#everyone should block whoever they want forever this has just happened to me a few times the past few weeks and it does crack me up

[iinryer]

being online is so funny i’ll see a post that i think rules and then realize i can’t view op’s blog so it’s just me nodding sadly going “sooooo true guy who has me blocked”

[mayasdeluca]

Here's a convention breakdown:

Meet & Greets are usually 30 minutes with the guest of your choice with up to 25 people (Epic did only 15 people). These are the hot ticket because you get the best interaction with someone. What's said in M&Gs is usually supposed to stay there but as we have seen people who have been to Danielle or Stafania M&Gs in the past tend to spill vague and annoying tweets as part of that inner circle.

Photo-Ops: You can say hello (get a hug), tell them your pose idea and get in place but these pretty much move quickly.

Autograph/Selfie: This is a good time to have a quick semi-private chat with a guest where you have their attention or for however long it takes them to write your autograph. Some people are quick and other monopolize time. There's really no way to know how many autographs they will sign in a 30 minute period. And on top of that if they are doing selfies (Stefania was not) that could take up even more time.

Anyway, as I keep reflecting on my Epic weekend, I can safely say that my autograph interaction with Stefania was the worst I have ever had. I DO NOT BLAME Stefania. She only did 2 blocks of autographs back to back at the end of the day. She saw the crowd and heard the voices around her, she has to stop talking so much, she can't write messages, no personalization, etc. So she could not give people the time/attention they deserved. And I think that weighs on the guests mind. I was watching her sign like a machine, she barely looked up at anyone. It was clear by the time these autographs happened her social battery was drained.

I feel like because autographs are the most social time with guests they should happen in the morning or earlier in the day for even the same amount of time and IF need be, the guest can come back at the end of the day and finish off the last few remaining but not the bulk of them. I saw Stefania in the morning at a photo-op and while I just briefly said something to her for my pose she seemed much more vibrant.

I can totally understand why Stefania opted out of the nighttime fan event for the next Fan Fusion To The Rescue. After a full day of conventioning where not only are you exhausted from the work you put in but also from hearing everyone else's story, you don't want to "people" anymore and keep the smile up for appearances. It definitely seems way out of her comfort zone to even interact as much as she does but she does it and I thank her for whatever little rime she was able to give me.

On a separate note. I introduced myself to both Danielle and Stefania and they introduced themselves back as Danielle and Stefania. I heard Macey and Daniele and Francis all call out to Danielle as Danielle. BUT ALL I fucking heard on lines were Dani and Stef, Dani and Stef and I wanted to punch every single person who said it. Whoever started that in the fandom should get diarrhea forever. There names are Danielle and Stefania and you (not you directly) don't know them like that to even call them Dani and Stef if they EVER went by that.

That definitely makes sense and it seems like autographs is what ends up being the downfall of most cons and it must be because there's no real rhyme or reason as to how much time each one takes. Whereas with meet & greets its a set time and photos it's just a quick pose and that's it. There has to be a way for it to go smoother with people still being able to get that personalization and few minutes with the guest since they are paying for that time with them like everybody else.

I don't blame Stefania at all for not doing the extra activities like the parties and stuff anymore either. After doing all those things throughout the day it must be incredibly draining and I'm sure she wants her time to herself and to recharge. Especially for people who are more introvert and not as into social interaction...for her to do as much as she does already should very much be appreciated by fans.

I'll never understand the Dani and Stef thing. I never took part in it and never will. It feels so cringe to me how this fandom refers to them as that because we never heard that before and we aren't their friends...I really don't know why it became a thing and why it stuck.

[kennyfightme]

Pink in the Night

CW- Severe depression, Gaslighting, Not fully edited I'm so tired guys, Clyde

Words- 1.1k

Theo laid on his back, staring up at the shadow covered ceiling. His curtains blocked all of the sun out. In his brain, he knew he should push them to the side to let at least some sunlight in but…He couldn't force himself to. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't move.

South Park AM played quietly in the background. God…Would they just shut up already? This episode was going on too long, he couldn't take it. Evertime Kenny spoke, Theo wanted to scream. A pit of anger sat deep in his stomach. Everything had been making him angry lately. Silence, Noise, harmless jokes that would have made him burst out laughing before made him get defensive and angry. Maybe that was why his body shut down. Knowing he was going to, that he already had, hurt his friends made him realize what he had to do. Shut himself in. It was the only safe option, for everyone. Besides, weren't they sick of hearing his voice? His stupid comments, his unfunny jokes. He was sick of hearing them.

Theo turned his head, trying to focus his eyes on his phone but the absence of light didn't really do much to help. The phone was facing down, but there was a soft glow under it. It was buzzing like crazy… Suddenly his ringer went off. A deep and raspy groan escaped his chapped, untaken care of lips.

“Shut up…” After what Theo perceived as forever, the phone finally went silent. A wave of relief flowed through the small boys body. Finally. However, that didn't last long. His doorbell went off. Only once at first, and then five or so minutes of silence. After those five minutes were up, whoever was at his door started to spam it. Aggressively. Theo laid with his face shoved into his pillow. It wasn't going to stop. The smaller boy did his best to roll off the bed, ending up laying on the floor. Thank god he didn't have a bed frame. Theo sat up slowly, and used the floor to push himself up off the bed. The doorbell kept going. Leaving his room, Theo shouted “Im coming!! Jesus fucking christ!!”

Before he even got to the door, it swung open. His eyes widened and anger filled his body, hands shaking. “What are you doing here…”

Clyde stood in the doorframe, grinning. “I had to find your spare key, why didn't you let me in…Oh you look like trash!” Theo grit his teeth, balling his hands into his fists. It was taking everything in him to not immediately scream at Clyde. He tore Theos' life apart. Ripped his heart into shreds, and then has the audacity to just show up like nothing happened? “Oh well, anyway. Sit down with me!! I gotta talk to you about something.” Clyde shoved his way into the house, and plopped down onto his friend's couch, Theo gently sat, already wanting Clyde to leave. The younger boy picked at his pants, looking down. “So…We need to talk about something.” Theo stayed silent, refusing to speak. He couldn't speak, knowing if he did it wouldn't turn out well.

“You’re acting so weird…Uhm..Anyway. I have plans with Y/N soon. I wanna know some of the stuff she likes so I can make our date super super special!!” Oh. Theos breath caught in his throat, staying stuck there. Clyde…Came by to ask that? After everything. Theo ghosted Clyde, refusing to speak to him and he just showed up without warning? To ask about a date with his boss? “Theooo. Are you just gonna stare at the floor and not say anything?”

“What's wrong with you…” Tears filled in Theos eyes, dropping onto the pants he had been wearing for the past few days.

“What? What's your problem man?” Clyde looked over to Theo and groaned. The waterworks again. He couldn't handle it. Every time he had been around his “best friend” it seemed like the younger boy ended up crying.

“What's my problem? Clyde I poured my heart out to you. Clyde, you kissed me. You were my first kiss. You were my first everything, and now you’re pretending like you don't remember? What's wrong with you?” Theo quickly stood up, pointing to the front door. “Please leave. Please get out of my house, I can't handle being around you right now.” Clyde shot up, anger fogging in his eyes.

“Theo, I'm telling you that didn't happen! And what are you talking about? You’re being so weird dude.”

“Holy shit, Clyde I'm in love with you! Are you fucking stupid? Im so hopelessly in love with you and I fucking hate it! Do you know how it feels to see the person you've been in love with since highschool fall in love with someone else? And you…You gave me what I've been wanting for years and then just ripped it away from me!” Theo spoke through tears, trying his best to push everything down. But he couldn't anymore. It forced, clawed, its way out of him.

“I just. I wish I could have that night again. I love you so much Clyde. I just want one more night like that. You made me feel so loved and so whole and I’ve never had that before. I want you Clyde. I only want you.” A sigh escaped Theos lips, and he shook his head. “Whatever. Go ask someone else about Y/n. I can't do this anymore.” The tall male stepped closer to the shorter one, watching him immediately step to move away from him. Why did Clyde feel guilty? He didn't do anything wrong. Theo knew he was in love with y/n, why did he care so much? He couldn't handle it, the guilt.

“Theo I…I want you too.” Theo let out a choked laugh.

“No you don't Clyde, you’ve made that obvious.”

“No I do!! I really do…I was. I lied about forgetting it because I felt guilty! I do want you Theo, I wouldn't lie about that.” Clyde's words were hesitant, and stuttered. Almost like he was attempting to come up with a lie on the spot. Theo furrowed his brows.

“Clyde, please dont lie to me about this. I don't want some fake relationship, I want the real you.” Once again, Clyde stepped closer to Theo. This time though, he didn't step away. Grabbing the smaller man's hands, Clyde looked into his eyes.

“It won't be fake. I love you, I do. I just…Please don't tell anyone. I don't want everyone to know I like men, I'm not ready. And I have to keep going after Y/n, okay? Everyone will get suspicious if I don't..” Theo nodded, feeling his heart swell. As much as it hurt that he would just drop the Y/n stuff, he mostly understood where Clyde was coming from.

“Are we…like gonna be together?”

“I would like that.”

“Clyde?”

“Hmm?”

“Please kiss me.”

[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.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Revelation

Breach Masterlist

Warnings: non/dubcon sex (series), general angst, some blood and anger this chapter.

This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.

Note: SURPRISE! I somehow got this done this morning so voila!

I won’t demand but do ask for feedback; likes, reblogs, replies, comments, asks, especially on this series, but again, enjoy in your own way! <3 Love you!

A six-hour car ride and a brief flight saw you at a second safehouse; bigger and isolated from the world in a nest of trees. Steve accompanied you alone as Howard disappeared to ‘sort out business’. You watched and listened to it all, always keeping Luka close.

Your room was as big as one of the houses you’d lived in during your days in South America. Luka wanted to stay with you and you wouldn’t have let him sleep anywhere else. James, or Bucky, whoever he was those days, looked grim as he commented how nice it would be for you to have your privacy. You didn’t dare ask him to stay in the room though you wanted it. You had grown used to his presence.

You slept the first night soundly, waking only once or twice to look at the door. The usual shadow wasn’t there. That made you frown and run your fingers through Luka’s hair. You were safe now but that wouldn’t last, it never did.

You woke yawning, the hours of sleep reminding your body of its long-hewn fatigue. You could have slept for days. You peeked out into the hallway and Luka pushed past you, sprinting out the door. You followed him and called him back to you with a reprimand. He was excited about all the new places.

“Mishka, you stay close, we’re only going to get some breakfast,” you said as you took his hand.

“Mama, this place is so big! I wanna stay here forever,” he sang as he tugged on your arm.

“Why, so you can tear the walls down?” you tutted, “What has gotten into you?”

“Papa’s friend, Steve, he told me he fights the bad guys,” Luka swung your arm, “will he fight the ones who hurt you and Papa?”

You stopped just outside the kitchen. You turned Luka to you and bent to look him in his face. “What men, mishka?”

“The one’s we’re running from,” he said innocently.

You gulped and cradled his face in your hands, “don’t you worry about that, my love, me and your father will always keep you safe.”

The boy looked confused but didn’t ask more, he only nodded and you stood with a sigh. You took his hand again and pulled him into the kitchen. You sat him on one of the tall chairs along the island counter and searched the fridge. You poured each of you a bowl of Cheerios and pushed his across to him as you leaned on the other side of the counter and spooned up the cereal.

“You’re here,” James’ voice startled you as he came to a sharp stop just inside the doorway, “you weren’t in your room, I was--”

“You said we’re safe here,” you lowered your spoon, “Luka was hungry.”

“We are safe,” he exhaled and slowly crossed the room to stand at the end of the counter.

“You want some?” you shook the box at him.

“Eat,” he took it and grabbed a bowl of his own, “I’ll get it.”

He added milk and sat beside Luka. Your son smiled at him and received a goofy look in return. There were moments James wasn’t so guarded but those were always reserved for your son, never you. When he looked at you, you only saw his guilt and pain.

“Howard will be here at noon,” James said as he turned back to you and stirred his bowl, “I’ll talk to them first.”

“Talk?” you asked.

“They need to know… everything,” he said reluctantly, “you watch over Luka while I’m with them and try not to worry. We can trust Steve.”

You nodded and scooped another spoonful into your mouth. You chewed and stared at the counter. That wasn’t what you were worried about, how could you explain all that had happened?

✰

After you ate, you took Luka to the living room and Bucky left you again. After some giddy pleas from your son, you turned on the television. There were few times in his life, and yours, that you had the luxury of a screen. You sat and watched puppets spell and count for a while before you grew bored.

Luka tired of the wooden car he’d outgrown a while ago and jumped on the couch. You tried to get him to stop but only found yourself out of breath.

“Mishka! You will break it,” you caught him mid-leap and swung him down onto his feet, “why don’t we play a game?”

“Oooh, hide and seek!” he chimed.

“I don’t know, that might not--”

“Please, papa hates that game but it’s so fun,” he clapped, “please, mama.”

“It is fun when you can only hide in the broom closet. You will get lost in here.”

“Promise, mama, I will not go far, please?”

You sniffed and stared into his hopeful eyes, James’ eyes. “You stay on this floor and do not go past the stairs, understood?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he squealed, “now mama, you have to close your eyes. No peeking.”

“I know how this game works,” you sat and covered your face with your hands, “thirty seconds, mishka.”

“Thirty?” he whined.

“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…”

You heard his feet stamp away and you smiled, counting louder with each number. When you reached one you got up and went to the hall. You looked up and down for any telltale sign of him. Nothing was different.

You went to the kitchen and searched all the cupboards and the pantry. He wasn’t in there. As you checked the closets and still did not find him, you felt the panic rising in your throat. Your heart hammered as you ran around the stairs, he hadn’t listened!

You heard a voice, a high pitch you knew well. The front door was open just a crack and you ripped it open as you followed Luka’s sing-song. He sang a Russian tune you taught him as he was carried on the back of a dark-haired man. You ran across the porch and past the armored car in the lot.

You tore Luka from the stranger’s back and both cried out in surprise. You put your son down as the man turned to you. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and punched him as hard as you could, just as James taught you. You heard the crack of his nose as you pulled back again.

“You take my son!” you snarled as he put his arm up to block your next strike and your hand gleaned off his chin, “my son! I will kill you.”

“Mama, mama,” you felt Luka tugging at your pants.

“Go inside, Luka,” you barked ready to strangle the man.

“He’s wasn’t taking me, mama, we were playing,” Luka begged, “he’s just a kid, like me.”

You stopped and looked the man in the face. Luka was right, he was sixteen, maybe seventeen, familiar even. You growled and let him go hesitantly. You pulled Luka close to you.

“Who are you?”

“I should ask you the same,” the adolescent stemmed the blood leaking from his nostrils with the heel of his hand and tilted his head back, “you sure pack a punch, lady.”

“Who?” you stepped forward again and he backed away.

“Tony,” he snorted and turned to spit up blood onto the ground, “Tony Stark, Howard’s son.”

“Howard?” you blinked, “oh, I--” you looked down at Luka who looked terrified, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I-- let me help you clean up.”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” he chuckled and backed away from you, “I think I can handle this.”

“Mama,” Luka huffed.

“I’m sorry, mishka, I did not know,” you grimaced, “I so very sorry, I really--” you looked at Tony again.

“I’m fine,” he pulled his cuff up to his nose, “really, I shouldn’t have just taken the kid.”

“I couldn’t find him, I was so scared, I--”

“Luka,” James’ voice drew you around. He stood on the porch and descended the steps carefully as he took in the scene, “what’s going on? What are you doing out here?”

“Playing a game,” you said as Tony shook his head.

“What happened to the kid?” James asked as he pointed at the bloodied teen.

“Your wife, that’s what happened,” Tony spat.

“She’s not--

“I thought he was taking Luka,” you interrupted James, “I’m sorry, I--”

“It’s okay,” he took Luka’s hand and pulled the boy close, “you did what I showed you,” he turned to the younger Stark, “you should get that cleaned up or it’ll stay crooked.”

“Uh huh,” Tony dragged his feet through the dirt towards the house, “such a pleasant little family.”

You watched him go and hung your head. You felt awful and held up your shaky hand, your knuckles sore from the assault. Bucky took your hand and looked it over.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I hurt him,” you said, “I hurt a kid.”

“He’s fine,” James assured, “I’ll talk to Stark, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, papa, we were playing hide and seek and I didn’t tell mama I was going outside--”

“I told you not to play that game,” James looked down at Luka, “this is why, because you scare us.”

“I’m sorry,” Luka repeated.

“Well, everyone’s safe so…” he rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand as his eyes met yours, “it’s your turn, I’ll keep and eye on Luka.”

“My turn?”

“Upstairs, they’re waiting,” James said and raised his hand as if he would touch your shoulder but instead dropped it, “answer the question but you don’t need to talk about what you don’t want to.”

You nodded and swallowed as you looked past him to the front door. There were no questions they could ask that you didn’t dread.

✰

Howard and Steve sat on the other side of the table. It felt like a real interrogation, like you’d done something wrong. And yet, as you explained your time at Hydra, from employee to experiment, neither seemed to flinch, they listened and took notes but did not show the horror you felt.

“Do you know what they were doing to your son the day of your escape?” Stark asked.

“No, I was… sedated for much of it, they took him from me and--” you shook your head, “I was so angry, I never been so angry and when I woke I felt invincible and when the doctor came, I would’ve killed him, I think.”

“And I know it’s probably a moot question but you don’t know what they were giving you? The capsules, the drip?”

“I never seen the charts,” you shrugged and looked down. 

Your hands were trembling and you were overwhelmed. It was the first time you said any of it aloud and once you started, it streamed out like a river. Now that it was all out, the emotions began to flow too.

Then the realisation and the fear. It was, easy even for you, to guess what Hydra intended for your son. He was to be like his father, more efficient than his father. You lifted your head, terrified, and glanced between the men furtively.

“My son is not a weapon,” you said, “know that and do not make him one.”

“That is not our intent,” Steve assured softly, “that is not the type of weapon we use. That’s why we’re here, away from SHIELD, away from Hydra, we can’t let this happen to anyone else but given what we know, this experiment wasn’t just shelved. There are others out there and we need to get to them before another Winter Soldier appears.”

“But how… me and James hide for so long,” you said, “we cannot possibly know--”

Steve’s throat constricted and he looked at Howard. They weren’t telling you something.

“What you have told us today is all we need from you,” Stark said evenly, “It is a start for us to uncover the rest.”

“Uncover?” you blinked and frowned, “what do you mean uncover?”

“You and James have given us locations, details, security procedure,” Stark continued, “with that, we can gain access to the information we do need and find out where they’ve moved their new Soldat operation--”

“No,” you snapped as your chest squeezed, “you would send him back there?”

“We didn’t say--”

“You don’t tell me but you think I am stupid. I know James and I know he feels so bad he would go back to die,” you snarled, “he did nothing wrong. It was not him!”

“But… you, uh, he--” Howard began awkwardly.

“Hydra did that, Hydra made him that monster and he doesn’t not owe you anything. He killed the men who would take my child from me and he kept Luka safe, he is done.”

“Look, Bucky is my best friend and I understand, it wasn’t him, but he did those things, even if it wasn’t his choice and this is what we can do, this is the deal we can offer you. He gets us that intel and you get your safe haven.”

“And if he doesn’t come back?” you stood and slammed your hands on the table, “you would kill him all over again, Steven.”

Steve reeled as if you’d slapped him and Howard raised as brow as he looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“You friend? Really?” your English became more fractured as your rage rose and you hit the table again, this time leaving a dent in the metal, “you no friend to know what you send him back to. They not kill him, not his body, and they torture his mind.”

“Please, ma’am,” Howard said calmly, “it was his idea--”

“I don’t care, you let him!” you shouted, “You think him evil but I know he not. He save me and he has son. You would let a father die.”

“Just calm--” Steve intoned.

“No, no be calm,” you began to rant in Russian as you turned and stormed to the door.

“Where-- Wait!’ The men stood and followed after you.

“I go James!” you hollered as you strode out into the hall, “he trouble!”

[herstroywritten]

Their Aching Firsts.

I still have no excuse for my obsession with them. Not sure how I feel about this particular story, but I wanted to post something for the start of Rivusa week for the hell of it. It’s about 7k words (I apparently can’t stop writing them once I start and their works end up being endless). Oops.

Fair warning, there is a umm *spicy* scene near the end there. I don’t usually write those and I tried to keep it as vague as I could, but I thought I’d mention it anyways. Other than that, enjoy and let me know what you think!

The first times they kissed, it was fueled by anger- he grabbed, she pulled, they crashed.

The first time they talked about it, it wasn't so much a conversation of words as it was one of looks. His eyes said "I want you and it terrifies me." Her eyes said "I think I want you, too. And I think I'm finally ready to admit that."

The first time Musa realized her new favorite jacket was once his, she stares at herself in the mirror for over an hour. She misses lunch with the gang and Riven comes knocking at her door and opens it to find her standing in front of that mirror in a state of awe. She's bathed in black leather, sleeves reaching the tips of her fingertips.

"You ok?" Arms wrap around her waist as she toys with the hem of the jacket. She looks at him through the mirror and smiles.

"I just want you to know I'm never giving this back."

He huffs a laugh as he lets his head fall to her hair, breathing her in. Lavender and something sweet that he's never been able to pinpoint. "Not even if this falls apart?"

She whirls around to face him. "I don't intend on letting that happen." Her hands are on the collar of his shirt, eyes blazing with stubbornness. He knows then that her words are a promise, a commitment and not just a comment in passing.

"I don't know, Muse. You still have time to regret all this. Regret the ruin of your reputation. What will people say?" His words are teasing, but she can see right through them. She senses his vulnerability, his apprehension.

"There are a lot of things I regret in life- yelling at my mother when I was fourteen because I didn't want to clean my room, being a bit of a bitch to my suitemates at the start of the year, hiding instead of fighting because I was too scared to see what my powers could really do. The regrets are endless. But, you, Riven, are not one of them."

He frowns, blinks away the swarm of feelings within  him. "Yeah?"

She bunches her hands on his collar and pulls him down to her mouth. "Yeah."

"And what if I'm the one to end this?"

"And do what? Date some other girl for the hell of it?"

"Maybe, " he grins. "I hear I'm hot on the market now that I'm on the good side." She pulls him all the way down then, kisses him hard.

"Give it a try. Whoever she is, she won't last more than a day. And she'll defiantly never have you. Not really. I have you right where I want you, Riven. You're mine and you know it." She blazes a fire in him with her words.

"Oh yeah? And how would you know that?"

"You're here, aren't you?" She's all sass as she cocks an eyebrow at his question. "And, plus, it's kinda hard to lie to an empath."

And then she's kissing him again. This time with so much passion that he can't make sense of the world around him any longer. She pulls away only to tell him, "And I bet she'll never get that reaction out of you."

"No. No, she won't."

________________________________________________________________

The first time he calls her his girlfriend, it's not exactly in the situation she had imagined.

"Girls, I need to tell you something." Musa's voice wavers slightly as it rises above the noise that is their friends' laughs and chatter.

They're on the roof of Alfea, clustered among one another on the edges of old, shabby stones. The sky above them is dark and heavy. Stars wink at students from behind perfect clouds, ones that Musa remembers seeing in old cartoon movies that she used to watch with her parents when she was younger. From up here, the rest of Alfea seems like their whole world, its students miniature figures in a dollhouse. It's a perfect night, just as it should be. Rosalind is gone, out of the school and although that's not good enough, it's something. And Headmistress Dowling is alive and back in charge of the magical boarding school, where she belongs. From her perch up here, she can make out the headmistress' perfectly done hair as she leans back and laughs at something Silva is saying. She sees Professor Harvey heading towards their table, scolding students along the way to back away from the school's boarders. She's surprised that they haven't tried to stop all the drinking that going on. It seems that even the professors have had enough of the fighting, so much so that they're no longer focusing on the minute details of teenage life. Plus, she suspects that when they called for a party to celebrate the revival of Dowling and their taking back the school, they had fully expected the drinking. In fact, Musa had even seen Silva sneaking a few drinks to the teacher's table, but she'd never tell him that.

She can still hear Terra's squeal when Dowling had announced the party. And she can feel the toll of the  heels Stella had insisted she wear on her feet. It has brought everyone so much joy, this little piece of heaven that they're being allowed, and she's been so very glad to just bask in it. After months of walking around with her headphones constantly on, trying desperately and failing to block the thoughts of despair, gloom, and pain, she welcomed the change. It had taken a lot out of her, but she had even worked up the nerve to leave her headphones behind for the party. The girls had been surprised at first, but then Bloom had stepped forward, wound their arms together, and led her outside the suite. She's been getting weird looks from them all night, little side glances with small smiles and questioning eyes, asking her if she was okay or if she needed to head out for a bit, take a breather. She'd returned them all with reassuring smiles of her own, letting them know that she was fine. And she was fine, but probably not for the reason they thought. Yes, the students around her were happy and she didn’t have much negativity to deal with from them right now, and yes her powers were getting better. But the reason she was doing so well had to do nothing with the students around them or her ability to control her magic and everything to do with the specialist across from her.

Riven and her had been a bit of a dichotomy since the start of her second semester at Alfea. They were paired together for combat classes from the very beginning of Rosalind's reign at Alfea. He'd flirted, as he did with everything that had a pulse and walked his way, and she had shut it down. Odd how that had only encouraged his behavior. Odder how she'd eventually come to appreciate it.

It was a slow transition, their thing. She had been resistant to accept she liked someone so very opposite to her last boyfriend, hesitant to give herself to that natural disaster that seemed to be Riven. Honestly, it seemed like a loss for a long time. She'd lay in bed some nights, staring at her ceiling, listening to Terra's slow breaths as she slept, and just think about the fact that just a few months ago (God, it boggled her mind that it was only a few months ago… where did time go? And how did they get here, in a school run by a once presumed dead war leader and a woman that seemed to exude death from her presence alone?) she had been perfectly happy with Sam and the silence that he brought. Sure, they had eventually called it quits once she had realized she couldn't live in silence forever and he realized she needed to learn to shield herself from harm. It had been tough, but they were friends. And she had been okay being single again. Truly, she had. So how she'd come to crave noise- his noise, loud and obnoxious emotions that sent her body tingling and her mind reeling- she doesn't know. But it had happened and once she's finally just accepted it, the ball was in his court. Too bad for her though, because just as hesitant as she was, Riven was ten times more resistant to the pull that existed between the two of them. Musa remembers all the nights they'd sneak out and he'd teach her new moves with a staff and sometimes he'd let her use his swords, teasing her as she struggled under their weight. She'd head back to her suite before the sun came up, always frustrated because couldn't he see?! Couldn't he tell? Why else would she show up every single night without fail? Why else would she stick around when the training turned to teasing and taunting turned to conversations in hushed tones? Long story short, it took him being under mind control and her breaking it for him to just finally, finally kiss her. And from then on, it had been secret meetings in different corners of the school, in their rooms when no one else was around, and anywhere else they could find some privacy.

She's itching to cross the space that separates them currently and slip her arms under his jacket, an action that she'd first done on instinct but which had quickly become a habit once she had realized the effect it had on him. She's been eyeing him the whole night, fully aware of his gaze on her. There's a reason she hadn't argued with Stella when she'd been handed the lavender slip of a dress that she currently wore. She'd even managed to forgive the light fairy for the strappy silver heels she had practically forced into Musa's feet when she caught Riven staring up and down her bare legs. 

"Musa? What is it? Are you ok?" 

Bloom's worried tone pulls her back to reality and she forces herself to face away from Riven and toward the girls. She'd avoided this conversation for so long, but it had to come out at some point tonight and it had to happened before one of the girls found them in some shady corner with their clothes half off. 

"Oh, no I'm fine! It's not that." Now, how to approach what it actually was? 

Aisha's confused tone follows her reply, "Well, then, what is it?"

"Um, it's kind of a little complicated…" Musa's voice trails off and she has to physically stop herself from turning back to Riven to see if he's ok with this, with what she's about to say.

"Musa you're freaking me out a little here," Stella's eyes narrow at Musa's fidgeting her hands. Huh, she hadn't even noticed herself playing with the hem of her dress.

"Oh no! Did you actually kill that poor guy that tried to hit on you?" Terra sounds worried as Musa just groans at her words.

"Ughhh. Terra, we said we wouldn't talk about that."

"What guy?" Riven's question comes at the same moment as her whine, except his is louder and much more aggressive. All heads turn to him, and Musa curses the jealousy that she feels coursing through his veins right now. Damn it, couldn't he just keep it in long enough so she could explain to her suitemates what the hell was going on between them? His eyes are all rage and warning as he stares Terra down. And for some reason, she's all worked up at his gaze and doesn't know what to do with herself. She really shouldn't be so attracted to this side of him.

"What's it matter to you?" Aisha questions, eyebrow raising in his direction.

"It just does."

"Really, Riven? The middle school comeback? Classic."

"Stay out of it, Aisha. I wasn't talking to you."

They're bickering back and forth, and Musa can sense both their patience straining. This is not how she was hoping this would go. Finally, she steps between them, one hand on Aisha's shoulder and the other on Riven's chest. "Ok, that's enough."

Aisha glares his way one more time but steps back, Riven does not.  Instead, he turns to Musa and asks her, "What guy, Musa?"

"It doesn't matter, Riven."

"It does to me."

"Well, it shouldn't. It was just some drunk dude with a bad haircut. That's it." She's trying to reassure him, to let him know that this thing they have going on isn't just something she's going to drop the first chance she gets for any guy that makes eyes her way. She knows that's one of his big insecurities. He has it in his head that he's not good enough to deserve this, something that isn't completely fucked up from the very beginning.

They're trading glances, a secret conversation of their own  happening between them.

"No!"

All heads snap toward Bloom. The second she turns around, Musa knows that her redheaded roommate has figured it out. Bloom is grinning at the two of them, practically bouncing on her heels as she grabs onto Sky's arm and tugs on it. "Did you know about this?! Why didn't you tell me?!" 

Sky (bless his soul) looks at his girlfriend with confusion evident in his face, "Know what?"

Except it's Stella that answers, "They're dating."

And then mayhem ensues and Musa suddenly wishes she had thought this through because she's feeling so much from so many people right now and she's not quite sure how to handle it. She tries to hide the wince that forms on her face as she tries to answer all the questions her friends are practically screaming her way, but Riven must have noticed it because he reaches for her hand and pulls her out of the circle the girls have formed around her and closer to him.

"Alight, that's enough." It's the rasp in his voice that sends her spiraling every time he speaks, and she's putty in his hands. It's pathetic, she should have more self-control than this. "Yes, we're dating. Yes, she's my girlfriend. And, Aisha, no I did not pay her or threaten her into it. Gods above!" He takes a sweep of the room, gesturing to all their friends with a hand as if to say 'you're all very welcome.'

"Any other questions?" No one speaks up. Not that Musa would have heard any of them because good gods, did she hear him right? Did he just say what she thinks he said? Is she his… girlfriend? They'd avoided so many labels for so long that it had completely slipped her mind to actually name this thing between then by the time that they had finally become something substantial. And she's been fine with that deal, with not having to name their relationship, but hearing him call her his girlfriend has send her body trembling, fire coursing through her veins and butterflies bursting in her stomach.

And then he's pulling her away, down the stairs that led them up to the roof and between hallways that blend into one another as her mind focuses on the way his hand grips hers and the lust (his? hers?) that seems to be engulfing her whole being.

She lets him lead her into his room, onto his bed, and just as he leans down to kiss her, she moves down and places a kiss on his neck instead. Looking up at him, she tests out the word that's taken over her brain since it left his lips, "Girlfriend?"

"Fuck. Is that not what this is? I, I don't know- I kind of figured- I don't know. Shit, sorry-" If she wasn't so very in love with the idea of being his girlfriend, his something (just his), she would have let his ramble continue. She didn't get to see this often, a flustered Riven, and it was a sight she found quite adorable. But, alas, she had other plans for tonight.

She bends her neck upward, uses her toes to push herself up the bed, and kisses him ever so lightly on the lips. Just enough so that he stops talking. A feather's whisper of a kiss, against which she purrs "That is exactly what this is if that's what you want it to be." 

His eyes are black with want when he closes them and his hand comes up to trace the edges of her jaw. His breathing speeds up as he leans his forehead against hers, and that's how she knows he's trying to collect his thoughts, watching his words as he often does when he's scared he's about to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing. She swears she's going to get him to stop doing that around her, because she wants his thoughts, every single one of them, as raw as they are. She doesn't want the filtered version. And she can feel them, mingling into the background as his insecurity takes over. Her hands find their way to his jaw and now they're holding each other, "Tell me."

He opens his eyes, opens his mouth to tell her, just as she knew he would. He'd never deny her anything and she's learned that in the short time that they've been together. He'd collect the stars and fashion them into a necklace she could wear around her neck if she asked for the universe. He'd start and end a war if she so much as suggested it. He'd give her his soul, she thinks. All she needs to do is ask, and he breaks for her. Crack by crack. Splinter by splinter. Until he's cleaved wide open and she sees all of him.

"I do, want that. I want you." His voice is gruff, guttural. "What about you? What do you want?"

God, how does he still not get it?!

"You." A whisper, and then a kiss.

_______________________________________________________________

The first time he makes her cry, it's not because of something he said. It's because of something he did.

It had started like any other day- breakfast, classes, social gatherings at the end of the afternoon. Musa and Terra had just left botany lessons and were heading towards the specialists training grounds to meet up with Sky and Riven before they all went to grab dinner together. It had been all fun and games, Terra and her grumbling about how ravished they were and laughing along at each other's comments. But Musa had sensed the uneasiness that radiated from the training grounds the second they had rounded the corner of Alfea's large lawns. Silva was especially on edge, and the fact that he had all the upperclassmen and the best of the specialists lined up as he walked back and forth between them shouting orders could not be a good sign. And with an insane mastermind on the loose, Musa had feared the worst as anyone else would. She'd taken off running, and Terra had followed without any questions, trusting her instincts.

She only caught glimpses of Silva's orders. "… Five burned ones… Two upperclassmen faries out there already… We need to leave now- I'm going to need ten of you out ASAP. Five more will guard the school grounds… Any volunteers?" 

Her heart stopped when in her peripheral vision, she saw Sky and Riven's hands go up. This would be the third one this month that they had volunteered for, and the last time they left the school grounds Riven came back with a broken foot that he's still limping along on. The word left her mouth before she could think about it, "No!"

He turned to her, surprised to find her standing among the specialists. "Musa?"

She can't be bothered to greet him, not right now, not when he's practically signing up for his own death. So, instead, she stares him straight in the eye and says it again. "No." 

But Riven is as stubborn as she is, and she knows he's been itching to prove himself again, to make up for what he did under the control of Rosalind just a short while ago. His words crush her soul, "I volunteer for the outside team." He's talking to Silva, who's eyeing the two of them with an intrigued look on his face. He nods curtly at Riven's words. But Riven is looking at her, his jaw set and tilted upward with determination.

"Alright, Sky and Riven, you'll lead the charge. Get your weapons. We leave in five minute. Go!" And then he and Sky are running toward their weapons bags, Musa and Terra hot on their tracks.

She catches up to him just as he's strapping on his swords. Her hand comes to pull at his wrist, motioning for him to face her.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" He won't look at her, won't meet her eyes. "Riven, I'm talking to you! You can't just volunteer yourself up for everything that could kill you! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Whatever you're trying to prove, stop it!"

He's reaching for his fighting boots, switching into them. Whether he's just not listening or if he just doesn't care, she can't tell. She wants to kill him. She wants to kiss him. 

"Please," she can't believe she's begging. "Please, Riven. Your foot. You can't-"

"I'm doing it, Musa." She sees fury, internalizes it before her insides form it into something tangible and she can see it, feel it. It's red and blinding and raging.

"I'm asking you not to." He won't say no to her, he hasn't done it yet. She asks and he cracks for her right? Right?

Wrong. 

"LET'S GO, SQUADRON 1!" She barely registers what Silva's command means until Riven is standing up.

"I'm sorry, Musa." And she knows he means it, because when his hands fall to her shoulders, quick and rushed, they're firm. He leans down to kiss her goodbye or as a form of apologizing, she's not sure, but she turns her head away from him and he ends up kissing the space between her cheek and jawline. If he won't look at her, then she won't look at him. And if he won't listen to her, then she won't give him the satisfaction of her approval. It's petty, she know that. She senses his emotions deflate at her actions, the feeling of rejection cutting into his heart like a shard of glass ripping through flesh. But she's seen this movie before, she knows how this story ends. Too many specialists have left the school's walls wounded and eager to pick a fight, only to come back on the brink of death or even worse, they haven't come back at all. And the idea of him becoming one of those statistics hurts more for her than her rejection will ever hurt him.

She doesn't turn to watch him leave, but she hears his boots beating against the pavement as he rushes to catch up with Sky… and then silence. 

She's so numb by now. Numb to death, to feeling, to crying. She doesn't cry. Not when Terra comes to hug her from behind. Not when they're back in the suite and Bloom is practically sizzling with anger at the fact that they didn't think to bring her along on the mission and that Sky is being sent on yet another mission. Not when it's midnight and Dowling informs that the specialists made it back safely.

She doesn't go down to greet them when the other girls rush out the door. Terra lingers in the doorway.

"You sure you don’t want to come?"

"I'm good." She's staring outside the huge window of their living room, refusing to look down at the ground and try to make out if someone is missing in the mass of specialists standing in the courtyard.

"Musa-" She feels pity and worry coming from Terra, and she doesn't want to deal with it right now. She just wants to be numb for a little while longer.

"I said, I'm good."

Once Terra is gone, she turns away from the window and goes to sit by one of the couches. She counts the floorboards by the main doorway of the Winx suite. One, two, three, four, five, six…

She counts them three times over before the door finally barges open, it's hinges creaking from the immense force of the push just enacted upon it.

Riven's eyes frantically search the room before they finally fall on her. He walks towards her, limps actually. (She knew his foot wasn't healed, no matter how much he insisted it was.) He has blood splattered on his right side. His or someone else's, who knows? And when he finally reaches her, and falls to his knees in front of her so that they're eye level with one another, she finally cries.

He reaches for her. She pushed him off. "Fuck you, Riven. Really, fuck you."

"I'm sorry. Muse, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I-"

"Why don't you ever listen? You keep walking into wars as if they're welcoming parties. Do you want to die?! Do you have a death wish? What the fuck is wrong with you?!" She's being mean, unfair. She doesn't care. If asking won't work, maybe screaming will. And she's exhausted. Exhausted of worrying about him every time he leaves. Exhausted of wishing he would listen. Exhausted of fearing he's the one that didn't make it back, because it's almost been him so many times by now.

"I had to Musa." His voice is soft, odd in comparison to the loud tone he usually takes when they argue about this topic.

"You always have to! You don't have to prove anything Riven. And you most certainly don’t have to die for no fucking reason!"

"You don't get it-"

"So explain it to me!" He sighs deeply, and closes his eyes. "No, Riven. Explain it. What don't I get?"

He finally opens his eyes, throws a string of colorful swears at the ceiling before moving his gaze back to her. "It's not just proving something. It's that if I go and… if I go, then one less specialist has to go. And that's one less person with people that care about them having to go. And that's one less tragic death, and then a whole lot less people hurt. If I go… who cares, you know? And, honestly, shouldn't it be me? A taste of my own medicine and all that. After all the shit I helped Rosalind do." She senses his bitterness, feels his anger and destitute.

He's an idiot.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

"And you're beautiful," he quips back. She watches that smirk that she's come to love make its way onto his face.

"Flattery won't get you very far in life, Riv." Except, maybe it will. Because somehow and for some reason she's here, and she's crying over him.

It's like he can read her mind, not the other way around, "I think it's gotten me pretty far as of right now. I mean, you're here." The look he gives her has her twitching in her seat and she has to remind herself that she still has more to say to him. She can't just let him off the hook that easily. He leans up to kiss her, and she places her hands on his chest, gently pushing him away.

 "I care."

"What?" He's confused by her words.

"I care. If you go, and something happens. I care." She feels the surprise bloom from within him, and then a sense of overwhelming tenderness takes up his mind, and hers along with it. Her hands reach for him, " Come here."

This time, he obeys her. And as she kisses him, he cracks for her. Splinters for her. Lets her see him while he kisses her as if he's kissing her for the first time ever, ravaged and hungry for her. She sees it all- all of him falling into her and consequentially falling into place in her mind, in her heart. His insecurities, his fears, and his wishes. She doesn't shy away from him, but kisses him harder. His thoughts are exactly what she thought they were from the very beginning- a natural disaster. But she doesn't fear falling into them anymore, and in fact she thinks she likes them. She thinks she likes the way his mind works- ten emotions at one time battling to win out over one another. And when he pulls away, she likes the way his green eyes look at her like she's the whole world and the way his hands hold her tight enough for her to know that he doesn't think she's fragile but with enough care that she feels like she is all that he owns.

"Don't you ever," he's panting as he moves to place kisses along her jaw and at her collarbone, above her shoulders, anywhere the collar of her shirt will allow him. "Don't you ever pull away from me again."

She knows he's referring to the other afternoon, when he had left for the mission and she had closed off. "Why? Did I hurt your fragile ego?"

She's teasing, he's not. His hands are in her shirt and moving up, up, up until the offending piece of clothing is off of her. He's eager to kiss down her body, hands roaming the planes and curves that he must have memorized by now. He's kissing, kissing, kissing. Kissing away her tears, kissing right above her beating heart, kissing along her waistline. Frantic, needy, and- 

Oh.

Oh. She thinks she's in love.

________________________________________________________________

The first time they slow down, she feels as though she has seen heaven.

Riven's lips on her lips, steady and firm yet gentle, as his hands lay splayed over her bare sides and his thumbs dig softly into the dips of her hipbones. One of her legs is tangled in the sheets around them and her other is hiked up above his hips, her heel digging into his spine. He moves inside of her, and when she feels her hips meet his, she slides her hands over his shoulders and lets her nails graze his back. He watches her below him, eyes asking if she's ok, she smiles at him and says, "Just… stay. Don't move for a bit."

And he does, closing the small space between them to catch her bottom lip between his teeth and pull on it before he continues with his love bites down her neck, behind her ears, onto her chest. He's making his way as far down as he can in their current position, and she's melting into him and fuck, she wants him to keep going. But she also wants him to slow down because she's on cloud nine right now and from up here she can see the stars in his eyes, can catch them between the kisses of his lips. Her hands move from his back, leaving behind what she can only assume is a mass of fresh red marks. They move to his chin as she drags him back up to meet her on that very cloud and then they're eye-level with one another once more. She feels the want form within him, she always does, but it’s an odd thing to actually see it emulated in his eyes. And there's something else there too, something she can't quite place and doesn't dare to assume of. When his lips brush hers for the umpteenth time, slowly shaping her name between them, she feels herself sink farther into him, a feat she had previously deemed impossible.

And her lips part in a whimper because oh good god, how had they never done this before? They were always so rushed, pulling at each other's clothes and stumbling into bed,  falling into one another in a tangled mess of limbs and lust. Perhaps it was the fact that they had kept it in for so long, refusing to admit they liked each other and once they were together, not wanting to tell others for fear of shattering whatever fragile state they were in. Their relationship had started with fighting fueled by longing, innuendos charged with so many suggestions, and eventually an aching want that Musa still couldn’t wrap her mind around. Really, she shouldn't be surprised at how touch hungry the two of them had been at the beginning of the relationship. (How touch hungry they still were.) But right here in this moment, as she opens her eyes, she regrets not slowing down and taking him all in sooner.

He is a sight to behold, with tiny and larger scrapes all over his body that somehow added to his physique instead of taking away from it. They are tens of thousands of stars and she traces them over and over, forming constellations with his imperfections. The pads of her fingers run over the features of his face, committing every bit of him to memory, and as they skim the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the question slips from her lips before she can stop herself.

"When did you get this one?" 

He pulls away from her, just slightly so that he can see her face, and his eyes are darker than she's ever seen them as he lazily responds with a "Hmm?"

She's high on want and adrenaline, but she vaguely wonders if this is something he might not want to talk about. Too late to back out now. Plus, she'd like to know. "This scar. Above your eyebrow. How did you get it?"

Riven stiffens at her answer. She can feel his insecurity downing upon him, clouded by the desire and the want that still course through his body but slowly easing its way to the forefront of the battle that is his mind.

"I have them too," Musa whispers as she braces herself against his chest and heaves her body upward, brushing her lips against that very scar in question.

She moves back down again, and pulls her left arm slowly away from under him. She turns her head slightly to her left shoulder, using her index finger to point to a sliver of skin that's more taught and whiter than the rest of her. "I got this one when I was twelve. Tried to climb a tree that was too high off the ground. Had to get six stiches. My mom freaked out."

His eyeline follows her movements, and he stares at her shoulder for a few minutes. His gaze has her squirming a little, suddenly aware that she's naked in front of a boy she's very much into and that she has just pointed out one of the many flaws on her body. But then his eyes flicker upwards and he leans down and kisses her scar, just as she had kissed his.

"You're fucking perfect, you know that right?" She could cry.

"If you're trying to get in my pants, hate to break it to you, but they're already off," she teases, her voice soft and a smile on her lips. How else was she meant to respond?

He chuckles at her words, his laugh causing her to catch her breath as it does each and every time she hears it. It's an occasion that has become more common since they got together but which is still far and few in between. The sound vibrates off his body onto hers and has her writhing under him.

"Love, I would never consider your lack of garments a disappointment." He circles his hips above her, and she groans at the pressure. "And I would most certainly never forget being the one to take them off you, especially when you insist on making those noises."

Her eyes are blown wide as she grabs onto his forearm at the side of her head, where his fingers are buried in her hair. Her chest heaves up and down, up and down, heart beating so fast she's certain its rhythms are all in her mind and that it's no longer there. She's fairly sure she lost it somewhere between meeting him and getting here, to this moment.

He stops his teasing, opting instead to arch down once more and kiss the scar on her shoulder. He kisses it over and over until she feels her heartbeat slow down and her breath return to a somewhat normal pacing.

She tugs on his locks, silently motioning for him to come back up. Up he comes, and she's glad that she's somehow convinced him to continue denying her nothing. 

"Tell me."

He knows she's referring to his scar.

They're nose to nose, foreheads touching, brown eyes boring into green ones.

"About a year and a half ago. Right when things started to get messy in my life. Messier than usual, I mean. Back then I was a bit of a nerd, hung out in the greenhouse all the time-"

"Yeah, I've heard a few stories from Terra," she cuts him off, a smile playing on her lips at the idea of Riven hunched over a lab bench with pretty vines all around him.  It's a sight she hopes to one day see with her own two eyes, a side of him she knows she's so very close to opening up.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you know how much of a dick I was after I started distancing myself from them. Sky, he got real mad one day. We were in Specialism class, learning some new sword tricks. I said some shitty things and then he tried to play the Saint Sky card. I got mad, I fought dirty. Scraped his arm with the sword. He finally snapped at me, landed a good blow right above my eyebrow." He laughed a bitter laugh at the memory. "Nearly missed my eye, the wanker. He apologized for two months straight. Either way, we both ended up in the infirmary and I figured I couldn't get rid of him. He kept me around and I stayed, almost like when we were children and we fought over dumb shit like who was the taller. Only difference now is that his scar healed and mine stayed."

That last sentence was loaded with so much, and Musa wanted to ask more but she didn't want to push her luck. She smiled at him, nudging his nose with hers. "So you used to fight over who was taller? The mental image of a baby Sky and baby Riven getting angry over something like that is almost, dare I say, adorable?"

He scoffs. "We were not adorable! We were two very manly twelve-year-olds with very some very manly, very reasonable arguments."

"Mmm," she hums against his skin. "Is that what you two have to this day? Manly arguments?"

"Are we really bringing Sky into the conversation while we're in bed?" She laughs, a full on laugh that comes from within her because his words were not what she had expected. "If you must know, now we argue over who’s got the hotter girlfriend."

His eyes are all mischief when she shakes her head at him. "Glad to see you two have really grown up."

"And I'm glad that I got the hotter girlfriend, because I'm not sure how else you've managed to keep me completely turned on while bringing up my best friend in the middle of us fucking."

And then it's her turn to tease him, turning her head slightly to the side so that she can catch his earlobe between her teeth and whisper in his ear. "I'll make it up to you."

And then she's flipping them over so that she's on top and she feels his breath catch. She smirks down at him mischievously and then they're off again, finishing what they started. She makes sure to go slow, to feel every bit of him as she moves, catch every angle of him below her and store it in her mind for safekeeping. 

And when it's over and he's lying on his stomach, back facing the ceiling, she moves herself on top of him once more. Only this time, she kisses every scar on his body, sometimes asking where and how he got them until he finally gets the hint and starts sharing their stories before she can even ask. There are so many of them, some tiny and some much more noticeable. All of them have stories. She vows to herself that she will one day know all of them. That she will be there to soothe the next scrape, the next trauma. With each one of her kisses, she can feel the natural disaster within him reach a rhythm, not quite silenced but at peace.

They don't sleep that night. Only once she's sure she's kissed every inch of his body does she finally worm her way back into his arms, but they're both wide awake at that point. His eyes watch her in the dark, hair loose and splayed around them like some sort of blanket. It had been in pigtails at one point in the night.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"I…I just," words knot in his mouth. His eyebrows furrow at her in frustration as he tries to untangle and spell them out for her. "God, I love you."

Just for that, she kisses his body all over again. And again. And again.

________________________________________________________________

Their first times have been nothing short of unexpected. It's never how either of them imagined all these firsts would go. They're not soft and tender, though there are moments like that in-between, but neither had expected that. Their raging passions did not allow for it. But what they had expected was a lot more arguing, a lot more push and pull. Instead, they seemed to somehow fall right into each other- crash and burn style, no holding back.

Their firsts were painful lessons that needed to be learned. They were gnawing pains that needed to be had, throbbing emotions that had to be felt and delt with. They were stinging feelings, these firsts- stinging because they felt too much too soon and too fast and neither knew what to do with all of that expect for let it bubble until it exploded before them in an aching manner.

Their aching firsts.

[chase-the-windandtouch-the-sky]

“I never thought I’d see a Crusader Priest in a hoodie.”

Nile says it innocently, not thinking anything of it. If anything, she was trying to lighten the tension in the car, the five of them stuck in the back of a van, their hands tied. It annoyed her how easy it was to restrain them once someone got the jump on them. She would assume that immortals would be imbued with super strength, but she feels as mortal as she ever did. Booker was right, as usual. Just because they can’t die, doesn’t mean they can’t hurt.

Except as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she feels like she wants to take them back. Nicky sits across from her, tied to the side of the car as far away from Joe as the captors could get them. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the two of them together were far more dangerous than separate. She’s watched the move together like water, all encompassing and forever together. He stills, his hands in front of his chest, head bowed. In prayer, she doesn’t think so, but if she didn’t know he was over a thousand years old, she would figure he was.

Glancing in the van, she looks for someone to explain what she could’ve said that was so wrong. Nile can’t help it, her eyes go to Joe, who hasn’t looked away from him.

It’s like staring at the sun, watching Joe gaze at Nicky. Blinding, beautiful, painful, and intense. It feels all encompassing and private, as though the moment becomes a physical presence around her. “It is a reminder.” Nicky says softly from his corner of the van. “I think it is important to remember your mistakes.”

“You know how I feel about—” Joe starts.

“Yes, you have mentioned before.” Nicky looks up, his icy eyes attempting something light, but even Nile can tell it’s nothing more than a blanket covering something dark.

“I think I can say the speech by heart.” Booker offers offhandedly, Joe glaring in response. “I’m just saying you two aren’t as private as some people would encourage.”

“You would think that after two hundred years, you’d be used to it by now.” Andy says, her voice only mildly irritated in that way that Nile has come to learn as annoyance with having to get out of chains. She wonders absently if she’ll ever get simply annoyed with capture. Where the fear filters out and it’s merely inconvenient.

“No, I still think we need to start investing in safe houses with insulation and separate rooms.”

“You know that everyone would sleep in the same room regardless.” Andy snorts, getting even a laughless breath out of Nicky. Andy relaxes at that, Nile slightly jealous at how she can read them. The woman is also focused on Nicky, whose hands are wringing together ever-so-slightly. Joe watches the movement.

Finally, Nicky looks up to Nile, his eyes warm. “There are certain things that stay with you, no matter how much you want to forget. You would think over time, they would melt away, like the rain on a window. But… others do not.”

Nile can feel Joe’s frustration to being tied up from across the van, his legs stretched out and nowhere near Nicky. He makes a huff, which Nicky merely snorts at. The two look at each other and she’s certain there’s a conversation happening she’ll never be privy. That is, until Nicky speaks.

“It was the first time I decided it was not God’s will to do what we were sent to do.”

***

The battlefield is ripe with the stench of death. Nicolo swallows, looking at the lives around him. His shirt is stained with blood of the lives he’s taken, and with a bit of his own. He’s understood that God has given him a gift to reanimate – despite his terrifying first few deaths, Nicolo understood his purpose. He wasn’t meant to die, until his finished God’s vision of the world.

There’s a shout from behind him and Nicolo flinches, reacting in a violent swing that would make the most vicious of warriors flinch. Before he can even register what is happening, a figure falls at his feet, eyes wide and noises coming from his mouth that Nicolo knew would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Nicolo startles.

He’s seen this man before.

Except there’s no way that could be possible.

This man has died in his hands. From his hands. Even though Nicolo didn’t like to admit it, he also had been on the receiving end of the man’s sword.

Except, this time is different.

Nicolo drops his broadsword and places a hand on his cheek as the figure collapses. He has the sort of curls that easily twine around his fingers, and eyes that seem to carry Universes. Universes that makes Nicolo think of the lessons that God has tried to teach him, but he could never find the answer. The man before him, blood staining his teeth and dripping from the corner of his mouth. The man he’s seen many times.

Nicolo utters a quicker prayer, dropping to his knees. This is not like what they have taught him. The man before him is the sun and is light and Nicolo draws closer. “I am sorry.” He finds himself saying in a shaky voice, even though he knows the man won’t understand.

Except.

Something incredible happens. The pulsing of his heartbeat grows stronger under Nicolo’s touch, the faint rhythm making his breath hitch. He looks down at the man’s shirt, still stained with blood, but no longer spreading. Nicolo jerks his hand away, shocked. He knows he shouldn’t be – he’s seen his body heal in the mirrors he found in camp, but… this was supposed to be God’s will.

He was taught to hate the man before him, and yet, here he heals.

“Praise God,” Nicolo mutters because he doesn’t know what else to say.

The man grips Nicolo’s hand, the blood stain in it smearing against he own. He slowly catches his breath and mutters under his breath, a language that Nicolo knows not, but sounds like poetry and music. He wonders if the man ever gets tired of speaking because he isn’t sure he’d ever tire of hearing his voice.

“Nicolo, what are you doing?”

He startles at his name, Nicolo standing up to see a few other priests standing before him. Like carbon prints of each other, thoughts and opinions copied until he isn’t sure if they kept their humanity any longer.

For the first time, he sees.

He sees like he hasn’t before.

In that moment, Nicolo reaches truth.

He swung his sword in a violent motion, thinking anything different as a threat. Except, the man desperately trying to get to his feet behind him, was not threatening. He held on Nicolo’s hand as if he was trying to teach him something. Something he knew Nicolo needed to learn.

Instead, Nicolo killed him.

He was not a human, not a priest, he was a feral animal unleashed unto the world under the guise of destiny. Perhaps…

Perhaps destiny had answers humans couldn’t understand.

“What are you waiting for?” They ask.

The world is quiet to him. Even though he hears the screaming around him, the fight and the lives lost, Nicolo hears nothing but the wind. He listens for God, for destiny, for whoever to tell him that he was wrong.

The man behind him says something, the words washing over him. He may not understand the words, but he understands the feeling.

Destiny.

“I was waiting for a sign from God.” Nicolo finds himself says. He takes his sword in front of him, spreading his legs in the attack stance he was taught too many years ago. “And this is not what God wants.”

The confusion on their faces is only for a second. They twist in something inhuman, in something that he was taught to fear. But, Nicolo was not afraid.

Before they can reach him, Nicolo lets out a gasp. Looking down at his chest, he sees a curved sword impaled through his chest. “My god,” Nicolo mutters.

“They will torture you.” The man whispers in his ear in a broken Italian. Desperate. “They will call you… demon. You can’t let them. We need… time.”

Nicolo feels his breath on his neck, a shiver running down his spine. “I will find you.” He mutters, his words catching as he sees black spots curling around his eyes. “I-I—”

“I am counting on it.” The man says. “And I you… Nicolo.”

Nicolo lets out a choke of a laugh. “Not fair, you know me.”

The man takes the blade out of his chest in a quick movement. Nicolo falls to his knees as he does so. He has fallen to his knees so many times. Except, this time, he feels free. Even as he can feel his body fight against the wound, the skin stitching back together like the chainmail wrapped around his head, he’s never felt more alive.

The man stands over him, a bright smile on his face, his own wounds nothing more than a ripped shirt. He blocks the sun, but then again, maybe he is the sun. “Yusuf.” He states, placing his hand over his chest. “Until we find each other.”

“Until…” Nicky chokes on the blood pooling in his mouth. “Until we find…”

He can’t say anything further. Instead, he’s lost in the sun and the world and the Universe. There’s nothing in the world that’s made him feel like this. He staring at a man he was taught to hate and he feels… infinite. He feels as if he’s watching the sun rise after a cold night, the frost on the leaves dripping onto the ground. He feels like he’s heard a psalm for the first time, understand God in a way he’s never thought.

His mind goes blank.

The chainmail falls off his head, his body covered in metal. The chains were off. Nicolo was free.

***

“I spent my life in metal.” Nicky says. “I need to remember what I learned.”

“Plus, watching a man walk around in chainmail isn’t exactly discreet.” Booker offers. “But I’m in full agreement that you should do that.”

“Fuck off, Booker.” Andy snorts under her breath, but she’s still searching between Joe and Nicky.

“But, why?” Nile asks, unable to stop herself. “Why would you want to remember all of that?”

Nicky sucks in a breath, his eyes meeting Joe’s. It’s soft and powerful and unyielding. He doesn’t even tear away to answer Nile, his attention forever Joe’s. “To remember that you can try to do what you think is right, but you can be wrong. That mistakes you make can be transformed into something beautiful. By… someone beautiful.”

The moment is fraught, tense, and intimate.

“My god, I need alcohol if you two are going to be like that.”

Joe and Nicky snap out of whatever gaze they’ve lost each other in, both laughing at themselves. “Book’s right,” Andy says, relaxing ever-so-slightly when Nicky smiles, the haunt behind his eyes fading slightly. “Let’s use that energy to figure out how get out.”

“Oh, you haven’t?” Joe asked, bringing his hands up. Nile’s startled to see that there’s no zip ties on them, his wrists not even pink with the pressure anymore. “I just couldn’t wait.”

He crosses the back of the car with a couple strides, placing his hand on the back of Nicky’s neck and pulling him close. The car rattles and bumps, Nile staring that the two, very aware of the handcuffs on her wrist.

“Yeah,” Booker sighs, rolling his eyes at her. “That’s the most pressing thing at the moment.”

There’s no heat in it and she finds herself joining him in her fond exasperation.

It lasts another ten seconds before Andy seems fed up with the whole scenario and kicks the two of them. Another thirty until they’re all free.

A final sixty for the five of them to job out of the car, the bindings nothing more than a memory.

And the memories fade, as insignificant memories do.

Nile hangs back with Booker and Andy, Joe and Nicky in a world the three will never be invited. As the moon shimmers against their shoulders, she thinks she may be alright with that.

[firefly464]

The Gilded Cage - Chapter 9

hehe i’m very excited :) also thank you pami for doing write time with me that was super poggers and awesome you’re so cool 

Written in collaboration with @pamiiap​​ :D Thank you @tea-with-veth​ for beta reading, and editing :D

Master Post

First -  Previous - Next

~~~

Three days. That’s how long Eret stayed with the computer. Three days of nothing but staring at the same screen, desperately trying to test out different commands to see what would work. Three days of sitting in a dark, cold room, with nothing to keep him warm. 

Over the past three days, Eret had barely slept. 

He’d lingered there for hours, the clicking of the keyboard and flashing of the screen filling his senses. All he could think about was this could be his way home. A way to end this and leave it all behind. Maybe he could wake up and it would all be a dream. 

A dream.

Dream.

Dream was his friend. Dream was…

Dream was.

After hours of clawing at the keys for an escape, he hesitated for a moment. He curled his hands into fists and relaxed them, trying to release the tension he had. 

Instead of typing commands, he typed:

Why?

If anyone is reading, send me something

A sign, preferably

Tell me I’m not alone

Give me something

Anything

The shaking in his hands slowed, the edges of his vision melted away. He watched as his world faded into darkness.

~~~

“Hey, chat!” He says, on impulse. “How’s it been? Feels like forever.”

“Sorry for the long hiatus, life’s been throwing curveballs at me.” He continues.

Don’t worry!

You��re fine!

Its okay :D

“I hope you guys have been alright. Don’t know what we’ll be doing with this stream so I’m going to start a little poll in the chat here…”

Time melts away as he talks to his stream, he knows that. That’s how streams usually go. It happens in a blur, the eyes of thousands of people aren’t on him anymore. The stream has ended.

He falls into nothingness.

~~~

Journal Entry #1

I found the Console, still can’t get back home yet though. I’m still unsure on how it works, but I know, I know, that I can get home. It’s kind of like a command block, you can input code but it needs some sort of activation key to trigger it. Haven’t found that yet.

I’ll update this as I find more information.

Journal Entry #2

Text commands seem to work, more extreme commands need the trigger. I really should make some sort of command list, that might help. 

Journal Entry #3

I’ve made a list on a separate paper. I’m running out of space.

Journal Entry #6

What could the trigger be? I need to find it.

Journal Entry #8

I haven’t slept in three days. I need to head back.

Journal Entry #9

Nothing new as of the moment. I’m going to start working on a trigger to activate this thing.

Journal Entry #10

I wonder if I could undo whatever Dream did to everyone’s memories? I wonder if I could make it so that they didn’t hate me anymore. 

Journal Entry #13

I can’t sleep. 

Journal Entry #15

Going home back again. Bad’ll still have muffins, I hope. (If George didn’t eat them already)

Journal Entry #16

George ate my muffins. Prick >:(

Journal Entry #17

Packing for another trip to the Console today. Bad made extra muffins to compensate for the atrocity that happened yesterday. (Sidenote: George had his muffin privileges removed for a day)

Journal Entry #20

Bad’s worried. I wouldn’t blame him. I don’t think I can blame myself either. I have to get home.

Journal Entry #24

I’m here. Glad no-one’s tampered with my list. I’ve been gathering some redstone supplies to try and make a prototype trigger.

Journal Entry #27

I’ve tried several combinations of levers and buttons and redstone but nothing seems to activate it. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

Journal Entry #28

Nothing’s working.

Journal Entry #30

Can’t sleep again.

Journal Entry #32

I don’t think I’ve eaten. 

Journal Entry #33

I have to go ho back. I need to be more careful, George and Bad are getting worried. I don’t want them to be worried about me. They don’t even know me.

Journal Entry #34

Do I even know them?

Journal Entry #37

I won’t go to the Console for a couple of days. That might calm them down.

The weather’s getting warmer actually. I think spring might be almost here. Not sure if seasons might not work the same.

Journal Entry #38

George says it’s already mid-spring. I didn’t realize I’d been here for so long

Journal Entry #???

I want to go home. 

~~~

Eret closed the small book with a sigh. Ever since he had found the console several months ago, he had tried to do his best to keep a record of what he found. 

However, the journal had quickly turned into a place for him to pour his emotions, rather than document his findings. All of his actual records were with the console itself, where he could better keep track of them. 

He placed the small book in his bag, before swinging it over his shoulders. He needed to go back. Even if everything about the small, dark room made him want to scream, it was his only hope. His only way of potentially returning home. 

Gently, he pushed back the small curtain that separated his room from the rest of the community house. Even after several months of staying here, he still hadn’t bothered to make an actual room. After all, it wasn’t like he had a ton of free time. 

Almost all of his time was spent either at the console, or digging out tunnels underneath L’manberg. God, he hated those tunnels. 

As he gently stepped out into the main room, he quickly glanced around, checking to see if the coast was clear. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Bad or George, in fact it was quite the opposite. He just… He hated making them worry. He knew how much his frequent visits bothered both of them, and so lately he had begun trying to quietly slip away. 

He was almost at the front door of the community house, when a voice called out to him. 

“Eret?”

He froze. 

Shit. 

Maybe, if he kept walking, whoever it was would just… let him go. Maybe he could pretend like he didn’t hear them, and he could just move on with his day. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to figure out the best course of action. 

“Eret? Are you alright?” 

Fuck. 

He slowly turned around, trying his best not to grimace when he saw Bad standing at one of the other doors. 

“Hey…” The word sounded forced, even to him. “Uh, I was just… um…” 

Bad’s face fell ever so slightly as he noticed the small bag slung across Eret’s back. 

“Are you going to the forest again?” Eret tried his best to ignore the way that Bad’s voice was tinged with a slight disappointment. It would only make him feel guilty. 

“Uh, yeah…” 

“Were you just going to leave again? Without telling anyone?” Although there was no accusation in his tone, the words still cut deep, acting as a harsh reminder of his own actions. 

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to dispel some of the nervous energy that was swirling around him. “I didn’t want to worry you guys anymore… I left a note upstairs though, I swear!” 

That was a lie. There was no note, there never was a note. But if claiming that there was helped to ease Bad’s worries, then that was what he was going to do. 

He could tell that Bad didn’t believe him. Although his friend would never actually call him out on it, he could still tell from the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, or the small frown that crossed his face. 

“Ok… Well, before you head out again, me and George were hoping to give you something,” Bad’s voice was filled with a forced cheerfulness, complete with a matching smile. 

Eret’s head shot up in disbelief. What on earth did they possibly have to give him? They had already done so much to help him, what more could there possibly be? 

Tendrils of guilt began to worm their way through Eret’s mind, reminding him of all the ways his friends had helped him over the past months, and all the ways he had failed to return their kindness. How was he supposed to accept yet another gift? 

“I really don’t need anything, you guys have already done enough for me,” he protested, knowing full well that nothing he could say would actually dissuade Bad. 

“Nonsense, this is something that we wanted to do for you. Hold on, I’ll go get George. Don’t go anywhere!” he cried out, already rushing out of the building. 

Eret let out a long sigh at the final sentence. Of course Bad didn’t trust him to not run off. 

Why would he?

~~~

Despite every instinct in his body that was telling him to run, Eret found himself rooted to the spot where he stood. When Bad returned nearly 10 minutes later with George behind him, he had hardly moved. 

“So… What exactly is going on?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded forced and strained. 

“Well, George and I were talking,” Bad started, already rummaging through one of the many chests that lined the walls, “and we realized that you’re going to be king soon, right?” 

Eret couldn’t help but flinch at the reminder. To him, the title of king was nothing more than a reminder of what he had lost. A reminder of the pain he had caused for his friends. A reminder of the pain that he would continue to cause. 

But still, he couldn’t let his own reluctance show. If he remembered correctly, becoming king had meant a lot to his alter-ego. Hell, he had gone so far as to betray his friends, just so that he could secure the crown. 

And so he forced a smile onto his face, doing his best to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. “I mean, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen for a while, but… yeah that was the idea. Why?” 

Bad’s grin grew wider, his face alight with barely contained excitement as he continued searching through different chests. Even George, who rarely showed any outward excitement around Eret, had a small smile on his face. 

“You’ll see, it’s a surprise. I just gotta find it first” 

“I uh, I think it's hanging up downstairs,” George interjected, already moving towards the stairs, “I can go grab it, hold on.” 

He was gone only for a few moments before he emerged at the top of the staircase, holding something behind his back, hidden from Eret’s line of sight. “Do you wanna explain what it is?” He asked, his question clearly directed at Bad. 

Bad nodded, then turned back to Eret, pride showing in his eyes. “Well, we wanted to get you something nice for your coronation. I know it probably isn’t going to be for a while, but you’ve seemed really stressed lately, and we wanted to do something nice for you!” 

George grinned, revealing a long, extravagant coat from behind his back. “Sapnap and Punz helped out with collecting dyes as well.” 

The silk coat was a deep shade of crimson, embellished with gold accents. It felt nice to touch but it was also durable. The inside of the coat was lined with an insulating fur that pokes over the collar, making the inside of it warm. 

He glanced up at both George and Bad, his brow furrowed in slight confusion. “Wait… Wait is this… What?” 

“It’s a coat! I know it gets cold at night so we made you this. Not to mention, a king should look the part.”

Tears started to form in his eyes, threatening to spill over as he gently took the coat. “Thank you” He forced out, unsure of what else he was supposed to say. 

“Go on then,” George said. “Put it on!”

Slowly, he took off the tattered L’manburg uniform, bloodied and stained with dirt, and put on the new coat. It felt… different. But, a good different. 

“Thank you.”

~~~

Several days had passed since Eret had last left the community house. Several days since George and Bad had gifted him the red coat. 

George could tell that their friend's absence was starting to chip away at Bad, his worry festering underneath his skin. By the third day, George had had enough. 

He quickly packed two bags, complete with everything that they would need for a long journey. He might not have known where exactly their friend had gone, but they knew the general direction. That would have to be enough. 

“Hey Bad!” He called out, his friend quickly coming down the stairs of the community house. 

“Whats up?” 

“Come on, we’re gonna go look for him.” 

~~~

Neither of them had any idea what they were looking for, all they knew was that it was somewhere in the eastern dark oak forest. They had spent nearly a week searching every nook and cranny of the woods, never finding any trace of their friend. 

That is, until they stumbled across a pathway. The dirt had been worn down, leaving a trail that they could follow.

The path had led to a small clearing, with a dark building in the center. 

Both George and Bad had recognized the strange material almost instantly. Bedrock. Eret had somehow found a building made of bedrock.

What the hell. 

The area surrounding the building was devoid of any human life, the only exception being a lone horse that was sleeping in the warm sun. 

“Well, I think we found him…” Bad’s voice was filled with concern. 

As they stepped into the strange building, they saw the room completely empty except for a machine in the middle. And unconscious at the desk, was…

“Eret?!”

~~~

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[olderthanthemorning]

south london forever (sirius black) part 1

pairing: sirius black x reader

summary: "and everything i ever did was just another way to scream your name." in which reader remembers adolescence and a certain someone's youthful grin.

wc: 1.6k

warnings: mentions of drinking

a/n: look so i fell off the face of the earth for the past few months but i'm in school and also mentally unwell so that's my excuse. this didn't turn our the way i wanted it to but i feel like that's ok?? not quite as painful as it could've be. (also ik i need to do gold rush pt2 but ive been trying to write it and never like what i write so :/) anyway, feedback is always welcome! also request stuff! characters or songs!! (p.s. i'm obsessed with SOUR by olivia rodrigo rn so pls request songs !!)

the night bus jolted and shook you awake. it was a long journey from hogwarts, but you were finally near your own neighborhood. as you looked around, everything seemed just slightly different. you were suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you would never be in any of these places as a student, or a child, again. the old church that had at least 4 weddings every spring seemed a little faded, the park and playground where you and your mates would drink at night looked much smaller in the light of early summer.

within the playground was a swing set, which hadn't meant much to you until a year ago. after a night of singing way too loud with a group of your friends, the manager of the local pub, david, kicked the lot of you out. after a few playful swears and hand gestures to the man, you promised to be back the next night and headed across the street to sit and sober up before trying to climb back into your bedroom window. the group you were with seemed larger than usual so you linked arms with mary, a fellow witch that lived up the street from you.

"picked up a few stragglers, have we?" you asked. mary was a social butterfly, and when you didn't know someone, you could count on her to know them.

"yes! and even better, they're from school," she was careful not to name hogwarts. one of the only downsides of hanging out with muggles was having to police your conversations. "that one there is james," she said pointing at a boy in a slacks and a button down that looked like it was only tucked in a fraction of what it had been at the beginning of the night. his hair is neatly cut and he wears glasses, although they make him look young, like you can see him growing out of them in while you look at him.

"he looks like he's far from home," you laughed, the boy seemed far to sheltered to have been just thrown out of a gay bar.

"tell me about it," mary snorted, "but no he's here with the other one," she nods at another boy who looks more like the others. he has on jeans and a t-shirt that is just short enough to threaten showing his middle at any moment. his hair is dark and curly but a lot messier than james', like he had been listening to a lot of rolling stones. "he's called sirius. apparently he's staying with james this summer because his parents kicked him out. they're pure bloods, real pricks."

"you'd have to be a knob to call your kid sirius," you snickered, letting go of your friends hand and flopping onto the grass. you looked up and saw the upside-down face of sirius, "just wait until you hear my brother's name."

you feel yourself go pale and cover your face with a hand, "shit. i'm sorry," although embarrassed, you couldn't help but giggle.

he chuckled, "no, it's alright. but i your going to make fun of my name, i should at least know yours." he sat beside you, prompting you to sit up, and frantically brush the grass from your hair. "i'm y/n," you say, sticking out your hand, "and that's mary."

"hi mary," sirius give your friend a knowing smile, which confuses you. "you're both going into seventh year?"

you nodded and he continued talking for a bit. sirius seemed to be engaged in the conversation with you and mary but would look around every so often, like he was expecting something. over the course of a few minutes, he managed to refer to three family members as "dickheads," admit to a prank that had involved a charm on a library door that resulted a tidal wave dowsing whoever tried to open it, and start an argument about how the chudley cannons were so much better than the holyhead harpies. the last of which you disagreed with, hence the argument.

"come on sirius, you're not fighting about quidditch again, are you?" james sat down on mary's other side.

"i like to think of it as educating our new friends. they support the harpies, james. they need all the help they can get."

"no no, harpies are decent. they've got you there." james replied, smiling softly at mary.

"listen, y/n, do you want go on a walk?" sirius suddenly turns to you.

"um..." you're caught off guard by his forwardness, you only just met the guy.

"yeah, come on. just a short walk." he pulled you up to your feet and dragged you away.

you follow him into the middle of the street, illuminated by a dim yellow glow from a light post. "how come i've never met you at school?" he turns around to look at you, walking backwards.

"dunno, not looking hard enough i guess?" you tried to test the waters of flirting, since he tried so hard to get you alone.

"i guess not," he smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets. a silence fell over the two of you as you continued to walk, just around the block.

as you rounded the corner to the opposite side of the park from your friends you decide to speak again, "so do you just really like walks or something? this seems like something you could've done alone." you continue to follow him up to a swing set and sit down in the swing next to the one he had perched in.

"you can be kind of thick, you know?" sirius looked at you as if he had just explained a simple concept to you.

"i'm sorry?" you felt annoyed, like he was mocking you. "look, you're the one that asked to be alone with me and then go on acting like a preteen boy that's never kissed anyone."

"y/n, i wasn't trying to put the moves on you, honest. i know i can go on a walk alone, but it's a little awkward to make out with someone while their best friend's right there, innit?" he pointed across the park to where mary and james were coming up for air from a kiss, giggling.

"oh." a different kind of embarrassment washed over you. "how long has that been happening?"

"james hasn't shut up about her for about a week, but tonight was the first time he's had the guts to actually talk to her."

"right." you had a sudden wish to recall a hex that would allow you to melt into ice lolly goo and seep into the mulch at your feet. you took a chance and glanced at sirius, who was grinning at you. "please don't say anything, my ego is already bruised," you said, dropping your head again.

"i mean, i'm flattered, really," he clutched his heart, dramatically, "but if i was really trying to pull you, we would be long gone by now."

"wow, you know some people find humility endearing."

"not me. how could i be humble with a face like this?" you're unsure if your eyes have ever rolled this much before in your life.

"so your ego has also had enough attention for the evening," you laugh. there is another short silence, much less awkward than the one during your walk.

"it's a star, by the way," it's sirius who breaks it this time. "sirius is a star in canis major," you realize he's referencing to your comment about his name earlier.

"yeah, i know. brightest star in the sky, right?" night lessons in the astronomy tower hadn't prepared you for much, but it was proving helpful now.

"something like that. i agree with you though, it's a little much. my parents are kind of," he paused, "supercilious? that's not the right word. but i'm not sure there is a good word for what my parents are."

"i didn't mean to give you shit about it earlier. i actually like your name," while calling it your favorite name would be a stretch, but you felt like this was the sensitive thing to say. he couldn't change it, after all.

"thanks."

"oy!" james calls to you two. the entire group had gathered and was waving you over.

"well, i guess that's our queue," you stand up and walk back together, making small conversation on the way.

the group had gathered because it was apparently time to call it a night. everyone said their goodbyes and started walking their separate ways. you were now waiting on mary to say goodbye to james, as she was always your buddy to walk home with. once again, you're left with sirius as he waits for james.

"well, it was a pleasure to meet you y/n, i look forward to next time." he said. you rack your brain and try to remember if you had made plans to hangout again. you were drunk but not still drunk enough to have missing memories.

"next time?" you ask.

"i've already bragged about how quickly i could charm you. now i just have to prove it." you hope the light post is dim enough to hid your slight blush.

"well, then i look forward to disproving you." and with that, mary is ready and the two of you link arms once again to walk back towards your homes.

[hatsukeii]

can i request a tsukishima scenario? When he is feeling sad so his fem! S/o pampers him with kisses in his face and hands, and maybe cuddles 🥺🥺

*cough angst with fluff ending *cough

I have to make it up to you guys for the last Tsukki angst right?

Before slamming another multitude of depressing scenarios but don’t worry about that for now.

lol I genuinely love this prompt so much though, tysm anon!

Always, I’ll care//Tsukishima x Reader

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: Mild swearing, mentions of divorce, mentions of anorexia, ✨cyberbullying✨

Summary: Tsukishima’s been out of it for week but you can’t seem to pinpoint why, until he finally reaches out.

Yeah, you were absolutely certain that something was up with Kei at this point. There was, without a doubt, something that had been bothering him terribly. Whatever this thing was, it was draining him of his usual spirit. The usual glint of mischief that sparkled in his eyes has been gone for weeks, now replaced by a dull golden. He hasn’t bantered with any of his teammates throughout the last few practices, he hasn’t made an extra effort to make you feel short, nor has he reached out to anyone at all. His sharp tongue was gone, along with his usual tendencies to taunt other students. You haven’t been able to reach him in what felt like forever. He hasn’t replied to any of your texts, hasn’t walked you home at all, nor has he invited you over for your study dates. This felt weird. This didn’t feel right at all. This wasn’t the Kei you were used to, but at the same time you had no idea what you could do to make him feel better. He was too closed off for his own good, keeping everything to himself and letting his worries eat him up from the inside.

You heaved a heavy sigh, shoving your books into your locker. He had ignored your text again. This was the seventh one in a row that he had left on seen. Everyone who knew him was worried, especially you and Yamaguchi. He refused to tell even Yamaguchi what was up with him these days.You two had all the reasons in the world to be extra wary of his mental state. “(Y/N), you don’t think he’s okay either, do you?” The freckled boy mumbled next to you, grabbing his notes from the locker next to yours. “No, he’s definitely not okay. Constantly having his headphones on is never a good sign. The last time he was like that was when his parents got divorced.” You slammed your locker door shut as hard as you can, earning quite a few glares from other students that were startled by the noise. “Jesus, I haven’t been able to reach him for weeks. What the hell happened?” You pressed your forehead to the locker door, squeezing your eyes shut. “He’s been out of it at practice too. Tsukki almost never misses his blocks against anyone, but he’s been doing terribly in practice. Coach Ukai had to put him on the bench last week. What’s up with him?” Yamaguchi recalled, shaking his head a bit. “Hell, as if I’d know. I’ve been trying to check up on him for weeks, but he’s left all of my texts on read.” You removed your head from the metal door, before heading to class, where you had to deal with a dead silent, gloomy, angsty Tsukishima for about an hour, before school ended. 

You were curled up on your bed, a million thoughts rampaging through your mind, every single one of them being about Kei. It’s been half an hour since school ended. You walked home with Yamaguchi. Tsukishima was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had abandoned you two and left on his own. No, scratch that, he probably did leave alone. Was he doing okay? What happened to him? Did he fail a test or something? Oh no, did his parents get back together again? Even worse, did he get invited to his dad’s wedding with his new wife? Or maybe he was just fed up with you? Wait, what did you do? Did you piss him off? Oh god, it must’ve been the time where you forgot to bring him that strawberry shortcake you promised to make him. Or was it that time you were late for your date and he almost didn’t make it in time for the premiere of that new Jurassic Park movie? Your train of thoughts was rudely interrupted by the ringing of your phone. You lazily slapped a hand across your nightstand, grabbing your phone from the charger and pulling it towards you. Your eyes widened at the contact that was shown on the screen. You sat up at an inhumanly speed, accepting the call as you brought your phone to your ear. “Kei?” “(Y/N), can you- can you come over? Please- please come over.” He was audibly sobbing, tiny sniffs making their way into his sentences. “Oh-oh god, yeah, of course, I’ll be there in five, stay put, don’t worry.” You changed into a random pair of sweats, and took off to Tsukishima’s house, grabbing a bunch of candy and some shortcake on the way, just to make him feel a bit better.

You slowly creaked open the door to his room, taking a peek. The blond haired boy was sitting in front of his laptop, a hand over his mouth as tears slowly dropped onto the keys. His eyes were bloodshot, presumably from all the crying. His phone was in his other hand, the knuckles of his fingers white from gripping the piece of technology so tight. Your heart clenched at the sight. It was as if an entire army fired arrows at your heart simultaneously, and all the arrows managed to pierce through that pulsing lump of muscle. The boy, that you cared for so dearly, was breaking down, and no one knew except for you. “Kei....” You opened the door a bit more, lightly treading on the wooden floor of his room as you approached the taller male. “Am I worthless?” The blond whimpered out, his eyes never leaving the screen. Your gaze landed onto the computer screen. You gave out an audible growl after reading what was shown on the monitor.

From: Unknown

To: Tsukishima Kei

Dear Tsukishima,

I hope you know that you’re the reason your parents got divorced, you little shit. I wish for no one to ever love you. Everyone that dates you should only date you out of pity. You’re worthless. No one truly cares about you. You could kill yourself and no one would notice, you anorexic blond bitch. Stay your ass scrawny while everyone buffs up xx

Sincerely, Your dad- oh wait you wish, he probably can’t even remember who you are

Your face darkened at the disgusting email that was sent to your boyfriend. How dare someone say such hurtful things to him. Tsukishima sighed, his head hanging low. “You can’t even answer it. I already know I’m worthless, I don’t need you to rub it in either. I thought you could help.” Your head snapped towards the blond, misbelief and rage shining through the look you gave him. “Kei, how long have you been receiving emails like this? Why didn’t you tell me-” “Just answer me first.” You were taken aback by his tone. It was hurt, definitely, but almost in a hopeless way. You brought your hand up to cup his tear stained cheek, drying it with your thumb as your other hand went up to ruffle his hair. “How could you ever be worthless? Even if everyone else thought you were worthless, I’d still think you’re the most precious thing in the world, and you better not let anyone tell you otherwise.” Tsukishima let out a strained sob, nuzzling his face into your warm hand, before taking a deep breath. “This person, whoever it is, they’ve been sending me these emails for a few weeks. At first, they weren’t that bad, but then it started to get personal. They attacked my family situation, my relationship, and my body.” Your nose scrunched up in disgust. “What kind of sick freak attacks someone’s family situation?” The blond shakily sighed. “Apparently this person.” You shook your head, shoving your face into your hand. “We all know they got divorced because your mom caught him cheating. It’s clearly not your fault. You dad was in the wrong and you know it.” He sulked a bit, before continuing. “Well they’ve also been calling me anorexic for weeks.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed at this new information. Never in a million years did you think Kei would think so heavily of his own body image. He always struck you as a carefree, unbothered person. Who would’ve known he was so insecure underneath it all? “Kei, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” “I didn’t want you to worry. I thought I could deal with this on my own, but then they started bringing up by dad and me looking anorexic. Apparently I’m too skinny for anyone to appreciate. No one wants an anorexic person. I’m not even anorexic but I’m getting offended by this. I can’t help being lanky you know.” You heaved a dry chuckle. “Seriously? Body image issues? Tsukishima god damn Kei look at yourself and tell me you have a terrible body. Do it.” He was visibly shocked, looking down at himself. “Exactly. You can’t.” Your hand went down to grab his, pulling him on his feet. You pulled his sleeve up, giving his shoulder a tiny peck. “Look at you. You’re built like a whole ass Greek God. You’re like lowkey ripped, how in hell’s name did you manage to believe in that asshole’s emails?” Next, you led his hand to your face, giving each finger a kiss. “Somehow your fingers are still intact for me to hold, even after winning so many sets with your insane blocks.” You let go of his hand, slowly trailing your fingers along his face. “Your eyes are deadass the most perfect thing. I don’t think I can enjoy the sun anymore, your eyes are enough for me to get mesmerised in.” You pulled his face down, giving both his eyelids a tender peck. You squeezed his cheeks, before squishing them between your palms. “You may be lanky and muscular, but your cheeks are still as squishy as ever. I love squishing them so much, they’re like a baby’s cheeks.” With that, you gave both his cheeks a peck, before finally moving to his forehead, giving it a gentle kiss. “Right here, is where the magic is put to work. Everything you’ve been through, learned, felt, all stored right here. Your mind is quite the battlefield, constantly giving you conflicting thoughts about yourself. You’re still dealing with everything that’s been thrown on you. From your parent’s divorce, to your brother’s lie, to the shitty emails. But that mind of yours, also managed to find a way to block THE Ushijima Wakatoshi. It’s aced so many exams for you, it’s helped you get to me, and it’s helped you make up those snarky one liners that you love to use so much. I know what I say might not make any significant difference, but I just want to let you know how I feel. I think you’re a complete badass, a hotshot middle blocker, and one of the hottest people I’ve landed my eyes on. So many people care about you, so please never render yourself worthless. Please.” At this point, Tsukishima had stopped crying, now looking at you with wide eyes. “How could your words ever be insignificant to me?” His arms were instantly wrapped around you, pushing you into his chest. It was dead silent in the room. You could hear his heartbeat in your ear. “Thank you... so, so much.” His voice cracked a bit as he whispered. You moved your head up, giving him a soft, but passionate kiss, keeping your forehead in contact with his. “You don’t have to thank me, I was only stating the truth. Plus, you better report that asshole to the school, they’re gonna get what they deserve when the teachers find out who it is.” He pulled away, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Why do you care so much anyways? You sent me like seven texts in a row at school. You should be pissed at me or something. I did leave you on read for weeks after all.” You laughed heartily, before drawing circles on his hand with your thumb.

“Always, I’ll care, dumbass.”

Is this fluffy enough for you guys? Probably not considering it’s still like part angst lmao but idc have fun reading it the angst will be back in a bit my dudes and I’m about to make Tsukishima suffer again I’m sorry I love him too but like I crave angst xx

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If you wanna be tagged just comment or pm bc I don’t know that many people on tumblr yet:)

[sweetsoundsofignorance]

Currently running around bugging people and I want to know your thoughts on this: if you had full creative control of the show, how would you run season 5? You can pick and choose whatever leaks you want to include.

Thank you for the ask! 💕 A very fun exercise, and there has been some excellent speculation from the fandom. I’ve enjoyed reading everyone’s takes on it that I’m almost inclined to create bingo cards out of everyone’s nuttier speculations and play Riverdale batshit bingo for the season, a la Cabin the Woods.

I should say Riverdale speculation and leaks can leave me feeling overwhelmed at times, so I drift in and out when they are circling. Therefore, this rant is limited to the leaks/speculation/trailer gifs I have seen or heard about because I have no self-control. I’ve also not seen 4x17 or 4x18 (though I feel like I have through a mishmash of so many GIFs and recaps and speculations). In my mind, 4x17 is just *insert gif of Betty standing in the middle of the woods holding a bloody rock* Atm, no one knows how we got there.

Given the beginning of season five will be the tail-end of season four, perhaps start there? This got away from me, so it’s under the cut.

I imagine they will close four with the reveal of the voyeur and Chic/Charles plotline (with Riverdale you never know where they’re going to be selectively sloppy). In that case, I have fully adopted the following speculation/serenity prayer: see @sullypants theory here. It’s the perfect level of batshit Riverdale and it’s consistent with the hypnosis (cannot keep a straight face just typing it) plotline. I know, consistent and Riverdale should never be in the same sentence without some negative participle in between. So, that “cleans up” the Bughead infidelity but leaves Varchie in the weeds (sigh). It would ex out Charles/Chic. The fallout would break up Falice, possibly.

 FP gets busted for all the shady shit he’s done as sheriff and has to flee the country, so hi, Canada, but no wrestle mania with the grizzly bears this time. Or he gets eaten by a bear. I don’t care.

 Veronica gains some self-agency and leaves for college. Though I want her to get out from under her father, loyalty to family is so engrained with the Lodges that I don’t see it happening. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Hiram’s terminal illness kills him. If Toni and Cheryl break up, Cheronica may happen through their rum business, which takes off. I would not be remiss if Cheryl and Veroncia were endgame, but I know it won’t shake out like that, so. Also, if it is hypnosis, I hope Veronica and Betty would still be friends long-distance.

 Toni takes the reins for the Southside, ends the rampant Serpent misogyny, actually makes the neighborhood a safe space for the residents, and works to end the cycle of poverty. She manages the White Wyrm, and yes, there are still strippers because nothing wrong with that, but the Serpent Dance is barely a footnote. I am curious if they will shoot around Vanessa’s pregnancy, but if they incorporate it into the show, I would not be against Cheryl and Toni having a child together. If they did not break up.

 For Jughead, he got his MFA at Iowa, but in true millennial fashion, never made it past that (for a great fic on the plight of the underemployed over-educated millennial see @imreallyloveleee head underwater). He might have written a first novel that was semi-popular, received a few good reviews but overall lambasted by the bigger names. Head canon is that it becomes a cult classic in later years, perhaps a screenplay. Hard forever no to him being an alcoholic, but I can see some Sideways-level angst dealing with trying to get over writer’s block (plus anxiety block based on the mediocre success of his first) for his next novel and some bitterness about his first novel, which may be the driving wedge between Jughead and whoever ends up being his SO in this scenario.

 Jughead as an English teacher gels for me. I’ve written him as an English teacher. I like reading him as an English Teacher (*cough* *cough* @geekspen). Though they flopped with the Jug and Jellybean relationship in season four, I always imagined Jughead from season one and that brief moment in season three as a very present and considerate big brother type. Based on those brief interactions we have gotten, I would believe Jughead is good with kids, especially teenagers. He’s had experience dealing with dumbass adolescents, i.e. the Serpents, and (kind of) keeping them in line, mainly by out-extra-ing the morons (see declaring himself gamemaster by ordering Cheryl to shoot an arrow through a can on his head). I see him being that curmudgeonly teacher that gets along with those grab-bag students on the edge of committing a crime out of sheer boredom who linger in their English teacher’s classrooms during lunch and after school (that’s how we started our creative writing club in high school), and that leads me to a head-canon about him starting, yes, a creative writing club or running the Blue and Gold. I love full-circle shit like that. I think he would be an objectively bad teacher but a very good one in the context of Riverdale, if that makes sense.

 Bughead long distance did not pan out, and Betty being Betty immersed herself in her career – degree in criminal psychology, BSU at the FBI, the whole shebang. Reports of a giant man with red eyes and wings seen in the vicinity of places where people are disappearing. FBI!Betty investigates these at her alma mater until one happens in Riverdale, which drags her investigation thattaway.

 Veronica is unhappy with her SO for whatever reason (not exactly jazzed about her being with a douche but ok). She is successful but wistful. Her father dies. She uses it as an excuse to break up with her SO and return to Riverdale to help her mother manage the estate. Because Veronica is successful in her own right, most of the estate goes to her mother and Hermosa. She returns to Pop’s one night for nostalgia’s sake. She signed the diner back over to Tate years ago.

 Jughead is there struggling to write after a fight with his SO.

 Side note: I don’t like love triangles. Even less, I don’t like setups for more infidelity, even if it would lead to my ship ending up together. I understand that is often the reality (I’ve witnessed it), but I think it is bad writing. So, for any of the core four’s respective SOs, please no cheating on them. Break it off. Learn from your mistakes. Therefore, Jughead soon breaks up with his SO after meeting Veronica in Pop’s.

 Veronica sits with him. Cue some reminiscing. Perhaps the mystery starts in the speakeasy, of which Veronica is still the partial owner. This connects Betty and Veronica down the road. Because Jughead witnessed it, Betty crosses paths with him.

 Initially, Betty is reticent to let Jughead get involved with her investigation. However, Jughead is just as obsessed with the mystery (because he’s him), so they keep running into each other. He gets in the way a few times (more tension). Eventually, Jughead ends up discovering some important piece of evidence that Betty needs, so she gives in. Before he joins her investigation, he may be keeping his own personal murder board in the Blue and Gold at school after hours… Lots of sexual tension. I’d even be down for friends with benefits because *insert gif of Donna accusing Betty of being addicted to Jug’s vitamin D*. But Betty knows she isn’t going to stay in Riverdale and they’ve already tried and failed long-distance, so she keeps putting on the brakes. Jughead starts to get his writing mojo back, too, because I will never not believe Betty is his muse.

 Archie. Oh Archie. Deployed overseas for a time, though I cannot stand the idea of giving this kid anymore PTSD. He returns, and for a while, spends most of his time alone at the old gym and in the Andrews home. His old army buddy shows up out of work. He works with Toni to create a real community center for the Southside youth because I enjoyed that poorly executed plotline in season four. This also gives his army buddy a job. His army buddy is from New Haven, so he ends up being a Mothman suspect, given it started at Betty’s alma mater.

 Through his work with Toni, he gets dragged into Jughead’s orbit. Maybe they both try to reactivate the community center’s big brother program together. It’s just very difficult for me to imagine Jughead accepting/forgiving Archie, and though I cannot imagine how they would resolve it, I would like to see it.

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Soulmate Shenanigans Four: A New Shenanigan

I think you know what’s happening. If not, parts one, two, and three are here.

Basically, there were prompts for Soulmate AUs meant to be done in September. And now I’m doing them.

Midway through October.

Woo!

Prompt #4

There is a trail of color only you can see that marks out where your soulmate has been. 

Warnings for death mentions (less than normal, but still....it’s there)

World Building

Color trails had been around for all of human history.

Gods were invented to explain them, and maybe some of them even existed once.

The truth is, no one knows how they were created or for what purpose, some choosing to blame it on pheromones and some on divine will. 

This is despite all the scientific advancements color trails caused.

After all, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra knew they weren’t meant to be, so they never even tried. Therefore, Caesar never burned the Library Of Alexandria, which changed the course of human history forever.

Now, technology is on the up and up, and things are even more of a cyberpunk dystopia!

The Havens

No matter what happens over the course of human history, people are going to want to take solace in something. Corporations were able to isolate the basic things people seek and create Havens (special centers for the things).

To find Havens, there’s the cyberpunk dystopia version of a wooden signpost that points in different directions. The arms read:

This Way To Feel Safe

This Way To Feel Lucky

This Way To Feel Self-Righteous

This Way To Feel Content

This Way To Feel Beautiful

This Way To Feel Euphoric

This Way To Feel Nothing

Whoever controls a Haven controls the people, not the government. Everyone’s pretty aware of this, including the government, which spends most of their time in the Havens anyway.

Each of the main Havens is trying to become the only one, but it’s really a stalemate, since different people want different things. Their goal is to stop that pesky habit.

Characters

Virgil: Virgil really should be the famous hacker. After all, he’s pretty tech-smart, socially reclusive, and kind of scary.

Sadly, he’s too practical to be the famous hacker. If he was a hacker, he’d just hack stuff instead of leaving an honest-to-god calling card, which will eventually get any hacker caught.

No, Virgil’s just a petty thief in the sky.

He and Janus were trying to buy their way into a Haven, but they’ve gotten more and more expensive as the years have gone by, hence the thievery. Janus runs the scams on the ground while Virgil uses all manners of hovering to scale the buildings no one expects to be scaled.

That was the plan, until Jan went missing.

Virgil assumed that his friend abandoned him as soon as he got enough money for one person, so now he intends to find Janus in whichever Haven he ran off to and give him a piece of his mind.

But now he really needs money. Luckily, he knows where to find it.

He knows for a fact that his soulmate is, in fact, the famous hacker, and he has one hell of a bounty on his head.

Roman: In his defense, he didn’t know he was going to get famous. But he was loving it.

Roman started out coding games with his brother. They had a whole plan for the stories they’d create and tell to the world.

Remus went missing around when Janus did.

Now, Roman’s going to hack into every single Haven until he finds the one that took his brother. 

He’s pulled off a few stunts in the past, leaving his calling card (a diadem) every time, but they were just practice events. His next idea is hacking into the Lucky Haven’s system, but things get a little complicated.

The Actual Plot

Virgil noticed the glowing red trail at the first hacking site, but he assumed it was just a coincidence. But when the ground glowed red at the next five sites as well, he realized he’d struck gold.

All he had to do was follow the trail and turn in his soulmate, and he’d be able to find his friend.

He saw the red glow on the top of the skyscraper across from the Lucky Haven, and hovered to where his soulmate was. 

Meanwhile, Roman was furiously crashing through firewalls when he saw a guy hover up to the roof. He was going to run when he saw that his footsteps stained the roof violet.

He’d found his soulmate!!

Virgil had expected a lot of things. He expected a fight, he expected a chase scene. He definitely didn’t expect the 6th most wanted hacker to greet him like he’d known him for ages and flirt.

And, to be honest, he didn’t expect him to be this cute.

Roman was convinced that, if someone was his soulmate, their motives had to be pure. So, he’s treating this entire situation like a first date while Virgil tries awkwardly to mention the fact that he was trying to turn him in for a bounty, which is an interesting conversation starter.

Over the course of the conversation, Virgil finds out that Remus disappeared around the same time as Janus, as well as what exactly Roman’s been doing with that keyboard. He puts a few things together, and realizes that there’s a chance that they’re in the same place.

Virgil decides that he’ll help Roman, for now.

Unfortunately for him, that’s when he accidentally mentions the whole “turning him in for a bounty” thing, and Roman bolts.

It’s hard to run from someone who can see your footsteps, but not impossible. If you take an elevator, it’s impossible to tell what floor you get off on, and if you steal a bike, you’re home free.

Roman bikes as far away as he can, while Virgil curses at himself.

Where Have Janus And Remus Been This Whole Time?

Experimenting on people against their will is illegal. No one, especially a respected corporation, would ever do such a thing!

The Havens merely have an Anti-Non-Involuntary Focus Group, which is perfectly legal.

It’s like a normal focus group, but the participant’s leave times are postponed indefinitely.

Janus and Remus quickly became close friends because they’d been put in a room together once in the hopes that at least one of them would kill the other. No such luck. The two of them went on to do Crimes together, because if they weren’t going to be released from the focus group they’d make the focus group wish they were gone.

Back To The Actual Plot

Virgil searched for Roman, trying to find a way to say “hey, I was totally going to turn you in, but I changed my mind” that would actually convince him. So far, it didn’t work at all, but he kept trying.

Meanwhile, Roman planned to hack into the Self-Righteous Haven. He found yet another skyscraper, checking far and wide for violet glows. He pretended that he wasn’t thinking about Virgil, but...he was clearly thinking about Virgil.

He managed to bring down a significant portion of the Self-Righteous computer system and leave his diadem calling card, but here’s the thing about the Haven of the Self-Righteous:

They’re always on the lookout for someone to hate, and they carry plenty of weapons to get rid of them when they find them.

Roman found himself cornered on that roof, surrounded by sharp smiles and even sharper blades. He managed to fend some off, but eight against one is too tall of an order, even for a guy who knows how to use a sword.

At the last second, he heard Virgil call out to him. He was hovering along the edge of the building, and held out his arm.

Roman took it, and had the most terrifying few minutes of his life on the way down, clinging to Virgil like a young koala and screaming.

After they got their bearings and went on the run together for a little while, Virgil explained his plan.

Now that he had a feeling that Janus hadn’t left on purpose, he reexamined that day in a different light. Roman said that Remus had disappeared in a certain area, and that was around where Jan was at the time.

In fact, that block was a hotbed for mysterious disappearances. So, Virgil was going to get kidnapped!

Roman greeted this suggestion with a calm, “What the actual fuck, Virgil”

Virgil said that he was going to find Janus and Remus, then send up a signal. When the signal went off, Roman would hack into the doors and release him from...wherever.

It takes some convincing, as they’d been on the run together for weeks and gotten kind of attached, but the plan went into motion.

Virgil went and got himself kidnapped, but the plan went south fast when he was brought through physical, metal, non-electronic doors.

Non-hackable doors.

He was screwed.

Virgil found Remus first, because Remus is extremely hard to miss (can’t miss someone who’s literally lighting people’s feet aflame at random), and then got a wholesome reunion with Janus.

PRISON ANTI-NON-INVOLUNTARY FOCUS GROUP BREAK

The three of them and Roman find a clever way to escape the focus group. What is the clever way? Ask the me who actually writes the fic, not the me who’s writing this instead of doing homework she really needs to do.

The four of them later team up to weaken each and every Haven, travelling through a regular Dante’s Inferno that gets to call itself paradise because of good marketing.

They travel to those that get simulated safety, and luck, and self-righteousness, and contentness, and beauty, and euphoria, and emptiness

Of course, rebellions never rely on one or four people. There are a thousand small acts, thousands of straws pouring upon the camel’s back. But it cannot be denied that a hacker and a petty thief, alongside a scam artist and an agent of chaos, left a mark on the world, besides the glowing ones only they could see.

And when the two finally got around to a kiss, they could see their own reflection softly glow for weeks.

Now I need to do my homework

[jemej3m]

a comprehensive set of rules (p.2)

i have no control over my writing schedule. it has been completely consumed by this au. this is all of y’all’s fault. 

heavy tw: blood and gore and bodies. also, bad people talking about raping allison and using homophobic slurs.

*

July:

“Andrew,” Renee called out, rapping her knuckles on the guest bedroom gently. 

Andrew was currently living out of one, black suitcase: he’d spent half his time at different hotels and half his time at colleagues’ homes, though calling Allison a colleague was a bit of a stretch. Wymack had let him camp out in his girlfriend’s spare room, seeing as his place was apparently too small for the both of them. Dan and Matt had even let him crash on the couch between motel rooms. 

Andrew was really fucking excited to get his place back. According to Neil, his father was pulling out all stops to get rid of him, or whoever was aiding him. As far as Andrew was concerned, Neil was in more danger, but the man refused to exonerate himself from the situation. The next best thing was ensuring that Andrew was untouchable. 

“Andrew, can I come in?” 

Andrew grunted, still bent over his files in the middle of the room. He’d pushed the bed to one side to make room and was suddenly shirtless, fan pulsating in the corner. He never did great in the heat. 

“Oh,” Neil’s voice squeaked like an elementary schooler’s clarinet. “Uh - I can come back?”

Andrew squinted up at him. “The fuck are you doing here?” he got to his feet and made his way over, reaching up to tug on Neil’s hair. Definitely real. “Huh.” 

Behind Neil, Renee snorted. Andrew glared at her: she put up her hands in surrender and paced off to do something else. 

Andrew shuffled Neil into his room and shut the door, treading carefully around his work. 

“This...” Neil looked over it, carefully avoiding the many photos and files and labelled evidence bags as he walked. He was silent as he moved, unnoticeable if he wasn’t always on Andrew’s radar. 

He also looked much more presentable than the last time Andrew had seen him, which had been before Dimaccio was arrested. A button-down, much like he wore when they first went to dinner. The collar was irritatingly popped, and his trousers were properly pressed, the shoes delicately shined. He looked like a rich man’s son. 

Andrew hated it. He also hated how good it looked.

“Sit on the bed,” Andrew instructed. “I don’t need you scuffing anything up.”

“This seems like a lot more than what’s necessary,” Neil said, avoiding looking at Andrew as he tugged on a shirt. “Also a lot more than we originally discussed.”

Andrew pointed at the profile of a smiling woman, and various other men. “Williams. Reacher. Jenkins. The three of them worked tirelessly on gang violence. They completely eradicated the Terrapin family from the game. Countless Bearcats and Catamounts have been locked up by them. But as soon as they turned to the Wesninski family, they were never found again. Three different detectives. Almost three consecutive years. They deserve justice too.” 

Neil was, clearly, not expecting to have to put names and families to the bodies his father had diced and scattered. His expression had become shuttered as Andrew talked, fingers curling into tight fists, the fabric of his trousers ensnared between his whitened knuckles. 

"You’re afraid.” 

Neil looked at him, eyes blazing. “He is all I’m afraid of. I can’t just - turn that off.”

Andrew crouched down on the floor in front of him. “You’re allowed to be afraid. You have to promise me that you won’t run away because of it.”

Neil’s shoulders were curled inwards. “I don’t want to become him. I don’t -” he looked at the photos of the officers and the remnants of their bodies and the ruination caused by his father’s work. “I don’t want that. I don’t.”

“So leave it behind.”

Neil grit his teeth. “I can’t! Look at me. Look at me. You think this is my father? Parading me around at events, trying to find me a wife who can bear my child, tracking my every move? Of course it’s not. My father is someone else’s weapon, a well-enamoured thug at best. He’s a Baltimorean gangster. He’s not the one in control here.”

Andrew put his hand over Neil’s wrist and let him breathe for a moment. 

“They know that he’s fucked,” Neil continued, eyes squeezed shut. “They know they’re going to lose him. So I’m being conditioned. I’m being shaped up to replace him. You know I’ve been in New York for the past two weeks?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes. Andrew opened his palm upwards, and Neil let himself tangle their fingers. “I want to escape my fate so badly, but my family has been indentured to them for - I don’t even know. Forever, it seems like.”

“Who, Neil?” 

He let out an aggravated sigh. “Who else controls enough of the east coast to keep the fucking Butcher in check? It’s the bloody Moriyamas.” Andrew stiffened. “If you breathe that name outside this room, I’m dead. You’re dead. Everyone you ever loved will die. They’re so well protected that the crazy second son can go off and do whatever he likes, including training to be a police officer and almost killing the partner he’s given, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s hushed up within the week.” 

He held tight onto Andrew’s hand. “The best I can hope for is a negotiation. A price that I can pay off in - a decade, maybe. Possibly two. Maybe securing a new family to pass the relationship to. I don’t know.” 

“Then that’s what you do,” Andrew vowed. “We deal with the monster under the bed first. Then the basement that lets them out. Don’t run,” Andrew insisted, his hand having worked its way up Neil’s arm to grip the back of his neck. “Don’t hide. You can’t afford to, not now.”

Neil rested their foreheads together. “I’ll try.”

Andrew’s thumb brushed circles under Neil’s jaw. “That’s all I ask.”

*

Breaking news: Nathan Wesninski being brought to court for multiple homicides, including Baltimore police officers and Mary Hatford, his wife...initially being assessed for money laundering and tax evasion, Wesninski is now being persecuted for multiple acts of violence, mutilation and extortion. Police officers under Captain David Wymack have collated resources and new-found evidence and will attempt to put Wesninski behind bars permanently.

*

August: 

Andrew’s heart was pounding. They’d tapped into comms just over an hour ago, received the corresponding telephone data and locations, and now they were paging the block. 

It was eerily quiet, and too dark for a suburban area. The cul-de-sac had no streetlights and all the houses were either empty, with for sale! signs posted on their laws, or all the blinds were drawn closed. It was only nine in the evening. 

Andrew took out his gun as they approached the house. Renee was at his shoulder. 

The house in question was two-storey, seemingly empty, the garage locked shut. The gardens were immaculately kept, the painted finish on the house brand new. God knows what was happening within: Andrew hoped that whatever mess had been made within wasn’t irreparable. 

Andrew’s radio cackled. “How do you want to go about this, Minyard?” 

Andrew cracked his knuckles and fished out his lock picks from his back pocket as he radioed back. “Silent entry. I’m going to unlock the door, and only our squad heads in. Everyone else surround the premises if they notice and escape.”

“Alright, sarge,” Matt said, jokingly, a few feet behind Renee. Dan must have pinched him because he immediate said “Ow!” 

Andrew and Renee crept up onto the front balcony: Andrew crouched down and worked for about two minutes till the lock had opened. Kevin had already phoned the security firm to let down the alarms, so Andrew and Renee stepped inside, unnoticed. Dan, Matt and Kevin dispersed, but Andrew always headed to the basement. 

The light was on. 

“...We should get back to Junior,” one voice said. “God knows he’s probably slipped free by now.”

“You kidding? We had him practically halfway into a coffin. Let’s just clean this up first.”

“Maybe pretty Alli’s woken up. If Junior wasn’t so fervently protective of her I’d’ve had her bent over by now.” 

“Christ, Romero." But the man was laughing. “Maybe now’s your chance.”

Disgust crawled down his spine. He glanced at Renee, just as they approached the doorway: she had her eyes closed momentarily, lips moving with a prayer. The door was left ajar. 

One, he mouthed. 

“Didn’t think boss had the guts to get rid of little Junior.”

Two, she returned. 

“Maybe he liked that bitch of a wife, after all. He could’ve had a kid with Lola and gotten rid of the pathetic faggot, but he stuck by Nathaniel anyway.”

Three, they both nodded, kicking the door wide open with his foot and grasping his gun in both hands. 

“Hands up,” he growled. “Drop whatever you’re holding.”

“Kneel,” Renee said, softly. “We will shoot you if you don’t comply.”

Neither of the men had guns. They dropped their knives to the ground and knelt down, furious. By them was a body, heavily dismembered. The hair was neither auburn nor blonde.

“Basement,” Andrew barked into his radio, training his gun on the one he recognised as Romero. His hands were limp, twitching by his sides. Andrew wanted to cut them from his body and watch him bleed. 

The other three skidded into the room, guns ready. 

“Go find them,” Renee murmured, under the cacophony of Dan and Kevin wrangling the perps to the ground, Matt kneeling by the body. “Andrew, go.” 

He nodded stiffly, falling back. Up the stairs and to the left was the door to the garage, which he kicked down. Switching the lights on, he looked to the two persons still on the floor, tied up and beaten down. 

“Andrew,” Neil gasped, covered in blood and cuffed at the wrists and ankles. Allison seemed alright, if a bit groggy, with a gag in her mouth and her hands tied behind her. 

Andrew grabbed the hedge clippers from the wall of gardening tools and broke through the handcuffs, cutting Allison’s rope bindings and tugging off her gag. 

“Perps restrained, fall in through the front,” Dan said through the radio. “Victim dead. Get a stretcher: Forensics team definitely not necessary.” 

“We can’t be found here,” Allison hissed. “We can’t be brought in.”

“Jesus Christ,” Andrew muttered, fishing the keys to his cousin’s place out of his pocket. “Fine. If you can get him on his feet,” he jerked his head to Neil, who muttered I’m fine. “Go to Nicky’s place. I’ll meet you there later. Unless you need a hospital?”

“It’s all superficial,” Neil mumbled, wincing. Andrew felt concern curl and knot in his stomach. He looked to Allison. 

“Maybe you should do a first-aid cert.”

“Maybe that’s not a half bad idea,” she grunted, hauling Neil to his feet. 

“The back should be clear of cops now,” Andrew said, cutting through the padlock on the garage door. “Get out.”

“Good to see you too, Minyard,” Allison drawled, pulling Neil along. With a wink, they were both gone. 

Andrew rubbed at his temples, giving himself only a minute of reprieve, before heading back into the fray. 

*

Nicky’s house was cold and dark. The two of them had been on a spontaneous trip around Europe for the last few months, visiting Erik’s family. Nicky wasn’t stupid: when Andrew offered him this and that, he took it without question and knew there was a reason why.

“When I get back,” he insisted over the phone. “When I get back the three of us are visiting Aaron. Got it?”

“Fine,” Andrew had grunted, hanging up on his cousin without a goodbye. 

Neil had parked himself on the couch, staring at the ceiling with square bandages across his cheeks. Bruises mottled his skin, and his hands and forearms were mummified in a similar fashion. 

“I was going to try and contact you,” Neil said, not needing to see Andrew to know who’d entered the house. “I would’ve called you.”

Andrew sat on the end of the couch as Neil drew his feet up to give him room. “Right.”

The man struggled into a seated position. “I was.” 

“Should’ve let them kill you,” Andrew muttered, glaring at the unused television. Neil snorted, swinging his legs off the couch and settling next to Andrew. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” 

“Just - shut up.” 

For a while they sat in silence. Andrew lit up a cigarette and smoked it through to the filter. Neil seemed to lean a little closer, attracted to the scent. 

“Hey,” he murmured, when Andrew threw the stub onto the coffee table. 

Andrew turned and looked at him. His eyes were clear, purposeful. Andrew remembered their first date, their second. Cleavers and thugs and light, candle light and club lights, striping across Neil’s cheekbones like something from a painting. 

Kissing him felt - 

Normal. Right. Like coming home. Like finding - not the last piece of the puzzle, but the last edge, making a solid shape to be filled in, something clear and decisive. Andrew’s fingertips found his jaw and he felt Neil’s fingers curl in the collar of his vest. His police vest. 

It was enough to draw him to a stop, pulling back just enough for him to breathe. 

“You don’t swing,” Andrew accused, poorly hiding how winded he was.

Neil huffed, equally as breathless. “You don’t date.” 

Andrew’s teeth ground together. “You don’t date cops.” 

“And you don’t date mobsters,” Neil retorted. “What’s your point here?” 

“Yes or no?” Andrew demanded, because he needed to know. He needed to know for sure. Without a doubt, with complete surety, with perfect clarity - 

“Yes,” Neil answered. “Obviously.” 

“‘Obviously’,” Andrew parroted with a scoff. “I hate you.” 

When Neil’s lips curved up into a smile, Andrew kissed him quiet. 

*

September: 

“You know I’ve got a week off, after next week,” Andrew said, trailing his fingers over the threadbare t-shirt that Neil wore. He said ‘next week’ and not ‘Nathan’s trial’. They’d both come to an agreement that where they could avoid talking about it, they would. 

It was out of Andrew’s hands, anyway. All the evidence was with the prosecutor, and it was their job to put him behind bars. 

There was no way Nathan Wesninski was getting out, now. Not a single chance. 

Which meant there was no reason to talk about it. Or about Neil’s future inheritance of his father’s position, or Andrew’s award of recognition for his work. Which felt rather cheap, really - he was just lucky that Neil had decided to give him a second chance. 

Then again, policing was mostly luck, and a bit of charisma. Andrew was usually lacking in both, but right now, in the golden afternoon sunlight, with Neil in shorts and unkempt hair, he felt incredibly lucky. 

Neil craned his head back to look at Andrew. His new scars were bright red, but healed over at this point. “Just Chicago?” 

Andrew hummed assent, closing his eyes and pressing his nose to the crown of Neil’s head. Casual intimacy had always been - too much. Too soft, too nice, like it was covering up something sinister. Never had Andrew felt so relaxed, not even after sex, which usually resulted in Andrew grabbing his shirt, shoes, phone and wallet and leaving immediately. 

And they hadn’t had sex yet. Andrew didn’t know if Neil would ever want to have sex. That was - unsurprisingly - not the most important thing on Andrew’s list of wants and needs. 

Instead, here he was, lying on his back in Nicky’s guest bedroom. Neil was lying next to him, on his side, head cushioned on Andrew’s shoulder. And he did want this. He’d been tied up and exhausted for months: now it was all coming to its peak, the finish line right around the corner. And they were - okay. Ish. Maybe. Probably. Andrew wasn’t peeved about it. 

“Don’t die whilst I’m gone,” Andrew muttered, fingers threading through his hair. 

“I have to go to New York, anyway,” Neil said, sullen. “Might as well do it whilst you’re away.” 

“How many times are they going to pull you up there?”

“Till they’re confident I won’t screw everything up in the change-over, I guess. Or maybe it’s about the wife thing.” 

Something in Andrew’s chest twisted. He simply hummed. 

Neil shifted, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Andrew properly. “You know I’m not going to go through with it, right?”

“And if they threaten you?” Andrew reminded him. “Your life isn’t exactly yours.”

“Fuck them,” Neil said as he leaned forward, forever antagonistic. Andrew sighed: Neil paused. “No?”

“Yes,” he muttered, pulling Neil down. One hand brushed along the slither of exposed skin that revealed itself as Neil’s shirt rose up: Andrew relished in the shiver that flitted across Neil’s skin. His scarred fingers - covered in circular burns from a dashboard lighter and various scratch ridges - felt familiar and known when Andrew guided them to the back of his head. Neil was careful, as always.

Andrew had intended on asking when the hell Neil had heard about Andrew’s past, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He didn’t want to talk about it now, anyway.

Just as Neil let Andrew push his shoulder back, following him over to kiss him into the mattress, Allison’s nails tapped impatiently on the bedroom door. Andrew broke away, startled, just as Neil cursed, sitting up. 

“Yes, Allison?” Neil demanded, clearing his throat. “What is it?”

“You sound odd,” Allison remarked, door handle turning. 

“Uh - !” Neil scrambled off the bed, looking to Andrew with wild eyes. “I’m - naked! Don’t come in.”

“Right,” Allison drawled. “Should I just wait in my room for him to leave, then?”

“I hate you,” Neil complained. “What do you want?” 

“Andrew’s phone was going off in the kitchen,” Allison said, slyly. “Sounds like the prosecuting lawyer wants some of your time, Andrew. Nice of you to glide by without saying hello.”

“I’m busy,” Andrew retorted. 

Allison just laughed, strutting down the corridor with her heels tapping on the wooden floorboards. Neil crossed his arms, red-faced. 

“C’mere,” Andrew said, still sitting on the bed. 

“But Thea,” Neil tried. 

“The law can wait,” Andrew insisted, extending his hand.

The look in Neil’s eyes sent sparks flying across Andrew’s skin. 

*

“Took you long enough,” Thea Muldani said, a master of clipboards and abridged glares. She was a lawyer worth Andrew’s time, he knew that, but he also didn’t feel like putting up with Kevin’s heart-eyes or Renee’s unsubtle glances. 

Jesus Christ, he thought, slamming his bag on the table hard enough to cause everyone to jolt. “I’m here, now.” 

“Congratulations,” Thea remarked. “Don’t care. We have a problem.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. 

“Nathan Junior’s prints are all over a tonne of this evidence. If we don’t have him accounted for, defence is going to be all over it.”

“Are you serious?” Dan demanded. “Nathaniel would’ve been 15 when Mary was murdered.” 

“Doesn’t matter. If the evidence has been tampered with, it could be rendered useless. It would be extremely helpful,” Thea said pointedly. “If people’s CI’s could come forward and testify. We have almost no witnesses, except for Andrew and Renee, who claimed that Jackson Plank and Romero Malcom were acting on orders from Nathan whilst murdering Janie Smalls, last month. Neither of them will confess to any sort of collaboration with Wesninski, and two unidentified blood sources were found in the garage.”

“That sounds like circumstantial bullshit,” Dan argued. 

“And can we prove them wrong?” Thea shot back. “No. We can’t. For all we know, it’s been Nathaniel behind all of this instead. He’s certainly old enough now.”

Andrew stood out of his chair, grabbed his things and turned to leave. 

The lawyer gave him an appraising look. “I haven’t dismissed this meeting, Minyard.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew said. “If you won’t do your job, then I suppose I’d better go and fucking do it for you.” 

“It’s Thursday,” Thea reminded him. “Case starts on Monday.”

Andrew ignored her, making sure to slam the door on the way out. 

*

Romero Malcom was a sullen man. His skin was papery thin, even only a few weeks into his prison stay. Andrew couldn’t say that he pitied him. He sat down with his cup of coffee, leaning back in his chair with his leg crossed at the ankle. Romero was locked to the interrogation table opposite, shoulders curled in, fingernails scratching against the table top. 

Trying to get a rise. It wouldn’t work. 

“Honestly, between you and your sister, you seemed like the more rational one,” Andrew said, eyebrow arched. He put his coffee down and opened up his file. “Did you think about how your lifestyle had an expiry often? Nathan had Dimaccio as his right-hand man, but kept Lola as his carefully concealed weapon. You and Plank seemed just like...more prized cannon-fodder.”

Romero’s eye twitched. 

“You know, you said something that caught my interest,” Andrew leaned forward. “You said you’d’ve fucked Nathaniel Wesninski’s friend. What was her name?”

“Allison,” he said. 

“Right. You said you’d intended to rape her.”

“No wonder you’re so hung up on it, Doe,” Romero sneered. So they’d all done their research. “Well I didn’t, did I? Not that she’s shown up. She knows Nathan’ll kill her. He’s pretty sure she’s the rat.”

“Do you think she is?” Andrew inquired. “Mind you: I know who the rat is, and you don’t.”

“I think she’s the rat.” Romero sneered. “Princess bitch won’t be loyal to nothing but herself.”

“Which was why he asked you to kill her. She’d betrayed you all.” 

“We didn’t kill her.”

“No, but you were going to. He wanted you to kill all three of them.” 

“It was probably Junior that called the cops on us,” Romero scoffed. Andrew’s jaw ticked. “Fucking brat. It was about time.”

“About time for what?”

“To get rid of him.” Romero rolled his eyes. “Not that Plank could manage that, either. Useless. But Nathan gave us the call. We were waiting for it, honestly. Killing off Junior meant there was more of an incentive to keep Nathan out of jail. Otherwise there’s no other options.”

Moriyamas, Andrew thought, but he had no interest in involving them. “So Nathan called the two of you, ordered you to get rid of Allison and Nathaniel.”

“He didn’t want them showing their faces and causing trouble.” 

“So why Janie?”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Romero laughed. It sounded like rusted truck breaks. Andrew was very close to knocking the scalding coffee onto exposed skin. 

“Nathan probably ain’t happy,” Andrew amended. 

Romero barked out another laugh. “He’ll be livid at this point. He sent me an email on exactly what he wanted me to do to your tiny little body, Minyard. An email. Who the fuck sends emails anymore? Anyway, yeah. He’s pissed.”

Andrew stood up from the table, carefully putting his audio recorder into plain sight as he picked up his coffee. “Well, I’d say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t.” Romero looked at the recorder, slightly sickly. “Have fun in here, Malcom. I’m sure your sister sends her regard from max.”

With that he spun on his heel, the sweet sounds of Romero’s panic putting a hop in his step all the way out of the centre. 

*

“I’ve never...” Neil chewed his lip. “Get a blood sample? That’d put me into the system.”

“And help me identify your pieces as they come floating down the river, if your father’s bosses ever learn about this,” Andrew reminded him. “If I can prove that Romero and Jackson were ordered to kill you, there won’t be any ground to stand on. Neil. Remember what I said.”

The man looked at him from an extended moment of time, evaluating and revelautating. 

“Alright,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Okay.” 

*

October:

Andrew leant his head from side to side, letting his spine slot itself back into place. He hated everything about flying, so much so that even his cousin’s persistent chatter hadn’t been enough to distract him from his living nightmare. 

“Well!” his cousin said, somehow still animated. He and Erik had spent their time in Chicago getting over jetlagged and playing with Aaron’s new puppy, whilst Andrew spent his time watching their antics and silently drinking coffee with Aaron, save for the occasional question here and there. 

Heard you made a big bust, yeah. How’s the residency. A nightmare. Katelyn and I want a baby when it’s done, though. Interesting. You can be the Godfather. Save that for Neil. Neil? Like, the criminal guy? Don’t mention it. Andrew - I said, don’t mention it. Oh, fuck. You’re serious. Jesus Christ, okay. 

“Shall we get a cab?” Nicky inquired. 

“Neil can drop you home on the way to mine.” 

Nicky narrowed his eyes. “Neil? Like, absolute hottie Neil? Allison’s friend? The one you never called back because you’re an idiot?”

“I hate you,” Andrew insisted. 

“Oh my god!” Nicky squealed, tugging on Erik’s arm. “I didn’t know y’all were together. How long has it been? Andrew, you gotta tell me these things!” 

“On second thoughts, you should take a cab,” Andrew grunted, lugging his luggage to where he knew Neil would already be standing, waiting for them to arrive. 

Nicky’s laugh rang out like bells, just as Neil rose up his hand to wave the three of them over. 

Yeah, Andrew thought, letting Nicky gush whilst Neil looked at him like that. 

This isn’t half bad. 

*

And that’s how they got together! andrew will continually tell himself that neil inherited the syndicate after they got together, even if there was only like a month or so between their first kiss and nathan getting locked up. neil will continually tell himself that andrew was only interested in him for the case. they’re both stupid liars who are in love. 

[pepsi-is-okay43110]

Hello Internet. Last night I was writing my friend an email because I was bored and I started writing her a short story. I have not edited it, or finished it, and I probably never will. I just decided I wanted it to live on the internet forever. 

***

Eliza wasn't very confident. 

It didn't need to be said. The classmates that remembered she existed had described her to me as painfully shy, quiet, boring. There was a precedent here. Eliza didn't talk in class. Eliza didn't raise her hand. Just like the cafeteria food was always worse on Tuesdays because that was Ms. Greenbee's day off, and just like the vending machine in the music hallway didn't work, Eliza was not confident. She was a background character. 

Which is why I was so surprised, among the various other reasons, when she grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me behind the bleachers on my fourth day of school. I wasn't necessarily mad about this development--I had asked around about her enough to know she always sat at the back of the class, which sort of speaks for itself. Still, it's one thing to be on your way to developing a nice, safe, admiring-from-afar crush on your classmate, and a whole other thing to be up close and personal, her fist wrinkling the top you had bought last fall from Target. 

"What are y-"

"Shut up." 

My eyebrows climbed, seeking refuge under my bangs. She was mad--at me? No, she wasn't looking at me (which is a shame), she was glaring over my shoulder. Before I could turn around to eye up whatever was going on behind me, she pulled me further into the shade. Yeah, okay, every teen movie I had ever seen told me this was the ultimate make out spot. Did she know this? There was no way this was purely coincidental.

I cleared my throat. This was not the time to be a horny teenager. This was the time for answers. 

"What's going on?" I whispered. And I only leaned in so she could hear me better, not because her shampoo kind of smelled like mint and watermelon.

Eliza wasn't very confident. It didn't need to be said.

So when she started making out with me, without warning, behind the school bleachers, I was, understandably, a bit shocked. 

Not so shocked that I didn't run my fingers through her hair and step closer, but you know. What a mystery this was. A mystery I would... um... a mystery I would get to the bottom of. (Was she wearing perfume?) 

"Eliza?" Ah. And the plot thickens. 

I am blocking Eliza from whoever is walking past. I think the voice coming from behind me may belong to Brady, the football captain, but seeing as I only transferred in four days ago, I cannot be sure. I am also trying really hard to not think about how Eliza is still holding me by the shirt, because I am focusing. On this mystery. And not the fact that her hair is really soft. 

I hear Probably-Brady stroll by. He stops four times. We are hidden in the shadows, and my hair is long and blonde, while Eliza's is short and red, so he passes us without incident. There is the incident, while he is almost directly behind me, when Eliza sort of bites my lip. So, assuming nothing happened in the minute or so following that incident, there was no incident. But I cannot say certainly, because I kind of forgot to pay attention. 

I am a detective and I am figuring out this mystery. Best in the field. The newspaper should hire me. 

Probably-Brady's footsteps faded into the distance. Eliza stops kissing me. I add another bullet point to my Things I Know About Eliza list, which had been and continued to be very short. She was very serious. She stared after where Probably-Brady had gone, and her forehead creased, because she frowns when she thinks seriously. 

"Sorry about that," she said, squinting. She puts her hands on my shoulders while she rises to her tip toes, to see over my shoulder better. 

"I... what." 

Great. Fantastic. So eloquent. Look out Harvard, I'm coming through. 

I want the turf to open up and swallow me on the spot. I wish I was in the middle of a terrible fire. Say something, say something! 

"So... that was weird." Which is not better. She probably thinks I'm a total dork. Oh... but then she's looking at me. What was I... right. Mystery. Her eyes are very green but that was a Later Me problem. I am a serious detective and she should be impressed by me. Serious detectives ask serious detective questions. 

"So... you gonna explain what just happened here, or...?" 

A new bullet point. Eliza may be the kind of person who drags the new girl behind the bleachers to make out with for questionable reasons, but she is not a talker. She doesn't kiss and tell, and by that I mean she will kiss you, but not tell you why. In other words, she nodded at me, which answered none of my questions, and ran towards the school, in the opposite direction than Probably-Brady had gone. 

And then the bell rang. I spent 8th period not thinking about the feeling of her eyelashes on my cheeks. I was very focused on calculus. No I don't know what the homework was. 

***

Beverly was odd. 

I didn't know much about her, but that had more to do with the fact that she hadn't even transferred in a week ago than with any lack of desire to. 

Well, I did know she was a good kisser. Which I suppose was a rather backwards way to go about things. One would usually know things about a person before they get to the "is she good at snogging" phase in their relationship. 

Anyway. 

Brady was in my orchestra class, which was a shame, because I like orchestra. Missing it was a drag, but ever since I had found out he was totally, actually evil last month, sacrifices were had to be made. 

There are lots of ways someone can be evil. Take, for example, Mr. Calbur, who sent girls home if they were wearing short skirts. Brady was not any ordinary flavor of evil, though. Seeing as how I'm kind of destined to save the world or whatever, I think I get a free pass to declare someone actually cosmically despicable. That was Brady. 

Over summer break, Brady's parents had apparently decided to join the Wailers, and that was an ideological subscription fit for the whole family, it seemed, since last month in chemistry I saw the Wailer pendant on his bracelet. 

Which was inconvenient. 

So far, school had been a refuge from magical drama. But he knew I was the next Queen, and I knew he was a Wailer, so. I wasn't quite sure what to do about him. 

It seems my subconscious had decided my master plan was to make out with pretty random girls behind the Away bleachers. Which had worked short term. But now that I was- 

"Hey!" 

Ah. Beverly. 

Beverly was blonde, tall, and wanted to go to Harvard. I knew this, because she was also loud. And friends with everyone in our English class (but me) by now, somehow. 

And sitting down next to me in the cafeteria. That was another fact about her. She was sitting down next to me in the cafeteria. 

"...Hello." She smiled at me. I nodded at her. 

It was Wednesday. That meant the pasta salad was mostly edible. (Ms. Greenbee could only do so much.) I chewed a very slow, deliberate bite of penne. Beverly did not get the hint, and continued to sit there, eating her salad. 

"So..." she said. I decided to not make this easy for her. 

"Uh. Yesterday. Was... um. Lovely weather yesterday huh?" she said. I had never seen someone become so quickly and visually horrified. 

I amended my original stance. This was painful to watch. 

"Sorry," I said. "For kissing you." 

"...oh." She looked... she looked sad. Confused. She was probably just confused. 

"It was... it's complicated. I needed to hide," I said, because  something about her face was bugging me because I didn't want her to be sad because it was annoying. 

"Hide from what?" she asked, and I did not want to explain it to her. 

"There's a coffee stain on your shirt," I say, and I leave the table. 

***

Eliza is mean. 

I feel like the fact that I like it so much is concerning. But everything about her is unexpected. She's so much more than shy. She's not shy at all. 

I've sat with her every day since that first time, and every day I ask her questions and she insults me and I want to kiss her a lot. 

I have also noticed things about her. Because I am a detective. She has a tattoo on her neck that I think is a crown. It looks symbolic, like it stands for something or has a hidden meaning. She likes to wear cardigans. Her favorite rude comments to make (I assume they are her favorite because she makes them most often) are about my freckles. I have too many, apparently. She is vegetarian. Or, maybe she doesn't trust the cafeteria's meat. Which is understandable. She always finishes lunch early. She does, in fact, wear perfume. 

I'm a detective. These are important observations. I do not know about her tattoo because I stare at the back of her head in the library and think about her hair. That never happened. I just make very important detective-y observations. I am very dedicated to this mystery. 

I am also not very good at talking to her. Which is really hampering my investigation. 

I have, hypothetically maybe technically speaking, asked her why she "looked like an elf." She stared at me for three minutes like I was dumber than anyone she had ever met before. I did, eventually, find time in my busy schedule to think about how green her eyes are. Unrelated, but the day after that we had English homework that I did not know about. Even though Mrs. Elesby mentioned it in class. And everyone else did it. 

The admiring-from-afar crush that had been in the works, obviously, had become quite unmanageable, like overgrown vines or something. I did sit with her every day at lunch. It wasn't quite as "afar" as I had predicted it would be my first few days here. 

She is in the library after school, and I am the library's aid now. Which totally isn't creepy, because I asked even before the bleacher incident, so it's like. Pure coincidence. 

Another person who was in the library: Brady. 

He was heading towards her. Seeing as how she had made out with a random girl to avoid talking to him last week, and as far as I knew (which wasn't very far, admittedly, but it was all I had to go on) nothing had changed since then. 

Mr. Platneib didn't have anything for me to do, so I was almost 75% certain I was not going to get in trouble for talking to my friends. (Were we friends? Eliza had never said we were friends. But she also critiqued my essay in our peer review, and no one else's. Maybe that meant we were friends?) 

"Hi," I said, standing in between Eliza and Brady. She slowly looked up from her book. Jane Austen. Nice. 

"Hello," she said slowly, looking at me like I was speaking another language. I sat on the table so she could see Brady behind me. 

"Hello," she said, more confidently this time. 

"What are you reading?" I asked, and it was dumb but better than asking why she looked like an elf. Which, now that I think about it, was totally a super detective-y question. Maybe. 

"Sense and Sensibility," she said, closing her book. 

She was closing her book in favor of talking to me. That didn't happen. We were in uncharted territory. At lunch when she brought a book, she rarely spared a glance in my direction. 

Cool, cool, cool. Okay. Don't be dumb. 

"So like. Uh. Football." 

Shit. 

"Eliza?" I hear from behind me. 

Double shit. 

***

Beverly was not very good at being a buffer. 

She was sitting on the table, very close to me. This is unrelated. I don't know why I noticed this. There was nothing to notice. Brady was talking to me now. There are important things to think about. 

"Eliza?" 

"Brady." 

Five seconds of silence exactly. It's very unlikely that the pause was five seconds by chance. It's too specific a number. Which means he counted it out on purpose. For dramatic effect. Which is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. Which is probably why he joined the Wailers. Not a lot going up there. 

"Purple looks good on you," he says. I am not wearing purple. Beverly looks confused. I am not. 

"Red looks good on you," I respond. Beverly looks more confused. Brady does not. He grins, and he looks evil. Because he is. 

"We're learning about the French Revolution in history, no?" he says, and I want to rip his head off. 

"Real monarchy isn't even comparable to the Queen system," I say, perhaps not vague enough for public but. Well. I am the Queen. (Future Queen.) I think I can be a little abrupt. 

He laughs, and I want to tear his head off. 

"See you around, 'Liza." I do not respond. I can tell he counts to five before walking away. (So dumb.) 

Beverly looks adorable concerned. 

I want to go home. My cats never want to talk to me. My cats aren't confusing annoying. So I do. *** And then I was tired and I stopped writing. But I am very gay, and hypothetically creative, and maybe one day I will continue, if I ever figure out what would happen next.  So 

Here is is. 

[adarlingwrites]

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who's willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

XXI

January 5, 2278.

Fifteen minutes past midnight, we went home. After cleaning up and sharing a dinner of noodles and beer, Percy didn’t waste any time counting all the ammo she saved for emergencies, while I tended to our weapons and gear. Around three in the morning, I was ready to retire, but Percy’s still slouched over the workbench, recycling old microfusion cells as she sipped on scotch, straight from the bottle.

“Percy,” I call her attention, placing a hand at her shoulder.

“Oh!”

I must’ve interrupted her.

“What do you need, big guy?”

“I suggest that you get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”

“Mhmm. Just a few more minutes,” she replies, back still turned against me.

I was ready to get to my room, but then Percy leans her head against my chest. “Charon, what if I die from this?”

My throat tightens at the thought, and I place both hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “You’re not going to. I’m here to ensure that.”

“Thanks. But let’s say I do. What will happen to you, when your contract holder dies?”

I pause. I let my hands fall to my side. My friend turns around and looks up to me, her glasses cloudy from the cold.

I’m debating myself on whether this should be her business or not. I’ve seen parts of her that shouldn’t be for my eyes. Percy had let me see her at her most vulnerable moments, while she only shows her can-do attitude to everyone else. And yet, she knows so little about me. I think I’m being unfair.

Dammit. This is what I fucking get for letting what I feel about my employers get to me, regardless whether it’s positive or not.

I shouldn’t be divulging information to my employers more than what’s necessary, but when I look at my friend before me, I feel an urge to share the parts of myself I couldn’t even confront.

“Back then, the death of whoever held it meant failure to obey the standing order to protect that person, and would result in my termination as well. But something has changed along the way. The day the bombs fell, we were ordered to hold our contracts, and wait until someone comes to claim it. They never came.”

Percy nods her head, motioning me to continue. I start to pace around, struggling to remember the details after that.

“I… I wandered aimlessly for I don’t know how long. I was dying, lost in a desert when a group of survivors found me. They found my contract, and when I came to, the conditioning kicked in. I will serve them, and will continue to do so until I fail. When I do, the order to hold my contract until someone claims it takes effect again.”

Her brows knitted together, mouth curled into a frown. There’s a sadness in her eyes. She’s pitying me again.

Not pity. I don’t need that.

“You don’t need to pity me,” I said, and her eyes grew wide in surprise.

“I’m not- I don’t pity you, Charon. I’m just trying to imagine what you’ve gone through, and I can’t fathom how terrible that must be.”

“It’s better that you don’t.”

Arms wrapped around my waist from behind, and I freeze in my tracks. Percy’s soft and warm, and she presses against my back. I can feel the tightness in my chest melting away.

“I want to understand you better,” she whispers.

I should be keeping my distance after our talk about our professional relationship in Doc Barrows’ clinic. Instead, I turn around and pull her in an embrace, pressing her face against my chest as gently as possible. I’m not a gentle person, but for this angel, I can try.

Damn, can we stay like this forever?

“Let’s get some rest,” I tell her, and let her go, dragging my feet to my quarters.

“Do you want to sleep next to me again?” Percy asks.

I felt my heart starting to race.

For someone who said that I shouldn’t act on what I feel for her, she’s giving me a lot of mixed signals. I don’t know what to do with them. What does she even want?

One day I’ll get the courage to ask her that to her face, but for now, I just shook my head.

“I wish to be alone with my thoughts,” I tell her, and she nods.

She smiles, but the slump in her shoulders tells me about her dejection.

“Okay. Offer still stands. Good night.”

I couldn’t sleep after that.

Lying on a mattress wasn’t as comforting as it used to be. Or maybe it’s because there isn’t the warm weight of another person next to me.

Fuck.

I’ve gone soft.

I heard a soft sigh through the thin walls of the house, and I was ready to get up and comfort Percy, thinking she was crying again. But I heard her keen and moan, and I lay like a rock in my spot.

Like I said, the walls are thin. This isn’t the first time I can hear her touching herself. I understand that she has her needs; the skin mags she looks out for says enough. It’s not my business.

I’d be lying if I said that the sounds she makes didn’t fuel my imagination for months.

Tossing and turning, I took a ratty blanket and pulled it over my head, intending to block the noise out, and screwed my eyes shut. I hate this feeling. I’ve never felt it before I met this woman. All this… longing.

My eyes shot open when I heard her sigh my name.

So that confirms it.

But, why me?

The previous employers that had used me for pleasure are the unsavory, depraved types. They would never look me in the eye. They’d say degrading shit. They never said my name.

Percy is not one of those. She’s the fucking “Wasteland Avenger” or “Wasteland Angel” or “Savior of the Wastes” or whatever damn epithet people want to give her. People look up to her.

For those reasons, hearing her moan my name feels forbidden.

Her invitation to sleep next to her is becoming more tempting. I know it’s not an invitation to be intimate with her, but the past few weeks have been shit. I want something to go right just for damn once.

I heard her gasp my name again and I took it as my cue.

My feet took me to her room as fast as it could. It was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight that seeped through the roof.

“Percy, you called for me?” I ask her.

I hear frantic shifting of fabric, clattering, and her PipBoy light goes off.

“Charon! I uh… um, I thought you were already asleep I- did you…”

I take cautious steps towards the bed, and sit on the edge, the rickety frame creaking under my weight.

“How much did you hear?” she asks me, near whispering.

“Everything,” I said, telling her the truth.

“Wait, all this time you’ve been hearing me- oh God.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to. The walls are thin.”

Percy rubs her face, then she squints, reaching for her glasses. She takes a long, hard look at me. Neither of us are breaking the silence; this angel is within my reach and yet she feels so distant.

Finally, she speaks up. “God, this is awkward. Can we pretend none of this ever happened?”

I gulped. I don’t want to.

“No,” I assert, looking her in the eye and holding her gaze. My friend tears her eyes away from me and rubs the back of her neck.

“I guess there’s no point hiding it. I think you’re attractive, Charon.”

My breath hitches at my throat and it comes out as a disbelieving laugh. “Crazy smoothskin.”

Percy chuckles at my remark. 

“What now?” she asks me.

My eyes flick to her lips, to her pale throat, down to the her nipples poking from under her shirt. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to ask her to join me in acting on the dirtiest thoughts I had for her, but the rational part of my mind holds.

“How long?” I dared to ask her.

“I’m not sure. I know I felt something the first time I bumped into you in Underworld. But I haven’t really thought about it until around November. What about you? When did it start?”

“When you walked into Underworld with that stupidly tight stealth armor. I couldn’t stop staring at your ass.”

Percy snorted. “Really?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself quietly too.

“What the hell did you find attractive about me?” I ask her, still in disbelief at my damn luck.

“Well… there’s just something about the way you carry yourself I guess?”

I raise a brow in response.

“Your bone structure. You look strong and steady and I like that.”

Now I’m tilting my head and smirking.

“And you’re gruff and scary and intimidating and I find it hot,” she blurts out.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “So you find any tall, scary ghoul you find intimidating hot?”

“God, no. Just you. Always been you.”

The sincerity of her words is too much.

All those months of letting me act on my own accord is starting to kick in. I reach for her face, my rough, radiation-damaged fingers caressing her soft cheek, and she leans into the touch. I dared to press my thumb against her bottom lip, savoring its texture, imagining what it would feel against mine. As gently as I could, I tilt her head, pressed my cheek against her neck, and took a deep breath as her small hands flew to my shoulders, squeezing and kneading the tense muscles.

I press my mouth against her neck and she pushes me away.

“Stop. We should stop. You and I both know acting on what we feel now would screw things up,” she interrupts, somber.

I exhaled sharply, nodding and keeping my distance. “Fine. Then please stop giving me hope.”

“What?”

“This. Touching me, asking me to sleep next to you… I’m starting to think you’re leading me on.”

Percy scoffs at my accusation, crossing her arms.

“I’m not!” Percy exclaims. “I’m just saying that it isn’t a possibility now. Right now, I’m your doctor and employer. It would make our relationship unequal.”

“And I am centuries older than you,” I hissed back at her. “There are people who would consider that astoundingly unequal too.”

“Then that makes it twice as wrong! This isn’t multiplication where you take two negatives and it becomes a positive.”

“I have no idea what the hell you just said,” I snarled. “But what I know is I want you. So don’t give me hope unless you’re going to follow through. Please.”

Percy went quiet, still as a statue where she sits. With wide eyes, she gazes into mine.

“Say that again?” she demands.

“Say what again?”

“You said, ‘I want you’. You… you rarely tell me what you want.”

Oh.

“God, Charon I want you too…” Percy starts, moving to the edge of the bed to sit next to me.

“Fuck whatever the hell people say, you should know by now that I’ll defend you against all the fucking ghoul bigots in the world,” she continues, leaning her head against my bare shoulder.

“Weeks ago I would’ve agreed to this, but things have gotten too crazy. From your contract, to dad dying, to getting jumped by those Talon mercs, to the shit we’re planning for Paradise Falls, to Project fucking Purity… There's too much going on. I don’t want to compromise our objectives because of what I feel.”

“I understand.” My heart’s going to fucking burst from my chest.

“I’m not going to be upset if you don’t want to do this anymore when it’s all over. But, please, could we wait?”

I’d wait forever for her, if I can. I’ve waited two centuries for someone like her without even knowing that I needed it. I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is plain lust or something more, but I need her.

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I don’t want to ruin what I have with you now.”

“What do we have now, Percy?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure. But I told you that I want to be your partner, right? Let’s work on that.”

Grunting in response, I slouch, resting my elbows on my knees. After a few moments, I turned to her again.

“May I still sleep next to you?”

My partner laughs softly, and moves back to her spot on the bed. Her small hand pats the mattress, on the empty space next to her.

“Of course.”

Back turned from each other, she falls asleep first. I could tell from her soft snores.

An hour later, I still couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the things she said.

I lie facing the door out of habit. During the training I was forced to take part in, it was drilled in our heads, making us better prepared for intruders and ambushes. 

Close to sleep, I was alerted by a soft whimper coming from her.

When I turned to look at her, her brows are furrowed and her eyes are screwed shut.

“No,” she murmurs, and I listen closely. “Get away from him… Don’t hurt Charon.”

She’s having a nightmare. About me getting hurt.

Grumbling, I shifted my body so that her back was pressed to my chest, and I draped an arm around her.

“Shh. I’m here, and we’re okay,” I whisper.

Percy’s whimpers die down to sighs, and we remain like that for more than a few minutes. I felt dirty, watching her sleep, but seeing her strained face relax eases my nerves.

At some point, I fell asleep. It was a dreamless one.

The next morning, I woke up slowly, eyes adjusting to the brighter rays that came through the cracks on the roof.

A leg is draped over my hip, her face pressed against my chest, and an arm around my waist.

To my surprise, Percy is still asleep next to me. It’s a rare occurence for me to rise earlier than she does.

I look at her PipBoy in the open drawer next to us. Ten fifty two in the morning.

We were supposed to be up by nine.

My hand on her shoulder, I give her a shake. “Percy, wake up.”

My friend stirs awake, stretching her limbs. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost eleven.”

Percy practically jumps out of bed.

“Oh fuck! C’mon, let’s get ready.”

I went to my room. I put on the black shirt Percy gave me, the sleeves already torn away, and proceeded to put on the rest of my armor. As I was walking through the door, I saw the ushanka on the bed side table, and grabbed that too.

Time to talk to Church.

[alovesthis]

All Things Must Pass - Dean Winchester CHAPTER SEVEN

Dean Winchester x (female) Reader Fic

Fic Summary: Reader and Dean Winchester reunite after not seeing each other in a few years, ever since he told her to leave him and his issues behind. Reuniting wasn’t what you expected it would be like because of past feelings, memories and a life threatening situation that was placed upon Dean Winchester.

Warnings: none?!

Word Count: 3.9

sorry for the delay - hope you enjoy! 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The four of you were standing in a motel parking lot in Ypsilanti, Michigan and it wasn’t as snowy as you expected it to be. The ground is wet and dark, might’ve been snowing or raining here for the past few days, you aren’t so sure. But the more you look around you noticed a few snow piles every other block, and over sized holiday decorations literally everywhere. Despite the cheery looks on the civilians you passed by, you four had definitely stood out with your tough demeanor. 

Against the impala, Stevie sat on top of the hood as Deans scolded her for doing so but let her be as he could never say no to her. She maybe a few years younger, reckless and tough, but Dean has a soft spot for her just like she has for him. Sam held a cream colored manila folder, talking about this new case. 

“Santa?” You keep laughing uncontrollably as you reach into your truck and lift your bag out of the back seat. Once you have the bag over your shoulder, you turn around and start walking with the boys and Stevie to the motel rooms. 

“It’s weird, I know. Could be a possibility, maybe the folklore of Krampus?” Sam says. “We gotta go talk to this Mrs. Walsh. Her husband disappeared according to the reports.” 

You hum, “Alright. Let’s get going.”

Stevie opens up your motel room that you’re sharing with her and waits for you. You reach the door and lean against the wall that’s covered with big red bows and gold glitter. You were beginning to hope the holidays will fly fast and that this case won’t take forever, not wanting to continuously be reminded of the past. 

“I’ll throw on my suit,” You say eagerly. “Whoever wants to join me and investigate, meet me out here in ten!” 

When you walk into the motel room, you throw your bag on the bed and rummage through to get out your long black slacks, a white button up and your black blazer that was folded neatly inside each other. As you unpack it, you notice a few wrinkles and sigh in annoyance. You’ve been forgetting to buy yourself one of those zip up clothing bags to store and protect the only two suits you had. Thinking quickly, you run to the bathroom and turn the heat up on the shower and let it steam, letting your suit hang out in there to lessen some of the wrinkles. 

“Y/N!” Stevie calls out. 

You walk out of the bathroom, shutting the door on your way out to keep the steam in, and look at your sister. “What’s up?”

“I figured Sam and I will stay behind, continue to look through the books maybe walk around town. Look for anything suspicious or interesting.” 

“I take it Dean and I will be meeting Mrs. Walsh then?” 

“Yup.” Stevie smiles and you exhale a laugh. You go back to your bag, looking for your fake badge and your gun. Your shoulders are slouched in exhaustion, perhaps it’s sadness for yet another year added to many, without your parents. “Hey, you alright?” 

“I just want to this done, you know?” You stop doing what you’re doing and your knees lean into the bed. “I just...I miss them and I know it’s been such a long time but it hurts..” 

“I know, I miss them too.” Stevie shrugs. “Listen, I know it does. It’s always going to hurt. But then I realize that as long as I have you by my side, I’ll be alright.” 

“You know, I feel like I should be the one saying these things to you. Since I’m older.” You lighten up the conversation as a tear falls down your cheek. 

“We both know I’ve always been a bit more wiser than you.” Stevie laughs as she stands up to hug you. “Every year, I always think about them and then I think about how you saved me.”

“I didn’t save you, that was John.” You reply. 

Stevie scoffs and rolls her eyes, “Yeah okay, he saved us that night. But after that? He just threw us in the back of his car with Sam and Dean. He treated us like we barely existed, he treated us and them like shit. So yeah, maybe he did save me and you that night. But it was you, my sister who raised me and made sure that I was okay with what happened to mom and dad. Hell, even Dean was there for me like he was for Sam. You were there, and you helped me heal. And now that I’m older, I can be here for you in the ways that you have.” 

“Stevie…” 

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that you are always there for everyone.” She sighs. “With the holidays and getting back in touch with Dean...there’s a lot going on, so it’s okay to let me be there for you.” 

The conversation is cut short by a few knocks on the motel door, signaling you that Dean’s ready to get going. You knock your shoulder into Stevie’s arm and smile in appreciation for her kind words for you. “Be right out!” You call out and walk back to the bathroom to shut the water off from the shower and change into your FBI pantsuit. 

“Thank you for that,” you say as you walk out the door, buttoning up the black jacket that went over your white button up. The knocking starts up again and you shake your head in annoyance, picturing Dean standing behind the door waiting impatiently. 

“Alright, Dean! My god, would you stop-” You open the door and look out to see Sam standing against the motel wall. “Oh,” You grin up at Sam who towers over you, but you weren’t short like your sister who looked like could be a kid whenever she stood next to the Winchesters. 

“Sorry. Where’s Dean?” 

“Went to grab us all coffee around the corner for us.” Sam nods. “How are you doing, you know with...everything?” 

“I’m okay, Sam. I think.” You shrug as you walk out the door, Sam following you towards the car. “Just gotta push through this and soon the holidays will be over with.” 

“You know you can talk to us, right? Dean and I...Stevie too.” 

“Of course I know that, thanks Sam.” You bump into his arm, giving a friendly smile. 

“Dean says he wants to celebrate Christmas.” He says after a few seconds. 

“He does?” 

“Yeah, I guess he didn’t tell you because you know…”

“My parents.” You confirm, leaning on the wet Impala door. “How do you feel about it?” 

“He’s treating everything like a last hurrah. And I get it, because he’s gonna die soon, but I don’t like it.” 

“I don’t like either Sam.” You extend your arm up and place your hand on his shoulder. “I want to believe there’s something we can do.” 

“But?” 

“No buts…” You shrug, squeezing his shoulder before removing it and placing your hand in your pants pocket. “I just want to believe we can save him, or maybe just be there for him. We have each other.” 

“Yeah, we do.” Sam nods, trying to hide his sadness with a forceful smile.

“Not too get all mushy here,” You scoff. “But uh...If we can’t prevent it from happening, you do know you have Stevie and I. We’re a family and I don’t want you to go through shit alone.” 

Silence stays between you two, as Sam is afraid to even utter a word without any tears threatening to spill. These conversations were going to happen, no matter how much Dean or anyone else wanted to have them. Suddenly, Dean is walking back to you two, catching the last few words of your sentence. 

“Don’t go through what shit alone?” He raises his brows as he stands in front of the Impala facing you and Sam. 

“Ah nothing, just the research.” You smile. “So, Sam and Stevie will be hanging back while we go see Mrs. Marsh.” 

“Okay.” Dean nods. “Here ya go...two large black coffee for you nerds.” Dean hands Sam the coffee as he roll his eyes at him. 

“Thanks, jerk.” Sam says, before he tells you two he’ll see you later as he disappears into the motel room to hit the books with Stevie. The four of you were the brains and the muscles, but it’s overly obvious that Sam and Stevie absolutely love the research aspect of it all more than you two. It had its moments, but it frustrated you and Dean a lot more. 

“Look at you, blue steel.” You squint at him up and down, staring at his all black FBI suit. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you like this.” 

“Yeah, I do pull it off don’t I?” Dean says, handing out a coffee cup to you. His green eyes are almost staring at you lovingly as a tiny smile plays on his lips as he looks you up and down. 

“Been awhile since I’ve seen you in that.” He coughs, making his way to the drivers side of the Impala. You’re oblivious to the way he starts to get nervous as you just stare at him, distracted by how good he really looks. “You uh, you look good.” 

“I’ve grown up some more, Dean.” You laugh as you stare over at him with a smirk as you begin to tease him. “I can tell you have too. A lot actually.” 

You finally see it. He’s taken back, but in a good way he thinks. You see him fidget as he stands there trying to process whether or not you’re flirting with him, or trying to make him flustered and break down his ‘cool guy’ exterior. 

“So, you ever gonna let me drive this?” You change the subject to ease not only his nerves, but yours as well. You tap on the top of Baby and flash him a smile.

“This?” He scoffs. “Not gonna let you drive my baby. Not until I’m dead.” Dean raises his brows, a tiny smirk forms on his face as he smoothly gets inside the impala, leaving you still leaning against the closed car door as you listen to the impala get started up. 

You laugh in bewilderment and step aside to open and get inside the passenger seat. Once you’re settled, you look over to him watching his hand is turning the dial to pick the right music station as his eyes focus ahead. He starts driving slowly down the road, away from the motel and to Mrs. Marshs’ home.

“So, who are we today?” Dean asks, as he peers over at you. 

“You are Agent Mick.” You grin to yourself in amusement. “And I’m Agent Nicks.” 

“Mick...Nicks.” He murmurs to himself. “Fleetwood Mac, really?” 

“Says you.” You scoff. “Do I need to count all the names of rockstar and couples you’ve chosen for us?”

He chuckles after taking a moment to recall all the names he’s picked out for you two in the past. All the purposely chosen couples from bands, or names of groupies and all things 1970’s and occasionally some people from the 90’s which you chose, made him smile. Although he hadn’t had a simple life, and you not being able to remember much about that slight part of yours, he wishes (and as did you) he could go back in time where you two were just kids, teens trying to get by and enjoy life. 

“Yeah...those were the days.” 

“Dean…”

“If you’re about to ask me if I’m okay, the answer is yeah I am. Now, are you?” He glances over with his eyebrows raising in question. 

You roll your eyes and avert them to the window. “Let’s just get to Mrs. Marsh and get this case over and done with.” 

“Alright.” Dean sighs, focusing back to the road, leaving you to settle with your thoughts as he was left with questions and thoughts of his own as he reminisces past holidays spent with you. Days where things were slightly different and better between the both of you. After the discussion with Mrs. Marsh, you called Stevie when you were finished as you and Dean made your way back to the motel room to meet them. 

Inside the motel, the atmosphere between the two brothers felt off, just like it is between you and Dean. After explaining the story that Mrs. Marsh told and the facts Dean and you figured out, the four of you slumped around you and Stevie’s motel room. The air inside was hot, filled with the smell of coffee and the old lore books.

“So, you found a tooth?” Stevie questions. “Wasn’t there a clean house? Thought they checked everything.”

“When does the police really ever do their job thoroughly?” Dean asks. 

“True.” Stevie chuckles as she leans back in her chair. “The tooth, where was it?” 

“In the chimney.” You stand up and walk to her, placing the tooth on the table then crossing your arms together against your chest. “My guess is maybe this evil Santa did it. Obviously, but the point is, her husband disappeared.” 

“The chimney..I don’t know,” dean raises his hands up, “there’s just no way a man fits up a chimney, it’s too narrow.”

“There’s just no way he fits up in one piece.” Sam adds.

“What are we thinking, evil Santa sliced and dice the man?” Stevie suggests. 

“Maybe, or possibly just dragged upwards. That can explain the tooth. We just need to figure out why him.” You say. “Look through the books, figure it all out and fast.” 

“Alright! You guys hit the books, I’m starving.” Dean stands up and throws his leather jacket on. There was something about the rugged, beat up jacket on him that always made you feel both uneasy and sympathetic. Possibly because he looked so good in it, while on the other hand you knew it was John’s and you never like the man. 

“We just ate breakfast.” Stevie digs at him. “How are you so hungry all the time.”

“Yeah, we had breakfast like hours ago!” Dean says. “Oh come on, you’re telling me our life doesn’t make you hungry all the time?”

“You know what Dean, go get food.” You gesture to the door, shaking your head. “But please, just bring me back-”

“More coffee, I know.” He winks your way as he opens the door. “See ya.” 

“Your brother is something else.” Stevie stands up to walk to the bathroom, looking at Sam and you. “I don’t know how you two are related and Y/N, I don’t see how you love him.” 

“Stevie!” You gasp, letting out a confused laugh at why she stared at you while walking backwards into the bathroom with a huge smirk on your face. You were so thankful Dean left for food and not witnessing an attack on your feelings for him (you pushed it down and away though, pretending like they didn’t exist).

You hear Sam chuckle from behind you until you whip your head around and stare at him flustered. “I don’t love him.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Sam shakes his head, while opening his laptop and typing away. You scoff and grab the pile of books on the table and throw yourself on the bed, brooding within the books trying to stop thinking about things and focus back to the case. 

After a while, Dean comes back and Sam and Stevie are stuck on the evil Santa idea. All of you kept thinking it’s crazy, but everything you’ve encountered was crazy. So things aren’t far fetched in this life anymore, not even an evil Santa in all the lore you’ve read and researched. Sam was beginning to give up on the idea until Dean had sat down with you, going over each others notes and stories. Sam’s eager and you both realize that the two victims went to the same place before they disappeared, or were dragged up the chimney. Santa’s freaking Village. 

“Alright boys, you head to Santa’s Village while we hang back. Maybe look over the town again.” You say, standing up to put on your coat. “We meet back at a diner, or here in a couple hours.” 

“Give us a ring if you find anything.” Stevie says, following you out the door with your jacket. 

“Why did we get stuck with Santa’s Village?” Dean says to his brother once you two are out of the room. 

“Don’t be baby.” Sam rolls his eyes and laughs, before leaving Dean in the motel room alone. 

As the boys went to visit the village and informed you that they’d be investigating through the night over at some cosplaying Father Christmas’ trailer. Sam said he fits the description, so you and Stevie decide to look back at the victims homes in hopes to find something you and Dean had missed. Sneaking into the homes were easy for Stevie and you, more so for Stevie since she was short and was extremely quiet on her feet. But everyone that knew you and Stevie knew that she was strong as hell and that no one should judge her the way she looked or stood short. 

When Stevie and you make it, nothing is found but a wreath that doesn’t look quite traditional, and not in a good way. Very silent, Stevie suggests that maybe you should snap some pictures and take a sample back to the motel for Sam and Dean -- maybe it’s something. The rest of the night is spent in the motel room together, half asleep and waiting for the brothers to return. 

The two of you were jolted awake as Sam and Dean burst through the door with urgency. 

“Seriously, why can’t you guys ever stay calm?” Stevie groans. “Barging in my motel room. What, did you two break the door?” 

You groggily laugh and stretch before standing up. “You know, she’s not wrong. You almost took down that door. Did you forget you guys were six feet tough guys?” 

“Alright, enough of this banter.” Dean scoffs. “Evil Santa has struck again.” 

“How? Weren’t we all just out and about?” You say. “How did we not know?”

“Just happened.” He answers. 

“Hey,” Sam says, walking to the table and picking up a part of the wreath you took. “We found this too.” 

“Oh, so it’s important?” You ask. “Stevie said it might be something but she can’t remember what it was. Mentioned something about pagon rites.

“We gotta call from Bobby.” 

“Bobby…” You smile. “I haven’t seen him in awhile. What did he say?” 

“I told him you two were here with us, sends his love.” Sam smiles.

“Called Sam and I  morons too.” Dean raises his coffee cup at you and smiles before chugging his drink.

“I miss him.” You say. 

“Me too. We’ll have to take a trip to him soon.” Stevie mentions. “Did you mention the wreath?” 

“Meadowsweet.” 

“Meadowsweet!” Stevie exclaims. “Fuck, I knew what it was.” 

“How do you know?” Same asks..

“I don’t really, but I remember reading some lore once, mentioned the herb and paganism. I don’t think it’s good...you know, considering what’s going on now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Pagon lore.” 

“Wow, amazing.” Dean says flatly as he stares between Sam and your sister. You smile in amusement before sitting next to Dean at the table, drinking some coffee he had brought for you and Stevie. 

“They used meadowsweet for human sacrifices.” Sam explains. 

“So, it’s not evil Santa then?” You ask.

“It’s not Father Christmas from the village..so probably not.” Dean says. “What exactly is it?”

“Kind of like a chum for their Gods.” 

“What’s the point in using that in Christamas wreaths?” Stevie asks, joining you three at the table. 

“It’s tradition I guess. Every christmas tradition is pagan.” Sam explains. 

“Christmas is Jesus’ birthday.” Dean purses his lips as he walks over to Sam. 

“Ah, see Jesus’s birthday is in the Fall.” Stevie says, as you three turn to look at her. “What, I know everything okay?” 

“Yeah, besides it was actually the winter solstice festival-”

“Alright, can we get back on track?” You ask, smiling at the brothers. “The pagans, the meadowsweet?”

“Right.” Sam says. 

“So, a Pagon God maybe?” Stevie asks. 

“A God? Well that’s a first.” You furrow your brows. 

“Don’t believe in a God?” Dean asks. 

“I live life like this,” you turn to Dean and explain. “I kinda won’t believe it till I see with my own eyes, some proof. Like the spirits and monsters and demons.” 

“Oh I know…” he nods. “Not judging.”

“So, I’m thinking Pagon God.” Sam confirms. 

“If you’re saying Pagon God and mentioning the winter solstice, my guess is god of the winter solstice.” Stevie says. 

“Yeah...name is Hold Nickar.” 

As the conversation goes on, you reach back for the lore book re-reading some sections about the winter solstice and the human sacrifices. Your eye catches that the God is supposed to give something in return for the sacrifice yo make for the person - weather change. Then it clicks. Arriving in Ypsilanti days ago and noticing no heavy snow or harsh weather anywhere. Just when you stand up and walk to the motel door and open it, Dean looks out the window just as Sam mentions mild weather. 

“No storms, no heavy snow…” You inch back and shut the door.  

“No snow in the middle of December.” Dean points. “In the middle of Michigan.”

“It’s definitely the Pagon God then.” Stevie jumps to her feet. “How the hell are we gonna kill a God?” 

“Sam?”

“Bobby’s actually working on that for us.”

“I love that old man.” Stevie smiles. “So I guess our next move, we figure out where and who is selling those wreaths.” 

“You think they’re selling them on purpose?” Dean asks her. 

“Probably? I don’t know. We just gonna find out and find out fast.”

“Yeah, figure it out before there’s a fourth victim.” You say. “We’ll split up again, yeah?” 

Dean stares at you, “You wanna-” 

“Sam and I will go into town, find a card store or some christmas shops. You and Stevie can wait for a call from Bobby, do some more digging.”

Dean coughs as you ignored him. You knew he would want to split up with you again, but after Stevie had brought up your repressed feelings for Dean, and it being christmas season, you didn’t really want to wallow in any of that. It’s ironic, you heading into town where everything you’re surrounded by is decorations. But you’re not sure how long you can sit in a motel with hot air from the rusty heat filling the room. 

You make your way to the door, waiting for Sam to grab his jacket. 

“You better hand the phone over to Stevie when Bobby calls.” You look at Dean with a soft smile. 

“Of course.” 

And with that out of the way, Sam and you had left the motel room and made your way into town with him driving your truck as your wrist was still healing from the last case. It was silent in the truck. Both of you reeling on the inside about Dean and this Pagon God christmas case, filled with anxiety and exhaustion. You were thinking this better be over with, smoothly and fast. All you want and need...is sleep.

---

AO3 LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785824/chapters/68283436

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