#there are actually quite a few characters who have the same under-eye scar. they just haven't made appearances ksjdhakjdah

[elena-illustration]

What is the mark underneath Cadogan's eye? From the animatic, it looks like it was there before he lost the eye, but not since he was a young child. Is it a scar?

[thebigbadbatswife]

Internal Conflict (Part 2 of 3)

Pairing - Batman x F!Hero!Reader Series - Under Your Skin Part 1 here | Part 3 here

Summary - Following the aftermath of your fight with the Dark Knight, you end up recieving a call from him asking you for help on one of his cases. Making you wonder, just what is he up to?

Warnings - Canon typical violence, brief mention of death, major character injury, blood. (If I somehow missed a TW, lmk!)

A/N - Since for October I'll be posting what I've written for Kinktober, Part 3 will be coming sometime during Novemeber simply so it isn't lost in the wave of fics! As always hope you enjoy! 💜

Taglist - At the end of the fic. Please message me if you would like to be added/removed.

Word Count - 5.1k

You sighed softly as you wrapped the towel around your body and walked out of the bathroom. The blinds were open, allowing the early morning sunlight to stream into your bedroom. Something that your cat was taking full advantage of as he was fully stretched out across your bed. You chuckled as you briefly stopped to ruffle his fur, earning you a small chirp as his eyes opened and he greeted you.

“How about some breakfast?” He perked up at that, meowing as he got back up onto his paws and followed you from the bedroom to the kitchen.

Today was going to be a good day, you had decided. Not even Batman was going to get you down. Not that he had been doing much in the ways of talking, or arguing, with you anyway. Of course that was likely down to how good you had become at avoiding him or making sure you had left the room before anyone else. Now the only time he spoke to you was during briefing, the middle of a mission or debriefing.

The injury that you had sustained during Lex’s attack had not only kept you away from your usual superhero duties, but had left quite the scar. Some of your focus over the past few weeks had been on healing and slowly building your strength back up, following the advice that Black Canary had given you. Though you had no actual proof, you suspected that the advice had actually come from Batman. Why he hadn’t just given it to you direct, you didn’t understand. You might hate his guts, but he was still a teammate. And a teammate who was very knowledgeable when it came to the medical side of things. If he had any advice to give in regards to that, then you would listen.

The rest of your focus had been on your equipment and future suits. It was important, not only to be prepared, but to stay a few steps ahead of the bad guys.

Now that your leg was fully healed, you would be returning to the Watchtower today. Though had been talking to everyone, other than Batman, through the group chat that The Flash had set up, it wasn’t the same as seeing everyone in person. You had also missed kicking bad guys’ asses and doing your best to make the world a little bit better.

After you had gotten your cat his breakfast, you proceeded to make yourself something and sat down on your couch. It was rare that you were awake this early. Typically waking up either right before or right after midday. You were curious of what sort of trashy tv was on at this time in the morning. As you flipped through the channels, you came across a talkshow that had Bruce Wayne on as their guest star. You didn’t have a clue as to what had been said, but the host was laughing rather hard. With nothing else to watch, you decided to leave it on while you ate. Besides, he was very easy on the eyes. He was a man that you certainly wouldn’t throw out of your bed.

You scoffed and shook your head. Damn. Was this really what you were doing? Fantasising about a well known womanising billionaire? Dammit, you really needed to get out more. It was just a shame that the superhero lifestyle didn’t really allow for that. You switched the tv off and focused on finishing your breakfast. It wasn’t going to do you any good to dwell on things like that. The life that you had choses was a good one, even if it did get lonely at times.

Once you were finished with breakfast, and had finally gotten dressed, you walked over to your bookcase and pulled on rather inconspicuous book. There were several clicking noises and the bookcase slid back before sliding to the side, revealing a hidden elevator. You stepped inside and pressed one of two buttons. As the doors slid shut, the bookcase slid back into place.

The elevator trip was a long one. It had to be to get from your apartment all the way down to the hidden basement of this building. The money wasn’t yours. At least it hadn’t always been yours. The money, the company, the real estate. All of it had been your father’s, but after his untimely death everything he’d had landed into your lap. 

Your father’s death had been the catalyst to your new life as a crimefighter. That was a day that you didn’t like to dwell on for too long. Besides today was supposed to be a good day and it very well couldn’t be if you were wishing you could change the past.

The doors of the elevator dinged as they opened up into your base. It wasn’t the most hightech place, especially when compared to a place like the Watchtower, but it did everything you needed it do. And you weren’t looking to upgrade it right now.

A large black box sat on the centre table. The sight of it made you smile. You had forgotten that was down here. Your new suit. You hadn’t had a chance to try it on before Luthor had injured you. Well what better time to debut it than now?

Your smile was big as you checked yourself out in the mirror. Your friend had done well. Very well. From the colours to the new kevlar weave, it was a hell of a lot better than your last one. And it should hold up nicely against bald rich men and their overly large mechs. Mechs that were definitely compensating for something.

Once you had gone through your gear, making sure you had everything you needed, you left your base and headed for the nearest zeta tube.

The Watchtower was quiet when you arrived. Which wasn’t a surprise, with how early it was. You imagined people had either already gone home, after working all night, or were slowly waking up. Being mindful of that, you kept your steps light and made you way toward the breakroom. As you entered the room you were greeted with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Other than yourself the only other person in the breakroom was Black Canary.

In recent months you and her had become quite close. So close, in fact, that you knew each other’s secret identities. After all, you weren’t just coworkers or allies, you were friends. And it felt good to have friends that you could share the burdens of a superhero life with. As much as you trusted your friend that made your suits, at the same time you knew that there were lots of things that she couldn’t understand. 

“Welcome back,” Dinah greeted you as you entered the room. “There’s coffee, if you want any.”

“Thanks, it feels good to be back,” you replied. You made your way over to the coffee machine and poured yourself a cup before joining her at the table.

The two of you spent the morning catching up with each other. It felt good to finally catch up with each other in person. It really wasn’t the same using text on a screen. As you chatted, the door to the breakroom opened and in walked Batman. You took a long drink from your cup, keeping your focus on what Dinah was saying, pretending that he wasn’t there. He didn’t stay in the breakroom for long. Grabbing himself some coffee before leaving again.

She looked between you and the closed door. You thought she was going to ask you what was going on there, you knew the question had to be everyone’s minds. The two of you go from being at each other’s throats to not speaking whatsoever? She didn’t though.

“Me, Ollie and Hal are going to a bar later tonight, if you want to come along as well?” she offered.

It sounded good; a night out with your friends. It had been awhile since you had last been out. Maybe that was what you needed. To go out, get drunk and maybe end up waking up next to a stranger. Something that might help in you in forgetting how it had felt to have sex with him.

You nodded. “Yeah, that sounds great. I would love to. You know, as long as no supervillain tries world domination again.” 

Dinah chuckled at that.

The bar was far quieter than you had thought it was going to be. It didn’t look like you were going to be taking anyone back to your hotel room tonight. Which was fine. You were here to hang out with your friends after all. While Dinah, Oliver and Hal had ordered themselves some beers, you had opted for just a soda. The more you had thought about it, the more you hadn’t wanted to get drunk. You would rather to keep a clear and focused mind. Maybe next time.

Right now the four of you were laughing at Hal’s rather on point impression of Batman. You shook your head, smiling, and calming yourself down long enough to take a sip of your drink. After weeks of being cooped up, using the majority of your free time to focus on future equipment blueprints and potential future materiels to use, while your leg had healed, it felt good to be out with them.

Oliver raised his beer bottle to his lips, frowning when he found it empty. “I’m gonna go and get us another round,” he announced as he got up and turned to head toward the bar.

“I’ll help you,” Hal said very abruptly, going after him.

You frowned. That was… strange. What was going on with him? That was when you saw it, out of the corner of your eye, Dinah moving, leaning in close to you, so that no one would overhear. Now you understood.

“You and Batman. Spill.”

You looked at her like she had just grown horns. You scoffed. “What do you mean “spill”? You’ve seen the arguments. Everyone one has. What else is there to talk about?”

She raised an eyebrow at you. It was more than clear that she didn’t believe a word you were saying. “Right. That’s why you both disappeared for hours at a time afterward hmmm? Because there’s nothing else to talk about?”

Okay. It was clear to you that she definitely knew what happened between you and Batman, but how? Had she somehow overheard the two of you? Mentally, you shook your head. It didn’t matter how close you were with her, you would still rather forget what had happened between you and Batman and talking to her about it wouldn’t help. Before anything else could be said, Oliver and Hal returned to the table, drinks in hand.

“And what were you two talking about?” Oliver asked as he set down his and Dinah’s drinks, while Hal set down his and yours. You thanked him.

“Nothing, just some girl talk,” she replied. You nodded in agreement with her before taking a sip of your drink.

The rest of the night went by quickly. The situation between you and Batman wasn’t brought up again, but you didn’t believe that Oliver and Hal were oblivious to the situation. The timing of their leaving and Dinah’s questions were too much of a coincidence. It made you wonder how many more Leaguers were aware of it. 

As the night came to a close, they walked you back to the zeta tube. Since you weren’t having a one night stand tonight, you figured you may as well just go back to your apartment.

You were curled up on your couch, underneath a fleece with a bowl of popcorn on your lap. You were watching a movie you had been meaning to watch for a while now, but had just never got around to it. Until now. It had felt good to go out with your friend, but it had completely drained your social battery. You needed to recharge, so to speak. And this was the perfect way to do so.

You were about halfway through the movie when the phone you had specifically for League only business, started to ring. It was for emergencies, in case that you weren’t on the Watchtower ro away from home. You paused the movie and picked up the phone, growing when you saw who was calling you. Batman? There were plenty of other Leaguers available tonight, so why you?

You pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. He was a teammate and he needed help.

“Where are you?” you asked as soon as you had answered the phone. There wasn’t any time to waste if he was in trouble.

“There’s an old amusement park, just outside of Gotham.” He sounded winded. Something you were sure that you had only picked up on because of you… time together.

“I’m on my way.”

The sight of the amusement park had the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. It just seemed… wrong. A place that was supposed to be filled with people, lights and laughter was dark, devoid of life and decaying. It was unsettling. The fog drifting in certainly wasn’t helping with that.

You stayed down and kept your steps light as you stalked through the park, looking for Batman. You wouldn’t lie, it confused you a lot. Why he would call you, of all people, for help. Hell, the fact that he had called for help to begin with. You had heard the stories from the other Leaguers. How is stubbornness to handle things all by himself had nearly killed him more than once. Not to mention that he had made his feeling about you more than perfectly clear. So why had he asked you for help? Especially when there were other Leaguers that he not only liked more, but had more experience with this sort of thing than you did. There were plenty of them on standby. You knew because you had double checked, in case the two of you weren’t enough for whatever this threat was.

You thought about asking him why, once you found him, but you dismissed it almost as quickly as it had come to mind. He wouldn’t tell you even if you did. There was no point in wasting your breath.

The old rides groaned and creaked. Chains, whose purpose had been long forgotten rattled and banged against various makeshift poles and equally rusted poles. The cleaning noise echoing around you. The shadowy remains of the rollercoaster loomed high above you, like the unnatural skeleton of some giant creature. If you hadn’t been unsettled before, you certainly were now.

Voices ahead caught your attention. They were loud and distressed. Like they had been attacked. You had a good feeling you knew by who. Sticking to the shadows, you slowly began to creep toward them. Through the fog, two silhouettes started to take shape ahead of you, but before you could get closer, someone grabbed you. An arm wrapped around your waist white the other covered your mouth, pulling you to the side and keeping you secured against a muscular chest. Your instincts had kicked in and you attempted to fight against the person who had grabbed you, not stopping to think who it might actually be. You stopped when you heard his voice.

“It’s me.” His voice was deep and gravelly, sending goosebumps across your skin. You were thankful your suit didn’t show any skin.

Even as you stopped fighting, your body remained tense. You stayed still and silent. The two of you watched as the two figures, two henchmen dressed in black and red, rushed past. They were yelling at how Batman must have gone in the direction they were headed, completely unaware that in their hurry they had run past him and you. When they were gone, their footsteps fading, he released his grip on you. Now free, you spun around to face him.

You were so close together, lips centimetres apart. If either of you moved forward just a little bit they would meet…

You snapped out of it immediately and backed away from him, putting space between you both. What the hell where you thinking? This was not the time or place to be thinking with anything other than you brain. Especially with him, of all people.

“What’s going on?” you asked, making sure to keep your voice low.

He gestured with his head for you to follow him before he moved away from the wall, continuing down the makeshift alleyway. 

“I’ve been investigating the recent super villain attacks,” he started to explain as he led you through the park. “So many happening so close together is too much for it to be a coincidence.”

You stuck to the shadows and kept low. The henchmen were on high alert, from their run in with Batman. You were sure that their trigger fingers were itching, ready to fire at anything that looked just a little bit like a bat.

“They’re connected?” While you had found the attacks a little strange, you hadn’t found it so strange to have thought that they might be connected.

He nodded and looked over his shoulder at you. “Tonight should prove that.” Then he turned back and continued leading you.

Batman didn’t elaborate further. Not that that wasn’t unexpected. He had a thing for being cryptic. That was something you had learned quickly after joining the League. The amusement park was crawling with henchmen as well. Too much talking and you could definitely end up drawing some very much unwanted attention. Being silent for the time being would be best.

Still, it was gnawing at you. Why had he asked for your help? There was a part of you that really wanted to know. You remembered the night in Star City vividly. The words said, how he had snapped at you. Showing his true colours. Similar fights had broken out on the Watchtower, more often than not involving him and Hal. As far as you knew he had never called him for assistance. Especially when there were other Leaguers he preferred working with. Then it hit you. Was this his way of attempting to start over with you? 

The two of you soon came to a funhouse. Which, unlike the rest of the park, was seemingly devoid of life entirely. The quiet though. It didn’t feel natural.

Batman rose a hand as he stopped in his tracks, stopping you at the same time.

“Something’s wrong,” he stated, voice low.

“Definitely,” you agreed with him for once. “Could it be a trap?”

“Maybe. Stick close.”

You nodded and followed him into the funhouse.

Floorboards creaked beneath your feet. Some of them felt like they were about to break beneath your weight. So you kept your steps as light as possible, hoping to avoid that. You didn’t want to reinjure your leg. There was a strong stench of wood rot and mould, making you wrinkle your noise in disgust. The further into the funhouse that you got, the worse the smells started to get.

After walking through a couple of rooms that had clearly been gutted, you and Batman came to a hallway full of mirrors. The distorted mirrors coerced the walls and ceiling. They were either cracked or broken, glass littering the floor, cracking and crunching beneath your boots. He came to a stop before one of the broken mirrors, something catching his eye, and stepped through it. You followed after him, careful of the jagged pieces of glass that were still attached to the frame.

There was a short hallway behind the mirror, with a door at the end of it. Likely for employees back when this place was still operational. Batman had already dropped down onto one knee, lockpicking equipment in hand, working on the door’s lock. You kept watch, listening for anyone who might potentially be headed this way. A few minutes later, you heard the door creak open.

It hadn’t been open for even a few seconds before the smell hit you. It had you coughing hard and gagging, though nothing came up. You covered your nose with your arm, hoping to try and block out some of the smell. It felt like it was all over you, coating your hair, skin and the inside of your throat and nose. You had no idea if you were ever going to be able to get it off of you. It was a smell of rot, but not like what you had been breathing in throughout the funhouse so far. This was far, far worse. The only thing you could think was that this was what death must smell like. Which had your stomach churning.

Other than a few coughs when the door first opened, Batman didn’t seem to be overly effected by the smell. It made you wonder just how many times he had to have encountered the stench before for it to not effect him as much as it was effecting you. You were about to ask him to confirm that what you thought you were smelling was exactly that, when you were stopped by the sound of laughter.

“Are those—”

“Hyenas? Yes,” he cut you off. “Two of them, to be exact. Stay close.”

Hyenas? Who of Gotham’s criminals kept hyenas again? You racked your brain for the answer. It came to you as you followed him further in. Harley Quinn. She kept hyenas. You were only aware of that because everytime she did something it was big, televised and all over social media.

“Harley Quinn is here?” 

“Most likely, but even if she’s not here currently she would have left something behind,” he replied. “Either way we should stay on high alert. She’s become even more dangerous since Joker’s death.”

“Didn’t she kill him?” 

“Yes, in a slaughter house. There wasn’t much left of him.”

Though he didn’t go into detail, your mind unprovoked conjured up an image of what likely happened, making you cringe. 

“You saw?”

He was silent for a moment before finally answering you. “Yes. I arrived too late to stop her.”

As you continued deeper into the funhouse, the smell of rot grew stronger, making you gag again. The hyenas’ laughter had stopped by now, which made you even more anxious. At least before, when they were making noise, you could have pinpointed where they were.

After walking down a maze fo corridors that all looked the same as each other, the two of you soon came to a room where the smell was it’s strongest. It wasn’t hard to see why. You didn’t know what this room would have been when the funhouse was being used, but now it had a large cage in the centre of it. There were two hyenas with spiked collars with in the cage, surrounded by bones and fighting over a piece of meat. It looked fresh, meaning they had been fed recently. Harley was probably close by then.

The bigger of the two won the fight and ran of with its prize. While the smaller one now had its attention fixed on you and Batman. Its ears came forward as it sniffed the air intensely. You were grateful for the bars the stood between you and the hyenas.

There was a couple of desks shoved into the corner of the the room, piled with various papers and files and there was a map of Gotham attached to a corkboard, sitting just above the desks. While you had been focused on Harley’s pets, Batman had already made his way over to the desk and was going through the papers.

“She stole them from the zoo an hour afterwards,” he answered your unasked question, like he could read your mind.

You nodded and moved away from the cage, deciding to help him go through the papers to help him. Only for him to bat your hands way and glaring at you for getting in his way.

“Only trying to help!” you snapped.

“Then keep watch,” he grumbled, looking way from you and continuing to focus on the task at hand.

Folding your arms across your chest, your turned away from the desk to survey the rest of the room. If Harley was still around, after feeding the hyenas, she wasn’t going to be getting the drop on the two of you. As you kept watch, you listened to the way he was sutling through the papers.

Wondering what was taking so long, you briefly looked over your shoulder, watching how he shuffled through the papers and kept looking up at the map. Trying to match the information with the scribbles perhaps? Before you could think to ask, his head snapped up and you found yourself being thrown across the room.

You hit the floor, hard. Pain radiated through your arm and ribs at how awkward your landing was. Your arm, thankfully, hadn’t been broken in the fall, but with the way your ribs hurt from just shallow breaths you figured a couple of them had to be broken. As you pushed yourself up from the ground, hissing as your arm protested, you looked back over to where you had just been standing.

Batman laid on the floor, completely still, whilst Harley Quinn stood over him, an almost comically large mallet in her hands. How the hell was she carrying that thing, let alone managing to swing it?

She looked away from his body and over to you.

“Who are you? Batsy’s newest sidekick or just the stand in until Catwoman comes back?” she taunted, a smile on her face.

You pushed down the anger you could feel rising in you at her comment. You couldn’t let her get a rise out of you. Doing so could, and most likely would, get both you and Batman killed. If that initial hit from the mallet hadn’t already killed him. You really hoped that it hadn’t. One of your hands came up to your utility belt and pressed the SOS button there. Though you were sure you could take Harley on, Batman was still in need of serious and immediate medical attention and you seriously doubted you would be able to haul him out of here by yourself.

“The silent type like him huh? Ugh, how boring!” She rolled her eyes.

She charged for you, her mallet at the ready. You waited until the last second to jump out of the way. The resulting swing made Harley stumble and almost fall over. While she had the strength to lift and swing the mallet, her control over it seemed to depend whether or not she hit someone with it. You could work with that.

You kept light on your feet, dodging each of her swing. The aim right now was to try to tire her out, before you got tired yourself. Which would hopefully give you an opening to take her out.

“Stop moving!” she yelled as you dodged again. The time, instead of hitting air, the mallet smashed into the door of the cage. The door squeaked as it swung open and banged against the bars of the cage. She laughed manically and pointed at you. “Babies! Get her!”

The hyenas whooped and giggled as they ran out of their cage, baring their teeth as the headed straight for you. You didn’t want to hurt them, at the same time you really didn’t fancy getting ripped apart by them. You narrowly avoided the bigger on as it lunged for you and kicked out at the other one, trying to force it back. You went to reach for your belt, but a gunshot rang out, making you jump.

“Uh uh uh! My babies can’t use flash grenades so neither can you! The next bullet goes into your leg if I see you reaching for that pesky belt again!” Harley was now sat on one of the desks. Her mallet was propped up next to it and a gun in her hand. Batman was still laying on the ground, unmoving. God, you wished he would just spring back up and surprise her. But he wasn’t going to. This was all up to you.

The hyenas were well coordinated, doing their best to get you to jump back into either one of their jaws. Which you really didn’t want. You could smell the rotten meat stuck deep within their sharp teeth. You were sure that a single bite from either of them would likely be singing your death certificate. The longer this went on for the more chance they had to do that. You were going to be bitten if you didn’t find a way to either render them unconscious or scare them. 

As you did your best to avoid the hyenas, you were getting closer and closer to Harley. Who was getting more and more annoyed that her “babies” hadn’t ripped you apart yet. Taking both her and the hyenas by surprise, you darted forward and grabbed the mallet, doing your very best to swing it. It hit one of the hyenas, making it yelp as it slid across the floor. When it climbed back up onto its feet, it ran out of the room, the other one following close behind. You let go of the mallet and it hit the floor with a loud thump.

“How dare you!” she screamed, the gun she held was now pointed directly at you. Though you jumped out of the way as she pulled the trigger, pain flared through your side. Ignoring the pain in your side, you darted forward again. Disarming her with a kick and slamming her head down into the desk, successfully knocking her out cold.

Your hand went to your side and when you pulled it away again, it was covered in your blood.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pressing your hand back against your side. You really hoped that the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital.

After handcuffing her, you left Harley laying where she was and dropped down by Batman’s side. “You had better not be dead,” you told him. Using your non-bloodied hand, you slipped it beneath his cowl to get to his neck. You sighed in relief when you finally found his pulse. You removed your hand and slumped against the desk. Now all you had to do was wait for help to arrive and hope that her thugs or hyenas didn’t end up coming back beforehand.

So much for today being a good day.

*

Taglist - @the-last-twin-of-krypton @bakugous-bakahoe @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople @little-rivers @callalily2000 @geminicinderella @warsaur @theclassicvinyldragon @aniya7 @bluebear19 @jdream55 @thedeadlythoughts

[ladyevol]

Dusk for two

Characters: 3L!Grian and SL! Scar

Relationships: 3L!Grian X 3L!Scar (mentioned), 3L! Grian X 3L!Scar

Tags: Hurt/comfort, angst

____________________________________

A man sat in front of the shore, hugging his knees with both sets of wings spread over the sand, watching as the waves moved closer and away. The pair of wings near his shoulders were mostly red with blue and yellow feathers mixed in, similar to the wings of a parrot. As an avian, they had always been far too small for him to actually fly, leading to the man only being able to soften his fall when he fell. His hair was dirty blond and his body was covered by a red poncho long enough to hide his legs from the rest of the world in that position. His black eyes were also made bigger by the glasses that sat over his nose. The avian was short, standing at 5'6ft and his skin tone was a light warm ivory. Even under the harsh sun of the desert, he had never been able to tan. The larger, wider wings growing from the lower part of his torso were purple with a blue eye-like pattern on them. When he was younger, having those wings was everything that he had ever wanted. Now, he would trade them in a heartbeat for the chance of seeing him again.

“Hey, G.” Grian heard the painfully familiar voice coming from behind him and hugged his legs more tightly. “Mind if I sit here?”

“You are free to do whatever you want.” Grian mumbled without turning to look at the man on the wheelchair.

Scar was a much taller and more muscular man than he was at a full height of 6’0. He had spiky dark brown hair with a few gray strands growing to the side, likely due to stress during his own games. Instead of a poncho, the man wore a black cloak over his body covered in lilacs and red poppies, they seemed to almost grow from his clothes, leaving a trail of petals wherever he went. His pants were far baggier than those of Grian and his white shirt was always open for everyone to see his scars covered sienna muscles. Much like Grian, he had wings, albeit mismatched ones as one of his wings was blue and leathery, closer to that of a vex and the other was purple, having the same patterns as Grian's larger ones. While most people in there had scars on their body, Scar had a much more apparent and predominant lightning scar that covered most of his upper body, even his face, hence why he had received the nickname.

Grian sighed deeply. “What are you even doing here, Scar?”

“Oh, you know me. Just enjoying the beach and the breeze and the ocean. You know, I am quite an excellent swimmer. In fact, people would go so far as to wonder if I was part merman for how good at it I am.”

“That's not what I mean and you know it.”

Scar's smile faded a little as he rubbed the back of his neck, “yeah. I know. I guess I am just worried about you. It has been a couple of months now since I arrived and whenever we aren't training, you will just stay here. All alone, watching the sea. I know what it is like to be alone, Grian. Believe me, I know too well and I don't want that for you.”

Grian shook his head, “I deserve to be alone.”

“See, you keep saying that, but I just don't think that's true.”

Grian scoffed, “and what the hell do you know, huh?! You aren't even a player anymore! None of us are! We are just empty husks abandoned by our creators and then taken in by the Watchers to be their own personal little killing machines! We aren't supposed to think! We aren't supposed to feel! We are just supposed to do! And I can't even do that right because all that I want to do is sit on this goddamn beach, because at least the sand reminds me of the few truly good moments of existence that I have that are truly mine and not someone else's memory!”

Silence fell between them for just a moment, but for both of them it felt far longer. The air was heavy.

“Well,” Scar said, “first things first, I believe that the correct term is vessel, not a husk.” Grian glared over at the man who was smiling slightly, his green eyes on him, “second, just because we received these memories from our players instead of making them ourselves, it doesn't mean they aren't true. We are still them, but that doesn't mean we can't also be us. I don't see why those two things can't happen at the same time.”

“But you are not him.” Grian squeezed his legs more tightly.

Scar looked to the side, “no. I'm afraid I'm not your version of Scar.” He began pulling himself from his wheelchair to sit on the sand next to Grian, “I'm just not that lucky, I suppose.”

“Lucky? He is dead. How the hell can you call that lucky?”

“It is better to die knowing there is someone there that will always remember you than to live as just a ghost in the lives of everyone else. Believe me, Grian, if there was a way to give him my soul and bring him here, I would do it in a heartbeat. I'm still not even sure how I won. I certainly didn't deserve it. Gem, Pearl, hell, even my version of you deserved this more, at least you had people who cared about you and were rooting for you. But me? I burned every bridge I had ever built to appease the secret keeper. I destroyed every alliance and drank the blood of the people who committed the crime of just letting me live for too long. I murdered my own mother, my own father, I betrayed the people that dared to think of me as a possible ally, and do you know for what?” Grian finally turned to look at him, “a book. All of that, and for just a book, a book demanding more and more from me." Scar reached inside his cloak and pulled out the book containing his last task. He opened it to read ‘win secret life.’

“Well, you also earned a soul of your own, outside of the players.”

“See, that's the thing though, I'm unsure if that's even a reward! Because it feels more like a punishment most of the time.” He laid on the sand, “at least when I was being controlled, I had the excuse that things were out of my control, that his actions were not my actions, even if it is my body, but now? Now I realize how wrong I was. There was no line where he finished and I began. He was me. His desires, his anguishes and his fears are mine too. And so are our crimes. Except I have an even longer list of crimes now. Like you said, we are killers. We are neither watcher, nor player and we are above your regular vessel. We are Winners. Plain and simple.”

“Winners.” Grian took a deep breath. “Winners of sorrow and despair. We are never going to stop being controlled, are we? At least we knew what the players were thinking and feeling. This is so messed up.” He buried his face in his knees before feeling a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at Scar who was smiling at him.

“You are right. This is awful. It is so much that sometimes I feel like the pressure of it all will be enough to make me die. But even if it is like that and we are trapped in a hopeless, wretched existence where there is no possibility of a good ending, at least we are not alone.”

“Yeah, right. Because that is SO encouraging.”

“Maybe it isn't, but if there was one thing that Secret Life taught me was that life is worse when you have to live it on your own.” He placed an arm around Grian and pulled him against his chest in a sideway hug, “so smile my friend! Even if tomorrow is not the most beautiful and graceful day ever, at least you can have a shitty day with me.”

Grian looked at Scar with a faint blush on his lips before snorting, “yeah, right. I guess there were worse people to be trapped in here with.” He rested his head on Scar's shoulder as they watched the sun go down. Maybe, just maybe the night could be a little bit warmer with someone else by his side.

[morganali-art]

I decided to sit down and sketch out all my WoLs (not including like, six other joke characters that I have) and I have come to the conclusion that someone should take the character creator away from me.

I got too many lil guys 😵‍

From left to right...

J'rhota Tia is just a silly orange lad - PGL/ROG main, a scrappy little fight boy. Means well, but very head empty. Constantly getting locked out of the Waking Sands, but unfortunately is the only one who can take down Ifrit without getting tempered.

Amelot Greywoode Lost an eye on one of her adventures - couldn't afford a glass eye to match her good eye at the time, so the one she wears under her eyepatch is slightly off colour. (Highlander, GLD)

Parasha Pasha - Tiniest gorl. Min height lala. My god, she's so small. 🥺💕 Ostensibly mains WAR/DRG, but really is a FSH main.

Sami'ra (Sameth/Bunny) Lavellan - ARC/ROG main, previously a Dragon Age Inquisitor. Yearns to keep the stories of his people as a historian, but in the harsh economic times post-calamity, adventuring better pays the bills and provides for his large extended family. Per his name, he is the youngest son in a Keeper family with an oddly large number of sons. Truth be told, not all are family by blood, though are loved just as well. Sam has quite the crush on a certain Lord Commander.

Cessalie Sombreterre was an orphan of Ishgardian birth, and made her way to Ul'dah at a young age to try and make her way in the world, eventually taking up adventuring. Ostensibly a BLM main, though dabbles in roguery and swordplay. Min height elezen. Amongst her people, she's so leetle 🥺💕 Marries into the Fortemps house.

Hazel Rah is my main lad, first boy I ever made. He was born in the Golmore Jungle. Though he misses his childhood home dearly, he was forever restless, and eventually left - spending some time in Dalamasca and other occupied territories, before travelling to Eorzea in the wake of the calamity. Young for a travelling viera, he's about 70ish years old. Before he came to Eorzea, his forest name was Rjel Fith. He loves to garden.

Clover Frith is Hazel's much older sister - she's around 200, though she's not one to keep count. She left the forest when Hazel was quite young, in his 20s or thereabouts. When they met up again decades later, she was taking work as a gleaner in Sharlayan. Though her forest name is long left behind, her last name was Fith.

Blackavar Rehw-Dvre was Hazel's childhood sweetheart. In my headcanons, he does not leave the forest at all until well after the calamity - the general upheaval and unrest making its way even unto the forest, prompting the Rava people to make the choice to send scouts far from home to investigate. As such, though he is confident in the ways of his home, he is very out of place in the wider world and is often mystified by the ways of outsiders. As far as appearances go, Blackavar actually has quite curly hair - so I imagine his hair is more like the catboy hair both J'rhota and Sam have. Alas, there's no perfect bun options 😞

Holly Huorlwesfv is a veena bunny who I created as a retainer and went "aw fuck, I did it again," and had to turn him into a real boy because I liked him so much. He doesn't yet have a lot of a backstory yet, but I named him after Captain Holly from Watership Downs, and so in my mind he looks quite a bit scrappier than he is. Ears are scratched up and tattered. A few more scars. He's a stoic bun, a former guard most like. Definitely a fighter. PLD main iirc.

Bitter Snow is my beautiful, purple, goth Roe. I did not mean to give her the same name as Yellow Moon's paramour, it happened completely accidentally. 👀💦 She's so pretty, I ought to play her more. Pretty sure she's a DRG main, I cannot recall.

[dvskf4llz]

Hello! can I have a yandere jimmy (S2) with Gn!reader respecting him not because they're in love with him, they're just respecting him since he's the sheriff

(I hope this makes sense but you know what I mean)

-⭐

Ahhh!!! I love this idea sm! Hope this is what you wanted ⭐ anon!!!

Also guys should I make an character ai for like certain ppl you guys request? Let me know! :D

btw- Jimmy never became his 'canon height' in this au. He kinda just stayed normal height instead of turning into the height of a toy.

(I'M SO LATE TO THIS. THIS WAS REQUESTED DURING WHEN ESMP WAS STILL GOING I THINK I'M SORRY ⭐ ANON FOR FORGETTING 😭😭)

All mine..

𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓢𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓽𝔂 𝓖𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 (𝓙𝓲𝓶𝓶𝔂) 𝔁 𝓰𝓷!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

----------------------------

TW ⚠This oneshot will contain the following: Stalker-ish behavior, obsession, manipulation, yandere behavior, Jealousy (Jimmy being the jealous one), forced kissing (Reader receiving it without consenting), Stockholm syndrome. Please dni if you're uncomfortable with the following, thank you!

----------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------

(2nd POV)

Ever since you had joined empires, it's been quite a lot.

Having to rule an empire was a bit of a tough one, but you were able to do it either way. You happened to meet some new friends during your first few days of empires, one of them being none other than the Sheriff Jimmy solidarity himself.

He was really shy at first, always stuttering everytime you were around.

Soon, he grew to be more comfortable around you. You would visit each other a lot, Jimmy always seemed very blushy everytime you were around though. You thought of it as him just being surprised or shy, you didn't realize it was something else.

As time went by, you and Jimmy grew a more closer bond. You were the only one who actually respected him, he thought you respected him because you loved him, but really you mostly respected him because he was sheriff.

When he found out you didn't exactly respect him because you loved him and only because he was sheriff, he was sort of pissed and sad at the same time.

During the times you guys were together hanging out, Jimmy developed feelings for you. Sure you also developed minor feelings for him, but you only ever saw him as a friend. Nothing more.

Of course, Jimmy was gonna change that somehow. He just didn't know yet.

A few times, Jimmy has stalked you. Mostly when you're hanging out with the rulers like Princess Gem or Katherine, Jimmy was jealous everytime he saw you with someone else. He wanted you all to himself.

Ever since the hermits arrived from the Rift, you had been hanging out with a lot of them. You would hang out with the hermits during your free time when you finished your royal Duties, you completely forgot about hanging out with Jimmy.

Jimmy felt lonely and extremely jealous, he was so pissed at the hermits just randomly arriving and taking you away from him. His obsession grew for you, he was gonna have you to himself one way or another.

Jimmy planned for days and days, planning on how to finally have you. Of course, you were completely unaware of this. You did grow a bit concerned when you noticed Jimmy having dark eyebags under his eyes whenever you spotted him walking around, you grew a bit worried for him. You were planning to go and check up on him, but Scar had dragged you with him to hang out with him and Grian. You sort of then forgot about checking up on Jimmy for the rest of the day.

As you hanged out with Scar and Grian, Jimmy stalked you. His eyes filled with jealousy and obsession, his fists clenched when he saw how close Scar and Grian were getting to you. But he didn't do anything about it and instead just continued to stalk you!

Jimmy made a plan, a plan to kidnap you in your sleep. He wanted you all to himself, so why not kidnap you! He had to figure out how he would execute his plan though. He'd climb up into your bedroom window when you're sleeping, he'd make sure to be as quiet as he could to not wake you up, he'd then go through the bedroom window and gently carry you out of your bedroom and outside of your empire, he would then ride back empire with your sleeping form on his horse.

The plan was all set, Jimmy just needed to wait for the right day. After about two days, Jimmy waited for night time to arrive, he climbed up to your window and saw you were deep in sleep. He did exactly what he had planned the two days before as he brought your sleeping form out of your bedroom with only a slight struggle, he spent a good two minutes looking for the doors to the outside of your empires, he then found it and went outside still carrying you. He walked over to his horse and set you infront of him and began riding back home, to his surprise, you didn't wake up.

Once Jimmy reaches his empires, he gets down from his horse, he also carries you down off of his horse. He brings his horse back into the stables and went inside of his house/'empire', he walked toward a guest bedroom that happen to have no windows at all (its like it was made just for you!), he set you down on the bed and walked out, locking the door so that you wouldn't try to escape when you woke up.

By the time you woke up, it was slightly dark in the room, but not too dark. You looked around confused, you didn't recognize your surroundings. The door opening could be heard which made you turn your head towards it, it revealed none other than Jimmy holding a plate of food

"Oh! You're awake! Morning!" Jimmy said smiling innocently, you weren't having it though

"Jimmy, where am I? Why am I not in my bedroom? Where are we?" You asked confused and a bit bitterly at the same time

"Oh, well we're currently at our house!" Jimmy said cheerfully

"Our house?..." You looked at Jimmy weirdly

"Yes! You live here with me now!" Jimmy said acting as if it wasn't a bad thing, he walked over to the night stand next to the bed and set the plate of food down

"Y-you kidnapped me?!" You exclaimed, clearly not sounding happy by this at all

"Kidnap isn't what I would exactly call it, it's more of bringing you here to live with me! I knew you would immediately decline my love and stay away from me, so I had to this!" Jimmy says, still acting cheerfully

"You're insane!" You snapped, looking at Jimmy with a glare, Jimmy pouted making it look like he was hurt

"Oh, don't worry. You'll warm up to me eventually, you're going to be all mine without anyone interfering..." Jimmy said, his expression now changing into a slight insane and manic one, he then left without letting you say anything else, locking the door so that you wouldn't be able to get out.

You immediately stood up and tried opening the door, but it was no use, you didn't even have anything that may unlock the door. The room didn't exactly have windows which mad it worse, you then went back to your bed and began nibbling on the food Jimmy set on the nightstand.

Why did Jimmy have to do this to you? He loved you, but you didn't. Why did he have to kidnap you and isolate you in your room with no possible escape?...

You sat there thinking to yourself about why did this happen to you, you didn't want this at all, you wanted to be with your friends again. You began to felt lonely and extremely upset, you didn't exactly have a choice to leave...

Ever since that day, the other rulers had gotten a note to what they thought it was you saying that you had went on a journey and would probably not be back soon and they believed it surprisingly, little did they know that Jimmy was the one who sent the note.

You were stuck in Jimmy's house, not being able to contact your friends at all. You felt isolated and alone. Jimmy would sometimes force you to show affection to him, even forcing you to kiss him occasionally, He'd be nice most of the time though which barely made it any better.

After a while, you slowly got gaslighted into thinking that you did love Jimmy. Jimmy gaslighted you into thinking what he was doing was just to keep you safe, you ended up falling into his lies and manipulation unfortunately, making you warm up to Jimmy and show actual affection.

Deep down inside, Jimmy felt a bit bad for doing this to you. He hated the fact that he had to do this, but he had no choice, this was the only way he could get you to love him.

------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------

Well well well! You made it to the end! :D

I deeply apologize if this is bad, I'll maybe re-write all my oneshots soon so stay tuned for that!

I was looking thru my drafts today planning to continue writing pt 2 of revenge thinking I already posted this during saturday until I saw that this was still in my drafts 😀

Whoops..

Anyways, hope you enjoyed this! I will be updating my pinned post soon so ya :3

And aswell, I'm going to be switching different povs from time to time! (Third person POV, Second person POV and maybe first person POV aswell.)

Bye bye reader! Have a nice day!! Make sure to remember to take care of yourself <3

[p.s, I think u shld follow poetthewriter they're a rlly good mcyt oneshot writer :33]

[docholligay]

Not sure if you've mentioned it before, but your recent asks got me thinking: do you hc any of your SM/OW faves having tattoos?

Yes!

In my SM universe, Minako definitely does, a set of garter belts on her thighs, with stocking "backseam" with a few little hearts in a line. She's very classy, and it was a bit the moment of a sexy impulse.

Haruka is not QUITE what I would call a lesbian fuckboy, but she certainly has fuckboi qualities, and so I know, in my heart of hearts, she would have tattoos. She's actually my most inked character. I think I can count on one hand the number of butches I know who DON'T honestly. So she has a common masculine AND I AM TREADING EXTREMELY LIGHTLY HERE tattoo on her forearm, so common I'm not even one hundred percent sure what it is: It says "Basic bro tattoo" in my notes *grits teeth*

So your short of single ijnked in band, or tribal, or a nautical star, or chevrons, or...I mean, you know exactly what I'm talking about, you've seen it on at least one butch lesbian in her life, and it was DEFINITELY done when she just got old enough because she wanted to look cool and tough. She laughs about it in her old age. Maybe even does something neat with it.

But also, she has a tattoo of the great wave off kanagawa on her left shoulder like this:

Which is for Michiru, and Michiru waits until they are like, 50, to tell Haruka that a tattoo was never something she necessarily wanted Haruka to do for her, and indeed only gave her parents other thing to criticize (Haruka knows this at this point) but also if one WERE to get a tattoo of the furious sea, she is more a WInslow or Aivazovsky type., Rembrandt if we long for low hanging fruit. ANd Haruka just laughs.

Going my full AU, once she gets hurt, and gets on with it, she decides that if people are going to stare at her scars she's going to give them something to stare at, with something that sort of plays with the appearance of her scars rather than trying to hide them--if it's a formal event she'll be wearing pants anyway, so who cares?--and it's a swashbuckling feather and flower and sword situation.

In OW land, Lena has the RAF insignia on her left shoulder with an banner that says "Oxton" underneath, the exact same one her father had, and her aunt, and her cousin Parvati also has. Pretty much any OXton who graduates from fast-jet training.

She also has the hello kitty bow on her buttcheek.

Fareeha has, of course, her canon tattoo, the eye of Horus under her eye and then also a hello kitty bow on her buttcheek.

Hana never got a tattoo while she was in the South Korean limelight trying to be the darling of Busan and soldier--she would have had to cover it up anyhow--and one of her first acts when she takes over as Commander of Overwatch is, impulsively and a bit stupidly, a flash sparrow on her on her upper chest, near her collarbone. It's silly and stupid, sure, but it was the first time in her life, that she can remember, where her body and her presentation felt purely her own, and if she wanted a stupid flash sparrow by god she was going to GET ONE. Later one she changes it a bit so it can mean a little something, but even before then she never hates it because of what it symbolizes.

[heavenpierceher]

oh we submitting requests for ask memes now? ....tailpipe lmao

thank you for doing this so i did not have to send myself an ask as three psilocyns in a trenchcoat. original here

1. What is the character’s go-to drink order?

he orders a) whatever “special” there is, if there’s a drink of the day he gets that, b) “you pick”/“something you think i’d like” (annoying but endearing), or c) the cybertronian equivalent of whatever’s the sweetest and fruitiest. he never gets the same thing twice, except when he does multiple times in a row because sometimes the familiarity is comforting. swerve knows he’s feeling down when he gets the same few orders in a row from him

2. What is their grooming routine?

initially he pays a lot of attention to looking cool and important therefore buffing the ever loving shit out of his frame while strategically leaving alone cool looking scratches. post-RiL he doesn’t have much of a reason to do that anymore so he’s just Normal but he also likes, like. i think he’d enjoy braiding holoform whirl’s hair for her

3. What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go?

he LOOOOOVES trinkets. LOVES them. he gets a souvenir for every planet they stop on. doesn’t collect anything in particular, just has an eye for kitschy little desk toys and stuff to put on the walls

4. Do they have any scars or tattoos?

no engravings (he’s skittish) but he could probably be very easily talked into getting one. obviously physical scars aren’t much of an entity in canon since they can Just Go Get A New One but i do think he’s got some residual weakness in his legs from having them crushed+cybercrosis and prefers to use his alt mode to travel short distances

5. What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances?

yesterday. he accidentally stepped on someone’s foot and got scared. poor guy

6. Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child?

again, not applicable, but i think he has, like, “second youngest of 6 kids” energy

7. Describe the shoes they’re wearing.

human au—cheap workboots, but he’d rather be wearing cool, fashionable chunky sneakers. maybe air maxes. he thinks the little window is cool

8. Describe the place where they sleep.

more closely resembles a nest. he’s fucking comfortmaxxing. sleepy and nappilled. genuinely a little difficult to see him under all the pillows

9. What is their favorite holiday?

all of them! he’ll take any excuse to celebrate something. he actually likes holidays he doesn’t celebrate but his friends do the most, and also holidays he can use to tell stories

10. What objects do they always carry around with them?

see, he’d like to be the friend who always has hand sanitizer and scissors, but he’s not quite that organized, so at any given time you’d get like… one of his trinkets, wrench given to him by someone and never used “in case he needs it”, snacks (he can always be counted on to have snacks at least), small weapon (mostly to aid in bragging), and a datapad with notes on literally everything, half diary and half encyclopedia. you are not allowed to read it but he’ll read parts of it to you if you want

[mostspecialgirl]

another solo ramble post - relicverse, ocs, flg, and 'succeeding as an artist'

one of the first pieces of digital art i’ve tried to do (not counting back when i was a kid on chickensmoothie) was a '100 OC’s Challenge', which, even at the time, little me thought “what? Just 100? bitch i’ve got this in the BAG” (i did in fact, have it in the bag) and so seeing it again made me want to do a redraw of it. y’know throw in their modern updated designs, maybe try to give them a little more expression, switch the order around and whatnot. but i asked myself “Well in that case, why don’t I just redo the whole thing instead of making it a redraw? Stick in some new series since little me got lazy of drawing from a list at like 75, and it can be something nice to refer to.”

(pictured: old ass disgusting FLG page of the 100 oc’s challenge, as well as the infamous Crusty Backup Of An Old Version of the Ancient FLG Pixel Art Sheet)

then i remembered it’s ONLY 100 slots. by now, i’ve got WAY too much going on and i’ve had another “oh. Well shit. I forgot I’m nuts about this shit” because quite honestly I could probably do 300 without having to think too hard. And maybe that’s a bit of an issue. what is a girl doing with 300+ characters floating around her brain. i’ve got tens of stories where NONE have PROPERLY seen the light of day because i’m scared of comitting to a shitty adaptation that interests no one. or i get too overly ambitious in what’s actually possible and blow out my motivation to wanting it down in consumable form at that time. here i am cooped up in my little shack with the same problem i’ve had my whole life:

i’d love to have one or two eyes on my work who care about it, but i’ve never had any knack for attracting an audience. i spent YEARS on instagram to the tune of Only Making A Single Friend I Fell Out Of Touch With. All of the success I’ve had on twitter over the years is directly tied to “well did Friend 1 or Friend 2 Retweet This?” (With an exception i’ll get to) and only QUITE RECENTLY (in the scope of my artist career) have i made friends who LOOK at my ART and press LIKE. i just feel a little suffered! maybe i’m just scarred from instagram cause’ i was shit at drawing back then. maybe i just have to do fanart with the skills i have now and inevitably i’ll have followers of my own who i don’t see through the lens of “borrowed, not earned”. but i’m scared of failure. i’ve long failed, don’t get me wrong, but i’m afraid of falling deeper, despite how insignificant an Online Existence Like This already is.

(pictured: record of existence)

my one success, being twitter’s “GAYRETARDGF” was the first time in my life i received any attention that made me think “oh shit, maybe i’m actually a little bit funny and not just an insane unfunny person”. i spent years playing Jester for My Personal King that i’ve kind of lost any frame of reference pertaining to how i’m perceived by others. i’ve always been terrible at that. despite getting suspended at another Peak Growth Moment and the fact i’ve failed to reclaim that spark, it’s made me realize “Maybe I can succeed creatively”. after all, GAYRETARDGF’s thing was vulgar quips and drawn out nonsensical scenario posts and WELL. not to name names or kick any other artists under the bus, unlike most Crazy Posters “artist careers”, my art, i find, is every bit as unserious, witty, vulgar, and STUPID as my tweets were. (i think the writing in Puzzling Commission is a testament to that)

even if i failed to recapture the lightning in a bottle that was GAYRETARDGF, knowing people find my stupid bits funny is such a candle in the dark i’ve been in my whole life. i’m always telling my friends “i’m trying to be the new henry darger” and even though i’m joking, I’m afraid that maybe i will be to a few souls who stumble on my work. i’ve found my own 'personal dargers' over the years who i bemuse over, wondering where they are now, and if they still care about art. I don’t want to give up. I want to keep pushing. I’m coming up on the 10th anniversary of FLG and finally at this point in my life i’m seeing the signs that potentially I can make ONE person BECOME A DEDICATED FAN of the relicverse. my art’s almost there, my writing’s there, and all i have to do it wait for the wind to catch these sails. (i will however, have to find the right sails for the job)

i’m far from kidding when i say the relicverse is my life’s work. i think i’d like to make it succeed. i hope in this modern landscape it CAN succeed. so i’m going to bust my fucking ASS OFF drawing fanart on tumblr and see where it goes. I’d honestly be satisfied just being a mildly successful fanartist in a fandom i like.

SURPRISE! THIS POST ISN’T DONE YET!

for the second part here, feel free to stop reading, i want to talk a little more about FLG. FLG is the series younger me put my whole SOUL into. even 'sarah' which i’m going by now (due to a strange set of circumstances which i might talk about in a future ramblepost about Gender and Stuff), is taken from 'sa’ara pyrophyte byblis' who at the time was my favourite character. To repeat what i said earlier with a little more information, FLG is in fact coming up on it’s tenth anniversary and that’s HORRIFYING. i’ve been working on this shit since before UNDERTALE. BEFORE UNDERTALE!!!!!!!!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHIT?????

flg’s been sent to the backburner while i recontextualize a ton of lore, but in a lot of ways, it’s the reason the relicverse even exists. sure, these days, DEVIL’S MANNER opens up the gate, but the first series i wrote to acknowledge the planes and the presence of a shared greater universe is from FLG. hell, FLG’s story can be read as a parallel to Demiurge’s story (intentional) though… now that i say that, it’s not like anyone would know what i mean by that.

despite not DIRECTLY touching FLG in any significant way in these recent times, i think it’s only become more important to the greater universe. the kailash clan finds their origins in FLG, and by extension, the outer gods. hastur himself is a direct descendant of the outer gods, and despite being seen as an 'imperfect halfling' by the ancients during FLG, at the end of the story and before the events of sundown, hastur gains his proper respects as 'their greatest child', being half ancient and half elder god, essentially the image of purity they’ve been chasing. an ancient whose blood bears the love of their creators. oh. right. i guess now’s a good time to mention Hastur and by extension Ithaqua are both Kailash, though the two aren’t keen on identifying as such after everything Cass did to their friends family and home.

in the current scape of the relicverse, the Kailash are by far the only clan who has political relevance, both the berezaiti and sinai clans divided and mostly irrelevant in terms of modern planeswalker culture. The Kailash are like, kind of really important.

but, technically, the berezaiti are also from FLG. Ounon Thanast, chief of one of the Tindalosian Clans that find their homeworld in FLG’s Earth, is the parent of Yima Berezaiti, who, if for some reason you know my lore, is the whole reason the Berezaiti clan is a CLAN.

FLG’s earth, GENESIS EARTH, is pretty significantly important to the RELICVERSE. It’s one of the planes lying upon 'The Rim', with the control for influence over it contested by both The Planeswalker Association and the Hundred Nights Guild. Due to the presence of Azathoth’s Canvas Energy Offgassing, within GENESIS EARTH, everyone’s line of fate is rewritten to have them destined to awaken a Power (as in 'Powers' of 'The Five Elements') by lingering around in this plane for long enough, anyone can gain another unique ability JUST by doing fuck all!!!! which OF COURSE has led to the eternal struggle of planeswalkers upon their world.

Even the Trinity and RELIC EARTH aren’t safe, with Angelo Rust of INSIDERS being a Genesis Earth native and brother of the Sinai Clan’s Patriarch Einrich, Gervase Sinai, was condemned to the plane by the King of the Watchers, Samyaza, who is also one of RELIC EARTH’s Outer Gods. AND, SPOILER ALERT, GERVASE IS THE FATHER OF VIRGIL, THE PROTAGONIST OF FLG: SUNDOWN!!!

gaaaasp

There’s so many more little connections like that and yet somehow i never seemed to consider genesis earth as more than a footnote, until now, of course. but i’m not sure what i want to do with flg. the obvious answer is a COMIC, seeing as it’s about SUPERHEROES, but i can’t help but wonder if there’s another path also worth pursuing. Superhero media is everywhere these days, and with the success of works like Invincible’s adaptation, The Boys’s adaptation, and like, the crazy marvel movie explosion that happened with infinity war and endgame, Superhero stuff is back in the public consciousness. There’s a lot of avenues. That’s getting too far ahead though seeing as I’ve had a Big Inevitable Rewrite for it on the schedule… gruygh,,, there’s too much to ramble about today… what was it i was even trying to talk about…

oh. Yeah. Right. I’d love for FLG to find its success somehow, some way, someday, with beautiful 5 active readers, and 20 Asks in my Tumblr Askbox, but i’m a little fearful i might never have the time or power to get to it. I guess I’ll see. I’ll just keep plugging along.

Now shoo!!! Shoo!!!

[noaltbruh]

Hello, I've accidentally deleted an Oc x character request I got a few days ago and I'm literally feeling so stupid.

To the person who requested it, I hope you'll see it anyway.

Deja que te ayude

Another stand battle, another Jotaro struggling on the cold street, the exact place where the defeat of the enemy had taken place.

He brought an hand to his stomach, the smell of blood coming from fresh wounds was not something he would have gotten used to so easily, how surprising can life be at times. Two weeks ago you were just attending school as usual, and now you find yourself forced to travel around the world with some idiotic old men, a gamer, an overly hyped French guy whose hair is higher than the Eiffel tower, an actual sane person and...Well...Jolie.

The boy's ideal type was someone humble, refined, quiet and feminine.

...So basically, anyone but the girl he ended up sharing this adventure with. Most of the time she was loud, arrogant, cocky, a trouble-maker and incapable of focusing on a single thing even for a second, although he knew that the latter was something she couldn't help.

He would observe her interact and tease Joseph and Caesar, cause troubles with Polnareff, try to get Kakyoin to lose whole he was playing videogames...Basically being as annoying as humanly possible.

Yet, every time Jotaro approached her, something always felt...Different. More than once, he asked himself if the one he was interacting with was actually Jolie, and not some yellow temperance-like stand back to get their revenge.

He'd often flinch when she rested her head on his shoulder, he'd sit and watch as she took the tenth photo that day in the same exact thing, he'd notice her stutter trying to form a sentence sometimes when faced with his huge figure in front of his eyes.

This behavior was something he just...Didn't understand. He was an excellent fighter, a talented student (to most people's surprise) and an extremely clever and mature person for his age. But when it came to figuring others out...The way they acted, the way they felt, well...That was a different story.

Did he...Scare her? Surely, that would have been new, at least she was less invading than all the girls at school. Still, she was his companion, one of the fee people he could trust to stand by his side in the almost impossible mission that was saving her mother.

But Jotaro, being the lone wolf he's always been, always had a preference to face the enemies in his own, trying to get as less people as possible involved.

Of course, putting emphasis on "trying" was quite fundamental.

No matter how hard he tried, just when he thought he had managed to protect the others from the enemy finding out about them, there she was: Jolie, already in first line to fight along side th other.

In a situation like that, not much could be done. As he let out a sigh, follow by his usual annoyed catch phrase, it was just a matter of time before the weekly stand user would find themselves forced in a hospital for the next four months at least.

"Are...You okay?"

Jolie whispered with difficulty, a sharpening pain filling the upper part of her chest from a terrible wound that still kept on bleeding, staining the rest of the clothes even further.

The boy just grunted in response, slowly getting up and covering his eyes with the point of his hat.

"Treat that scar, it looks bad"

He murmured in his usual monotone and uninterested.

"Uh? Oh yeah, almost forgot about it, heh"

She answered, as her stand was already taking care of fixing the damage done. With all the bruises and similar sorts of pain they had had to deal with to far, it was an understatement to say that the creature has had been put under quite a lot of pressure, especially mixed with the girl's hamon abilities.

"How can you forget about something like that? Your entire fucking chest is bleeding"

Jolie took a look at the other, staining an eyebrow. He was the one telling her to worry about herself, completely ignoring the fact that his body was filled with bruises scattered in every possible point and place.

"You're the one talking"

She thought to herself, without actually pronouncing a word out loud, she didn't have the courage to talk back as she would usually do when she was around him. She only pushed her stand to do its work faster, bickering between the two was always prwsent during the aftermath of a battle.

"Do you want me to fix yourself too?"

She asked, once she had finished patching herself up.

Jotaro hesitated for a moment. He knew his conditions were not the best, but as always, accepting help from others was something he did not enjoy. Most of all, being cured would have meant that Jolie had to touch every single wound on himself, physical contact always made him nervous and uncomfortable.

His reply was plain, simple and direct, just like him.

"No"

When those words hut her, Jolie looked away, arms crossed, as she let out a "Mph" and signed reassigned.

"Why? It'll take just a few minutes, I'll be fast, I promise"

She took one step closer to the other, but he walked back.

"I don't care"

"...Alright, suit yourself"

She added and closed the conversation there. If there was one yeah the two of them shared, but that was incredibly obnoxious for both, was how incredibly stubborn they could become at times.

While Jolie didn't seem as hot headed as him, at first, her apparent decision to let him do as he wanted would have soon turned out to be just something temporary, just enough to keep him at bay and satisfied for the time being.

In fact, after that small interaction, they headed back go their hotel in complete silence. They were the type of people who didn't require talking as something necessary in order to enjoy someone's presence, although this time, the silence that surrounded them didn't exactly feeling as pleasant as it would most of the times.

The girl could notice that his breathing was heavier than how it should be, but didn't comment nor show any sort of reaction regarding it. All they had to do now was to report what had happened to the others and then, hopefully, getting some rest, before catching yet another train.

They were welcomed back by Joseph, who was in the middle of inspecting a map with Caesar. The two old men asked them where they had been, and after a brief conversation, the teens were free to leave and head to their rooms, a well-warned break waited for both of them.

Jotaro sad on his bed, not caring about the sheets slowly changing colors due to the red of his wounds. He was reading a book Kakyoin had given him some time ago, when his peace was interrupted by the weak sound of someone knocking on his door. He knew perfectly who it was.

"What is it, now?"

He said, not bothering to give the other a single glance, as she quietly laid next to him.

"What are you reading?"

He considered for a moment not answering her question, but he knew that it probably wouldn't have been enough to make her go away.

"A mystery novel, Kakyoin said it's worth reading"

"Ah...I didn't know you listened to other people's advices"

Jolie tried to contain her own laughter, such sassiness wasn't usually so obvious when she spoke to him.

"Surprise"

He rolled his eyes to the sky...Or rather, to the room's ceiling, if that counted.

The quietness from early re-emerged, only interrupted once in a while by the sound of the curtains in the room touching, moving following the rhythm of the spring breeze.

The girl truly did not know what to do to get his attention, it felt like interacting with a wall. A black, rigid one, where every brick fell into place.

Slowly, her hands started moving...Snatching the book away from him.

"OI, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, BITCH?"

"...Figured that if I did this, you would have at least looked at me"

She closed the novel and put in on the side of the bed, giving the other a small smile.

"Will you let me heal you now? You should seriously worry more about your body, how are you going to defeat DIP in such conditions?"

Jotaro looked down, unsure of how to answer.

"It'll pass, everything does"

"Well"

Her stand was already floating above her, only waiting for her user's command to interfere.

"With my help, it'll pass faster, doesn't that sound nice?"

"Urgh jeez, are we done yet? Can I do my job or you're just going to keep me waiting for long"

The embodiment of her own soul was calling her an idiot, way to go Jolie. She gave it a bad look, when she heard something: a faint laughter.

"Heh...I know you're an head in the clouds, but not even controlling your stand?"

The girl with dyed hair put an hand behind her head.

"Not my fault my own spirit doesn't like me"

"Technically, it is"

"WILL YOU QUIT IT ALREADY AND CURE HIM?!"

Before the light hearted argument could continue, the boy raised his head.

"Why are you so fixated on this? These aren't mortal wounds, you know?"

"Neither was mine"

She extended her arm in his direction, her expression softening a little.

"Please...deja que te ayude"

He didn't understand Spanish, but he knew how to speak Italian a bit thanks you his grandmother, making out the meaning of what she had said, or at least he hoped so.

He crossed his legs and turned into her direction, taking the jacket of his uniform off.

"...Do your thing, but be quick"

Jolie smiled.

"I will"

[sunshineistyping]

What about the other Glam Rocks and sundrop and moondrop reacting to old SH scars?

A lot of you guys were asking for this so I chose this request to write it under!

Past SH Headcannons

Characters: G. Freddy, Roxanne, Sun, Moon

Warnings: Mentions of Self Harm, Self Harm Scars

———————————————————————

GLAMROCK FREDDY

He just cries and holds you, he is so soft dude he just- like- he wants to love you

He quite literally holds you like a baby he does not care about how you react. He wants to love on you until you pass out

Which isn’t hard actually, Freddy is surprisingly comforting despite him being made of metal

He’ll help you get comfortable showing your arms and such again by being your number one hype man

“You look absolutely stunning Darling, I love it.”

“You should wear things like this more, it’s made for you.”

“That color suits you very well, I think you should wear it more.”

He is the kind of guy who amps up the love and affection to one thousand just to make you feel happy. He loves seeing you confident in your body and who you are

If you’re uncomfortable showing your scars he’ll never ever force you! He’ll compliment you all the same

You could be wearing a trash bag and he’d still find a way to compliment you

Because it’s you

To him you always look good regardless of what you’re wearing or what marks you have

You’ve grown into such a beautiful person and he has no choice but to compliment your growth

Is the first to throw verbal hands with someone who insults your scars. I shit you not his composure breaks!

His eyes glare down, he straightens himself to full height, gently puts a hand on said persons shoulder and tilts his head

“Would you like to repeat that for me?”

If they do he doesn’t even say anything, he picks them up by the arm and THROWS them outside. Doesn’t care if they get injured. That’s on them for saying such things in a child friendly establishment

More like that’s on them for saying something rude to you but for legal reasons it’s the other one

He bans them from the building and if they try to get back in he’s authorized to use force

Need I say more?

———————————————————————

ROXANNE

I can’t begin to describe the way she gently pulls you into her chest and just holds you there. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just holds you

She can understand the feelings you had, she’s been there

A lot of people think she’s a narcissist but the thing is, she’s really not. She’s insecure and afraid of letting others see her crack under pressure. She had to be her own support system before you came along

And then you loved her in a way she’s never felt, so now it’s her turn to love you

“You know you’re brave right? Look at you. You’re doing so good, I bet younger you would be so proud to see how far you’ve come.”

She lets you cry against her, let’s you mess up her hair when you run your hands through it. She’ll let you touch her hair as much as you want now

It could be a way to help you calm down and she’d really prefer for you to choose her hair over harming yourself

She even lets you braid it or touch her tail, Roxy is a massive softie who isn’t too much into PDA but gets very touchy when someone mentions your scars in a rude way

She has and will destroy anyone who even LOOKS at you wrong

“You got something to say? No? Then why are you looking at them like that? Exactly, you do have something to say. So we’re either gonna talk on the track or with fists. Got it?”

Will publicly embarrass the person and force them to apologize. Has made someone so scared that they paid you cash to forget what happened

Supports you through thick and thin without fail

Because she loves you, and she really doesn’t use that word lightly

———————————————————————

SUN

He acts off once you explain what your scars are from. He’s seen kids who had them and he knew what it meant he just didn’t expect to see them on you

After a few minutes of looking at them he’ll switch into a more quiet but still upbeat personality

He’ll cuddle you and draw little glitter glue doodles on your scars

Has and will make little designs that highlight your scars

He doesn’t want you to be ashamed of them, in fact he likes them

It shows him that you’re not the same person you were and he gets to meet a much healthier and happier you

“You don’t have to be nervous! There’s nothing to fear! You look really good!”

Makes you feel cute in any outfit you put on

If anyone talks bad about your scars when they’re a child he’ll reprimand them and explain why they shouldn’t do that

If they’re an adult he takes the metaphorical gloves off and makes them feel like absolute garbage without even truly insulting them

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t bother my coworker while on the job. They have much more important duties to attend too. If you’d like, I can handle any and all complaints you have. Please be aware that while my coworker is not authorized to use force to escort you out. I am. So choose your next words carefully as this is a child friendly establishment.”

Proceeds to then switch right back into a much happier tone.

“So what was it that you wanted to say?”

He can be awfully cruel when he needs to be, and he will as long as you feel safe

———————————————————————

MOON

He’s probably the best person to tell these things too, why? Well he doesn’t care about them and doesn’t make it a big deal

You’re not sure why but he always knows what to say and do to cheer you up or make you feel special

“You don’t have to suffer alone. You don’t have to be awful to yourself, because look at how much you’ve changed? It’s okay to forgive yourself. After all, the only person who has yet to forgive you is yourself. Be kind to the person you are now, you were still growing up back then.”

Will let you nap with him, or have long talks before you sleep

If you ask him to just talk to you about things he’s the sweetest thing in the world and will talk about all the things he enjoys about you

Is willing to listen to whatever you have to say about the scars, and if you don’t have anything to say he doesn’t mind

The best listener in the lineup, he prefers to hear you rant and let go of all that pain rather then speak

If he hears ANYTHING about someone insulting you he’s the first to ask if you want them to ‘disappear’

He has his ways of making it happen regardless if Sun is in control or not

He’s protective and extremely sweet, honestly I’m shocked he hasn’t just told you how much he loves you yet

———————————————————————

[sunflowervolvimp3]

NFWMB (boxer!harry)

Warnings: language, nsfw content, alcohol, violence

Pairing: boxer!Harry x reader

Word Count: 30k (I got carried away)

A/N: So this got a little out of hand!! I will admit!! I did not mean to make this so long!! but it’s about the yearning people!!! the yearning!!! anyways I really hope you guys like this!! just a few disclaimers: my medical knowledge comes from google and my first-aid badge I got in girl guides so please do not take any of the medical advice in here as doctor recommended. also this is very long and if you’re reading on mobile it may make it crash? so try opening it on a web browser under the read more if you need to!! I really honestly can’t believe I managed to write 30k, but I love boxer!harry so much, and yes he does have long hair in this fic because I make the rules!! thank you to @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy​ for proof reading this for me and putting up with my messages about it. also, the title is from NFWMB by hozier and i’d recommend listening to it as you read!! as always, feedback is appreciated!! and if you like it, please reblog it!! reblogging is the best way to show content creators support and encourage them to write more!!

{masterlist}

If money wasn’t so tight, there’s no way Y/N would be doing this.

She’s thought it over a thousand times, running every possible scenario and outcome in her head. More often than not, those scenarios end badly.  Yet here she is, standing at the edge of stairs that lead to a gym below the streets of New York City.  Men push past her to get below, muttering quick apologies as they bump into her. None of them are sincere, she notices, but why would they be?  They don’t care about her.  Y/N, on the other hand…she’s being paid to care about them.  They’re why she’s here.

The offer had been posted on a bulletin board in the nursing student’s lounge on campus.  It was a crumpled piece of paper, with a handwritten message scribbled across it.  Y/N had spotted it when she was looking at the board for a summer job, and the uniqueness of it caught her eye.  She had pulled it down from the board, reading it over.

WANTED:

Looking for an individual with medical background/first aid training.

Complete medical degree not required.

For all inquiries, contact Patrick Lawson.

Y/N remembers running her fingers over the phone number listed.  It was a peculiar request, to say the least.  Patrick Lawson, whoever he was, seemed to be searching for someone with medical training, but didn’t require a full medical professional. Still…a job was a job.  And it had looked like it was the most promising thing on the board.

Later that day, Y/N had found herself calling the number, and within three minutes of dialing, she had set up a meeting with Patrick Lawson at a Starbucks a few blocks away from campus.  When she walked in, her eyes scanning the café for someone who would’ve posted the ad, she had instantly known who he was.  The burly man by the window with a long scar across his weathered face and the smell of cigarette smoke wafting from him stuck out from the crowd of students studying, and he had seemed to be the only patron who would hire unlicensed medical personnel.

“Hi.” Y/N had walked over slowly. “Are you Patrick Lawson?”

“That depends.” He looked her up and down, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. We spoke on the phone?” She took the advertisement out of her bag and handed it to him.

“Right.” Patrick nodded, motioning to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”

“Alright.” Y/N had taken a seat slowly, her eyes on the door behind him.  She hadn’t quite decided not to run. “So…you didn’t say what kind of job—”

“What are your medical credentials?” Patrick cut across her, sipping his coffee.

Y/N remembered thinking that that was rude, and completely unprofessional for an interview.  Of course, now that she actually knew Patrick, the action was completely in character.

“I’m a third-year nursing student at NYU Meyer.” She had answered, reaching into her bag to pull out her student ID. “And I’m trained in first aid.”

“You ever stitched somebody up before?”

Y/N frowned at the bluntness of the question. “Um, yes, but—”

“What about set broken bones?  Noses?”

With an incredulous look on her face, Y/N had glanced around the coffee shop.  Could anyone else hear this?  When the answer to that question appeared to be no, she had leaned forward, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

“Mr. Lawson, what exactly is this a job interview for?”

 What it was for, it had turned out, was an underground boxing ring in the heart of New York. Patrick explained between sips of black coffee that he owns the gym that everyone fought in, and the business is growing.  The only downside (the use of the word “only” had made the corners of Y/N’s mouth twitch—there was only one downside to an illegal boxing ring?) is that with no regulations, men get injured.  A lot. And because the boxing is illegal, they can’t exactly keep going to the hospital…which was where Y/N comes in.

After seeing her student ID, her first-aid certifications, and testing her on the spot by having her look at a bandaged cut on his leg to see if it was infected (“It is.” Y/N had told him immediately), Patrick had hired Y/N on the spot.  For three hundred dollars a night, she would be watching illegal boxing matches with a first-aid kit by her side.  If anyone got injured too badly, they would bring them back to the locker rooms, where she would be waiting.  There, she would bandage cuts, check for concussions, set broken bones, stitch people up with no anesthetic…

Y/N shudders as she looks at the gym door again, finally pulling herself from her thoughts.  It’s definitely not an ideal situation—or even a moderately ideal situation— and she’s not looking forward to it in the least. But being a student in New York isn’t exactly cheap, and the money is good, even if it’s dirty.  Really dirty.  Probably bloody, from the fighters that she would be expected to stitch up from awful injuries—

“Don’t.” Y/N mutters to herself, taking a deep breath. “Everything is going to be okay.  It’s fine.  This is fine.”

“Hey, lady.” A man approaches her from behind, giving her a strange look—which is to be expected, Y/N thinks, seeing as how she’s talking to herself in the doorway of an underground gym. “Are you going to stare at the door all night, or are you going to open it?”

“Sorry.” She says sheepishly, stepping out of his way and allowing him to step around her down the stairs.  

Knowing that there’s nowhere else to go but inside—and knowing that she can’t block the doorway forever—Y/N quickly makes her own way down the stairs and through the heavy doors.

Y/N isn’t exactly sure what she had expected an underground boxing gym to look like, but the room in front of her eyes pretty much meets her expectations.  The gym is dark, with one bright light in the center hanging over the beaten-up ring.  There are a few dark-coloured mats scattered around the ring, along with people getting ready to watch that night’s match.  Everyone she sees, with their black clothing and leather boots and tough demeanors, looks like they belong at an illegal gym, whereas Y/N…she glances down at herself for a moment.  Next time, she thinks, she’ll remember not to wear lavender.

Still, no matter how out of place she feels, she’s here now, and if university and nursing school had taught her anything, it was to act like she belonged until she did.  With that in mind, Y/N holds her head up high, ignoring the stares of the gym patrons as she makes her way to the back hallway.  Although she’s not exactly sure where Patrick’s office lies within the dark and claustrophobic gym, she feels that the more cigarette smoke she can smell in the air, the closer she’s getting.

Despite passing many identical doors with the same chipped and peeling paint, Y/N continues until she reaches the door at the end of the hallway.  The black paint is scuffed, but in far better condition than any of the other doors around her, and Y/N can smell the cigarette smoke wafting out from the cracks beneath it.

“Patrick?” She knocks on the door softly, just in case she’s guessed wrong.

A rough but recognizable voice answers from the other side. “Yeah.  Come in.”

With permission, Y/N opens the door, coughing a bit when a wall of cigarette smoke hits her. “Hi…?”

“Hey, Doc.” Patrick has a cigarette tucked between his lips as he speaks, and he hardly glances up at her from the papers in his hands. “How you doing?”

“I’m—I’m good.” Y/N says, her voice tinged with nerves. “I just wanted to check in before the match.”

“Good.  Here.” Patrick stands up and walks to a cupboard in his office, pulling out a weathered leather case from within. “This has everything you should need in it.”

He hands the case to Y/N, and she opens it slowly, not entirely sure what Patrick is handing to her. Inside, she finds, is an assortment of medical supplies, all placed haphazardly inside the makeshift medical kit. Y/N roots around a bit with one hand, quickly taking stock of the contents.  Bandages, antiseptics, not-yet-frozen cold compresses, painkillers, a stitch kit… “I’ll need all of this?” She asks, looking up at Patrick with a surprised look in her eyes.

“Look around you, Doc. This isn’t a daycare.” Patrick snorts, puffing on his cigarette. “We bare knuckle box.  We don’t have personal physicians checking up on us, rules, regulations…this is about making money.  And sometimes…it gets messy.”

“But if you needed a medical professional, then why didn’t you get someone who’s finished school?” Y/N asks as she shuts the case and clasps it closed. “They’d be a lot more experienced than a student.”

“Because medical professionals have a duty to report abuse to the cops.” Patrick shrugs as if the reasons are of little consequence to him.  Which, Y/N thinks, they are. “You don’t.  And students need the money more.”

Y/N purses her lips as she clutches the handle of the case tightly in her hand. “What happened to your last student?”

Patrick sighs with a flip of his hand, waving off the question. “He pissed off the wrong guy and went from being the doctor to being the patient.  That’s why I hired a pretty lady this time.”

Y/N scoffs, the ease she had been beginning to feel around Patrick fading within a moment as she remembers where she is.  She meets Patrick’s gaze with a harsh look. “Don’t patronize me, Patrick, or I’ll walk out that door right now.”

Patrick raises his hands defensively, an indifferent look on his face, and Y/N understands that it’s not an apology.

“Look, Doc, the last guy had a mouth on him.  By all accounts, he deserved it.” Patrick walks back around to his desk, tapping his cigarette ash off into the glass ashtray that sits there, already half full. When he looks back up at Y/N, his gaze is softer than before, and Y/N can’t quite decipher the flicker she sees in his eyes. “I don’t mean to be patronizing.  But if any guy in here says shit to you…lemme know.  Got it?”

Y/N has a feeling that that’s as close to an apology as she’ll get from Patrick, so she nods tersely. “Got it.” Her attention turns back to the case in her hands. “So I just…wait by the ring?”

Patrick nods, tucking his cigarette back in his mouth as he sits back down at his desk, his thoughts moving back to the paperwork in front of him. “You got it.  Watch the match.  Have some fun, have a drink…if anything goes too wrong, I’ll pull you up to the ring.  If everything is fine, you’ll come back to the locker room after the match to make sure my guys don’t have a concussion.”

“Sounds…good.” Y/N shifts the case around in her hands as she speaks, unsure of what else there is to say. “I’ll go to the audience, then.”

Patrick nods, but offers no other advice as she leaves.  Not that Y/N expected it.

By the time Y/N makes it to her designated spot at the edge of the crowd, the gym is already filling with people who are buzzing about the fight.  The smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat is thick in the air, and after her third time of getting shoved by a man she doesn’t know, Y/N is wondering if sewing some medical patches onto her jean jacket will stop her from getting shoved at the next match.  Of course, she’s not quite certain she’ll be attending the next match, but she makes the plans to do it nonetheless.  

The area around the ring continues to pack itself full with people, and as Y/N stares at the spectators around her, she wonders just how much Patrick is making off this one fight. She’s not sure how much people have to pay to get in, but with at least two hundred people here, not including the money the spectators have put down on bets…Y/N’s certain Patrick will be coming away with a tidy sum.

As the crowd starts to scream, her attention shifts from the people around her to the one bare aisle leading to the ring, where the first fighter has begun walking out.  He has a heavy build with broad shoulders, and Y/N knows he has to be over six feet.  Top heavy, she thinks, as he climbs onto the edge of the ring and ducks his shaved head under the ropes.  He raises his arms as the crowd cheers, apparently loving the attention, and spits to the side before his coach slides his mouth guard in for him.

Y/N wrinkles her nose as she watches the fighter display his muscles to the crowd, and at how much the crowd seems to love it.

There’s a crackle of static over the speakers as the announcer begins to speak. “As last year’s reigning champion, Adam Bowers is aiming to maintain his title this season.” The crowd cheers again as the fighter, Bowers, rolls out his shoulders.

“Those who watched him box last season know that getting this giant off his feet is a gargantuan task. Will his opponent be able to do it?”

The crowd jeers as the announcer mentions the opponent, and Y/N gets the feeling that they don’t think the other guy has a chance.  When the other fighter begins to walk towards the ring, Y/N can’t help but agree.

This fighter’s build is much slimmer, despite the apparent muscle mass on his arms and legs.  He’s more evenly built than Bowers, and while Y/N knows that will be helpful, she can’t make herself feel anything other than worry as she watches the fighter climb under the rings.  He reaches up and fixes the neat bun keeping his brown hair away from his face, and although the crowd roars, Y/N can make out a look of focus and determination in his green eyes.

“Facing our champion is rookie Harry Styles.  Despite beginning training just three months ago…”

Three months?  Y/N bites her lip in concern, watching as Styles’ coach pulls him down to look him in the eye, giving him his mouth guard as he does.  Y/N leans over to a man next to her, unable to stop herself from asking a question that’s at the forefront of her mind. “Don’t they use weight classes to match fighters?” She half yells the question over the cheers. “Bowers seems so much bigger than him!”

“This is illegal fighting, sweetheart.” The man laughs at her question as he takes a sip of his beer. The hair on the back of Y/N’s neck bristles at the pet name, and she once again reminds herself to keep her guard up as the man continues to speak.

“They don’t care about weight classes.” He says easily, nodding towards the ring. “They care about putting on a good show, so they can make money.”

Y/N turns her attention back to the ring, making sure to keep her distance from the other spectators. Styles is surveying the crowd now, and for just a moment, he locks eyes with her.

As his gaze meets hers, Y/N gets the impression that he’s sizing her up just as much as she’s sized him up.  His eyes flick down her body and back up, but not in the way most men in the gym have been doing it.  When the boxer’s eyes flick back to hers, Y/N doesn’t see a look of lust or desire reflected in his irises.  Instead, she sees concern.  

He’s about to fight a behemoth, she thinks, and he’s concerned because I’m in the crowd of the fight?  The idea would make Y/N laugh, if she didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that she’d be setting his bones before the end of the night.

Styles’ finally looks away from her after a moment, centering himself again to be ready to fight. Y/N watches as he makes his way to the center of the ring, his gaze having to turn up to meet the eyes of Bowers. The bell rings, signalling the beginning of the match, and the loud ring makes Y/N flinch as she watches the two boxers begin to fight.

She had been right when she initially sized them up.  Bowers is the first to throw a punch, all of his weight behind it, but Styles’ smaller stature allows him to duck easily, weaving out of the way from the first few strikes.  As he ducks from a punch, Styles manages to land the first hit of the match, his fist connecting directly with Bowers’ jaw.  

Y/N’s face lights up with surprise as the crowd cheers.  However, the surprise quickly turns to worry as Bowers uses his anger to move faster, finally landing a blow on Styles.  Not letting one hit deter him, the smaller boxer is quick to recuperate and keep himself in the moment.  Already, Y/N can tell that he plays the long game, while Bowers seems to favour a more offensive stance.  

As the match continues, Y/N’s concern turns to curiosity as she examines the fighting style of both boxers. Bowers is always the quickest to throw out punches, but Styles manages to dodge more punches than he receives, only standing still long enough to land his own hits on Bowers.  The audience, while shocked by the proficiency of the rookie at first, begins to cheer loudly as their champion fights for a victory. The cheering only gets louder when blood splatters from Bowers’ nose to the floor of the ring.

Y/N winces, searching the crowd for Patrick’s familiar face.  She finds him in the back, watching with his arms crossed, and raises an eyebrow in question as she catches his eye.  He gives a quick shake of his head.  This isn’t anything to worry about, the action says.  Worse is coming.

The worse comes quickly, Y/N finds, as the groan of the crowd draws her attention back to the ring. Styles is doubled over now, presumably from a punch to the gut.  Y/N watches in horrified silence as Bowers lands another punch on Styles’ jaw, knocking the smaller boxer onto his knees.  However, the groan of the crowd quickly turns to a cheer as Styles pushes himself to stand once again, a grunt escaping his lips as he straights.  Spitting the blood out of his mouth, he attacks Bowers again with a new energy, one wilder and more uncalculated than before.

The crowd roars louder as Styles pummels his opponent, and Y/N watches in shock as he knocks Bowers back in a daze.  Styles hits him once, then again, and again, until Bowers goes down with a dull thud that echoes through the gym.  He stays there, lying limp, as the referee begins to count, and doesn’t rise when Styles is declared the winner.

“Harry Styles has managed to begin his journey with a win!” The announcer yells, barely audible above the cheering crowd.  Styles wipes his bleeding mouth with a shaky hand, a grin just beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth as the referee raises his hand in the air in victory.

The crowd continues to yell and cheer as people turn to those next to them, rehashing the match’s highlights.  Y/N sees money change hands a few times, and while she wants to get out of the crowd that’s becoming rowdier by the minute, she’s not exactly sure where to go.

A hand on her elbow brings her from her thoughts, and Y/N whips around, cuss words hanging off the ends of her lips, ready to throw at whoever grabbed her.  When she sees Patrick’s face, however, the words fade away, and she grabs the case that she’s all but forgotten is beside her as he begins to guide her back to the locker rooms.

“Time to get to work, Doc.” Patrick calls over the crowd, glancing over his shoulder at her to make sure she’s following.

Y/N nods silently, taking deep breaths to center herself for the task at hand.  She can’t let herself be uncomfortable now; it’s time for her to work.

Patrick leads her through the crowd and down the hallway, taking a left turn towards the locker rooms. The echoes of someone groaning get louder and louder the closer they get, and as they walk inside the locker room, Y/N is certain she’ll find Styles sitting in front of her.  Instead, her eyes settle on Bowers with a hand to his nose and his head tilted back.

“You need to lean forward.” Y/N says immediately, instinct taking over as she sits down next to Bowers while opening her case.

Bowers grunts, his eyes flicking to Y/N as he does. “I’m bleeding, sweetheart—”

“And leaning back is causing the blood to run down your throat.  It’s harmful to your health, sweetheart.” Y/N counters in an icy tone, shooting him a glare before slipping on plastic gloves.

Patrick crosses his arms as he watches the exchange, a smirk making its way onto his face. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Bowers.  Don’t piss off the person about to set your nose.”

Y/N glances at Patrick for a moment before turning back to Bowers.  Although she’s still weary of him, Patrick seems to be the only one looking out for her in the gym, and she makes a note to bring it up with him after she finishes her work.

Upon examination, Y/N finds that Styles has broken Bowers’ nose, and gives him some pain medication and a cold compress before making a splint, setting it as best as she can in a gym locker room.

“There.” Y/N sits back and pulls off her bloody gloves. “That should be okay.  Keep taking ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling, and if it doesn’t seem to heal, try going to a real doctor.  Alright?”

Bowers nods jerkily.  Although she can see the doubt in his eyes, he doesn’t contradict her again. “Yeah. Alright.”

“What do you say to the Doc, Bowers?” Patrick prompts him, an expectant look on his face.

The boxer glares at her, but still manages to mutter a quick “thanks.”

Although it doesn’t seem sincere, Y/N doesn’t challenge it. “You’re welcome.” She replies curtly, closing her case before standing up again and turning to Patrick. “Where’s Styles?”

 After washing her hands, Patrick leads Y/N down a corridor to another section of the locker room.  Styles is sitting on the bench between the lockers, unwrapping the tape from his hands as his coach leans against the lockers while speaking to him.  From the towel around his neck, wet curls hanging around his face, and damp chest, Y/N gathers that he showered after his victory.  While her observations begin as professional, Y/N’s mind soon drifts to notice how the water droplets cling to his tattooed chest and arms, and how his fingers flex as he unwraps his tape.  The clearing of his throat pulls her from her thoughts, and her eyes snap back up to his face as he speaks.

“Patrick.” The boxer’s voice is accented and low, and she sees recognition from earlier flicker across his phase. “Who’s this?”

“This is Doc Y/N.” Patrick lights a cigarette as he speaks, despite the disapproving look that Y/N gives him. “She’s the one who’s going to be saving your injured ass.”

“You can just call me Y/N.” Y/N rolls her eyes slightly as she refutes the nickname that, to her displeasure, Patrick’s already grown fond of before turning her attention back to Styles. “I’m just going to make sure you’re alright, Mr. Styles.”

When she addresses him, his coach laughs lightly, crossing his arms against his chest.  Y/N looks at him with a raised eyebrow, her mouth open to ask about the laughter, when a voice cuts her off.

“No one’s ever called me Mr. Styles.  Jeff seems to think it’s humorous.” A light chuckle escapes from the boxer, although his is more controlled than that of his coach. “You can call me Harry.  Just Harry.”

Y/N nods as she sits next to him on the bench, opening up her medical kit and slipping on gloves.  She has to focus at the task at hand. “Alright.  How are you feeling?”

“’M fine.” Harry replies easily, running a hand through his wet curls. “Healthy as a horse.”

A snort leaves Jeff’s mouth at that comment. “A horse that got the shit beat out of him.” He turns his attention to Y/N with his next sentence. “He got hit pretty hard in the—”

“The ribs, yeah.” Y/N finishes the sentence for him, her eyes already examining the bruises developing on Harry’s abdomen with a keen eye. “I saw.  Thought you were a goner.”

Harry shrugs a bit in response, seemingly unconcerned with the punches he sustained during the match. “I’ve had worse.”

“May I?” Y/N asks, extending a gloved hand.  At Harry’s nod, she begins to press around his abdomen. “Can’t imagine much worse. You must’ve really pissed someone off, then.”

A laugh rumbles out from Harry’s chest at the comment, but a wince quickly replaces the expression of mirth on his face as his muscles contract.  Although he quickly covers it, Y/N doesn’t miss it.

“Does that hurt?” She asks, pressing on his muscles again while gauging his reactions. “Where? Here?”

Harry clears his throat quietly, carefully controlling his expression as Jeff steps closer. “Uh, yeah. A bit.  Just a bit sore.”

“Patrick,” Y/N glances over her shoulder at him before rummaging in her kit for the stethoscope she saw earlier. “Could you grab me a cold compress?”

Patrick leaves the locker room as Y/N presses the stethoscope to Harry’s chest and back, listening to his heartbeat and breathing. “Do you have any abdominal pain?  Any shortness in breath, or dizziness?”

Harry shakes his head slightly. “No.  None at all. I’m just sore.”

Y/N pulls the stethoscope from her ears and touches his jaw lightly, frowning at the purple bruise that’s blossomed under his pink skin. “You got hit pretty hard here.”

Harry’s jaw flexes under her touch as he chuckles. “I know.  I was there.”

“Don’t be a smart ass, Harry.” Jeff chastises him from his position against the lockers.  

“I’m not!  I’m just saying—”

“She’s trying to help you—”

Y/N tunes out the argument between coach and boxer as she sets the stethoscope back down in the kit, making a note to bring her own next week.  In fact, she can think of a few things that would be useful to add to the makeshift medical bag Patrick gave her—a manual blood pressure cuff, better suturing supplies, maybe some more bandages—

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” Jeff’s voice pulls Y/N from her thoughts just as Patrick enters the locker room again, the cold compress in hand.  She accepts it from him before turning her attention back to the coach.

“Sorry, what was that?” She asks again, closing the medical kit.

“I asked if you thought Harry was being a smart ass.” Jeff gives a pointed look to his boxer. “And if he should apologize.”

Y/N shrugs as she hands the cold compress to Harry. “It’s fine.  It’s definitely not the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She turns her attention back to Harry, who’s frowning at her again, like he did when they first locked eyes in the ring.  That look is back, too, she notices.  The concern.  Like the comment she made worries him.

Y/N clears her throat, pushing the thought out of her head. “You have some bruising and swelling, but nothing is broken.  No internal bleeding, either.  At least, nothing detectable.” She says with a sigh, pulling off her gloves. “I think you’re good to go, but if you start experiencing nausea, dizziness, or bleeding from any orifices, then you need to go to the doctor.  A real one.”

Harry presses the compress against his swollen jaw, wincing as the cold makes contact with his flushed skin. “Are you not a real doctor?”

A laugh bubbles out from Y/N’s lips as she shakes her head. “I’d say I’m a half doctor at best.”

“The best half doctor this gym can buy.” Patrick chimes in, pausing after a moment. “Which, honestly, isn’t saying much, but…”

“Right.” Y/N tosses her gloves in the garbage can sitting against a locker. “So, again, if you start feeling strange, see a real doctor.  One that’s actually licensed.”

Harry nods, standing up and extending a hand. “Thanks, Doc.  I appreciate it.”

It takes Y/N a moment to realize he wants to shake her hand.  Once the realization hits her, she extends her hand cautiously, locking it with his in an awkward fashion.  She prays it goes unnoticed by Harry, but judging from the laughter in his eyes, it hasn’t.  Her own cheeks flush as she pulls her hand away.

“Of course.  I’ll see you at your next match.” She says quickly, and escapes the locker room behind Patrick before she can say anything else.

 Patrick brings Y/N back to his office, shutting the door behind them before going behind his desk and removing a cheap picture of a city off his wall, exposing the door of a safe. He opens it quickly and counts out three hundred dollars in cash before slipping it into an envelope for Y/N. “Here, Doc.  You did good tonight.”

Y/N had almost forgotten that she’s doing this for cash. “Thanks.” She takes the money from him, tucking it inside her jacket. “I’m just glad I didn’t need to stitch anyone up.”

Patrick laughs as he lights a fresh cigarette, sitting down at his desk chair as he puffs on it. “This time.”

“Yeah.  This time.” Y/N eyes the cigarette with distaste. “Smoking kills, you know.”

Patrick glances at her with an incredulous look on his face, unfazed. “I run an illegal boxing ring. Do you think I care?” He exhales smoke slowly. “I got more to worry about killing me than smoking.”

Y/N shifts her weight from one foot to another as a band of anxiety twists its way through her stomach. “Do I have to worry about that, too?”

“Nah.” Patrick waves his hand indifferently, clearly unconcerned. “No one cares about a nursing student with a few bandages and some ice packs.”

“Right.” Y/N says slowly. Her previous hesitancy about her security at the gym returns, and although she tries to hide it, she knows it’s written all over her face.

Patrick’s keen eyes notice right away. “That’s a good thing, Y/N.” For the first time that night, he uses her name to address her. “Trust me, you want to go unnoticed here.”

“Do I?” Y/N pauses in front of the door, her hand resting on the handle.

“Yeah.  You do.” Patrick taps the ash off his cigarette as he gives her a long look. “I know you noticed how…different you are from our regular visitors.”

“You mean how I’m not a gigantic man dressed in all leather who enjoys making sexist comments towards women?” Y/N’s voice drips with sarcasm as she rolls her eyes. “Believe me. I noticed.”

“You want to go unnoticed here.” Patrick says again, firmer this time. “Dress in darker clothes. Blend in more.  No good men spend their time here.  Not one.  Understood?”

The serious tone in Patrick’s voice causes a chill to run down Y/N’s back, and her hand tightens on the handle of the door.  She doesn’t doubt what he’s saying; she already had her suspicions that she’d need to do more to blend into the crowd next week.  But being directly warned about the danger she’s putting herself in gives her pause.

“You seem like a good kid, and I’ll do my best to make sure no one fucks with you.  But you have to be watching your own back, too.” Patrick takes a long puff of his cigarette. “I got enough shit on my plate without keeping tabs on you.”

“Got it.” Y/N nods sharply, her fingernails digging into her palm as she steadies herself. “Blend in. Watch my own back.  Go unnoticed.  Understood.”

…

“So how’s the new job?”

Y/N’s eyes snap up at her friend’s question as her grip on her beer bottle tightens just the slightest bit.  The bar around them is loud, filled with the sound of obnoxious, half-drunk laughter and bad music, and Y/N hopes that the ambient noise is enough cover for her to pretend that she didn’t hear the question.

“What, Sadie?” She leans closer as her mind searches for a plausible answer. “What did you say?”

Sadie leans across the table, perfectly unaware of how her question has increased her friend’s heart rate. “I asked you how your new job is.”

“Oh.” Y/N brings the lip of her bottle to her mouth, taking a sip to prolong her pause. “It’s good, yeah. Pretty good.”

“Where is it again?” Sadie asks, settling back down in her seat comfortable. “Some gym?”

“Yeah, I just—I’m doing some first-aid lessons there.  For their trainers.” Y/N says quickly, attempting to keep her voice even.  Lying has never been her strong suit, especially to her friends. “You know, basic stuff, but it pays well.”

“That’s good!” Sadie replies in an encouraging voice. “That’ll be good for you.”

“Yeah, it’s good so far.” Y/N nods, her fingers tapping anxiously against her beer bottle. “So…” Her mind searches for another topic of discussion. “Tell me more about that guy you’ve been seeing.  Peter?”

As Sadie begins to rehash the events of her last date with a man from Tinder, Y/N’s mind begins to wander to the real answer to her friend’s question.  How was her new job going?

It’s certainly…going, she thinks, nodding absentmindedly at something Sadie says.  It didn’t ever seem to stop going.  Every Saturday brings a new crisis for her to handle. Within her first month of working at Patrick’s gym, she’s reset multiple noses, splinted fingers, bandaged knuckles, stitched lips and foreheads, and—Y/N suppresses a shudder—popped a dislocated shoulder back into a boxer’s shoulder socket.  

When Patrick told her that the job would be messy, Y/N had assumed that he was overexaggerating, but she’s found herself repairing every single boxer at the gym in some way, shape, or form over the last month.

Every boxer except Harry, that is.

Y/N’s not sure if there’s some sort of guardian angel looking out for him, or if he’s really just that lucky, but so far, the worst injury she’s had to help him with is a bloody nose.  Despite being the busiest boxer at the gym, with fights every week, Harry’s managed to evade any broken or dislocated bones.  He hasn’t even so much as pulled a muscle.

Although Y/N’s happy that she has one less patient to deal with every week, his winning streak is starting to make her nervous.  Whenever Harry steps into the ring, he’s cool, calm, and collected, but Y/N’s seen too much in life to ignore the rule that what goes up must come down.  She has a bad feeling that the higher Harry’s luck pushes him, the harder he’ll fall.  And when he does, it’ll be her job to put him together again.

“…And I just don’t know what it means.” Sadie pushes her phone in front of Y/N, pulling her from her thoughts. “I mean, who sends the wheat emoji?  Is he a farmer?  How do I respond to that?”

“Tell him he can plow your crops.” Y/N replies easily, shifting her attention back to her friend. “But only if he wears overalls.”

Sadie rolls her eyes as she pulls her phone back. “Haha.  Maybe it’s a weird vegan thing.  Do vegans have codes?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Y/N snorts before taking a swig from her beer bottle. “And I thought he was keto?”

“He was, until two weeks ago.”

“Well, even if vegans do have codes, I doubt two weeks is long enough to learn them.” Y/N stands from her seat. “I’m going to grab another beer; do you want a refill?”

Sadie shakes her head, her attention already turned back to her text messages with Peter.  

Y/N pushes her way through the crowd until she reaches the bar, carefully working her way in between the bodies of intoxicated New Yorkers.  She waits patiently next to a group of a few men until the bartender acknowledges her while her mind drifts to the assignment she has due next week that, really, she should be at home working on.

The bartender stops in front of her, wiping his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have another Budweiser.” Y/N says, reaching for her back pocket for her phone. “It’ll be on debit—”

“Actually—” The body next to her turns at the sound of her voice. “You can put it on my tab.  And add another scotch and soda to the order, as well.”

The bartender nods, but Y/N huffs under her breath, pushing her hair out of her face as she prepares the speech that she always hopes she won’t have to use. “That’s very kind of you, but—Harry?”

The green eyed boxer peers down at her, a charming grin playing on his red lips.  His long hair is down and flowing, curling around his defined shoulders and collarbones that peak out of his loose, half unbuttoned shirt. One arm hangs loosely at his side as the other clutches an empty glass, rings clicking as he taps his fingers against it.  His tongue swipes his lips once before he speaks, making them impossibly redder.

“’M surprised to see you here.” Harry’s voice is as low as it ever is, even in the noise of the club. “I didn’t think dive bars would be your scene.”

Y/N scoffs as she straightens her back, trying to make herself a better match for Harry’s height. “As opposed to what, sleazy underground gyms?”

“Hm.  That’s true.” An amused look paints its way onto Harry’s features as he sets his empty glass down on the bar. “Are you here alone?  Or did a date bring you here?”

“A friend, actually.” Y/N motions over her shoulder to Sadie, who’s still wrapped up in her messages with Peter. “I’ve never been here before, but she really likes it.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s grin slowly grows as he leans against the edge of the bar. “How are you liking it so far?”

Y/N lifts her shoulders slightly in a small shrug. “It’s alright.  Not much different than any other bar in New York.  A beer is a beer anywhere, right?”

“That’s your mistake, though.” Harry sighs a bit as his eyes train on something over Y/N’s shoulder. He reaches past her, his warm, tanned arm brushing against the bare skin of her shoulder.  It brushes against her again when he moves his arm back, this time with an open beer bottle and scotch and soda in hand, and Y/N’s not sure what’s worse: how good Harry’s skin feels against hers, or the fact that his hands are so large that he can easily carry two drinks in them without spilling a drop.

“My mistake?” Y/N’s successful in keeping her voice steady—just barely—as she takes the bottle from him. “What mistake?”

“Ordering a bottle of beer wherever you go.” Harry’s ringed hand wraps around the cold glass of scotch. “Let me pick the next drink I buy you, yeah?  Then you’ll be able to see if you really like this bar or not.”

“Um—” It takes Y/N a moment to process what he says, and when it finally hits her, she feels heat rush to her cheeks faster than it ever has before.  Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, and it takes the charming smile on Harry’s face changing to a grin of satisfaction at her reaction for her to snap out of her stupor.

“I don’t need you to buy me drinks.” Y/N says firmly, setting her beer bottle down on the counter. “I can buy my own.  Thank you, though.”

“Wait—” Harry’s arm touches her wrist lightly as she turns around, pulling her attention back to him. His satisfied grin has slipped into a look of apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in—that sounded worse than I meant it to.  I know you can buy your own drinks, I just—I meant it as a thank you.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow as she looks him up and down.  The difference in his demeanor compared to a moment ago is noticeable—his shoulders have curled in slightly, making his body appear smaller, and his brows are knit together in a look of worry.  His teeth are tugging on his lower lip as he waits for her response, and it’s not until noticing his lips that Y/N realizes she hasn’t responded.

“A thank you for what?” Y/N asks, surprise evident in her voice.  Although Harry’s let go of her wrist, she still feels a stinging in the skin there, and wraps her own hand around the area he touched.

Harry’s free hand grazes his abdomen, just over his ribs, where Y/N knows there’s a bruise from a fight the previous week. “For cleaning me up all the time.”

Y/N waves off his comment with a flip of her hand. “You don’t need to thank me for that.  It’s my job.  Literally.”

“I know, but—” A man pushes his way to the bar, breaking into the space between Y/N and Harry. Harry grabs the beer bottle off the bar counter before the man can spill it, a darkening look in his eyes as he steps around the (clearly intoxicated) man to stand before Y/N again. “I can’t imagine it’s easy.  I’ve seen how the men there treat you.”

Y/N straightens her spine even more, her mouth pressing into a tight line.  The last thing she needs is Harry’s pity. “I made the choice to take the job.  I knew what the environment would be like.  I don’t need you feeling like you have to be the good guy and buy me drinks to make up for the assholes at the gym.”

“No, that’s not—” Harry shakes his head quickly. “That’s not what I meant, Y/N—” She hates the flutter she feels in her core when she hears her name in his accent. “I’m just concerned—”

“I didn’t ask for you to be concerned!” Y/N replies hotly, her arms crossing tightly over her body. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sadie begin to notice the interaction between herself and Harry, and she knows she’s going to be interrogated the moment she gets back to the table.

“I know that!” Harry defends himself, his face growing more agitated as their conversation continues. “I can’t help it—”

“Why?  Because I’m a girl surrounded by big tough guys?  Because I obviously need protecting?  Because I can’t protect myself?” Although she’s aware that her frustration is only partly aimed at Harry, and is mostly the product of the emotions she’s kept locked inside her over the last month, Y/N can’t make herself stop.

“No.” Harry’s eyes drop down from her sharp gaze. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

Y/N feels a twinge of guilt when she sees the brightness fade from Harry’s eyes, but she doesn’t shift her position. “I appreciate the thanks, and the drink.  But I don’t need your pity, your concern, or your protection.”

“Alright.” Harry nods once as his eyes snap up to meet hers again.  He has the same calm and collected look that Y/N usually sees reflected in his jade irises before a match. “I understand.”

“Good.” Y/N’s fingers twist around each other as she considers what else to say. Nothing else really seems worth saying, so instead she focuses on a goodbye. “I’ll see you next Saturday, then.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods again, and Y/N moves to step away, but Harry’s hand catches her one more time. Y/N’s eyes find his face in confusion, and her whole body jumps as she feels the cool glass of the beer bottle press into her palm.

“Take that with you.” Harry’s voice is rough, unreadable. “It’s not safe to leave your drinks unattended.”

…

Now that she’s spent the last five Saturdays working at Patrick’s gym, Y/N’s fallen into a comfortable routine—or at least, as comfortable as she can be in an environment filled exclusively by men with anger issues and no morals.  Every Saturday morning, she gets up around nine A.M. and lounges around for a while, just reading her phone in bed.  Once she actually makes it out of bed, she showers, taking the time she doesn’t normally have on university mornings to wash her hair, shave anything that she thinks needs shaving, and just enjoy the hot water on her skin. After her shower, Y/N gets dressed in whatever the day’s activity calls for.  Sometimes she stays in all day, just studying and catching up on readings, while other times she has errands to run, or friends to meet for brunch at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that charges seventeen dollars for avocado toast. Whatever the day brings, however, her evening routine is always the same.  

Y/N sets her dinner plate in the kitchen sink before grabbing her jean jacket from the back of her kitchen chair.  She slips it over her black t-shirt, which is tucked into her dark jeans, before grabbing her heavy black boots from the closet.  After her first week, Y/N realized the key to being comfortable at her new job was dark clothing and protective footwear, as drunk men placing bets on illegal fights seemed to have a habit of stepping on her toes—literally.  Y/N found that it was best to take protective measures against the shoving of the crowds, as stitching paramedic patches onto the sleeves of her jean jacket hadn’t done any good.

With one final check to make sure her good stethoscope and manual blood pressure pump is in her bag, Y/N sets out for the gym, arriving at 9 P.M. on the dot.  Although the match doesn’t start until 10, she likes to get there early and check in with Patrick.  They’ve begun to develop a rapport over the last few weeks, and Y/N finds herself looking forward to her talks with the surly gym owner.

Y/N doesn’t blink when she enters the dark gym now, and instead keeps her gaze aimed straight ahead as she makes her way to Patrick’s office, knocking on the door thrice in quick succession.

“Yeah?” His voice calls out roughly from behind the door.  Y/N opens and shuts it behind her, managing to take one last gasp of clean air before being confronted with the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

“Evening, Doc.” Patrick leans back in his desk chair, the usual cigarette between his lips. “How are things looking out there?”

“The gym is already half full, and the fight isn’t for another hour.” Y/N takes a seat across from the desk as Patrick reaches under it, opening the minifridge he has stashed away and pulling out a beer for each of them.  Y/N accepts the bottle, opening it on the edge of his desk before continuing. “You’re getting famous.”

“I’m not getting famous; Styles is.” Patrick stubs out his cigarette before opening his own bottle. “He’s going on five weeks undefeated in his first season.  That’s never been done before.”

Y/N scratches at the label of her beer with her fingernail while her teeth tug on her bottom lip. “What’s his story, anyways?” She asks after a moment, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer. “How did he end up here?”

Patrick takes a swig of beer, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “I don’t know how he ended up here, but I assume it’s for the same reason anyone ever does, including you. The money.” Patrick shrugs a bit. “As for his story at the gym…he knocked on my office door seven months ago, saying he wanted to get into boxing.  He had a bit of muscle, yeah, but nothing like he has now.  He just sounded like some posh boarding school kid, so I sent him packing.  But he was adamant.  Wouldn’t give up.  Kept coming back, over and over.” Patrick snorts, shaking his head at the memory. “Finally, I told him to start training and bulking up just to get him off my back. And then he came back the next day with his coach, Jeff, and spent hours working every drill imaginable.  I have to admit, it impressed me.  So I gave him a trial match, the first night you worked. You remember how that went, don’t you?”

Y/N thinks back to the blood spurting from Bowers’ nose after Harry broke it. “Yeah.  I do.”

“He’s a strange guy. Pretty different from any other boxer here.  But he’s bringing in cash, and lots of it, so I don’t give a shit.” Patrick takes another sip of beer, his eyes focusing on Y/N’s untouched bottle. “You better drink that, Doc.  I don’t like wasting beer.”

Y/N lifts the bottle to her mouth automatically, but doesn’t register the taste of the liquid as it passes her lips. “I’m pretty sure rule number one of nursing is not drinking before a shift.”

“That’s some bullshit hospital rule, not mine.” Patrick gives an unconcerned wave of his hand. “Besides, I think the alcohol steadies your hands a bit.  Liquid courage and all that.”

Y/N raises the bottle in her hand, tilting it towards Patrick with a wry grin. “To liquid courage.”

…

“You should consider telling Harry to reign it in, Patrick.” Y/N carefully slips off her bloodied gloves, tossing them in the locker room garbage. “That’s the third nose he’s broken in the last month!”

“Why would he need to reign it in?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, leaning against the lockers as Y/N washes her hands. “Do you know how much money he’s making me?  The crowd goes crazy for blood!”

Y/N shakes off her wet hands, quickly drying them on a paper towel before taking her medical kit back from Patrick.  The bag feels heavier in her hand than it did earlier. “At this rate, you’re going to be out of boxers before the month is over.”

“I can always get new fighters, Doc.” Patrick sniffs, rubbing his nose while leading Y/N to the other locker room.  He still comes with her to check on the boxers, despite her knowing the drill by now. Deep down, Y/N appreciates it. “A new champion, on the other hand…those are rare.”

“Are they?” Y/N raises an eyebrow as Patrick steps back, letting her step into the room first. “I’m surprised this champion hasn’t worn himself out yet.”

Harry’s eyes snap up at the sound of her voice.  He’s in his usual spot on the bench, his hands already unwrapped and his body already clean from his shower.  Y/N wishes she could say that the sight of Harry’s damp and tattooed chest doesn’t have an affect on her anymore, but as she takes in the sight of him, her eyes are only half scanning his body for injuries.  The other half of her, to her displeasure, is focused on how his muscles flex under the harsh artificial light as he takes a drink from his water bottle.

Patrick laughs once as Y/N takes a seat next to Harry, opening her medical kit. “Jeff, you’ll never guess what Doc Y/N thinks.” Patrick approaches the coach with a smirk on his face. “She wants Harry to reign it in.  Says he’s too harsh in the ring.”

Jeff’s laughter matches Patrick’s, and Y/N feels a flush come over her face as she searches for clean gloves.  She does her best to keep her gaze down and keep her focus on her work, but when she looks up, the look on Harry’s face makes her mind go completely blank.

Although Jeff and Patrick are snickering at her comment, Harry’s face is as unreadable as ever. There’s no amusement in his deep green eyes, nor is there a grin on his pink lips.  Instead, there’s just a small crease between his brows as he meets her gaze, and Y/N can hardly fight back the urge to lean forward and press her lips to the worried spot.

She had been afraid that seeing Harry for the first time since their bar dispute would throw her, and it only takes one look in his eyes to know her anxiety has a solid foundation of reason underneath it.

“You think I’m too harsh?” The corners of his lips turn down the slightest bit as he speaks, and Y/N has to tell herself that she has no right to notice such a slight difference as quickly as she does.

With a slight shake of her head, Y/N begins to press around Harry’s side, where she had watched him sustain most of his opponent’s hits in the match. “I’m the one who cleans up your messes, remember?” She keeps her voice quiet, so she can hear any noises he makes as she presses on his muscles. “Is this sore?”

“Not more than usual.” Harry replies in the same quiet tone, his eyes glued to her movements.  Y/N can feel his irises burning into her skin, and tries her best to ignore how the attention makes her feel.  She almost forgets that they’re not alone in the locker room until Patrick speaks.

“Jeff and I have to discuss some things for next week’s match.” He says, speaking more to Y/N than Harry. “Are you alright here, Doc?”

Y/N understands the tone underneath his question.  Patrick wants to know if she’s alright being left alone with a boxer who just proved himself capable, once again, of breaking bones.  If it was anyone else, Y/N would shake her head and say she needs him to stay.  With Harry, however, Y/N’s not afraid of what he can do to her.  If anything, she’s concerned about what she may do to him.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Y/N gives a slight nod to Patrick as she pulls out her stethoscope. “I won’t be much longer.”

“Alright.” Patrick gives one hardened look to Harry before following Jeff out of the locker rooms, leaving behind only the smell of his cigarette to mix with the locker room air.

Silence sits between the two of them for a moment, until Y/N fixes the stethoscope in her ears. “This may be a bit cold.” She warns, setting the device on his chest.  She listens for a moment before moving it to his back. “Breathe in for me?”

Harry’s ribs expand underneath her fingers as he inhales deeply, exhaling just as slow.

“Again.” Y/N says, moving her stethoscope.  Even through her gloves, she can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and briefly wonders if she should take his temperature before deciding that there’s no need.  Harry is just…warm.

Y/N pulls her stethoscope out of her ears and sets it down in her bag, reaching instead for some wipes. “There’s a bit of blood under your nose still.” She pulls out a wipe and gently rubs it over the affected skin. “But your nose isn’t broken.”

Harry’s hands fiddle in his lap as she cleans him up, shifting and wincing every once in a while. “I don’t mean to break noses, you know.” He says after a moment. “I mean, I do, kind of, but it’s just—I’m fighting to win.”

“I know.” Y/N tosses the used wipe in the trash, her fingers still moving gently over his cheek.  A black eye is beginning to develop under his left eye, so she reaches in her kit for her penlight.  She flicks it on and holds up a finger with her other hand. “Follow my finger with your eyes, will you?”

Harry does as she asks, passing the simple test with ease. “We’re all fighting to win.  I just happen to be better at it than the others.”

The corner of Y/N’s lip twitches as she turns off the penlight, swapping it in favour of a cold compress she can press to Harry’s bruised eye. “I suppose you are.” Harry winces as the compress makes contact with his eye, and Y/N sighs. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.” Harry says immediately, voice low.

Once again, the conversation dies out in favour of silence.  As Y/N holds the compress to Harry’s eye, she wonders if he’s been thinking of their conversation in the bar as much as she has.  She wonders if he’s been thinking of their conversation in the bar at all.  As much as she dislikes how much Harry’s been occupying her thoughts, she dislikes the idea of her occupying none of his even more.

“So…” Y/N clears her throat quietly. “Patrick told me this is your first season, right?”

Harry jerks his head in a slight nod. “It is.”

When he offers no more information, Y/N asks another question. “What made you want to start?”

Harry’s uncovered eye meets hers, just for a moment, before looking down at his calloused hands. “I needed some extra cash, and I’m a good fighter.  Figured I’d put it to use.”

Y/N can sense more of a story behind his words, but she can also tell by his demeanor that he’s not in the sharing mood.  Instead of prying more, she just nods and takes his hand, pressing it over her hand and the cold compress.  She gives herself a split second to enjoy his hand on hers before pulling her own hand away.

She stands up slowly as she snaps off her gloves, tossing them in the garbage. “Take some Ibuprofen if you have any pain, and again, if you start to feel weird—”

“See an actual doctor.” Harry finishes the sentence for her with a small smile. “Because you’re not one.”

“Exactly.” Y/N clicks the medical kit closed. “Now you get it.”

“So what are you then, if not an actual doctor?” Harry asks, leaning back on the bench to look up at her better. “What made you start here?”

Y/N pauses by the lockers, surprised he’s inquiring about her life. “I’m a nursing student at NYU. I’m here because I was the only one dumb enough to answer Patrick’s ad, apparently.”

A chuckle rolls out of Harry’s body, and Y/N watches as she tries to hide the wince caused by his abdomen contracting. “Are you—?” She begins to step closer, but Harry waves off her concern.

“I’m fine.” He insists. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Right.” Y/N gives him a confused look. “What was the subject, again?”

“You.  Your life.” Harry shifts the cold compress to his other hand, flexing his cold fingers to get blood circulating.  Y/N watches the movement for a moment before forcing herself to meet his eyes again.

“What about my life?” She asks, just a hint of breathlessness detectable in her voice.

Harry shrugs with one shoulder as he stands, making his way to the locker next to Y/N.  He opens it quickly, grabbing a t-shirt from within and smoothly pulls it on with one hand.  The fabric settles over his muscles nicely. “I don’t know.  I’m just curious.”

Y/N’s brow furrows as she takes in his words. “Okay, but…no offence, Harry, I just—I don’t think it’s very wise of me to tell you too much about my life.”

Harry’s mouth twitches down into a frown as he grabs his leather jacket from the locker, shutting it with a bang that echoes around the empty locker room. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe?” Y/N knows her words are true, but her infliction makes it sound like a question, and Harry proves himself eager to answer it.

“It’s not?” Harry glances around the locker room slowly, gesturing to the empty space. “Who else is here?”

“Just you, but I—that’s part of the reason.” Y/N speaks steadily and carefully, as if to make Harry understand, but the words are as much a reminder for herself as they are for him. “You shouldn’t know about my life.  About me.  At least, not any more than you need to.”

That unreadable look crosses over Harry’s face again, clouding his green irises in mystery. His free hand combs through his long hair, still damp from his shower, as his teeth worry his bottom lip. “Who decides what I need to know?”

Y/N tightens her grip on the medical kit, the feel of the rough leather acting as a reminder for where she is and who she’s with. “I do.” She murmurs. “I decide.”

Harry nods roughly once, jerking his chin up as he takes the cold compress off his eye.  The bruise is darker now, staining his pale skin, but he hands the compress back to her. “Alright, then.  Thanks for clearing that up.”

From the tone of his voice, Y/N gets the sense that he’s bothered by what she said, but she doesn’t let herself focus on it. ��Harry’s is a grown man, and if he has an issue with what she’s saying, he can tell her. It’s not her job to coddle him and drag his feelings out.

Y/N matches his tone of voice, looking him straight in the eye as she replies. “You’re welcome.”

…

When Y/N’s phone rings three weeks later with an unknown number flashing on the screen just past midnight on a Thursday, she almost doesn’t answer it. After a day of consecutive classes and working through tutorials and labs until her mind went numb, she can’t handle dealing with a telemarketer in a different time zone. However, the New York area code catches her eye, and her curiosity gets the best of her as she picks up her phone and taps the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?” Harry’s familiar accent crackles through her speaker, half drowned out from the sound of yelling and New York traffic.

“Harry?” Y/N sits up on her couch so fast that she almost spills her tea. “What—how did you get my number?”

“Texted Patrick for it.” Harry’s voice drifts further away, and Y/N can’t make out what he’s saying.

“What?” She presses the phone closer to her ear in an attempt to hear him. “I can’t understand, Harry—”

“What’s your address?” Harry repeats again, his voice finally audible. “It’s in Tribeca, right?”

Y/N sets down her tea with a thud. “I—yeah, but—”

“Just text it to me, please.” Harry asks, his voice low and strained. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“But—”

The line clicks dead.

Y/N stares down in her phone in shock for a moment before adding Harry’s number to her contacts and texting him her address.  She’s not sure why she does it without question—she should be concerned that he’s coming for a negative reason, she thinks, but something in his voice over the phone…there was something there that she’d never heard before.

A knock comes to her door eight minutes later, after Y/N’s bustled around her tiny studio apartment to tidy it up.  She’s normally a clean person, but had to toss some clothes in her hamper, put her mug in the sink, and, three seconds before the knock came, tossed her old teddy bear under her bed.

When Y/N opens the door, she’s not entirely sure what she’s expecting, but she knows for sure it isn’t this.

Harry is slumped against your door frame, his right hand cradled to his chest by his left arm. There’s a dark liquid splattered on his navy blue shirt, and it takes Y/N a second to register that it’s blood, not alcohol, despite his body reeking of liquor.  His curls, which are normally so soft and carefully tied back, are falling into his eyes as he struggles to keep himself upright.  Bruises are already blossoming along his jaw, there’s a split in the skin next to his eyebrow, and a frightening amount of blood trailing down his cheek like tears.  A sheen of sweat covers his face and neck, and when he looks at Y/N, she can see the moment it takes him to register that it’s her he’s looking at.

“Oh my God—” Y/N grabs his shoulders quickly, leading him into the apartment.  She can tell he’s trying his best to walk independently, but half his body weight is being pressed into her while she struggles to lead him to the couch.

A groan escapes Harry’s lips as he flops onto the couch, low and weak and a complete knife in Y/N’s chest. Normally, when she sees someone this injured, she goes straight into nurse mode, examining them without emotion, but there’s something about the way Harry’s chest is rapidly rising and falling that’s preventing her from doing that.

“Harry—I—” She pushes his curls back from his face, and is horrified to find blood on her hand when she pulls it back. “What happened?”

“I—” The words struggle to make it past his pale lips as he takes a shuddering breath. “I got into a fight. At the bar.”

The answer is so simple, so common, and yet it shocks Y/N that she pauses mid-step on her way to get her medical kit. “A bar fight?  This is from a bar fight?”

Harry nods once as he winces. “Had a few—few too many.  Got into an argument.” He grits his teeth as he does his best to take his jacket off. “Christ—”

“Stop.” Y/N sets her medical kit down on the coffee table, reaching over and carefully helping him remove his jacket.  Her curiosity is raging inside her—what could have irritated Harry so much that he would fight in a bar?  And, even more pressing, what could have irritated him so much that he would lose? “So you can only box while sober, huh?”

“Yeah.” Harry mutters the word, a tinge of shame echoing in the back of his voice. “Apparently.”

Y/N tosses his jacket to the ground once it’s off, her eyes canvassing over Harry’s body.  There’s so much that seems wrong that she doesn’t even know where to start. “Okay, just—what hurts?  What happened?”

“The bastard got a few good shots in at my head.  Split my eyebrow, but that’s about it.” Harry sucks in a sharp breath as he hears you snap on your disposable gloves. “But I—shit—I fucked up my hand, Y/N.  I threw a bad punch and—fuck—”

Y/N carefully takes Harry’s injured hand in her own, examining it closely.  A few of his knuckles are split and dripping blood down his pale skin.  His calloused fingers are bruised, swelling over the rings he’s wearing, and Y/N knows that those have to be the first things to go.  She takes one of her decorative pillows and sets it on Harry’s lap, setting his injured hand on top of it before quickly moving to her fridge. She grabs an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a tea towel, tucking it under her arm as her eyes scan her apartment for something to help her get his rings off.  Only one thing comes to her mind, and Y/N tries to control the blood rushing to her cheeks as she opens her bedside drawer and grabs the lube she keeps stashed there.

When Harry sees it in her hand, he raises an eyebrow for a split second until the pain of the cut catches him off guard.

“What—” He takes a deep breath as she settles next to him, carefully setting the ice pack underneath his hand. “What’s the KY for?”

Y/N attempts to keep her voice steady as she answers. “You’re wearing two rings.  We have to get them off before your fingers swell any more.” She pops the seal of the lube open and pours a liberal amount over Harry’s fingers. “This—this is going to hurt, so just—I’m sorry.”

Harry nods once, his eyes closed as his head jerks in response. “Just do it.”

Although she does her best to be gentle, Y/N can feel Harry’s body tensing as she pulls the rings over his bruised fingers.  No words leave his lips, but she can tell that he’s gritting his teeth to keep quiet as she works the two rings off.

“Good.  Good job.” She sets the lube-covered rings on her coffee table with a clink. “That was the worst of it, I think.  Or I hope, at least.”

A huff of liquor scented air passes through Harry’s lips. “Is it broken?”

Y/N gingerly picks up Harry’s hand, moving his fingers as much as she can, feeling for anything out of place. “I don’t think so, no.” She murmurs in a quiet voice. “Just sprained, I think.  Your index and middle finger got it the worst, but I’m fairly certain they’re not fractured.”

“Fairly certain?” Harry asks, jaw tense. “How could we be 100% certain?”

“If we went to an actual hospital and got an X-ray.” Y/N shoots back, giving him a harsh look. “But seeing as how you’re here, I assume that’s something you don’t want to do.”

Harry exhales hard as she cleans his hand with a wipe. “No.  It’s not.”

Once his hand is clean, Y/N wraps it in a bandage carefully, setting it back down on the ice pack once the bandage is secure.  With his hand taken care of, she turns her attention to Harry’s face.  The cut in his brow has stopped bleeding now, enough for Y/N to see that it’s not horribly deep. “I don’t need to stitch it.” She tells him as she grabs a cotton pad and rubbing alcohol. “I just need to clean it and then bandage it.”

Harry winces when she presses the alcohol soaked pad to the cut.

“Sorry.” Y/N mumbles, her eyes trained on the split skin next to his eyebrow.

“S’alright, I’ll manage.” Harry matches her mumble, his voice barely audible in the quiet living room. She can feel the heat of his skin pressed against her hand, and just when she’s thinking that there’s no way that her icy skin can feel pleasant, Harry sighs.

“Your hands are cold.” He murmurs, his uninjured hand touching the hand that’s cupping his jaw to keep him steady. “It’s nice.  Feels like a million degrees in here.”

Y/N resists the urge to pull her hand away from his, keeping all her focus on applying the bandage to his eyebrow like it’s a monumentally difficult task.  She waits until she’s smoothed the beige cover over his skin to respond. “Probably because you’re so sweaty.” She presses her other hand to his forehead, doing her best to ignore how another sigh slips past Harry’s lips. “I hope you don’t have a fever…”

“’M just warm, that’s all.” His words are less slurred than they had been when he first arrived, and his green eyes are just starting to open again. “The bar was hot.”

Y/N pulls her hand away from his forehead. “Right.” She walks the three steps it takes her to get to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Here.” She hands it to Harry, along with two ibuprofen pills from her medical kit. “Swallow these, and then drink that entire glass of water.”

“You got it, Doc.” Harry murmurs, following her instructions immediately.  Y/N rolls her eyes as she takes a seat next to him again, carefully readjusting the ice pack on his injured hand.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” She asks in a tired voice.  Harry’s hair is falling into his eyes, she notices, and she doesn’t even think before she slips her hair tie off her wrist to carefully pull his curls into a bun on top of his head.

Harry doesn’t complain. “Patrick calls you Doc,” is the only thing he says.

“That’s because Patrick is…Patrick.” Y/N settles back into the couch as she watches Harry drink the water. “Why didn’t you call him for my address instead of my number?  You could’ve been here quicker.”

“I did.” Harry swallows down another gulp of water, his good hand wiping his mouth gingerly. “He told me to ask you myself.  Said he wouldn’t give your address out to creeps.”

A rush of affection flows through Y/N’s heart for the tough gym owner. “That’s good to know.”

“It is.” Harry agrees after another drink of water.  Once he’s drained it, Y/N takes the glass from him and sets it on the coffee table.

“Thank you.” Harry murmurs gratefully. “For…everything tonight.  I really—I appreciate it.”

“You don’t need to thank me, it’s my—”

“No, Y/N.  This isn’t your job.” Harry looks at her intensely, a sincerity on his face that she’s never seen before, or at the very least, never noticed before. “Bandaging my hand and head at one A.M. in your apartment isn’t your job.  I know you—you said you didn’t want me to know things about you, and now—”

“Not quite.” Now it’s Y/N’s turn to cut him off. “I said I would decide what you could know, and I decided that you could know my address.  Just don’t tell anyone else at the gym, alright?”

Despite the bruising-induced tenderness on his face, Harry frowns immediately. “I would never do that. They’re all awful, and I would never…betray you like that.”

Y/N’s heart rate picks up as she listens to Harry speak.  There’s something about him throwing around the word “betray” in the same sentence as “I” and “you” that makes a rush flow through her veins. “Thanks.”

“I know it’s not easy for you there.” Harry carefully gauges her reaction as he speaks. “I’ve heard how they speak to you.  It’s—they have no respect.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Y/N sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears (her hair tie is in Harry’s hair, and she’s too tired to get another one from the bathroom). “I’m used to it.”

Harry’s frown deepens, his lips finally pinkening back up (which Y/N notices for medical reasons. Purely medical reasons). “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

Y/N barks out a laugh, harsh and short. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious.” Harry’s face is indignant, and in any other circumstances, Y/N might find it endearing.  But not now.

“Harry.” She clears the laughter out of her voice. “Do you know what I deal with every day?”

“With the boxers? Yeah—”

“No.  Just in general.” Y/N tucks her legs underneath her as she settles herself into the couch, careful not to bump Harry’s hand. “I’m a female in the medical field.  The amount of shit I get from people, from men…” She shakes her head. “I’ve had male professors tell me it’s a good thing that I’m going to nursing school, and not medical school, because I’m too emotional to handle being a doctor.  I’ve heard male medical students tell female medical students that they don’t belong in the program, because girls can’t make quick and rational decisions with patients.  I’ve watched my male classmates be belittled for choosing to be a nurse over being a doctor.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Y/N bites her lip, but only for a moment. Now that she’s started, she can’t stop the flood of words pouring out of her. “Every day, I get my decisions and my calls second guessed by my superiors, while my male classmates’ decisions are accepted right away.  I get called ‘sweetheart’ and ‘honey’ and ‘darling’ by professors and patients alike, while my male classmates are ‘mister’ and ‘nurse’.  It’s nothing new.”

Harry watches her as she speaks with eyes full of awareness.  She can tell he’s hanging on every word, his gaze trained on her and her only.  He doesn’t speak as she pauses for a breath, so she continues, a rushed urgency weaving its way through her words.

“Do you want to know why I told you that I didn’t need your concern or your protection at the gym?” Y/N leans the side of her head against the back of the couch, not breaking Harry’s stare. “Because I deal with that shit every day, and I’ve learned to either ignore it or handle it myself.  Unless some asshole puts his hands on me, and I physically need your help, then I’m fine.  Can you understand that?”

Harry clears his throat once, but his voice is still thick when he replies. “Yeah, I can.  I’m sorry that I—it was never my intention to push the topic, or make you uncomfortable, but I did.  I’m sorry.”

The sincere apology brings a warm feeling to Y/N’s stomach, and it radiates further throughout her body with every breath Harry takes. “I accept your apology.  Thank you.”

Harry smiles at her just the slightest bit, the corners of his mouth tugging up, and the warmth increases when Y/N notices the dimples that appear in his cheeks.  Something about them makes Harry look so much younger, so much more innocent…and Y/N’s not certain why, but something about that observation makes her feel electric.  As a distraction, she reaches for a wipe from her kit, catching Harry’s eye before touching his face with it. “May I?” She asks, waiting for his nod.

When he gives it, she begins to wipe the sweat and dried blood from his face, careful not to aggravate his bruises.  It only takes her a few moments, but she spends extra time running the wipe over his cheeks, feeling the dip of his dimples beneath the cloth.

“Y/N…” Harry’s voice rumbles deep in his chest as his good hand catches hers.  The wipe falls from her fingers as he keeps her hand pressed to his cheek. “You’re a wonderful nurse.” He says, his deep green irises burning holes into her own.

The burning of Harry’s skin is so much more apparent when he nuzzles his cheek into her hand, and Y/N feels as if she’s the one who’s been drinking with how badly her head is spinning at the contact. “I think…” She does her best to make sense of her words, while Harry busies himself with moving her hand over his cheek, guiding her to stroke the stubbled skin. “I think you may have a fever.”

Harry gives a short shake of his head, and he maneuvers Y/N’s hand over his lips before responding. “’S just how you make me feel.  Feverish.” A small laugh falls out of his mouth, and he presses a chaste kiss to the tips of her cold fingers. “Sorry.  I shouldn’t say that.”

An involuntary sound echoes from the back of Y/N’s throat at his words, and she’s not sure if it’s a gasp, a whimper, or both, but it brings heat to her cheeks nonetheless. “N-no. You shouldn’t say that.”

“Sorry.” Harry repeats again, his lips gently brushing against her fingertips over and over. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re drunk.” Y/N briefly thinks that she should pull her hand away, but she doesn’t, and while she may later blame that on her thinking she wouldn’t be able to, the truth is that she doesn’t want to. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not that drunk.” Harry moves her hand to cup his cheek again, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a gentle but constant motion. “I know what I’m doing.”

Y/N’s breath hitches as Harry turns his head to plant a kiss in the middle of her open palm.  His lips are just as warm as the rest of him, and she’s starting to wonder if there’s a fire burning inside him, deep in his chest.

It would explain the burning she feels whenever she’s near him.

“You have the hands of a healer, y’know that?” Harry’s voice echoes from deep in his chest, filling her senses with the cadence of his accent. “Calloused for all the right reasons. The complete opposite of mine.”

With a shaking breath, Y/N carefully threads her fingers through Harry’s, the metal of his rings cooling down the fire she feels. “I…I love your hands.” She says truthfully, because apparently they’re being truthful tonight. “They’re so strong when you fight, but…when you’re like this…” Y/N lets go of his hand, but keeps their fingers locked together, so both of their palms are open.  It’s like each of them is an extension of the other, and delight flushes through her when she realizes it. “You’re gentle with me.”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.” Harry breathes, shifting a bit on the couch.  A flicker of pain darkens his face, and Y/N’s free hand moves to his chest, rubbing circles over his shirt to soothe him.  A relaxed sigh falls from his lips. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

Y/N’s brow furrows, her hands pausing their movements.  A whine of protest leaves Harry’s pink lips, but she ignores it as she gives him a confused look. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I-I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” As Harry’s eyes drop to their intertwined fingers, Y/N begins to realize that this—his body close, his eyes downcast, his voice quiet—this is Harry opening up.  This is Harry being vulnerable, honest, and himself.  The fear in his voice is as much himself as the calm look on his face before a fight.

His fingers fiddle with hers as he searches for his next words, and Y/N can see the effort he’s making to choose the right thing to say. “I…” He pauses, the struggle clear on his face before he tries again. “Every week, you see what I do, right?  You know—better than anyone, you know what I’m capable of.  So if you were afraid of me, I…I wouldn’t blame you, Y/N.  I’d understand.”

If someone asked Y/N in this moment how she got here, she wouldn’t be able to explain it.  The journey from Point A has never been more muddled, but Point B is so clearly within her sight that she doesn’t care. How did she get here? she asks herself, when she already knows the answer like she knows the back of her hand, the bones and muscles of Harry’s body, and the precariousness of their situation.  How did she get here?  Y/N has no fucking clue.  But here is the vulnerable look in Harry’s deep green eyes, the steady beat of his heart under her hand, the raw emotion in his voice, and Y/N wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

When Y/N realizes that, how badly she wants Harry, after weeks of denying it, the wind gets knocked out of her chest.  She struggles to form words, to take anything more than a shallow breath, to do anything but watch as Harry’s composure starts to slip more and more.  His teeth tug on his bottom lip more and more frequently, and his breathing increases as he sits anxiously, waiting for her response.

“I…” Y/N begins to rub his chest again, the circles careful and tight, and the anxiety that she heard in Harry’s words is now laced through her own. “I could never be…afraid of you, Harry.  I told you, you’re…you’re gentle with me.”

He exhales a quick breath of relief as she speaks, the tightness visibly relaxing out of his expression, and Y/N moves her hand from his chest to his neck, cupping over his pulse point, her fingers tangling in the few strands of Hair she couldn’t tie back.

“You’re not—you don’t—” She struggles to find the right words, the perfect way to express herself. “I don’t know how to say it…”

“’S’alright.” Harry assures her right away as he presses their palms together again. “You don’t need to say it, Y/N, I—fuck—!”

Harry cries out with pain, his injured hand falling back onto the ice pack covered pillow after he tried to move it.  Y/N immediately tends to it, securing the ice pack back around it quickly and carefully as Harry closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the couch.

“Did you forget it’s sprained?” She asks him incredulously, cupping his cheek so he’ll look her in the eyes. “What were you trying to do?”

“I wanted to—your hair—” Harry grits his teeth, sucking in a quick breath as he struggles to control the pain. “I wanted to touch it, but I forgot…”

Y/N sighs, smoothing her thumb over his jaw. “You should go to bed.  It’s late.”

Harry nods slightly, his eyes glued to the ground as he lets go of your hand and carefully stands. “Thank you for your help.  I’ll get out of your hair—”

“What are you doing?” Y/N stands quickly, her arms automatically moving to support Harry. “You’re not leaving.  You can’t go home like this.”

Harry meets her eyes with a look of confusion before glancing around her small studio apartment. “You don’t have a guest room, Y/N.  Don’t worry about me, I’ve gone home looking worse.  It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.  You’re not going anywhere.” Y/N tugs carefully on the sleeve covering his good arm. “C’mon.  I have some clothes you can borrow.”

“I can’t stay—”

“Yes, you can.” She says stubbornly, her soft look transforming into a firm stare, as if she’s challenging him to challenge her. “It’s not a big deal, Harry.  Not unless you make it one.”

The corners of his lips twitch, and Y/N wants to plant kiss after kiss on the edge of his mouth until he gives her a true smile. “Fine, Doc.” Harry murmurs. “If you say so.”

Y/N helps him to her bathroom, setting him down on the edge of her tub before grabbing him clothes from her dresser.  Harry examines them after she hands them to him, a clear look of displeasure written on his face.

“These are men’s clothes.” He says quietly, holding up the sweatpants and t-shirt.

Y/N chews on her bottom lip. “Yeah.  They are.”

Harry stares at her for a beat, waiting for an elaboration.  When one doesn’t come, he decides to prompt it. “Whose clothes are these?”

“An ex.” Y/N says simply, her usual guard is back as she turns to open her bathroom cabinet. “There’s, um, a spare toothbrush in here.  Use anything you need.  I’ll…give you a moment to change.”

 As Harry changes (which takes longer than Y/N would’ve thought, but then again, it may be hard to do with one sprained hand), Y/N busies herself with cleaning up.  She tosses out the wipes and cotton pads stained with blood, and packs up her medical kit before setting it in her closet. As she pulls back the covers of her bed, a seed of regret begins to grow in her stomach.  Would she be able to handle sleeping next to Harry?  The idea of being encompassed by the smell of his cologne and musk for an extended period of time makes her woozy, and she’s beginning to consider sleeping on the couch when he emerges from the bathroom.

His build is bigger than that of her ex, so the t-shirt strains across his shoulders and arms. The pants fit nicely, but almost too nicely, if the way that Y/N can’t stop the thoughts that are racing through her head are any clue.

“They fit.” She says lamely as Harry approaches the bed, the ice pack still wrapped against his sprained hand. “That’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah.  Your ex and I are pretty close in size.” Harry sits on the edge of the bed, his every movement careful and calculated.  Now that the alcohol has completely left his system, Y/N can see how he’s assessing the situation with every passing moment.

Her instinct tells her that that’s good, and it’s what she should be doing too, but the memory of him touching her on the couch is too sweet to let her be cautious.  They’ve passed that point, she thinks, and so she pushes back the covers, giving Harry a long look.

“Come here.” Y/N says quietly, beckoning him towards her. “Please.”

It’s the small plea that gets to Harry, and he can’t stop himself from carefully moving underneath the blanket.  His warmth is immediately apparent, and Y/N thinks that the blankets are probably unnecessary if she’s going to be sleeping next to Harry’s fire all night.

Once he’s situated comfortably (or as comfortable as he can be with a sprained hand), Y/N flicks off her lamp, and darkness envelopes them.  It takes a minute of blinking in the darkness for her eyes to adjust, but she quickly finds Harry’s green irises in the darkness.  They give off their own light, she thinks, but that’s not surprising.

They lay there for a moment, each of them on their side, until Y/N decides to break the silence. “Hi.” She whispers into the space between them.

“Hi.” Harry’s low voice echoes back.  His minty breath rolls over her, and Y/N lets out a soft sigh after inhaling the scent. She likes it more than she should.

Quiet falls between them again as each of them takes in the other.  Y/N feels like she’s trying to memorize every plane of Harry’s face, like there’s going to be a quiz later and she needs to ace it.  Where are the creases between his eyebrows?  Where is his stubble the darkest?  Where is the tiny, crescent shaped scar?  Y/N commits every detail to memory, if only for her own pleasure.  Being this close to him reminds her that he’s real, and she can’t help but wonder if Harry is doing the same.

There’s a tenseness between them, and Y/N’s not quite sure how to fix it.  She’s certain she’ll never be able to relax around Harry, until his good hand reaches out and begins to stroke her hair.

The action is so tender and so gentle that her breath hitches in her chest.  Harry keeps his eyes locked on hers, his gaze intense and unrelenting as his fingers deftly work their way through her hair.  Y/N watches his chest rise and fall in time with his movements, and there’s something about the synchronized actions that calms her racing heart.

A flicker of emotion in Harry’s eyes is the last thing she registers before her own eyes drift shut.

…

The note is scribbled messily on a scrap of paper from her kitchen note pad, left on the pillow for Y/N to find the next morning.

Thanks again for the help. -H

…

“Patrick, you can’t be fucking serious.”

The gym owner gives her a sharp look as he taps ash off his cigarette. “Do I look like I’m one for jokes, Doc?”

Y/N’s mouth gapes open for a moment, her grip tightening on the back of the office chair. “Harry can’t fight tonight!  He hurt his hand!  Haven’t you listened to anything I told you?”

“Honestly, Doc, the only thing I listened to was Styles himself telling me he was fine.” Patrick gives Y/N a pointed look. “He wants to fight, so he’s going to fight.”

“It’s your gym!” Y/N yells, the anger inside her outweighing the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Tell him no!”

Puffing on his cigarette, Patrick shakes his head once. “I’m not doing that.  Those people out there paid to see Styles fight, and that’s what they’re going to get.”

“They’re not going to see Harry fight.” Y/N spits out through gritted teeth. “They’re going to see Harry lose!”

“That’s his business.” Patrick shrugs nonchalantly, as if they’re not discussing how Harry’s blood is about to be splattered against the off-white vinyl of the ring. “I make my money either way, Doc.”

“And that’s your business, isn’t it?” Y/N says scathingly, pushing away from the chair.  She lets her nails dig into her palms instead. “You don’t care who gets hurt, as long as you get your money!”

Patrick stands up now, his agitation beginning to show. “I’m not the bad guy here, Y/N.  Harry says he’s good to fight, so he’s fighting.  I’m not his babysitter, and I’m not his mother.  He’s old enough to make his own decisions.”

Y/N opens her mouth again, but no sound comes out.  Instead, she gives Patrick one last look of fury before storming out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

She should’ve known.  She should’ve known that Harry would still try to fight tonight, despite his sprained hand that’s had less than two days to heal.  In all honesty, the thought that he would try to fight never even occurred to her until she walked into the gym tonight and overheard multiple men talking in excitement about the match.  When she first heard the name Styles, she had been sure she that was mishearing the conversations.  But then it happened again.  And again. And when she realized that Harry planned on fighting, she had been certain, so foolishly certain, that Patrick would cancel the match when she explained the situation.  

It’s her own fault, she thinks, making her way into the crowd to watch the match.  It’s her own fault for getting too comfortable, for believing that anyone would listen to what she says.  The way Harry had looked at her made her believe that her words mattered, but tonight…this is a harsh reminder of what the world is really like.

If she thought there would be any chance of convincing Harry to call off the match, Y/N would storm the locker room in an instant, yelling and screaming and pleading until Harry saw sense.  It was a double-edged sword, really.  She knows him now, which makes her care for him more than ever before.  And knowing him means knowing that he won’t back down from this match.

Y/N knows it’s going to be bad when Harry walks out with his sprained hand held awkwardly at his side, his face void of its usual calm and collected expression.  But she knows it’s going to be a blood bath when Adam Bowers immediately follows him.

While Harry is doing his best to not show the pain and weakness on his face, Bowers is snarling at him from across the ring, rage and fury written into every one of his movements.  It’s clear that Bowers wants his revenge for the humiliation Harry caused him in his very first match, and Y/N knows that he’ll stop at nothing to get it.

While most of the short match is watched from behind her hands, Y/N doesn’t miss the important moments.  Harry on all fours, spitting blood out onto the vinyl matt.  Harry barely dodging a punch, only to take a fist to his chest and having the wind knocked out of him.  Harry gritting his teeth as his fist connects with Bowers’ jaw, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make him angry.  Harry facedown on the floor of the ring, breath barely moving in and out of his body as blood streams from a gash on his head, mixing with the blood already flowing from his nose.  

As the fear and panic seizes Y/N’s body, everything around her begins to move in slow motion.  She sees the crowd roar, but does not hear it.  She sees the referee drag Bowers away from Harry’s limp body, but does not hear the words he’s yelling.  She sees Jeff run into the ring, but does not hear him calling for help.  She sees Patrick run towards her, but does not hear him screaming her name until the fourth or fifth time.

“Y/N!” He yells again, grabbing her arm and yanking her behind him as he tears through the crowd. “Come on!”

Y/N lets herself be pulled back to the locker room, which is being transformed into a makeshift E.R.  Men that she’s never met before are opening a folding table over the bench, tossing training mats on top of it to make a poor man’s gurney.  Patrick takes the medical kit from her hands, opening it roughly and throwing a pair of clean gloves at her.  If she were in a clearer state of mind, Y/N would scream at him, demand to know why he allowed this to happen, but the sound of Jeff’s yelling signals Harry’s arrival, and all thoughts rush out of her head.

Jeff and another man carry Harry into the locker room, and while Y/N can tell they’re trying to be careful, groans are leaving Harry’s mouth as they lay him face up on the folding table, displaying the full extent of his injuries.

And here it is.  The fall of Harry Styles.

Bruises are blossoming over every inch of skin that she can see, new tattoos that she hates the meaning behind, but those are the least of her worries. There’s swelling and agitation in his sprained hand (which she suspects is now broken), along with blood spilling from his split knuckles.  His nose is swollen and bleeding, his lip is cut open, and there’s a black eye forming on his face at an alarming rate.  His cut from a few nights ago has split open again, three times as wide, two times as deep, and the blood pouring down his face is getting into his half shut eyes.

That’s where Y/N decides to start.

She takes a deep breath to center herself, pushing all of her emotions out of her as best as she can.  Harry needs her right now.  He needs her to take care of him in the way that only she can.

Y/N ties her hair out of her face quickly before snapping on the gloves. She pushes Jeff and Patrick out of the way, grabbing her penlight from her kit and stepping towards Harry.

“Harry.” She speaks in a calm but firm voice. “Open your eyes for me, Harry. Can you do that?”

His eyelids flutter at her voice, the green that she’s come to know barely peaking through.  Y/N flicks on the penlight, carefully raising one of his eyelids and then the other while shining the light in his eyes.  The dilation of his pupils is slightly uneven, but Y/N ignores the sick feeling that it causes in her stomach so that she can continue to work.

“Jeff.” She calls over her shoulder. “Put on gloves and apply pressure to the gash on his forehead.  Keep talking to him while you do it.”

Jeff steps forward and follows her instructions exactly.  She hears him muttering to Harry, but can’t make out the words as her focus shifts to Harry’s abdomen.  His breathing is still shallow, much too shallow for her liking, and she’s worried that something is affecting his lungs.

“Patrick, I need my stetho—” Before Y/N finishes the sentence, Patrick is already holding out the item for her, swapping it for her penlight.  She mutters a quick “thank you” as she slips the ends in her ears. “Harry, I need you to take a deep breath for me, alright?” She places the stethoscope on his chest. “As deep as you can.”

Harry sucks in a breath, but quickly moans in pain.

Y/N curses under her breath. “Again, Harry.  As deep as you can.”

Again, the only breath he can take is shallow and constricted.  Y/N loops the stethoscope around her neck as she begins to examine his chest, her fingers prodding around the bruises.  When she gets to his ribs, Harry lets out another cry, jerking forward on the table.

“Keep him still.” Y/N commands Jeff and the other man, who she finally recognizes as a gym trainer named Nick.  She pushes on the same spot, her face grim as she receives the same reaction.

“I think he has a fractured rib.” She glances at Jeff before continuing her examination. “Just one, I think, but there’s definitely something wrong.  It doesn’t feel completely broken, or like there’s any splinters, but that last hit to his chest—” Y/N’s demeanor begins to slip as she remembers the sight of Harry lying on the floor of the ring, and she shakes her head to clear the image from her mind.  She needs to focus. “Yeah.  Fractured rib.”

Y/N moves through the checklist in her mind, turning her attention to Harry’s injured hand.  It’s still wrapped from his fight, so she grabs her bandage scissors from her bag to get a better look at the damage.  She tries to be careful as she cuts, but she knows Harry’s in pain, and she wishes she had stronger medicine to offer than an extra strength ibuprofen.

It doesn’t take her long to guess that his hand is fractured.  Of course, she can’t be entirely sure without an X-ray, but the closest thing to an X-ray machine that she has at her disposal is the vending machine down the hall.  Y/N does her best to clean the cuts on his knuckles, carefully bandaging them before looking up at Patrick.

“Go to the pharmacy and buy a hand brace.” She tells him as she wraps a cold compress around Harry’s hand. “Something sturdy.  And get more painkillers.”

Patrick disappears with a nod, leaving Y/N with just Jeff and Nick to help her.  She sets another cold compress over his abdomen before working her way up to the injuries that look the worst.

Harry’s nose, she’s surprised to find, isn’t broken.  She can touch it without hearing any cracking sounds, and, to her relief, the majority of the blood beneath his nose is from the initial hit. She instructs Jeff to hold another cold compress lightly to the area before she moves to the gash on his forehead.

From the first look, Y/N knows it’s bad.  Despite the pressure Jeff’s been applying, the gash hasn’t stopped bleeding, and seems to be tearing more every time Harry’s forehead contracts in pain. She wipes more blood from the area as the dread in her stomach grows.

“I think…” Y/N takes a deep breath through her mouth. “I’m going to have to stitch it.”

Jeff and Nick exchange a look with each other as Y/N pushes back Harry’s sweat and blood slicked curls from his forehead.

“Nick, grab me two ibuprofen and some water.  And Jeff, pass me my suturing kit, will you?  It’s probably towards the bottom of my bag.” Y/N waits until the two men are preoccupied with their tasks to address Harry.  His eyes are still closed, but he’s vocal enough to voice when he’s in pain. “Harry.” She murmurs, smoothing his hair again. “Harry, do you know where you are?”

Harry sucks in another shallow breath as his eyelids crack open. “I-I’m—the locker room.  In the locker room.”

Y/N nods quickly. “You are.  Do you remember what happened?”

“Had a…” Harry’s brow furrows, causing a fresh stream of blood to drip from the gash.  Y/N applies more pressure as he speaks. “Had a match.  Got hurt.”

“You did.” Y/N nods again, glancing at the medicine in Nick’s hand. Harry’s responses ease her worries of a serious concussion, so she motions Nick over. “You have a bad cut on your forehead, Harry, so I need you to take this medicine before I fix it, alright?”

Harry makes a noise of understanding in the back of his throat, and Y/N swaps out her gloves and prepares her sutures while Nick helps Harry swallow the pills.  She prays that she hasn’t underestimated the severity of his head injury, and that the medicine won’t do more damage than good.  She knows it’s risky, but she just wants to give him something to ease his pain, even if it’s only a fraction of the painkillers he actually needs.

Jeff sets up a folding chair for Y/N, so she can sit and be more comfortable as she stitches the gash closed.  Y/N steadies herself against the cold metal chair before turning her attention back to Harry.

“I’m going to stitch you now, Harry, alright?” She says in a clear voice. “It—it’s going to hurt, but I have to do it.  If the pain gets really bad—” she nods at Jeff, who takes Harry’s uninjured hand in his own. “Squeeze Jeff’s hand, but only with your left hand. Do you understand?”

Harry manages to mutter a weak “yeah,” before his eyes clamp shut again.

Stitching somebody up in a locker room is about as awful as Y/N imagined it would be.

She knows that each tug of the needle through Harry’s skin hurts him badly, and with no anesthetic, the pain only increases with each stitch.  Harry, to his credit, does his best to stay still, gritting his teeth and squeezing Jeff’s hand until it turns blue, but small moans and whimpers still escape him every few minutes.  When Y/N finally finishes, cleaning and bandaging the now-closed wound, the entire room breathes a sigh of relief.

Patrick returns a few minutes later with more medicine and a brace, which Y/N carefully straps onto Harry’s fractured hand.  After that, all that’s left for her to do is to wipe more blood from his face and say a prayer.

The pain medication now finally starting to kick in, Harry begins to doze off, his breathing shallow yet even.  It’s not until his eyes completely close that the exhaustion and emotions catch up with Y/N, and she leans against the lockers, her back sliding down them until she’s seated on the ground with her knees pulled to her chest.

Patrick crouches down next to her, taking off her plastic gloves and handing her a water bottle. “You did good, Doc.” He mutters, rubbing her shoulder. “Really good.”

Y/N takes the water from him, but offers no other response.  It’ll take her a bit of time to forgive Patrick for this, she thinks, although she knows most of the blame is on Harry’s shoulders.  

Jeff sits down in the metal hair he brought for Y/N and lets out a long sigh. “Thank you, Y/N.  If it weren’t for you, I don’t know…”

“He shouldn’t have been fighting tonight, Jeff.” Y/N says in a thick voice, her fingers picking at the label on the bottle. “He was injured, and—”

“I tried to stop him.” Jeff glances at Harry’s sleeping form. “He’s so fucking stubborn.  He insisted on fighting.”

“No more.” Y/N shakes her head. “No more fights.  Not until he’s completely recovered.”

No one contradicts her.

Nick reappears in the doorway, despite Y/N not even realizing he had left the room, with a pair of keys in his hand. “I got the car ready, Jeff.  We can move him whenever.”

��Where are you taking him?” Y/N asks, and while she hopes the answer is “a hospital,” she knows it won’t be.

“Back to his apartment.” Jeff stands up slowly, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll stay with him for a bit, make sure he’s alright.” He glances at Y/N. “Can I call you if—?”

Y/N nods before he even finishes the sentence, her eyes trained on the rise and fall of Harry’s chest.  It had soothed her less two nights before, and its continuation still soothed her now. “Yeah.  Call me if he needs anything.  I’ll come right over.”

…

It takes five days for Harry’s name to pop up on Y/N’s phone screen.  

While she normally keeps her phone on do not disturb during class, she programmed his number to come through, just in case there was any sort of emergency.  The sound of her phone vibrating on her desk makes her jump, and she sends an apologetic look to her professor, reaching to turn it off.  When she sees Harry’s name, however, her heart begins to pound.

She ducks outside the classroom quickly before she answers.  Y/N had been dying to hear from Jeff on Harry’s recovery, but now that the call was actually coming, she worries that the call isn’t just for an update.

“Jeff?” She asks, assuming the coach is on the other line. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh—” It takes just one syllable for Y/N’s heart to stop. “It’s Harry, not Jeff.”

Y/N walks further away from her classroom, glancing around to see if she’s alone. “It’s good to hear your voice.” Y/N murmurs. “How—how are you feeling?”

A dry chuckle echoes through the phone. “Like shit, but that’s to be expected. Jeff told me I have a fractured rib?”

“And a fractured hand, and a mild concussion.” Y/N bites her lip. “Your nose wasn’t broken, though, so…at least there’s that.”

“Yeah.  There’s that.”

Y/N rubs her eyes as she leans against the corridor wall, her gaze trained on the trees outside the window. “I—Jeff said he’d call me if there was anything wrong, so—I would’ve stopped by—”

“No, I’ve been fine.  Just in pain, but that’s to be expected.” Harry assures her.  Y/N can almost picture him running his (not broken) hand through his hair. “You’re busy with school.  I understand.”

“Yeah, but—” Y/N lowers her voice as a group of students walks by. “My class finishes in an hour.  Can I come see you tonight?”

There’s silence on the other end, and for a moment, Y/N begins to worry that she’s overstepped a boundary.  She opens her mouth to apologize when Harry finally answers.

“Yeah.  You can.”

…

Y/N’s medical knowledge tells her that things have to get worse before they can get better.  She’s seen it time and time again, not only in cases she studies, but in her life. For things to heal, they have to hurt.

And yet, when Harry opens the door to his apartment, her breath still freezes in her chest.

More bruises have settled in since she last saw him in the locker room. Dark purple stains down his skin, across his jaw, under his eye, and if Harry wasn’t wearing a black t-shirt, she knows she would see more scattered across his chest.  To Y/N’s relief, however, the swelling in his face has gone down, and it’s obvious that the bandage over his stitched wound has been changed, albeit a bit clumsily.  His fractured hand is held gently at his side, so as not to agitate it, but Y/N can tell that the fractured rib is bothering him as he breathes carefully.

“Hi.” Harry opens the door wider, stepping back to allow her inside. “Come on in.”

Y/N steps over the threshold, her gaze turning from Harry’s injuries to his apartment.  It’s a little bigger than hers, she notices, and estimates that it’s a one bedroom with actual spaces dedicated for separate things.  Although he mostly sticks to a grey colour pallet in his minimalist decorating, Y/N can pick out objects that tell her this is where Harry lives.  A framed photo of him and a woman who looks just like him sits on the table next to the couch.  A pair of red boxing gloves dangle off the edge of the closet door. Harry’s familiar cologne lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of a candle he has lit in the living room. Despite the grey tones, the apartment feels just as warm as Harry does.

“I like your place.” Y/N stands in the hallway awkwardly, not sure of where to go. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.” Harry shuts the door with his good hand before gesturing for her to sit down. “You can, uh, sit on the couch if you’d like.  Do you want something to drink?”

Y/N shakes her head. “No, I’m fine, thank you.  But you should drink some water.”

An unbelieving laugh leaves Harry’s mouth, but he moves to the kitchen nonetheless. “Are you telling me what to do in my own home?”

“Yes.  You have to be hydrated to heal.” Y/N watches as Harry fills two glasses with a water filter from the fridge, her mouth falling open slightly when Harry manages to pick up both filled glasses with his good hand.  Although the sight sets off a familiar flutter in her stomach, she manages to come to her senses enough to snap her mouth shut again by the time he turns around.

Harry sets the glass down on the coffee table in front of her before gingerly sitting down on the other side of the couch.  While he’s trying to mask his discomfort, Y/N can detect it easily.

“Is it your rib?” She asks, worry slipping into her voice. “Is it hurting you?”

Harry manages to give a small shrug. “’S not awful.  I’ve been taking some ibuprofen for pain, like you said.”

Y/N twists her ring around her finger, the fidgeting helping to keep her centered. “I’d get you something stronger if I could, but—”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Y/N.” Harry cuts over her with a firm look. “Don’t worry about it.”

Y/N can’t look at Harry.  She can’t. If she does, she knows that all she’s going to be able to see is the bruises and bandages and braces, and she’ll start to cry.  And if she starts to cry, she won’t stop, and then she’ll just be upset and crying in Harry’s living room, all because she looked at him, and that’s not what she’s going to do.  She repeats the thought in her head like a mantra.  That’s not what she’s going to do.  That’s not what she’s going to do.

And then she looks at Harry.

Harry is already looking at her.  The longer they’ve spent together, the more she’s noticed cracks in his calm façade, and in this moment, those cracks are wide open.  The problem, however, is that Y/N can never decipher what exactly those cracks show her.  Harry’s face, even while emotional, is unreadable.  She can’t understand the feelings swirling through his green eyes any more than she can understand the flexing and unflexing of his uninjured hand. Is it a nervous tic?  Is he trying to calm himself, like Y/N does when she plays with her ring?  Is he trying to restrain himself from reaching over to touch her, like the night he showed up at her door?  While all those questions flip through her mind, only one passes through her lips.

“Why did you do it, Harry?” She asks, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder will shatter the space between them.

Harry takes a long sip of water like he’s stalling for an answer, trying to find anything worth saying. “I needed the money, Y/N.  And I couldn’t—getting the shit beat out of me by Bowers was better than forfeiting to him.  I couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“That—” Y/N sucks in a breath, trying to remind her lungs to move the air in and out of her body. “That is…ridiculously idiotic, and prideful, and stupid, and a million other things, but that’s not what I meant.” She steels herself before meeting Harry’s eyes again, willing herself to sound less like a child and more like a woman. “I was asking why you left me that morning, after…after you stayed the night.”

For the first time since she arrived, it’s Harry’s eyes that are unable to meet hers.  He drops his gaze to his injured hand, cradling it in his lap, and Y/N takes his silence as a signal for her to continue.

“You just—I told you it was fine for you to stay.  And then the next morning you were gone, and your note…” Y/N can’t help but scoff. “‘Thanks again for the help’?  Really?  That’s all you had to say to me?”

Harry clears his throat as his good hand begins to tap against his thigh. “It’s not all I had to say, I just—I couldn’t say everything in a note.”

“Why did you even have to leave a note?” Y/N asks incredulously. “That’s the whole point, Harry!  You left, didn’t call me, or tell me that you were alright, and then the next time I saw you, you were getting beat half to death.  That’s not…fair.”

At that word, Harry’s eyes widen, and his face contorts into an expression Y/N can finally read: disbelief. “Fair?” He repeats, accent thick. “It’s not fair?  Nothing in life is fair, Y/N.  I didn’t call you because I’m not yours, and you’re not mine.  I let myself pretend a bit that night, while I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have.  If there’s anything that wasn’t fair, anything I have to apologize for, it’s that.”

The tears come then, pricking her eyes with an irritating heat as she drops her gaze into her lap. “So you—you showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night, bleeding and injured and drunk, and you spend the night so I can make sure you’re safe, and the only thing you think you have to apologize for is—is pretending?” Y/N shakes her head. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I shouldn’t even have been there in the first place.  And after I showed up, I should’ve been more careful. More in control.” Harry stares down at his hands again, not to avoid her gaze, but to think about what they did that night. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like I did.  I shouldn’t have asked questions.  I shouldn’t have touched you.  I shouldn’t have crossed all the lines I set for myself months ago.  But I did, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sorry.” Y/N wraps her arms around herself tightly, and although the force against her is comforting, she’d prefer it if the arms weren’t hers. “I’d rather you come to me for help than stumble home in the dark, and I…” A chill runs through her, and she rubs her arms a bit to keep warm.  Being away from Harry and his fire takes its toll. “I didn’t mind you asking questions, or touching me.  I liked it.  I thought I made that obvious.”

Harry’s face flicks back to the expression that she’s unable to read. “Nevertheless—”

“Do you honestly think you’re the only one who set lines and boundaries?” Y/N turns her gaze back to Harry, taking in the closed off posture he displays. She hates it almost as much as she hates her own guarded appearance. “I did, too, but the more we talked, the more I started to waver.  The boundaries were out the window the moment you stepped into my apartment, Harry.  And we can go back and forth and debate who crossed what line first, but the truth is, we both knew exactly what we were doing, so don’t—” Y/N gestures at him, how he’s turned his body away from her. “Don’t sit there and act like you’re the only one to blame when I took every step with you.”

Her final words are followed by silence and all the sounds that fill it. The ticking of the clock on the wall, the dripping of the kitchen sink, the laboured sound of Harry’s shallow breathing, the pounding of Y/N’s own heart.  She focuses on each individual sound, each one an ode to whatever it is that’s been hanging between them since the night they met, until Harry finally responds in a low and controlled voice.

“I didn’t think that you…wanted me like that.” He begins slowly, his body finally turning to look at Y/N straight on.  She can see the strain on his face, and how difficult this movement is for him, but he doesn’t stop until he can meet her eyes.

The sight of his green irises takes all the fight out of her.

“How could you not realize that?” Y/N crosses her legs underneath her, placing her palms flat against her thighs.  If she wants to have an open conversation, she thinks, then she needs to be open.

“Because you’re you.  And I’m…” Harry’s head turns just for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “I told you last week.  You’re a healer, in every sense of the word, and I’m the complete opposite.”

“And I told you,” Y/N says stubbornly. “That I don’t buy that for a minute.  I meant it when I said I wasn’t afraid of you.  And for once, you were being honest, and I thought that we were going to move forward together.”

A sharp laugh falls from Harry’s lips, followed by a wince as his good hand rubs gently over his ribs. “Honest?  Do you have any idea of how much I managed to hold back that night? I was half pissed, sitting on your couch, feeling you touch me, while things I had never said out loud before were coming out of my mouth, and I still didn’t tell you the worst of it.” Harry drags his hand through his hair roughly. “I don’t know, maybe I should’ve. Maybe you would’ve left by now, and saved yourself the trouble.”

“Stop it!” Y/N takes his hand, weaving their fingers together like she did when he was at her apartment. “You keep—it’s like you want to create this narrative where I’m good and you’re bad.  That’s not true!” She presses her other hand over his. “We’re both here.  We both ended up in the same place.”

“But what about after?” Harry’s voice is tight as his gaze settles on their locked hands. “The difference between us is that you have a life outside of that gym that’s waiting for you.  But the gym is my life.  Boxing is my life.  I don’t have any other career to hold out for, Y/N.  There’s nothing for me except boxing, and there’s everything for you.”

“What about me?” Y/N brings Harry’s fingers to her lips, pressing small kisses to the tips like he had done for her. “You could have boxing and me. If you were just honest with me, if you opened up completely, I’d do the same.”

Harry exhales slowly, closing his eyes at the feeling of your lips dancing over his hand. “It doesn’t work like that, Y/N.  I wish it did, but it doesn’t.”

“Who decides if it works like that?”

The corner of Harry’s lip twitches, and Y/N knows he’s remembering one of the first conversations they had, when he asked who decided what he needed to know.  Y/N wonders if that was the first line that was crossed.

“I do.” Harry says after a moment. “I decide.”

…

With how little she knows about Harry, Y/N would’ve expected forgetting him to be easier.

She can count on one hand the number of personal facts that she knows about him, with at least three of them involve his boxing, and yet…when she’s home in the evenings, her schoolwork done, her mind free to roam, it’s always Harry’s face that she sees.

Y/N had known that Harry’s first night back would be hard.  After six weeks of being away from the ring, recovering from his injuries, Harry’s return to the ring would be the first time she’s seen him since he got hurt.  Patrick had forewarned her about him coming back two weeks ago, and although he mentioned it like an update, Y/N knows he was saying it to caution her.  She had assured him that Harry’s return had no personal meaning to her, and no affect on her, but as she makes her way to the locker rooms after the match, her nerves are as high strung as they’ve ever been.

The match between Harry and an unexperienced boxer named Jackson ends within minutes, with Harry the unsurprising victor, but the match had only been a small source of her anxiety.  As she set Jackson’s nose (Harry seems to be back to his old patterns), her mind was on one thing and one thing only.

Compared to the last time she saw Harry’s locker room, the place looks like a paradise.  The floors are stained with sweat instead of blood.  The brown stains in the sink are only from rust.  And the blood that’s splattered on Harry’s forehead isn’t his own.

“You’re getting quicker, Doc.” Jeff comments in lieu of a hello. “Harry hasn’t even had time to shower yet.”

Y/N glances at the sweaty boxer sitting on the bench, who is currently preoccupied with the incredibly difficult task of unwrapping his hands. “I’ve had more practice, I suppose.”

Taking her seat next to Harry, she opens her case and slips on a pair of disposable gloves.  Jeff and Patrick stand in the corner, discussing Harry’s return to the ring, as Y/N focuses on the work that she’s here to do.

“You have a bruise on your jaw, but that’s about it.” Y/N touches his chin gently, tilting his head to a different angle. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Harry says shortly, giving a quick nod of his head. “Yeah, I feel fine.  It felt good to be out there again.”

Y/N’s eyes flicker to the new scar on his forehead before turning her attention to his hands. “Did you wrap your right hand tighter tonight?”

“I did.” Harry nods again. “And I’ve been using the brace at home, like you told me to.”

“Good.” After a quick check, Y/N moves to his abdomen, pressing carefully. “Have you been having any difficulties breathing?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s much better.  It only hurts if I stretch a lot, and only for a second.”

“Just some residual bruising, probably.” Y/N bites her lip as her fingers brush over his tattoos. “It’s to be expected.”

Harry’s gaze finally catches her own, as unreadable and cavernous as ever, and Y/N clears her throat as she pulls her hands away. “I think you’re all good. Jackson barely touched you tonight.”

“I wanted to give him someone easy to ease him back into the ring.” Patrick joins the conversation. “I need to build my champion back up.”

Irritation flickers across Harry’s face for a brief moment.  Y/N can tell that he doesn’t like the idea of being eased into something.

“We appreciate it, Patrick.” Jeff claps a hand over the gym owner’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go discuss next week in your office?”

Patrick glances at Y/N, who’s busying herself with rooting around in her medical kit. “Yeah.  Alright.” He says after a moment. “Are you two good here?”

Y/N nods, not lifting her head to watch the two men leave the locker room. She keeps her eyes glued to anything but Harry as she stands, snapping off her gloves and tossing them in the trash.

“Well, you’re good to go.” She says after a moment. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you next week.”

“Wait.” Harry catches her arm when she reaches for the kit. “Y/N, wait, I—just wait.”

The familiar burn of Harry touching her courses through her arm, and Y/N bites her lip to keep the sigh of relief from slipping out of her. “What?”

“Look at me.” Harry murmurs, his voice lower than normal. “Please look at me.”

Y/N finally raises her head, looking Harry in the eyes again.  She can tell he’s searching for something in her stare, but she’s not sure what.  If she knew, she’d give it to him in a heartbeat.  Or maybe she’d withhold it, she muses, so that he’d keep searching, his arm on hers.

“What?” She asks after a moment, Harry still looking up at her. “What? What is it?”

“I…” Harry clears his throat as his hand drops slightly, his grip falling from her forearm to her wrist. “Did you watch the match?”

Y/N nods, hoping her disappointment at the innocence of his question isn’t too apparent on her face. “I did.  I always do.”

“I know, but I wasn’t sure if…” Harry’s gaze flickers to his hand on your wrist. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

“It’s my job.” Y/N tries to sound professional, tries to reinstate the boundaries that they so carelessly broke, but there’s nothing professional about the way Harry is threading his fingers through hers as he pulls her back down to the bench.

“I missed you.” He says quietly, his thumb moving over the back of her knuckles. “I wanted to call, but I didn’t want to…I wanted you to move on.”

“Is that why you’re holding my hand?” Y/N raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t pull away.

Harry tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. “Holding your hand is more for myself right now.”

“You can’t do that, Harry.” Y/N’s voice grows tighter as she wills herself to pull her hand away. “You can’t just—you can’t say things like that.  Not after what you said before.”

“I know—”

“No, you don’t.” Y/N finally pulls her hand away, grabbing her medical kit before taking a step back from him.  Harry watches her movements with disappointed eyes. “You don’t know.  You don’t want to give us a chance?  You don’t want to open yourself up to me? Then fine.  Don’t.  But don’t expect me to do anything more than my job.  Is that understood?”

Harry’s mouth presses into a tight line. “Understood.”

…

It’s four A.M. when Harry knocks on Y/N’s door two weeks later.

Y/N, like most people at this time of the very early morning, is in bed when she hears the frantic knocking on her front door.  She’s been asleep for less than two hours, having only made it back home from that night’s match at two A.M. (Harry had dislocated his opponent’s shoulder, as well as split the skin of his forehead, and it took her some time to clean them up), and almost doesn’t get up.  Her neighbours have no problem with making as much noise as they see fit at any time of the day, and she assumes it’s one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to stay overnight.  Thinking she’ll just wait for them to go away, Y/N pulls her comforter up to her chin tightly.

And then the person knocks again.  And again.  And again.

Once it’s clear that she won’t be getting any sleep until she deals with whoever is pounding on her front door, Y/N angrily pulls herself out from under her covers, throwing a hoodie over her tank top to cover herself.  She grumbles to herself as she walks from her bed to her front door, ready to curse out whoever it is that gets so drunk that they can’t remember which apartment their friends live in.

And then she sees Harry.

He looks more or less the same as he did when Y/N left him at the gym two hours ago, save for the black eye that’s darkened in her absence.  His curls are wild, falling carelessly over his shoulders to dust the top of his long jacket.  He’s dressed in casual street clothes, covering up the tattoos that Y/N’s gotten so used to seeing every week.  His expression, like always, is unreadable, but when Y/N meets Harry’s eyes after he looks her up and down, she can define one thing: longing.

Then again, she may just be imagining that as a symptom of sleep deprivation.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Y/N demands, opening her door a little wider once she realizes that he’s not a stranger. “It’s four in the morning!”

“I know.  I’m sorry.” Harry glances over her shoulder, as if he’s checking to make sure she’s alone. “Can I come in?”

Y/N’s mouth drops open in confusion, but she still takes a step back from the door.  Where else is he supposed to go at this time of night? “I—yeah.  Alright.”

Harry walks into her apartment slowly, his eyes scanning her living space like he’s seeing it for the first time.  Y/N thinks that maybe he doesn’t remember much about it from when he was last here, seeing he had been drunk and in pain at the time.  Still, she doesn’t appreciate how he seems to be evaluating how she lives, especially when he smirks as he spots the teddy bear on her bed that she had hidden when he was last there.

“Did I wake you?” Harry asks slowly, as if the idea that Y/N had been sleeping had just occurred to him.

“It’s four in the morning.” Y/N repeats in a deadpan voice. “Yes.  You woke me, and you better have a damn good reason for it.” Her eyes scan over his body again, in case there’s an injury from the fight that she didn’t notice before.  Or a stab wound.  Honestly, with Harry, she feels like there are any number of things that he could show up at her door to ask for help with.

And she knows that she’d help him.  No matter what.

Harry rakes a hand through his loose hair, and Y/N wonders how his rings don’t get caught as he does it.  Then she tells herself to stop looking at his rings, because if she looks at his rings, she’ll look at his hands, and if she looks at his hands—

“My dad left when I was a kid.”

Harry’s voice snaps Y/N out of her thoughts.  She refocuses on him, watching as the cracks in his façade slowly open up again to reveal the nervousness behind his words.

“What?” She asks, brow furrowing in confusion.  Y/N thinks that she should tell him to sit, but by the energy radiating off of Harry, she doesn’t think he’ll listen.

“My dad left when I was a kid.” Harry repeats, his voice wavering for just a second.  He clears his throat before continuing. “I was around seven when he ran off, and then it was just my mum, my sister, and I.  My mum did her best to take care of us herself, but it—it was hard.  We never really had much, and what we did have, she spent on my sister and I, to make sure that we were alright.”

“Harry, I don’t understand.” Y/N reaches for him hesitantly, but pauses before her fingers actually make contact with his jacket. “Why are you telling me this?”

Harry licks his lips once, and Y/N watches as he flexes and unflexes his right hand. “I’m trying to…to be open.  To be honest.”

A beat passes between them before Y/N comprehends his words. “You—what?”

“You said I had to be honest with you.” Harry’s teeth worry his bottom lip, chewing it for a moment before he continues. “And I-I want to try it.  I want to make this work—make us work. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few weeks, but tonight, when you were helping me after the match, I just—” The words are spilling out of him faster than they ever have before, like a dam has burst, and Harry is getting washed away in the flood.  And taking Y/N with him. “I wanted to kiss you.  I almost did, but that wouldn’t be right of me, because you told me what you wanted, and what you needed, so I went home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and missing you, and wanting you, because I want you so bad, Y/N—”

“Harry.” Y/N touches his shoulder this time, rubbing her hand against him in soothing circles. “Take a deep breath, yeah?  Slow down.  How about we sit down on the couch, and I’ll get us a drink, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

Harry’s eyes soften at the suggestion, and colour rushes to his cheeks, flushing his pale skin to a light pink. “Yeah.” He mumbles, his hands rubbing over the sleeves of his jacket. “I want that.”

The way he says, “I want that,” such a simple phrase, causes Y/N’s heart to thump in her chest.  There’s something so sincere in his tone, but Y/N doesn’t want to let herself hope. She needs to hear everything he has to say before she lets herself be that foolish.

Y/N walks to her tiny kitchen, pulling out two glasses and filling them halfway with whiskey and ice.  The whiskey had been a gift from that year’s secret Santa gift exchange in the nursing program, and Y/N had yet to open it, as she doesn’t have much of a taste for sipping liquors.  However, tonight seems to call for something stronger than regular beer.

When Y/N returns to Harry, he’s stripped off his long jacket, but his patterned shirt doesn’t seem to be warm enough to stop him from shivering.  Y/N hands the drink to him, frowning as she touches his arm.

“Are you cold?” She asks in concern, despite his skin feeling as warm to her touch as it usually is. “I can get you a sweater…”

Harry shakes his head once, taking a long sip of the whiskey. “No, just—nervous, I suppose.”

Y/N nods softly, pulling her feet under her to sit cross-legged on the couch. She wants to watch Harry straight on as he speaks. “Finish what you were saying earlier.” She murmurs. “If…you can.”

“Can’t remember how far into my speech I got.” Harry laughs once, short and anxious, his hand tugging on his hair again. “I was rehearsing it on my walk over, but I blanked the moment you opened the door.”

“There was something about…” Y/N wraps her hands around her full glass. “Needing me?”

Harry’s cheeks pinken again. “Right.  Yeah.  That’s quite…new for me.  I’ve never needed someone before in a—in the way that I need you.  I have my mum and sister, and Jeff, but you…you’re different.” He busies himself with another sip of his drink. “It’s like…it’s so confusing, Y/N.  I know I shouldn’t.  I’ve had that talk with myself countless times, and with you, and I’ve told myself that you’re so much better off without me, but I just can’t make myself let you go.”

Y/N purses her lips, her eyes dropping to her lap as she answers in a careful and controlled voice. “I feel the same.  I haven’t stopped thinking about you in weeks.  I don’t think I’m capable of it, really.  You’re—you’re under my skin.  And it’s new, and strange, and uncomfortable, but only when I’m away from you.  When I’m with you, it feels as easy as breathing.”

Harry rubs his lips, and Y /N can tell that he’s still processing what she said, which she doesn’t blame him for.  When he continues with his story, instead of commenting on her response, she feels a sense of relief.  He’s not retreating back into the familiarity of being guarded.  Not yet. “So…so my dad left.  And Mum tried, but we weren’t in a super good place.  Gemma wanted to go to college, so she took out loans, and my mum remortgaged the house, and…all the bills piled up at once.  And I didn’t even know until we were about to lose the house.  I found her crying one day, my mum…” Harry’s eyes get a far away look in them. “She said she…felt like she failed us, which is ridiculous, because she’s—she’s just the best,” A smile flickers on Harry’s face for a brief moment. “You’d like her.” He takes another sip of whiskey before continuing. “Well, I had just graduated high school, and I didn’t really have any…plans.  College didn’t seem that important at the moment, so I went to work. I had to take care of her, you know?” Harry fiddles with a ring on his finger. “I was the man of the house.  I had to take care of her.  So I went to work, and I boxed a bit in my free time, nothing serious, but it still wasn’t quite enough.  And I had some friends who had come to America to work, and I knew that there were…easier ways to make money here.  And I could make a lot of money fast, and send it back home, and make sure that everything was okay.  So…that’s what I did.”

“I remember.  Patrick told me.” Y/N bites her lip, tapping her fingers against her glass. “He said that he sent you away at first.”

“He did.  It pissed me off.” Irritation flickers through Harry’s eyes. “I’d come so far, only to be turned down because I didn’t have as much muscle as the other fighters, when I knew I could fight three times as good.  But I couldn’t just go home, so I trained.  I fought at some other gyms while training, but none of them paid as much as Patrick’s.  Boxing there…I have enough money to send home to Mum while living here.  It’s high risk, but it’s high reward.”

Y/N finally takes a sip of her whiskey, trying her best to hide the grimace that crawls onto her features. “Do you really think you’re going to box for the rest of your life?”

“I do.” Harry answers immediately. “I’m no good at anything else. I’ll box until my body gives out, and after that I’ll train others, if I can.  Either way…this is my life.  This is as far as I go, really.  And you…”

“I still have more school ahead of me.” Y/N runs her finger over the rim of her glass as she replies. “But I’m not—I said it before.  You want to paint me as good, when we both ended up at that gym. I needed the money too.”

Harry shifts on the couch, repositioning himself to look at her better. “I was open with you.  I…shared. Will you share with me, now?”

Y/N hesitates, but knows she can’t say no. “Share what?”

It takes Harry a moment to settle on a question. “You had clothes from an ex.” He says finally. “What happened with them?”

Y/N sighs, leaning her head against the back of the couch. “His name was Parker.  We met in high school.  We started dating in our junior year, and continued dating until last year.  He goes to school back east, at Stanford. We…I was in love with him.  Very in love with him.” Y/N glances at Harry, watching how his jaw tenses as she says that. “And, um, it didn’t work out. Well, at first, actually, it did. Kind of.  He proposed to me about eighteen months ago, and I said yes.” Y/N looks down at her left ring finger, the only finger on her hands that has no ring tan line. “And then he started talking about me transferring to Stanford, leaving NYU, so I could be with him, and then that conversation changed to me dropping out altogether, so I could plan the wedding, get married, have kids, and just—just be what he wanted.” Her voice cracks in a mixture of hurt and anger, and she knows both emotions are apparent in her eyes when she meets Harry’s gaze. “He wanted a wife.  He didn’t want me.  So I sent back the ring about six months before I met you, and I haven’t heard from him since.  The clothes are just…they’re left over from when he came to visit me.  I know I should get rid of them, but it’s…hard, you know?  To let go of someone…”

“I know.” Harry twists one of his rings around his finger, the same one that he always fidgets with, a plain silver band. “This is my dad’s wedding ring. I found it in my mum’s room before I moved to New York.  I didn’t know she still had it, or why she still had it, and I don’t know why I took it, but I just looked at it and…felt like I needed it.”

Y/N sets down her drink before taking Harry’s hand in her own, rubbing her thumb over the band. “He’s your dad.  It’s alright.”

Harry stares at their intertwined hands, and his voice is thick when he replies. “I’ve never told anyone that.  About the ring, or my dad leaving.  I never really talk about it.”

“I’m glad you told me.” Y/N keeps her voice soft as she moves closer to him. “I meant it when I said I wanted to know you.  That means the bad as well as the good.”

“I know you say that now, but—but no one stays forever, Y/N.” Harry’s voice drops impossibly low. “Everyone leaves eventually.  You will, too, once you see what I’m like.”

“I don’t care.  I really don’t.” Y/N shakes her head fiercely. “I’ve seen what you’re like. I’ve seen you happy and angry and irritated and guarded, and I want it all.  Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel this way about someone?” She plays with his fingers as she speaks, adoring the familiar warmth that she feels in his skin. “It was never like this with Parker.”

“You said you didn’t want a protector.  And all I want to do is protect you.” Harry brings Y/N’s hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist gently. “I don’t want to force something that you don’t want—”

“It’s different if we’re—if you and I—” Y/N flushes as she watches him kiss along her wrist and hand. “I’ll be your protector as much as you’ll be mine. We’ll protect each other.  We’ll be equal.”

“Y/N, you’re so much—we’ll never be—”

“We’ll be equal.” Y/N repeats firmly, unfolding her legs from beneath her. She sits up on her knees right next to Harry, cupping his cheeks with both hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Can you give that to me?”

A soft breath leaves Harry’s lips, and it washes over her in the sweetest way. “Yes.” He says sincerely.

“Good.” Y/N swallows hard as a fire starts to burn in her core. “Will you give that to me?”

“Yes.” Harry’s hands shift to her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to him until she’s straddling his lap.

Y/N rubs her thumbs along Harry’s stubbled jaw. “Do you need me?”

Harry’s green irises flicker to Y/N’s pink lips and back again.  She’s starting to get better at reading his eyes, she thinks, although she’s still not as good as she’d like to be.  She still can’t see exactly what’s swirling inside them, but in this moment, she thinks she has an idea of it.

“Yes.” Harry says again, his hands moving up her back. “I need you.”

Y/N presses a chaste kiss over Harry’s forehead scar, down his temple, his cheek, his jaw, delighting in every soft breath and sigh that escapes him. “Do you want me?”

Her voice is barely above a whisper when she asks, and Harry matches her tone perfectly as his fingers press into her back. “More than anything.” He breathes, tilting his head back as she kisses his neck. “I want you more than anything.”

Y/N kisses across his neck, down to his collarbones, before traveling up the other side of his face.  She kisses across Harry’s jaw again, his cheek, back to the scar-free side of his forehead, planting one last kiss in the center of it before pressing her own forehead to his. “Then kiss me.” She whispers, half panting the words.

Harry’s breath is just as ragged as hers as one of his hands tangles in her sleep-mussed hair, pulling them together until their lips meet.  The contrast between the softness of his lips and the roughness of his stubble delights her, and Y/N finds herself pressing closer and closer to him just to feel it more.  Her arms wrap around his shoulders as she tries to get as close to him as possible.  After spending so long waiting, she wants to feel him close to her.  She wants to be his, in every sense of the word.

A wrecked moan falls from Y/N’s mouth as Harry’s teeth graze her lips, his tongue immediately soothing the spot after he nips at her.  He repeats the action over and over, anything to hear her moan again, and Y/N has to pull away to collect herself.  She’s not sure if it’s the whiskey or Harry, but her head is spinning in the best way.

Undeterred, Harry’s lips move to her neck, kissing and nipping just as much as they did before. “Is this alright?” He mutters between kisses, his hands pushing up her hoodie to get a grip on her bare skin. “I-I’ll stop if it’s—”

“Don’t you dare.” Y/N moans, throwing her head back to allow him better access. “If you stop now, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Noted.” Harry mumbles the word against her jugular, letting his teeth scrape her skin before sucking over the spot.  A guttural moan slips from Y/N’s mouth as a shock runs through her, and she can feel the smirk on Harry’s lips as he licks over the mark he’s made.

The fabric of Harry’s shirt is soft to the touch when Y/N gathers it in her fists, tugging on it enough to get Harry’s attention. “Take it off.” She says in a low voice, her eyes locking with Harry’s as he pulls away from her neck. “Doctor’s orders.”

A groan rolls out from the back of Harry’s throat. “God, that’s so fucking hot.” He mutters, kissing her once more. “In a totally respectful and non-objectifying way.”

Y/N laughs into the kiss, tugging on the hem of his shirt again. “Mhmm. Just take it off, will you?”

Harry’s hands replace her own as he tugs his shirt over his head, letting it drop to the floor before attempting to kiss Y/N again.  Y/N, however, has other plans, and begins to run her hands down Harry’s chest.

“I’ve wanted to do this for weeks.” She murmurs, tracing her fingers over his tattoos. “So handsome…” She scratches her nail over Harry’s butterfly tattoo, adoring how his eyelids flutter at the feeling.

“That feels so…” Harry closes his eyes completely, letting his head rest on the back of the couch to fully lose himself in Y/N’s touches. “Keep going.”

Y/N leans in and kisses his neck again, spreading the pecks all along his collar bones and shoulders while her fingers continue to trace the contours of Harry’s body.  She works them over his chest, grazing over his nipples just enough to make his body jump beneath her.

“Is that…?” She begins, trailing off as she touches them again.  Harry doesn’t jump as much this time, but there’s an undeniable hitch in his breath.

“Feels good.” He says thickly, his fingers digging into her back in the best way possible. “Yeah.  Really good.”

Y/N nods, tweaking them one last time before she continues her exploration down his abdomen.  She runs one finger lightly around his belly button, and feels the shiver that runs through Harry as she continues down the light trail of hair situated between his two vine tattoos.

“I love these.” She whispers, her fingers taking their time as they touch them. “They’re some of my favourite tattoos of yours.”

Harry’s eyes open, and the tenderness in his green eyes is unmistakable. “You have favourites?”

Y/N flushes as she nods. “I-I do.  I like your cross tattoo.  And your mermaid.  And these…” Y/N raises one hand to touch over his collar bones again. “What does this year mean?”

“It’s my mum’s birth year.” Harry admits as one of his hands begins to play with Y/N’s hair. “I got it last year.”

Y/N knows that her eyes match the tenderness in Harry’s, and she kisses him once more before continuing to move her hand lower.  She traces her finger over the buckle of his belt as her teeth tug on Harry’s lip lightly.

“Can I?” She asks gently, her breath blowing across his lips. “Please?”

Harry strokes her cheek, letting the back of his knuckles drag across her skin. Y/N leans into his touch wholeheartedly, wanting Harry to know that she’s never once been afraid of his hands and what they can do.

“Is it the Doctor’s orders?” Harry asks, his teasing tone disguising the need in his voice.

Y/N lets out a light laugh, and it’s then that she knows that she and Harry are meant to be.  When two people can be so intimate together while still laughing and giggling and teasing each other…Y/N knows that’s something good, despite never having it before.  

“Yes.” She works her hand over his belt, and the only sounds in the room are their laboured breathing and the gentle clinking of the metal buckle.  When it’s finally free, Y/N busies herself with the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Wait.” Harry grasps her wrist carefully, stopping her before she can attempt to pull his jeans down. “I didn’t—I came here to take care of you.” He murmurs as he pushes her hands away.  His own hands move to Y/N’s thighs, grasping them tightly before picking her up with ease. Y/N gasps, her hands flying to his shoulders as Harry carries her to her bed, laying her down gently on the mussed sheets.

“Let me take care of you.” He repeats the sentiment as his hands move to the hem of her hoodie, slowly and carefully removing the article of clothing, along with the tank top underneath.  Y/N knows that his pace is intentional, giving her plenty of time to refuse, but stopping Harry is the last thing she wants to do.

When her top is off, the first thing Harry does is kiss her.  He moves her carefully as he does, so her head is supported by her pillows.  Y/N doesn’t notice his hands moving from her waist until—

“Why don’t we just move this guy until we’re done, hm?” There’s a trace of laughter in Harry’s voice as he holds up the teddy bear. “I don’t think I’ll be able to look him in the eye after if he watches.”

Y/N clears her throat as an embarrassed flush quickly works its way up her neck. “Alright, just—here—” She takes the teddy bear from Harry, dropping it to the side of the bed. “And he has a name, you know.  It’s Paddington.”

“Paddington?” Harry’s laughter is obvious now, and he buries his head in her neck as he attempts to stifle it. “That is so fucking adorable—”

“Can you not laugh at my teddy bear when you’re about to fuck me?” Y/N asks, voice exasperated and strained.

Harry’s laughter dies off as he pulls his face back up, his eyes darker than they were a minute ago. “I’m about to fuck you, am I?”

Y/N clears her throat, and as Harry’s gaze finally sweeps down her body, she gets the overwhelming urge to cross her arms and cover her exposed self. “You are.  At least, you were, until you got distracted.”

“I’m not distracted.” Harry traces a single finger down Y/N’s sternum, and Y/N can’t hold back the choked gasp in her throat.

“I’m completely focused.” Harry adds on, and before Y/N can gather herself enough to give a retort, his mouth is on her breast.

With her hands immediately tangling in Harry’s long curls, Y/N lets out another whine in sync with her tugging. “Harry—!”

Although Y/N doesn’t have her eyes on the boxer, she can feel the smirk that’s on his face, and just knows that he’s adoring the way that she’s reacting to him.  While there’s a small part of Y/N that’s irritated at his smugness, there’s a bigger part of her telling her to react more.  Moan more.  Pull his hair more.  Anything to make him happy.

Y/N wants to make him happy.

While his mouth works over one breast, his hand works over the other.  Harry’s ring covered fingers tweak her nipple, tugging and twisting just enough to work more whimpers out of her.  When his teeth graze one nipple at the same time that he tugs on the other, Y/N drags the nails of one hand down Harry’s warm back, and it quickly becomes her turn to delight in the whine that leaves his mouth.

It almost becomes a competition then, with both of them working to see who can make the other moan more.  Harry switches his mouth to Y/N’s other breast while Y/N alternates between tugging on his hair and pushing her hand down the waistband of his jeans, her fingers rubbing over his defined hip bones.  The competition, however, yields no winners, and is quickly forgotten in the pursuit of pulling the other closer, touching them harder, dragging them deeper into the safe space they’ve created on Y/N’s bed.

When Harry lets Y/N’s nipple fall out of his mouth, his lips are bright red, shining with saliva almost as much as his eyes are shining with lust.  Y/N quickly pulls him up to kiss her, and fingers one of his curls as she takes a shaking breath.

“I’ve never felt so good from just…” Her voice wavers for a moment, and a new wave of blush heats her cheeks.  “Just…you know.”

Harry brushes a thumb over her cheekbone, delighting in the heat he feels beneath his fingers. “Yeah?” His accent is thick. “Then you’re going to love what I’m going to do next.”

Y/N knows exactly what Harry means, but a surprised gasp still leaves her as he quickly pulls himself down her body, situating himself easily between her legs.  Within a moment, her pajama shorts are tossed to the side, and Harry is directing her movements.

“Bend your knees for me, love, just—yeah.  Just like that.  And spread them wider.” He coaxes her gently, helping to guide her body into the position he wants.  The pleasure on his face at the sight of Y/N’s uncovered cunt is evident as he inhales deeply, laying his stubbled cheek onto one of her thighs as he just stares at her.

Y/N’s chest heaves as she glances down at the sight.  Harry hasn’t even touched her core, and yet she’s never been more turned on in her entire life.  Something about the look in his eyes as he stares at her bare cunt drives her insane, and Y/N knows that she’ll never experience this with anyone else.  No one else will ever compare to Harry, and she doesn’t want them to.  She just wants him.

Harry’s breath is hot on her wet core when he lets out a sigh, his hands continuously rubbing her thighs, up to her pelvis, and back down again. “Don’t even want to touch you.” He murmurs. “Just want to keep staring…”

“That—that’s sweet, but—” Y/N swallows hard as she shifts on the bed. “I need you to touch me, Harry.  I need it.”

“Yeah?” Harry cocks an eyebrow at her, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Good.  I need it, too.”

And then his mouth is on her, and Y/N loses herself completely.

It’s not even that Harry is so wonderfully talented at cunnilingus that drives Y/N insane—although, honestly, that’s definitely a significant factor.  No, the thing that makes Y/N fall apart is how obvious it is that Harry loves doing it.

From the moment Harry’s tongue flicks over her clit, he’s making as many sounds as she is.  Moans and whimpers fall out of his mouth in abundance while his lips and tongue work Y/N over, and while most of it is incoherent sounds of pleasure, Y/N can decipher the occasional phrase.

“Taste so fucking good—”

“Fuck, Y/N—”

“So bloody sweet—”

“Tug on my hair harder—”

Y/N does as he requests, gripping his curls by the roots as she pulls harder in response to his tongue dipping into her entrance.  It briefly occurs to her that Harry may have a pain kink, which explains a lot about him and his career choice, she thinks, but then Harry’s fingers begin to aid his mouth, and Y/N can’t think at all.

While one of his hands pumps two fingers in and out of Y/N slowly, and while his mouth is still firmly suctioned over her clit, Harry’s other hand moves up to her pelvis, pressing down on top of it to keep her in place. “You’re a squirmer, aren’t you?” Harry mutters, and the flat of his tongue licks over her clit just to prove the point.

Y/N’s body jumps again as another guttural moan leaves her lips. “Harry, I—fuck—”

Harry hums against her. “I know.  You’re alright, love.  You can let go.”

And when Harry sucks on her clit again, crooking his fingers inside of her, she does as he says.

Incoherent whimpers and whines fall from Y/N’s mouth as she squirms on the bed, held only in place by Harry’s firm hand on her tummy.  Something in the pressure is comforting, and it’s the only thing that keeps her grounded to her bed as waves of pleasure roll over her.

Harry’s mouth moves from her clit to her thigh, pressing gentle kisses along the tender skin, which is red from his stubble scraping against it. Although his fingers have stilled inside her, he doesn’t pull them out just yet.

“I can feel you squeezing me.” Harry’s eyes flicker between Y/N’s soaked cunt to her heaving chest. “’S nice.”

Another flood of warmth passes through Y/N’s core when he says that, and she pants out what’s meant to be a laugh, but instead turns into a whimper. “Fuck, H…”

Harry’s eyes brighten from between her thighs as he presses another kiss to her thigh. “You’ve never called me that before.” He comments quietly. “I like it.”

“We’ve never done a lot of this before.” Y/N squirms again, “This is all new.”

“It’ll take some time to get used to it.” Harry presses on her tummy again, a reminder to keep still as he slowly pulls his fingers out of her.  Y/N bites her lip to hold back the whine that threatens to leave her mouth, and watches with heavy eyelids as Harry sucks his own fingers into his mouth.

Despite the trembling from her orgasm, Y/N manages to sit up on her elbows to look at Harry between her legs.  He seems quite content there, his black eye a stark contrast against the red of his cheeks and lips, one hand holding her as the other runs over his own lips.  Y/N snaps a picture in her mind to remember later on, when Harry has someone else’s blood dripping from his fingertips.  A reminder that this man lives within the fighter, underneath every wall and safeguard that he had to build to be able to protect and provide for his family.

Y/N reaches down and cups Harry’s cheek in her hand.  Although there’s a tenderness growing in the pit of her stomach, the need is still there alongside it. “Lay down for me.” She murmurs, gently grazing her fingers along the edge of his black eye.

Harry doesn’t speak as he moves, and the room falls quiet again, a brief break between the symphony of pleasure that they composed only a moment earlier. He takes his place on the pillows next to Y/N, and she kisses him again before moving down the bed.

Y/N sits on her knees by his side, allowing her fingers to run over his vine tattoos and down his pelvic bones.  She loves the way Harry’s breath flutters, how it hitches when she uses her nails, and delights in how a quiet moan leaves his lips when she wraps her hand around his warm cock.

He’s already so hard from eating her out, with precum dripping from his flushed tip.  Y/N pumps him a few times with her hand, adjusting to his size and weight before leaning her head down and licking over his slit.

“Christ—” The word falls out of Harry’s mouth involuntarily, and his cheeks redden more at the outburst.  Y/N rubs his tummy with her free hand, assuring him that it’s alright without actually saying the words.  

While one of Harry’s hands is running through his own curls, he brings the other down to play with Y/N’s hair, helping to guide her mouth as she takes him more and more.  Her tongue runs up and down his length, tracing the veins that throb beneath his skin, and Y/N loves how Harry tugs on her hair harder when she does it.

Y/N pulls up from his cock to give her jaw a break, continuing to pump him as she looks up with him.  His arm is thrown over his eyes now, and his chest is rising and falling in rapid succession.  Y/N can tell he’s close, so she slows down her movements until her hand is just lazily pumping him.

Sensing the change in momentum (and his orgasm slipping away), Harry removes his arm, looking down at Y/N with lustful eyes. “Why’d you stop?” He asks, his voice cracking in the middle of the question that he knows the answer to.

“Because I want you.” Y/N presses one last kiss to the top of his cock before letting go.  She crawls up the bed again and reaches over to her bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom.  Her fingers pause over the lube, remembering the last time that she had used it with Harry, and she can’t help the smile that flickers over her face as she holds up the bottle. “Remember this?”

Harry laughs breathlessly as he rubs his eyes. “Bloody hell, don’t remind me. I was a fucking mess that night.”

“A bit, but I didn’t mind.” Y/N sets the lube back in the drawer before shutting it. “That was the night that I knew I wanted you.”

“Was it?” Harry raises an eyebrow, the teasing grin back on his face as pushes his sweaty curls out of his face. “Took you that long, hm?”

Y/N rolls her eyes as she rips the condom packaging with her teeth, retrieving the latex disc from inside.  She pumps Harry once more before sliding the condom on, making sure that it’s positioned correctly. “Shut up.”

“Are you really telling me to shut up while you’ve got your hand on my cock?” Harry laugh again, and while Y/N’s heart flutters at the sound, she does her best to keep her face from showing it.

“I am.” Y/N throws her leg over him, straddling his lower stomach as she leans down to kiss him.  The teasing tone between them fades into one of lust and affection and need as Harry’s lips move against hers, and they’re both panting when Y/N pulls away to press her forehead against his.

“Are you comfortable like this?” She asks, worry seeping into her tone. “I know your ribs are still bothering you a bit, so I figured that this would be—”

Harry cuts her off with another kiss, this one wilder and more passionate than the last. “I’m fine, love.  You don’t need to worry about me.” He says, despite the flutter in his stomach at the idea of Y/N worrying about him.

“I always worry, H.” Y/N reaches underneath to grip his cock, rubbing the tip of it over her slit as she balances herself with one hand on his pelvis. Harry’s hands grip her hips to give her more stability. “You’re so—fuck—reckless that it drives me—” Y/N gasps loudly as she begins to sink down on Harry’s cock. “Insane.”

Harry’s first instinct at the feeling of Y/N’s warm walls hugging his cock is to throw his head back, close his eyes, and let the pleasure take over. However, he uses every ounce of willpower he has to do the opposite, and thanks God that he does, because he gets to see Y/N take his cock for the first time.

Y/N’s entire body is flushed, and she knows that the heat practically rolling off of her is because of Harry.  Everything that she’s feeling, from the fullness in her core that extends to her stomach, to the fluttering of her body, to the overwhelming sense of something just being right, is all because of Harry.  

After giving herself a moment to adjust to his size, Y/N begins to move. Harry helps guide her hips up and down slowly, and she decides from the first moment that she’s going to take her time building up her speed.  She wants this to last.

Y/N knows that Harry has the capacity to fuck her.  She knows that, if she asked, he’d flip her over and bend her over the edge of the bed and fuck her as fast as he possibly could until she screamed his name.  But, as much as the thought intrigues her, that’s not what she wants right now.  There will be time for fucking later, she thinks. There will be time for loud moans and teeth clicking together and bruises in the shape of a lover���s hand left on thighs and necks.  Right now, all she wants is to feel every inch of Harry inside of her, and to listen to his quiet yet desperate moans as she gradually increases her pace.  

With one of his hands still guiding her hips, Harry gently grips the back of Y/N’s neck, pulling her chest down to press against his.  Their lips find each other quickly, kissing and nipping as Y/N feels herself beginning to fall apart.

“H.” She breathes against his lips. “I’m so close…” A choked moan stumbles out of her mouth as Harry’s hand shifts from her neck to her clit, rubbing small circles with two nimble fingers.

“I can feel it.” Harry’s breath is hot on her ear as he presses open mouthed kisses to her neck. “Can feel you squeezing me, love…being so good for me…”

Y/N bites her lip hard, almost enough to draw blood as the movement of her hips begins to stutter. “I-I want you to—Harry—” she digs her nails into his shoulder when Harry’s fingers speed up, and within a moment, another orgasm is sending shockwaves through her body.

Harry can tell the moment it happens, and a grunt leaves his throat as he begins to lift his hips to meet her movements. “That’s a good girl, love—breathe through it, that’s it…” Harry buries his face into Y/N’s neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume and sweat that’s more intoxicating than anything else he’s ever smelled. “Fuck, Y/N—” His words cut off in a strangled moan as her walls squeeze his sensitive member.

Although she’s barely come down from her high, Y/N takes it upon herself to guide Harry through his orgasm like he’s done for her.  One of her hands moves from his marked shoulder to his hair, pushing the sweaty curls back from his eyes in a repeated motion as she murmurs in his ear. “Let go, H…feels so good…” She can feel the jerking of his hips as he finishes inside the condom, and for a split second, she wishes that there wasn’t a barrier of latex between the two of them, despite knowing that protection is mandatory.

Y/N waits until Harry’s managed to catch his breath before she carefully climbs down from him, missing the feeling of him inside her the moment she’s empty.  She lays down on her rumpled sheets next to his exhausted body, and hopes that she looks just as pretty in her post-sex haze as Harry.  

Now that she’s begun to touch him, she can’t stop.  Y/N’s hands continue to rub tenderly over his sweat-soaked chest, feeling the thumping beat of his heart beneath her as Harry carefully removes and ties off the used condom.  Although a small grumble leaves her when he gets up to throw it away, she can’t help but smile when he returns with two glasses of water in his hands.

“Here.” Harry hands her a glass before getting back on the bed, situating his naked form back into the position he was in a moment ago. “You need to hydrate. Doctor’s orders.”

Y/N lets out a breathless laugh before taking a sip of the cool liquid. “So you’re the doctor now, huh?”

“God, no.  I’m not nearly as smart as you.  I’m just smart enough to remember what you tell me.” Harry gulps down his own glass, setting it on the bedside table once it’s empty.  His arms then move to encircle Y/N’s body, pulling their chests together so her weight lies on top of him.

Y/N doesn’t miss the small wince that the movement causes, and she sets her own glass down before moving back to her position next to him. “You need to be more careful.” She murmurs, resuming her motion of rubbing over his chest.  She’s not sure why the motion is so soothing, but she doesn’t fight it, loving the feeling of Harry’s warm skin beneath her hand. “Patrick won’t forgive me if I put his best fighter out of commission.”

“No, he probably won’t.” Harry muses, settling for wrapping one arm around Y/N’s body. “He might fire you.”

“And then who will clean up your messes?” She cocks an eyebrow teasingly. “Or clean you up, when you’re a mess?”

“I’d just have to stumble my way to your apartment in the middle of the night again.” A laugh rumbles deep in Harry’s chest. “And then after you bandage me up, we can have a quick shag.  It’ll be a nice routine.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Mhmm.  Nice try.”

Harry’s laughter trails off after a moment as his fingers begin to trace shapes on Y/N’s back. “Seriously, though…” His eyes grow sober. “How do you want to…handle this?”

Y/N bites her lip. “How do you want to handle this?”

A sigh leaves Harry’s lips. “I want…you.  I want you to be mine.  And I don’t want to hide it, but if you feel like that’s best, then…”

“It’s just—I don’t know.  It’s complicated.” Y/N’s eyes focus on the G tattoo on Harry’s shoulder.  She wonders if it’s for Harry’s sister, and then wonders if Harry would ever tattoo her initial on his body. “Yeah.  Complicated.”

“You’re nervous about Patrick knowing.” Harry states simply.

Y/N nods. “He specifically told me not to get involved with any boxers. He said that…no good men come there.”

Harry’s hand moves over his jaw, scratching at his stubble. “Yeah.  He wasn’t wrong.”

His answer bothers Y/N, and she moves to sit up more in bed, making him look her in the eyes. “You’re a good man, Harry.  I know that.”

“I’m not.” Harry shakes his head once, his voice growing rougher. “I have a lot of shit that I’m…trying to work through.  I’m not that good.” When he sees how Y/N’s face shifts at his words, his tone changes. “But I’d never…that has nothing to do with you.  Any of my issues, my pride, my anger, anything like that, it’s all—it’s separate from you.” He cups her cheek gently. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know that, Harry.” Y/N repeats as she places her hand over his, weaving their fingers together. “I trust you.  I just wish you’d trust yourself.”

“I trust myself more when I’m with you.” Harry admits. “I’ve never really felt…regret for what I’ve done.  The ring is an equal playing field, right?  But that night when you said you thought I was too harsh…”

Y/N bites her lip. “Did that bother you?”

“I was worried I scared you off.” His eyes close for a moment as he remembers. “I thought…I don’t know.  I thought you already disliked me just for being a boxer, and now I’m the boxer that breaks bones, and there’s no way you’d ever want to be around me.”

“I probably shouldn’t want it.” Y/N admits. “When you phrase it like that.  But I’ve told you before…you’re different when you’re with me.”

“Only with you.  Only for you.” Harry’s voice grows tender as he holds her close to him. “So if you want to keep it private, I understand.  I just want you to be mine.”

Y/N’s finger brushes over one of Harry’s rings.  It’s a beautifully sculpted silver rose, and there’s something so wonderful to her in how Harry chooses to wear flowers on the hands that have done so much damage.

She twists the ring around his finger before pulling it off.  It’s too big to fit on her ring or middle finger, so after a moment of consideration, she slips it onto her thumb. “Then I’m yours.”

Harry’s eyes darken at the sight of Y/N with his ring on her finger. “Yeah. You’re mine.”

The feeling of Harry’s ring on her finger makes Y/N feel so complete, and she wants to share it with him, so she ignores Harry’s whine of protest as she climbs out of bed to walk to her dresser.  A little ceramic dish with her jewelry in it sits on top, and she sorts through the rings and bracelets before setting on something that he can wear while in the ring.  She cups it in her palms before returning to bed, an excited but shy smile on her face.

“Here.” She places it in Harry’s hand. “You can put this on your chain with your cross.”

The silver caduceus looks small in Harry’s palm, and he brings it closer to his eyes to examine it. “What is it?”

“It’s a caduceus.  It’s the medical symbol, the one I wear on my jacket to the ring.” Y/N explains, her cheeks reddening at her words. “It’s from Greek mythology, but doctors adopted it, and—yeah.  Just something to show that…you’re mine, too.”

A small smile plays on the corner of Harry’s lips. “Will you put it on me?”

Y/N nods, and although her fingers are shaking a bit, she manages to undo the clasp on Harry’s chain, and slips the pendant on before refastening it around his neck.  She settles the caduceus and cross pendants on his chest, just between his two swallow tattoos.

“It looks pretty on you.” She murmurs, her hand brushing down his abdomen. “Really nice.”

“It’ll be my good luck charm in the ring.” Harry brings her hand to his mouth, kissing over the rose ring. “I won’t take it off, as long as you don’t take my ring off.  Deal?”

“Deal.” Y/N lays her head back down on Harry’s chest. “Now get some sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

A playful groan falls out of Harry’s mouth. “Is that going to be a new thing?  Are you going to get me to do everything by saying it’s doctor’s orders?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you took better care of yourself.” Y/N matches his playful tone. “But we both know that you have a tendency to ignore your instincts—”

“My instincts are good!”

“Like your instinct to fight with a sprained hand was good?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches. “Fine.  Let’s go to sleep.”

Sunlight is beginning to spill through the curtains as Harry closes his eyes, bathing his entire face in a golden glow.  His pale skin glows under the light, save for the purplish bruise that rings one of his eyes.  Y/N presses a gentle kiss to the darkened area before settling herself down in Harry’s arms.

[sondepoch]

HC: MC is more flexible than them!

Perfection is certain. Perfection is solid. Perfection is the body of a demon or an angel, where there is no room (or need) for bones to crack and muscles to stretch. You and Solomon, though? You’re human. Not so “perfect” when compared to the other inhabitants of at RAD—but that just makes it all the more interesting when they finally see the way the human body can crack and bend

Word Count: 5.5k

SFW + mild descriptions of cracking body parts

Characters: All brothers + All Undateables + Luke

MASTERLIST

Lucifer

Instant panic mode

Man just learned that it’s possible for humans to break bones, so when he hears you casually crack your knuckles, he instantly assumes that all your fingers are broken

Finds it even more terrifying when you lean your head back and crack your neck 

Honestly, the look of sheer horror on his face would be terrifying if you didn’t find it so funny

Is actually super confused when he realizes that you’re 100% fine but will not lower himself to actually asking you about it. That is not the Lucifer way, and so this man instead decides to secretly binge Satan’s collection of human anatomy instead

But uh, he gets scarily into it

Seriously, you’re starting to get concerned when it’s been nearly two full weeks of Lucifer ignoring you to bury his nose in a book, eyebrows furrowing every goddamn time he finishes one, and still has no clue what that cracking sound is 

It’s only when you casually do it at the dinner table and Asmo cringes, complaining about how weird it is that humans get pockets of gas inside certain joints and they actually have to crack it out, to which all his brothers nod their head and cringe when you do it again, that he understands what it is

Has never been more relieved

He isn’t as disturbed by the sound as he was before, so it’s not as fun to tease him with it - but you can count on the fact that if you ever crack anything in his presence, he will pause whatever he’s doing to study you for a moment and make sure your face isn’t contorted in pain or anything

After all, he needs to be completely certain that you haven’t broken a bone

But someone help this man when he realizes how much more flexible humans are compared to demons

The first time you do a backbend in front of him, he actually flinches

Man can’t help but imagine himself in those poses - and no matter how sexy you look when you’re winking at him and stretching your body like it’s glue, his bones would have to be shattered to bits for him to do the same

Quietly asks you not to stretch yourself into such positions in his presence

On the bright side, you can shut him up in the middle of any lecture by “casually” stretching your arms back until the demon is so disturbed that he stops in the middle of his sentence and asks you to leave as soon as possible

All in all, not a big fan - but he can tolerate your antics (if only to save face)

But if you ever show him videos (or even pictures) of a contortionist, he may actually be scarred for the rest of his almost-eternal life

Mammon

Man really needs to learn how to knock

He barges into your room without warning, as usual, only to see you all but straddling the ground, legs spread wide apart as you lean to one side and touch your right toe

It’s the most basic human stretch there is - but it’s terrifying to Mammon

You don’t even get the chance to say hi to him before he’s lifted you onto your feet, pulling you up from under your arms, desperately asking why you weren’t screaming for help 

Cannot process the fact that you were actually in that position willingly, much less the notion that it felt remotely good

Of course, you respond to his obvious aversion by showing him all the other ways your body can bend, flopping onto your bed and bending your body into a perfect bridge position

Mammon’s screeches when he sees the arch your back makes

It lowkey gives him nightmares the next night

Also becomes very touchy after he sees you move your body around so comfortably

In his eyes, you’re now the equivalent of a giant teddy bear - and really, what are the differences, now? He uses you for cuddles and hugs, can seemingly bend your body in any way and you’ll bounce back, and your skin is so soft compared to the hardness of his own body

Man actually grows used to your body after a while, holding a strange fascination for the way you can move

Begins to think that it’s cool when you show him how you can crack your knuckles and such

Absolutely makes use of the fact that some of his other brothers hate the sound, casually walking up to them with you by his side and asking them (while you crack your knuckles) to forgive his debts

Works 90% of the time

The 10% when it doesn’t work, though, he gets into trouble

In his free time, though, he actually likes lying with you and trying to figure what other body parts you can crack

Courtesy of Mammon, you learn that you can crack your hip if you stretch at a certain angle

(Bonus:) He one day tries to stretch his body the way you stretch yours and does a basic hamstring stretch on the ground, trying to touch his toes, but the exertion is too much for his inflexible body and he sort of locks a joint, so he’s left on the floor for nearly half an hour until you find him in his room and help him out of it

(Bonus bonus:) After his trauma from the above incident, he immediately goes back to assuming that you’re in great pain every time he sees you do a particularly difficult stretch and instantly lifts your body out of the position, no matter how you protest and say that you’re fine

Leviathan

"What a normie”

That’s the only reaction you get when you crack your knuckles in front of him, eager to see what he’ll do after realizing how much it disturbs his other brothers

Needless to say, you’re disappointed by his utter nonchalance

But that’s only because you have no clue what happens to Levi when he runs to his room and closes his door, jumping into his bathtub with a shook expression on his face

“Oh my god!” He squeals. “iT wAs LiKE iN tHe aNImES”

Nah, fr tho

Man has seen more than enough human-world shows which feature characters cracking their knuckles before getting down to work, so he’s pretty familiar with the concept

Like many things in anime, he was only 60% sure that it was real

But you actually did it

And it was in real life

Man is practically fanboying over a perfectly normal phenomenon

While you’re sitting in the living room, thinking that he was utterly unfazed by it :(

But when the two of you have a whole year to spend together under the same roof, it’s honestly inevitable that the truth comes out

“You like it?” You ask, pure confusion settling over your faces. After all, he’s the first of the brothers to not be utterly horrified by your little habit

“N-no!” Levi shouts, hiding his face. “I mean, maybe...just a little...sort of...but not in the normie way!”

Boi is too cute for his own good

Of course, you humor him and proceed to crack every single joint you can think of, sending a wink Levi’s way 

It would be so easy to tease him, wouldn’t it? To mess with him and call him strange, to compare to his brothers and remind him that you’re not an anime character - and that anime is, in fact, based on humans, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that humans could crack their knuckles the way he’s seen online

But, he’s too precious. And too cute. And he’s too adorable, staring at you with that utterly captivated expression, so you can’t help but humor him again, asking if he wants to see some of the other differences between humans and demons

And when you show him how you can bend your body, man is shook all over again

He 100% thought that the absurd stretches (like a split? how preposterous) were merely fabrications of animation - flourishes added in by animators to make the visuals more interesting

But seeing you move like that? And when you show him the other stuff?

Congratulations. Boi is officially convinced that humans are more interesting that anime can ever be.

Satan

One of the few demons who was already familiar with the fact that humans are ridiculously flexible and can crack nearly everything in their body 

He was actually the one to approach you about it

“Stretch for me, human.”

Or well, the same thing but in less blunt words

Actually invites you to have tea with him where he first broaches the subject, confirming that you'll be fully comfortable with everything he wants to study

Lmao man really arranges to have a safe word in case he pushes you too far

Once you’ve agreed to letting him study how the human body can bend and crack, the two of you set a time and meet up in his room (and yes, he does clear his books out of the way to make room for you)

And so the stretching begins

It actually feels quite awkward at first with Satan showing you pictures from human world yoga books and asking you to mimic them, taking notes in a book on everything 

Gets really excited when he realizes that your flexibility is a function of how often you stretch, and once he realizes that you’re able to go a little farther each day, he becomes lowkey obsessed with finding out whether there's a limit or not

Boi may or may not secretly try to stretch in his own room in case demons are just naturally less flexible and need to stretch regularly to become like humans

Also almost breaks his arm attempting that, so he never tries it again

The whole ordeal fits itself into your routine after long enough: after school, you go to Satan’s room and do yoga while he jots down notes on how your body moves, and after everything is done the two of you have tea

Satan never touches you while you’re stretching for fear that he’ll physically push you into something uncomfortable, but when you explain that certain positions are easier to hold if someone helps, he’ll definitely try to be a helping hand

He starts out really tentatively, hesitant that he’ll be too strong and will push you to the floor or something, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find that humans are more resilient than he’d initially thought

After his notebook is filled with notes and he’s suitably convinced that all his questions are sated, he’ll express his gratitude and tell you that you don’t need to continue 

But if you tell him that you’ve been enjoying your time together, man will 100% clear that space in his room permanently, so that you can spend time there together while Satan asks you calming questions about your day and you stretch the tension of the day out of your muscles

Asmodeus

Jelly boi

Nah but fr

Man couldn’t care less about your ability to crack your knuckles and neck - if anything, he finds the habit to be irritating

But boi is jealous when he sees how easily you can bend your body and stretch into positions that even he can’t

Obviously, his mind is in the gutter when he’s thinking about the way your body can bend - but he’s equally furious of the fact that human skin is so much softer than demon skin

Like, yes. Most demons have near-perfect skin because of its taut texture - and yes, that gives them the illusion of perfection

But human skin, blemished as it is, is like a teddy bear next to a rock when compared to demon skin

And obviously Asmo’s skin is softer than everyone else’s (this man is NOT skimping out when it comes to his skincare routine), but it infuriates him that his skin isn’t as soft as yours 

Of course, man bounces back quicker than anyone else (as expected)

He grows content with the texture of his own skin the moment he realizes how easily penetrable human skin is - namely when he’s doing homework with you and he sees your skin get sliced open by paper, of all things (man nearly chokes when he learns that this is a regular occurrence for humans)

But he never quite loses his fixation for the human body

It’s highkey the reason why he likes touching you so much - your skin is softer than some Devildom blankets! If he could fall asleep with your arms wrapped around him every night, he absolutely would

But he won’t genuinely request that of you unless you explicitly offer, so he’ll settle for simply hugging you at every opportunity

Ofc, the moment he grows content with the texture of his skin, he’s jealous of your flexibility all over again, so it’s kind of nuts

You eventually have to sit him down and tell him all the downfalls of being able to bend yourself into awkward positions (ex: getting stuck in said position or causing a cramp) for him to finally be content with his own body once more

The moment he’s back to normal, all the usual flirtatious jokes come back and he’s offering to let you show him the ways your body can bend

You deny instantly

But if he ever takes you to a club and has the opportunity to dance with you, do a body roll

Man will get on his knees if that’s what it takes to have you do it again

And then he’ll whisk you off to his room, stubbornly ignoring his brother’s protests, declaring that he needs to “reeducate” himself in the art of dance, and that you’re going to be his teacher

And hey - give him a private show while you’re at it ;)

Beelzebub

The first time you crack your knuckles in front of him, he’s eating

Man doesn’t really register it, just assumes that he bit something crunchy 

The second time you do it, it’s in his and Belphie’s room - and Belphie is taking a nap

Man gets a little suspicious, because the sound definitely came from your end, but he dismisses it and decides that the sound must have been a hitch in Belphie’s breathing

But the third time, the two of you are alone

And Beel’s protective instincts come rushing to the surface when he realizes that you really are the one making that sound

“Are you dying?”

First question, no matter what. Man has heard of medical conditions that cause bones to become brittle and crumbly, so he needs to know

Then again, he won’t really believe you when you tell him the truth

“You can...crack stuff at will?”

beelisconfuzzled.exe 

You have to show him methodically, portion by portion, which of your body parts you can crack

He isn’t disturbed by the sound (he’s eaten things which sound much worse, he can assure you) but man is intrigued

(”But how?” He’ll inevitably ask, struggling to yank his own knuckles off in an attempt to crack them and get that feeling of satisfaction you kept talking about)

All in all,he has a decent reaction - probably one of the only people who won’t overreact about the information

But then the fateful day comes

And he cracks your back

It happens while he’s giving you a big bear hug, proud of you after you came running to tell him about a good grade you got in Devildom Literature - and he places his palm on your back in just the right area, pressing down as he hugs you

And pop

Man is so mortified, he almost drops you

You, on the other hand, cannot be more pleased with this development

“Again! Again!” You shout, trying to get him to repeat the action - but while Beel loves hugging you, cracking your back is something he’s not willing to risk

“It’s okay when you do it, because you know how much your back can take” is his biggest argument. "But I don't."

And unfortunately, calling him a chicken won’t work when you try to convince him otherwise :(

What will work, however, is convincing Beel that this can be a sort of strength training - because he needs to have full control of his body to do it right

He’ll agree to do it once (mainly because you’ve been begging for so long)

But, obviously, “once” means as many times as you want, from there on out ;)

Belphegor

It’s one of the few times where Belphie isn’t in tune with his brother

And he hates it

He doesn’t understand how Beel isn't disturbed by the sound - every time you crack your knuckles, it sends a shudder straight down Belphie’s spine

And it’s not the ick factor taking place. It’s just that Belphie can’t help that his mind wanders to darker places whenever you do something like that, the sound abruptly reminding him of his time in the Celestial War and all the awful things he heard there

Like others, the sound reminds him of how weak you really are

And so, if you ever crack your knuckles around him, expect him to leave instantly

He’s the one brother who will never learn to tolerate it - not when he can remove himself from the situation so easily

And honestly, it’s kind of amazing how sharp his ears are

Is he taking a nap on your lap? If you think you can subtly crack anything without his eyes shooting open, you’re wrong

Is he preparing dinner with you in the kitchen? Nope, the sound of boiling water will not cover the sound of your body stretching too far, and Belphie will shoot you a glare before swiftly exiting the room

Is he simply doing homework with you in the RAD library? You’d think that the sound of chatter from the table next to you would hide the noise you make when you subtly lean back to crack your back, but Belphie is gathering his things mere seconds later, huffing and muttering under his breath

So yeah

Not a fan

On the other hand, he loves how accommodating your body is in terms of how flexibly you are

It brings him great joy, honestly, to just watch you flop your arms around aimlessly because humans’ movements are so fluid, so smooth, so unhindered by the rigid joints of demons

And, obviously, your flexibility makes for better naps

He likes to sleep next to you with his arms wrapped around your waist while you latch onto him in whatever position you deem comfortable

Without a doubt, the position you find is something that would be wholly impossible for a demon (how are you bending your legs that much?!) and it sometimes scares him to realize the full extents of your flexibility (can all humans twist their arms like that, or is it just you?) but he loves that you use your body’s oddities to pull him closer

And he’ll never deny you a comfortable nap if you’re willing to cuddle so readily

Never

Unless you crack your knuckles, that is

Solomon

Life is war and cracking body parts is your only weapon

Aka nonstop competitions between you and our resident wizard boy, both of you cracking body parts back and forth until one of you either fails or runs out of things to crack

Knuckles? Come on, are you even trying? Give him something less basic

Back? Oh yeah. Both sides, too - and the loud ones

Hips? You didn’t think it was possible, but Solomon will look you in the eye and hit one side of his hip, the movement a prelude to an instant CRACK which rings out oh-so-gloriously from the other end

Ribs? You realized you could crack them once and never stopped - you’re actually the one to teach Solomon how to do this

Neck? Always the finisher. So loud, and so satisfying

Neither the House of Lamentation nor Purgatory Hall ever wants to have the two of you over at the same time, because the residents know that you and Solomon will have these competitions. And they absolutely hate it.

So what do you do?

Go to the library and disturb the demons there, of course

It actually becomes a pretty sick form of payback to all the annoying demons that look down on the two of you for being humans, because they always cringe so hard when you guys do this

The two of you have deduced that the sound of knuckles cracking is the demon equivalent to the sound of nails on a chalkboard

And you fucking run wild with it

No one wants to piss either of you off, because you’ll both glare at the demon in question and proceed to crack every body part known to mankind (like seriously - it’s reached the point where you guys can crack your TOES, and if that isn’t absolutely amazing, then you don’t know what is)

It actually highkey annoys the demons in your classes, because you guys always crack everything right before an exam and while it helps you focus better, it effectively ruins their concentration

Ofc you guys don’t really care so they can suck it

But uh

Okay so the demons at RAD may or may not get fed up of you both one day and petition for Diavolo to instate a “No cracking body parts” rule in school

So yeah your primary source of entertainment sort of disappears after that point

But no worries, you and Solomon head to the downtown shopping districts instead and become the BEST hagglers in town

“Hey, can we get these shirts on a discount? Huh? You don’t do discounts? 

*Aggressively cracks everything until the demon just wants them out of the store*

“How about now BICH?”

Simeon

You’re actually not the one to introduce Simeon to the idea of humans being able to crack their body parts at will

No, it’s Solomon who steals that pleasure from you

But will Simeon ever let the sorcerer know just how much it unnerves him? Absolutely not. So what does our beloved angel do?

Why, there’s only one option

Come running straight to you.

Man is disturbed. Honestly, disturbed is phrasing it lightly. If he were in his angel form, you’d be able to see how his feathers ruffle and flutter at the very thought of that sound

Needless to say, he hates it

(You 100% consider cracking your knuckles in front of him, just to tease him, but you decide against it)

See, Simeon is an angel. And that means 99% of the time, he’s surrounded by other holy spirits, all of which have bodies molded to perfection that simply cannot crack the way yours can. Whereas demons are forced into human interaction a little more (oft when they're summoned), Simeon really isn’t used your fragility, no matter how much he tries to remind himself of it

So yeah

He hates it

On the other hand - man loves how flexible humans are

The first time you flop down onto your bed, assuming a position that would be impossible for any demon or angel to take but is deemed “comfortable” by you, Simeon is enraptured

It’s not sexual, he just thinks it’s really amazing that you have so much control over your body when he can hardly do a standing glute stretch without breaking a limb

It’s almost funny, his fixation

Actually no - it’s not almost funny. It is wholly and completely hilarious, and you will not stop leading him further down this rabbit hole

When you send this man picture of an contortionist, he’s utterly mesmerized

Show him human ballet, and he will not stop watching it

So yeah

He appreciates parts of the human body, hates others - but as long as you never crack your muscles in front of him, he’s down

Also - after you’ve thoroughly interested him in the art of being a human, he may just write about it in his next book. If you read the next set of chronicles detailed by Christopher Peugeot, you already know who the “feisty but good-hearted human who can bend themselves into a pretzel” is based on

(Bonus: Do a body roll in front of him and he might faint - man knew the human body could but like that? You might just have corrupted an angel)

Luke

“So...cool...!”

Boi loves it

He cheers you on like a champ, laughing merrily as you crack your knuckles into oblivion, scaring away the other residents in Purgatory Hall

And no matter how many times Simeon warns him not to urge you on (”The human already has no sense of self-preservation, and you don’t need to help that along,” he said), Luke can’t help but watch with excited eyes as you show him how different the human body is

He’s almost like Levi with his ardent admiration, and he honestly finds nothing disturbing about the sound of you cracking knuckles

Just finds it cool

It actually serves as a catalyst for his relationship with Solomon, because Luke will 100% go up to him and ask him whether he can crack his body like you, and obviously, the man will laugh and prove that centuries of knowledge have made him better than the average human - even in this area

But yeah

You can really see his inner child come out

(Though don’t say that last part out loud - he’ll ignore you for three days in an attempt to be “mature” before you convince him to accept your apology)

But really - he may be the only person who can not only tolerate the quirks of your body, but openly endorses all of them

On the downside, though, he’ll also try to crack his knuckles...which won’t bode too well, given that his body was built to perfection by God

Boi almost rips his finger off

Simeon proceeds to instate a no-cracking-knuckles rule within Purgatory Hall to discourage any further attempts from Luke

But you know what he didn’t ban?

Backflips.

It doesn’t matter if you can or you can’t do them - Luke will happen to see a video of a human doing one (ahem, Solomon showed him it in an attempt to stir up trouble), and now he’s begging you to do the same thing in real life

Which doesn’t work out too well, given that backflips are hard

And you may not be successful 100% of the time

And obviously, Simeon eventually finds out that the two of you have moved onto a new fixation, and so he instate the no-backflips-in-Purgatory-Hall rule

But you know what he didn’t ban? 

Cartwheels.

And so it continues on and on, indefinitely because the only way to cease your and Luke’s shenanigans would be to ban humans in Purgatory Hall, and Solomon is thankfully preventing him from doing that

Barbatos

Hates it, hates it, hates it

More than any of the brothers, more than any of the angels - this man loathes every oddity of the human body that makes it different from a demon’s

But not for the reasons you’d expect

See, it’s not the sound that bothers Barbatos

No, he’s heard the screams of the damned before. You cracking a few measly knuckles hardly makes him flinch as he pours your tea

But what Barbatos does hate is the fact that he doesn’t know what it means

Every single time you crack a knuckle in his presence, it doesn’t matter if the prince himself is speaking, because Barbatos’s eyes will fly straight to you

And yes - you guessed it:

Barbatos can’t tell the difference between the sound of you cracking your knuckles and the sound of you breaking a bone.

And for that reason, he hates it

It’s hardly his fault - he doesn’t even know if there is a difference between the two sounds. But this butler has no faith in you and no faith in humanity as a whole, so every time you crack your knuckles, it sends a rush of worry straight to his stomach, and the demon has to watch you for a solid ten seconds to make sure that you haven’t actually hurt yourself

Poor man

He’s the kind of guy to take everything in stride, so he'll probably never tell you how much he hates it when you crack your knuckles (and honestly, what would he say? “Hi, can you please stop cracking your knuckles because I care about you and it makes me concerned for your health???” No, that’s not going to work. And he doesn't know what will work, so he suffers in silence)

Seeing you stretch is even worse

It can be a casual stretch, simply pulling your arms above your head just slightly beyond what would be physically possible for a normal demon, but it sends a chill to Barbatos’s heart, and he’s worried all over again

See, when you crack your knuckles, at least it’s over. But when you stretch? Sometimes you hold your position for a minute, if not more - and Barbatos simply can’t turn away because he’s terrified that he will, and you’ll somehow hurt yourself

So yeah

No rest for this butler, not as long as you’re going around with that weak body of yours and are cracking and stretching your way into oblivion

On the bright side, it means that he’s almost always watching over you when you visit, an added layer of protection 

The only difference is that while the others are focused on protecting you from other demons, Barbatos is preoccupied with making sure you don’t hurt yourself

Diavolo

Timing is everything

And indeed, you just happen to be in the midst of cracking your knuckles and neck the moment you’re transported to the Devildom, every single one of the most powerful demons in the land staring at you in horror as your body pops some more

"Oh no,” Diavolo whispers, frowning as he looks at Barbatos. “We got a defective human :(”

Nevermind the insult you feel at his words (who does this strange, unfairly-attractive redhead think he is, calling you “defective???” He might be correct in his judgement, but he had no right to voice his thoughts!), you are shook

Definitely not the best first impression for either of you to make

Of course, Lucifer is quick to pick things up with his explanation of what this place is and who he is, and the whole situation is mostly forgotten as you come to realize that you’re standing in front of a literal prince

But the past has a way of resurfacing

And obviously, several months later, you crack your knuckles once more in the presence of the demon lord

The immediate wince on his face is more than enough for you to read his mind

“You’re thinking I’m defective again, aren’t you?”

“YOU REMEMBER THAT?!”

Poor bby

He’s honestly such a brilliant ruler, but when it comes to maneuvering the minds of humans, it’s just not his strong suit

Anyway, the two of you have a long talk (aka you rant and Diavolo listens) where you explain to him that cracking knuckles is a normal phenomenon, and that - look, you can even crack other parts of your body

And the prince is fascinated

He knew humans were built differently than demons, but he’d simply assumed that your body was just as perfect as his, and that yours could simply handle less extreme conditions

Clearly, though, that wasn’t the case

Man decides that, as the ruler of hell and the man spearheading efforts to unite the three realms, it is his moral obligation to learn about the other ways humans differ from demons

And so the shenanigans begin

It’s honestly time-consuming, but Lucifer doesn’t mind because if you’re with Diavolo, you’re out of trouble, and Barbatos doesn’t mind because if Diavolo’s with you, then he’s out of trouble

All in all, it becomes the prelude to a LOT of time spent together, and a LOT of differences between demons and humans come to light. 

Aka various iterations of “What do you mean, humans can’t bite through steel?”

[misschifuyu]

Can I get boyfriend headcanons (with nsfw) of Sanzu and Kokonoi? Also, I wanted to say I’m loving your blog and your writing! Thank you!

- hi there babe !! tysm im so so glad to hear that you like my blog omg ;; here are the hcs you asked for of the best boys ♡ 

Sanzu and Koko boyfriend headcanons + n/sfw

characters: sanzu haruchiyo + kokonoi hajime

genre: fluff + n/sfw

warnings: explicit content, orgasm denial, oral (both)

Sanzu

so ive already done some relationship hcs for him, but there can never be too much sanzu content so we will continue from those already written

going on a date with sanzu won't be something particularly regular, however when circumstances come together to allow you to spend time with your boyfriend, he will definitely try and make up for the lack of outings

he's not someone who would enjoy a simple date in a café. sure, if you wanted to sit for a while in Starbucks, he will reluctantly tag along behind you

though he hasn't a clue what any of the ridiculous names on the menu mean

but you will find him growing bored quite quickly. so make sure to get him out of the coffee shop and find something else to do. shopping is a prime example, but other times sanzu likes to actually do something fun

that is, if you happen to pass by an arcade, prepare to be dragged into it

doesn't matter if you didn't have any change on you, this was a date after all, so sanzu will be more than happy to pay for the games

he's surprisingly - and, honestly, concerningly - good at those shooting games where you have a prop of a gun

you don't know where he got those skills from, but you figured it was probably best not to ask

he's shit at racing games though. he won't admit to a loss against you, ever

instead, it would always be because of a distraction or because the game itself was rigged

he can be quite the stubborn one at times

but if you took him out to get a snack, he'll completely forget about getting overlapped by you, several times, in the race.

he's got a sweet tooth, so anything of the sugary sort will bring his mood up

when you brought him a bundle of sweets for his birthday he practically proposed to you on the spot he was so happy

and he pays extra attention to whatever you show a liking towards. he stores away these pieces of information and will make use of them in moments you would least expect it

now...onto the spicy content

okay so I don't see sanzu being vanilla

he probably isn't as freaky as some would presume, but he definitely isn't just going to make love to you and call it a day

the thing about him is that he's impatient

if you start to tease him, be it with subtle kisses on his neck or passing your hand over a certain spot of his trousers, he won't only get riled up in a matter of seconds

he'll also just straight up pounce on you or drag you off to somewhere a little more secluded if you were in public

it drives him absolutely crazy if you happen to have long nails and leave scratches on his back

it lets him know that he is, indeed, making you feel like a million dollars just by using his body

and it just...he loves it

foreplay will very rarely involved receiving oral on his behalf; he likes to leave that for later

when your hair is a mess and you've got a fucked-out expression before even going down on him

it would be like a half-time, though you didn't really get to rest much during said time

he won't hold back by that point, so you'd always have to stabilise yourself with your hands on his thighs unless you wanted to choke on him

he will, however, go down on you before getting into the main act, as he liked to call it. he'd always praise you on how good you taste

looking down to see his piercing eyes staring back up at you, the scars beside his mouth showing ever so slightly..

it was a sight you couldn't keep up for very long as your strength would falter at movements of his tongue

when it comes to positions, sanzu usually likes to be in one that will allow you to hang onto him for dear life as he pounds into you

he also loves taking you from behind, but only because it allows him to pull you back by your hair and whisper the filthiest words you have ever heard his mouth speak

"you like that? huh?...I figured as much from a slut such as yourself, now keep those noises coming before I make you scream even louder, babe"

bruises on your knees would always show up if he decided to keep you on all fours for the whole time

and he wouldn't always let you have the privilege of being on the softness of a bed

no, he'd do you anywhere

so be sure your wearing some easy fitting clothes

just so you don't have to struggle whilst putting them back on after making his car windows steam up in the middle of a parking lot

just before a meeting with bonten, no less

Koko

same as sanzu, ive written a few hcs for him too, but we shall do a few more bc koko supremacy

right so...hair

so we all know that koko styles his hair and it looks quite pleasing to the eye, what with the half of his hair flowing down at the side of his face

now, what you didn't know is that koko gets up pretty early to be able to sport this look for the whole day. we're not talking 8am, no. 5:30am, the reason completely unknown to even you, his partner

he would wake you up once, having slept over at his place, as much as he tried to slip his arm from under you as carefully as he could

wondering what on earth he was doing, you would get up at trace his footsteps to his bathroom, seeing him with a comb in his hand at an abnormally large pot of hair cream on the sink

he hadn't expected you to wake up, but he would quickly invite you to sit on the toilet seat upon hearing you ask what he was doing

from that moment on, you would always ask to try and style his hair whenever you stayed over, or even just play with it

admittedly, he loves the feeling of your fingers run through his hair as you'd try your best to make it look just as perfect as it always did

it would fail, the first few times, which would result in you just putting it up into a side ponytail cue jojo siwa reference

all in all, though, he quite enjoyed it whenever you'd play with his hair, so you were more than welcome to do so

as a result, he would ask about your hair routine or, if you didn't really have one, your skincare routine

he'd always be amazed at your smooth skin whenever he held your face to give you a kiss

so you'd best drop him the tips and tricks

some weekends, the two of you would do a sort of spa day, where you'd both shower - or bathe, depending on how motivated you felt - and run through haircare and skincare together

koko really liked the facemasks you'd bring over whenever you did this, especially when you would struggle to put in on your face because they could sometimes be a little tricky

think of it as a cute, couple's day off, which he would always look forward to at the end of the week

but he'd never admit this to anyone, not a chance

onto the n/sfw side of this man...

much like sanzu, he's not a vanilla person. but he does have his fair share of kinks

orgasm play is right at the top of said list. he absolutely loves to be fully in control, and watching you writhe around each time he'd bring you close to your high, he'd take his hand, or anything else, away from where you'd most need him

his stare would always turn slightly darker when he'd see you before him, at his mercy and covered in sweat, and he wished he could capture the moment forever

he's give you a good three to four failed orgasms until he would let up his teasing act, but not before he'd get you to beg for him

it would always send shivers down his spine when he'd watch your almost tear ridden eyes look up at him, pleading for him to just give in already

"I don't know...you just look so pathetic each time I do it, I almost want to just leave you here and let you get off by yourself"

his sly smile would always stick with you as he'd utter out any words to you, right before giving you one last swipe of his hand between your legs and bringing you towards him

as much as he would usually be the one in charge, loving how you'd feel around him and making the bed creak with every thrust, if you tried hard enough you could turn the tables

he'd be a bratty sub, mind you, but watching him come undone beneath you will be worth the struggling to actually get him in that position

whenever you'd ride him, his hands would always be roaming the curves of your body, trying to get ahold of as much of you as he could

it would be a way to try and get back into control, but as soon as you'd squeeze around him, he'd fall back into his almost helpless state

but, back to him being the one pounding into you, expect him to bring you as close to him as possible

one of his favourites is bringing you up from being on all fours up to his chest, watching you struggle as you try to stay upright as he'd suck the skin on the back of your neck

"so much for being in control, you pathetic whore"

you never got out of there with functioning legs, that much was true

[dr3amofagame]

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi) 

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete. 

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now. 

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news. 

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright. 

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now. 

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots. 

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine. 

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?) 

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all. 

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen. 

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it. 

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs. 

“Michael!” 

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air. 

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!” 

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves. 

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands. 

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly. 

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?” 

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.” 

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice. 

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices. 

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return. 

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest. 

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all? 

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands. 

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team. 

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs. 

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!” 

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation. 

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return. 

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak. 

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?” 

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time. 

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?” 

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?” 

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in. 

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?” 

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud. 

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.” 

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.” 

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter. 

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.” 

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream. 

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for. 

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena. 

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops. 

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again. 

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!” 

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up. 

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge. 

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway. 

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.” 

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.” 

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out. 

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best. 

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail. 

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly. 

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.” 

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions- 

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?” 

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut. 

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps. 

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well. 

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to. 

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before. 

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Like you did that much.” 

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye. 

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs. 

“Fair.” 

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow. 

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future. 

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever. 

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team. 

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits. 

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?” 

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they? 

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body. 

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well? 

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further. 

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him. 

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own. 

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?” 

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words. 

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?” 

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.” 

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?” 

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s  worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red. 

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?” 

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome. 

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break. 

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain. 

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” 

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own. 

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake. 

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point. 

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.” 

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.” 

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time. 

Keep your head down. 

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.” 

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race. 

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!” 

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.” 

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again. 

“Thanks, guys.” 

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings. 

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?” 

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.” 

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs. 

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?” 

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back. 

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?” 

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!” 

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition. 

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down. 

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it. 

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap. 

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter. 

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder. 

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own. 

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it. 

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off. 

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off. 

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak. 

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod. 

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams,  watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team - 

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering  into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena. 

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?” 

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners. 

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route. 

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out. 

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused. 

“Gottem.” 

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting. 

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them. 

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby. 

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?” 

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective. 

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second - 

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” 

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own. 

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue. 

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay. 

The smile slips off his face. 

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on. 

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what? 

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply. 

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it. 

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity. 

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all. 

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow. 

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down. 

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red. 

---

“What the hell was that?” 

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence. 

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?” 

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look  above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes. 

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-” 

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?” 

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter. 

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-” 

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?” 

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?” 

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features. 

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“...liar.” 

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down. 

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward. 

“Quackity!” 

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-” 

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops. 

“LET’S GO!” 

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows. 

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time. 

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself- 

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.” 

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?” 

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze. 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.” 

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder. 

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp. 

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention. 

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.” 

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..” 

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.” 

“Thanks for everything, Scott.” 

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.” 

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing. 

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?” 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?” 

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.” 

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him. 

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.” 

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached. 

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.” 

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.” 

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure. 

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?” 

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head. 

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.” 

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly. 

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.” 

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.” 

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life. 

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.” 

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow. 

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?” 

[babyjakes]

forever and a day | 47. uncovered.

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summary | a story in which america’s favorite captain gives a new life and family to a five-year-old girl who has suffered well beyond her years at the hands of hydra.

characters | dad!steve rogers, girl/willa rogers (original character)

warnings | AU similar enough to OU to include spoilers to many Marvel movies (Age of Ultron and beyond). action and fight scenes with violence and killing. injuries/mild gore. mature themes related to and semi-graphic depictions of child abuse/neglect, past CSA and CSM, and their aftermath (emaciation, wounds, scarring, etc). medical abuse and experimentation. ptsd/trauma symptoms in a child (developmental discrepancies, de-humanized behavior, detachment, extreme fears). medical treatment of CSM and other aftermath of abuse.trauma-informed therapeutic treatment of ECT. minor mentions of disordered eating. themes relating to abuse of power/authority and immoral interrogation tactics including SA (with brief depictions.) evil!Tony Stark.

[Steve]

“Rainbow,” Willa cheers happily as she points to the mess of fingerprints I’ve made in front of me across the art pad. Glancing over at her work, my heart softens as I notice she’s been trying to recreate my pattern.

“Not quite, sweetheart,” I correct gently with a chuckle, picking up all the pots that we’ve scattered across the area and putting them together in a pile. “The rainbow has a specific order. Do you know what it is?” The little girl shakes her head, a little bit of paint smudged adorably across her nose. I made sure to have her change into an old tee shirt and pair of jammie shorts before we got started just in case things got extra messy, and now I’m definitely grateful that I did. Besides the yellow on her face, she’s got a decent amount of paint smudged up her arms, and even some on her legs from sitting on the paper. I don’t mind in the slightest, though. She’s having fun, and that’s all that matters to me.

“The first color is red. Can you find the red paint?” I prompt, hoping to make a learning experience out of creating the rainbow together.

Willa looks down at the several pots in front of her, picking up a few by their white caps and looking at them through the clear plastic before holding one out in front of her, stating, “Red.”

“Almost, bug,” I encourage. “That one’s actually purple. Red is close to purple, but it’s a little bit different.” Frowning, the little girl sets the purple back down, her eyes again scanning over her options. After a few more moments, she picks up another one, offering it to me. “That’s right, sweetie. Good job!” I praise, unscrewing the cap and offering it to her. She dips one of her tiny fingers into the paint, turning back to the paper and running her finger across it in a long arch.

“Red,” she confirms, seeming pleased with the start.

“Next is orange,” I tell her, recapping the red and placing it back down with the others.

“O-range,” she sounds out the word, struggling a little bit with the “r.”

“Yep. Do you know which one’s orange?”

The little girl repeats the same process she went through with red, picking up a few different options before finally holding her guess out to me. “O-range,” she says.

“That’s right; you got it,” I tell her with a smile. Uncapping the plastic pot, she holds it out for me. “Oh, you want me to make a line? Okay, we can take turns,” I pick up on her idea, wetting a finger with the orange before running it along the paper next to the red arch.

“Red, o-orange,” Willa recites, pointing to each color as she says it.

“Yep. Red, orange, and then yellow comes next,” I tell her.

“Yellow!” she cheers, smiling brilliantly up at me.

“Yeah, and you’ve even got some yellow on your nose, you silly goose,” I tease, poking her cheek with my orange finger. Willa squeals, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, causing the paint to smear. “This really is a big mess, huh?”

“Big mess,” Willa beams, her eyes sparkling with joy. As I gaze softly down at the child, my heart can’t help but swell with warmth and affection for the little one. She is the most precious thing in the whole entire world, I think to myself, and she doesn’t even know it.

“Yellow’s one of your favorites, so I bet you can find it,” I encourage. Glancing down at her options, she immediately grabs the yellow, holding it up proudly.

“Yellow,” she nods, not even needing my confirmation to begin unscrewing the cap. She dips her thumb into the thick paint, sliding it smoothly across the page in front of her next to the orange. “Red, orange, yellow,” she lists.

“Next is green,” I tell her. “Do you think we can find it?” I take the yellow from her, replacing the cap as she looks at the other paints. A puzzled look forms on her face as she picks up the red again, then the purple, shaking her head at both of them before sighing.

“Green?” she asks carefully. I smile kindly at her, reaching out and pushing the correct container towards her. “Green,” she says again, looking it over. “Your turn.”

“Okay, my turn,” I agree, opening up the green and making a line next to Willa’s yellow. “Blue comes after green. Do you know which one’s blue?” The child instantly grabs the correct pot, holding it out to me. “You’re right; nice job, sweetheart,” I tell her, opening the jar for her. She makes a blue line with her pointer finger, quite small compared to my green that was made with my own. “And the last one’s purple. That’s the first one you picked up, the one you thought was red.”

“Purple,” she repeats, quickly finding the right color and handing it to me. Willa smiles proudly down at our work as I make the final line of the rainbow. “Red, orange, yellow…” she begins to point, pausing after the yellow line and looking up at me.

“Green,” I remind her gently, earning a nod.

“Green, blue, purple,” she finishes. “Th-that’s the rainbow!”

“That’s right, doll. Way to go, such a pretty rainbow,” I coo. “If you want, we can cut it out and hang it up on the fridge.” Willa’s eyes grow wide at this suggestion as she nods eagerly. A smile finds its way onto my face as I reach out, brushing her cheek gently with my paint-covered thumb. It’s moments like these that make it all worth it, seeing her smile and laugh and enjoy herself. Having this first day together has really meant so much to both of us, I think, and I’m already convinced that bringing Willa to a new home was the best decision I could have possibly made.

“Well, how about we let the paint dry and we can cut out our picture after dinner,” I propose. The child nods happily at this, and I return the gesture, picking up the paints and packing them back into the box. “Alright, missy. Give me just a sec to get my hands clean,” I say, standing up from my seat on the kitchen floor. I make my way over to the sink, running the tap and scrubbing all the paint off with soap. Once my hands are clean, I dry them off before returning to the little girl who’s still seated on the floor. “Okay sweetie,” I hum, thankful that I only got paint on my hands instead of all over like Willa. “What d'you say we take a bath, and then we can start making some dinner?”

But to my surprise, as soon as my words leave my mouth, the child’s entire body cowers back instantly against the cabinets behind her. Big green eyes peer up at mine, quickly filling with tears. “Woah, hey-” I murmur, startled by her sudden change in demeanor. “What’s up, Willa-bug? I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” I soothe, crouching down a few feet away from the little girl.

“N-no, please,” she begs quickly, only causing my concern to grow deeper. Furrowing my eyebrows in worry, I try to inch a bit closer to her, only earning a defensive flinch in response.

“‘Please’ what, sweetheart? What’s the matter?” I ask, disappointed to have scared off her carefree mood.

“No bath, n-no bath,” she whimpers, a tear trailing down her rosy cheek, causing some of the paint to run. No bath? What’s got her so scared about the bath, I think to myself. Baths are something we do all the time, and while I know they’re not the girl’s favorite activity as they still bring up some anxiety, she’s never really put up too much of a fight against them. At least, not until now.

“Why not, doll? You know baths aren’t scary; we take baths all the time,” I coo gently, trying to remind her of her safety. But my words do little to reassure her, and suddenly, it clicks in my brain. It must have to do with whatever she’s been trying to hide, whatever’s been hurting her all day.

“Please, n-no bath,” Willa tries again, trembling fearfully against the wooden doors behind her.

“Sweetheart, we have to get all the paint off of you,” I reason with her softly.

Shaking her head almost desperately, she tries to convince me, “A-all dry,” running her hands up and down her arms to prove her point. “W-won’t be messy. P'omise,” she pleads.

My heart breaks at her distress as I shake my head softly, causing another round of tears to spill over down the poor girl’s cheeks. “I know it’s dry, but it’s not meant to stay on your skin for too long,” I explain patiently. “It’s okay, Willa, we can just take a nice warm bath and get it all off, okay? I promise it won’t be scary; I’ll be with you the whole time,” I assure her.

“Me- I-I-… do it myse'f? Please?” the poor thing asks hopefully, only for me to shake my head again, a slight sense of guilt bubbling up in my stomach.

“No sweetie,” I disagree sadly, wishing there was something I could do to ease her fears. “I- Daddy has to help you with it; it’s not safe for you to do it yourself.” The little girl sniffles, and having run out of options, she simply looks up warily at me, her bottom lip trembling in fear.

“Here, com'ere sweetheart,” I hum, approaching the child while opening up my arms and wrapping her up in my embrace. Willa lets out a heartbreaking whimper into my shoulder as I rise up onto my feet, swaying her back and forth gently while holding her close. “Shh, shh-shh… it’s okay, doll,” I hush softly, bouncing her shaking body slightly in my arms in hopes of calming her down. “What’s so scary about the bath, hmm? Can you tell me what’s got you so upset about it?”

“Please,” Willa mumbles into the fabric of my shirt, giving me no better idea as to why exactly she’s gotten so worked up.

“I’ve got some new bath toys we can use,” I tell her, hoping to maybe spark her interest. “There’s a boat, and a duckie, oh- and an octopus, too.”

“O'topus,” she says weakly, resting the side of her head against my shoulder. Rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back, I nod, wondering if it would be safe to try to bring her into the bathroom yet.

“That’s right, lovebug. Octopus. You wanna go see?” I offer. Her tear-filled eyes raise up to meet mine and she’s silent for a moment, seeming to be searching my face for signs of danger.

“B-boat, too?”

“Mhmm. And a rubber duckie,” I promise her. Taking a deep breath, she nods slowly, and I smile back down at her warmly. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s go find them.”

Walking carefully past the painting supplies on the floor, I carry Willa back through the archway and into the hallway, opening up the door to the bathroom and stepping in. I flick on the light switch and the soft ceiling bulb flutters on, illuminating the baby blue room. “Okay pumpkin,” I murmur, setting Willa down in front of the door and shutting it gently behind her. “I think I stashed them in here,” I recall aloud as I bend down onto my knees, venturing into one of the cabinets under the sink. As I thought, the rubber toys are sitting on the shelf, waiting for us. Pulling them out, I set them down on the floor in front of Willa. A red boat, yellow duck, and purple octopus.

“O'topus,” Willa repeats again as I turn my attention to the white porcelain tub, turning on the faucet and ensuring that it’s a comfortable temperature. Once it’s warm enough, I plug the stopper into the drain, watching to make sure that the water level begins to rise.

“Octopus,” I say back, turning my attention once more to the little child standing by the door. “Alright sweetie pie, what d'you say we get you out of those clothes and hop in the bath,” I suggest; to my dismay, a thin line of tears quickly rebuilds in the girl’s eyes. “Hey,” I murmur, softening my voice and reaching a hand out to cup Willa’s cheek. She flinches back instinctively from my nearing hand, causing my heart to shatter just as it does every time she fears I’m about to strike her. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” I soothe mildly, rubbing a thumb over her cheek as a tear falls and trails down onto my finger. “You’re safe, Willa-bug. It’s just Daddy and Willa here; no one’s gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“K-keep my… keep my c'othes on? Please, Daddy?” Willa whimpers nervously.

Her request confuses me slightly; tilting my head to the side, I try to clarify what she means. “You mean- while you’re in the bath?” I ask. Her gaze falls to the floor as she nods silently. “Oh honey… Willa, baby, we gotta take clothes off to get in the bath, remember? Otherwise, they’ll stick to your skin and feel yucky.” Willa simply remains silent and I sigh, wishing I knew of something, anything that might make the child feel safer.

“Here, Willa-bug. I’m gonna help you, okay?” I sigh slowly, wanting to give her a fair warning before making any further moves. Willa’s big green eyes stay glued to the ground as my hand moves down from her cheek to the sleeve of her shirt, my other hand reaching up and finding the other sleeve. Tears drip down onto the floor as I begin to pull the garment off, receiving no resistance (but also no help) from the little girl. “It’s okay, you’re safe,” I continue to soothe as I pull the white shirt up off over her head, letting it fall away to the floor. Her chest and tummy, along with her sides, wrapping all the way around to her back are completely covered in marks from Tony’s trials. Guilt and anger rage behind my eyes as I do my best to keep a warm, non-threatening expression.

“You’re okay; you’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Bein’ so brave for me,” I praise softly as I take hold of the waistline of her shorts, gently pulling them down to her feet. Guessing Willa doesn’t feel comfortable moving at this point, I help ease her feet out of the leg holes, placing the shorts down on top of the shirt when they’re finally removed.

“Okay doll, almost there,” I coo, reaching out to remove her underwear. But before my hands reach the garment, the child’s own have shot down and grabbed onto the elastic band, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles are turning white. “Honey-” I begin, but to my surprise, the young girl’s shaking voice rises over my own.

“P-please, please no- don’t, w-wait, s-s-stop,” she sputters, squeezing her eyes shut in fear as tears pour down her reddened cheeks.

“Willa, Willa, hey-” I murmur, a whole new wave of worry washing over me. “It’s okay; you’re safe, remember? It’s just me, I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” I promise, “nothing bad’s gonna happen to you.” My large hands come down to rest over her tiny ones and as gently but firmly as I can, I push down on the elastic band, causing the underwear to collapse around her ankles. As soon as they’ve fallen, the child lets out a sob, and the sight I’m met with causes my heart to stop beating dead in my chest.

Centered between her hipbones, right where her lower belly meets the top of her pelvic bone, a long incision runs parallel to her waist, fresh sutures stained bright red with blood.

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[xxxsoukokuxxx]

I want to hurt myself so- can I request for an angst scenario where Dazai finally opens up about his feelings with someone after a long time (bcz y'know) and they end up taking up advantage of it or using it??? If you want to add on something (not necessary) for Y/N's personality then I would say they're kind of like Nanno??? They give karma to people who have done bad deeds in the past. Thank you!! Sorry if it's too much, I just get excited

Character: Dazai x reader

Warnings: Depressing themes; mentions of self-harm; break-up; spelling errors/grammar errors

Notes: Hi there! Hope you're doing well. So sorry about making you wait so long, I've just been really busy, I hope you understand. Thank you for your patience. Okay, so I didn't know who "Nanno" was so I searched it up and it says something about her being the human embodiment of karma or something? I'll try to write something close to that

_________________________________________________

The Only Constant is Heartache and Emptiness

A lot of things change. People say that change is the only constant thing to exist in this world. But others may think differently and perhaps they're not far off from the truth. It's just that more often than not, it is them who are the ones who are the most misunderstood in this world.

Along with change being constant, there is also heartache and sorrow, insanity and hurt, sorrow and deep trenches of darkness. Quite frankly, Dazai thinks the same, and that true happiness would never last, and in happiness's place lies all these things mentioned.

But what if, somehow someone who coincidentally walked into his life and managed to change his perspective. What if you managed to make him see a glimmer of hope shining in the distance of the darkness he resides in? What if you were that glimmer of hope?

He doesn't know yet that he'd kick himself later for believing so.

*********************************************

You both by now were best friends, inseparable. Lying under the stars together was the usual, just like how you both were tonight. Conversation filled with laughter and curiosity about the bright orbs above went back and forth between Dazai and you.

A meaningful silence now filled the air as you lay side by side on the rooftop. The brunette turned his head to the side to look at you. You were so...ah how could he express what he felt? Mesmerizing? Beautiful? ...Warm?

Perhaps it was all of those things. He felt strange, you made him feel all warm and fuzzy. Sure it felt strange but he wasn't complaining. You realized he was looking at you and so you turned your head to meet his gaze. He smiled, genuinely.

Maybe, finally he'd be able to express to you the more...warmer side of his heart to you. All this time you've been his confidant as he expressed to you the dark and icy cold parts of his mind, the things that would drive him insane, he let you see the scars caused by himself and violence inflicted upon him by others. And you were there to hold him, to relieve him and let him have a taste of what true happiness is.

Whenever he expressed the warmer side of him, the softer more vulnerable one, it'd be genuine. He feels some confidence surge through him now.

Expressions and words of genuine love poured out from his heart through his lips. Oh how he'd think of himself a fool for ever letting himself be this vulnerable. You felt no sense of remorse for what you were doing to this man. You "accepted" his love tonight and honestly you've never seen him this genuinely happy.

*********************************************

He promised to love you like he'd lose you. And he did. He kept his promise and lost you too. Not in the way he thought however.

He had proved to you so many times that his love for you isn't fake. Dazai doesn't know how to express that warm and happy feeling in his chest bubbling to his throat. Honestly it was bliss. But perhaps he should have reminded himself that if he ever gets too happy, that happiness would soon be lost and everything will become nothing but shattered pieces of glass that he could cut himself on.

You came into his life in the form of karma. You were really going to break him, just as he did to those of his past. How could you hurt him? How could you hurt him after he got a taste of true happiness? How heartless you are.

Trust...yes. That's what it is. He trusts you. Why not use that against him?

Tonight it was just you and Dazai sitting lazily on the couch just enjoying the other's company. Or well at least he enjoyed yours. Perhaps now was the moment to strike, you had been lying patiently watching your prey and now it's time to make your move.

"I'm sorry." you muttered, emptiness visible in your eyes looking straight ahead of you at whatever was on tv.

His eyes widened, he was confused. He quirked up an eyebrow as he turned to look at you. "...sorry for what?" You glanced at him from the side of your eye, "Don't get offended but...I'm gonna be frank. I lied to you, I never really loved you." His brows furrowed and then...his expression became neutral and unreadable.

"You...you lied?..." he got no response for a few seconds. A dark shadow formed over his facial features, covering his eyes. "We just go our separate ways I guess..." you said as you stood up. He lifted his head, following your movement with his eyes. His heart sank.

"Why? Why'd you give me taste of what love really is and then leave me hanging? Why'd you make me trust again?...Why did you make me feel as if I had someone there for me!? ...why abandon me..." You could hear the hurt in his voice as he spoke, the last phrase he spoke was only a mutter.

"Why?" you mocked. "Perhaps you deserve it. You actually thought you deserved to be loved and be happy?" you slyly smirked looking at him. He didn't know what to do. Half of him believed everything you said while the other thought you were lying and that there was a whole other reason behind you saying this. Did you truly not love him? If not then what was all that you showed and gave him these past few months?

While thinking all this he didn't even realize you had walked out the door, he only heard it closing behind you. He was left there confused, empty and bereft. All that could be heard was the background noise of the tv. He couldn't even hear himself breathing. The brunette just sat there with his head hung low with an unreadable expression still on his face.

He feels so foolish. How could he have been so vulnerable? He felt so betrayed by both you and himself. How did he let himself again? How did you manage to break down his walls. And here he was proving that his love was genuine while yours wasn't.

All he had for company now was the emptiness surrounding him and making it's way inside him. His heart which started beating again when he met you has now stopped or at least he can't feel it.

"Why? Why'd you give me taste of what love really is and then leave me hanging? Why'd you make me trust again?...Why did you make me feel as if I had someone there for me!? ...why abandon me..."

"Why? Perhaps you deserve it. You actually thought you deserved to be loved and be happy?"

He didn't deserve it did he? He didn't deserve to be happy...to be loved. A soft defeated chuckle left his throat. Dazai sunk back into the couch. "It's always me that pays the cost...I should never trust so easily." he said underneath his breath. "You lied to me, then left with my heart around your chest..." he smiled and got up.

The brunette grabbed the bottle of sake from the table and left the living room. How foolish he had been...and how cruel you were.