for this beautiful piece of industrial heritage...

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐀𝐍.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — MITCH MARNER x reader (est. relationship) wc — 4.5k synopsis — think hilary duff’s balcony engagement circa 2007

note — this belongs to the i don't remember this bar collection

specific content warnings below the cut.

cw — profanity and other vulgar language, taking the lord’s name in vain + other religious-ish imagery, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected PIV intercourse (multiple) + creampie/breeding kink, discussion/thoughts of cum play, outdoor sex and mention of previous exhibitionism, mention of previous choking + breath play (f!reader receiving), pain kink situation (both), one line of blood play (f!reader receiving), justified violence (not directed at reader!!!), slight d/s dynamics, and possessive!mitch being a domestic little horndog

“Before we talk about that beautiful, game-tying goal in the tail-end of the second and your overall command of the offensive zone throughout tonight’s game, I first want to congratulate you on some major life news. A few weeks belated; my apologies.

For those who don’t know, you came back from the All-Star break with more than just a tan; you came back with—and as—a fiancé.”

Mitch does nothing to dim his megawatt smile or to dull the sparkle in his eyes. The mere mention of you coaxes out an impossibly giddier version of himself, unencumbered by the stress and pressure of a waning season. It’s always been that way.

It's difficult to remember a time before you. He doesn't want to.

Despite of meeting on arguably one of the worst nights of his life, somehow, all he feels when the memory rises to the surface of his mind is joy.

He remembers your laughter, warm and buoyant, and the way the low light painted flattering shadows across your kind face as you spoke animatedly about your passions and dreams. He remembers being treated like a person before anything else, not some character in a video game or a pawn in someone else’s fantasy league, and he recalls your fervent, genuine interest in his off-ice hobbies. Not once did you ask anything invasive or demand he share more than he was willing.

Nor did you fish for tickets.

For Mitch, privacy was paramount, and the sentiment echoed throughout your lengthy relationship. It was your through-line, and it should’ve blanketed the intimate proposal in safety.

He gets hot under the collar just thinking about it.

Mitch will entertain the host’s questions to an extent. Because, despite his insistence on privacy, he will never pass up an opportunity to sing your praises or brag about his luck.

“Did you bring anything else back? Any special souvenir to commemorate such a momentous occasion?”

Mitch is instantly hard, his pale cheeks ablaze, eternally grateful that the camera is filming from the chest up.

Carried in on a warm evening breeze, the evocation is so palpable he can taste the blue curaçao on his tongue and feel its muted burn in the back of his throat. The air smells of pineapple and your fragrant shampoo, a comforting scent that clings to him like a second skin. The phantom of your touch sends a shiver down the expanse of his sore, sweat-drenched back.

“—holy fuck.”

The crinkled, two-word curse tumbles from Mitch’s mouth with little effort.

Every modicum of tact was either battling against the warm rum coursing through his body or fighting to keep his guttural, damning moans at bay.

They are getting hot and heavy on a patio, after all.

Mitch knows this isn’t smart. He knows he should’ve moved the celebration indoors, that he should've waited until you were curtained in safety to give in to his desire and your wandering hands.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

The problem is he just doesn’t care.

Mitch wasn’t about to delay the appreciative mouth of the woman he was going to make his wife, not even for a second.

Even if she dropped to her knees with only a hedge to play look-out. A line of decorative foliage is their first and final defense, the leaves carelessly swaying between them and the rest of the luxury resort he booked for All-Star weekend.

It’s difficult to make sound decisions when the hand wrapped around your cock is newly weighed down by five carats.

The dazzling rock shines proudly in the concluding rays of a setting sun. Glittery and perfect, like the woman who wears it.

Mitch hisses when the tip taps the back of your throat for the first time that night. The sensitive skin melts into your tongue like an ice cube, the creamy droplets of anticipation swallowed greedily by your ravenous mouth. He sees stars in the cotton candy sky peeking through the palm trees.

It hasn’t been that long; his day began with your nose nuzzled against his pelvis, his head limp against the cool tile of the shower a few feet away.

When it comes to you, nothing is ever enough to curb his appetite.

Always needy, never satiated—a pair of perverted peas in a pod.

Your tongue repeats the delicious motion it had previously, too, lazily tracing along the underside of his length until he’s whimpering with no regard for anything besides spilling himself down your throat. He feels you smile around his thickness, pleased by the ease of his undoing. You were damn good; you deserved to be proud.

In all honesty, it took very little effort on your part to make him weak in both his knees and in his resolve.

However, there was a special kind of magic in your pretty face, now dusted by a salty sheen, nestled against his taut abdomen, his cock engulfed by the vice-grip of your throat.

Mitch is close already.

White-hot sparks descend through his quads and calves to zap his sandy toes. Electrified, his hips sputter of their own volition, but like the godsend you are, you accommodate every jolt and tilt in stride.

With one hand braced against his hip and the other gently massaging the heavy weight of his balls cradled in your palm, you peer up at him through a fan of fluttering lashes.

He whines—at the mischievous glint in your glassy eyes or the bite of your manicure as you sink your nails into his burnt skin, he can’t be sure.

Some of your fingers curl into the nasty bruise eating up his lower back, the by-product of a gruesome communion with the ice a few days prior. Sharp nails nip at the fragile skin. Mitch doesn’t know if the twinge of pain was intentional on your part, but he loves it either way. Perhaps a little too much, he thinks to himself as he twitches violently in your grasp.

And perhaps you aren't the only one with a masochistic streak. It's clear from the heaviness of your lids the converse applies to you.

His sweetheart's sick and sadistic. He's never been prouder.

“Get off,” he husks. Abruptly, he steps out from your embrace.

In retrospect, Mitch could’ve been nicer about it. At that moment, however, he was far too desperate for chivalry.

Staring down at your wide, despondent eyes—a pup deprived of her favorite bone—your fiancé amends, “Calm down, sweetheart. I’ll give it back soon. There’s no way in hell I’m wasting a load in your mouth when I know how good your pussy feels around my cock.”

Heat scales Mitch’s spine as he spreads you wide open against the chaise. Your folds glow brighter than the jewelry on your left hand.

With the tip of his finger, he tests the waters. Gingerly, at first, like he's still unsure you'll be able to take him. That charade hardly lasts, but tonight, it's barely a blip.

Your body eagerly welcomes the attention, mouthing at him before sucking the touch past the taut, elastic ring of your entrance. Your faint groans elicited by the intrusion harmonize so sweetly, so perfectly, that Mitch’s eyes fall shut in tranquil bliss.

When your hips rock against his palm, they snap open.

Blinking at him hard and fast, your teeth sink into your bottom lip, turning the plushness a sickly shade of pink—of desperation. Tears crowd your lash line but never cascade down your shiny cheeks; they, like you, are impatiently waiting for reprimand.

Mitch almost laughs. You did jump the gun, so he can't fault you for expecting the corresponding punishment. But it's a special occasion—you're celebrating, so it never manifests.

And Mitch wants to do more than just spank you silly. Plenty of time for that later. A lifetime's worth of it.

Instead, with the flick of his wrist, Mitch encourages you to take your pleasure.

The subtle, tantalizing movements, building in speed and ferocity with each pass, beckon him forward until his sunburnt skin is close enough to burn yours. Feeling you beneath him, feeling his weight rest against your body, feels better than heaven, and he’s barely started.

Like before, Mitch is painfully aware he won’t be able to last long. Judging by how silky-slick you are against his palm, you won’t be either.

With his free hand, he catches your jaw and, with little resistance, tilts your head to keep your gaze from straying. Your mouth falls open when he slips another finger inside. Mitch grins down at your lust-blown pupils and the feel of your hot breath against his lips. He leans down and licks into your idle mouth. A third finger causes your bottom lip to tremble between his and your forehead to ease, every little muscle going soft and pliant between the cushion and his chest.

“Atta girl,” Mitch praises. His lips press briefly to your cheek before beginning their descent along your throat. The touch is featherlight and sends a shiver down your spine, coaxing your chest further into his. “—love seeing you like this, all beautiful and open. And all fucking mine.”

Mitch wouldn't necessarily consider himself a territorial person, and he can't recall ever feeling possessive of a partner. Until he met you.

It had nothing to do with trust or a lack thereof; you were his the minute your eyes met through the crowd, and you reassured him of that fact constantly. It was never you that needed a reminder—it was everybody else.

The men who openly leer at you from every corner of Scotiabank Arena. The NHL hopefuls in your Instagram comments shamelessly flirting as if he didn’t exist or wasn’t in the photo, too. The unprofessional commentators who found ways to sneak in a lecherous comment or two under the guise of camaraderie whenever they spoke about his prowess.

You weren’t some object to be won or bought. You made a choice, and he’d make sure they knew and respected it.

Sure, the engagement ring will aid in this up-hill endeavor, but a little due diligence never hurt either.

“Tonight, it's gonna take. I’m making damn sure of that, sweetheart.”

Your walls squeeze his digits in recognition. Mitch chuckles, dark and dry, against your shoulder. You might like the implication more than he does.

You two weren’t trying, but you weren’t not trying either. Seeing you wearing his ring—the one he picked and purchased—kicked him down a perverted spiral. Flipped the last switch, cut the final cord. He wanted to complete the picture. He wanted to give those good-for-nothing losers one more reason to keep their mouths shut and their eyes to themselves.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love for me to fill you in a way that’ll last? C’mon, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me how badly you want to be stuffed full of me, how much your pussy needs it—how badly you want to be heavy and swollen with my kid."

Mitch tends to your clit, keeping you borderline incoherent as he tickles your ears with more filth before you can reply to the first goading.

Your eventual responses are muffled by a long, primal whine.

When he has you swaying on the brink of collapse, he’s painfully hard against your inner thigh. There's an iridescent river pearling from the weeping head, freely flowing down to pool beneath your ass. It beams in the dim light like a beacon.

Transfixed and desperately in love, Mitch could cum right now. Just like this.

But staining a stupid fucking cushion would be more of a waste than shooting himself your throat. So, much to your chagrin, he, once again, retreats back onto his knees.

“C-come back,” you whimper with a loud hiccup. The choked sound is as pitiful as your attempts to reach for him. “Please, please, please—”

Satisfaction spreads over the bridge of his nose, leaving him rosy from one cheek to the other. He pins you with a heated, half-lid stare as he strokes himself.

His palm doesn’t feel as good as yours, but Mitch is grateful for that. He wants to drag this out. Instead of rutting into you like a teenager in the backseat of a car, or like himself after a long stint away.

That can’t—and won’t—happen if he keeps touching you. He has to back off before he loses his ever-loving mind.

“Stop being a tease,” you chide. Irritation weighs heavily on your voice. “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

“There’s something I want you to see first, you little brat,” he replies, adopting your sharp tone as he brings his open palm down on your inner thigh.

You shriek, but your eyes beg for another. Maybe he shouldn't have cut you any slack earlier...

He grants your silent wish with a matching blow to the other side before guiding his rigid cock to rest over your body.

And it was better than Mitch ever imagined.

He groans at the sight, “Can you see it? Can you, sweetheart?”

Mitch waits patiently for it to click in your mind, but the confusion that swiftly overtook your fucked-out features never dissipates. Eyes rolling, he shifts forward. Hand still wrapped around the base, Mitch leans over until the full length of him sits against your bare stomach.

Your body quivers over the contact, so he has to hold your hips down to keep you from wiggling and ruining everything.

“I know you can feel it, but I want you to see it. I want you to see how deep I get inside of you, sweetheart. All the way up…” Mitch trails off as his hands glide from your outer hips to the center of your abdomen.

His voice is so deep. So hungry. Your whole being—mind and body—goes weak at the foreign richness.

With tender thumbs, he applies pressure beneath his swollen tip. “—here.”

Mitch moves slowly at first, as if he'd just been sheathed inside of you. With each careful thrust, his stones caress your aching clit, all puffy and pouting.

It feels wonderful to be touched again, even if only in short bursts. But it's not enough friction or force to do much more than aggravate you further. Even when he picks up speed, it’s more hurtful than helpful.

Still, you cannot tear your eyes away from the angry, ruddy head dribbling out ropes of arousal or voice a shred of discontent. The opaque beads form a nonsensical pattern, but it's mesmerizing nonetheless.

If you were any less needy, you’d take your time running your fingers through the milky mess. Swirling around in the evidence of Mitch’s desire until you had enough to lick clean.

As if privy to your thoughts, he pins your wrists at your sides again.

Mitch isn’t faring much better than you. His eyes are trained on the shadow bisecting your middle. Locked, laser-focused. This little…exercise was as much for his amusement as it is for your education. He knows how far he can reach inside of you—knows how fucking fantastic it feels to be buried at the root, but seeing just how deeply he can fuck you is something else entirely.

It's enough to make him question why and how he ever stops fucking you. He’s an idiot for depriving himself. For neglecting you. An exercise in frustration as much as his fruitless effort to shun the rose-colored perversions dancing wild in his mind, Mitch has wasted so much time.

Fuck penance and fuck propriety—it would be a sin to do anything other than worship at your altar as a devoted acolyte. Cardinal, even.

His stomach tightens as he considers how empty you must feel in his absence—and how deliciously whole you must feel when he drives home. He wonders how forlorn your folds must look right now as he keeps what you covet just out of bounds. His body obstructs the view, but Mitch knows you’re open and fluttering around nothing, pleading for mercy.

If he were a cruel man, he’d ignore your begging and continue on like this until his balls were empty and your chest was covered in ivory threads. Lucky for you, your future husband is of the clement variety.

Before you can get another babble, his mouth is back on yours. He keeps your arms tight to your sides, so you’re incentivized to convey your fervent need for more—of anything, really—through your lips and tongue.

Mitch is greedy when he kisses you and needy while lapping up your fire—happily, and without pause. His head pounds like he finished a handle in a single sip, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Ever. It’s disorienting, and yet, he can’t seem to get enough no matter how much of you he drinks down. Mitch wants to spend the rest of his life drunk on your lips.

Begrudgingly, he tears his mouth from yours. Then, tanned chest heaving, he positions himself between your glistening southern lips. Mitch looks down at you, and when your vision finally focuses, his eyes have been shadowed in darkness by his hulking brow.

His prior impatience dwindles ever so slightly even though he's on the precipice of complete satisfaction. Mitch hasn’t gotten a good look at you since your nimble hands relieved him of his shorts some twenty minutes ago, and you are glorious. A celestial nymph with dominion over his heart, devastatingly beautiful and all-consuming in every conceivable way. The hold you have over him is dangerous, verging on obsession. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do or say if it appeased you so.

He isn’t fearful. He’s honored. The gratitude he feels knowing that you were, and remain, receptive to his devotion is overwhelming. And now, watching the lucid waters of lust ebb and flow in your glazed eyes, he’s never felt luckier.

Mitch thumbs the gem resting atop your finger, and you shudder as if it were the one tucked between your thighs.

His other hand lingers around your right wrist, though not as tightly as before. With his pulsing head shallow in your heat, he knows you’ll behave. Disrupting him now would only prolong his teasing. A lesson you learned—and were often reminded of—the hard way.

As his fingers trace the metallic band, warmed by the tropical sun and his furnace-like touch, Mitch pushes his hips forward, slow and steady, until he’s fully enveloped by your wanting walls. With your snug, pillowy softness stretching and constricting to accommodate his generous blessing, his grip on reality slips.

“You’re a fucking dream,” your fiancé rasps.

His hands are now splayed wide on either side of your head, effectively caging you beneath him as he builds a faithful rhythm. Teeth clenched, he works diligently to fashion a tribute worthy of your ethereal beauty and power.

“—always so warm and wet for me, just begging to be split open on my thick fuckin' cock. How long have you been this needy, sweetheart? Since I bent you over on the boat? Right over the railing where anyone could’ve seen you?”

You nod, bruised bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Tears well in your eyes.

Your afternoon tryst had been as quick as it’d been rough. Sundress bunched high, the fragile fabric wrinkled between your hips and the cool metal railing as Mitch’s right hand wrapped around your throat. His talented fingers pressed firmly into your sun-kissed skin, relentless in their torment, as he pawed at the pathetic knot struggling to hold your bathing suit in place. His mouth curled into a smirk as it whispered a heady mix of degradation and praise. All while you preened for him, a large crowd just steps away.

That wasn't the first orgasm you were robbed of today.

The hem of the thin material that clung to your anguished body floated demurely above your ankles, landing just shy of the bone. The sullied garment hid the incriminating evidence that inched down your sore thighs with every step you took. The irony was not lost on you as you walked back to your room.

“D’you know how hard it was to stop myself from fucking you in front of all those people? To hold back like that—to not bend you over and take in broad daylight? Of course you do, you sweet, sadistic minx. You always know how to rile me up—and you always find a reason to.”

Mitch grins against your lips before his teeth momentarily replace yours. They nestle into the grooves as if that was the expressed purpose of the faint indentations.

“With the way you’ve been behaving, I’m willing to bet you want a better souvenir than a gift shop tchotchke, hm? Y'gotta be patient for me, though—good girls wait for their rewards. Jus' wait… Oh, I don’t know, nine months? Give or take? Think you can do that for me?"

He’s being cheeky on purpose. He likes the way gentle irritation plays out between your legs—always has and always will.

Mitch releases your lower lip again, but only after he’s nicked it with his canines. A dainty bead of crimson materializes. Covetous, his tongue laps it up without pause. Painted lips kiss from cheek to cheek.

Your back arches. Your hips lift to rock in time with his thrusts.

“God, I can’t wait till we get those fuckin’ keys,” Mitch mumbles, almost absentmindedly.

The lean muscles of his upper body ripple as he sits up to grab ahold of your jaw, a calloused hand on either side. He has an unimpeded view of your dazed, saccharine countenance. His hips slow until they match the thumbs stroking escaped tears into your cheeks.

“—m'gonna take you in every room, against every surface. That way, there won’t be a single thing in our home that—fuck—that doesn’t remind you of me and how well I take care of you—you and your tight cunt.”

With little fanfare, he threads his arms under your dewy legs. Mitch uses the newfound leverage to tug your body even closer.

A shriek rips through the firm seam of your lips as his length traverses an unexplored depth. Your knees snuggle against the pit of his elbows, pleased to be so close in spite of the pain.

Mitch holds your gaze, reveling in your silent screams. He winks, then slowly lowers himself down until your body is folded squarely beneath his. Your muscles burn with the fury of budding resentment, which you’ll surely feel towards him in the morning after this unprompted foray into acrobatics, but the new angle is too good to do more than just... take it.

His hands are glad to have been relieved of their duty and, eager to take advantage of their newfound freedom, palm your chest as his mouth descends on your poor neck. The delicate skin is utterly defenseless against the desire thumping deep within his chest and spilling over his ribs.

Mitch wants to stake his claim—to mark his territory. A stammer of expletives accompanies the vulgar jut of your hips when he rolls your sensitive nipples, swollen and begging for attention, between thumb and forefinger. Bracketed by his forearms, you surrender completely.

Mitch hums at the lewd, sucking sound made by your arousal. Wet squelches ricochet off the adjacent wall with each and every thrust.

“I’ve really made a mess out of you, haven’t I?”

You nod, eyes pinched in concentration.

You’re close. He can feel your body trying to milk him dry. Fortunately, Mitch isn’t far behind. You feel too fucking good to prolong the inevitable.

He brings a hand to your clit, and it moves in messsy circles as he speaks, “Not done yet, though. Gonna flood this pretty cunt—gonna leave you all sticky and hot. I know you want it, but I need you to cum for me first. Go on, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

You unravel on command, your chin falling to the side in ecstasy. Mitch’s firm hand is quick to wrench it back; he needs to watch your face contort as you crumble like he needs air to breathe. Mitch won't be able to think straight until he reaps the rewards of fucking and rubbing you through it.

The sob that wrecks your body is high-pitched and perforated by little gasps, and the rush of wetness is more pathetic than any noise you could and would make in your lifetime. More than you ever thought your body was capable of, more than your new fiancé expected, more than either of you anticipated.

He's soaked in a matter of seconds—as are you and the cushion dripping onto the concrete.

Mitch's climax comes in quick succession but, unlike yours, without warning. Undoubtedly, his peak was triggered by the gush of your undeniable satisfaction.

Drained dry, Mitch hunches over to capture your lips once more, determined to distract you from the inevitable bodily ache on the come-down. Delicately, he places your trembling legs onto the chaise and nestles into the space they vacated. He feels every little muscle twitch and spasm when he hugs you tightly to his body.

The world is muted, fuzzy around the edges, and drowned out by the aftershocks, so you miss most of his sweet-nothing rambling, but the relief and contentment that flood your spent body is reply enough.

He isn’t sure how long you stay like that—tangled together in paradise. You doze off, dipping in and out of consciousness, and wake just after the buttery sun slips entirely behind the horizon. Through the darkness surrounding your bare bodies, silvery moonlight replaces the golden rays of sunshine, but you—and your ring—shine as if nothing's changed.

You keep up a quiet conversation. Nothing of importance is spoken; it's carried on purely for the enjoyment of one another’s voice. Mitch peppers your skin, sticky from humidity and exertion, with tender lips, and you return the favor tenfold. You’re both smiling so wide, so happily.

And you keep grinning into the night, even when your cheeks begin to ache. It’s only when the light breeze ghosts over your bare skin that either of you consider relocating. In no rush and reluctant to leave your deep warmth, he’s leisurely about moving into the dim suite.

Mitch freezes abruptly. His stomach splatters at his feet when his mind catches up to his instincts. Murmuring. He hears murmuring. Terror races down his spine like an ice-cold chill. It's quiet at first. Almost as if the evening wind picked up a distant conversation yards away and softly settled it in his paranoid eardrums. He can’t make out any particular words—except his last name.

His mood sours beyond repair with the realization that the juvenile whispering is much too close, the giggles muffled only by the permeable wall of greenery bordering the suite’s ground-floor patio.

“We just wanted to be the first to say congratulations!” A teenage voice devoid of tact and respect calls out above a chorus of snorts and giggles.

Mortified, you bury your head into the crook of his neck. His chain is cold in comparison to your shame.

Mitch growls and reaches beside the chaise. He shouts something that would’ve made even the most shameless of shit-talkers blush, then sends a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon clear through the leaves. It shatters, and the crisp bubbles spill out on the concrete, sending the herd of inconsiderate assholes scattering like mice.

“I’ll go pick up the glass,” he sighs, knowing you’ll chastise him for the mess. "—later."

Mitch couldn’t be honest with the journalist.

He wouldn’t even if he could.

He shares so much of himself and his life with the world already—a hazard of the flashy, public-facing occupation he chose—and you’ve offered up far more of your world than he’d ever ask of you. He doesn’t mind a photo here or a video there, sometimes a press junket or two in a philanthropic context, but Mitch won’t bring the media into your private moments beyond where they’ve already encroached.

Especially not for a leading question intended to bait him into saying something stupid. Or to prematurely announce the impending arrival of your first child.

So, instead, he simply says, “Towels. But if the Four Seasons—or my future wife—asks, I’m totally joking, and I definitely put them all back.”

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[driaswrld]

apocalypse — gojo satoru and geto suguru.

wc : 1.5k

summary : suguru comes back from a mission, with more hurt than he left with. reader and satoru pull him out of the abyss he's headed to.

part of : the star paradox collection.

notes : the beginning before the beginning. really, this is how it all started in terms of how the trio branch off into their new life taking caring of the kids, starting off with the twins first and rlly just how suguru felt during it all. IM SORRY U WILL GET MORE FLUFF SOON !! this is more hurt/comfort than angst though.

other : fem!reader but no prns rlly stated, star plasma incident spoilers!! dating but not dating stsg x reader, mentions of blood, death, nothing too dramatic dw

current cassete : cry - cigarettes after sex

September 2007.

You woke up in Suguru’s dorm that night, the spot beside you where Satoru should’ve been lying empty, pillow cold and hanging off the side of the bed.

Something feels wrong.

Suguru had left for a mission earlier in the day, you tied his bun tight while Satoru helped him get dressed, the fluid routine you’ve developed becoming nothing but second nature, a simple promise of – you carry me and i’ll carry you and we’ll figure it out through crumpled sheets and eyebags and too many syrupy pancakes.

But something felt wrong the moment you rolled over to your side and the clock on the bedside table read 2:18 am.

Barefoot and dressed in one of the boy’s shirts, hands stuffed in your pajama pockets to ease the chill of your fingertips, you stalk through the darkened corridors, past empty dorm rooms, searching for any sign of where Satoru disappeared to, or any sign that Suguru had come back safe.

It’s been a month since Haibara’s death.

A little over a year since Riko’s.

The pieces haven’t been put together. You know deep down that maybe, there’s no recovering from this. Everytime the three of you weather one storm, another appears, and you’re back where you started.

“...Suguru.” A breath leaves you, something between a gasp in relief and a sigh of exhaustion. The door to the infirmary is ajar, and you lean against the door frame, Suguru locks eyes with you from where he stands next to the examination table, the curtain behind him drawn, a tuft of Shoko’s brown hair peeking out.

“Name—” Satoru peers around the corner, your eyes never leave Suguru’s. He has his arms around himself, a coping mechanism — he doesn’t want to be touched.

“What’s going on?” You ask, just as Satoru rounds to stand in front of you, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep, there’s a soft jingle in his pocket everytime he moves.

Keys.

He went to pick up Suguru.

But—

“It’s okay, everything is—” Satoru begins to say, but you ignore him, stepping forward to get a good look at Suguru, the dark haired boy tensing under your gaze, screwing his eyes shut. He doesn’t look the same as he left. Something’s wrong, you can feel it. “Tell me,” you whisper, and a soft clink comes from behind the curtain, and it’s pulled aside by Shoko.

Two little girls, no older than five years old, peer up at you from the examination table.

Shoko looks at you, and before you can say anything, or ask more questions, Suguru’s hand is holding onto your arm. Even now, he’s still the most rational, says so much without even speaking.

Not here, not in front of these two, whatever happened to them must be too much to even question right now. You close your mouth — Suguru’s hand is cold, and when you look to Satoru, he has his head down.

And there’s the tinge of a familiar metallic smell, crimson against your elbow.

“Suguru… why are your hands bloody?”

The sun rises, and you’re sitting in the stairwell opposite the infirmary.

Suguru sits to your left, between you and Satoru, his breathing soft, yet heavy, almost pained.

In the silence of the orange sky, autumn air finally beginning to take, you and Satoru have your arms wrapped around Suguru’s shoulders.

“What… do you need me to do?” Satoru whispers, and Suguru’s head falls limp on your shoulder, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

It’s different, it makes your heart feel heavy, you’re scared even.

If Satoru is an empty map, and you the pencil freehanding lines of latitude and longitude, Suguru is the coordinate. Always guiding you two, always the voice in the back of your heads that you consult.

Satoru doesn’t trust his own instinct, you don’t trust your own emotions.

You both trust Suguru’s heart.

But now, the moral compass you two depend on, points nowhere.

“I don’t need you to do anything.” Suguru whispers, and he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “I need to—” He moves, as if to get up, as if to walk away again, like the three of you have been doing too much this past year. But you grab his arm.

His hands are still cold. A little wet from you and Satoru scrubbing the blood off them.

Suguru remembers the first time he met Satoru, the first time he met you. His hair was shorter then, things were simpler, he didn't feel like a parasite in his own body back then.

“We.” You say, firm.

Satoru looks like he wants to cry, and Suguru’s gaze is turned away from you. How can you say that so simply? Suguru doesn't even know what he's feeling right now. It's something akin to a blade twisting inside his gut and bile collecting in the back of his throat.

We. Together. Not as the strongest, not as sorcerers, but as friends. As...

“We need to and what we will do.” Your voice goes soft, and here it goes to weathering another storm. But this time, not with syrupy pancakes or crumpled sheets or eyebags. “We’ll carry each other — just…”

Just don’t walk away from us, Suguru.

Suguru has always prided himself on his level headed abilities, his attentiveness. The way he can see beyond Satoru's limitless and through the gaps in the keyholes of your heart. But now, he feels naked.

Is this what it feels like to be seen?

“You called.” Satoru smiles a little, and he tugs you and Suguru close to his side, your face in the crook of Suguru’s neck and his pressed against Satoru’s chest. “I’m sorry,” Suguru whispers, and for the first time in a long time, he cries.

“No, don’t say sorry for that.” Your breath goes inaudible against Suguru. How long? How long have the three of you been ignoring this hurt? “Don’t ever think we wouldn’t answer you if you called out.”

Maybe things have changed.

Satoru keeps a roll of bandages in his uniform pockets now instead of sweets. Suguru doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, there's a stranger where his reflection used to be. You can’t look at them without seeing the strength you failed to have, the end of everything you once knew.

He shouldn’t be sorry for hurting. He shouldn’t be sorry for feeling trapped.

He should never be sorry for feeling so alone.

Because you and Satoru feel it too. Maybe you were just cowards for not saying it out loud.

“I should’ve heard you two sooner,” It leaves Satoru’s mouth like a confession, an admittance of failure, and your heart clenches. “I should’ve known.”

“We’ll figure it out…” You whisper, and Suguru thinks his whole body has gone numb, he doesn’t think he can feel anything right now.

For once, just this once, he’ll let you and Satoru do it for him.

He doesn’t want you two to let him go, because if you do, he’ll disappear into a corner of his mind he didn’t even know existed til tonight.

Or maybe it was last month. Or a year ago. He doesn’t know. He’s just tired. So tired.

“Sleep… I want… I need to…” How does a person ask for help? Suguru cries. The ugliness of everything in this world bubbles beneath his skin like acid. “Please.”

Who said the word please for you to hate it so much, Suguru?

I did.

“—mhm! It’s so pretty!” Mimiko is clutching the strawberry colored doll to her chest, giving it a few happy squeezes. Sure, it was a little torn when she first came with it a few days ago, but now, it’s all stitched up and good as new. “Yeah? I’m really glad you like it, Mimi” You grin at the dark haired little girl, your head tilted to the side.

Across the vacant classroom, Suguru is hyper focused on trimming Nanako’s hair, his fingers measuring at the strands, not so subtly eavesdropping on your conversation with the other twin, the softest sliver of a smile twitching on his lips.

It's been three days since the twins came. Three days since your lives flipped on its axis again. The girls live at the dorms now, taking Suguru's old room instead of moving into a new one.

It's new, it's scary. But you'll find your footing bit by bit. Sometimes it helps to remember that you're not alone. That none of you were ever really alone.

Because between the bad things, there's always good. Always.

“I’m hungry!” Satoru groans from where he’s laid atop two desks pushed together, sunglasses dangling from his hair — You all ignore him for a beat, as Nanako tosses crumpled paper balls towards him, infinity bouncing it off and making the blonde girl giggle. “You’re just mad ‘cause you’re not getting a cool haircut.” You ruffle Mimiko’s hair, and her eyes go a little glossy, no doubt still entranced by Satoru’s antics, and dopey from being next in line to get her hair cut by Suguru.

“Bleh.” Satoru grumbles.

Suguru makes a face, his nose scrunching up. “I want my hair all white like Gojo-san’s!” Nanako says to Suguru and for a moment, it almost looks like Suguru’s considering it, with the way he pulls the scissors away and tilts his head in thought.

“You want your hair all messed up like that idiot?” Shoko slides the door open and enters, white plastic bag rustling in one hand and a lollipop in her mouth. “It’ll all fall off soon, you know?”

Satoru winces. “Women like my hair just as it is!”

God forbid someone tells him that the messy playboy hairdo is not what he has.

“I want my hair like Geto-san’s…” Mimiko whispers to you. “I think it’s prettier.” You nod and lean over to her, “Girls like Suguru’s hair better, you know?”

“Don’t lie to children, name!”

And Suguru bellows a laugh. A loud one — just like he used to.

It’s just that, in this world,

I couldn’t laugh from the bottom of my heart.

“Suguru…” You look up at him, and his eyes are shut, laughter rattling his chest, shoulders trembling. You’re in awe of him.

Laugh more, Suguru. Never stop letting us make you laugh in this twisted world.

Satoru looks over to you and then to Suguru, and he can’t help but laugh too. Shoko rolls her eyes and you chuckle, Mimiko and Nanako covering their mouths in between soft giggles.

Maybe everything has changed. Maybe Satoru will continue covering his eyes more, maybe Suguru will never just see himself anymore - the person that he used to be, maybe you'll never truly be strong enough.

But, if change is unstoppable force, you three are immovable object.

“What’re you laughing at mop head?”

“Huh!? We were having a moment, Suguru!”

“So sappy, ‘toru.”

“You two tryin’ to fight!?”

September 2007. The new beginning.