#it may have been a little scuffed but it's fine I think it looks good :3

[kakyogay]

ah yes I missed scratching my scalp and getting little bits of dye from recently dyeing my hair because I'm not the best at it and generally just really bad at getting shampoo and conditioner completely out of my hair

[velvetures]

*Peeks from a corner*

Merry Christmas!

Hi um...can I just say your comfort fluff fics have made me realize just how touche-starved I personally am. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So, if I could be so bold as to ask for a fic with Soap or Gaz or Keegan with that same theme? Making sure they're taken care of, or make them feel safe enough to let their guard down for a bit?

Again, totally fine if you have other things to do, but it would really male my day if you did. Thank you and have a nice day!

- 💀

Fall Back

a/n: thank you for the request babes... I'm sorry Christmas is just now here in mid-fucking May :( I'm ashamed. Additionally, this is my first time writing for Keegan... and I'm still working out the specifics for my interpretation of his character and behavior. So this is a bit different from what I've written before. Hopefully you enjoy it. summary: Keegan's worn down to the bone. And you're there to help him. t/w's: none.

his eyes are almost identical to my husband's... why didn't I notice until now...

He only comes to you when things get too heavy to bear.

And not in the way a refrigerator empty of food, or a late rent payment would weigh on your mind. You’ve not seen the same things he has… and fuck, he’ll do anything to make sure you never do. The mere thought that any of the nightmares and constant PTSD triggers that make him jumpy could touch your conscious would send him into an entirely new mental warfare, impossible to win. No, he shows up when he needs it most. No matter what you might be doing, or how it could appear, he’s crawling on his belly with a broken look in his eyes. Pride bruised, strength dissolved, and voice rough with more pain than you thought he could ever survive.

You tried keeping the back door unlocked for him. Thinking he’d take it as a sign that your home is always welcome. It resulted in him forcing you to lock the doors and make him a key. That lasted a couple of months, and then he lost the key somewhere in Cuba. Something about a guy ripping his chain off his neck and subsequently the key to your door that he wore alongside his dog tags. He’d been quick to change all of your locks after that. And since then, he’s decided that crawling in through your bedroom window is the only way he’ll enter your house unless you’re formally inviting him in.

Maybe it’s the anti-social part of him that believes he can’t come and go as he pleases. Spending precious time sneaking into your little house instead of doing what he came for in the first place. Getting close to you. Sometimes he won’t wake you up. Just taking off his bloody-soaked gear and taking a quick wash in the shower before curling up to you in bed. Tucking you under him, and breathing in the soft smell of your soap and fresh sheets. Other times, you’ll stir away when you hear boots scuffing heavily against the floor. Hearing heavy breaths and his tac vest thumping to the floor. Witnessing what it’s like when a ghost finally runs out of hatred and cold-blooded determination.

“Are you hurt?” It’s almost always your first question. After so many missions, he’s almost always got something that needs looked at. And while you never thought that tying stitches or cleaning shallow stab wounds would be a common occurrence in your life, Keegan has made it so that your medical kit under your bathroom sink is always stocked and ready for emergency-room worthy injuries.

He’s not going to talk much, even if he’s in good shape. It’s not in his disposition. More like a shelter dog sent back too many times for growling or bearing his teeth. Wary of everything, yet so desperate for touch that he’s willing to show you exactly where a bullet grazed his thigh. About eight hours old and weeping blood, staining a pair of pants that you’ll spend time scrubbing out in the morning while doing laundry. But if you’re worried, he’s going to hide just how badly he’s hurting… if for nothing than your sake.

He’s already broken into your house again… and now bleeding all over the bathroom rug with pretty flowers you bought after the last time he made a mess in there. Constantly reminding himself it’s selfish to demand you care for him. To show up with a shitty fucking attitude and guilt you into licking his wounds when he can’t bear to do it himself, or admit to the medical staff on base that he needs it. You’re too kind for this kind of bullshit. Too sweet to run him off though. And it’s why he keeps crawling back. Greedy… hungry… insatiable… he’s always admonishing himself for just how little control he possesses when there’s an opportunity to leave you alone, or place himself right in the middle of your life again.

“Everyone come back alive?”

Keegan has a love hate relationship with that particular question. Debating on whether or not he likes that you worry for his teammates in such an honest way; or if he’s so jealous of your mind wandering to them, and what fucked-up things they do during missions that it’s almost unbearable to hear you ask it.

“Alive.” He breathes out steadily as you thread your stitching through his skin for an eighth time, tying another knot over his twitching and aching muscles.

You’re always asking questions about the missions. About what he had to do, if he got hurt, where they went… it’s innocent enough. You mean well. But he never can tell you much. Protective instinct and top secret red tape make much of the details not worth the risk of divulging. But he’s patient with you. Giving away small hints maybe by saying a few words in a native language, or talking about a particular landmark that might’ve been close enough that you can make a guess from there. At this point, you’ve learned at least a few words in: German, Russian, Thai, and multiple hispanic dialects. A smart woman, of course, but he’s always surprised when you connect his work to something you’ve seen on the news.

It’s like you’re always watching for him.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Maybe you do look out for him in more ways than one. Not bothering with the fact that you’d already completed your nightly routine, just to strip down and get a shower running. Rubbing out strained shoulders with soft hands, and gently thumbing out the thick knots in his lower back. It’s the only pressure he’s willing to accept in this state. Merely breathing just to live for more of your touch. Keegan can’t even bother with soap, and had it not been for you, he wouldn’t have at all. Feeling you scrub down every inch of him. Much more like a maid than… well… he still didn’t know what kind of label to put on this relationship.

There were too many variables and more questions than he could answer. Sure it was… transactional at times, but he’d be remiss to ignore all of the ways you occupied his thoughts when it wasn’t appropriate to. And you always do more than you’re supposed to. Just like now. Wrapping your arms around him for behind and kissing over his shoulder blades. Humming a soft tune and letting your fingertips trace over his stomach. Any man should be able to admit that he’s weak for it… but Keegan can’t readily do that.

Fighting his own heart pounding in his chest as you sway him back and forth. Wishing he could let this feeling go. Be a stronger man. Be a better ghost and lock himself away behind the gear and guns. Fuck. You’re so good at it though. Stripping him down to nothing, even when he thought there wasn’t anything else left. Soothing aches and kissing away pains he blocked out for so long that he felt like had disappeared. You are smarter than that. You know how his mind works whether he likes it or not. How willing he is to go from hell and back so many times that he’s unsure of what kind of being he truly is. Caught between worlds of warfare and the softer one where you always welcome him back, knowing that within a few days the gore will call him back for service.

“Sleep on the couch…” He mutters, standing with a towel slung around his hips and a bleary look in satin light-blue eyes. “Don’t wanna stain your sheets.”

He’d seen them upon arrival; crisp white and hundred-dollar softness he didn’t want to touch. Between the blood and feeling of getting spoiled to them, it wasn’t worth it to him. He’d done it before without much thought, but this time something was making him attempt responsibility.

“Then I’m coming with you, Russ.”

You’re smiling that damned smile he dreams about. That one where the gap between your front teeth shows and the dimpled skin on your cheeks shadows just enough to make him forget that you’re human. Angelic. Teasing… Gracefully not leaving him room for an argument. Simply turning around and headed towards the bedroom without another word as to if he’d be choosing to lay cramped on your couch. Hell, it’s four in the morning, and your mind is sharp enough to play with him just enough that he’s stalking back into the dark room and watching you crawl into the bed with an expectant, innocent look directed at him.

Keegan can’t help it.

He’s under the sheets and unceremoniously reaching for you without hesitation. Feeling his callouses catch on your skin and wincing when he hears his rough palms scratch at you. No matter how rough it feels, you’re still sliding closer. Careful of bruises and cuts, tucking yourself against him and using one arm to guide his head against your chest. Laying just above him. Incentivizing him to hug tightly to you and tuck his head under your chin. Allowing this unfeeling soldier to hide in the temporary shelter of your heartbeat.

You rub his head, and feel short, clipped, hair tickle your fingertips. Soft from a shampoo and condition after weeks away in sand that made the bathroom floor feel gritty. You’re almost always pressing kisses to his forehead and using your other hand to rub over his brow bone and bridge of his nose. Seeing in the nighttime shadow where his face paint has settled into wrinkles that you didn’t manage to wash off in the shower. Looking at long, black eyelashes that flutter a bit when you scratch up and down the back of his neck.

“You’re so pretty…” You always talk to him like this. Unable to keep from spouting praise that wells up after long periods of not knowing if he’s alive, let alone safe.

You’re not dumb. You know he’s dangerous. Maybe even a monster in some people’s eyes. But it’s a necessary evil, and it’s something you came to terms with easily. Because you didn’t just see him for the guns and direct orders. You got to witness moments like this where he’s nothing but a man in desperate need of humanity. Hungry for connection. Soft touches… and whether he liked it or not, the praises that you whisper against his pink-tipped ears.

“You’re the pretty one, dollie.” He grumbles back, squeezing your hip in a big hand.

It makes your face heat up just ask quickly when he pulls that one out. Almost always with a nickname up his sleeve that just makes it all that much more worth it. But being anything other than your own name to him… it’s a different kind of reward. One that has you smiling like a fool as you get sleepier. Nearly petting him to sleep, and hoping to god you can stay awake longer than he does just to prove you’re willing to. Maybe willing isn’t even strong enough…

Any way you think about it, there’s a sense of duty you hold much like his to a career as a ghost. Yours stemming from love so deep for this man that it’s painful watching him crawl to you as a last resort. Despising what or whoever made him feel like wanting a warm bed, and someone to look after him when he’s weak, is wrong. God it’s enough to make you angry. Looking down at a man who could make anyone tremble, and seeing him curled up against your chest like he’s clinging to a shred of comfort. If you thought picking up a gun alongside him would change things, you’re certain you’d have done it years ago. Right when all of this started and Keegan was much more proud. Unwilling to relent as easily as he does now.

But it took that long because there wasn’t another option.

He wouldn’t have allowed it if you were any different of a person, or hadn’t possessed the patience for him to let go like this. You’re positive no one knows that this is where he runs to when things get too hard. None of his team, and with no family to speak of, you’re left as his final resort, but the only one he trusts. Unlike Keegan who avoids his medal pinnings with sheer hatred, you wear your designation proudly. You’re always shining it… polishing it… looking for the first opportunity to show just how willing you are. Just for the chance to hold him. Anything to feel his breathing even out after weeks of holding it. Anything to clean him up. Put him back together.

All while silently praying that it’ll be the last time. Wishing he’d see that you aren’t a last resort, and that he can lay here as long as he wants without losing the worth he assigned to himself after becoming a ghost. Wondering when it’ll come to an end where he can come back and hang up the guns laying on your bedroom floor, forever. Patiently anticipating the day you can not have to wait until he’s asleep to say exactly how you feel.

“I love you, Keegan…”

comments & reblogs are always appreciated 🤎

[poorlittlegreenie13]

20 odd years after Van & Tai broke up, on a random weekday, Taissa gets a call to her office phone. When she picks up, Natalie is on the other line, asking if Taissa is alone. Tai braces for the worst, closing her office door and trying to prepare herself for whatever it is Natalie’s about to say.

“It’s Van,” Natalie tells her, “she just got charged with manslaughter in the state of Ohio, she needs a lawyer.”

Queue Taissa panicking, because her and Van have not spoken in decades, and while Taissa may have graduated first in her class at Columbia, her degree was in civil law—she’s not totally confident in a criminal case.

Still, she obviously drops everything and drives across the country to Van, who she finds sitting in a county jail cell with a black eye and bruised knuckles.

“Other guy looks worse,” Van says with a wry smile the minute she spots Taissa, but her smile drops and she shakes her head. “I told Natalie not to call you.”

“Can you afford another lawyer?” Taissa asks, familiar worry rushing back in as she looks at Van, older and different, but still so terrifyingly the same. Taissa can’t suppress the old instinct to reach out and brush her fingers across the bruise on Van’s cheek.

“You’re not gonna get me out of this one, Tai,” Van says. “It was a bar fight. There are witnesses.”

“Did you start it?” Taissa asks.

Van raises an eyebrow. “Course not,” she says. “Just… got a little carried away finishing it.”

Taissa clears her throat, mind snapping back to all the countless seminar hours she spent reviewing every facet of a good narrative argument. “You’re a visible lesbian in suburban Ohio,” she says. “You have a history of severe mental trauma, you have character witnesses who can speak on your behalf. We can claim self-defense, coupled with acute mental distress aggravated by a violent confrontation. You’re gonna be fine, Van. You’ll get court-mandated counseling, at worst, and maybe that’ll be for the best anyway.”

“I can’t pay you, Tai,” Van says, taking a step back from the bars that are separating them. “And you’re not doing this for free.”

“Why not?” Taissa asks, frustration creeping into her tone.

“Because friends do things for free,” Van says. “And we’re not friends anymore, Tai, we’re not anything.”

Taissa sets her jaw in annoyance.

“I’m not letting some public defender glance over your file and plead this out,” Taissa says. “You’ll do jail time, Van. You’ll lose your store.”

Van looks away from Taissa, staring at her shoes, scuffing one toe against the ground.

“Let me do this, Van,” Taissa says, voice low. “Please.”

She can see Van considering it, chewing on her lip, silently seeming to weigh her options.

“Van, my marriage is falling apart,” Taissa says, not even sure why the words are coming to her, but speaking them anyway. “My kid is scared of me, my wife thinks I’m crazy. And maybe I am. I mean, how many people would hear about someone they love beating some scumbag to death in a bar and not bat an eye? I know you, Van, we know each other, no matter how much time goes by. Just let me do this for you, please. I could only stay away all this time cause I knew you were alright here. I couldn’t sleep at night if you were locked up in some penitentiary.”

Van looks up at her, eyes glassy. Taissa holds her breath. After a minute, Van nods.

“I’m gonna post your bail, okay?” Taissa says. “And then I’ll drive you home and we can go over your statement together.”

Again, Van nods.

She spends that night with her head in Taissa’s lap, absolutely furious at herself for caving that easily. It’s just been a long few days, alright?

Tai wraps up Van’s bruised knuckles and makes her ice her black eye, both of them pretending it isn’t almost unbearable being around each other like this and not talking about everything that went down between them years ago.

Taissa stays the week, going over Tai’s files and frantically serving the court order after order about the gross mishandling of Van’s arrest and the evidence against her. She stays up most nights working. Van can’t sleep either. Somewhere along the way, they start talking to fill the time.

It turns into a year and a half of Taissa spending half her time in Ohio on Van’s couch (and occasionally, when Van’s nightmares get too bad, in her bed), preparing for a weirdly low profile manslaughter trial that no one quite understands why she’s so fixated on. Simone eventually leaves her & goes off to live her best life without Taissa’s crazy ass (affectionate). Tai barely notices her wife leaving her cause she’s too busy falling back in love with her ex girlfriend who cracked a grown man’s skull with her bare hands.

Tai wins the trial, obviously, and Van walks away with no charges. Tai and Van make out in a court house bathroom immediately after they get the verdict. Then they move in together somewhere between Ohio and New Jersey. Taissa loves her murderer girlfriend so much <3 & Van loves her pitbull defense attorney girlfriend more than anything <3. The end.)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Hi Aerie, mer roadtrip please?

WIP Wednesday (9/11) | Mer Roadtrip AU (Part 63)

Andrew leads them deeper into the store to stand in the back corner where his bare feet will hopefully not be a problem. He’s almost overwhelmed with all the options surrounding him but he finally starts flipping through a rack of tops. After a half dozen, he stops abruptly.

Andrew gestures to Abram's bag. "How many outfits have you got in there?"

"Uh, eight. Six t-shirts, two long-sleeved ones, four pairs of shorts, two jeans, and two sweatpants," Abram recites, then he breathes and adds, "Plus ten pairs of underwear and socks."

Andrew locks that information into his mind and nods before continuing to rifle through clothing displays. Twenty minutes later, he's walking out of the store with eight t-shirts and a set of black and white striped armbands. They're not his first choice, but they're better than the stripes that are currently occupying his forearms. 

Next, the two of them head into another shop where Andrew grabs several pairs of jeans, a couple cargo shorts, and a couple sweatpants. He also selects a couple packs of underwear and socks. Then they're off to find shoes. Andrew ends up with two pairs, which makes Abram grimace. Just to be contrary, Andrew grabs a pair of sandals as well and waves them around triumphantly.

"Aren't you going to get yourself some shoes?" Andrew asks, nodding down at Abram's pathetic sneakers.

"No, I don't need—"

"Bullshit. Get some goddamn shoes or I'll do it. And I don't know even your size. I'll just buy some useless ones and make you cart them around in your bag." Andrew threatens, making Abram's expression pinch up. Andrew sighs. "Listen. I know I'm blowing all your money, but you need shoes. How can you run away without good shoes?"

After a moment of worrying his bottom lip, Abram wanders off towards the sneakers and comes back a few minutes later with a shitty, cheap pair that will disintegrate before they get out of the store. Andrew shakes his head.

"Try again. Look for some that aren't made of tissue paper and chewed gum. I'll wait here."

Abram huffs, an angry little sound, and disappears again. While he’s gone, Andrew goes to sit down on a small bench. After scuffing his disgustingly gritty feet on the carpet, he slips the sandals on and stands back up. Much better. Andrew starts to hide the price tag among some shoe boxes, but Abram pops up beside him and stops him by snatching it out of Andrew’s hand.

“Don’t shoplift.” Abram says lowly, glancing side to side for witnesses. “We’re a pair of unaccompanied teenagers, with no one to bail us out. It sucks to pay,” he glances down at the price and grimaces, “thirty dollars for a pair of flip flops, but I would rather pay with money than jail time.”

“Fine, goody two shoes,” Andrew scoffs. Then he notices the sneakers Abram has clutched to his chest now. They’re much different than the ones he had earlier. They’re orange for one thing, almost neon, with blindingly white detailing. They’re hideous. But they’re actually a name brand. “Are they on sale?”

Abram lights up. “Yeah, they’re half off. How’d you know?”

Andrew just shrugs. "Any other stores you wanna hit up?"

"Uh," Abram thinks for a moment. "I'm not sure if they've got a drug store here."

"You don't want drugs, Abram. I've been on them. Not good." Andrew says. Though going without them was worse, for a while. Abram just rolls his eyes.

"I don't want drugs. I need hair dye and bandages. And I think some Ibuprofen might be useful if we get into scraps." Abram says. Andrew doesn't bother pointing out that Ibuprofen is, in fact, a drug. He just nods to himself. Hair dye is a maybe, because Andrew remembers seeing a sign for a  beauty store at they were walking through. Bandages and Ibuprofen may have to wait. He tells Abram as much and the other boy nods.

[astrobravo]

Old Fools Senior Husbands Sanctuary

Scoteng Week, Day 2: Punch drunk / “I think of you. Sometimes.”

Is this how hospitals contacting families and managing discharges work? Let's pretend it is, because it's how I writ it.

It's around 2k, so click the read more or see the full fic on ao3 here.

Again, I'm so sorry for attempting Alasdair's accent.

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

“And I’m telling you, it’s a mistake. I shouldn’t have been on his Emergency Contact list. We’ve been divorced– well, separated, for almost five years.”

“Be that as it may, sir, if you are still legally married you are his next of kin. There’s no one else on the list. And he really shouldn't be left alone for at least 48 hours.”

Arthur bit his lips, looking at the scuffed surface of the hospital counter. “Can’t you keep him here? If you just feed and water him I’m sure he’ll be fine in a couple days…”

“This is a hospital sir, not a kennel.”

–🩹–

“Arthur!” his technically husband called from the bed, goofy smile smeared across his bruised face. “Sweetheart! Come to help me make my great escape?”

“Alasdair,” said Arthur, helplessly. For a moment he was frozen in the doorway, pinned straight through like a moth in a display case. Alasdair’s voice was so full of light and love, it flung him back in time a decade, held him under the flood of memories until he felt like he was drowning.

Alasdair's face was different though – eyes blackened, nose splinted and taped, gauze mostly covering a line of stitches across his forehead. There were more wrinkles around his eyes, and the patches of grey at his temples had grown. He was missing one of his front teeth, the little one next to the canine. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off it, the empty space. He wished, absurdly, he could remember the name of that tooth.

“Why are you lookin like you’ve been stabbed, love? Ach, I can tell I haven’t been kissing on you enough. Come over here, I’ll fix it.” 

He closed his eyes, his throat tight. Would it be so bad to pretend? Just for a moment?

“They tell me you can’t remember much,” he said, instead. He walked over to stand at the foot of the bed, eyes on the plastic footboard. Alasdair’s chart hung over the edge. He picked it up and leafed through it, giving his helpless hands something to do. Phrases like traumatic brain injury and temporary neurological amnesia stared up at him. He quickly hung it back where it had been.

“Aye,” Alasdair said, unbothered. “And I'm still outta it. But I’ll either remember or I won’t, and that’s how it is. I’ll try not to be too much of a burden on ye, in the meantime.” He held up his still insultingly muscled arms and did grabby hands in his direction. “No kiss for me?” he asked, eyes pleading. 

“Not right now,” Arthur said, flushing despite himself. He made his way to the chair next to the bedside and sat down, tucking his legs in primly. He tried to ignore Alasdair’s kicked puppy gaze, dismissing the instinctive swell of guilt – it was for his own good. He clearly didn’t remember anything about the last time they had talked.

If he did, he would know better than to ask for a kiss. 

Alasdair watched him for a moment, furrow etched between his brows, then seemingly decided to table the kiss discussion for later. “Did they tell ye what happened to me?”

“They said they don’t know– someone just found you lying in the street, unresponsive. Probably a hit and run. They called for an ambulance, and the ambulance brought you here. Then the hospital called me.”

“Oh no– did that Bastard Johnson say anything about ye clocking out?”

Arthur had left that job at Mr. Bastard Johnson’s firm six months after Alasdair left. He'd started work at his new firm not long after. If they had anything to say about him taking off for the hospital in the middle of the day, he hadn’t heard it. He had barely even stopped to grab his coat and scarf on his way out the door.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Arthur asked, avoiding the question.

“Well. The nurses have asked me that about twenty times now, so I think I’ve got it down by now. This morning… I planted a kiss on yer sleepy forehead before I left. Ye grumbled and smacked me and called me a ‘curse laid upon ye by God for your sins’ so I had to go back and give ye an extra kiss, to ease yer suffering. Then I went out… to work? To… the shops? I don’t…” He trembled for a moment, passing a hand over his pursed mouth. “Then I woke up here.”

Arthur wished he could remember that specific morning, the feeling of Alasdai's lips, the warmth of their bed. That memory had long ago blended into the dozens and dozens of other mornings just like it, a well-worn path, each footprint indistinguishable from the others.

Alasdair had always risen with the dawn, usually leaving Arthur tucked warm under their pile of quilts. He'd go out for a smoke from the pack that he thought Arthur didn't know about, or fix something broken in the house, or get started on breakfast. Then he'd get too lonely or bored or hungry and would bully Arthur into waking up and eating something.

Arthur made himself focus. “What year do you think it is?”

“...I think whatever I say I’ll be wrong," Alasdair said with a helpless shrug.

“Well,” Arthur sighed, willing his tone flat. Reasonable. Calm. “The last time that morning could have happened would have been at least… six years ago? It’s 2024. You moved out in winter of 2017, and we haven’t talked since.”

“Wh… what?” Alasdair went paler than he had been, voice shaky. “Why?”

You'd know better than me, Arthur wanted to snap, but he held it in. Alasdair didn’t know, not right now. 

“Well. I think we just must have…grew apart. Gave up on each other."

"I… I can't remember."

Arthur remembered it all. Especially the night he'd come home late to a dark and empty house, envelope on the counter. He'd got roaring drunk that night to try and block it out, but all he got out of that was the worst hangover of his life and an inability to even look at whisky without gagging for months after.

He swallowed hard.

"I was busy a lot with work. Late nights, early mornings, overtime. You were working too, but just odd jobs. You'd been laid off, and were looking. Taking care of the house. Always trying to fix things. The place was a shithole."

"Aye, that it was," Alasdair said quietly.

"We fought sometimes. A lot. But we would always make up. Then we’d fight again. Then, I don’t know. I came home one night and you were sitting at the kitchen table, in the dark. And you said you wanted to talk. And that you were tired of fighting.”

Arthur paused for a moment, staring at the hospital linoleum. It was a hideous yellow green. Why would they have flooring that color in a hospital? It made him feel sick just to look at it.

“And so we talked. And fought, again. And, I don’t know. Yelled. There was a lot of yelling. And finally I said, I wished we had never married. And you said, fine, you fixed everything else around here, you’d fix that too. And that was it.”

Alasdair’s face had grown paler and paler as Arthur spoke, his expression closing off. He pulled his arms tight to himself, wincing a bit at the pull in his bandaged shoulder. 

"I thought you'd come back the next day, and we'd talk about it. But then you didn't. Or the next day. The day after that Sean called, said not to worry and you were staying with him. A couple weeks later, I came home and your stuff was gone. You'd moved out while I was at work. You left an envelope on the counter, with your ring in it. And that was that."

He looked up from the floor and their eyes met. Alasdair looked away first.

“Well,” Alasdair said at last, “I must have really fucked up, if that's what happened.”

“No. It was on both of us. We were too young.”

“...Yer over 40 now, if my math holds.”

“We were BOTH too young,” Arthur snapped, glaring daggers at Alasdair's answering ghost of a smirk. “And foolish.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’ve gotten any wiser since then. In fact, I bet I'm even more foolish, what with the thump I took.” He sighed. "I guess we're divorced then. I'm sorry, they shouldnae called ye–"

"N-no," Arthur said quietly. "We're. Still married."

"Wha'?" Alasdair stared frozen at him, a glimmer of light coming back into his eyes.

"Never sent you the paperwork. Never printed it off, or even went to a solicitor, I guess." Arthur looked away, suddenly shy. "I just kept waiting for you to come back home. And then you didn't. But… I couldn't. I put your ring away and got on with things. But. I still think about you. Sometimes." 

He closed his eyes, a humorless laugh slipping from his chest. "I guess even if I got older, I never grew out of being foolish either."

Alasdair looked at him for a long moment, grin slowly making a reappearance – still charming even with the missing tooth. "We could still have a chance to be two old fools together then. If ye wanted."

"We could," Arthur said quietly, tiny smile unfurling across his face like a new spring leaf. "If you wanted."

"Do ye think I could get that kiss then?" Alasdair said hopefully, holding out grabby hands again.

Arthur got to his feet and stood by the edge of the bed. Still, he couldn't bring himself to lean in. "What if," he started, then stopped.

"Yeah?"

"What if you remember why you left. And then leave again."

"Then we'll just have to rent a car for you to hit me with, and I'll come back to you again."

Arthur gave an ugly snort, caught off guard. 

"No but, sweetheart. I may not know what year it is–"

"I just told you, it's 2024–"

"Or my own address, but I know this. I missed ye. So much. Bone deep. And I wouldn't leave ye again if it killed me."

Arthur clenched his fists, then leaned in at last, pressing a kiss to the least bruised part of Alasdair's cheek. He inhaled, and under the scents of hospital and betadine and blood, Alasdair still smelled like himself. He smelled like home.

After too long a pause, Arthur made himself pull back.

"Let's get you discharged then," he said, straightening back up. "The nurses say you shouldn't be alone for at least 48 hours. You're going to have to stay at mine."

–🩹–

"Oh FUCK," Alasdair yelled, sitting bolt upright in bed.

"WAUGH," yelled Arthur, kicking and scrabbling at his quilt cocoon, knowing in his heart they were under attack and this was where he would meet his end.

"No– no, it's okay. Sorry. I just remembered everything," said Alasdair, shaking. "My brain came back online like someone turned the lights on in a dark room. Fuck me, I've been a fucken IDIOT."

"Always," Arthur said, willing his heart rate back down to a reasonable level. "But go on."

"Arthur. After I moved out, I kept waiting for YOUR call. I've been pining for ye daily. I've got an album of pictures I took of ye that I sometimes have a sad wank over."

"I'm honored," said Arthur, who definitely did not have a very similar album hastily hidden away in his hall closet.

"Also I remembered I owe Sean two hundred and thirty four quid."

"Hmm. Let's just pretend you didn't remember that part."

"Agreed."

And they went back to sleep.

♡ The End ♡

[chipped-chimera]

I enter the cyberpunk 2077 tag. I see a post about the game not being 'punk' because of all the triple A gaming company typical shit 'means it's not punk'. I roll my eyes so hard I exit the tag.

Points, context, rebuttal, whatever beloooow (I am not reblogging post because I don't want to attract hate to OP, but I am writing this cause I'm sick of seeing it).

Yeah triple A dev treatment fucking sucks. It sucks CDPR vowed to do different and didn't but that is missing a bunch of context. Here comes the context -

I've been following CDPR since about 2010-ish. They've always held onto older era gaming attitudes and respect their consumers. I guess in a way they were still made for an older era around the Cyberpunk release for the following reasons.

They shot themselves in the foot with their own marketing. Hiring a big name may have done that. If you look at the teaser trailer for Cyberpunk 2077 on announcement it basically says release date wise 'its done when it's done'. Being part of that older era they want to put out a COMPLETE game. Well tested. They came from a time where game updates were a LUXURY and that's why I trusted them to release a good product.

Marketing however got so big that it exited the realm of core fans and into the general public (derogatory). When they announced another delay, I was chill. I trusted them. Shit takes time man, whatever it takes to make it good AND treat your employees well bro. General public however was out for blood, sending death threats, pulling preorders.

There's this fine line you have to tread in marketing. Too little hype, no one knows about your product. Too much hype, you skyrocket expectations. Hype at the wrong time - you end up peaking at the wrong moment and end up losing momentum for release. You can see the conundrum here. They were arguably in the skyrocketed expectations and the losing momentum risk region.

So they did crunch time for release. In a way they had to. I mean sure they could have been 'punk' like OP suggested and said fuck you to the non-core fanbase but unfortunately punk doesn't pay bills. It doesn't keep the lights on. It doesn't keep your employees employed. It doesn't stop them from getting sent death threats for a delay.

So they rushed it out, it bombed. That sucked BUT it brought them peace. Because while everyone was making fun of them and quickly forgetting about it to go laugh at the next bomb of the month - it meant they could actually get onto fixing/finishing their game because people like ME knew them. It wouldn't be left as is. Also let them work at a less insane pace.

I started playing it (I finally had a PC that could handle it) right before the Edgerunners release and the public reboot. It was a fucking. Solid. Game. I studied game design and if I didn't get sick and had to stop this game would have been my goddamn final paper. There are so many good choices narratively and mechanically to the point you can't separate the two. It was everything I expected.

They worked hard to get there. We currently live in an era where entertainment is treated like fast food and people can be fucking incoherent when they're told to have patience. Why do you think so many games release in a scuffed state? Why do you think this new 'redemption arc' story in the game industry has become increasingly common? Because Devs keep getting sent DEATH THREATS just for doing work. That's fucking insane. No wonder they're working overtime and sleeping at the office because the general public has turned gamedev into an industry that basically uses psychological torture as a whip to get your game out 'on time'.

Yes there are absolutely horrible triple A gamedev companies, usually under the stable of a larger company (EA, Activision etc. take your pick) but CDPR ain't that. In my eyes their hand was forced.

You know what is punk? Going with a little, 'unpopular' (basically not DnD) ttrpg written by a black man and building a new IP and experience from it - AND having him on board and getting his active input during development. Because dear lord current media in general seems to be allergic to taking risks and new IPs.

You know what else is punk? Releasing free DLC updates that would be a micro transaction otherwise (no I am not talking about Phantom Liberty and I argue that's an 'expansion' though I guess no one uses that word now) and putting the goddamn pdf of the ttrpg handbook they based it off with the game download. Putting stickers in physical releases (going by my witcher experience), giving you goddamn HIGH RESOLUTION IMAGES of in game posters to print for yourself FOR. FREE. No one DOES THAT anymore.

Also arguably putting out Cyberpunk is punk just in the narrative it tells in the goddamn first place - especially in the current climate, but I think I've made my point here.

Also my last point, in big letters because it's driving me fucking insane:

CYBERPUNK. IS. A. GENRE. A GENRE. THEY DID NOT INVENT CYBERPUNK. BLADE RUNNER. NEUROMANCER. ALTERED CARBON. IT'S A GENRE. THE PUNK ELEMENT IS IN THE NARRATIVE. IT'S NOT SOME KIND OF 'STATEMENT' ABOUT THEMSELVES, IT'S A GENRE AND ALSO THE LITERAL TITLE OF THE TTRPG THE THING WAS BASED OFF IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Anyway I'm sick of seeing CDPR being thrown under the bus and being treated in ways that will actively end up affecting future development. I really, really hope they haven't been too affected but if they end up feeling forced into modern day gamedev cycles and all the bullshit that goes with it ... well I know why.

And it starts with people who spout shit like this.

[roxyjean82btsoneshots]

The Set

The Set ✏️Taehyung x Reader ✏️Fluff oneshot 📖WC: 1604 🛑 18+

Also on Ao3 and Wattpad

My Masterlist

"Y/n, Mr. Kim wants to see you in his trailer." You heard your assistant say in your earpiece.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"The one that's been eyeballing you since we started shooting."

"He has not." You scuffed out and rolled your eyes.

"Okay, keep telling yourself that. Anyways, he said he's having a wardrobe problem and needs you there ASAP."

"Well, I'm kind of busy trying to get this outfit right. Can't someone else do it?"

"Nope. He wants to see the head costume designer."

"Ugh, fine, I'll be there in about 5." You groaned as you put down your work and picked up your toolbox. You headed towards the actor's lot. They were supposed to shoot the final scenes today, but it started raining, which you took as a good sign because you weren't happy with one of the wardrobes for the final stage. Something was off with it, and you couldn't figure it out.

Once you found his trailer, you knocked on the door and prayed he would open it quickly so that you could get out of the rain.

"Who is it?" You heard his deep voice say from behind the door.

"Wardrobe department, sir." The door opens to a bright-eyed, smiling Kim Taehyung.

"Oh, you got here a lot faster than I thought you would." He said as he motions with his hand to come in.

"Well, it's part of my job to fix any wardrobe problems as fast as I can." Taehyung handed you a towel as you sat your box down on the table. "Thank you, sir."

"Can you please stop calling me that? It makes me feel old. Call me Taehyung or Tae, please." He smiled at you.

"Okay, sir…I mean Taehyung. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I may have accidentally fallen asleep in my costume, and torn the robe at the seam." He turned his body slightly to show you the hole in the shoulder part of the robe.

"That's an easy fix. You could have just sent it with someone to my trailer," You said as you stepped closer to him to get a better look.

"I know, but I couldn't find anyone. I was going to do it myself, but my manager wouldn't let me." You looked at his face and saw him pouting a little.

"Why are you pouting?" You said with a laugh.

"Because I think it's unfair that you got to walk in the rain, and I didn't."

You laughed a little harder at that. "It's okay, Taehyung. I'm here to help. Plus, there will be other rainy days, and you can walk in them."

"You've got a beautiful laugh." You paused opening your box, your cheeks pinkened.

"Umm, thank you." You cleared your throat and turned to look at him.

"So, how are we going to fix the tear?" Taehyung asked as he looked at the floor and scratched his neck in embarrassment.

"Unless you want to take the chance of getting pricked, you're going to have to take off the robe." Taehyung started to take off his robe, and your mouth went dry.

"Why did you pick those shirts to go under the robes?" You thought to yourself as you caught a glimpse of his muscular chest peeking out through the deep V neckline of the shirt. You tried to look elsewhere, but your eyes got stuck on his muscular bicep as he handed you the robe.

"Thanks." You said as you grabbed the robe quickly before you turned around and got to work.

"So, how long have you been in the costume department?" asked Taehyung as he sat down next to you.

"About five years; I've always loved making things. So here I am, making costumes and helping out with the set design, when needed." You two sat there and talked for the next 30 minutes as you stitched up his robe.

"Good as new." You said with a smile and held up the robe. "Stand over here so that you can try it on, and I can make sure nothing's off." Taehyung nodded as he stood from the table and moved to the spot in front of you. Once he put the robe on you had him turn around so that you could check and see if any of the stitching was off.

"Well, doc, how does it look?"

"Pretty good so far," You said with a chuckle. "Now turn around so that I can see if it messed up the length."

"Are you going to the wrap party tomorrow night?" Taehyung asked as you checked the sleeves.

"I had planned on it. But if it gets pushed back again, I won't be able to."

"Why not?"

"Well, I have a business, and I need to get back to it."

"Oh, really, what kind of business?"

"Pole exercising," You said as you finished up with the sleeves.

"Like you twirl around a pole? That sounds like fun!" As you finished up, you looked up to Taehyung, who had a fascinated look on his face.

"It's really fun," You said with a smile on your face as you turned around to put your stuff away.

"Save a dance for me? I mean, if you go. Please save a dance for me."

"Sure," You said as you picked up your things and turned around. You didn't realize how close he was when you turned around. You were chest to chest with him.

"I want to get to know you more." Taehyung placed a hand on your cheek. "I want to know who you are behind that beautiful smile and a beautiful laugh." Just as your lips were about to touch, you both jumped at the sound of someone knocking at the door.

"Taehyung, we have a meeting in five minutes about the shoot tomorrow." You heard someone yell.

"I should probably go so that you can get ready for the meeting," You said as you backed away and walked around him.

"Y/n, I mean it," he said as you put your hand on the door, "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" A small smile formed on his lips.

"I'll see you tomorrow Taehyung." You smiled back as you exited his trailer.

The shoot day was busy. You spent most of your time running in circles, trying to make sure everything was right. You had managed to see Tae once. He was leaning up against a pillar, talking to some of the cast. You watched him quickly lick his lips before he sent you a smile. Feeling your cheeks beginning to blush, you smiled back before going about your tasks.

"The outfit turned out awesome," your assistant said as you both packed up your things before heading out to the party.

"It better have. That thing was a pain in my ass." You both laughed as you exited the trailer and made your way to the party.

"Why does it look like you aren't enjoying yourself?" You jumped at the sudden voice in your ear.

"Jesus Taehyung!" You said, placing a hand over your heart as you try and calm yourself down.

"You scared the shit out of me." You laughed breathily as you swatted at his shoulder.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"I am enjoying myself. Just wish they had some better food or drinks."

"Come with me," Taehyung said as he grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the exit.

"Where are we going? We can't leave."

"It's fine, no one will mind, and we are going to the store down the street for some real food." Taehyung didn't let go of your hand the whole way to the store.

"So what are we getting?" You asked as Taehyung grabbed a basket.

"Whatever looks good." You both wandered around the store for about 30 minutes, just tossing random things into the basket. Once outside, he turned to look at you. "So, where are we eating?"

"I don't know. I thought you had it all planned out."

"Truthfully. I didn't think past the store." You watched him as he tried to figure out what you two were going to do next.

"My apartment is a few blocks away from here." You point in the direction of your home.

"Really?" Taehyung asked with a look of shock on his face.

"Yes. I mean, if it's okay with you, we can eat there." Taehyung nodded as you both moved in the direction of your home.

Once inside, you headed to the kitchen and dumped out the food and drinks you had gotten from the store. You both sat in your small kitchen, just chatting and laughing.

"Taehyung, what are you doing?" You asked as you walked down the hallway from the bathroom. You heard music playing. When you stepped into the kitchen, you saw Taehyung standing in the middle of the room with a massive smile on his face.

"Well, since we left the party before the dancing started." Taehyung stepped closer to you with his hand out. "Y/n, may I have this dance?"

"Yes, you may." Smiling at him, you took his hand. Taehyung pulled you close to his body as you both swayed back and forth to the music.

"I could get used to this."

"Used to what?" You asked as you removed your head from his chest so that you could look at him.

"Holding you in my arms forever."

"Me too." You smiled at him. When Taehyung's lips found yours, they felt like home, and you knew that this feeling would last forever.

END

[redrobin-detective]

a bird in the hand

“Hey uh, can I speak to Commissioner Gordon?” Officer Patricia Nolan looked up from what she’d been doing and stared. “It’s important,” the teen leaned forward conspiratorially, “Bat business, y’know?” The bullpen was always loud but right now it was silent, everyone stopping to watch their visitor. Just her luck Pat’s desk was the first one when you entered.

“Yes, I can see if he’s available,” she said faintly, glancing quickly over at what the boy was carrying in his arm but not sure how to broach the subject. She wasn’t as familiar with the capes as some of the others. “I’ll see if he’s available,” she continued as she picked up the phone on her desk. Her hands did not shake, her voice did not quiver. She was a Gotham City girl through and through, not much rattled her these days. But that’s not to say that the situation in itself wasn’t strange. Matt from from Vice speed walked by and was staring so hard he walked straight into the wall.

“Gordon,” the Commissioner answered with a sigh.

“Hey, It’s Pat Nolan,” Pat began. “You’re needed down in the bullpen, there’s a uh hero who wants to talk to you.” She glanced at the teen who was looking around the bullpen curiously. “It’s not a Bat.”

“Christ,” Gordon groaned. “Well who is it? Nevermind, I’m on my way. Too damn late for this; I thought Batman told all the other capes to stay out of the city?”

“He did, sir but I don’t exactly take orders from Batman,” the boy grinned. Pat gripped the phone a little tighter realizing he could hear Gordon through the phone. “And you probably guessed from the symbol that I’m Superboy,” he lowered his colored sunglasses with one hand. “The Suberboy.”

“Superboy will be waiting for you,” She said dutifully before replacing the phone. “The Commissioner will be down in a moment, do you want to sit?” Pat wasn’t entirely sure how to handle the situation so she just automatically defaulted to polite. It’s the reason her desk was so close to the front. 

“Nah, I’m good plus I gotta hold onto my precious cargo,” Superboy said, giving ‘his cargo’ a light bounce in his arm. Being able to hold that kind of weight singlehandedly without any sort of strain, that kind of alien power you only saw once you crossed the river to Metropolis. 

“Alright, I’m here, what do you- Christ on a Bike is that Robin?” Gordon jolted as he rounded the corner in his rumpled trench coat. “Is he alright?” He said but his tone was calm. Because while it was worrisome that the Boy Wonder was in the station at all, much less being held at Superboy’s hip like a toddler, the kid looked okay. His tights were a bit scuffed and he smelled vaguely of smoke but he looked entirely at ease in the other’s arm. His cheek was resting comfortably in the crook of Superboy’s neck looking, for all intents and purposes, deeply asleep.

 “Oh yeah, he’s fine,” Superboy shrugged. “Rob’s just been working this arms dealing case for like, a week straight. No one is exactly sure when’s the last time he slept so once he got everything sorted, he just crashed. So anyway,” he reached into his jacket and didn’t seem phased by half of the bullpen reaching for their weapons. 

He pulled out a USB and dangled it in front of Gordon. “Before he was forcibly put on the Dreamland Express, Robin wanted you to have this. It’s all his notes on the guns, who’s supplying them and evidence leading back to the guys in charge. We got some of the small fish tonight but you need a badge to get the the bigger ones.”

“Thanks,” Gordon mumbled, grabbing the USB hesitantly, like it was going to explode. “If I may ask, how did you get involved with this? Did the arms dealing originate in Metropolis?” Detective Mac groaned quietly in the back. They hated intercity especially investigations but it was worst with Metropolis, all ‘Superman this’ or ‘Superman that’. Pat kind of gets it now, the Supers have such a strong presence to them.  

“Oh no, I think Robbie said these guys came from the south like Florida or something,” Superboy frowned. “I’m here because this one-” another light shake of Robin who still did not stir. “Got so wrapped up in this case he forgot our date night,” he rubbed at his eyes. “Found him making one of those string evidence charts on the fridge because he ran out of room on the counter.”

“And Batman?” Gordon questioned, like he didn’t want to know the answer. 

“I think he’s in Japan on League business,” Superboy tilted his head in thought, “or was it Norway? Anyway not here. Rob always goes a little overboard when Bats isn’t around to spray bottle him into taking a break like hello, you’ve got nothing to prove, we already know you’re super sexy and way smarter than Batman.”

No one quite knew what to say to that so they just stayed quiet. Superboy glanced at the clock and groaned.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m gonna be in so much trouble when I get home once I drop this idiot off,” he ended his sentence with a soft kiss to the top of Robin’s hair. “Hey, did anyone catch the end to the Knights/Meteors baseball game? I caught some of the eighth inning when Rob and I raided the warehouse where they were storing some of the guns, I think the Meteors were up.”

“They were,” Detective Driver said with a smug grin. “it was 8-9 Meteors but Matheson hit a triple at the bottom of the ninth and it ended 9-12 for the Knights.” 

“Hell, we keep crumping at the last minute,” Superboy huffed. “I’m telling you that new pitcher they brought in from St. Louis ain’t cutting it; hope they trade him back at the end of the season.”

“Might as well trade the whole team while you’re at it,” Driver goaded. “Metropolis hasn’t put up a good showing since the miracle season of ‘93. If I were you, kid, I’d fly to a city with a better team.” 

“Man, get off my back,” Superboy grinned. A couple people gasped quietly when he lifted himself up off the floor. “And be careful what you say; I doubt Robin will move to me if we decide to move in together which means y’all,” he clicked his tongue and did a one armed finger gun, “will have to deal with me on a more long term basis. Anyway, thanks for the help and uh the service you do. See ya.” 

He turned and flew out the way he’d came, down the stairs to the main lobby and presumably out the front doors. And the whole time, Robin hadn’t moved from his slumber as if there were nowhere safer than his friend’s -boyfriend’s?- arms. 

“Well that sure was something,” Montoya grumbled from the back.

“Bad enough we got Batman and his little kid freaks running around but now he have Supers too?” Chandler groaned, resting her forehead on the desk. 

“Did you guys see-,” Stacy, the secretary and unofficial Batsignal operator said, poking her head in. She winced, “I guess you did.” She smiled and held her hands over her heart. “Well I think they’re cute, SuperWonder is so two years ago, SuperRobin is the only true ship.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying and I don’t want to know,” Gordon sighed, shoving the USB into his coat pocket and shuffling out of the bullpen. “If you need me, I’ll be going over this evidence and wondering why I’m still in the game if lovesick teenagers are doing my job for me.”

[thepenultimateword]

May we please have more weak m!hero and strong f!villain?

My brain has now dubbed it my favourite trope😳

Part 1

CW: ummm none I think, drunkness maybe? Panic attack a little bit?

Sidekick toed at a stray pebble in one of the sidewalk cracks, rocking it back and forth on one pointed end as he leaned against the garden box lining Villain's headquarters. Roses and chrysanthemums filled the crisp air with heady perfume and the moon shone silver in leftover rain puddles, almost like some higher power had banished all this morning’s bad weather until a later date. So perfect it was unsettling.

This was a bad idea.

It wasn't his elevated heart rate that alerted him. Or the underlying wrongness hanging in the air, heavy and uncomfortable as the intermingling humidity. No, Sidekick knew because in order to come tonight he'd had to lie to Hero. And when you only trusted one person in the world, that wasn't something you typically did.

"You'll be fine going out as yourself?" she'd asked this morning in response to Sidekick's garbage excuse about visiting friends. He hadn't mentioned anything from Tuesday's Villain incident, except for his failure to retrieve the blueprints, obviously, and luckily, she hadn't asked for details. Though maybe if she had, Sidekick would have realized sooner that this outing was going to require his civilian persona. It was the only way to avoid any of it from reaching Hero's ears or worse, the press.

"Y-yeah," he'd said. "It's already been a long time. And it's not like I can hide behind a mask forever."

"Guess not," she'd smiled, clapping his shoulder on her way out. Then she'd paused and briefly turned back. "I'm proud of you."

That was like a punch to the stomach. Not only was he not fine, getting her hopes up over nothing, but he was lying to her face and going out with her worst enemy.

"Cute shirt."

Sidekick's jolted out of his thoughts, gaze leaping from his scuffed toes to Villain's luminescent eyes, like the silver halos wrapped around the moon in a hazy sky. Then he looked down at his burgundy sweater, the leaves of his button-up collar peeking through the top.

"Oh! Um, thanks." He quickly glanced at her outfit, a black jumpsuit with ribbon straps tied in big bows across the shoulders. He did his absolute best not to linger too long on her bare biceps. At least this time there was relieving lack of abs. Showing that is. Of course, they were still there. Underneath. Ready to snap a man in two...

"You look nice!" he erupted suddenly, shoving those thoughts to a violent rest.

Villain smiled, stepping a little closer and smoothly tucking a piece of hair behind Sidekick's burning ear before taking half a step down the walk. "Should we go?"

Sidekick's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Right. Go. They had to go walk around now. Face exposed. For everyone to see. For them to see. If they were around. But Villain was staring at them so expectantly…

With some effort, he got one leg forward, and then the other.

Satisfied, Villain continued on. "So I was thinking--"

"Why don't we go for a drink?"

It burst out before he had time to think, too loud and edged with desperation.

Idiot, Sidekick immediately chastised himself. He already knew he wasn’t good at drinking, it’s why he stuck to special occasions. But it was the only place he could think of that was dim enough to obscure his face and still public enough to protect him if anything went wrong.

Villain paused.

"Well, if that's what you want to do,” she said finally. voice as smooth and neutral as the unsweetened yogurt in his fridge. “Do you know a good place?"

“Oh. Well…well I…”

No. No he didn’t. It had been far too long since he went out anywhere, his vision of the city, past its rooftops and dark streets, was rusty. But Hero went out sometimes, with friends, with Vigilante, with all those people who weren’t too messed up to be themselves, and she mentioned the names of the establishments sometimes. At least, the really good ones. And the really bad ones. If he could just think back, and pick a name, any name…

“The Tilted Anchor!”

Villain raised one brow. “The one by the pier?”

How was Sidekick to know?

“Yes,” he lied confidently. “That’s the one.”

“It’s a little far...” Villain mused. “I don’t have my car tonight, so we’d have to take the metro.” She eyed the street ahead as if calculating the distance. “Are you sure that’s where you want to go?”

“Yes.”

No! Why couldn’t he think before he spoke? He easily could’ve asked her if she knew something closer, but it was too late now, right? What if she got mad? Said he was wishy washy, or that he should have planned ahead? And why didn’t he plan ahead? Why did he just jump into this? They’d only just met—met properly that is—and that was exactly what went wrong last time!

“Bug?” Villain’s hand rested firmly on his shoulder. He jumped a little, tasting blood in his mouth. A quick swipe of his tongue found his lip ragged and worried from nervous chewing. He hadn’t even realized. “We can go if you like.”

Strangely, the steel in her eyes seemed softer. Even her smirk had lost its sharp edge, more of a wry lip curl now. He’d never seen her like this before. And that threw him. This was a date, but he wasn’t sure he’d actually expected Villain to treat it like one.

“Ok,” he said quietly, gratefully.

“Ok,” Villain repeated, lifting her hand, and with a little wave, they were off again.

***

The Tilted Anchor reeked of fish. And yes, the appetizer menu included fish, but should that salty sour smell really envelop the entire building? Not to mention that half the lights didn’t work, the bar was in need of a good wiping, and the floor creaked discomfortingly underfoot—not something you wanted in a building set on stilts.

Sidekicks slender shoulders slumped his first step through the door, and Villain immediately knew he’d never been here before. She might have known from his hesitation earlier, but then why had he been so insistent? Could this be some sort of trap? That didnt make a ton of sense since she’d basically been the one to ask him, but maybe that was Hero’s plan all along.

Vilain wasn’t actually sure why she’d encouraged this in the first place. Because a guy had finally validated her strength instead of getting weird? Because she wanted to know what scared heroes more than villains? Neither of those seemed good enough reasons. She wasn’t a teenager, she was a villain. A very good one at that.

“Over there?” Sidekick said, motioning to one of the darker tables, apparently still determined to see this through. His voice squeaked a little, and for not the first time Villain couldn’t help but find the little hero adorable. She dared hope, just a little, that this wasn’t a trap.

“Whatever you say, bug,” she responded. The nickname seemed to suit him more and more every time she said it, from his long, wobbly limbs, to his ever wide eyes, to the way his hair cow-licked in the front like a couple unruly antennae. Much of that had been previously obscured by his cowled mask, and as they slipped into the sticky seats, she determined to commit this rare view to memory. She drank him in until he started squirm and then looked a little longer.

She’d barely made up her mind on her next comment, something that that would really make him blush, when he suddenly burst to his feet.

“Drink?”

"Uhhh..."

Sidekick was already up and moving to the bar, head ducked so close to his chest, Villain wasn't even sure how he saw the path in front of him. He exchanged brief words with the bartender and returned several moments later with two tall reddish glasses.

“So, um, apparently they don't have a big menu. The lightest thing here is this spiced rum thing and--"

"Rum is not light at all," Villain interrupted. She tried to keep her voice teasing, pleasant, but what in the world was he doing? First, he brings her to this community food hazard, and then he doesn't even ask before getting her some random drink?

"Oh. Should I take it back...?"

And then he did that! How was she supposed to stay angry when he got all quiet and pulled cute, embarrassed faces like that one! She had half a mind to tell him to do it anyway and see just how flustered he became, but in the end she shook her head.

"It's fine."

She accepted the glass and took a tentative sip; it wasn't bad actually, the spices similar to something in a nice cider, except it burned in her chest and the back of her throat.

Sidekick's eyes watered through his first sip, but he swallowed a couple more gulps in rapid succession as if in a nervous attempt to prove his choice and get rid of the drink fast.

It wasn't long at all before he was blinking blurry-eyed around the room. Maybe it was best for Villain to stop here on her own drink if he was already being affected so fast.

"So," she said, leaning forward and guiding the hero’s glass back to the table and slightly out of his reach. "What brought you to our fine city? Not just the criminals I hope; I might get jealous."

Sidekick blinked slowly, "Er...no...Hero...Hero asked. So I came. Transfer."

"From where?"

Sidekick flinched, just slightly, barely perceptible, but still there. "Does it matter?"

"Suppose not."

Odd.

Sidekick blinked around the room a second time, squinting and wringing the ends of his fingers. What was he searching for? The press? Hero?

"Are you in some sort of trouble?"

Villain wasn't sure why that was the sentence that came out, perhaps because she'd seen looks like that before, from allies and victims alike.

"No!" he said too loudly, drawing a few eyes their direction, and then surged forward to snatch up his glass for another long drag. By the time he reached the drops at the bottom, he was practically tipping out of his seat.

"Ok," Villain repeated, reaching for the glass again. "That's enough."

"No!" Sidekick cried, lurching back. "What if I need it!"

Villain ignored the curious gazes from the few customers tolerating this dung hole.

"For what?"

"I forgot my knife. I might need it!"

"You carry a knife?"

"No!" Sidekick wailed, "I forgot it! I...I..what if they come? Did you see them? Did they come?"

Villain stood up to grab Sidekick by the shoulders. "No. They didn't come. Everything's fine."

Who knew what Sidekick was talking about, for all she knew, he always acted this way while drunk, but it was probably best to go along.

"So let's just put the glass down for now and--"

Sidekick toppled backwards out of his seat, scrambling up on wobbly legs and stumbling to the farside of the bar.

"I want to keep it! I think they're here! Somewhere. Right?" Tears burbled up in their eyes. "I don't want to go back. Please, I don't want to."

"Alright," Villain stood up and cautiously crossed the room. "I think it's time for you to go home."

Sidekick dodged her arms. "I don't want them to know where I live!"

What type of drunk was Sidekick? A psychotic one?

Villain seized for him again, this time catching the back of his sweater and reeling him in thrashing. With one strong wrench, she pulled the glass out of his hand and slammed it on the bar. Then she was swinging him over her shoulder like a writhing bag of snakes and marching out the door. Hopefully no one saw her flushed face in the dim light; she had an image to uphold.

Villain carried him that way for about a block before the stares became too much. People were going to think she was some sort of abductor, and maybe she was on occasion, but not tonight, and certainly not so plainly.

"Do you promise not to freak out if I carry you normally?"

By this point, Sidekick had gone limp, and his upset cries had dropped into a low, pathetic sniffle.

"We're going to try," Villain said despite the lack of an answer. "Don't freak out."

Villain carefully slid him off her shoulder, dropping one arm beneath his legs and repositioning him into a bridal carry.

"I...I don't want..." he trailed, blinking hard at her face. He stumbled over his words, getting nothing out but an incoherent jumble of sounds.

Villain sighed. So much for a nice date. Did he do this on purpose? Was it all an act? No. That was real fear. Real panic. Maybe there was something in the drink. Or maybe he just did really badly when drunk. He'd always seemed pretty put together on the job.

She glanced down at his blurry-eyed face, eyes drooping further and further with the lulling gait of her walk.

"Hey, don't fall asleep now, you need to tell me where you live."

Too late. His eyes closed completely and did not blink back open.

She jostled him a little. "Hey. Hey!"

No response, just a deep inhale of breath and a soft exhale.

"You little-- Ugh. Fine. You want to put yourself at my mercy? Go ahead. Be at my mercy. I'm kidnapping you for real. And when you leave in the morning, it's because I'm letting you. Got that?"

Sidekick snuggled against her arm.

Villain forced a glare at his peaceful, squished face. "Good. As long as we’ve got that settled. But you’re getting the couch.”

...

Uuuuugh. This was so hard. I planned more, but I think I'm just gonna call this part good and put the next bit in part three. I like these characters but they would not cooperate in this part. It's a little rough and not my best, but enjoy.

Part Three

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @last-ditch-entry @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner @echoednonny

[k-evans-reads]

On Deck

Chapter 19

Summary: Although they grew up in the same small town, Chris and Sam had both gone their separate ways a long time ago. Chris moved up to become a MLB star, one of the best in the business, while Sam stayed stuck in the same small town. But when multiple injuries ended the Red Sox prodigy’s career, he winds up back in the same small town he swore he’d never be back to. The past may not stay in the past any longer, as old wounds begin to creep back up.

Pairing: MLB!Chris Evans X OFC Samantha “Sam” Merrick

Word Count: 4,278

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: None!

Previous | Main Masterlist | On Deck Masterlist

Sam could hear the echo of door opening, making her eyes peel away from the laptop screen where the professor was teaching. She saw Chris’ broad frame come walking in with Dodger at his side as he tossed off his Red Sox’s hat and opened his mouth to greet her. Not wanting to interrupt the class, she wildly waved her hand back and forth to get his attention before pointing to the laptop, silently explaining she was still in her class, making Chris give her a comical grimace and mouthed ‘Sorry’ before quietly moving to the bedroom with Dodger right on his heels. 

She turned her attention back to the screen, picking up her pen and jotting down some last-minute notes before the professor wrapped up the class for the day. It’d been a week filled with nerves and anxiety for Sam’s first classes in nearly ten years. She was exhausted already and it was only Wednesday, but the fact that she and Chris had spent nearly all their spare time touring what felt like every home for sale in their area certainly hadn’t helped. 

As soon as the virtual class session ended and her webcam turned off, she slumped back against the leather barstool with relief, rubbing at the growing pain in her temples. As she stared at the smooth white ceiling of the kitchen, she realized there was only one thing that she wanted and it was currently in the other room. Sammy pushed herself off of the stool, closing her laptop, and then trudged towards the bedroom where she found Chris laying sideways on the bed, his sock-covered feet crossed and one arm behind his head while the other held his phone as he watched a replay from the baseball game earlier that day. 

She gave Dodger’s head a quick pat before walking in farther to the room, getting Chris’ attention as he asked, “How was the math class, baby?” All Sam could do was groan, causing Chris to laugh before she kept scuffing over to the bed, crawling on it to be able to flop down on top of his warm body. Immediately his arms came around her, holding her tight while kissing her forehead. 

“That bad, huh?” 

“I swear they’ve changed math since we were in school.” 

“Well I wasn’t even very good at it then,” he murmured, his chest rumbling as he chuckled. “Hey, I’m so proud of you though, baby.” 

She let out a small huff, turning his head against his chest as she reminded him, “Chris, you’ve said that every single day this week.” 

“And I’m going to keep saying it because I am,” he replied easily, his head tilting down to meet her shifting gaze. “I just fuckin’ love you.” 

“I know,” she smiled, her hand moving to run through his messy hair. “I love you too… so much.” 

He grinned back, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Well today might have been a hard day but I’ve got a little present for you,” he drawled, an excited look settling on his face. 

Sam rolled her eyes back, thinking about everything from the expensive purchases he made for her – and for Riley – to the everyday generosity he showed. “Your ‘little’ presents are never little,” she muttered knowingly. 

“Do you want it or not, smartass?” 

“Fine, what is it?” 

Sam could see him digging in the pocket of his joggers before fishing out something that was, in fact, small inside his hand. She couldn’t quite make out what it was until he held it up, showing a shiny silver key sparkling in the light. Her eyes grew wide as she saw the key, knowing exactly what it was for, but her mind almost wouldn’t let her believe it. 

“The house?!” She asked quickly, her voice high and shockingly loud for how exhausted she felt. “We got it?!” 

“Yep. It’s all ours, baby,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to her lips when she silently asked for one. 

Her eyes darted down to the single key still in his hand, her mind racing with things she wanted to do. “Can we go see it?” She asked.

His head flew back against the mattress, his hand squeezing Sam’s hip as he roared with laughter. She smiled as she felt the vibration of his chest against her own. “Why do you think I left my shoes by the door?” 

Sam was off the bed and running to grab her own shoes and jacket in the blink of an eye, practically vibrating with excitement as they went down to climb in the car. She could hardly believe as they drove out of the small town toward the ocean that they were going to their house. Sam pulled out her phone, sending a quick text to Riley to let him know where they were in case he got home from his shift at the movie theater before them, then just relaxed in the passenger seat trying to figure out if this truly was happening. 

They arrived at the sprawling Cape Cod style home, one that Sam had loved the moment she saw it. It had always been a fantasy of hers to own a home, a fantasy that she never thought would come true, but the fact that this home – this 1700s home – was theirs was not only a huge accomplishment in Sam’s eyes, but a relief. Here… there were no neighbors even within earshot, thanks to their several acres. There were no landlords threatening them with eviction weekly. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was theirs. And it was home.

Sam didn’t even realize that she was running to the front door until she heard Chris’ loud laugh echoing a long way behind her once they had parked in the winding driveway but she couldn’t help it. Getting to open the door and step inside the place she’d be coming home to everyday was enough to bring tears to her eyes. They took their time walking through the bottom floor wordlessly as they soaked it all in, but Sam got a moment alone with her emotions when Chris left to go get the champagne the realtor had left them chilling on the counter. 

She could hear the pop of the cork faintly as she wandered out to the back patio, her eyes soaking in the expansive yard that she could already picture Dodger running through and the peaceful little pond nearby that she already couldn’t wait to see frozen over in the winter. There were absolutely no words that could describe the feeling of peace and happiness that came from the inside out but what she didn’t know was that the tears that were streaming down her face matched the ones that were coming out of Chris’ blue eyes only a few feet behind her. 

He had walked up so quietly that she hadn’t heard him and Chris took the opportunity to just watch her. With two glasses of champagne in his hand and silent tears falling down his cheeks and getting lost in his beard, he just stood there watching his Sammy looking at their new home. Chris thought back to so so many years ago, remembering sitting out on his mother’s back porch with Sam when they were kids and wished there was some way to go back in time and tell his younger self that one day he’d be here with her. 

Chris had loved Sammy for just about as long as he could remember, even if it wasn’t always at the forefront of his mind, it was always there. But now that he actually had her, got to love her, and be with her for every high and low that life brought, he knew that there was no way he could possibly even imagine being without her. He wasn’t kidding when he said he planned on marrying her but after her more recent vocalization of wanting that same thing, he knew that he was going to make it happen because more than anything, there was nothing in his life that he wanted to have if it wasn’t with her. 

He set down the champagne on the nearby table before walking up behind her, snaking his arms around her waist while resting his chin on her shoulder and quietly asked, “Are you happy, baby?” 

“I just can’t believe this,” Sammy breathed, leaning her cheek against his,  “I don’t know how to get my brain to understand that this is our house.” 

“This is our home,” he corrected, turning his face to kiss her cheek softly. 

Chris could practically see the wheels in her head turning, so many emotions passing over her face as her voice crackled, “...I’ve never really felt like I had a home before.” 

“Well you do now.” 

“I feel so frivolous having a house this big though,” Sam admitted while her eyes took in the expansive beautiful land that now was theirs, the rolling hills overlooking the pond at the edge of their property. 

“Are you kidding? Riley’s going to have his shit spread out everywhere in no time,” Chris laughed, trying to lighten the mood but also knowing just how true the words were from how often they were finding his backpack, shoes, or other belongings spread out. 

“I know, but there’s five bedrooms…” She trailed off while reaching a hand up to run through her thick hair before anxiously looking around. “And with us not planning on kids, maybe it’s too big.” 

“Hey, I want you to look at me,” Chris’ voice was gentle as he lifted a hand to rest on her cheek and gently turned her face to his, seeing the deep emotions in her eyes and reminded her, “You’ve spent your whole life giving up nearly everything. Let me give this to you. This one thing that you want. I want us to have a home together, because the only thing that I want in life is you.” 

Her wide brown eyes searched his own ocean blue eyes, silent for several moments until she nodded, her voice wavering slightly as she breathed, “...I love you Chris.” 

“I love you too, Sammy,” he spoke with so much truth and confidence, shrugging as he went on, “And besides, we never said having kids was a hard no, right? Who knows what will happen in 10 years.” 

“Well I know one thing, in ten years I’m still going to be right here because there’s no way I’m leaving that heated swimming pool,” Chris loved seeing that familiar sparkle in her eyes as she snickered and motioned toward the beautiful pool. 

“If I would have known that having a heated swimming pool was going to be all it took to keep you around I would have had one installed in my fuckin’ living room,” he muttered playfully, smiling widely as Sam laughed with him. 

They explored the house, Chris watching Sam think more than he looked around himself. He watched as she excitedly mentioned things that might work in certain spaces – like finally getting the piano he’d been eyeing for weeks, noting that one side of the living room would be perfect for it. He watched her eyes linger in the kitchen on the marble countertops as she ghosted a hand over them, knowing she still couldn’t believe this was her reality. They poked their heads into the large den off the kitchen, sharing excited grins just as Riley texted them that he was leaving work. Quickly, they called Riley, asking him to pick up a pizza and come over to the new house, excited for him to see it as well. Once the pizza and sodas were ordered and he had easily agreed to the plan, they quickly made their way back to the wing of the home with their bedroom, a wing that the previous owners had added to the home in the past few years. 

Passing through the bedroom quickly, they climbed the staircase between their room and the garage, finding themselves in what they’d quickly decided would be Sam’s office. It was separated enough from the rest of the home to give her the privacy and quiet she needed for school, while also being close enough that she wasn’t far removed from everyone else. 

Just as Sam turned to say something to Chris, his phone began vibrating in his pocket. Giving her an apologetic look, he reached for it, his brow furrowing as he saw the name. “Hey are you almost here? I’m starving,” he asked Riley, able to tell Riley was on speakerphone in the car still.  

“I’m here but I don’t think you sent me the right address,” the boy told Chris, his voice tentative and a bit hesitant. Chris furrowed his brow as he knew he sent the right address, but as he made his way over to the windows overlooking the winding driveway, he was relieved as he watched Riley pull in behind Chris’ own car in Sam’s old green sedan. 

“It’s the right place, I see your car,” Chris reassured him, smirking to himself as he listened to Sam snort as he waited for Riley’s response.

“YOU BOUGHT THIS?!” The teenager nearly yelled, Chris pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. “This is a fuckin’ mansion!” 

“Well get inside and come see your room,” Chris replied just before he hung up the call, following a giggling Sam down the stairs and outside through the porch to the driveway. He smiled fondly as Sam and Riley hugged each other tightly, able to practically see the weight of this moment, what it meant to them both. He was touched when the teenager hugged Chris tightly before following his sister towards the front door, leaving Chris to grab the pizza out of the still unlocked car. 

Once they were inside, both Sam and Chris’ eyes were locked on Riley’s frame, watching as the teenager excitedly looked in every room of the downstairs, opening doors to look inside bathrooms, closets, Chris’ small office, and the laundry room. He had practically the same reaction – except a bit less restrained – to Sam when he saw the kitchen and the primary suite, but when he turned to Chris and Sam back up in Sam’s office, his face looked like a kid on Christmas when he asked them, “Are we seriously going to live here?” 

Chris rolled his eyes fondy as that fond sideways grin slid back on his face, “No we just bought it to look at,” he sarcastically replied.

“After that smartass remark maybe I don’t want to live here,” Riley muttered, laughing when Chris shoved him playfully. 

“Will both of you idiots just shut up and let me have my moment?” Sam’s voice interrupted them, their light bickering stopping instantly. “I’ve never owned a house before and I want to enjoy it!” 

Her younger brother nodded, straightening up noticeably as he looked around the empty room, at the windows with a view of the pond and the sprawling land, complete with the small guesthouse and heated pool in the distance. Chris had a feeling Sam would put whatever desk she chose right in front of those windows, knowing she’d want to look at that view as much as possible. “What is this room going to be?” Riley asked, interrupting Chris’ thoughts. 

“Sammy’s office,” Chris informed him with a grin. “I told our realtor that anywhere we looked at needed to have a spot for Sam, so she’d have an office for her school work and everything.” 

But out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam cross her arms over her chest as she rolled her eyes and drawled, “Yeah because with a five bedroom house, the one thing we needed on top of that is an office…” 

“Well now who’s being the smartass?” Chris smirked as he turned to look at her, shooting her a wink as she gave him a look.

At Chris’ wink, Riley groaned, asking them, “Can we have our pizza before you two start making out?” 

They easily agreed, climbing the stairs to head back to where they’d left the pizza in the kitchen. But Sam soon broke the silence, curiously asking her brother,  “Why do you think Chris calling me a smartass means we’ll make out?” 

The teenager shrugged, muttering, “Because you two are gross, that’s why.” 

She laughed, turning her head to shoot Chris a small smirk at those words before she replied, “Well I’m not so sure you can say that the spot for my office was the selling point, I’m pretty sure that had something to do with the golf course right down the road.” 

“I mean… that didn’t hurt.” 

They reached the kitchen, grabbing the paper plates from the bag on top of the pizza box before Riley headed to sit down on the herringbone floors as Sam and Chris poured themselves more champagne in the kitchen. 

Chris glanced over at Sam, watching her move throughout their new kitchen, warmth filling him at that realization. “So you really like it, baby?” He asked her quietly, smiling softly as they met each other’s eyes. 

She smiled back, genuine emotion filling her expression. She hesitated several times before she spoke, enough that Chris began to needlessly worry whether something was wrong. But his question was answered when her voice, laden with emotion, replied, “I couldn’t love it more.” 

“We’re going to be really happy here together, Sammy,” he told her, moving to rub his hands over her arms as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, unable to not imagine them growing old together there, with Dodger, Riley, his niece and nephews, his siblings, and his parents all frequent visitors there. They’d host holidays here, have Christmas dinners in the dining room behind them, open gifts on Christmas morning – in just a few short months – in the den where Riley was now. They’d drive back here at the end of every baseball season, escaping the chaos of the previous seven months to relax in the peace and quiet, undisturbed for days. It’d be the home where Sam earned her degree, and maybe even more, and getting to see his girl reach her full potential, uninhibited by economic barriers was something that made Chris more emotional than anything. The entire home represented them, it was a culmination of the last nearly twenty-three years since they’d met each other thanks to Shanna and Sam’s friendship. And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“We already are happy together,” Sam corrected him, her voice heavy as it broke him out of his thoughts.

“Got that right, baby,” he smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her lips before he blinked the tears away from his eyes and followed her into the den, pizza and champagne in hands.

Riley shook his head as he watched the replay on the restaurant’s TVs, disappointment filling his face. He munched on a fry before he dropped it, commenting to Chris, “They shouldn’t run the ball.” 

“I know, they never do,” Chris agreed easily, his leg tapping against the hightop barstool. His eyes stayed locked on the teenager next to him, looking as he eagerly watched the Patriots game. 

The boy moved to reach for his milkshake, pausing right before he took a sip and offering, “You want any of this milkshake?” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Chris shook his head before he cleared his throat, sitting up in his seat slightly. Riley nodded, taking a long sip of the milkshake, and his eyes stayed locked distractedly on the oversized televisions. “But there was something I wanted to talk to you about, bud.” 

He nodded slightly, barely reacting as he answered, “Uh huh.” 

Chris watched the teenager, seeing how distracted he was. He gave him a moment before he prodded further, telling him, “Riley, it’s serious.” 

Riley’s brows furrowed as he turned to look at Chris. “Is something going on?” He asked him quietly, a deep frown on his face. 

Chris cleared his throat, his face flushing as he stammered, “No, I mean, well hopefully yes,” and shrugged half-heartedly.  

Riley’s concern only deepened, his voice tense and insistent as he pleaded, “Can you just tell me already?” 

“You sound just like Sammy,” Chris smiled fondly, his eyes darting down to his lap momentarily before he cleared his throat, taking a deep breath. “And that’s what I want to talk about… I’m planning on asking Sam to marry me sometime soon.” 

He watched Riley anxiously, feeling incredibly sick as he confessed what he’d been planning for a while now to someone finally. And while he’d always planned to share the idea with Riley – and likely at least Scott – prior to the actual event, it didn’t mean that putting it into words didn’t terrify him even more, worried that Riley would react poorly. But he was confused when the teenager simply paused, looking down at the half-eaten burger and fries on his plate, whispering, “Oh,” before he reached for his milkshake again. 

“Just oh?” Chris asked him quietly, frowning slightly. “Is that a good oh, or a bad oh?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, his lips pursed as he admitted, “Good.” 

“Riley, I seriously want to hear your feelings about it. There’s a reason I’m talking to you first before asking Sammy,” Chris prodded openly, trying to get the teen to open up. It’d been a long effort of his and Sam’s to be more open not only with each other, but with Riley as well. The teen had been so used to living practically alone between his mother and Sam’s long work days, and the multitude of changes that Chris brought on when he stepped into their lives provided more stability, which also brought slightly uncomfortable conversations where they pushed each other to speak their minds and their emotions, despite how uncomfortable it may be. 

Riley shrugged again and the action hurt Chris more than he expected, but the words that followed only hurt more as he mumbled, “Well what you guys do isn’t really up to me.” 

“But it matters what you think, Riley,” Chris pushed back, wanting Riley to know how much not only Sam, but Chris as well, valued him and everything he thought about, felt, or even hated. They wanted to know everything he was willing to share and more. “You know how much Sam loves you and would never do anything that would hurt you, and neither would I.” 

“I know,” Riley whispered, swallowing nervously as he shifted in the seat. 

“If we get married, things are going to change, it’s just how it works, but I want to make sure you’re okay with it. I know it’s been a lot,” Chris began, his voice trailing off slightly as he saw Riley meet his eyes.

The teen nodded, keeping eye contact with Chris. “It’s just weird that a year ago it was basically just me and Sam in our apartment and now things are just so different,” he admitted finally.

“I know how much change you’ve gone through Riley, and I’m sorry that it hasn’t always been easy. I’m sorry that you and Sam haven’t always had it easy,” Chris apologized, meaning every word. He watched sadly as Riley broke away from his eyes to look at his lap, knowing how uncomfortable he must feel. “I just love your sister, Riley. I love her more than anything and I want to be with her and I want to keep being there for you because I love you too.” 

His eyes were wide and emotional as he looked back up at Chris, quietly confessing, “...I love you too Chris.” 

And although he didn’t verbalize it, Chris could see in the teenager’s eyes just how much he meant it. Chris had come to see how much Riley was like Sam in the fact that he stuffed so many of his own feelings, partly out of necessity, but then struggled to be vulnerable and open. He’d seen him slowly start to change a little, but with him being a teenager caused him to have even more trouble sharing than Sam could. But in that moment, Chris could see all the feelings in his eyes, and knew how much Riley meant what he said. 

Being the tactile person that he was, Chris couldn’t help himself and threw an arm around Riley’s shoulders to give him a side hug and smiled from ear to ear when Riley hugged him right back before saying, “If you want to ask Sam to marry you, I’m fine with that.” 

“I want you to be more than fine with it, Riley. I want it to be a good thing for everyone,” Chris told him, knowing that if Riley was the slightest bit uncomfortable or not okay with anything, he’d do anything to help him, even if it meant putting off proposing. 

“...It is,” Riley finally said, giving him a small grin. “I know how much you love Sam… even if I wish you weren’t so obvious about it in front of me.” 

Chris smiled widely, a lump in his throat and his eyes burning as the restaurant roared as the Patriots scored a touchdown. Riley’s eyes moved to the TVs, his jaw dropping as he watched the replay of the play happily. And while Chris watched Riley carefully, slightly envying the way Riley easily handled the intense conversation and shifted back to happily drinking his milkshake and enjoying the game, he knew he wouldn’t trade the emotional weight of the moment he felt so intensely for anything in the world. 

A/N: We freaking LOVED this chapter and seriously were so emotional. PLEASE share all your thoughts!

[midnightsunnyday]

Flufftober Prompt 3: Thick as Thieves (Diavolo x MC)

A/N: somehow, someway we're still on a role! My (late) entry for day 3 of Flufftober. I hope you all enjoy it!

No warnings I can think of for this story, other than some slight cursing.

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

It’d been eons since he allowed himself this feeling.

No doubt Barbatos and Lucifer would reprimand him, but that only aided to his excitement. As soon as the clock struck twelve, Diavolo was ready. From the window of his bedroom, his wings burst from behind him in a plume of dark magic. Stepping forward off the still, he plunged then glided off into the night.

On a quiet street beyond the castle walls was where they both agreed to meet. Bathed in the light of a street lamp stood his angel dressed in black, wearing all leather and boots as high as their knees.

Diavolo landed beside them, his wings fluttering. "Good evening."

"Evenin', dollface." Jingling a pair of keys, they smirked. “Your chariot awaits.” The chariot in question being a shiny red motorcycle.

“Lead me to glory, uh, hot stuff,” Diavolo said. He still wasn't quite sure on the lingo. Though not dressed as "bikerly" as his companion, Diavolo tried his best to fit the “biker babe” theme for tonight. He’d torn the sleeves off his dress shirt as well as made a few holes through an (admittedly expensive) cocktail vest. A tutorial on Deviltube showing how to distress a pair of dress slacks helped tremendously, and though he didn’t own any boots, he supposed a scuffed-up pair of dress shoes would suffice.

“I think we look like a fine pair of bikers if I do say so myself,” they said, puffing out their chest. “Also, don’t get mad but…I stole the bike.”

“Goodness.” When they said, “I’ll take you for a ride you’ll never forget,” he didn’t think they'd go through such extremes to do so.

“Don’t worry, the demon I took it from won’t even know it’s gone.”

Diavolo hummed. “I suppose it doesn’t quite count as stealing as long as we bring it back. So no harm done.”

“Hell yeah! That’s the rebel spirit.”

“Hell yes, indeed!” Honestly, he loved humans and their various expressions for his realm. “But I must ask, do you actually know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“Not a clue.”

“Oh.” Diavolo frowned. “Surely this can’t be safe.”

“Not even a little. Buuut,” they wiggled their fingers over the bike. “I figured you could use a bit of your magic to help move things along.”

“That technically is within the realm of my capabilities.” Diavolo gave the bike a look over. In theory, a motorcycle was just a faster, albeit more dangerous peddle bike. Surely using such a thing couldn’t be that complicated. “Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”

“First things first,” they handed him a matching red helmet adorably adorned with little horns. “There’s nothing more outlaw than safety.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure it is. Only losers don’t wear helmets. You think it’s cool to die from brain injury? No thanks.”

“Indeed.” Diavolo was immortal. Though he could, however, sympathize with the sentiment.

Using one leg to plant themselves, they swung the other over the side of the bike. “Hop on, darlin’.”

“How exciting.” Diavolo plopped right down behind them, only to realize…

”Oh. It seems we’re…rather close.”

“That’s um, normal,” they said. “Also, you kinda have to grab my waist. Wouldn’t want you careening down the road.”

Diavolo gulped. Very well, he'd just wrap his arms around--

“Not that tight! Not that tight!”

“Oh, pardon.” Ok, so maybe he was a bit too excited to hold them. Steadily, he loosened his grip, allowing his arms to relax despite his shoulders, which were heavy as a pair of rocks. “Motorcycles…are incredibly exotic.”

“They’re the vehicles of love, baby.”

“Now then. I’ll just need a moment to focus. Also, to do this, I’m going to need to borrow just a tiny portion of your soul.”

They shrugged. "Eh. That’s fine. I gave a bit of it last week to Solomon anyway.”

“We’ll…need to talk about that later. Otherwise, stay still. Also, you may feel a slight pinch.”

Diavolo closed his eyes, focusing his energy. Streams of gold and black swirled around them, gaining force and rising into the air as the motorcycle revved itself to life, spewing exhaust and flashing its lights.  

“I think it’s working,” they yelled over the motor.

“Now remember that it's technically sentient,” Diavolo yelled back. “So let’s try to be careful with our new friend.”

“You got it. Ok, buddy, let’s hit the road.”

Charlie—yes, that’s his name—did not appreciate being awaken in the middle of the night and stolen from his owner. However, Charlie was honored to have the chance to drive the future king of the Devildom wherever they preferred. He'd be the talk of the town! The human not so much.  

“Thank you, Charlie,” Diavolo said. “I am also honored in having the privilege to ride you.”  

“Yeah. Thanks,” said the human.

Charlie inched forward, then with a jerk sped off down the road. Diavolo roared with laughter. The wind was sweet with mirth and mischief, the castle falling further and further behind.

"Go, Charlie, go," the human cheered.

Charlie honked his horn. Such a loud mortal. Though he supposed he'd allow them their fun just this once.

As Diavolo and his "ride or die" drove further into the city, he couldn’t help but wonder if such happiness could last forever?

“Huh? Did you say something?” they screamed.

“Huh?” Diavolo screamed back. Did he say that out loud?

“I said, did you say something?”

“What?”

“Nevermind!”

Oh well. Only time would tell. Until then, Diavolo held tight (but not too tight) and promised to never let go.

**********

Something…was not right.

Such alarm became instinctual. By this point, Lucifer was no longer man nor demon, but a literal walking bag of stress, coffee, and anxiety. He sighed and looked over at the clock that sat atop his dresser. 1:35 AM, it read. He rose from his bed, convinced that eternal damnation wasn't his true punishment, but the lack of a normal sleep schedule. Dawning his warmest robe, he head from his bedroom towards each of his brother’s rooms. Beelzebub and Belphegor were accounted for, as well as Asmodeus and Satan. Leviathan was awake, yet quietly playing his game. Mammon was also still asleep. So where did this feeling of dread come from?  

Just then, his D.D.D beeped with a notification.

[Barbatos]: You wouldn’t happen to know where the Young Master ran off to, now would you?

[Lucifer]: You must be joking?

[Barbatos]: My apologies. I did not mean to make light of the situation.

[Lucifer]: That’s not what I meant.

[Lucifer]: And no, I’m not aware of where he ran off to, though I may have an idea.

[Barbatos]: Is that right?

Lucifer stormed towards the room of the biggest pain in his neck besides Mammon. Surely they weren’t…they couldn’t be…they definitely wouldn’t. Oh hell, of course they would!

“So help me if you aren’t in this room.” Lucifer flung open the exchange student's bedroom door. It was dark. Quiet. What looked to be the silhouette of a body was tucked underneath several sheets, yet upon closer inspection…

Lucifer scoffed. Really? The old “stuffing pillows under your sheets to make it seem like you’re still there” trick? Even his brother’s had come up with better diversions than this. Groaning, he began to tap against his D.D.D.

[Lucifer]: I fear our precious human is gone as well.

[Barbatos]: Oh dear. Did they also stuff their sheets with pillows?

[Lucifer]: Honestly, who do they think they’re attempting to fool?

[Barbatos]: There also seems to be news of a freak motorcycle accident. Apparently several buildings were destroyed while the demon who owns said vehicle is the prime suspect. You don’t suppose…

[Lucifer]: Something tells me this is going to be a long morning.

[Barbatos]: Something tells me you might be right.  

[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.

[therenaissancedungeonmaster]

Chapter One: Lighthouse Books

Summary: A year after the events of MAG 200, Jonathan Blackwood née Sims still struggles to adjust to a normal life, although he is trying his best.

Based on @spooksier ‘s Post-200 Jonmartin AU.

A thick fog draped the London streets, pressing against windows and hiding figures within its folds. For most, a morning like this would be foreboding; it would be an inconvenience to get to work, or dangerous to drive through, or for those whom the Lonely had taken, a visceral reminder of all that they were and had lost.

For Jon, something about it felt like home. Whenever London was like this, he would open the window and let it spill into the kitchen, let the fog run up his fingers and brace his face. It was cold and damp, and it condensed against the cracked glass and scuffed countertops of their apartment, but filled him with a grounding presence that he seemed to be sorely lacking these days. It was enough to get him started for the morning, and he began to pull out a few eggs. 

He wasn’t much of a cook, but he was trying, and that’s what matters. Martin could only do so much, and Jon’s hunger still presented differently even after so much time, and so Jon had taken upon himself to at least try to make it up to Martin for doing so much for Jon by cooking for him. He turned the stove on and cracked eggs into a pan and watched them scream. They all had screamed, and for so long, and so many, and all of it had ran its way through him with electric purpose and being as he beheld it all-

It was the smell of smoke that pulled him back to the present. The eggs’ screams had died to a sizzling whimper as they twisted black at the edges, and so he desperately poured the eggs onto a plate. With some mixing, the char was slightly less noticeable. Jon sighed - he had done worse. So much worse.

The process continued. He opened a scone and toasted it, before spreading butter and jam onto both sides. In the fridge, they still had milk, and so he poured it into a glass, before rummaging throughout the kitchen for anything else, only to find some measly fruits on the edge of spoiling. He turned up his nose as he saw the faintest edge of mold develop on the inside of the container, gray and blue and green and fuzzy. The littlest of beings, infectious and malicious, spreading their harbinging love to all that would even think to touch them. They would promise warmth, and all you would find is becoming one with a damp population of miscreants. 

Jon threw the whole container out. He would take out the trash later. 

He heard the stairwell creak. Jon hurriedly put the plate on the island with a fork and knife, and then rushed to greet his husband with a kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning to you too, Jon!” Martin said with a big smile, turning back to kiss Jon full on the lips. Martin placed down the grocery bags he had been carrying. Then Martin looked at the kitchen and furrowed his brows.

“Uh, Jon… have you been cooking again?”

Jon nodded, and pointed to the plate with a broad smile. Martin’s gaze softened as a realization struck him.

“Not a talking day, huh?” Martin asked. Jon nodded, his smile dropping slightly. 

Martin took a seat at the island and took a bite of the eggs, and smiled, “You’re getting better with the eggs.”

Jon wished he could apologize for burning them, and Martin saw the look in Jon’s eyes.

“It’s fine, really, Jon. I appreciate the sentiment far more than anything else,” Martin said, “And it’s nice to not come into a kitchen on fire like the first time.”

Jon chuckled slightly, and began to clean up the kitchen. The sun was a little higher, and so the fog was fading ever so slightly, so he closed the window.

~~~

On top of owning the apartment, they also owned the bookstore beneath it. It wasn’t very large, with thick sturdy bookshelves swallowing the aisles between each other. It didn’t matter how Jon and Martin rearranged the bookshelves, they couldn’t figure out a way to make it any less suffocatingly labyrinthian. Jon thought that maybe he could make it up to their few customers with a sturdy organization system. He had always been good at that, for better or worse.

There was a single window in the entire bookstore, right behind the checkout desk, which served as the sole source of light for the bookstore. There was technically electric lighting as well, but it “ruined the aesthetic” as Martin had said, so they didn’t turn it on. Jon hadn’t fought back because when he looked into the lights, something inside him hurt, maybe his head, but maybe not.

The front door’s bell rang as a customer opened the door.

“Welcome to Lighthouse Books! How might I assist you?” Martin cried cheerily from the desk. Jon was in another aisle, reorganizing the books once again. Martin and the customer talked in low voices, before they began to move around the apartment. Jon leaned and stood up, before walking away from where he was working and heading into the back section. Jon wasn’t the greatest with customers, regardless of whether he could talk or not that day, because they found him off-putting. When they had initially found the Yelp reviews that detailed this ‘feature’, it became apparent that Jon seemed to be a “creepy weird man who doesn’t blink” and “likely a serial killer”, and that those things were not taken positively in this post-apocalyptic world. Not like they would’ve been pre-apocalypse, but perhaps they could’ve attracted some more of the adventurous types with Jon as a prominent feature. Nowadays, no one wants anything more than safety and warmth. As such, he’s kept his distance, working behind the scenes.

The backroom was a small room with a single light, a few boxes of books for the store, and a massive horde of tape recorders. Some were placed in neat stacks, and others in messy mounds, and some were even pinned up to the wall, like decor. Jon picked up a tape recorder from one of the mounds, and hit play. 

“Statement of Carlos Vittery, regarding his arachnophobia and its manifestations. Original statement-” it played his voice. He paused it in a panic and sighed. 

The tapes had stopped appearing for them, and had ever since Martin technically killed Jon, which the two of them had lovingly decided to call “the Proposal” since neither of them actually proposed. They had simply gotten married a few months ago. The tapes in Jon’s - and it was solely Jon’s as Martin wanted nothing to do with the practice - collection were entirely retrieved through dumpster diving, thrift flipping, Goodwill trips, and antique hunting. Many of them were not tapes that recorded his or any of the other voices of his friends, but instead, songs from the radio, or police interrogations, or childhood lessons given by a doting father. It had, and still was, the slog in which he had to go through to identify the ones that had recorded everything that had happened at the Magnus Institute, and the ones that were not. 

He figured he should’ve gotten rid of the ones that were not about the Magnus Institute, but he didn’t want to. They felt good in his hands, good to have around, and considering he still needed to consume fear through any means necessary, having extra tapes around provided him the chance to find more fear than beyond the Magnus Institute tapes, or simply be able to erase what they had recorded in favor of his own meal.

Jon sometimes wondered why it was that, even after the Proposal, after all the Fears had left their world as much as they could, that he still needed to consume fear. However, when he wondered that, he quickly lost himself. So he didn’t do it.

He placed the tape of Mr. Vittery’s statement on a neat pile, which held other tapes of his own voice. There was another tower that were tapes of Martin’s voice, then of Tim’s, then Basira’s, and so on. He picked up another tape and played it. In return, it gave him a soothing rendition of N-Sync’s “I Want You That Way” and Jon smiled. Back to the status quo so quickly, huh?

Martin came into the backroom.

“Hey, Jon, do you know if we still have that copy of uhh…” Martin snapped his fingers to try to recall, and then did so, “The copy of Mason Richards’ Academia’s Towering Failure: A Recollection and Analysis of the Monument?”

Jon shook his head.

“Ah, that’s alright, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Martin said, then began to rummage through the book boxes. Jon stood, and knelt down next to Martin, following suit. To be perfectly honest, Jon didn’t remember having this book at all, but that was true of most of the books Martin claimed they had. For the record, Jon also struggled to remember the day of the week and their address, so it’s not like he had anything against their books.

“I suppose I could email Richards again and ask for another copy, but that would be the third time we’ve had to do that. At this point, it’s more likely we have a book-eating monster than that either of us have repeatedly misplaced three copies and haven’t been able to find them since,” Martin said, chuckling. Jon stared at him deeply, so deeply that Martin grew visibly uneasy. Martin looked up, and said, “Uh, what are you looking at me like that for?”

Jon held a book, and bent his hands into claws before miming them eating the book, and then pointed around them with a quizzical look.

“I… Jon, there is not actually a book-eating monster in the bookstore. Unless we’re counting you, at which point, I would like to say that one, then I also count as a book-eating monster, and two, is Richards’ essay any good?” Martin said. Jon smirked, and shook his head before placing the book back down.

“Wait, wait, wait, Jon, Jon! Don’t put it back! That’s it!” Martin cried. Jon froze and lifted the book back up again, and looked at it. It had a very plain leather cover, and embossed so lightly as to not even really be readable on the spine it read “MASON RICHARDSON’S ACADEMIA’S TOWERING FAILURE.”

“Fantastic, Jon! Thank you so, so much!” Martin said, snatching the book from Jon’s hand and kissing him on the cheek before rushing out clumsily to return to their customer. Jon smiled, and put his hand where Martin had kissed him.

He tried to ignore the creaks in the walls that moved like steps. 

[mini-melo]

right, because i just want to write down my headcanons man, and @petrichormeraki reblogged my last post with an ouch in the tags and i'm very willing to make it hurt a little more.

also it is literally 2 am, my new bed is too hard to sleep on, and i'm still sleepy as shit, so this is in no way a quality post.

---

Nobody "found" Tommy, exactly. Things started going missing in small quantities, objects moved randomly, and there were remnants of a basement that Grian never built in his old hobbit hole.

When the pranks started, and the obnoxious laughter followed it, the hermits weren't surprised so much as they were relieved that they weren't going crazy. They still don't know who it is, but as long as they aren't just imagining things, they're fine.

Eventually, Tommy just... shows up.

Grian sees blond hair in his hobbit hole every once in a while, and it's much too tall to be Zedaph, so he investigates his old base. When he sees a lanky guy who's very much not Zed preparing what looks to be a chicken canon, Grian turns around and pretends he didn't see anything. He laughs when he wakes up the next day with said canon in the middle of his base, shooting chickens all around him.

Scar sees red dart into some shops now and then. He thought it was Grian, pranking hermits again, so he follows the red streak running around and finds a tall—boy? man? —guy rummaging around the chests in The Barge. It doesn't take long for Scar to realize this is the guy that's been taking from the shops. He was about to confront the mystery man when he realizes that the guy in red leaves something else in the chest, and it may not have been diamonds, but Scar knows enough about scuffed appearances to know this guy doesn't really have a home. Doesn't really have anything.

Mumbo catches glimpses of a tall figure hovering around the edges of his industrial district. He thought it was Xisuma, with the height and all, so he leaves it be until he finally sees the figure in full view, blond hair blowing in the wind as he just stares at the melon and pumpkin farm. The next day, Mumbo doesn't acknowledge him except for a shulker box full of melon and pumpkins in the exact same spot. When he finds it again, the box is empty except for some redstone and a note. "I wanted to try it but I don't know how, so here's your redstone back."

Tango changes his door's button to a lever, and he keeps hearing it open and close. He thinks it's Mumbo checking the redstone, or Grian pranking him again, so he goes down only to find a blond boy (not like he realizes until much, much later that this is a child) flicking his lever repeatedly, a relaxed air about him and a small grin on his lips. Tango leaves him be, and the next day puts the button back. He leaves levers, unconnected to anything, around his base, and smiles when hears delighted laughter followed by the flicking of a lever.

Beef makes new maps only to find cobblestone dicks already made in some parts of his map district. He thinks it's probably another Grian prank and just destroys them. Suddenly, he makes a map clear of anything and he starts flying there. The next moment, he looks at the map and there's a grey line in the middle. Beef encounters a tall blond (he looks young but so does Grian so he doesn't think about it) happily building a cobblestone dick when he gets there, and he can't help but feel a little guilty at the thought of having to tear it down. He leaves it up, makes another map to build on, and hangs the map with the cobblestone dick in Grian's old hobbit hole, where the mystery guy is supposedly staying. The next time Beef visits the map district, the area above the cobblestone dick is full of wool, obstructing it from the map and making it free for more wallapaper.

It all comes to a head when Xisuma checks the whitelist after one-too-many incidents and finds a glitched out name.

T̷̢̧̰͙̜̩̺̜̤̰̣̖̣̙͋̊̅̽̆̚͘͠ọ̷̗̮̯̺̪̤̬͖̗̌̌̍̀͗̒͗̚͘͠ͅm̸̡͓͎̦̠̲̫̯̓͒̍̔̍̌͗̐͆͊̀̅̀̔͘ḿ̶̛̫̯͖̰̤̗͋̃̄̓̆̓̇͛̍̅̏͝ÿ̵͙̙̯͙̈́I̷̲̫̞̠̮̒̂̒͘̚̕͝n̸̡̳̮̲̝̮͍̦̑͗̑̄͌͛͌̋̀̇͆͠n̴̖̄̓̋̀i̴͚̘͂͆̿̕͝ţ̵̞̪̬̯̠̮͈̬̮̼͈̠̥́͊͐̀̊̐̆̂͑͋̎́

He looks at the code and realizes that wherever this TommyInnit came from, it doesn't have a very good admin if this is what his internal code looks like. Xisuma tries to fix it, and succeeds. For the most part. The only thing he couldn't seem to touch was a line of code so glitched out that he couldn't read it at all.

After that, Tommy is seen a lot more. Everyone has just accepted this random guy that Xisuma hasn't kicked yet and collectively decides to let him be. He seems to be paying for his stuff now, although not with diamonds, but he's still trying.

Tommy, for his part, comes onto a peaceful server full of big buildings and redstone contraptions. He wants to destroy shit, destroy everything beautiful, but then he remembers Wilbur blowing up L'manberg, and Techno summong withers in L'manberg, and Dream blowing up Logstedshire, and Tommy can't bring himself to destroy the hard work of these so-called hermits. Instead, he watches and observes and steals just enough to survive. He sees Grian's pranks and just emulates the gremlin, and his very first prank was so harmless and subtle that people didn't notice until they hit their own furniture. Who knew moving stuff two inches to the right would be a great prank?

Somehow, Tommy becomes part of the hermits without even trying. He emulates Grian even more and makes a small starter base of his own. Mumbo leaves him some redstone in shulker boxes and he makes his own farms, and eventually he starts his own big base. It takes him so long, so many tears, so many tests, and so much energy, but when he's finally finished, about a year into his stay, the hermits throw him a party in the big dining area of his cobblestone textured castle.

And if the castle was vaguely dick shaped? Nobody needs to know it was intentional.

---

it isn't even that angsty, which is surprising.

anyway, i have so many thoughts about this and i might expand on some things eventually. maybe later today, or tomorrow. definitely when i've slept for more than 2 hours.

[hedgiwithapen]

Brion and Tara, role reversal.

Tara Markov clenched her fists. Anger was not good diplomacy, her tutor would have said.  Negotiations failed with a raised voice, because then all that was heard was volume, and not the point.  Her father would have ruffled her hair and called her a little lion kit. Sometimes, her mother would have said, righteous anger was what every hall needed, to be certain every voice was heard. They were not here, and she was. “How can you ask this?” she yelled, staring at the white-plate that filled in Nightwing’s mask. “Tara,” Brion’s voice, quiet with new hope, sounded so different than she had imagined it these last two years, memory distorting in silence. It echoed strangely on plaster and metal walls so far from the castle corridors. “It is alright.” “It is not alright!” she said, trying and failing to soften her tone, her voice like a quarry chisel. “It is not. I just got you back. After everything. You-- you should be able to go home. Gregor can arrange it. There will be an exception, for you.  Or you should be able to rest.” “I do not want to rest,” Brion said, looking at the heroes. Tara scuffed a foot, knowing why. Had they not all grown up sitting at Queen Perdita’s table at diplomatic functions, hearing the stories? She had harbored hope in heroes for two years, and had relished the camaraderie when her own powers--what should have made her the jewel of Markovia--had caused her banishment. And without them, she would never have saved her brother. But could they be this blind?  Brion had been pulled from the fighting ring  only hours ago, battered and bruised, after months of torment.  “My brother,  you may crave vengeance,” she said, heart cracking. “But I will get it for you.” “Tara, it’s his choice,” Artemis said. “He hasn’t had many of them lately.” “I know that!” Tars whirled, feeling the ground yearn to shift with her blood. She bid it be still.  “Of course I know that! It is my fault!” “Tara?” Brion asked, suddenly confused.

“Your guards were with me that night. If I had not insisted on going to see you, you would have been fine.” Tara could not turn to look at her brother. “And now nothing is fine. Please. I have to fight. I have to finish what has been done to our family, so that I can go home. I am not a little child any more.  You are not, either, I know. But … you--you should not have to fight any more.  Not when those people made you. Even if you want to, you should get a few days to rest, at least, before they ask you to fight. If any of us can have peace, you deserve…” she broke off, thinking of her family’s blood on cloth, and on stone, and on the arena floor.  It was not right. None of the heroes, watching, judging, spoke. The once-Princess Tara did not look away from their still faces,  not even when Brion’s hand touched her cheek. His palm was laced with new calluses. 

[junghelioseok]

clandestine. | 01

↳ forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ smut | fluff | brother’s best friend!au ◇ 10.3k [1/6]

notes: this fic was originally going to be a oneshot, but i changed my mind and decided i didn’t want to kill tumblr with a totally unnecessary 50k jk fic so 🤷🏻‍♀️ here is part one of a fic that 100% only came about because @puellaigmotum​ coerced me into it like 2 years ago (lmao rip 💀) and also bc i have zero self-control and am hopelessly h*rny for jungkook these days and don’t look at me i don’t wanna talk about it okay??? 🙈

warnings: jk’s massive noona kink, some ~under the table~ action, too much detail about jk’s dumb veiny arms probably, but at least he doesn’t have tattoos bc i started writing this before he got them and i don’t need to torture myself anymore than i already do!!!

⇢ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 

It’s always been easy to spot your brother in a crowd. Passengers flood off the train, jostling around you on their way to the station’s exit, but even in the swarm you can perfectly see Jimin’s golden head of hair bobbing its way toward you, a deep scowl etched across his face. “You’re late,” he says in lieu of a greeting, his honey brown eyes raking over your scuffed suitcase distastefully as he comes to a stop a few feet away.

“And you’re just as impatient as ever,” you retort, coming to a stop before him with your luggage in tow. “Think you can lord it over me since you can drive now?”

“Don’t forget that I’m your ride home,” Jimin scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I could just as easily leave you here to fend for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you tell him, raising a brow in silent challenge.

Jimin stares down at you unflinchingly, and you stare right back. The tension stretches between you, taut and heavy, until every passing second feels like a light year. Around you, the crowd slowly dissipates, but still you remain—two motionless statues locked in a wordless struggle. From somewhere overhead, a monotone voice announces the next train departure times.

Jimin’s mouth twitches. You blink, twice in quick succession.

And then your little brother breaks into a grin—one that’s so wide you fear his mouth may detach from his face entirely. An answering smile settles across your face as you watch him throw his head back, dissolving into laughter that you can’t help but echo.

“Damn it, Chim!” you say, instinctively grabbing onto his wrist when it looks like he might fall over. “Your poker face still sucks.”

“I’ve gotten better!” Jimin immediately defends. “I mean, you’ve got to admit that, right?”

“Nope.” You sigh and hold a hand over your head so you can measure your height against his ever-so-slightly taller frame. “Same old annoying kid I grew up with. Seriously, have you grown at all in the past year?”

“Whoa, too far, Noona.” Jimin takes ahold of both of your cheeks, pinching them affectionately. “You’re only a year older than me, you know. Besides, I’ve been taller than you for two years now!”

“I’m pretty sure hitting puberty at age seventeen isn’t something to be proud of,” you reply, pulling away from him with a mock grimace and giggling when he lets out an offended squeak. Playfully, you reach up to ruffle his hair, scrubbing your knuckles just a little too roughly against his skull.

“Noonaaa,” he complains, drawing out the last syllable until he runs out of air. “Jeez, you haven’t even been back for an hour yet and you’re already being mean to me. When do you go back to Seoul again?”

“Three weeks,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “But I can and will make these three weeks hell for you. Don’t test me.”

Jimin snickers and drapes his arm over your shoulders. He picks up your suitcase with the other hand, and you thank him with another, gentler hair ruffle as the two of you start toward the exit of the train station. “College hasn’t changed you one bit.”

“And senior year hasn’t changed you,” you say, letting him guide you outside and breathing in the balmy summer evening air. Jimin’s brow furrows as he tries to remember where he’s parked, and you kindly take your suitcase back when he nods decisively and heads toward the left side of the lot. “You excited to graduate?”

He sighs, fumbling in his pocket for the keys as the two of you approach the car. “It’s going to suck. Your ceremony was boring as hell last year.”

“Wow, rude.”

Jimin looks up from where he’s unlocking the driver’s side door. “Am I wrong, though?”

You flash him a grin as he unlocks the remaining doors, heaving your suitcase into the backseat before sliding into the passenger seat beside him. “Nope. But afterward, you’ll be done with high school forever.”

“Thank god.” Your brother rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it further as he carefully starts the ignition and checks his mirrors with all the diligence of a new driver. Once satisfied, he pulls out of the parking space, meandering his way out of the lot and onto the main street.

The ride back to your childhood home is a short one, full of familiar storefronts and landmarks that dredge up all sorts of fond memories. You hadn’t expected your first year of university—away from your family and your hometown—to make you quite so emotional. But before you know it, Jimin is making the turn into your neighborhood, and you can’t stop the way your eyes begin to well up when you see your house in the distance.

As if reading your mind, Jimin glances at you as he pulls into the driveway. “Feel good to be home?”

You nod, blinking back tears. “Feels great.”

He grins. Pulling the key from the ignition, he climbs out of the car and grabs your suitcase, waving for you to head inside. Eagerly, you start toward the front door, but you barely make it halfway up the driveway when it bursts open, revealing your father standing there with open arms and an enormous grin. He’s just as tall as you remember, and looks exactly the same save a few more strands of silver lacing his hair. All of a sudden, you’re a little girl again, running up to give him a hug and giggling madly when he tries to scoop you up like he used to do so many years ago.

“Hi Dad,” you greet when he gives up and sets you back down on two feet. “Where’s Mom?”

“Cooking up a storm,” he replies, chortling. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he leads you into the kitchen where your mother is hunched over the stove with a spatula, delicious aromas wafting up from the array of pots and pans in front of her. “Honey, look who’s home!”

“Hi Mom,” you say, grinning when she whirls around, startled. The spatula, still dangling loosely from her hand, drips sauce onto the tiled floor, but she barely notices in her eagerness to give you a hug, throwing it down into one of the simmering pots and striding forward to wrap you up in a tight embrace.

“How was your trip?” she asks, pulling back and angling your face this way and that. “Did you sleep on the ride? Did Jimin drive safely?”

The last question draws a protesting whine from your brother, who has lugged your suitcase over the threshold and is now seated at the dining table, fiddling with a spoon. “My driving was fine, right Noona?” he says, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout.

“Yes, Chim,” you agree, laughing at the pleased expression that overtakes his face. Curiously, you walk over to the stove to inspect the food, your jaw dropping as you take in the assorted vegetables and meats. “Wow, Mom. Are you cooking for an army?”

“Jungkook is coming over for dinner,” she explains, following you over and plucking up the spatula again. “That boy has the biggest appetite I’ve ever seen—you remember, right?”

You laugh. “Of course I remember. He and Jimin were always stealing bites of my lunch at school.” Peering over at your brother, you fix him with a mock glare before walking over to the cutting board on the counter and sizing up the pile of onions and peppers sitting there. “It’ll be nice to see him again, though. How is he doing?”

To your surprise, a new voice answers your question—a voice that somehow manages to be simultaneously familiar and foreign. “Why don’t you ask me directly, Noona?” it says, and you whirl around, wide-eyed, to face the newcomer.

This can’t possibly be Jeon Jungkook, is your first thought upon seeing the young man standing in the kitchen doorway. The Jungkook you knew in high school was a scrawny kid—all gangly limbs and a nose that was too big for his face. The Jungkook you knew wore oversized white t-shirts that made him look even younger than he was, a look that was only enhanced by round wire-rimmed glasses that always gave him a look of permanent astonishment. The Jungkook you knew was nowhere near this tall, and definitely not this broad.

But this Jungkook—this Jungkook takes up nearly the entire doorframe with his bulk. Dark eyes stare at you from beneath equally dark hair, his gaze unhindered by his old glasses. A cobalt blue shirt stretches tight over his chest, and you swallow when you notice just how much the buttons are straining to contain the muscle underneath. Black jeans and simple black sneakers complete his outfit, and the entire look is so jarringly different from what you’re used to that you are left momentarily speechless, gaping like a fish out of water. Vaguely, you wonder when he got his ears pierced.

And then Jungkook—or at least, the young man claiming to be Jungkook—takes three steps forward, his entire face melting into a crinkly-eyed grin. You catch a glimpse of the adorably prominent front teeth that always made him look like a rabbit, and that’s all it takes to break the spell.

“Jungkookie!” you exclaim, darting forward to greet him. “It’s been so long!”

“Hi, Noona,” he replies, his grin widening at your approach. In an instant, he has you wrapped up in an embrace, easily lifting you off the floor in a display of strength that would’ve had a lesser woman swooning. His hands curl firmly around your waist, and you have no choice but to wrap yours around his nape, squeaking in protest when he spins you in a full circle.

“Kookie!” you gasp, wriggling helplessly in his grasp and huffing when he only cackles. “Put me down!”

Obediently, Jungkook lowers you back to the ground. His hands linger on your waist until he’s certain that both your feet are planted firmly, and it’s only then that he pulls back to get a good look at your face. “You know I’d never drop you, right?” he asks innocently.

“As if I can trust anything that comes out of your mouth,” you retort with a laugh. “I’ve seen you scam your way out of detention with those pretty doe eyes. Don’t try me, kid.”

Jungkook snorts. “Kid? I’m not that much younger than you. Plus I’m older than Jimin, y’know.”

“By a month!” your brother protests from the dining room, his blond head popping up from behind the vase of daisies serving as a centerpiece.

“Month and a half,” Jungkook stage-whispers to you, cupping a hand and bringing his mouth to your ear conspiratorially. His breath tickles your cheek, and you swat him away with a giggle that becomes a full-on laugh when Jimin lets out an offended cry and rises to his feet. Striding over, he pokes Jungkook squarely in the chest, his eyes narrowed.

“I invite you over to my house and this is the thanks I get?”

Your dad chooses that moment to interrupt from the living room. “Your house? When exactly did you start paying rent, Jimin?”

Jimin’s jaw drops. “Are you taking his side?” he asks in disbelief, glaring at Jungkook when he starts laughing. “I’m your son!”

“I’m your father,” your dad replies.

“And I’m your mother,” your mom pipes up, brandishing a spoon. “And I’m telling all of you to get your butts over to that dining table in the next ten seconds, or no dinner for any of you.”

Your dad, Jimin, and Jungkook immediately fall silent, cowed by her proclamation. Grinning, you join your mother at the counter, grabbing a handful of spoons and accepting the platter of kimchi she hands over. “Direct as always, Mom.”

She laughs and picks up a bowl of rice. “To deal with men like them? You have to be.”

Food in hand, you make your way into the dining room. The table is set, the steaming food arranged neatly in the center, and you watch as your mother takes her seat next to Jimin and leaves you to sit beside Jungkook on the opposite side. Your father beams from his spot at the head of the table, glancing at each of you in turn before turning and giving your shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

“Look at you kids, all sitting at the same table again.” He sighs, and you’re certain that he’s thinking back to the last time all of you were together—well over a year ago, at this point. “It’s a shame that your parents couldn’t join us, though, Jungkook.”

Jungkook nods. “Yeah, they told me to apologize on their behalf. They have tickets for the theatre tonight, and couldn’t get a refund on them.”

Your father laughs and waves the apology off. “I’m sure we’ll catch them next time,” he says. “Pretty hard to avoid each other when you live next door, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Jungkook agrees with a chuckle. Then he turns to you, the silver hoops in his ears glinting in the light from the overhead chandelier. “I’m sure they’ll drop by soon to see you, Noona. Mom wants to hear all about Seoul—I think she’s worried about sending me so far away by myself.”

“Junghyun stayed in Busan for university, didn’t he?” your mom asks.

Jungkook nods. “Yep, he still lives downtown and everything. He wanted to come over tonight, but his work wouldn’t let him take the time off.”

Your mom sighs. “That’s such a shame. Is he at least attending your graduation?”

“He’s driving in the day after tomorrow for the ceremony,” Jungkook confirms. Then he pauses, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His gaze flickers down to the plate of sweet potatoes on the other side of the table, and before he can even open his mouth, your mother is already passing him the plate. He thanks her with an embarrassed chuckle but digs into the food nonetheless, and everyone else takes it as a sign to follow suit. You’re in the middle of scooping rice into your bowl when Jimin speaks up again.

“So what’s it like living in Seoul?” he asks, his cheeks bulging with pork belly. “You have roommates, right?”

“Suitemates,” you correct. “But yeah, I live with three other people. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jennie are all great though, so it hasn’t been a problem.”

Jungkook pauses mid-chew to gape at you. “You live with guys?”

“My building’s co-ed,” you explain. “We all have separate bedrooms, but we share a common space and bathrooms.”

Your mother—on the lookout for any potential future grandchildren, as always—perks up. “Namjoon and Hoseok sound like nice boys. Are you friends?”

“Yes, Mom,” you sigh. “We’re friends. Just friends.” And then before she can ask about whether or not any other boys have caught your eye, you quickly turn back to your brother. “So, what’s your plan for next year? Are you and Jungkook living together?”

Jimin hums. “Yep, that’s the plan. Unless you want to live with us too, Noona.”

You laugh. “Why, so I can protect you from all the bullies like I did in elementary school?”

He flashes you a cheeky grin. “More like so I can protect you from all the weird college guys. Who’s this Hoseok guy anyway? Do I need to beat him up?”

“Please don’t beat up Hobi,” you entreaty, giggling when he pretends to crack his knuckles. “Or Joon!” you add quickly when he remains undeterred and makes to stand up from the table to defend your honor. Balling up your napkin, you throw it at him, and both of you burst into hysterics when your makeshift weapon bounces off his forehead and straight into his glass of water. The rest of dinner passes in a haze of similarly playful antics and happy chatter, and by the time the last bowl is scraped clean, it feels as if you’d never even left.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you volunteer, standing up and gathering up the empty platters. Jungkook and Jimin are quick to jump to your aid, collecting any utensils that you missed, and you offer them a grateful smile as they follow you into the kitchen.

“Let me do the washing, Noona.” Jungkook rolls up the sleeves of his cobalt blue shirt to expose a familiar silver watch glinting on his left wrist—a watch that his father handed down to him when he was sixteen, and that had been worn by his grandfather before him. You still remember the day he’d first worn it to school, proudly displaying it even though the band was too loose around his narrow wrist.

He’s grown into it now, you realize. The watch no longer flops around like it used to, and sits snugly in place instead. Your eyes trace the silver buckle on the inside of his wrist before trailing up to follow the network of thin, branching veins in his forearm, admiring the smooth flex of muscle as he grabs a sponge from the wire rack hanging above the sink and squirts some dish soap onto the surface.

“I’ll dry,” Jimin chirps, selecting a towel and brandishing it. “Noona, do you want to help me? We’ll finish faster that way.”

Nodding, you pull another towel out from the drawer and rejoin the two boys at the sink. Jungkook washes quickly and efficiently, and you determinedly avoid staring at the way water trickles along the patchwork veins on his hands as he gives you bowl after bowl to dry.

It doesn’t take long for all the dishes to be washed and dried. The three of you take the time to put them back into the proper cabinets before bidding your parents a good night, heading out onto the back porch. Falling back into old routines feels like second nature, so you plop down onto the steps without hesitation and grin when Jungkook takes a seat beside you.

“Wait, I almost forgot!” Jimin exclaims, bouncing up from where he was beginning to sit down next to Jungkook. “I bought some beer earlier and left it in the trunk. Be right back!”

You watch your brother run off, his floppy blond hair a stark contrast with the deep blue evening sky. In seconds, he’s disappeared around the corner of the house, leaving you and Jungkook alone on the porch steps.

“Chim really hasn’t changed one bit,” you remark with a laugh, turning toward your dark-haired companion.

Jungkook chuckles. “The kid loves his alcohol, that’s for sure.”

“Please.” You elbow him in the ribs. “I know you’re just as bad as he is.”

“Maybe,” he concedes with another chuckle. “But come on, Noona, you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy a drink every now and then. What about all that college stress?”

You hum, leaning back on your hands and staring up at the sky where the full moon is just beginning to rise, surrounded by a smattering of stars peeking through the velvety darkness of night. “I never said that I didn’t enjoy a drink, or five.” Jungkook laughs at your remark, and you smile before letting out a soft sigh. “I’m glad Jimin got the beer, though. Maybe I’ll finally be able to stop stressing out about my internship.”

That sobers Jungkook up immediately, his eyes widening as he peers down at you and lays a gentle hand on your back. “Are you still worried? You already got the job, didn’t you?”

You nod slowly, thinking back to the job offer that you had accepted at the end of the semester. It had been difficult finding a company in your desired field that offered internships to first-year students, but with dogged persistence and a lot of luck, you’d managed to snag a summer position. It isn’t due to start for another three weeks, however, and while you’re grateful for the chance to visit your family, part of you also wishes that you didn’t have to wait such a long time. “I just have no idea what to expect, you know? The only jobs I’ve ever had were in retail and food service, and that was all ages ago. I don’t feel ready at all.”

A strong arm settles across your shoulders, and you look up to see Jungkook gazing down at you with something indiscernible sparkling in his deep brown eyes. “You’re gonna be amazing,” he murmurs, his voice whisper-soft. “You know that, right? You always are. This won’t be any different.”

And you believe him. Every detail of his face is bathed in silvery moonlight—the gentle slope of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the little scar high on his cheekbone—and you wonder how you never realized how handsome he is before now. And maybe it’s the low, soothing timbre of his voice, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you—with unspeakable tenderness and gentle affection glimmering in his irises—but you lean in before you can even realize what you’re doing. You don’t look away, and neither does he.

Jungkook’s gaze drops, trailing down the slope of your cheeks until it lands on the curve of your mouth. He hesitates for a split second, his throat bobbing harshly as he swallows and sucks in a breath.

And then his lips are pressing against yours—soft and tentative and just a little bit chapped. Your eyes flutter shut almost on instinct, your body relaxing as he shifts and pulls you a little more firmly against him. Slowly, his arm finds its way to the curve of your waist and settles there. Your fingers curl around his nape, carding through his silky hair.

It’s only when Jungkook’s tongue darts out to run along the seam of your lips that reality comes crashing back down, your stomach plummeting down to somewhere around your toes as you wrench away from his embrace. “Kookie!” you gasp, your breathing labored. “We can’t!”

Jungkook blinks, momentarily entrancing you with the way the stars reflect in his gaze like glittering diamonds. “Why not?” he asks, reaching out for you again. “You kissed me back, didn’t you?”

Squeaking, you bat his hands away. “Jungkook, no! We can’t! You’re Jimin’s best friend, and god, this is all kinds of weird, and—“

The dark-haired young man looks like he wants to protest more, but the sound of footsteps coming back around the house sends both of you scooting back to your original positions on the porch steps. Jimin appears two seconds later, plopping down beside Jungkook cheerfully and dropping a six-pack of beer at his feet.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to the tension lingering in the air as he pops open a bottle and hands it to you.

“Nothing,” you say immediately, accepting the proffered beer. The cool glass bottle is a welcome relief, and you hurriedly take a long sip when your mind unwillingly begins to wander back to just how warm and soft your dark-haired companion’s lips had been.

Jungkook is much slower to respond to Jimin’s question. His shoulders slump as he reaches down to grab a drink of his own, twisting the cap open viciously and taking a swig. “Yeah,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing at all.”

Luck must be on your side, because Jimin doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as he grabs a beer for himself and flops backward, resting his weight on his elbows as he gazes up at the night sky. “It’s nice out,” he remarks, looking utterly at ease.

You are anything but. Beside you, Jungkook is sipping pensively on his beer, and you are painfully aware of the heat radiating off his body. Jimin is still chattering away, rambling about whatever pops into his head, and you take the opportunity to sneak a glance at Jungkook. His face is cast in silvery luminescence from the moon, his mouth pulled down into a deep, contemplative frown—and you are once again forced to shake off thoughts of how nice it felt to have his mouth pressed against yours.

This is Jeon Jungkook, you tell yourself sternly. Friend, neighbor, and Jimin’s best friend in the entire universe. You kissed him, sure, but it was a mistake. A moment of weakness. And it won’t happen again.

You repeat that over and over, silently reciting it in your head like a mantra, until, at last, you finally start to believe it.

///

You’re in the middle of brewing a fresh pot of coffee after a lazy morning spent sleeping in when you spot Jungkook outside through the kitchen window. He’s standing in the yard in a sleeveless white tee, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand as he thoughtfully regards the row of hedges that serves as the property line between your house and the Jeons’ house next door. In his other hand is a shovel, and you can’t help the way your gaze automatically traces his exposed biceps, admiring the way they flex when he finally selects a spot and begins digging.

“Is the coffee done yet, Noona?”

Jimin’s voice yanks your attention away from your gardening neighbor, your vision overtaken by a mess of fluffy blond bedhead as he sneaks into the space between you and the counter and obnoxiously cuts you off from the pot of fresh brew. “Hey!” you protest, but Jimin just gives you a cheeky wink before grabbing a mug and pouring out a generous helping of piping hot coffee. After a moment’s thought, he pours you a mug as well, handing it over with an exaggerated bow.

You roll your eyes, but accept the warm cup nonetheless. Following him into the living room, you make yourself comfortable on the couch as he flops down onto the carpeted floor and turns on the television. Idly, he begins flipping through the channels in search for something to watch, and you endure random snippets of the morning news, a cheesy soap opera, and a series of infomercials before sighing and rising to your feet again. “I’m getting some food. Want some toast, Chimchim?”

“Mmm. Sure.”

Slowly, you meander your way back into the kitchen. Your mother is standing at the counter stirring sugar into her coffee, and you smile as you walk up to join her. “Morning, Mom.”

“Good morning, sweetie,” she says, taking a careful sip of her drink. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log,” you reply with a grin. Grabbing the loaf of bread off the counter, you pull out a few slices and shove them in the toaster. “Do you want toast? I’m making some for me and Chimchim.”

“Just one slice for me,” she says, opening up the dish cabinet and pulling out three plates. Obligingly, you hand her one of the two freshly toasted slices and drop the other onto your plate. Popping some more bread into the toaster, you’re just about to grab the jam from the fridge when there’s a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Jimin yells from the living room. You hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway and the low creak of the front door as it swings open—and then your brother is snorting out a laugh at whoever is on your doorstep. “Dude, why are you covered in dirt?”

You’re beginning to have a sneaking suspicion as to who your guest is, and it’s confirmed when your brother’s question is answered.

“I’m helping Mom plant some hydrangeas out back,” Jungkook’s voice explains, his tall figure stepping into view a moment later. “Can you come help me lift the bushes?”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “You could’ve just texted me.”

“Who knows if you would’ve answered?” Jungkook asks, laughing. “Knowing you, you’d just leave me on read. Besides—” and here he glances over at you, dark eyes glimmering with an emotion that you can’t quite pinpoint, “—I wouldn’t get to see two of my favorite ladies if I didn’t stop by.”

Jimin pretends to vomit at the line, but your mother laughs delightedly as Jungkook takes another step into the foyer and flashes her a winning grin. “Good morning, Jungkookie,” she greets him. “Have you eaten breakfast yet? {Name} was just making some toast, and we’ve got fresh coffee.”

Jungkook’s gaze slides over to you again, taking in the flannel pajama pants and oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. “Thanks, Mrs. Park,” he says, though his eyes never leave yours. “I ate already, but coffee sounds wonderful.”

You are beginning to feel increasingly vulnerable as Jungkook continues looking unblinkingly in your direction. Thankfully, your mom pipes up, drawing his attention away with a decisive clap of her hands. “Coffee it is, then!” she says brightly. “{Name}, why don’t you grab Jungkook a cup?”

Hurriedly, you turn toward the cabinets, trying your best to ignore Jungkook as he chats comfortably with your family. Your success is limited though, and you can feel his penetrating stare lingering on your back even as you fetch a mug and fill it up to the brim.

“Noona.” Jungkook’s voice comes from behind you, much closer than you remember him being. “Can I have some cream and sugar, please?”

Somehow, you manage to reply without stammering. “Yeah. Sure.” Dumping some of the excess coffee into the sink, you spoon in some sugar and give it a quick stir. Just as you turn toward the refrigerator for the cream, a strong arm cuts you off.

“I got it, Noona,” Jungkook murmurs, backing you up against the counter as he tucks the little white carton into your outstretched hand. His proximity has your heart skipping several beats, and you almost drop the carton entirely when he speaks again in a husky whisper, his mouth at the shell of your ear. “Just a little bit, please.”

You are acutely aware of the heat radiating off of his body, warming your back and flushing your cheeks. Quietly, you open up the carton and pour a splash of cream into his mug, the swirl of white melding with the dark liquid within. “Is—is that enough?”

Jungkook reaches around you to open up the silverware drawer, grabbing a spoon and giving the coffee a stir. “That’s perfect,” he purrs, his hot breath stirring gooseflesh on the back of your neck.

This close to him, it’s easy to forget where you are and who you’re with, but you somehow manage to regain enough of your senses to wrench away and reclaim your personal space. “G-great,” you stammer, picking up the mug and shoving it into his hands, determinedly ignoring the ripple of his arm muscles as he accepts. “Um. Chim. Did you want your toast?”

“Yes, please,” Jimin says, barely glancing up from where he’s made himself comfortable at the kitchen island, idly playing on his phone.

Your mother pokes her head around the doorframe of the adjoining laundry room, where she has clearly started a fresh load if the sound of splashing water is anything to go by. “Don’t make your sister do all of the work, Jimin. Go help her—it’s your food, isn’t it?”

Obligingly, Jimin hops off the stool and grabs his favorite jar of jam, joining you at the counter. He takes the slice of toast you offer him, slathering it messily and taking an enormous bite. “Thanks for breakfast, Noona,” he says, blowing you an exaggerated kiss. “Ready, Kook?”

Jungkook raises his mug of coffee in acknowledgement. “Ready.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, twinkling with silent mirth. “And Noona—thanks. The coffee’s delicious.”

You can’t find the words to answer. Silently, you watch him disappear out the front door with Jimin, following his dark head of hair as it bobs across the yard. His biceps flex as he gestures for Jimin to help him lift a hydrangea bush, and your eyes linger on the stretch of defined muscle, tracing the network of prominent veins running along his forearm before your brain can caution you to stop. It’s almost as if you’re on autopilot, and by the time you zone back in, your gaze has wandered too far south for your liking. Letting out an audible groan, you tear your eyes away from the mouthwatering view of his thick thighs and return to your now-cold breakfast. And you don’t think about Jeon Jungkook again, pushing the image of his broad shoulders and handsome face into the darkest recesses of your mind.

Or at least, that was the plan. Jimin comes back inside after about an hour, tracking mud through half the house before your mother reprimands him and orders him to take off his shoes. Jungkook, thankfully, chose to return to his own home as well, and you immediately banish the thought of him showering off all the sweat and grime that has no doubt accumulated on his toned body. You shove away the mental image of water slicking his golden skin and collecting in the hollows of his collarbones, and when your mind conjures up pictures of what lies south of his waist, you resist the urge to scream into the pile of freshly laundered pillowcases your mom presses into your arms.

You’re just about to head upstairs to scream into a real pillow when there’s another knock on your front door—a familiar cadence that you heard just this morning. And that’s when you realize—to your complete and utter dismay—that Jeon Jungkook isn’t done tormenting you yet. Not by a long shot.

“You again? You do realize that this isn’t your house, right?” you ask, swinging open the door and thanking whatever gods may be out there that your voice remains steady. Then you raise a brow, glancing down at his change in attire. “Wait, why are you wearing a suit?”

Jungkook gives you an infuriatingly impish grin. “Do I need a reason?” His hair is still damp from the shower, a stray lock flopping down across his forehead, and as you watch him brush it away absently, you notice that he’s holding something in his free hand.

“What’s that?” you ask curiously.

Footsteps sound from behind you, interrupting before he can answer. “Jungkookie?” your mother asks, appearing at the foot of the stairs. “I thought I heard your voice. Are you here for Jimin again?”

Jungkook flashes her a winning smile and raises the garment bag he’s holding. “No, I was actually hoping to get some advice. I’ve got my suit ready to go for graduation tomorrow, but I can’t decide which shirt looks better. My mom likes how I look in blue, but I wanted a second opinion from you and Noona.”

To your utter annoyance, your mother coos and gestures for him to come in. He’s already wearing the blue shirt—a pale periwinkle one that reminds you of a cloudless day—but your mom takes the garment bag out of his hand and unzips it to look inside. “What are your options?” she asks.

“Blue, red, and yellow,” Jungkook replies, pulling each shirt off its hanger and holding them up to his chest in turn. “What do you think, Mrs. Park?”

“The blue is lovely,” your mom says thoughtfully, straightening his collar. “But this shade of yellow looks nice too. A handsome young man like you—you really can’t go wrong with any of these.”

Jungkook grins and scratches behind his ear, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Thanks, Mrs. Park.”

The dryer chooses that moment to beep shrilly, signalling the end of its cycle, and your mother darts off to tend to it, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the living room.

“What about you, Noona?” Jungkook asks, just as you’re about to try and sneak out under the pretense of helping with the laundry. “Which shirt do you like?”

“Does it matter?” you ask. “It’s just going to be hidden underneath those horrible black trash bags they make you wear.”

He laughs. “Sure, but what about before and after? You know my mom’s going to want to take a million pictures.”

“Can’t argue there.” Resigning yourself to your fate, you put your stack of clean pillowcases down on the arm of the couch and cross your arms over your chest. “Show them to me again?”

Jungkook raises the yellow shirt, holding it up for a few seconds before swapping it out for the red. “Well?”

You pause to consider it. “Red,” you decide after some deliberation, pointing at your choice. It’s a deep crimson color—almost burgundy—and you rub the silky material between your fingertips before taking it and replacing it onto its hanger. Jungkook joins you with the yellow shirt, his arm bumping into yours as you both reach for the garment bag, and even though you flinch away from the contact, Jungkook doesn’t let you stray very far. A strong hand clamps down around your forearm, and you inhale sharply when he backs you up against the wall and cages you in with his solid body.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Jungkook looks thoroughly unfazed as he blinks a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Jungkook—” you hiss, struggling to see over his shoulder if your mother has returned. “Get off me.”

“Come on, Noona,” Jungkook murmurs. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. Ever since you got back—ever since we kissed—”

“A mistake,” you say, cutting him off with a finger to the lips and glancing around furtively to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “That was a mistake.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Was it? Because I really wanted to kiss you, and I’m pretty sure you wanted to kiss me too. You kissed back, didn’t you?”

“Y-you—“ You clear your throat and try again, cringing at how shaky your voice comes out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Jungkook simply laughs. “Don’t I?” He inches closer until you’re chest to chest, his gaze darkening as it flickers downward and lands on your mouth. Your heartbeat quickens, thudding erratically in your ribcage. It would be so easy to push to your tiptoes and close the distance between your lips.

“God,” you huff. “You’re so—”

His other eyebrow rises to join the first. “I’m so—?” he presses, tilting his head as he awaits your answer. The loose lock of hair flops across his forehead again, and this time you cannot stop yourself from reaching up to brush it away.

“Shut up,” you hiss as your fingers drop down to wind into the soft hair at his nape. “Just shut up.”

And then you’re kissing him—really, really kissing him—pulling him down to your level and sliding your free hand up his infuriatingly toned chest.

“See?” Jungkook’s lips curl up into a smug smirk as he pulls away slightly, his warm breath fanning across your cheeks with every word. “I knew you were into me.”

“God, do you ever stop talking?” you retort, pushing him back until you have enough room to switch your positions and maneuver him against the wall.

Jungkook lets you pin him in place, blinking down at you lazily with his mouth still stretched into that maddening little smirk. “Only if you make me, Noona.” His hands slide down your sides, coming to a stop at your hips in an ironclad grip. “Only if you kiss me like that again.”

So you do. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you crush your mouth to his, and when his lips part you slip your tongue inside. Jungkook—still smirking—relaxes and lets you take control of the kiss, but his hands continue to wander. Before you know it, he’s already snuck underneath the hem of your shirt, rubbing warm circles into the soft skin of your waist. His lips move languidly against yours, his tongue careful and gentle in its exploration of your mouth, and you sigh when he tugs you closer. You’re pressed flush against him by this point, pinning him between your body and the wall, and neither you nor he have any intent to move anytime soon.

The sudden slamming of a door jerks you back to reality. Here you are, standing in the living room where anyone could walk by and see you kissing your brother’s best friend—again. Shakily, you pull away from Jungkook with your heart in your throat, putting as much space as you possibly can between your bodies. “Fuck,” you mutter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We can’t do this.”

Jungkook’s chest is heaving, his lips swollen and red. “{Name}—” he tries, but you shake your head and cut him off before he can continue.

“You need to leave,” you whisper.

“But—”

“Please,” you say, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. “Please, Jungkook. Just leave.”

Jungkook swallows, hard. And then, much to your relief, he picks up his garment bag, shoving both shirts back inside. “Okay,” he rasps. “I’ll go.”

Elsewhere in the house, you can hear your mother calling for Jimin. Your father is watching TV in his study—you can hear the low hum of voices and a laugh track. Your entire family is here.

And yet, you’ve never felt more alone as you watch Jungkook stride down the hallway and disappear out the front door.

///

Returning to your high school is odd. The hallways and classrooms are familiar, but they all seem smaller than you remember. And were the ceilings always this short? You aren’t sure. What you are sure of, however, is that Jungkook and his family are currently headed your way, with beaming smiles on their faces and colorful flower bouquets in hand. Greetings and congratulations are exchanged, and it isn’t long before you are face-to-face with Jungkook himself, a tight smile on his face as he meets your eyes.

“Hi, Noona.”

“Hi,” you reply. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Now that the graduation ceremony is over, he’s taken off his robe to reveal the red shirt underneath. The silky material drapes over his torso and clings to the toned planes of his chest, and your fingers itch to run across the defined muscle. Swallowing down the urge, you instead gesture toward his parents, who are engaged in deep conversation with your own parents while Jimin chats with Junghyun off to the side. “I guess we’re all getting dinner after this, huh?”

He nods. “Yeah, at that one place downtow—“

“Jungkook! Jimin!” A feminine voice interrupts him mid-sentence, and you watch in surprise as both your brother and Jungkook are suddenly engulfed in a massive tangle of limbs. Immediately, you recognize Jisoo and Lisa—two girls you considered casual friends from your own high school days. The third girl in the trio of friends—Chaeyoung—is noticeably absent, but you don’t get a chance to question her whereabouts. “Can you believe it? We’re graduates!” Lisa is saying excitedly, still clutching tightly onto Jungkook’s shoulders. She’s pressed flush against him, her chest molded to his, and the sudden rush of jealousy that takes root in the pit of your stomach takes you aback with its ferocity.

Calm the fuck down, you instruct your pounding heart. Stop it, right now.

“Has Tae told you about the party tomorrow night?” Jisoo asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You guys better be there—and that means you, too, {Name}! It’s been forever since we’ve seen you!”

You clear your throat and attempt to smile. “Yeah, it’s been way too long. It’ll be nice to finally catch up.” Unwillingly, your gaze flickers back over to Jungkook and Lisa, doing your best to maintain a neutral expression when you notice the casual way his arm drapes over her shoulders.

Your attempts are in vain. Jungkook notices your stare immediately, a massive shit-eating grin spreading across his face. One eyebrow rises in a silent taunt, and you swear his grip around her tightens. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you instead turn back to Jisoo, finally voicing the question that’s on your mind.

“So, where’s Chaeyoung? I saw her during the ceremony, but haven’t seen her around since. She didn’t leave already, did she?”

“No, she’s still here,” Jisoo answers, exchanging a look with Lisa. Curiosity piqued, you watch her gaze dart over to Jungkook for a split second before returning to you, a tiny smile gracing her face once more. “She’s with her family right now, but she’ll be at the party tomorrow.”

“I’ll congratulate her there, then,” you say, returning her smile with one of her own. Silently, you wonder at the uneasy glance the two girls had exchanged, but decide not to press it, chalking it up to some senior year drama that isn’t any of your business.

“Well, we should probably get going,” Jisoo says after another beat. “We’re off to dinner.”

“We should be on our way too,” you agree, glancing over at where your parents are still chatting, having absorbed Junghyun into their conversation at some point. Bidding the two girls goodbye, you sidle over to join them, trying your best to subtly nudge your parents toward the door.

After what feels like an eternity, your parents finally decide that they’re ready for a change in scenery. The drive to the restaurant is blessedly short, much to the relief of your grumbling stomach, and you are more than grateful for the brief reprieve from Jungkook and his knowing smirk. It doesn’t last long, however, and you mentally brace yourself when you spot the Jeons’ car in the parking lot of the restaurant. Upon entering, you are quickly ushered to your reserved table where the Jeons are already waiting, and somehow in the shuffle you end up right between Jungkook and Junghyun, the former’s face dissolving into a satisfied grin as he watches you sit down.

Then he turns to Jimin, who’s seated on his other side. “Hey, man.”

You bristle at the blatant way he’s ignoring you. But two can play at that game, so you turn to Junghyun with a winning smile, laying a hand on his shoulder for good measure. The older Jeon brother is four years your senior, but despite the age difference, you’ve always gotten along well.

“Junghyun, I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been?”

The elder Jeon grins and leans in to give you a hug. “Good, good—work’s insane, but that’s old news. What about you? How’s school going so far?”

You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, hot and heavy. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle under the weight of it, and you resist the urge to shiver. Instead, you give Junghyun’s bicep a final squeeze before pulling away, steadfastly ignoring the way Jungkook lets out a disgruntled hiss from between his teeth.

“School is good,” you tell Junghyun. “I’m trying to get all my general requirements out of the way early, so my first semester wasn’t very interesting. I took some more focused classes in the second, though, which made things infinitely better.”

The elder Jeon laughs. “Guess that means you’re on the right track then, huh?”

“Guess so,” you reply, laughing right along with him.

The server stops by to take drink orders, and your parents take it upon themselves to order food for the table as well. You continue chatting amicably with Junghyun as the server returns with a tray of water, sodas, and soju; beside you, Jungkook does the same with Jimin. The only break in conversation comes when the server—a pretty girl with a chirpy voice and a nametag that reads ‘Mina’—leans over to set a glass of Coke down in front of Jungkook. He thanks her with a crooked smirk and a low purr of gratitude that has her cheeks flushing pink, and it’s all you can do not to gape at him like a fish. The flirtatious quirk of his lips, the seductive tone—it all comes far too naturally to him, and you wonder for a moment just where the old Jungkook has gone. The Jungkook you used to know stammered every time he had to talk to an unfamiliar girl, and had trouble looking even you in the eye despite having known you since grade school.

But now, he’s nowhere to be found. The young man sitting beside you remains as calm as can be, shifting his body toward Mina so that he can request a straw.

“Of course, here you go!” Mina’s gaze lingers on his hand as he accepts the proffered straw, eyes widening when his fingers brush against hers lightly.

“Fast service,” Jungkook remarks, his voice dipping into a low, indolent drawl. “I like that.”

Mina giggles and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’s clearly about to respond to him—flirt right back, undoubtedly—but your father stands up and taps his glass with a spoon before she can open her mouth. “I want to make a toast,” he says, and you send him a silent, heartfelt thank you when Mina wisely chooses to make herself scarce. “Congratulations to Jungkook and Jimin, our two rad grads!”

An audible groan rises up from your side of the table, where Jimin has buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god, Dad.”

“What?” your father asks innocently. “I really think you’re rad, grad!”

Jimin groans again, muffled by the sleeves of his jacket. “I want the earth to swallow me whole.”

Laughter all around. More toasts are given, and the bottles of soju scattered around the table slowly dwindle down to their last dregs. Junghyun picks up the one closest to him and fills up your glass for the fourth time, drawing a protesting whine from your lips as you try to cut him off. “Wait, that’s not fair! Pour some for yourself too!”

“Relax, we can always order more,” Junghyun says with a laugh, topping off your glass before glancing around to find Mina. Much to your irritation, she’s already headed your way, bearing loaded platters of meat and vegetables and wearing a bright smile that seems to only be directed to Jungkook.

“I hope you’re all hungry!” she chirps, coming to a stop between you and the subject of her affections. You swear she shoots you a dirty look over her shoulder before turning back to the table, her cheerful facade back in place as she smiles at Jungkook. “Where did you want me to put the meat?”

“Anywhere it’ll fit,” Jungkook tells her with a suggestive smirk, keeping his voice soft enough so that only you and she can hear.

Mina cannot hide her answering smile. Likewise, you cannot hide the way your nostrils flare, throat bobbing as you swallow down the ugly feelings bubbling up in your chest. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze roving across your skin, but you refuse to look at him, stubbornly facing the front as Mina distributes food around the table. As soon as she’s departed again—her fingers brushing across the back of Jungkook’s chair in the process—you’re up and out of your seat, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit.

“Restroom,” you say shortly by way of explanation. It’s thankfully empty when you arrive, and you immediately make a beeline toward the sink to splash some cold water on your cheeks.

It’s absurd—this snaking jealousy coiling in your belly and winding up between the slats of your ribcage. Straightening up, you give your reflection in the mirror a stern look, silently willing the feelings in your chest to abate. Gradually, your heartbeat slows into a regular rhythm, your cheeks cooling, and after waiting another two minutes, you decide that it’s been long enough. Drying off your hands, you exit the restroom and wind your way back to the table, keeping your pace leisurely even when Jungkook looks up and catches your eye. His expression is unreadable, and you valiantly ignore his burning gaze as you take a seat.

“How is everything?” you ask Junghyun, picking up a spoon and piling your plate with food from the nearest platter.

Junghyun pauses mid-bite to answer. His mouth opens, but you don’t catch his answer because there is a sudden, heavy weight on your knee. A warm palm caresses the skin exposed by the hem of your dress, slow and sensual and deliberate. Your eyes widen and your lips part, but no sound escapes. The rest of the table’s occupants fade away into the background, conversations and laughter dulling into a low drone. Beside you, Junghyun is still talking, but all you can hear is blood rushing through your ears.

And on your other side, Jungkook is smirking.

The bastard.

Gentle fingertips skim along your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your entire body stiffens, but Jungkook refuses to relent. He’s still chatting with Jimin, chuckling at a joke you didn’t hear, and you wonder how he can remain so calm when you are anything but. Your heart takes off in a sprint, clattering wildly against your ribcage, and for a few moments you are absolutely positive that everyone at the table can hear. Any moment, one of your parents will look over and see how wide your eyes are and how warm your cheeks feel. Any moment, Jimin will look down and see his best friend’s arm snaking beneath the table and realize what’s happening.

And then Jungkook squeezes your thigh, and all thought flies out of your head, dissipating like fog in the sunlight. He’s growing increasingly bold, his fingers trailing up until he can trace the hem of your dress, teasing at the soft material. Your breath hitches in your throat, and Jungkook’s smirk widens. You can see him out of the corner of your eye, trying to hide his smugness behind his soju glass, and for a moment you’re tempted to throw his drink in his face.

But more than that—more than anything else right now—you want him to continue touching you.

He’s sliding beneath your dress now, inching down to the delicate skin of your inner thigh and tracing nonsensical patterns there. You grip the edge of the table as he trails closer and closer to the lace of your panties, knuckles turning white against the dark wood. It’s a wonder no one has noticed your flustered state yet, and you cast concerned glances at Junghyun and Jimin before Jungkook notices your inattention. Punishingly, he slides a single finger into your panties, snapping the lace against your skin and covering the sound with a cough that he buries in his elbow. He can’t hide the way you jolt in your seat though, your knee thudding against the table. Junghyun gives you a worried look, laying a hand on your shoulder as he asks if you’re okay, and you hurriedly nod. And underneath the table, Jungkook resumes his ministrations, languorous and soft and deliberately avoiding the place you need him most, as if he has all the time in the world.

There’s a growing damp spot between your legs. You can feel it seeping through the cottony material of your panties, sticking uncomfortably to your folds. Jungkook’s touch is whisper-soft, caressing along your thigh until your skin is tingling, and it’s all you can do to swallow down the whimper that’s bubbling up in your throat. He’s thoroughly enjoying this—you can tell—and you’re certain he can feel the way you tense up when he suddenly drags a single finger up your clothed slit. A low hiss escapes your parted lips, and in an instant, all eyes are on you.

“Noona?” Jimin asks curiously. “Something wrong?”

“I—” Your mind whirs, searching for an excuse. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. The, uh, sauce was just spicier than I was expecting it to be.”

You haven’t touched a single thing on your plate in minutes, but no one seems to notice your obvious lie. Conversation resumes, and you determinedly pick up your spoon again, intent on getting something more substantial in your belly than the fluttering butterflies that have taken up residence there.

“You sure you want to eat that, Noona?” Jungkook’s voice reaches your ears—a low, dulcet purr that sends electricity shooting down your spine. “You should probably drink some water to cool down.”

And before you can answer—before you even manage to reach for your water glass—he’s slipped his hand into your panties, the warm pad of his thumb pressing experimentally against your clit. The slight pressure has you gasping, your heart pounding hard enough to leap out of your chest as you drop your spoon. Your hands drop down to your lap—one gripping the edge of your chair while the other finds its way around Jungkook’s wrist, and you aren’t sure whether you’re trying to stop him or spur him on. His arm muscles flex underneath your fingertips, and that’s all the warning you get before he angles his hand, a lone finger sinking inside your drenched entrance.

“Oh, fuck.” You can’t stop the strangled curse that escapes your lips, an airy hiss from behind clenched teeth. Your grip on Jungkook’s wrist tightens, but it doesn’t seem to dissuade him at all as he begins a leisurely pace, sinking deeper into your cunt with each thrust.

Luckily, no one hears your whimper. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you bite back the sounds threatening to spill out and instead focus on maintaining as neutral an expression as you can muster. Beneath the table, Jungkook remains relentless. Even when your mother looks over and addresses him directly, he doesn’t cease his ministrations, keeping both his tone and his pace even as he responds.

“Jungkookie, you’ve barely touched your pork belly. Are you full already?”

“Stuffed,” Jungkook replies smoothly. He punctuates the word by adding a second finger, and you almost bang your knee on the table again, your eyes going wide at his audacity.

Your mother pushes the platter of meat closer to him anyway. “No need to be polite, honey. Here, eat up.”

Obligingly, Jungkook picks out a few pieces with his free hand and piles them on his plate. “Thanks, Mrs. Park,” he says as he brings some to his mouth. “It’s delicious.”

Satisfied, your mother turns her attention elsewhere. Jungkook returns his to you, and you almost groan aloud when his thumb brushes against your clit again, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bud before he sheathes both fingers inside you once more. There’s a growing heat coiling in the pit of your stomach by this point, lighting every single one of your nerves on fire. Your body is screaming for release, and Jungkook seems more than eager to give it to you. He’s freed his wrist from your grip, leaving you to clutch helplessly at the table as he angles his fingers upward. No doubt he’s searching for the spot that will have you seeing stars, and you know he’s found it when a sudden burst of pleasure spikes through you. Your mouth falls lax, and Jungkook grins, thoroughly satisfied.

There’s something building inside you, something that has your tummy tensing and your toes curling in your shoes. Jungkook’s fingers dig deep, his palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust, and it takes every remaining ounce of your self-control to resist the urge to rock your hips into his hand. A bit more of that delicious friction, and you’ll be falling over the edge. You know it, and so does Jungkook if the smirk on his face is anything to go by.

And then a voice is pulling you back to reality, a warm hand settling on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact, your startled gaze flying up to Junghyun’s, and balk when you see him staring at you with equal parts amusement and concern.

“I—what?” you stammer. “Did… did you say something?”

Beneath the table, you feel Jungkook’s fingers retreat, leaving you empty and aching for release. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook wipe his glistening hand on his napkin, a frown that can only be described as petulant settling onto his face.

“Whoa, relax!” Junghyun drags your attention back to him, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to be up early for work tomorrow, so I’m driving back into the city tonight.”

“Oh!” It takes you a few seconds to process his words. “Right, yeah. Have a safe drive back. It was good to see you.”

“Ditto,” he replies, flashing you a warm grin. “But hey, are you all right? You’ve been a little weird the whole night. Was it the food?”

Gratefully, you seize upon the excuse. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I think maybe something isn’t sitting quite right in my stomach, but I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it.”

He nods and leans in for a hug. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“You too. Bye, Junghyun.”

With the elder Jeon brother’s departure, everyone else quickly decides that it’s time to disperse as well. You adamantly refuse to look in Jungkook’s direction as your parents fight over the bill, focusing your goodbyes on Mr. and Mrs. Jeon even when he glances your way with a knowing little smirk and a soft murmur of, “Bye, Noona.”

You can’t look at him. Not when every movement reminds you just how damp your panties are, your core begging for relief. Not when he’s waggling his fingers in farewell—the gesture anything but innocent. “Bye,” you warble weakly, before fleeing to the car.

The memory of his fingers burns fresh in your mind later that night as you lie in bed, your hand stuffed down your panties and working furiously to find that sweet, sweet relief.