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celestie0 · 5 months

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gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch1. he said yes!! congrats!!

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 7.8k

a/n. hellooo omg welcome to this debut chapter!! tysm to everyone who wanted to be on taglist for this!! i was gagged at the amount of people!! yall are amazing omg n thanks for supporting my works :''') hope you enjoy this chapter and i will see all you lovelies at the bottom <33

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 (pending)

Love thy neighbor.

Cherish thy neighbor.

Tolerate thy neighbor.

Peacefully coexist with thy neighbor.

Fuck thy neighbor? No, wait, not that one.

It’s murder thy neighbor. That was the phrase you were looking for.

Murder thy neighbor so gruesomely that you’d leave no trace behind. Murder him and bury him somewhere no one could ever find him, so that even in millions of years from now when some other highly advanced mammalian species overtakes the planet and embarks on journeys to acquire fossils, thy neighbor will still never grace the atmospheric oxygen of the earth ever again. It’s the punishment he’d deserve for thoroughly pissing you off at the worst times possible and in the worst ways possible. The smallest of prices to pay.

“SATORU!!!” you yell, storming up the sudsy driveway of your next-door neighbor’s house at eight in the morning, clad in your dirty scrubs from the hell of a night shift you just endured working at the hospital, glass containers inside the lunchbox you were holding hitting painfully against the poor joint in your knee but you just don’t care. Anger is all you can see right now.

Your neighbor (derogatory) stands there in his pajamas with a spray nozzle in his hands, passively spraying water across the top surface of his car, and when he sees you, he pulls his left airpod out of his ear and looks you up and down once. You’re pretty sure there’s steam coming out of your ears. “Uh, do you mind? I’m trying to wash my car.”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to park your stupid boat in front of my driveway?!” you yell at him, voice hoarse and nails digging into the skin of your palms by the clench of your fists.

“Hm?” he leans back a little to glance past you to his boat. “Oh, you mean my 2023 Boston Whaler 220 Dauntless with low profile bow rail welded stainless steel, Mercury FourStroke hydraulic power steering and, not to mention, a platinum gelcoat hull? That silly old thing? It’s not even parked in front of your driveway.”

“Yes. It is. Are you blind? I can’t move my car into my garage, hence why it’s running idle on the fucking street right now. Your boat’s on my property.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh. Yuh-huh.”

“Honey. I’m a real estate agent. You don’t think I’d know where my own property line starts and ends?”

“Park. It. On. Your. Drive. Way.”

“I spent a lot of money on that boat,” he sighs, “I intend to show it off on the street. Stop acting like there isn’t more than enough room for your tiny prius. It’s not my fault you have the motor skills of a toddler and don’t know how to pull into a driveway,” he pauses for a second and tilts his head upwards in thought, “Oh. Motor skills, haha, get it? Fuck, that’s funny. Hold on, I gotta jot that down,” he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his cotton plaid pajama pants, “my niece would love that. She gets all giggly about puns these days. It’s her birthday next weekend, by the way, turning five.”

“Oh, right,” you scratch the top of your head (been too busy to wash your hair), and realize the ponytail you threw your hair up into at the beginning of your shift last night is now barely hanging on for dear life, “I forgot to tell you, but my cousin said he can’t rent that pony out for her birthday party anymore. Apparently it died.”

He stares at you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

“Mm.”

He shrugs. “That’s fine, thanks anyway,” he swipes up on his phone, “they had crazy hair day at my niece’s elementary school yesterday, wanna see a picture?”

“Sure.”

He turns his phone to show you. “My sister let her cut her hair a little shorter this time since she wouldn’t stop asking. I guess all her friends at school were cutting theirs short too so they wanted to be matching.”

“Aww,” you pout with a small smile when you see the picture, “I think it suits her. That’s a lot of glitter though, y’know that stuff’s really bad for the environment.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, turning his phone screen back to face him, “anyway. I was halfway convinced you just came from some crazy hair day when I saw you stomp up my driveway just now.”

“I’m gonna guillotine your head off with the trunk door of my car. Now move your boat.”

“Hold on one sec,” he says, holding a finger right up to your face, and you flinch backwards slightly before going cross-eyed to stare at it, and then you’re glaring at him again. His phone is ringing in his hand. “I gotta take this.”

“Wha–” you try to interrupt him, but he just says shhh and shakes his finger in front of you, which makes you want to bite it off.

“Hi, Donna!” he exclaims into his phone, “so good to hear from you. Oh, no, not at all, you caught me at the perfect time. I’m just washing my car. Nah, you’re not interrupting anything.”

The urge to smack him consumes you.

“Oh okay, cool, I’m glad you took some time to think about it. Let me know when you want to meet again, if you’re still interested in the house, we can make an offer. Uh huh. Yeah. Sorry, what’s that? Oh,” he pulls his phone from his ear to look at the time, “yeah, that’s fine. Is that the one on 6th street? Sure, I’ll see you then. By the way, how was little Tommy’s soccer game yesterday?...Aw, that’s okay, he’ll get the next one. Hm? Yeah, what’s up? Oh, you know that I’d love to, and there’s no one that enjoys your green bean casserole more than I do, but I’m actually busy tonight! I know! Bummer! Maybe some other time? Alright. Yeah, thanks, you too. Take care. Bye.” He presses the end call on his phone, and there’s an awkward silence as he narrows his eyes at the screen in concentration for a moment while typing something onto it, and then the corner of his eye catches sight of something in his periphery, that something being you, and he jumps a little.

“Oh fuck,” he places a hand on his chest and exhales, “I didn’t know you were still standing there.”

“I’m seriously going to whack you across the face with my lunch box right now.”

“That gigantic industrial lunch box you carry around for your 12-hour shifts?” he points at your hand, “you’d have blood on your hands. I’d be dead.”

“Yeah, that’s the goal, idiot.”

“You’re so fucking violent, jeez, I bet the inside of your head looks like the inside of Jeffrey Dahmer’s. How do you sleep at night?”

“With fifteen milligrams of melatonin, blackout curtains, a satin sleeping mask, and in the mornings.”

“...that didn’t make you sound like any less of a serial killer.”

“Whatever, at least I don’t have a complex for elderly divorced women. You know that what you do for work isn’t any better than prostitution, right?”

“Okay. Now I have to hear where you’re going with this.”

You cross your arms across your chest, and your gigantic industrial sized lunch box with the millions of glass containers inside of it hits your hip painfully, enough to warrant a wince, but you keep a straight face as to not show any weakness. “You flirt with vulnerable women who have just gotten out of probably extremely heartbreaking marriages from their cheating country golf club husbands, and pretend to care about all their drama, just so that they’d buy a house from you. I literally heard you say to a lady the other day,” and you do your absolute best to mock him in the most insulting way possible, “‘it’s okay Lorraine. If you’re still struggling to fill your new house with someone new too, then you know where to find me.’”

“Yeah. She wanted to rent out her guest bedroom. I was gonna help her look for tenants.”

“O-Oh,” you stutter, but stand up straighter, “doesn’t matter. You still pimp yourself out for a sale.”

“So what if I do? I’m hot, why wouldn’t I take advantage of that? You could’ve done the same thing too, but you didn’t, and now you’re stuck working miserable nursing shifts that are probably taking years off of your lifespan.”

“You’re the one taking years off of my lifespan. Now move your fucking boat.”

He sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket before walking past you to your car, that still had the driver’s side door open and was idle in the middle of the street.

“W-Where are you going?” you ask.

“I’m gonna park your car in your garage for you,” he says, waving his hand up in the air dismissively because he knows you’re about to protest, and then he ducks his head into your car, reaching his arm in for the lever that moves the seat backwards, and adjusts it all the way back before he’s able to take a seat at the wheel. And your yelling is a pestering he pays no mind to as he shuts the door.

“Wait– I didn’t give you permission to–” you shout as you step into your driveway, holding your arms out because you’re scared he’s gonna chip off your side mirror on the stern of his boat, but he deftly pulls your car into the driveway. He also almost runs you over in the process.

When he gets out of your car inside your garage, you storm right up to him and yank your car keys out of his hand. “You almost flattened me over my own driveway.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been standing there,” he easily retorts and leans against your car before crossing his arms over his chest. “Also, case proven, there’s more than enough space to pull your car in. You’re just piss poor at parking.”

“I swear to fucking god. If you’re ever in a life-threatening emergency and wind up at my hospital, your emergency isn’t going to be the thing that kills you, it’s gonna be the cocktail of deadly meds I inject straight into your veins. And I’ll have it charted like it was a death of natural causes.”

His brow furrows and he frowns, but it’s in that sarcastic way that tells you he’s not threatened by you, and the idea of using the taser in your purse on him is briefly entertained in your mind, “I’ve got Kaiser, hun,” he says, “I wouldn’t go to just any regional hospital for healthcare. Put some damn decorum on my name, Jesus.”

“How is it you’re stupid, an asshole, have a sick fetish for elderly women, and also somehow classist at the same time? Can you pick a struggle please?”

“Stop saying I have a fetish for elderly women,” he hisses at you, “especially with that loud obnoxious voice of yours. Our neighbors are gonna think I’m a creep.” He pretends to shiver.

“But it’s true. I bet you lost your virginity to a fifty-year-old cougar the day you turned eighteen. And to one that was probably grooming you even before then, too.”

His eyes widen. “Damn. How’d you know.”

“That you’re a victim?” you ask, tone derisive, “your entire personality is living proof. Please seek help.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was never groomed, and I didn’t lose my virginity to an elderly woman,” he corrects you, “...although said woman was a little older than me.”

“I’ve literally got no fucking interest in this conversation anymore. Get the fuck out of my garage,” you practically spat at him, “the last thing I need to deal with after getting off of a 12-hour night shift is coming home to your stupid face out on the street.” You push past him, making sure to nudge him with your shoulder but he hardly budges, and you lose balance from your own attack, and now you’re doubly pissed off before you make it to the door with your keys jingling in your hand to find the right one to unlock it.

“Good night,” he calls out to you, and you click the button on the garage door so that it starts closing, and watch him as he panics before ducking his head underneath it to make it outside before you can essentially lock him to rot inside of your garage, and then you shut the door behind you, finally inside the comfort of your home.

Ah. Silence.

But it was never a comfortable one.

“Mom?” you call out as you open the door out of the laundry room to make it into the living room, and your eyes scan the floor. You don’t see her in the kitchen, or on the couch in front of the TV, sometimes she spends time in the pantry room but she’s not in there today. You round the corner over to where the front entrance of the house is, and you see her standing there, peering out of the window to the other houses on the streets. She holds her hands loosely behind her back, and she’s so still she could be a statue.

“Hey,” you say to her, softly, so as not to startle her. “I’m home.”

She looks over her shoulder at you, and you realize her line of sight was set to next door, where you see Gojo has resumed the wash of his car. “Why are you yelling at that sweet boy across the lawn?” she asks you, “he helped me fix the air conditioning last week.”

Your eyes widen slightly, but then you sigh. Typical Gojo getting involved where he should really just mind his own business. “I’m pretty sure by fix you mean he just pressed a bunch of buttons on the thermostat until it started working again.”

She doesn’t respond as she continues to stare out onto the street, tilting her head slightly while deep in thought, like she’s trying to make sense of what she sees.

“Mom,” you gently tug her sleeve, “I think you should get away from the window and get some rest. You look tired, and I need to take you for chemo in the afternoon.”

She gently pulls her elbow away from your grip of her sleeve and turns to look at you. “Mom?” she repeats after you, “why are you calling me ‘mom’? Who are you?”

Your blood runs cold from her words, but you don’t have the time or the luxury to react in the way that you want to, and so you suck in a deep breath. It was one of those days. But it’s cruel that she’ll remember your neighbor and not her own daughter. “I’m your daughter,” you gently reintroduce yourself, to the woman who gave you life, “I know that might be a little weird to hear right now.”

“No…” she says, “I think that makes sense. I’m sorry, dear, I think I have a bad memory these days.” She looks at you with concentration, studying the features of your face. “My daughter, yes. You look…oh, dear, you look like you should sleep.”

You nod slowly, releasing the breath you were holding. “Yes. You too, mom.”

You place your gigantic industrial lunch box on the kitchen counter, and come back to hold your mom’s hands as you lead her to her bedroom downstairs. By the time you fix her a small meal in the kitchen, bring it to her and make her eat so she can take her pills, she’s ready to take a small nap and you know that you’ve earned some sleep now too.

The upstairs master bathroom beckons you the second you get upstairs, and even though you’ve been using the master bedroom & bathroom in this house ever since moving your mom downstairs four years ago since she had trouble getting up the stairs, it still feels odd to stand in front of the sink without a stool underneath your feet, like what you had to when you were a kid and your mother would braid your hair. You’re a grown woman now, and as you stare at your reflection, you’re not sure if you can recognize yourself anymore. But rather than dwell on if it was because of any profound reason, you figured you just needed a shower and to get some sleep before you have to wake up again in five hours. Exhaustion is evident on your face, and you swipe under your eyes to get the smudge of mascara off before it tattoos your skin forever.

Hot water on your skin does little to help your drowsiness, but at least now you feel clean of your shift, and then you remember there are blood stains on your shoes from the stab wound patient that rolled in at 2AM last night, and you should really let them soak for a few hours while you sleep, but you just can’t bother right now. Instead, you slip into something comfortable, draw your curtains back to mimic the dead of night in your room as best as you can, grab the bottle of melatonin sitting at your nightstand and pop a few tablets, feeling feverish as you slip into your sheets. You pull the comforter up over your eyes, a decision that is less ideal than using a sleeping mask since you’ll be breathing your own carbon dioxide until you fall asleep now, but it’s okay. It’s cozy under your blanket. Just this once. And you count sheep to make you sleepy. At least until the melatonin beats you to it.

—

“You’re looking better,” Dr. Johnson says to your mother as he accesses the port on her chest, “were you able to get a good rest?”

Your mother nods and points to you. “My daughter made me take a nap.”

“That’s good,” he coos, “it’s good to get rest before chemo. Your daughter really cares about you.”

“I know,” your mother smiles up at you, “I’m so lucky.” You return her smile with one of your own.

Dr. Johnson starts to push the line of chemo into your mother’s port as she sits on the chair in the treatment lounge, and then stands up from his rolling chair before the nurse quickly moves to twiddle with the drip of the IV bag.

“Ready for consult?” he asks you.

You grip your binder to your chest. “Yeah.”

You walk into the doctor’s office, one you’ve more than familiarized yourself with over the past couple of years, then take a seat across from Dr. Johnson’s desk as he clicks through his computer before handing you a copy of your mother’s recent lab work.

“Her tumor markers are rising,” you say as you sift through the papers.

“They are, we’ll likely switch to monitoring them every four weeks going forward. But it’s okay, not to worry,” he says, “tumor markers can raise for all sorts of reasons unrelated to cancer.”

“She had a cold last week,” you say, “maybe it’s the inflammation?”

Dr. Johnson lets out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, y/n, sometimes I forget you’re a nurse.” He hums to himself as he pens down something on the notepad in front of him. “When was your mother’s last PET/CT scan?”

“It was in February,” you say, “she’s due soon. I was going to ask if you could order one for her.”

“Yes, I will, I’ll do it right now,” he says as he types something into the computer. “You still have the standing orders for her routine lab work, correct? Do my MAs need to send you the scripts?”

“No, that’s okay, I got them already. Good for six months,” you reassure him.

“Alright, perfect.”

There’s an awkward silence that settles in the room as you shift in your seat with the binder in your lap, full of all of your mother’s medical information and emergency department discharge packets and recent lab work and imaging. You mess with the plastic cover on top of it nervously.

“It’s good she remembers you today,” Dr. Johnson comments, “I remember last week you were upset she didn’t.”

“Oh,” you say, “yeah, I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s hard.”

His eyes leave his computer screen for a second to look at you. “Are you doing alright?”

You nod slowly. You had to be alright, you had no other choice. “I’m fine, thanks,” you say, “um, actually, doc, I just wanted to share with you that I’ve been keeping track of my mom’s Alzheimer’s progression.” You open your binder in your lap, pulling out a packet of papers and placing them on his desk, turning some of them towards him but he doesn’t really spare a proper enough look. “I’ve just been noticing she’s progressively worsening a bit faster than her neurologist had projected.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding curt, and that nervousness comes back. But goddammit, you’re a nurse, you know how to deal with stubborn doctors. And it’s for your mother. There was no one else left to advocate for her except you.

“I was just wondering if we could also order a brain MRI for her?” you ask, “just to rule out anything…her brain fog has been bad, worse than usual, and I’m just really worried about metastasis, especially if it’s a glioma, I’d just want to catch it as soon as possible.”

You have sympathy for oncologists, really, you do. They must deal with paranoid family members all the time, but how could someone blame another for wanting what’s best for their loved one? You don’t think that’s an empathy that anyone should ever lose, regardless of how long you’ve been practicing medicine.

He sighs. “There’s no indication for that right now, not with her response to treatment as well as her lab work. I’d suggest we just wait on her next PET/CT results, and we can go from there. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

“I know,” you say, “but her next scan isn’t for another couple weeks, plus the week it’ll take to have it read, it’ll be far out, so…if we could just order it now?”

He interlocks his fingers and places his hands in front of him on the desk, looking at you with a stern face, but he glances down at the paperwork you’ve sprawled in front of him with scribblings of all the detailed notes you’ve been taking of your mom’s responses to her Alzheimer’s treatments, with time stamps and descriptions of her mental state, and his furrowed brow relaxes slightly. He breathes in deep. “Alright. Fine, I’ll order one. I highly doubt we’ll find anything, though. But since there’s no clear clinical impression warranting a brain MRI right now,” he mentions as he directs his attention back to his computer, “I don’t think insurance will cover it for you with the diagnoses I put in.”

“That’s okay,” you quickly respond, “I’ll pay for it.”

You collect your imaging orders from the medical assistants at the center of the oncology floor. The chemo nurse, Mai, informs you that your mother still has about two hours left before her treatment is done, and she gently suggests you go eat something while you wait. You tell her it’s okay, that you want to wait with her, but she tells you the hospital cafeteria is serving tater tots today for tater tot tuesday, and those tater tots are to die for. But before you go downstairs to the cafeteria, you find a few minutes to cry in a one stall bathroom.

—

“God damn,” you hear your coworker, Hana, dreamily sigh as she leans on the handle on your standing mobile nursing work desk, and you trail her line of sight to the tight asses of the EMT men that walk by while rolling a stretcher. “It’s like being hot is a part of their job requirement.”

“Uh-huh,” you agree mindlessly as you try to catch up on charting for the rounds you just ran on your patients around the emergency department beds.

4/20/2024 0200: patient notified of the importance of taking ibuprofen. Attempted to give pt the medication. Pt responded “suck on this, bitch”, gestured to his general groin area, then threw ibuprofen tablets at RN. pt upset and requests narcotics instead. Informed MD of pt’s behavior and request. MD will not order narcotic pain medication at this time. Will continue to monitor

“How’s your mom doing?” Hana says, interrupting your typing as she turns to face you now.

“She’s okay,” you say, continuing to punch keys as you stare at your monitor, “she has a PET/CT soon. It’s always nerve wracking when the next scan is coming up.”

“Have you given hospice any more thought?” she asks.

You stop typing and stare blankly ahead at your screen as your heart sinks a little. You have given hospice more thought, and you came to the decision about a week ago that you would go through with it. It’s becoming so increasingly difficult taking care of your mom at home, more than you can manage with all of her doctor’s appointments, radiation appointments, chemotherapy appointments, all of which happen during the late mornings or early afternoons so you can’t even properly rest on most days that you come home from night shifts. Even though you only work three shifts a week, you can’t remember the last time you got a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep because of how messed up your circardian rhythm has become. You were practically a walking zombie, and you hardly felt like a person anymore. You’re not going to switch to the day shift, because that would make it difficult to take your mom to her appointments, and also because you get paid extra with the night shift differential, and above all other necessities, what you really needed right now the most was money. Forget the fact you’re still in debt from nursing school, but you co-signed on the medical loans your mother had taken out for treatments, and five years of high acuity medical bills was a living nightmare. And you were living that nightmare.

“I did,” you say, “I’ve been looking into hospices, but a lot of them are further away than I’d like.” You glance down at your keyboard. “I…I’m going to miss having my mom home. Even though it’s hard to deal with her mood swings and stuff sometimes, I just think the house would feel really empty without her.”

“Aw, my dear,” Hana sighs and rubs her hand up and down your arm soothingly, “I’m sure you’d love to have her home, but I think it’s becoming too much for you. I say this with love and care, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you genuinely smile.”

Your eyes widen slightly from her words, and you release some of the tension in your shoulders, tension you didn’t even realize you were holding onto during this conversation.

“It’s too much for just one person,” she continues, “while I understand you want to spend more time with your mom, the quality of time you’re spending with her could be so much better if you had some weight lifted off your shoulders, where you’re not worrying about her medication schedule or doctor’s appointments or blood draws and all that.”

You nod slowly and manage to give her a small smile, then place your hand over hers that was still soothing over your arm. “Thanks, Hana. I know, I appreciate you looking out for me. I…I think I’ll look more seriously into hospices. It’s just they’re really expensive, too, so I have that to consider as well.”

“Hmm,” she withdraws her hand from you and juts her bottom lip out as she looks up at fluorescent emergency department lighting. You hear a patient cough in the distance as your senses take in the ambient environment once again. “Y’know, there’s this really great new hospice in town that functions as a general facility and also helps manage a lot of chronic diseases too. They have nurses there that do blood draws and everything, and they also transport patients to their affiliated hospital for treatments, like dialysis and chemo and stuff. My friend’s mom has breast cancer and was recently accepted into that hospice,” she tells you, pulling her phone out and looking through some of her messages, “I think it’s only a fifteen minute drive from your house.”

You tilt your head at her with interest, wondering why it didn’t come up on your provider search through insurance, but regardless, it sounded too good to be true. “It’s probably really expensive. My mom’s under the state insurance right now, but I’ve explored government insurance plans too and they’re still really pricey. I just can’t afford it, not with all of her cancer treatments, and adding her under my insurance isn’t really going to be any better either.”

She groans. “I know. What’s with our healthcare plan? You’d think as a hospital, they’d choose better plans for their employees,” she sighs, and then stops to read some of the messages on her phone, “but my friend said that her husband was able to add her mom as a dependant, and his insurance covers 90% of it. I’m sure it depends on the illness, but they only pay a few thousand per month out of pocket.”

You blink at her. “Really? T-That’s insane…do you know what insurance her husband has?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a Kaiser facility.”

“Oh,” you sigh, “well, they wouldn’t accept state insurance. That’s a private HMO.”

“Shoot,” Hana looks at you apologetically, “I’m so sorry, love, I forgot about that. Sorry to get your hopes up.”

“That’s okay,” you smile at her, “thanks for trying. I’m glad it worked out for your friend, at least.”

Hana glances at her watch and realizes her break is over, so she heads back to her side of the emergency department, and you’re left standing at the nursing station with thoughts running through your head now, and still catastrophically behind on charting.

Hmm.

Kaiser.

You swear someone mentioned that to you recently.

Or maybe you were just remembering another one of those ads you see on television at night. No, no, you’re pretty sure it came up in conversation with someone, but you can’t remember when or why or what or where or who. Hmmmmm. Kaiser, Kaiser, Kaiser.

Nope. Nothing.

Oh well, maybe it’ll hit you later.

—

It hits you in the form of an intrusive memory when you wake up on a Thursday afternoon in a cold sweat after having a hallucinogenic melatonin dream where you were getting chased by a giant rabbit (don’t ask).

Kaiser.

Gojo said he has Kaiser insurance.

And the idea that comes into your head after that is so ridiculous, so absurd, so positively bonkers that you have to slap the sleepiness off your face for a second to make sure you’re still not in some dream state of living, and the harsh sting on your cheek proves that you’re not. And the idea still persists. And now you’re swinging your legs over the edge of your bed, and grabbing your laptop, and opening it, and inputting your pin, and then spending a good three hours researching if this little idea of yours actually has any good level of merit to it, if it could even succeed, if it was even legal? You even find yourself on the phone with insurance representatives, and you stare at the tens of thousands of dollars of debt on your Excel spreadsheet where you keep track of your finances, and you feel the exhaustion in your bones, and you also remember how fucking annoying Gojo is. And yet still, the idea persists.

And when the pieces of the plan start to unfortunately fall into place, you say, fuck it. What was worse than potentially getting into six figures of debt? It’ll be fine.

But you can only hope he says yes.

[reading commercial break]

hello!! this is ellie, the author. so sorry to interrupt, there is still a bit left for this chapter, but i just wanted to jump in here real quick to explain for some of my readers that may not be american so they may understand reader’s desperation to financially cover the costs of her mother’s healthcare bills. this story is set in suburban america lol, where the healthcare system is so messed up honestly, and this excerpt from the book the body by bill bryson kinda explains:

“Where America really differs from other countries is in the colossal costs of its health care. An angiogram, a survey by The New York Times found, costs an average of $914 in the United States, but only $35 in Canada. Insulin costs about six times as much in America as it does in Europe. The average hip replacement costs $40,364 in America, almost six times the cost in Spain, while an MRI scan in the United States is, at $1,121, four times more than in the Netherlands. The entire system is notoriously unwieldy and cost-heavy.” p360; “...America spends more on health care than any other nation–two and a half times more per person than the average for all other developed nations of the world. One-fifth of all the money Americans earn–$10,209 a year for every citizen, $3.2 trillion altogether–is spent on health care.” p359

unfortunately, a lot of how much you end up spending at the end of the day, depends significantly on the health insurance that you have. it could make the difference of spending a few hundreds to a few thousands to a few tens of thousands and beyond, just based on the insurance plan, even if the illnesses/treatments are exactly the same.

but yeah, just wanted to provide that context lol!! so you must understand reader’s desperation to save a buck!!!

ok back to regularly scheduled broadcasting!! 🧚‍♀️💕✨

[end of reading commercial break]

—

You’re sitting at a table outside your favorite cafe in town, leg bouncing up and down underneath the surface impatiently and nervously, and you glance at the time on your phone for the fifth time within the past five minutes because you’re unable to alleviate any of the anxiety you’re experiencing right now. You hear the jingling of the cafe door behind you and then you’re a little startled when someone emerges in your periphery by your side.

You look up and see Gojo standing next to you, and you see he already went inside and grabbed a coffee to-go for himself.

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Hi,” you say with a small wave.

He takes a seat across from you. “What did you want to talk about?” he asks while he settles in and smooths down the fabric of his suit jacket. He’s not wearing a tie, and has a couple of the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal some of the skin at his collarbone. Probably to seduce the divorced single moms, you think. “And if you called me here to try and convince me for the millionth time to pitch in for that fence you built six months ago, I’m just gonna say no again. I didn’t even want that fence built in the first place. It fucked up the roots on my avocado tree.”

“It’s a joint fence. Neighbors usually pitch in for that kind of stuff, asshole. At least normal neighbors do. You know I talked shit about you to everyone in the neighborhood when you refused to pay and all of them agree that you’re being a stuck-up prick about it?”

“You know that I also talked shit about you to everyone in the neighborhood and they said the same exact thing about you?”

“Wha–” you gasp, blinking a few times from the betrayal, then mutter “...those two-faced bitches” under your breath.

“So,” he pulls his sleeve back to glance at his watch, “what did you want? I’ve only got thirty minutes to talk before I need to head to an open house.” He brings his cup of coffee to his lips.

“Oh. Right. Just a favor,” you say, “I was wondering if you could marry me.”

He almost spits out his coffee.

“E-Excuse me?” he croaks out, exasperated, and he’s coughing a little bit as he hits his chest with a fist to alleviate the irritation in his throat from some hot coffee that went down the wrong pipe.

“I mean, if it’s not an issue, I’d really appreciate it if you could marry me,” you attempt to clarify, but you realize you probably should’ve thought a little more about how you were going to ask him this, and now you’re too deep to backtrack, so you just hope you’ll find the conversation along the way.

He’s looking at your like you’ve got six heads, brow furrowed and mouth hanging open slightly with that what the fuck? face you see him wear sometimes. But then he sits up a bit straighter, expression morphing into a curious one as he studies your face, head tilting a little in his scrutinization. Then, his face relaxes entirely. He has this knowing look as he nods up and down slowly, like he just figured something out, and then he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in some type of faux frustration. And you don’t understand why you’re already seethingly angry about what he’s going to say next.

“Oh god,” he sighs, “I knew this day would come.”

“Huh?” you squeak out.

“Listen,” he says as he crosses his arms, but one of his hands comes out from where it was tucked in his elbow to waive around in the air as he articulates his words, “I know that I’m very charming, and handsome, and chivalrous, one might say the modern knight in shining armor–”

“Satoru.”

“–and yes, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he dramatically sighs, “when I’m taking the groceries up the driveway…when I’m out mowing the lawn…when I stretch on the sidewalk before I go for a run. I feel your eyes on me like a hawk. Quite frankly, you look at me like I’m a piece of meat, and I feel very violated by it sometimes–”

“What the fuck are you talking about???”

“But I get it. Really, I do. There’s no need to be embarrassed about it–”

“I’m not embar–”

“It was really only a matter of time before you would do this. So overcome by your feelings for me that you just had to go against the grain of centuries of matrimonial standards and swallow your gigantic pride to propose to me.”

“Oh my god, what the fuck are you saying–”

“But,” he says, collecting himself now, and taking in a deep breath, “my answer is no. I mean, I shouldn’t have to explain why. But I will. First of all, where the hell is my ring? Secondly, why aren’t you on one knee in front of me right now? Also, in a cafe? Really? I thought you would’ve known I’d have liked something a little bit more romantic than this. Y’know, private, but also where my family’s somewhere around the corner. Maybe by the beach–”

“Can you stop talkin–”

“–while the sun is setting, and I’m wearing a nice dress, and there’s bubbles in the air and rose petals on the sand, and you tell me how enamored you’ve always been of me, and how you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with me,” he indulgently sighs, “I mean, it’s every guy’s dream. But nooooo, of course you’ve got no taste or sense for romance in any capac–”

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, FORGET THIS,” you stand up out of your chair, fast enough to where it almost falls backwards, and you grab your purse to sling over your shoulder, “I cannot believe I actually thought this plan would ever fucking work.” You’re about to walk away from the table, because you’re realigned with the wisdom of exactly why you can’t stand this man, when his hand reaches out quickly to grasp onto your wrist, to keep you still, and you jump a little from the contact. You look down, his hand unrelenting in its grip as his knuckles flex slightly, and you’re not sure if he’s ever touched you from how foreign the sensation feels.

“Wait,” he says, and when you look at him, his eyes are a little wide like a puppy, “you’re being serious?”

You yank your wrist out of his grip, but the warmth of his touch still lingers, and you wrap your own hand around it to distract yourself from it. “Why would I just ask you to marry me out of nowhere if I wasn’t being serious?”

He gives you a look like the answer to your question is obvious. “Uh, to fuck with me?”

You’re still holding onto your wrist, protectively pressing it against your chest with your back turned away from him slightly, and you look up at the sky for a brief second. Hm, perhaps you could have brought the favor up a bit better, and you realize it might’ve sounded insane on his end, and you’re also still thinking about the tens of thousands of dollars you could save if he said yes, and so you hesitantly open your body language up to him again.

“Just sit,” he sighs.

You take a seat across from him again, hands finding the warm coffee cup in front of you and you purse your lips together before tucking your bottom lip under your front teeth. You take a deep breath before speaking again. “I…I’m being serious. I was wondering if you could marry me as a favor, and not because I think you’re some type of irresistible man candy, god, where do you get your gigantic ego from?”

“I–”

“Rhetorical question, shut it.”

He blinks at you. “What favor are you asking for that’ll be satisfied by me marrying you?”

You twiddle with your thumbs. “I want to put my mom in hospice,” you say, eyes flickering down slightly because you’re worried you’re about to tear up from the words, but when you realize you’ve got enough conviction not to, you look back up at him, and his eyes on you are a little too observant, “most of the hospices in town are further away than I’d like, and really expensive, but I heard there was a Kaiser one nearby…and that a lot of the costs are covered by insurance. So, if you married me, I could send my mom there. And also, under your insurance, the care network would be better, so I could get her a new oncologist and neurologist, and I’d know she’s being taken care of. And…” you clear your throat, “well, it’ll be a lot less expensive, so I can start to catch up on…well, whatever, you get the picture.”

His eyes narrow at you in thought, and he glances at your hands on the table that are nervously fidgeting, and then his eyes meet yours again. “I’m not sure if you can add a…spouse’s parent to a healthcare plan?”

“You can,” you say, “I already called to ask.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

Gojo hums to himself, laying his palms flat on his thighs and rubbing them back and forth on the taut fabric a few times as he thinks with his gaze set off somewhere in the distance. It seems like he’s running through some algorithm of thoughts in his head, and then he slowly nods to himself when he’s made a decision.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” he says.

“Y-You will?” you ask him. You’re uneasy at how easy it was to convince.

“Yeah. I like your mom. She’s a sweet lady, and I want to see her get better.”

His words touch you. And not from the distance of a ten foot pole like you’d usually allow, but more intimate somehow. And you get the feeling you should thank him, but you’re still pissed off from when he almost ran you over on your own driveway earlier this week.

“Really?” you make sure, almost like you’re hoping he’ll change his mind because now you’re suspicious as to why he agreed so quickly. And you realize he’s already making you paranoid.

“Yeah. I’m saying yes to your proposal, y/n,” he says, “I mean, a marriage is just a legal agreement. Not a big deal. I’d want a prenup though, for obvious reasons. In case you’re a gold digger.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re too cheap to even pitch in for a fucking fence. You think I’d believe you’ve got any gold to dig?”

He sighs. “I said in case.”

“Well, anyways, we can work out logistics and paperwork or whatever later,” you say, and you extend your hand out for him to shake it.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Um. You’re going to make me shake your hand over this?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “it’s the diplomatic thing to do.”

“Yes,” he says, “for a diplomatic agreement.”

“Precisely,” you say. “That’s exactly what this is.”

He hesitantly brings his hand up to shake yours, but you quickly withdraw yours at the last second. “Nevermind. I don’t want to touch you.”

“Okay,” he easily accepts, “not how I expected to celebrate getting engaged, but whatever. By the way, when’s the wedding? Are we doing, like, a shotgun destination type vibe? Or something a bit more grand?”

“Just be at the courthouse at noon on Sunday.”

“What?! This weekend? That’s too soon,” he panics, “I need time to pick out a dress, and I need to figure out who my bridesmaids are going to be, and–”

“Satoru. Seriously. Just–...just shut the fuck up. Before the headache that you’ve already given me gets worse.”

You two sit in silence for a moment, him just mindlessly staring at a butterfly that landed on the plant at the center of the table, and you just staring off into the void past him while contemplating every life decision you’ve ever made. But that’s how it always was between you two. As much as you hated to admit it, you were jealous of him in a lot of ways. In every way that you were fucked up, he was nonchalant without a care in the world. You wish you knew what that sort of peace felt like, and you wondered if he could show you. Maybe someday when he doesn’t piss you off.

“So,” he interrupts your thoughts, “are you gonna take my last name?”

“Fuck no, I’d rather die.”

“Alright, jeez, I was just asking.”

[end of chapter 1]

a/n. yayy!!! he said yes!! omg congrats on ur engagement!! haha this was a lot of fun to writeee :'') i've got sm fun ideas for this fic. yea this chap was supposed to be longer lol there's still some groundwork to lay w the side quests, but will def cover more of that in the next chapter!!! tysm to everyone that wanted to be on taglist omg i hope that you enjoyed <33 love uuu guysss smmmm also my bad if some stuff doesnt make sense i'm tryna be less perfectionist when i'm editing so that i don't go insane 😍

➸ take me to chapter two!

taglist: @tremendousbouquetflower @cowgirlcujoh @joemama-2 @shinypearlywhites @sykosugu @lovebittenbyevans @luqueam @bloopsstuff @horisdope @alwaysfreakingout @crammingqueen @rideofthevalkyriess @lavender-hvze @gojocock @ceni707 @jxvajxy @catobsessedlady @madaqueue @bbyxxm @gojostit @nixie-19 @cheezitcracker @polarbvnny @cactisjuice @sleepyyammy @lysaray @k4tsukiis @kortanasworld @megumisthirdog @slut-4-gojo @drakenswifeyy @njoxuzi @elernity @jujutsubaby @secretmoneybearvoid @bunny-lily @strawberrygirl0 @httpxxg @bsdicinindirdim @v4mpieres @nanamis-baker @therealestpussyeater @air3922 @13-09-01 @marija4674 @whereflowerswenttodie @geniejunn @bakuhoethotski @ricaliscious @77uchiha77 @hellowoolf @tobaccosunbxrst @possumwho @nvrgojover @kittygrimm88 @samistars @shiin-ye @billiondollarworth @mmeerraa @fjorjestertealeaf @reinam00n @semra4 @st4ryki @new-weather47 @coltsgf @meownuuuu @strawnanamilk @lees-chaotic-brain @ironhottubstranger @spindyl @aise-30 @dunghirse @r0ckst4rjk @44ina @4y3sh4 @lindyloomoo @sweetpo1son @levisfavoriteteashop @delfiiii @fushitoru @gojosimp26 @beabadobeee @astrokenny @horisdope @muchlov3ashley @geniejunn @the-dark-creature @gojonegs @ritzes28 @mo0nforme @drownedpoetss

hope yalls fries never get soggy ever 💕

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molsno · 8 days

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speaking of driving and spyware, I was on the phone with my car insurance company today, and they asked me if I wanted to sign up for an optional program. if I agreed, I would have to install an app on my phone that, while I'm driving, monitors my speed, braking, turns, location, and phone usage. if, at the end of 6 months, they give me an A or B score, then I would get a discount on my insurance. conversely, if they gave me a C or lower, then my insurance would become more expensive. not only do they have no obligation to explain their scoring criteria in detail, as well as having an extremely obvious financial incentive to be as harsh as possible while grading my driving, it's also just fucking creepy having anyone track every single thing I do in my car, let alone a private company. obviously, I said no, and the agent didn't press the issue (even he said he doesn't like being monitored). I feel bad for all the people who actually get suckered into this program

#txt

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samuel20007 · 2 months

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sgt-tombstone · 2 months

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Let's talk about ranks for a minute...

Sergeant

Sergeants are the backbones of the military, no matter which military you're talking about. They're the sweet spot of the enlisted ranks; high enough to command respect of just about everyone you meet, low enough to still have a connection to the rookies they command. In most platoons, sergeants are seen as something of parental or older sibling figures, going so far as to help their lower enlisted soldiers buy their first cars, figure out health insurance, or even attend doctors appointments with them. They're several years out of basic training, which means that they've gotten their feet under them and know enough to be seen as trusted adults and mentors. They're often the ones planning/running the day to day of basic training, which makes them simultaneously loathed and respected in equal measure. Good sergeants are life-long friends and mentors; you will often hear veterans several years out of service talk fondly of their favorite sergeants, those that pushed them to be better or helped them get away with funny shit. For many rookies, who may be as young as sixteen in the British Army, sergeants essentially replace their parents, which is something that the best sergeants take very seriously.

Soap and Gaz, being in a specialized task force, would not hold a lot of these responsibilities. They're far more focused on their own training as a counter-terrorism unit than the training of soldiers beneath them. In fact, they likely wouldn't command any soldiers. However, given that they were sergeants in the SAS before joining the 141, they would likely still maintain a lot of those relationships around base; they would have a lot of connections to lower enlisted soldiers who remember them and would still see them as mentors, especially as sociable and outgoing as they both are.

Lieutenant

"You can't spell lost without LT."

Lieutenants are some of the most disrespected soldiers on base. As crazy as it sounds, the only difference between lieutenants and the vast majority of privates just out of basic training is a college degree. Only 3% of enlisted soldiers become officers, which means that the vast majority of officers have absolutely no field experience; they talked to a recruiter after graduating college and immediately jumped onto the officer ladder, skipping the enlisted ranks altogether. The average enlisted has infinitely more practical experience than any officer, and yet every enlisted soldier, regardless of rank or experience, is required to salute lieutenants because they're technically a higher rank.

You can see how this could breed some antagonism.

Prior enlisted officers are few and far between, and they have no physical representation of their experience; they wear the exact same insignia that every other lieutenant wears, so they're often lumped in with the rest of the lieutenants when enlisted start throwing insults. However, for those who are aware, prior enlisted officers command a huge amount of respect. Not only did they climb the enlisted ranks, they also went through pretty difficult officer training.

Now, for Ghost to still be a lieutenant years after joining the SAS is... crazy. There are two lieutenant ranks in the army: first lieutenant and second lieutenant. Both are the absolute bottom of the ladder; there is no lower officer rank. An officer must have at least 18 months of time in grade (TIG) to be promoted from 2LT to 1LT and 2 years of TIG to be promoted from 1LT to CPT, which means that Ghost would have realistically been a captain 3-4 years after passing officer training. The only reason why I can see him denying promotions is to continue working under Price, which... take that how you will.

Captain

The captain rank is the sweet spot of the officer ranks. Like sergeants, they're high enough to command large amounts of respect but low enough to maintain good connections with the soldiers under them. This is the last rank that allows its members to continue regularly going into the field with their teams; the next rank is major, which holds a lot more responsibility, required meetings, and paperwork.

I can definitely understand why Price would refuse promotions past this point; if he had his way, he would stay a captain until he either died or retired. There is very little incentive for him to accept a promotion.

All information taken from various military forums and military personnel talking about their own experiences. All military branches have their own culture/customs, so these statements are not all-encompassing, but they are widely shared.

#call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #military writing reference #tombstone's epitaphs

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golden-cherry · 1 year

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deal - cl16 (3/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Charles takes you on an adventure, that you won't forget that easily.

Warnings: angst (talks about Charles dad), comfort, google translated French

Word Count: 3.4k

series masterlist

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A/N: part 3! hope you enjoy it! feedback is appreciated!

Sitting on the passenger side of your own car is strange.

It doesn't feel completely wrong, but still, a queasy feeling spreads through you. Like when you lived with your parents. Whenever someone was visiting, your mom had said, "Just sit anywhere," and of course the guests didn't know that you had an unassigned assigned seat. And when they actually sat down in your seat and you couldn't sit in yours, you had the same feeling as you do now at this moment.

After you dressed for the weather, you grabbed your car keys and your camera. If Charles was actually taking you to the most beautiful viewpoint in the country, then maybe you could snap some pictures for your private Instagram account. Your little private photo album. With no followers, no obligations.

Charles car is at his primary residence, according to his statement. Except for a few cars, the underground garage where your car is parked is empty. Your roommate insisted on driving because, first, you don't know where the trip is going and, second, he doesn't want to tell you where to go. Grumpily, you threw him the key and he caught it with a grin.

Then Charles made himself comfortable in the driver's seat of your old Renault as if it were his birthright. Right hand on the wheel, left elbow on the door and head propped on his hand, he maneuvers you through the streets of Monaco. Black sunglasses sit on his nose and the radio plays a pop song that somehow gets played every time you get in the car. Charles whistles along with the rhythm.

You turn in his direction. "Are you going to tell me where exactly we're going?"

Instead of answering you, he just shakes his head briefly. He runs a hand through his brown hair once, whistling merrily along.

You roll your eyes and rub your forehead.

Not only did you just get in the car with a stranger - to be fair, it's your car and Charles isn't a stranger (anymore) - but he actually won't tell you where he's going. "Like I said, we're going to the most beautiful view," is all he replies.

You've looked it up. According to Google, there are about fifteen lookouts. And each of them is supposed to be the "most beautiful view in Monaco," according to the websites. You looked up the locations on Google Maps, but none of them are in the direction you're heading. Maybe he's trying to kill you after all.

"I haven't driven a real stick shift car in ages." Charles wraps his big hand around the gearshift knob to shift into the next gear. His bracelets slide from his forearm to his wrist as he does so. Without much jerking and very smoothly, you move forward.

You raise an eyebrow. "So you only drive automatic cars?"

Charles shakes his head. "My personal car - the one that's at my other apartment - is an automatic. The company car I drive is manual." His hand moves from the shift knob back to the steering wheel. His long fingers grip the worn, dark leather.

"So what do you prefer to drive?"

He shrugs. "I like both."

You purse your lips and look out the window. You drive past small boutiques whose clothes you could never afford, and see cars whose insurance per month is sure to exceed your former annual salary. But this is nothing new to you. This is Monaco, after all. "I've never driven an automatic car before."

Charles glances over at you for a moment. "Really?" You shake your head. "It's kind of like riding a bumper car. Two pedals, gas and brake." He has to grin. "But if you ever drive automatic, please don't crash into other road users."

"Haha."

Charles drives the car out of town. The view out the window changes from old houses, whose architecture enchants you every time, to rocks and trees. By now, a quiet song is playing on the radio, Charles has stopped whistling, and somehow you're enjoying sitting here, next to your roommate, who wants to show you new, exciting things.

It's been ages since you've been introduced to something completely new.

The brunette turns off the main road onto a path that you would have missed yourself. It's not paved, which is why the car jolts quite a bit as you drive along. Trees and bushes line the path, and it is so narrow that it would be quite difficult if another car were to come towards you. If you were driving, you would have peed your pants for sure.

But not Charles. He drives as if he were driving this route every day. He knows where there are big rocks that he has to drive around to avoid damaging your car - which wouldn't be so dramatic - and also where he has to countersteer to avoid driving over potholes deeper than the Mariana Trench.

When he stops after a few minutes, he turns off the car. Then he turns to you and takes off his sunglasses. "I know this place looks pretty shady, and I can understand if you don't trust me. But if you get out of here with me now, I promise you, you won't regret it." He pulls the key out of the ignition. "Unfortunately, we can't get any further here by car. That's why we have to continue on foot for a short while. If you want."

You took a leap of faith when you decided to drive here with him. And he didn't try to kill you last night. That's a big plus. And that's why you hold out your hand to him without giving it much thought. "As long as I can have the key."

A smile spreads across his face as he drops it into your hand. "Let's do it, then."

Charles wasn't lying - it's actually not a long walk. You walk side by side in silence, the key held tightly in your hand. There's not a whole lot of sunlight shining down on you through the trees, and you regret not taking a thicker jacket. You didn't expect it to be so cold in the shade.

And then you arrive. At the most beautiful view in Monaco.

You're standing on a small hill that can't be seen from the main road. There is a single tree here, which is why the sun can shine relentlessly on you despite the winter, warming the skin on your face. You take a few steps forward, not realizing that Charles is not following you as you take in the view.

From here, from this beautiful spot, you can actually overlook all of Monaco. The houses, the yachts, the luxury for which this country is famous. But you don't only see the typical postcard Monaco. You also see the green of the forests, small blue bays of the Côte d'Azur, which you have never seen - neither in reality nor on the Internet - and the Mediterranean Sea, which stretches out in front of you and whose sound you can hear despite the distance.

You feel Charles next to you, but can't tear your gaze away from the view. "It's..." You can't think of a suitable word to describe what you're looking at. None of the million words, both in English and the few in French, would do it justice.

"I know." His voice rings softly in your ears. "Shall we sit down?"

You settle down near the tree. The meadow is dry - thank goodness - as you sit down cross-legged, facing each other. For a few minutes, you enjoy the view in silence until Charles interrupts.

"My father showed me this spot when I was little." He plucks a few tufts of grass from the ground. "He liked to come down here when the world down there" - with a nod of his head, he points to beautiful Monaco - "got too stressful for him. Or too noisy. Or just too much." He smiles faintly. "With three young sons who liked to mess with each other, I can't blame him."

You watch as he grinds a few blades of grass between his index finger and thumb until they trickle down in small pieces. "Then he's lucky you're all grown up now."

Charles lips pucker into a thin line and he lets the remaining grass fall to the ground. He folds his hands in his lap and looks toward Monaco. Even though he has his sunglasses on, you can see he closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. "My father died when I was nineteen."

You don't know how to respond. You're glad Charles keeps talking. "Aside from my mother, he was the best and kindest person I know. He saw something good in everyone, even if they didn't deserve it. He..." Charles swallows the lump in his throat. "He always pushed me to be better, but always brought me back down to earth when I took off. He was never disappointed in me, ever."

You have to smile. "Sounds like a wonderful man."

Charles nods. "He was." He looks back down at his hands. "I miss him every day."

It's strange to hear someone talk about their parents like that when your own are the complete opposite. You can't remember your parents ever being proud of you. Their disappointment and criticism were your constant companions, which is why you couldn't wait to finally move out. And you haven't looked back since.

"I like to come here when I'm stuck. When I'm stuck in a situation where I wish I could ask him for advice. Or I'm feeling lonely." A faint smile returned to his face. "I may not get an answer here, but somehow - I don't know - I don't feel quite so alone anymore when I'm here."

You don't know what to say to him. You've known each other for less than twenty-four hours, were at each other's throats yesterday, and yet he's confided something so intangibly private to you, while you've been nothing but skeptical of him. Charles has revealed himself to you, laid bare some of his cards, made himself vulnerable. And he did so without much hesitation.

"You don't have to tell me who called you. Or whatever that person screwed up. But if you need to talk to someone, I'm here for you." He takes the sunglasses off his nose so he can really look at you, and hangs them on the collar of his sweater. The green of the woods behind you is beautiful, but nothing can compete with the green of his eyes. "That's what friends are for, after all."

You have to smile. "Are we?" You point your index finger at the distance between you. "Friends?"

You feel your question is justified. After all, your "friends" dropped you after ... after everything that happened.

Charles shrugs. "If that's what you want. After all, we live together. Of course, I don't want to force you into it, nor could I. You'd sooner smack me with a rolled-up magazine. I just think it's almost impossible for us not to become friends."

He is right. The apartment is not very big and there is no way you could avoid each other. Especially since you don't have any obligations anymore, no job to go to every day. You'll be hanging out at home all the time and you'll definitely spend all your time next to each other, as long as Charles has nothing to do either.

That you two will become friends is inevitable.

One look at Charles and you'll throw all worries out the window. Charles, who lets you live in his apartment. Charles, who lets you have the bedroom. Charles, who can cook incredibly well. And Charles, who takes you to the most beautiful place, even though it means so much to him.

He looks at you in surprise as you pull the car key out of your jacket pocket and toss it to him. Surprised, he catches it. "I guess I won't need to lock the bedroom door then, will I?"

Charles grins. "I promise not to kill you while you're sleeping." With his index finger, he makes a cross over where his heart beats in his chest. "I might try it when you're awake, though." He winks at you.

Your grin widens. "Luckily, there are still some magazines lying around at home that I can use to defend myself. Just please don't do it when I'm only wearing a towel. That would be an unfair fight."

Charles laughs. He laughs even though he has just expressed one of his deepest feelings and this place reminds him of someone he loved and lost. Even though he's poured his heart out to you. And yet he's sitting there, cross-legged, in front of you, and he's got his head thrown back and he's laughing so loud you're afraid he can be heard all the way to Monte-Carlo.

And good heavens - it's the most beautiful sound you've heard in a long time.

For a moment longer, you enjoy the moment. Despite the call and Charles past, a lightness has spread through you that you haven't felt in ages. The worries have not fallen off your shoulders, but they are no longer so heavy and you would like to thank Charles for that. But as soon as you can open your mouth, he's on his feet in front of you again, looking down at you.

"I didn't promise you too much, did I?" Confused, you look at him. "I mean, about the view."

You shake your head and stand up as well. Side by side, you gaze down at Monaco. "It's the perfect postcard view."

Charles watches you while you take some photos with your camera. You try to take a good picture from every angle, from every position, and as far as you can tell from the small display, some of the shots don't turn out too badly. When you turn around, Charles is standing right behind you.

"If you need another model," he puts his hands on his hips, "I'll volunteer."

You laugh. "Absolutely not. Or I'll get a crack in the lens."

He pushes his bottom lip forward and pouts. "Okay, wow. I'm going to take that personally. Then don't." He's about to turn away from you when you manage to grab the sleeve of his sweater. He glances briefly at where your fingers are gripping the fabric, and unsure, you let go.

"All right. One photo." You raise your camera. Charles tries to get a decent stance, puts his hands in his pockets, then decides against it, crosses his arms in front of his chest, drops them again, runs his hands through his hair. "You'll have to stand in style for me to take a decent picture."

A slight blush creeps onto his cheeks. "What exactly do you want me to do? What would you like?"

You smile at him. "Relax. This isn't a professional shoot, after all." You lower the camera again. "You said you have two brothers. What's the funniest thing you've been through together?"

Charles thinks for a moment and starts to grin. As he tells you about a Christmas when Arthur had been in charge of dessert but unfortunately switched sugar for salt, making the food inedible, you snap a photo of him. His smile is wide, a dimple adorns his cheek, and the wind ruffles his hair. You don't need to snap another. This picture is perfect.

" ... And then we went to McDonalds in the middle of the night to get ice cream," he finishes his story. He looks up. "Did you take a picture? I didn't even notice!" He stands close to you so he can see the camera's display. His perfume hits your nose. "Oh my God." He takes a step away from you, his grin wide. "I've never looked so good. Can you send this to me?"

The walk to the car takes longer than the walk there, in no small part because you don't really want to leave. You memorize every single step so you can find Monaco's most beautiful view again.

"Thank you for bringing me here."

He looks up from his feet and over at you. "I've never brought anyone here before." He smiles gently. "But somehow I felt like you needed this. To be away from it all for once."

"I appreciate that very much. I promise I won't tell anyone about this." You draw a cross with your index finger where your heart beats. Just like he just did. You know how much this place means to him. Never in your life would you bring anyone else here.

Your car comes into your field of vision. In a moment you would drive back home and everything you successfully repressed until just now would be waiting for you there. But it still can't spoil your mood. Not after the beautiful morning.

You hear Charles inhale to say something when suddenly his phone rings. Annoyed, he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen before tossing you the car keys. You almost drop them on the floor. "I need to make a quick call." His voice tone is cold, definitely not as warm and mellow as it was just a few minutes ago. "Go ahead and get in the car. I'll be right behind you."

You nod to him and walk the few feet. You catch the beginning of the conversation anyway.

"Nous en avons déjà parlé. Je t'ai dit que je ne rentrerais pas chez moi pour le moment. Non, écoute, je n'ai ni le temps ni les nerfs pour en parler avec toi. Je suis en déplacement en ce moment. Cela ne te concerne pas". coming home – discuss – not your business

You unlock the car and plant yourself in the passenger seat, which, unlike a moment ago, no longer feels too wrong. While you can no longer understand what Charles is saying, judging by his facial expressions and gestures, it's definitely not a pleasant conversation. His face is flushed and he runs his hand through his hair several times before rolling his eyes.

When his gaze catches yours, you feel caught. As if you're watching him do something private that's none of your business. And for a moment you think that Charles is annoyed, telling you to do something other than watch him. But he just tilts his head and smiles softly before raising a finger in the air with his free hand. His mouth moves and it looks like "One minute" and some French word you can't make out by lip-reading.

You also answer him with a smile and look at the photo on the camera again. It's a little blurry and definitely not your best work, but it was taken from a beautiful moment and is one of your favorite pictures for that alone.

"Sorry." You barely notice Charles sitting down next to you in the car.

You drop the key into his open hand and look at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

He breathes in and out before putting the key in the ignition and letting the engine rev. He doesn't give you an answer to your question, but starts a new topic. "We're going to see Joris. I'd love to know how he got the idea to rent out the apartment without discussing it first." He doesn't smile, but his voice is no longer so callous. You just nod.

The situation is tense, and there's nothing you can do to defuse it except sit quietly and let Charles feel his feelings without judging him. You'd like to reach for his hand and squeeze it so he knows he's not alone. But you don't dare. The look on his face when you just touched his sweater-not even Charles per se-and the thought that you might be crossing a line burns into your brain.

You interlace your fingers in your lap and look out the window.

Of course, you don't notice that Charles' gaze briefly falls on your hands and that he wishes he could take yours in his for a little comfort.

next part

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captain-lessship · 5 months

Text

Kurt Cobain x fem!Reader Headcannons (NSFW included)

A/n: Was a request from for ever ago

- You and him were.. very different.

- To start, you were a sunny vacation town girl who’s daddy dearest owned several businesses in. You were on the more popular side in highschool, prom queen and Miss Seaside winner for two years in a row. Your parents expected you to go off to college, get an excellent degree and marry a lawyer. You didn’t go that route.

- You went to a few auditions and you got casted in a movie and that set off your career.

- They were proud that you were a Hollywood gal. Their sweet little girl? an actress! A loved one: funny, pretty and kind. You demanded the focus of the camera and it loved you. Now they expected you to win awards and marry an attractive actor like Johnny Depp or Leonardo DeCaprio. But the one you picked? Kurt Cobain. He wasn’t even an actor!

- Kurt was the kinda man your mom would faint and send your Dad into heart attack if you ever told them that you and Kurt were together. (Thank god you told you mother near a soft couch and your father has great health insurance.)

- It shocked at lot of people when you were seen at Nirvana shows, singing along and vibing with the rest of the crowd. It shocked them even more when Kurt came to your movie premiere. He wasn’t a formal guy yet here he was: by your side, supporting your achievements.

- Your parents eventually came around to the idea of him and warmed up to him being around. Kurt knew he was officially part of the family when he saw a stocking his nitial on your alls mantel.

- Kurt was a very gentle person despite the persona he developed for the stage.

- Many thought that he didn’t love you when the pictures of you both appeared in magazines. In those pictures, he looked like being with you was torture but that wasn’t the truth at all.

- In the majority of the random paparazzi pictures, Kurt seemed standoffish like a cat who had its tail stepped on, while you were just rattling on about what your plans were. You both blamed it on no context.

- Your voice always grounded Kurt and sometimes his anxiety would hit him in public.

- But the ones your loved ones took?Kurt looking at you like you are the love of his life (you are). Your favorite was from the Christmas dinner you and the rest of Nirvana decided to have while on tour. You were sitting in Kurt’s lap and you were unwrapping the gift Krist had gotten you. Kurt was looking at you like you were an art piece and you frozen in laughter. You kept this photo on your bedside table and had another copy in the hallway.

- After it was well established that you both were together, Kurt was affectionate in public. He would pepper kisses to your cheek and the corners of your lips when you sat in for interviews, leaving the talking to Dave. He could be seen resting his head against your shoulder during car rides, award ceremonies and when you guided him home when he had too much to drink or smoke, his lips would always try to attach themselves to yours.

- If Kurt was ever missing, all they had to do was find you and he wouldn’t be more than a few feet away.

- If you’d let him, he’d be in the bathroom while you took a shower. You didn’t mind it because it was never an inconvenience. Kurt knew when he could and couldn’t be attached to you.

- Kurt jokingly covers Dave’s and Krist’s eyes if you have a semi-nude scene in a movie. But if they were to stare too hard (they don’t), he would throw something at them.

- You both share cigarettes often. He used to grumble about the lipstick stain you left on them but he grew to love them and miss them even.

- He was even more affectionate in private, constantly laying his head in your lap, pulling you into his lap on the rare occasion he was sitting up. Krist and Dave joked that if he wasn’t touching you, he’d die.

- It was half true. He was saddened and moody when you weren’t around. Krist gave up and called you when they were trying to take the pictures for the Nevermind album. The second you walked in the building, Kurt’s mood improved tenfold

- It was mutual. Any time you were having a near breakdown over something, someone just had to call Kurt. He once came to your studio to console you over your hair, which the stylist who stepped in for your regular, had just melted with bleach. He assured you that you looked sexy with shorter hair and you felt better and the stylist lived to see another day. (He was right and you were a real trend setter with your shorter hair with layers.)

- At home, you and him were very quiet (strange ik). But it was comfortable quiet and it never was completely silent.

- Only the sound of soft guitar playing and the flipping pages of your book could be heard. It was peaceful.

- People were always shocked to hear you say how good of a lover he was, which highly offended you.

- “He can be a four to you and a ten to me and that’s alright cause he’s not for you.” Is what you snapped at an interviewer who was wondering why you were dating Kurt.

- They wanted you to say either money or fame but your answer was what you thought. Kurt was pissed that they were all but calling you a gold digger when you actually had your own gold and no need for his.

- Flowers came to you every time he was away. You kept a dried flower from every bouquet

- He would pick a necklace from your jewelry box and wear it if he was going to be gone for a while.

- He kisses you softly, as if he would bruise you if he did other wise. His finger traced shape into your arms and on the top of your hand.

- His stubble tickles you often and he purposefully rubs his face against the side of your neck or your face to get you to laugh. (You go through the stages of grief every time he shaves)

- Matching tattoos <3

- You took great care of Kurt. When he would go into a depressive episode, you would tenderly coax him into still taking care of himself.

- You would sit in the bathroom with him when he showered, sometimes even wash his hair for him. You would wrap him in a bath robe and have him face the wall and you would blow dry and brush his hair. He hated seeing himself in this state so you had him avoid the mirror.

- You would sit out clothes for him and he’d get dressed while you made him something to eat. He would eat and you would talk to him, hopefully keeping him distracted from his thoughts.

- “You deserve better”

- You didn’t believe him when he said it. “I think you’re perfect for me.”

- That eased his thoughts for a while. He believed that you deserved someone who wasn’t sick, in pain and moody all the time but you wanted him. He knew he had to wife you up.

- To give him credit, he took great care of you. He would paint your nails, clean your makeup brushes, rub your shoulders and would leave you little treats in the house or in your car.

- Every night that he was home, he would hold you and rub your back til you fell asleep. If you held him, you would play with the hair at the base of his neck til you heard soft snores.

- He was always appreciative for all that you did for him, often gloating and talking about you. “Oh my girlfriend? The angel that was sent to earth? Yeah she likes my songs.” “My girlfriend can do that.” “Have you seen my girlfriend in that new show?”

- He worshipped the very ground you walked on.

- You and him were acting like an old married couple from the day you made it official. With wild careers, you didn’t have it in you to have wild free time. You were both gentle souls deep down and it was brought out when you were together.

- When you and him got married, it was a bitch to plan. He had shows, you had filming. After months, you decided on a September wedding at a nice venue. Everything had gone perfect until your reception. You had changed into your shorter party dress and were heading to see Kurt when it happened.

- It started to rain. Kurt looked at you and you looked at Kurt. You both had the same idea.

- You kicked off your heels and he took off his jacket and out you two went: playing in the rain.

- You both were soaked and laughing. You and him were kicking water at each other. Some of your less up tight guests joined in. Slowly turning it into a muddy brawl.

- Best Wedding Ever.

——————NSFW——————

- The first time you and Kurt had sex was after one of your award shows, you didn’t win but you were about to win something else.

- Kurt had been loving how you looked in your dress. When you returned home, your usual make out session seemed to have more behind it. You picked up on what he wanted to do before he admitted it.

- It was an experience. He fucked you like you’d never been fucked before. He held one of your legs up by your ankle and had magnificent rhythm. He loved the honey dipped noises that came from you.

- Has effectively ruined the idea of ever having sexual encounters with anyone else (not that you would ever think about it but if anything ever happened between the two of you? It’s a life of nun hood for you.)

- After you were finished and cleaned up, you and him laid next to each other, smoked a cigarette and looked at each other with nothing but love.

- Playful wrestling was typically how you ended up making love. You either ended pinning him down or he would hold you back by the band of your bra, pushing him to be tempted to take it off of you.

- There was another popular reason that lead to sex. You were not oblivious to how the grunge girls looked at him like some sort of god. You weren’t typically the jealous type but just something about the very dedicated fans hit a nerve. grabbing his hand and leading him away.

- He was confused the first few times this happened, thinking you were mad at him but it clicked when you entered your hotel room. You simply took off your shirt and pants and Kurt got the hint.

- While Kurt didn’t get jealous of your male co stars, he would jokingly make fun of them to Dave and Krist. If they were staring at you or were trying to get that on screen romance to translate to real life, he would simply enter the conversation and mock them to their faces. He did it in a way that they really couldn’t do much without having to admit they were after a taken woman.

- He then would take you home. He would ask things like “Do you think he could do it like this?” I am better than him, right?” (This lead to neighbors being able to faintly hear you scream Kurt’s name)

- Kurt is the president of the thigh lover club. He kissed, bit and sucked hickeys on them.

- Kurt isn’t mean persae but he has a mean streak. He would hold off thrusting back into you if he wanted an answer from you, take a little too long to do things or his famous line that he gives if you say speed up. “You do it then.”

- You do it then = He would lay on his back and let you ride it out like a maniac with very little input from him.

- Most of the time, if neither you nor Kurt had the energy but the urge, you would simply rest yourself on his cock and stay until either you had to separate or one of you wanted to properly fuck the other.

- Due to his back problems (it’s what he blamed it on in the beginning before you told him that having preferences were important and his were respected), his favorite positions were ones where you were on top or were you both on your sides.

- ABSOLUTELY loses it when you look back at him while you are reverse cowgirling.

- When he was on top, he had to be looking at you. He wanted to see your expressions. The turned on haze your eyes made him cum almost instantly.

- You and him have had “funny” sex. Meaning you will try things you see in movies and pronos that you both know wouldn’t work between the two of you but would be funny to attempt (Mythbusters of Sex). Even if it completely failed, you both would laugh it off and go do something else like you riding Kurt for dear life.

- Since you were an actress, you had access to costumes and props. You would have sexy fashion shows. His personal favorite was the 70s go-go dancer get up, mainly due to the moves to match.

- There have been some absolute sexual blunders; You were slightly sticky which made you uncomfortable after he finished licking whipped cream off your tits and he nearly froze to death during the lead up shower sex. A sticky woman is an unhappy woman and a frozen man is an unmotivated man.

- When he would go off on tours, you would eventually get so horny that you would have to call him just to listen to his voice. When he figured out that you were touching yourself during these phone calls, his mean streak took hold. It was like a game: he would say the most perverted things to you and you would have to tell him when you came.

- You loved this game, which is why you kept calling.

- When he got back home though, it was your turn to play around. You acted completely oblivious to the call you made and this confused the man. He wasn’t a beggar but an only after a few hours of being home, he would be begging.

- You mercilessly teased him about it, sometimes throwing his word back at him.

- “Missed me? Poor baby.” “So turned on you don’t even know what to do?” “Tell me exactly how you want it.”

- Neither one of you were set in the dominant or submissive role, it depended on the mood.

- You would be the more submissive one if Kurt was gone for a long time or if Kurt seemed very happy.

- Kurt would be the more submissive one if you were mad at your job or if you were the more horny one.

- This man tries to seduce you in the serotypical ways (He read those romance books with the shirtless cowboy men on the covers) but it doesn’t work on you. But when he isn’t even trying, you’re looking at him like a sex god.

- One time, all he did was walk up behind you and massage your shoulders as you were venting about a particularly stressful day, the only difference to the million other shoulder rubs was the fact he leaned in and whispered in your ear. A few hours later, you were spent, half asleep and Kurt was laying there with a hundred yard stare and the post nut shivers.

- You have flashed him during a Nirvana show and he turned bright red and nearly forgot the words to the song.

- Poor Dave has walked in on you guys once. Was traumatizing and he couldn’t look you or Kurt in the eyes without turning red. (May or may not have was to teasing from the both of you like offering him the chance to join, asking if you both could make it as porn stars and asking if what design of tramp stamp you should get since he’d see it too)

- Suffice to say you and Kurt have a healthy and gratifying sex life.

#fanfic writing #fanfic #romance #x reader #female reader #romantic relationships #nfst #romance headcannons #relationship headcanons #kurt cobain x reader #kurt cobain #nirvana #request

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