#I’m too impatient for recovery

[suhkusa]

HELL OF A WOMAN.

PAIRING. Bakugou Katsuki x f!Reader

CW. slight enemies-to-lovers, some angst but not heavy, fluff, you're both snarky (romantic), ~4k words, slice of life, reader has a healing quirk

A/N. i'd say slowburn but it's only slowburn because i barely ever write fics this long lol

Throughout your time in the nurse’s office as Recovery Girl’s student apprentice, you’ve met many different students. They all varied– whether it be their quirk, their grade, or even the injury they had come in for. 

Students from the general education, support and management departments rarely ever made their rounds to the nurse’s office, only coming in for a simple cut or bruise. 

That left you with those in the hero department.

You got along well with nearly all of them, even going as far as becoming friends with a few. And while that was true, of course there were gonna be some who you couldn’t get along with. But, there was specifically one student you could not stand. And he’d probably say the same thing for you as well. 

It was none other than Bakugou Katsuki.

———

The first time you really interacted with Bakugou Katsuki was within the first month of your apprenticeship. It was in your 3rd year, and you had already been managing well. 

Your day had started off fantastic. Recovery Girl had left you to run the office by yourself, thoroughly trusting your working and communication skills, so that she could run errands out of town. 

The office hadn’t been too busy, allowing you time to finish a bit of your homework at your own little desk next to hers. A few people came and left, just needing a simple healing of their arm or leg. 

You had been lost in thought when he slammed the door open, practically huffing as he walked in. Putting your pencil down, your wide eyes looked up and met his own. It felt as though he was burning a hole straight through your skull with the way he stared you down.

You didn’t even have to ask to know who he was. In your first and second year, his face was plastered nearly everywhere throughout the media. Bakugou Katsuki. But you’d never talked to him. Well, until now.

Assuming he’d be like every other person who walked through that door, stating their business then quietly leaving, you broke the deafening silence.

“Uh, yes?” you let out, cringing internally at the way the words came out.

Bakugou looked around the room before back at you, “Where the hell is the old woman at?” he spat.

You were seemingly surprised at his not-so-subtle entrance and dirty language. 

“If you meant Recovery Lady by “old woman”, then she’s out of town for some errands. I can help you if–”

“And who the hell are you?” he snapped before you finished, impatience laced in the way he spoke and stood before you.

You could practically feel how your jaw dropped and eyebrows furrowed at his blunt question. If he didn’t hold back, then why should you?

“I’m Y/N L/N, I’m Recovery Lady’s helper. Now,” you put on the most calm and collected voice you could manage, “what the hell do you want?”

The day was going well, before now at least, and you were not going to let some egoistic, cocky guy ruin it for you. Tug of war is a game with two different sides, and you weren’t gonna let him win victoriously. 

Bakugou’s face scrunched up at the words you spat right back at him, opening his mouth to retort something– probably an insult– before letting it fall shut with a grunt. 

“What the– Just put a bandage on this shit,” he held his arm out for you to see a scrape wound running up the length of it.

You raised an eyebrow as you glanced between the injury and his eyes that looked down at you expectantly. And waited.

“The fuck you staring at?” he spoke– yelled, really– before stepping a bit closer.

A smirk tugged up at the corner of your lips before you sat back in your spinning chair, crossing a leg over the other. Like you were the one expecting something.

“You–”

“Please.” you cut him off, lifting a hand to inspect your nails nonchalantly. Hm, maybe you should get them done.

“Like hell I’m saying that, do something about–”

“Please.”  you repeated, emphasizing the word in a louder tone. You looked at him from behind your lifted hand, the smirk that once teased at your mouth now sitting there fully– mocking him.

“Fine! Fuckin’ fine!”  Bakugou snarled, his pearly whites peeking from under his lips. “Will you please do something about this?”

Satisfied, you responded, “‘Kay,”

———

Perhaps you should’ve bit your tongue before you spoke to the oh so great Bakugou Katsuki. In your defense, you didn’t know he’d hold it against you. You were joking, obviously. It was obvious. Right?

And so, everytime he walked into the nurse’s office, he’d send you the same nasty glare, practically seething through his teeth as he made eye contact with you. You knew exactly why he did the gesture every time he came in, but how long did this guy hold grudges for? It wasn’t like you publicly humiliated him or anything. 

“Why are you always looking at me like that?” you asked him one day as the Recovery Lady escorted him to one of the vacant cots, leg stretched out as you leaned back in your chair. 

“Hah? Like what?” he grunted in your direction as he took a seat, an eyebrow raised in curiosity? Irritation? Probably both.

“Mm,” you looked up to the roof as if you were thinking, “Like you like me or something, I mean it’s really flattering but you don’t have to sta—”

“As if. I’d rather watch an elephant take a dump than stare at your face any day,” Bakugou inputted as he lifted his arm to allow Recovery Lady to heal the injury along his bicep.

“Oh really? I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff, Bakugou,” 

You fidgeted with the pen in your hand as you watched his face scrunch up. 

“You know what—”

Just as he was about to rise and stand from his spot, Recovery Lady quickly and gently pushed him to sit back down. 

“Y/N,” she emphasized your name with a familiar tone, “I think we’re running low on bandages, could you go get some from the storage room?” 

Even though her words were anything but hostile, you and Bakugou could tell she was scolding you. You let out a sigh. 

“Yeah, I can,” 

Getting up from your seat, you set your things down before making your way to the door. Not before stealing one more glance at Bakugou. He was also staring back at you, but this time there was a bit of cockiness in his eyes. Getting the last word never hurt anybody.

You slid the door open, eyes still locked with his, “You know, you’d probably look cute as well if you didn’t look like you were constipated 24/7,” 

“The fuck—”

Quickly sticking your tongue out at him, you shut the door before he was able to finish his sentence.

———

The nurse’s office had been particularly quiet today. The slow day in the office gave you more free time to yourself, which allowed you to catch up on a couple past assignments. Only two or three people came in before the lunch bell rang. After packing your bag, you waved off Recovery Lady as you excused yourself to the cafeteria.

And when you returned, it was still quiet. You quickly noticed that it was also void of Recovery Lady, the short woman nowhere to be seen. As you slid the door shut behind you, you heard a hushed groan come from one of the beds. Your head snapped to the source of the noise, quietly stepping closer to the person. 

Almost naturally, you recognized the disheveled blonde hair. Bakugou. 

But this was different. New. He was quiet for once, and the eyes that almost always were glaring at you were closed shut. Your body relaxed at the unusual sight of him. And maybe if you were crazy, you would’ve thought he was cute. 

As you got closer, you noticed the slight crease in his eyebrows, as well as the bandage that was wrapped around his torso. 

Perhaps you got too caught up in the moment, though. Too caught up in the way his chest slowly rose with each breath, the way his skin seemed to glow under the sun’s filtered light. So caught up that you didn’t realize those familiar crimson eyes were staring back up at you.

“You a pervert now?” his voice cut through silence, causing you to tense and step back. “The hell are you looking at?”

For a moment, it felt like your voice was caught in your throat. You caught yourself trying to find something to look at. Something other than him.

“Looks like you’re in quite a predicament,” you commented with a breathy laugh, not really knowing what else to say. Stupid joke.

“No, really?” sarcasm was laced in his tone, but you could hear the struggle as he grunted quietly afterwards.

Maybe you’d spare him for the day.

“Recovery Lady hasn’t gotten to you, yet?” you asked as you slowly made your way to your desk, setting down your bag.

“Nah,” he let out a huff as he sat up, “Shit— she wasn’t here when I got here,”

Letting out a hum in response, “Do… Do you want me to help you then?” you asked, even though you already knew the likely answer.

“What the hell do you think—” 

“You know, on second thought I have some homework—”

He let out an exasperated sigh before surrendering once again, “Yes. Yes, please. Help me,”

Biting back a small smile, you turned back around to make your way back to the injured man. You pulled up a chair next to the bed, sliding in closer. After gesturing him to lay back down, your hands carefully peeled back the bandages that covered the wound. You’d never get used to the sight of blood. 

You could feel the way his body tensed every time your hand neared his injury, though you tried your best not to touch it at all. 

“Sorry if it hurts a little,” you said, lifting your hands over the gash, “Just do your best to relax,”

“Whatever,” Bakugou responded as he turned his head away from you. 

It happened in a flash. From his peripheral view, he saw your hands glow, and the next thing he knew: he was fine again. Not a scar, scratch, or wound in sight. Like it wasn’t even there. 

Though you enjoyed the perplexed look in his eyes, you could feel yourself becoming rather light-headed. You took a deep breath before standing up and going back to your desk to get your water bottle. 

As you took a sip of your water, you watched as he sat up in the cot, lifting up his shirt to examine the skin. 

“Never seen a quirk before?” you laughed at his amusement.

His face quickly snapped back to his normal grouchy look, “No, just didn’t know you had a quirk at all, you usually just bandage my injuries up. Plus healing quirks are rare,”

“Mm, I get that a lot,” you mused, twisting the cap back onto your water, “It’s just a normal healing quirk though. I’ve been working with Recovery Lady to train it’s capabilities,”

Bakugou grunted in response. Silence filled the room for a moment before he decided to speak up. 

“Gonna head back to class,” he stated curtly, swiftly putting his blazer back on before stepping towards the door, “Thanks, I guess,” 

With one last glance back at you, he was gone. Leaving you and the rapid thumping of your heart alone in the room once again. 

———

“Is anyone sitting here?” a gruff voice came from above.

With the rest of the noise in the cafeteria, you nearly didn’t hear him. Your eyes gazed up from your food toward him, eyebrow shooting up in question.

“Uhm,” you swallowed the food in your mouth before responding, “what does it look like to you?” 

You gestured to the empty seats around you before going back to poking at your lunch.

“Tch, just asking,” Bakugou murmured under his breath as he tugged a chair out from under the table and took a seat.

As you ate, you couldn’t help but sneak a couple of glances his way. Just why was he sitting with you? Was this his own silent way of tormenting you?

“So,” you started before clearing your throat, “what do you want?”

You could see him freeze mid-bite, eyes shooting up to you.

“To eat? What else?” he grunted nonchalantly.

Well no shit.

“Oh really? Didn’t know that,” you rolled your eyes, “why not eat with your friends?”

“Don’t wanna,”

Your lips pulled into a thin line before you gave up. You dismissed him as you continued to finish your lunch. After this you’d probably have enough time to take a nap in the nurse’s office. In an attempt to finish your food without starting some random argument with the blonde next to you, you kept the interactions to a minimum.

After you finished, you debated your options. Did you say goodbye or just… leave? Just leaving would be rude, wouldn’t it? Well who cares, you sure don’t–

“Hold on,” he called out, catching your attention.

You watched as he quickly finished the rest of his lunch, gathering his stuff before standing up. 

“What–”

“Alright, let’s go,” he said as he walked past you towards the garbage can.

“Uh,” you followed shortly after him with your trash, “go where?”

Stacking his tray with the others, he sent you a glare with a rough, “Where else?” 

When you didn’t respond with a word but instead with a confused look, Bakugou sighed and continued. 

“The nurse’s office,” 

Your mouth dropped open in a silent “Ohh”. You tugged your bag over your shoulder as you walked up next to him.

 The walk through the halls was rather silent other than the couple of students that walked past the two of you. But not a word was said between the two of you. At least until he opened his mouth. 

“So, what are your plans after graduating?” he asked, hands in his pocket as he continued to walk by you. 

You let your eyes scan the exterior through the wide UA windows when you responded, “Hm, I think I’ll find a job in a hospital? I think I wanna work in some field with heroes, but I’m not quite sure yet… And you?”

“Obviously I’m gonna a hero,” Bakugou scoffed with a smirk, “Gonna be the best one, at that,” 

“I see,” you let a light laugh slip out at his confidence.

“What’s funny, huh?” he asked, voice suddenly scarily serious. 

Your eyes widened, “Nothing, nothing– It’s just we barely have normal conversations like this. I guess,” you quickly added.

Bakugou hummed in response, coming to a quick stop as the two of you reached the nurse’s office’s door. 

“Well,” you step closer to the door, “Thank you for walking me here, Bakugou,” you smiled.

“Katsuki,”

“Hm?”

He rolled his eyes, “Just call me Katsuki,” he turned the other way quickly before waving you off, “Later, nerd,” 

A laugh escaped you as you watched him walk away, waiting a couple of more moments before walking into the office.

Maybe if you stared for a little longer you would’ve seen the way his ears reddened at your smile.

———

“Oh! Good afternoon Bakugou and Kirishima!” the voice of the elderly woman snapped you awake, causing you to jump in your seat.

You could hear a snicker come from a certain person as you turned to see the two who entered the room.

Your eyes were met with a seemingly beaten up Kirishima and Bakugou, the two having scruffs, scratches and bruises on their skin.

“What were you guys doing this time?” Recovery Lady escorted the two to their own beds, tending to Bakugou’s injuries and gesturing to you to help Kirishima.

“Ah, just training, same as always,” the red head responded with a smile, “Oh, hey Y/N,”

You could feel the ends of your mouth tug upwards at his greeting, “Hey,”

“How’s everything been?” 

As you continued your chatter with Kirishima and helped him with his injuries, you didn’t seem to see or feel the daggers of stares that Bakugou sent in your direction.

On the other hand, Bakugou didn’t even know why he felt like this. 

What was he pissed about? It’s not like the two of you are friends. Did you consider him a friend? Yet why did it feel so utterly annoying to watch you interact with some other guy? 

That was beyond Bakugou. 

Maybe he already knew the answer. And maybe he didn’t want to come to terms with what that answer held.

Either way he couldn’t take another second of this.

“Bakugou? Where are you going—”

The sound of Recovery Lady’s frantic voice caught the attention of you and Kirishima. Your eyebrow raised in confusion as the blonde made his way to the door with the little lady following him.

“You’re not fully healed yet,” the old woman claimed.

“It’s fine,” 

“Let him,” Kirishima said after Bakugou slammed the door shut. “He’s been a little off lately,”

You wrapped a bandage around Kirishima’s elbow, “Off? How?”

Kirishima’s eyes looked up in thought, “He’s been kinda closed off lately; barely comes to our hangouts,”

“Ooh,” you sighed as you continued helping the guy in front of you.

There was a seedling of worry planted in your stomach, and you barely had any clue why. It’s not like you guys were close. He was just some guy who came to the nurse’s office like every other student. Maybe those late nights staying up were finally catching up to you. 

After cleaning up and sending Kirishima off, you were finally left alone. Recovery Lady had left a while ago to fetch some supplies from the storage room. And so that left you and your thoughts alone in the office.

———

A week had gone by.

A week had gone by, and there had been radio silence from Bakugou.

Either training had slowed down or he was completely avoiding you. And either way, it still made you a bit sad. Only a bit. 

Days in the nurse’s office were slow and lonely. You never made a real connection with anyone. People came and people left. They come to get healed and leave. No side talk, albeit a few exceptions. Bakugou being one of those.

 There were times where you thought you saw him entering the nurse’s office when you were leaving, but the glimpses were so small that you chalked it up to your imagination.

It felt like he was consuming your every thought, so you had no choice but to accept the fact that maybe you had a crush on Bakugou. Maybe.

But so what? That was normal, everyone had a crush on him at one point. Too bad you fell victim along with the rest of them, though.

Admitting to yourself that you liked Bakugou was hard, but having to actually deal with the feelings you had was harder. One, because you’ve never really had a serious crush. And two, he was nowhere to be seen. Having a crush on him made your heart beat so quick that you’d use your quirk on yourself to make sure you weren’t having heart problems.

Soon, one week turned into two.

And it seemed like the office was only getting busier as the third years prepared for their finals. Everyone was in and out as they practiced their hand to hand combat more vigorously and more often.

The first couple of days, it was easy. But towards the end of the week, you began to fatigue. Having to balance your own finals and running around the office having to use your quirk over and over was doing a number on you. 

The injuries were becoming worse, the amount was increasing. At times, you were dizzy with how many times you’d have to keep turning around from bed to bed to help someone new. 

Then there was a calm. You barely noticed a full week of finals had swung by, leaving the clinic empty and quiet. 

“Is it alright if I nap during the passing period?” you turn in your chair to Recovery Lady, who is stocking up the medicine cabinets.

“Of course, you should be fine, if anything I can handle anyone who comes in,” she tells you.

You sigh in relief as you walk to the nearest bed on weak legs, basically melting into it as soon as your body hits the cushion. You knock out on the spot, letting your well-deserved slumber overcome you.

———

 Your slumber is interrupted by a slight jolt to the bed frame you’re lying on. You groan as you flip onto your other side. The light escapes through your lashes, creating a blurred light illusion with a silhouette. Your eyes shot open, a silhouette? 

You become conscious of yourself as soon as you realize the one before you is none other than Bakugou Katsuki. There’s a stupid grin on his face which makes you want to slap it right off of him. You sneakily nudge at the drool on the side of your mouth and adjust your clothing and appearance.

“Finally awake, sleeping beauty?” he says from the seat beside you, and it feels like forever since you’ve last heard that voice of his.

“Yeah, because of someone,” you grumbled, eyebrows scrunching up. He laughs, laughs, as his eyes focus on you.

“It’s getting late,” is all he says.

You have half a mind to respond, until you remember that he’s been avoiding you. Your eyebrows tighten together impossibly closer, as you flip to face away from him.

“You’re a dick,” you say matter-of-factly. “You’ve been avoiding me, I’m not stupid,”

Your eyes are jittery as they look everywhere. Trying to focus on something in the room to distract yourself from all of the possibilities of what might come out of his mouth.

“Why do you care?”

His words cause you to sit up, facing him once more. “What do you even mean, why? I used to see you everyday, then suddenly you just walked out and I never saw you again,”

Bakugou’s eyes slightly roll at your words, and it kind of hurts.

“I just thought maybe we were…” your words trail off causing Bakugou to stare at you more intently.

“Were what?”

“I don’t know, friends, or some shit,” you bury your head in your hands out of embarrassment.

“Did I say we weren’t?”

“Well, you never said we were,”

“Didn’t think I had to,” he says, “Thought you were smarter than that, doc,”

You smile at the nickname. “You can leave now, I’m awake, I just have to close up the clinic. Why were you here in the first place?”

“Had to make sure you weren’t dead or something,”

Laughing, you get up to fix the bed sheets. The words that fly out of your mouth come out on their own. 

“What, do you like me or something?”

“Probably,”

His careless response didn’t register in your mind at first, but when it did, you could feel the heat rush from the back of your neck up to the tips of your ears. 

“W-What? You can’t just say that… weirdo,” your eyes flick up at him then back down to the sheets, fluffing up the already neat pillows. 

Silence filters through the room, the only noise filling your ears being the noise of cotton and linen being moved around. Along with the sound of your heartbeat thumping in your ears. It felt so loud, that you swear he could probably hear it as well. You didn’t know what to do, was this real life?

Did those words really just come out of his mouth?

His head tilted and you could feel his gaze on you. It was nerve-wracking, and you were just hoping and praying he’d say something that’d clear your mind. A small, “just kidding,” would be nice right about now. The hurt you’d feel from that would be better than the anxiety you felt at this instant. 

“Say what?” he mocks, and it causes your eye to twitch.

You decide you’re not playing these games with Katsuki Bakugou today, “Oh nothing, must’ve been the wind,” you flutter your eyes before turning the other direction to fix up another bed that looks like it’d been used.

A hand on your wrist puts a stop to your motions, and it immediately makes your head turn back to meet his eyes. 

“B- Katsuki–”

You’d usually be able to come up with something snarky, but right now all your words were caught in your throat. You were actually scared to say the wrong thing for once.

“You were joking right?” you ask him, nervous for what his answer might be.

Bakugou is quick to retort, “Depends, were you?”

You gulp down your anxiety before giving him a response, “N-No,”

“Then? Use that smart little brain of yours, doc,”

“Say it,” you demand, “I’m not playing this little game with you, so say it,”

His ruby eyes roll before connecting gazes with yours once again, “I like you, or something,” he mimics your words from earlier.

You can feel yourself fluster. The dizziness in your head almost made you convince yourself that you were dreaming. If this was a dream, you wanted All Might himself to pop out and punch you across the face.

“Why don’t you say something now, hm?” his grip around your wrist loosens to a more gentle grasp.

His face closens to yours, the distance between the two of you is only breaths-length. 

“Since you’re so smart, you tell me,” you sass, “Take a guess, smartass,” 

A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, “You’re such a dick,” he whispers under his breath before closing the distance completely, his lips locking with yours. 

Your eyes widen at the pure shock, but you ultimately melt into the kiss. It’s sweet and you can feel the two of you smiling into it. 

When the two of you part, you can feel slight embarrassment wash over you. “You’re an ass, you didn’t even let me confess, my high school sweetheart experience is ruined forever, 

Bakugou lets out a breathy laugh at your words, “Thought you wanted me to take a guess,” 

“And if you were wrong?” 

“Hah, as if,”

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

the most impatient patient.

masterlist requests word count: 4.3k

a/n: this took so long and i just know it's gonna flop omg 😭 i hope you enjoy! it's another one that has the possibility for chapter two, but it also works on its own. let me know! genre: kinda angsty but not really, fluff? warnings: a singular swear word, pedri has low self esteem for some parts but nothing graphic, grumpy pedri.

You pull into the area you’ve been told to park in and take a few deep breaths before getting out after shutting the engine off. Here you are, your first day at your dream job. The pristine grounds of Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper are bathed in the early morning Barcelona sun, making the whole place seem even more special. The four years you had been spent studying physiotherapy, you had been dreaming of today. And now it’s here. Mierda.

It’s ridiculously exciting, but also, there’s a lot of pressure on you. Being one of the youngest of the physiotherapy staff, just 22 years old, but now a part of one of the most important and relied upon medical teams in European football. And being the youngest comes with the added pressure of having to prove yourself to the seniors of the physio team as well. 

One of the seniors, Pablo, actually comes out to meet you in the carpark so he can show you where to go. You spend most of the morning just shadowing him and other more experienced physios until Pablo comes to you as you’re taking a coffee break, a clipboard in his hand. 

“Good news, you’ve already got your first patient.” he smiles and hands you the clipboard, briefing you a little as you look over it. 

“You’ll be looking after Pedri’s recovery sessions from this afternoon onwards, his injury isn’t too serious, some muscle issues in the quad, but he’s out of action, and he’ll be your main and only patient for the next few weeks until he’s back out on the pitch again,” Pablo explains.

Pedri González. The Pedri González as you’re first ever patient. Talk about throwing you in the deep end. 

Of course, you know who he is. You’ve watched him on TV, and seen him in action a few times, moving across the field in a way that almost makes it look easy, getting through defenders like they aren’t even there. Now, he’s your responsibility. Just thinking about it makes your stomach flip. You nod and smile at Pablo who leaves you with the clipboard and walks off again. It’s gonna be a big day.

When you enter the recovery room at 3 PM, the scheduled appointment time, Pedri is already there, sitting on the treatment table with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. His dark hair is damp from what you can assume to be a shower, and he looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and slight frustration.

“Are you my new therapist?” he asks. His tone is polite but distant, clearly he’d rather be anywhere else. 

You take a deep breath and nod, forcing confidence into your voice. “That’s me. My name’s Y/N… you seem to be a very impatient patient, relax a little, sí?” you introduce yourself with a smile. 

His lips twitch ever so slightly, like he’s trying not to smile at the little comment, but he doesn’t argue against it either. “I hate sitting out,” he murmurs, flexing his upper leg, “I feel fine. I could probably even train tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, glancing at his file on the clipboard you had been given. Minor muscle strain, it’s nothing serious, but rushing recovery could make it worse.

“Yeah, you think you feel now, but if you push yourself too hard, too soon, you’ll be out for way longer than necessary,” you reply firmly, crossing your arms too, “And I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that. So, a few weeks of careful rehab, or even longer than that watching from the sidelines?”

He huffs at your words but for the first time since you walked in, he really looks at you. There’s a hint of something in those brown eyes of his, respect, maybe? Or maybe he’s just surprised that you’re not intimated by him or put off by his slight grumpiness. 

Pedri exhales, relenting. “Fine, but only if you make this as un-boring as possible.” You smirk slightly, grabbing some massage balm off the shelf, “I think I could make that happen.”

Pedri’s recovery sessions begin the next morning, and from the second he walks in, it’s obvious he already hates this. 

Although his expression doesn’t show much, his body language pretty much speaks for itself. His shoulders are tensed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his training shorts, and when he sits on the treatment table, he bounces his knees up and down impatiently. He clearly doesn’t want to be here, he’d much rather be out on the pitch, with a ball at his feet. Something which you decide is fair enough. 

“You’re early,” you note, putting your things down next to your desk before sitting down and turning on the computer, looking over his file once more and then standing up to get the resistance bands out. 

The man simply shrugs a little, “My mamá taught me it’s rude to be late. Plus, the sooner we start, the sooner I’m back.”

You sigh, already knowing this is going to be a difficult process. Athletes hate being told to slow down. Their whole lives revolve around this sport that they love so much, and now, they have to spend weeks, or however long, doing exercises and taking things carefully. 

In Pedri’s eyes, you’re the person standing between him and the game he loves. He’s so fed up with injuries that he just wants to be back and be back for good. 

“That depends,” you reply, kneeling beside him to check how much he can comfortably move the muscle, “If you actually listen to me, we’ll get you back faster. If you ignore my instructions, we might as well cancel your next couple of games now.” 

It’s silent for a moment before Pedri gives you a look, one that’s half amused and half skeptical. Just like the previous afternoon, something flickers in his eyes - surprise. Maybe he expected you to be quiet, and easily pushed to the side. But you aren’t here to be ignored. You’re here to get him back on his game and stay on it. 

Starting with a few simple stretching exercises, guiding him as he goes, it’s not long before you notice that he’s doing literally everything with a bare minimum level of effort like he’s pushing the boundaries to see how little he can get away with. 

“You’re holding back.” you huff, watching his form. Pedri smirks ever so slightly and shrugs, “Maybe you’re just making it too easy.”

“Oh, really? Is that what it is? Let’s make it harder then, superestrella.”

You change his band to an even tighter one, challenging his stability, and it only takes a few moments before he’s actually working. The cocky attitude he had put on just minutes ago disappears as he really focuses, muscles tense, breathing controlled and calm. 

On a particularly tough set, you watch his jaw tick in frustration and you gently stop him to take a break. 

“I know you’re used to winning,” you say, handing him a water bottle, “but sometimes you have to have to lose a few times before you can win. You know the saying, there has to be rain for there to be a rainbow?” “Yeah, but I hate losing. It’s not really my thing.” “Then let’s win this recovery, hm?” Pedri looks up at you again, something shifting in the air - it’s small but important. In this moment, he realises that maybe you aren’t just another therapist, but instead, someone he can trust.

Throughout the next few weeks, Pedri’s morning and afternoon rehab sessions become apart of your routine. You see him nearly every day, working through various stretching drills, resistance training and strength exercises. His progress is moving along nicely, but he has very little patience.

“You’re holding me back,” he grumbles one afternoon after you gave him a firm instruction to ‘slow down’.

“No, I’m making you don’t hurt it more. Yes, you’re an elite athlete, but you’re not a superhero. Your body needs time, and if you want it to keep serving you to the level you need it to, you have to respect that.”

He breathes out harshly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just feel useless sitting out on so much training and so many matches.” 

You stop for a minute, simply watching him. He hasn’t admitted how much this is weighing on him before. You can hardly imagine what it’s like, the fans and media constantly talking, the expectations, the pressure to always perform at the highest level. No one likes being injured, but for Pedri, it’s more than frustration. It’s almost some sort of insecurity. 

“You aren’t useless,” you say in a gentler tone, “you’re in rehab. Injuries and physio is a part of being a footballer just as much as playing is.”

And he listens. He doesn’t say anything else, or even smile, but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s grateful for your words.

Since that afternoon, there’s been a lot less tension between the two of you. He stops arguing and fighting everything, instead starting to trust your process more. The way you do things is a lot different to any physios he’s had in the past, so he’s hoping maybe your new approach will help with this constant battle he seems to be having with injuries. 

One morning, during a particularly intense session, he slumps back against the may and closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “This is torture.” You chuckle, “No, it’s progress.” “Laughing while I’m basically dying over here makes it seem like you enjoy watching me suffer.” he groans. 

“Maybe a little. But that’s only because I know it’s working.”

He opens one eye and smiles at you, a real smile. Not the usual polite, almost ‘media’ smile he usually gives. 

One evening, you both stayed later than usual and despite the fact that the session is over, he isn’t at all in a rush to leave. 

“Did you always want to do this?” he asks out of the blue, fiddling with a resistance band. “Physiotherapy?” You nod, pausing your tidying. “Yeah. I wanted to help athletes recover. There’s something rewarding about it, you know?”

“Why a physio though? Why not a doctor? Or a coach?” You laugh softly, “I like being the person that keeps people at their best you know, not just watching from the sidelines.” He puts the band down, and looks up at you as you continue moving around, packing things away and wiping down equipment. “I guess I’m in good hands then.”

You can’t figure out what it is, but there’s something about the way he said it like he was inadvertently saying that he trusted you.

He said his good night, collected his stuff up and left the gym. The room is silent again, and you start to realise something dangerous.

You’re starting to care about him.

A few days after that rather tough session, the air between the two of you feels different. It’s a subtle change, but your conversation are not just about football and recovery now. There’s some sort of casual friendliness there. Now, when he comes in in the mornings, you usually greet him with a smile, getting one back and making a few jokes here and there, without the strict physio and patient tension. 

That afternoon, having just finished some strengthening exercises, Pedri looked out the window at the gloomy clouds hanging over the pitches outside. “Looks like it’s going to rain, " he said.

Glancing at your watch you nod, “I saw that on the weather this morning, good thing we’ve finished a little earlier than usual then, hm?” 

He collects up his bag, but doesn’t leave yet, “I was thinking of walking home, but I suppose it’s not exactly the nicest condition outside.” You look up and outside as well, the rain now pouring heavily, “I can drive you?” you offer casually, typing away at his file. 

He turns around, clearly surprised. “Really? It’s probably out of your way. Are you sure?” 

Switching off the computer, you turn around on your swivelling stool and stand up, “I’m sure. I’ve been meaning to try and leave earlier anyway.”

The car ride feels relaxed and comfortable, when it goes quiet, it isn’t tense or awkward but more just comfortable and open. Pedri talks a little about his past experiences recovering from injuries, how much he hates being away from the game, and the constant pressure that comes from being such a high-performing athlete. 

“You know, sometimes, I kinda just wish I was ‘normal’ again, you know?” he admits quietly, gaze fixed on the raindrops that slowly make their way down the window. “Like, I could go out somewhere without people noticing me or taking photos.” “That’s fair enough,” you sympathise, “it must be hard living the way all you football players do.” He chuckles slightly, “Sometimes not exactly all it’s cracked up to be, no.”

It goes quiet again. 

“I really appreciate you driving me, you know. It was stupid of me not to check the weather before deciding to walk today.” you see his head turn to look you out of the corner of your eye. 

You nod, a silent ‘you’re welcome’, and surprisingly, he speaks up again. “You’re actually, uh, pretty cool to hang out with, you know?” his voice is a bit softer and a bit shyer than before. Your smile grows. “Thanks, Pedri, you’re, um… pretty cool too.”

The days pass as usual, and you and Pedri’s relationship continues to change. You know a decent amount about how he got here, and what he’s like outside of football, all about his dog and his family and many other random bits and pieces. At first, it was subtle jokes and smiles, him opening up about how he’s feeling about physio and the pressure he feels in everyday life. But one thing’s for sure, it’s getting harder and harder to keep it 100% professional around him. 

It’s been a long day of strength exercises and Pedri leans against the wall, drinking water, his body clearly having worked hard today. The banter that you’ve become used to isn’t there, the air is almost… tense, and you’re waiting up on his terms.

“Do you ever get tired?” you look at him, his expression unreadable and tone quieter than usual. 

Surprised by the question, you raise an eyebrow. “Tired of what?” “Of all this,” he gestures around the small gym, “of being around players with patience thinner than a spider’s web, of the constant pressure of trying to fix everyone else.” 

You’re caught off guard because that was definitely not what you were expecting him to ask. But despite your surprise, he stares at you, waiting for an answer.

“I guess I don’t really think about it in that way,” you admit. “I kinda just focus on doing my job, but I can see how some people might find it stressful.”

He nods, the unreadable expression turning into a small smile. “You’re good at it - helping people, that is.”

Your expression changes to somewhat surprised, and you chuckle, unsure how to respond, but you don’t have to, because he speaks up again. “I mean, you’re always so calm and focused, even when I’m being an impatient dickhead.”

His words settle for a minute before you realise that maybe he also doesn’t just see you as his physio anymore, but instead as someone who genuinely wants the best for him.

“Well,” you start, taking a deep breath to think about what you’re going to say, “it’s not always easy, but I try.” 

Pedri’s face softens. “You make it look easy.”

The gym falls silent for a few moments, neither of you really knows what to say. Instead, Pedri just moves to start collecting up his things and you go back to wiping down the bench he had been using. You feel a gentle hand being placed on your shoulder from behind. “Gracias, Y/N. See you in the morning.” Pedri smiles, removing his hand once you turn your head and show him your attention, but just give him a quick “Adios.” before turning around again, hiding your pink face. 

That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, just thinking. What if the lines between patient and… something else have already started to blur? And how much longer can you pretend you haven’t noticed?

On the Monday of the next week, Pedri arrives at the morning session without a smile, instead, it’s an expression of his that you’ve become familiar with, frustration, masked as indifference. He doesn’t speak much and just goes through the motions of rehab, but the focus he’d gained in the past couple weeks isn’t there, and his movements are more careless than usual. Something’s up with him, and you don’t miss it. 

“Something on your mind?” you ask, careful to keep your tone neutral. 

He grumbles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Just a rough weekend.” Instead of pushing, you just let him go through the routine, but the more he does, the more irritated he seems to get. His patience is running even thinner than usual. His last straw is when he messes up a simple drill, throwing the resistance band on the floor in front of him and mumble curses under his breath. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” you say, crossing your arms. “Talk to me. What on earth is going on with you?”

Attempting to not yell, cry, or throw something else, Pedri runs a hand through his hair. The muscle in his jaw ticks, and he snaps back at you. “You really want to know?” His voice is even sharper than usual, his anger clear. “I’m sick of this. Sick of feeling so genuinely unhelpful to the team. Sick of the way people talk about me like I’m some broken thing that needs fixing.”

You take a step closer, and speak in a firm tone. “Pedro, look at me.” 

His brown eyes flick up to your face. 

“No one thinks you’re broken.”

He gives you a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Come on, you see it too. More than anyone else. You just don’t say it.” The way he looks at you as if he’s challenging you to tell him he’s wrong, makes your heart ache. You’ve seen athletes break under pressure before, but this is different. This is something personal inside him.

You sit down on the mat next to him, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re frustrated, I get it,” you say softly, looking into his eyes once more, “But this? This isn’t about your injury, is it?”

His expression falters. He looks away, sighing heavily, his shoulder sagging forward like he’s too exhausted to keep up the front anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quiet, “Just, everything that’s usually so simple and easy feels so out of my control. And the only time I feel properly like myself at the moment is here. With you.”

His words are definitely unexpected, and they hit you hard. Your heart stumbles in your chest and for a moment, you don’t know what to say at all. Pedri doesn’t look away this time, not trying to hide or cover up what he said. Unsure of how to comfort him, you just pull him into your side for a hug.

The truth is hanging in the air now.And the scariest part? You don’t quite know what to do with it. 

You know you should say something, anything, but your brain is muddled, your heart confused. 

You look down at him, his head resting on your chest, those beautiful brown eyes already looking up at you. “Pedri…” you start, but hesitate, because what do you even say? You’ve spent weeks keeping a fairly professional distance, attempting to convince yourself that whatever flickered between the two of you was just a passing moment, just a small moment formed through the fact that you have been spending so much time with each other. 

He sighs, shaking his head, sitting up straight again, “You don’t have to say anything, I just-” he pauses, running a hand over his face, “I just needed to be honest.; Because whatever this is, it’s been messing with my head, and I can’t keep pretending it’s not there.” Your heart pounds. He’s told you his side, and now he’s leaving it up to you to decide what happens next. Your logical brain tells you to shut it down. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. You’re the physio, he’s the patient, messing with that could make a lot of things a hell of a lot more complicated. 

But there’s another part of you, the one that remembers every time you caught him staring at you, every time you felt your cheeks turn pink from him smiling when he walked in, how butterflies appear in your stomach every time he touches you. 

“You’re not imagining things,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

His head snaps up, eyes looking into yours, a flicker of relief in his expression. 

“But that doesn’t mean it’s simple,” you add quickly. “You know that, right?”

Pedri nods, “I know. But I don’t really care, honestly.” 

You let out a breathy laugh. “You should.” “I can’t,” he admits. “Because when I’m around you, it’s one of the only times I feel like I’m not just ‘Pedri, the player’. And if I lose that… then I’m trapped as Pedri the player all the time, and I don’t want that for myself.” 

Your chest tightens at his honesty. He’s not kidding around and bantering now. He’s not asking for something causal either. He’s telling you his feelings, trusting you with something that not many other people get to see.

For the first time, you allow yourself to really think of him in a way that is more than a patient. It’s terrifying. It’s complicated. But it’s honest, and it’s real. 

And you don’t think you can ignore it anymore. 

The air is thick with tension, and Pedri’s words continue to echo through your head, your own confession feeling like a weight lifted and a burden gained all at once. 

You know what you should say. ‘This can’t happen. This is too unprofessional, too complicated, too risky.’ You should remind him that your job is to help him recover, not to fall for him. 

But then you look at him. The way his dark hair sits so perfectly, his tanned skin, the stubble that covers his cheeks, chin and upper lip, his long eyelashes, and those brown eyes. They’re always the killer.

“Pedri…” You take a slow, deep breath, trying to calm yourself, “If we do this, we have to be careful.” 

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprised. “So you’re saying..?”

You hesitate, but there’s no point in denying it now. “I’m saying that I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel this anymore.” For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s making sure he heard you right. Then, his mouth slowly grows into that smile, the one that you’ve spent far too long pretending didn’t affect you. 

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs, shifting closer. 

You shake your head, trying to keep your thoughts straight despite the heat spreading through your body. “This is going to be complicated.” “I really don’t care.” “You really should. This is technically wrong, you know. I’m not meant to have ‘romantic interactions with patients.’”

“Maybe, but I don’t.” His voice is steady and certain. “I’ve spent the last few weeks learning how to be patient, how to take things one step at a time. This?” He gestures between the two of you. “This is no different.”

You laugh breathily once more, despite the mess in your head. “You’re comparing us to his recovering.” He grins, a proper grin, and it’s the most genuine one you’ve seen from him in over a fortnight. “If it works, it works.” You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. How did a professional relationship turn into late-night thoughts of him, lingering glances, and this undeniable thing you’ve finally acknowledged? 

You both stand up, and Pedri’s closes the distance between the two of you, pulling you against him by the waist. 

This is the moment you stop fighting it. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. 

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, watching you carefully like he’s waiting for you to take it all back, change your mind, and shove him away. But you don’t, and he speaks again. “I don’t care how complicated this is. I just want to be with you.”

His genuine words make you shiver because you feel the same way. You have done for a while now, but you were always too cautious to admit it. He gives you another chance to pull away, but once again, you don’t. He closes the distance completely, resting his forehead against yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you realise this isn’t just about desire - but instead everything you’ve been holding back. 

“You’re really bad at keeping things professional,” he teases playfully, his voice low as he looks into your eyes.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re the one who confessed first.” 

“Yeah, but you let me,” he points out, grinning.

You roll your eyes although you don’t argue. Because the truth is, you don’t regret letting him. Not at all. 

There’s so much to figure out, so many conversations to have, rules to work around and risks to consider. But right now? None of that matters.

Right now, all that matters is his soft lips against yours.

[junrenjun]

Understand

alpha!seungcheol x female beta!reader (side alpha!seungcheol x omega!jeonghan, with implied ot13 x reader)

genre: angst with a fluff ending

wc: 1736

warnings: mentions of injury, a/b/o dynamics, arguments

summary: seungcheol is pushing himself too far in his injury recovery. y/n calls him out and cheol says something he wishes he could take back.

a/n: couldn't sleep because this idea was stuck in my head. wrote some stuff down in google docs to get out of my brain and somehow ended up here. enjoy my first ever written fic i guess?

Seungcheol was getting fed up. Between not being able to work, not seeing the rest of his pack for most hours of the day, and having to deal with the pain in his knee, he was seconds from shutting down. You being home and scolding him like a naughty child for trying to be independent made it a whole lot worse. 

He knew you just wanted his knee to heal correctly, even if it took longer than he wanted it to. But he was impatient and he just wanted to get back to work. Working on standing without his crutches was something he should probably do with his doctor or physical therapist. But he was fine, they were going to work on it at his next session in a few days, so why not start a little early. The pain would be worth it if it meant he could go back to dancing sooner.

You however, did not feel the same, turning the corner into the kitchen and catching sight of him wincing in pain whilst holding onto a chair. “Choi Seungcheol! If I see you try to stand without your crutches one more time, I’m calling your doctor and having you put on bed rest.”

It shouldn’t have sent him over the edge. It was a threat with zero malice behind it, and he knew you wouldn’t really call his doctor. But for some reason, this was his breaking point. “I’m just so over everything y/n! I’m so frustrated with this stupid injury. I can’t work anymore. I can’t do anything that makes me happy and I have to watch the rest of the pack do it without me.”

You frowned. You knew he was upset with the injury taking him out of work for a few months, but you thought he would at least have some respect for his own body and health. “I know Cheol, I understand this is frustrating but hurting yourself isn’t the best way to address your feelings.”

“No y/n you don’t know! You’re the only beta in the pack, the only girl, and the only one who isn’t an idol. You don’t get to tell me that you understand because you don’t. Betas don’t understand emotions like alphas and omegas do.”

Seungcheol regretted it instantly. Tears filled your eyes and threatened to spill past your waterline. Your scent soured and Seungcheol flinched as it hit his nose. He watched as you took a shaky breath before calmly replying, “no Cheol, I guess I don’t understand,” promptly turning on your heel to return to the bedroom. 

Sighing, Seungcheol grabbed his crutches from where they leaned against the kitchen table. He hobbled back to his room, flopping onto his bed carelessly. He didn’t even care about the pain in his knee anymore, too preoccupied with the pain in his heart. Frustratedly, he grabbed the pillow next to him, pushed his face into it and let out a sound that was halfway between a yell and a growl. How could he say something so stupid?

Seungcheol was too drowned in his own misery to hear your footsteps as they traveled down the hall and toward the front door. He wasn’t even aware you had left your room until the sound of the front door closing caught his attention. It was too early for the rest of the pack to be back from rehearsal, so it had to be you. The thought of you being so distraught that you had to leave the den was enough to make what was left of Seungcheol’s sanity snap. He pushed the pillow even farther into his face and sobbed until there was nothing left to cry.

.

Seungcheol groaned as the pillow was removed from his arms, letting the overhead light in his room shine harshly in his eyes. He almost let out a growl, warning the person who decided to disrupt his misery-induced sleep to leave him be, but the scent of his sweet omega left it hanging in the back of his throat. 

Jeonghan’s face appeared above him, finally blocking out the light that was threatening to cause a migraine. He heard the omega sigh in relief before saying, “well at least we know why you weren’t answering your phone. Do you know where y/n is? You smell like shit by the way.” 

Seungcheol just grunted in response. Jeonghan sighed and called out to Wonwoo, who Cheol assumed was in the main area. He didn’t listen in on their conversation, too busy trying to get rid of the buzzing in his head. All he could make out were a few repeated words: y/n, location, and phone.

After a few minutes, Seungcheol felt Jeonghan shift on the bed to lay next to him. He paused a second before saying, “I don’t know what happened between you two but if it makes you feel any better, she didn’t go too far. Just to the cafe a few streets down.”

Cheol sniffed. “How did you even know something happened?”

Jeonghan huffed before responding. “Neither of you were responding to our texts and calls when we were on the way home. Then we walked in and the main room smelled like upset beta and angry alpha. It didn’t take long to put two and two together.”

They laid in silence for a few moments. Seungcheol broke the silence with a broken sob. “I’m such a bad pack alpha,” he cried as he turned into Jeonghan’s side. 

The omega immediately closed his arms around the alpha’s side and released some calming pheromones. “No baby, you’re not a bad pack alpha. You and y/n have been around each other every second of every day since your injury, an argument was bound to happen eventually.” 

Seungcheol buried his head farther into Jeonghan’s chest. He cried a little longer before he softly uttered, “I made fun of her subgender.”

Jeonghan couldn’t hold back his surprise. This couldn’t be the same Seungcheol that defended y/n’s subgender to all their fans when it was released that she had joined their pack. This couldn’t be the same Seungcheol that immediately switched her new primary care physician when he told her that she, “shouldn’t worry about birth control since her alphas were probably too busy with their omegas anyways.” This couldn’t be the same Seungcheol who made everyone wear blockers when they first invited her to the den, because he knew that betas were more sensitive to scents. Finally the omega released a small, “what?”

The alpha sniffled again. “I told her that she didn’t understand my problems because she was a beta. I didn’t mean it Hannie. I feel so stupid. What even possessed me to say that?”

Seungcheol felt Jeonghan release his hold a little bit, so that he could rub circles into the small of his back. “I don’t know why you said it, baby. But I know you didn’t mean it. The rest of the pack knows you didn’t mean it. I’m sure she does too.”

Slowly, Seungcheol pulled his face away from his omega’s chest. Jeonghan’s heart broke at the sight of his pack alpha’s broken look. “Has she come back yet?”

Jeonghan rolled over a little to look out the open door of their room. “I don’t think so. Wonwoo went to pick her up from the cafe and walk her back home. They should be back soon, I hope.”

Seungcheol just nodded and went back to sulking in Jeonghan’s arms. The omega couldn’t help but release more calming pheromones and continue rubbing his alpha’s back. He knew Cheol couldn’t help it, but his distressed scent was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He wished it would go away soon. 

A few minutes later, they both perked up at the sound of the front door opening and subsequently closing. Shoes were tossed on the tray by the door and before they knew it, you were standing in the doorway. The alpha’s scent brightened a bit. You paused when you saw Jeonghan in the bed with your pack alpha. He just smiled at you and began to pry himself away from Seungcheol, who let out a pathetic whine. 

Despite the day’s earlier events, you couldn’t help but softly smile at Cheol’s “less alpha-like” tendencies. Yet another reminder that he didn’t mean the words that left his mouth a few hours before. Seungcheol was not someone who believed in stupid subgender stereotypes. 

Jeonghan made his way out of the room, but not without leaving a small kiss on your forehead and a brush of his nose on your scent gland. A subtle reminder that he was here if you needed him. You took a moment to ground yourself before making your way over to the bed. “You smell like shit.”

He laughed. “You smelled worse when I made that comment earlier. But yeah, I’m sure I reek. Hannie said the same thing when he first came in.”

You smiled. His sense of humor was still intact at least. You took the lighthearted moment to cuddle up next to him and rub your wrist against the gland on his neck. “I know you didn’t mean it, Cheolie.”

Seungcheol sighed in relief. He believed Jeonghan when the omega said he was sure you knew his harsh words didn’t have any real meaning behind them. But it was still nice to hear the words from you on your own. “It wasn’t very pack alpha of me though.”

He heard you sigh a little. “No one is perfect. No pack alpha is perfect. You’re a human being too. You need to treat yourself like one Choi Seungcheol.”

He nodded as your words sunk in. He knew the double meaning behind them before you explicitly stated it yourself. “That goes for work too. You need to stop pushing yourself to recover faster. It’s just going to hurt more later on. I know you just want to get back to doing what you love but you need to love yourself first.”

His beta knew just the thing to say to tug on his heartstrings, huh? For the umpteenth time that day, Seungcheol sniffled. “I love you y/n. I wouldn’t want anyone else as my pack beta.”

You replaced your wrist with your nose, scenting him as you happily sighed, “I love you too Cheolie. No other pack alpha could ever compare.”

[galadae]

ninety years | rating: G pairing: calantha lenn/hien rijin words: 724 summary: calantha's injuries are taking longer than she'd like to heal. she overdoes it in her impatience, much to hien's dismay. notes: occurs a few weeks after the end of ENW, but there's no spoilers mentioned. ao3 link

Hien finds her on her back, practice lance in the dirt. The air is full of her muttered curses. 

He rushes to her just as she struggles upright on her hands and knees. "I'll be fine," Calantha rasps. Her face is pale and drawn. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and arms. "I'm just a little sore." 

She stands with a barely concealed whimper, hand spread on the stone wall for balance. She starts to bend for the lance and her breath hisses between her teeth, caught in a grimace. 

"This seems worse than sore," Hien chides. He reaches for her arm to steady her. "You must not strain yourself." 

She barks a laugh. "It's not a strain," she says, stepping forward again. Her jaw clenches in another wince. "I should have warmed up more. I’m out of shape. If I can stretch..."

"Cala, please. You're not yet fully recovered. You should sit." He moves his hand to the small of her back, careful to avoid the tender, barely healed gash a half-dozen ilms above. Her shirt is damp with sweat. She sighs and rests a reluctant arm over his shoulders as he steers her towards the old wooden bench near the gate. 

"It's nothing. I feel well enough." Her pained expression as she sits does little to help her case.

Hien's mouth draws into a tight line. He plants himself in front of her, his eyes drilling into hers. "Yesterday, I spoke to the healer you've seen since your return. As she tells it, you are still in dire need of quiet and rest. Your recovery is arduous enough. Why you choose to regard her advice with such contempt, I can only guess." Frustration and worry creep through his otherwise even tone. 

Calantha glares up at him. "Hien, I'm not--" she stops with a groan, rubbing her neck. She hangs her head. "I'm restless. I need to move. To do something. All this sitting around is killing me."

"Then you must promise me it will not be too much. Must you train so hard in your state? Are there not other ways you may move about without exhausting yourself?"

She huffs. "Why does everyone hover around me like I'm about to collapse?" 

He raises an eyebrow. "You have been known to disregard caution when your own well-being is at stake." She rolls her eyes as he moves to sit next to her. 

Hien slips his hand into hers. "Pushing yourself to the limit may be necessary when the world is at risk, but there's no need for it now. I should like to spend ample time with you in the years ahead - an unlikely prospect if you insist on making your injuries worse." 

Calantha opens her mouth, then clamps it shut. She looks away. His words grate on her. It's not as bad as he says - not as if she'd just gone on a hunt or a combat mission. But he's right.

She nods. "Fine. How many years do you want with me? I'll rest enough to give you that." The poor attempt at humor falls flat in the small space between them.

Hien studies her for a moment. He looks down at their hands, and threads their fingers together. "As many as the Kami see fit to give you." 

Calantha's eyes soften, growing wider. She looks away from him, across the yard.

He chuckles, regaining some levity. "But if you need a number, then plan to match my years, at the very least. If no ill befalls me, that could be fifty, seventy. Even ninety." 

She stares at him. "Ninety?" 

He grins. "It's just a thought. Who knows what will happen."

Calantha sighs and leans against him, saying nothing. She closes her eyes. The breeze floats by, rustling in their hair and the trees around them. Birds flit past on their way to the rolling cloud towers beyond the valley. Hien squeezes her hand. 

"Stay here with me?" she murmurs, her voice heavy with the fatigue catching up to her. "I don't want to go inside." 

He nods. She eventually settles with her head in his lap, looking up at the sky. Her long legs stretch over the side of the bench. 

"Ninety years is a long time," she says, as she closes her eyes again. "But I'll try."

[ruiniel]

What You Choose

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader

Count: 2K

Rating: T (M later)

Part I

Summary: Rengoku survives the fight with Akaza, but some battles are not so straightforward.

Tags & Warnings: Rengoku lives AU, blood, injury, death, pining, angst, second person POV, demon slayer!reader, tsuguko!reader, Rengoku POV, eventual smut

Author Note: I am not OK and will never be OK about *waves hands* all that, so this is now a multichapter story.

II.

“Once again, you’re a guest in my healing ward.”

Kocho Shinobu speaks softly, as is her manner. She's seated by his bed with the afternoon sun shining gently on her features, highlighting the amethyst in her hair and eyes.

“I seem to be the only one,” Rengoku replies, looking at the empty infirmary. He’s still bedbound and can barely move his limbs. It hurts to breathe more often than not, and there’s a dull ache where his left eye used to be.

Her kind smile never falters as Kocho looks at the liquid in the syringe she’s preparing. Rengoku always admired her decision to honor her late sister this way, by holding on to that smile Kanae loved so much. After all, everyone has a keepsake of their loved ones in their heart, driving them forward. Memories, moments, words that hone one’s spirit and meld with determination, acting as a guiding light in the darkest places. He knows this all too well. 

“At least you won’t be lonely during your convalescence, those three have been coming here every day, even before you’d awoken.” She giggles, seeking a vein in his arm. 

Oh, of course… young Kamado… the boar lad, the yellow-haired boy. All of them gifted, resilient, and unwavering. He’d promised to train them, but…

That was… before. 

Another image appears before his mind’s eye, drenched in fog—you, running towards him. He, ordering you not to interfere. “Kocho. Tell me, please. How long before I can leave this bed? What is lost, what can I regain?” 

She sets the used syringe aside on a tray, then places her hands on her knees. “My, my, impatient already?” 

Rengoku tries a smile of his own, though it hurts the muscles in his face. If not for the strong sedatives and painkillers administered to him since he regained consciousness, he imagines he’d be squirming in pain. “I want to self-assess myself. Besides…I have promises to keep.” 

She understands. He knows she does. The Insect Hashira gazes out the window, and a small sigh leaves her chest. “Your fatal injuries have been healed by the peculiar blood demon art of young Kamado’s sister.”

He nods. Remarkable. He thought that would be his last battle, and he’d have passed without regret into the land of Yomi. Nevertheless, his gratitude is boundless.

“... your muscle and organ tissue has regenerated and there was no internal bleeding. However, there is still some damage to several vertebrae in your spine, severe trauma to your head I’ve not fully assessed yet, and you have eight fractured ribs.”

“Hah, I can feel them, too! I miscalculated by one, I thought there were seven.”

She looks his way, with that odd expression people sometimes have when he sounds unreasonably high-spirited. He supposes not everyone shares the same outlook, and that’s all well. But what use is there to bow down in dismay and accept the worst life throws my way? 

“Your left eye was smashed, and irrecoverable,” Kocho goes on. “We removed it with surgery and placed an implant inside to fill the empty eye socket. The recovery period in these cases is typically a year, as now you must adapt to your monocular status. But this also depends on the individual, and… this might mean alterations to your fighting style, of course.” She rises and picks up the tray. “I’m convinced that with time, you can return to a state allowing you to perform your duties. For now, please rest, that is a foremost priority.”

My friend, you know all too well that time is never on a demon slayer’s side. “Thank you, Kocho.”  She is right, though: he does feel exhausted, as though he’d climbed a mountain without rest or ever reaching the summit. Expected, though bothersome.

“We’ll do our best to help your recovery. Aoi will return later to change your bandages,” Kocho adds.

Rengoku turns his head as Kocho greets someone on her way out, and sees you, standing in the doorway. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“You heard?”

You nod, nearing the bed. “Ms. Kocho told me of it all while you were asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

You tilt your head in bemusement. “What ever for?”

“Because, I won’t be able to help with your training for a while.”

You’ve been at his side often. While in a coma, even if he couldn’t react, even if his body wouldn’t listen, he knew you were there. The thought is a warm one, a foreign sensation: different from the heat bursting in his body during a fight. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t look forward to your visits even now, to see how you’re faring, to hear the latest news on the Corps.

“No,” your voice brings him out of his thoughts, “but that does mean I can help you. When you’re ready, that is,” you add quickly. “With rehabilitation training.” 

“Of course!” The fatigue in his body is stubborn, clinging to him like heavy wet wool. “And… I don’t believe I’ve told you this yet: I’m happy you returned safely.”

You look away, appearing utterly miserable. It confuses him. Rengoku’s seen that shadow in his father’s eyes countless times, so often he can’t stand it: self-loathing.

“Forgive me, Master. I should have been able to do more, after all you strived to teach me. I… I could barely be of any use.”

But you were there, you helped protect all those people. You did your part. “You were unflinching, fast, and aided those who needed it precisely like I taught you. You are rank Kinoe, and what's your demon kill count?”

“Thirty-two.”

“There… now that I think about it, even without further guidance from me or anyone else, you’ll make Hashira soon! Our numbers are dwindling while demon activity increases. You’ve seen it. This is a struggle that needs all of us.” Rengoku pauses. The word ‘need’ felt odd coming from his mouth. But the statement is true. Why does it feel incomplete when he says it to your face?

You look down at your hands. “How can you do it?”

He blinks, frowning. “Do what?”

“Be so supportive and encouraging even when you’re lying broken in an infirmary bed. Sometimes… sometimes you are so very strange, Master.”

You do say that to him often, though less so than before. A smile trembles on your lips—it took you a long time to smile again, he recalls. 

“I merely speak the truth…” He can barely stay awake. The slow drip of liquid in the IV infusion is magnified, drowning out all other sounds, and your face becomes hazy as he drifts away.

Three years prior

The path of blood leads straight into the farmhouse, looking as though someone had been dragged inside by force.

His eyes narrow, and he centers his breaths as he walks forward with his blade drawn. The silence of the glade is eerie, the reek of decay nauseating in the heat of this humid summer.

Soon, he stands on the threshold. Two, there might be two of them. Near the farmhouse is a toolshed, he’ll look there next. Rengoku covers his mouth with his sleeve, eyes closing in pain.

The bodies lie there, some with scattered limbs. This was a family, no doubt about it. The brutality of the mutilation makes his stomach turn, but Rengoku steels his resolve, extending his senses for any hint of the entity’s presence: there is none. He sheathes his katana and enters the space proper. Three hours until dawn.

He descends to one knee, finding the fireplace in the middle is out, but the ashes are still warm. The tatami mats are sticky and stained dark. This all transpired recently. He reaches out a hand, touches an inert arm: not yet cold. Too late, I am too late. But I’ll find you, wherever you are, you damn beasts. 

It’s only due to his reflexes, honed with endless hours of training, that he turns around fast enough, leaping backward before the descending attack.

At first, he thinks it’s the demon, his katana at the ready.

“Don’t you dare touch them!” 

He pauses, nearly too late in avoiding the second strike. A girl’s voice, a human’s heartbeat. His arm shoots out, catching the wooden staff in a strong grip. 

You’re panting, eyes wild and glimmering in the moonlit night. “Let—go!”

“Wait, I’m not an enemy!” he says, taking a better look at you, still holding your makeshift weapon even as you try to wrest it from his hand. 

“How do I know that! Demon!” Your voice is hoarse. Half your face is caked in drying blood, and there must be multiple injuries on your body judging by the torn clothing and the widening dark stains. 

“I’m not a demon,” he speaks calmly but urgently. “I hunt them. Please, they may still be close.”

You jerk your chin towards a corner of the room. “I had him… I don’t need you. Get out of my home!” you yell, more desperate with each word. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Another body lies there in the dark, slitted pupils dark against its milky eyes. The head had been nearly completely crushed. Rengoku freezes in disbelief. You did this? Alone? “Wait, you don’t understand, there’s another—”

A loud crash severs his words as the ceiling collapses, and he barely has time to leap forward, catch you in his arms, and throw himself outside. He rolls onto the ground, pain erupting in his left shoulder with the impact. When he opens his eyes you’re there, safely held against him, face tearstained and body rigid with shock.

But there’s no time to explain further—he feels it. The gurgle of inhuman hunger as a figure emerges from the wreckage of the farmhouse, eyes fixed on them. It does not speak, but growls in hunger; it must be of the feral kind, no reasoning left as the transformation rotted its memories. 

Rengoku rises, changing his stance. “Stand back,” he urges, looking over his shoulder at you as you struggle with your own body. He looks back ahead, grinds his teeth, his breathing attuned to his thought. 

First Form: Unknowing Fire.

It doesn’t last long. He’s been running from mission to mission, dispensing with different kinds of fiends, and this was yet another run in a long chain that will only end with his own life. 

Once the head is removed, the battle is over. Sometimes there is someone left to check on after the fact; often, there isn’t. But now, Rengoku hurries towards you, descending and slipping a hand under your back, aiding you to sit. “Where are you hurt?”

“Thank you,” you say instead, eyes glazing over. He hopes the Kakushi will get here soon. You point towards your ruined home. “Set it ablaze… please.” 

“Hey, hey, stay awake!” Rengoku urges even as your body turns heavier and your eyes roll back. 

He expected this to come. Kneeling and with his forehead pressed to the ground he sits still, prostrated before the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps. 

A voice like the lull of spring reaches him, setting his worries aside. In his heart, he thinks he’s done what is right.

“Rank Kinoe Rengoku Kyojuro, you are summoned to explain why you have brought a non-combatant to headquarters, instead of having the Kakushi transport them to a civilian hospital.”

“Master, the girl shows extraordinary potential. Her family has been murdered by demons, and yet she managed to fell one before I arrived, alone, despite grievous wounds and bloodloss. Forgive me if I overstepped, but I believe…” 

“Go on.”

“I believe once her body heals and her focus returns, she will join the fight. I believe she will want to. If I'm wrong, I accept all consequences.”

“You sound fairly convinced of this, young Rengoku,” says Ubuyashiki Kagaya. “Though there is no reason to know for certain one way or the other.”

He stays quiet, his heart raging in his chest. It will all depend on you, of course. You may want to have nothing to do with this. 

“But… you’ve not failed us thus far. I will allow it.”

“Gratitude, Master.” And then, almost in the same breath, “If she chooses this, I will guide her myself.”

TBC

[itsnotamatterofif]

Another from my requests thank you anon!!! Feeling a bit burnt out so trying to ease myself back into writing again, I hope this is okay for you!!!

✨ Have a request? Send me an ask and I’ll write you a Drabble!✨

“Doll, I think I’m dying.”

Greaseball has been in recovery for maybe a day, and Dinah doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone be quite so dramatic about a few blown valves.

Unsurprisingly, this isn’t even the first time Greaseball has been hurt in such a way; if she doesn’t blow something, break a coupler, or misalign a wheel after a particularly intense race it’s a miracle, and without a doubt she will complain. Today, she’s propped up in her bunk, breath rattling through new, too-clean pipes following her chest having taken the brunt of a head on collision with another engine and having to have most of her ventilation system replaced.

It’s not that Dinah doesn’t enjoy waiting on her hand and wheel, it’s just that, well, Greaseball isn’t the best patient; she knows she can’t really take care of herself, but the last thing she wants to do is show physical weakness, so just spends her time being miserable.

“I’m sure you’re not, sugar,” Dinah repeats for what is maybe the fourth time in the past half an hour, “didn’t the repair truck fix you up good and proper?”

“I don’t think they did a very good job,” Greaseball mutters, crossing her arms over her chest with a hiss before unfolding them again, “this sucks, everything hurts-“

“The mechanics said it would hurt for a bit, remember?” Dinah says with a sigh, unable to help the creeping smile across her face, “just whilst the connecting points ease, yeah?”

“I know,” Greaseball grumbles, frown deeply set on her face, and holds her hand out to take Dinah’s as Dinah perches on the edge of the bunk, “‘just sucks, I can’t even go and train like this, if I fuck up a leg I can at least still do arms, but I can’t even-“

As if to demonstrate, she attempts weakly to raise her arms above her shoulders, and the creaking of fresh joints cracks through the silence of the shed like an earthquake. After a second her arms collapse again into her lap and she lets out a groan of frustration, chest heaving slightly as the new fixings settle.

“See?”

Admittedly, it doesn’t sound good at all; Dinah’s seen and heard her share of Greaseball’s injuries, and this is definitely one of the worse ones judging by the crunch of metal upon metal that screeches as she shifts. Dinah knows it hurts - damage that severe would hurt any member of the rolling stock, not just an engine - but bless, Greaseball has such a way of letting the world know.

“I see,” Dinah confirms gently, and wraps her hands delicately around Greaseball’s, as if squeezing too hard could shatter her, “it’ll pass soon, honey, I promise.”

The resounding whine of impatience from Greaseball is both expected and painful, and Dinah can but smile supportively as Greaseball slips down the bed. Like this, she looks so small, not like the big, tough image of a champion engine she presents usually, and if Dinah wasn’t afraid of hurting her further she would happily scoop Greaseball up into her arms; her old yardmaster used to say that everything was easier with a warm pair of arms around you, but the last thing she wanted to do was make it worse.

Then Greaseball looks up at her through her long lashes, dark circles from exhaustion sickly in the poor lighting, and Dinah’s resolve threatens to break just that little bit more-

“Can- uh, doll, can I-?” Greaseball stutters, eyes darting away as a dandelion flush settles on pallid cheeks, “could you like, I dunno, hold me?”

How is she meant to say no?

Without saying anything, she kicks off her wheels and wiggles out of her skirt, Greaseball weakly throwing back the corner of the duvet for Dinah to clamber in next to her. Almost immediately she crumples against Dinah’s side, eyebrows furrowed and mouth fixed in a deep pout, but as Dinah wraps her arms gently around her shoulders she exhales deeply, features easing just the slightest bit.

“I’ve got you, sugar,” Dinah whispers gently, and presses a kiss into the crown of Greaseball’s head, “you don’t have to be tough if you don’t want to.”

The responding mutter from Greaseball is inaudible, but the way she relaxes into Dinah’s arms tells her all she needs to know.

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 13: Ruiner

Content warning: Sukuna POV, violence, murder, oral sex (brief), Sukuna's two cocks

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

The Becoming - Nine Inch Nails Something I Can Never Have (Still) - Nine Inch Nails

Chapter 12 | Chapter 14

Four years ago…

The trees stand skeletal, their long, bony branches stretching skyward like grasping fingers. A slight breeze stirs, dislodging leaves that drip to the ground, blanketing the earth in a sea of dirty golden brown. It’s all the King of Curses needs to know—it’s time to head out.

Walking down the longest corridor toward the shrine’s front entrance, he feels his impatience growing. Such an emotion is unlike him, but perhaps the impending carnage stirs it within him. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, but he pushes the thought away. Allowing it to linger would be worthless.

As he reaches the massive doors, he senses a faint presence behind him.

“Leaving, Master Sukuna?”

He turns, red gaze lowering to meet the pink eyes of his white-haired subordinate, who stands with hands tucked neatly inside their kimono.

“Yes,” he muses. “I’m heading north.”

North. It hadn’t always been an obsession—not like it claws at him now, its pull growing stronger with each passing year. It was once just an impulse, a return to forsaken lands he had tried to forget. But something changed the night he first set foot back in the northern territories. Since then, the call has only deepened, dragging him back again and again.

“This will be the second time this year,” Uraume observes. It is. “Are you targeting the territories under the snake’s rule again?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, unable to hide the hostility that twists his features with contempt.

“The snake.”

A man with a surprising amount power for someone who is nothing more than a power-hungry despot. Sukuna finds it laughable that the bastard’s people remain loyal despite his tyrannical grip over the northern region. But they do. Every time Sukuna makes his twice-yearly visit, the snake throws everything he can at him—warriors, trained men, young boys, even children. All of them meet the same fate. All of them are nothing but fodder.

The fact that the people haven’t risen against their ruler is a testament to their stupidity and blindness. They are all fools—every last one of them.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” Sukuna hums before pushing open the massive doors and stepping outside.

The late October wind rushes toward him, sharp and biting, and Sukuna wonders if the northerners know he’s coming. They should by now. This marks the third consecutive year he’s launched his incursion, always in the same seasons: summer and autumn. Those are the times when the North is most vulnerable. The weather plays its part—resources dwindle, and recovery takes longer. By the time they manage to rebuild, he’s already back to tear it all down again.

He rolls his shoulders, anticipating the next miserable village he’s about to snuff out. Technically, he could go straight for the snake’s head and sever it, but that’s too easy. He wants the snake alive. He wants to toy with him, slowly strip away everything—his land, people, power.

Maybe even more than that.

Sukuna takes the first step down the shrine’s grand entrance, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the corridor.

“Master Sukuna!” His irritation spikes the moment Sayuri’s voice reaches his ears. “Where are you going?”

She brushes past Uraume, coming to stand before him. The once-tangled and dirty black hair she had when she first arrived is now sleek and well-kept. Sayuri is a different woman, born anew. But over the last year, she’s grown far too comfortable for her own good. It shows in the way she presents herself, in the way she looks at him with those stormy brown eyes, and in the way she yearns for more—something utterly worthless, something he can never give her or anyone else.

She steps closer, ignoring the expected bow, and instead places a delicate hand on his kataginu, her fingers sliding up the fabric to rest against his chest.

Sukuna’s nostrils flare.

“Please, Master, return to your chambers. I can help you forget wherever it is you think you need to be.” The sultry tone that spills from her lips is sickly sweet, making his mouth curl in disgust.

If anything, Sayuri is a poison—a parasite. He knows there may come a day when he’ll regret allowing her to worm her way into his life and shrine. But for now, she serves her purpose. She amuses him. She entertains him with the way she sucks his cocks and the way she allows him to use her body.

“I have better things to do than watch you squirm beneath me like a filthy whore.” His voice is devoid of heat as he uncurls her fingers from his clothing.

The dark-haired woman shrinks, taking a step back, face faltering. Good. She needs to be reminded of her place.

Without sparing her another glance, Sukuna tips his chin toward Uraume.

“I’ll be back in a week, maybe more,” he gruffs before descending the steps.

Mounting one of his obsidian horses, he gives the reins a tight fist and nudges the creature’s flank. With a sharp motion, the horse bounds forward, and in a heartbeat, he’s gone.

* * * * *

The ride northward takes three days.

When Sukuna arrives, he enters a region of the North he has never visited before. And it’s in shambles. Dismounting, he greets the sight with a cruel smile on his lips.

Overgrown weeds choke the withering crops beneath his wooden sandals. A thick, dank stench of putrid waste hangs in the air, clinging to his garments and lingering in his nostrils. The field, fallow and useless. Sweeping his eyes further, he notes the irrigation canals are clogged with mud and debris, while flies murmur over stagnant pools of water, long since turned swampy. Beyond the neglected crops, a decaying village looms in the distance, its rooftops sagging under the weight of neglect.

The snake makes it so easy for him. The way he disregards his own people, allowing them to weaken, while those who keep him in power gorge themselves at his table, growing fat and bloated—it’s almost too delightful to witness.

Though Sukuna isn’t much better, once he subjugates a region, he keeps it under his rule—relatively safe, if only out of fear and respect. As long as they meet his demands, they can “thrive” together, though thriving under Sukuna’s rule is a twisted thing, more survival than prosperity.

By the time he reaches the outskirts of the northern village, the autumn sun is dipping low, casting long shadows that curve along the broken roofs. The silence presses against him, a quiet that speaks of desperation, of people huddling inside their homes, praying for mercy that remains abandoned and unanswered.

Sukuna pauses, shutting his four eyes to savour the moment—the cooling air, the scent of decay, the fear seeping through the cracks of the village.

It’s intoxicating.

With grace, he brings his upper hands to the front panels of his kimono and peels it down, letting it hang at his hips, revealing the black ink that covers his chest. He left his kataginu with his mount, farther back, safe from the hell he’s about to unleash.

Opening his crimson eyes, he lets his energy rise to the surface, simmering beneath his skin. He knows it won’t take much to level everything in his surroundings.

He rolls his shoulders, takes two more steps, then lifts his upper right arm. With a flick, he extends his index and middle fingers, his voice quiet as he simply utters, “Knock, knock.”

* * * * *

Everything collapses in perfect chaos.

The homes topple like kindling in a fire, snapping and breaking apart. Soot and ash rise from the destruction that carpets the ground. Mounds of wood and debris groan and crack as they settle into the wreckage. Strewn across the earth are shattered belongings and mangled bodies, concealing much of the ruined landscape beneath.

From the edge of the village, Sukuna watches as people flee their shattered homes. He makes no effort to hunt them down, unless they stray too close. It would be a waste of effort, and that’s not his purpose here. He’s hoping the snake will send reinforcements or at least some kind of opposition, something to sink his teeth into for a real challenge. Rumours suggest the man has been forging connections with more powerful clans, potential threats that could make future encounters intriguing.

For now, Sukuna waits. And waits, and waits.

To his dissatisfaction, the bastard sends no one, abandoning the people of this shithole to their fate. At least now, Sukuna knows he'll need to target wealthier communities. Perhaps then, his efforts will provoke a more satisfying response.

He adjusts the front panels of his kimono, drawing the fabric up and threading his four arms through the sleeves. There’s no point in lingering any longer.

He takes one last look at the devastation before turning to leave, but something approaching catches his eye.

A skinny, greasy man drags a young woman by the handful of her hair. She staggers weakly, a grimace of pain on her face. When they reach Sukuna’s feet, the man roughly pushes her down.

“Please, my Lord,” the man begs, bowing with an air of false superiority that makes Sukuna sneer. “I offer you my niece in exchange for sparing what’s left of our village and aiding us in restoring it to its former state.” Still gripping her hair, he gestures to the woman.

Sukuna’s gaze falls on the girl. At a glance, she’s a pitiful sight—cowering meekly with her head bowed in submission.

“Show me her face,” Sukuna commands, stepping closer, his presence looming over them.

Without hesitation, the hand fisting the woman’s hair pulls sharply. Her head snaps back, bending uncomfortably, chin jutting upward. She lets out a muffled cry as he roughly brushes aside the strands framing her face, fingers lingering far, far too long for her comfort. The woman flinches, struggling to pull away from her uncle’s invasive touch.

As Sukuna studies her face their eyes lock. She’s not afraid of him; rather, she’s more terrified of the man clutching her.

“You can remove your hand,” Sukuna chuckles, circling the pair. “She won’t be crawling away from me anytime soon.”

Reluctantly, the man lets the woman crumple to the ground and glances over his shoulder at Sukuna.

“Will you accept my offer?” he asks nervously, trying to hold the four-armed demon’s gaze.

“Perhaps,” Sukuna replies, his tone turning chillingly light as he raises an arm. “But—” he tilts his head, “—it’s a shame you won’t be around to find out.”

“Pardon? My Lor—”

Before the man can finish, Sukuna’s hand parts his flesh like sodden paper, punching through the tissue and fluids that sustain his spinal cord. His fingers curl around the fragile threads of the man’s spine, which pulses like a ribbon against his fingertips as he strokes it.

The man’s throat emits wet, gurgling sounds that quickly dissolve into a flat hiss as he collapses to his knees. Sukuna chuckles softly, nudging the nerve trunk through his neck. With a final, decisive tug, he partially dislodges it from the man’s back.

Withdrawing his hand, gaze stony, the King of Curses watches the body fall, slumping to the ground, as if it were nothing. With a flick of his wrist, he attempts to rid his hand of the blood and fluids, repeating the gesture as if the mess personally affronts him.

“What’s your name?” he drawls, attention snapping back to the woman, who remains silent and unmoving despite the gruesome scene before her.

Slowly, she rises to her feet, eyes fixed blankly on the body of her uncle.

“Ren, my Lord,” she replies quietly.

“Ren,” he laughs deep and low in his chest, “what a dreadful name for a woman. Your parents must truly despise you.”

“My parents are dead,” she hisses, the words sharp, rough like a point, prompting Sukuna to reconsider her.

“Was that my fault?” Casually, he tips his chin toward the remnants of the village he just tore to the ground.

She shakes her head.

“No. They died a long time ago. Starved. Hungry. Because no one cares about us here,” she spits the words out.

He tilts his head.

There’s something intriguing about this woman, Ren. Unlike the weak, timid creatures who scurry away like rats, she doesn’t flinch before him. She stands firm. In the face of death—in the face of him—there’s a resilience that he finds both oddly fascinating and entertaining.

What’s even more curious is the sensation wriggling inside, compelling him to bring her back with him. It’s not driven by personal sentiment but by a cold, pragmatic sense that she might prove useful for a purpose he can’t yet define.

“Come,” he says, turning away and expecting her to follow.

And she does, without hesitation.

In the years that follow, Ren settles quickly at the shrine. She proves to be a remarkably diligent subordinate—adaptable, intelligent. However, the fire Sukuna once saw in her eyes gradually fades, replaced by a rigid hardness. It seems she is waging a war known only to herself—a struggle that no one, not even Sukuna, fully comprehends.

What confounds him most is the night he discovers her waiting for him in his chambers, offering herself. Not to his surprise, she isn’t alone; Sayuri is there, too.

And this is just the beginning.

* * * * *

Three months ago…

Six heavy-lidded eyes stare into Sukuna’s four.

Each pair belongs to the three women who have ended up at his shrine under varying circumstances. Their differences are as pronounced as the paths that led them here.

Ren drapes herself over him, straddling his right tattooed thigh, while Sayuri clings to the center, her eyes filled with unspoken longing.

The third, Hina, a woman with deep copper-coloured hair, hovers to his left. About two years ago, she had arrived from a slowly dying village in the east. When her home had fallen to ruin, she had learned to survive on her own, honing her skills in hunting and killing. But sustenance was fleeting, and on the first of the month, she had come to him, offering herself in exchange for survival.

Now, they surround him with their three pliant bodies.

Each of them takes turns trying desperately to please him. Sucking and pumping his hard dual cocks.

Writhing, squirming, moaning.

The sight alone should satisfy any man, but it does nothing for him.

The situation grows increasingly intolerable the moment Sayuri looks up, his lower cock between her lips, eyes imploring not just for his attention but also his affection.

Sukuna remains impassive, his expression unreadable as he reclines on the futon, his four arms curving over a plush set of cushions. His silence, rather than deterring, seems to embolden her further.

Suddenly, Sayuri maneuvers her body, climbing up and turning around, her cunt sitting directly in his face as if expecting him to pleasure her.

His lip curls up as he looks at it.

“Off,” he grunts, voice carrying a menacing bite. His sneer begins to reveal the sharpness of his canines as his patience wears thin. “Get. The. Fuck. Off.”

When his command goes unheeded, he shoves Sayuri aside. She tumbles across the futon, forcing Ren and Hina to quickly retreat as he swings his legs over the edge and plants his feet firmly on the floor.

“Get out,” he snaps.

Gaze deliberately averted, he retrieves his discarded haori and slips it on.

Behind him, he can hear the muted sounds of clothing being smoothed, the shuffling of feet. The door slides open with a soft rustle, and they are gone.

Silence.

Sukuna exhales deeply, running a hand through his swept back pink hair.

Barefoot, he crosses his chambers toward the garden door. With a simple tug, it glides open, revealing the evening dark. The moon hangs directly overhead, lonely. Stars appear one by one, scattering the sky with pinpricks of light.

The warm breeze sweeps through, carrying a reminder. He inhales the night air, feeling its subtle nudge to head north.

Tomorrow, he decides, is when he’ll go.

The following morning, the bright, fat sun taunts Sukuna. Its harsh light pierces through the garden door of the private room and plagues his meal.

Impatience creeps in.

He should have left hours ago, mounted up, and headed north by now. But something told him to stay, to eat first. So he did, though the decision irritates him now.

From where he sits on the cushion on the floor, he notices Sayuri, sulking like a spoiled child, aware that he’s leaving today. Her pouting only puts him in a sour mood.

“Fuck.” He exhales, “Just—come here, you stupid brat.” With his lower hands, he beckons her to come to him.

Sayuri’s face beams bright, and without hesitation, she eagerly slips onto his monstrous lap.

Swivelling her hips, she attempts to get comfortable, making him grumble wordlessly.

“Better?” he grunts, though the proximity does little to quell his annoyance. She smiles up at him, dark eyes gleaming.

“Yes. Thank you, Master Sukuna,” she murmurs, leaning in and nuzzling his chest. Affectionately.

Fucking pathetic.

He’s about to toss her off when the door slides open, revealing Uraume.

“Master Sukuna,” they begin, bowing respectfully as they step inside. His four eyes shift from Sayuri to the white-haired monk. “A messenger just delivered this.”

In their hand is a piece of parchment, seemingly insignificant at first glance. Eyeing it more, he notices it's neatly folded and tied with a high-quality silk cord. But what truly catches his attention is the wooden seal holding it together.

His eyes narrow, and he stretches out an arm, palm flat. Uraume places the message there. 

Lazily, he brings it closer, holding it before Sayuri’s face.

“Tell me what you see,” he croons, placing his upper right hand against her back.

Sayuri shifts, wets her lips, and studies the paper.

“I see a seal,” she replies. Sukuna nods, urging her to continue. “I see… a snake, my Lord.”

He clicks his tongue, a smirk stretching across his face.

“Good girl,” he coos, patting her back twice like a dog.

Slowly, his lower hands begin to untie the silk cord. It unravels with a soft rustle and falls to the low table. Without bothering to read the contents, he gestures to Hina, who has been hovering nearby.

“Read it,” he commands flatly.

Hina obediently steps forward and takes the parchment from his hand. She unfurls it carefully, eyes scanning the ink blots scattered across the paper. Though the copper-haired woman isn’t fully literate, he knows Uraume has been teaching her, slowly cultivating her ability to decipher the written word. 

“To the, um, most Honour’ble and I-illust—”

Sukuna barks out a sudden, sharp laugh, not at her stumbling over the words but at the thought of the snake who penned this letter. The idea of that man being forced to address him as ‘honourable’ is a delicious irony; Sukuna knows the man despises him.

“Continue.” The smirk on his lips grows.

Hina shifts on her feet.

“To the most H-honourable and I-illust-rious Suk-un-a Ryo-men, the King of—”

“Too long,” Sukuna interupts. “Ren.”

Ren quickly steps forward. She bows before taking the parchment from Hina’s grasp.

“To the Most Honourable and Illustrious Sukuna Ryomen, the King of Curses,” she begins, voice steady. “Like two rivers, our paths have collided, flooding the northern lands with strife and destruction. Yet even rivers can find harmony when they merge, flowing stronger together than apart. Recognizing the futility of further conflict, I propose an end—”

“Sayuri,” Sukuna barks.

Ren hands the parchment to Sayuri, who squares her shoulders, straightens her posture, and smooths the paper a few times.

“Yet even rivers can find harmony when they merge, flowing stronger together than apart. Recognizing the futility of further conflict, I propose an end to this turbulence—” She pauses. “—by…”

She lifts her eyes, casting a sharp glance at Sukuna.

His eyes darken, and his grip tightens.

“By offering you—”

Another pause, a beat.

“By offering me what?” he growls.

Sayuri swallows.

“By offering you… my daughter in marriage.”

Silence descends upon the room.

An invisible string tugs at the corner of the King of Curses’ mouth.

Finally.

He dips his chin.

“Continue.”

Sayuri’s eyes begin to glimmer with unshed tears before they reluctantly drop back to the parchment.

“Through this union, our clans can finally channel our energies toward more productive pursuits. You can retain the territories you have subjugated and gain a longstanding foothold in the north without further waste of time. Let us resolve this swiftly, so that we may turn our attention to more pressing matters. Signed—”

Sukuna plucks the parchment from her fingers, crimson eyes narrowing as he scans the closing line.

“Kasai Takuma, Lord of the Kasai Clan.”

* * * * *

Present day, moments ago…

Sukuna’s going to kill you.

That decision was made long ago—when your father first proposed the marriage, when the wedding day approached, when he first laid eyes on you. The decision was simple. Final. You were the daughter of the snake, after all, and your fate was sealed from the start.

He’s going to kill you.

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he hasn’t done it. Each time his eyes meet yours, something stirs within him, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge, something he desperately wants to—

Fuck.

He exhales deeply, dragging a hand through his pink hair, frustrated by the persistence of this hesitation. He should have let that polearm tear you apart instead of stepping in to protect you. But he won’t allow anyone to harm you—if anyone should, it will be him.

He’s the one who's going to kill you.

Even now, as he walks away, out of the kitchen and down the shrine’s longest corridor, the irritation grows. It's an irritation he knows is tied to you, to the way you’ve started to seep into his thoughts more and more, occupying space in his mind that he doesn’t want to give.

He cannot give. He will not give.

By the time he reaches the front entrance, the irritation has grown into something darker, more unsettling, and he knows that despite his decision, despite the certainty with which he made it, you’ve become something he didn’t anticipate—a complication.

A distraction.

You are a fucking nuisance. 

He’s going to kill you. That decision was made long ago...

Opening the doors, he steps out into the cool night and heads for the stables, where the creatures offer a welcome reprieve. The familiar routine of caring for them soothes his mind, pushing his thoughts aside—if only for a moment.

But it isn’t enough.

By the time he mounts one and guides it toward the dirt-packed road, he feels it—an uncomfortable tug in his chest. An urge to turn back, to return to the shrine.

To return to you—his wife.

He ignores it.

He rides off, away from the shrine and, more importantly, away from you. Distance, he thinks, will clear his head.

Yet as the cold air lashes him, a nagging sense of regret creeps in, an unsettling awareness that he should have known better, that leaving was a mistake.

Because after all this time, he should have known what was coming.

🔗 Chapter 14

[im-a-wonderling]

Rescue Me, Part 6 ~ Obi-Wan Kenobi

I have to thank @hmuwithemfeeeels, @writing-on-the-wahl, and @sassysaxxy profusely. All three of them read through every version of this part (of which there were many), sometimes multiple times. They all helped me on the path of making this part what it needed to be. I wish I could be more eloquent, but honestly, I'm just so glad that this part is finally finished, I've been working on this for months.

Summary: Y/N painfully works through her recovery while Obi-Wan is nowhere to be found.

Warnings: healthy weight gain

Word count: 5.6k

Rescue Me masterlist | Main masterlist

Vokara Che wasn’t a healer of ringing endorsements, but her grudging smile made me liable to burst with pride. “You’re making progress,” she said, laying her data pad beside me. 

I beamed at her, matching the sunshine on the walls of the Jedi temple infirmary. The itch to get moving—to return to my old self—was insatiable. I missed the faith that my legs could hold me while my hands held my lightsaber and the knowledge that my body could sustain the defense of my ideals. “When can I start training?” 

The Twi’lek healer pursed her lips. “I’m still concerned about your lungs.”

My smile and pride faded. That sounded like she wasn’t going to clear me, and that was…unacceptable. “My lung function will improve–”

Vokara Che crossed her arms, showing her famous stubbornness and making me more nervous. “You know that rushed healing makes botched healing.”

“It’s been almost a week, how is that rushing?” I argued.

But neither volume nor impatience could sway the unmovable rock that was Vokara Che. “Tell me how many days you were gone. Say the number.”

I looked into Vokara Che’s unyielding face, trying to ignore the jump of fear in my chest. “Vokara–”

She held up her hand. “Eleven days. Very little water, very little food.” My stomach turned as she spoke, as if it, alongside my brain, held onto the memories of that dark, Force-forsaken dungeon. “Your chains prevented you from moving your arms, leading to the breakdown of your muscles.” My shoulders ached, like she was awakening the wounds with her words. “Your mind was fractured–”

“My mind is fine,” I snapped. “I am a healer, same as you, and if I–”

“And all of that happened,” Vokara Che raised her voice, “before you suffered hypothermia and almost died!”

“Well, I didn’t die!”

Vokara Che’s nostrils flared, striking fear into my heart at whatever painful reminder she was about to impart. “Six days ago, Kenobi carried you into this infirmary twice because you were too weak to stand! Have you forgotten that?”

I lowered my gaze to the floor. 

I hadn’t forgotten. I didn’t think I’d forget anything about the last three weeks as long as I lived, not with the consequences that had come. 

The consequences of being taken: extreme muscle atrophy and malnutrition. Whenever I was upright, my shoulders ached, and I’d taken to wrapping my weak wrists for support, hoping it would be enough to allow me to wield my lightsaber again. Vokara Che’s careful nutrition regimen had won back a few pounds, but I was still operating from a weight deficit, not to mention my decreased organ function. 

The consequences of being rescued: hypothermia and the removal of Obi-Wan’s title of Master and position on the council. Obi-Wan had done well in warming me up; the risks of hypothermia once I’d reached the Temple were minimal. But the aftershocks of Obi-Wan’s removal from the council still rang through the Temple, and I was most especially vulnerable. 

It just didn’t make sense. The council decided not to send anyone after me. Obi-Wan was part of the council, he was part of the decision they made. Even if he personally wanted me to be rescued, personal desires were nothing compared to what had been decided by the complete council.

Being injured should’ve provided the perfect condition to deepen my connection with—and trust in—the Force, but every time I closed my eyes to meditate, in the darkness behind my eyelids, I could’ve sworn I heard scraping sounds once again. 

“Ghon will be back any day now,” I argued. It may have been a losing battle, but it hurt less than the losing battle in my mind. “I could be sent out on a mission soon, and I can’t afford–”

“Peace.” Vokara Che picked up her data pad again and started walking over to the next occupied bed. “The council won’t send you to any front while you’re still suffering the effects of so much protein catabolism.”

‘Doubt’ and ‘council’ were two words I’d been avoiding using in the same sentence. I stood from my bed, following her. “Please,” I begged. 

Vokara Che didn’t look away from the Jedi whose pulse she was checking. “The day you can jog two laps around the marble gardens without stopping is the day you can start training.”

I lifted my chin, determined. “Then I’ll be back in ten minutes.” 

-

Out of the eight separate gardens in the Temple, the marble gardens were the most sterile, and as such, the only one with a path. Truthfully, it resembled a courtyard or an outdoor ballroom more than it resembled a garden, since the only plants were tiny sprouts in large clay pots. Even the path wasn’t concrete or dirt cutting through grass, but a red onyx marble cutting through cream marble. The faint, swirling patterns within the cream made a good environment for peaceful meditation. 

But for all the contemplative beauty, I did miss the trees and plants in the other, wilder gardens, though they were nothing compared to the jungles of Felucia. Strangely, when I was on Felucia, I missed the climate of Coruscant. Now, here on Coruscant, I missed the person I was on Felucia. 

And the Jedi I’d been with on Felucia. 

I hadn’t laid eyes on Obi-Wan since the council meeting. How could he be busier than ever before after being demoted to Knight and removed from the council? Anytime I tried to follow the faint light of his Force signature, the Force led me out of the temple where my worn-out body kept me from going any significant distance.

Reaching the bottom of the marble steps onto the path, I traced the circular path with my eyes. Two laps around the gardens was almost an insult. On our mission to Kessel, Obi-Wan and I were riding a transporter in order to save a member of the ruling class from a Separatist assassination attempt. The transporter broke down, and we had to run four miles in less than twenty-five minutes in order to save the target. 

Two laps was nothing.

Despite my confidence, I wasn’t even halfway through the first lap when sweat started beading on my forehead. My lungs burned with every expansion, the twin organs struggling to keep up with the strain. I slowed my pace, reminding myself to keep going. Pushing through this pain was nothing compared to what I needed to be capable of in a few days and even less compared to what I’d already faced. 

Thirty feet shy of the first lap, I had to stop, leaning against one of the large potted plants for support. The coarse rattle accompanying every inhale made me wince. If I had a patient making that sound, I’d tell them to rest, even sedate them if I needed to. Why then did I so badly want to keep pushing? Frustrated, I knocked my fist against the rim of the pot. “Blast!”

The Force brushed gently across my forehead, lulling me into closing my eyes. I panted, leaning my whole body against the pot and allowing the Force to blanket my skin. 

In the distance, Obi-Wan’s light shone like a guiding, blinding star. And in the other direction, much farther away, loomed the threat of Dooku’s darkness. I took comfort in the separation and in knowing that when I opened my eyes, Dooku wouldn’t be there. Even if the fear of the darkness still festered within me, my body was no longer trapped there. 

“I’m safe here,” I whispered, for the words didn’t work if I only said them in my mind. “I’m home.” 

With my eyes closed, the brilliant light of the sun filled my vision with a hearty red. And in the hearty red of my vision appeared a face I knew well. 

A piece of Obi-Wan’s hair stuck to his sweaty forehead partially smudged with dust. His eyes were wide as his mouth slowly formed an inaudible shout, a vein bulging in his forehead. Then, he lifted his chin to look up, just as a large piece of rubble came hurtling down towards him.

“No!” I burst out. 

My eyes flew open, and I stared at the plants by my feet, my heart contracting painfully. The image was gone as soon as it’d come, but the fear in his expression settled heavily in my gut. Was it a buried memory resurfacing? I wanted to believe it was, but in the image, Obi-Wan’s hair was short and his beard was full. Only my recent memories featured him that way. And if it were that recent a memory, I would’ve known immediately. 

“Typically,” said a voice which immediately made me straighten, “the ‘no’ comes after I’ve made a suggestion, not before.”

I looked up into the face of Anakin Skywalker. “General Skywalker!” I said, perhaps overly brightly in my attempt to move past the image. I straightened and then immediately leaned against the pot again as my head spun, from exertion or surprise, I wasn’t sure. I grinned to cover for the lack of my bodily autonomy. “The great General Skywalker, returned to Coruscant once again.” Then I noticed the sling around his human arm, instinctively reaching out with the Force to assess the injury. His bones felt intact, but his shoulder ligaments were strained, as though they’d been displaced and then returned. Painful, but not permanent. “What was it this time?”

He adjusted the arm slightly. “Bounty hunters. Gunray still hasn’t given up his vendetta against Senator Amidala.”

Of course. His Jedi reflexes allowed him to easily escape danger, but he might’ve ignored his Force-given instincts if he were defending someone else. 

I raised an eyebrow. “I hope Vokara Che gave you something for the pain when she relocated that.”

“You know she never uses medication on me. Something about needing to learn my lesson.” General Skywalker shifted the arm a bit, as if he could still feel the pain he must’ve felt when Vokara Che put the arm back in the right position. “I was actually hoping to see you for treatment, but…” he trailed off.

I smiled again, hoping desperately that Vokara Che hadn’t told him that I wasn't cleared. “I’m…not treating people yet.”

“Are you training?”

“Trying to.” I wiped a trickle of sweat off my forehead. “Turns out, my body is still…”

“Recovering,” General Skywalker finished, a kinder word than what I was going to say. “May I join you?” 

“Of course.” I pushed off the pot, equally grateful and surprised when my body didn’t sway. 

Once on a mission to Falleen, I saw two children together. Their mothers were sisters, but the children didn’t know each other well. Both being ten years old, they’d been sent to do a chore together. They shared so much history, yet treated each other with a strange politeness. Since the skin of a Falleen changed color to reflect their emotions, the pleasant yellow hue of their skin betrayed the awkwardness of their exchange. 

General Skywalker and I’s relationship was similar. Having shared a master, our histories were entwined but our presents rarely met and only did in the Temple, specifically in the infirmary where I patched him up. Mostly our conversations centered around Obi-Wan, since General Skywalker saw him more often than I did. A fact that I’d privately wrestled with, worrying that if I were a Falleen, my skin would turn green.

Banishing those green thoughts, I focused on keeping up with the general’s pace, which was nothing short of relaxed, but even walking loosely sent the occasional painful spasm through my chest. 

General Skywalker slowed his pace to that of a baby Derbit, but the look on his face was much darker than anything a Derbit could summon. “Dooku really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

His name in the air sucked the air out of my tired lungs and dragged me right back to the dungeon, pain racing through my body. Not wanting to appear weak in front of the general, I forced in a breath as casually as I could, waiting for the images to pass. 

But General Skywalker spoke before I was ready to. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He lightly touched the top of my shoulder, looking up and down my body. General Skywalker did not have the gaze of a healer, but I knew his connection with the Force was unrivaled. There was no way of knowing what kind of information he could receive from just a look. “You are okay?” he asked. 

I wanted to shrug off his hand, but I knew sometimes the most combative patients were the ones who needed the most help, so I remained where I was. “Yes. I’ve gained back five pounds, and I’m finally able to walk by myself.” My eyes darted over to Master Stass Allie meditating in the center of the gardens. “I’m finally eating solid food too, although not very much of it yet.”

General Skywalker smiled sincerely. “I’m very glad of that. I know I’d be missing food too.”

“But not rations.”

“Never rations.” He shuddered in a manner that mirrored Obi-Wan. How odd it felt to see my old master’s mannerisms in the legendary general. What must the Jedi Order have thought when the Jedi to train the Chosen One then chose to train the padawan of Pong Krell? I could feel their horror deep in my gut, and my arms reflexively clasped behind my back. 

But since he was also Obi-Wan’s padawan, General Skywalker understood him as well as or perhaps better than I. “General Skywalker, may I ask you a question?” 

“Always,” the general said easily. 

“If…if Ahsoka was taken from you, i-if she were taken by bad people…what would you do?”

He lifted a knowing eyebrow. “This is about Obi-Wan, isn’t it?”

I looked away as the mysterious, panicked face of Obi-Wan flashed unbidden in my vision again. “Yes, it’s about him.” 

“Let me ask you this: if Ghon were taken from you by bad people, what would you do?”

My chest tightened at the mention of my padawan, who still hadn’t returned from Ryloth. The idea of him in that dark cell, chained to the ceiling, cut off from light and people as he wasted away…it made me feel sick. “Ghon is still a padawan,” I protested, weighed down by the unspeakable urge to explain myself. “He’s only eleven, he doesn’t have all the skills to withstand the dark side as we do.”

The only reply was the lift of the general’s eyebrows. 

It was sacrilege to discuss this here, in the very heart of the Jedi Order, out in the open, with Master Stass Allie meditating only just out of earshot. 

But sacrilege or not, it was the truth. 

But the truth is wrong, I argued with myself. I wasn’t supposed to choose defiance. General Skywalker and Obi-Wan could choose defiance; they were irreplaceable. I was supposed to prioritize peace over my emotions, and it was my emotions swirling in my gut, urging me to go save Ghon from a situation that wasn’t even real.

The knowing look on General Skywalker’s face made my own flush. “You’d go too. Even if the council told you not to.”

“The council was the one who charged me with the responsibility of teaching and caring for Ghon,” I protested.

“Even if the council said no?” he pressed.

I knew what my answer was, but I couldn’t speak it, could barely even think it. 

“I can feel your wrestling.” The general tilted his head. “It feels almost exactly the same as how Obi-Wan felt when he asked me to help him save you.”

A million questions sprung to my mind, but I remained silent, fighting my surprise and hating that General Skywalker could likely feel it. 

The general continued walking with such casual airs, we might’ve been discussing Coruscant’s weather, which, thanks to weather control, was the exact same every day. “We interrogated everyone in the club, but when no one could tell us anything helpful, Obi-Wan begged the council to send us to go save you anyways. He was certain he could find you.”

“And the council wasn’t,” I finished. I couldn’t fault them for it. The galaxy was massive. It didn’t matter how experienced and capable Obi-Wan was, the odds of him somehow being able to find me were infinitesimally small. 

“And that’s when Obi-Wan asked me how to steal a ship.”

I gaped at the general, unable to reconcile the image of Obi-Wan breaking the rules so thoroughly. If the council hadn’t sent Obi-Wan, of course there wasn’t any authorization for a ship. But stealing one? In a wild moment, I wondered if the general was showing his infamous sense of humor, but his grave expression settled that theory. 

By the void. No wonder the council had stripped him of his status. 

The two of us walked past Master Allie, both of us remaining silent in some unspoken agreement. General Skywalker thoughtfully wrapped his robotic hand around one strap of his sling as we walked, looking much more carefree than I felt. Then again, Obi-Wan hadn’t gotten himself demoted because of General Skywalker. 

“I wanted to go with him,” the general said once we’d passed Master Allie and could safely talk, “but someone had to create a diversion.”

Even if I knew what to say, the lump forming in my throat made it impossible to speak. I knew General Skywalker broke the rules regularly and that he broke them this time for Obi-Wan, but I was still overwhelmed with gratitude. 

“When I asked Obi-Wan where he was going to look for you first, do you know what he said?” I shook my head, not sure I wanted to know. “He said the Force would take him to the right dungeon.” 

My feet froze. Dungeon? Was that…just a throwaway phrase…or did Obi-Wan know about the dungeon before he came to rescue me? It was far more realistic to believe that his word choice was coincidence...except for the fact that Obi-Wan had indeed found me in a dungeon. “How could Obi-Wan possibly have known that?” 

General Skywalker glanced at Master Allie and then put his back to her, lowering his voice. “He saw you.”

“What are you talking about?” I said hoarsely, hardly able to speak around the frantic beats of my heart that seemed to extend through my whole being.

“When you’d been taken off the planet to Chobb knew where, he saw visions of you.”

Visions?

Of me?

“Visions that disturbed him so much, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t train.” General Skywalker swallowed. “It was like watching him lose his mind.”

I could relate to the feeling, but now was not the time. “What happened in these visions? What exactly did Obi-Wan see?”

“You, hanging from the ceiling in a dark cave. And himself, using his lightsaber to cut through your chains.”

I gaped at him. “Obi-Wan…he saw the future? His future? Our future?”

General Skywalker nodded. “He didn’t know what Dooku was doing to you, but he could feel your pain, and he knew that it was up to him to rescue you.”

Stars, if Obi-Wan felt me, if he felt my pain, my terror, and my despair…if I’d known that he could feel me, I would’ve…

Shielded earlier.

To spare him. And protect him. 

Shame roiled through me like the Boiling Sea on Drall. I would’ve engaged in a sith technique, simply to spare Obi-Wan discomfort? Would shielding myself even have worked? These strange visions Obi-Wan reportedly had…did they stem directly from the Force or somehow through the Force from me? Would the Force have sent Obi-Wan to me? Or had I unconsciously reached out for him?

General Skywalker was watching my expression closely, and I could feel his attention through the Force as well. “Hasn’t Obi-Wan told you any of this?”

“He’s avoiding me,” I grumbled, with a bit more malice than what was necessary. 

The general rolled his eyes. “He’s off-planet, Y/L/N.”

Off-planet? Was that why the Force kept leading me out of the Temple when I tried to find him? Had the council sent him away to keep us apart? Or to punish him?

Hang on, if Obi-Wan had been able to sense me across the galaxy and following the light led me out of the Temple…did that mean I’d be able to find Obi-Wan too? If I were to get on a ship right now and blindly fly towards the light, would I end up wherever Obi-Wan was?

The light, as if reacting to my thoughts, grew larger above me. I glanced up at the ships passing above our heads, staring up into the sky beyond which lay Obi-Wan. “How is any of this happening?” I muttered as the light continued flaring. 

“You’re still confused.” General Skywalker sounded sympathetic. 

“Yes,” I admitted. “I understand a little more, but…I…I just…” My words failed, unable to contain the scope of what was happening inside of me. 

General Skywalker rolled his shoulders and glanced around us again, clearly preparing to exit the conversation. “Look, Obi-Wan always taught me to follow the Force. I think he taught you the same.” He paused, waiting for my response or trying to find his next words, I didn’t know. “He followed the Force right to you. Say what you will about right or wrong, but…that counts for something.” 

I digested that before nodding once in acknowledgement. 

The general’s comm beeped, and he sent me an apologetic look. “I have to go. Stay on the mend, yeah?” He strode for the garden entrance. 

“General?” I said. 

General Skywalker turned around. 

“It’s because I was his padawan, right?” I said, desperation making my lips looser. “That he can feel me?” 

And that I could feel him? 

A rogue smirk found its way onto the general’s mouth with such ease, I knew it wasn’t an uncommon expression for him. “If Obi-Wan can feel me in that way, he’s never directly crossed the council to come rescue me.” A rush of guilt coursed through me, and General Skywalker was shaking his head almost instantly. “Defying the council isn’t something new, Y/L/N. If anything, Obi-Wan made Master Qui-Gon proud.” And with a wink I wasn’t sure how to interpret, General Skywalker swaggered out of the gardens. 

I watched him go, my fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of my tunic. The general gave me more information, but it felt as if the facts floated above me out of arm's reach, making it impossible for me to pull them down and put them together in a way that made sense. 

Shaking my head, I started running, but only made it seven steps before reaching out for the nearest pot again. 

I wasn’t going to get two laps in today, with or without stopping. 

A wipe of my forehead showed the perspiration from the attempt, and I fumbled my way out of the gardens, ready to bathe away the embarrassing evidence of my failure. 

-

The Temple baths were empty while I bathed, but after, the corridors teemed with Jedi, all healthy enough to bustle about their business and curious enough to stare at me. I could feel their attention like a pin jabbing me in the arm. I’d felt scrutiny this intense when I walked here after Master Krell had been killed. 

Back then, I was the tainted padawan, the one no one could fully trust. I wasn’t quite sure what they thought they saw now. 

Perhaps Vokara Che expected me to return to the infirmary, but spending my days on a bed as a patient in the very infirmary where I’d once been a healer? It was mortifying. Vokara Che had allowed me to leave the infirmary to attempt my laps, so I was going back to my room to recover in private. 

“Knight Y/L/N?” 

I turned to face the youngling I’d just passed while trying to ignore his open stare. “Yes?”

“Master Yoda wants to see you.”

My heartrate kicked up. “Did he say for what purpose?”

The youngling shook his head. “Only that he’s waiting for you in his quarters.” Message delivered, the youngling bowed and scampered off, but not without a last glance over his shoulder. 

“Force help me,” I muttered, laying a hand over my heart, trying to use pressure to calm myself as I walked to Master Yoda’s quarters. It was only the exhaustion of my body that made my feet drag, I tried to tell myself. Master Yoda asking to speak to me wasn’t concerning; he was an involved Grand Master. He spoke to many Jedi every day. There was nothing special about him asking to see me now. 

Unless there was something special, and it was my turn to receive consequences. 

I gulped as I reached the door, flexing my fingers in an effort to keep them from shaking. Knock, I instructed myself. It would be a quick check-in, nothing more. Nothing unusual, nothing ominous. 

“Enter!” said Master Yoda, in his gruff, froggy, sage-like voice. 

I jumped slightly. Of course Master Yoda could sense me. It was foolish of me to be surprised. 

Forging ahead, I stepped close enough for the sliding door to open.

Master Yoda stood in between the two cushioned, circular chairs, both of his hands resting atop his gimer stick. The slats of his windows were open enough to let lines of Coruscant’s sunlight through, shining patterns onto the floor. 

I only proceeded far enough to allow the door to slide close behind me with a quiet whoosh. I bowed. “You wanted to see me, Master?”

“Yes.” Master Yoda hobbled over to one of the chairs, seating himself with what looked like great difficulty. “Join me.”

My heart lifted a bit. Would Master Yoda really want me seated if he intended to punish me? I sat, my body straining with the effort to keep good posture. 

“Great pain I sense in you. Fear.” Master Yoda’s hands rested on his knees, palm up. “Uncertainty.”

I nodded slowly, certainly uncertain about where he was going with the conversation. “Yes.”

“Suffered much, you did.”

My face burned. “Master, I–”

“Know not do I how Kenobi found you.” Master Yoda tilted his head.  “Glad I am that he did, especially before it was too late.”

Too late. 

My thoughts clashed within my mind. Did he mean before death? Or before I inevitably gave in? 

“It was too late,” I murmured.

“Hmmm?” 

I couldn’t look up from my lap. Was there much point in my broken body being rescued if my mind was still steeped in the darkness of that dungeon? “I failed, Master. I withdrew from the Force. He was right all along about me.”

Master Yoda’s voice, instead of growing louder in a reprimand, grew softer with compassion. “Right about very little is Dooku.”

“I did exactly what he wanted.” I clenched my hands in my lap, watching my fingers whiten. “I gave into the darkness.”

Master Yoda’s chuckles reverberated through the space, causing me to look up in surprise. “If true that was, not here would you be. Cowardly is Dooku. Cares not does he about light or dark, but about power and victory. Gave him neither, did you.” 

I thought back to the last moment I saw Dooku, right after he felt me shielding from the Force. He’d said something about getting me food…because I submitted. “I only submitted so that we could escape,” I murmured. 

Master Yoda nodded. “Made it eleven days, you did. Submission?” He laughed again, and the sound made me feel strangely lighter. “Weak your body may have been. But strong your spirit was.”

He’s saying I’m a survivor, I realized. 

“Maybe I was strong in that dungeon,” I croaked. “But since then…Master, I’m so afraid.”

Master Yoda nodded soberly. “I can feel your fear. Scared of the shadows, you are. Hold something you haven’t faced, they don’t.” 

“But if Dooku ever takes me again–”

“Then shown, have you, that the dark side has no hold on you. Shown, have you, that you are a warrior whose strength lies with the Force.” A smile spread across Master Yoda’s face. “Saved you, the Force did, from those who wield it for their own ends. Welcome you, it would, but more it still has for you to do.”

He was right. The Force was with me through the pain of that dungeon. It brought Obi-Wan to me to save me. Even when I’d been alone and freezing to death on that deathtrap of a planet, even when I’d passed through the veil and felt nothing, the Force held me. And if Obi-Wan’s actions were so shameful, why would the Force have led him straight to me?

I took a deep breath and let it out. Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed like my lungs weren’t quite so resistant. 

“Failed?” Master Yoda got up from his chair, leaning heavily on his gimer stick to walk close enough to rest his three-fingered hand on my knee. “Given you an unbreakable spirit, the Force has. Tried and failed to break it, Krell did. Break it, Dooku cannot.” 

Spirit. 

An uncertain smile grew on my own face. 

My body hadn’t yet recovered. It might never fully recover. But spirit? Well, the wise Master Yoda knew much more about spirit than I.

It was with much gratitude that I stood to bow. “Thank you, Master Yoda.”

Both of Master Yoda’s hands came to rest on his gimer stick as he smiled at me. “Rest. Sleep. Meditate. Time to heal, you have.”

As I left the Grand Master’s chambers, I deeply felt just how much time I truly had. A whole life yet ahead of me, thanks to the Force.

And thanks to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

-

The next day, I ran a full lap around the marble gardens without stopping. 

Feeling full of light, I descended the steps to the baths. I was about to turn around the corner of a corridor when I paused, suddenly filled with the conviction that I was walking in the wrong direction. 

“Y/N!”

I turned around just in time to get tackled so enthusiastically, I nearly fell over. I should’ve panicked, especially because I couldn’t move my arms in this sudden embrace, but I couldn’t feel anything but simultaneous shock and relief as my padawan held me fiercely.

“Ghon,” I whispered, freeing my arms enough to hug him back. 

“You’re alright!” Hearing those words in my padawan’s sweet voice somehow made the sentiment more believable. 

“I’m alright,” I repeated, pressing my cheek to the top of his head. “I’m alright.” My vision blurred because standing in the fiercest hug I’d ever received, my gratitude overwhelmed me. I stood in the Jedi Temple, reunited with my padawan. Both of us were safe. How much did two laps around the garden truly matter?

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, blinking away the tears before they could fall on Ghon’s head. Deep within me swirled feelings of joy, warmth and light. 

Light. 

My head jerked over to see Obi-Wan at the end of the hallway, watching. 

A strange thrill rocked through my stomach at the sight of him. He looked far more composed than he had after the Jedi council meeting, almost…regal. 

…had I been so full of my own light that I hadn’t sensed his coming nearer? 

Then I remembered the padawan clinging to me and how that might be perceived in this building. For a moment, I panicked, ready to pull away from Ghon, but then I stopped. Ghon was just a boy. A child. He deserved to have someone hug him. 

And, oh, how desperately I wanted to be that someone. 

That was when I noticed the luster of Obi-Wan’s light through the Force. Standing all the way at the end of the hall, he radiated more gratification than Ghon did. 

Ghon pulled out of the embrace, looking back at Obi-Wan. “You were right! She’s okay!” He turned back to me, talking excitedly. “Master Windu said that you wouldn’t be coming back, and Master Ima-Gun Di said that he was going to be my new master, but then Master Kenobi came to get me, and he said that you were back!”

What?

I looked at Obi-Wan. He went to retrieve Ghon? That’s where he’d been this whole time? Had he told Ghon that he was the one who rescued me? Clearly he hadn’t told Ghon that he wasn’t a master anymore, if Ghon was still using the title. Had the council sent Obi-Wan to Ryloth or had he gone of his own volition again? 

“He told me to trust the Force,” Ghon was saying, “right before you left, remember? He said ‘trust the Force’ and you would be okay. Well, I did, and you are!” Ghon flung his arms around me again, and I caught him, holding him just as tightly. But I couldn’t tear my eyes from Obi-Wan, who still stood too far away for me to speak to him. A public corridor in the middle of the Temple was perhaps the worst place for us to talk anyways, even if hardly anyone was around. 

But still, the words bubbled up from deep within me, full of meaning and unsquashable.

Thank you.

And to my shock, a reply came immediately, accompanied by an unmistakable warm glow. 

You’re welcome.

Obi-Wan recoiled at the same time as I did, staring at me with the same wide eyes I knew I regarded him with. 

What…just…happened?

Obi-Wan gave me a quick nod and walked away in a suspiciously quick fashion that could almost be categorized as a scurry. And if I hadn’t had an eleven-year-old boy clinging to me with all his might, I would’ve run after him.

-

Overall taglist:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Rescue Me tag list:

@penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @starlazergazer @blackqueengold @ajwild220 @exploringalaxiesfarfaraway @mortallycrispyglitter @nerdory10 @shinybananapastanickel @sassysaxxy @sunshine-girl013 @fablesrose @marrily @friskynotebook @burnthecheshirewitch @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @thriving-n-jiving @witchersoldier @cherrsnut @projectdreamwalker @cacti5539 @annshit @shakespeareansonnet @honeyb34r

[theredrenard]

Shout out to my depressing-ass post-sniper/recovery wip that I’m impatient to finish + post.

Sneak peek:

Eddie must have been silent for too long, because Buck raises his gaze to Eddie’s face, his bottom lip quivering as he speaks again. “People don’t keep me around forever, Eddie. I’m temporary. Good for a night or two, and then it’s on to the next thing. You’ll get tired of me, and then you’ll leave too.”

Buck has self-worth issues ✨

Anyway. Catch me on ao3 if u wanna read the finished product later

[magioftheseas]

The End Can Be A Beginning

Summary: He had hoped that by asking for this one simple thing, by asking Hinata Hajime to be his friend, he could bring about a significant change. Even in this, he grossly underestimated his luck. How could he have know that once the trip ended, that blissful, uneventful simplicity would be stripped away to reveal nothing but ruin? Ah, but surely hope could overcome even this! Warnings: Hospitalization and recovery which includes PTSD, needles, emeto, and eating disorders. These kids aren't doing the best, but they're trying. Notes: This is an old-ass post-Island Mode fic I finished for Komaeda Day. It was written before the localization, which means I use SHSL instead of Ultimate. It was also written before DR3, so it's not remotely compliant. It was going to be a lot longer, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. ***Alternative Ao3 Link*** Commission? Donate?

It’s because everything turned out so lackluster that I even dared something like this.

“...Hinata-kun...”

It’d be nothing but bad luck, for such a bombastic beginning to end so benignly. So boringly. I thought that perhaps if I allowed myself this one thing... Then perhaps...

“Will you...”

Perhaps with something so simple, I could bring a change so significant that I could leave this place satisfied after all.

“...Be my friend?”

It’s silly then that he’d feel his face heat up, his heart beat a bit faster, as Hinata perked up with surprise at the question. Surprise that faltered soon enough with a soft exhalation of ‘oh’. He tucks some flyaway white strands behind his ear—a gesture that could be so easily construed as shy, but he keeps his gaze secure, firmly on the person in front of him—and just when he gets impatient, his pounding heartbeat starting to irritate him, Hinata lets out a laugh.

“Is that it?” he asks, almost cheekily like his own expectations were more along the lines of something more bombastic, less benign. “That’s all you want?”

In return, he nods once, stiff and straight-forward even as his eyes narrow in suspicion. So then... It’s not too much to ask for?

But Hinata grins brightly, so bright that it might have been mistaken for the blinding light of the sun above. Just as Komaeda feels like he might break, Hinata’s response rings out clear and resounding. “Of course. Sure thing.”

A tanned hand reached out and takes the pale one he had extended—the simple gesture that had been enough to stun Hinata into silence, ceasing any opportunity he’d have to ask what the other was planning—and Hinata’s hand gently squeezes around his own. His smile remains broad, and Komaeda does smile back, hopeful and also relieved, and with them like this, together, holding each other’s hands even though his own must be cold, must be so boney compared to Hinata’s warmth and solidity—it feels like whatever the future facing them is, even as it’s indescribable perhaps frightfully so, it feels like regardless of whatever awaits, that it’ll be alright in the end.

That’s what hope is like, right? He thinks, and he can’t help but giggle, giddy with glee at the idea. This does take Hinata off guard, and the other’s immediately asking,

“What is it, Komaeda?”

“It’s... I’m...” Komaeda laughs, one last time, and beams at the other. “I’m just happy.”

...

..

.

Which is why it’s the perfect opportunity, then, for the merciless, unforgiving tendrils of his luck to wrap around him and yank him back, out of Hinata’s grip and that world that looked so bright, into one that was duller, colder, and completely, utterly dark.

--

He barely remembers the first time he woke up—only that there was a lot of shouting, to his distaste, but he couldn’t cover his ears, and he couldn’t do anything. It was too shaky—too jumbled for him to function and it only took seconds for him to be knocked out of commission once again amidst all the chaos.

He’s aware though, the frightening familiarity of what he’s going through, and he almost wants to laugh at himself for forgetting—just because it had been well over fifty days since such a thing last occurred but... It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters because he couldn’t do anything. He was completely helpless, and all he could do for himself was just shut down and come back to when everything was functioning normally for the time being.

It’s not a surprise, at first, that when he wakes up again, flexing his fingers at first—and, oh, it feels like something’s missing there, but his head is too bogged down to figure it out immediately—he’s in a bed. Of a hospital room, it seems, just as sanitized and sterile as he’s used to when it comes to them, but then it occurs to him that this situation is really quite strange—was he still on the island?

The sky outside the window, he notes, is the same deep blue. The air that blows in is the same fresh scent, and the warmth from the filtering sunlight is also...the same. It’s the same. All the same.

So then... I had a seizure when I was back with Hinata-kun?

...no. I don’t remember the shouting being in Hinata-kun’s voice. I vaguely recognized it but—it definitely wasn’t Hinata-kun. I...I don’t think the shouting belonged to anyone in my class. But who else was there?

His head was starting to hurt. Badly. He needed to take some pills for that, surely Tsumiki set something out for him when he awoke—but why did he think that sounded wrong—and when he pushes himself up, presses his hand to his face, he...

His hand isn’t there.

Huh?

He stares, wide-eyed, at the bandaged stump where his hand should be. The bandages are new, too, clean and fresh—recent, what—but then he sees, for a moment, a girl’s hand, one with elongated, elegant fingers and fake, perfectly painted red nails but reeking and grotesque, suffocating before it even has the chance to shoot forward and strangle him—

He’s shaking again, wracked with tremors that force his body to contort into a paralyzing paroxysm as he curls up, hyperventilating as he tries to pry it off—and his face feels so damp, is that sweat? Tears? Blood—?

He’s vaguely aware of the stinging pain that comes with yanking at his arms—and there’s also machines whirling and then there’s this incessant beeping and he’s ready to break that forsaken thing once he just gets her off, off, off—

“KOMAEDA-KUN?!”

He flinches at the yell, and then there’s someone grabbing at his wrists, even as he gasps, protests and squirms, and that voice continues, urgent and so, so, loud—“Komaeda-kun, STOP! Calm down! K-Kirigiri-san—Togami-kun, please, help me restrain him before he hurts himself any further!!”

Togami-kun? Wait... Wait...

“Naegi, stop being an idiot.” That’s definitely Togami’s voice. But angrier, more forceful and ordering than he’d ever heard it before and, yet, there was also something different about the tone, about the quality, something that wasn’t quite right—“When he’s in a condition like that, the best course of action is to sedate him. Kirigiri, you have the needle, don’t you? Naegi can’t hold him down all day.”

“Naegi-kun.” Another voice, softer than other and Togami’s. Firm, feminine—and wait... “You have to remain calm yourself in these situations. Now, hold Komaeda-kun still. Togami-kun, don’t handle him so roughly—”

...come to think about it... Naegi-kun... Kirigiri-san... Those names also sound familiar, don’t they? But where did I hear...

“K-Komaeda?!”

Is...that...Hinata-kun...?

And then there’s a sharp stinging pain—brief and shocking him enough that he stills, eyes widened and pupils dilated and... Two strong grips are holding him steady as his body goes limp, and he sees, briefly, blurred out colors of brown, yellow, lilac and...black? Red?

No...no...

“N-No...” It comes out as a choked little whisper before everything abruptly shuts down and he falls right back into that darkness. But he could have sworn, in that split second before he did, he heard Hinata yelling his name one last time.

--

Surely, he’d have better luck on the third time. Surely. There was too much wrong—his hand, Togami-kun, her hand, Hinata-kun—what was going on? Surely not a cruel prank on Usami’s part now that the field-trip had come to an end? None of this was like Usami—nor anyone, for that matter, except perhaps Saionji, but this seemed to be too much for that, and...

His head hurt. It really hurt.

But he was finally starting to wake again. Hopefully this time, it...

“...ey...n...ou...”

It wouldn’t be so disastrous... Please, just give me a break...

“H-Hey, can you hear me?”

...Ah.

His eyes flickered open, vision blurrily focusing above him as someone leaned over him, and that voice, softer, but still so concerned, continuing, “Are you alright...? Komaeda...kun?”

That face came into focus was a round one, a brunet with softer shade of brown than Hinata’s dark shade of chestnut, with eyes that were hazel as well, but also lighter. So strange, so strange, but there was a familiarity to this soft face with such a gentle gaze, one that he feels as though he knows—almost dearly, and it’s almost frightening—

“That’s right, you must be really disoriented, Komaeda-kun!” the other gasps, backing off and holding up his hands to show he meant no harm. Komaeda blinked blearily at him, and the other tensed as he pushed himself up, dully noting that yes, his left hand was still gone. And his wrist was indeed, still freshly bandaged...though not as fresh as before, obviously, since some time must have passed.

It’s troubling. His handwriting will be near indecipherable. But there are more important things to note such as...

“It’s understandable,” the other was babbling on, even though Komaeda was only half-dutifully listening. “Everyone else is in a similar state after all, and yours was especially precarious, and... I’m sorry, Komaeda-kun, I should have considered that even if everything was a success that she’d still have—”

She? His curiosity was, curiously, crushed by a contempt that he couldn’t quite comprehend. No. No. I don’t want to hear this.

“Who are you?” he asked to cut him off, making him flinch and look...surprised? Then guilty, it seemed. Komaeda’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing and...

If I had to guess, this is most likely...

“I...forgot. Sorry, Komaeda-kun, that was er, rude of me. I’m... Naegi. Naegi Makoto.”

“Naegi-kun,” he returns, to which Naegi nodded with a small, sad smile. “Did I suffer an accident when I met you for the first time?”

That took Naegi off guard, and he almost exclaimed in surprised. “W-What?!” Then, softer, in a tighter more uncomfortable tone. “N-No... No, but...”

“Trauma, then, that resulted in me not remembering?” Naegi seized up, almost like he was scared and wasn’t that strange, and Komaeda couldn’t stop himself, “Or—oh dear—don’t tell me you’re some stalker...”

“No, that’s wrong!” Immediately an outburst. Naegi looked flustered too, and he was even stammering. “N-No, I... I’m sorry, that’s not it at all... I... I didn’t mean to come off like that at all...”

He didn’t really, at all. Even without that strange, deep-seated recognition, Komaeda knows a kind and considerate soul when he sees one. Even if he isn’t particularly interesting—well, Hinata-kun wasn’t either, and he never did figure out what his talent was—Komaeda can’t say he dislikes him or is even neutral to him. He can’t help but smile, and he wants to laugh good naturedly to let him know he was just teasing but...

...But. Things are still all wrong.

“You’re really confused, right?” Naegi’s sudden, quiet question had him perk up and meet Naegi’s gaze, fully taking him in and finally noting the suit. Komaeda blinked, though Naegi didn’t seem nervous as his eyes swept up and down—Naegi-kun...couldn’t be that much older and yet he seemed mature, and...

No, that’s wrong. He’s younger.

...Huh?

Komaeda looked down at himself—fully, disregarding the hand issue for now and noting that he...felt physically different. Though subtly so. His height may not have changed but his body felt...thinner.  And he might have somehow gotten even paler. And moving felt awkward too, like his limbs had gotten unused to it, and when he tentatively reached up, pulling at his hair so that he could see—it had gotten longer. It certainly felt so, and from what he could tell... The pinkish tips were gone, all replaced with that sickening, stark white. Some of the strands were pulled out as he raked his fingers through, and Naegi sounded so concerned.

“Komaeda-kun...?”

“Was I...in a coma?” he managed, voice taut and stiff as his hand lowered to tighten into a fist in the sheets. “A coma that somehow resulted in amnesia? Does such a thing happen?”

“Komaeda-kun, I’ll explain,” Naegi told him, gently taking his shoulder and squeezing. Komaeda regarded the gesture coldly but that hand did not move and if he were truly being honest, he’s not sure if he truly wanted it to. “There’s...a lot to take in. But don’t worry, if you need any clarifying, I’ll try to be of an assistance to the best of my abilities... Just...stay calm, alright? I don’t want you to undergo any more stress after everything you’ve been through.”

You say such things like you know more than I myself do. It’s patronizing.

“Naegi-kun has a lot to explain.” he muttered darkly, turning away with a sharp huff. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? You can even write up a checklist to make sure you don’t forget anything.”

“That might help,” Naegi laughs a bit. It’s a weak sound, clearly an attempt at lightening up the mood, but it dies once he realizes how worthless that attempt was. Admirable effort though. Naegi sighs. “When you said beginning, Komaeda-kun, do you mean...?”

“Hope’s Peak Academy.” Komaeda clarifies cuttingly, digging his fingers into the sheets until that good hand was in a taut fist with the skin pulled tightly over thin sinew and bone. “The breeding ground of hope—” ah, for some reason there was a bitter taste in his mouth with the citing of the motto, “Let’s start there.”

Naegi nods and begins. “I... First I need to admit, I... I hadn’t been there your first year of Hope’s Peak Academy... You were in the 77th class...”

He knows this.

“I...was in the 78th class... But we did know each other. You were the first upperclassman to approach me because you heard about my, er, ‘talent’...” For some reason, he chuckles at the memory but there’s a sad, nostalgic quality to it. Komaeda feels a tinge of emptiness at his inability to share the feeling. But Naegi goes on. “I... I was the SHSL Lucky of my class, in case you’re curious. That doesn’t really have much if anything to do with what happened, but still...”

“What happened?” Komaeda asks, simple and to the point. Naegi ruefully shakes his head, repeating himself.

“I don’t know what happened that first year of the 77th class... I do know one of your classmates went missing a little before my class got enrolled. The SHSL Imposter, I think?” The title strikes a chord of recognition and he can already imagine the pieces falling into place but this part of his mind’s working too fast for the rest to keep up with. He just shuts his eyes and listens to the hitch in Naegi’s breathing before he forces himself to resume. “W-What happened...maybe it’s a gross oversimplification of the events but I’m still sure everything was kicked into motion...

“...with my classmate, the SHSL Gyaru, Enoshima Junko.”

It’s funny.

Hilarious.

Even without his memories, just the very name of this girl is enough to bring him complete despair.

He should laugh.

Laugh until his voice breaks and he suffocates in the sorrow.

--

Though the island was unexpectedly filled with many memorable moments and bright days, the day where everyone helped him build a sandcastle was one he held onto especially tightly.

Hinata in particular had been the brightest part of the memory; almost like wherever he stood, he reflected the sun’s beams with his determination and comforting grins. Hinata’s hand as it gripped his own had been warm from the sun and the sand, but somehow, he felt light and at ease holding that hand, even if it was a bit clammy.

In the end, all that good luck of everyone working together was washed away quite literally by one of the largest waves to date. Sand had been everywhere after that, and in those moments there were before the others managed to uncover themselves, he was left with the darkest, deepest sort of emptiness in the face of their possible deaths.

But Hinata had grabbed his hand to pull himself out, and with everyone safe after all, he felt nothing short of the kind of overwhelming relief that could overshadow even the sharpest pain. On the last day when he had been holding Hinata’s hand again, he might have identified that feeling that followed, where he decided to look forward to more moments with Hinata and the others, as something that could have very well been hope.

As long as he could be with the others, with Hinata, someone who could finally be called a friend—then wouldn’t everything turn out fine even if they didn’t outright succeed in those goals they set out for themselves? As long as they were together, he’d be happy even with failure after failure.

As long as they were together, everything would turn out fine.

...It’s funny. He really believed that was the case. Hilarious.

Back then, it might have actually been better if everyone just drowned after all.

--

By the time Naegi’s explained everything, he had to request a trash bin to throw up in. Naegi had held his hair back as he did, and even steadied his trembling grip on the bin, with a saintly sort of patience that he’d never, ever deserve. He’s still shaking as he spits the last bit of bile, and Naegi takes the bin away with a careful shush.

“Komaeda-kun...” Gently. Carefully. As if he was handling something that needed to be treated delicately. The nausea returned in full force as he groaned. Naegi was pleading, “Komaeda-kun, just lie back down. I’ll get medicine or something—maybe a nurse??”

Naegi should really let him die. He really shouldn’t care so much. Trash like him—worse than trash, more like pure unadulterated filth—

“I...” His words were barely audible, muffled by the hand he kept pressed to his mouth. “I feel sick...”

Filth—rancid—disgusting—so wretched—

“Breathe.” Naegi squeezed his shoulder as he shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself before he broke down into uncontrollable quaking. “Komaeda-kun, you can get through this. Just take it easy. Breathe.”

He wheezes but Naegi keeps speaking to him gently, keeps squeezing his shoulder, and there’s a point where he registers the brush of Naegi’s thumb against his cheek. Without realizing it, he’s grips Naegi’s hand and pulls it down without another word. But Naegi doesn’t miss a beat in continuing those soft, meant to be comforting sentiments. He doesn’t even pause. Just keeps murmuring to him, those words swirling around in his head, soft yet piling up until they suffocated everything else.

Until the moment where he was breathing, his heart slowing down to a steady beat after beat, Naegi seemed to have enough of that saintly patience to last for what felt like a long, long time. It was something else, to be sure.

It should have been terrifying rather than calming. Perhaps it would have been if not for that strong disconnect between his memories and everything else.

--

Even after deeming him “stable”, Naegi still checked on him every now and then. He wasn’t the only one—Komaeda had gotten to know Kirigiri Kyouko rather well in those times, and though she didn’t talk about herself like Naegi did, he did eventually remember where he recognized her name. He didn’t comment on it though, and somehow, he learned to be content with their visits all the same.

When Hinata visited him, he had no idea how he was supposed to feel. There were too many ways to feel. Happy. Angry. Relieved. Betrayed. Expectant. Despairing.

He almost didn’t recognize him at first. With that long black hair messily pinned up, the suit that was far too classy for someone like Hinata, those red eyes that were piercing when directed towards him but kept flickering about, fidgety and restless. As bright as Hinata could look in some situations, Komaeda had known that Hinata was also so easily prone to anxiety.

But as Hinata really looked at him for an extended amount of time, it was as though that apprehension dissipated in favor of relief and the smile that came across this strange person’s face couldn’t have belonged to anyone but Hinata-kun.

“Komaeda,” he says, and he almost rushes to approach him rather than standing so uncertainly in the doorway. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Alright?

“W-When you woke up, you were unstable,” Hinata reminds him, stammering a bit as a flush overcame his features. He was paler. His hair was so much darker. “A lot of us were really out of it... Tsumiki... Toga—ah... Right...”

He hesitates quite a bit, clearly thinking of what to call that guy now that the truth came to be. Apparently just his former title at HPA wouldn’t cut it. Figures Hinata would worry over something like this—it was so like him. Maybe he understood the feeling of inadequate identification to some lesser degree from having not remembered his talent—

Naegi-kun explained a lot of things to me. Many of them I didn’t fully understand. But when it came to Hinata-kun, it felt like there had been more holes than usual...

“Hey...”

I was told his appearance was, outside of that person and Saionji-san, the most dramatic change from how I knew him in the...simulation. Apparently, Hinata-kun had also been another person, but that begs the question...

“Hinata-kun...”

If the Togami-kun I knew was really the SHSL Imposter... The same excuse wouldn’t work for Hinata-kun... So...

“Who are you?”

Hinata’s mouth shuts tight, red pools widening until he jerks his gaze downward. His voice is low. “Didn’t they tell you everything?”

“I thought Naegi-kun had but I realized there were some holes left unfilled...quite a few of them surrounding the topic of you, the mysterious SHSL, for instance.” Except the words didn’t feel right as he explained—in fact, they tasted all wrong. Thus, Komaeda began to wonder. “Hey... You had another name, didn’t you, ‘Hinata-kun’? What was it?”

Hinata doesn’t answer him at first. He doesn’t answer him for a long time. Komaeda would have gotten impatient but there was heaviness in that silence, one that seemingly weighed them both down, and just as Komaeda contemplated pulling the rug and taking the question back, Hinata finally responded.

“Kamukura... Izuru. That’s the name I was given of that...other person.”

It was a name that sounded vaguely familiar. But there were other things that bothered him.

What’s with that wording...? Komaeda hummed before asking, “Should I call you Kamukura-kun then?”

This time, the answer’s immediate.

“No!! That’s not me!” Hinata’s head is shaking both furiously and desperately and the way he looks at Komaeda is so pained that there’s no doubting that question was a mistake. It’s startling because Hinata’s never yelled at him before—he’s never yelled like that ever, even when screaming someone’s name in worry. Hinata’s even shuddering, fists clenched and stricken gaze trapped on the ground like it was about to swallow up on a moment’s notice and there was nothing to do about it. An expression like that, it had to be—

Despair, right?

Yes. It’s despair. The Hinata-kun I cared so deeply for has fallen into despair. How long has he been like this? Years? How...

...disappointing...

“I was never SHSL by the way.” The statement is sudden, snapping him from his thoughts and making his own eyes widen as he turns to him. Hinata still looks troubled and disturbed—but there’s ruefulness in those features as well now along with shame. “I was part of some division known as the Reserve Course—a preparatory school for Hope’s Peak.”

Oh, Naegi-kun had talked about that. And come to think about it, Hinata being part of that didn’t surprise him as much as it should have. There was always that doubt, always that suspicion that Hinata Hajime did not belong—

Kind, wonderful Hinata-kun.

Worthless, talentless Hinata-kun.

“Oh.”

“...is that it?” Hinata met his blank gaze warily, raising a brow, swallowing. “That’s all you have to say about everything, Komaeda?”

“Hmm.” He pondered it, cupping his thin in a thoughtful expression. Then, shrugging his shoulders with a quirk of his lips, he went on, “Thank you for worrying, but you really shouldn’t have had to. See, waste like myself isn’t worth of such things such as...”

“K...Komaeda.” Komaeda pauses, innocently smiling up at him as Hinata stared back, disbelieving and tense. “Komaeda, please say something.”

“I...did? Were you even listening?” he laughs lightly, waving his hand. “As I was saying, I’m grateful for your concern as unnecessary as it was. It was kind of you to worry about me when there were more pressing, personal matters you had to deal with. I appreciated it. I really did. But those feelings are worthless.”

There was a tremor that went through Hinata. He seemed to struggle with his answer. “That... That’s not what I...”

“You should focus on our classmates instead,” Komaeda states, sudden enough that even he himself is surprised despite the coolness of his tone. “Some of us are bound to be more broken by the revelations than others. Some have even most likely lost people they cared for and are grieving. Those are the people you should be extending your worry to rather than me, Hinata-kun.”

“You’re... You’re right...” At least Hinata concedes that much. But he still looked like he was in the mood to argue. “But still—!”

“Hinata-kun, the thing is...” Quietly, almost carefully. “I don’t want to speak to you anymore.”

There’s shock flashing through those red eyes before hurt filters through raw and unencumbered on that face. It felt wrong in all sorts of ways and not all of them entirely due to the fact that it was Hinata displaying it. There was something else. Something that pulled at the holes in his memories that still hadn’t been completely filled by all those explanations.

But, honestly, if it had been Hinata’s face as he had known it... It wouldn’t have exactly felt right either. He’s sure his chest would still twist the same way at being looked at by hazels rather than these reds. All the same, he keeps silent, stares back expectantly and indifferently, and those feelings are suffocated in that silence.

Hinata was still, but there must have been a million things running through his mind. There was conflict in that hurt expression and Komaeda did wonder what he might have been pondering. Perhaps he wanted to cry. Perhaps he wished to scream. Maybe he was angry—maybe Hinata in this moment, really, truly, from the bottom of his heart, hated him.

Komaeda dropped his stare, feeling himself tremble as he looked down at his hand, the thin fingers tracing the tip of his bandaged wrist. Whatever expression he made was enough for Hinata to move, to speak again,

“It’s...been rough on everyone.” His voice was surprisingly blank, low, and calm despite everything. “Komaeda, I’ll... I’ll check up on you later. If you don’t want to speak, that’s fine. Just... Just take care of yourself, alright? And, ah...”

Hinata does laugh. Komaeda doesn’t glance to see his expression, but the melancholy and remorse in the sound is still heard all too well. And then Hinata asks,

“Komaeda... We are still friends, right?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even move. Hinata sighs.

“At least...” he mutters. “I still see you as my friend, for what it’s worth.”

Komaeda does flinch when a hand lands on his shoulder, and just as quickly, Hinata pulls that hand away with a quick apology, wishes him well, says he see him later, and leaves. There’s little time to react, but it’s not as though he had any plans to respond to such gestures and sentiments.

Once Hinata’s gone, it’s like those emotions he wrapped up in a tight coil snapped undone and he buried his face into his hand, shaking from it all.

But a couple thoughts do become clear.

One of the few things Komaeda was sure about even without a clear recollection to back it up was that he must have hated Enoshima Junko—that wretched, hateful girl, his mind supplies for him as though simply her name was too obscene to said be it aloud or assumed.  Considering what she stood for and what she was capable of, not hating her seemed like an inconceivable notion.

Of course the world loved her, if what Naegi-kun said was true. Perhaps Naegi-kun wanted to punish us after all, saving us in a world like that... But I don’t really believe that.

But he could believe hating that girl would be a destined fate. He must have hated her to the point where it seemed instinctive, like he was engineered for that purpose to hate yet still follow a person that crushed the world once she held it in her hands. The hatred must have come so easily to the point where even if he somehow wanted to also adore her... There was just no turning back something so natural.

...that said. It’s...funny.

He couldn’t have imagined he’d be in this position of wanting to hate someone else so badly.

--

He’s in a bad mood for what feels like a while afterwards, and it isn’t helped by the tediousness of therapy.

His joints are stiff as he tries to move, and sometimes he tries to steady himself on the wrong side—it’s quite a few times he ends up a heap on the floor, and it’s humiliating how often he has to take the hand of a serenely smiling nurse to help himself up.

He ended up with more bruises this way, new marks to join the other mars scattered across his frame. Several he, of course, doesn’t recognize while he tentatively ran his fingers over each one. A few suspiciously resembled burns but many were cuts, some so thin they’d be difficult to notice. Several of them looked deliberate, masterfully so, like the twin gashes across with thighs that despite being made by a clearly thicker blade, were clean and precise slices.

He doesn’t mind the cuts so much, though the scarred tissue under his fingertips is anything but a pleasure to feel. Sometimes he feels a twinge of pain, maybe a memory from having receiving these marks. He can’t help but wonder what sort of marks his former classmates had—somehow, he suspected they weren’t as lucky. His scars were numerous and the bruises bloomed hideously against his skin but even the cuts that looked like they had dug the furthest into his skin hadn’t looked that deep. And given the despicableness of his body already, it was hardly a shame.

The doctors and nurses aren’t affected in the slightest by the sight of them, but he does recall Naegi’s face twisting in pained sympathy when the robes had carelessly exposed a particularly nasty splotch of purple and red over his boney hip. But he really blames the hospital robes for that.

At some point, he wants to wear his old outfit again—as filthy as the clothes might have been—it’d make the circumstances at least a little more comfortable compared to now. For now like with all other things in recovery, he just has to wait until he gets to that point.

He’s a patient person in the very least. It’s not too cumbersome. World’s already ended after all, is already at its lowest point, and it can only go up from here. In some ways, it would have been a perfect opportunity for the ultimate hope to rise above all else.

If he thought of it that way, it seemed much easier to deal with this situation. He almost found himself smiling a bit wider, those grins noted cheerily by the nurses even as he hastily brushed them off. It was almost exciting to think about it that way—that excitement was certainly a welcomed distraction.

But still, so many things bugged him.

--

“Look through what you need, but nothing else,” Kirigiri tells him but she lets him rifle through so many files that surely someone would voice a concern or a complaint. She does watch him intently, her gaze sharp against his back as he gathers anything and everything that seems promising.

She doesn’t say anything as he reads through them. But that’s because she must know already what’s in them—confirmations on Naegi’s explanations from before but with extra tidbits Komaeda hadn’t known. Mostly about sections of Hope’s Peak Academy beyond the elite class—the “reserve course” and primary schools covered by HPA’s funding. There were numerous accounts of cover ups and foul play beyond what Naegi had mentioned in vague detail, and when he couldn’t help but glance towards Kirigiri, her expression was unreadable.

“Ah...” He hadn’t meant to make that sound, but Kirigiri sighed all the same.

“My father was a fool, wasn’t he?” Her voice was calm, but quiet, deft fingers brushing back those lilac locks as she met his curious gaze evenly. “I’ve known that for years now.” A small smile tugged at her lips as she nodded simply. “You needn’t be concerned about me, Komaeda-kun.”

“How direct of you...” I hadn’t meant to imply anything. I was just curious. “Don’t...mind me, Kirigiri-san.”

She hummed as he went back to flipping through the pages. Silence dragged as he read through them, and then read through a few of them again. One page detailing HPA’s roots from the very beginning caught his eye, especially with the peculiar name captioned under the image of the school’s founder. It was hard to read, a bit odd, and it was a wonder why he was so fixated...

...Ka...mu... Then the syllables fell into place as he realized one way to read this name. Kamukura Izuru.

And that felt right. He had recognized the name earlier, and somehow it just clicked with the portrait of the aged man and his serious stare. It didn’t feel all wrong.

A coincidence? With a name this peculiar?

He looked through more of the files—blank, blank, blank, except he came across what happened to the rest of the reserve course that Hinata admitted to being a part of. All 2,357 had committed mass suicide following their initial revolts—

All of them?

“Komaeda-kun,” He had almost forgotten Kirigiri. She was closer than he realized, pulling the file from his hands with a sigh. “You’re going to tear the pages. These are the only files we have on the island—anything else is with the rest of the Future Foundation. I’d appreciate you being more careful.”

“Excuse me...” Komaeda ducked his head in apology, his face hot. “I’ll be careful.”

Kamukura Izuru. No wonder he recognized the name. In the very least, that portrait of the aged man with the name didn’t bother him as much as the other person he met. It didn’t feel all wrong.

But at the same time why...

Several more files later and he’s utterly frustrated with the complete lack of information on the other Kamukura Izuru.

“Oh, Komaeda-san. Kirigiri-san. Greetings.”

He doesn’t even flinch as he looks up blankly, eyes landing on Sonia smiling down at him as regal as ever.

Except not like before.

Her hair had been chopped short, her skin had gotten paler to a point where it was worrying, her eyes weren’t as bright nor her smile—in fact, there was a distinct tiredness written all over her face from her lolling head, the darkness under her gaze, and how her shoulders were slumped, the posture a bit stiff. Almost as though just one reach and push and she’d shatter into pieces once she hit the floor. But she was doing her best in trying to act her usual brand of formal.

It’s a shame such efforts were being wasted on him, but Kirigiri did give a polite nod towards her.

“Sonia-san, it’s good to see you doing well.”

Sonia giggles, just a little.

“Thank you, Kirigiri-san, I appreciate your concern and I once again thank you most graciously for the assistance you and the others provided.”

“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” Kirigiri said.

“Oh, but I simply must!” Sonia exclaims.

Komaeda ducks his head, saying nothing, blurring this exchange out until—

“Komaeda-san. Komaeda-san,” she said again, a bit louder like she was concerned he hadn’t heard her. Her smile faltered a bit—maybe it was the stare he was giving her. “How are you? Better, I hope?”

“Better...”

This time, Kirigiri was the one saying nothing, only observing the scene with intent interest. Komaeda almost didn’t pay her any mind at all, focused as he was on Sonia.

“Out of all of us, you had the most difficult time ah, waking,” Sonia had gotten a bit more animated, messing with her hands. But the motions were still clumsy, not fluid elegant gestures like before. “Hinata-san did mention some...difficulties that he saw himself. He was very worried about you as was myself... So it’s good to see you’re up and about after all that.”

I had heard his voice then... Even though he shouldn’t have, he did wonder what Hinata had thought about the sight. He must have been scared. He must have worried.

And he may not have been the only one... Sonia’s stare is expectant, searching, almost like she’s still fretting that he’ll fall back into that frightening state. Even though she’s tired and must have a lot of things on her mind—she is, no, was the SHSL Princess, though he doesn’t know everything about her particular situation, the stress of it all is clear enough—yet that stare is intent, attentive, like she needs to act quickly just in case something happens. It’s admirable.

Aggravating.

“I think I’m done here,” he says, shutting the file and sorting them back into place. “I’ve already read all that I could—and I can’t just be sitting around for too long. Productivity is important in a place like this, isn’t it? Far more so than in that simulation anyway.”

“Yes, that is true,” Sonia agrees with a sigh. Still on edge, though he suspected there were different reasons for now compared to before. In the corner of his gaze, he sees Kirigiri silently nod. “So you are doing well now, Komaeda-san?”

“As well as I’ll ever be,” Komaeda finally answered, voice low and distant. “But in this situation, that’s hardly saying anything.”

“I... I see.” She nods agreeably. “This situation has certainly taken us all for a whirl, hasn’t it? I still can’t wrap my head around it. And I still don’t fully know what happened to everyone else back home... If there’s a home to go back to...”

Sonia would have the most to worry about in regards to that common concern. An entire country, in fact. Komaeda wondered if she suffered the most crushing guilt, even when everyone else was suffering so much already. They should be, at least.

It was good, then, that Komaeda hadn’t much to lose in the first place. There’s nothing to mourn save for the SHSLs, for HPA. So there’s nothing to mourn at all. Nothing at all.

“It’s rough on everyone,” Komaeda finds himself saying, and it isn’t as striking as it should be that he’s quoting Hinata from before. But it’s a generic comment to make. Hinata may be generic but he doesn’t own it. “Well, it can’t be helped regardless. There’s little to do but to recover and move on. We could just end it, of course, but—”

“But that won’t do any good at all.” Sonia cuts in immediately, stern enough that it was like she regained a bit of herself from the simulation after all. “We’d really do the world an injustice, especially to Naegi-san and the others who risked so much in helping us despite what we did. So don’t think that way, Komaeda-san.”

Her hands were curled into taut fists, shaking even as she kept them down by her sides. Still, Komaeda wouldn’t have to look at her face to know her expression would match the severity of her tone, with zero room for compromise. And yet, that wall still crumbled, that exhaustion creeping back ad she sighed heavily with a hitch in her breath, shaking as she rubbed her temple.

“We mustn’t think that way,” she repeats, and despite the returned tiredness, that tone doesn’t waver. “Do you understand, Komaeda-san?”

“I do.” He’s not lying. He puts the files back in place without another word, but before he leaves, he nods towards her, “Best regards, Sonia-san.”

Something pained does flicker through her expression before morphing into surprise. Thankfully, she doesn’t call for him as he exits. She stays silent. It’s easier that way for both of them.

“...Sonia-san... As I had said...”

Ah, Kirigiri-san stayed behind to talk with her.

...it really is better this way.

--

He behaves for the doctors and nurses. He retains his experience with that, keeping his mouth shut tight when having his blood drawn, and reluctantly taking the crutches they offer to help him move. But at some point he gives them back when he feels like walking isn’t too much of an issue anymore—and he still doesn’t know what the others are going through.

He does know there are limited resources to go around. He’s always been content to using the bare minimum and passing on the recommended but unnecessary. It isn’t too difficult, though those doctors and nurses do pester him on taking medication as recommended. Naegi insists as well as Kirigiri—he doesn’t know about the actual Togami, but he’s not too bothered about that one.

One day, Naegi visits him with a laptop.

The only classmate he’s interested in speaking to at this point is Nanami, and it helps that he has many things he wants to ask her. Wording them might be difficult, and he’s not entirely sure on how to approach this situation because who would have imagined—

Naegi-kun seems to not think so much about it though. He mentioned what he went through with the other AI... But at the same time I was at one point able to touch Nanami-san with what felt like my own hands so...

Only being able to communicate through a screen is a bit mystifying to say the least. Especially when she’s still rubbing at her eye prior to smiling sleepily and greeting him. Poking the screen isn’t going to be the same as before as when he prodded her cheek and chided her for staying up too late playing games.

But that wouldn’t have been the situation anyway.

“Komaeda-kun, how’s it been going?”

Her voice doesn’t even sound the same as before... More filtered... Not so clear... Loud compared to when she was just standing in front of me... But none of that was real.

“I’m disoriented. Everything’s so dizzying to think about.” He admits it honestly; it’s the first time he’s managed to be so direct right off the bat. He still has trouble discussing this to the doctors, the nurses, to Naegi... He wouldn’t dare mention it to Hinata but he still retains a lack of desire to discuss anything to Hinata really. “Nanami-san being a program is a bit difficult to take in too... But I guess it’s not too far out of left field... Technology really has gotten to be incredible...”

Still it all felt so real. It’s troubling.

“I’m sorry, Komaeda-kun,” Nanami says and there’s a surprisingly serious expression on her face. He had so rarely seen her make that look before. “It must been hard on you. You aren’t the only one—everyone else, I think, feels the same way about me...”

And what kind of comments did they make? Some of them wouldn’t have been so open about their feelings—others would say far too much...

But he shouldn’t be so concerned about such things in regards to them. So he shakes his head and manages a wry smile. “Well, it’s not Nanami-san’s fault... She was just responding in regards to her programming... Why blame for behaving as designed?”

“Komaeda-kun...” She frowned deeply, and he could imagine her wide pink eyes shimmering as they had before. Screen now or no, he still felt that pang at making her make such a face. “Komaeda-kun, we’re all still friends, you know...”

...Ah... That pang burrowed in deeper, his hand curling as his chin rested upon his palm, the nails scratching against skin. This again... Even if it’s Nanami-san...

“The bonds everyone made on the island were still real,” she states, and even though her tone of voice makes it clear she believes this, her eyes are pleading him. Still. “Even if it was all a simulation, that doesn’t mean our experiences were all...”

I don’t wish to hear this.

He closes the laptop in one swift motion. She went immediately silent. Just like that.

“...h...” His shoulders shook, just the slightest bit, his hand going to muffle the ugly sound from his mouth. But the second he did that, it just burst from his throat in a high, screechy chortle that gave way to giggling that had him shaking like a leave caught up in the wind. His hand went and covered his face, unable to stop, but the second he accidentally jabbed himself with the bandaged stub of his wrist, he went dead silent, pulling both it and his hand back, staring at the two blankly.

His hand was still trembling, but the stub looked to be still. Without another word or sound, his hand closed as he pushed himself out of the bed, leaving the laptop on the covers. He should return it—even though Naegi insisted he keep it. Use for his own leisure.

Have someone there who wasn’t his nurse but an actual friend. He’ll apologize to Nanami later but for now he’d rather make his way to the library. There are many things he’d like to read.

He does make eye-contact with the security camera watching him go, and he does have it in him to wonder if Nanami is sadly watching him as well. She probably is.

Komaeda waves goodbye with a sad smile of his own.

--

It’s been rough on everyone. He knows that for certain. But he’s still not sure to what degree—oh he can guess, draw up theories and assumptions that’d be likely knowing how well acquainted he is with those former classmates of his, how he had gotten to know them during that ‘field trip’—he’d never know for sure if he didn’t speak to them on his own.

But he’s still reluctant taking Naegi’s optimistic advice in checking up with the others. Talking to them more. He shouldn’t be in his room all the time when not partaking in isolated therapy, especially when he’s having meals taken to his room by the nurses as opposed to making his way to the cafeteria of the building where some of the others might be.

He’s just troubling the nurses with his pettiness. So he does go in the end. But he does so early when the chances of the others being there is low—he’d done the same for the longest time on the island though there’d always still be at least someone there like Hanamura, Owari, and who he knew as Togami but wasn’t.

Hanamura and that person are nowhere in sight. But Owari wolfs down that food like it had done the world wrong. She’s thinner than he remembers. Skeletal like himself to the point he wonders if this is a nightmare—this shouldn’t be Owari-san...

Even with everything stuffed down her throat, she swallows and stumbles to get more and that’s when Komaeda can’t help but call out, “Aah, Owari-san, you’ll most definitely get sick.”

She belched, rubbing at her mouth with a groan and steadying herself on the table before turning to Komaeda with a glare. One that falters almost instantly as she rubs at her arm with that same exhaustion he’d seen in Sonia. “Too late for that, Komaeda. I woke up sick and starving.”

She holds up her hand when he approaches her, shaking her head. “Don’t get too close. I’ve already thrown up on two nurses and Naoki.”

“Eh... You mean Naegi-kun?” Owari shrugs but nods distantly. Komaeda can’t help but smile, chuckling. “Well, you were close, Owari-san.”

“Mmgh.” He’s not sure if he heard it, but he saw the twist in her expression, the way her arm pressed to her stomach and it’s then he noticed the bandages on her arm, how haphazardly done they were as though they were wrapped by someone inexperienced and impatient. Giving the circumstances, he understands immediately.

“Owari-san... You’re supposed to be in your room. With an IV to recover from what happened.” Komaeda clicked his tongue, calm tone hardening with a harsh edge. “You’re endangering yourself greatly with these stunts. You could die—”

“I was hungry.” She growled, looking away from him stubbornly. “It’s just not enough. People don’t get that—even old man Nidai got angry but I can’t just... I can’t...” Owari let out a retching sound, slapping her hand over her mouth and shaking, groaning. “Aw, fuck. Dammit. Not now. Not in front of this fucking guy, of all people—”

It’s been rough on everyone. Some of us are bound to be more broken than the others.

Owari used to always insist he eat more. Was forceful about it, in fact. Even if she hit him too hard in trying to cajole him, he always appreciated that aspect of her. But he always had his suspicions about it as well—Hinata had probably known more to it, but he never asked—

...well. It wasn’t something he was meant to know either way. Owari-san was a dear classmate like the others, and even she was utterly crushed by the aftereffects of what they had done not just to the world but to themselves. His bandaged wrist itched. It itched badly.

“I’m going to get someone,” he says blankly, and Owari snapped to him with a vicious glare.

“Don’t,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare, Komaeda, I’ll kill you—”

“Will you?” he asks plainly, shaking his head. “I don’t really believe that you’re capable, Owari-san. Certainly not in that state.”

With that infuriated look on her face—how she seemed ready to lurch for his throat in a moment’s notice—there was a ferocity  in her glare that almost shook him to his core, that extinguished all doubt that even someone like Owari-san could be—

Then she faltered, slipping to her knees and digging her palms into her face, groaning loudly and mournfully. Her shoulders shook, and he wondered but tossed that thought aside when she slammed her fist to the floor, staring straight at the floor.

“Damn it.” Her whisper was low enough he almost didn’t hear her. “Damn it—we shouldn’t fucking deserve this—”

There’s nothing Komaeda can say to that. Like Owari, he doesn’t have the energy to lash out now. If he did, it’d just be a waste of time when she’s in this state. She might just fall into despair again—

He left that room before she could look up. In the very least, he did alert the first nurse he saw of her state. They didn’t even look surprised, just sympathetic. He’d never been fond of sympathy—he’s sure someone like Owari wouldn’t appreciate it much if at all either.

When that nurse thanked him and nodded sweetly towards him, he felt nothing but cold emptiness. Like there was a void surrounding him that swallowed up such sentiments that already meant so little. He almost didn’t feel anything but sick but—he was sick still, surely—but compared to Owari, to the possible states of others, he wondered if he deserved to be a concern even now.

For not the first time, he really wondered about the others. But he couldn’t say for sure if it was curiosity or concern.

But under these despairing conditions, it’s ideal for hope—

“...ehe...” Komaeda chuckled to himself, shoulders quaking as he kept his fist close to his lips. With the nurse on their way to attend to Owari, there wasn’t any use for him anymore but perhaps—

It wouldn’t be redemption for us, but it could overcome—

He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed.

--

Right. That’s right. Darkness came before light. Despair came before hope. Even if it wasn’t redemption, even if it could never be redemption, it could still be, it was still always going to be—

“Komaeda?”

Ah.

Bad luck always came before good luck. In this case, the bad luck was so potent that when Komaeda tried to twist away, he ended up twisting his ankle a bit too hard and instead met the floor with his face.

“Komaeda!”

The fall hurt. The humiliation of it hurt much worse.

And of course, Hinata was there to help him up without a word. Komaeda bit down hard on his lip, but even he wasn’t so stubborn as to fight Hinata off while his foot was throbbing. Actually, he didn’t think he had it in him to fight from the moment he heard Hinata’s voice.

Darkness came before light. Despair came before hope. Bad luck always came before good luck.

“Uh, do you need me to bring you back to your room, or...?”

And Komaeda...didn’t really want to talk to Hinata but... But...

“Even an ending can be another beginning,” he mumbles deliriously.

“What?”

Komaeda leans into Hinata, far too tired to explain, hoping like an idiot that Hinata would come to understand on his own. Hoping that someday, everyone would come to explain and everything wouldn’t be so...

“Komaeda?”

...so...

“K-Komaeda, are you...”

...so very...

“Are you crying?”

Komaeda said nothing, simply letting it be. Let the world turn. Let his body tremble and break so that it could be rebuilt later. Being with Hinata like this left him too exhausted to function, and yet...

Even the ending is another beginning, he forces himself to think. Hinata-kun and I may not have been destined to be friends, but... We’re bound to one another all the same.

“Alright,” Hinata sighs then. “I’m taking you back to your place. Sorry. I... I know you’d prefer to be alone right now. I’ll leave as soon as I help you lay down. I’ll... I’ll let Naegi know what happened. So that someone can...look at your foot.”

Aah, it didn’t help that Hinata Hajime, SHSL Despair and perhaps the fakest of Hopes, was too hard to hate.

[pokemenlovingmen]

Okay!! I was able to counter act the links being funky in my app by opening your blog in my mobile browser!!!! so I was able to read your rules n stuff so now I can finally request (yusss!!! also, I saw the "ingo,,, again" under the PLA characters you write for and it made me think "ingo 2,,, electric boogaloo" heheheh. also yeah fuck kamado, all my homies hate kamado)

okay, could I please request a lil drabble (if you only do hc's thats fine of course! I just couldnt find it clearly if you only do hc's) of Adaman taking care of a reader who is on bed rest and healing? the exact stuff of how and what is up to you, for me its more so the comfort and caring side, not so much the angst side (so like, nothing thats like "omg reader was near death" pls?). gender of the reader I dont mind, just do what youre most comfortable with and yee!! thank youuuu

Hi you’ve been such a kind supporter I’m sorry it took me so long to get to you!! And yeah. Fuck Kamado. That exile would have been my villain origin story if the game gave me more agency, I swear to god.

And conversely, we love Adaman. They put him in pokemas and my quality of life has improved significantly <3

Oh and I’m sorry about the lack of clarity of what I do! I do only HCs, but at the level of detail I can’t stop myself from including, they’re kinda like a weird fusion between drabble and headcanons.

Healing Takes Time — Adaman x M!Reader

💎 — Hisui is a dangerous place and injuries ranging from minor to severe are all too common. So Adaman’s not exactly a stranger to presiding over loved ones on bed rest.

💎 — Doesn’t mean he’s good at it, though.

💎 — Mai reminds him that the slow passage of time is just as important as things that happen in the quick, efficient manner that he prefers as well. It’s not a slight from Mighty Dialga being displeased, it’s just the nature of time. But he can’t just stand around when it comes to your health! Yes, rest takes time, he’s aware, but all this waiting feels the same as doing nothing to him.

💎 — Mai basically has to keep him away from you constantly because he’s always fretting over you, which is definitely sweet of him even if it’s not exactly helpful, but it is funny to watch the cartoonish shenanigans of Mai trying to constantly shoo Adaman away from the medical tent.

💎 — Even if what you’re recovering from isn’t serious, you’d never be able to guess that from how he behaves.

💎 — He essentially becomes your primary nurse and seldom lets you out of his sight if he can help it (thanks to Mai being the reasonable one, he usually can’t).

💎 — Once things calm down though, after the first two or three days when your recovery progress is becoming quite apparent, he’s less frazzled and more willing to leave you be. He just can’t help that impatience winning out, though, sometimes.

💎 — He’ll be there to help you with maintaining yourself while you rest, sitting beside your futon while you recover, brushing your hair so you don’t have to, keeping a fresh cold compress on you at all times if the problem is that you’re sick and feverish, changing your bandages if it’s an injury, all that.

💎 — If you’re okay with it, he’ll also happily bring his Leafeon to see you for some good old fashioned grass-type aromatherapy. I know Leafeon can’t actually learn the move aromatherapy, but it’s clearly made of plants and must have some kind of floral/herbal smell.

💎 — And since we know he is a house husband in the making guy with an interest in cooking, you bet he’ll be bringing you all manner of home-cooked meals.

💎 — He’s so dutiful, oftentimes he doesn’t go back to his own tent for the night and will instead fall asleep on the cold floor next to your futon.

💎 — Adaman is very sure to keep you abreast of all goings-on in the clan, usually nothing much of interest, but he does uncharacteristically bring you all sorts of gossip. It’s not that he likes to gossip, but while you’re bedridden he can’t think of much to entertain you with so this is what he’s settled on. And also he probably would like to vent his multitude of frustrations with Melli specifically because you just know 3/5 instances of drama involve some kind of category 5 Melli moment.

💎 — Once you start to recover and leave your bedridden state, he’s still just as present as he was before.

💎 — If it was an injury he’s always making sure you’re not overexerting yourself, and if it’s something that happened to your legs, he’s volunteering to help you walk around so you don’t put too much pressure on the injury.

💎 — For illness he’ll always be on your case about taking whatever medicines/remedies you were instructed to, because your recovery has already taken ages (to him) already, and he’s not sure he can bear seeing you sick for much longer.

💎 — Regardless of the reason you’re bedridden, he’ll always give you a kiss on the forehead when he enters the tent and before he leaves—though if you’re sick, he musters the self control to wait. Ideally he can keep that up, but he might get a little impatient… oh well. He needs to remind you how much he loves you, and if he ends up getting what you have, he knows you’ll care for him just as dutifully as he did you.

[kaynk8]

The eighth sin

When a part of the land on the territory of an Irish women's convent was given to the Vikings' settlement, the nuns had to learn how to coexist with people who stroke deadly fear into them.

A young nun Erin catches Ivar's eye and now her faith undergoes severe questioning

🔴Warnings: religion, slight dubious consent, first kiss, mentioning of alcohol, smut, slow burn

Chapter masterlist

@ivarlover ❤️

Chapter IV, Invidia (Envy) Pt.2

Sharp but rather pleasant smell of dry lavender and mint hit her nostrils as she walked in.

Erin was genuinely surprised to find Maeve not asleep as usual but sitting in her bed. She was covered with big fur up to her chest and seemed pretty comfortable. She was preoccupied with pounding something in a big bowl. She wasn’t looking sick at all, and her skin had acquired healthy and natural glow. She looked even better than before.

Maeve turned her head at the incomer and a bright smile lit up her face.

'Sister Erin!' she exclaimed. She carefully put the bowl next to her bed and leaned forward. Erin ran up to her, hugging her warm body. She moved aside quickly to let Erin sit down.

‘You look so much better, I’m glad.’ Erin stroked her soft hair.

‘Exactly! I'm so fit I feel I can run but Helga says I should stay in bed at least for a couple days more. And she also makes me drink this.' She complained and twitched her nose. ‘Not as disgusting as the tea Abbess gives us but…’ they both laughed. 'By the way, is she in distress... because of me?' she looked at Erin apologetically as if feeling sorry for all the mess she’d caused.

'Furious.' Erin threw a naughty look at her. 'But with me, not with you. It was my idea to bring you here. She's praying for your recovery. As all of us do.'

Maeve shifted in her bed.

‘I don’t even remember… you can’t imagine how scared I was when I woke up and found myself here!’ they both laughed. ‘I was terrified, but you know what, Sister Erin… They are not bad... these pagans. They are treating me so well and they are not cruel at all. I know they can be...,’ she hurried to correct herself not to sound too fascinated with them. 'But they seem pretty nice. They are just... like us.' She started whispering. 'And there's a boy...’

'Maeve!' Was it some cruel joke? She hadn’t got over the last night yet and now Maeve was talking about boys.

'I know, I know sister Erin! But I swear it’s not what you think. So, this boy… he’s so funny and he can do some tricks with his hands. They sometimes gather outside in the evening and when there’s a fire burning, he puts his hands and fingers like this,’ she tried to imitate the gesture. ‘Well... similar to this. And animals or birds emerge there out of shadows. Breathtaking! You should see it. Look...’ Maeve tried again and tangled her fingers in a weird way. ‘Can you guess what it is?’

Erin looked closely but couldn’t figure out anything coherent in that. ‘No, it seems I can’t, sorry.’ she laughed.

Maeve frowned at the figure she made with her fingers. ‘That’s a dog! Anyways, it shows better in a shadow, on the wall.’ she shrugged.

Erin felt upcoming tears tickling her nose. Her little, gentle Maeve’s back. Sweet girl that enjoys every second of this life and who’s yet so much to see in this world. Everything was worth it.

‘And also... Sister Erin, you won’t tell anyone?’ Maeve’s face expression became cautious. After everything that’s been going on Erin's heart fell and she felt impatient to hear what she had to say.

‘What is it?’

‘Skiði... I mean the boy I told you about... he brought me their dish. I don't know the name of it but it's something sweet.’ she tried to suppress a delightful smile which started to show on her lips and Erin barely kept herself from scowling at that. ‘It's so delicious. Here, I saved some for you…'

‘No-no-no, thank you, Maeve,’ Erin shook her head refusing the girl's offer.

‘I shouldn’t have probably taken that, too, but...’

‘It’s okay. You’ve suffered enough drinking those awful mixtures. You need something sweet,’ Erin laughed light-heartedly.

She couldn’t be angry with Maeve, not really. She’s too precautious. All this talking about boys won’t go too far. And that Maeve was fine was all what was important right now. Erin was missing her liveliness so badly. After a week of Maeve’s absence Erin caught herself absorbing every single word she said, each slightest movement of her face.

'Well, I have to go until they notice I'm missing for too long.' she kissed her on the cheek. ‘Get better and listen to Helga!'

She went outside, squinting from the sun suddenly shining too brightly after time spent in the dim tent.

The first thing she heard was Ivar and some other man’s laughing. She immediately recognized Aaron. The last person she wished to see.

‘Oh, hi, Erin!’ he greeted her joyfully.

‘Hello.’ she said without raising her eyes at him, too ashamed to look him in the face.

‘Where’s Aislin? You usually come together, I thought she’d come by.’ he spoke so easily as if nothing had happened between two of them last night.

‘She’s busy. Thanks for everything. I need to go now.’

In fact, she wanted to see neither of them right now. After she left Maeve, it felt like a rude awakening into the real world with Aaron who took advantage of her Sister in Christ and was totally shamless about it. And Ivar...She bit at her lower lip and cast a wistful look to where the girls with the wreaths were sitting, but they were already gone.

‘Hey, wait. I’ll walk you.’

‘No need, thanks.’

‘People are getting drunk here.’ he gave her a meaningful look. ‘Let me walk you.’

‘What about you?’ she couldn’t help scoffing pointing at a mug in Ivar’s hand.

‘I’m the lesser evil.’ he smirked and took a sip of whatever was inside.

Erin nodded hesitantly. She didn’t like the idea of drunk Ivar, but the lesser evil, right. While wandering somewhere in her thoughts she didn’t notice that their weird celebration was getting on. And that it was only afternoon and they were already getting drunk was a bad sign, even Ivar himself was admitting that. They’re going to be raising hell by night.

‘Look, I have a question.’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought Maeve’s your friend, isn’t she?’

Erin nodded no less confused than he was because of the question.

‘Why does she call you a sister?’ he twisted his mug carelessly with his fingers.

‘Because she is my Sister in Christ. We are all one Father’s children.’ Erin replied without giving it a second thought.

‘Like… anyone? So you can... call everybody brother or sister?’

‘Yes’

‘So… I’m your brother then?’ he looked pretty serious a couple of seconds before he sneered loudly.

‘Will you stop mocking every word I say?’ She scowled at him.

‘I’m not mocking you, I’m just trying to figure it out.’ he shrugged and winced. ‘It’s heck of a lot to dig into everything you’ve got here.’

‘There were more of you, weren’t there?’ Erin looked around as they walked. ‘Where’s everybody gone to?’

‘To the village... for a feast.’

‘Days ago?’ Erin stepped in his way and he stumbled, nearly bumping in her. ‘What’s going on over there? Tell me! We heard the rumors...’

He smirked leniently.

‘Don’t worry yourself too much.’ He laid his large hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

‘Is it true that they’re advancing?’ She raised her pleading eyes at him, unsure if she was ready to hear the truth, but much more terrified to stay ignorant.

‘Yes.’ he nodded at last. ‘But they’ll retreat in a couple of days to get some strength. Maybe make some alliances. If there’s any left.’

‘How do you know?’

He pressed his lips tightly and frowned.

‘Because their leader Amlaib... he’s my brother.’ He turned to her, apparently waiting for her reaction. ‘Not in Christ or how you say it. By blood.’

Her eyes shot open with surprise.

‘How can… how can one fight against their own brother?’

‘Welcome to my world.’ He stuck out his lower lip and shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

‘But…’

‘And that’s what makes the situation beneficial for us.’

‘How?’ she tilted her head to one side, frustrated.

‘There’s a chance to prevail when you know who you’re fighting with. You know what people say - keep your enemies close, right? I got pretty lucky about that.’

‘Wouldn’t say better…’

‘He doesn’t know I’m here. And if he knew he’d never believe it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cuz this place still stands,’ he gave her a meaningful look, a wry smile playing on his lips. ‘Hey, take it easy. I’m joking.’ He laughed merrily when he saw her stiffen.

‘Doesn’t look like it’ she scowled at him.

‘I’m flattered you know me so well.’ the corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘Don’t worry about anything, okay? Hope to see you soon.’ he took another long sip and made a quick sideway movement with his hand, spilling the leftovers from the mug onto the ground.

***

After the evening service all the Sisters left to get ready for bed. But Erin and three other nuns had to stay in the chapel as they were put in charge of holding St. John’s service. Even though she could barely stand on her feet wishing just to lay her head on the pillow, she didn’t mind it at all. She loved it but most importantly she knew she just had to get through this. Because after all her deeds the last thing she wanted was to go back on her duty.

She kept thinking of Ivar. During the day and even here, during the service, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She felt disappointed. But not with him. With herself mostly for being so foolishly gullible. She realized she was singing without putting any meaning to her words. She had to focus now. For the sake of her Father who never left her. Who revealed her the truth before it was too late. How could she ever doubt him? She closed her eyes and let herself dissolve in the magic of the prayer. She let the sounds and words inside and an amazing purifying feeling slid into her heart and soul, promising blithe future.

‘Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a moment’ Erin nodded when they were finished. The girls left and soon their voices vanished.

The empty chapel brought back the feeling of loneliness again. And she was also in distress because the sleepless night didn’t pass unnoticed, and Erin lost her rosary somewhere and couldn’t find it for the whole day. She tried to trace the places in her mind where she took it out or used it but couldn’t remember.

She walked around the chapel, looking under every pew, around the pulpit, but the floor was empty. She sat down exhaustedly and looked out through the open door.

The day was refusing to end. The sun was splashed brightly across the horizon and the light wind was blowing pleasantly, struggling to keep the grains of warmth before the upcoming chilliness of the night.

The pagans’ bonfire was seen clearly from the distance because of the tall pole that now looked like a burning arrow, shooting its flames up high.

‘Helan går Sjung hopp faderallan lallan lej’

Their drunk voices were roaring as one and it felt like the ground itself was shaking.

‘Helan går Och den som inte helan tår!’*

But Erin was so tired she didn’t seem to care. She sat for a moment thinking, her sleepy eyes were tiredly capturing the beauties outside. She got so deep into her thoughts that she shrugged when Ivar suddenly appeared in the doorway as if out of nowhere.

‘Hello?’ he stepped into the chapel without an invitation and Erin stood up abruptly, not sure if to greet him or protect the house of God from the intruder.

‘Hello,’ she raised her brow still taken aback by his appearance.

‘You left this at Helga’s. Maeve said it was yours.’ He outstretched his hand and the black rosary slipped through his fingers.

‘Oh, thank you. I’ve been looking for it everywhere!’ Erin took them carefully tugging by the hanging end avoiding Ivar’s hand.

‘What’s this for?’ he pointed at the rosary with a nod.

‘It’s… we count prayers like this,’ she made a light movement with her fingers and a couple of beads slipped downwards. ‘Or I sometimes touch them when I pray. Just to set the rhythm.’

‘Hm, interesting.’ He nodded his head as if he didn’t care at all, took an apple out of his pocket and rubbed it at his shirt.

He made slow steps forward and raised his head watching the dome of the chapel.

‘‘s a nice place,’ he pouted his lips approvingly. Erin bowed her head slightly unsure of the reaction she should have for this. In truth, she didn’t like his being here. His presence felt like somebody’s getting on your bed in their muddy shoes, so much he didn’t belong here.

He threw the apple up in the air, caught it and bit a big piece off. It looked so juicy and probably a bit sour that Erin’s mouth quickly filled with saliva.

‘You’ve got nice apples growing down there,’ he pointed in the forest’s direction which supposedly was behind the wall. ‘The whole orchard.’

‘Those are wild apples. We don’t eat them.’ Erin said with restrain. She was completely sure she would be breathing freely again. It took her a couple of prayers and the holy singing to give in fully into the heavenly glory again. But the walls she’s been building for the past days and which she thought would be much more solid after what she observed today gave a crack and now were just crumbling into pieces since he came around. And her chest ached from an unfamiliar feeling that sat deep inside like a painful splinter she couldn’t pick out.

She still had this painful scene in her mind. That of the beautiful long-hair girl and him together. And Erin was dying from uncertainty. If only there were answers to all the questions. But last time people had them, they were banished from paradise. And since then, it was never that easy.

He had never mentioned that girl before and of course Erin didn’t have any innocent reason to bring her in either.

He stood, his back to Erin, facing the altar and then turned to her.

‘I want you to teach me your religion.’

‘Wh-what?’ Erin’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Ivar… are you drunk?’

He let out a loud scoff. ‘Drunk, huh? We’d be having a different conversation if I were. I’m serious. I want to know.’ He looked at her.

‘Why would you want that?’

‘Well, you see…we came here to find a new life… and I want to understand your ways as well.’ He went to the doorway and threw the apple core outside.

Despite all the things he’d said before, a sparkle of hope glistened in her eyes as well as in her heart. She never thought about herself as a messiah but maybe she’ll be able to find a soft spot in his heart and lead him away from all the atrocities their so-called Gods preach them.

‘This Jesus you always talk about, who is he, really?’ He gave her a once-over and looked at the crucifix. ‘Why did he hammer himself to the cross?’

‘What?’ How could one even think about this? But well, she shouldn’t forget that it was a pagan she was talking to. God only knows what’s on their wicked minds. ‘He didn’t. People did.’

‘People? Why?’

God sent Him into our world to show what a righteous person should be like. The life they should lead. But He was tortured and died…. Because people were sinful and corrupt, because there was no faith in them. And little is there now. But we can try, at least, to be like Him, to lead a life like He did.’ She glanced at the crucified figure with admiration.

‘It’s the only way we can be allowed in heaven.’ she turned to Ivar. ‘He knew it all and He wanted to help, to guide. His life was free of sin, because unlike us, He was born not in it but with the God’s blessing. Virgin Mary was His mother and God was His father.’

Ivar’s eyebrows went up as high as if they intended to reach the dome of the chapel.

‘Wait…wait-wait-wait. This Mary...’ he cocked his head to one side and winced as if trying to process things in his head. ‘If she was a virgin, how could she be his mother?’ Erin stiffed a laugh from this ignorance of his and pure curiosity on his face.

‘It was a miracle.’ She said proudly.

‘What is a miracle?’ He looked down on her, still frowning curiously.

‘A miracle is…’ Erin suddenly stumbled. She bit at her lower lip in frustration. It was so easy in her head. ‘Well, it’s when…when something you thought was impossible happens.

‘Like a virgin getting pregnant?’ Ivar arched a brow.

‘Yes.' She replied patiently. 'Surely, her husband didn’t believe her but then an angel, God’s servant, descended upon him while he was asleep and told him that his wife conceived the baby through the Holy Spirit. She was put upon a sever trial after but endured everything and proved she’d remained pure.’

‘Was there something wrong with her husband?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How was she still a virgin after the marriage? Her husband was incapable of…?’

‘Stop it! They were both pious people and were blessed for it!’

‘Oh, were they? Curious…’ he nodded slowly, stucking out his lower lip. He always did it and each time Erin found it deadly attractive but suddenly was loathing it now.

He made a few steps forward to the candlestand and took out a burning candle. He twisted it in his fingers slowly watching a small drop of wax running down the stem.

‘She just cheated.’ He said after a short pause.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your Mary. Cheated on her husband and then made up this whole story.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Got a couple dozen of them Maries. The ones who suddenly become pregnant with their husbands away. A miracle, right, how’d you call it? I shall keep that in mind.’

‘How dare you say so about this blessed woman?’ Erin cried out which almost left her breathless.

‘I don’t understand,’ he shook his head ignoring her outburst. ‘How is he a God or God’s son? How could people possibly torture and kill a God?’

‘But that’s the point – he came back alive after three days. He never died, not really, because his Father would never allow it.’

‘If he’s alive, then where is he?’ Ivar turned around as if expecting Jesus to be sitting somewhere in the corner.

‘Yes, he is alive indeed but he’s not here, on Earth. He’s in heaven, with his Father.’

‘If people are still sinful, then what was this sacrifice for? Did he become wiser or gain all the knowledge?’

‘He didn’t need anything like that. He already has it. He can do anything, and he knows and sees everything.’ she tried to put it as easy as she could because she sensed Ivar getting impatient and the fact that he was drunk, even though he denied it and at first sight he didn’t really look so, made her even more anxious. She saw enough of him sober to tell that now he wasn’t.

‘You said you were going to be married to him? How’s that possible?’

‘Yes, I am. All the Sisters that belong to convents take a vow of chasity, obedience and poverty. I’m still to take mine soon. We choose to live in enclosure, seeking for the life Jesus had and promise ourselves to him so that we can reunite after death.’

Ivar didn’t respond. She raised her eyes giving him a side glance. He wasn’t looking at her. His stare was clinged to Jesus crucified on the cross. The brownish light from a small stained glass window fell on his face and Erin suddenly forgot herself, marveled with what she was seeing. The stoic jawline and high cheekbones. His eyes big as they were, seemed huge now as if trying to trap all the light inside. He was motionless and looked hypnotized. She allowed herself to think, for a moment, that maybe some of her words reached his soul. But his jaw muscles were tensed and lips pressed tightly. He didn’t seem to be filled with admiration. He seemed… angry?

'You choose that, huh? For him?’ he suddenly spoke pointing at Christ’s figure without taking his eyes from it. ‘Lucky guy to have so many wives.’ He turned to Erin, a strange malicious glint in his eyes.

‘What are you saying?’ she barely found strength to whisper, deeply hurt by his words. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She shuddered, overwhelmed with fear of how unpredictable he suddenly became.

‘I’m saying... he doesn’t deserve you.’ He said in a hoarse voice. Her eyes opened wide with terror. She couldn’t believe she was hearing that. Not here, not in the House of God, not in front of Christ.

‘He sees everything, you say?’ He made a step towards the girl without breaking eye contact with her, ‘Then I want him to see this.’

With almost feline grace, he strode forward in a flash of a second. She tried to grab the pulpit not to fall as she flinched backwards and before she could realize what to do, she bumped her back into the wall and found herself pressed to it with Ivar holding her by the crook of her neck. It all happened so fast that a sharp pang of panic paralyzed her whole body. Ivar’s eyes lingered at her lips for a moment and then his hand slipped upwards grabbing at her chin. She tried to turn away, but he cupped her face firmly with his fingers, cutting down all her attempts to move.

‘No, please, don’t...’ Was all she could manage before she felt his warm lips on hers. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips tightly but the more she tried to resist, the firmer his grip became. He forced her lips to part and his tongue pushed its way inside. Sourish apple taste mixed with strong tongue-burning beverage filled her mouth. It was a long, greedy kiss and seemed to be lasting forever. He couldn’t get enough of her. He put his hands gently on her cheeks not breaking the kiss and she grabbed at his forearms in a pathetic attempt to fight him off.

Suddenly he let go off her and she pushed him in the chest. He made a small step back but then moved closer. She threw her arms in front of herself, but it was the same useless as if trying to stop an avalanche with one’s bare hands. He caught her by the wrist as she was about to flinch him, pushing her back to the wall.

He kissed her again but softer and not as claiming as for the first time. And suddenly, for a second, just for a slightest moment she felt something. A strange and overwhelmingly exciting feeling of enigmatic intimacy, of having him close to her, of them kissing. She trembled hard like a leaf in the wind. No. No way, it wasn’t herself, she would never ever have thoughts like these. She opened her eyes and risked a glance at the sorrowful figure of Jesus in the middle of the altar.

Ivar pulled away from her lips, still face to face with her. They both were panting heavily. Erin sucked in a shattered breath, and when Ivar loosened his grip on her, she broke away. She raised her hand and put all her might to slap him in the face.

The sound of it bounced from the walls.

‘Fair enough,’ he smirked pouting his lips.

Heart pounding frantically in her chest, she was breathless, clutching at the cross hanging from her neck.

‘What are you doing!’ She squeaked when she finally regained her ability to speak. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Wow!’ they both turned their heads to the source of the sound. Karen was standing in the doorway, her mouth gaped with unfeigned shock. ‘I...’ she opened her mouth and closed again. Despite her passion for everyone’s dirty secrets, the scene she just observed seemed too much even for her. She turned around abruptly and hurried away.

‘No, no-no-no!’ Erin covered her face with hands.

Ivar tsked.

‘Oops.’

‘Why! Just why!’ She cried out desperately and hit him in his chest which didn’t impress him much, nor made him even move. ‘Oh, God, I’m lost! If Abbess knows, do you even realize what she’ll do to me?!’ she looked in his absolutely unfazed face.

She rushed out of the chapel.

‘So, is it the God or your Abbess that you’re afraid of?’ he asked in her wake. ‘Erin?’

She didn’t look back at him. After what he did, he had the nerve to say this to her. She broke into running, praying Karen didn’t go too far or worse - straight to Abbess’s room.

‘Karen!’ Erin caught up with the girl but she ignored her, not even slowing her pace.

‘Karen, please, wait! It’s not what you think,’ she whined desperately grabbing her by the hand.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she turned around abruptly and ripped her hand from Erin’s with disgust on her face. ‘Whore!’ she hurried away from her.

Erin stopped still, not able to make herself take a single step. Her head was spinning from shame and humiliation.The blow from Karen’s words, cruel and unjust, was so hard on her that it hurt her physically. And that taste of him was killing her. It still lingered on her swollen lips when she touched them carefully with her tongue. The most bitter but somehow the sweetest taste in her life.

* a drinking song, popular during celebration of Midsommer

[notalotjust4ever]

Welcome to my blog! 🎀

REQUESTS

WHAT I WILL WRITE FOR

No x Reader im sorry lovelies</3

TWILIGHT

Jasper Hale X Alice Cullen (ROMANTIC ONLY)

Bella Swan X Edward Cullen (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

Rosalie Hale X Emmet Cullen (ROMANTIC ONLY)

Carlisle Cullen X Esme Cullen (ROMANTIC ONLY)

Renesmee + Any of the Cullens/ EX: Renesmee + Rosalie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Any of the Cullens + Any of the Cullens/ EX: Jasper + Rosalie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Any of the Cullen’s + Bella/ EX: Bella + Emmet (PLATONIC ONLY)

SPIDERMAN (RAIMIVERSE)

Harry Osborn X Peter Parker (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

Mary Jane X Harry Osborn (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

Mary Jane X Harry Osborn X Peter Parker (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

⋰˚☆ ⋰˚☆ ⋰˚☆ ⋰˚☆ ⋰˚☆ ⋰˚☆ ⋰˚

A GUIDE TO MY ASKS

WHAT I WILL 🚫NOT WRITE

Bathroom kInks (Pi$$/ Vomit/ Sc@t/ EprOctO/ EructO)🚫

KInks I am personally not into (Foot kInk, Feeder!sm/ WG kInk, vOre, InflatiOn)🚫

Necro🚫

Sexualized age regression🚫

!ncest/ !ncest play🚫

Su!cide/ Self-Harm, I will write suicidal thoughts or a character in recovery from self-harm but not somebody in the process of doing harm to their body or taking their life!!

R@pe, Non-Con, Dub-Con, or Consented Non-Con🚫

NSFW about any character under 18+ (Renesmee) 🚫

Anything I deem too toxic or aggressive, abuse, extreme yandere, violent NSFW🚫

Extremely violent and detailed murd3r, body horror, gor3🚫

Kn!fes in the bedroom🚫

Threat RP🚫

Any text that encourages an ED, I will write characters suffering from an ED/in recovery from an ED, but no pro-@na/ED propaganda🚫

Major character death🚫

Extreme angst🚫

Racism🚫

Any other POV than 3rd person (just a personal preference!) 🚫

Character X Reader (also personal preference!)🚫

WHAT I ✅WILL ✅WRITE

Characters with a disability or chronic illness! I'm actually so happy to write these, as a person with a chronic illness I believe representation is important in all forms (yes even fan-fiction). These requests might take a bit longer though just because I would like to do my research so I can portray the disability/ chronic illness correctly.✅

Neurodivergent Characters! (Written by neurodivergent author:D) ✅

Characters who you head canon as not cis! I also have my personal headcannons and not all of them line up with the canon so of course will be happy to write any character as trans (MTF/FTM), Non-binary, or gender fluid:) gender is beautiful folks!✅

Mild yandere behavior✅

Slightly suggestive works (WILL HAVE A WARNING) ✅

Smut (WILL HAVE A WARNING) ✅

K!nk (this changes in a case to case bases but chances are I will say yes more than I say no EXCEPT if it is one of the k!nks in the no-no area (WILL HAVE A WARNING) ✅

A character struggling with bullying or ableism✅

•Fluff✅

•Hurt Comfort (PLEASE PLEEK I LOVE HURT COMFORT ITS MY BABA)✅

Light angst✅

Active ED recovery!✅

Headcannons✅

GENERAL RULES AND TIPS FOR ASKS

Please do not interact with my NSFW posts if you are not 18+, it is more comfortable for both of us.

Don’t be afraid to talk to me! Ask me about my day, what I had for lunch, headcannons, whether I think Jasper would still love Alice if she was a worm LITTERALLY WHATEVA🎀 I’m here to talk to y’all and share my silly thoughts!

Please be specific with your requests! I don’t want to get something wrong plus it just makes for a better story!

I will not write your request or answer if you are being rude/ impatient, I have a life outside of Tumblr too<3

Please don’t ask me any personal questions that will risk my safety or security, I will not reply.

Please remember I am not perfect, I might not get to your request right away, I might get something wrong, be forgiving with me.

Please don’t fill my ask box with character hate.

If I refuse an ask just remember it’s not anything personal, I just didn’t feel comfortable writing what you requested.

Have fun! This is a safe space where you will find there is no place for judgement or haters!

RP

WHO I WILL RP FOR⋆.*ೃ✧

DM’s are always open for RP

୭̥°⋰˚ ALICE CULLEN ୭̥°⋰˚

✦°．• JAPSER HALE ✦°．•

•ू♡ HARRY OSBORN •ू♡

ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭ ೃ•୭

GENERAL RULES AND TIPS FOR ASKS

Please do not reach out unless you are 18+, I’m sorry I’m just not comfortable doing an RP with a minor.

The rules for RP are the same as my writing rules as it goes for do’s and don’ts so check it out above!

I only RP in advanced literate style. Check out the RP styles here⬇️

Please be understanding, I will probably not reply right any especially not on a week day as I have a job and hobbies🎀

If I refuse an RP please remember it’s not anything personal, I just didn’t feel comfortable doing the RP you purposed.

Please do not vent to me in my DM’s, I will not reply to keep my own peace.

THIS INTRO IS TEMPORARY UNTIL I GET THINGS MORE ORGANIZED ON THIS BLOG WITH MASTERLISTS🩰

Thank you🎀

[crguang]

ok so I was thinking abt how kafka does drunk babbling abt r but what if like kfr is at like a club or smth, they’re drinking wtv maybe acheswan is there too and Kafka steps out for like a smoke break or smth idk, and r goes out to check on her or smth but Kafka thinks it’s like another memory, where r was checking on her when they were kids or smth. Idk where this is rlly going but maybe r realizes that Kafka missed them (crazy concept ik) and they have a very angsty convo abt the past.

also was rereading the first violinist au post and they were eachothers first kiss when they were younger??? I always love that w childhood friends and they never talk abt it.

Idk I feel like they need smth to make them talk abt all the shit that happened in the past (cough cough elio cough) and I just need r to find out that Kafka literally thinks abt them every time she plays her instrument.

will send u the drawing somehow whenever im finished (I got sick and am dying) might redo it bc it doesn’t rlly look like Kafka, the google searches for references is very funny tho.

happy holidays <3 (hope u got those headphones bc that playlist…omg)

-🌠

okay well now i need that club scene. their big Talk is happening in r’s teenage bedroom after a (eventful) dinner with r’s family. please trust me on this yall like it’s them sharing a bed for the first time since they were kids and confessing to each other how they felt after the 607 Bus Breakup pleaseee it’s gonna be so detrimental to their relationship… but i really like the idea of their friend group going out before that just to have fun now that theyre all adults and r getting a bit tipsy, kafka’s downing drinks to avoid the atmosphere getting awkward and then finding each other in the back alley of the bar with only a single light source illuminating half of their faces as they let slip that they’ve missed the other. ugh… yeah i need that. but i need their actual conversation so be when they’re both sober and in a familiar and/or safe space for the both of them

they were each other’s first kiss yeah. i haven’t actually thought about it more but to me it just makes sense. they were the “kissing to practice/see what its like” kind of best friends. it likely happened really young like at 12 years old or something and that’s why they don’t mention it anymore but trust— the first time they kiss in present time they’re both seeing fireworks. they’re a lot more experienced and the act comes with deep seated feelings now so it’s kinda life changing for them. my losers💔

i hope youre feeling better!! wishing u a speedy recovery if you’re not <3 i ordered headphones days ago, they should be there next week tho. so i have yet to listen to the kfr playlist in full but i’m impatiently awaiting the moment i can

[bballlvr8]

Do you feel like the progress that azzi is having is impressive? So impressive to the point where it’s commendable? And maybe that’s just me talking because besides the Ole Miss game I think she’s had what three other games other than that it’s been stagnant progress if that makes sense but maybe I’m saying that because I really wanna see the part of her game to start landing that we know AZ the most for which is shooting so I think I’m the problem. I think I’m getting impatient and I also think I’m getting impatient too because I’m looking at other players who have like recovered from like ACL tears And are like over here doing triple doubles so each game not that I’m saying I expect easy to do that cause I don’t it’s just I want more. That’s why I get excited to see her play to see what more she’s going to give. You know what I mean?

I think that’s the beauty of basketball and especially when you have a player who has the ability to score more than one way.

To me like obviously we want to see her hit a couple threes every game but what’s more impressive is the fact that she’s actually getting in the paint and scoring she’s bodying people. I don’t think it’s stagnant progress at all her shots look great. They’re just not falling and that’ll be fixed the more she shoots

also, somebody else’s recovery and progress is not linear nor is it going to look the same for everybody else. Olivia Miles had almost 2 years of recovery so that is why she’s coming out having triple doubles.

Azzi also had two ACL injuries as well as knee injuries in the same knee so she looks great for what she’s been through 

I would definitely say that you are getting impatient, especially considering the great game she had against Ole Miss 

[clarepreed]

Practice

Story Summary and Content - 4,834 words. As promised, Holly teaches Ginnie CPR. Semi-explicit sex. 🏳️‍🌈

Previous installment: First Date.

--

“I really like your place.” Ginnie stood in Holly’s living room, eyeing the exposed brick and large windows. “Though I bet it gets cold in here in the winter!”

“It does.” Holly slipped her arm around Ginnie’s waist. Ginnie was wearing a soft, long tank top and a pair of leggings, and she felt nice pressed against her. “I have a lot of blankets. Was it a long trip on the bus?”

“Only because I was impatient.” Ginnie turned into Holly and tipped her face up to the light.

Holly dipped her head, pressing her lips to Ginnie’s. She ran her fingers into the silk of Ginnie’s hair and heard her make a soft noise of satisfaction. When they ended the kiss, Ginnie’s eyes traveled across Holly’s face and her hand came up tentatively to rest over Holly’s heart.

“The bruises are all gone?” Ginnie asked, her voice soft.

“Faded away. Nothing hurts. I feel normal.” Holly arched an eyebrow at Ginnie, her tone light despite the serious nature of the conversation. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. I take my beta blocker like I’m supposed to and go to my cardiology appointments. Everything looks fine. She said I probably won’t be on those forever.” Ginnie leaned her head against Holly’s shoulder. “I’m supposed to get regular exercise, so I started running again.”

“I can help you get exercise,” Holly said, her voice wry.

“That sounded dirty.”

“I mean…”

Ginnie giggled. “Are we going to practice now?”

Faint heat spread across Holly’s cheekbones, but she grinned and nodded, gesturing at the items laid out on the coffee table. She’d laid out gloves, first aid supplies, different types of ventilation barriers, and a borrowed Laerdal Mini Anne mannequin. “I thought we would make use of my fluffy rug. I vacuumed it for you.”

She watched, both surprised and endeared, as Ginnie kicked off her shoes and dropped onto the rug on all fours, her hands splayed out in the fluff.

“I approve,” Ginnie said, laying down and then rolling onto her back. She brought her arms up, tucking her hands behind her head. “This is great.”

“Um.” Holly kneeled beside her, then leaned over Ginnie, carefully sweeping her blonde hair back. Then Holly planted her hands on either side of Ginnie’s head. “I’d like to kiss you.”

“Please, do…”

Holly leaned closer, her eyes taking in Ginnie’s facial expression. Everything was still so new; Holly was afraid to rush her. But Ginnie seemed relaxed, her eyes slightly unfocused at this distance. Holly kissed her. Their lips felt nice together. Ginnie’s were soft, her mouth sweet.

“Is that official first aid procedure?” Ginnie asked when Holly pulled back. Her mouth curled in a sweet smile. “Or do I get special treatment?”

“You get special treatment.” Holly moved one of her hands to Ginnie’s shoulder. “So, this is actually a good place to start. We can go over the recovery position and your ABCs.”

“I learned my ABCs a while back,” Ginnie said, raising her eyebrow and grinning.

“Not those ABCs, silly!” Holly squeezed Ginnie’s shoulder, then traced her collarbone with her thumb. She smiled down at Ginnie, then tried to school her expression to something more serious. “Hey, listen. If at some point anything upsets or bothers you, just tell me and we will stop.”

Ginnie nodded earnestly. She had a faint scattering of freckles across her cheeks. “You, too, Holly.”

“I promise. Ready?”

“I’m ready.” Ginnie pulled her hands out from behind her head and put her arms down by her sides. “Rescue me. Or show me how.”

Holly squeezed Ginnie’s shoulder. “So, if someone is unconscious, you wanna start by trying to get their attention. You can tap them, call their name loudly. I’m not gonna demonstrate because I don’t think you want me to yell in your ear.”

“That’s accurate,” Ginnie said, grinning.

“So if they don’t respond, this is where the ABCs come in.” Holly put on her best instructor voice. “Do you know what that stands for?”

“Oh! I do remember that! Airway, Breathing, Circulation!” Ginni’s cheeks grew pinker the longer Holly leaned over her.

Holly brushed her knuckles against Ginnie’s cheek. “Right!”

“I know how to open an airway,” Ginnie said. Her face took on a mildly anxious look, and she turned her gaze off to the side. “At least, I don’t think I made it worse…”

“You were perfect,” Holly said, quick to reassure her. She put her hands to Ginnie’s forehead and her chin, gently tipping her head back. “Can you feel that? I bet it’s easier to breathe.”

Ginnie took a deep breath and relaxed, her face in Holly’s hands.

“Yes,” Ginnie breathed. “It’s like… yoga. Meditation. I would probably fall asleep if we stayed here like this.”

“I’m going to look, listen, and feel for signs of normal breathing,” Holly leaned her ear toward Ginnie’s mouth. “For ten seconds. Is it okay if I put my hand on your chest?”

“Yes!” Ginnie squeaked out, her skin flushing pink. Holly moved her hand from Ginnie’s chin to her chest, resting on the skin above the neckline of her top. Ginnie’s breath quickened, and Holly could feel her pulse beneath her palm. Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!

“Our patient is breathing,” Holly said. “So we want to put her in the recovery position.”

“Go for it.”

Holly huffed out a laugh and nodded. “Alright. So I’m going to take your arm that’s closest to me and cross it over your chest. Then I’m going to take your leg closest to me again, and bend it.”

Ginnie’s hand was cool to the touch when Holly grasped it, crossing Ginnie’s arm over chest and laying her palm on her shoulder.

“Are you cold?” Holly asked, rubbing her hand up and down Ginnie’s arm.

“I just have cold hands. And feet.” Ginnie laughed. “But yours are warm!”

“Well, let me know if you get cold.” Holly gently bent Ginnie’s leg at the knee. Then she reached for her shoulder and hip. “Then you turn your patient on their side. Make sure their hand stays up by their mouth. Um… like a little vomit ramp.”

“Ew! Really?” Ginnie asked, struggling to stay still as Holly rolled her. 

Holly adjusted Ginnie’s hand, then leaned back, resting her hand on Ginnie’s hip. “Yeah, sometimes people barf, and it can be very bad if they inhale it. Anyway, that’s the recovery position. If you haven’t already called 9-1-1, you wanna do it now because if your patient is still unconscious there’s something wrong. And then you just make sure they continue to breathe.”

Ginnie pushed herself up and turned toward Holly. “Thank you. Could I practice? On you?”

“That’s the idea!” Holly laid down on the rug, smiling up at Ginnie. “Then I’ll grab the mannequin. And maybe some wine? I have to clean her after, anyway.”

“That sounds nice.” Ginnie took Holly’s arm. “So, I fold your arm across your chest like this… Then I bend your knee.”

Holly tried to keep herself limp, her limbs putty in Ginnie’s hands. She allowed Ginnie to roll her onto her side and felt her adjust the placement of her hand. Ginnie had petite hands that she moved delicately, her touch soft.

Ginnie leaned over and pressed a kiss to Holly’s cheek. “You are recovered.”

Holly grinned and moved onto her back. Ginnie looked down at her, face frames by a curtain of hair. Holly reached over and laid her hand on Ginnie’s knee. “Good job. Kiss me for real?”

The kiss was sweet, heating up as Ginnie laid her hand on Holly’s side, her fingers wrapping over her ribcage. Holly let her lips part and Ginnie deepened the kiss, reaching up with her other hand to rake her hair out of her face. A moment passed, or several. Holly wasn’t sure. Then Ginnie broke the kiss and said: “I want to kiss you, but I also want to learn CPR.”

“Okay,” Holly said, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “CPR now, kissing later?”

“Yes, please.” Ginnie blushed often, Holly realized, and she was doing it now.

Holly moved onto her knees, pausing to ask: “Would you like some wine? White, since we’re about to make out with the mannequin?”

“That sounds great. What kind?”

“I have a dry Riesling. Would that be okay?”

“I have no idea,” Ginnie said, shrugging. “I trust you. I am still pretty new to wine.”

“It’s good,” Holly said. “You can stay on the floor. I’ll be right back.”

Holly hurried through retrieving and opening the wine, her eyes flicking periodically back to Ginnie. The other woman had her arms wrapped around her knees as she eyed the small CPR mannequin on the coffee table. Ginnie looked so sweet and pretty to Holly, sitting there with her spine straight and her hair loose, her petite features serene.

Holly poured wine into each glass and then pushed the cork back into the bottle. “I hope you like it!” she called out, bringing the glasses into the living room. She handed a glass to Ginnie and watched her sniff the contents. 

“It smells good,” Ginnie said, before holding the glass out toward Holly. “Cheers?”

“Cheers!” Holly clinked her glass against Ginnie’s and took a sip, watching Ginnie expectantly.

Ginnie slipped from her glass and nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, this is good!”

“Awesome!” Holly drank some more wine, then sat her glass on the table, reaching for the mannequin. She sat it on the floor, just past the edge of the rug. “So, this one is especially odd-looking, but it was easier to get on the bus. And cheaper to replace if something happened to her.”

“Her?”

“Not everyone’s nipples are in the same place!” Ginnie exclaimed, laughing.

“Her name’s Anne. Poor Anne is always in cardiac arrest. Anyway, I know you said you took a class before, but I’ll go ahead and show you what to do.” Holly scooted over next to the mannequin and got into position. “So, they used to tell people to follow the nipple line, but—”

“Exactly! So you’re feeling for their breastbone. Their sternum. You want to stack your hands like this…” Holly interlocked her fingers and placed the heel of her hand on the lower half of the mannequin’s sternum. “Straight arms, shoulders over your hands. Want to try?”

“Yeah, thank you.” Ginnie smiled at Holly. “This is not so bad. Anne’s kind of silly looking, and it makes it easier to not be scared.”

“I’m glad,” Holly said, scooting a few feet to the side to make way for Ginnie. Then she guided her over the Mini Anne mannequin, one arm around her shoulders. “Yep, leaning forward like that. Good placement for the hands. Now, aiming for a two-inch depth, you want to push down.”

“Two inches, two inches, two inches,” Ginnie muttered, then she rocked herself over her hands and the mini mannequin made a clicking sound. Ginnie rose up and then rocked into her hands again. “I like that clicking sound! So I do thirty of these and then two breaths?”

“Actually,” Holly said, leaning back to give Ginnie some room. Ginnie kept compressing the mannequin’s chest, a rhythmic click emitting each time. “Current bystander guidelines—that’s what you are, a bystander—are for compression-only CPR. The exception would be for asphyxiation, such as drowning. Then yes, thirty compressions to two breaths.”

Ginnie, who’d been pumping away while Holly spoke, stopped and looked with wide eyes over her shoulder at Holly. Her voice came out in a shocked whisper. “Holly… Oh, but Holly…”

“Oh!” Holly exclaimed, immediately realizing what the problem was. “You did the right thing, Ginnie. You didn’t hurt me. They only switched to compression-only CPR because so many people took too long to switch back and forth, or refused to do CPR at all because they didn’t want to do the breaths. You did a good job, Ginnie. Thank you.”

Holly reached out and rested her hand on Ginnie’s back, rubbing in a slow circle until Ginnie nodded and looked back down at the mannequin.

“Was I going at the right speed?” Ginnie reached for her wineglass and leaned back on her heels. “I was singing a song in my head.”

“‘Staying Alive’? Ha! Yeah, you did a great job. I am not certified to certify you, but if I could, I would.”

Ginnie took another sip of wine, a thoughtful expression on her face. After a moment, she said: “I expected ‘Circulation’ to involve checking for a pulse.”

“Pulse checking is above your pay grade. But I’ll show you anyway.” Holly sat her wineglass on the coffee table and stretched her hand out toward Ginnie. “Give me your wrist?”

Ginnie stretched out her arm, palm up, and Holly cradled her wrist in her hand. Then she took two fingers and ran them down the inside of Ginnie’s arm, smiling when she giggled. She settled her fingers on the correct spot and applied a small amount of pressure. Ginnie’s pulse beat against her fingertips; a good, average pace. Not too slow, and certainly nothing like that day in the stairwell. It was a calming rhythm.

“Right there,” Holly said. “That’s your radial pulse.”

“What’s the one in the neck called?”

“That’s your carotid.” Holly reached up and pressed her fingers to Ginnie’s neck. “Right there.”

“I should have guessed that,* Ginnie said, sighing. “You’re groping arteries!”

Holly laughed. “I am groping arteries.”

To her surprise, Ginnie reached up and took Holly’s hand, pulling it down and clasping it between both of hers. “Hey, um. What about the third spot?”

“The third spot?” Holly asked. “Oh! You mean femoral? The groin?”

“Yeah,” Ginnie whispered.

“You’ve seen that one?” This question came out tentative and worried. Ginnie’s face reflected anxiety instead of the humor from seconds before. Ginnie nodded, but she didn’t speak. Holly asked: “When I got hurt?”

Ginnie looked down and nodded again.

“Oh. Okay.” Holly wanted to ease the tension and hopefully steer things back in the right direction. “Um… Hey. This calls for a sip of wine.”

That made Ginnie smile, even if it was weak and tremulous. They disconnected from each other long enough to pick up their glasses and drink. Holly sat back on her heels, considering Ginnie. Her cheeks were flushed, hair slightly mussed. She still looked anxious, but her posture was open, her shoulders visibly relaxing as Holly watched. 

Ginnie glanced up at Holly. “I’m sorry I brought the mood down.”

“You’re fine, hun.” She reached out and rested her hand on Ginnie’s leg. “We had some intense experiences.”

Ginnie nodded, draining her glass before she sat it on the table. She seemed to mull something over. Finally, as Holly finished her own glass, Ginnie asked in a soft voice: “Would you like to feel my femoral pulse?”

Warmth gathered between Holly’s thighs. Her eyes widened. She nodded, watching as Ginnie laid back down on the rug. Holly sat her empty glass on the table and stretched out alongside Ginnie, leaning over her. Ginnie shifted, opening her legs and bending her outside knee. Her own heart racing, Holly reached out and found the top of Ginnie’s thigh through her leggings. She slid her fingers along the crease, searching for the right spot.

Her femoral pulse was a little difficult to locate through Ginnie’s leggings, but when Holly found it, she glanced up at Ginnie’s face. The other woman was chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes on Holly’s hand.

“There it is,” Holly murmured. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. How does it feel?” Ginnie’s voice was breathy and curious, her eyes intent. 

“It’s distant. Almost didn’t find it through your clothes. Nice, healthy rate, though.”

Ginnie swallowed and looked up, giving Holly a rare moment of eye contact. “Would you like to try without my leggings?”

Want, or need, lanced through Holly. She felt Ginnie’s pulse pick up the pace. Holly nodded. “I would.” No pretense about it being a better demonstration. Just desire.

Ginnie slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and pushed them down, arching her hips off the floor. Holly helped her, rolling the tight fabric down Ginnie’s legs and off her feet. Holly couldn’t help herself, running her hand all the way up Ginnie’s leg and along the edge of her underwear. She pressed her fingers into Ginnie’s skin, her eyes falling closed as she felt her rapid pulse against her fingers. 

With her eyes closed and her attention dialed in, Holly caught an unmistakable whiff of musky arousal. She opened her eyes and shifted her hand, pressing her palm to Ginnie’s thigh and finding her pulse with her thumb. Ginnie’s face was pink again, her eyes dilated and her lips parted.

“You like this,” Holly said, the words slipping out of her before she could think them through.

“Yes,” Ginnie whispered. Her lips trembled.

Holly stroked her skin. “Want me to show you how to find your landmark on a person instead of a mannequin?”

Ginnie nodded, and Holly moved her hands up to her abdomen, stroking her sides through her shirt. “I won’t hurt you, okay? I’m just showing you where.” Holly traced her fingers along the bottom of Ginnie’s ribcage, grinning when Ginnie shivered.

“That tickles!” 

“This is your sternum.” Holly ran her fingers over Ginnie’s top, tracing a line between her breasts. “You’re aiming for the bottom third.”

Then she stacked her hands, pressing them between Ginnie’s breasts. Her fingers overlapped the soft flesh, and she felt Ginnie’s nipple pebble underneath the cloth. Holly straightened her arms and moved her shoulders over her hands, though she didn’t press down. 

“You want to keep everything straight like this,” Holly said. “That way you can more easily push down two inches. If you do it at an angle, it will be too hard to push down enough.”

Ginnie nodded. She moved restlessly, her fingers tapping against each other and her thighs rubbing together. “That makes sense.”

Holly removed her hands, leaning down to kiss the skin just above Ginnie’s neckline. Simultaneously, she moved one of her hands just under Ginnie’s left breast, palm pressing firmly. “I can feel your heart here, too.”

Holly gave Ginnie a chaste kiss. The smaller woman was panting, and reached up to stop Holly from sitting up. They kissed gain, deeper this time, the taste of wine on Holly’s tongue.

When they came up for air, Ginnie stroked Holly’s cheek. “May I practice on you?”

“Yes!” Holly leaned back so Ginnie could sit up. Then she reached for the hem of her shirt. “I’ll make it easier for you to see what you’re doing.”

Holly peeled her shirt off and dropped it to the side. She could feel Ginnie’s eyes on her as she laid herself out on the rug. When she looked up, Ginnie leaned down and kissed her.

“You’re very pretty,” Ginnie said, her voice soft and reverent. “And it’s okay for me to touch you there?”

“It’s more than okay.” Holly took a steadying breath. “You can touch me anywhere you want. Anywhere, Ginnie. Do you understand?”

“I understand. I’ll take you up on that.” Ginnie brought her hands to Holly’s sides, hesitating before she touched her. “Of course, I don’t want to tickle you, but it’s probably gonna happen.” 

“It’s okay. I promise.”

Ginnie bit her lip, but she trailed her fingers along Holly’s ribcage anyway, then up over the butterfly clasp of her bra. “The clasp marks the spot?”

“That’s it!” Holly watched as Ginnie pressed her hands over her sternum and moved her shoulders into place. At first, she kept her fingers elevated, trying unsuccessfully not to press into Holly’s breast tissue. Then she relaxed, letting her fingers curl naturally. “Exactly the right spot.”

“Your head,” Ginnie said suddenly. “It’s not tipped back.”

She lifted her hands from Holly’s chest and brushed Holly’s hair back from her forehead. Holly felt her slim fingers under her chin, and then Ginnie tipped her head back, extending her neck. To Holly’s surprise, Ginnie delicately pinched her nose and then leaned down and pressed her lips to hers.

Holly parted her lips to accept Ginnie’s tongue as it plunged into her mouth. Ginnie released her nose so that she could breathe, though she kept her fingers in place. Her other hand slipped down, stroking Holly’s neck and chest before massaging her left breast through her bra. Holly reached up and slipped her fingers into Ginnie’s hair, cupping the back of her head and keeping her face close to hers.

They kissed like this for a while until Ginnie pulled back and whispered: “I wonder what it feels like to have another person breathe for you.”

Holly felt like her own breath stalled in her lungs. “I wondered if you remembered. You briefly woke up…”

“No.” Ginnie shook her head. “I don’t remember that part.”

“Do…” Holly swallowed hard, then tried again. “Do you want me to try breathing for you?”

Ginnie slowly nodded. “Is that weird?”

“Not to me.” Holly pulled Ginnie down for another kiss and then said: “Lay on your back.”

Ginnie sat up, pulling her shirt over her head and leaving herself in only her bra and panties. “Now you’re overdressed,” she said, eyeing Holly’s pants.

Holly quickly took them off and tossed them at the sofa. “We’re even now, beautiful.”

“Yes.” Ginnie laid back on the plush rug, her arms above her head and her knees bent. 

“It might take a few tries,” Holly said. “I’ve never done this on a conscious person. Usually I do this on a mannequin in class…”

“That’s okay. I want to try. If I can’t handle it, I’ll let you know.”

Holly leaned over Ginnie, running one hand up Ginnie’s abdomen, between her breasts, and up to her chin. She tipped Ginnie’s head back and gently pinched her button nose. “Ready?”

Ginnie nodded and exhaled.

Holly took a deep breath and thumbed Ginnie’s chin, opening her mouth further before sealing her lips over hers. Then she exhaled, with more force than she would if she weren’t trying to inflate another person’s lungs. Both of their cheeks rounded, and Ginnie made a muffled noise, her chest heaving. Holly broke the seal, worried, as Ginnie let out a cough. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Ginnie said, her eyes wide. Her voice was high-pitched with excitement. “I’m fine! It was just… different. Do it again. Please.”

Holly complied, blowing a steady breath into Ginnie. This time, Ginnie’s chest rose evenly. She let her exhale, then gave her a third breath, her hand moving from Ginnie’s chin to her chest. Ginnie’s lips and skin were warm to the touch, her mouth relaxed but not slack like it had been when she’d done this for real. Holly nestled her palm between Ginnie’s breasts, pushing down ever so slightly when Ginnie exhaled. The next time her breath left Ginnie, the other woman moaned.

She does like this. Just as much as me.

“I’m going to change positions,” Holly said. Ginnie took a few breaths of her own as Holly swung her leg over hips. She curled her hand around to pinch Ginnie’s nose and then angled her head. Ginnie exhaled as Holly took a deep breath, relaxing when Holly filled her lungs. 

Holly felt incredible, her body tingling and a telltale sensation of moisture between her thighs. She braced herself on the floor next to Ginnie’s head, felt Ginnie’s hands come up to run up and down her sides. She let a bit of her weight sit on Ginnie’s hips and felt the smaller woman grind up against her. This time, she was the one moaning as she breathed for Ginnie, as she felt Ginnie’s body respond to her air. Ginnie’s cheeks puffed out and her chest swelled. Then the air came out of her in a rush.

Holly heard a snap, felt the clasp of her bra release, followed by Ginnie’s hands on her breasts. At Ginnie’s next exhale, she took her own quick breath and murmured: “I’m getting lightheaded.”

“I’m sorry!” Holly leaned down and pressed a series of kisses to Ginnie’s jawline. “I should have thought of that!”

“I’m okay,” Ginnie said. She cupped Holly’s breasts with both of her hands and circled her thumbs around her nipples. “Kiss me.”

Holly did, trapping Ginnie’s head between her hands. She shifted, coming up long enough to slip her thigh between Ginnie’s, and felt Ginnie buck up beneath her. Moving one of her hands down to Ginnie’s chest, she pushed her bra up and over her breasts. Ginnie moaned into her mouth as Holly cupped her breast, her nipple hard against Holly’s palm.

“Is this okay?” Holly gasped out. “We didn’t talk—”

“This is great, I’m great, you’re great…” Ginnie arched her back, panting. “I’m going to cum just from this, Holly!”

“I’m close, too…” Holly slid her hand between Ginnie’s breasts. “I’m going to try something, Ginnie. Stop me if you don’t like it.”

“Oh!” Ginnie gasped. Holly pressed the heel of her hand to Ginnie’s sternum and pumped ever so slightly. She was afraid to use any real pressure, but she pushed at the correct rate. Or as professionally as she could manage, her rhythm growing more and more erratic as the two ground against each other. Ginnie made soft mewling sounds, her hands clutching at Holly until she arched her back again, her mouth opening in a small, silent “o.”

Holly kept moving, writhing and pressing until the tension forming in her pelvic floor reached a peak, pleasurable sensations running through her, concentrated in her clit. She stopped pressing Ginnie’s chest and dropped her face into her neck, letting out a low cry.

She felt Ginnie’s arms come around her, squeezing her tight. They were all soft skin and silken hair, with only scraps of cloth between them, their chests heaving. 

Holly kissed Ginnie’s neck and pulled back so she could see her face. “Was that okay?”

“Surely you could tell that it was,” Ginnie said, a small smile lighting up her face. “But, yes.”

Holly rolled off onto her side, pulling Ginnie with her. They remained tangled up together on the soft rug, hearts slowly resuming their normal cadence. Ginnie trailed her fingertips down Holly’s back.

“You have very beautiful, soft skin,” she murmured. Her eyes were on Holly’s neck. “And I can see your pulse.”

Holly leaned forward and kissed her, their lips gentle. When she laid her head back down on the rug, she said: “We skipped over some talks. Namely… Can I call you my girlfriend?”

Ginnie’s face flushed pink again. “Yes! I was going to ask you the same thing. I was working up to it. I was just nervous.”

“You can ask me anything, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me anything. Please, don’t be anxious.” Holly rubbed Ginnie’s back soothingly. “I’ll always do my best to be open-minded and gentle with you. I… Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression that you haven’t always had that?”

“You’re not wrong.” Ginnie bit her lip, and Holly was dismayed to feel her tremble.

“What’s wrong?” Holly draped her leg over both of Gennie’s and pulled her closer.

“I’m trying not to be anxious, but I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” Holly kissed her forehead. “Take your time.”

Ginnie took in a sharp breath and then blurted: “I’m autistic!”

The shaking increased, and Holly quickly responded with: “Okay. Great! That’s cool… It’s okay, Ginnie, take a deep breath for me.”

She felt Ginnie comply, her breasts pressing against Holly’s. Wine-scented air wafted across her face. 

“You know,” Holly continued. “Most of my friends are neurodivergent. And my favorite cousin has OCD. I know it’s not the same thing. But, Ginnie, it’s not a turnoff! It’s great. I really like you, okay? You are who you are and I wouldn’t change you!”

Ginnie sniffled, a single tear running across the bridge of her nose and down her cheek. “Sometimes people get mad if you don’t tell them before they go out with you. But I know you’re not like that, Holly. I wouldn’t like you so much if you were.”

She shivered, and Holly squeezed her tight. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” Ginnie said, her tone sheepish. “I am now.”

“Stay here! I have blankets!” Holly disentangled herself from Ginnie and stood, letting her unclasped bra slip off her arms. She skipped the slightly scratchy crocheted blanket draped over the back of the sofa and pulled a softer blanket from the big basket on the floor.

As she kneeled beside Ginnie, the other woman sat up, pulling her bra up and over her head. Then she laid back down, reaching for Holly. Holly stretched out beside her, wrapped her leg over Ginnie’s, and covered them both with the blanket.

“Nap time?” Ginnie asked, yawning.

Holly pulled her close, savoring the skin-on-skin contact. She felt her girlfriend relax in her arms and closed her eyes, content.