#learning how to care for dementia

[wisedreamerreview]

Home Health Care

Home healthcare is supposed to come out today for the initial visit. Since the individual who called yesterday did not know mom or that they were married gives us the idea this is a new group. It will be the third but each has been scheduled by different people. The first from the hospital, the second his primary care doctor and then this by the Neurologist. As much as we have anticipated and…

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

fuck memory problems. makes every other issue 10x worse and 100% harder to solve/get over.

[your-lovely-ghost]

Can everyone in this family please just stop actively dying for one fucking day. please

[afloweroutofstone]

One 82-year-old woman, who wore pajamas with holes in them because she didn’t want to spend money on new ones, didn’t realize she had given Republicans more than $350,000 while living in a 1,000 square-foot Baltimore condo since 2020. By the time a Taiwanese immigrant from California passed away from lung cancer this year at age 80, she had given away more than $180,000 to Trump’s campaign and a litany of other Republican candidates – writing letters to candidates apologizing for not getting donations to them on time because she was going into heart surgery. She had only $250 in her bank account when she died, leaving her family scrambling to cover the cost of her funeral. And a 78-year-old, a widow who limited showers to save on her water bill and canceled her long-term care insurance, didn’t understand why the retirement savings her husband had left her was dwindling so quickly. After CNN reached out to her family, they learned that the woman gave more than $200,000 in donations to Democratic political groups and candidates. The federal government has gone after non-political companies for similar tactics, such as making false statements in ads or making them seem as if they were written directly to the recipient. But regulators have done little to stop fundraisers from using misleading and deceptive advertisements to target vulnerable donors. And the lawmakers who experts say would need to act to protect consumers at both the state and federal levels are the same ones benefiting from the current fundraising machines.

[alygator77]

♬♪ ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : beat of my heart ♬♪

♬ pairing. college au // drummer! gojo x psychology major! reader (f)

♬ summary. being a psychology major with a passion for music, you're no stranger to chaos—between juggling school, caring for your mother, and working at a local music shop, you've learned to keep your cool. but when a cocky drummer pushes your patience to the limit, a chance encounter with satoru gojo—an enigmatic, sharp-tongued musician—turns your world upside down. as you're drawn to his dangerous charm, an unexpected connection deepens, but so do the secrets you've both been running from. will you get caught up in his rhythm before you realize it’s too late?

♬ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, slow burn, smut, angst with comfort, some fluff, readers mom has dementia, mentions of suicide, alcohol/weed usage, unresolved trauma, commitment issues

♬ words: 7.3k

♬ a/n. hi lovelies, welcome to the debut of this fic :) very excited to explore this dynamic between satoru and y/n, thanks for reading ♡

♬ taglist: open

series masterlist ♬ next chapter → pending...

ch 1 // the first measure

“Emotional regulation is defined as the process by which individuals influence the emotions they experience, when they experience them, and how they express them in response to different stimuli.”

Staring at the neatly printed words in your psychology textbook, your mind automatically begins to dissect the concept.

Emotional regulation. The holy grail of human behavior, wrapped neatly in clinical terms. It’s the ability to keep yourself in check, to craft a perfect mask that hides what’s boiling beneath the surface. The world only gets to see what you allow. If it were as easy as the textbook made it sound, half your classes wouldn’t exist.

Letting out a breath, you sink deeper into your chair.

People aren’t simple equations you can balance, after all—people are… complicated.

Emotions, even more so.

They ebb and flow like unpredictable tides, swelling when you least expect them, crashing down when you think you’ve regained control. They are messy, stubborn, and relentless—especially when the brain stops following its own rules.

Your mothers face comes to mind—uninvited. Her once-bright eyes are now dull with confusion, emotions flickering in and out like static on a broken TV. Dementia has stolen the filter that once kept her reactions in line with reality. It’s as if her mind is betraying her, one piece at a time.

You press your fingers against the pages of the textbook. Will any amount of psychology truly prepare you to untangle the complexities of the human mind? Can it allow you to help her—or at least understand her—before she’s lost entirely?

Before you can sink further into that thought, an ear-splitting crash reverberates through the store, jolting you back into the present. Glancing up with a sigh, the peaceful hum of the music store is shattered by the clumsy cacophony of someone abusing a drum kit like it owes him money.

Clearly, emotional regulation isn’t on that guy’s radar.

Yet, somehow, you’ve grown used to it. Working part-time here has taught you how to tune out chaos, as if the dissonance of the store has become its own kind of background music.

It’s chaotic, but it’s your kind of chaos.

The strings of guitars being tested, the pounding of drum kits, the chattering of customers—it all blends into a rhythm you no longer notice.

You’ve been working part-time in this quaint little music shop for so long that silence has become unsettling. If it’s too quiet, your mind starts wandering, spiraling into places you don’t always want to go. And so, the chaos is your anchor—it helps you focus, keeps you present.

Studying in silence feels foreign.

“Ugh… I have such a headache,” Utahime’s voice breaks through your thoughts, her hand pressing to her temple. Standing a few feet away, she shoots a glare towards the drum section. “He’s been at it for practically an hour now. Like… come on. Is he trying to destroy that kit or learn how to play it?”

Glancing up from your textbook, you eyes land on a brawny guy with jet-black hair, slamming away on the drums with no sense of rhythm, no control—just brute force.

“Has it really been that long?” you ask, blinking at the scene. The noise had faded into the background for you, becoming just another layer of the store’s soundtrack.

Utahime gives you a look that screams disbelief.

“You didn’t notice?”

You shrug.

“Guess I’ve learned to tune it out.”

“Tch… wish I could do that,” she rolls her eyes, rubbing her temples like the sound is physically burrowing into her skull. “That guy is killing me.”

Oh, shit. Now that your attention is focused, you notice just how bad it really is. It’s not just noise—it’s borderline offensive to music. He’s not even playing the drums—he’s assaulting them—completely unaware of the sonic devastation he’s unleashing on the store.

Utahime lets out another long, exasperated groan, her entire body sagging as she leans forward in defeat.

“I swear, if he keeps going, I’m going to snap,” her elbows rest on the counter, and she presses her forehead into her hands. “y/nnnn,” she whines, lifting her head just enough to glimpse at you. “Can you please do something?”

Glancing around the store, you catch the irritated looks of other customers—one guy near the synthesizers is glaring openly at the drummer, his hand gripping a set of headphones so tightly you half expect him to snap them in half.

It’s like the whole store is holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to make it stop.

A sigh escapes your lips as you close your textbook. It’s one thing to tune out the chaos when you’re focused on studying, but now that you’re paying attention, the noise feels like an assault on your senses too. You can’t blame Utahime for losing her patience—though she’s never been one to take matters into her own hands.

“Fine, I’ll handle it,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from your seat.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, finally peeling her hands away from her temples. “Please, work your magic. Before we all go deaf.”

You roll your eyes internally, though you can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Magic. Sure—that’s one way to put it.

What Utahime calls ‘magic’ is really just years of learning how to manage other people’s shit without losing your cool.

It’s not magic—it’s survival. A skill you’ve honed out of necessity, not desire. And sure, maybe your love for psychology helps—you’ve got the theories to back up the practice—but most days it feels more like wrangling toddlers who never learned how to grow up.

Taking a steady breath, you step into the fray, weaving through the store’s labyrinth of instruments and displays. As you get closer, the vibrations from the drums rattle through your bones, crawling up your spine. The sound is unbearable, like nails on a chalkboard amplified through a megaphone.

The guy doesn’t even look up, his head bent low over the drum kit, raven hair falling in messy strands across his forehead. His arms move with the rhythm of someone who has no idea what rhythm actually is, and the muscles in his forearms ripple with each heavy-handed strike as he slams the sticks down like he’s personally offended by the drums.

You stand off to the side for a moment, watching him have at it. You’ve dealt with a lot of difficult people working here, but this guy? He’s so oblivious to the fact that the rest of the store is on the verge of mutiny.

Clearing your throat, you raise your voice, hoping to break through his focus.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

Another crash of the cymbals, loud enough to rattle your skull. Your jaw tightens as you try again, this time louder.

“Excuuuuse me!”

Still nothing. He’s completely in his own world, bashing away with reckless abandon. It’s like he’s in a vacuum, utterly disconnected from the chaos he’s creating around him.

Jesus this guy… your patience thins and you step closer—close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him from his overexertion. His shirt clings to his back with sweat, and the muscles in his arms continue to ripple with each reckless swing of the drumsticks.

He’s not just playing hard—he’s playing like he’s got something to prove.

As you reach out to tap his shoulder, you try to keep your touch firm but not aggressive, although, the moment your fingers make contact with him, his entire body jerks—drumsticks freezing mid-air as he whips his head around to face you.

His dark eyes lock onto yours, sharp and filled with a flicker of annoyance.

“What?” he snaps, voice dripping with irritation.

Keeping your expression neutral, you try not to let his attitude get to you.

“You’ve been at this for a while,” you begin, as calm as you can manage. “We have a limited selection and there are other customers who may be wanting to try this kit.”

His eyes narrow, clearly unimpressed.

“So?” he drawls, waving the drumsticks lazily, like your request is beneath him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you press your lips together in protest. Stay professional, you remind yourself. Shifting your weight slightly, you square your shoulders and look him directly in the eyes.

“So,” you continue, voice firmer this time, “store policy is thirty minutes per instrument. You’ve been playing for over an hour.”

A low, sarcastic laugh bubbles from his chest, the sound filled with mockery as he tilts his head back slightly.

“And… what are you gonna do about it?” leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees like he's settling for a show—eyes glimmering with amusement as his lips curl into a smirk. “Throw me out?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek—every fiber of your being is itching to knock this guy down a peg.

Ugh. What a tool.

The condescension in his voice grates on you like sandpaper, but you force yourself to stay composed.

“Look���store policy is pretty clear,” you reply evenly, nodding towards the sign behind the counter. “You either give someone else a turn, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Your words seem to pique his interest—his smirk widens, eyes flicking over you slowly, appraisingly. Suddenly you’re more interesting to him than this drum set. He pushes himself off the stool in a slow, deliberate movement, and you hold your breath the moment he towers over you.

He’s by no means, a small guy.

The light behind him is blocked from his broad shoulders, and there’s a new edge to his gaze now. The moment he invades your space, it is just a little too close for comfort.

“Oh yeah?” your stomach turns from the low suggestive timber of his voice, “And what if I don’t feel like leaving, sweetheart? You gonna make me?”

Ick.

This guy might take the cake for being the most difficult prick you’ve had to deal with here, and that’s saying something. Working in this music shop, you’ve come across a lot of full of themselves wannabees, praising themselves like the next big thing—acting like God’s gift to music when all they want to play over and over again is ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ and ‘Wonderwall.’

A surge of discomfort ripples through your body, but you stand your ground. You know how this goes—he wants a reaction, and you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

“Look dude, I’m not asking,” your tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. “This is your last warning”

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, and a low whistle escapes his lips, as if he’s impressed—but it’s the kind of faux admiration that makes your skin crawl.

“You’re a tough one, huh?” he muses, chuckling softly.

Leaning in, the heat of his breath brushes against your skin as he invades your space once again—far too close for comfort—and you feel his gaze sweep over you slowly, lingering in a way that feels slimy and unwelcome.

“I like a girl with a little fire,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “It always makes things more fun.”

Gross.

Your hands curl into fists by your sides and you fight the urge to recoil as a surge of revulsion twists through you like a knife.

But before you can respond—before you even have the chance to formulate the sharp retort already forming on your tongue—the air shifts and a new voice cuts in.

“Wow, did I just walk in on the world’s worst pickup line, or are we about to throw hands over a drum kit?”

Turning your head towards the source of the voice, your eyes land on a tall figure standing a few feet away—his hair is a striking shade of snowy white, messy and untamed, falling in tousled strands that almost brush against the black sunglasses obscuring his eyes, and even with his face partially hidden, there’s no mistaking the mischievous glint tugging at the corners of his mouth—like he’s watching the scene unfold for his own amusement.

Despite the casual nature of his appearance—jeans slung low, a loose-fitting hoodie—there’s something undeniably striking about him. It’s the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it

Who the hell is this guy?

Clearly irritated by the interruption, the drummer straightens up—his smirk faltering as he sizes up the newcomer.

“This doesn’t concern you, man,” he growls, tight with irritation. “I’m just having a little conversation with her.”

The snowy stranger’s grin turns sharp, though his voice remains light.

“Yeeeah, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” he steps up beside you, and without hesitation, his arm slips around your waist, pulling you smoothly into his side like you’ve always belonged there. “Everything concerning her concerns me.”

Your heart skips a beat, caught off guard by the sudden, possessive gesture. Part of you bristles at the boldness, but another part… feels oddly safe in his grasp—like he’s been by your side forever.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere as the drummer's eyes narrow—like the balance of power has tipped—the presence of this stranger throwing him off.

“Oh really? And just who the hell are you?” he snaps.

Your mysterious stranger doesn’t miss a beat—he chuckles softly, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—brilliant, vivid blue, and gleaming with a spark that teeters between playful and dangerous. It’s the kind of look that makes your heart flip.

“Oh, me?” he feigns innocence with a nonchalant shrug, like this whole thing is just mildly amusing to him. “I’m nobody special.”

Sliding his sunglasses back into place, he casually pulls you in a bit closer, and you are met with the warmth of his body as he leans into you just slightly.

“Just here to make sure my girl doesn’t have to deal with assholes. Y’know how it is.”

Your mind scrambles to catch up.

Your girl? You blink, heat rushing to your cheeks as the words rolling off his tongue begin to register. You barely know this guy—hell, you don’t know him at all—and yet here he is, acting like the two of you are something.

But…maybe it’s working? Because the drummer’s eyes narrow further, his expression twisting as a furrow darkens over his features. Ah…but then you realize he’s not focused on the claim your stranger just made—no, his attention is locked on a different word entirely.

“Asshole?” he echoes, voice rising with indignation, practically spitting the word back. Clenching his fists, he steps forward with a scowl twisting upon you face. “You calling me an asshole?”

“Well, yeah,” your stranger remarks casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He shrugs again, utterly unfazed by the tension mounting between them. “When the shoe fits…I mean, you’re acting like one, aren’t you?”

Pure rage flashes across the drummer’s face, and you can visibly see his fists trembling slightly.

Uhh… on second thought, is this guy even helping?

Now you’re not so sure if your so-called rescuer is making things better or worse, because clearly, the drummer is on the verge of snapping.

“You better watch your mouth man,” the drummer snarls, fury simmering beneath the surface.

But the stranger’s grin only widens, and he exudes a confidence that makes it clear he’s not worried in the slightest.

“Heh. That’s a warning I get a lot,” he muses, tilting his head slightly. “But y’know what? I don’t usually listen.”

It's a wonder the drumsticks the drummer is fisting haven't cracked under pressure, given how tightly he clenches them—his knuckles turn white.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he growls through gritted teeth.

A low hum rumbles against your strangers’ lips as he ponders the question thoughtfully.

“I mean, I’ve been told I’m pretty hilarious,” he scratches the back of his head, like he’s seriously considering the statement, then, glancing at you, his eyes gleam with amusement as his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose slightly.

“Whatcha think babe? Am I funny?”

The question—and that pet name—catches you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

But the drummer isn’t interested in the little game your stranger seems to be playing. His jaw clenches—teeth grinding audibly as his face hardens into something feral.

“I’m about two seconds away from wiping that stupid grin off your face,” he spits, taking another aggressive step forward.

Fucking hell, is a fight really about to break out at your work?

Your pulse quickens, and for a split second, you think he might actually swing at him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the stranger says, still grinning like none of this phases him.

He releases his hold on your waist and steps forward with a smooth, almost lazy movement, placing himself between you and the drummer. His hands slip casually into his pockets, posture relaxed, but the air around him shifts.

“Let’s pump the brakes, big guy,” he tilts his head slightly, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. “You’re welcome to try. But I’ll tell ya right now—” his teasing lilt diminishes, replaced by something colder, more commanding, “you’re not gonna like how it ends.”

His words—a warning and a challenge wrapped in one—hang heavy, and for a moment it feels like the entire store is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. Glancing around, you notice a few customers watching the scene unfold.

Fucking hell—this has gone from bad to worse.

And yet…the drummer doesn’t swing. He doesn’t move—doesn’t even flinch.

He’s seething—rage evident in the set of his jaw, the clenched fists at his sides—but something about the stranger’s calm, unwavering demeanor is throwing him off balance. It’s almost impressive, really.

No, scratch that—it is impressive.

You misjudged this guy. He might have walked in here like a cocky troublemaker, throwing out cheesy one-liners and pushing your buttons, but now? Now, he’s cool under pressure, defusing a situation that could’ve easily escalated into violence.

Body language often says more than words ever could, and his is completely in control—relaxed, hands in his pockets, not a single muscle tensed for a fight, yet there’s a sharpness beneath the surface—an unspoken control that demands attention.

It’s brilliant in a way. He’s defusing the threat without lifting a finger—a textbook example of how to manage tension without aggression. This guy is winning a psychological game the drummer doesn’t even realize he’s playing.

Their silent standoff stretches, until finally, the stranger breaks the silence with his smooth and almost disarmingly casual voice.

“Look, man,” he shrugs one shoulder with a nonchalance that seems almost practiced. “This is me giving you a chance to walk away with your dignity intact.” Tilting his head slightly, he gestures toward you with a subtle nod. “She asked you politely to stop. This is a store, not your personal garage. So maybe it’s time you pack it up and go before you make things worse.”

There’s a moment—a pause that feels like it stretches just a beat too long—where you can practically see the drummer’s gears turning in his head, weighing his options, trying to hold onto whatever’s left of his bravado.

Then, finally, he mutters through gritted teeth,

“Whatever.”

The word is spat out, dripping with frustration and barely-contained rage, and with a sharp movement, he tosses the drumsticks onto the kit—the wooden sticks clattering against the drums in a final act of defiance.

“You’re not worth it, and this place sucks anyway,” he mutters, full of aggravation, but his heart no longer in it—it’s clear his fight has deflated.

Turning sharply on his heel, he shoves past both you and the stranger with a forceful shoulder, storming toward the exit, and once the door slams shut behind him, the sound reverberates through the store with an unmistakable finality.

Just like that, the tension breaks. It’s like the whole store exhales at once—the weight lifting from the air as the distant murmur of customers resumes.

Before you can fully process what just happened, the stranger beside you turns his attention back to you.

“Well, that was fun,” he remarks, “Could’ve gone worse though. I mean, I didn’t even get to throw a punch. Talk about anti-climactic, huh?”

You barely manage to take a breath as he closes the space between you just a little more, his movements slow and intentional, and your heart flutters the moment his sunglasses slip down slightly, just enough for you to get a direct glimpse of his eyes. They lock onto yours—those bright, vivid blues—and for a second, everything else around you fades into the background.

“Seriously though,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You okay?”

There’s something undeniably genuine in his tone, something that cuts through the playful exterior and lands right in your chest. You weren’t expecting that—this tenderness from someone who moments ago had brushed off a near-fight like it was nothing.

His eyes—soft but still burning with intensity—hold yours captive, and for a second, you forget how to speak.

“Uh… yeah,” you manage, “I think so.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Because I think you owe me a ‘thank you’ for that stellar rescue.”

You blink out of incredulity.

Thank you?

So much for tender—who does this guy think he is? You nearly scoff aloud. He wants a 'thank you' for a rescue that, truthfully, you weren’t even sure you needed?

Unsure whether you’re amused or annoyed by his arrogance, you open your mouth to respond—but before you can say anything, he cuts you off with a wink.

“Kidding,” he says with a chuckle, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Always happy to help.” His hands settle into his pockets and he pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Especially when it means I get to rescue a pretty girl like you.”

The compliment lands harder than you’d care to admit as you feel the warmth creeping up your neck and into your cheeks—betraying the fact that—against your better judgment—you’re not entirely immune to his charm.

A flicker of something stirs in your chest…

—nope. Let’s not go there.

Pushing it down before it can grow into something more, you refuse to let that feeling root itself.

You’re not looking for attention, especially not from a guy like this—a guy who flashes a cocky grin like he knows it works. The kind of guy who acts like the world bends to his whims.

Romance? No thanks. You’ve got bigger things to focus on. He’s exactly the kind of distraction you don’t need.

“Rescue might be a strong word,” you mutter, finally finding your voice again as you cross your arms over your chest. “I had it under control… mostly.”

“Oh, you did? My bad,” leaning in slightly, his voice lowers as if sharing a secret. “But trust me, that guy? He was one wrong word away from turning this into a full-on disaster. You’re lucky I stepped in when I did.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his comment, refusing to let him rattle you this time, and there’s a flicker of amusement creeping into your voice as you challenge him.

“Lucky, huh? So, what now? You expecting a medal or something?”

His grin widens—a grin that’s undeniably magnetic, but you resist being pulled into its orbit.

“Naaaah, I’m not that high maintenance,” straightening himself, he regards you with a slight tilt of the head. “But… I’ll take a coffee if you’re offering.”

You blink, momentarily thrown off by his response.

Did he just… ask you out?

“Wait, what?” you stammer, not quite sure you heard him right.

“A coffee,” he repeats smoothly. “Y’know, like a reward for my heroic efforts.” He pauses, just long enough to make it clear he’s toying with you. “Or is that too forward? I can settle for your number instead.”

You can’t help the scoff that escapes your lips—a sharp exhale that’s part disbelief, part amusement. This guy is unbelievable.

Nope. You’re not going to let him get to you that easily.

“I don’t even know your name,” you shoot back, lifting your chin just a little higher, “and you’re already angling for a reward?”

“Ouch, y/n,” he replies, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if you’ve wounded him deeply—his grin, however, never falters. “That stings.”

You stare at him, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“How do you…?”

“How do I know your name?” he finishes for you, clearly enjoying this a little too much. He tilts his head. “Well, for starters, your nametag.”

Oh.

You glance down quickly and—of course—there it is, printed neatly on the tag pinned to your shirt, and now you are mentally kicking yourself for not realizing sooner.

“Right… of course,” you shake your head in mild embarrassment. It’s infuriating how easily he’s messing with you.

An amused chuckle dances on his lips and he leans back ever so slightly—hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world.

“But that’s not the only reason I know you,” he adds, voice taking on a more playful tone, almost like he’s daring you to figure it out. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

You blink, trying to piece together where you might’ve seen him before. There’s something vaguely familiar about his voice…have you heard it before? Do you know him?

“I don’t…” you start, trailing off, searching for any spark of recognition, but you come up blank. “Uhh… should I?”

Flashing you a toothy smile, he's clearly delighted by your confusion.

“Ouch again. Double whammy,” with a dramatic sigh, he shakes his head in mock disappointment as his crooked grin curves up. “I guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”

Your eyebrow quirks up at his theatrics, and despite yourself, the corner of your lips do too. Ugh. You want to be irritated with him but somehow, he makes it incredibly hard to be.

“Right… well,” tilting your head, your voice dips with playful sarcasm, “maybe if you told me your name, it might jog my memory?”

With a soft chuckle, he slides his sunglasses off and rests them on top of his head, and just like that, you’re greeted with the full, unobstructed view of his eyes—striking, electric blue, so vivid they almost don’t seem real, and they lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a flutter through your chest.

“Satoru,” he says smoothly, as if his name alone should be enough to make everything click. “Gojo Satoru.”

The name floats in your mind, like it’s circling around something, but still, nothing concrete surfaces. He seems so confident—so sure that you should know who he is—and it only adds to your frustration.

Do you know him?

Generally, you keep to yourself, both at work and on campus—with your moms condition you don’t really have time for the exciting college life. Tilting your head, your eyes narrow as you study his face—surely, you would have remembered someone like him... wouldn’t you?

“Gojo Satoru…” you test the name on your tongue as if saying it aloud might unlock some hidden memory. But still—nothing. “Sorry, not ringing any bells.”

Satoru laughs again, rich and unbothered, like this is the highlight of his day.

“Wow, I’m really striking out today,” he shakes his head in mock dismay. “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Before you can muster a response, he reaches out casually, plucking a pair of drumsticks from an endcap display nearby, twirling them between his fingers like it’s second nature. He examines them for a moment, then looks back at you with a raised brow.

“So, since we’re here and I’m feeling generous… how about you check me out?”

You glance down at the drumsticks in his hand, then back up at him—his expression is unreadable, that signature smirk lingering as if he’s waiting for you to catch up.

“...you mean ring up the drumsticks, right?” you clarify, though your voice is uncertain.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” he murmurs, and then, with a sly wink, he adds, “But I don’t mind if you do both.”

For a beat, your breath hitches, and you fight back the urge to roll your eyes.

Okay—this is guy is definitely a flirt. You’re not falling for his trap.

“Wow… you’re really not subtle, are you?” reaching out, you snatch the drumsticks from his hand. “How many women actually fall for that?” you turn on your heel towards the counter, and he follows in step.

“Hmm…I’m not exactly keeping score,” he admits. “But let’s just say I don’t hear too many complaints.”

Glancing back at him, you arch an eyebrow as you approach the register—fingers automatically moving to unlock your cash drawer, and he leans casually against the counter beside you, propping his elbow on it—like he owns the space.

“Will say though,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “I don’t usually have to try this hard. You’re pretty special.”

You scoff, your fingers hesitating slightly over the keys, though you refuse to let him see how his words make a tiny flutter bloom in your chest.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter under your breath, trying—and failing—to focus solely on the transaction.

Satoru hums, watching you with that same playful gleam in his eyes.

“Nah,” his tone drops to something almost conspiratorial, “you’re definitely one of a kind.”

Yup. He’s a smooth talker—and without a doubt, bad news.

Pressing your lips together, you force your gaze to remain on the screen in front of you. He’s playing a game, and you’re determined not to lose.

As you scan the barcode on the drumsticks, he casually pulls out his wallet to pay, and that’s when something catches your eye—a student ID peeking out from the clear pocket inside his wallet.

Narrowing your eyes slightly, your fingers hover mid-air as you get a better look. The ID is familiar—yet you can't make out the school’s name plastered right across it, but the logo and the colors are unmistakable.

Wait a second…

“We go to the same school?”

Satoru looks up, his grin stretching even wider and the glimmer in his eyes practically daring you to catch up—he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Took ya long enough,” he teases, playful but with a hint of smugness. “Yeah, we do.”

You blink, the pieces clicking together a little too late.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you demand, unable to stop the half-accusatory, half-embarrassed tone that underlines your voice. A groan slips past your lips and you shake your head in frustration. “I swear…you’ve been messing with me this whole time.”

With an amused chuckles, Satoru lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.

“Hey, it’s more fun this way,” he leans in a little closer, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. “Besides,” he pauses, tilting his head just slightly while his lips curve into a sly grin. “I like watching you piece things together. You’ve got this cute little furrow in your brow when you’re thinking hard.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your breath hitch, and no matter how hard you resist, there’s that undeniable flutter in your chest, warm and unwanted.

“How come I’ve never seen you around?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation back onto safer ground.

“Oof. You’re killing me, y/n. I pass by you every day, actually.”

You frown, narrowing your eyes.

“Every day? Where?”

“The water fountain,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers on the counter rhythmically, just a light touch. “Y’know, where you sit and study. Every afternoon, without fail. I walk by almost every day.”

Ah. That’s why his voice must’ve sounded familiar. You probably heard him—another voice blending into the background while you were studying.

“Really? Guess I never noticed you.”

Resting his chin in his hand, a dramatic huff falls from Satoru's lips as they form into a pout.

“Jeez…you don’t quit. I can’t believe I’m that forgettable.”

You can’t resist the soft laugh that escapes you, despite yourself—it’s hard not to find his antics at least a little amusing, and though you’d never admit it, the way he’s so desperate for your attention is almost… cute.

“Maybe you just blend into the background too much,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow while extending your hand, silently gesturing for his payment.

“Ouch...” he winces dramatically, pulling out his card before placing it in your hand. “Okay, that one stung a little.”

“Yeah, well… I’m sure your ego will recover,” you quip, glancing up briefly before focusing back on the transaction. But there’s a brief pause as you swipe his card—a silence that suddenly feels charged with something else.

You can feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy and expectant, and you try your hardest not to give in to the pull to look at him again—but the heat of his attention is unmistakable, almost like a gravitational force pulling you in, and you can feel your pulse quicken under his scrutiny.

“I gotta say, you’ve got a sharp tongue—I like it,” he murmurs.

Your fingers freeze for just a second, your breath hitching slightly as his tone shifts, and you can’t resist—your eyes flick up and he holds your gaze captive yet again.

“But it’s a bad habit, y’know,” he continues, his voice dropping, growing more intent as his eyes flicker over your features. “Not being aware of your surroundings like that...” leaning in just a fraction, his words become a quiet murmur between the two of you. “What if some creep tried to take advantage of you?”

The gentleness in his demeanor… is he genuinely concerned? It’s hard to tell—harder than you’d like to admit—and it’s easier to convince yourself he isn’t—that this is all part of his charming routine, because that makes it easier to ignore the subtle pull he has on you.

“Well,” you keep your voice steady, despite the flutter in your chest, “lucky for me, no one’s tried. Unless…” tilting your head slightly, a teasing smirk tugs at your lips, “you’re secretly admitting to being a creep.”

Satoru’s laugh spills out, rich and warm, breaking the moment just enough for you to catch your breath.

“Nah, I’m not creep,” his voice lightens as he straightens up just a little. “Just a concerned citizen looking out for someone who’s too absorbed in her textbooks to notice the world around her.”

You huff, though the corners of your mouth twitch upward against your will.

“I can handle myself, thank you very much,” you quip back, determined to maintain control over the situation. In a quick, defiant motion, you grab the receipt and shove it into his hand, a small victorious gesture.

“Right, right. You definitely proved that today when I swooped in for the rescue,” he teases, and his hand brushes yours ever so briefly as he takes the receipt—a touch so light is sends a tiny spark up your arm. “But hey, what if you don’t show up at the fountain one day? I’m gonna have to file a missing person’s report.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“A missing person’s report? Seriously?” you roll your eyes.

“Yup,” he grins, emphasizing the ‘p’. “You’re there so often it’s practically routine. Same spot. Same time. Every day. It’s kinda predictable, y/n. If I don’t see you there one day, I’ll just assume some creep finally got to you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, though you can’t help the faint heat rising in your cheeks.

“Predictable?” you retort, trying to sound indignant. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you are,” he counters, clearly reveling in your reaction as he slips the receipt in his pocket. “But hey, that’s not a bad thing. It makes you easier to find if you ever disappear.”

Shaking your head, you roll your eyes, a snappy reply ready on your tongue, but he’s already raising his hands with a dramatic flair, like he’s about to paint the scene in vivid detail.

“I can see it now: ‘Missing: Cute girl who spends way too much time by the water fountain. Last seen buried in a psychology textbook. Answers to y/n.’”

It’s impossible not to laugh again, the sound bubbling up as you watch him weave his ridiculous scenario with such confidence and flair. His eyes flick to yours, and a satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his mouth—clearly pleased with the effect he’s having on you.

“Wow,” you manage between chuckles. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Mhm,” he hums in agreement, leaning slightly closer. “Gotta be prepared. I don’t want anything happening to my favorite water fountain girl.”

Your heart flips—and for a second, it feels like he’s given you some kind of title you didn’t realize you wanted. You try to brush it off, to ignore the warmth spreading across your cheeks, but it’s not so easy with the way he’s looking at you.

“Riiiight… well, lucky for you,” you manage, attempting to sound nonchalant, “I’m not planning on disappearing anytime soon.”

“Good,” he murmurs, low and smooth. “Because I’d miss seeing you.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the upper hand, though the small smile that tugs at your lips betrays you.

“Uh-huh. Sure you would.”

There’s a brief moment, just the two of you—his gaze still locked onto yours, when—

“Ahem.”

You jump slightly at the sound, turning to see Utahime standing beside you, arms crossed, a knowing smile pulling at the corner of her lips. She gives you a look—a very knowing look—that sends heat rushing to your cheeks all over again.

“I’m taking my break,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes dancing with mischief as they flick between you and Satoru. “So… don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

Suddenly hyper-aware of the tension in the air, you swallow hard and offer her a tight smile.

“No promises,” Satoru quips, that cocky grin returning to his face as he leans against the counter slightly—clearly unfazed by the interruption.

After Utahime saunters off, he continues smoothly, picking up right where he left off.

“So...” he starts again, “What do you say? How about you give me your number? Just in case I need it, y’know, for emergencies.”

He’s relentless, isn’t he?

Heat creeps up your neck as you blink from his boldness—with a soft, incredulous laugh, you desperately try to find your footing again.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

That familiar and confident gleam glistens in his eyes as his grin widens.

“Not when it comes to someone as interesting as you.”

There’s a flicker of something in your chest—a flutter that you’re quick to squash.

“Mmm… sorry,” you murmur, tone sweet but firm. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of disappointment. I’m really not interested in players.”

For the briefest moment, his grin falters, and something unreadable flashes behind his eyes—a momentary crack in his facade. It’s so quick, so subtle, that you almost miss it. But there’s just enough time to wonder if maybe you hit a nerve.

Still, Satoru recovers in an instant, his playful charm sliding back into place like nothing happened.

“That’s cold, y/n,” his voice light and teasing, though there’s a trace of something deeper, almost wounded, lurking beneath. “You really think I’m that kind of guy?”

Tilting your head slightly, you cross your arms over your chest as you study him—gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Yeah, well, I’ve met enough guys like you to know how this works.”

With a soft chuckle, and a smooth, almost lazy motion, he lowers his sunglasses from where they’re perched atop his head—resting them back on the bridge of his nose as the dark lenses now obscure his eyes from you.

He’s hiding behind them—letting them do the work of shielding his real thoughts. Huh. Typical behavior for someone who enjoys the chase but avoids real vulnerability.

“You’re quick to judge. I’m just a guy who knows what he wants. And right now? I just want your number.”

Classic deflection—you think. He’s not even denying it. Still... something about the way he says it makes that familiar flutter stir in your chest, and you hate it.

“Yeah... that’s not happening,” crossing your arms more tightly, you try to maintain control of the situation.

His hands come up in mock surrender as a small, amused sigh slips from his lips.

“Bummer,” he concedes, though there’s no real disappointment in his tone, only amusement. “But hey,” he picks up the drumsticks from the counter, “offer’s on the table if you ever change your mind.”

“Right... I’ll keep that in mind,” you dryly reply, knowing full well that you won’t.

“Please do,” he shoots back with that infuriatingly confident grin. “Besides, I’ll be seeing you around, water fountain girl.”

The familiar nickname brings an unwanted warmth that you attempt to shake off.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Gojo.”

But Satoru just steps back toward the door, exuding that same unshakeable confidence. “Oh, I’m not worried,” he says with a cocky smirk. “You’re predictable, remember? I know exactly where to find you.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire back with something witty, but before you can, he’s already halfway out the door, twirling the drumsticks between his fingers with effortless ease.

“See ya around, y/n,” he calls over his shoulder, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft jingle before you even have a chance to respond.

And just like that, the store feels quiet again, as if the air shifted back to normal now that he’s gone. You stand there for a moment, blinking at the closed door. You should feel relieved that he’s gone, that the exchange is over, but instead, you’re left with this strange, restless feeling you can’t quite shake.

What the hell just happened?

Shaking your head, you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. There’s a part of you that’s frustrated—frustrated at how easily he slipped under your skin, how effortlessly he managed to unsettle you with nothing but a grin and a few flirtatious remarks.

You hate that you’re even thinking about it. About him. He’s just another guy with too much confidence for his own good.

But something about the brief crack in his facade sticks with you. That fleeting moment where his grin faltered, and something else—something almost vulnerable—flickered behind those cocky blue eyes.

What was that?

With another shake of your head, you push the thought aside. He’s a flirt. A player. The kind of guy who never takes anything seriously.

That’s all there is to it.

You don’t have time to psychoanalyze every flippant guy who crosses your path, even if there’s a part of you that’s still curious.

Just as you’re about to shake off the thoughts entirely, your phone buzzes in your pocket, snapping you out of your daze. You pull it out, glancing down at the screen.

Kyoko: Hey sweetie, just wanted to let you know your mom's been having a rough day today. She’s more confused than usual, keeps asking for you. Maybe you could visit soon?”

Reality crashes back in—grounding you in the weight of your responsibilities.

With a sigh, you run a hand through your hair, already mentally preparing yourself for the evening ahead.

You: Thanks for the update, Aunt Kyoko. My shift is almost over, I’ll be home soon.

Focus. There’s no room for distractions—not right now.

Not with Satoru Gojo. Not with anyone.

a/n. thanks for reading the debut of bomh (or i guess the re-debut since this is a rewrite? hehe). i'm excited to explore a lot of topics in this fic, and rewriting it definitely helped rekindle my passion for this story. so, i'm looking forward with whats to come! hope ya'll enjoyed 💕 → you are currently all caught up ♪

taglist:

@gojoslefttoenail @satoryaa @ninjaturtletoes @murtabuckz @sorcerersseestars

@reagan707 @sakurasimppp @sugxryratz @tkyemfk @lovelyjkook

@lovebittenbyevans @kaemaybae @bloopsstuff

[levshany]

Tandem, this is an AU in which the Collector possesses Philip, and there are a lot of things happening afterwards. but now we’ll just retell how it basically started

@angstyhikka drew a couple of arts and helped me with coloring

This is an alternative development of events after the ending of the fanfic “At The Dawn of The Light” (it's not finished yet, but there is already an AU from the ending, yes). The idea belongs to @lasymit, and I (Lev) picked it up :3

Before King's Tide, all events take place according to canon. And then the following changes occur: the witches capture Philip and lock him in a cave in the Titan's skull. The draining spell is stopped without the help of the Collector, but he himself is not found. His mirror remains lying at the bottom of the pit.

For 10 years, Philip was under a sleeping spell. Everything would be fine, but when the Hexside squad wakes up Philip to make him help them with one super important problem, not only does he become mischievous but he also has problems in his head now. Luz and the team think that Philip is manipulating them (you can't blame them for this, Philip is Philip, even with a leaky memory and a leaking roof, he manages to be such an asshole), and therefore they torture him to force him to cooperate with them.

While Philip was sleeping, a cozy corner appeared in his head, in which there was nothing but a green hill, a small house and an apple tree. There, Philip, in his child form, lives with Caleb, who is a figment of his sick mind. During his 10 years in this mindscape, Philip convinced himself that this was reality. And the Boiling Isles, the cave and the witches who torture him are an endless nightmare. Because, on the Boiling Isles, he sometimes remembers that he killed his brother. But this simply cannot be reality.

At some point, Luz and Hunter realize that Philip is not pretending that he is seriously ill and no matter how much he denies it, he needs help, and they soften towards him somewhat. Although both have rather mixed feelings towards their dementia grandpa.

Even in the moments when Philip remembers himself fully enough, his attitude towards the Boiling Isles, Luz, Hunter and even his own mission has changed greatly in any case. He no longer cares about the destruction of witches and revenge for his brother. Philip is tired. Deadly tired. All he wants to do is sleep. He slept for ten years, and this was perhaps the first time in decades of his life that he felt peace and happiness.

While he is in this state, it happens that he encounter the Collector. This is a difficult meeting for both of them, but it all ends with the forgiveness of all grievances. They both don't want to lose each other now. The collector is still locked in the disk, but Philip has the opportunity to let his friend into his subconscious. Seeing the deplorable state of Philip's mind, he decides that he must help - after all, Philip is still his only friend. Collie asks Philip not to go to "sleep" forever, but Philip replies that he has no joy in waking up here. All he dreams of is never returning to the world of the Boiling Islands. The collector, frightened that his only friend is about to leave him, possesses Philip and promises him that he will get them both out of this nightmare.

This is how Tandem's story begins

a huge amount of detail has been omitted to avoid spoilers for "The Dawn". if you wanna learn more go check the fanfic *wink wink*

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 10: porch swing

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

You visited your mother frequently at the sanatorium, as it had been a tough blow to accept that you had to make a life without her. Senile dementia, they said, likely caused by a combination of other illnesses, but that was what it was in the end.

You tried to spend as much time as possible during those visits because, even though you knew she was better cared for there, you didn’t want her to think you had abandoned her. Fortunately (in some way), your mother had found an old friend there, none other than Mrs. Diana Reid. It had been years since you’d seen her, and you felt guilty thinking about how poorly you and her son had communicated, to the point that you never knew her schizophrenia had escalated to the extent that she had to be placed there.

The two elderly women had their good and bad days, but overall, your mother enjoyed the literature workshops Diana taught, and Diana, in turn, loved watching your mother knit. She had even learned to make a few things, including a purple scarf meant for her son, whom you hadn’t seen there even once since your mother began living there.

Diana often talked to you about him, telling you things he mentioned in his letters, and all you could do was feel touched. Once upon a time, when the world was simpler and you were younger, you had a bit of a soft spot for the boy, without realizing that what you felt was called love. It was a childish thing, even silly, you could say, but you often found yourself smiling when you thought of him, and you never wanted to spend the day with anyone else, making him stay at your house until late at night, ending in a sleepover.

You had always been more daring and carefree, so you often showed up with new cuts and bruises. He, so calm and proper, always tried to dissuade you from your impulsive plans, but in the end, he joined in, claiming he only did it to look after you. Climbing trees, hunting for bugs, and looking for trouble were the things your childhood was filled with. And for a sickly, fearful boy like Spencer, those adventures were incredible experiences.

One of those weekends when you could visit your mother, you noticed that you couldn’t see Diana anywhere. You assumed she was in a consultation or busy with other activities, but after a couple of hours without any sign of her, you started to worry.

“Excuse me, is Mrs. Reid okay?” you hoped she hadn’t had any health complications or suffered any incident. “I just… I haven’t seen her today.”

“Diana? Apparently, her son requested permission to transfer her to stay with him a few days ago. But as far as I know, she’s fine, miss.”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” you replied with relief. “I was afraid she had gotten worse. My mother and she are friends, so I was worried. About both of them, of course.”

“Don’t worry, she’s in good hands,” the nurse reassured you, slightly moved by your concern. “Has your mother been improving?”

Following that question, the two of you started chatting, and the matter of your mother’s friend was forgotten, at least for that day. Work and other activities kept your mind busy until your next visit to the sanatorium, nearly a week later. You decided to buy flowers for your mother so she could decorate the nightstand next to her bed, along with some pastries to share.

However, it was a huge surprise when you arrived at the courtyard area (where the nurse had told you she was) and saw her sitting at one of the tables, accompanied by Diana Reid and another person you could only see from behind—a head of messy, golden hair.

A strange feeling grew as you approached, one you couldn’t identify until you heard the voice of the stranger. It had become deeper, of course, but it was still the same voice.

“Spencer?”

The man nearly fell out of his chair when he saw you, looking as pale as if he had seen a ghost and equally shocked by your appearance. You thought it was probably silly of him to think he wouldn’t run into you there, but you still found it endearing. His features had definitely changed, making him more of a man and less of the shy boy you had known.

“My dear!” your mother murmured, visibly excited. “Look who came to visit.”

He wasted no time, standing up fully and wrapping you in a happy hug. At first, he feared you might pull away from the contact, but that fear disappeared when you enthusiastically returned the greeting.

“I’m so happy to see you!”

“Me too! My mom and your mom have been keeping me up to date,” he laughed playfully. His body felt so soft against yours, giving you an inexplicable sense of security.

When you pulled away, you couldn’t help but notice that your mother and Mrs. Reid were looking at each other with complicity, as if they were hiding a secret.

“I brought, uh… something to eat. We can share it.”

Spencer found another chair and placed it next to him so you could sit down, inviting you into the conversation he had been having with the women, which you found fascinating. Every now and then, you would discreetly glance at him and try to get him to talk as much as possible. Although you already knew some things from Diana, chatting with your old friend felt refreshing.

It was uplifting to see both women so calm, and the extra company was so pleasant that the hours passed by like minutes. The afternoon had already turned into evening when you said your goodbyes to your mothers, and as you walked out of the sanatorium, you and Spencer stood there looking at each other for a moment.

Without Diana or your mother there, you both seemed too shy to start speaking, unsure of what to say.

"Did you come by car?"

“No, I was planning on calling a cab to get to the airport.”

“Oh, are you leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, I was thinking of heading back today. I mean… I didn’t expect to see anyone, so…”

“I completely understand! Don’t worry. You probably have other commitments, I don’t want to take up your time.”

“No, actually I bought a ticket for an open flight. So I can take it whenever I want.”

That information carried an implicit invitation, discreet enough that if you squinted, you might miss it, and you didn’t hesitate for a second before speaking.

“You could come over to my place, if you want. Have a drink, dinner, or whatever you’d like. You know, for old times’ sake.”

He immediately smiled, pleased that you had invited him, as he didn’t want to be presumptuous by suggesting spending more time together. After all, he didn’t know if you were as excited about seeing each other as he was.

Spencer happily accepted, and then you guided him to your car, where you set off. You had tried to find a sanatorium close to your house, in case of an emergency, so it only took a few minutes to arrive.

The house, still very familiar to Spencer, was where your mother, your late father, and you had lived most of your life. Now, it looked renewed, as if you had recently painted it, exuding that feeling of nostalgia and warmth.

“It’s still there,” Spencer noted as he glanced at the porch.

Many years ago, when you were children, during the summer heat, you loved sitting on the wooden swing there to eat ice cream in amounts that were probably unhealthy for kids. Apparently, this memory was a fond one for your friend, as he smiled at the sight.

“A while back, we hired someone to varnish and reinforce it. So I guess we could sit here. Like before, huh?”

“Sure,” he murmured, excited by the idea.

You went inside, and once you set down your things, you headed to the fridge to take out some cheese, cold cuts, and crackers you had recently bought, all to pair with a bottle of wine you had been gifted for your birthday.

“I don’t like drinking alone,” you confessed as he helped you carry the tray of food “It depresses me.”

You heard him chuckle as the two of you stepped outside. Night had already fallen over the city, so you turned on the soft, warm light that illuminated the porch and took a seat, with him joining you soon after.

For a moment, once again, neither of you knew what to say. You simply swayed slightly, as if trying to make an idea come to mind, but you decided the best way to break the silence was to pour a couple of glasses. After a while, the wine seemed to make everything lighter, and the two of you began to talk about whatever came to mind.

It was an intimate conversation, almost in whispers, and at one point, you made a silly joke that caused your bodies to lean toward each other by instinct. Your cheeks were already flushed from the wine, not enough to make you lose consciousness but enough to give you a feeling of lightness and confidence.

“Can I confess something?” you suddenly said, your mouth moving faster than your brain.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“When I was a kid…” you began, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. But after a second of silence, it no longer seemed like such a good idea. “You know what? Forget it. It’s absurd.”

“No! Tell me,” he urged, thinking you were about to share some kind of embarrassing secret.

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“But promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“I won’t,” he insisted, smiling at you sweetly and giving your arm a gentle squeeze, as if encouraging you. “Tell me.”

You inhaled, then exhaled. And before you could second-guess yourself, the words spilled out.

“Well, years ago, when we were friends… I mean, I guess we’re still friends, but… I don’t know, I had this huge crush on you. I thought you were so cute and sweet with your big glasses and protective attitude. You never said no to me,” you sighed, reminiscing. “And it’s funny now, I think. To think that I was in love with you when we were kids.”

Reid just watched you, like he would study a puzzle he didn’t quite understand. He seemed… confused? You hoped he wasn’t mad, of course. And suddenly, you felt foolish for having brought it up, thinking you had completely ruined the atmosphere, making it tense and awkward.

Still, you said nothing. You were embarrassed, but at least your consolation was that Spencer wouldn’t be there the next morning to face the consequences.

“Are you kidding?”

“Why would I joke about that?” you exclaimed, hurt when he finally decided to speak. You weren’t looking at him. “It’s just a childish thing, Spencer. I thought it would be funny, but I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It’s just something silly, okay? Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

“Were you really in love with me?” he asked, incredulous at the idea and ignoring what you had just said.

“Yes! But like I said, it was years ago…”

“Oh,” he exhaled, sounding almost disappointed. That’s when you looked at him, and it wasn’t hard for you to read him: he was nervous. “Yeah, I guess that was a long time ago, right? We haven’t seen each other in years and… yeah, you’re right. It’s funny.”

There was something off in his words. He sounded deflated, more like some illusion had been broken rather than being upset by what you had said.

Maybe it was the alcohol clouding your judgment, maybe it was the way his hands were fidgeting in his lap, or perhaps even the sad expression that had appeared on his face, but suddenly everything about him seemed to scream one thing. It was as if he were calling out to you, saying: kiss me.

And, impulsively, you did.

It would have been wise to stop after the first kiss, just to check if he was comfortable with it and that you weren’t overstepping. But you didn’t have the willpower to stop. You needed to kiss Spencer.

You kissed him again, and then again, and it wasn’t until that moment that he seemed to snap out of the shock he was in, returning the kiss passionately. Suddenly, you were both completely swept up at the moment, feeling as if kissing each other was essential to moving forward; like it was something you should have been doing for years, not just right then.

“I’m sorry…” he exhaled suddenly, as his hand moved to your waist to pull you closer. “Is this okay?”

“It is,” you nodded immediately, feeling breathless. One of your hands went up to gently brush his hair back. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head, almost as if delirious. His eyes had closed, and he looked like he was suffering.

“You kissed me,” he murmured, as if he needed to say it out loud to believe it. “I feel like my heart’s going to burst out of my chest.”

Your fear vanished when you heard him say that, and encouraged by his reaction, you leaned in to kiss him again. However, after a few more kisses, he stopped you.

“Will you visit me?”

“Huh?”

“Will you visit me? When I go back to DC?”

His question puzzled you since you didn’t think it was something he’d ask in the middle of all that.

“I guess… yeah. If you want me there, I could visit someday.”

“You’re not just going to kiss me, and then we’ll forget this ever happened?”

“Do you want that?”

“No,” he sighed shakily. His thumb traced your lips gently as he held your face in his hand. “Do you want that?”

“No,” you replied in the same way, kissing him again.

Although you wanted to, you weren’t going to hint at anything more with your friend, and he thought it wasn’t proper to suggest anything either. So, for a while, you simply continued kissing each other, softly and slowly, as if wrapped in a bubble where time didn’t pass.

“The wine was delicious, by the way.”

“It tastes even better on your lips, I’m sure,” you whispered, lovesick. You kissed him again and then spoke against his lips. “I’m glad you came back.”

You felt him smile.

“Me too.”

[feminist-space]

"The 80-year-old communications engineer from Texas had saved for decades, driving around in an old car and buying clothes from thrift stores so he’d have enough money to enjoy his retirement years.

But as dementia robbed him of his reasoning abilities, he began making online political donations over and over again — eventually telling his son he believed he was part of a network of political operatives communicating with key Republican leaders.

In less than two years, the man became one of the country’s largest grassroots supporters of the Republican Party, ultimately giving away nearly half a million dollars to former President Donald Trump and other candidates. Now, the savings account he spent his whole life building is practically empty."

...

One 82-year-old woman, who wore pajamas with holes in them because she didn’t want to spend money on new ones, didn’t realize she had given Republicans more than $350,000 while living in a 1,000 square-foot Baltimore condo since 2020.

By the time a Taiwanese immigrant from California passed away from lung cancer this year at age 80, she had given away more than $180,000 to Trump’s campaign and a litany of other Republican candidates – writing letters to candidates apologizing for not getting donations to them on time because she was going into heart surgery. She had only $250 in her bank account when she died, leaving her family scrambling to cover the cost of her funeral.

And a 78-year-old, a widow who limited showers to save on her water bill and canceled her long-term care insurance, didn’t understand why the retirement savings her husband had left her was dwindling so quickly. After CNN reached out to her family, they learned that the woman gave more than $200,000 in donations to Democratic political groups and candidates.

...

Richard Benjamin, an 81-year-old from Arizona, believed he had been in personal communication with former president Trump through all the messages he was receiving.

At one point, he told his children the former president invited him to a luxurious reception at Mar-a-Lago. He had grown up on a farm and worried he would feel out of his element at such a fancy venue. But when he received what he described to his children as an invitation to be a VIP at a rally in Arizona, he was thrilled he would finally meet the former president himself. He started making travel plans and asking his sister-in-law if she would like to accompany him, since his wife had passed away in 2018.

Later, he told his son how angry he was that Donald Trump Jr. wouldn't call him back even though the former president’s son had sent Benjamin so many nice messages."

[chaifootsteps]

It is absolutely wild to me that ALL THE STANS KNEW about the fucking incident and the driver was that he had likely doxed the person earlier before and drunk drove a car into their family member's workplace in a brazen attempt to fucking KILL THEIR FAMILY MEMBER. Yet they IMMEDITATLY SIDED WITH THE FUCKING DRIVER AND CLAIMED IT WAS FAKE. They immediately made it about the "hatedom" and side with a drunk driver because he also liked their show. This is outright fucking pathetic and straight evil. Someone could've died, someone DID get hurt, property was damaged and they just straight up don't fucking care because they live their entire lives on twitter and don't even realize how serious this situation is. SOMEONE COULD'VE DIED. IF THEIR RELATIVE WAS IN THAT OFFICE THEY WOULD BE WITHOUT THEIR FAMILY MEMBER BECAUSE OF SOME MANCHILD GETTING BUTHURT OVER A FUCKING OPINION ON SOME SHOW. To the stans since I know yall stalk this account, you ain't slick with it dumbasses. What I wanna say to you guys is to keep your own words to yourself cause you all lack so much fucking basic empathy it's absurd. I hope you never know a moment of peace for the rest of your lives. Fuck You. (Side Note to DJ, learn how google works you dumb bitch. If you're googling "car crashes" without specifying location it's gonna pull up news specific to your area. Just cause it didn't happen near you doesn't mean it didn't happen at all, you're in your 30s and still use the internet like a dementia ridden grandparent)

And because DJ's trying to pivot to "Weeh, Chai's being nice to Anons asking for more information, which is all I did," that is most certainly not what the usual suspects did. They did what they always do and screamed about the hatedom and that dang, dirty Chai.

[whackk-kermitt]

No Place Like Home

Warning: Character Death, Grieving, PTSD, Fluff Summary: Derek came home, finally, he came home. Nearly ten whole years and he's finally back in Stiles’s arms. NOT PROOFREAD

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

Claudia Stilinski is the Hale pack emissary; Was. Stiles spent his weekends at the Hale house running along with the other kids, watching the wolves play and run around when he was too tired to keep up. As human as he was he never once felt left out among the wolves. Learning the roles and powers his friends have. The pack, while he was not technically one of them, had become his world.

He'd cling to Cora at school, talking and playing until Laura arrived with her care at the end of the day. The two would climb into the back seat, and he'd talk nonstop to her and Derek about their day on the drive. He'd arrive at the house with them and hang out until his mother came after work. She'd spend time with him and the pack until his father was on his way home, and they'd head home to meet him.

It was a routine that was so comfortable to him. Even as Laura and Derek entered their teen years, they never drifted from him and Cora. They were four peas in a pod.

They thought it was adorable how the human boy was so deeply woven into the pack that he, even sometimes subconsciously, behaved as though he was one. He had made a habit of touching and scenting everyone in the house, hugging and greeting them upon arrival and before his mom took him home. Derek was his favorite to hug, Derek felt right.

Maybe it was because they were the only boys at the house that they became so close, maybe it was because Stiles (still being young and not knowing the word to describe how the older boy made him feel) had the smallest crush on the older kid.

He had the heart to never tell the others that Derek was his favorite. He didn't want Cora or the others to be offended by it.

The wolves knew. Derek knew.

He'd spend hours when they weren't playing sitting with Derek in peace and quietly reading comic books and watching various sports that bored the girls. Sometimes they'd talk, laugh and even argue about who the strongest superhero was.

Stiles's favorite activity, of all time, growing up with them at his side was dog piles. It was an instinct in the wolves to lay close and scent their pack, while Stiles didn't have it, he slowly became just as dependent on the contact as they were. He'd curl up to Derek in the pile and often fall asleep there. It was comfortable and safe.

While the Hale pack was their family, they were gone now. The loss drove her to her deathbed.

Stiles watches his friends, and his pack, burn. He was there that night, his mom coming to pick him up. When he realized he had forgotten his bookbag, they turned around. His mother had chuckled telling him Cora could bring it for I'm in the morning, but she knew he just wanted an excuse to see everyone again. so they turned around and went back.

Finding the house ablaze. His mother screamed and cried, calling 911 and holding him as they heard the howls and screams of agony

Derek and Laura, who survived, were sent away to live with relatives in New York. Stiles hadn't even been able to see them before they left, hadn't been able to say goodbye.

Witnessed the sudden and horrific murder of his pack drove his mother mad. Doctors said it was dementia, it was the only human expiration. But somehow Stiles knew. He wasn't a wolf, wasn't an emissary; Stiles knows that's what saved him.

The grief and anger tore his mother's mind apart, leaving a shell of her in its wake. When she slipped away, he was there to witness that too.

No mother. No pack. No Derek.

He grieves alone.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Stiles grew. And Stiles remembered.

He nearly went mad in his sorrow, pulling at his hair and ripping some from his scalp in panic attacks, so his dad started shaving it.

He knew the wolves looked over Beacon Hills, protecting it from the harm of unwanted supernatural pressure.

With nobody but him and the husk of Peter left behind, he studied the books left by his mother. A bestiary or two, a very in-depth guiled to werewolves and pack hierarchies, and a study of all the things she was responsible for and the emissary. Stile studied them all until he could recite them word for word.

If he was the only one left standing to protect Beacon Hills, then he would be as prepared as he could to do it in their honor.

He visited the house every chance he got when he needed his pack. He carved their names into the front step. Honoring every life that was lost. Dead flowers and fresh ones adorned the front porch, trinkets, and gifts for his loved ones rested there for them to enjoy in the afterlife.

He made sure to keep Talia's garden out back alive. He never had a green thumb but he did everything in his power to take care of it. It gave him something to do when he was there and kept him from crying and screaming out about how unfair it had all been.

He's sure that if he were a wolf, had their senses, the property would reek of him and his misery.

He made time, to visit Peter too. He never really liked Peter, he could be a real dick sometimes, but Stiles knew what it was like to be alone in agony. Peter didn't deserve it. So every Saturday morning he'd spend hours by his side, reading to him his favorite authors, talking about recent pop culture and political events. Sometimes he'd reminisce out loud about the good old days, crying freely with Peter by his side. Enjoying having someone who understood, even just a little what he felt. Peter got the worst of it, but he had hoped he'd helped Peter at least a little. Whatever was left of him anyway.

His studies allowed him to put together a healing tonic that he hoped would bring Peter back to himself, sneaking it in with it in his pocket and adding it to Peter's IV drip. Explaining to Peter what it was, all the ingredients, as he did. But nothing happened and his hope died. He kept trying though, bringing fresh tonic on every visit.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

"I- I don't know what it was. It was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball." Scott explained as he and Stiles treged through a stream in the woods, on a hunt for Scott's missing inhaler. Stiles listened quietly taking in everything. "That's not the only weird thing; I-I hear things I shouldn't be able to hear, smell things."

Stiles could feel his heartbeat quicken. When Scott had told him he had heard a wolf's howl in the woods last night part of him was hopeful the other part sank at the dread. There hadn't been wolves in California in forever, hadn't been werewolves in ten years. Stiles kept up with that stuff and kept very close track of any reports that could even remotely be supernatural-related. Nothing, absolutely nothing for ten years.

"Smell things?" Stiles asked suspiciously. "Like what?"

"Like the mint gum in your pocket." Scott turned to him as if to prove a point before continuing to walk ahead.

Stiles knew he didn't have gum on him, he finished his last stick yesterday. So he fished in his pockets, and sure enough, one stray piece. Scott gave him the 'I told you so' look and kept his pace.

"What if it's like an infection? Like my body is flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something?"

Stiles's heart sank, he didn't know how to explain these things, never had to. He didn't even bother, this was a part of him nobody deserved to be a part of. Now he had no choice but to let Scott in on it.

Although if it had to be anyone, he was glad it was Scott. He had been something good, a friendship rooted in the hardest time of Stiles's life. They met before and played on the playground together with Cora. He couldn't imagine a better person to share this with.

It almost made him slime if it wasn't for the fact that Scott was about to lose his shit, and it meant there was an alpha going around murdering people in the woods and biting random teenagers.

"I've heard of this before."

Scott stopped, a dreadfully serious expression on his face, "You have?"

"Mhmm," Stiles nodded. "Lycanthropy."

"What is that, is that bad?" Scott stood still.

"Oh yeah, the worst." Stiles almost chuckled to himself recalling Derek and Cora's first shifts. "But only once a month."

"Once a month?"

"Mhm, on the night of the full moon." Stiles let out a playful howl.

Scott shoved him with a roll of his eyes and moved on.

"There could be something seriously wrong with me!" Scott scolded, frustrated Stiles wasn't taking the situation seriously.

"I know, dude, you're a werewolf!" Nodding as he followed Scott before stopping as Scott looked around. "Now the question is; who bit you?"

"Dude, stop." Scott sighed looking around some more. "I swear this was it. I saw the body, the dear came running, I dropped my inhaler." he kneeled to the ground digging through the leaves.

"Maybe, the killer moved the body?" Stiles thought aloud, more to himself.

"If he did, I hope he left my inhaler, those things are like eighty bucks."

Stiles chuckled dryly, turning his head at something moving in the corner of his eyes. His eyes landed on a face he thought he'd never see again.

Derek Hale.

"Dude, help me look." Scott prompted, looking to Stiles as he was frozen, eyeing something behind them. Standing, he turned to look at the man.

"Sorry," Scott stuttered as the man slowly neared them. "We were just looking for something, but uh- forget it."

Scott stood awkwardly as Stiles looked like he'd seen a ghost. Neither he nor the mysterious figure moved an inch, just staring at each other.

"Let's go, dude."

As Scott started backing away, Stiles lunged forward.

Stiles couldn't see, hear, or smell anything other than Derek. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he wrapped himself up in the chest of his lost friend. Scott froze not knowing what was happening or what to do.

Neither of them paid him any mind as they embraced after ten years like it had only been ten minutes since they last saw each other.

Stiles broke into a sob as he felt Derek's hesitant, almost unsure, arm come up around him. He held on tight like Derek would disappear again if he let go. Like he'd wake up and find it all a dream if he let go.

He knew he had a lot of explaining to do to Scott but he didn't care about that now. He was just happy Derek was here to help.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

After a while of just hugging Stiles reluctantly areeed to meet Derek later, sparing Scott only a glance before saying, “I’ll come to you.”

He tossed something in his pocket at Scott before turning and leaving.

The drive back into town was awkward as hell. Scott asked lots of questions and did not believe half the answers Stiles gave.

What he doesn't believe: Derek and his family are werewolves. Stiles’s mom was something called an emissary. Scott was bitten by a werewolf and now he is one. Hunters are responsible for the “accidental” house fire that murdered the entire bloodline save for Derek, Laura, and Peter.

From what he does believe: Stiles was a close family friend of the Hales. They died in a fire a few years back. Stiles hasn’t seen or heard from Derek or his sister since. Stiles is crazy.

So now Stiles sat on the edge of his bed, let bouncing in anticipation. His bedroom window was wide open and inviting. His father left about an hour ago to get back on the case of the dead girl in the woods. So Stiles was left alone and waiting.

A small thud stole the attention previously occupied by his racing thoughts. His head snapped to Derek who stood by his window eyeing him curiously. Stiles flew into his arms again, Derek not waiting any time to hold him close.

Stiles tried not to cry again but failed. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks and into the fabric of Derek's shirt.

"I smelt you." Derek started, a pitiful tone in his voice, not matching the stoic expression. "At the house."

"I missed you." Was all Stiles could offer.

"You kept the garden alive." Derek's chest rumbled with a chuckle.

"Yeah," He sighed. "Didn't feel right to let it die."

They said nothing for a moment as Derek pulled back to get a good look at Stiles, not having really looked at him before. Stiles took the opportunity to do the same.

"I tried to track you and Laura down, call you or something." He shook his head pitifully. "But it was like you didn't want to be found."

"We thought it would be safer."

"Safer maybe, but it fucking sucked."

"For us too." Derek agreed. "But you were still just a kid."

"How is she?"

Derek dropped his head and shook it. A tear fell down his face. Stiles could feel his own heart pick up its pace as he filled with sorrow.

"It was her," Derke's voice cracked. "In the woods."

"No," Stiles cried. "She- I,"

Derek pulled him back in and inhaled the scent of the pack, the scent of home.

"We came back together. To see Peter, to check on you. We weren't sure if we were gonna even approach you, weren't sure how much you remembered. We got to the house and saw the memorial on the steps. I smelled your fear and pain in preserve, we wanted to see you."

"She-" Stiles had no words, he just clung to Derek like a lifeline and listened.

"I don't know what happened. I parted with her to find you, didn't hear a howl or anything, just got back and she never called, never came back."

Stiles let out a choked sob. He let Derek hold him, and stroke his head.

"Where,"

"At the house, buried around the back, near the garden."

They cried and mourned togther as they should've from the start of this all, but the wounds were too fresh for Stiles to make that claim. they curled into each other on Stiles's bed and just lay there for a long while.

"Are you going back to New York?" Stiles finally asked.

Derek thought for a moment, "No, there's nothing for me there."

"Good," Stiles nodded, cheek rubbing against Derek's chest. "I was gonna smack the hell outta you."

Derek only chuckled, stocking up and down Stiles's back.

"I missed you too."

"Hunters?" Stiles questioned carefully after a moment.

"No," Derek paused. "It was definitely another wolf."

"There are no wolves in Beacon Hills since you left."

Derek sighed heavily, tired from everything. "I don't wanna talk about this now."

"Okay, how about the fact that you stink."

"You don't smell rosy either. I wasn't gonna say anything." He chuckled.

"It's a good stink." Derek looked down at him curiously. Stile smiled softly at him. "You smell like sweat and dirt, but also smells like you."

"You smell like bo, hormones, greasy foods, and motor oil." Derek scoffed softly. "You just kind of smell like home."

Stiles just stared at him for a moment feeling his face heat up at the notion. He didn't bother hiding anything or defending whatever Derek was picking up in his Chemo Signals, there was no point.

He had a feeling that Derek, having been older and wiser when they were kids, had the words Stiles didn't. And if he was here now, curled in bed with him like this, it meant he cared. Even if it wasn't the same way Stiles had always cared. He didn't mind, as long as Derek looked at him like he was now, and still felt at home with Stiles.

And Derek knew, of course, he did. If things hadn't gone south as they had, his reunion with sites probably wouldn't included addressing the elephant in the room. His mother had warned him when he was young, that Stiles was still a bit too young to understand what being a mate meant for them. He was happier than he was able to put into words that Stiles, and his feelings, still hadn't changed.

But now was not the time for that. His sister was dead, there was an alpha on the loose and a beta that needed training. He had bigger fish to fry. And while not so young, stiles was still young.

Claiming him had to wait just a while longer.

"I missed you," Stiles offered softly, bearly a whisper.

"I missed you too."

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

Might make this a series...

•Kermitts Masterlist•

[cinnbar-bun]

One Piece Characters w/ an S/O who celebrates Ramadan pt. 2

Characters: Zoro, Ace, Mihawk (all requested, thank you <3)

Rating: SFW

Notes: Muslim!GN!Reader. So yeah, obvy talking about religious beliefs and practices- if those make you uncomfortable please feel free to skip <3

A/n: cultural notes at the bottom in case you didn't know/just curious about some of the terms here.

Part 1 here

Zoro 

At first, he’s confused why you would do such a thing, but when you explain the significance of the month, he’s pretty impressed. 

It’s a test of resolve, discipline, and reflection- and, well, Zoro’s always looking for a new way to test himself and get better. 

No eating and drinking water? Well, he can do that, no problem. It also makes him want to see how far he can push himself in his exercise regiment without having to drink. 

His drinking though, well, it definitely hits him a bit harder than he would like to admit. He does have the urge to just guzzle three barrels of rum but he’s tryna be good, so he’ll do something to manage. 

Honestly the type to sleep all day or be working out when fasting. I don’t think he’d bother to get up for suhur either, he just sleeps through it and says he’ll deal with it later. 

This month will be where he is very reflective and open about his feelings or emotions with you. He’s pretty good about clearing his mind and meditating usually, but especially now he will be even more conscious about his reflections. It actually surprised you how much he was holding in. 

Takes this very seriously, 10000%, doesn’t let anyone or anything break his concentration or yours. 

Ace

Similar to his younger brother, Ace doesn’t know much about Ramadan, and the idea baffles him. 

But, he’s way more open to learning and trying to understand it better. 

He’s still failing immediately, poor guy. 

If he’s not shoveling down food in the afternoon or falling asleep right in the middle of eating, he’s probably gonna be casually drinking and going ‘oops, I forgot’ all day. 

All day. Almost every thirty minutes. Marco is thinking of checking if Ace is suffering from early onset dementia. 

OKAY LISTEN, IT’S THE ATTEMPT. THE ATTEMPT WAS THERE!!!

And even if his ‘fasting’ is uh, pretty shoddy, he does do his best to take care of you and support you (even if he’s about to offer you food or water every few minutes). 

He’s very intrigued by the reasoning for it, so he often asks you questions. Sure, he truthfully doesn’t have the fortitude to resist eating until sunset, but your devotion does make him proud of you. He feels so lucky and grateful he’s got such a cool partner. 

Likes watching you pray or read. He often smiles when he watches you and thinks he’s starting to get into it when he realizes he actually is reflecting alongside you. Definitely makes him appreciate your relationship more and your strength. 

Mihawk 

Much like his protege, Mihawk is captivated by the concept of Ramadan. Sure, he’s heard of it or read about it in his books, but he never understood it. Having you there to explain it and give more insight and rules makes him appreciate it. 

As the greatest swordsman, Mihawk is always looking for ways to appease his boredom as well as continue his discipline. He’s incredibly strict on himself, so he will immediately go all in during Ramadan with you. 

The house husband in him truly shines this month, he’s extra careful about how he prepares your meals and makes sure you are getting more hydration and nutrition than before. Likes to cook you fulfilling meals that won’t make you sick after fasting all day. 

Yes, he is still farming while fasting. No, he will not admit he is about to die of thirst. But also, that makes him desire to overcome that weakness and work harder to not need water while working outside. So, uh… good for him? 

Mihawk is also a man who enjoys reading, so he takes the month of Ramadan seriously as a chance to read the Quran with you. (Omg, reading the nightly juz with him <3)

Mihawk will learn how to pray, nothing will stop him from doing so, like I said, he’s all in, you’re doing it, he’s doing it. I think he will end up becoming more strict and knowledgeable than you in a few days. 

Again like his protege, giving up alcohol was probably a bit of a challenge (but again, Mihawk loves one), but he tends to substitute his cravings for wine with either a simple glass of water, tea, or even regular grape juice. 

He won’t admit his reflections out loud majority of the time, but it’ll be subtle glances at you or his lips turning up into a smile while he mentally thinks how grateful he is to have you and to share this with you <3. 

Cultural Notes: 

Ramadan is the 9th month of the Islamic calendar, which is based on the lunar cycle- hence why you’ll often see debates on when Ramadan starts/ends or why it begins about a week or two earlier than before, since the lunar calendar is shorter than the solar calendar (or Gregorian, the one we normally use). 

Muslims fast for a month from dawn until sunset (there are restrictions of course) so no water or food from that time. 

Sahur/Suhur/Suhoor: the meal you eat before the dawn comes. 

Iftar: the meal you eat to break your fast at sunset. 

Juz: There are other words for it but basically, the Quran can be divided into 30 sections to be read in a month or so. Generally this how some people section it off, and during Ramadan, it's seen as a very good thing to read 1 juz a day. By the time Ramadan is done, you probably have read the full Quran.

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Take Care of You

Summary: Y/N is run ragged. Her employer keeps throwing more work at her, and she’s too nice to say no. She’s also been keeping Jensen’s businesses afloat while trying to keep an eye on their families with him away filming. She’s overwhelmed, stressed and hasn’t been sleeping well. When Jensen comes home after finishing his movie, he notices his girl’s not doing great and plans a weekend filled with “her” time.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female Reader

Rating: 18+ Only

Bingo Square: Established Relationship for @jacklesversebingo

Warnings: tw: mentions of cancer, tw: mentions of cancer treatments, tw: dementia, domestic fluff, massage, smut, oral sex (f rec), p in v. 

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: This is a very self-indulgent story that I wasn’t sure would ever be shared. This has been my life for the past few years, and when I sat down to write something, this is what word vomited onto the page, and I couldn’t stop it.

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

Consider reblogging to spread this far and wide around this Hellsite or leaving a comment. It really does fuel a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or too cool for people to know you read fanfic and you don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

“Honey, I’m home!” Jensen declared as he opened the front door, quickly closing and locking it behind him. The lamp in the hallway was on, your purse and laptop bag were sitting on the sideboard, and by the text you’d sent him two hours ago asking if he wanted anything special for dinner tonight, he knew you were home. Why then, he frowned, was the whole house silent?

Dropping his bag next to the sideboard, Jensen moved further into the quickly darkening house. “Y/N? Babe?” he called out again, still being met with silence. Walking into the living room, he huffed an annoyed breath, shaking his head in disbelief at the state he’d found you.

You were still in your work clothes: pinstripe pencil skirt, black button-up blouse and tan stilettos. Your hair was still in a tight, professional bun, and your glasses were pushed up on your head. From the look of things, you got home, put your bags down and immediately fell asleep on the couch.

That damn job was going to be the death of you. They took and took and took, giving nothing in return. You were eager to learn, take on more responsibility and help everyone around you. They took advantage of that and turned your kindness and willingness to be a team player into an expectation. Not only was it expected, it was now frowned upon if you said no. So you didn’t, and God help you if you told someone else in your team that they had to be the one to stay late because heaven forbid, you did actually have a life outside of the office.

Jensen sighed as he looked over your beautiful face, blemished by dark circles around your eyes that makeup could no longer cover. How long had this been going on? He’d been away filming for a month and, with other commitments, hadn’t been home. He was contractually obliged to attend conventions on two of the weekends. Another was his own doing; he was exhausted and couldn’t be bothered packing and travelling to spend only thirty-six hours at home. So, instead, he promised he’d come home next time and went to play golf with a buddy. The only problem with that plan was that he couldn’t come home that weekend either as you’d caught Covid. The guilt he’d played golf instead of coming home to you still ate at him.

You both knew you didn’t need to work. Jensen made enough to support you and allow you to live comfortably, but you wanted to work; you needed to. And when he was away for work, you got lonely and threw yourself into work. Jensen had tried several times to convince you to travel with him and spend your free time doing what you loved most: writing. He thought he’d made a fool-proof argument for his case, but you outsmarted him with a flaw in his master plan; you had responsibilities to your family. And to his. Someone needed to help care for your elderly grandparents. God, both your parents were now at an age that even they were considered elderly, and you felt it was your responsibility to do all the heavy lifting for the generations that came before you.

So many aspects of your dad’s health deteriorated since he battled stage four prostate cancer a few years ago. The chemotherapy weakened his immune system, and he never fully recovered from its poison. The treatment exacerbated his arthritis, and his joints were now in constant pain. But it was his memory that was now concerning you. He was forgetful during his treatment, which was understandable because it was one of the side effects. That, and his mind probably ran through a million different scenarios about his mortality. It was just that it wasn’t getting better. It was getting worse. He’d told you the same story twice in the hour you’d visited last week, and now there were changes in his behaviour that doubled your worry.

Jensen hadn’t meant to worry you when he’d asked you after Christmas dinner with your family if your dad was doing alright. He’d told Jensen the same story several times while you were there, and he thought he was helping you out by mentioning it. He’d been upset when you admitted you’d been concerned for a while and hadn’t told him. When Jensen asked why you hadn’t talked to him about it, guilt flooded him when you said work was keeping him busy enough and that he didn’t need to be stressing about anything else just now. 

You’d told him back then that you’d been trying to convince your mom to talk to him and seek help, but they were as stubborn as each other. When the woman wouldn’t even stop smoking after having a partial lobectomy because of lung cancer and radiation treatment for throat cancer, you knew you were fighting a losing battle.

A light had been switched on, though, when at your mom’s birthday dinner, there were just too many things that couldn’t be ignored, including your dad calling you his recently deceased sister’s name and acting completely inappropriately for a restaurant. Your five-year-old niece had behaved better than him. Finally, you managed to convince your dad to see a doctor. Eight months and various appointments and tests later, a diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia, one of the rarest kinds of the disease, was confirmed. Two days before your birthday, no less.

As he watched your sleeping form, he knew something had to give before you became ill, and his plans for a weekend filled with couples excursions and dates quickly changed. It was now your weekend. You had a family barbecue up in Dallas that you couldn’t miss on Sunday, but until then, he’d take care of you and everything else that needed doing in the house. He’d force you to relax all weekend if it was the last thing he did. And it started with making your favourite comfort food: mac and cheese.

Jensen lit some candles around the living room to give a dim light rather than switch on the brighter lamps and wake you. Heading to the kitchen, he put a pan of water on the stove to boil before pulling his phone from his pocket and calling his mom.

“Hi, sweetie! How are you?” Donna greeted cheerfully.

“Yeah, I’m good, ma. How’re you doing?” he replied as he opened the cupboard and pulled down the box of fake cheesy goodness.

“We’re fine, son. How’s Y/N?” his mom asked, and he smiled softly at the affection in his mom’s voice. His whole family adored her, welcoming her into their family with arms and hearts wide open, taking her in as one of their own without hesitation.

“Uhm, let’s just say I’m glad I’m home for a few weeks. My girl needs a little looking after,” Jensen chuckled dryly.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I don’t think she’ll ever change. She always puts others before herself. Is there anything we can do to help? You know if you need to miss Sunday, you can. We won’t be upset,” Donna sympathised.

“We’ll be there on Sunday. I think it’ll do her good, you know? Relaxing by the pool and seeing family. But I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

“Anything, son,” she said instantly, and Jensen chuckled at his mom’s worried tone.

“You know that lavender bath stuff from the place in Dallas you got her obsessed with?” Jensen asked, grinning at his mom’s relieved laugh.

“I just sent her some. It arrived the other day. There are bath salts, bath bombs, bubbles, and some candles. And the pillow spray. Oh, and the essential oil! You could give her a little massage!” There was a grin in her voice, and he shook his head with a chuckle.

“Alright, I get it!” Jensen chuckled. “I was going to ask if you could pick some up for us coming up there, but if she’s got some, that’s even better! I just need to know how to use it.”

“Okay, so you want to start with lighting the candles...”

You could feel something soft and warm caress your cheek, and you start to wake. Your eyes flutter open, taking a minute to focus through the dimly lit room, and finally, find the forest-green eyes of the love of your life, and you smile at him with a contented hum. Jensen smiled softly back as he continued to stroke your cheek gently. “Hey, sleepy head,” he whispered.

“Jay, you’re home!” you grinned, voice husky from sleep. “I missed you, baby.”

“I missed you too, darlin’. It looks like someone came home and crashed out,” Jensen chuckled softly.

“What time is it?” you ask, rubbing at your gritty eyes and yawning. You had to admit that although it wasn’t your intention to indulge in a nap, you did feel much better.

“A little after nine,” Jensen answered and laughed at your gasp.

“Nine!? I’ve been asleep for three hours?” you groaned in annoyance.

Jensen smiled and gently gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Yeah, and by the look of this, you need much more,” he gently runs his fingers under your eyes. “Those dark circles would make a panda claim you as one of their own, and that was before you rubbed at your eyes and messed up your mascara!”

“Oh, God!” you groaned.

“Hey,” Jensen said, “you’re still beautiful, baby,” he smiled. “I made you mac and cheese. Eat. I’ll grab a quick shower to get the plane smell off me, then I’ll run you a bath,” he held his hand out to silence your protests. “And if you’re a good girl and let me take care of you, you can have a massage when you get out,” he grinned boyishly, knowing he had you where he wanted you.

“A massage or a full body massage?” you giggled as you watched him search for the right response.

“I’ll tell you what. Eat, bathe, and pamper yourself in the tub with a glass of wine and a face mask, and after, I’ll give you a normal, completely innocent massage. If, and only if you still want that,” Jensen licked his lips and smirked, “full body massage to help relieve any deep-rooted tension, then darlin’, I am at your service,” he rasped in his ‘Dean’ voice, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s been a month. The only way to get rid of that kind of tension is for those talented fingers to work it out of me,” you lowered your voice seductively. “And I think it’s gonna take a few… releases,” you smirked at his darkening eyes, “to get rid of it completely.”

“Fuck!” Jensen groaned, and you grinned mischievously.

“Oh, and if you need to relieve some tension, my hands and mouth are at your service. Although,” you teased further, “I can think of somewhere else that’ll appreciate it a lot more, and I guarantee you won’t regret using it to your advantage,” you winked.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days, baby girl,” Jensen grumbled as he headed upstairs to shower and prepare your bath.

You cleared up the mess Jensen had left in the kitchen, rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He’d be mad at you for doing it, but you didn’t care. He was also tired and deserved not to worry about a messy house.

Opening the cupboard, you pulled out two glasses. A crystal tumbler for Jensen’s whiskey and a wine glass for you. Filling the ice bucket, you pulled one of his good bottles of Scotch from the cabinet, put it in the bucket, added a bottle of wine, and went upstairs.

The scent of lavender filled the hallway, getting stronger the closer you came to the master bedroom. Smiling, you stopped inside the door and leaned against the wooden frame. You watched with a soft smile as Jensen moved around the room and lit candles. Most were unscented pillar candles, but you noticed the little glass votives on each bedside table and knew they were somewhat responsible for the soothing fragrance permeating the room.

“Found my secret stash, huh?” you spoke, grinning at Jensen’s damp, hedgehog hair and guilty look. “Hey, I’m not mad, baby. Thank you for doing this,” you gestured to the candles and the soft acoustic music playing lowly.

“Anything for m’girl,” Jensen walked over to you and pecked your lips. He took the ice bucket and glasses and placed them on the dresser. “I put your robe over the heated rail so it’ll be nice and cosy when you get out,” he glanced at you with a soft smile, opened the wine bottle and poured you a large glass.

“Thank you,” you walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He chuckled and pulled you closer, arms around your shoulders and tucking your head under his chin. You sighed and melted into his body.

“What’s this for?” he asked, kissing your hair.

You shrugged, “I just need a hug.”

Jensen kissed your hair again and pulled away slightly, looking down at you with pure adoration. “Well, you can have all the hugs you want for the next three weeks.”

“Promise?” you grinned into his chest.

Jensen chuckled and pulled you in tighter, “I promise. Now, let’s get you in that tub, huh?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “It smells amazing in there!”

Jensen let go of you, filled the wine glass and handed it to you. “Go on in and enjoy. I’ll be here when you get out,” he kissed your forehead and gently pushed you towards the ensuite bathroom.

You gasped at what Jensen had done in there. It was lit only by candlelight, and the steam billowing from the tub filled with bubbles and the lavender scent surrounding you immediately made you relax.

You sighed as you walked to the double sink and stepped out of your heels, kicking them under it. Grabbing a brush and a hair tie, you pulled your hair free of its constraints and brushed it out. Replacing the tight, professional bun with a much more comfortable, messy one, you opened the drawer, grabbed your face cleanser and began to remove the day’s dirt, grime, and makeup, frowning at the dark circles under your eyes.

Finally, you stripped your clothes off, leaving them in a pile on top of your shoes, intending to put them in the laundry basket later. You looked through the sheet masks you kept in a little basket on the counter, settling on one with chamomile and aloe vera, keeping the relaxed vibe in the bathroom.

Sinking into the tub, you sighed loudly as the hot water encompassed your tired body, enveloping you in a warm hug. You placed the mask over your face, rested your head on the bath pillow, and sighed again, letting the water soothe your body, and the lavender soothe your soul.

Relaxed, warm and sleepy, you walk into the bedroom with your fluffy robe wrapped around your body.

“There she is!” Jensen smiled when he saw you. You already looked more relaxed, making him feel lighter than when he first saw you.

“Come on, lie down,” Jensen said, placing a towel over the bedding to protect it from oil. You walked towards the bed, untying the robe. Despite seeing you naked thousands of times, Jensen turned his head to give you privacy. Once ready, you crawled up the bed and lay comfortably on your stomach.

“Comfy, baby girl?” Jensen’s voice is quiet, and you feel the bed dip with his weight. You hummed in response and shivered as his warm hand ghosted down your spine. Jensen poured the lavender aromatherapy oil on his hands and rubbed them together, warming the liquid between his palms.

Straddling your thighs, but careful not to put too much weight on them, he rubbed your lower back, sweeping his hands over your skin, covering it with the slick oil. Moving to your shoulders, he tuts and shakes his head.

“Poor baby, all knotted and tight up here,” he murmured as he increased his pressure.

“Hmm,” you moaned. “Feels good, Jay.”

“Yeah?” Jensen asked, working his thumbs into the knots along your shoulder blades.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” you purred. You hardly ever took time out for self-care, but when you did, it was something you enjoyed, and you wondered why it was something you didn’t make more time for.

Jensen’s hands continued to work out the knots, and he smiled softly with every moan and hum that left you unchecked. Feeling you relax under his touch and sink further into the mattress made him relax, too.

“How do you feel?” Jensen whispered, not wanting to startle you or ruin your tranquil state as he sat back on the bed.

“I feel good, baby,” your voice was soft – lazy almost, as you turned over to lay on your back, biting your bottom lip when Jensen’s eyes went straight to your naked breasts. “See something you like?” you teased, giggling at his smirk.

“I do,” Jensen’s voice was deep with arousal, “so, can I interest you in a full body massage, or would you like a rain check?” Jensen was always a gentleman; you could see in his eyes (and sweatpants!) that he wanted you, but he knew you were exhausted and would never push you to go further.

“I think,” you smirked, “I want that full body.” It had been a month for both of you, but the excitement on his features made you laugh. “You’d think we never have sex with that look on your face!”

“Can’t a man miss his wife?” Jensen chuckled. “Miss her body because his hand just won’t cut it after a while?” he bit his lip and placed his hands on your chest, rubbing and caressing your breasts and down your torso. He hooked his fingers in the fabric of your simple cotton panties and pulled them down your legs.

Dropping them on the floor, he kneeled between your legs, gently pushing them up before pulling them apart, placing them on either side of his body and opening you up to him.

“Hmm,” he hummed, licking his lips at your glistening folds. “A month is far too long, baby girl. Never going that long without you or this pretty little pussy again,” Jensen murmured and lowered himself to your core, licking a long line up your slit.

You had missed this. Jensen’s tongue was unbelievably talented, never failing to make you come multiple times over hours when he was in the mood. Still, you knew tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. Tonight, you’d fall apart embarrassingly quickly on his tongue, and then he’d be too desperate to tease you more.

Jensen slid a hand up your body, cupping your breast and grinned into your folds as he felt your body arch further into his touch. Your hand covered his and squeezed, forcing him to grip your breast harder. Taking the hint, he slid his other hand up your chest and began to play with both.

That was all that it took for you to fall over the edge. You grabbed Jensen’s hands from your chest and linked your fingers with his, moaning incoherent curses as your body convulsed through its climax.

“That’s m’girl,” Jensen murmured as he placed one last kiss to your centre before dragging his lips up the rest of your body, nipping and sucking along the way. His warm hands skimmed your body, and he hummed lowly at the softness of your skin, making you putty in his hands.

Jensen’s kisses finally reached your lips, and the combination of his soft lips and your taste on his tongue sent another wave of arousal shooting through your body. Your hands grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged at it viciously until he got the message and pulled it off. 

His eyes rolled as your nails gently raked over his lower back and around his stomach. You dipped your hand into his sweats, finding his erection and clasping your hand around it. The groan that rumbled from him was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard, making his desperation for you clear as day. He dipped his head and placed his lips to yours once more, the kiss slow and sweet at first, but as you began to pump your hand up and down his length, he pushed his tongue into your mouth and deepened it. 

Jensen’s hand moved from your hip and skimmed up your torso. He gripped your breast and squeezed before trailing his fingers back down and settling between your legs. Running his thumb down your folds, he coated his thumb with your slick before expertly finding your clit and flicking the tiny bud.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, breaking the kiss as your legs automatically opened wider for him.

Jensen focused his lips and tongue on your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a contented hum. You moaned loudly as your body arched up, forcing yourself into him further, the movement causing his thumb to press into your clit just a little bit harder and pushing you just a little bit closer to the edge.

Wanting more, you started to grind your hips into him, increasing the pressure of his thumb against the tiny bundle of nerves. “That’s it, baby, take what you need,” Jensen growled as he trailed kisses up your chest, “tonight is all about you.” 

You continued to grind against his hand, tumbling straight into another climax the second his lips attached to your throat. Jensen held you closer, slowing the flick of his thumb and prolonging your high just a little without overstimulating you.

You shivered, suddenly feeling cold, as you returned to yourself and whined when you noticed Jensen standing at the edge of the bed. Chuckling, he pulled his sweatpants off and crawled back up your body.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he smiled, kissing the tip of your nose. “Are you ready?” he whispered while rutting himself through your folds, coating himself in your arousal.

“For you, always,” you smiled, but as he pushed his hips forward and entered you, your head fell back, and a low moan tore from your throat. With a growled string of curses, Jensen filled you to the brim and stilled.

“Fuck, Jensen!” you gasped.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, stroking your cheek, his brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m good. I missed this. I missed you,” you whimpered and wrapped your arms around Jensen’s neck, pulling him towards you and pecking at his lips. Slowly, Jensen pulled his hips back and thrust forward slowly and gently.

The lazy way that you made love was everything you needed and more. As you both succumbed to your climaxes, you knew that you’d always be safe in his arms and that he’d always take care of you the way you took care of everyone else.

Tags: @akshi8278 @ashbatz @candy-coated-misery0731 @chriszgirl92 @deans-baby-momma @deans-spinster-witch @deansbbyx @deanwanddamons @duncanhillscoffeecups @foxyjwls007 @giggles1026 @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @hoboal87 @impala67rollingthroughtown @iprobablyshipit91 @jackles010378 @jamerlynn @jc-winchester @k-slla @kazsrm67 @kmc1989 @lacilou @ladysparkles78 @leigh70 @lyarr24 @maliburenee @michecolegate @mrsjenniferwinchester @nancymcl @negans-lucille-tblr @perpetualabsurdity @roseblue373 @sandlee44 @sexyvixen7 @snackles87 @spnwoman @stixnstripesworld @stoneyggirl2 @suckitands33 @synmorite @tristanrosspada-ackles @twinkleinadiamondsky @waters-2567 @winchestergirl1720

[pathetichimbos]

Hey! How do you think Thomas would deal with a reader slowly becoming blind or deaf in their later years of being together or in old age?

I haven't really had the time or energy to go through my asks but this one hits close to home. f!reader

So, everyone knows that as one gets older, their hearing, sight, and pretty much everything naturally deteriorates as their body begins to decline.

But for some people, it gets worse. Blindness, Deafness, Amputation, Dementia, Parkinson's, the list is rather endless.

It's a daunting thought, knowing that it could happen to you. Sometimes there are warnings. A familial history, environmental factors, medical tests... There's time to prepare, come to terms with your fate, learn to live with it.

Other times there's nothing.

One day, you're a healthy adult, your aging body functioning to the best of it's abilities, working despite the slow tick of time that's flown by.

The next, you're gripping railing at the top of the stairs, shaking and afraid because you can't see the steps in front of you.

There's a couple of different reactions Thomas could have to this.

If there's a warning, a time to process and accept what's going to happen, a former knowledge of what's to come, he'll do his best to take care of you. He goes out of his way to learn about things he can do to accommodate you, to make your life easier when it begins. He's no carpenter, but he'll do his best to accommodate the house to the best of his abilities. It's your house as well, after all, and he wants you to be comfortable in it, at any age.

If there isn't, it's panic. He's confused, and he doesn't know how to help. Thomas is a man who thrives on being helpful, and suddenly he isn't. He's worried about you, and rather than having time to come to terms and accept this new world, you're both simply thrown into it, and it makes him spiral. It's a huge adjustment, but he does his best to take care of you and accommodate the house the best he can. In this situation, he's much more likely to accidentally baby you, not understanding how to handle your sudden disability, so it's important to teach him how he can best help without being overbearing.

...I know this ask was specified to blindness and deafness, but I'd also like to touch on the mental and personality aspects to this as well.

His reaction will tract close to the same for things like dementia and parkinson's, specifically if he has a warning, but if he doesn't, things are very different.

He notices the tremors first. The way your left hand seems to tremble, and the way you seem to stand just a bit differently.

Well, that's not entirely true, really, he noticed you becoming more forgetful ages ago, but who wasn't forgetful these days?

Neither of you really think much of it, after all the two of you are getting older, the grays in your hair as present as the ache in your back when you play with your grandchildren.

So, it's forgotten, the shakes and poor memory swept under the rug until it becomes a normality, the progression leaking in at such a steady pace neither of you really notice the way your right hand begins to tremble as well.

"...Is mom okay?" Your daughter finally asks on one of her frequent trips in from the city, "She seems... different."

Thomas gives her a look of confusion, Of course she is, why wouldn't she be?

"Dad... Look at her."

And for the first time in a long time, he really does.

He watches the way you sit, hunched in your favorite chair by the window, arms tucked closely to your chest as you stare out into the yard, a sort of distant, absent look in your eyes.

You're interrupted by the squeal of children running towards you, yelling 'grandma!' to the top of their lungs.

He watches your face light up with a genuine surprise and delight, struggling to lean down and greet them with a hug.

"Oh, how wonderful!" You tell the children with a great, big smile, "I didn't know y'all were coming to see me!"

But you did. He watched you talk to your daughter just a few hours ago on the telephone, telling you she'd be bringing the kids fown for the day.

His chest aches as for the first time, he sees how much you've really changed.

He's more attentive, finally noticing full extent of the tremors, how you can barely move your arms, how with everyday, more and more of you begins to fade from your eyes.

You start getting angrier, snapping easily over small things that would have never bothered you before. You can't stop shaking, constantly taking in your surroundings as if seeing everything for the first time.

You lose the ability to do certain things, your movement much to jagged to brush your own teeth, to comb your own hair. All of those responsibilities falling on Thomas' shoulders, as well as many others.

You spend most of your time in your favorite chair, watching the TV, or listening to the radio. You can barely stand on your own, your legs shuffling and unstable when you do manage to get up.

Thomas does his best to take care of you, to watch over you and make sure you want for nothing.

It's a taxing, and exhausting job, but he can't imagine not doing it.

He's tired, his own body aching and sore from his own old age. Your children begin to visit more often, just trying to help out as much as they can.

"Grandma!" Your grandson calls out for you as always, running up to your chair to greet you as soon as he comes in the door.

"Jacob!" Your son follows his child close behind, "What did we just talk about in the car?"

Your once excited and delighted expression at seeing your grandchild is gone, exchanged for one of confusion as you seemed almost frightened.

"Nicholas..." You ask, shaking as you hold your arms close to your chest, "...Who is this...?"

Thomas has to leave the room.

He's heartbroken, slowly watching the love of his life become a shell of herself, each day slowly becoming worse and worse.

"Thomas, honey, what's wrong?" Shaky hands cup his face when he finally comes back into the room, eyes red and swollen from crying.

He shakes his head, holding your frial wrists as he kisses your cheek.

Within that same week you lose the ability to climb the stairs, and Thomas begins carrying you.

It doesn't take long after for you to become completely bed ridden, unable to recognize either of your children who have practically moved in to help care for you.

Thomas is the only one you don't forget, even if you can't manage to remember the year, your wedding, or even the fact that you're married.

You never forget Thomas.

It's a warm, April Tuesday. Clouds dance across the blue sky, inviting the singing birds to swim in the cool breeze of a rain storm that'll come in the afternoon.

It's the first time you've been this coherent in months, managing to recognize both of your children and your eldest grandchildren.

It's a good day.

Thomas sits in a chair beside your bed, something he put there so the two of you could still sit together, like you used to, when you could walk to the porch and drink your coffee in the early mornings.

He holds your shaking hand, rough hands rubbing soft circles against your skin.

You've become weak with time, barely managing to give his hand a small squeeze to catch his attention.

There's a knowing look in your eyes, and he lets out a shaky sigh.

"...Will you forgive me...?" Your once lively and full voice is small, and broken, shaky and devoid of life.

He squeezes your hand, leans onto the bed and presses his forehead against yours. A silent answer, an understanding sense of relief that you can finally be at peace.

You let out your own sigh, leaning against his warmth for one last time.

It was a good day.

[renthony]

I've seen plenty of folks express the opinion that it doesn't matter where the adults are in stories written for young audiences, because the point of the story is to give children an escapist fantasy.

But to be honest, both as a child and as an adult, I've always preferred it when family/youth media answers the question of, "no seriously, where are the parents?" because it adds so much to the story even if the parents aren't fully fleshed-out characters. The parents don't have to be present, or good, or helpful, but it always feels like a richer narrative when the question, "where are the adults?" is actually addressed.

Answer the question of "where are the adults," but more importantly, give the younger characters opinions about those adults and why they aren't present (if they aren't present).

In Gregor the Overlander, the answer to "where are these kids' parents?" is answered by having Gregor's mother Grace be an overworked single mom who has to delegate household labor to her eldest kid, and having Gregor's father be mysteriously missing as part of the story. Gregor's grandmother has dementia and the family has to worry about her care while also living in poverty. Gregor's mom being frequently absent because they're desperate and she has to struggle to feed the kids adds so much depth to Gregor's characterization, and explains why he's so hyper-independent, protective of his sisters, and determined to find their dad. Gregor's mom doesn't go on his adventures with him, but we know exactly where she is, how Gregor feels about leaving her behind, and what their relationship is like.

In The Owl House, the answer to "where are the adults?" is answered by having the adults be important parts of the narrative even when they're not on-screen. Luz's mom Camilla is deeply relevant to the narrative even though we don't see her much until season 3, and we know where she is and why she's there even while Luz is off adventuring without her. The story of Luz's dad Manny is slowly revealed through the show and casts an entirely different light on everything as we learn about him. Luz's relationship with Camilla is a core part of Luz's personality and story, even when Camilla isn't present. The other adult characters have their own narratives, too, that add to the core story in some really fun ways.

I've never liked stories where the adults are just Mysteriously Absent and it never gets addressed. How does it affect these kids to be Kids Against The World? That feels like a big form of characterization that just gets completely ignored most of the time! Even if the adults aren't around, we should at least know how the kids feel about that absence.

A kid who's happy to be free of the adults is a different character entirely from the kid who's scared and wants to go back to their mom, you know?

[the-ellia-west]

Raavas 2/3 - Clipped Wings and Worries

This one's a bit... fun (Just know every character has reasons for what is said and done in these scenes)

Enjoy! (Hopefully)

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Raavas hissed a breath through his teeth as he swept the sword through the air, spinning the blade into complex parries, bouncing on his toes. He leveled his breaths as he finished and glanced over at his mentor. 

Evellias nodded and Raavas bowed in return. “How did I do?”

"Good. You've been practicing, I see."

"I learned for the best!" The Harpy smirked at the older human. "Speaking of which, where is Aery?”

Evellias scoffed lightheartedly. “Ha! I see how it is!”

“Wanna spar, old man?"

"Only if you're prepared to lose, buddy."

"Nah, I could beat you any day.”

"Only in your dreams!" Evellias grabbed two training swords and offered one to his apprentice.

The harpy took the sword and spun it to point at Evellias' chest. His mentor's blade knocked it to the side. The two circled one another before both lunged simultaneously and a ferocious fight for skill and ego kicked into high gear.

"Well, well, I thought you said you could keep yourselves under control, sir. Why are you fighting our only hope of a peaceful world?"

Raavas startled, and Evellias pressed the wooden weapon to his throat. "Haha. Very funny Aery."

"Careful, the old man is a bit fragile, don’t go too hard on him.”

"Don't make me hit you with this sword." Evellias laughed and lowered the weapon. "Though seriously, keep your attention on the fight. That could get you killed.

"Yes, Dad. Will do." Raavas saluted and tossed the training sword to Aery.

"I'm glad you're respecting your elders, Raav, it's a good trait to have."

Raavas smiled, ruffling his wings as he trotted over to hug him. "Thanks Aery, I've always had an affinity for collecting fossils."

The guard stifled a chuckle.

"I'm going to kick both of you out of my house."

"Did you take your dementia medicine, Dad? Remember who I am still?”

"I'm fifty-nine!"

"Practically petrified." Aery waved a hand.

"Whatever.” Evellias rolled his eyes. “There's no reasoning with you two.”

Raavas snickered and Aery elbowed him in the ribs playfully. 

“Aery, We're glad you finished your mission. And Raavas, I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad." 

"You're very welcome. Now I need a moment to speak to Aery alone. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes, Dad. May I go get something to eat?" 

"If you'd like. Just keep in mind what I told you.”

Raavas watched the adults as they glanced at one another, creeping up to the door a minute after it closed, counting the seconds under his breath.

"So, how's he doing? Seems like it’s not too bad.”

Evellias sighed, "Well enough. If he keeps going like this, he could be a good warrior. We just have to make sure we do everything right, and we might avoid another incident.”

"Might isn't good, Vell. We need certainty that he's not going to kill us.”

"Aery."

"Vell. I love him as much as you do. He's just as much my Nephew as he is your son, but you can't deny what he is. I can't deny what he is."

Raavas froze as he finally connected they were talking about him. He wrapped his wings around himself, questions racing through his mind as a tense silence stretched the air.

“He’s dangerous.”

"I... we just need to work harder. Be more careful.”

“We can't keep his wings clipped forever. Eventually, he’s going to start wanting something we can’t give him.”

"Then we find an alternative. He's been fine on bread and fish for now.”

"He's a Harpy, Vell. We can't lay on prayers and expect them to hold us. I love him. I do. But he's not human. He's an animal. A highly intelligent one, but he relies on instinct and senses. We can't trust hope."

Raavas' tension all melted as pure horror, recognition, and grief finally registered at the words. Tears stung in his eyes, but he shook his head. No. Raavas, calm down. Don’t do anything stupid. 

"We need to trust him, Aery.”

"We can trust him to try. We don't know if he can. Face it. We need a plan."

Raavas' clawed hands balled into fists and shook as he leaned heavily against the door, desperately choking back tears and praying.

“Vell, listen to me. We need to protect people. You need to prepare for the fact that one day if something goes wrong, you may be required to kill him.”

A short silence accompanied the revelation before Evellias spoke again, this time too quiet for Raavas to hear.

The harpy strained to hear the conversation, silent tears blurring his vision and a burning dread sinking in his stomach.

A loud sound slammed through the room as if someone had thrown something against the table. “That’s not good enough Vell! You know what…” Aery trailed off, seemingly distraught. 

“We’d need to restrain him.” 

Footsteps accompanied another pause. “Evellias…”

“And if worse comes to worse… We shoot him.”

Raavas stopped altogether and reeled back, stumbling to his feet as he trembled, the words tumbling over and over in his head. He pressed his back against the railing, hyperventilating.

The door creaked open and both warriors froze in their tracks as they noticed the wide-eyed young adult. His panic turned to hysteria as he noticed them, terrified laughter shaking his whole body. “D-Dad?”

“Raavas! Hold on. What did you hear? We didn’t-” The Harpy flinched from his mentor’s touch. His eyes met theirs, tears staining his cheeks.

And he fled.

If you read it and enjoyed, please comment so I know who read it!

Part 1 |Part 2 (here)| Part 3 | Part 3.5

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[dearlymrme]

Hasty

Rating: E

Pairing: Terzo x Reader

Words: 3220

Tags: Quickie, Creampie, Retirement, Enthusiastic Consent, Objectification.

Summary: In the past Terzo would hunt you down before a Council meeting in hopes that you would help him work off some energy. Now that he’s retired and the roles are reversed he is more than happy to return the favor.

Read on AO3, or under the cut:

Your relationship with Terzo is a sexually healthy one, even before his retirement. He often cornered you in the halls, the bedroom, the library, even the confessional once, for a quickie before he had to settle with the Council for meetings. Meetings that could go on for hours at a time, listening to old traditionalists argue about how to better settle a matter that's already been settled five meetings ago.

Old men, pompous and entitled with little regard for how the world works today and would much rather argue on how it used to be done. Outdated, needing the cobwebs swept up and definitely needing some new blood. He believes half of them to be on dementia medication. It’s probably this line of thinking that got him dragged off stage in the first place. Not too much of a surprise but rather an eventuality, he's heard horror stories from Primo and Secondo, and lived it himself since being a boy. Their callousness and disinterest in how they uproot lives and-

But that's neither here nor there.

He's learned since his Cardinal days that a quick fuck, be it with you or into the comfort of his own hand, always turns his brain into a pleasantly flavored jelly after. It makes the meetings more bearable. An orgasm strong and satisfying enough that all their pedantic droning does is jiggle his gray matter to the point it tickles. It distracts him with forging a game plan of how better to repay your kindness once he’s freed, or to find you later for an even more spine tingling fuck.

After his forced retirement though it seems the rolls are reversed. Instead, as both his wife and prime mover, you've decided to saddle the paperwork transitions from III to IV. It's work truly meant for him and he’s told you that he is more than, if not begrudgingly, capable of doing it himself.

You shushed him, pushed a cup of coffee brewed just the way he likes into his hands, and told him that you’d handle it. You explained that you were more than a little bit pissed that they so forcefully removed him, making such a public show of it, and then tried to dog him after with more work as if to say that it’s his mess to take care of in the first place.

You were enraged that the Council even assumed that he would continue performing any kind of duty on their behalf after they axed him. No, they instead made a mockery of him and everything he did for them. You are not going to stand for their hounding. You felt it wrong that they still tried to push paperwork Primo’s way after retirement, you weren’t going to let them do it to Terzo.

“You deserve a break. You were one of the hardest working Papa’s of the Ministry. I know the fans seem to think you’re the player but we both know the truth.” You gently kissed him, his lips, his nose, his forehead. “You let me handle everything and just enjoy sleeping in for once.”

You've been called and pulled from every which way to organize the schedules and new duties for his remaining Cardinals as the rest turned their loyalties from him to Copia. Not all of them favored the new Papa and many of them wished instead to retire. Copia was kind enough to keep the ones who agreed with him and merciful enough to let the others go with no fuss. You wrote up the forms and all that was required of him now was a single last stamp of approval. He was happy for them. A lot of hard workers in his group and he saw a few familiar names on the sheets that made his job easier. He hopes they enjoy their new titles of Archbishop and complimentary responsibilities.

The Bishops, the Deacons, followed lastly by the Sisters and Sons of Sin. Every new hole left behind from the Cardinal’s they lost needed to be filled and formatted. Promotions for everyone. Seeing who’s qualified, who’s been in the church long enough, and most importantly who actually wants the job? Turns out, not a lot of them living in the Ministry itself did. After the showcase with Terzo being removed a lot of people now felt threatened and that gave you a little more work as they sent notes and mail of condolences and concerns.

He feels like everyone was taking advantage of you, himself included. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth but you took to the work like a fish to water. Afterall, you were his secretary before you both became physical. That fact alone better adds a spoonful of sugar to the bitter medicine.

The fact that he knows you're more like a shark than a fish, helps the flavor too. He knows you're making this as much of Copia’s problem as your own. He’s told you to go easy on the man but he also knows not to bait the water with more blood.

Now he has time to settle into the new role as husband. Despite your jab of sleeping in, he’s getting up earlier than you now. He makes breakfast, breaking out a cookbook that smells of bittersweet memories that calls back his boyhood to him. Not much has changed since growing up. Still loved by a woman not afraid to bare her teeth at those who would try to bully him. The whole wing starts to smell of his childhood and sentimentality. Early morning cartoons beat your own alarm clock as by the time he turns on the TV, breakfast is ready.

He’s already sitting on the couch, plate in hand and coffee made. A smile on his face and giggles as you sluggishly stumble and try your best to give him your most appreciative good morning kiss, often missing. You’d watch TV for at least thirty minutes and you’d be ready and leaving before the hour is up. You’d be back for lunch at roughly the same time every day, which he will have ready and warm and almost always something new. After work you’d come back from a meeting and he can almost always expect you to pin him to the nearest wall and attack his mouth like it’s been calling you names behind your back, a bit of opposites; you preferred after the meetings than before. You tell him it’s to make you more optimistic and alarmingly sweet when the old crones droll on. They have no idea what’s waiting for you at home, but you do, and you keep it close like a little secret. You’re near giddy when they seem confused as to how you can stay so happy during the hours-long conference.

He knows exactly what you're talking about. You do it with him too when there is the seldom argument. He dubs it: Hostile Friendliness.

As for what he does in his down time, he’s picked up his old hobbies. Primo has his multitude of plants to tend and the gardens. Secondo has his venture card and a long bucket list of places to go. Terzo himself likes reading and losing his mind in another world of words. Daring fantasies, fighting dragons, befriending monsters.

You’d told him the work is only temporary, that it’ll be done and over soon and then you could enjoy the retired life together but for now, that was the schedule he could expect until it was over.

So, when that schedule is thrown off even by the tiniest of pause, it’s very noticeable.

He glances at the time on his phone, idly browsing for new titles on the couch as you ready to leave. Breakfast is already done and put away. He raises a brow at the half hour mark and you still haven’t left yet.

“Don’t you have a meeting today?” He asks, knowing you can hear him through the open door of the bedroom. It's more of a concerned statement. He knows you do, he also knows that your anxiety for being punctual would usually have you already out of the door by now. That by itself should have had him braced for what you were about to do next.

You appear at the bedroom door, wearing a lovely blue sundress that is just long enough to be considered modest with brown flats. Your makeup is flawless and armed like a knife for whoever tries to talk down your decisions. The dress code for the Ministry is lax unless times of Ritual. But the Council expects professionalism during meetings but that’s exactly what you radiate. He can smell your usual perfume and your hair is already styled for the day.

“Yes.” You huff and take long, promising to the point of threatening, steps towards him.

There is that look in your eyes; viciously hungry, like a starved animal eyeing its prey. He sees your muscles coiled with purpose and itching to spring. The air is suddenly charged, tastes of promise and the sirens of an approaching storm ring in his mind. His body hums with the change of energy, his own instincts telling him that a challenger approaches.

“Take off your pants.” You command, like a boom of retribution, already halfway across the room and by that point his phone is already somewhere else and fingers are playing pestissimo with his belt buckle.

The demand sets off a Rube Goldberg machine in his body, nearly prophesied timing that would kill a weaker man. His blood suddenly ran hot and hellwards, cock already hardening by the split two seconds it takes before he's able to undo his pants, just in time for you to slide into his lap and ensnare his lips into a bruising kiss.

He grasps and clutches at your body like you're his anchor and he's the ship at sea. The storm is already settled upon him, tumultuous waters stirring as you roughly kiss and suck on his tongue. A thrilling amount of teeth nibbles his lip and pulls, ensuring him in a sweet stockholm trap. Were it not for his grip on you his vessel would have already capsized. Rowing and rocking against your insistent hips as they clash against his. He pulls his cocks free from his briefs, you have your underwear parted in less than a second.

“Sit on it.” He pleads, already bleeding for you. Already splitting himself open from sternum to throat and begging for you to feast. “Sit on me. Please, use me.”

You have him. You can have him. He's already yours.

You line up, the lip of your cunt spreads around his shift and it’s more than just the penetration that knocks the breath out of him.

“Soaked!” He laughs, nearly hysterical on the discovery as though he had just found a treasure lost to history. He glides right in as you sink like a rock. It’s a key fitted in place. A cog knocked loose and the gears resumed turning. How long have you suffered? How long did you go this morning without a balm for this need? You need not a moment more before you are slicing your hips, rowing through your own treacherous currents. .

He shakes nearly like an addict, scratching at your thighs for that good fix only you can give him, only he can give you. He pleads, rucking up the fabric of your dress, gliding his hungry hands over your favorite places and basks in the softness of your heated skin. As you take from him he drags tender and sultry kisses up your throat and jaw. You arch your back, grasping at his knees for balance. He watches you with his solar eclipse gaze, memorizing the near blissful and self satisfied expression you wear with pride.

“Yess.” Follow your snake like hiss. Your walls flutter around him, persistently squeezing as if to perfect a mold. He damn near chokes from the feedback of your relief. A devilish itch being scratched with every roll of your hips that has you both purring.

His back shudders as his love turns near revenant in glee. The heat of your core shooting bullets of pleasure through his gut and stirring his insides to knots. He swoops down to track his lips across your neckline and digs in his hands when you run one of your own through his hair, cradling him close before fastening to his shoulder, pushing him back into the cushions before you start a pattern of rocking and grinding.

A breathless and bubbly laugh escapes his mouth as he seeks a hand to the flat of your back to press against him. He slams his hips up and aims directly for your weak spot, like breaking stone with a chisel. The scream that escapes you is loud enough to threaten anyone outside the hallway. But with retirement, damned if he has to keep appearances anymore. The following glee that he can be as loud as he wants makes his cheeks apple a smile.

His body vibrates like a tuning fork, synchronizing all that is him together. Warm and gooey between his joints that melt into his veins and smother his insides in honey. You demand of him; push and pull on him, putting him exactly where you want and how you want. You command for kisses and bites that he savagely provides with no argument. The satisfaction of your praises, your want for more, faster, harder, and flittering kisses as reward. No, he’s not taking orders from the Council anymore. Now, he can worship his one and only matron.

So lost in the righteousness of giving you everything you want, it sneaked up on him. That spring threatens to bounce as it coils tightly in his stomach. There is a zip in his toes that starts to travel up his legs and settle in his core. He’s not long for the world.

“Use me, cara. Get off on me! Use me. Useme!” It's like sin in his veins. Euphoria as you take everything you need from him. Your personal fuck machine to use however you want. All you need to do is tell him how high to jump and he’ll double it. The hold you have on him, invisible strings tangled on your fingertips and him the marionette. He dances to your tune perfectly, wanting nothing more than to put on the best show possible.

He’s already to the point of babbling. Heat melting his core and his balls tightening. He pants, air coming in thin. He watches you, lost in the vision of your unadulterated beauty that would make every tapestry in the Ministry blush.

Your face is one to remember; eyes pinched and brows furrowed. Your pupils have long since devoured the color of your eyes. Your mouth is open, baring your teeth threateningly to the orgasm running to escape you as your gaining ground.

“Your’s! You use me any way you want!” He’s high on the skin contact, as little there is with your thick and strong thighs pinning his own. He’s experiencing sainthood through your body. This is His Lord at work. As close as he can get to divinity by being yours and wholly yours. Your growl, feral, like a beast as you tear into his flesh and rip him apart. He is a feast for your mouth.

One of his hands left your hips to fist at the sofa, like it had a mind of its own. A stupid self preservation instinct kicking in to try and keep him grounded. He rerouted, grabbing his since gone wild hair and pulling, the pinch meant to stave off his orgasm but the pain had the opposite effect, egging him on closer and closer to the finish line. Tears have already escaped his eyes, leaving tracks down his cheeks, and finding their destination in your cleavage. This is thirsty work and he can only hope you'll give him enough time to drink them up once you're done with him.

He breathed in loud, open-mouthed heaves for air as every cut of your hips felt almost like a stab. His chest rhythmically rises with a hitch and despite his best efforts he feels as though he is suffocating. You grab him by his chin and lean into him, ghosting your lips against his own. He opens his mouth and flicks his tongue, beckoning you to play. You marvel at him, eyes casted in shadow. A statement. A promise. His undoing.

“Mine.”

He jerks, going into near excorcistic bodily spasms as he lifts his hips and fucks as deep into you as he can, nearly hurting his back by pressing his heels into the floor and thrusting. His ass leaves the sofa for a bare second before he collapses and his mind sent into delicious subspace. Even with the satisfaction of coming it still wrecks devastation through his nerves.

But a good husband still provides. He gives and gives before you finally have your fill three more rolls in, your clit having tenderized against his groin with each pass before it slaps at just the right angle and sends you spiraling. You slow, fierce cuts turning into leisurely rolls as you allow your pleasure to carry you like sand in the ocean.

Terzo’s hips still shake, his doglike whine breaks the chorus of heavy breathing and you start to move again. You shift, squirm, and finally remove yourself from his lap. He hiccups as his cock, still throbbing from pleasure slaps his stomach in freedom, a pained ‘oh’ punched from his gut.

It’s both the best moment of his life and near torture as he watches you adjust your underwear back in place and brush down your dress. You lean back over him, he can see the concern in your eyes along with those threatening clouds you brought with you. Quickly, he blows away those clouds rendering them as simple fluffs of dandelions. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he cups at your cheek and gives you a confidence instilling kiss. You sweetly melt into him before breaking away.

His body is heavy and muscles are screaming from sudden exertion as they finally relax, he half expects a cramp later. It’s the best feeling in the world. He glances at your retreating figure as you walk towards the door, leaving him a near husk as you make off with all he has to give. Hair and dress back in place, your thumb wiping at touching up your smeared lipstick, glancing at the nearby mirror. You flash him a bit of teeth as you palm the doorknob and chime a wish you well and he's again stunned by the grace of your beauty.

Then he glances down, giving a pained groan as his poor and abused cock twitches at the sight.

The traces of his cum he can see steadily sliding down the inside of your thighs, the image sheared into his mind as a core memory. The knowledge that you’ll be sitting with the Council with the stains of his release on your panties. Fuel for later today when he knows you'll be back, after all your work is done, to better take your time appreciating him.

He can't wait to be picked apart.