#or does volume shenanigans

[tjerra14]

been expecting my 7yo headphones to die soon, especially since the cable's been looking funny for a while now, but I did not expect them to do it in the most random-ass way possible by sending my phone all kinds of inputs depending on how I move around with them plugged in

[bluejaybytes]

Cricket my OC Cricket... admire her ^

[spotlightstudios]

Shout-out to Trials of Mana btw. I used all 3 characters opposite of my dad's save file, ended up with Tragic Rogue as my mc (Hawkeye), and a tiny jester elf as my healer (Charlotte) and himbo fighter (Kevin) as my companions. Literally Hawkeye is the only one taking anything seriously, and Kevin and Charlotte are just along for the ride. I love them dearly.

[ghost-with-a-teacup]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 (𝐈𝐈)

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader

Summary: After you reveal the truth of what your relationship really was between you and Miguel, everyone's keen on learning more. So what better way to give a little more insight than a dinner at your shared home?

Warnings: None~ Just back again with silly shenanigans and the softest of fluff :3

A/N: Hello, everyone! After the first part of 'What's In Between' blew up (you can read it here, thank you so much by the way, you're all so sweet), many people have asked for a part two, so here it is! Enjoy <3

The moment you break the news to them, the volume of the table booms to a fever pitch as everyone begins talking at the same time.

“W-WHAT?!”

“Married? No way,” Hobie says.

“How long have you been together?” Pavitr asks.

“I can’t say I saw this coming…” Miles says, eyes widening in surprise.

Miguel had been watching you the moment you snuck up on the group, but with the newfound panic from everyone he couldn’t help but make his way over to the commotion.

“You’re all being loud, what are you yelling about now?” Miguel asks, walking over and standing by your side.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL US YOU WERE MARRIED?!” Gwen shouts.

“You never asked,” he blinks, “and also, it’s none of your business.”

“Miguel, as your best friend I am deeply offended that you haven’t told me after this long, does our friendship mean nothing to you?” Peter says, hand on his chest in pretend hurt.

“You are not my best friend,” Miguel deadpans.

“After I opened up to you no less, I mean, you were the first person I told about Mayday! All the details-” he continues, ignoring the comment.

“Not by choice,” he mutters.

“Does no one know about this?? At all???” Pavitr asks, “I mean, you two are married.”

“I mean, Jess knows about it,” you gesture, and she only grins.

“And now all of you do too,” Miguel sighs. “Vida mía, I thought we talked about this,” he admonishes.

“Oh, c’mon, it was cute how they were all trying to figure it out for so long. I was starting to feel bad,” you say, smoothing your hair back. He only stares at you for a moment before sighing.

“Fine,” he relents, “Can’t do anything about it now anyway.” He smiles softly at you, and the group watches in awe as their cold leader softens in your presence, but his gaze quickly grows dark as he turns back to the group.

“One word of this to anyone outside of this group,” he says with a pointed finger before trailing off, allowing everyone to fill in the blanks as to what he might do.

Everyone’s faces pale like a sheet at the unnamed threat (well, except for Hobie, he only watches with blatant amusement on his face), but you only laugh.

“Miguel, don’t threaten the kids,” you giggle. “Don’t worry, he’s all bark and no bite,” you whisper to them with a wink.

“Hey, that’s what I say!” Peter says.

“You are his best friend after all,” you grin.

“I have never said those words a day in my life,” he scoffs, but you ignore him, eyes lighting up with an idea.

“Oh! I have a lovely idea, how about you all swing by our place for dinner later? We never have guests,” you suggest.

Gwen gasps, “Really?”

“This…maybe doesn’t seem like the best idea,” Miles says as he shrinks down in his seat at Miguel’s glare towards you.

“I have plans tonight…though I don’t think they’d mind if I cancel,” Hobie says nonchalantly, but everyone knew there was no way in hell he’d miss something like this.

“What am I, cat litter?” Jess asks. She was the only person to have been at your shared home, having joined around the same time as you, and being one of the few people Miguel fully trusts.

“You know it's not like that, Jess,” you turn to her with a grin.

“Absolutely not, it's already a liability that they know querida, now you want them traipsing into our home?” Miguel argues, and you narrow your eyes at him, never one to back down from a fight. While it got on his nerves, it's what he loved about you too. He needed someone that wouldn’t take his shit.

“Miguel,” you say, giving him a look. “All our enemies are literally in alternate universes who, aside from those small tears, have no way to go cross-dimensional, let alone find us in the expanse of a universe. Besides, I think it would be nice,” you say, and Mayday seems to agree since she climbs right up into your arms, babbling happily.

“And don’t think I don’t know you have a soft spot for this lil ragtag team,” you smile, bouncing up and down as Mayday laughs.

He huffs, “I am anything but soft, especially for them. They never listen, don’t follow protocol, are immature, and the list goes on.”

“He’s lying,” you whisper, covering your mouth from his direction as though that would stop him from happening. Mayday grabs your hand though, playing with your fingers happily. “See how his ears are turning red?”

At that, his ears turn more red and the group tries to stifle their snickers to no avail.

“Querida,” he warns. “Do you feel the need to share anything else about me? Or have you had enough,” he asks, poking your shoulder. You place a hand on his bicep with a gentle smile, and his expression softens much to his dismay.

“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you grin. “Alright, it’s settled then! You’re all coming over tonight.”

~

You hummed softly to yourself as you moved around the kitchen, preparing the food for dinnertime when everyone would be coming over.

Then, you feel the hair rise on the back of your neck as a familiar presence makes himself known, strong arms wrapping around your waist as his head rests on top of yours.

“Vida mía, the food smells good,” he says softly before sighing. “But I’m not very happy with you today.”

You let out a sigh of your own as you turn off the stove before turning around in his arms to face him.

“Miguel, my love,” you say, smoothing out the collar of the pullover he wore before looking up at him. “I know you well, don’t I?”

“More than anyone,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest amount as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Then it’s safe to assume that you’ve been wanting to hang out with more people in the Society apart from work-related things?” you ask, placing your hand on his chest.

“I can’t afford anything like that in this line of work, you know that querida,” he sighs, that familiar hardened look in his eyes for a moment.

“Miguel, your only friends can’t be me, Lyla and Jess,” you pout.

“Vida mía, you are my wife,” he says.

“Yes, and it's miracle enough that I was able to grow close enough to you to get to that point,” you chuckle, “so my existence in your life is proof itself that you are capable of growing close to people. I’ve seen you, I think you’re ready and deep down I know you don’t always want to be perceived as the cold and unfeeling leader of the Society. Why not start with them?”

“That’s not a decision for you to make,” he says, glancing away from you.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” you apologize, feeling a bit guilty that you threw Miguel into this without warning. “I should have spoken to you about it first but who knows. Maybe this is a good thing, opening your heart a little more,” you explain. “Don’t think I realize you’re the hardest on them because you believe in them,” you smile.

He huffs before pausing to think for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder when you snuck your little way into my head, querida.”

“Admit it, you’re growing soft,” you giggle softly.

“Never,” he counters, tickling your side which makes you scrunch up your face as you laugh breathlessly.

“OKAY! Okay, you’re one soft fluffy teddy bear, happy?” you say which only makes him continue with even more fervour.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever heard you say, querida,” he snorts but finally relents.

“Yeah….I can’t even say that with a serious face,” you chuckle. “But you do have your moments, tough guy,” you smile, leaning up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his lips.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. That’s when the doorbell rings, and immediately your eyes light up.

“Oh! They’re here!!” you say excitedly, escaping from his grasp as you move to open up the door.

“Here we go,” he murmurs to himself, and you turn to face him.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Nothing, vida mía,” he replies, and you narrow your eyes in disbelief.

“Behave, Miguel,” you tell him.

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” he replies, and you grin before opening up the front door.

There, you find Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, Peter (alongside Mayday of course), Hobie and Jess all standing outside, chatting amongst themselves before turning to you.

Miles almost looks like he’s in disbelief like he couldn’t really believe this was your home quite yet.

“Hi!” Gwen starts.

“Took you lot long enough,” Hobie says. “Was starting to think we'd have to build a fire and cook it ourselves.” Gwen punches his shoulder, to which he lets out a little “Ow!”

“Sorry about him,” Gwen apologizes.

You just find yourself laughing at it all though.

“No apologies needed, we were a little preoccupied. Come on in, make yourself at home,” you say, opening the door a little wider for them to make their way through.

“Not too at home though,” you hear Miguel say, leaning into the foyer from the living room, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ignore him,” you say, giving him a pointed look to which he just stares at you blankly. “Dinner will be ready soon, I just have to set the table and we can eat, alright?”

“It smells delicious,” Pavitr says, “I’m starving.”

Mayday seems to agree as she crawls up from the baby carrier onto Peter’s head, making grabby hands from the top.

“Someone’s hungry,” Peter chuckles. “Got anything she can eat?”

“I have a few things, don’t worry,” you smile.

“It really does smell really good though, but it always does,” Jess adds.

“It’s nothing special,” you say sheepishly. “Just some of Miguel’s favourites.”

You guide them all into the living room. “Settle in! I’ll be done in a snap,” you say.

As you make your way back to the kitchen (with Jess joining you to help out), back in the living room the squad of spiders settle in almost hesitantly, a watchful eye monitoring all of their reactions.

No one dares say anything, only sitting around nervously.

“So…nice weather we’re having,” Peter says, trying to lighten the mood but even Mayday gives him a deadpanned expression.

Miguel sighs. “You’re all acting like there’s a ticking time bomb waiting for you to speak before setting off,” he says, still leaning up against the doorway.

“We don’t know, mate. Is there?” Hobie jokes, but Miles’ face drops anyway.

“There isn’t, for the record. I can be harsh but I’m not evil,” Miguel scoffs before making eye contact with Pavitr who looks like he wanted to ask something but was holding back.

“One question,” he says simply with a nod.

“How long have you two been together?”

“…a little over 4 years now,” he replies.

“How did you meet?” Gwen asks.

“I said one question,” he says before your voice cuts in.

“My universe was one of the first he visited! He hated me back then, though,” you laugh as you walk back in. “Speaking of which!! I have some things you might all want to see after dinner,” you grin mischievously.

“I thought you said I was the one that had to behave, mi corazón,” Miguel says, a warning tone in his voice.

“And I am, aren’t I?” you say, poking his side playfully. “Anyway, dinner’s ready,” you say, leading them to the dining room. “I know it's not much but-”

“How in the hell is this not much??” Hobie exclaims, and you just shrug. “You should see dinner with my family, then you will think that it’s not much,” you say with a chuckle.

On the table sat a wide expanse of food, all of Miguel’s favourites from Mexico. Empanadas as the appetizer, alongside pozole, ceviche, enchiladas, and chicken with mole poblano all served with a side of rice, beans, or homemade corn tortillas depending on each person’s preference.

You can see Miguel’s eyes visibly brighten as he looks at the food, settling in at the head of the table with you by his side.

“Come eat!” As you say that, everyone sits down before beginning to eat, everyone heading straight to what appealed to them the most.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Miles says, eyes closed in bliss.

“Oye, don’t let your Mother hear that, kid,” Miguel says, but the corner of his lip was upturned in the tiniest of smiles. The most he would allow himself around this many people.

“Thank you, Miles,” you smile.

“This, uhh, how do you say it again? Poh-zuhl?” Gwen asks, and you laugh out loud as she turns pink, meanwhile both Miguel and Miles cringe slightly.

“I’m sorry for laughing, sweetheart. You’re almost there; it’s pronounced like ‘poh-zoh-lay’,” you say kindly.

“Ohh, okay gotcha. Pozole. It’s really good! Feels…comforting, almost,” she says.

“Yes,” you say, glancing at your husband with a soft smile, “it’s Miguel’s favourite. Says it ‘tastes like home’.” A chorus of ‘awws’ go around the table, while Miguel only holds the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Alright, alright. Enough with the cheesy stuff, let’s get back to eating, yeah?” Hobie says before shoving his fork back into his mouth.

~

Once dinner was finished (and after both Miles and Gwen insisted that they did the dishes despite much argument from you), everyone was settled again in the living room laughing and talking together, and while Miguel only said a few things here and there and sat by your side like a lost puppy, he did seem to be enjoying himself.

“Alright! Now, before everyone goes back home, I have one more thing I’d like to show you,” you say once it quiets down a bit. Standing up, you make your way over to a large bookshelf you and Miguel had built together when you first moved in together.

“I’ve gotten tired of having only myself to show these photos to, so this is the perfect opportunity,” you smile.

“Querida-” Miguel says, holding out a hand to block your way but you look at him with pleading eyes, and he can’t do anything but relent. He couldn’t say no when you looked at him like that.

With a triumphant ‘haha!’ you grab a photo album labelled with a date and a single word; ‘Ours’.

Everyone crowds around as you place it down on the coffee table, and you open it up to the first page.

Gwen is the one that gasps first, eyes wide with awe.

“You both look so beautiful,” she says softly.

There, front and centre was a photo of you and Miguel on your wedding day. You were smiling wide at the camera, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in hand while Miguel only looked at you with an expression so in awe it was as though you painted the stars in the sky.

“You clean up nicely, big man,” Hobie comments, and Pavitr nods.

“Weddings, my favourite,” Jess says, a fond expression on her face as she thinks back to her own husband.

“I had a bird fly into my face at my wedding…but they are nice,” Peter says, rocking Mayday gently as she naps away after the hearty dinner even despite the commotion.

You continue to flip through the photobook, pausing periodically for a little anecdote about each one. Miguel had long stood up to make room for everyone else, but he looked at you in the same way he did on your wedding day.

Like you were the light of his life, the one good thing he had amongst the millions of universes parallel to his own. Like you were his everything.

~

“Admit it, you like them,” you smile, the house finally quiet after everyone headed home. He only rolls his eyes before pulling you into his lap, his face going into the crook of your neck as he holds you close.

“There is a big difference between ‘liking’ and ‘tolerating’, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing circles into your hip soothingly.

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. Whatever you say,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his neck and settling into his touch with a happy sigh.

You both sit there for a moment in silence, the two of you weren’t ones to fill silence with mindless chatter. If words needn’t be said then they weren’t.

“That was…nice, though,” he admits softly after a little while.

“I know,” you whisper.

~

~

~

“That won’t happen again for a long while though,” he says, pulling away to look at you, crimson eyes pleading with you wordlessly.

You can’t do anything but laugh.

Taglist (for those who requested a part two): @lotustv @mars-ifuknowmeirlplsgoaway @elliewilliamsactualgf @randomhumans-blog @iluvkonig @phillygraves @gothgirlziez

[celestie0]

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

in holy matriphony ch4. in a mother’s eyes

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

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

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

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

ᰔ chapter. 4/x

ᰔ words. 10k (omg a whole number...very sexy)

a/n. hellooo my ihm friends! hope you're all doing well. ahh i'm glad to finally be posting this chapter lolol. it's a littleee off tangent from what happens in ch3, but still has some important plot developments. it does dive into feelings of depression & anxiety, so just wanted to give a warning on that! but yea other than that i hope you enjoy and see you at the bottom!! :) also so sorry if there are errors i only had time to skim through it once :((

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“Just go ahead and sign right here for me.”

You take the pen from the hospice nurse’s hand. It’s cheap black plastic with a pink fuzzy pom pom attached to the end of it with peeling glue. 

Your eyes briefly flit across the paragraphs detailed in printed ink until your gaze lands on the highlighted lines at the bottom of the page. Your signature. Spouse’s signature.

“We’ll need to have your husband come here to sign the paperwork as well, since he’ll have to add your mother on his list of dependents, but we can certainly get started on expediting this process for you since the insurance has already been pre-approved,” the nurse tells you as she accepts your signed paperwork and then neatly tucks it into one of the compartment holders. 

The afternoon goes by smoothly, with your mother surprisingly patient as she sits in the waiting room while you wait for the nurses to formally show you to her new room.

You thought that you could put off putting her in hospice for a little longer, because in all honesty, you weren’t prepared to let her go just yet. You weren’t prepared to not have her in the house anymore. But lately, she’s been putting herself in lots of danger, like attempting to take her own medications when she does not know the correct dosing, and forgetting things on the stove when she attempts to cook.

But the last straw was when you came home from a very brief run to the grocery store at night a couple days ago to see a handful of your neighbors out on the front lawn with your mother at their side. She had apparently gotten out of the house and walked down the neighborhood, then fallen on the sidewalk but was unable to get up. When your neighbors had found her, a miracle as they were just coming home from dinner and caught sight of her in the illumination of their headlights, they tried to help her get up but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell the firefighters that came by to help her what her name was, or what year it was, or where she lived.

It was when you realized you couldn’t even keep her safe anymore that you had to let go.

“Is that a wedding ring?” your mother asks, pointing a trembling finger to it as she lays tucked inside her new hospice bed, “are you married?”

You glance down at the ring Gojo gave you in the courthouse, almost surprised to find that you were still wearing it in good faith. “Yes, mom. I am.”

“Why am I here?” she asks you, “I don’t want to be here.”

You stiffen a little. Although you were mentally preparing yourself to answer these questions, the preparation didn’t make it any easier. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a little short while, okay? The doctors want to run some tests on you.”

“Who are you married to?” she asks.

“To Satoru,” you tell her, “our neighbor.”

She lets out a small gasp. “The sweet boy who fixed our A/C?”

You roll your eyes. not sure why your mother has hyper fixated on that memory with Gojo when most days she’ll look at you like you’re a stranger. “Yes mom.”

“Oh, I like him,” she tells you with an affectionate nod. She hesitates slightly, wearisome of some other thought that flashes through her mind. “How long have you been married?”

You let out a small sigh. This is already a conversation you had with her a couple days ago, and it doesn’t feel good to lie to her. It was hard enough to do once, but to have to constantly lie to her over and over again over all the smallest things just so that she stays calm and safe and happy seems to drain you of all your energy and happiness you had left in your bones.

Little white lies, that’s what they are. Harmless ones. That’s what you tell yourself to absolve yourself of the guilt.

“I’ll come back soon, okay? I’ll tell you more about him some other day,” you say to her, speaking gently in the way an adult would speak to a child. The way she used to speak to you. You could never exactly pinpoint when those roles became reversed.

You finish discussing some more insurance matters with the front-desk nurse as she puts together a small folder of documents for you. While she works, you glance at the little counter shelf that includes a plethora of pamphlets on how to deal with the complicated feelings that arise from putting a loved one in hospice care, and dealing with the emotions of having a relative with advanced stage dementia. They are pretty brochures, lovingly creased at the folds as if looked through multiple times by people who walk in and out of this facility, but seemingly only few take them home. You slip one of each into your folder when the nurse hands it to you, manage the best smile possible, and then turn on your heel to head out the hospice doors.

The sun is setting outside as you take the walk back to your car, which was purposefully parked a half mile away to afford you the luxury of a melancholic stroll. Somehow, you feel like you’ve left a piece of yourself back at the hospice. A feeling you can’t quite shake from your bones.

Your feet stop walking somewhere along the sidewalk on their own, the street lights above you flickering brighter into life as the sky is now a dusty gray with only streaks of purple. There’s a liquor store you spot across a small parking lot to your right, and you’re guided towards it, but not without a sickening feeling in your chest.

When you open the door, the bell at the top jingles, and you glance to the right where you see a lanky young man playing some sort of shooter game on his phone by the cash register. You grab a bottle of vodka, a bottle of white wine, some packs of skittles, one of the mini pizza boxes at the hot food station, and then dump it all onto the counter.

The young man scans all your items without even so much as sparing you a glance, but does take a look at your ID, then says, “Total’s $68.65, cash or card?”

“Card.”

Just before you tap your card, something displayed behind the cashier counter catches your eye. Something familiar, something tempting, something you weigh in your head about twenty times within one millisecond all due to the cortisol coursing through your veins and you eventually say, “Uh, and could I get one of those, too?”

The cashier looks behind himself to what you’re pointing at before turning around. “Sure.”

The same jingle is heard on top of your head as you leave the store, now with a burning hot mini pizza box in your hand as well as a plastic bag that carries your candy and the two clinking bottles of alcohol.

“Oh!! omg, y/n,” you hear a feminine voice call out and you’re instantly wincing. The last thing you wanted was to be bothered right now. You just wanted to go home and get drunk and then pass out on the floor of your living room. But alas, the world is small.

You turn around to see Hana come running across the sidewalk lot towards you, and when she’s about a few feet away, she glances down at your hands and all the things you were carrying. You quickly shove your last-minute purchase into your jacket pocket with a shameful conscience, and try to hide the plastic bag of liquor behind your calves. There was no hiding the pizza box, but at least that was the least incriminating.

“Oh, Hana, wow! What a coincidence seeing you here,” you say to her, pressing your lips into a small smile.

“Yeah, I um,” she points over her shoulder towards the hospice that’s standing tall in the darkness of night, cells with windows illuminated with light. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a prison. “Remember I told you my friend’s mom is sick and she’s at this hospice?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“I was just visiting her mom with her,” she tells you.

“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”

You adore Hana, you really do. She was there for you when the whole Yuna and Choso thing went down, picking your shifts up for a good week when you couldn’t stomach going into work when your ex-best friend’s stupid face was gloating in the halls over how she stole your boyfriend. Hana was there for you when you were a new hire and all the doctors were being bitchy about a “newbie in the ED”, but she stood up for you, even cussed the fuck out of one of attendings for the whole hall to hear when you were being disrespected by one of them. She’s someone you can beam about how hot the EMT and Firefighter men that stroll into the ED are, too. A priceless companion.

And even though you two have hung out after hours sometimes, it was still always a little awkward to see a coworker outside of work.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I actually, um, was going to tell you at our shift tomorrow, but I just admitted my mom to the hospice too,” you say, “and…thanks a lot for telling me about it. I really appreciate it. It seems like a wonderful facility.”

Her eyes briefly widen with surprise before they soften once again. “Oh, that’s wonderful, love. I hope all goes well. And your little insurance scam worked! Good for you!”

“Shhh,” you hiss at her, looking around yourself with paranoia, “the feds are everywhere.”

She laughs, sweet in the air, before the sound settles and she looks at you with something reminiscent of well-intentioned concern. Her eyes flit to the plastic bag you were still holding behind your legs. “Hey…um, if…if you ever want some company when you come to visit your mom, just let me know. I hope you know you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You blink at her, sucking in a short breath to respond, but it only leaves you as a slight puff of air. There’s a silent gratitude that you give her, because it’s hard for you to express any feelings with words, but you’ve found that the people in your life who know you best can always read you without them. 

“Thank you, Hana,” you manage to say with a slight croak to your voice because you were fighting back tears.

She smiles at you. “Take care, okay? And see ya tomorroooowwwwww,” she coos at you, coming up to you to give you a small hug, a squeeze of your upper arm, and then she heads back towards the direction of the hospice.

You watch her walk away until you can’t see her anymore. And then you head towards your car.

When you arrive at your neighborhood, you park in front of Gojo’s house. You have a feeling that you won’t be able to bear the vast emptiness of your home now that your mother is elsewhere, and so you drag your feet up the stone stairs of his house with a heavy heart instead.

The spare key that he gave you weakly pushes into the keyhole with about as much force as your fingers can manage, and you realize they almost feel atrophied. 

The house is dark when you step inside, spare for the ambient street lights shining through cracked open blinds on the windows, and the curtains rustle gently from the draft of the AC, a chill that reaches you too by the time you make it to the staircase.

It doesn’t seem like Gojo’s home. A glance at the clock tells you it’s close to 8pm. You briefly consider texting him to ask where he’s at, why he’s out so late, when he’ll be home, and what’s for dinner, but you can’t even bring yourself to pull your phone out of your coat pocket.

Weak legs manage to take you upstairs and you’re about to pass through to your room when the slightly open door to the master bedroom taunts you, like a peephole into some other wordly dimension. Like the wardrobe in the chronicles of Narnia. A portal into your fake husband’s life.

With a palm pushing on the door, you slowly crack it open, and you know the anxious voices in your head are getting worse by the day when the creaking of the door hinges sounds like a lullaby to you. 

Was this an invasion of privacy? And did you really care if it was?

The room is big, with a king sized bed off to the left, sheets neatly made and duvet primly tucked under, like the way hotel beds are set up. You feel a slight flush of embarrassment when you remember you haven’t been making your bed in the mornings for the past couple days you’ve been living here so far, and you wonder if Gojo would judge you for something like that. If he’d think you were a messy or undisciplined person. If he would think less of you.

Truthfully, in a lot of ways, you still felt like a child. You barely weathered a lot of your formative adolescent years when dealing with your parents’ divorce, and you’ve had to put so much of your life on pause to take care of your mom ever since she got diagnosed. So here you were, in the body of a 29-year-old woman, yet still feeling so painfully juvenile. One that forgets to make her bed in the mornings, and on most nights can’t seem to stomach anything other than cereal for dinner. It was like you were still at a party that everyone else had left, except all it ever was is hell. Your life was such a stark contrast to the lives of other adults you’ve come across. The ones that wake up at six to go on runs, the ones that have paid off mortgages with five figures in their retirement accounts, oh god, the ones that meal prep, and the ones that, all things considered, have their lives together. The ones that don’t spend at least an hour of every day, in fetal position on their bed, sobbing until tears soak through the sheets of the pillow down to the feathers like bone, because you’re so overwhelmed with stress and preparing yourself for the grief of losing your mother which you know that, no matter how hard you try to save her from, will inevitably one day come. 

You used to cook dinner every night, make your bed every morning, and go to pilates on the weekends. Back when you were a little younger and healed and excited to live life. But now, you barely get by. Your priorities are with your mother. You can’t remember the last time you did anything nice for yourself, including something as simple as the luxury of getting to come home to a clean house because you hardly ever had time to clean it, not with all the doctor’s appointments you were driving your mother to, not with all the extra shifts you were picking up at the hospital to pay off your debt, not with all the times you felt too depressed to even get out of bed. 

But your mother is in hospice now, so you’ve made time, right? You’ve made the decision that everyone in your life has been begging you to finally do. So why do you still feel so empty inside?

By a quick survey of the room, you notice Gojo doesn’t really have many framed photos hung up on the walls or perched up on surfaces. None, actually. Only a contemporary painting above his bed frame and then a faded vintage horror movie poster plastered up near his desk. Not terribly odd, since in your experience most men don’t really do the whole “cluttering the house with millions of photos of their family” thing until they at least have a couple of kids and some purebred dog. The thought of Gojo someday setting up a little portrait photo at his desk with his wife’s—his eventual real forever wife’s, pretty face in it, posing with their two beautiful kids, makes an oddly melancholic feeling waft through you. You wonder if he would keep a two-by-two in his wallet, too.

Your feet move one in front of the other as your finger traces the surface wood of a dresser cabinet, something that looks a little vintage and oaky, in stark contrast to the modern minimalist vibe Gojo has set up in the rest of the room. A family heirloom, maybe? There’s no dust that coats your finger, which surprises you. If you were to run your finger across your dresser at home you’d have collected enough dust to snort down your windpipes like a recreational drug. But Gojo’s a real estate agent, making a living off of dressing houses up in perfect cosplay so that monetarily stable middle class families feel inclined to buy them. So you’re not exactly surprised he’s invested in keeping his own house in pristine condition too. 

There is a little bit of chaos, though. Like the shirt he has haphazardly hung over his chair at his office space over to the right. There’s a coffee mug sitting there too, porcelain and reflecting the moon light off, but upon peering inside you see that it’s half empty with stale coffee. He’s got pens sprawled across the desk, in a fashion that suggests he accidentally knocked them over in a rush, and slowly, like some grounding exercise, you place them one by one back into the paper mache pencil holder. It briefly occurs to you that he has a lot of paper mache containers of sorts around the house. You lift up the pencil cup, turning it in your hand until your eyes catch something written on it with glittery pink gel pen.

i luv u unkle toru! -yur BEST FREND 4EVUR juno!!! :D

A small smile makes it onto your face. The handwriting was messy, more like scratches than smooth lines, and nothing less than what you would expect of a child. You remember making paper mache and clay trinkets at preschool for your mom and dad when you were younger. And you’re sure if you were brave enough to open the box of memorabilia that sits in your attic some day, you’d see your own scratchy scribbled handwriting on them. An innocence that is long gone and buried, never again to be delicately placed on desks or counters for all the living.

The draft from the AC reaches you once again, brushing over your skin and causing a chill to shiver down your spine. It kicks at the curtains as well, causing them to ruffle up towards you, baring the dark outside world into the streets. And you notice in that momentary glance that there’s a roof just outside the window that overlooks the backyard. A roof? Spotted by a depressed woman going through a quarter life crisis? There was nothing more tempting than that. 

The window was easy to open, which only caused unease over the revelation of how easy it would be for someone to rob this house. You make a mental note to tell Gojo to get a ring camera or security system of some sort since he doesn’t seem to have one, but you can already picture him telling you something about how statistically low the crime rates are in this neighborhood compared to all the other neighborhoods, and then you’d tell him that it’s just for your peace of mind. But whether he’d compromise or not after that, you’re really not sure.

You take a seat on the roof, a little scared as you sit because of the slight slope, but it’s comfortable once you’re settled. You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring out into the neighborhood of perfectly lined up suburban houses. You’ve got a better view into some neighbors' backyards, noticing that a couple of them had pools while some of them have big gardens. There's a cat resting up on a fence in the distance. A car drives by with headlights illuminating everything in its proximity briefly before zooming off. You glance up at the sky, and notice the full moon, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. Or perhaps it was just the light pollution from the lamps making it difficult to see.

On instinct, your hand reaches inside your coat pocket for your phone, but your knuckles hit something else instead. A moment of brief confusion flickers through your head, but then you immediately recall the last-minute purchase you made at the gas station.

Your hand pulls out the object, and then you stare down at it. Squinting your eyes a little, because it’s a sight that feels familiar but also one you haven’t seen in so long: a pack of twenty Marlboro red cigarettes. 

You’ve tried a lot of things to manage your stress over the years. Excessively working out, eating a lot of sugar, going on six hour hikes to touch grass, flirting with random men at bars, fucking Choso until he was rendered speechless, multiple types of antidepressants, you almost tried smoking weed once with your roommate in college but you wimped out last second. But the habit that had gotten you through the years of 21 to 24 is held loosely in your hand right now. It’s been five years since you quit, but resolve was often a fickle thing. As the saying goes, once an addict, always an addict. 

There’s a brief moment of hesitation as you slowly peel the plastic off of the back, but then it all comes back to you like a reflex you’ll never forget up to where you slide a cigar up out and then pinch it between your two fingers. Forgetting to buy a lighter with the cigarettes is definitely something you would do, but because you remembered it was something that you would do, you remembered not to do it. The flick of the flame coming to life is ASMR you didn’t know you were painfully nostalgic for, and you balance the cigarette between your lips in that sort of movie-star way people used to obsess over back in the day. But just as you bring the lighter up to the end of the cigarette, and just before you can light it—

A hand shoots out in your periphery, grabbing your wrist and entirely stalling the movement.

You gasp, lips parting enough for the cigarette to fall from them and into your lap. The hand wrapped around your wrist is large and masculine, and you briefly consider screaming, but when you snap your neck to look at the perpetrator, you see Gojo crouched down next to you on this roof. You notice he’s wearing a black suit, a tie that was loosely secure hanging from his neck into the space between his spread thighs as he’s crouched, and whatever gel he had in his hair from earlier only barely remains as strands fall over his forehead haphazardly. He looks like he’s on the other end of a long work day. 

You blink at him, expression plastered with surprise, but his is only earnest. With breathtaking blue eyes that you realize he could easily use to surrender a person just by looking at them, like the way he’s looking at you right now. His lips are pressed together into a firm line, as if to suppress some emotion, but the slight crease to his brow makes you feel like you’re in trouble somehow. Like he was silently scolding you for something.

“I—” you stutter.

He lets go of your wrist and discreetly pulls the lighter out of your hand. And then his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes you were balancing on your knee, but on some reflex that you don’t even think about, you try to snatch them away from him, and now you’re both tugging at the same pack of cigarettes.

“y/n,” he says, “let go.”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

He sighs and tugs a little harder. “Give them to me.”

“But—” you stammer, voice becoming softer to see if that’d work on him, “I’m…” Your grip on them tightens. “I’m stressed.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, then finally loses his patience and snatches them right out of your hand. He stands up from his crouched down position to toss the pack off to the side onto the roof somewhere. You’re surprised when he lets out a sigh and sits down next to you on the roof, as if he felt the obligation to. His legs stretch out in front of him, but still bent slightly at the knees, and he leans backwards with his body weight braced on his palms laid flat on wood paneling behind him. “There are better ways to relieve stress,” he tells you candidly. 

“Like what?” you ask, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you clarify, “and don’t say sex.”

He shuts his mouth and his eyes flit up to the sky for a brief second. “Damn. I didn’t have a back-up answer.” 

You roll your eyes, releasing a deep breath, then draw your knees to your chest before resting your chin on top of them. 

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says after a century-long minute. 

You wince a little, because you were half hoping he was going to just drop the subject all together. 

You bite your lip nervously and hug your knees to your chest tighter as if to hide yourself from him. “I don’t. Well, I haven’t. Um, not for a while.”

“Huh. I see,” he says.

Another silence passes, and as he shuffles next to you, the fabric of his suit brushes against the fabric of your coat, and you’ve become entirely too aware of the feeling.

“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “your mom’s in hospice now?”

You nod, enthusiastic enough to where you won’t look like you’re entirely depressed about it.

“That’s good,” he says, “no issues with the insurance?”

You shake your head. “They need you to sign some papers by the end of the week though,” you tell him. “We’ll have to go in person.”

He nods slowly to affirm he’ll make time for it. “I really hope things get better for your mom,” he says, voice soft as he stares off into neighbors homes like you had been doing ten minutes ago. You see the cat that was resting on the fence get up, do a big stretch, and start walking along the length of the fence. Your eyes briefly glance at Gojo, and you notice his gaze is tracing the cat’s path. 

“My—” you start, hesitant all of a sudden by the vulnerability you already feel swelling within you, most definitely due to sitting with someone on a rooftop late at night, but you decide that you’ll be nice to him for once, “…my mom seems to remember you a lot. More than she remembers me.” You let out a small humoring laugh, as if that fact doesn’t completely destroy you. “She was blabbering to me again for the seventh time about how you apparently fixed our AC.” You try to bite your tongue, but can’t help it when you say, “although I’m pretty sure you just pressed a bunch of buttons until it started working again.”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Another awkward silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say.

“Sure.” His voice sounds deeper, like he’s sleepy. 

“Why did you agree to marry me? That’s not something people just do out of nowhere.”

He glances over at you, and you flicker your eyes to him. “Why? Having regrets?” he teases, with a slight nudge of his elbow to your side. 

“Just answer me.”

He lifts his palms up from behind him and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees instead. “I don’t know. If something I could do would help someone out that much, I wasn’t going to say no.”

You hum quietly, still confused by his intentions. But you’re too jaded to question them.

“It costs nothing to be nice,” he adds. 

You run soothing circles over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. For some reason, your mind wanders to Choso. Thinking of all the years you wasted staying with him even though you knew his affections were long gone, just because you didn’t want to break his heart. Only to realize that you never had that privilege in the first place. 

“I think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you draw your knees closer to your chest, “that sometimes it does.”

A gust of autumn wind breezes by, ruffling the trees that the two of you are at eye-level with at the moment. You're pretty sure you’ve completely lost Gojo’s interest at this point, where he’s finally too tired to deal with your oddly cryptic attitudes and overall generally displeasing vibe, assuming this based solely on his prolonged silence beside you. You’re ready for him to get up and abandon you here on this roof, left to ponder every single thing you’ve done wrong in your life. It was any second now.

“Sometimes,” he instead speaks up, and it’s so surprising to you that you jolt a little bit, “you can do everything right, and people will still find a way to fuck you over. But I don’t think that’s any reason to stop being nice to others.”

You glance over at him, your eyes widening slightly, but he just continues to peer off straight into the night. His blinks are slow, lingering on being closed for a moment before he opens them again, and you’re mesmerized by the sight. The skin under his eyes is slightly dark from exhaustion, heavy with character that makes you aware that he’s just a person too. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, you realize that he’s—…handsome. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, your heart flutters in your chest.

He scoffs suddenly and dusts his hands off. “I sound like a fucking youth pastor.” He lets out an exhale before suddenly standing up onto his feet before you can think more on it. He looks off into the night again and lets out another exhale that sounds more like a sigh this time. “God, it’s getting a lot colder these days. Might have to start running the heater.”

You blink up at him with no commentary to add. 

He looks down at you. His face is relaxed, but you can tell those eyes are distracted. A shimmering blue ocean in its own world while he attempts to stay present in this one. 

He holds his hand out to you, and you stare at it blankly like you’ve got no clue what he intends for you to do with it. But you finally take the hint and curl your hand around his palm so that he can pull you up onto your feet too.

You stumble a little, falling forward from the sudden blood flow to your brain, but he holds you steady by the strong grip of his hands on your elbows. He’s close to you, close enough to where you can smell the faint lingering scent of his cologne. Something different than that expensive one he wore to the courthouse, but it’s comforting somehow. A fragrance that’s more him. And you feel nervous as you look up at him underneath pale moonlight. 

He lets go of your elbows. You feel cold from the loss of his touch. But his right hand moves to gently hold your left hand in his palm, holding it curled as his thumb barely grazes the stone you wear on your ring finger; the one he gave you.

The way his thumb prods at the silver band is like he’s inspecting its quality, as if it has to pass some test to be worthy of sitting on your finger. Or maybe just any finger, if you were to quell the delusion. You’re not sure if he’s satisfied with his inspection.

“Where did you get it—” you blurt out.

His gaze flickers up to your face briefly before he’s back to examining the ring. “It was my mom’s.”

Your mouth gapes slightly in shock, heart dropping a little in your chest, and all of a sudden you feel guilty. Guilty that he put his mother’s ring on your finger for something that was fake, something that was essentially a business deal, something exchanged to you out of fraud when it was a precious family heirloom that should be exchanged with love. And maybe he didn’t care about it much, some people don’t care about the sentiments of objects. But your mind thinks of the oaky vintage dresser in his room, so out of place in the aesthetic of its surroundings, a decision you can only imagine him of all people, mr. “everything in this house has to look like an IKEA catalog”, would do if the dresser held some importance to him that was more than meets the eye. And so you’re compelled to think that maybe this ring did, too. 

“Why would you give me this?! You could’ve just gotten a cheap fake diamond ring from a pawn shop and called it a day,” you ask him, suddenly feeling burdened by it.

“Well I wasn’t exactly given much time to think of other options.”

“But—” you start, only to realize you have no counter arguments for that.

He lets out a huh noise, like the sound someone makes when they’re pleasantly surprised by something, as he looks down at your hand that he still held in his. “It’s kinda crazy that it fits you perfectly. I wasn’t sure.”

Your mind wanders to when he slipped the ring onto your finger in the courtroom, followed by the kiss. Soft, sweet, the lingering warm sensation of his palm on your cheek as he cupped your face, the same way those heartthrob actors do in all those romance movies and kdramas that you watch on Friday nights while snuggled up in a blanket, wondering when anyone will ever kiss you like that. You remember the ghost sensation of his hand hovering over the small of your back, fingers lightly grazing the nape of your neck, his frame blocking out everything around you as he kissed you, just to pull away and for the two of you to then pretend like it never happened, as if it wasn’t one of the sweetest kisses you’ve ever known.

You slowly pull your hand out of his, the moment feeling too tender for your liking, and you clear your throat before flitting your eyes up to his. 

“Rule #1,” you remind him with a soft whisper, “no touching.”

You purse your lips, watching his round eyes blink once, then twice, before he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a few seconds, nodding slowly in submission, and then he turns on them to head back to the house. You’re standing a little stunned from the abrupt ending to this trance of a moment on the roof, and you’re also a little surprised with how your chest is heaving a little bit with fast breaths, but you eventually snap out of it to follow him inside too. 

You two make it back inside the house, with little words exchanged. You pretend to not notice the way Gojo tilts his head at his desk, like he’s confused about why it looks tidier than when he left it. You’re prepared to feign innocence or ignorance, but he doesn’t press you about it. 

“Y’know,” he says from behind you, his chest briefly brushing against the back of your head as he pushes the bedroom door in front of you open so that you can head out into the loft, “those oversized 1800s-esque nightgowns you’ve been wearing around the house kinda make you look like a less-hot version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sign right here for me, sir.”

You watch as the nurse slides the papers across the high-raised counter of the hospice nursing desk towards Gojo, his eyebrows narrowing as his eyes skim the words on the paper and land at the highlighted lines where he’s been intended to sign. You feel nervous for some reason, as if he’d suddenly find something disagreeable and refuse to sign, then take you to the courthouse first thing to finalize a divorce and send you off to prison while claiming he was blackmailed into the whole marriage in the first place.

Instead, he pulls a pen from the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clicking the end of it and scribbling his signature onto the paper with some jet black ink that looks like it takes a second to dry. How pretentious of him. The pink pom-pom pen was right there.

The nurse behind the counter continues to chat with him about something, blah blah dependents, blah blah tax claims, blah blah you’ll receive an itemized bill in the mail. You’re trying your best to eavesdrop in on the conversation, but most of your senses are being occupied by examining all your surroundings. When you dropped your mother off at the hospice, your feelings were at the forefront of conscience, but now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from that overwhelming emotional high, you’re here to scope out the quality of this place you’ve just dumped your mom at.

The facility is clean and sleek, with a color theme of red and an ocean blue across the signs, the furniture, even with the paperwork they hand out. All the workers had color-coded scrubs based on their occupation or specialty, and none of them had stains on the fabric. You take a glance down at the modest leather pumps you were wearing past the creases of the long skirt, and notice that the floor was shimmering off their reflection in a perfect polish. It wasn’t bad, this place.

“Thanks, you too,” you hear Gojo say to the nurse behind the counter. He has a professional smile on his face, but still kind and genuine, which makes the woman at the computer something bashful and unable to make eye contact. He folds something that looks like a receipt into his chest pocket before tucking his pen back in there too and then turns to face you. You make a mental note to pay him back for whatever he just paid for, at least once you move some money around. 

Your eyebrows lift, feeling a little dazed as you blink at him blankly.

“Alright,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, the sound of his shoes on the polished hospital floors satisfactorily tapping in your ears as he took a couple steps towards you, “where’s your mom’s room?”

“Huh?”

“What’s her room number?” he asks you.

“Y-You wanna go see her??”

“Of course I want to,” he says, “she’s my mother-in-law.”

You roll your eyes and pet the fabric of your skirt to smooth the wrinkles out. “You’re getting a little too invested in this role of fake husband.”

“I get to annoy you all day and ride the adrenaline rush of committing a federal crime,” he says, “of fucking course I’d get invested.”

You sigh, tossing some of your hair to behind your shoulder before glancing up at the signs, squinting slightly to locate the ward where your mother’s room is, before you hear an extremely high-pitched and somewhat catty feminine voice call out from behind you. You glance at Gojo’s face as he peers off to whoever’s behind you, and you see him visibly stiffen a little.

“Is that Dayton county’s sexiest realtooorrr???” the voice purrs, and you turn on your heel to see a blonde bombshell of a woman clacking her kitten heels down the glistening floors of the hospice, with another brunette bombshell just a few paces behind her. Bombshell #2 sighs something like “it issss” before they walk right up to your fake husband and take turns at giving him a playful squeeze of his bicep. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping at the sight. 

“Wow! Ladies, so–...so great to see you two,” he says out of polite obligation, and you immediately clock the fact that he doesn’t address them by name.

Bombshell #1 turns to look at you, all of her hair moving as one solid entity with the motion from all the hair spray that’s probably holding it up, and she points at you with a long slender finger that narrows into a french-tip. “Oh who’s this?? Another one of your clients??”

“Oh, no, she’s my–”

“I’m his wife,” you interrupt him, irritated for some reason. 

Both the women chirp something out like oh! before their faces twist with confusion. 

“I didn’t know you were married,” Bombshell #2 says in a thick New Jersey accent.

Gojo lifts his left hand up, the silver band on his hand glimmering under fluorescent hospice lighting. “Very happily,” he says, as if someone was holding a gun to his head.

Bombshell #1 crosses her arms, and you try not to stare at how nice her boobs look in the low scoop-neck jaguar print top she was wearing. You were no better than a man. And now you’re pissed off at the idea of Gojo glancing down too, but a flick of your gaze up to his face tells you he’s safe. For now. 

“You weren’t married when I asked you if you were a month ago,” Bombshell #1 sneers at him. It’s true, the math wouldn’t make sense, but in his defense, this marriage was a fraud.

“Or when you took me out for dinner last week after I bought my house,” Bombshell #2 snarls with an undertone of hurt. 

Gojo clears his throat beside you before pointing at Bombshell #2. “How is that, by the way?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject, “the half acre down on Maple Ave, right? You, uh, enjoying the pool?”

The woman let out an offended scoff and–were her eyes sheening with tears?? She puts her hands on her hips. “No. Mine is the three bedroom house with the cedar gazebo on 14th street.”

Her friend next to her rolls her eyes and smacks her gum between her cheek. “I’m the one that bought the half acre down on Maple Ave, jerk. Ugh!” She grabs her friend’s arm with a high-pitched hmph noise leaving her throat, and you can hear the other one sniffling subtly as she wobbles on her heels with her friend’s pull of her arm. 

Right before leaving the two of you alone, Bombshell #1 turns to you and says, “I hope you find someone who treats you better,” and then they storm off together down the hallway, their perfectly blow-dried hair bouncing in sync with each stomp.

You blink at the sight, a little flabbergasted from the interaction, and then flit your faze up to Gojo. You see him awkwardly scratching at the back of his head with a grimace on his stupidly handsome face. 

“That’s what you get for being a manwhore,” you tell him.

“I’m not a manwhor–”

“You went on a date with another woman while you were maaaaarrrieeeddd?!” you coo as you let out a fake gasp and slap your cheeks with your hands, “despicable, really.”

He lets out some disgruntled noise, the source coming from deep within his throat. “No. We weren’t fake-married yet,” he vindicates himself, “and it wasn’t a date. I just bought her dinner as a congrats for buying a house. Not a big deal. I do it for all my clients.”

“Satoru. You do realize you’re leading these women on, right? I mean, I’ve seen the way you talk to them. Even if you think you’re just being friendly, please know that your definition of friendly is most people’s definition of flirting.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at you. “Alright, how come this flirting in disguise of friendliness hasn’t worked on you then?”

You scoff in disbelief before crossing your arms. Maybe you did deserve a better fake husband. “You’re never friendly with me. You’re always rude to me.”

“What? I’m not always rude to you.”

“Well, you’re certainly much more rude to me than you are to other women,” you say, tapping the tip of your shoe with irritation.

“Can we not do this right now? We’re in the middle of a hospice.” 

“God, you’re such a cop-out,” you mumble as you forcefully push past him towards the hallway that’ll lead you to your mother. You can hear that Gojo’s on your tail, following you down one of the more dimly lit hallways, and you can tell he needs to stall the strides of his Daddy Longlegs to not overtake your pace.

“What the fuck is a cop-out?” he asks you from behind.

“Look it up on urban dictionary, Grandpa. Unless you don’t know what the Internet is, either,” you spat. 

You waltz right up to your mother’s room just in time to see a nurse making her way out with a clipboard in her hands. She glances over to you when she sees you approaching in her periphery.

“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.

“Is it alright if we visit my mother?” you ask her.

“Oh! Sure, let me just clean her bed pan really quick.”

Your brow furrows. “B-Bedpan?? Why is she using a bedpan??”

The nurse stops in her movements. “Well, yesterday and today, that’s just what she has decided to use.”

You immediately become hostile. “That’s not right. She never needed to use one at home. Why is she suddenly using one here? Is that not a clear sign of deterioration? The restrooms must not be kept well enough here if she doesn’t want to use them.”

The nurse becomes something meek, her eyes widening as her mouth gapes slightly. “Ma’am,” she squeaks out, “we see this commonly with patients as they begin to adjust to hospice life. We’ll urge her to use the restroom, but as of right now, we need to prioritize what she finds most comfortable.”

Your expression softens, your shoulders relaxing from their tense position, and you duck your head a little with guilt. “Right…I’m sorry.”

The nurse presses her lips together with a well-meaning smile before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind her. You sigh and lean your back against the wall next to the number plate, cheeks flushing slightly from the confrontation. You have no idea how loud your voice was or who heard you. But you try to convince yourself that you’re just stressed and trying to look out for your mother, although the guilt still sits.

You glance up to see Gojo staring at you with slightly wide eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he tilts his head to study your expression.

“What?” you snap at him.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Satoru,” you cut his questioning off by raising a palm into the air, “just—…just stop.”

His brow furrows together slightly, but before he can show any further concern, the nurse exits the room and holds the door open for the two of you. 

“All set!” she chirps, and Gojo moves to hold the door open in her stead, and then the nurse bolts down to disappear somewhere down the hallway.

You hear Gojo let out a small huff of a scoff as he stares down in the direction the nurse ran off in. “Glad to know I’m not the only one that’s scared of you.”

You roll your eyes and walk into the room through the open door.

Your mother lays in her bed, looking out the window with her hands resting on top of layers of white linen sheets, her skin looking slightly paler than usual. You approach her bedside slowly and she finally turns her head to look at you.

“Hi mom,” you gently greet her, sitting down on the stool beside her bed, “how are you doing?”

Her eyes dart across the features of your face, and you briefly glance towards the wall to the right where you see Gojo standing from a slight distance.

“Oh, hi dear,” she says with a smile, and relief washes over you.

You match her smile with your own. “Mom, I brought someone here to see you.” You glance over at Gojo, who starts to close distance now as he approaches the foot of the bed, “this is Satoru, my husband.”

Your mother’s eyes widen, “Oh! I know him,” she scoldingly swats a hand at you, like you’ve embarrassed her somehow by assuming that she doesn’t know who he is, “he’s my neighbor!”

You sigh, “yes mom, the one that fixed the A/C?” You attempt to finish her sentence for her.

She looks confused for a moment, but slightly nods as if to avoid any further confusion for herself. “But—…but, why…” she trails off and then looks at you, “I’m sorry, are you my nurse?”

Your shoulders drop slightly. “No, mom, it’s me. Your daughter. Do you remember?”

Her face scrunches before it entirely relaxes to keep some image of composure despite the haze you know she feels in her head. “Oh…yes, yes…my little girl. I remember you, of course!”

Your eyes become layered with a slight sheen of tears, “I’m glad.”

“Where’s your father?” she asks, “he said he’d bring me some…oh dear, what—…he said he’d bring me tea. I’ve been waiting.”

“Mom, dad is—” you pause for a moment to think on your feet. You could either tell the truth, or a little white lie. You never know what to do. And either one comes with either guilt or sorrow. “Well, he’ll be here soon, I just wanted to come see you.”

“Oh okay…” she trails off, her eyes squinting at you once more with that same look of confusion on it, but then they drift towards Gojo. “Oh you’re a very handsome young man! You look just like my neighbor.”

Your eyes flicker up to Gojo, and he walks up to your side by your mom’s bed. “Yes, Mrs. l/n, I am your neighbor.”

“With the lemon tree!”

“The avocado tree,” you correct her with a small sigh. “And he’s my husband mom. And also our neighbor.”

“Oh I see I see…” she says, looking up at him, and in a moment that shocks you, she holds her hand up for him to take.

There’s a slight moment of surprise on his face too, but he accepts her frail hand in his, and you glance over to your mom to see her look at him with some look of peace on her face.

“Oh, sit down here, won’t you?” she tells him, and you both blink at her in a moment of hesitation.

He pulls a stool up to the side of the bed right next to you and takes a seat down onto it. Your mother holds his hand with both of hers now, soothing her palm over the back of it before she taps on it lightly.

“Oh, my little girl is very sweet. She would bring me flowers from the garden when she was,” she glances at you, confused once more, “well I remember her when she was so little but she looks…a little older now. Ah, but she would bring me such pretty flowers.”

Your heart aches in your chest. You never knew what version of you your mother would remember. Some days, you’re still supposed to be an angsty teenager that shuts doors in her face, some days you were just as you are right now, and other days, you were just her little girl. And it confused her, the image of not seeing you in the way that she remembers. In the only way she knew how.

“You’ll take good care of my sweet girl, won’t you?” she asks him.

And it knocks the wind out of you.

It drops your heart to the center of the earth.

The thought that, after so many moments where she doesn’t remember you, she still knows that you’re someone she wants to keep safe.

Your mouth gapes slightly, tears welling in your eyes and you try your best to blink them away, but you see Gojo’s hand slip out from being held by your mother’s hands, to instead use both of his to hold hers. Your eyes snap to his face, and you see that same earnest expression you’ve been growing used to seeing these days. 

“Yes,” he responds, eye contact level with hers, “I will.”

A small puff of air leaves your lips, a single tear streaming down your cheek and you quickly swipe your trembling fingers to remove any evidence of it before you huff out a shaky, “excuse me.” And then you’re standing up off the stool, and in a few hurried steps across the room as more tears continue to stream down your face, you make it to the door to push out into the suffocating air of the hallway.

It’s hard to breathe, huffs and puffs barely leaving your lips as you struggle to pull air into your lungs while you storm down the hallway at a fast pace, your heels clicking underneath you in a way that only sets you off further. Suddenly, all the sounds around you make you sick to your stomach, a wave of nausea washing over you, and your nose burns with the intensity of the tears that continue to stream down your face. A few hospice staff look at you with concerned expressions, and you eventually reach a heavy-duty door that leads you out into a secluded staircase hallway where the dim lighting serves to relax at least some of your senses, but you still feel like you’re about to pass out.

Even in the haze of your emotions, there’s this glimmer of a memory that comes to mind. One from when you were younger and you were pushed on the playground at school. You cried and cried and cried in your mother’s arms, but even then, you didn’t want her to baby you. You would say to her, I’m a big girl now! in that same way a child knows nothing of what it truly means to brave the world. 

That little girl had no idea that one day, there would be moments where she wouldn’t be remembered as her mother’s little girl anymore. 

No matter how old you grow, you will always be my little girl, your mother’s voice echoes to you, the feeling of her squeezing you in her arms as she holds your sobbing little form in hers casting a ghost sensation across your skin.

In a mother’s eyes, you’ll always be her baby.

And that’s why it hurts.

Because it’s all fake.

It’s phony.

It’s not real.

This arrangement you have with Gojo.

And if your mother were to die tomorrow, there would be no one to take care of her little girl anymore.

Not in the way she believes there will be.

Of all the white lies, this one pierces you straight through your heart in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

Amidst your whirlwind of thoughts, you hear the door push open harshly, and when you glance over, you see Gojo standing in this dimly lit hallway as he turns his head quickly to the left and sees you standing there.

“Hey,” he says, catching his breath as he lightly jogs up to you, “hey, hey, hey,” he repeats with more concern now when he sees the state you’re in, and he seamlessly pulls you into a hug, your cheek pressing against his chest that feels warm even through the fabric of his suit jacket and shirt, and that familiar scent of him completely engulfs you.

You sob quietly, wiping your snot on his tie and your tears on the felt fabric beside it, your hands balled into tiny fists at your chest, squeezed between the two of you. You feel him tuck your head under his chin and his arms wrap around you tighter. You don’t even realize it at first, but suddenly, it has become easier to breathe.

Then, you wail, and you cry, and you sob, because you don’t have the words to even explain how you feel, about not just this, but with everything, a buildup of everything that has been suffocating you in your life that just comes crashing down on you all at once.

“I know,” he says, his palm resting on the back of your head as he holds your face to his chest, his voice soothing in your ears while you sob until there’s nothing left to cry. “I know.”

You two stay like this for another minute or so as you come down from the cries, your remnant sniffling echoing in the hallway while you wipe more of your snot on his jacket. You make the first move to pull your face away from his chest, but he still keeps his arms wrapped around you when you look up at him.

With your gaze darting across his face, you take in the blue in his eyes. Eyes that are looking at you so softly it’s suddenly hard to breathe once more. And when those eyes flit to your lips, your mouth parts slightly as you two breathe in unison.

It’s possible that you could have dreamed the moment you saw him lean down slightly towards you, his eyes still set on your lips, but it didn’t matter because you’re pushing him away with strong fists before you can even register the thought in your head.

He lets go of you entirely, his eyes wide once more, and you glance down at your feet. 

A tender moment, just like on the roof, broken just because you can’t handle that—…that way, that intense way that he looks at you. New rule, no looking at me longingly like you want to kiss me. I won’t allow it.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, still examining your shoes. And you suddenly feel embarrassed that he had to see you this way. He’s supposed to be scared and intimidated by you, not holding you in his arms while you cry. 

He’s silent for a moment, but you can tell he’s searching for things to say. “You don’t want to say bye to your mom before we go?”

You swipe your palm against the wetness on your cheek. “No. I just want to go home.”

“y/n,” he tried to convince you.

You finally look up at him. “Please.”

He breathes in a few breaths as he studies the features of your face in a way that makes you feel so seen that it’s frightening. But he slowly nods, then says,

“Okay.”

.

.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 4]

a/n. hi friendsss i hope you enjoyed :'') yea like i said at the a/n in the beginning, this chapter is a slight off-tangent from last chapter, but ch5 will continue with a lot of the stuffs that were brought up in ch3. but yea i wanted to explore the whole process of emotions reader would go through putting her mom in hospice, since it kinda felt like a big thing, hence why it got its own chapter. aaa i hope to see you in the next one!! much love from me :''0

➸ take me to chapter five!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

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[artytaeh]

THEODORE NOTT HAS A LOT OF MONEY. and even though that's a relief that indulges his own impulsive spendings to pamper himself, it still doesn't feel like he properly makes use of it.

the large bookshelf on his bedroom, at the nott mansion, might suggest otherwise.

( what? theodore enjoys special editions; no, it's not silly to want a first edition of one of his older favorites, or a hard cover version with a better illustration, really. much less having paid more for a book on his native language, given that he's in london, a bit too far away from the city he was born, millan. )

but then, ah— there it is! the reason why his family's ridiculous wealth makes sense, now!

because what theodore nott lacks in a few matters, such as communication or spending a lot of time with you, when he needs his time alone, he'll compensate like this.

one might perceive this as a heartless, uncaring way to press bandaids over emotional wounds; believe me, it couldn't be farther than this.

theodore just likes to see you smile, and given that his black card is a means to such an end, well, why not?

things are just things; but things do bring happiness, so yes, you can buy happy feelings!

theodore would love to know if you collect something— mugs? he's bringing a new one for you, now paying extra special attention to crockery themed stores. snowglobes? there's this one he found, with a charm to it! if there's a comic series you like, theodore would discreetly surprise you every week with a new volume.

only for you to go and break his heart, standing in front of his door with his gifts in arms, extending them for theodore to take it back.

cluelessly, and looking a bit like a kicked puppy, theodore frowns. are you angry at him? isn't this the type of thing you like? should you reassure him that your only issue is the excessive money spent on you, theodore feels like a weight left his shoulders.

huff; so, he does know how to please his girlfriend and what she likes!

... but why are you rejecting him? 'hey, bella, don't offend me— this isn't going to empty nott's vault any time soon.'

should his puppy eyes work, well then, you're doomed.

because theodore will use this same excuse over and over again, when he brings another thing that reminds him of you. what? you mentioned that you like coats like these! it's a color you like to wear, and you'll need warm clothes like that in a matter of weeks!

do you not like his gifts? theodore will give you a look that, if you didn't know better about his cynical shenanigans, you'd believe that his heart was being shattered to pieces.

that's the reason why dates at hogsmeade are so dangerous. i'm being serious— you might as well keep your eyes on the road, stare at the snow beneath your feet, because if you spend more than four seconds staring at something inside a shop...

there isn't time to process anything else; theodore's mind works fast. you saw it, you seem to like it, he's buying it. in a blink of an eye, theodore already has his card between his index and middle finger, nonchalantly making his way inside.

'can't a man spoil his girl? goddamn it, dolcezza.'

clothes are almost worse. if he sees something that you're staring at, and likes it, theodore is putting so much (discreet. not so discreet,) effort into convincing you to let him buy it for you.

'you'd look good in it. see, it's a color you like, it would look really good, given your skin tone.' and then, he takes a different approach: 'trying it on doesn't hurt, right?'

a cruel plan, you see, because then you fall in love with this dress, as much as theodore fell in love with the idea of you wearing such pretty clothes.

his arms embrace your waist, like a snake slowly trapping its victim; the fabric feels right under his skin, the dress looking as if it was sketched for you, fitting better than a glove.

theodore rests his chin on your shoulder, holding back a smirk as he sees you mourning the idea of leaving the dress here— it's just so pretty! and theodore's compliments don't help!

🗯️ : but teddy, it's really cold these days. i wouldn't be able to wear it, anyways.

t : and that's why we learned simple warming charms during third year.

🗯️ : sure, but— i don't have where to use it, so it's not worth it if it's just going to look pretty in my dresser.

t : no worries, bambina. i'll think about a perfect date for you to wear this, looking so pretty for me. bellissima, la mia bella ragazza.

NO USE IN ARGUING WITH HIM; theodore nott always wins these rounds. the battle is won, and the war is benefitting his side.

even if you do not let him spoil you with such impulsive thoughts and freedom, theodore would never, for the life of him, let you pay for a single coffee or meal while you're with him.

lunches at hogsmeade are a favorite of his. obviously, he's paying. this slytherin doesn't joke about the topic; will give you the biggest side eye if you take out your wallet.

who do you think he is? his mother raised a man that knows how to treat a girl right, and a good boyfriend! no way in hell is any soul at hogsmeade, scotland, europe— hell, galaxy!— considering that he's not taking care of his amata ragazza properly.

ALL IN ALL, THEODORE FINDS IT SWEET how much you worry over it, and insist that he could spend this same money on things that he likes.

but that's what you fail to understand— what theodore likes, more than a new book with a promising synopsis, or an exquisite astrolobe— is seeing you smile for something that he got you.

﹙★﹚ won't give you gifts to earn his forgiveness earlier, though. he wants his presents to feel like he genuinely thought you'd like it, not as a bargain or bribery.

anyways, i love this man. 🌷

[carelessflower]

On Testing and Qualifying Magnus Lightwood-Bane's Sugar Daddy Behaviors - An Analysis

Multiple arguments have been made against the current High Warlock of Brooklyn, superficially regarding whether this gentleman's reputation as the current Consul of the Clave's sugar daddy is underappreciated or exaggerated. This study aims to dissect the argument with the support of textual evidence throughout the couple's appearances in the series

Paying for their first date

Taking care of the bill like a gentleman. From this instance, one can assume he takes his gentlemanly courting ritual very seriously, as he also reached for the meal cheques in other occassions

Conjuring and pelping to pick fine clothes for Alec

On their famous Europe vacation, it is shown Magnus has a habit of magicking tuxedoes, suits, and well-made sweaters for Alec. Now, if he could upgrade that GAP scarf to a Burberry one, it would be much appreciated

Gentleman behavior

Even though his boyfriend is supernaturally strong with biceps to bite for days and hunts bloodthirsty demons for a living, Magnus would still rather pay someone to carry the heavy luggage than his darling

Luxurious accommodation only

There has been a previously published study on the expenses for all these places here, so this article will be repeating the same key points:

one night at Istanbul Grand Suite on the Orient Express: $26,000

suite in Belmond Hotel Cipriani: $1,056

suite in Palazzo Manfredi, Rome: $729

It is understandably relatable when one pulls Alec Lightwood and wants to do everything in their power to woo him. For Magnus, it apparently includes never letting Alec stay in any place less than five stars

Letting Alec drive the Maserati

It costs around $10,860 to rent a red Maserati 3500 GT Vignale Spider for one day. Therefore, it speaks volumes to Magnus's affection for his boyfriend that Alec almost crashes them and the expensive car off a cliff is just a "tiny accident". It is also very likely he buys this type of car later, seeing his husband's fascination with them

Living together in Brooklyn

Months into the relationship Alec has already possessed a literal key to Magnus's home and proceeds to move in after weeks of getting back together. For other poor souls who are looking for a 3-bedroom brownstone in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the rent would be estimated at around $5000 per month. For the Consul, it certainly would involve a different type of payment method

Alec's magically money-full pocket

The consul carrying energy bars in his duffle bag instead of using the 15000$ in his pocket guarantees the funniest mental images one could possibly imagine

Enchanting Izzy's whip for Alec's birthday

Knowing Alec's top wish is to keep his family safe, Magnus chooses to tip his boyfriend's sister's whip in a prized potion to help her on the battlefield. Loving someone to the point you want to protect what else they love

Assisting shadowhunter without payment

This element may prove to be the strongest supporter of Magnus's claim as THE sugar daddy of the shadowhunter chronicles universe title, seeing how he used to overcharge shadowhunter on their business (deservingly so), and now he is willing to do all kinds of crazy shenanigans without an ounce of money. Whoever's in charge of the Clave's budget better send Alec the biggest, freshest, most expensive fruit basket

Final note

In conclusion, this research paper does not provide a definitive answer to the argument but encourages readers to draw their own perspectives. Nevertheless, it is a great possibility that in his report, the consul stated he used 10-20 dollars each week while he was traveling across the world, going to Japan when he craved sushi and staying in the finest places, all thanks to his generous husband

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[moosha-mushroom]

Media I imagine different fiction podcasts in instead of the media of being a podcast.

TMA: A selection of volumes, relating to the fears, each with those removable covers. Those covers has a victim or two, and then underneath the cover is a really detailed cover. The paper is decoratively ripped, with a kind of scraggly font, and each has a foreword and ‘author’s note’ from Jonathan Sims.

Malevolent: A really gritty graphic novel with deadly detail in each panel, and very little color. Maybe a trinket on each important character has a color? Like Arthur’s eyes being yellow or Oscar’s collar having a blue sheen to it. The novels are long, dramatic, and intimate in a visceral way.

Welcome to Night Vale: Local 58 bullshit. A broadcast on television with low quality images and audio, tacky music, and a kind of 80’s aesthetic. Each episode the words WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE zoom onto the screen, the purple eye behind them. And each weather segment is an animated short by a different artist.

The Penumbra(Juno Steel): A webcomic. Hours spent scrolling downward a comic that has so much color and GEOMETRIC design. Juno and his curvy jaw, brown pie slice eyes, a cartoonishly high collar for his investigator jacket. Nureyev and his sharp square jaw, shimmering jewelry, and stick legs. Characters sticking out of the panels, fonts changing constantly, a little blue Juno that does his narration and *guitar theme plays* each time he appears.

Wolf 359: A classic comic. Issues month by month. Different special covers of the characters in extra dramatic poses or scenes. Even MORE panel breaking than Juno Steel. So MUCH onomatopoeia, even for small things like the clink of a panel or the disapproving hiss of Hilbert in the background. Geometric designs like Juno Steel, but less colorful. Like the superhero art style mixed with a more stylized look.

Midnight Burger: You pull up the Midnight Burger website. They have a hidden page that has a sort of script-comic thing going on, where the art is next to the writing. Small coded in notes from Leif sometimes pop up if you hold your arrow over the art. Links are attached to the parts where Effie and Zebulon play music, linking you to the music so you can listen to it while you read.

Desert Skies: An animated show. Indie, something you’d find on YouTube. The animation is bouncy and incorporates 3D animation alongside the 2D. Maybe the Sphere Movers have 3D models and the staff don’t? The credits are short because it was made by one guy. People are complaining about it on Twitter /j. People are making content farms about it. Everyone is pissed at Corson like they’re pissed at Jax.

The Amelia Project: A sort of simulation video game. You play as Arthur. You listen to their stories and draw pieces of the tale to invent their death. Every once in a while the game transitions to a point and click suspense game where you solve puzzles as Cole and Haines. Maybe there should even be an Operation-esque part of it where you work as Kozlowski.

Ghost Wax: A novel with a lot of pictures spliced in it. The stories are all in a single book, though the book is through Luca’s perspective— so he picks up on the ghost’s body language and Voncid’s reactions. The pictures are tarot cards with each victim as a card. Some are repeat cards— Lorem does not have a card at the end of the story. Nor does Our Home or Evening at the Ardent. The pictures are only white with black line art. No color whatsoever.

Kakos Industries: A company newsletter. Not a broadcast. A newspaper that arrives at your door and has big bold letters with the main story and pictures of the events that happen in the story as it goes. And the Sunday Comic page is full of employee shenanigans. Some innocent… some not.

I am losing my mind.

[cindythecyclops]

I HAVE AN IDEA

OG! Cale dies when Choi Han beats him up and reincarnates in Korea. Not as KRS but as himself, a half-korean half-french dude who looks almost identical to his past life's self except his hair is brown. Like his dad's.

He's still four years older than KRS and he grows up in a normal family. Not super rich but financially stable and comfortable.

He ends up becoming a popular soloist Idol with the stage name 'Cale' and he dyes his hair blood-red, a look which becomes iconic to him.

Cale does not remember his past life. Yet.

The apocalypse happens and Cale gets injured, almost dies and regains his memories.

Fast forward, Cale meets Roksu at the company (post Soos death). At first, Roksu tries to push him away but it's for naught as they end up becoming friends anyway.

Their day off arrives and the two find the TBOAH novel. Cale winces at his appearance in the novel.

Read till fifth volume, they both fall asleep.

Cale wakes up pre his beating in his 18 yo body. Roksu transmigrates as himself but in a younger body (28).

Shenanigans ensue.

[soulaires]

cardan greenbriar family headcanons. your aaron warner was amazing btw.

The Greenbriars.

pairings: dad!cardan x mom!reader

summary: Introducing the Greenbriar Family.

warnings: domestic fluff, ooc!cardan, mention of alcohol, family shenanigans, dad cardan, not proofread ...

note: omg! Thank you so much! Hope you love this one 🤍

Cardan Greenbriar, the High King of Elfhame, sat upon his majestic throne and reclined in your shared space, the air hung with a quiet warmth as you, his beloved Queen of Elfhame, nervously fidgeted nearby.

"Cardan," you began, eyes meeting his with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. "I have something to tell you." His gaze, worries and panick visible to his eyes fixed on yours, waiting for the words that lingered on the tip of your tongue.

Cardan instinctively wrap his hands around you, trying to calm you down.

“what is it, My love?” he asked, but you only stares at him, anxiety building ip to the both of you.

The silence stretched, prompting you to take a steadying breath. As you pulled away from his embrace, which did not help your husband to calm at all, you let the secret out.

"I'm pregnant," you confessed, the weight of the words settling in the air between you. His eyes widened for a fleeting moment before a slow grin spread across his face.

you are pregnant. Gods, you are pregnant! He is going to be a father!

"Pregnant?" Cardan repeated, disbelief giving way to a genuine, unrestrained joy. He stood, closing the distance between you, and gently cupped your face. "You're going to be a mother," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of astonishment and delight.

“And I am going to be a father...” He whispered as he pick you up and hugged you around.

A cascade of emotions washed over you both—excitement, uncertainty, and the undeniable joy that comes with the promise of new life. Cardan's hands found yours, intertwining fingers in a gesture that spoke volumes. "We're going to have a family," he declared, his voice rich with emotion.

The reality of impending parenthood settled in as you exchanged glances, both grappling with the enormity of the news. Cardan's fingers traced circles on the back of your hand, a silent reassurance. "Are you happy?" you asked, the vulnerability in your voice bared for him to see.

His laughter, deep and genuine, filled the room. "Happy doesn't even begin to cover it," Cardan replied, pulling you into a tender embrace. “I love you so much, We can do this together, okay?” You nodded, as you two hugged once again, your husband face buried in your neck.

"We'll need to prepare," he mused, a glint of determination in his eyes. "A nursery, perhaps?"

As the news spread through the kingdom, joy radiated from the palace, touching every corner of Elfhame. The High King and his Queen, expecting an heir.

Elfhame celebrated with grand feasts and festivities, the air filled with laughter and music.

Days turned into weeks, and your pregnancy became the talk of the realm. The royal court buzzed with excitement, and Cardan, once the stoic ruler, found himself sharing his happiness openly. He attended to his kingly duties with renewed vigor, fueled by the anticipation of becoming a father.

As your pregnancy progressed, Cardan became increasingly involved, attending appointments with the court healer and participating in the preparations for the nursery. Soft kisses on your forehead, a gentle touch to your belly, and whispered promises of love to the baby.

dad!cardan who after the revelation he stops and restrain himself from drinking.

the baby was your 4th tear wedding anniversary baby

he LOOOOVES pressing his face to upur stomach, peppering kisses and talking to the baby even if the bump is not visible.

he had a habit wrapping his tail around you!

He gets very protective

he also does not care what time is it if you ever wake him up in the middle of the night because your cravings are acting out

he loves the way you are being clingy, even having mood swings being away from him

which also he had, hates it when he is away from you.

He do whatever you wish you want

Really can not say no to you

Only wants the best for you and the baby

Oh hes very paranoid

then when the time was near, he is always by your side and taking care of you.

When your water broke, cardan was not with you and you started to panick

You quickly rung the bell to call for servants to assist you

The pain was unbearable so you let out a cry

Your husband heard you and immediately darted out to reach you.

He quickly swept you to his arms and rushed you to the bed and the healers were already filing up in the room. Tears ran down to your cheeks as you pressed your face to your husbands chest.

Cardan attempted to stay strong for you despite his fears coming at him, he holds your hand and kissed your temples as he whisperers assurances and cheering you on.

“Oh, my love, I’m here now. It would be okay.”

“Shh, don’t worry. You can do this.”

“I love you. I love you. You and the baby would be fine just breathe for me, darling.”

As a mixture of nerves and anticipation settled over both of you. The night when contractions finally began, Cardan's calm demeanor cradled your anxiety. In the hushed hours of the birthing room, he held your hand, a steadfast presence amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

When the cries of a newborn filled the air, the reality of parenthood embraced you both. Cardan, his eyes shimmering with unspoken awe, cradled the tiny bundle in his arms. "We did it," he whispered, his gaze never leaving your exhausted yet elated face.

It was a boy! You named him archer. Archie as a nickname.

jude become his godmother!

he wrote letter to archie for him to read in the future

Cardan who is willing to be sleepless so tou can have your much needed rest and to ensure baby archies safety and comfort.

The type of dad to do silly things just to embarrass and make your kid laugh!

His prioritie is you and archies happiness

Oh archie is spoiled rotten as you and your husband falls victim to the puppy dog eyes easily

who cried when archie have his first word!!

Of course it was “dada”

you softly smiled and hug him as he hold your son

you guys cuddle at night as he whispers sweet nothings to your ears.

🪩 :: voicemail; hope you guys love this one as much with the aaron warner hcs do not worry this is not the last time you guys gonna see baby archie and dad!cardan 🤭 Also if you want to be in my Cardan Greenbriar taglist please let me know on my inbox or dm me! See you soonest <3

[purpee]

𝓢𝓾𝓰𝓪𝓻 ⁽ᴵ ᵈᵉᵛᵉˡᵒᵖᵉᵈ ᵃ ᵗᵃˢᵗᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ ⁿᵒʷ.⁾

Malleus/Reader: no pronouns used !

🏷️: pre-chapter 7! Fluff, oneshot, established relationship, crack(kinda)

🗒️: first time writing! ☺️ I love malleus as a character but I never thought of him romantically so if this comes off like that then 🙇‍♀️ please forgive me

After a long day of dealing with shenanigans by other students(mainly Ace, Deuce and Grim) what would you think be a relaxing way to end the day?

Maybe a good nights rest would benefit you after such a busy day? What if you simply took a calming walk outside of the doors of ramshackle?

Well whatever you thought about wouldn’t compare to the… confusing situation you have on your hands right now.

It started out normally..

Well, as normal as seeing a future dragon king pacing back and forth outside your dorm… again.

And because you were too awake to fall asleep, you figured it wouldn’t hurt to see what was possibly wrong, and besides, he’s your lover! It’s your sworn duty to help ease his worries as he does for you.

You got up from your bed, slipped on your cartoonish ‘who goes there’ type slippers and went out the door quietly.

“Horton!” You called out to him, with no response, as you got closer you called out again,

“Malleus? What’s wron…”

“…” He turned to you with a small frown on his face, Gao Gao Drakon Kun™ in his cupping hands.

“…Malleus did you break ‘him?” You asked as you got close enough to him, looking down at the tamagotchi, the screen showing a…

Oh..

“I can’t get him back.” His frown turned into a pout as he helplessly stares at the small dragon flying in the sky with angel wings on the screen, complete with an annoying beep every two seconds.

“Let me try something.” You said as you suddenly picked up the small device and pressed the A and C buttons.

“there, that’s him right?” You placed the tamagotchi back in his still cupped hands, the screen now showing a little egg instead.

“…Yes,” The man leaned in and kissed your cheek.

“Thank you.” He stated softly, though you could see the meter of his admiration peaking as he pressed a couple buttons, the smile on his face was small, yes, but it was also so genuine it was almost adorable.

“should I escort you to bed now dear? It’s quite late.” He asked as he put his pet in his pocket, now his attention was fully on you.

“Oh, uhm, yes! If you don’t have anything important tomorrow then you should stay tonight- with me, in bed- sleeping.”

“…”

“…Of course, who am I to deprive my lover of affection?” The smug expression on his face showing the amusement he’s getting from the way your cheeks were now dusted with a small blush.

“Alright then follow me this way, m’lady.” You teased slightly as you took his hand in yours.

You ended up sleeping with grim sandwiched in between the two of you.

🗒️: I’m reading a manga called “Yona of the Dawn” and I’m already 15 volumes in, I want Su-Won so bad.

and Tae-Jun. he was so pathetic but now he’s trying his best. (*´∇｀*)

ⓒpurpee

[whalesforhands]

MY GOD YOUR GETO X READER X GOJI FICS SCRATCH AN ITCH IN MY BRAIN AND THE SHOKO CRUSH ADDITION?!?!? ABSOLUTELY DIVINE I TELL YOU!!!! Part 3 had me hurting ngl like ouch man but it inspired some angst *rubs hands evilly* what if one day after a tough mission reader is just feeling super down and tired and weak and is abt to cry and runs into Gojo and Geto who (not knowing any better) start teasing her abt her abilities and cursed technique etc not knowing her mental state and she just snaps and starts crying and yelling at them abt if all they think of her is a joke then they should just leave her alone instead of messing around with her feelings and runs off. Shoko is the one to find her and comforts her while Gojo and Geto are left gobsmacked and stricken with guilt. I’ll let you imagine how they realize what idiots they are and try to fix their huge screwup. Also I’m so glad you’re writing for Geto x reader x Gojo there’s hardly any fics on here with that pairing and not smut (not that I don’t love that too but I want PAIN and DRAMA and SHENANIGANS) and your fics give me just that so ty

anon i’m going to cry i finally got another ask. i thought ppl hated me bro. ur so cute for such a detailed and compliment filled ask, anon

i write 2 gs x reader bcs it never feels right knowing that they are without each other. i need them to be happy 😭😭

anyways, eat up

dread creeps around the corner (gojo x reader x geto, shoko x reader)

warnings: angst to fluff, y’all making me consider quitting smut writing to become a full time PG writer cause these are way more fun

You think the weariness of life is catching up to you.

Your body felt heavy, your feet dragging as your back was hunched over. Your staff strapped to your back as your eyesight started to blur.

Your backpack seems even heavier today too. You were sure you packed light.

Another mission, another near-miss. How many times would you be able to just make it out with your life? How many times until your luck finally ran out?

Why weren’t you improving? Why weren’t your techniques breaking past their limit quicker? What are you doing wrong?

Why are you so weak?

Perhaps you just aren’t cut out for savi- No.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of those thoughts as you sense the familiar energy begin to surround you.

“Little Miss Barrierrrrrr!” An arm latched itself onto your shoulders as weight suddenly pressed itself down onto you, the sudden pressure causing you to stumble backwards, only for the arm to support you and keep you upright on your feet.

“How was your mission?” Gojo’s loud voice rang throughout your ears, it’s sheer volume grating and painful. His hand going round to the strap of your backpack, tugging it off of you and onto his own shoulder.

The other presence flanked your side, before you felt the weight of your staff disappear from your back, leaving you empty handed as the two sorcerers smiled down at you.

You took a breath in.

“It… It was-“ Horrible. Tragic. You survived by the skin of your teeth once again. You struggled to find the strength to describe it in more detail.

“Fine.”

Gojo grins as you felt Geto’s hand pat your head.

“Sounds like code for, ‘You struggled!’” He laughs, patting your back. “My Six Eyes tell me your cursed energy barely improved after that mission too. Should I ask Yaga to assign you harder ones? Maybe with us?”

Your body stills. It… Barely improved? You gave that mission your best shot.

You heard Suguru laugh as he smacked Satoru’s arm, ridding his arm off your shoulder as he replaced it with his own.

“It’s alright,” Suguru began. “Don’t listen to him. Improving takes time anyway.”

Takes… Time? How hypocritical does he have to be to tell you that? He, along with the gifted Gojo Satoru, had immense cursed energy from the beginning. Their talent innate, their improvement expedited with little to no training.

Self-sufficient, talented, never having to try too hard to far surpass the standards of average. Exceptional. Things that you never were, never will be.

Frustration had built up, your emotions starting to light aflame. With desperation, with aggravation. Why did it always feel like they looked down upon you?

“Helloooo? Earth to Miss Protection? Ya there?” Gojo waved his hand in front of your face.

Seeing no response, he reached a hand out to caress your cheek.

“Gosh, if you’re going to be so distracted, I might just ki-“

You slap his hand away before he could touch you. Eyes alight with anger, you looked straight at him, throwing Geto’s arm off your shoulders.

“If you think I’m so weak, then just leave me alone!”

The air grew tense. Your tears were beginning to well up.

“I- I know I’m weak, okay?! You don’t have to rub it in all the time! B-but I’ve tried! I’ve tried too hard for you to tell me that I’m not doing enough!” The dam broke, your cheeks streaked with your tears as your stutters caused you to grow embarrassed.

Why can’t you even express your anger more courageously?

You turned tailed and ran away. Your sobs making themselves more apparent the more you ran, the more your legs burned.

You were such an embarrassment.

Settling by a creek, your legs bundled up to your chest as you cried into your knees. You don’t know how long you’ve been here crying your stress out. Your eyes were puffy, stress not leaving your body as you sat still, listening to the gentle pitter patter of the rain beginning to fall upon you.

Can the day really not get any worse?

You wanted to laugh at yourself as you felt the rain begin to drench your uniform. It was your last clean one. You need to do the laundry again soon.

As the rain poured down on you, it suddenly stopped. A shadow had overcome your figure, providing you shelter.

Cigarette smoke and a hint of a citrusy fragrance.

Shoko.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

You stay silent. You didn’t expect to be found. Nor did you even feel like talking right now. You bury your face deeper into your folded arms, trying to hide. You don’t want to be seen as weak by Shoko.

It stays that way for a moment. Silent, besides the gentle patter of the rain.

“It’s not,” She began. “It’s not weak to cry when you’re sad. Not in front of me.” Assurance. She was comforting you.

You felt her settle next to you, getting her skirt wet.

She gently adjusted your head to rest on her shoulder.

“Cry all you want. I’ll be here.”

And you did. Sobbing, fingers digging into her uniform as your tears and snot mixed into her clothing.

You didn’t notice her other shoulder getting wet with rain as she held the umbrella up over the both of you.

——

You were holding her arm with both of your own as she walked you back to the dorms.

You were ready to take a shower, collapse onto your bed and cry even more. Too much stress has built up.

What you didn’t expect was to see the duo settled on your carpeted floor.

They scrambled up to their feet almost instantaneously.

You sniffled, your eyes red and weary as you held Shoko’s arm tighter.

Geto spoke first, a hand of his outstretched to touch you before he willed it back to his side. “I- We’re very sorry. It wasn’t our intention to hurt you.”

He never wanted to make you feel inferior.

Gojo’s eyes were downcast, sight seemingly stuck to the floor before he raised his gaze to be directly looking at you.

“You’re not weak. You just need more training.”

Geto elbowed his side as you heard Shoko sighed exasperatedly beside you.

“Ow!” The white haired sorcerer exclaimed. “Oh, and uh, I- I’m sorry… Too.” He rubbed at his torso where Suguru had landed his hit.

“Hopeless…” You heard her murmur. Strangely, you didn’t feel taken aback by Gojo’s seemingly insincere apology.

You found it funny. You giggled, desperately trying to not let them see as a hand came up to slap itself over your mouth, your eyes beginning to light up with joy.

“It’s-“ You tried to speak through your silent laughter. “It’s- Okay.” Getting ahold of yourself, you remove your hand.

“I forgive you.” You smiled.

“We bought you pizza as an apology by the way.”

“You’ll join us, right?”

masterlist

Note:

Geto, Gojo and Shoko thought your laughter was cute, especially after seeing how hard you cried.

Surprisingly, Geto and Gojo were fighting over who was to pay for the pizzas. They both wanted to pay for you. Shoko watched, amused by their fighting as she paid for it at the counter whilst they were too busy wrestling.

You never thought you’d get so hungry after crying so hard. You ate nearly half of the whole damn thing before Geto went to order some more.

Gojo thought it was adorable how you were stuffing your cheeks like a pig.

Shoko licked some sauce off your face as you were eating, you blushed so hard and told her she’d make an amazing wife.

“Just because of some sauce?!?! I can do that too-!”

[mysticmonkeybusiness]

Prompt: post s5, Mac goes to find Wukong and find him he does, along with a broken mirror; given by @visionaryscribe

-

He never knew the world could get more obnoxiously loud. The change was slow, but at this point Macaque’s certain it’s a side effect of shattering the five stones of creation. Now he can hardly step foot off Flower Fruit Mountain without reducing his hearing to human levels. Human. At least at demon levels he can still hear magic, but he’s practically crippled like this.

But it’s like the kid can’t go one day without getting into trouble, so Macaque sucks it up, deafens himself, and finds time to check in on him regularly. Wouldn’t want another world ending disaster to go unnoticed until it’s too late to do anything about it.

It becomes routine. A boring, straightforward task with little to no surprises outside of the mundane shenanigans MK and the dragon girl get up to. After a few weeks of this, Macaque makes the mistake of letting his guard down.

He lingers a little longer in the shadows of MK’s room, watching the kid draw. This is the most relaxed he’s seen the kid since the pillar. It relaxes him in turn, something within him unwinding and feeling a little less like the world is actually out to get him. The moment he hears the pig come up though, he makes his exit. The kid is getting better and better at spotting him and without a distraction keeping him from looking up, Macaque doesn’t like his chances of remaining unnoticed.

Returning to Flower Fruit Mountain is simple. Removing the deafening spell takes barely a thought.

Or it should.

It’s still too quiet and he wonders how he could have messed up a spell he could cast with his hands tied behind his back. Recasting the spell does nothing to fix things. Frustrated and assured he’s alone, he rips the glamour on his ears off as well to no change. His breathing hitches as he clutches at his ears and reflexively expands his range.

To his surprise, it works. It only takes a second for the thought to hit him with all the force of a certain red and gold staff.

Wukong’s not on the mountain.

With more panic than he’d ever admit to anyone – only because if Wukong’s missing, he must be getting into trouble – Macaque scrambles to locate peaches-for-brains and has to stop himself from slumping in relief at finding the white noise of Wukong’s magic at the temple on the mainland.

He tells himself it’s a reasonable response at finding out Wukong hasn’t brought some world ending disaster down on their heads.

Macaque finds it a bit strange though. Wukong’s been spending most of his time split between his hut and the noodle shop. If he wasn’t being an overprotective mother hen, he was lazing around in his hut and gorging himself on fruit.

Lingering adrenaline and piqued curiosity is enough to have him shadow portal to the temple. He grimaces as he adjusts to the noise volume, suppressing his hearing as best as he can without magic.

The sharp tang of copper lingers in the air and sends his adrenaline spiking yet again. When he finds Wukong he’s going to punch him in his stupid face for giving him this much stress.

He follows the smell of blood to the bathroom and immediately zeros in on the Great Pain of Heaven. He found Wukong alright, along with a shattered mirror.

Curled in on himself, Wukong’s claws are digging into his skull and his heartbeat so rapid that it’s likely without the immortalities he would have given himself a heart condition.

Glass crunches underneath his boots as he steps closer, but Wukong doesn’t even flinch. Worry breaks through his denial and he crouches barely a handspan away, eyes catching on the pinprick pupils, the glittering glass sprinkled amidst sunset orange fur, and the already healing scratches on Wukong’s face. Almost entirely hidden beneath his curled hands, a long, shallow slice on his temple tells him exactly what set this off.

A slow wave in front of his face doesn’t even make him blink. Wukong’s clearly not registering anything he’s seeing.

“Wukong,” he murmurs softly, trying to snap him out of it without touching him and possibly setting him off further.

Macaque should have expected something like this to happen, but with the damn circlet long gone, he thought they managed to get past it without an incident. Figures Wukong wouldn’t deign to have his breakdown when he is around someone that could help him.

MK would be better for this. Even out of his mind, Wukong would never hurt the kid. His instincts wouldn’t let him.

Macaque doesn’t have that assurance.

Claws twitch and dig further until there’s the distinct crack of hitting bone. Before he even registers the lump in his throat, Macaque is reaching over and ripping Wukong’s hands away from his head. Any damage he could do removing them would be nothing close to what Wukong could do to himself.

Like he has nothing better to do than cause Macaque problems, Wukong immediately begins thrashing, mouth open in a silent scream. He’s thrown off, but picks himself up, hurls himself at Wukong, and sends them both through a shadow portal back to Wukong’s nest.

As he had hoped, the change of location sends Wukong off balance. It’s enough to let Macaque pin Wukong to the nest and reinforce the hold with his shadows. Wukong still struggles, but slowly, that resistance fades away as the differences in his surroundings start trickling in. Familiar scents instead of blood. Comforting fabrics instead of sharp glass.

Capitalizing on the opening, Macaque thinks to himself, Can’t believe I’m doing this, and makes a low, rumbling purr. It almost hurts at first, having been centuries since he’s worked these particular muscles, but it gets easier as he keeps it up.

Beneath him, he can feel the gradual way Wukong relaxes. With his hands occupied he has to use his head to nudge the side of Wukong’s in encouragement, keeping the purr up all the while.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, but by the time he feels safe enough to let go of the restraints, he feels exhausted. Wukong, the prissy princess, tensed up again every single time he so much as let up on the pacifying gestures. He leans back just enough to see Wukong’s face and has to fight the urge to strangle him when he sees the idiot is asleep.

Faintly, he considers portaling back to his own bed, but frankly, even that’s too much effort right now. Besides, after what Wukong put him through, he can deal with waking up next to Macaque. He lowers himself back down, this time on the side and gets the source of all his problems curling into his chest for his efforts.

He contents himself with the fantasy of kicking Wukong away and wraps an arm around him because Wukong might as well make himself useful as a blanket. His eyes slide shut and he takes a deep breath as a scent that never fails to register as safe despite everything that screams otherwise fills his nose.

Macaque never sees the way eyes peek open a sliver before falling closed once more.

[donaardaardendrian]

A summary of the endings of Animation Vs Science

At the time of writing this, only the first 3 episodes are out, any follow up will be done in reblogs. Spoilers below.

Let's start with Animation Vs Math (Av∑) :

After discovering the Math Universe, and fighting with Euler's Constant (e), Orange (aka TSC) asks e if it knows an exit to get out of this place, and comes up with a solution :

The terms of that summation are the values of "volume" of 2n-ball (with radius of 1): With n=0, the 0-ball is the point, and there is 1 point in a point (shocking), π^0 / Γ(1) = 1 ; with n=1, the 2-ball is the disk with area π, π^1 / Γ(2) = π ; with n=2, the 4-ball is the hyper-ball with hyper-volume π^2/2, π^2 / Γ(3) = π^2/2 ; and so on...

So TSC gets blipped out of existence through an infinite dimensional ball.

And appear in Animation Vs Physics (Avᴘ⃗ )...

Where after adventuring in a cowboy hat through space thanks to conveniently placed props, he reaches a black hole, a plunge into it.

(Due to time travel shenanigans, TSC goes multiple times through the same period of time, which the video does not show, skipping ahead)

He finds there his future self, who teach him how to manipulate quantum probability, and the flow of time.

Together, they conveniently place props through space for their past selves, and before leaving, by selecting a different universe interpretation, future TSC takes present TSC's hat, making present TSC "past TSC's future TSC" (dear god).

We will now follow TSC after he jumps through the universe as his future self.

Sadly, in Animation Vs Geometry (Av𝔊), he seems to have ended up in a dimensionless universe which he have to expend to move freely, first adding time, then two spacial dimension.

And, with phi (ɸ), after a bit of fleeing from a 4D menace, the Octaplex, they put it in a dimension prison referencing Poincaré's Dodecahedral Space, where space as the same volume as a dodecahedron whose opposite faces are linked after a 36° rotation.

However, we come across a familiar face : Avᴘ⃗ 's TSC looking from the previous universe, which seems to shock our TSC a bit, making him fall in the opposite direction : into the next one.

The universe then reset to a timeless space dot, enter-able by any stick figure that would go through universe... Oh, it moved.

(Since the universe seems to reset itself dimensionless, quitting time until it's restarting, the universe itself is in a timeloop. Thus, the nudge is caused by the same TSC that arrived 9 minutes before.)

[celestie0]

does anyone wanna be on taglist for this gojo x reader fic? 🧚‍♀️✨

edit: first chapter is out!!

HI BABES after much deliberation i am starting a new gojo fic series :””) I PROMISE I WILL STILL BE ON THAT KICKOFF GRIND but ugh i just had too many ideas and i just neeeeeeed to start this series rn

it's based on this concept idea i had (changed a few things though. also, if you commented on this post, i'm alr gonna tag you haha so dw ab commenting under this one too)

here’s a bit of info about it:

ᰔ title. TO BE DECIDED STILL

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader

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

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

some side quests. your ex bf is a cop and is determined to prove your marriage is a sham because he's jealous, it appears gojo's love life history is not as simple as it may seem either, also there will be lots of secondary angst because of reader's mom's sickness :'') i will really be delving into a lot of the struggles of having a sick family member (in this fic, alzheimer's & cancer)

here is a little teaser.

and here's another lil teaser i posted yesterday

BUT ANYWAYS yeah please comment below if you'd like to be on the taglist!! tysm for your support :'') the first chapter will likely be posted tomorrow (4/19) if not saturday (4/20 eyyyy)

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

What would your headcanons be for the 141 in nursing homes? As in old ass man.

Maybe some extra characters as well? 👀

I'm splitting this up into 3 categories: Physical appearance, personality/behaviour, and overall shenanigans.

John Price

Went bald but still has a killer mustache and a ridiculous amount of body hair and yet all the hair he has left has gone grey. Is SOOO wrinkly. His eyes are hooded/droopy beyond fucking belief.

He's 100% a "Back in my day..." old man. Has def gone half-deaf. Is both a flight risk AND a fall risk but refuses to use his walker/zimmer frame. Is the first one up in the morning, before the staff even changed shifts (consequence of early rising all his life in the military)

Insists on being called 'Captain' by the staff, gives everyone the stink eye if he gets called 'John' or 'Mr.Price'. Sometimes still wakes up dreaming of Makarov and/or Shepherd and spends all day grumpy. Staff hates him.

Simon Riley

Does not go wrinkly. Instead, his skin gets taut and he loses weight and muscle, and becomes skinny/frail. Is VERY hunched over.

Has def lost most of his hearing as well. Is impossible to talk to. A conversation between him and Price spirals from a topic to the next because they misinterpret each other's words. Blasts his fave TV shows (The Price is Right) at top volume all hours of the day.

Has dementia or some other brain degenerative disease, which means he's often lost/confused... So it's not uncommon to see him walking around carrying a cane or umbrella like it's a rifle because he thinks he's still a soldier. Has scared the shit out of night staff by sneaking up behind them with a mask on (where did he get the bloody mask?) and nearly stabbing them with a syringe-like it was one of his knives.

Johnny MacTavish

Does not make it to a nursing home, he's already dead.

Kyle Garrick

Has gone grey but not that wrinkly. Still looks surprisingly good for his age. Is very charming. Wears colourful shirts (Hawaiian and not), and has a nice style... but still wears that stupid bloody hat of his. Has VERY bad hip pain from falling out of helicopters so much.

Is SOOO sweet and polite, and charms all the old ladies AND the nursing staff, every kid that comes visit other grandparents LOVES him. Is the least annoying senior at the nursing home. Also has terrible hearing. Spends his time shouting at Price and Simon to have a conversation.

Still gets taken to veteran/war remembrance days by his family and watches the parades and such... only to look at helicopters with disdain in his eyes and curses them out with a fist.

Alejandro Vargas

Has not gone grey but is a healthy salt-and-pepper. Still keeps his little stubble OR an anchor goatee. Wears glasses now, but they're those types that transition into sunglasses.

His hearing is ALSO shot. Has very shaky hands so he keeps dropping things, especially his pills. Talks crap about everyone with Rodolfo (they gossip in Spanish so no one can hear him.) Is never grumpy. Loves playing cornhole and pétanque.

Is 100% a cougar hunter. Has a silver-tongue and is still so attractive that he just seduces ALL the old ladies. Some of them were still married to their husbands (who were ALSO in the nursing home) and he STILL flirted with them.

Rodolfo Parra

Rudy has gone chubby, wears glasses, and still stays clean-shaven. Wears cardigans and corduroy trousers. Is on a wheelchair.

Is very polite. Spends his time reading in the garden, and likes tending to flowers. Loves a good gossip with Alejandro. Loves playing cards because it's the one game Alejandro cannot play, is very smug about it.

Falls asleep suddenly after meals. Hates Philip Graves with a fucking passion. Hates him so much he still wakes up dreaming about the betrayal in 2022 and gets MAD about it. Wheels himself to Alejandro's room every time and complains. "Pendejo de mierda, Graves."