#if somebody with a better background/contacts wants to come talk about it please come hang out with me

[stylishanachronism]

Okay so we’re going to open with the fact that while Obsidian has at least one person on staff who understands armor, literally nobody understands clothing, especially historical clothing, and though they stumbled into something... acceptable in two and a half cases(1), literally everything else they’ve produced on the subject is garbage.

So what’s the most garbage cultural garb in Eora? I’m going to shock you, despite my complaining on the affront that is the Dyrwood, it’s actually the Vailians. They’re supposedly primarily metalsmiths and textile traders, (iirc Obsidian called Venice and the Phoenicians as the major guiding influences), with really strong textual aesthetic sensibilities, and yet they’re all wearing drab closefitting garments with neither wild shaping nor excess fabric, mostly in deeply boring greys. It’s like... bad period piece Renaissance Venetians, but make it 90s haute couture. It is *painfully* bad. Deadfire improves, a little bit, but these are supposedly the most baroque bitches around, I should be seeing vivid colors (especially in reds and blues and purples), rich blacks, and enough spare fabric to drown a medium sized child. Also lace. A famous vineyard’s worth of lace. At least blackwork, come on Obsidian they look cheap.

Based on Pallegina’s armor, I should also be seeing a ‘pigeon breast’ silhouette on literally everyone, or alternatively low, square cut bodices to show off extremely fancy underwear (and don’t worry, we’ll get to the underwear), and I should be seeing split hose, not pants, if I am seeing hose at all. I will accept pants for exactly two cultures and no more. and the Republics do not apply.(2) Deadfire did them a good turn by introducing brocades but where is the velvet. The silk. The weird hats. The dagged, slashed sleeves to show off the fact you’re rich enough to wear an overdress, an underdress, and then your underwear’s fancy as hell too. Everybody on the south-eastern half of the Eastern reach is wearing, at minimum, a chemise, hose, and if you’ve got boobs some sort of stays to keep said boobs put, and pockets, before you even get to their outerwear.and just like today, everybody wants pretty underwear. Embroidered cuffs and collars, clocked hose, lace on everything, if you’re rich, blackwork if you aren’t, extremely beautiful pockets, the works. The Republics, being the rich people with all the fabric, have canonically raised fashion to an art form, so they should be dripping with extra details, and they should not only be the only people with flat patterning, they should be reveling in that fact. They are not doing any of these things.

The second most garbage cultural garb is, of course, the Dyrwood. Again, I should be seeing lots of color, not necessarily saturated but given their climate and stated food products I can make an educated guess about what dye plants are around, so lots of greens and yellows and rusty-orange reds and (maybe) pale blues, and a billion extremely rich shades of brown and almost-black, mostly plainweave for themselves (they’re shipping out their brocades for the most part), but lots of embroidery again. They can keep the bracers, they’re the only canon-given detail I actually liked (and it plays into a different headcanon re: where the fuck did you get the standing army), but they don’t even get split hose, much less pants. Skirts for everybody! Again, these people are producing all the fabric, and it’s cold(ish), so multiple layers are a thing, as is excess cloth, and if you’re going to do that, you’ll dye your underdress a fun color to contrast with your overdress (which very well might be quartered, too), at the very least. There’s probably a lot of plain trimming, and guards, and they’re coming out of Aedyran fashion so there’s not a lot of shaping but stripes and plaids are probably a thing, and certainly no flat patterning. Think bilaut over later kirtles, with side lacing and belting around the waist for various purposes (like making your boobs stay put, depending on if you’ve got stays or not, or holding up said skirt when you’re working in the fields, to get it out of the way.)(3)

Based on the leather armor you pick up, I should also be seeing the beginnings of a more conical style, moving away from clothes you just drop over your head into separate skirts and bodices (for everybody, not just women), which still probably lace up the front or (more commonly) the sides. (There’s an argument to be made that kilts are a thing, coming out of Eir Glanfath, but it’s probably more of a western than an eastern thing, and frankly I’m not sold, get back to me on this.) Also, going back to my dearly cherished ring lace headcanon, pretty much everyone wears extremely beautiful knit lace shawls (but not trim, and not non-knit), because even if you’re selling all the really nice stuff you’ve still got piles and piles of little apprentices practicing their trade, and somebody’s got to wear it.

Unfortunately I just don’t have enough information about Glanfathians to say anything other than what they’re wearing is also probably garbage, and fashion is probably a hugely tribe-specific thing. More nomadic tribes probably don’t wear many wovens, probably saving what cloth they make or trade for for things like belts and blankets and carrying bags, but again, it should all be extremely colorful. You’ll see more shaping and piecework here, because leather does not appear in neat rectangles the way cloth does, and if you’ve already got that curve you might as well use it, lots of fur, mostly for warmth but also as decoration, and we might see Dyrwodian fashion influences with the more eastern tribes, depending on the mystery of what’s going down politically at that border and whether or not those tribes are more or less nomadic.

Ixmitl gets an honorable mention for having the most color and also horses, and so the pants are acceptable, but I’d like to see more color and more embellishment. And also more information. Rauatai gets an honorable mention for having actually reasonable rectangular construction on everything (clearly an accident but I’ll take it) and again, some color. Aedyr gets an honorable mention for having some logic put into it’s creation, even if that logic isn’t extended out to its colonies like it should be, and even if what we see in game makes it clear Obsidian doesn’t actually understand how things like chitons work.

Engwith gets all the honorable mentions for somehow being the most internally consistent culture as far as art and fashion go, despite 90% of that art and fashion being extremely hard to see frescoes, and the rest of it being Thaos. Yeah it’s basically a straight copy off Sumer but you know what? That just means it works.

At some point in the distant future I may update this with illustrations of canon v. what we reasonably should be seeing, but right now is not that time.

1: Whoever Obsidian picked up for Tyranny clearly stayed on (Tyranny’s clothing was uniformly pretty great, even if it had the same bra problem), and they’re the only person with half a clue, which is why the Huana look as good as they do. Pillars gets half a point for Aedyr, Iximtl, and hilariously enough Engwith, for having reasonable starting points, and Deadfire should get another half point for Rautai, but that picture of Maia exists and it is such an affront they lost it again.

2: Ixmitl and the various groups of the White that Wends can have pants, the first because they’re canonically horse people, and that’s what pants are for. The White doesn’t actually get pants, per se, they’re fairly clearly inspired variously by the Inuit and the Vikings, so they have separate undergarments we would call pants in order to help keep warm, but it counts for this. Nobody else gets pants.

3: Just for the record, this is also where Raedceras should be, fashion-wise, but we have huge amounts of nothing when it comes to non-priest everyday wear so I can’t really talk about. My logic still stands, plus they’re even less likely to know about flat patterning, but, y’know.

[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.

[multifandhoem]

server collab || ii

Server Collab from the Haikyuu HQ server with the prompt: “Guess I‘ll just have to cum inside you.“

The masterlist for the whole collab is here!

Genre: fluff, smut

Warnings: slight SPOILER (it‘s really really small), smut obviously, little bit of public stuff if you count it as such, slight breeding kink, wedding sex, lot‘s of fluff

Word count: 3292

“I still remember when Iwa-chan told me, how he embarrassed himself in front of a cute girl and hoped he would never see her again to not relive the existential dread he felt at that moment. And then he told me he met her again and she laughed over the mishap and they were going to get coffee next week.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*

“I am so sorry.” His face was red, head bowed down in embarrassment, but you could still see it at the tip of his ears.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t like you were a stalker or something.” You were giggling a bit at the state he was in. “On top of that it is kinda my fault, I should’ve closed the curtains or something.” He slowly raised himself again, face still scrunched up in discomfort. He really looked like he was in horrendous pain and it was kinda your fault. “Please don’t beat yourself up over it. I’ll treat you to coffee, to make you feel better, when are you free?”

Maybe the fact that he was a looker made you act a bit more open towards him than usual, but you genuinely felt bad for him. He was obviously beating himself up over that accident a couple of days ago.

You had realised fast that you could look from your window right into the room on the other side of the street, which was why you invested in curtains pretty early. But apparently, you had forgotten to close them this time, so when you turned around shirtless and made eye contact with a man, you were both equally surprised. He looked mortified and you couldn’t even blink when he suddenly dropped to the floor, now hidden from your wide eyes.

Your body reacted, even though he probably couldn’t see you anymore, shielding your breasts with one arm, the other hastily closing the curtains. After the initial shock wore off you couldn’t help but giggle a bit. Why did he just drop to the floor? He could’ve turned around or something.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

Next to you, Hajime buried his face in his hands, but the large grin that had adorned his face for the whole evening was still there. Tooru waited a bit until the laughter calmed down until he continued.

“When I came back from Argentina for a visit she was already his girlfriend of five months. And when I saw Iwa-chan I knew that she would probably stick around for longer. You know, Iwa-chan is a very violent person-“ “Only towards shitty people!” You knew he couldn’t have let that jab just go by, but Tooru professionally ignored him.

“but with her, he was very soft, always touching her in some way. Sometimes touching too much. Don’t think we forgot the trip to the cabin!” He scoldingly wiggled his finger towards you, accompanied by Makki’s and Mattsun’s affirming but still scandalised shouts.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

“We gotta be quick, Haji.” His lips were hot on your collarbones, fingers already dipping under your shirt, quickly pulling it over your head. “I know, they will wonder where we are.”

You had excused yourself for a second from the movie the others had put on. It was the first time this day where there weren’t two other people in the room with you, everybody being huddled in the living room of the small cabin where you resided for the weekend. With two bedrooms shared between the six of you and one big room that functioned as kitchen, living and dining room, there was never space for some alone time, which you were desperate to have after your boyfriend strutted around you shirtless the whole day. It should be illegal for someone as fine as he was to do such things.

Foreplay had to be postponed for the next time, you had little time until the others would grow suspicious. “No need, I can take you.”

You pulled his fingers out of your entrance, desperate to just feel his cock in you. He chuckled at your eagerness, pushing his sweatpants down until his cock sprung free, already hard and leaking. Apparently, you weren’t the only sexually frustrated one.

“Fuck,” you breathed out when he buried himself in you with one stroke.

“Quiet, baby.” His lips found yours stifling your small moans as he began moving his hips.

Breathless gasped and small moans soon filled the room, occasionally accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, when Hajime couldn’t stop his hips before they met yours. “I’m close,” you whimpered as he began rubbing your clit and he shot you a breathless smile and pressed a small kiss to your lips. “Bite something when you come,” he said quietly, thrusts becoming a bit more erratic.

“Disgusting!” Loud banging on the door interrupted you and Hajime let out a string of curses. “If you already know then don’t go interrupting, Shittykawa!” Not having to hide anymore his hips finally snapped into yours, using the full capacity of his strength to make you moan against his shoulder.

Unfortunately, the orgasm you experienced didn’t lessen the embarrassment when you faced the others again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

It was your turn to hang your head in shame, trying not to meet your parents’ eyes, who were seated next to you. Or worse, Hajime’s parents.

Tooru chuckled at your misery, before continuing.

“To be honest, I wasn’t that surprised when Iwa-chan called me and told me he would send me pictures of rings and I should help him decide. He obviously forgot timezones since it was 2am for me and I first thought somebody had died, but after promising to make me best man I obviously forgave him.” The guests laughed again and Tooru took a well-rehearsed break.

“I don’t think I have seen Iwa-chan as nervous as when he was rehearsing his proposal through me via Skype. I told him it was good, even though he was a stammering mess. But the thing about those two over there is that they calm each other down. So I knew, when the moment would come, everything would go swimmingly. I saw the way they looked at each other, there was no way she would say no.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*

“What are you planning?” You were chuckling, when Hajime lead you through the small house on the outskirts of Tokyo you two had purchased together when it was safe that he was staying in Japan with his work. “Let me surprise you, woman, and stop asking.” You could hear the amusement in his voice and it made your heart bloom. After all these years together he still made you feel like you were going on your first date. And he probably always would.

“Small step, be careful.”

You felt the ground changing from the hardwood floor to a rougher and colder one, showing you that you were now outside on the small terrace. You didn’t have to wonder for long, what he was planning when he carefully pulled the blindfold off your face. The first thing you saw was him.

But it was enough. He was smiling at you, his eyes radiating love. You couldn’t help but snaking your arms around his neck, to press a kiss to his lips. “You look so handsome. I love you.”

Hajime in a suit was something you had the pleasure of seeing a couple of times, but it still caught you off guard how someone could look this good.

“You haven’t even looked around, idiot,” He chuckled but still laid his arms around you to tug you towards him to kiss you again. After that he still forced you to turn around, to take a look at what he conjured in the last couple of hours.

The small garden you had behind your house was completely transformed, fairy lights making the faint evening glow even more magical.

“It’s beautiful.” The words were soft, Hajime wouldn’t have heard them if he wasn’t standing this close to you. “All for you, baby. I love you. I just thought, maybe we could sit on the blanket, maybe drink a bit of wine and just talk, you know?” His voice was laced with nervousness, even if he wasn’t even sure why. He knew you would like what he did. He went through your Pinterest boards and they were loaded with fairy lights, clinking classes, kisses shared under the faint glow. “That sounds perfect. What’s the occasion? I haven’t forgotten anything, right?” He laughed out loud at your nervousness. “No, babe, you haven’t. I just wanted to do something for you.”

His smile was so pure, filled with raw emotion, you had to kiss him again, putting as much passion as possible into the kiss. “Thank you, Hajime. I love you so much. I can’t believe I got so lucky.”

Your eyes were a bit wetter than usual and you hastily blinked the tears away, smiling at your boyfriend, ready to have a magical evening.

He really had everything prepared. Next to the blanket, a small cooler with a bottle of rosé laid, together with two glasses for you. His phone played soft instrumental music in the background, as you settled yourself against his chest, occasionally sipping at your wine, reminiscing about the past years, wishing for the future ones.

“Hey, move for a second, my leg’s fallen asleep.” A small tug of his leg under you made you sit up, while he fixed his posture, both of you now sitting upright in front of each other.

“Sorry, about that. Do you want to stand up for a bit to move it?” His eyes twinkled with amusement as he tugged you back down when you already wanted to stand up.

A shaky breath escaped him. So this was it. “Y/N, baby, I love you. So much, you can’t even imagine. You’ve been with me for the past couple of years and I honestly can’t wait for the future, if you’re by my side.” He paused for a second, hand slipping into his pocket. “Hajime.” Tears were already welling up in your eyes before he even managed to pull the ring out of his pocket, that he and Tooru had chosen so diligently a couple months prior.

“Will you marry me?”

-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Those two, right there, are a great couple if I’ve ever seen one. I actually can’t imagine a better partner for my Iwa-chan. Hajime. I’ve seen you grow up. I’ve been growing up alongside you and, dare I say, we’ve both become pretty great.” Tooru chuckled a bit, but everyone could hear his voice wavering, as his eyes were fixated on his best friend.

“I can’t express how happy I am, to still have you in my life, to now seeing you maturing into this great man who is inspiring others in everything he does. Seeing you enter this new part of your life, with this great woman in my life warms my heart. And you deserve nothing less. A toast to you. A toast to your future, Mr. and Mrs. Iwaizumi.” He raised his glass to you, a big smile on his face.

If he weren’t sitting right across from you, you would’ve missed the small tears rolling down his face. The guests around you all raised their glasses to towards you, everyone touched by Tooru’s speech.

But nobody came close to Hajime, who was clenching your hand in his’ tightly, tears welling up in his eyes, before he strode over to his friend, tightly embracing him.

You couldn’t hear what words were exchanged as tears fell and people smiled at the pair. Every guest at your wedding knew about Hajime and Tooru. The best friends, the best partners, who have been with each other since they were about five years old. Who only see each other every couple of months, partners technically becoming rivals.

When your husband came back to you his eyes were puffy, some tears still escaping, but the happiest smile on his face. Tooru hugged you too, wishing you good luck for your future, making a small joke about becoming an uncle again and telling you, once again, to take care of his best friend, his brother.

“I’m so happy to be your wife.” Hajime kissed you at your words but you still knew that he was equally as happy as you were. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily now,” you joked, relishing in the laughter that escaped him.

“As if I would ever want that. I’m going to put some kids in you as soon as possible. And then we have a little family. Maybe even a big family. Whatever you want.” He kissed you again and you couldn’t help but smile at the picture of him with kids in your head. More importantly, your kids. “About that.” You leaned into his side, grateful for the minutes you had at the edge of the room. “I’ve been thinking, maybe stopping my birth control? I mean we don’t have to start trying and stuff, but we’re married now and we’ve been together for a while, and we talked about it already, and-“ You were cut off with a passionate kiss, Hajime even dipping you slightly as he practically devoured you.

“Do you mean that? Do you really mean that?” You could only nod, a wide grin on your lips as you cupped his face in your hands to bring his mouth to yours again. “Fuck, I love you. I can’t wait to fuck you today.” Heat shot through your stomach at his words and his kisses did nothing to soothe it.

“Hajime.” You really didn’t intend for his name to sound like such a whimper. But when he growled against your lips you knew you were done for. “The bridal room. Where I got ready. Let’s go.”

You felt like a schoolgirl sneaking around again, when you were rushing through the halls of the venue, hand in hand with your new husband, giggling around, until you finally closed the door behind you, being pressed against the same one in an instant, a breathless Hajime resting his forehead against yours.

You were whispering ’I love you’s to each other for the probably thousandths time this day, but it wasn’t like you were growing tired of it anytime soon. “You gotta be careful about the dress, I don’t wanna have cum stains somewhere,” you reminded him as he was flicking up your skirt, already sinking to his knees.

“Guess I’ll just have to cum inside you.” You giggled in excitement at his statement, soon leading into a moan, when he buried his face between your lower lips, thong pulled to the side, his tongue expertly doing all the things he found out about you the years before.

“Fuck, Hajime.” Your fingers thread themselves in his hair, tugging him closer.

He took one of your legs in his hand, tugging it over his shoulder and digging even deeper between your legs, using the fingers of his other hand as well, to insert two of them into your dripping cunt. “Haji, I’m coming,” you whimpered, clamping onto him.

“Wait for my cock.” The years of never neglected training came in handy, when he stood up, with you in his arms, to seat you on the small table, that was probably just in the room for decorating purposes. You shrieked a bit at how fast everything was happening, but you kind of agreed with him.

The first time you should come as husband and wife should be with him deep inside you.

He dropped his suit pants to his ankles and you could feel yourself clench with excitement. “Ready, baby?”

“Yes, please, Haji.” You pulled him towards you again to connect your lips, moaning into his mouth when he rubbed his dick up and down your folds, coating himself in your arousal.

It’s weird to explain what you felt the moment he pushed himself inside you. You had sex lots of times. But in that moment you felt more complete than you ever did.

You stayed like that for a couple of seconds, connected in the most intimate way possible, before his hips snapped back and into you again, eliciting a moan of both of you.

“Honestly, fucking you in your wedding dress is hot as fuck.” He laughed breathlessly, kissing you again, all while not halting his thrusts.

“Think about me pregnant with your kids,” you purred in his ear and squeaked in delight when his next thrust was harder than before.

“Don’t get me started. You’re going to look so good pregnant. All round and cozy.” His speed grew more erratic and you knew he would come soon.

“Fuck, we gonna start soon, right?” Your fingers clenched in his shirt, pushing him closer to you, chasing your own high.

“We’re starting right now, baby.” He kissed you again, hand moving down to rub your clit again, chuckling at the little whimpers you let out.

“Haji-“ You didn’t need to say more, he already knew, what you wanted to tell him.

“Go on, baby.” You kissed again, moans mixing in your mouths, as his tongue caressed yours, the slight taste of your juices still left on them. Every time his cock hit that one part you had to suppress a small scream, only slightly moaning in your husband's mouth.

“Can’t wait for tonight. Gonna fill you- ah- up again and again. And then you can be as loud as you want. Fuck. Gonna take my time with you.”

The filth he muttered against your lips only made you clench down harder onto his cock, feeling your high approaching rapidly. It was him coming, his cum spurting into you, which finally sent you over the edge, legs wrapping around him, bringing him even closer to your body, completely engulfing him, dead set on never letting him go.

Heavy breathing filled the room, as you both came down from your high. Small kisses were being exchanged, I love you’s were mumbled. But it was still perfect.

“I’m already anticipating tonight,” you mumbled, slightly exhausted due to moaning so much, making him chuckle, while his hands calmingly rubbed up and down your sides.

When he pulled out of you, you moaned again at the feeling of his cum slowly dribbling out of you.

“This looks so good. You look so good.” Hajime’s eyes were focused on the spot between your legs, fingers twitching to push it back inside.

“Don’t let it go on the dress!” You shrieked, chuckling at the way he darted to get a paper towel, carefully wiping you down.

“You alright, baby?” He helped you down from the table after pushing your thong back in place and fixing up his suit pants.

“Yeah. I love you. You made me the happiest woman alive, today, you know that?” The smile he threw your way at your words made your heart bloom. You were so in love with this man.

“Now, brace yourself for the comments.” You intertwined your fingers again, going back down the hallways to rejoin your guests at your reception. “You think somebody noticed something?” Your hands grew sweaty at the thought. Hopefully, nobody suspected a thing. Especially not his parents. Or worse, the grandparents!

“Tooru will have noticed for sure. You know how he is. If we’re lucky he hasn’t told Makki or Mattsun.” Hajime seemed way to relaxed at the thought, only shrugging his shoulders, ditching your hand to throw his arm around your shoulder and pull you into his side.

“I love you.” He pressed a kiss to your temple and you could feel he was smiling.

“I love you, too.”

No matter what was going to happen once you got back, this was still the best day of your life.

[mcheang]

Lila doesn't know that Luka is Juleka's brother so she tries claiming that he is a delinquent and a bad influence on Marinette.

Gossip report

One day when Lila was leaving school, pondering on how to steal Adrien from Kagami, she spotted Marinette talking to a boy with blue hair and a guitar.

He was obviously older and definitely cute.

Nearby two girls were whispering about how lucky Marinette was to have this senior student asking her out.

Well, Lila certainly hates it when the spotlight isn’t on her.

Later that day, while hanging out with the girls (because Marinette was definitely out on a date), Lila tried to be the one to start the gossip chain.

Lila: hey girls, I don’t want to alarm anyone but do you think Marinette will be fine with Adrien off the market?

The girls exchanged shrugs. “She’ll be fine. She’ll move on.”

Lila feigned concern. “That’s what i am worried about. I think Marinette is so heartbroken, she’ll give her heart to anyone who gives her the time of day. I just saw her after school talking to some high school dropout.”

Pause.

Juleka: what did he look like?

Lila: he had blue hair, rode a bike (let them think it’s a motorcycle) and wore grungy clothes. *gasp*

Alix: and what makes you think he’s a bad influence?

Lila saw her pink hair and quickly backtracked on looks. “I could tell by his face. He looks so smug, arrogant and sneaky. The kind of boy you see smoking and dealing with drugs.”

Juleka: I see...

Lila: so you see, we must interfere on Marinette’s behalf, before his claws are in too deep.

Or at least they will because everyone knows Marinette will never listen to Lila.

Juleka was using her phone and at last found an image of Luka, alone at one of his favorite rock concerts. The background was dim and he was making faces for the camera.

Juleka: was this the boy you saw?

Lila: that’s him! What do you girls think? Delinquent or what?

Mylène: i think you should give him a chance. Don’t be deceived by appearances.

Lila: trust me! I’m a good judge of character. This boy is bad news. He’s the type of guy who ends up in jail and drunk.

Rose decided to intervene. “He’s also Juleka’s brother.”

Oh....

Alya: maybe you should check your facts before you go spreading rumors.

Lila’s brain: hypocrite!

Lila: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. I just got so worried for Marinette.

Mylene: we understand Lila. But Luka’s a genuinely sweet boy.

Rose: all the girls at his school like him

Alix: he’s a real artist, in a musical way

Alya: he’s a member of Kitty Section and the songwriter of their songs

Juleka: and he’s a great judge of character. If he doesn’t like somebody, we don’t like him. It’s a band thing.

Lila sweatdropped. “Oh. Well I can’t wait to make his acquaintance and get to know him better.” Maybe she could make Marinette look bad to him and he could tell Kitty Section?

Alya: no worries. Luka’s taking Marinette back here for guitar lessons

Lila: great (at this line, even I can’t tell if she is sincere or not)

Luka and Marinette arrived on his bike. His travel worn jacket and ripped jeans hardly a cause for alarm. Beneath his bright blue hair were darker, soulful eyes.

The moment they stepped through the door and saw Lila, Marinette predictably scowled and Luka surprisingly flinched.

Before Lila could start charming him, Juleka beat her to it with a request to help him keep his bicycle. (As if. Their boat was cluttered and he could have dumped his bike anywhere.)

The moment they were alone, sister asked brother. “What was her music?”

Luka winced. “Loud. Very loud. Like fire alarm loud that you can’t hear anything else.”

Juleka: she sounded like a fire alarm?

Luka: no, she sounded like screechy violins. Like a novice attempting to be Mozart on her first try, and in vain.

Juleka nodded, worry wrinkling her brow. “I understand.”

Juleka headed back to the group and clapped her hands. “So sorry everyone. But it’s time for a band meeting. So everyone who isn’t Kitty Section, I’m sorry but you’ll have to leave soon.”

Alix: no worries. I can meet up with Nathaniel at the museum.

Alya: and I have to be at a date with Nino anyway.

Mylène: I’ll go call Ivan over.

Lila frowned, correctly assuming Luka didn’t like her and told Juleka. “Is it because of me? Does Luka doesn’t like me?” Cue crocodile tears.

Juleka quickly reassured her. “No. No. He just isn’t used to Italian music, and he’s been very cautious about creating music since Bob Roth. So only band members are allowed.”

Lila: but why isn’t Marinette leaving with us?

Marinette: i have to see them to perform to think of what costumes i have to design for them.

Lila’s brain: darn, she has a legit excuse.

Lila: please, can’t I stay?

This time it was Rose who spoke. Kindly, but firmly. “Sorry Lila. But this is strictly band business. Besides, aren’t you meeting with the president’s daughter online soon? To discuss charity options?”

Lila hid her rage. “Right. Thanks for reminding me.”

As Lila expected, and to Marinette’s surprise, for the rest of the afternoon, Kitty Section warned the rest of their class not to trust Lila. Alix and Alya were already suspicious about her since she tried to malign Luka, and his reaction just confirmed it.

Alya finally fact checked her work and took down Lila’s interview, apologising for posting false information.

Nino told Adrien, who already knew. Nino warned Adrien to tell the truth next time because tabloid gossip is different from deceiving friends.

The next day at school, Lila didn’t bother to show. When Caline reported she was ill, the class finally told her she was a liar and is probably lying now.

Caline: do you have proof?

Alya: yes! And if she’s been lying about Ali, she’s been skipping school for months.

Caline finally became serious. “Well then I shall have to contact her mother.”

Alya smirked. “As Vice President I already sent her an email (double checking the embassy website) asking for confirmation if her daughter had really been in Achu for months. Because after her lie about being Ladybug’s best friend (I attached the video link) and her claims of being Prince’s Ali’s buddy, I am skeptical of her claim to be in Achu for all that time.”

Caline’s frowned deepened.

But as it turns out, Caline needn’t have called Mrs Rossi because she dragged her daughter to school to see the principal after she opened her company email and saw the video. Her colleagues told her what was up and even how her own daughter had been akumatized more than once.

It’s a shame they didn’t get to see the scolding happen. But Mrs Rossi forced Lila to tell the whole class the truth. As Lila had been missing so many classes, Kim pointed out there was no way she could graduate unless she took summer school and make up classes.

Lila protested she already saw the online video lessons.

But Mrs Rossi corrected that Lila wasn’t just going to graduate, she had been expelled for tampering with official documents.

Lila sulked and accepted her fate.

Mrs Rossi reminded her daughter that it was worse than she thought because no school would accept a pathological liar with a record for truancy except the ones prepared for such misbehaving cases.

Alix snorted. “Karma! She called Luka bad news and now she’s heading for a school for troubled kids.”

Indeed, Lila’s new school life was miserable. She couldn’t skip without someone finding her and dragging her back to a class that would laugh at her and an unsympathetic teacher. And where everyone knew of her condition, nobody believed anything she said. Her mother won’t even believe her when she reports she is being bullied. Not when the teacher didn’t think calling Lila a liar is bullying, especially when she keeps coming into class with fake doctor notes, painted blood, self-inflicted scratches, and loose bandages. Seriously, bullying is seriously monitored. Beyond the name calling, nobody actually harms Lila because she always tries to harm herself anyway.

She is like the class jester, giving them a free show. And the punishments for actual bullying are so severe that nobody dares do it.

[aliennopossumm]

It Will Come Back

Happy [late-] birthday @andromedaspace! I hope you’re having a good week!

Pairing: mutual pining Analogical, romantic Analogical at the end Warnings: homophobia, hurt/comfort, quite a lot of cursing, kissing, so much awkward silence Characters: Logan Sanders, Virgil Berry, Roman Smith Character notes: autistic nonbinary Logan [they/them], autistic trans Virgil [xe/xem], genderqueer acearo Roman [he/prince]

Fic summary: Logan had known Virgil for a while now, but when they start getting gay thoughts, they consult Roman to help

2,921 words 16,543 characters

you can also read this over on AO3

It had been about three or so months since Logan had met Virgil. Since their original run in with each other, the two had been hanging out quite a bit, not restricting themselves to just the forest they first met each other in. Unfortunately for Logan, xe did not go to their highschool, but was rather homeschooled; this didn't stop Virgil in any way, however. After a week of knowing them, xe started to wait outside the school gates for Logan, making a habit of walking them home. This day was not any different, Logan making their way out of a particularly uninteresting English lesson - it did lift their mood knowing Virgil would be waiting. They were one of the last one's out, looking around for xem. Anxiousness started to consume them, unable to see xem outside - did xe just leave them?

They frowned slightly, taking their phone out of their pocket to see if they had any message. Logan jumped a little when everything went dark, panicking slightly, before realising somebody was just covering their eyes.

"Guess whoooo?" Logan relaxed at Virgil's voice, gently removing xyr hands with their own.

"Hey Vee," they smiled, turning around, "I thought you had left."

"Nope, just this guy was talking to me. Think he was British?"

Logan's eyes widened slightly in realisation, "Roman?"

"Yeah! Prin was asking me about you," Virgil took Logan's hand, as xe usually did when they walked home together, "he sorta... gave me a shovel talk? The whole 'hurt them and I'll hurt you' schtick."

A whine escaped Logan's mouth, "I told prin specifically to not bother you. I'm sorry, Virge"

"Hey, it's okay, it's cute how much your friends care about you," xe chuckled softly, checking both directions before leading the two across the road. Logan blushed a small bit at the comment, going to speak again. They were cut off by a yell from a passing car, making the pair turn their heads. The engine was so loud, Logan couldn't make out what whoever was in the car said exactly, but they could make out the last few words.

"What are you, gay!?"

It was said with so much bitterness, so much hatred. Several conflicting feelings started to consume Logan - anger, sadness, a small tang of guilt. They looked at Virgil with a hard to make out expression, their mouth unable to mutter anything, but their mind screaming. It told them to run in the opposite direction, to yell at their friend, to apologise, to kiss Virgil. Why did they want to kiss Virgil?

A few seconds passed, both of them clearly uneasy. Virgil shifted xyr hand slightly, making it obvious xe was considering letting go. Xe spoke after a few more seconds of silence, "I'm sorry, L."

"'s fine," Logan refused to look at Virgil, rather staring at the interlocked hand. As much as their brain begged and screamed for them to let go, they didn't. It was nice, they felt loved for once.

The older one nodded, swallowing dryly and starting to walk again, "right, right. Let's just get you home, hm?" No more words were able to escape Logan's mouth, just nodding and gingerly following xem. To their mutual dislike, the next ten or so minutes were spent in complete awkward silence. Both opened their mouths to speak at a few points, but not a word was said from either of them. Neither pointed this out, eventually reaching the door of Logan's block of apartments.

The building seemed to loom over the pair of friends now, making Logan feel as if they were shrinking into a miniscule room with just Virgil, forced to be close. It was an uncomfortably claustrophobic feeling.

"I'll uh, I'll get going," Virgil finally said, "see ya."

"Bye," Logan mumbled, quickly letting go of xyr hand and making their way upstairs without looking back at xem. On most occasions, Virgil would walk them to the front door, and xe would then call them on xyr way back to their own home. None of this happened though, sulking their way into the kitchen. Anxiously, Logan peered out the window to see where Virgil was - it did make them feel a bit creepy for doing so, but they were worried. Xe ended up making uncomfortable eye contact, the two immediately breaking it once they had noticed. As if their world was falling to pieces, which is what it felt like, Logan poured themselves a glass of cold water and hurriedly walked to their own room. It was quiet. Virgil wasn't being called, their parents weren't home, the AC was turned off. It was quiet.

Too quiet. Logan hated it, reaching their room and shutting the door with their foot. Everything in their brain yelled at them to just slump onto the floor with their back against the door, but they decided against it. They hung up their bag, walking to their bed and taking several long gulps of water. It was cold, numbing their teeth slightly. Iciness rushed to their brain, resulting in a groan and a small pampth where they fell onto their back and shifted so they laid on their pillow. Everything was fine until those kids. They harshly blinked a few times before staring at the green stars, planets and moon that were stuck above their bed, reaching out gently. Logan "grabbed" the moon next to the Earth with their hand, closing it into a fist as they were holding it. Nothing else changed, the room staying still. It couldn't have been more than a minute before their arm started to become tired, letting out a built up sigh and letting their arm flop next to them on the bed. The moon reminded them of Virgil. In an, only somewhat successful, attempt of getting their mind off their friend, they started to count the plastic stars.

Twenty six... twenty seven... twenty nine- wait, shit, they messed up. Logan groaned loudly, rolling onto their side. Nothing could make them stop thinking. With thoughts still buzzing, they wiggled out of the dark jacket they were wearing, taking their phone into their hand before throwing the clothing onto the floor. On most days, they'd be extremely strict with themself about keeping their room clean, but at this point, they had no energy to care. The phone was unlocked, showing the background - a selfie Virgil took of xem and Logan. It had a corny SnapChat filter on top of it, a black bar at the bottom with white text reading 'my nerd <4'. Great, now they were overthinking if there was any hidden context to that. Yet again, they sighed, opening their contacts and scrolling to the bottom. Logan's thumb hovered over the contact name 'Virge<3' for several seconds, before scrolling up an embarrassing amount from the V contact page to the R contact page. They hesitantly clicked on the contact name 'Ro 👑’, sitting up and leaning their back against their headboard.

Ring ring. "C'mon, Ro, pick up," Logan mumbled impatiently," ring ring, "c'mon, please..." ring ri-

"Yellow?" Roman's voice came from the other side, the soft sound of Mitski in the background.

"Roman, I think I've fucked up."

"You, fucking up?" Roman was heard sitting up, "that's a change. What happened?"

"Virge and I were walking from school and... and it was fine, until this group of kids sped past us in their shitty car. They said some shit and we ended up walking home in silence," they groaned loudly, "xe didn't even call me after xe left, just... walked away."

"What did they say, Lo?" The younger's voice was much softer now, the background music turned down so prin could listen better.

"We were holding hands and they-" Logan swallowed dryly, slipping down the headboard, "they yelled 'what are you, gay?'. I can't stop thinking about it."

"They just saw two masculine presenting people being close friends and jumped to conclusions. Plus, you two are gay, just not for eachother."

"I- I guess, but now I'm just confused," Logan laid back down onto their back, "my brain was yelling at me to do so many things at once. To run away, or yell at xem, or kiss xem, or say sorry-"

"To kiss xem?" Roman repeated, a chuckle at the bottom of his throat, "I think you may be slightly gay for xem."

Logan groaned, "I'm not." They looked away from the direction of the phone, despite the fact Roman could not see them. "At least, I don't think I am," they mumbled the last part quietly.

"Logan," prin was heard shuffling on his bed, sounding as though he sat up, "what made you concerned? What those assholes said, or the small chance you may be in love with Vee?"

They didn't reply for a few seconds, taking several deep breaths. Logan shifted uncomfortably, "I actually... think it's more of the second option. I... the other thoughts didn't even really bother me, because I know I wouldn't run from xem or yell at them. But I know I would happily apologise and-" they bit their lip, "and I would... happily... kiss xem..."

"I'm glad I gave xem the shovel talk now," Roman chuckled softly, "listen, do you want my shitty aro advice, or do you want to suffer with whatever your feelings are?"

Logan let out another mix of a sigh and a groan, "sure. Something is better than nothing."

"Tell xem - listen, before you go on a rant about how you can't," Logan shut their mouth which they did open in protest, "tell xem how you feel. This isn't the first time you've had these gay feelings for xem, is it? You like holding xyr hand, spending time with xem. Hell, you've called the time you spent in the forest with xem 'dates'! On multiple occasions. It's clear you like xem - it may not be romantic, but you like xem so fucking much. You were both outcasts, weren't you?"

Logan took a shaky breath, processing all the information they were just told. They blinked once or twice, "yeah, neither of us really had... many friends when we met. Virge was homeschooled and I only really knew you and Patt at this point."

"You have a genuine connection, everyone can tell that - even the fucks who taunted you. You love xem, and xe loves you. Your feelings are the reason you enjoy being physical, loving to just be in each other's company; why you had such a knee-jerk reaction to the thought of kissing xem. You probably had similar thoughts before, haven’t you?" Roman silently waited for them to reply.

Thinking back through the month's they had known xem, Logan realised the answer was yes. They mumbled the response quietly, and prin did hear it.

"But you're thinking so hard into this because for once, somebody else recognised this. Those kids... they mocked you for potentionally liking xem, they made you realise that you may actually be gay for xem. You've always seen xem as attractive, haven't you?"

Their world seemed as if it was shrinking in on themselves at the realisation, but was able to squeeze out a few more words, "yeah, since... since the moment we met. Even though xe was teasing me when I first saw xem, it... I appreciated how attractive they were. Fuck."

"You alright?" Roman's tone shifted - it was no longer their serious and lecture-esque voice, but soft. It sounded, as Logan liked to put it due to being an only child, like a protective brother's voice.

"I think so? Thank you, Ro, so much," Logan let out a small, happy noise, "I should text xem."

"Yeah," it was almost as if Roman's smile could be felt from the other side of the phone, "yeah, you should. Good luck, Lo-gay."

"I told you to stop calling me that," they ruffled their own hair, a habit they had picked up from both Virgil and Roman, "thank you, Ro, really. Bye, I love you."

"I love you toooo~” Roman sang the last word, "farewell!"

Once the call was over, the room went back into being too quiet, too cold. They lowered the phone from their ear, looking at the screen; underneath Roman's contact name was the call time - almost fifteen minutes. That conversation lasted for that long? Attempting to ignore everything else that was currently happening at the moment, pressing the back button and scrolling to Virgil's name in their contacts. At first, they were going to just call xem to ask, but opted to just texting. Logan bit their lip, anxiously writing out a message in an attempt to follow Roman's advice. Triple checking the message, though it felt as they read it back over a thousand times, they finally hit send on the message.

'Hey, Virge, I'm so incredibly sorry for the walk home today. I just froze up. Can we meet up at the place we first met to talk?'

They closed the texting window, looking back up to the ceiling stars. Nothing in them was really expecting Virgil to be that happy to talk to them again after what had happened, so you could imagine their shock when the phone almost immediately chimed. Logan pulled the phone to their face, clicking on the notification from Virgil, to their surprise.

'itz alr , l , promis . not mad ! u mean by the lake? cus if so , i ' ll see you ther in uhhh'

'10 minz?'

As usual, xyr typing ended up comforting Logan. They smiled sadly at the message, starting to sit up as they wrote a reply.

'Yeah, the lake! I’ll see you soon, Virge?'

‘ yea yea ‘

'<4'

For no particular reason, the difference of how Virgil typed emoticon hearts made Logan feel all bubbly inside. A green bag was slung over their shoulder - the bag which contained all their forest-exploring gear. Anxiety still consumed them for the most part, but knowledge that Virgil was safe and wasn't mad soothed them. Knowledge seemed to comfort them often, slipping on some black Doc Martens. The phone was gently placed into their pocket, leaning down and lacing the shoes up. They took a large, deep breath and left the apartment, humming to themselves to divert any nervous thoughts from their mind. Warmth covered their body almost as soon as they stepped outside their block of apartments, making their way towards the forest.

It didn't take long for them to reach the still lake, noticing Virgil sitting in the same place where they first met. Logan swallowed dryly, sitting opposite to them and leaning against their favourite moss-covered rock. They didn't want to have the first word.

"I'm sorry, L," Virgil repeated their same statement from a while earlier, "I should've broken the silence and said something more."

"It's okay, it wasn't either of our faults. I-" they refused to make eye contact, "I spoke to Roman about what happened."

"What did he say?" xe gently took one of their hands. Logan didn't reply, not holding Virgil's hand but not pulling away either. "L, what did he say?"

"He comforted me and made... made me think about shit."

"Think about what?" Virgil's voice was gentle, rubbing xyr thumb over Logan's hand gently.

"I wanted to kiss you."

"Oh."

"Sorry," it was the only thing they could think of. Truthfully they didn't know why they were apologising, or what exactly for. Virgil didn't visibly look uncomfortable. Were they apologising for having queer thoughts?

"Don't be," xe never stopped stroking their hand, looking down at it and processing what xe was just told.

"I still want to kiss you."

"Oh," Virgil repeated, but still didn't stop. Nothing Logan did could make xem stop attempting to calm them. "I, just- why?"

"Because you're... you. You're fun, and kind, and cheer me up," Logan's voice slowly grew more confident with each word, "you always make me smile and I enjoy the time we spend together. You're pretty, and a bit sarcastic, but still so loving and- and you're Virgil. I love you because you are Virgil."

Xe didn't reply for several seconds; Logan held their breath, going to apologise before getting cut off by xem.

"Kiss me, idiot."

Logan flushed slightly, the stars in their eyes. They gently leaned closer, softly kissing xem. It wasn't the best kiss in the world - neither of them having that much experience. Even so, it was tender and love-filled, Virgil pulling back after a few seconds. Xe breathed out deeply, chuckling when xe noticed how Logan now had slightly black stained lips.

"Shit, I-" xe smiled, "kissing before marriage?" Virgil gently smudged the transferred lipstick around their mouth with a thumb. "So..."

"I liked that," said Logan, leaning into xyr hand, "I like you."

"So much you want me as your boyfriend?" It was slightly jokingly, but truthfully it was the only thing xe wanted at that moment.

Logan paused, kissing xyr nose, "please?"

Virgil chuckled, peppering kisses on their face, "of course. I love you, nerd."

"I love you too."

Logan leaned their head on xyr shoulder, smiling widely. They'll be okay.

[purekesseltrash]

This is my final ask talking about BTD so it has to be perfect, I literally created a google doc so I wouldnt fuck it up before I sent it

Shoji replaying a song over and over while doing a task reminded me of when I listened to “Ophelia” by The Lumineers on repeat while drinking coffee on my kitchen counter and lemme tell ya, I’ve been chasing that high ever since

Yeah knowing you'd have *some* family but not all of them after coming out sucks major ass but its the truth, I'm ever so grateful that the only person who would react negatively that I know would be my maternal Grandmother whos a narcissistic bitch who I haven't spoken to in years so like, i dont give a shit what she thinks but I know that it would be hard on Shoji seeing how family oriented he is in this story and him knowing his relationships with his siblings and parents would be rocky makes my heart break for him

OOOOO BITCHHHHHH HES TEXTING HIMMMMMMM

That went over a lot smoother than I thought it would, I mean i'm incredibly happy that they’re like, getting together, but I honestly expected it to be more drawn out

Awww Tokoyami getting their as fast as he could and Shoji being soft for domestic Tokoyami

Sweet jesus I can relate to Shoji just randomly thanking his friend for being his friend, the amount of times I’ve wanted to just ominously text my friends a “thank you for everything” is too many to count

I LOVE GRITTY, HE REMINDS ME OF MY CAT WHOS A MAINE COON (his names Chewie if you're interested)

I knew Mic would suck at cooking, its just so him

I practically squealed at Shoji changing Tokoyami’s contact name to Fumikage

Okay, little background story, I keep a list in my notes app of headcanons for Tokoyami and literally one of them on there says word for word “Dogs absolutely love him and he loves them right back” so im SO GLAD you made him a dog person, making him a cat person seems like the easy route

LAWYER MOM IS INTRODUCED i honestly didn't picture her as a blonde but now I see it

Tokoyami’s mom being incredibly enthusiastic reminds me a lot of my mom, she always get excited when people have pride flags hanging up and suggested we get a pride flag so that made me appreciate my mama more than I already have been

I swear to god my eyes got as big as saucers hearing the part about cheesecake because I'm from New Hartford and forgot Hartford was a different city.

I can just picture Aizawa SLAMMING the brakes and whipping his head around, hair flying, as he looks at Shoji

“And he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding” how much more cliche could you get, not gonna lie that made me laugh

All right I have to confess something. I've skipped every transcript of Put Your Sticks Up because I was impatient and wanted to get to the story. Now you know my biggest secret, I always felt bad but would get frustrated cause I wanted to hear ‘bout my boys.

The last precious worm ask! I am finally on my laptop so I can give this the proper attention.

Ngl, when my head isn't working, I will just put on one song and play it over and over and over and over and over until something comes into my head. My ShinOji fic 'Gold Rush' came from that. Still not sure how I managed to make a somewhat decent fic out of a song about gentrification but my mind is a wild and wonderful place.

Yeah, Shouji goes through it with his family. One thing that I can say though is that as Shouji starts to get more and more successful with his art, Tokoyami starts to spitefully send articles and reviews written on his work to his parent's house. He never gets a response but doesn't expect to, he just feels like they should see how amazing their son is, goddamnit. The one day, a letter comes back. Tokoyami opens it, expecting it to be them telling him to knock it off and instead, one of the pictures has been sent back with 'This is beautiful' written in pen, an arrow pointing to one of his vases. Tokoyami then has to show it to Shouji and explain what he did. Shouji cries basically all night. That starts a very, very tenuous back and forth with his mom.

Gonna put the rest of this under a break because it's gonna be long

You should have seen my first outline if you thought this was quick with them figuring it out. Basically, the only reason that Tokoyami broke it off in the first place was because he didn't see that there was a chance of it working. They worked so well otherwise. Amazing chemistry, complimentary senses of humor, Tokoyami didn't want to break it off at all. He just felt like he had to because otherwise they were both going to get more hurt. So when Shouji was like 'okay, but actually I do want to try this', he was all in.

Ojiro is legit Shouji's first real friend. Which is really really sad given that they met when they were eighteen but Shouji never really got a chance to do anything normal.

Maine Coons rule and Chewie is an excellent name for them. I was going to name their cat after Marie Phillipe Poulin, the greatest women's hockey player ever, but I decided that Gritty would be funnier. Mic as a bad cook is deeply satisfying, I picture him being like me, just all 'okay but I just do enough to make something to survive on and uh.... who needs all the details and stuff'.

The name change actually came from my beta. They asked why his contact was still Western Civ Tutor in the beginning of the chapter and I was like 'oooo, great way to show how they have changed'.

And maaaaaaaaaan. I'm sorry but how is someone who is a bird gonna like a cat. Nah. Tokoyami is a dog person. They do go on to get a dog. They were going to get a Shiba Inu or something catlike until Kenta came through with a hound puppy that he'd found in the rain while on his route and just dumps it in Shouji's lap like 'Surprise!'. They name it Lu after Roberto Luongo, famed goalie. The dog is a goddamned menace and Shouji ends up having to take it to classes and learn about dog training so they can all keep their sanity. He ends up loving Lu the most. (I do some part time dog training so I had to throw that in)

Tokoyami dyes his hair. He's actually a mousy blond under the dye like his mama. And yeah, my parents are hella supportive too. I figured it would be healthy for one of them to have accepting parents.

Aizawa was pretty pissed, ngl. For all that he should know better, he got caught up in the same shit that coaches tend to slip into, which is a responsibility because they have someone with potential that they must mold and then when they go on to do amazing things, they can feel a part of it. But then he realizes where he fucked up and how he was so busy seeing Shouji the hockey player that he couldn't see Shouji the person.

Listen, it's my fanfic, so I'm gonna get as cheesy as I damn well please. I'd written a super cheesy ending for the end of 'Black Sun' and was waffling on keeping it until somebody was like 'it's a fic, be as cheesy as you want'. I can has my cheese, as a treat.

WHAT IN THE FUCK WORM. HOW CONFUSED HAVE YOU BEEN THIS ENTIRE TIME?!?!?! this legit made me laugh out loud when I read it. GO BACK AND READ MIC'S SHOW!!! I set up so much stuff to try and prepare the reader to understand the emotional stakes, not to mention the basic facts of hockey! That being said, I get the feeling.

Thank you for this last super mega grande worm ask, sorry that it took me so long, I wanted to be able to give it my full attention. <3

[kathyprior4200]

Hazbinstagram: The Case of the Missing Blitzo

A Hazbinstagram ™ story

  An ongoing story from the great creators and artists of "Hazbinstagram!"

For as long as he could remember since July, Blitzo had found a new horse to be his loving friend. He loved her so much, that he gave her different names everyday. During his everyday life at I.M.P. Blitzo had claimed that his horse had helped him make decisions. His associates thought the horse was part of his imagination. Stolas wanted to meet his horse as well, to see what she looked like.

But one day, Blitzo mysteriously disappears after posing in a picture full of static. Many speculate that he had been kidnapped.

But who? Could it be the demon who photo-bombed his last photo? His horse? A rival company?

Or perhaps a familiar radio loving demon with sinister plans of his own...

Alastor has a shadowy horse creature with a skeletal body, sharp teeth and black wings. The eyes glow teal and the mane and tail are thick and black. The creature may have captured Blitzo and gone back to its master. (Art and idea by Radio Hazbin!)

Fun Fact: Alastor was also the name of one of Hades' horses when he rose from the ground to capture Persephone.

 Blitzo was seen smiling as he took a selfie in static. Red and black shapes were behind him, appearing to be a distorted form of reality.

 Blitzo spoke and texted with static lacing his words: “Hanging with my horse, Enamel Pin. She said it was ok for me to take a picture with her. O3O.”

 Cherri Bomb responded: “What the hell type of horse does this to a camera?”

 Other comments soon appeared on Instagram, or rather, Voxtagram as the TV Overlord owned all technological platforms.

 “No horse does that, but I know a deer who does.”

 “Who else is red, got antlers on his head and doesn’t like being on camera?”

 “I don’t think that’s a horse, I think that’s a certain deer overlord.”

 “Alastor, is that you?”

 “I think Blitzo’s horse friend might be a certain radio demon.”

 “Oh deer.”

 “I wonder if the horse and Alastor are related. He also has the effect on pictures.”

 “Are we speculating that Blitzo is riding Alastor…a new ship is coming!”

 “Please save Blitzo from that thing.”

  Stolas was concerned, and began to type. “Hm…Blitzo, I’m a bit concerned about your horse friend. I haven’t read anything on horses distorting cameras. Can we talk?”

 Blitzo replied in an arrogant tone: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My horse can do whatever she wants. She’s just cool like that.”

 Stolas responded: “Alright, if you say so. I may do some more research on this. But I am glad she’s so kind to you, Blitzy.”

 Blitzo added: “She’s very nice and eats the cockroaches at my place.”

 Later, Blitzo posted a child-like colored drawing of himself holding an iced coffee in his hand. Below the drawing was a colored tan horse with a black mane with her head lowered, surrounded by gray. The picture read: ”How I met my horsie. One day, I was just walking to get coffee again. She was all alone. I asked her if she wanted coffee. She said “You bet I do.” As we sat at the table, everyone ran away screaming for some reason.”

 Blitzo posted: “The comic of my horsie and me meeting for the first time.”

 Moxxie responded with: “Will all due respect sir, your “horsie” looks nothing like that.”  

 A commenter asked, “Does he look like a deer?”

 Moxxie was flabbergasted at the comments. “Why do you guys keep saying that thing looks like a deer? That thing looks nothing close to those. You humans are weirdly obsessed with deers.”

 Another commenter warned: “It might be the Radio Demon. Please warn your boss, Moxxie.”

 The grumpy imp wasn’t having it. Moxxie posted: “What are you all talking about?! That “horsie” looks nothing similar to the Radio Demon. Your strange obsessions over the Radio Demon worries me, humans.”

 (That’s the fandom for you, Moxxie!!!)

 Another commenter yelled: “Moxxie, what the hell does the horse look like?!”

 Moxxie replied: “I’d rather not talk about it.”

 Blitzo stepped in. “It was because my horse was amazing and beautiful. Moxxie is just being a puss.”

 Moxxie grumbled and typed: “I disagree, sir. Just keep that thing away from me.”

 Blitzo was offended: “She has a name, Mox!”

 Moxxie: “Sir, I can’t keep up with all the nonsensical names you keep giving it! What even is it right now?!”

 Blitzo: “Her name is Sandal! She is just very fond of getting her names.”

 Stolas added: “This is sweet. I’d really love to meet your horse friend someday.”

 Moxxie had a bad gut feeling inside him. It was the same feeling he had when his boss had brought one of the Furby imp creatures home. They were known to inhibit an old organ that was now in Alastor’s possession “Your Highness, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Bitzo then took a selfie of himself with iced coffee in his hand. Behind him, an imp wearing a gray mask was seen standing with a knife over another imp on the ground. Blitzo posted: “Just got coffee and I was taking a selfie when this guy photobombed my picture. Not cool. My horse (renamed to Glove) is down the street. Waiting for her right now.”

 Stolas agreeed: “Some people are so inconsiderate.”

 Someone asked: “How does the coffee taste?” Blitzo replied with “Gooood.”

 Somebody else asked: “Why does this look like Moxxie killing Millie?”

 Moxxie fumed as he responded: “What the fuck is wrong with you humans?! Why would I ever hurt Millie? You humans are disgusting.”

 Several hours pass by. A concerned and confused Stolas held his white rotary phone with little wings on it in his hand. He posted: “Blitzo didn’t answer for our scheduled call. I suppose I’ll try again tomorrow.”

 The next day passed. Stolas stared forlornly at his rotary phone. He posted: “Tried calling Blitzo again. His receptionist said he hasn’t been in today but she’d have him call me back (I don’t think she will). Via is mad at me. This is a terrible day…”

 Someone asked, “Why is Via angry?”

 Stolas responded: “Via is angry with me because I wouldn’t let her go to a concert without supervision.”

 Moxxie later posted a picture of himself in his room by closed blinds. He had a sad, far-away look on his face, a contrast to his usually grumpy demeanor. He posted: “I enjoyed how peaceful it has been as of late. But this is just awfully quiet…Not that I care, but has anyone seen the smooth brain noise maker that is my boss?”

 Stolas texted Moxxie: “He hasn’t been there at all?!”

 Moxxie said: “No, Your Highness. I haven’t seen him around since he went out to get coffee.”

 Stolas: “Have you contacted his daughter?”

 Moxxie: “Well, yes, but she keeps ignoring me.”

 Stolas texted Moxxie, Millie and Loona: “Has Blitzo been home? Is he alright?”

 Loona: “He’s not on his couch, so no. I don’t know man, maybe he found horses outside, ran after them and got lost…”

 Angel Dust came in to the conversation as well. “Man, mystery shows are hitting real now.”

 Loona posted a picture of an empty couch with a pink pillow on it. She said: “He’s not home yet, I thought he’d be back by now.”

 Stolas: “We’ll find him.”

 Loona: “He’d better have a good fucking excuse.”

 Moxxie: “For once, I agree with you, Loona.”

 Stolas later held up a flier of Blitzo flipping the bird. On the top, the flier read, “Have you seen me? Goes by Blitzo, the “o” is silent.”

 Stolas: “Had these made. Will be giving them to Moxxie, so Blitzo’s associates can put them up around the city. If anyone knows anything, please call I.M.P.”

 Cherri Bomb offered words of encouragement. “I’m sure that little guy is around somewhere, Your Majesty. He’ll show up eventually!”

 Moxxie to Stolas: “We will do everything we can to find that idiot, Your Highness.”

 Stolas to Moxxie: “Moxxie, I wish I could help you, aside from making these posters.”

 Moxxie to Stolas: “Much appreciated for the posters, Your Highness.”

 Angel Dust: “Aye, keep looking feathas. Hell ain’t too big a place ta miss the guy with horns that big.”

 More theories were posted:

 “Maybe he was taken by his horse or furby.”

 “Loona, I don’t think Blitzo has an excuse, I think he was kidnapped.”

 “It’s either the horse or the dude stabbing in the background.”

 “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. His horse is taking care of him.”

   Meanwhile, in a dark hideout…

 Blitzo’s yellow eyes were wide as saucers as he sat terrified on what appeared to be a green floor with missing tiles. A head of an imp rested in the background. He seemed to have been kidnapped by a gang of imps, perhaps jealous of I.M.P. and looking for money.

 Blitzo: “Ok those guys finally left me alone so I could turn on my phone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to keep my phone. (RIP my third burner phone). Anyways, everything is fine. I wanted to get on this Voxtagram (Vox controls all technology and media websites). Because if I tried texting everyone, it’d take too long and calling would alert the dumbass kidnapper. Can someone come pick me up before they try to kill me?”

 Stolas bellowed at the top of his lungs: “Blitzy! Where are you?!”

 Blitzo responded: “I don’t know. Smells bad, though. I’ll get out, just ask my horse to come get me, please.”

 Moxxie was terrified too: “Sir, where in the living Hell are you?! Are you hurt?!”

 Blitzo instead yelled and typed in all caps: “Send horse!”

 Angel Dust typed the emoji for wide eyes.

 The next picture showed a blurred Stolas rushing forward. Stolas could do nothing but type in gibberish in all caps.

 Blitzo: “I don’t know where I am, Stolas! Just send my horsie!”

 Stola began to panic. “I don’t know how to send for your horse! That is why you needed to introduce us!”

 Crash!

 One of the walls concealing Blitzo in darkness burst open, sending bricks and dust everywhere. Blitzo squinted as a circle of light shone into the space. A figure stepped through the hole on all fours, tall and majestic. Blitzo took one look at the savior creature and raced toward it, happy tears falling from his face. The energy radiating from the horse was beyond anything found in Hell…or anywhere else for that matter.

 It was a tall shadowy horse with a skeletal black body, reminiscent of a thestral or a nightmare horse from legends. The hooves were pointed and curved, shaped like miniature weapons. The horse’s mane and tail flowed long and black, outlined in a red aura. The horse’s neck was long and thin as was the head. Its eyes glowed teal and white, giving off an ethereal feel. And although there was static surrounding the horse, it didn’t have the malevolence associated with Alastor and his minions.

 Did this creature decide to shapeshift around Blitzo to watch over him?

 The horse spoke to Blitzo telepathically, her voice that of a human female laced with static. At the same time, the voice commanded divine respect.

 “I am SpindleHorse. You are safe now, Blitzo. Let us be off.”

 SpindleHorse had indeed, broken the (fourth) wall.

 Without hesitation, Blitzo climbed up on the horse’s bony back and with graceful gallops, the horse vanished into the shadows. Blitzo grinned like a little kid as the horse speed down the streets, enjoying the bumpy ride.

 Blitzo ecstatically typed his next post: “Rescue! I told you all my horse would come get me! Spindle broke the wall down! She said I could post the picture. She’s giving me a ride home. I can’t wait to see everyone!”

 Loona, Millie, Moxxie and Stolas cried with joy and relief. For although Blitzo could be a childish annoying asshole, he was still a dear member of their family.

  Loona posted first: “Thank Satan you’re alright! Cuz I…”

 Loona paused, trying to defuse her inner feelings…

 “…because we’re out of food! I need you to go grocery shopping, that’s the only reason I’m relieved. The only reason.”

 Underneath the meth, drinks and her short temper, the hellhound secretary was relieved her adopted father was safe. Life was simply too lonely without the group of imps around.

 Millie beamed. She, of course, was very happy that her boss was safe and sound. Stolas as well, was overjoyed that his lover was unhurt. Even Moxxie, who constantly chided Blitzo’s mannerisms, had a soft spot for his boss.

  Stolas was overjoyed. “Oh thank goodness! I’m coming over, immediately!”

 Moxxie said: “I still don’t want to get close to her but…thank you, Spindle.”

 Stolas rushed over as Blitzo dismounted the horse in front of the palace. The imp was soon locked in a feathery embrace. Stolas let out some hoots and draped his feathery wings over him.  

 “Blitzy, you’re alright! Oh I was worried sick. Missed you so, so much!”

 “Arugh, heh, heh, okay, Stolas, I missed you too…” He was struggling for breath. “You can…fuck…let go now.”

 Stolas did before opening his beak in a smile. “Did you say you want to fuck?”

 “No, not now!” Blitzo exclaimed, brushing wrinkles off his dark blue navy suit. “I gotta rest then get back to work.”

 “I completely understand. I’ll take you home right away!”

 Stolas traced a glowing yellow symbol in front of him and a flaming portal appeared, leading back to the I.M.P. office. Blitzo stepped through it before turning around.

 “Thank you…Stolas. For sending me my horse and all.”

 “Of course,” Stolas replied. “I hope I can meet her sometime. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me. And I mean anything.”

 “Will do.”

 Stolas closed the portal and posted a picture of him and Blitzo hugging.

 Stolas exclaimed in all caps, “Blitzo is safe and sound! Thank you, Spindle!”

 Moxxie typed a message to his boss: “Sir, please be more careful. The next time you go out to get coffee, take your horse with you. I will put a slight increase to the horse budget for the time being. Please rest up for today.”

  Blitzo found himself in the middle of a group hug, surrounded by Loona, Moxxie and Millie. Millie squealed happily as she hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re okay, sir!” she said. “Mox and I were very worried.”

 “You guys do know that I was only gone for like a day, right?” Blitzo asked, rolling his eyes. Tears fell from his eyes despite himself.

 “Still…that doesn’t exclude the fact that…we may have missed you a bit,” Moxxie replied. Loona uncharacteristically enough gave Blitzo a small kiss on his forehead with her tongue. For a moment, Loona was smiling and wagging her tail like a happy puppy reunited with her owner. Then, all too soon, she separated herself from him, her tough demeanor returning. “Yeah, you’re fine, good. Now I really need some fucking food and drinks right now.”

 Millie was the last one to let go of Blitzo. “If you need anything or want something done, we’ll be happy to get to it. Need anything? Iced coffee? A horse song? Two new human heads?”

 Blitzo had to chuckle. “Thanks Millie, but I’m fine. Let’s get to work everyone.”

 Thus, the ordinary day at I.M.P. continued on.

 Blitzo then posted a picture of a fork in a cup of ramen noodles with an egg in it.

 Blitzo said, “Everyone was bugging me today. It was kind of nice. Everything finally calmed down, so I had some 3 AM noodles.”

 Stolas added: “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything!”

 Moxxie chided: “Cup of noodles isn’t healthy for you, sir. Next time, if you want to consume some 3 AM noodles, I will make some just for you.”

 Blitzo sighed. “I don’t need to be babied, Mox. Don’t worry about me. For real, I like noodles in a cup, though.”

 Moxxie decided to let him enjoy his noodles.

 Moxxie then had an idea. He did something that he would normally never do. Millie had said it was a great idea and that Blitzo would love it. Moxxie placed a gift on Blitzo’s desk the next day. It was a bag of horse shaped pasta noodles colored yellow, green and pink. On it was a note: “Feel better soon! P.S. please stop consuming junk food in the middle of the night.” From Moxxie and Millie.

Moxxie posted: “About to deliver this homemade pasta to my boss. Millie and I made this so my boss wouldn’t consume extremely unhealthy things in the middle of the night. Recipe on VoxTube. Horse shaped pasta mold is a Satan send.”

 Blitzo responded: “Oh I love this, but I still wanna eat ramen at 3 AM.”

 Moxxie replied: “What you had was obviously a cup of noodles and that is extremely bad for your body. Do you have any idea what they put in those? For crying out loud, please refrain from eating such cheap and unhealthy things.”

  The next post showed Blitzo under a blanket getting ready for bed. His head was just in front of his pink pillow on the couch. A plushie of Spirit the horse lay next to him.

 Blitzo posted: “Gonna stay in bed today. Got to lay low since everyone wants to talk to me. You guys knew I’d be fine.”

 Stolas mentioned, “We were just worried. I’ll give you some space for a while. Rest all you can. Pet your horse. I’ll talk to you at a later date.”

 Blitzo smiled and picked up a little brown horse figure beside him. “I also found my little horsie that looks like my horse! I wonder where she’s been…”

 The next day, Blitzo posted a selfie of him in the woods on Earth. Two raccoons were fighting over food from behind him.

 Blitzo: “Went to my job today and took this picture in the living world!”

 Someone asked, “Yo, are those two raccoons fighting back there?”

 Blitzo replied: “It’s not about them. This is all about me!”

 Later that night, back in his room, Blitzo was woken up by a soothing voice.

 “Blitz…”

 Blitzo bolted up from the couch and stood upon shaking legs.

 “Spindle!”

 It was Spindle the horse. The air around her briefly warped and morphed into little shapes. Bits of other worlds faded in and out, even showing a slice of Earth before fizzling out.

 “Is everything alright?”

 “Yes,” she responded. “I woke you up to say my goodbye.”

 Blitzo was stunned. “Y-you’re leaving?”

 “My work here is done,” she said. “I did my part to keep you safe. Now I must ensure that others are safe as well. I have other worlds to attend to as well: Heaven, Earth, Zoophobia…”

 “Wait, zoo what?”

 “Nothing of concern.” Her voice mixed with an eerie sounding neigh of dismissal. Her red aura illuminated the darkness. “Thank you for the iced coffee, by the way, it was tasty.”

 Blitzo couldn’t stop the tears falling from his eyes. This regal marvelous creature had saved his life and bonded with him for many months. She was like the friend he had never had…perhaps almost like a motherly figure.

 The horse nuzzled close to him, their foreheads touching. Blitzo’s hand cupped under her long chin while a black tendril tenderly touched his shoulder.

 “We will meet again, soon. Whether in this life or the next. Farewell for now.”

“Goodbye, Spindle. Thank you for everything.”

 Spindle stepped back, turned around and disappeared through a hole of white light. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was dark once more.

 The other characters briefly got to see Spindle as well. As she trot noiselessly against the asphalt, everyone stared to look, almost transfixed. Even the Radio Demon stopped what he was doing and stood respectfully. There was admiration for SpindleHorse’s immense power in his red eyes. Niffty jumped for joy next to Charlie whose eyes were shining with happiness.

��“Please come back again!” she called out. “The Happy Hotel welcomes all.”

  In a rare moment, Husk and Vaggie had genuine smiles on their faces, as if staring at the horse long enough would make their problems go away.

 “Thank you, Spindle!” called Angel Dust with several waves of his many hands. “You saved that imp’s life.”

 “Much appreciated,” Cherri Bomb added. “Catch ya later!” The characters waved one by one.

 SpindleHorse neighed and reared up on two hooves as static filled the air. The horse vanished through another white portal in static before all was quiet and normal once more.

  Blitzo posted a picture of him and his horse saying goodbye. “My horse woke me up in the middle of the night saying she had to go because she repaid me by saving me. I got her coffee, and she saved me, so we’re even. One last picture together before she has to go. She says the name is Spindle, so it stays.”

 Stolas knew that the goodbye was bittersweet for Blitzo. He tried to comfort his friend. “I’m so sorry Blitzo…Perhaps someday, she’ll return and visit. You were always good to her.”

 Stolas sent a picture of himself posing seductively with his grey fluffy chest exposed. Another showed Stolas displaying his butt and dark gray tail features in front of the camera. “Maybe these will cheer you up!”

 “Stolas, stop sending me nudes when I’m thinking about my horse!” Blitzo responded in sudden annoyance.

 Stolas chuckled a bit. “Sorry, I thought they would get your mind off things!”

 Even Loona was feeling the melancholy in the air. It was like everyone was suddenly feeling an unexplained connection to the elusive equine. “She will be missed…”

 “Just like the end of Spirit,” said a commentator, recalling when Spirit had reunited with his mother and galloped freely in the vast meadow.

 “You get me,” Blitzo responded, pleased to have someone else share their love of the classic film.

 Moxxie, too, couldn’t escape the strange feeling. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I am going to miss her. I do wish she has a good horse life.”

 “Thank you, SpindleHorse!” Millie added. “We love you and we miss you!”

 Blitzo then posted, almost to himself: “You only know what you have when it goes.”

 Stolas then posted his drawing of Blitzo smiling at the tall skeletal horse.

 Stolas said, “Wanted to make something Blitzo may like while he’s recovering. I’ll just drop it off later. Maybe have it framed if he’d like…” He added, “I’m proud of this one.”

 But Blitzo, ever the stubborn one, bluntly said, “My horse doesn’t look like that.”

 “Oh…”

 Stolas was taken aback, hurt. There was no reason for him to be rude like that, even if the drawing wasn’t the same as the real horse. Stolas decided to give the imp some space.

 Then he thought about his daughter. Maybe Octavia might not be mad at him like she was before. Sure, she wanted to go to Lilith’s Resist rock concert playing at Loo-Loo World for a while, but overprotective Stolas wasn’t going to allow it. There she was, a typical diva teenager who didn’t want her goofy dad to follow her everywhere.

 “Just another day in Hell,” thought Stolas with a sigh.

Meanwhile in a parallel universe...

Alastor eventually captures Blitzo and conjures his next plan:

 -Interrogate Blitzo about I.M.P.

-Have Blitzo led the way to I.M.P.

-Retrieve the book to gain access to the human world

-Offer Blitzo an opportunity to achieve musical theater dreams.

- Persuade Blitzo and other imps to make deals (songs almost always work!)

-If deal works, their souls will be mine

-Profit off I.M.P. and take over the company, thus claim Imp City as territory

-Enter human world and cause more chaos

-More souls = larger army and greater influence

-(Visit New Orleans and mom’s grave again.)

-Eventually take over both worlds for endless entertainment

-Figure out what this pandemic is in living world

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “John Wick” Part 1

Y/N left The Organization 3 years ago for the one reason strong enough to make her settle down: love. But after tragedy crushed her to pieces, she decided to leave The Joker and seek refuge with an old friend and mentor - John Wick. Needless to say The King of Gotham can’t accept his wife running away without a word, especially since he didn’t have a chance to tell her things she might want to hear.

Part 2     Part 3

Your high heels click on the marble floor, numerous conversations stopping in the hotel’s lobby since you haven’t been seen around in the past 3 years. The concierge can’t hide a smile and you take your sunglasses off, finally making it to the front desk after driving for hours.

“Welcome to the Continental, Miss Y/N. Such a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you Charon,” you remove 7 gold coins out of your purse and slide them on the counter towards him. “It’s good to see you too.”

“For how long will we have the pleasure of your company?” the man inquires, taking a peek at the computer’s screen to make sure he can shuffle things if needed.

“One night.”

“That will only be 4 coins,” Charon informs and you point out at the tiny pile:

“The rest is for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Y/N,” he smiles again, typing on the keyboard. “Your old room is available; it will be a couple of minutes for us to add a few finishing touches.”

“Sure. Is the manager here?” you ask because you texted him this morning to announce your arrival.

“He’s waiting at the bar,” Charon gestures towards the elevator and you take a deep breath, excited and a bit nervous about the upcoming encounter. “Also, if I may… Allow me to express my deepest condolences.”

You bite on your lip and can’t utter a sound besides nodding your head instead of a reply: although it’s a genuine declaration, it caught you off-guard.

You slowly walk towards the elevator and once inside you press the B button when a hand halts the doors from closing; you know whom those tattooed knuckles belong to. Ares squeezes inside looking like she wants to kill everyone. What else is new?

“I thought that was you,” the woman uses the sign language and you silently gaze at her.

“Which floor?” you sign back.

“10th,” her thumb indicates the number.

The elevator’s doors shut and she analyzes Y/N, deciding to continue the conversation:

“Remember I told you next time we bump into each other I’m going to kill you?” the mute assassin’s threat brings a faint smirk on your lips.

“Shut up,” you elbow her and the smartass response doesn’t fail:

“I’m always as quiet as a mouse.”

You chuckle and Ares grins at her own cleverness, having a nice suggestion for the evening.

“I have the night off; wanna meet later for dinner?”

You are tired as hell but a distraction doesn’t hurt.

“Will 7pm work?” you accept the invitation.

“Awesome!” she signs, delighted you two can catch up. “They have new items on the menu you would enjoy,” Ares winks then her enthusiasm gradually dies out. “I’m sorry about…,” the discussion takes a serious tone and you sniffle, trying hard not to cry.

“Thank you,” you touch your chin and the ding sound reveals its first destination. “I have to bail; I’ll see you soon,” you step out of the elevator and she remains inside.

“It’s a date!” she signs, concerned you’ll burst out in tears as soon as she’s gone.

Yet after the elevator’s door close, Y/N manages to pull herself together; God knows it’s not easy to pretend she’s fine following the tragedy of losing someone she loved with all her heart.

The individual waiting for her at one of the tables at the bar can definitely notice the struggle behind the tired eyes; Winston sipps from his martini and gets up, opening his arms in anticipation.

“There you are,” he gives you a hug, then invites you to sit down.

“Hello Winston,” you place your purse on the floor and Continental’s owner is attempting to small talk:

“Please make an old man happy and confirm your return.”

“You’re anything but old,” you emphasize while he snorts, amused. “I’m not sure; I have to figure out some personal stuff…”

“Of course,” Winston agrees right away given the situation. “Mmmm… I’m terribly sorry for your loss,“ he addresses the heartbroken Y/N.

“Thank you…” you mumble, avoiding eye contact since the painful subject hurts more than any physical wound you ever sustained.

“I wanted to come attend the funeral yet I was out of the country,” the man underlines.

“No worries. I appreciate the flowers you sent… …”

Moments of complete stillness before Winston changes the topic; he knows better than to prolong your agony. A manager with his flair can at least guess the extenuating circumstances that led to your presence on the premises.

“Any plans for the near future?”

“I’m going to stay with Jonathan until I decide.”

Winston wishes to suggest a couple of options but he’s interrupted by your warning:

“Someone might come searching for me.”

He taps his fingernails against the martini glass, the weak echo dissipating in the background noise.

“Is that someone…somebody’s husband?” his furrowed eyebrows prompt an answer not difficult to estimate:

“More like… ex-husband…”

The manager inhales, debating on your confession.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he reassures without any hesitation; heaven knows a domestic dispute is the last kind of mess Continental needs but it will probably pass undetected. “Would you care for a drink?”

Suddenly, Winston’s cell goes off and he retrieves it out of his suit’s pocket, apologizing for the delay.

“I’m sorry, I really have to get this,” he slides the screen, attentively listening to the person speaking. “Are you kidding me?!” the man raises his voice with contempt. “Damn…,” he rubs his forehead, annoyed. "Well, he brought it upon himself! Transfer me,” the manager passes the sentence without hesitation after his call reaches the correct department. ”Accounts payable: 11111. Effective immediately: Magnus Stonnenberg, excommunicado. Open contract: 2 million dollars. Distribution: international,” and he hangs up. “Work never ends,” Winston adds even if it’s not necessary; you are perfectly aware how the company works and what it means to run it.

“What happened?” you curiously investigate.

“Trouble on the 15th floor: Magnus murdered Anuscka Volovdya on the hotel grounds, thus I have to implement punitive measures. This is neutral environment and the rules are clear: no killing. Cocktail?” he lifts his glass up and you politely decline.

“No, thank you.  If it’s all the same, I will retreat to my quarters. It was a very long drive and I can’t wait to freshen up. I will come see you in the morning before I leave; would that be ok?”

“Of course,” Winston stands up in the same time with you, a faint smile lingering on his face as he watches you distancing yourself from the bar. He didn’t see you in a long time and he can tell that although you look pretty much the same, something has certainly changed.

Everyone’s cells start chiming and ringing, including yours: the text messages keep on popping up with the manager’s most recent order regarding Stonnenberg.

You wander along the small corridor leading the stairs when at the corner Magnus almost crashes into you; he seems distressed and no big surprise due to his present predicament.

“Are you back?” he hisses while quickening the pace in the opposite direction because he wants to get the hell out of there.

“No,” the short acknowledgement triggers his cockiness mixed with relief.

“Great! One less to worry about!”

You frown at the unnecessary statement: pursuing a bounty is not financial gain you are momentarily interested in; you have more important problems on your plate and chasing a persona non grata isn’t on your list.

************

Next evening, 7:13pm

“There you are!” John exclaims as soon as he sees you. “Come on in,” he grabs the two suitcases out of your hands, leading the way around the house. “Did you get stuck in traffic?”

“Yes,” you close the door and follow him into one of the bedrooms downstairs already prepared for your visit. “Traffic was terrible, took me one hour to pass Lincoln Avenue.”

“Well…” he places the luggage by the bed, “I’m glad you made it.”

“Me too… Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Jonathan.”

Despite having his hair in a ponytail, the shorter strands slide out and John blows them off his cheeks, irritated.

“Yeah, absolutely. Plenty of space.”

“What’s that smell?” you sniff the air, intrigued.

“I cooked chicken Alfredo.”

“Oh no,” you crinkle your nose and he laughs at your despair. “Are your skills as bad as I remember?”

“Worse,” he admits. “Helen is not here to guide… me…”, John swallows the last word and you feel compelled to soothe his grief.

“I’m sorry she’s gone… You had a terrific partner…”, you sadly smile and continue . “We pay such a heavy price for leaving the organization… I must say you got a better deal than I did.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds and you could swear there’s no trace of Baba Yaga inside him; I suppose this is John Wick’s greatness: his ability to switch from an apparent normal guy to the deadliest assassin in a blink of an eye.

“Umm… do you want me to help you unpack?” he breaks the silence and you lift the first suitcase on the bed, opening the metal clasps.

“I don’t have a lot; just some basic necessities,” you explain and gulp when you take out the device you use on a regular basis. “I… I still pump the milk and… and throw it away since I don’t have my baby to feed anymore…”

Jonathan exhales, sensitive to the mother’s sorrow: he knows a thing or two about losing a loved one and Y/N uncontrollably sobbing triggers emotions he kept bottled up for weeks. He pulls you in his arms and you hug him back, hopelessly crying on his shoulder after displaying such restraint in the past days.  

“Why didn’t he drive the car? Why?” you keep on repeating the question and John understands what you’re referring to:

Two months ago The Joker was supposed to bring his three weeks old son from the beach house to The Penthouse and didn’t; he had a meeting and instead he sent one of his henchmen to drive Kase back to you and they never made it. There was a horrible accident on Glissan Street: the car was smashed to pieces by a huge truck, both driver and the baby dying on impact. You couldn’t stop blaming your husband for his indifference regarding the safety of his own child. I supposed the meeting and making money was infinitely more critical than driving his son home.

Maybe if J navigated the vehicle, he would have taken another route and you would still have your tiny treasure right now. 

You’re calming down a bit and John wipes your tears, upset to see you broken beyond anything he could ever fix.

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No,” you whimper and fight to regain your composure. “I’m a little bit hungry…”

“Well,” your friend puckers his lips, “depending on how bad it is we might have to order something. Shall I…call anybody for you?” he hints and surely didn’t predict the reply:

“My anybody is probably too busy with his mistress or planning a heist, can’t be bothered with any type of insignificant matters.”

Your friend seems shocked and you enlighten the mystery for him:

“I followed J so I know… That’s why I decided enough is enough. I packed minimum necessary in a hurry and left… … …I should have killed him… …” your voice dies out and your attitude proves Jonathan that you most than likely tried to. “Can we eat now please?”

“Should I actually order Italian?” he plays along for your sake.

“I’ll try the chicken Alfredo first.”

“Shit! You’re brave,” his brutal honesty makes you giggle and whimper in the same time. “C’mon then, food’s on the stove.  Hopefully we’ll survive,” he smirks and you nod in agreement, grateful to have a soul to talk to since your husband’s lack of empathy made it so much harder to cope with your son’s demise.

***************

Same evening, 7:30pm – Continental Hotel

“Mister Joker,” Winston greets The King of Gotham. “Welcome to New York!”

The gush of wind sweeping the terrace on top of the building messes J’s locks and for once he couldn’t care less.

“Hello Winston,” your spouse growls, barely able to concentrate after he slept a couple of hours the previous night.

“Grape juice on ice?” the manager’s hospitality emerges out of necessity because The Clown isn’t exactly the easiest character to accommodate.

“Is my wife here?” J quizzes, ignoring Winston’s cordiality.

“Walk with me,” the hotel owner persuades your husband; they move alongside the concrete path bordered by decorative shrubs as information is shared. “Y/N was here.”

“She’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she go?” The Joker sneers.

Winston fails to spill the beans and J is aware he can’t push for a disclosure, not with a high ranking member of the organization. So he attempts a different strategy.

“Imagine my surprise when I returned home after a meeting just to find out my wife abandoned the nest,” he shows management a post-it with your handwritten note:

Do what you want with the rest.

“She just took a few things, thus I have to personally discuss with her a very crucial dilemma: what am I supposed to do with the baby’s items? I have a room full of them. So I’m asking: WHERE.IS.MY.WIFE?”

“Mister Joker, you forget that in my line of business I am good at reading people and I can tell when they lie,” Winston elegantly throws it out there for the heck of it.

The King of Gotham halts and cracks his neck, displeased with the comment.

“Then tell me, am I lying?!”

The manager sighs, carefully analyzing J’s features: although he looks pretty much the same, something has certainly changed.

“Maybe she’s staying with a friend,” he insinuates and your husband articulates a sentence rarely spoken aloud:

“Thank you,” J stomps away, already having a few ideas about your whereabouts.

Winston huffs, intrigued to have discerned a crazy detail while reading The Clown’s reactions: besides the fact he wasn’t lying, something else stood out. 

“He loves her…” management mumbles to himself. “I bet he doesn’t even know it.”

*************

10:34 pm

John softly knocks at the cracked bedroom’s door, unsure if you’re awake or not.

“Y/N, do you need anything before I go to sleep?”

There’s no answer and he creeps inside only to see you passed out with your hand hanging over the side of the bed. Jonathan tucks you in, feeling awkward about your unresponsiveness.

“Hey, are you ok?” he gently shakes you and freezes when he realizes there’s an empty pill bottle on the nightstand.

“Oh God!” he panics and reads the label. “Trazodone 300 mg: Take 1 tablet by mouth nightly for depression/insomnia.” That’s the highest dose for the medication and he taps on your cheeks, concerned you took a bunch of them at once. “Y/N, Y/N! Can you hear me?!”

You moan and open your eyes, unhappy to be woken up in such a hasty fashion.

“Jesus, lemme sleep... would you?!...” you grumble and turn on the other side, groggy from the drug.

“How many sleeping pills did you take?” John doesn’t give up and you yawn:

“One…my last one…” you adjust your body on the comfortable mattress, not comprehending why your host is agitated. “I’m exhausted…” you close your eyes and he lingers next to your bed, relieved the situation was a misinterpretation from his part.

**************

11:32am, New York

“Oh my…”The Bowery King deciphers a missive a dove flew in 10 minutes ago; he got a whiff of some valuable data yesterday and the new documentation is by far the best conspiracy and revenge scheme he stumbled upon this year. “Would you look at that,” the man grins, caressing the bird’s feathers. “What do you think?” he addresses the winged companion. “Should we be nice and tell Y/N and Mister Joker their son is not dead?”

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[becasbelt]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pitch Perfect (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell, Beca Mitchell/Jesse Swanson, Stacie Conrad/Aubrey Posen (mentioned), Benji Applebaum/Emily Junk, Bumper Allen/Fat Amy Characters: Emily Junk, Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale, Benji Applebaum, Jesse Swanson, Fat Amy (Pitch Perfect), Cynthia-Rose Adams, Stacie Conrad Additional Tags: confused emily is my favorite emily, Emily POV Summary:

Emily is smart, so why is it that she can’t seem to figure out the relationships going on in the a cappella world at Barden University?

In which Emily tries to figure out who each of the Bellas are dating.

* * *

Here’s the thing: Emily Junk is smart. She knows she’s smart. Not everyone can go through high school with an almost perfect 4.0 (stupid biology) like Emily did, which she could do because she’s smart. Book-smart, at least. She may still have some work to do in the street smarts category.

Still. SMART.

But if she’s so smart, why is it that she can’t seem to figure out the relationships going on in the a cappella world at Barden University?

There are the obvious ones where she doesn’t even have to know the two people involved to know that they’re an item: the one guy from the Trebles and the one girl from the Harmonics, the two girls from the High Notes, and those two guys from the Harmonics. There are obvious couples at Barden, but Emily isn’t concerned with any of them.

Emily wants to know who the Bellas are dating. She needs to know who her family loves, so she can love them, too… only, in a different way. She doesn’t want to love love who her family loves, because that would be so wrong. She doesn’t want to get in the way of anyone’s relationship.

The only problem is, no one tells her anything. Granted, she doesn’t ask, but still. No one tells her “This is my boyfriend,” or “This is my girlfriend,” or even “This is the person I slept with last night but we’re not going to date or anything because I don’t really like them all that much.”

No one tells her any of that, and it’s driving her crazy.

So Emily makes it her self-appointed secret mission to find out who each of the Bellas are dating.

She finds out that Flo isn’t dating anyone pretty quick. When Emily asks her, casually, totally not suspiciously, one day if she was seeing anyone, Flo’s answer is, “Men are dogs. They will take away all that you have worked hard for and sell you to their worthless brother without batting an eye, forcing you to escape under the cover of night after crushing sleeping pills in their dinner.”

Emily had just stared at her, wide-eyed and scared, and Flo concluded by saying, “So no, I will not willingly give myself up for a man again until he has rightfully earned his way into my presence.”

Emily tries not to have too many conversations with Flo after that.

She assumes Lilly isn’t dating anyone. Emily doesn’t think she’ll ever actually find a way to confirm this assumption, because when Emily asked if she liked anyone, Lilly had whispered something about crystal martini glasses and shampoo bottles and walked away.

Emily tries to avoid Lilly, too.

Jessica and Ashley are probably dating each other. Emily doesn’t know for sure, though, because anytime she tries talking to one or both of them, Fat Amy or Stacie or somebody else starts shouting about something, demanding the attention of the entire room. Emily’s confused about how that happens every time, but Jessica and Ashley don’t seem too surprised.

The two of them cuddle in the armchair during movie nights, and do each other’s hair when they’re hanging out in the living room. Jessica likes to steal Ashley’s high school letterman jacket when it gets chilly outside, and Ashley will always steal food from Jessica’s plate when they all go out to eat together. Emily doesn’t know for sure if they’re dating or not, but she fully supports it if they are.

She finds out about Amy’s… intimate partner in a way that she really wishes she hadn’t. Really, if she could forget it, she would. Unfortunately, it seems that the scene that played out is now burned into her long-term memory.

Emily’s last class of the day (biology, ugh) had gotten cancelled one seemingly innocent Tuesday. With glee, Emily had rushed across campus towards the Bella house to see if any of the Bellas were home already. Chloe had said that she was free to come and go at the house however she pleased, so Emily tended to just head over anytime she didn’t have anywhere else to be. Plus, her roommate, Drusilla (Drusilla?), was weird- like, painted her half of the room black the first day they got there, only sleeps for about two hours a night because she’s up writing poetry all night weird.

So Emily tended to spend less time at her own dorm and more time at the Bella house.

When Emily made it up to the front door, she could already hear noises coming from inside. Loud noises. Excited, Emily figured that there was already a few girls home and pushed the door open. She stepped into the living room, already talking about how her class got cancelled, looked up and-

There on the kitchen table, visible from the living room, lay Fat Amy, in the nude, with Bumper doing something involving whipped cream and oh gosh what was that-

Emily had clamped both her hands over her eyes, spun on her heel, and marched- no, ran- out the door. She didn’t uncover her eyes until she’d made it all the way down the driveway and accidentally bumped into someone walking by. Cheeks burning, Emily had walked back to her dorm, ready to rub her eyeballs with soap if that’s what it took to get that image out of her head.

Emily always texted Chloe or Beca or any of the other Bellas before heading to the Bella house now. Even Drusilla and her poems about the beauty of moths were better than the risk of seeing Fat Amy’s baby shoot for a third time.

So Emily knew about Amy and Bumper, even if she wished she’d found out in literally any other way. She didn’t know how public that information was to the rest of the world, though, so she kept it to herself. She also didn’t think Amy knew she knew, because she seemed pretty occupied when the whole terrible event transpired.

At first, Emily thought Cynthia Rose and Stacie were dating, but a closer look at the pair quickly shut down that theory. It was an easy mistake to make, really. Those two flirted with each other so much that Emily wasn’t sure they had ever had a conversation that wasn’t filled with winks and sexual innuendos.

After one late night conversation with Cynthia Rose, though, Emily learned the truth. All the other Bellas had either gone to bed, were out partying, or locked away studying, but Cynthia Rose had been up watching some TV show Emily didn’t recognize. So, she and Emily started talking and pretty soon Emily was sharing her fears about college and the real world, and Cynthia Rose had turned out to be a really great person to confide in.

Towards the end of their late night therapy session, Cynthia Rose’s phone had lit up with some notification. Emily happened to glance down and she saw that her phone background featured her kissing the cheek of a cute blonde girl.

“Who’s that in your background?” Emily had asked, pointing at the device. Cynthia Rose picked up her phone and looked at the picture, smiling.

“That’s my girl,” she had said fondly, eyes softening and smile widening. “Amber.”

Emily had squealed and immediately launched into question after question about Amber, all of which Cynthia Rose patiently answered with a twinkle in her eye.

When it came to Stacie, Emily was honestly too scared to ask her what her dating life was like. She knew that she slept with many different people on a fairly regular basis (anyone that had ever had a two-minute conversation with Stacie would know that), but she didn’t know if any of them had ever been anything serious, or if Stacie had ever had real feelings for anyone ever. She was nervous to ask Stacie these things herself, because she didn’t know how in depth her answers would be if asked, and Emily had already been scarred enough for one school year (thanks, Amy).

So Emily goes with a safer option: she asks Chloe.

“I’m sure Stacie’s had real relationships before,” Chloe says, sliding a veggie tray across the kitchen island to Emily. It’s a Saturday afternoon. Most of the Bellas are out buying clothes, food for the next week, or doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. The only people home at the moment are Emily, Chloe, and Beca.

Chloe flits about the kitchen; throwing out old food, wiping down countertops, putting stray dishes in the sink. Beca sits on one of the barstools at the island, laptop in front of her opened up to her mixing program. She’s got her big headphones on, though one of the cups is pushed back to expose one of her ears to the conversation.

Emily sits next to Beca, trying to be casual about her curiosity towards Stacie’s love life. “Anybody you know?” She asks Chloe, reaching for a carrot to munch on. “Has she been with anyone since she joined the Bellas?”

Chloe wipes her hands with a dish towel and leans her hip against the edge of the sink, contemplating Emily’s questions. Beca’s eyes dart up to watch Chloe think for a second before focusing back on her computer. “Not that I can recall,” Chloe decides after a moment. “But that’s not to say she’s never been in a real relationship before.”

“Or a secret one,” Beca suddenly interjects, earning herself squinted look from Chloe. Beca holds eye contact with Chloe, seemingly challenging her.

“For the last time, Beca, Stacie was not in a secret relationship with Aubrey,” Chloe says, sounding slightly exasperated. Emily’s head whips around to stare at Chloe with wide eyes. She was not expecting that. “You have no actual evidence to back that claim up.”

Beca narrows her eyes. “Then why did she go easier on Stacie for cardio than the rest of us?”

“Beca, you can’t use that as proof, because Aubrey was easier on everyone compared to you.”

“Aubrey always blushed when Stacie would talk to her.”

“Aubrey is easily flustered when it comes to sex talk because of how she was raised and Stacie always talks about sex.”

“You just don’t want to admit that Aubrey would keep a secret from you.”

“No, it’s just that I know that she wouldn’t.”

Emily’s head switches back and forth between the two captains like she’s watching a tennis match. They debate the issue for a while before dropping it all together, changing conversation topics easily and seeming to forget that Emily is still sitting there.

Emily bites into another carrot. Her questions about Stacie may not be completely answered, but she doesn’t mind because she’s observing something much more complex.

* * *

By far the most confusing relationship on Barden University’s campus was Chloe Beale and Beca Mitchell’s. Because Emily didn’t even know if it was a relationship between Beca and Chloe or Beca and Jesse. Or were Jesse and Benji a thing? They were really close, and seemed to know way too many details about each other’s lives…

Gosh, Emily hoped Jesse and Benji weren’t together. That would make Benji asking Emily out a dozen times really awkward. Plus, she was actually starting to kind of like that sweet magician.

But this wasn’t about Jesse and Benji. This was about Beca and Chloe… and Jesse, maybe. But definitely not Benji.

Moving on.

Emily has thought that Beca and Chloe were together ever since she first saw them interact with each other. It was at the Treble’s party at the beginning of the year, about halfway through the night. Emily had been talking with Jessica and Flo while avoiding accepting any drinks anyone tried to give her because her mom warned her not to take drinks from strangers unless she wanted to wake up in her underwear on the side of some road in Oklahoma 10 hours later.

Anyways.

It had been about halfway through the party when Emily saw Beca and Chloe together. She had met both of them separately earlier in the night but had yet to see them interact. Jessica and Flo’s chatter became white noise to Emily as she focused her attention on the two captains on the other side of the Treble’s pool.

When Chloe spotted Beca, she squealed loud enough to be heard over the sound of the party, making Beca flinch violently and say something that Emily thought was close to, “Jesus, woman. You’ll make me deaf one of these days.”

Nevertheless, Beca had smiled at Chloe and accepted the tight hug that the redhead bestowed upon her. The two stayed wrapped up in each other’s arms longer than was strictly necessary, Emily thought, before Beca turned her head to say something in Chloe’s ear. Chloe started giggling at whatever Beca told her, and pulled away from the hug to place a kiss on Beca’s cheek. Beca had just rolled her eyes with affection and let Chloe lead her by the hand to the dance floor, where the two of them proceeded to spend the rest of the night dancing with each other.

Throughout the entire night Beca only really interacted with Chloe. Her and Jesse did talk here and there, but from what Emily heard from them it was mostly banter and sarcastic comments towards one another. Emily truly thought they were just ‘bros’.

Then Beca kissed Jesse goodnight before leaving to go home and Emily’s world shifted in confusion.

Since that night, Emily hasn’t been able to truly tell who Beca was dating. She had compiled mental lists on evidence for both possible pairings.

Beca and Jesse: Emily has seen them kiss a total of four times. They held hands at the weird basement riff-off thing. Jesse always calls Beca “my girl” and will sometimes swat her butt when she walks away from him. Beca goes out with Jesse a lot, at least according to Chloe (“Where’s Beca?” “I don’t know,” Chloe grumbles. “Probably out with Jesse.”).

Beca and Chloe: Always touching in some way; heads on shoulders, feet on laps, hand in hand. Beca likes to play with Chloe’s fingers whenever she’s bored, like during movie nights. Chloe likes to kiss Beca’s forehead and cheeks, especially when Beca’s grumpy. They fall asleep cuddled up on the couch late at night when Emily’s doing homework in the kitchen. Beca steals glances at Chloe all the time. They always know what the other one is going to say before they say it.

All this is just based on Emily’s personal observations, of course. Nothing that she’s noticed is hard, condemning evidence one way or another.

After months of careful observations and deliberating, Emily still has yet to come to a solid conclusion. She decides to enlist in some outside help, but she’ll have to be real sly about it.

“Who’s Beca dating?” The question bursts from Emily’s mouth before she’s had time to figure out a clever way to ask it.

Darn it.

Benji looks up from his noodles, surprised. When he asked Emily if she wanted to go get Chinese earlier that night, surely he had not been expecting to talk about Beca’s dating life.

(It wasn’t a date. Emily still wasn’t really ready to jump into anything; she was only 18, after all. This was just… getting dinner with a friend. And that friend just happened to be paying for both of them. And none of their other friends were with them. It wasn’t a date.)

“What do you mean?” Benji asks, swallowing his food and scrunching up his eyebrows.

Emily pokes at her own food with her fork (she never could figure out how to use chopsticks). “It’s just… Beca seems really close with… specific people…. And she’s not super open about her life with me, because I don’t think she likes me very much, and she probably thinks that I’d tell everyone her secrets- even though I totally wouldn’t- and I just want to know who she’s dating because there’s a couple people that she could be with and it’s killing me that I don’t know an-“

“Whoa, breathe, Emily,” Benji interrupts her, looking slightly apologetic for doing so. Emily smiles at him sheepishly. “First of all, Beca doesn’t hate you. If she hated you, you would know, trust me.” He chuckles, and then continues. “And to answer your question: Beca’s dating Jesse.”

Emily’s eyes widen in excitement. “Really? FINALLY some answers!” Benji looks a bit shocked by her outburst, but doesn’t say anything. Emily sits there basking in her triumph for a second, and then fully registers Benji’s answer. She deflates a little. “Oh, then that means…”

Benji looks at her curiously. “You… okay?” He asks, head dipping a little to try to catch her eyes.

Emily shakes her head a little. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” She says, not so convincingly, she’s afraid. She smiles at Benji instead. “Thanks.”

Benji’s eyes soften at her smile, and he just shrugs a little before going back to his noodles.

That night, Emily lays awake pondering her new knowledge. Beca was dating Jesse, not Chloe. Emily’s shocked, honestly. Sure, she’d had evidence for whoever Beca was with, but deep down she’d always thought it was Chloe.

Emily huffs and rolls to her other side. If Beca and Chloe weren’t dating, then what were they?

The question weighs heavily on her mind until she sees Beca and Chloe next, a couple days later. Emily watches the two captains at rehearsal very closely. Watches the way Beca will look up from her computer every so often and just look at Chloe with a small smile on her face. Watches the way Chloe’s eyes crinkle at the corners when Beca calls her “Chlo” and how she blushes slightly when Beca compliments her. Understanding starts to dawn in Emily’s mind.

Later that evening when all the Bellas pile into the TV room for a movie night, Emily’s understanding starts to really take shape. As she watches Chloe pull Beca down into the spot next to her, blanket falling over both their laps, and Beca smile shyly at Chloe as she plays with her fingers, Emily knows for sure what they are.

Beca and Chloe are just two dummies who don’t know how in love with each other they are. They don’t know yet, but they will someday. Emily’s sure of it.

Emily smiles and turns her attention away from the two fools in love and towards the movie, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth. She can’t wait until they figure it out.

See? Smart.

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 2

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating: General, family feels, hurt/comfort

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what they had lost appeared, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter 2

 Now.

 “Jon.” Damian said exasperated and turning around to look at him in the most stoic way as possible. “If you ask me again how I’m doing, I’m leaving.”

 Jon snorted with amusement and looked at him irritated, then shook his head and repeated to himself again that Damian seemed fine, he had shown no sign of otherwise and his boyfriend didn’t like when he acts as if he would break at any time, even when he was badly wounded.

But no one could blame him for being worried at all, not only by the fact that Damian had just woke up less than an hour ago after being unconscious for 36, but also because the “bat standards” for wounds and injuries consists on undervalue all of them, “Oh, this? I got stabbed twice last night, a slow patrol, you know.” “Can you pick me up? I can’t stand up anymore and I have an exam tomorrow, quickly.” “Don’t leave please, I have a concussion and I can’t sleep.” “Why are you crying? It’s just a gunshot.”

 “You won’t.” He replied with a sight, looking at Damian with a tired smile, who stared back at him and raised an eyebrow, as if this was a challenge or something.

 He won’t, because both were exhausted, either by sneaking around and nearly dying in an explosion, or by being up all-night waiting for the other to wake up. Different experiences, same result.

 Packing the few things Damian had was fast, and they were lucky that there was nobody around to question anything to them. So, they had time enough to prepare and fly away to Metropolis safely.

Jon had made sure to go slowly and prudent enough to not disturb Damian during the flight, but when they arrived the city he escaped from his grasp and started walking hastily to their apartment. That’s when Jon started to ask if he was fine, but maybe he had already reached that limit for today.

 “I could.” Damian said, still in his pride. “But you would chase after me.”

 He let out a surprised giggle and put on better the glasses he uses in his civilian identity, although is not necessary right now, when there was nobody outside at these hours and they were only three blocks away from the apartment.

 “Of course.” He said in a joke as he approached to him. “And If I caught you, I would ask again how you feel.”

 Damian snorted and rolled his eyed, but he didn’t get away when he came a little closer, and grabbed his hand back when he reached it, walking beside him and cradling their hands in silence.

Jon smiled, in love and leaving that soft and warm feeling flooding him for a moment. He always starts the touches and affectionate gestures, but Damian never denies them and always tries to give them back. And even if they usually didn’t do this in public -because of that extensive column courtesy by Vicky Vale about “Damian Wayne and his college boyfriend.”- today was an exception.

 They were a block away from the apartment, in their own world and in a comfortable silence when his phone vibrated in his pocket, again. He searched it into his pants with a grunt and a bitter feeling in his stomach.

 “Your father?” Damian asked indifferent.

 “You bet.” He answered upset and finally getting the phone to look at the screen. “Yes, of course.”

 He didn’t even have his number saved in contacts, but he knew it was him. It was the same number that called him multiple times every few days, that he leaves ringing without answer until finally stops.

Just what he was going to do now.

 “How many times he called today?” Damian asked again, walking into the building. They had finally arrived.

 “With this? About eleven.” He said annoyed and walking after him as the mobile screen turned off. “You should have seen him yesterday.”

 The other said nothing, he only called the elevator. There was not much to say after all, none of them were on good terms with their parents lately, and yesterday was a delicate date for everyone. He knew Clark hoped to talk to him because he always was more neurotic than usual then, especially with that incident two years ago.

Too bad he would not give him the chance.

 He had pressed the button to go to their floor when his phone rang again in his hand, making him twitch in anger. Really? He hadn’t even had time to do nothing before another call. It’s over. He grabbed the phone to turn it off when he realized the number was different.

 Both, he and Damian, were frozen for a few seconds, because it was a number they knew from memory, but they didn’t want to answer at all.

And when the elevator reached their floor and opened the doors, he reacted and in one swift movement he cut off the call.

 “It’s because I have mine off.” Damian explained after the tense silence, with a tired expression and getting off the elevator.

 “And he expected us to be in the cave, I know.” He answered following him and taking the keys, at this point he just want to lie down and sleep for three days as minimum.

 In normal circumstances, anybody would think staying in the cave to recover from their injuries and rest is the best choice. Which led some bats to assume that they would be there when they get back, which is clearly not happening.

And none of them was in the mood to deal with Dick Grayson, much less today. So, hang up and pretend they don’t see anything is the best course of action.

 When the door was finally opened, he had already muted his phone, and both rushed to take off their shoes while Jon closed it behind him.

Damian was laying them just as he liked when he suddenly stiffened and stood guard, and Jon took a few moments to realize it was because he had noticed the TV sound on the living room and the another presence in their apartment, which he forgot to tell him before.

 “It’s Kon.” He explained as he placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “I said him I would be here, and we were supposed to talk in the farm…”

 Yes, they supposed. Because he had to leave early when he heard the explosion and leave that conversation for another time, even if he and his brother clearly needed it. Kon understood, of course, even asked if he could help, but Jon refused, and he had been sending messages to him after everything was under control. That morning he told him that he could stay in the apartment if the farm was too much, which it was, apparently.

 Damian turned around and nodded, understanding what happened and letting out the tension of his body, it wasn’t the first time nor the last Kon stayed with them and slept on their couch -and vice versa-. Then he looked up and bowed his head reluctantly to the living room, in a kind of silent question.

 “No, it’s okay. I got this.” Jon shook his head and tilted slightly to leave a soft kiss on his lips. “You go and rest, you need help with…?”

 He asked that looking at the bandages on his head, and he didn’t want to think about how it has come to become part of their everyday life and normal for them to take care of his injuries.

But the bat shook his head and muttered again he was fine, and Jon had no choice to believe it.

 “Okay, then go. I will be there in a moment.” He agreed with a sigh and forcing himself to separate from Damian to let him go to their room.

 He took his stuff and get ahead to go to bed, what Jon was looking forward to doing so, but not without checking up his brother and tell him they were fine, of course. He watched his boyfriend go until he turned down the hallway and then Jon walked into the living room.

He was ready to tell Kon it was better to talk tomorrow, because he was too tired, frustrated and stressed out after all that had happened, but seeing the state of the other super when he walked in, that was not necessary.

 Kon-El was fallen asleep on the couch, in an awkward position, with the remains of his dinner and beers scattered around the table and the TV as a background noise.

 Jon looked at him quiet and holding his breath for two minutes approx. before deciding what to do. Then, he sighed deeply to focus, reminded himself how Kon had decided to be his big brother after all, and started to work.

 First, he turned off the TV, which was in the news and commenting about the devastating explosion in Zodome, apparently compounded by circumstances under investigation; He ignored it and then reached one of the blankets they had in the living room to cuddle on the couch, approaching it to accommodate Kon as he could. He did it with all the patience and care possible, because Kon was tall, big and used to move a lot while sleeping, so he laid him with tact and hoping he wouldn’t fall at night. Luckily, he was a heavy dreamer, so he didn’t even react when was laid and his head was rested on a cushion, just sighed heavily and wrapped himself in the blanket.

After making sure Kon was comfortable, Jon turned and picked up the trash from the table, which was nothing more than a pizza and beer, many beer cans.

 Jon complained, tired, as he walked into the kitchen with everything in his hands and tossed them away on the trash can without hesitation.

A few years earlier he would have wondered why Kon bothered to drink those beers and in such quantity, when it was obvious alcohol didn’t affect them at all because of their kryptonian metabolism and how this erase every toxin easily and quickly in their bodies. But he knew why, it was because of the feeling of being ordinary, normal and human, and those things could give them that. He had been there and had done that, because it’s almost the same reason why Clark and everyone have their civilian identities, but on a smaller scale.

They need to feel human, even if they aren’t. And Jon knows what it is, he knows it, he knows how it was growing up, being a teenager and seeing everyone around him drinking, going to parties, being careless, reckless, having fun, when he… He couldn’t, physically or mentally, because if the city or the world was attacked and Superman was too busy being a semi-absent father, who was going to leave the party earlier to fight back? Exactly, Superboy. Both of them.

 So, yes, if Jon drinks sometimes in a few parties or Wayne galas to feel normal and socially included, Kon could try to drown his sorrows in alcohol even if it didn’t affect him at all.

 Moreover, as he stared at the last beer he have to throw away in his hand, Jon remembered he was the last person with rights to judge his brother for something like this when he certainly drowned exactly those same sorrows in alcohol two years ago.

 He wasn’t even thinking, it was stupid.

 He was 17, it had been the same date, and everything had happened four years ago. He was in Kansas with Ma and Pa, trying to escape the emotional exhaustion that meant to him being in Metropolis those days and the thoughts that haunted him mind, not exactly happy. But just like Damian 36 hours ago, he hadn’t kept in mind the fact that he would be equally emotionally unstable wherever he was or whatever he did.

So, he was helping Pa doing some farm work, trying to get distracted and not to sink into the swamp that were his memories. When suddenly, his grandpa commented with sympathy, to liven up the atmosphere and surely comfort him, that every time Tim Drake was on the farm visiting Kon he offered himself to help in any way he could, but that didn’t go well because he was a tiny little city boy, who Pa also missed a lot because of his kindness and courage.

 The next thing Jon remembers was saying he needed rest and drink something, and because of some reason his mind came to the conclusion that “something” had to be a liquor from a distant planet which his father had kept in the barn during years, and seemed to affect kryptonians too.

He can’t explain exactly what he was thinking or why. When he found the bottles and began to open them one by one, his head was nothing but mixed and blurred thoughts, crashing and eddying a kind of static noise, and he only wanted to stop it, to stop it quickly and at any price. And the unmistakable memory of Billy Batson at his 19, in their comms, drunk, at 4 am and saying, “I forgot how to breathe, I’m gonna die?” was good enough to grab the first bottle and drink.

And while he drank, he recalled Jason Todd’s voice, smiling and cheerful, telling him about how children like him shouldn’t drink, but in Gotham everything was possible, and when he turns 18, maybe he took him and Damian somewhere to celebrate something.

 Liar. Fucking liar, he wasn’t going to do it. That wasn’t going to happen, and the reminder formed a lump in his throat that made him drank more and stronger.

 The rest of the day are pieces and brief flashes in his mind.

He remembers to cry, he remembers to mourn, and he remembers to fight against aliens whose race still don’t know but supposedly saved the planet from them. And he also remembers to send flying away the neighbor’s tractor sobbing, which was never found again, and he ended up paying with his money anonymously.

 If he did anything more that day, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t remember, and nobody had commented or asked anything rather than the damn tractor and why was an innocent victim of his drunk wrath.

Which he already knows, because he can get back at the exact moment when he left the barn, looked up and saw in the distance the red tractor, shining in the grass and laughing at him at the distance.

 Red.

 It was red.

 Red. Just like Red Robin’s uniform, like Red Hood’s helmet, like Tim’s favorite tie for the galas, like Jason’s favorite sweatshirt which Tim also used with a pleased smile, like Tim’s pencil case that he brought up to his house when helped him with homework, like the wrapping paper which had all the books that Jason gave him on special occasions, courtesy, according to him.

 Just like the blood on Robin’s gloves six years ago.

 The last beer was thrown away into the trash can with more strength needed, making the sound of metal and the trash crashing into the ground resound through the kitchen and the apartment in general.

 Jon looked absent at the front, clenching his fist and trying to control his breathing, to calm down. He knew he wasn’t being done himself any good drowning in his thoughts again, not now, not today, not after been in the cave waiting for Damian and fighting with his instincts not to run away at any time. If he hadn’t lost control then, now it doesn’t make any sense.

But he couldn’t help briefly turn his head to see the calendar on the fridge, to then look again into the living room where Kon was still sleeping, with no signs of waking up from the previous noises but frowning in dreams.

 Six years, six years.

 His brother had lost his best friend six years ago.

 He had lost Tim, his ally, his buddy, his mate, his partner, his Robin. And there was nobody in the entire multiverse able to know how important that was, how much it had to hurt, how miserable he had to feel, but Jon.

He could understand why he didn’t want to approach the farm, because the place was filled with memories of them together, and Ma and Pa sometimes gives them that look which seems to say “I’m sorry.”; And he could understand why he wanted to be with him this day and just talk, talk about nothing and everything, pretend that they are normal and nothing happened, even if their worlds aren’t the same. Because Kon had lost a part of himself, and Jon knew if something like that happened to him, if he loses his Robin, he would be crazy, insane.

 The lump in his throat had returned, with tears about to fall and sinking feelings in his chest that oppressed him. And this time he didn’t have anything to drink to make him forget, but neither wanted.

 Enough for tonight, it’s over.

 He swallowed, rubbed his eyes, shook his head and recomposed himself to get out from the kitchen and see Kon for the last time. He ended up wishing him a good night as covered him better with the blanket, leaving a soft kiss on his temple. After that, he turned off the lights and went to his own room, exhausted.

 When he entered, it was the sight of Damian, laid on his side and turning his back, what received him. And while he undressed and take off his glasses to get comfortable as soon as possible, he made sure Damian was sleeping by his deep and slow breathing, but surely uncomfortable because of the wounds, judging by the tension on his body.

 Again, a pang of worry and guilt kicked him as he get rid of his dirty and sweaty shirt to change it for a more loose and comfortable one, because he should have convinced Damian better to not go to Gamorra, he should have stayed at his side, he should have been with him instead of going to Kansas, he should have known better that none of them would think or act with his right mind yesterday, and he didn’t.

And he knew he couldn’t help it, he can’t be everywhere and not all was his fault, but at this point and after being in the cave, he was no longer sure about that.

 When he put on the rest of his pajamas, he reached his phone to see the last five missed calls in it. Two were from Clark, three were from Dick.

He ignored them all, turned off the phone and threw it over the mountain of clothes. He was not going to touch it again until the next morning, maybe more, he has the day off.

 He rushed to the bed, got under the blankets and within seconds he had pressed against Damian to embrace him from behind, putting his arm over his waist and sticking as much possible to spooning while sleeping, being sure that Damian would not get away from him or be mad at the morning, even he seemed to relax in his touch as the tension disappeared, making Jon sighed with relief.

 He buried his face in his Robin’s nape and closed his eyes tightly, concentrating on his breathing, his scent, the sensation of his body against him and at his side. He forced himself to sleep, hoping not to dream that night.

 But he did.

 Jon dreamed that night. He dreamed about many things, about memories turned into nightmares, some which already were, about shouts, cries and voices repeating the same things over and over again while accusing fingers full of hatred pointed at him, judged him.

 Six years, six years.

 In his dreams, he saw Bruce wandering in the cave just like the day before, like a ghost, walking and standing for hours in fronts of Red Hood and Red Robin’s suits; He saw Dick crying and looking at a fixed point on the cave’s floor, remembering something he shouldn’t; He saw Cass looking at everyone quiet, sad and melancholic, with an afflicted look and without knowing what to say or how to say it; He saw Stephanie being an indecisive and insecure disaster, so unusual in her; He saw Alfred putting two more dishes on the table without realizing it, and then take them back without a word; He saw Damian leaning against his room door, tears pouring his cheeks and ready to fall apart, making his heart hurts; And he saw Kon, his older brother, in panic, shouting desperate “I can’t hear him!” “I can’t hear anything!” “Nor his voice, nor his heartbeat, nothing!” “Why can’t I hear him?!”  

 Six years. Tim and Jason vanished exactly six years ago.

 At the end of the night, Jon’s nightmares brought him to the cave again. To a dark and cold place where the voices and cries of all were stronger and resounded everywhere, sinking like daggers in his heart; Where the Batfamily pointed and looked at him with hatred and blame, again and again, shouting at him with disgust and aversion; Where an angry and a furious Batman threw in in the face how he had lost his sons, his children. All while he fell apart and crumbled right in front of where rested Red Robin and Red Hood’s suits, bent on the floor with a note stuck on them.

 Yes.

 Tim and Jason disappeared without a trace six years ago.

 And it was his fault.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Daniel Michaelson: Waterlogged

(For @whumptober2019 day 27, I chose to use the Alternate prompt Waterlogged! Poor Danny. References @bleeding-demon-teeth‘s OC Lyken again, because Bram is just a super big fan. TW: for implied/referenced noncon, some torture/abuse)

Water pours in a rush from the deep gray sky and it feels more like midnight than mid-afternoon. The clouds fight each other, rolling and tumbling in shades of deep dark greenish-gray he’s never seen before, but he tries not to look up any longer - the water just gets in his eyes, then.

At least there’s no lightning, no thunder to terrify him. Only rain - endless, eternal pouring rain.

It’s been raining since this morning, and Daniel has been out here in it since he’d overturned a bowl of food on Abraham’s head after Abraham had slid his hand up underneath his shirt when he was serving breakfast.

He’d felt, for just a second, a snarling furious strength in him, the return of the man he used to be - the person - and it had all happened in a flash of time he couldn’t take back.

He wants so badly to take it back.

Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit, don’t fucking touch me, Daniel had snapped, dumping the food on him, jerking himself away. For just that one second he hadn’t given a damn about the rules, about being good, about any of it. For just a second he’d remembered that he had been a senior in college once, just a few months from graduating - he had a younger brother - he had a family - he had people who cared, who would miss him.

For just a second, all Abraham’s hard fucking work to train him had fallen away and Danny was a human again, knew he was a human, knew he deserved better than this.

Then Abraham’s hand had snapped out to grab him by the wrist and Danny had realized he’d fucked up, just a few seconds too late.

Now that’s very bad indeed, Abraham had said with eggs still in his hair, heedless of the mess, Nate sitting across the table staring wide-eyed at the both of them, fork still halfway to his mouth.

Just fucking kill me, you dick, Daniel said, half-pleading the words, already trying to back away until Abraham stepped on the chain that hooked his ankle to the ring in the wall and Danny stumbled and fell backwards onto the floor. I don’t want to live like this, just fucking kill me already!

Dead would be too easy, puppy, Abraham had snarled at him. I can think of so much worse for you.

B-B-Bram, no, h-h-he’s just h-having a b-bad day, it’s n-normal, he’s going to h-h-have bad d-d-days, remember when I-

Shut the fuck up, baby. The puppy’s been bad. He needs to be fixed.

N-no! Just, l-look, just l-l-l-let me t-talk to him, B-Bram, please!

I fucking hate you!

So angry, little Red. You know damn well that puppies don’t get to be angry. Puppies want to be good. They love their owners. I’m going to make sure you want to be good.

Bram, please, please d-d-don’t, please don’t d-do this, don’t-

I just want to be me again! You can’t force someone to love you! I don’t want to be good and I don’t want to fucking love you!

The last time anyone gave a shit what you wanted was the moment you pointed a gun at my face, Red. You need to remember what the fuck you are. And I can force you to feel anything I want.

He’d tried to fight back, but he didn’t eat enough, and he was so tired, and hungry, and hurting all the time. It wasn’t long before Danny was sitting in the wet mud with a brand spanking new black eye, hands tied hard behind his back, rope wrapped around them all the way to his elbows until he ached with the effort of keeping them held out straight, that steady, pulsing pain in his rib - and the metal grid cutting hard into his face, forcing him to be quiet, to remember his place.

He hadn’t meant to be bad, to get angry - he tried to be good most days, he really did - but sometimes the parts of him that used to exist found their way out.

They exploded in a riot of yelling and anger, and it always ended with a punishment. It was never worth fighting, but somehow he couldn’t seem to stop.

He had made a mistake, this morning - and now there is this.

The rain has long since soaked his hair, pressing the normally wavy red flat against his scalp, hanging in his eyes, darkening it to something closer to auburn. Droplets of water run down the side of his face, briefly magnifying the freckles that stand out as he grows paler and paler.

The raindrops blend with the blood that wells up around the jagged line of metal cutting hard into his jaw, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. They mix with the tears that run from his eyes, unnoticed, just more water behind the grid. The trails of pink run to the corner of his mouth, to slip the slightest taste of salt and copper onto the tip of the tongue trapped behind his teeth. Some of it slides down the sides of his neck, becomes another bit of wet in his shirt, or drips right onto the ground.

Water finds a way to free itself of the cage of his skin, but Daniel is trapped in it.

The leather pulls tight against the sides of his face, wraps snugly around the back of his head. He can’t move his jaw even a fraction of an inch, and it hurts, it hurts and it’s bleeding, but he can’t even scream - only whine, low in his throat, with no way to escape the prison of his mouth.

All he can manage is a keening sound swallowed up by the rain.

He can’t seem to find the someone else that lives inside of him, the body that takes over when this thing is on his face. Every other time, he can go away in his head, but today Daniel feels trapped in reality, in what’s really been done to him, and he can’t seem to find his escape.

He wants to escape - he wants to be someone else - he wants to go away in his head, to let the body take over, to let the body feel the ache and the pain and the mud, but he can’t.

It’s probably because of the headphones, because of the smug fucking voice he can’t get away from, loud enough to drown out the rain that has turned his fingers into wrinkled prunes, rubbed his arms and wrists raw with the rope around them until he’s pretty sure they’re bleeding, too.

The headphones are wrapped in plastic to protect them, settled carefully onto his head, the fuzzy speakers pressed against his ears. The noise won’t let him slide away, won’t let him give himself over to somebody else.

He could handle the rain - and the pain - and he could go away from the muzzle, because there’s someone else who lives in his body that comes out to take the muzzle and deal with that for him.

But he can’t fight the voice.

It’s not Abraham’s voice - no, it’s the other voice, the man Abraham listens to on his phone, the man who talks about dog training - only he’s not talking about real dogs, people like Abraham are the people he’s talking to.

Daniel’s head droops, hunching forward, the padlock that keeps the leather straps securely buckled gently tapping against the nape of his neck.

I understand that some of you are struggling with disobedience - too much energy used in all the wrong ways. The man is smug, so goddamn sure of himself, of what he’s doing, of the evil that Abraham and others like him.

There’s a horror there Daniel doesn’t want to access, in the reality that there are others in the world like this - he pushes that back, back into his mind, even further than the anger he’s no longer allowed to feel, the anger that drained out of him with the rain.

His voice is a little hypnotic, nothing like Abraham’s spellbinding singsong - but it catches your thoughts and holds them, and Danny can’t stop listening no matter how hard he tries. Obviously the most efficient method is simply to contact me for one-on-one counseling sessions - my rates are very fair, and I have been known to personally oversee the most troublesome cases myself.

But if you’re dead set on individually working this out on your own, who am I to stop you? The man’s voice in his ear has a thread of unkind laughter to it, and there’s a sound in the background somewhere of the audio - a thunk and something like a cut-off curse, then some other laughter, three or four other people. Shut the fuck up, assholes, I’m recording. In any case, if you really must do this yourself, I’ll tell you - the secret to really succeeding at this is to ensure that you engender a real, true desire to be good, to do good, to behave according to your expectations.

Without that desire, all you’ll see is bad behavior. Maybe it’ll be covered up for a while, you’ll think you’re seeing progress - but all you’re seeing is a lie. Without the desire, the real nerve-deep need to be good, you will never achieve true or total success.

I never settle for a half-trained mutt, and I mean never. There’s no dog out there who can’t be taught to want to be good with the right reinforcement.

As I said, my one-on-one rates are fair and I do offer online video conferencing for clients in locations as far away as Europe and Asia for a small added fee. If you’re unable to make appointments in person, I’d be happy to speak with you via Skype. You can find my rates, well - more laughter, from the man and from everyone else. There’s the sound of a thwak in the background, a sound Daniel knows too well, feeling his own back muscles jerk in sympathy. You have to know who to ask to find my rates, but if you’ve found this, you probably already know who to ask, right?

So ask them.

Now, in today’s episode I want to start off by reading a letter I recently received from a very satisfied customer - and later we’ll talk about, well.. Let’s call him a friend of mine, who is the perfect example of someone dealing with occasional backsliding because he’s not using my methods, just slapdash creating his own like an asshole.

You know who you are, E.

The voice numbs him. It wears away at him. The knowledge that there are other people in the world like this - and that they have in-jokes and friends and whole lives - is terrifying, and Daniel can’t seem to maintain any other real feeling but fear out here, soaked to the bone and starting to shake with the cold still nipping the air.

The terror slowly dulls and blends in until all he has left is a confused mixture of regret and loathing and confusion as to why he ever tried to fight back at all.

He’s been out here for four hours or so, he thinks - he’s listened to four of these things and he’s pretty sure they’re about an hour long. So that’s something, that’s something he can hold onto, but still the voice sinks into his head, twines around Abraham’s, leaves him feeling hollow and empty and inhuman.

Just a puppy.

His arms throb from being forced so hard behind his back for so long. He’s cold and wet and caked in mud all along the backs of his thighs, his legs, coating his feet. Mud cakes the outdoor chain hooking him to the ground. All he wants is for Abraham to take the muzzle off, let him back inside, let him dry off and get warm by the fire.

But he can’t go inside unless he’s ready to be good, unless he wants to be good, just like the hateful fucking voice in his ears won’t stop saying. He can’t go inside unless Abraham believes he wants to be good.

And he can’t call for help. He can’t ask. He can’t do anything but listen, and listen, and listen, and wish that he’d never done such a stupid fucking thing in the first place as try to pretend he’s a person when he knows, deep down, that Daniel Michaelson is gone.

My name is Red.

I am the puppy.

No one wants me but Abraham now… and Nate.

His jaw aches, the top of his nose is a riot of pain as the wire cuts further and further into it. His rib hurts, his eye throbs, his arms hurt, he’s so tired - so fucking tired - of everything hurting so much.

When he’s good, only a couple of things ever hurt at a time. When he’s good, sometimes he goes whole days without a new wound. He could have fixed all of this by just not being bad this morning.

He could just be good, and none of it has to happen, right? That’s what the voice keeps saying.

He’s locked inside of himself, staring dully down at a single blade of grass, trying not to hear the voice of the man in his ears, in his head, the man that Abraham laughs along with and says, now here’s someone else in the world who understands.

He can’t get up - can’t even move his hands.

He can’t escape the rain.

He can’t take off the headphones, can’t get away from the voice that tells him, in so many different ways, that Abraham can unmake him - probably already has.

The voice - the man, the King - laughs at people like Daniel and tells them they can be changed, undone, remade into less than they were, into the puppies that aren’t allowed to be angry.

He’s not allowed to be angry - that was a rule, a rule he had broken, and he’s sure he’s been punished enough. He could prove it, if Abraham would only come back out and let him show it, let him show that he was tired of being in trouble, and that he could be good.

He wishes, so deeply within himself, that he had never done what he did this morning. He wishes he had just served breakfast like he did every day, let Abraham touch him, ignored the coiled twisting hate inside himself, pushed it down until it went away entirely. He wishes he had only tried harder.

When he tries really hard, he can usually be good.

If he’d just been good, he wouldn’t be sitting out here feeling a sort of pressure building in his lungs, an urge to cough against the rain that probably doesn’t bode well for him. He gets sick so much, now - and when he’s sick, he gets punished for being weak.

But when he gets fevers, he sees his brother, and so maybe getting sick isn’t so bad, not if he sees Ryan again.

He must have closed his eyes at some point, maybe even dozed off with the voice still in his ears - because suddenly there are warm hands on his face.

He jumps, jerking back and away, instinctively trying to apologize for flinching - never pull away from Abraham - but all he does is try to force his jaw against the cage and he whines sharply at the pain.

The headphones are slipped off of his ears and the voice - the voice is gone. Danny’s so grateful to Abraham, gratitude that cuts him as sharply as any knife. Thank you for taking the voice away. Thank you for this. Thank you so much.

Be grateful for every gift you are given.

Letting him stop hearing the voice is a gift.

“Sssshhhh, it’s m-m-me,” Nate says softly, and Daniel opens his eyes in surprise, looking up to see Nate crouching in front of him in a raincoat and boots, letting his black hair get soaked but the rest of him stays dry. The mossy green eyes are focused right on him, and there is no mockery there, none of Abraham’s laughing superiority, no sense that he is looking at a disobedient puppy.

Nate sees a man.

“It’s j-j-just me,” Nate says, voice gentle and deep, and the feel of his fingers against the metal grid is so welcome Danny nearly starts to cry.

He whines again - trying to plead, to beg to take the muzzle off his face to let him say how sorry he is, how good he can be.

Nate smiles, a little sadly. “H-hey, Danny,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Daniel’s forehead.

His lips feel so warm against the bone-deep cold settling under Daniel’s skin. He doesn’t even think to shake his head at the name that isn’t his any longer. He just makes a noise in his throat, something he hopes can say thank you and I might love you and kiss me again and save me.

“B-B-Bram sent m-me out. Y-you can come back i-in now. He says it’s b-been long en… enough. I… I c-c-c-convinced him.” Nate’s eyes slide away from his when he says the last bit, and part of Danny wonders what he’s agreed to do for Abraham to earn Danny the right to come in out of the rain.

Nate has the little key that unlocks the padlock at the back of his head. He undoes the buckle, slips the metal grid off of his face, and Danny doesn’t even wince at the tear of torn skin. All he can feel is joy at the freedom, opening and closing his mouth just to move his jaw even though it aches, just because he can.

“Thank you for taking the muzzle off,” Danny mumbles, “and for taking the headphones off my head.” As the ropes unwind from his arms, he slowly lowers them back to his sides, shoulders screaming in protest after so long locked in place, looking down with relief as he realizes they weren’t bleeding at all, just ringed in deep red grooves that will bruise and then fade. “Thank you for taking th’… the ropes off.”

Nate doesn’t say anything - he knows the rules as well as Danny does - but there’s a look on his face Danny can’t quite read. It’s not pity - it’s something like grief.

Like Daniel is already gone, and Nate is going to miss him.

Once the metal cuff welded to his ankle is unlocked from the chain in the yard, Danny gets slowly to his feet, Nate’s good hand on his elbow to help him up. They make their way back across the yard, Nate in his raincoat and boots, Danny barefoot and soaked so deeply he has begun to wonder if he’ll ever, ever feel dry again.

He stumbles back in the door, water dripping down his face still, new wounds carved over old scars, the red lines made by the muzzle still weeping thin trails of blood. Standing on the welcome mat (step inside our happy home, it declares in cheerful rainbow letters and Danny kind of wishes he could tear it apart with his bare hands), he looks from under wet hunks of red hair at Abraham sitting at the kitchen table.

The inside of the cabin is warm, and dry, and Daniel wants to be warm and dry, too. He’ll say anything. He’ll do anything.

He is exactly what the man in the recordings says he is.

“So?” Abraham asks. The fireplace is crackling in the living room, and Danny wants nothing more in life than to sit in front of it, dry off, feel something other than this saturated wet awful. “Have you rethought this morning’s misadventure?”

“Y-yes,” Daniel manages, keeping his shoulders hunched. “I was, um, was wrong.”

Nate slides the raincoat off and hangs it on the hook by the door, sets the wrapped-up headphones and little mp3 player on the countertop, dumps the muzzle beside it with an audible breath of disgust.

Nate hates the muzzle. He only ever calls it ‘the thing’.

Danny turns carefully away from it, trying not to look at the blood still winking red at the ends of all the tiny sharp pieces that jam into his skin when it’s on. He hadn’t been able to go away. He hadn’t been able to be someone else. He’d been Danny in a muzzle - he’d been Red, the puppy, getting punished for thinking he was real.

He feels a sob caught somewhere in his throat, and he manages to choke it back, but only barely.

I’m not real. The man is right. We’re not really real people at all.

“Oh, little Red,” Abraham says with patronizing affection. “Did we have fun out in the rain?”

Danny shakes his head, mutely, and he doesn’t flinch when Abraham laughs, the high-pitched barking sound that rattles his bones inside his skin, shatters apart any sense of himself he had.

Everything is so much easier when he doesn’t fight. Why does he keep trying to fight?

When Nate turns back around, Daniel shuffles a little closer to him, until he can feel the solidity of Nate’s presence beside him, the only person who doesn’t want to hurt him. The only mercy Abraham has is Nate Vandrum, the only affection Danny gets that isn’t tainted and horrible and hurting.

Does he maybe love Nate, or is he just desperate for a feeling other than pain?

After a second, he feels Nate shift a little bit, too. There’s the slightest hint of warmth as Nate’s bad hand - the hand Abraham bashed and broke and never even tried to help heal right - settles at the small of his back, over his shirt.

“What did you learn, then, from your time out there?” Abraham’s smile is a snake’s grin, and his eyes are cold. Danny leans slowly, subtly back into Nate’s touch, trying to use it to give himself some form of strength even as his knees want to give and buckle him to the floor.

If I have to be a dog, I wish I could be his, not yours.

He can hear himself dripping audibly onto the tile. He can feel the water - and some of it is blood and some of it is tears but he doesn’t know which is what any longer. “I l-learned that I d-d-don’t want to be in trouble anymore. I’m s-s-sorry, Abraham. I won’t do it again, I promise. I won’t.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. Tell me who you are.”

“My name is Red,” Daniel Michaelson says, meeting Abraham’s eyes, and in that moment he is, he really is. He keeps forgetting - and Abraham keeps reminding him.

Daniel Michaelson slides away, the anger and hate and insistent refrain of I used to be a person fading under the weight of Abraham’s voice, his stare, and the echoing voice of the man in the headphones, the pressure of knowledge that Abraham isn’t the only person who knows that there are people like Daniel in the world, people who only exist to be hurt.

Daniel Michaelson is gone, and Red takes over.

“Your name is Red and…?”

“My name is Red and I belong to you, and I, and I want to be good for you s-so I don’t have to be in trouble again. I do. I want to be so good, Abraham.”

Abraham’s eyes move up and down, taking in the red hair plastered to his forehead, the angry wounds on his face, water trickling slowly down his neck. 

Abraham looks over the T-shirt pressed in folds against the lines of his body, showing the torso made skinnier by never enough food, the pajama pants that are slick against his legs, the raw skin underneath the iron cuff that never leaves him, the toes pressing into the bristles of the welcome mat.

Danny shivers under the attention, hugging himself, wishing he didn’t know what Abraham was thinking, wishing it wasn’t written all too clearly on his face, in the gleam of a sudden dark interest in his eyes.

Nate’s hand against his back is the only anchor he has.

“Good boy.” Abraham gestures towards the living room. “Strip. Then you can sit by the fire and dry off, Nate will bring you a towel.”

“Strip? Right… right here?” Daniel feels his face flush deep red, the sting as blood rushes to the newly reopened muzzle wounds. Even as he wants to hesitate, his hands are moving to the hem of his T-shirt, twisting until the fabric wrings out and a sudden patter of droplets hits the floor. “Right now?”

“Right now. Your body doesn’t belong to you, Red. It belongs to me. I feel like I’ve proven that a couple hundred times over by now in every possible way.“

Daniel feels his face flush and keeps his eyes on the floor, skin crawling with the touch of phantom hands, with the knowledge that his body has been broken and bent for someone else.

“B-Bram,” Nate says softly. “C-C-Come on, hasn’t he been p-punished en-enough?”

“You’re the one who begged me to bring him back in. This is what you wanted, right, Nate? Don’t tell me you don’t like seeing him take his clothes off just as much as I do. I know you, sweet thing.” Those eyes slide back to Danny, and all the rain in the world cannot wash the grime off his skin. “Red. Take your fucking clothes off or I’ll do it and then we’ll see if we can’t make those cuts on your hands any deeper.”

Danny meets Nate’s eyes, for just a second, and then pulls his shirt off over his head, peeling the soaked cloth off his skin, dropping the puddle of fabric into the sink.

"Love to see those ribs, sweet thing,” Abraham breathes, and Danny has to close his eyes against furious tears.  Then he slides his pajama pants off, keeping his eyes down, his face bright scarlet with the humiliation of it, tossing those in the sink, too.

“Could cut myself on those hips.”

I wish you fucking would, and bleed out, you piece of shit.

No. Be good. Be Red.

When he’s done, he curls into himself, as if there is any modesty left for someone who hasn’t been a person in nearly three years.

He stands naked, dripping onto the floor, rubbing absently at the itching, bleeding circle cut into his face, waiting.

He waits patiently, shivering.

He is good.

Abraham lets the silence draws out, stretching what is left of Danny between revulsion and a desperate need to do whatever it takes to get next to the fire. Finally, in a low voice thick with joy, Abraham says, “Go on. Nate, grab a towel and go with him. No clothes, Red. I want to see my good boy tonight.”

Nate nods, taking Danny by the arm pulling him through the open doorway into the living room. Danny pauses at first, waiting to have his metal cuff hooked to the living room chain, but Nate keeps him walking until they’re right next to the blissful crackling heat of the fire.

“W-wait,” Daniel says, still speaking in a half-pained whisper, trying not to open his mouth enough to hurt his jaw. “My, my chain, you have to chain me up-”

Nate’s own jaw is a hard line, something flinty and cold in his face. “I a-a-asked him to l-let you g-g-get closer. You d-don’t have t-t-to wear it yet.”

“What did you give him?” Daniel isn’t sure he even wants to hear the answer, to know what part of himself Nate still has left to barter.

“D-doesn’t m-m-matter. Sit down.”

Daniel sits next to the fireplace, folding his knees up to his chest, feeling the burst of warmth, dry and welcome and so wonderful on his soaking skin.

Nate towels his hair, and Danny closes his eyes at the unfamiliar form of affection, tilting his head back to make it easier.

Just a puppy, but I wish I were his.

Finally, Nate pulls back. “Y-you can s-s-sit here until y-you’re dry. He said.”

“Will you, um…” Daniel speaks shyly, feeling like a middle schooler asking his first girl to a dance. Or boy, in his case. “Will you stay? Sit with me?”

Nate glances over his shoulder. Abraham is still at the kitchen table, and Daniel can hear the start of a new one of the man’s awful episodes playing on his phone.

Then Nate turns back and drops to sit beside Danny, leaning slowly against him until the fabric of his T-shirt sleeve brushes Danny’s bare arm.

“I c-c-can’t keep w-watching him hah-… hurt you.” Nate’s voice is heavy with the grief Danny had seen in him earlier. “I can’t k-k-keep being cuh-complicit in this.”

“It’s okay,” Daniel says, taking the towel to cover himself over his hips, to find even one small hint of personal privacy. Even if only for a moment. “If I just learn to be good, he won’t anymore. I just have to be good. I can try harder, Nate. I can learn to be good, if I, if I just try harder. I have to want to be good.”

Nate sighs, sliding an arm around Daniel’s shoulders, pressing a furtive, hidden kiss against his hair.

“You w-were already g-g-good. I’ll s-s-save you,” Nate whispers into his ear. “S-somehow, Danny.”

My name is Red, Daniel thinks automatically, but he stays quiet and pushes himself a little more into Nate’s side, tucks his head into the crook of the older man’s neck.

Nate doesn’t say anything about the damp hair. He only holds Danny a little tighter and begins to hum, low in his throat, a song Danny doesn’t know but feels somehow immensely reassured by.

The only other sound is the crackling of the fire and Abraham’s occasional laughter from the kitchen.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

The Bonsai on the Windowsill (NJ x Reader)

Genre: Angst, Idol AU, Domestic AU

Pairing: producer!Namjoon x Reader / implied Bangchan x Reader

Warnings: No warnings apply

Summary: The bonsai on the windowsill has witnessed all the beautiful moments of a young couple, seen how a producer could gladly come home to be the man he is outside the serious musical business and how delighted his girlfriend was each time at the sight of the transformation.

But now it has to face the end of a home.

Masterlist

Packed schedules in the commercial entertainment world often form the foundation of the split between artists and their significant others who are not part of the business, leading to a rise in frequency of lonely awakenings, futile waiting on nights promised to be spent together and meals that were used to be cooked together now eaten in solitude if the once loved dishes are made at all.

 Fortunately, albeit bittersweet, these individuals left alone can find solace in friends or newly met people, thus filling up the void unintentionally created by the beloved who is consumed by creative endeavours. However, sometimes the inherently substituting bond can deepen in meaning when the heart is reminded of the love it once upon a time held for the truthful lover who is slowly turning into a mere somebody.

 Walks on the shore kissed by the waves on beach dates that started off as friendly meetings gradually formed the background against which fingers slowly have begun to entwine, intending on never letting go.

 The sheets under a different roof have become the resting place filled with a mixture of sensuality on especially cold nights and cosy intimacy on days warmed by simply being with a boy reminiscent of a kangaroo rather than with the fading plant-loving musical giant.

 Than with the man with shaking shoulders, big hands tucked into the pocket of bleached jeans to give them a place to rest instead of hanging uselessly at the sides. 

 ‘So, this is it?’ The heavy croakily asked question hangs in the air of the living room of a tall tree’s apartment downtown. 

 End of the line.

 ‘Joon, between us-’

 ‘You don’t have to do this.’ Sorrowful crystal tears roll over honey-skinned cheeks, glistening in the rays of the bright spring sun falling in through the window looking out over the shopping street in the heart of the city. ‘You know how demanding being a producer is, but I can spend less time in the studio.’

 The cut-off argument is finished, sighing in face of the inevitable defeat leading to the incapability to change the outcome of the situation. ‘Between us, things have cooled. We aren’t as we used to be. Yes, I do know how busy you are with a new album on the horizon, but over time I’ve come to feel as if music means more than our relationship.’

 ‘Which is why you went to him, isn’t it?’ Rage reverts to grave sadness at the sight of a new necklace, a trio of small pendants consisting of a silver wing, a tiny plaque engraved with the first initial and the personal birthstone. The jealous snarl relaxes into a self-deprecating smile, platinum locks shaking at the foolish unspoken assumption there was any hope left at all of still having priority, smashed to fragments by the replacing piece of jewellery.

 Substituting a part of him. 

 ‘Chan makes me really happy, is there for me when I need someone and has been more of a steady pillar than you’ve been recently.’ Although managing to speak coherently, the throat is constricted with the same hurt standing a step away though, loathsome as it is, the emotional distress cannot fully be emphasized with despite the shared good moments of domestic peace.  

 Something that is attempted to be pushed forward by a breaking baritone voice, unable to talk entirely as the last word is almost choked out. ‘You’ve always been my steady pillar.’

 ‘A pillar that crumbles, Namjoon, that’s what I am.’

 ‘Where did you get that necklace?’

 ‘Chan gave it as a birthday present.’

 ‘Right...’ The hand that will never be held again slips out of its confinement to temporarily erases enough of the show of a suffocating heart to see the aftermath of yet another mistake in the plethora of faults resulting from putting creativity before social health. ‘I missed it.’

 An acknowledging nod accompanies mirthless confirmation, hatred in war with pity but neither side prevailing. ‘Yeah, you did.’

 ‘What did you do?’ Big bare feet clad in slippers rub the floor, shoulders hunched as focus is put on the action, too terrified to see the ghost of another man standing behind the girl who is about to walk away. 

 The slight tilt of the head sidewards makes a few locks obscure the sight of a broken man, arms crossed, nails digging into the skin as a thought arises that a simulation of similar equal hurt is deserved as a punishment for doing this. ‘Do you really want to know?’

 The plush bottom lip kissed many times is caught between stark teeth when tortured brown irises look up to properly face a presence that will walk out of a life built and destroyed together, a curt nod functioning as an agreeing response. It is incomprehensible that the producer wants to hear how happiness is achieved with another, likely seeing it as a righteous sanction for being absent, especially at the wrong moments. ‘Yeah... I- I do. Please, tell me.’

 ‘I dropped by Chan’s for dinner and a movie night.’ A dejected sigh follows the obscure summary of the events on the day of growing older, refusing to dive into details for they are not important and shall only serve to worsen the agony of this permanent goodbye. 

 However, the bearing of the burden wants to be expanded by suggesting even what is left unspoken wants to be known, hopefully finding a reason in those aspects to try again. A solution to the problem preventing being better for the woman who has had enough. ‘There’s more to it.’

 ‘Yes, but-’ The mouth trying to evade shaping the additional happenings is fortunately cut off by the assumption the tongue desperately wanted to avoid voicing. The grip on forearms strengthens, anchoring a reluctant soul in the current reality to meet the consequences of past actions head-on, to maintain the intent behind the earlier text message of having to talk. 

 A whisper bordering on a sob pierces through the temporary weighty silence. ‘Did you sleep with him?’

 Momentarily locked gazes break contact, averting to the floor as cheeks burn crimson and the body makes itself as small as possible in fear of the repercussions of the unavoidable confession. ‘Yes.’

 ‘Have you before? I can’t blame you if you did. After all,’ the original reason for repeatedly making what was supposed to be a one-time mistake is choked out, the slender fingers restrained by pockets again visibly cramping in remorse, ‘I wasn’t there.’

 ‘We have, more than once.’ A quick flash of Chan’s face, full of the admiration Namjoon used to show as digits gently trace bared skin after roughly showing affection, evokes a melancholic grin that vanishes in an instant when attention is pulled by a melancholic laugh. 

 ‘You love him.’

 ‘I do.’

 ‘You loved me.’

 ‘I did.’

 Broad shoulders turn away towards the windowsill where a small Asian-inspired garden has been established despite living in an apartment, expanded with each trip to the garden centre, something of which the last time cannot be remembered. Full lips straighten out into a line, fearing to lose a sliver of happier times to be reminded by. ‘Do you... do you want your bonsai back?’

 ‘No, I think it’s better off here.’

 The Japanese tree means nothing anymore.

 The spring sun lighting up its world has no significance.

 Mutual memories do not deserve to be deemed as meaningful. 

 All that is of importance is a barely audible sound.

 The fall of a lock.

 Belonging to the door that was opened for the last time.

[mitchmarnier]

BLOOD IN THE WATER

summary: “I think we’re all going to have do some pretty terrible things,” Eddie said quietly. His hand came to wrap in Richie’s shirt, trying to burn out the violent grip of his father’s from earlier. “None of us have a choice in anything anymore. Whatever happened at Greta’s tonight-“ Eddie’s voice broke and he felt Richie press a kiss into his hair. “There isn’t a good and a bad anymore. There’s just die or don’t.”

[or: after the gruesome murder of his younger brother, Bill Denbrough is determined to bring about the end of the string of crimes in Derry no matter the cost. As stories unwind and fall apart, there’s only more questions as everybody’s lives hang in the balance.]

chapter count: 16/21

Taglist: @honkhonkrichard @hufflepuffkaspbrak @emmieliabedelia @reddie-for-anything @reddiesetrichie@beepbeepbitchard @lemonadeandrice @mirandosky @vanilluna @fivxharmony

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [Read Full Story on AO3] [Playlist]

Bill Denbrough stared blankly as the episode of American Vandal continued playing in the background. The past few weeks had taught Bill that he really had never known the meaning of boredom before in his whole life, unable to leave the house, nobody ever coming to see him. All Bill Denbrough had to keep himself company was the homework being sent from school, content on Netflix and the burning images of his girlfriend dying whenever he closed his eyes. He fiddled his fingers together, letting out an angry sigh.

He’d had his phone taken away by his parents, an assumed punishment for a crime that Bill couldn’t completely bring himself to feel bad about. Sure, he hadn’t really intended for Criss to die, but he’d be blinded at the moment and all he could think about was getting that gun away from Henry. Bill supposed, in complete truth, he couldn’t regret killing Criss- because if it had been Henry he wouldn’t have felt anything besides victory. Bill felt as though Criss knew what we was getting into it when he aligned himself with the Bowers gang. Bill only regret was that he hadn’t managed to take Bowers and Hockstetter down, too.

The police hadn’t responded well when Bill had told them that, hence the house arrest awaiting trial he was currently living through. He didn’t care. He would’ve done all that and more for Audra. Maybe he was coming unhinged like they all said- but living through this hell, who wouldn’t?

The sound of the knocking on his front door startled Bill out of his darkening thoughts, dragging him away from matted, bloody brown hair and sightless eyes. He was ready to simply ignore it, he didn’t suppose that company was exactly permitted during his punishment, but then he recognized the knock. The quick three knocks with the singular harsh, one. A code, a knock known by only three people. Bill rolled off his ass and stomped to the front door.

Eddie Kaspbrak stood on his front step in a suit with classmates- hoodlums and scholars alike- surrounding him in similar fashion choices. Bill found himself frowning and rattling his brain before letting out a harsh chuckle. “Prom night already? I can’t go,” he told him, lifting up his leg and shaking his ankle to showcase the bracelet that insured his prison.

A pained look crossed Eddie’s face as he looked down at it, and Bill felt a small thrill at it. In the events of the past weeks, Bill had all but forgotten his and Eddie’s spat the night of Greta’s party, but seeing him at his front door now after everything brought it all rushing back. A small ball of anger settled in his stomach, even as rational part of Bill’s brain knew that nearly all his rage to Eddie was being misdirected. “What the fuck are you doing here, Kaspbrak?” He asked, already stepping aside to let him in as the words left his mouth.

Eddie flushed a deep red, mouth opening and closing rapidly with wide panicked eyes. Stanley Uris stepped out of the crowd and rested a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We need somewhere to meet and get our stories straight. You have literally the safest house in this whole town, and…” Stan raised one eyebrow. “I assume you want to know what you’ve missed out on?”

Stan and Bill glowered at one another for a long moment before Bill let out an aggressive sigh and waved for the mismatched group of teens to come inside. Bill knocked shoulders against Eddie as he walked past, causing him to curl into himself and wrap his arms around his middle. Aurora wrapped an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and shot a dirty glare in Bill’s direction, which he happily ignored.

Bill looked around the room of his peers and felt embarrassingly underdressed in his red hoodie and jeans. “So…” he said slowly. “Where’s your little delinquent boyfriend, Eddie?”

Eddie made an awkward noise in the back of his throat, turning away angrily. “I don’t know,” Eddie said, voice breaking slightly. For a moment, Bill felt a pang in his chest. That voice was from an Eddie he knew, an Eddie of asthma attacks and late night tears. That little bit of sympathy was quickly snuffed out when Eddie told a single deep breath and wiped every inch of emotion from his face in a move so Tozier-like that Bill got chills.

“I’m assuming that even trapped inside your own house, you know Henry Bowers escaped from jail when they were trying to transfer him to Shawshank?” Stan said coolly as the group moved into the Denbrough’s large living room.

“Henry Bowers is dead,” Aurora said, not looking up from her phone as she dropped onto the arm of couch and leaned against Ben’s shoulder. She looked up after the long pause of silence throughout the room caught her attention. She held her phone up and shook it. “Dorian Tweeted about it. That’s what the lock down was all about, they found his body in the hallway.”

“That…”  Mike shook his head slowly. “That changes a lot of things.”

“No it doesn’t,” Ben piped up. “Henry was never the killer, maybe he helped them but it was never just him. I got my letter after he was arrested. And somebody had to have broken him out, right? Even if it was just to kill him.”

“What letter?” Bill asked in frustration, only to feel slightly better once he realized that there were other voices in the room that echoed his question. Only Aurora and Eddie seemed to have even the smallest idea of what Ben was talking about.

“There was a letter dropped off at the paper,” Ben said. “Basically telling me to stop investigating or I’ll die.. but also that I was probably going to die anyway. Basically telling me that everything would be answered at prom.”

“Which we already knew,” Eddie said, gesturing to nothing in particular. “The word prom was written over Janie’s body when we found her.”

“Janie’s dead?” Bill asked quickly as the conversation swirled around him.

“And what happened at Neibolt,” Patty added from where she was sitting in Stan’s lap in the big red armchair.

Bill’s brain swirled. “Neibolt? Like, the street?”

“What happened in Neibolt?” Mike asked, frowning in confusion.

“A ghost tried to kill us,” Patty and Eddie answered in unison. Ben blinked in surprise and Aurora gave a disbelieving look while Mike nodded as though that made all the sense in the world.

“I think tried to kill is-“ Stan started but Bill made a loud, angry noise before Stan could get another word in. Stan’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“I hope you realize I have absolutely no idea what the fuck any of you are talking about,” Bill practically shouted. “I’ve been in this house since that night, with no contact with anybody except my parents or fucking… Butch Bowers… to talk to. So, please, I need you to start at the beginning.”

“The beginning is about thirty years ago,” Mike Hanlon added quickly. Bill let out an angry groan, running his hand down his face and letting himself fall onto the couch into the lap of Ben Hanscom, the action dragging Aurora down on top of them both.

“How the actual fuck does it start thirty years ago?” Eddie asked, shaking his head.

Stan and Patty turned towards Eddie with matching looks of surprise. “Richie hasn’t mentioned Robert Gray to you? He’s like an old Devils wise tale.” Patty said with a small laugh.

“It’s an a legend, he’s real.” Mike said with a frown. “He killed all those people thirty years ago, just like people are dying now.”

Stan gave Mike a pitying look. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It always been pretty far fetched to me. It was a warning to kids of blood Derry Devils to stay loyal to their kind or else. Which is absolutely bullshit because look at Bill’s dad and-“ Stan stalled, glancing at Eddie.

“You can say my dad, too,” Eddie said with an eye roll. “I already know, he told me. Can’t say he’s good example of being successful after leaving the Devils.”

“He’s not in jail for murder,” Patty said helpfully.

“Yeah…” Eddie let out a short breath. “But I thought it was him at first.”

There was a long moment of silence through the room, the teens all looking at one another and avoiding Eddie’s gaze. It was easy enough, with how Eddie was staring stubbornly at the ground. “Well…” Aurora cleared her throat. “Robert Gray was a real dude, Mike and I went to Shawshank. Talked to some people who knew him. Got a picture of his little jailbait.”

Patty scoffed. “I think his jailbait was the tens of teenagers he killed, not so much the one he decided could live and he’d have sex with.”

“I’m still totally lost,” Bill said quietly, looking around the room with wide eyes “Can I have like.... a jot note point of whatever the fuck is going on?”

“Robert Gray killed a bunch of people back in the 90s,” Mike said, clicking and unclicking a pen he’d pulled from the pocket of his suit. “He was also dating a high school girl who we only know the initials of- L.B  - and when he got caught for sleeping with her, they investigated him for that crime and found all the stuff that connected him to the murders. They found the girl he was sleeping with to be innocent of the murders or anything to do with them, but he’s our best lead to what’s happening now- if we could figure out who she is.”

“Her initials are what?” Eddie asked, crinkling his nose and looking at Bill. Bill pursed his lips and nodded back at him. He knew the same disconnected rattling in his brain that Eddie was feeling- the knowledge that he knew what name that was, but couldn’t quite reach it inside his mind.

“Butch Bowers was also the one who reported the relationship,” Aurora rushed on over Eddie’s question. “And when we went to Shawshank there was a picture of her- with Maggie Tozier and Eddie’s dad in the background.”

Eddie nodded. “My dad is also the other person in the picture with your dad and Went Tozier that got leaked to the press,” Eddie told Bill. “That’s why I started talking to Richie in the first place, he knew it was my dad before even I did. My dad used to be a Devil before he married my mother, it makes sense that they’d be all these pictures together. He hung around with Went and Maggie in high school, he told Rich and I as much.”

“My dad, too, then.” Bill scratched the back of his head. “He’s older than your dad and Richie’s mom by a few years- maybe two? But they would’ve run in circles, yeah.”

“Then they’d all know who the girl with Robert Gray was,” Ben jumped in. “We just need to figure out which one would be easiest to get information out of.”

An angry look crossed over Eddie’s face. “Figuring out some stupid student-teacher relationship from the 90s isn’t going to help us find Richie!”

“You don’t know that, Eddie-“ Aurora started but Bill interrupted once again.

“What exactly happened to Richie?”

Stan exhaled hard. “We actually don’t know, he and Bev went off to do something to help set up for prom and never came back. Then the school went under lock down- because of Henry’s body apparently, which kind of throws out any idea I had of what happened to them.”

Patty nodded. “Richie and Bev are old, old Blood Devils. With the Denbrough line gone, the Toziers are the oldest family from South Derry. Beverly is the last of the Marsh’s, and raised by the Toziers most her life.”

“Okay, can you say that in normal non-gangster words for us good civilians?” Ben said lightly.

“It means Richie and Bev have been trained to fight off an attack and survive since they were diapers,” Eddie said tiredly. “So, whoever managed to get at them would have had to have been just as well trained- probably more so, because they over powered them both.”

“Not necessarily,” Stan said, tilting his head to the side in thought. “Richie and Bev’s energy have been off with each other ever since her trial… understandably. If whoever it was went at Richie first, it wouldn’t have been hard to get Bev to back down.”

“But what I’m getting here,” Bill said with a wave of both hands. “Is that we agree that only another Devil could have taken Tozier and Marsh? So it actually has been a Devil this whole time?”

Stan narrowed his eyes as he turned sights on Bill. “Nobody said that, don’t put words in people’s mouths. We just said it had to be somebody strong enough and stupid enough to go after them. I might add, only two people have gone down for any of these crimes, and neither of them have been Devils: Henry Bowers and you.”

Bill launched to his feet, Stan following quickly behind but Eddie was jumping up and forcing himself between them. “STOP!” He cried. “Fucking fighting with each other isn’t going to help anything!” He pushed at Bill’s chest until he backed off, before turning back to Stan and Patty. “What do you mean Henry wasn’t a Devil? He ran around with Devils as long as I’ve known anything.”

“So have I,” Stan said shortly with a shrug. “The Bower family doesn’t have Devils blood, so to join Henry would’ve had to prove himself. It was pretty agreed upon that he was too unhinged to be trusted, he spent time around because Hockstetter and Huggins are Devils.”

“Bowers was too crazy but Hockstetter wasn’t?” Aurora asked in disbelief.

Patty crossed her arms around her chest. “He said unhinged- not insane. Patrick Hockstetter is a deranged sociopath, absolutely. But he also wouldn’t go on some half-assed murder spree with .45 and blow away his classmates. If Hockstetter is going to kill you, he’d do it clever.”

“He’d just Henry to do it,” Eddie said slowly. “Make Henry think it was his idea….”

“And kill him when it looks like Henry might tell,” Stan continued Eddie’s sentence, the two of them staring at each other with wide eyes.

“Okay, hey!” Mike called to them. “I think everybody else in the room missed something.”

Eddie spun around with wild eyes. “You guys were there…” He said slowly. “How come Hockstetter didn’t get arrested with Henry?”

Bill held his hands up in defence. “I was a little busy getting fucking arrested to see what anybody else was doing.”

“I saw Hockstetter,” Mike said slowly. “He was talking to Sheriff Bowers when they pulled Bill from the house in cuffs. Nobody seemed to bother going after him, they had Henry, Criss was dead… open and shut case.”

“Except it wasn’t,” Ben said. “Bill, do you remember what he said to you? About how they weren’t taking their orders from the Toziers anymore?”

“Yuh-yeah…” Bill nodded slowly. “Said something about having a new player or whatever? He was there looking for Tozier. Kept saying nobody would get hurt if we just told him where Tozier was.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound like Henry just snapping and shooting up his classmates,” Ben said plainly. “Now Henry is dead and Richie is missing. So, really… what if Richie was the target the whole time?”

“If Richie was the target, who ever it was would’ve just killed him straight out.” Patty said. “Why waste the time and effort with kidnapping him just to kill him in the end?”

“What’s far fetched about that?” Mike asked with a dry laugh. “They kept Janie in the Neibolt House for four months before killing her.”

“You really think all these people died because somebody wanted to kill Richie Tozier?” Bill asked with an eyeroll. “I want to kill Richie Tozier once a week, and even I think that’s a little much.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “What about Bev? If they wanted Richie, then why take her, too?”

“Because she was there?” Ben suggested.

“Because she’s a traitor,” Patty said quietly. “She was working with them before, we know that. But she was going to expose them, she was playing both sides. Neither one could trust her, it’s enviable that one side would kill her. It was just a race to who was going to do it first.”

Eddie ran his fingers through his hair. “This isn’t helping anything! We still have no idea who took them! Or where!”

“Well, what about Neibolt?” Patty suggested. “It’s probably like their home base.”

“It’s a crime scene,” Ben pointed out. “They won’t go back there.”

“It’s not a well kept crime scene,” Patty countered. “Stan, Eddie and I already trampled all over it. Neibolt Street is no-mans land. It’s the best place anybody could go for anything.”

“So…” Bill cleared his throat. “They held Janie in the Old Neibolt house for four months? The one that Beverly killed her father in?” Patty and Stan both nodded, Stan a little begrudgingly. “Okay.”

Bill turned and rushed from the front door of the house. Eddie made a loud noise of protest and ran after him. He stumbled to the front door, nearly running into it while it was hanging open. He could hear Bill’s police bracelet beeping angrily as the boy ran down the streets. Eddie was debating chasing after him when his phone started charming in his pocket.

Incoming Call from Richie Tozier <3.

[sam-lives-story]

#SamLives - Chapter 3

“Belief”

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Also find the latest chapters of this story on [Archive Of Our Own]

“Jack, you need sleep.”

Day Nine of the #SamLives debacle.

Jack would be lying if he said he’d been sleeping fine, that he hadn’t been worried. The stress of the situation was beginning to take its toll, and it hadn’t been made any better by the GameTheory video that had come out the day before. Matt had good intentions, Jack knew, but...it hadn’t exactly worked the way he assumed the other YouTuber had been hoping.

“Game Theory: Does #SamLive? THE SCIENTIFIC PROOF!”

MatPat was one of the few YouTubers who had, accidentally, learned of Sam’s existence. It was at that Rachel Ray event, the one where he and Matt had been on the same Taco-Making Team™. Sam hadn’t been feeling well so Jack had brought him along for the day, keeping the little eyeball in his hoodie and out of sight, close to him in case Sam needed him. But in the midst of the chaos of the competition, Jack had been jostled by Matt, had tripped and landed on his arse. Matt had immediately apologized and laughed it off...but when he’d reached down to help Jack stand up, Sam had peaked out from where he’d been hiding in Jack’s hood. Matt had frozen, a stunned look on his face, and in an instant Jack knew that he had seen. That he knew. For a moment the pair had been frozen in a stare-off, neither sure what to do. Then Jack had shaken his head quickly and put a finger to his lips. No. Please. Quiet. Don’t say anything...

...and Matt had nodded. He’d helped Jack to his feet and not commented on it at all. Tom (their third teammate) had missed the entire exchange, cracking some joke about “Laying down on the job”. Later, in a bathroom down a back hallway, Jack had explained everything to Matt...and Matt had sworn he wouldn’t tell a soul.

So when #SamLived had taken the YouTube scene by storm faster than Scott Cawthon turned out FNaF games, and when Jack saw that GameTheory had made a video about it....he knew what Matt was trying to do. The video wasn’t proving that Sam was real. The video was to try and counter-prove the theories saying he was and to point out all the reasons why Sam couldn’t possibly exist. Which would have been fine, except that it meant all of the fans over on the GameTheory channel who hadn’t heard about the #SamLives chaos would now be in the know.

“...ack? Jack!”

“Hm...?” Jack dragged himself from his thoughts and blinked, shaking himself mentally. “Sorry Peej, I missed that.”

PJ was watching him from the office chair next to his with a frown on his face. He nudged the Irishman’s leg with his foot.

“Man, you were totally out of it for a bit there. I was just saying you should get some sleep.”

“I’m tryin’, PJ, I swear I am,” Jack smiled weakly. “I’ve just been stressed. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

"Are you still up for recording a game today? We can wait until next week if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Jack pulled on a brighter smile. Good ol’ PJ. He was a decent guy and an even better friend. But Jack shook his head, running a hand through his hair to fix it. “Don’t worry about me. A video or two isn’t gonna be the death of me! I’ll take a nap when we’re done with this one, alright?”

PJ held up both hands in surrender, returning the Irishman’s infectious grin.

“Whatever you say! But you had better be serious about that nap. You look like you need it.”

Jack scoffed and laughed, his next words dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, thaaaanks, thanks for the compliment. I reeaaally needed that self-esteem boost. You’re too kind.”

“No problem!” PJ grinned cheekily back at him.

The two fell into laughter, and once they had started into the Nintendo Switch game they’d planned on recording, most of Jack’s worries fell away for the time being.

That’s not to say they didn’t come back. Jack kept his promise to PJ. He took a nap halfway through the day, crashing onto his couch with all the grace of a baby giraffe.PJ - knowing he needed the rest - only asked Jack if he could raid the pantry (“Sure, just don’t touch the cookies or you’re dead to me.”) before leaving him to his devices. But Jack’s sleep was a restless one, leaving him feeling only a fraction better when he woke up later to his phone ringing on the coffee table beside him.

With his face still buried in the stiff couch pillows, Jack reached out out blindly, his hand skittering across the table’s surface like a drunk spider, landing on the remote, a game controller, and yesterday’s mail before finally coming into contact with his phone. He answered it without looking, face still half-mushed in the pillow.

“Mph?”

“...Jack?”

“Wassup?”

“Did I wake you up?”

The humorous tone on the other end of the phone was vaguely familiar, and it took him a moment to make the connection in his barely-woken-up state.

“...you’ve reached Jacksepticeye’s mouth. His brain isn’t here right now, but if ye call back again in a few minutes it might’ve come back around by then. Either that, or his mouth will have left too.”

“The infamous screaming Irishman of YouTube, missing his mouth? The horror!”

“Oh, shuddup Mark,” Jack chuckled. He dragged himself into a semi-upright position, slouching on the couch. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing asleep at six in the evening?”

“I took a nap.” Jack yawned and scratched at the scruff along his jaw. “Is there a reason fer this call or didja just miss hearin’ my voice?”

“Can ‘both’ be an answer?” Jack could hear Mark’s grin from the other end of the line.

“Heh, I s’ppose,” he chuckled a little. “But really, what’s up?”

“I...eh. Saw the video that GameTheory posted. He really jumped on the bandwagon quickly, didn’t he?”

“Is this about Sam again?” Jack didn’t mean for it to come out as annoyed as it did, honestly. He really didn’t. But it sounded that way anyway and he winced at his own words. PJ stuck his head out from the doorway to the kitchen, an eyebrow raised in question, a bag of crisps in hand. Jack waved him off with a smile.

“I...” Mark faltered. Seemed like he’d hit the nail right on the head. “...well, yeah, but I’ve got a reason for bringing it up, I swear.” The American was quick to defend himself, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder if Mark thought he’d hang up because of the subject matter. He sighed and sat up a little straighter.

“Oh yeah?” Jack asked, trying to sound more friendly. “And what reason might that be?”

“Well see...the thing is...” Mark trailed off. Jack could hear sounds in the background, movement. Like Mark was moving around the house. Was he pacing? “...I mean...w-well, it’s kinda...weird. I mean not bad weird, or freaky weird - okay it might be a little freaky to some people but–”

“If this is about your third nipple I already know,” Jack snickered, trying to lessen the tension with a joke. (PJ clearly thought it was funny if his stifled laughter from the other room was anything to go by.) But it didn’t seem to help because Mark let out a frustrated groan on the other end of the line.

“No! No, it’s...” More silence. “Okay, it’s kind of about Sam, but kinda not.”

“Okay...?” Jack stood up from the couch, shuffling to the kitchen as Mark struggled to find the words he wanted to say. Coffee. He needed coffee for this.

“OH!” Mark shouted suddenly, as if he’d had an epiphany. “OH! Oh oh oh! Okay! So! In Bendy and the Ink Machine, Joey Drew has that...that one tape recording, where he’s talking about belief. About how it can do amazing, impossible things, and how you could even cheat death or something–”

“Mark, what in th’ blue blazes does this have ta do with my imaginary friend?”

“I’m getting there, I promise.”

Jack rolled his eyes and started the coffee machine, leaning back against the counter with one hand tucked in his pocket. PJ was reclining in a kitchen chair, playing a game on his phone with his feet kicked up on the table, and he was still giving Jack puzzled looks that made his curiosity about the phone call clear. Jack covered the mouthpiece and lowered his voice.

"It's Mark," he murmured. "Markiplier. Keeps asking about the #SamLives thing."

"Oh, yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask...how did you guys do that?" PJ asked. “New animation program? Robin did a fantastic job.”

PJ’s grip on his phone had gone slack while he was talking, but a beeping sound effect from the game immediately drew his attention and he quickly focused on playing it while he waited for a response. Jack didn't respond right away...what would his lie be this time?...but before he could even figure out an answer, his phone buzzed against his ear, a notification pinging in the background. So he pulled the mobile away from his face and put the call on speaker, minimizing the app so he could check whatever had just gone off. All he offered PJ was a half-shrug as a response to his question.

“Belief. I’m talking about belief,” Mark continued. Jack opened Twitter, still listening. “I never really thought about it before I played Bendy, but afterwards...it just made sense! And then you posted that video with Sam and I remembered that quote from the game...”

Jack swiped over to his messages, and saw one from somebody he was fairly certain he wasn’t friends with. Weird...he tapped it. It took a long time for the message to load, and once it did, the app closed itself out. Jack scrunched up his nose. Well then. It was gonna be one of those days then, huh? The rustle of static came over the speaker for a moment and Jack frowned, struggling to understand Mark’s words.

“If y...ave...nough of it you ca...”

“Mark? Mark, you’re cuttin’ out, man–”

Jack tugged his other hand free from his pocket and tapped the screen - and he gasped sharply when a static shock jolted through his finger. He shook his hand roughly through the air and winced, cursing under his breath. What the hell...? Then whatever weak connection he’d had with Mark’s call was gone, the call dropping and ending abruptly. Jack...blinked. And stared at his phone.

"You alright?" PJ looked up from his game again to frown at the irishman, who tugged on a quick smile. He shrugged and tucked his phone in his pocket. Ah, well...Mark must’ve had bad reception.

"I'm fine, Peej," he crossed the kitchen to tap PJ’s phone screen, making him lose whatever game he was playing and earning a cry of protest in return. "Just a little static shock. Surprised me more 'n anything. But hey, I’m good! I’m golden! I'm a big, strong boy! I can handle anything!"

Jack's tone turned humorous and his antics drew a snort and rolled eyes from PJ.

"Sure you can," he drawled, swatting at Jack’s arm to stop him interfering with his game again, and making the gamer scamper away with a victorious grin. "A big, strong boy who's scared of heights."

"Hey! That is a completely valid fear to have, you hypocrite!" Jack protested as he continued making his coffee. He pretended to look highly affronted by the accusation. "I mean it’s not really the height that scares me, it’s the fuckin’ death waiting at the bottom of the fall. Can ye blame me?"

“Maybe you’re just scared of being tall because you’ve been so short your whole life–”

PJ barely managed to dart out of the kitchen in time to miss the roll of paper towel Jack chucked at his head.

Jack finished his coffee and moved on with his day, his focus turning to recording the second video with PJ…though somehow Mark’s little ramblings about “belief” lingered with him, hovering in the back of his mind. What had he meant by that…?

[A/N] This part/chapter ended up being longer than the previous two...oops lol. Got a little carried away. I don’t have a real plan for this, but I have a feeew ideas about where it might go. This could get interesting... :3c

Also find the latest chapters of this story on [Archive Of Our Own]

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[Chapter List]

[pixie-mage]

#SamLives - Pt.3

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[This story has been edited and reposted on the official #SamLives Tumblr. The new post of Chapter 3 can be found here.]

(The main difference between this version and the updated version is the scene in the kitchen. Instead of Signe being there, PJ is still hanging out instead.)

“Jack, you need sleep.”

Day Nine of the #SamLives debacle.

Jack would be lying if he said he’d been sleeping fine, that he hadn’t been worried. The stress of the situation was beginning to take its toll, and it hadn’t been made any better by the GameTheory video that had come out the day before. Matt had good intentions, Jack knew, but...it hadn’t exactly worked the way he assumed the other YouTuber had been hoping.

“Game Theory: Does #SamLive? THE SCIENTIFIC PROOF!”

MatPat was one of the few YouTubers who had, accidentally, learned of Sam’s existence. It was at that Rachel Ray event, the one where he and Matt had been on the same Taco-Making Team™. Sam hadn’t been feeling well so Jack had brought him along for the day, keeping the little eyeball in his hoodie and out of sight, close to him in case Sam needed him. But in the midst of the chaos of the competition, Jack had been jostled by Matt, had tripped and landed on his arse. Matt had immediately apologized and laughed it off...but when he’d reached down to help Jack stand up, Sam had peaked out from where he’d been hiding in Jack’s hood. Matt had frozen, a stunned look on his face, and in an instant Jack knew that he had seen. That he knew. For a moment the pair had been frozen in a stare-off, neither sure what to do. Then Jack had shaken his head quickly and put a finger to his lips. No. Please. Quiet. Don’t say anything...

...and Matt had nodded. He’d helped Jack to his feet and not commented on it at all. Tom (their third teammate) had missed the entire exchange, cracking some joke about “Laying down on the job”. Later, in a bathroom down a back hallway, Jack had explained everything to Matt...and Matt had sworn he wouldn’t tell a soul.

So when #SamLived had taken the YouTube scene by storm faster than Scott Cawthon turned out FNaF games, and when Jack saw that GameTheory had made a video about it....he knew what Matt was trying to do. The video wasn’t proving that Sam was real. The video was to try and counter-prove the theories saying he was and to point out all the reasons why Sam couldn’t possibly exist. Which would have been fine, except that it meant all of the fans over on the GameTheory channel who hadn’t heard about the #SamLives chaos would now be in the know.

“...ack? Jack!”

“Hm...?” Jack dragged himself from his thoughts and blinked, shaking himself mentally. “Sorry Peej, I missed that.”

PJ was watching him from the office chair next to his with a frown on his face. He nudged the Irishman’s leg with his foot.

“Man, you were totally out of it for a bit there. I was just saying you should get some sleep.”

“I’m tryin’, PJ, I swear I am,” Jack smiled weakly. “I’ve just been stressed. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

"Are you still up for recording a game today? We can wait until next week if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Jack pulled on a brighter smile. Good ol’ PJ. He was a decent guy and an even better friend. But Jack shook his head, running a hand through his hair to fix it. “Don’t worry about me. One video isn’t gonna be the death of me! I’ll take a nap when we’re done, alright?”

PJ held up both hands in surrender, returning the Irishman’s infectious grin.

“Whatever you say! But you had better be serious about that nap. You look like you need it.”

Jack scoffed and laughed, his next words dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, thaaaanks, thanks for the compliment. I reeaaally needed that self-esteem boost. You’re too kind.”

“No problem!” PJ grinned cheekily back at him.

The two fell into laughter, and once they had started into the Nintendo Switch game they’d planned on recording, most of Jack’s worries fell away for the time being.

That’s not to say they didn’t come back. Jack kept his promise to PJ. He took a nap, crashing onto his couch with all the grace of a baby giraffe. Signe - knowing he needed the rest - only pressed a kiss to his cheek before leaving him to his devices. But his sleep was a restless one, leaving him feeling only a fraction better when he woke up later to his phone ringing on the coffee table beside him.

With his face still buried in the stiff couch pillows, Jack reached out out blindly, his hand skittering across the table’s surface like a drunk spider, landing on the remote, a game controller, and yesterday’s mail before finally coming into contact with his phone. He answered it without looking, face still half-mushed in the pillow.

“Mph?”

“...Jack?”

“Wassup?”

“Did I wake you up?”

The humorous tone on the other end of the phone was vaguely familiar, and it took him a moment to make the connection in his barely-woken-up state.

“...you’ve reached Jacksepticeye’s mouth. His brain isn’t here right now, but if ye call back again in a few minutes it might’ve come back around by then. Either that, or his mouth will have left too.”

“The infamous screaming Irishman of YouTube, missing his mouth? The horror!”

“Oh, shuddup Mark,” Jack chuckled. He dragged himself into a semi-upright position, slouching on the couch. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing asleep at six in the evening?”

“I took a nap.” Jack yawned and scratched at the scruff along his jaw. “Is there a reason fer this call or didja just miss hearin’ my voice?”

“Can ‘both’ be an answer?” Jack could hear Mark’s grin from the other end of the line.

“Heh, I s’ppose,” he chuckled a little. “But really, what’s up?”

“I...eh. Saw the video that GameTheory posted. He really jumped on the bandwagon quickly, didn’t he?”

“Is this about Sam again?” Jack didn’t mean for it to come out as annoyed as it did, honestly. He really didn’t. But it sounded that way anyway and he winced at his own words. Signe stuck her head out from the doorway to the kitchen, an eyebrow raised in question. Jack waved her off with a soft smile.

“I...” Mark faltered. Seemed like he’d hit the nail right on the head. “...well, yeah, but I’ve got a reason for bringing it up, I swear.” The American was quick to defend himself, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder if Mark thought he’d hang up because of the subject matter. He sighed and sat up a little straighter.

“Oh yeah?” Jack asked, trying to sound more friendly. “And what reason might that be?”

“Well see...the thing is...” Mark trailed off. Jack could hear sounds in the background, movement. Like Mark was moving around the house. Was he pacing? “...I mean...w-well, it’s kinda...weird. I mean not bad weird, or freaky weird - okay it might be a little freaky to some people but–”

“If this is about your third nipple I already know,” Jack snickered, trying to lessen the tension with a joke. But it didn’t seem to help because Mark let out a frustrated groan on the other end of the line.

“No! No, it’s...” More silence. “Okay, it’s kind of about Sam, but kinda not.”

“Okay...?” Jack stood up from the couch, shuffling to the kitchen as Mark struggled to find the words he wanted to say. Coffee. He needed coffee for this.

“OH!” Mark shouted suddenly, as if he’d had an epiphany. “OH! Oh oh oh! Okay! So! In Bendy and the Ink Machine, Joey Drew has that...that one tape recording, where he’s talking about belief. About how it can do amazing, impossible things, and how you could even cheat death or something–”

“Mark, what in th’ blue blazes does this have ta do with my imaginary friend?”

“I’m getting there, I promise.”

Jack rolled his eyes and started the coffee machine, leaning back against the counter with one hand tucked in his pocket. Signe was seated at the kitchen table with a book, and she was still giving him puzzled looks that made her curiosity about his phone call clear. Jack covered the mouthpiece and lowered his voice.

"It's Mark," he murmured. "Keeps asking about Sam."

"You gonna tell him the truth?" Signe asked.

Her hands were cupped around a warm mug of tea, and she held it up near her face to let the steam warm her while she waited for a response. Jack didn't respond right away...but before he could even figure out an answer, his phone buzzed against his ear, a notification pinging in the background. So he pulled the mobile away from his face and put the call on speaker, minimizing the app so he could check whatever had just gone off. All he offered Signe was a half-shrug as his response to her question.

“Belief. I’m talking about belief,” Mark continued. Jack opened Twitter, still listening. “I never really thought about it before I played Bendy, but afterwards...it just made sense! And then you posted that video with Sam and I remembered that quote from the game...”

Jack swiped over to his messages, and saw one from somebody he was fairly certain he wasn’t friends with. Weird...he tapped it. It took a long time for the message to load, and once it did, the app closed itself out. Jack scrunched up his nose. Well then. It was gonna be one of those days then, huh? The rustle of static came over the speaker for a moment and Jack frowned, struggling to understand Mark’s words.

“If y...ave...nough of it you ca...”

“Mark? Mark, you’re cuttin’ out, man–”

Jack tugged his other hand free from his pocket and tapped the screen - and he gasped sharply when a static shock jolted through his finger. He shook his hand roughly through the air and winced, cursing under his breath. What the hell...? Then whatever weak connection he’d had with Mark’s call was gone, the call dropping and ending abruptly. Jack...blinked. And stared at his phone.

"You alright?" Signe looked up from her book again to frown at her boyfriend, who tugged on a soft smile. He shrugged and tucked his phone in his pocket. Ah, well...Mark must’ve had bad reception.

"I'm fine, Wiish," he crossed the kitchen to plant a kiss on the top of her head, squeezing one of her shoulders gently. "Just a little static shock. Surprised me more 'n anything. But don't worry about me! I'm a big, strong boy! I can handle anything!"

Jack's tone turned humorous and his antics drew a giggle from Signe, her eyes brightening and her lips curling up at the corners in a brilliant smile.

"Sure you can," she teased, poking at his side and making him scamper away. "A big, strong boy who's scared of being tickled."

"Hey! I'm not scared of it!" Jack protested as he continued making his coffee. He pretended to look highly affronted by the accusation. "I jus' don't like it! Can ye blame me?!"

Signe just stuck her tongue out in response then returned to her book, a soft smile still gracing her features.

Jack finished his coffee and moved on with his day, his focus turning to recording and uploading the day's videos…though somehow Mark’s little ramblings about “belief” lingered with him, hovering in the back of his mind.

What had he meant by that…?

[A/N] This part/chapter ended up being longer than the previous two...oops lol. Got a little carried away. I don’t have a real plan for this, but I have a feeew ideas about where it might go. This could get interesting... :3c

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[katewatso]

Moving out: part two

A/N: Thank you so much for your support! I posted the first part and I hoped it could get 30 notes and you smashed that on first day. Thank you, thank you! Feedback is appreciated and I hope you will enjoy the part two as well. And yeah there will be more parts coming… Can’t help myself

Warnings: Bit of swearing, stress, 

Words: 1686

fem!reader

part one

Bucky felt slightly nervous as he reached the building. The neighborhood wasn’t bad at all, as he was reaching higher levels of the building his confidence grew.

“This must be it.” he thought and knocked at the door.

“What?!” someone yelled from the inside.

“Um.. Hi, my name is James, I am supposed to have here an appointment to see the apartment.” Bucky said, his poorly builded confidence quickly leaving his body. The doors shot open. The man that opened the doors looked at Bucky with red yes, smell of tobacco and something else hit Bucky nostrils. Bucky felt weird as the man didn’t say anything and just was staring at him.

“Maybe I have a wrong address.” Bucky said and turned away to leave.

“Hey man, wait wait wait. I know, you are the guy, I know. From the app, it is coming back to me. My name is John but everyone calls me Sunshine.” John was talking slowly and Bucky hesitated to get in.

“Why?” Bucky asked confused as he entered the main room.

“Cause I make people smile, for the right price if you know what I mean” laugh squeaked from John as his hand jokingly hit Bucky in the chest. But Bucky did not laugh, this wasn’t funny to him at all. This place hardly could be called a flat, there was no way he would consider staying there in a normal situation. But he was not searching for a nice place to live. What he was searching for was a refuge and for that it was perfect. John for sure wasn’t someone who would be watching news or living in the presence.

“There is a bathroom, there is a kitchen and over there is my room, you would sleep here.” John pointed to the couch as he sat on it. “Go and see whatever you like, man.” John continued.

“Wait, I though there should be one separated room for me.” Bucky said confused staying near the main doors.

“Well and what do you think this is. It is a room and there are the doors.” John laughed pointing his hands to every directions of the room. Bucky looked around, yellow walls that one day were white, smoke floating endlessly with dust, always drawn curtains, dirty dishes in the sink.

“It is not separated room if you are using it.” Bucky said, his voice low.

“I am not going to use it, just during the day and maybe some friends on the weekend. You won‘t even know we are here.” John said and throw annoyed looks at Bucky.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky said and felt his anger growing. It was too much to handle like a man he wanted to become so he decided to rather leave without saying anything else to John.

Phone screen showed Bucky the way to another building. He was breathing in fresh New York air and tried to relax a bit. Bucky was checking the phone screen repeatedly not being able to believe that is the correct address.

“Fuck me, this is getting worse.” Bucky murmured with frustration. This neighborhood wasn’t nice at all. Streets were dirty, garbage everywhere and the people? One poor human being next to other, ladies that made horrible life choices, kids that ruined their veins with whatever they could afford at the moment. Bucky hesitated for a moment if he even want to visit the flat.

“You are not looking for a place to live, you are looking for shelter.” He told himself and entered the building.

It did not take even five minutes and Bucky found himself on his way again. This flat had a separated room and also young mother and two little babies. That were not roommates he was searching for. Bucky pulled his self phone out of the pocket and started to call Steve.

“Hey baby boy, how is it going?” woman answered.

“Nat? Is that you? Ehere is Steve, I need to talk to him.” Bucky said and check the name of the contact.

“Well, he isn’t here, probably doing some work.” Natasha told him and Bucky could swear he heard Sam yelling “Steve is teaching pilates.” in the background.

“So have you found your dreamy place yet.” Natasha repeated her question.

Bucky hesitated for a moment and sighed “Quite the opposite.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Buckiddo. I have to admit I am not surprised.” Natasha said with her devilish smile.

“What? Why?” Bucky wondered.

“What I am trying to say is that I saw the horrible places you were looking at and I have to say you are one brave but stupid soldier to even visit those places. So I made you one meeting on my own. You are going to love it.” Natasha described.

“But I don’t have any new appointments in the app,” Bucky was confused,”how am I going to know where to be and wh..”

“Jeez, relax. I will send you the address, just be there at six.” And just like that Nat hang up.

Bucky was walking in the park. Thanks to his previous quickies he had a plenty of time. Message rang and Bucky looked at the address Nat send him and started typing on the phone screen.

Bucky joined a group chat. Bucky: Nat, there is not a name. Sam changed Natasha nickname to Back Window. Back Window changed her nickname to Nat. Nat: I know. Nat: Sam, don’t start something you are not able to finish. Bucky: Will you tell me where am I going? Bucky: please? Nat: I send you the address few minutes ago. Bucky: There is no name…. Sam changed Bucky nickname to Frozen Eggs. Nat: You don’t need a name Sam: Somebody‘s planning something. Frozen Eggs: What the hell man? Steve joined chat. Steve: What is going on? Steve: Who is Frozen Eggs? Nat: Bucky. Steve: Oh. Sam: Makes sense, huh? Frozen Eggs: I hate you. Frozen Eggs: Both of you. Frozen Eggs: Guys, how do I change it? Steve: What is wrong, Buck? Nat changed Frozen Eggs nickname to Grumpy Bucky. Grumpy Bucky: Nothing. Tony has joined chat. Nat: He is grumpy because flats he picked sucked. Grumpy Bucky: NOT GRUMPY Sam: sure Steve: How about the one Nat picked? Grumpy Bucky: Who’s the flat? Nat: He wasn’t there yet. The appointment is at 6pm. Steve: Bucky, you didn’t know any of the people you visited today so what’s the problem? Grumpy Bucky: Do you know whos the flat? Nat: maybe we do maybe we don’t. not important Sam: ohhhhh! But he won‘t fall for it. Just saying. Grumpy Bucky: Did you just said it to a Bird brain? Why won’t you tell me? Grumpy Bucky: WHOS THE FLAT???????? Nat left the chat. Sam left the chat. Steve left the chat. Grumpy Bucky: Really??! You have to be kidding me. Tony has changed Grumpy Buckys nickname to Bucky.

Bucky was angry. And tired. He wasn’t sure what more. It was only 5:30 pm and he was already at the address Nat had send him before. It was nice building, ten minutes from the Tower. He was walking around the city all day, even thou he had no other meeting he didn‘t want to go back to the Tower. He was not able to understand why nobody would tell him whos the flat and had a feeling he is going to be pranked. It was literally the last thing he needed today.

“Screw it.” Bucky said and had entered the building. There was a nice hallway and reception now empty but obviously actively used. Bucky was aware that he won’t be able to pay any kind of apartment here and Natasha knew his budget so It has to be a prank for sure. Bucky turned to leave the building but receptionist just come from across the corner.

“Hello, sir, exuse my absence, can I help you with something?” receptionist asked. Bucky looked at him, it was an elder man, seemed very kind. Bucky was sure that this builing also has a security guy, but this pa wasn’t him.

“Uh, hello, I am looking for the apartment number uh..” Bucky started to look for the information in his phone, he could not believe he forgot it, he has been reading the message all over again.

“Let me guess, you are looking for an apartment number 33, right?” receptionist kindly asked and smile at Bucky. It was like somebody turn on a light bulb in Buckys head.

“YES! That’s it.” Bucky said a bit too excited.

“I though so, I saw an information about you in the visits book. You are a bit early, right? I don’t think miss would mind, so here is a card for an elevator and it is a third floor.”

Bucky took the card and headed to the elevator. Miss? What is Nat trying to do? Why would Steve help her? Traitor.

Bucky thoughts were interrupted by loud ding of the elevator. Bucky entered and pressed button with a number 3. Elevator quickly made its way to the third floor and with a same loud ding the doors opened. The hall was not long, floor was covered with a dark blue carpet. Not very practical Bucky thought as he walked in the hall. There it was, the door number 33. He hesitated and looked at his watch, 5:37pm. Still too soon. He could hear music playing inside and came closer to the door to hear better. It was some rock music, he didn’t mind it at all. What was he thinking? There is no way he could afford a place like that.

5:43pm, music suddenly stopped, Buckys nervosity grew big extensively. And he knocked at the door. Why the hell did he do that? Bucky started stepping in one place and could hear steps coming towards the door. Bucky felt the panic built inside.

He was about to collapse when the door opened.

“I am sorry i know I am here too soon.. Y/N?!” Bucky stopped in the middle of the sentence.

part three