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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 year

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just get to me in time, okay?

a/n: just reminiscing about 2019 when I was in my hardcore frank era...

warnings: frank castle x nurse!reader, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, fluff, patching up frank's wounds, blood and gore, kissing, reader has a cat

word count: 1660

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As your cat suddenly jumped off his comfy spot on your belly with his head smooshed beneath the cliche romance novel you were unwinding with this evening, his sudden alertness and the loud meows that accompanied it caused you to put your book down, “hey, what’s up, baby?” you slowly got up from the couch and followed after him though the dim apartment, “we talked about this, Cosmo,” you gently warned the loud exclamations that he released in one of the shadowy corners of your living room, “you talking to the air just makes me think there are ghosts here.”

When he then began to purr, the soothing sound emanating from the darkness was accompanied by a familiar voice, “sorry to interrupt your thrilling Friday night, Y/n.”

“Jesus christ, Frank!” you exclaimed, nearly jumping out of your skin, “you almost gave me a heart attack! Don’t you know how to knock? Or even just use the front door?”

“Sorry,” he stepped into the light, supporting some of his weight on one of your dining room chairs as Cosmo happily rubbed his fluffy body against his heavy boots.

As the soft light emanating from the tall lamp in the corner illuminated your friend's form, the blood soaking his dark clothes and the bruises across his cheekbone made his intentions for this late-night visit crystal clear, the smile fell from your lips at once.

“And here I was hoping you just felt lonely,” you joked, trying to hide your heavy sigh, “wanted to come by for a game of scrabbled or something,” your feet already carrying you towards your kitchen, you called over your shoulder, “I’ll go get the first aid kit, you know where the bathroom is,” a sentence you had probably said to him about a dozen times by now.

After retrieving the first aid kit, or more like first aid box with the way you had expanded the contents out of precaution after you began to help Frank, it now no longer fit in the small neat cross marked container, but a bigger clear plastic box you used to store old mementoes in, one that conveniently didn’t fit under your bathroom sink anymore.

“So, what is it tonight, huh?” you sat it down on the edge of the sink and glanced over at your wounded friend, now situated on the side of the tub.

Your cat still glued to his side, one of his hands tangled in the soft grey fur behind Cosmo’s ears as the other one worked at shredding his black jacket, “just some idiot with a knife that got a bit lucky,” his breathing got heavy as he struggled with the other sleeve.

Kneeling down in front of him, you swiftly took over his actions, removing his outerwear the rest of the way for him, “where?”

“Shoulder and a few down here,” he motioned towards the large red stain on his midsection, his fingers already beginning to lift up his t-shirt.

“Don’t,” you swatted his hand away and lifted yourself up enough to fish a pair of scissors out of the box.

“Oh, come on,” his head tilted to the side as he tried to argue, “I am barely hurt, I can take my shirt off just fine.”

“I know you can,” your face stayed stony, “you can do so many very impressive things, just not right now, tough guy,” as you from the bottom hem began to cut open the black cotton that clung to his skin, “besides, I got you some spare clothes just in case.”

“You didn’t have to do that-”

“Frank, just say thanks,” you sighed, taking the last snip on your journey from the bottom up to the collar, “I basically got them for free anyway with how cheap they were.”

Lifting yourself up more, being momentarily at eye level with him as he watched you slice open the shoulders and peel the fabric off, “thank you, ma'am.”

After thoroughly washing your hands and sliding on a pair of gloves, you took a closer look at his gnarly cuts, gently inspecting his bruised cheek as well to make sure it wasn’t anything else.

“I don’t have any more of the fun stuff,” you spoke as you fished out the rest of the supplies needed, “but I can offer you some aspirin if you want.”

“Nah,” his low voice rumbled as you wetted a cotton ball with some saline, “just do it.”

“Alright,” you exhaled and began to dap and clean his wounds, the only indication of pain you received being the uncontrollable twitch his eyes occasionally did as they tracked your movements, washing over his tender flesh and wiping the crimson away.

“I see this one’s healing quite nicely,” you commented as you caught sight of the newly scabbed over bullet wound that you’d patched up not too long ago, “at least you didn’t go and get yourself shot again, so that’s always something,” you tossed the last of the stained cotton rounds into the sink as your gloved fingers then began to thread the curved needle already clasped in the cold metal of your forceps.

“Wasn’t hard to mess it up when you patched it up so good,” he watched you, both of his hands now simply resting on the porcelain of the tub, his novelty haven worn off slightly, so Cosmo had freed his good hand and moved on to curling up on the bathmat by the door.

“You ready?” you asked out of habit before you let the needle pierce his flesh.

“Yep,” he replied, a series of heavy breaths and low grunts followed suit as you closed up the cuts tainting his already scared abdomen, the muscles tensing slightly underneath your fingers as you did.

Stoic as ever, Frank took every stitch like the brick wall that he was, not complaining once as his wounds one by one got closed up and then covered with large white bandages.

As you worked on the last one that luckily missed his collarbone, your sutures slowed down as the storm within your mind grew. Now situated beside him on the edge of the bathtub, it was hard for him not to notice how your bottom lip had begun to tremble.

“Please don’t-…” he spoke, averting his usually unwavering gaze as you tied off the last knot and cut the thread, “you already know that you can’t tell me anything that will make me stop, so please don’t ask me.”

“Frank, I would never-…” you set the tools down and blinked back at him, honestly slightly offended that he’d even ask you after all of this time, “you know me well enough to be certain that I’d never ask you to change, to stop before-…” shutting your eyes a second, you said, “look, I can do a lot, but I can’t do everything. What happens the day when you stumble in here with something that I can’t just fix, that I don’t have the right means to-…” you let your head momentarily slumped down against the mass of his shoulder, “and if you refuse to let me call an ambulance? Or even worse, if you don’t get here in time, if you don’t get to me, if you go and die on me in some ally somewhere, I just-…” your voice broke as your forehead softly collided with his own, “just get to me in time, okay?” you felt sharp tears sting the corners of your eyes, “come to me even if it’s just a scratch, because as brilliant as you are, I don’t trust those crappy first aid skills of yours one bit,” the essence of a smile accompanied that teasing comment as you blinked up at him once more with glossy eyes, “come to me, because if you don’t, if you get hurt, if you die, and I could have prevented that, then I don’t know how-… how-…”

Your broken words trailed off as your eyes unintentionally flickered down towards his full lips and before you had time to think, you’d leaned in and crashed your lips against his own.

He still tasted of blood, though that fact didn’t bother you as much as you’d imagined it would. You felt one of his large palms find the side of your face as his mind eventually caught up and he began to reciprocate the unexpected kiss. As you realised what you were doing, your anxious mind feared the worst and you swiftly tried to back up to apologise for your sudden actions, though the fingers that had travelled to the back of your head and kept you there long enough to let his lightened pecks upon your lips be enough of an answer to soothe your worries.

“So,” his fingers lingered in your hair a moment longer as you parted ways, “I’m guessing that might have something to do with why you don’t want me dying in an ally somewhere, huh?”

“Why?” you breathed, biting down on the soft smile that bloomed, “you got a problem with it?”

Disappearing completely in your eyes, he simply shook his head, beaming back at you as if he hadn’t just been through a meat grinder earlier tonight.

“You know,” you eventually opened your mouth again as his intense gaze sent a shy tingle down your spine, “some patient's mom dropped off a bunch of cookies today,” you stared down at your nervous fingers as they fiddled with the fabric of one of the bulky pockets on the leg of his dark pants, “they were like insanely good, so I kinda smuggled a bunch of them home with me…”

“Oh, yeah?” a small chuckle bubbled within his throat.

“Yeah…” you kept your gaze away from his as your thumb nervously drummed against his meaty thigh, “just thought that maybe you would like one, just since, you know, you had kinda a rough night, so it only seems fair for you to get a cookie…”

#lea’s writing #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #the punisher fic #frank castle imagine #frank castle fluff #frank castle hurt/comfort #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle angst #nurse!reader ᰔ

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celestie0 · 29 days

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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)

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arabaka · 7 months

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ᰔ ̗̀➛ CHAPTER O2. LIKE A MOVIE.

₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. content warnings ⤸ nsfw. reigen arataka x afab!reader. boss-employee relationship. no actual sex during the chapter's events, but recollections of the night before are included and are nsfw in nature.biting. reader described as wearing makeup (not specified). light mentions of nausea. she/her pronouns used. reader is referred to as a woman. 2.1k word count.

₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. author's note ⤸ CHAPTER ONE. chapter two at last!

ᰔ ̗̀➛ MINORS / AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

Okay, so you had sex with your boss.

This is a fact you cannot run away from, no matter how many times you splash water on your face. You still try until your cheeks tingle with a wet sting but it works against you when you so easily envision everything that happened the night before.

He’d started it with teasing trails of kisses, clumsily suckling your breasts in his mouth on the way down. When he got to your thighs, he’d changed tactics yet again. He licked and bit, though never past the point of discomfort, and even admired his work with a feathery groan in awe, “Wow…”

His hands… You’re remembering how they groped and grabbed with the skill of a novice but… It wasn’t exactly bad. No, you liked how he was a little rough but his fingers were not. His fingers were smooth and moving like a wave, your breasts squeezed between them with your nipples hardening almost immediately. You enjoyed the way his thumb would occasionally miss your clit, grazing over just enough to make it throb and ache. He would undoubtedly get better with the right partner.

You hope that partner is you.

Your feelings congest in a lump that wedges itself in your throat. Reigen Arataka… Just how long have you been harboring your feelings for the man? You can count the months on one hand. You can’t count the reasons though; that would be impossible.

You don’t want this to be a fling. Just the thought of you two only being each other’s unspoken one night stand makes your chest feel wound up, your heart beating so hard the pulses are like earthquakes against your eardrums. Doesn’t he deserve better than that?

Don’t you?

You hang your head and hold in a groan. Stewing in this dilemma, you come to the conclusion that things can only go one of two ways.

Possibility number one: the two of you conquer Mount Awkward, discover your feelings have been mutual all along, and something beautiful comes out of it! Everyone wins!

Possibility number two: your hopes are dead on arrival.

This isn’t helping the queasy feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

The door knob to your bathroom wobbles, your hand incapable of getting a grip because… You can’t either. But you can’t hide in the bathroom forever. You’re scared to swallow because you’re afraid it will just come back up. You close your eyes, draw in a breath and open the door with a creak announcing your presence.

When you’d left the bed (freak out well contained, if you do say so yourself) he was still sound asleep with one hand lax on his stomach while the other was outstretched and just barely touching the headboard. You hope that’s what you come back to.

But because this is real life and not a movie, he’s wide awake. Awake and sat on his side of the bed, nursing a hangover headache with a rubbing palm heel over his temple but alert.

There’s been a lot running through Reigen’s mind since your absence stirred him from his sleep.

He hadn’t even realized he was searching for you, the salacious fact of the matter still a short ways away from any sort of conscious thought; it was just a feeling that something, somebody, should be there and when his hand abruptly fell flat on the mattress, it woke him up.

What helped him sober up is the scent from your bedsheets, namely your pillow. It’s the same aroma he’s always found himself indulging in a little too long some mornings, sometimes by drawing close to you with the excuse of checking up on your work and sometimes by simply trying to figure out its notes to its fragrance… So he could buy you a bottle for your birthday.

Your birthday…

His stomach unknowingly mimics yours, bile already a threat from the depths of his throat, when last night comes like a tsunami over his aching head. We really… We really did. He thinks just as his cheeks flare up a red that would make any rose jealous.

Shit. He realizes just how sweaty he is, the sticky chill of his clothes clinging to his body… He can’t smell the perspiration and he hopes you don’t either.

Never drinking alcohol ever again. He swears, just as he hears the door knob turn.

“Hey…”

His ears burn just like his face, the red streak spreading even worse when he’s picked up his head at the sound of your voice. Sleep still clings to your voice and even now, he can’t help but think about how cute you sound. How he’d love to hear it again.

But do you?

He remembers, through the fog of oral sex (which is not helping his composure, or lack thereof), that you came onto him. Not that he’s blaming you, he’s feeling absolutely rotten for taking advantage of you. It was your birthday and you were drunk, as was he but he should have done better. Been better. The bitter seed of hate starts to sprout from his stomach, easily capable of growing to thorny vines that will most certainly do him in from the inside out.

“H-Hey.” He answers you after a pause that felt like an eternity for the both of you. He didn’t mean for you to wait, just… You get it; he sees it written all over your face… Along with your makeup smeared just under your lower lashes.

You’re like him, still wearing your outfit from last night even with your thigh highs still on, albeit rolled down a little but that didn’t save you from getting those treadmarks from your socks’ stitching. But his eyes start to drift elsewhere, noting your slumped shirt collar that’s exposing the faintest of teeth parts and a soft splash of hue that can only be a bruise. No, a hickie. There’s similar ones all over your legs, going beyond that and disappearing under the bottom hem of your skirt.

His nerve knot themselves together in his throat, nice and tight, seeing you in such a state of disarray. But dammit, how do you still look good?

“I’m really sorry for last night.” The words somehow manage through the tangled cluster of regret and anxiety, Reigen’s fingers splayed against each other as he croaks, “I shouldn’t…” There’s no pretty way to say it, “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.” I can’t lose her… Or go through a lawsuit.

“N-No, I mean…” You yourself are now struggling to speak, though your throat feels like it’s caving in and tightening, both from the realization and desperate need to keep Reigen in your life because of the way he sounds… You wonder if he can get past the solemn magnitude of his perspective.

But no – “This isn’t a black-and-white situation, Reigen… You know that, right?” You broach the topic tenderly, “We were both drunk, well… Tipsy.” Those two outcomes from earlier are still both in play and the longer that lasts, the more you’re going to feel like you’re walking on pins and needles.

“You’re right about that but my head is killing me… I don’t drink that often.” Reigen admits, ignorant to the very fact that the only bartender he sees has stopped putting alcohol in his lemon sours long ago. That’s why it hit him especially hard last night. “I just wanted to have a good time with you.” He almost sounds remorseful, as though he’s already resigned to a fate where you two… You two…

“Wasn’t it a good time?” Your voice is meek and… Unlike you. You, too, have a degree of sadness in your voice.

But of course, and like the rom-coms you’ve seen, you two are both preemptively grieving for the same hope.

His breath catches in his lungs, what he is able to breathe drying up the already sore tunnel of his throat. What were you saying? He needs to know more. “Please. I need you to be honest with me.”

You’ve never heard Reigen with such a burden so grave. It almost freezes you where you stand, an equal distance from your bathroom and where Reigen continues to sit on your bed. You simply nod, needing the second to collect yourself enough to be able to answer him when it really counts.

“Do you have feelings for me?” His heartbeat is loud, it’s a painful combination with the thudding headache wracking his skull. Not to mention the sickness in his stomach that would rival a massive infection. “Because…” No, he can’t let you start without telling you, as clear and audible as he can, “I have feelings for you. I’ve had feelings for you.”

A gasp rushes out of you like a flood. Your heart… It’s starting to ache with how much your blood is rushing through your body. You want to ask for how long. But you don’t want to spend another second in the torture of waiting. “I feel the same way. I’ve felt this way for a while, Reigen.”

Now comes the exchange of stares wide with disbelief. How did either of you never see that? Never know that. You’re both looping this in your head and the only thing Reigen can will his body to do is pat the spot on the bed next to him.

You take the offer almost instantly, quickly too as you need, absolutely need……. to hug him. And as much as it stirs the nausea in his stomach, he says nothing and hugs you back, his hands sweeping up your shoulder blades while your arms wrap him over his neck. “I didn’t know.”

“Then I must have done a pretty good job at hiding it.” Reigen murmurs back, nose in your hair and taking in your scent… So close and for the first time… Well, first time he can recall. He prays this isn’t a dream. It can’t be, not when he’s finally, finally getting to hold you. “But I wouldn’t have been able to tell from you either.”

Reigen swallows something he’s ashamed to say would’ve been more bile than truth. He pulls away from the hug, your arms snaking off of him but he holds his hands to your shoulders, just as snug. “I’m serious about you. I’ve never felt this way about a person before.” He gulps, never having the opportunity to say this to anyone before you. He looks at you without straying, biting his lip at every pause. “I don’t have a lot of experience.” His natural instinct is to lie, elevate what little he feels he can from himself but he shakes his head immediately. He can’t do that to you. Won’t ever do that to you.

“No, that’s not true. I have zero experience in this area… Last night was my first time. I’ve never…” Now that he’s being honest, it’s like his body knows he’s getting the opportunity to let the floodgates flow and tell you everything. “I never pursued anything like that. At least… Never got far. And the first day we met? When you came in for the interview? I couldn’t believe that the only woman I wanted to pursue was right in front of me and how could I pursue you if I gave you the job?”

You’re taken aback, shoulders twitching the slightest bit in Reigen’s hold but you remain locked in and of your own volition. You… Your face is hot now, so much in fact that it makes even your skin clammy.

“But… I needed the help… And you needed the job. I couldn’t be selfish. I doubt you would have taken any offer of a date if I had picked anyone else.” That last sentence is marked with a light chuckle, Reigen’s mouth parched so the laugh is dry too. “And… I didn’t know you well, but I hope I’m not the only one that felt we connected. You don’t have to tell me if it di-”

“It did.” You say, quick and soft but confident. “I was attracted to you before you even opened your mouth. You didn’t even lose points when you did speak.” How could you resist cracking a joke of your own? He got to, after all. This makes you smile even more.

“O-Oh.” He wasn’t expecting that, surprise showing up in blooming reds all over his face. “Well then…” Reigen doesn’t even bother hiding his face from you, his blustering expression, because by the look on your face, you’re charmed. Absolutely bewitched. “Things happen the way they do, I suppose.”

His hands rub light circles over your shoulders before walking down your arms until he can have your fingers in his. He massages your hands, rubbing sweet strokes with his thumb. “Please. I need you in my life.”

“I need you in mine.” You breathe with what little you can. “Reigen…”

“Be mine.” You don’t give him a second to wait. “Yes.”

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celestie0 · 27 days

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

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

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

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

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

ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 7.8k

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

nav. ch1 :: ch2 (pending)

Love thy neighbor.

Cherish thy neighbor.

Tolerate thy neighbor.

Peacefully coexist with thy neighbor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh. Yuh-huh.”

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

“Park. It. On. Your. Drive. Way.”

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

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

He stares at you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

“Mm.”

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The urge to smack him consumes you.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, that’s the goal, idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Where are you going?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Silence.

But it was never a comfortable one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for consult?” he asks you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.

Kaiser.

You swear someone mentioned that to you recently.

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

Nope. Nothing.

Oh well, maybe it’ll hit you later.

—

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

Kaiser.

Gojo said he has Kaiser insurance.

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

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

But you can only hope he says yes.

[reading commercial break]

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

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

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

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

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

[end of reading commercial break]

—

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

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

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Hi,” you say with a small wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He almost spits out his coffee.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” you squeak out.

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

“Satoru.”

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

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

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

“I’m not embar–”

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

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

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

“Can you stop talkin–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just sit,” he sighs.

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

“I–”

“Rhetorical question, shut it.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

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

“Sure, I’ll do it,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “I said in case.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck no, I’d rather die.”

“Alright, jeez, I was just asking.”

[end of chapter 1]

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

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hope yalls fries never get soggy ever 💕

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