#the girls have fought and now experiencing the consequences

[croc-pop]

cat hair is annoying to remove from any liquid-like substance, yes?

also bonus murder plotting Pluto

[writingsofwesteros]

The wedding was a somber affair, her mother was brought out for it, though she had to be taken to rest after she broke down in sobs. At the wedding feast, she sat in her wedding gown of black, her food untouched. "Eat." Jace commanded her, and she ignored him. He grasped her hand under the table, and leaned in closer, "Eat," He repeated. "I have little appetite." She responded stiffly, trying to pull her hand out of his grasp. "It would not be a good look for the King to force his Queen to eat before the whole court, like a child," He said. "And besides, you shall need the nourishment, for later" The wedding night. She fought the urge to spit in his face, and as she looked down she realised that her knife was dull, and her fork as well and she rolled her eyes. "How am I to eat without proper utensils?" She asked. "You have proven to be a flight risk," He responded, cutting into his own meat. "Need I remind you, that when you first were taken as prisoner you used a dinner knife to stab a guard." He held out the fork when meat on it in front of her expectantly and she begrudgingly ate it. "Good girl." He murmured. He soon dismissed them for the dreaded bedding, and as he shut the doors, she jumped when she saw Lord Stark standing there with them. "What is the meaning of this?" She asked. "The Lord Hand will witness the bedding, to affirm to the council that the marriage was consummated." Jace told her as he began to undress, and Nora scoffed. "I will not undress before him," She snapped, and Jace came up behind her and began to undo her corset. "I am your husband now, Nora." He reminded her roughly. "You do as I command." She gasped as her dress fell, leaving her in her shift. "If you undressed for Aegon and Aemond, then an honourable man like Lord Stark should be of little consequence." She glared at him as he guided her to the bed. He pushed her shift up to bare her cunt to him, and he felt the arousal coursing through him like never before. She could taunt him no longer, not when he had her, he possessed her. He pressed his thumb to her clit, making her breath hitch and he chuckled darkly. "It would be wise to forget those who came before." He murmured. "For you belong to me, now." He licked a stripe up her cunt, and she covered her mouth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, as he groaned- it had taken years, but now he would have her, and her cunt tasted better than his imagination could fathom.

He smirked as he soon felt wetness pooling in her cunt, taunting her, "Your mouth denies me, but you cunt does not. What would Aegon and Aemond say?" He asked, before wrapping his lips around her clit.

His words caused her to reach for those locks of his; tugging harsher than needed as the pleasure slowly moved throughout her body. So similar and different to what she had experienced before.

For a moment, Nora forgot the audience she had as she arched from the bed. If she closed her eyes; the new Queen could pretend it was her brothers between her thighs. Or her sweet, lovely sister ..

[mariacallous]

The temptation to see the Hamas attack of Oct. 7 as a profoundly transformational event in the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the Middle East is irresistible, and it’s easy to see why.

The attack—including the killing of 1,200 Israeli civilians and soldiers, the reported rape and torture of women and girls, and the taking of some 250 hostages, many of whom have been abused or died in captivity—demonstrated the group’s brutal sadism. Israel’s response—a siege of Gaza depriving an already impoverished population of basic necessities followed by weeks of airstrikes and months of ground combat—has killed nearly 30,000 Palestinians, around two-thirds of them women and children; Israel estimates that it has killed some 10,000 Hamas fighters.

As if these events weren’t potentially transformational enough, escalation by Hezbollah along the Israeli-Lebanese border; attacks by Houthis against international shipping in the Red Sea; and pro-Iranian militia strikes against U.S. forces in Syria, Iraq, and Jordan has raised the specter of something the modern Middle East has never experienced—a truly regional war. Apart from the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, the Israel-Hamas war is already the longest ever fought.

The transformative character of what Oct. 7 set in motion seemed to many brutally clear. “There’s no going back to the status quo as it stood on Oct. 6,” U.S. President Joe Biden said on Oct. 25. “Israel was one country on Oct. 6 and another on Oct. 7,” Michael Herzog, Israel’s ambassador to the United States, said in late October. Jordan’s King Abdullah warned darkly that the “whole region is on the brink of falling into the abyss.”

These predictions may or may not prove to be true. Six months into this crisis, we do not even know where we are on the conflict’s trajectory or where it’s headed. CIA Director Bill Burns, a friend and colleague of one of the authors, who’s not prone to exaggeration, deemed this the most dangerous and tangled conflict he’d witnessed in decades.

Yet the Middle East has often proved to be unpredictably predictable. It is true that crisis can scramble the playing field, often with horrific consequences—but sometimes with positive outcomes. Almost every breakthrough in the Arab-Israeli arena was preceded by intense violence. The 1973 war led to Egyptian-Israeli peace; Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait produced the Madrid peace conference; and the First Intifada resulted in the Oslo Accords.

But we may not be as fortunate this time around. Two deeply traumatized communities will emerge from this crisis, and at the moment both are lacking the kinds of leaders essential to transformational change. It’s worth asking whether the region’s legendary resistance to change and the absence of leaders willing to take real risks, including those in Washington, will yield a new status quo that’s much like the one so many hoped to leave behind.

Much remains to be sorted. But several looming factors suggest that the new, post-crisis Middle East may look strikingly like the old one.

Every State Department decision memo begins: “The United States has three broad options.” The joke, of course, is that these are “nuke them,” “surrender,” or whatever the drafter’s favored alternative was, aka “my option.” The poor addressee is inevitably herded toward that one. The first two have the virtues of finality; the third is just an uninspiring nudge to muddle through. ‘Twas ever thus, at least regarding Iran since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Attempts to break the mold by Ronald Reagan and Barack Obama ended in scandal or swift reversal.

The options menu doesn’t look very different now, as Iran has seized on the Gaza crisis to use its axis of resistance—a jumble of groups including Hezbollah in Lebanon, Shiite militias in Iraq and Syria, and the Houthis in Yemen—to stir up trouble for Israel and the United States. The notable feature of the current confrontation, however, is the relative restraint exercised by these parties, except for the Houthis. The main players have too much to lose by an all-out fight and have signaled publicly and privately that they wish to avoid one. Instead, they have contented themselves with a sustained level of violence just below the threshold of escalation. But the threshold is in the eye of the beholder—hence the persistent risk of inadvertent escalation.

Since the crisis began, diplomatic efforts by the United States and France have laid the basis for a more durable, formal arrangement on the Blue Line between Israel and Lebanon. The deal would trade a withdrawal of Hezbollah’s Radwan storm troops from the line for territorial adjustments that favor Lebanese claims. Lebanese Army units would deploy to the south in lieu of Hezbollah forces. These talks have stalled but will likely resume.

In Iraq, the main Iran-aligned militia proposed a truce, and a mini-groundswell for the expulsion of U.S. forces has receded. Persian Gulf waters have been relatively calm. Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates have indicated that a U.S. war with Iran would be unwelcome. In Syria, Israeli air power continues to thwart Iranian maneuvering; Iran has withdrawn senior Revolutionary Guard personnel because it cannot protect them. In the Bab el-Mandeb strait, U.S. and U.K. strikes and the interdiction of Iranian resupply efforts are slowly chipping away at the Houthis’ coastal infrastructure, if not their stockpiles, and will eventually drive an end to the mayhem in the Red Sea, if an Israel-Hamas cease-fire doesn’t do so first.

Bottom line: An escalatory spiral that fundamentally alters pre-Oct. 7 geopolitical dynamics does not seem to be in the cards—though a new hand can always be dealt.

Even in Gaza, where Israel continues its grinding military campaign, a political change is hardly guaranteed. Perhaps the most candid assessment of the fate of Hamas comes from an Israeli intelligence document, widely circulated among the political echelon. The bottom line: “Hamas will survive this [Israel Defense Forces] campaign as a terror group and a guerrilla group.”

There’s no doubt that Hamas has been profoundly weakened as a military organization, and its capacity to pull off another Oct. 7 is greatly impaired. And while polls suggest that its popularity has surged in the West Bank, its standing in Gaza was compromised well before Oct. 7 as a result of its bad governance—but saw a minor surge afterward. Hamas benefits from being the only organized alternative to a bankrupt and sclerotic Palestinian Authority. Should its top leadership inside Gaza be eliminated, its viability will suffer.

None of this should suggest that Hamas’s capacity to influence Palestinian politics inside and outside Gaza has been fundamentally eroded and that it won’t be a factor in the proverbial day after. The most recent authoritative poll revealed that a majority of Palestinians in Gaza believe Hamas will win the war and resume its rule.

Why is Hamas still relevant when its policies have brought such suffering to Palestinians? First, Palestinians are more likely to blame Israel for their misfortunes rather than their own leadership. Polls show clearly that a majority of Palestinians believed the Hamas attack was justified by the Israeli occupation. Second, Hamas’s resilience is linked to the dysfunction of the PA and a sense that any post-conflict government must be based on a national consensus that would include all factions, including Hamas.

The awkward reality is that under current circumstances, there’s little chance of the PA—revitalized or otherwise—returning to govern Gaza without Hamas consent.

Then there’s the Israeli factor. It’s hard to imagine a better recruiting agency for Hamas’s extremism than the current Israeli government. Hamas is the organizational embodiment of an idea—the end of Israel and its replacement with an Islamic state. The majority of Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza do not subscribe to this goal. But the fecklessness of the PA, combined with Israel’s annexationist policies, offers Hamas a pathway to dominion over the Palestinian national movement.

Throughout, one inconvenient truth remains: Without a Palestinian national movement committed to functional governance and in control of the West Bank and Gaza with a monopoly on the legitimate use of force, sovereignty and statehood are pretty much inconceivable.

It’s understandable that many would assume that the days of an Israeli leader who presided over the worst attack in the nation’s history and the bloodiest day for Jews since the Holocaust would be numbered. That assessment may well prove correct. But even if and when Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu leaves office, his successor may have less leeway to make key decisions. That a majority of Israelis are tired of Netanyahu does not mean they are drifting leftward, oppose his approach toward Hamas, or support Palestinian statehood. More than 90 percent of Israeli Jews believe that the government is using the right amount of force against Hamas or should use more. Nor is there any viable mechanism for removing Netanyahu from power. His right-wing government isn’t about to end itself, and his main rival, Benny Gantz, remains seated at Netanyahu’s side in the war cabinet. For the foreseeable future, Netanyahu remains in charge.

Indeed, if the past is prologue in Israeli politics, the trend lines after a major crisis suggest a strong tendency to move to the right. Israel is already a right-wing or right-center country. After almost every military and security crisis, rightist parties have gained support.

In some case, crises can produce surprises. Few would have predicted that in the wake of the 1973 Arab-Israeli War, Egypt’s Anwar Sadat would make a bid for peace or that Israel’s Menachem Begin would grasp it. But compared with the 1970s, today’s environment would not appear to favor bold decision-making on the Israeli side, Palestinian, or U.S. side. More than 100 hostages remain in Hamas hands; more than 200,000 Israelis have been temporarily relocated from the northern and southern border communities with little prospect of returning anytime soon. The threat of war with Hezbollah remains a constant concern—and for some Israelis, a necessity—and there’s little doubt that Israel will be operating in Gaza for months to come, as will Hamas insurgents. Even in the relatively quiet West Bank, attacks by Hamas and other groups, settler violence and vigilantism, and expanding Israeli settlements conspire to make any change of the situation unlikely.

Some point to the promise of a Saudi peace offer and with it reconciliation with the entire Arab world as a salve for the collective PTSD among Israelis induced by Oct. 7. But grand plans don’t necessarily produce grand results. The Biden administration’s scheme to transform the Middle East—a mix of low-income, high-population states and high-income, low-population states—by uniting the region’s richest country and its most technologically advanced one in a quest for intraregional trade, labor mobility, and infrastructure investment is certainly ambitious. But it’s also untethered from the realities of Middle Eastern governance and environmental conditions. That this vision is predicated on an enduring resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which is in turn premised on unlikely developments in Israeli and Palestinian domestic politics, confers a surreal quality to claims about transformation.

Not that it would be a bad thing for Saudi Arabia and Israel to make peace and money together, but given foreseeable realities, normalization is most likely to reinforce Netanyahu’s political position and deal yet another blow to Palestinian aspirations. Whether it makes sense for the United States to offer a binding security guarantee to Saudi Arabia depends entirely on the reliability of a mercurial Saudi leader like Mohammed bin Salman to radically shift the direction of Saudi policy. He would be expected to abandon Saudi support for Russia within OPEC+, moderate production cuts with U.S. economic needs in mind, and distance the country from China, its largest energy market. Given the crown prince’s track record, his willingness to abide by these obligations even in the short term seems unlikely.

All in all, if you’re anticipating transformation, an old Spanish proverb comes to mind: “Best to wait sitting down.”

If the Gaza crisis and its aftermath do represent a horrific glitch in an otherwise immutable matrix, there is not a great deal the United States can do. As always, the belligerents have a lot more agency than outside powers. For the most part, the Biden administration understands this, but the results have been, at best, bittersweet. Some of Biden’s measures have worked to avoid making an extremely dangerous situation worse. They include the swift deployment of naval power and its subsequent redeployment; patience in the face of attacks followed by a measured response; not increasing the U.S. ground presence in the region in response to provocation; creative diplomacy to reduce the risk of escalation in the north; avoiding a drastic response to Houthi shipping attacks while trying to keep communication going; and maintaining constant, if largely ineffectual, pressure on Israel to shift its operational approach in Gaza, facilitate humanitarian assistance, and not try to push Palestinians to Egyptian territory. The fact that a relatively coherent response could be fashioned given the state of party politics in the United States is in itself remarkable. Yet the ghastly reality of tens of thousands of Palestinians dead and a shattered landscape cannot in any sense be described as a ringing foreign-policy success. It will haunt us.

Going beyond these moves, however, won’t be possible without Israeli and Palestinian commitments. And that seems scarcely likely at this juncture or indeed in the absence of a sea change in Israel’s state and society. If there was a sea change, it happened on Oct. 7. A reversal of the tide seems unlikely given the massacre of Israelis. It will be used by the Israeli right to validate its worldview of beleaguerment and its message that the world is roiled by hypocrisy and antisemitism. And there are no regional Arab powers, especially Saudi Arabia, willing and able to serve as the deus ex machina on this bleak stage.

Finally, there is the question of U.S. domestic politics. The Gaza crisis has divided Democrats and unified Republicans in the face of a consequential election. In the region, Israel and the Gulf states would welcome a Trump presidency. Thus far, the Biden administration has been preoccupied by the region’s turmoil, while the Trump campaign has not yet focused on the crisis. The campaign season, however, will undoubtedly make its presence felt as the United States and regional parties plot their next moves.

[multistoty]

@collectionofvoices​

Padme was still trying to fully catch up with all Anakin had just told her and she was sure the paleness of her face supported the sentiment. time travel? The force was a mystery for sure though the idea of such travel seemed more suited to a holonovella or an old world book instead of the jedi order. It had been a crazy turn to feel him being haunted while waking by his own demons. The brunette would wake up to a gentle mechanical hand and whispered words to the curve of her belly. This time she had insisted once again that she would be fine were it seemed to go past some boundary that he hadn't been able to fit her words around. Maybe she should teach Ahsoka, Rex, and Kenobi such a trick for stubborn and dramatic skywalkers. He had seemed to come back to himself in the last few days. Brighter, less haunted even if the half moons of purple bags laid claim to the delicate skin under his eyes. Her husband would not lie to her in something so serious especially about his children. Children. He had said their were two and they both were right about the girl and boy debate. Maybe she would have disputed this point too had he not come up with the very names she had decided on for both genders. His words held a power that made them believable as if he were confiding one of the darkest secrets to her on baited breath. Yet, the queen couldn’t stop the furrowing of her brows as the story he waved came fully into view. There was so much information passing those rose colored lips that it felt like she was a piece of land broken into pieces by his wave of words. Palpatine was the Sith Lord. that was why he didn’t want her on the slavery committee! Why he seemed to pull Anakin away any time he could. And she had thought him harmless, an ally even. That man had used her husbands love for her and the children growing up inside her to do and say the unthinkable. The blood could almost be seen on her hands as well. Younglings and Jedi a like slaughtered. Struggling not to sway on her feet, the pregnant woman found herself less then elegantly leaning on the bed next to him. Everything except him and his explanation lost to any of her sense even the rays of sun shining flares into her eyes. They couldn’t let this happen. They’d sacrificed and fought so hard to keep this secret for the sake of this republic. She wouldn’t let anyone even one of them to be it’s undoing. They couldn’t. For he who willingly goes into folly sins more than the man blind to consequences. She hoped that these were no consequences of love. Any words felt meaningless on her thick tongue had her mouth been able to produce the start of any croak like consequences. A quip would have usually come after such a thing about his dramatics or the fact that she was usually right. Now the girl just missed her wavy, chocolate tresses with worried ivory digits. The tactile experience painful though it let out some of her pent up emotions as she was to far along to pace as usual. Darth Vader haunted even the Anakin not yet to make such a mistake. The warmth of his blue eyes did not make an entrance as they were splashed with leaking love and regret. How long had he held this on his own? Closing the distance, the woman pressed a kiss to the man she loved lips. It would give her time to think and would hopefully show him that, beyond the horror in her eyes, she still felt the same for his wretched heart. “I failed you, ani. I didn’t make you feel safe to trust your worries in me and I didn’t make time to do that properly. You shouldn’t have lived like a secret ever. The only thing I’m right about is the better chance we can have for our beautiful children when your by my side and we have more experienced doctors than a med droid and Kenobi even if he’s be the most like an uncle or grandfather they had . So much of me wants to believe that you are lying that you could never do such a thing to me, to us, to our family. But Darth Vader is not you and he never will be. He’s an omen of the dangers that are out there. A reminder that this. Our lips, our hands. Our found family. And our twins. No politics or order to speak of. You have visited the past to change our future so we must use the seeds of the present to bring in a better harvest. Do not let what you could be haunt what you are now do what you want. That is- if I am what you want. You always have an out of you need it. You are not a slave to me. You never were. I didn’t think you capable of such things, but you were manipulated. You let your demons control you more than you control your demons. Learn. Grow. For that is the way of the world. No weeds will choke me away from intertwining roots with you. You have to promise me that you will do your very best to stay with the three of us. If leia really loves a smuggler, I’m really gonna need your help. Although I’m a little jealous you got to see how they turned out. Be the better man the Obi-wan raised you to be.”

[dwellordream]

“Barbara Waxman Fiduccia took pride in her identity as a disabled woman. Her stylish dress, whether a kimono-sleeved jacket, a leather miniskirt or leopard-print shoes, was more than an expression of personal taste. To Fiduccia, a reproductive rights activist who used a ventilator and maneuvered her wheelchair with a sort of regal command, her clothing was part of a political statement, a demand to be seen in full.

“She loved her body,” said Alice Wong, an activist and author who was a member of the National Council on Disability during the Obama administration, and who looked to Fiduccia as a role model. “She was an unapologetically sexual disabled woman — unapologetic about her politics and the way she lived her life.”

Fiduccia was among the first to campaign openly for reproductive rights for people with disabilities. In trenchant essays and policy papers, she challenged a dominant culture that viewed people with disabilities as asexual beings, with no feelings of intimacy or desire to have children.

These attitudes, she said, were translated into public policies that discouraged disabled couples from marrying and having families, and that created barriers that prevented them from enjoying sexually fulfilling lives.

In her 15 years as a sexual health educator and counselor in Los Angeles, Fiduccia regularly saw clients who experienced self-loathing and sexual loneliness — a consequence, she said, of internalized cultural notions.

She pushed to broaden the disability rights movement beyond physical access to transportation, public buildings, schools and places of employment. Disabled people, she wrote in a 1991 essay, are “concerned with being loved and finding sexual fulfillment.”

“Why hasn’t our movement politicized our sexual oppression as we do transportation and attendant services?” she wrote in the essay, which was published in The Disability Rag, a magazine devoted to disability issues. “I believe we don’t speak out because we believe we are ultimately to blame for not getting laid — that it is somehow a personal inferiority.”

Her message was empowering. “She believed that denying your sexuality was denying your personhood,” Corbett Joan O’Toole, a disability rights activist and owner of Reclamation Press, a publisher of books by authors with disabilities, said in a phone interview. “She came from the place of a woman in an electric wheelchair, speaking for people who were taught to be ashamed of who they are.”

Fiduccia pushed for increased access to reproductive services, including mammograms and pelvic exams. She and others successfully lobbied to expand the national Hate Crime Statistics Act to include violence against people with disabilities. She also served on the California attorney general’s Civil Rights Commission on Hate Crimes.

With her future husband, Daniel Fiduccia, a legal affairs consultant she met at a 1992 training session for disability advocates, she fought to raise the income limit for federal health benefits, which stood in the way of marriage for disabled couples. Daniel Fiduccia was a survivor of childhood cancer, and his mobility was limited from radiation treatments that had weakened his bones.

Under federal health limits, Barbara Fiduccia’s salary as a single woman was low enough for Medicare and Medicaid to cover the cost of her personal attendants and ventilator. But the couple’s combined income was over the limit, forcing them to choose between marriage and the health benefits that helped keep Barbara Fiduccia alive. Her dilemma, she told The San Jose Mercury News in 1995, felt “like a dirty joke.”

“I was told in so many ways as a girl that I’d always be alone,” she told the newspaper. Instead, she said, she found “tremendous love and passion” with a man who wanted to spend his life with her. “I got over the stigma,” she said, “and now I can’t get married.”

Her ventilator strapped to the back of her wheelchair, Barbara Fiduccia made the rounds on Capitol Hill, advocating alongside other disability activists, while Daniel Fiduccia helped map out a legal strategy. Although Congress did not eliminate the so-called marriage penalty, the rules were changed in the mid-1990s to allow states to grant waivers to individual couples.

“They wanted to be married, and this was their one shot,” Marsha Saxton, director of research and training at the World Institute on Disability in Oakland, Calif., and a friend of Barbara Fiduccia, said in a phone interview. “But they also wanted to change policy.”

The couple married in July 1996 in a small Roman Catholic service near their home in Cupertino, Calif., said Rick Santina, a family friend who attended. They were fond of children, though they had none of their own. Santina said his children came to know Barbara Fiduccia as “Aunt Beep” because she let them blast the horn on her wheelchair as she gave them rides on her lap.

Barbara Faye Waxman was born in Los Angeles on April 1, 1955, the younger of two children of Sol Waxman, owner of a commercial photography lab, and Toby (Lowsky) Waxman. She and her brother, Michael, had spinal muscular atrophy, an inherited disorder that causes progressive muscle weakness. Her parents were told she would not live past 30.

Because she could walk as a child, albeit with difficulty, her parents wrestled with whether to enroll her in special education classes, where she was more likely to make friends, or in regular public school classes, where she would receive a better education. They chose the latter, an environment Fiduccia described years later as “psychologically damaging.”

During recess in grade school, a teacher routinely admonished her to run, though young Barbara was incapable of doing so. In high school, she tripped almost daily on an uneven carpet as her math teacher walked past her, staring. “In those 12 years, though they never spoke of it, I believe it was my disability they saw, while forgetting it was a child who possessed it,” she said.

After receiving her bachelor’s degree in psychology from California State University, Northridge, in 1978, Fiduccia went to work at Planned Parenthood in Los Angeles as a health educator and disability project coordinator. Clients told her that gynecologists, like her former teachers, often focused on their disabilities instead of on their reproductive health needs.

“I know of many times when a woman has been sent back to her orthopedist for a Pap smear,” she said in her 1985 testimony before a congressional committee exploring changes to Title IX, which bars gender discrimination at institutions receiving federal funding.

But Fiduccia eventually left Planned Parenthood, pained by what she called a “strong eugenics mentality that established disdain, discomfort and ignorance toward disabled babies.” She cringed whenever her co-workers discussed prenatal testing and the need to abort a disabled fetus. “There was a feeling that there were bad babies,” she told The New York Times in 1991.

Fiduccia then worked at the Los Angeles Regional Family Planning Council, an umbrella organization for more than 100 clinics, where she continued her focus on reproductive health for women with disabilities. After that, she served as senior associate at the Center for Women Policy Studies, a feminist policy research organization.

Her husband, an advocate for childhood cancer survivors, died after a recurrence of cancer in 2001. Fiduccia herself died 18 days later, on April 24, when her ventilator equipment failed. She was 46.

A year after their marriage, the Fiduccias renewed their vows in a Jewish service in Los Angeles. Surrounded by hundreds of guests, the couple made their way, hand in hand, across a terrace toward a huppah, he in his scooter and she in her wheelchair, which she rode, her friend Marsha Saxton said, “like a queen on a steed.” Under the wedding canopy, in keeping with Jewish tradition, she circled the groom seven times.

Fiduccia’s dress, Saxton said, was “full of life,” a statement of triumph in bronze and teal. After the dinner, the Fiduccias took to the dance floor, which was covered in bubble wrap that joyously popped as their wheels rolled over it. Soon guests in wheelchairs joined them on the floor; others looked on, waiving light sticks. The celebration ended with fireworks, an explosion of color against the night sky.”

- Denise Gellene, “Overlooked No More: Barbara Waxman Fiduccia, Reproductive Rights Advocate.”

[guaxinimraccoon]

jesus christ why-

oh mY DEAR GOD-

FIRST OF ALL I'm SO sorry for taking so damn long to answer those, I've been really really busy and I'm very sorry, I'm doing my best to answer everybody ; o ;

BUT FINALLY let's talk about our big last Euphoria reveal (about four months ago but ok-), where I showed you guys that Alex is Brad's father and Elisa is Toby's mom.

"BUT GUAX WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??? HOW?? WHEN??? WHERE??"

SHUSH , CALM YOUR TITS DOWN and let me explain:

Ok, so I'll be putting some links here and there because yes, Alex and Elisa's story is very, VERY connected to Brad and Toby's. 

And get ready for a veeeeeeeeeeeeery long post. You were warned.

As you all already know, Alex and Elisa had a troublesome meeting, but eventually got closer to each other, they fell in love yadda yadda yadda BUT their will to get closer to each other, in other words, their relationship brought HUGE consequences.

Yes, they did manage to build a healthy relationship, they were happy, they were fine.

But they were also adults, adults that wanted something serious and concrete, they couldn't spend the rest of their lives as forbbiden lovers.

So Elisa did something literally illegal. She did a potion that was forbidden by the Colony authorities - a shrunken potion - to get closer to Alex.

Those potions were never developed, they're rustic and really antique, so they could do more harm than good or not work at all.

But Alex didn't care, he took the risk and drank the potion to get closer to his girl, the woman that was the love of his life.

The effect of the potion is temporary, so Alex would drink them from time to time whenever he had the opportunity to visit the Colony, spend some time with Elisa and, of course, be a part of her life.

He wasn't just trying to "be like her", he was also trying to be a part of her home. He made friends with her friends, he met her family, he met new imps, new fairies, all of it under his "imp disguise". He even fought for the Colony at it's war times (that is lasting till the current story time). He EVEN presented himself with a more “impish name” - Turk - to make sure people wouldn’t suspect anything.

Of course, people eventually started to ask why didn’t he live in the Colony with Elisa, why did he only showed up from time to time. Alex and Elisa lied, obviously, they told everyone that Alex belonged to a secluded imp tribe that lived walking around the forest as nomads, which made sense since those types of imp communities do exist.

ANYWAY THE POINT IS Alex grew affectioned of those people and with their lifestyle. He started to feel like he was one of them. 

And, of course, he was now closer than he ever was to Elisa.

Since they were different species, they never worried about having kids. I’ve never said this before but Alex is a doctor, he knows about this stuff, so he always made sure to reassure Elisa that "they were their own condon" and, as sad as it may sound, they couldn't have kids.

... Or so Alex thought.

You know how tigers and lions can have offspring together? Yeah, it's the same thing.

It's very hard to happen, but they spent YEARS together if you know what I mean so yeah

That's how Alex and Elisa gave birth to their first child: Tobias, the only one of a specie that is a mix between human and imp.

His parents were really worried at first, afterall, they new NOTHING about Toby's condition. They didn't know if he was going to grow as large as a human or if he'd assume imp proportions forever. After some research with his son's blood, Alex found out that Toby was indeed half human and half imp, but he was predominantly physically an imp. That means his biological features are, mostly, imp like: he'd hardly grow as large as a human through his life's course and could live as a normal imp in the Colony. The fact that he showed talent for magic (once he was old enough to do so) and was able to do it just like any other imp in the Colony also made things easier.

Elisa and Alex chose to raise Toby in the Colony, they believed it’d be healthier and safer for him (especially after some events that I’ll be talking about in other posts), although it hurt Alex to pretend that he was an imp to his son and that he couldn’t see him everyday. 

Even if they couldn’t see each other everyday, Alex and Toby were very close. Toby loved his daddy very much and was very attached to him.

After five years after Toby was born, Elisa got pregnant again and gave birth to their second child: Bernardo (that’d eventually be nicknamed as “Brad”), one of the two only beings of the specie Alex and Elisa accidently created together.

For preucation, Alex took a bit of Brad’s blood and made some research, just like he did to Toby.

And what he found out wasn’t exactly... relieving.

Brad, just like Toby, was half human and half imp, but he had expressed mostly human features in his physical body. He was as small as a baby imp now, but it was a matter of time until he started to grow very VERY large.

Unlike Toby, Brad couldn’t live as an imp in the Colony and things got very complicated for them.

Alex wanted to leave. He told Elisa the Colony’s community would NEVER accept their youngest, they would never accept Alex and probably wouldn’t accept Toby either. They had to leave that place before they couldn’t hide the truth anymore, even if it cost revealing Toby, a five year old child, that most of his life was a lie.

But Elisa was hesitant. She didn’t want to leave her home, her parents, her friends. She knew Alex was right, they couldn’t stand that play for too long, but how to leave everything she had built behind? How to leave everything she knew as home behind? It wasn’t that easy.

Until something very bad happened.

Remember I said Alex made a few friends in the Colony? So, one of them was Stefan, a experienced fairy soldier that had known Elisa for as long as she was alive. He was pretty much her best friend (even if he was old enough to be her father) and now he was also great friends with Alex.

Stefan is important here. He has a very tragic backstory involving humans. He lost pretty much everything to them: his whole family and his wings, something that meant more than just flying to him.

So, as expected, he hates humans and truly believes that they are nothing more than monsters that try to manipulate you and to get advantage from imp’s and fairy’s magic. 

After some years, he started to get very suspicious over Alex. Some things weren’t making any sense anymore and that “nomad imp community” was starting to sound way more like an excuse than the actual truth. He simply didn’t understand what was stopping him to live with Elisa and his sons for once.

So he did some investigation. One day, he followed Alex (that he knew as Turk) out of the Colony, in one of the days he had only come to visit his family. Alex had said earlier that he had to “go back to his own society”. Yeah, right. Stefan was hiding the whole time and followed Alex till a good distane from the Colony’s limits. 

And he didn’t get exaclty happy to see his best friend growing impossibly huge out of nowhere.

Stefan now knew the truth: Alex was pretending to be an imp using shrinking potions. He didn’t belong to any nomad imp group, he was a human that lived in his own house and was coming to the Colony to play family with them.

Of course, he didn’t only felt betrayed, but pissed as fuck. Stefan didn’t waste any time: as soon as Alex came back to the Colony he confronted him. Alex tried to explain himself, but they only argued and ended up having a pretty bad fight.

In anger, Stefan didn’t want to hear no more explanations, so he told some of the Colony’s high authorities about Alex’s lies and that they had to do something about it. 

The Colony’s Council decided to call Elisa and solve things between imps and fairies only. But they showed her no mercy.

They basically gave her two options: or she’d prove her loyalty to the Colony and would kill her husband and her human son, or the Colony would sentence all of them to death penalty, including Toby and Brad, children that they claimed should have never been born. 

Elisa was in shatters. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t kill the man she loved and her baby child, she just couldn’t. She was about to accept the second option, rathering die with her family than killing them, but Stefan decided to help her out.

He wasn’t expecting the Council to be so cruel and he started to regret his decisions the moment he saw how Elisa was worried about her family and how much she loved them, even if they were human. He hated Alex and Brad, but seeing Elisa in excruciating pain over them was impossible for him, so he made up a plan with her to save everybody.

It cost Elisa to trust Stefan, he had told their secrets to the worst people possible, but she had no option aside from accepting his help and following his plan.

The plan was simple: Elisa would tell the Council she’d kill Alex and Brad and would tell Alex that she had changed her mind and that they should leave the Colony as soon as possible now that Stefan knew the truth.

Alex believed her and, after Stefan’s confirmation, so the Council did. The next step was to take Alex and Brad to the Colony’s limits, pretending they were about to leave. 

Then it happened.

Elisa made, with Stefan’s help, a huge barrier on the Colony’s frontier that didn’t allowed humans to cross it. It was basically a security method that they never thought it’d be necessary.

But now it was and it wasn’t meant to protect the ones inside the Colony...

Of course, Alex didn’t understand SHIT.

He spent MONTHS returning to the Colony in his shrinking form, trying to find a way to cross the barrier and to get Toby back. 

Or to talk to Elisa.

Or to understand.

Or anything.

He just wanted his family.

Eventually, his potions ended and he was left to raise Brad on his own and to never see his wife and oldest son again.

Since then, he hates Elisa. Or at least thinks he does. He’s just deeply mad at her, he doesn’t understand why she left them. 

He did everything for her. Denyed his own race, submitted himself to the dangerous effects of a extremely nocive potion which he faces the consequences till this day, did his fucking best to be the best father and husband his family could have-

All this love, all this effort, all this sweat and blood

Wasted.

It took years for him to fully recover. Aside from the health problems the abusive use of the shrinking potions brought, he also became alcohoolic. Because he wasn’t mentally estable enough, neither to take care of himself and of his very very small son, he went to live in his parents house. His family knew about Elisa and the children they had together, his folks actually liked her a lot so it saddened them as well that she simply abandoned Alex and Brad and that they would never see Toby again.

His family didn’t had to worry about Brad’s very little size for too long though, before he was one year old he had already reached his human size.

Anyway, Alex’s family gave him a huge help until he was healthy enough to take care of Brad, the only one left from the family he built.

Back to Elisa, she didn’t told Alex her plan because she KNEW he wouldn’t want to do it. She simply knew Alex would be too stubborn. He’d have wanted to try to escape or to face the Council. Both alternatives would get them all killed.

Toby didn’t understand why his mother did what she did. He was forced to go back home with her, screaming the whole time, saying that they left his father and brother behind while Elisa was crying endelessly.

Stefan came to them eventually and calmed Toby down. His heart broke when he saw Elisa. She was... not okay.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to assist her. He immediatly went to a representent of the Council and took them to Elisa and to the Colony’s frontier to prove that she had done it and did even more than she was suppose to. Of course, not without consequences to her sanity, she had just killed her husband and baby, of course she was in pain.

Nevertheless, the Council confirmed Elisa had done her part and left to leave her alone with the child they let live.

After that, Toby spent weeks returning to that spot of the frontier to look for his dad and brother. No sucess.

As time went by, he eventually forgot about Brad, he was very young when they tore apart and Elisa and Stefan never talked about him nor Alex. All he can remember is that there was a baby in the middle of that mess, but he can’t relate to it.

He kept the memories of his father though, who was closer to him, and till this day he believes he’s alive somewhere and that he can be found. But he has no idea he’s a human and has no idea of his own true nature.

Elisa and Alex miss their respective sons deeply and think about them everyday. They also miss each other very much and the first months after the incident were terribly agonizing for the both of them.

They kept going for the child that had remained for the both of them and raised them apart from each other. Alex never told Brad what happened and so Elisa did to Toby. Like that, none of the brothers knew about the existence of each other.

Until the day Toby was sent, coincidentally, to his “little” brother’s house

And none of them has no idea of this fucking long backstory I just spent four months writing :)

enjoy

[miraculouscontent]

Man, I leave for like--a day, and this is what happens.

So... since “Ephemeral” was confirmed to be a “what if” episode (shocker, I know; all of my followers collectively gasped), this is super relevant and just--

These are some tweets from one of the ambassadors talking about “Chat Blanc” and “Oblivio” and how they actually have plot relevance:

A machine translation:

How does it affect? Cat Blanc: Marinette is traumatized by what she saw and experienced.  She got into a huge PANIC to reveal her identities because she believes that any situation where she goes will lead to the death of everyone she loves.  She doesn't know how it happened, but she avoids it at all costs in the future.

Oblivio: although the result of this episode is not so sad, it was still played recently in Glaciator 2. Although LB and CN forgot everything, Paris did not, and they continued to bother them, which led to CN and LB fighting and little by little Ladynoir dies to make way for Adrinette.

“Glaciator 2″ didn’t need more ship bait, first of all--

Essentially, “Chat Blanc” is important specifically because the thing that Marinette got out of it was trauma. The “importance” of the episode was literally to traumatize a 14-year-old girl (who saw Paris destroyed+underwater while her own body turned to nothingness at a single touch) into thinking that sharing her identity with anyone will lead to everyone dying (not like she needed more anxiety for that), and this is her “consequence” - I guess - for going into Adrien’s room after being pressured and threatened by her “friends.”

But no, this is all apparently her doing, never mind that Adrien kept the fact that he knew her identity a secret from her, which is what led to her believing that there was no way to inform him of what Gabriel was doing, thus leading to Gabriel knowing in the first place, which is what actually led to Chat Blanc’s creation.

“Bonus” tweet where Astruc refers to the action of giving Adrien the note “stupidity:”

(The key part here is: “At the end of Chat Blanc, the Ladybug who fought him (and who does not know who is hiding under the mask) is merged with the Ladybug who is about to commit the stupidity of leaving a note to Adrien.”)

Also never mind that the whole point of the love square is that they don’t know each other’s identities, so Marinette would’ve had no way of knowing that this action would lead to the near-destruction of everything. In essence, she was punished for not being psychic.

I also don’t need to say anything about the “LadyNoir dies to make way for Adrienette” either (I’m sure my anons will have plenty to say on that), because we all know that’s not where this is going, especially since they chickened out and refused to let Chat know that Marinette was crushing on Adrien specifically (whereas Marinette has know that Chat “loves” her since “Glaciator”).

Notice, also, that both of these scenarios directly benefit Chat, not Ladybug. Chat got Ladybug resting on his shoulder in “Chat Blanc,” got the emotional high of seeing the kiss in “Oblivio” (and got to mock/make fun of Ladybug for it), and got the additional emotional high of everyone in Paris shipping them later on in “Glaciator 2″ (similar to “Prime Queen”), regardless of how “brief” it was.

In conclusion, Miracle Box-induced memory wipe when? It’s sounding pretty great right about now.

[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.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 5

More people said yes to Hannigram, which is good because Will is already involved in the plot and it would be awkward to have him just disappear. Also, I had someone request a Hannigram x reader in my asks. Apologies to the one person who voted no; I promise there will be more solo Hannibal x reader content in the future.

Hannibal decides to that y/n could do with some extra protection, but doesn’t anticipate what she has to tell him.

I have no idea how to make a proper tag list but @deadman-inc-bikeshop and @dovahdokren here you go 

Trigger warnings: discussions of alcohol, victim blaming

“When I saw his face, I immediately knew he had never once experienced the touch of his own hand, let alone that of a woman.” Charissa read out loud to everyone on staff. “Or, that he was buried so deep in the closet he found Narnia, but those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

It was expected to be a slow night, as was normal for an ordinary Tuesday. On nights like those, you could get away with more, like reading a tabloid article out loud for everyone to hear. 

“I can’t believe [F/N] actually went public.” One of the new busboys commented. “What an absolute madlad.”  

“Did you just unironically use reddit terminology in an actual conversation?” You narrowed your eyes at the kid. 

“[F/N], you are making a very dangerous enemy.” An older waitress said, cryptically, from the corner of the room. 

“Who, Jason?” You gestured to the busboy. “What’s he gonna do? Make me cringe myself to death?” 

“You know that’s not who I mean.” She frowned. “I’m talking about Chase Mulvaney.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You shook your head. “He’s not stupid enough to come back here.” 

Charissa made a noise that denoted her doubt. “I dunno, [F/N]. You’d have to be pretty stupid to start stabbing people at a crowded restaurant in broad daylight.” 

“But he was smart enough to get away, right?” Jason asked. “That’s gotta count for something!” 

You and Charissa exchanged glances. Neither of you had the emotional bandwidth to explain white privilege again. Instead, you just humored him. 

“Yeah.” Charissa lied. “He was smart enough to get away, meaning he probably knows better than to come back.”

"You're kidding yourself." A third waitress, who's name you couldn't seem to place, added. "People always say that killers are these galaxy-brained superhumans, but they're not. Mulvaney believes he's divinely ordained, so any thought that pops into his coked-out head is a sign from god."

And so shattered your thin firmament of denial. You made a point to never learn this person's name just out of spite.

“Oh, shit.” You said, trying to hide your genuine fear with a sarcastic voice. “Maybe he is coming back for me.” 

Charissa glared at the two other waitresses, equally pissed at them for scaring you.

"And it'll be your own fault for provoking him with that article." The older waitress said.

"Holy victim-blaming, batman." You mumbled.

“Alright, listen up, y’all.” Matthew announced to the group. “In ten minutes we open for dinner. Remember, if you want to switch shifts with another person, you have to run it by me first. I don’t want to see anybody but [F/N] at the bar tonight, capiche?”

“Yessir.” You saluted him and made your way over to the bar. You’d been doling out your bartending shifts left and right to avoid even the possibility of being cornered by another Freddie Lounds. You were only prolonging the inevitable, though. Eventually, you needed to return to the bar.

You passed the hostess's stand, where Charissa was stationed. Suddenly, you felt someone grab at your arm.

"Fucking hell, dude?!" You flinched violently and your heart rate jumped. "Don't do that!"

"Shit, sorry!" Charissa looked immediately regretful. "But, look!"

You followed her gaze through the window where a fancy car was parked. He leaned against the door, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt.

Now your heart was beating fast for a completely different reason. You squeezed Charissa's hand, trying to keep a lid on your nervous excitement.

"I think your luck's starting to turn." She said in a sing-songy voice.

"Yeah, I bet he'll protect me from the Baltimore Butcher." You whispered, trying not to giggle like an elementary school girl.

"Oh, could you imagine those arms around you?" She sighed deeply, her hand firmly against her chest. "I would die."

"Not until he sinks his teeth into your neck." You smirked, gnashing your teeth together.

"I would let him." She rested her chin on her hand.

"Yeah, me too." You agreed.

"I would give anything to trade shifts with you." Charissa groaned.

"Well, you heard the boss." You shrugged, suddenly feeling much better about your assignment. "I gotta stay behind the bar."

"Oh, pobrecita." Charissa rolled her eyes. Underneath the stand, she put up her middle finger in your direction. "Suck a dick, [L/N]."

You walked backwards towards the bar, keeping your eyes on your friend. "That's the plan, baby."

You tried to make yourself look busy. You dared not look at him as he entered the restaurant.

He exchanged pleasantries with Charissa then took his seat at the bar. You pretended not to notice him right away, only to give you an extra second to compose yourself.

"Hi there." You greeted, knowing you'd feel stupid no matter what you said. "Er- good evening."

"[F/N] [L/N], I assume?" He asked.

Fuck, you thought. His voice was dark, low and made your insides tremble. Even though part of you knew he was going to know your name, it still felt so sensual passing his lips.

You realized you had waved to him with your bandaged hand. That's how he was about to identify you so quickly. "Yes, I am she. I mean- her. Me."

Way to go, dumbass. You thought. Now he knows you're nervous and he's going to wonder why.

“God, I need to stop wearing this damn thing.” You said, clearing your throat. “What can I get for you tonight?” 

He was quiet for a moment. "What do you recommend?"

"Well, that depends." You said, pulling your gaze from him and grabbing a few wine glasses down from a high shelf. It was the only way you could maintain your composure.

"On?"

"What you're having for dinner, for one." You said. "And whether or not you're a vulpine tabloid journalist trying to corner me into a dubiously ethical interview. That's also a factor."

"So that's how Miss Lounds wore you down?" He concluded. "With wine?"

You rested your elbows on the bar, filled with an intoxicating confidence. "She tried wine first. Then she tried to get me fired because she asked for chardonnay and I brought her chablis. And when that didn't work, she siphoned my gas."

"I wish I could say that was out of character for her." He looked at you, apologetically.

"I take it you've had your own run-ins with Freddie?" You smiled.

"She's tried to infiltrate my practice multiple times." He sighed. "She's entered my office under a fake name with a recording device in her purse."

"What a sick fuck." You said, before remembering you really weren't supposed to curse in front of customers. You covered your mouth. "Sorry."

The corners of his mouth turned up into an amused smile. "Don't apologize. You're right."

“So you’re a doctor?” You asked, hoping he wasn’t the type to be offended by questions. 

“I’m a psychiatrist.” He nodded. “I used to work as a surgeon, but I find the mind much more compelling.” 

"Seriously, though." You pushed yourself back to your feet. "What can I get for you?"

He eyed the wine menu and then looked back at you. "What is your favorite red?"

"My favorite red?" You placed your hand on your collarbones. "On a night like this, I enjoy a nice, dry Argentinean Malbec."

"In that case," he thumbed through the list once more. "I'll have a bottle of Cobos Chañares from 2016, please."

You smiled. You wouldn't mind taking a sip of that if he offered. "Right away."

You carefully pulled the solid black bottle from its crevice and placed it on the bar. You removed the plastic seal and reached for the corkscrew. The bottle opened with a satisfying pop, filling the air around you with the strong, complex and seemingly contradictory aromas.

You poured a bit of this criminally expensive wine into his glass. He smelled it, then swirled it for a moment before taking a sip.

"Redcurrants and vanilla," he began. "With floral notes that operate with the precision of interlocking gears in a clock. Everything in its place."

"So you're a sommelier and a poet?" You tilted your head and filled his glass. "I'll bet you make women swoon at every corner."

You never had the best grasp on flirting, but even you knew that line was awful.

“Are you flirting with me, Miss [L/N]?” He asked, clearly not too worried about the consequences and enjoying the flattery. “Or are you just trying to get a taste of this Malbec?” 

“Little bit of column A, little bit of column B.” You shrugged. “Though you are as handsome as everyone says, I’ve had my eyes on that wine for slightly longer.” 

You fought the urge to slap your hand over your mouth. You had just broken the cardinal rule of workplace gossip. Panic reverberated through your body as you tried to break down his unreadable expression. 

Once again, he just looked amused. “I’ve seen those lingering glances, the way you all whisper and giggle. It’s flattering.” 

You felt your cheeks growing hot. “...I see.” 

“If you tell me what they say about me, I’ll let you have a taste.” His eyes bored into yours. 

You paused, trying to decipher exactly what he was offering. Then it hit you. 

“Oh!” You interjected. “The wine.” 

“Yes, that’s what I meant.” He said. “Dare I ask where your mind went?” 

Your cheeks stung from all the uncomfortable smiling. “I’d really like to keep my job, thanks.” 

“Have you never heard of bartender-client confidentiality?” His voice lowered and his eyes found your lips. “Nothing we say tonight has to leave these four walls.” 

Your insides turned to jelly. He rested the wine glass in his hand and offered it to you. Your hands shaking, you cradled the glass like an 18th century French village prostitute being offered a mug of hot soup. You brought the glass to your lips, the strong, overwhelming smells assaulting your orifices.

You let the wine grace your tongue. You had taught yourself to overcome the sting of the alcohol and focus on the undertones. Your eyes rolled back in to your head and you let out a little noise of pleasure. 

“Christ on a bike, that’s decadent.” You said, gasping for air a little bit. You quickly passed the glass back to him before Matthew could see you. “Thank you.” 

“Now, indulge me.” He instructed, glancing at the fresh pink lipstick mark on his glass. “What do the lovely women of Terroir whisper while I’m just out of earshot?” 

You rested your elbows on the bar and leaned in close. “They say you’re a vampire.” 

Judging by his unchanging neutral expression, it clearly wasn’t the first time someone had made that connection. “Perhaps they’re on to something.” 

“One of our line cooks used to say you were the devil.” You informed him, hoping that was one he hadn’t heard before.

“Used to?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“Until Chase Mulvaney came around.” You instinctively ran your fingers over your bandages, as if to make sure they were still there. It was a nervous tick you’d developed anytime someone brought up that day. “He’s stopped talking about, like, anything having to do with his religion ever since.” 

“It takes a lot to get an evangelist to stop evangelizing.” He refilled his glass. “Do you think he lost his faith?” 

“I heard someone say in passing that it was because he and Chase Mulvaney went to the same church.” You whispered. “But I can’t verify that.” 

“I’d say it’s more likely than a regular customer being a vampire, wouldn’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t trust their word because they made a regular customer into a vampire.” You corrected, hoping he would overlook the fact that you were one of them. “Secrets may stay within these four walls, but they tend to bounce around. It’s only a matter of time before one escapes, and you’d better hope it’s not one of yours.” 

This man must have been an exceptional therapist, because, there you were, baring your soul to him after fifteen minutes and one sip of wine. Occasionally, you were pulled away from the conversation by another customer who had the audacity to also want a drink. But, very few people came to you with the sole intent of drinking on a Tuesday evening. You and the sommelier talked until closing time. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss [L/N].” He said pulling out his wallet. “You are as delightful in person as you are on paper.” 

“Thank you, but I never caught-” you said, but stopped yourself. “I mean, you never gave me your name.” 

He signed his name on the paper check, then pulled out a fifty and unceremoniously handed it to you. “Now why would you want to ruin the mystery?” 

“Nothing we say tonight has to leave these four walls, remember?” You grinned and crossed your arms. “Come on, I won’t tell anyone.” 

He took the customer copy of the receipt and scribbled something down on it. He the folded it in half and slid it in your direction as if it contained nuclear launch codes. 

“Join me for dinner someday.” He ordered. “I’ll supply the Malbec.” 

[hellyeahheroes]

Robin #2 review: No one dies!...or no one stays dead...atleast 4 times? Maybe

Okay, so the rules are summed up as every fight is a death match, but the caveat is that every fighter gets three deaths since something on Lazarus Island revives them no matter what. Damian is lost one already. And the grand prize is immortality.

Okay, I guess that’s something. It’s not bullshit at least. I haven’t suspended my disbelief.

However, what this does is provide Damian a convenient excuse: he only lost to Flatline because he held back.

Now this is bullshit. As Batman or anyone apart of the Batfamily, it is safe to say that in every fight, everyone is trying to kill you. So to say that Batman or anyone loses because they refused to kill versus their opponent who will kill us bs. Damian got his ass handed to him regardless. And the idea that he only lost or loses because he holds back just amps the bullshit.

Professional fighters are legally allowed to kill a man and very few actually achieved this(mainly because rules prevent them). Damian has fought off dozens of combatants and it’s a handicap that’s never limited him before and he has killed people before so I guess it’s safe assume that he never had that limitation.

This comic overstates Damian’s combat ability tremendously. He has tried to kill Tim and Tim handed him his ass. And Tim, while no slouch, is far from the greatest fighter in DCU.

Damian is not a good enough fighter so he relies on killing because “it’s easier.” Fighting someone equally is too hard so he relies on lethal weapons to make up for his lack of ability and size. For fuck’s sake, he got his heart ripped out by a girl whose teacher is a Yoga practitioner. Fucking Yoga.

Also I am assuming this rule is the reason why Cass wouldn’t be down to fight in this tournament which I guess is a good enough excuse even though Cass loves the idea that of not holding back or not needing to. Nonetheless I guess I buy it.

Let me just say that I am not really impressed by this lineup. I don’t know anything about Connor so I can’t comment. It seems like he is being coerced by the League of Shadows to partake in festivities. And Ravager is interested in the Deathstroke cosplayer.

Regardless, this is kind of fun. I mean the tournament is basically a real life fighting game and I guess that’s cool. I do have to question: who cares about Immortality?

I mean if that is all they are killing themselves over then who gives a shit? Why is this of import that Damian tasks himself to enter this tournament. You already gave the game away since this is a prestigious tournament that has been going on for centuries. If that were the case and if the prize is always immortality, then why bother?

I am sure there will be some globe ending plot or some shit but the idea that some lame ass tournament could result in such escalation is kind of corny.

Oh and just in case you thought getting his heart ripped out would have humbled Damian...

Nope. Still hiding behind empty platitudes and bragging that he is the son of Batman to the daughter of the man who has repeatedly beaten Batman.

Yeah, I don’t get it either.

All in all, it’s a fun dumb story and Damian needs more fun dumb stories. Will it get me to like him? Hell no. My issue with the character starts with his inception. It’s already far too late to change my opinion on him and I’ve accepted that I will just not like him. I mean the main motif of this issue is that Damian takes life too seriously and doesn’t know how to have fun which is like duh and I guess that is fine. But dude is gleeful that he can kill without consequences and that kind of undercuts and development that Damian may have gained. He is a killer. And he feels relieved to kill. It has nothing to do with upbringing because I’ve never seen Talía or even Ra’s Al-Ghul feel thrilled to kill. They view it as a necessity and somewhere Damian is so lost that even experiencing death itself doesn’t make him think twice about killing people. He feels unburdened by the possibility of murder and it kind of proves every detractor of his right.

Again, the art is great. Not exactly creative use of action since it still feels like cool poses and not much fighting scenes.

@ubernegro

[batsandbugs]

Help (I Need Somebody) Help

AN:Hey everyone! Hope you’re doing well, here’s chapter two of my wrong number daminette AU. I had a lot of fun with this, enjoy!

Chapter 2

Damian held back an unimpressed sigh when two goons rushed him. Their stances were off balance, and he could smell the stench of alcohol wafting off of them.  A low sweep to their legs had both tumbling to the ground. If he had a dime for every lowbrow thug who thought they had a chance at beating him, he’d be richer than his father twice over.

It wasn’t his fault the brain lacking buffoons hadn’t figured out they had a snowball’s chance in hell to beat him in the seven years he lived here. Damian certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them different now. He needed some sort of stress relief after Alfred banned swearing in the house.

He flipped another grunt over his shoulders, an audible crack of a broken bone soon followed.

His mask hid a glint of amusement that was surely gleaming in his eyes, but he kept his face an annoyed scowl. The last thing he needed was word getting back to his father for finding pleasure in the suffering of others. Even if the whole reason they were out tonight, punching up a contingent of near brain-dead loons, was to stop a sex trafficking ring. It was times like this where he seriously considered the validity of his father’s no-killing rule; surely some scum wouldn’t be missed.

He whipped around to punch another man, nearly a foot taller than him and thrice as wide, across the face. Blood spurted from the thug’s nose as the behemoth fell to the ground. Good. Damian jumped back and flipped himself over to roundhouse kick another goon. Another satisfying crack, and the last of them had finally fallen to his superior skills.

Easy.

He waited for the warm glow of satisfaction after a fight well fought, but all he received was the familiar rush of adrenaline and the delicious burn of his muscles tensing for another go.

Unfortunately, all too easy.

Damian didn’t sigh, he was too disciplined for that, but the low-level grumbling in his mind, and the displeased sneer were all too indicative of his problem.

He was utterly unchallenged.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed getting beat to hell and back. He wasn’t a masochist (although, the same could not be said for the rest of his family, if anyone asked him (which, of course, they didn’t)). It was just… after three years with the Titans, constantly stretching to prove himself, pushing his abilities to keep up with those endowed with advantages he simply didn’t have, Gotham felt… lacking in comparison.

And with the Titans all but formally disbanded, Gotham was all he had.

Well… that wasn’t entirely true. He could follow Cyborg and Blue Beetle and join the Justice League. He had enough blackmail material on all the core members needed to vote him in if his father protested. It would be a welcome change; higher level threats and off world missions, if only there wasn’t the pesky problem of dealing with other heroes.

He would be the first to admit that in his younger teenage years his anti-socialness was a bit… problematic, but he’d grown past that. Socializing with the Titans had been difficult at first, but by the end he could say he was more than an acquaintance with them – even if he wouldn’t go so far as to call all of them friends. But even if he had gotten used to them, it still took three years. At least in Gotham his potential partners were all known quantities. Even if he disliked half of them on his good days.

“Robin, do you read?” called his father on the comms. He shook away his distracting maudlin thoughts.

He raised a hand to his comm. “All clear southside Batman, making my way to the roof.”

“Negative, Hood is already there. Red Robin needs help releasing the captives – cops will be here in fifteen.”

Damian bit back an irritated sigh. “I’ll be of more use-”

“Robin, that’s an order.”

The words wrapped around him, restricting in their resoluteness. He glared down at the unconscious thug and gave a swift kick to the side resulting in an incoherent groan. Gritting his teeth, he muttered, “Yes, Batman.”

His comm feed dropped off.

The resulting string of swear words he uttered in Arabic would have cost him two hundred dollars in the swear jar. Damian just didn’t give enough of a fuck to bring himself to care.

-0o0-

Damian didn’t slam his bedroom door shut, but it was a close thing.

Between avoiding his father, deflecting the inane chatter of his siblings, and dealing with the GCPD, all of whom were either corrupt, uncaring, or ridiculously overworked, he had been ready stab someone, repeatedly, consequences be damned.

And that discounted dealing with the inconsolable sobbing women they rescued from the shipping containers. The sight of dozens of girls packed together like cargo, most of them his age, if not younger, would be enough to throw even the most experienced off their game.

Damian lived through some truly horrid things growing up in the League. He killed a grown man before he lost his first baby tooth. Suffered through endless hours of training with painful consequences upon any sign of failure. He had been beaten, starved, tortured, and pushed to the extremes of what a child could endure, but the utter horror and disgust he was faced with tonight, well…

At least the suffering he’d endured had a point.

Rubbing a towel through his still damp hair, he collapsed on top of his bed with an exhausted groan. The shower did little in relaxing his tensed muscles, his bed a welcome retreat after being on his feet for hours. Reaching out blindly he grabbed his phone off his bedside table. Going to bed would be the better choice, but it was Saturday, so he didn’t really give a damn.

His phone flicked on and he was taken aback by the notification awaiting him.

40 unread messages

He raised an eyebrow. That was odd. Not completely impossible, but odd. He did have acquaintances who would text him, Jon and Garfield came to mind, but it would be one or two messages at the most. Maybe a missed call if it was something extremely important.

He unlocked his phone.

Tapping on his messaging app, he saw that the messages all came from an unknown number.

That raised even more concerns, considering anyone who had this number were people he should already have programed into his contacts.

This put Damian’s suspicions on high alert.

Cautiously tapping on the text stream, he began reading.

        - As long as you’re not an evil villain running around in a purple suit or a bitchy Italian transfer student I figure you won’t care about what I have to say

         - I haven’t slept in two days. My brain is buzzing. And between my insomnia and four years of repressed anger generated by existing in the same city as an emotional terrorist who uses magical butterflies to turn distressed people into monsters, I might come off a bit incoherent

Before Damian could stop it, a small laugh of amusement passed his lips. This person was either really high, or entirely serious.

His finger hovered over the delete button. This had nothing to do with him. The person admitted they were texting a random number to blow off steam. He should just let it go and get some sleep.

But despite the long drive home, the debriefing, and a shower, the adrenaline hadn’t left his system yet. And the sight of those women in the container wasn’t going to leave his brain for a while. Sleep wouldn’t be coming for a long time yet. Whoever this was, sounded, if not entirely sane, at least somewhat amusing.

Looking back on it, Damian didn’t know what the influencing factor that made him read further. It could have been amusement, or curiosity. It could have been sleep deprivation. It could have been the promise of distraction. It could all of those or none of those, or any combination thereof.

Or it could have been luck.

Pulling up the knitted blanket from the end of his bed, he settled in against his covers, and began to read.

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[cherrysha]

Uvo’s First Time With You

This is tooth rottingly sweet Uvo because i really cant help myself. im weak fr that big ass boi.

Requests are Open atm

Summary : I have this headcanon where Uvo doesn’t physically punish his girl *ahem* captive fr not wanting him... he just slips her a lil smthn smthn at dinner one night..

Word Count: 3,691

Warnings: dubcon/noncon, Yandere!Uvo, drugs, unprotected sex, cockwarming, kidnapping, tiniest mention of blood, mentions of violence, aaand I think thats it.

As per usual 18+ crowd here. No minors should be reading this.

He just sits there after dinner, quieter than usual as he waits for it to kick in.

His arm draped across the back of the couch and he just feels you slowly start to squirm around more and more, he lets his eyes wander over you.

“Is everything okay sweetheart?”

“Yeah...it’s just.. really hot in here Uvo” you whisper to him.

And you saying his name like that,, already so needy for...something, has him trying to hide the smirk on his face.

“I’ll adjust the temperature for you then.”

And beFORE he even has a chance to get up your whining at him not to leave. (which is COMPLETELY out of character since you usually are uncomfortable just being around this giant of a man who quite literally kidnapped you)

“I just wanna lay down Uvo.. I don’t feel good”

And there it is again. Usually he can’t even get you to look him in the eye but nOW?! Your saying his name and clutching onto his t-shirt like ur fighting the urge to wrap yourself around him.

He nods his head, keeping a straight face as he gruffly replies with “Go lay down then”

You just let out an impatient sigh and bury your face into his side.

And the bastard KNOWS you want HIM to lay down with you!! But he wants to hear you say it. Wants to see that pretty blush on your face when you get flustered.

You whine out “Uvo...” and stare at him, mentally trying to communicate your need without having to say it out loud. Not really understanding what you want, or maybe you do but you’re so far in denial that you don’t want to acknowledge it.

“Tell me what you want or I won’t give you anything at all.”

And he watches as a pout makes its way across your features.

With a huff you crawl into his lap, arms reaching as far up his tall frame as they can to grip onto his shirt again. Pressing yourself completely against him. You make eye contact for the first time that night.

“I - I want you to lay down with me... please Uvo?”

To say he’s shocked is an understatement

The man is beyond words. It’s only been 15 minutes since he slipped you the drugs and you’re already more comfortable with him than you’ve been since he took you months ago.

“All you had to do was ask sweetheart.”

It’s only been seconds from your statement and you don’t even care about laying down anymore. Can’t even really remember that you were having a conversation or what it was even about. All you can think of now is how hot you are, how your clothing is too itchy and constricting. Your skin is on fire.

Uvo’s body temperature is way hotter than yours normally, and even now he’s still very warm. But to you it feels like heaven. His warmth like a soothing balm over your skin.

“Uvo I need.. I need to take this off” you squirm and try your hardest not to fall off his lap as you wrestle out of your shirt.

His grip on your hips tightens a little. You miss the groan that manages to pass through his lips, too distracted with your own mission of getting out of the straight jacket of a shirt.

He watches you for a minute, panting at the way you’re accidentally grinding down on him. So focused on getting comfortable that you completely forget where your sitting, or that Uvo’s eyes are watching you undress.

“L-Lets get you into bed first sugar” and he removes your clenched fists from the fabric of your shirt. He’s playing the part of an innocent man, but his true motive is that he wants to savor this. He doesn’t want to rush through the moment so quickly that he doesn’t have time to truly indulge in it. To drown in it.

At this point the drugs are kicking in HARD. All you can think of is your need for.. something. You just need it. And the frustration from the denial is mixing with the pain in your gut.

“No Uvo! I need it off.. all of it off! Please it hurts so bad. Please Uvo...”

You’re crying now, hitting his chest weakly with your closed fists.

Uvo’s lap us soaked from the wetness betwen your thighs. He’s not sure if you even notice. That along with the way you’re throwing your little hissy fit, squirming all over him has his head leaning back against the couch, stifling the moan that’s threatening to make it past his clenched jaw.

He collects himself, taking a deep breath before standing up, hands firmly planted on your ass to keep you as close as possible to his body.

He’s so tall that he has you pressed against his lower abdomen, your legs wrapped as far around his trunk of a torso as they can.

Your moving harder in his hands, panting as he takes you up the stairs.

At first he thinks youre struggling to get away from him, so used to your rejection that it takes him a minute to realize you’re rubbing your clothed crotch against his stomach, sighing at the friction of it.

You don’t even realize your doing it tbh. The drugs clouding your mind of any awareness you had. All you know is that moving your hips is making the pain in your gut a little more tolerable.

Uvo stops and just watches. Your breathing heavy as you rub yourself against him, little whispers of his name passing through your parted lips.

He realizes in that moment that he’s a goner. He expected this to be different, expected you to fight against it tooth and nail just like you fought against him over the months he’s had you. He knows you won’t stay this needy, but even now the intimacy you’ve shown him is enough to last him years to come. He’s prepared to go through whatever means necessary to feel this again.

You don’t even register he’s stopped or his heavy gaze watching you intently. You grab his shirt, hiking it up so you can feel the dips and curves of his stomach, greedily soaking up the soothing warmth against your hands, your body still unconsciously moving against his now exposed chest. 

He listens to you moan in relief, watches as your face contorts in pleasure. Uvo starts walking again, albeit a little quicker this time. His mind wandering to the warm slick you’ve just covered his stomach with. He’s painfully hard, needing it just as much as you do.

And in all honesty I don’t think Uvo could deny you anything besides leaving him ofc.

So he gets you in bed and helps you remove everything besides your underwear even though you tried to take that off too and just waits for it... lays there and holds you, waiting for you to tell him what you want from him.

Yes, he could take you by force if he wanted to but this man craves your love and he knows if you give in willingly you know besides the fact he drugged you you’ll see him as your savior. There for you when your hurting, aching, desperately needing help. 

“Uvo.. please.. shirt off” is all he can make out of your incoherent mumbling.

And this fucker

“Your shirt is already off baby”

He’s making it difficult on purpose. Stringing you out so he can see you sob for him.

“No...no. You undress. Please? Please..”

And that’s enough.

His patience is wearing thin. Months and months of craving you. Wanting you to love him but only getting one word replies and scared tears had him yearning for your affection, to the point it made him sick.

He’s never wanted anything as desperately as he’s wanted you. And you wanting him back? He’ll do anything to have his feelings reciprocated.

He takes everything off, even stripping out of his boxers.

You sob when he pulls away to shuck out of his clothing, fat tears sliding down your face at the loss of his touch.

It only takes him seconds but it’s long enough to have you in hysterics

He shushes you, laying you on his chest as he wraps an arm around your waist. Running his fingers through your hair, whispering in your ear:

“It’s okay”

“I’m here”

“I’m not leaving you baby”

Until you’ve calmed down. His skin on yours is a godsend. You actually kiss him first, moving in as he’s whispering to you and catching him off guard.

It’s open mouthed and sloppy, your need making you desperate.

When he starts to kiss you back you whine into his mouth, not being able to stop yourself from moving your hips.

Uvo grunts, letting himself roll up against you; loving the squeak you let out into his mouth as his hands grasp your hips.

He could stop right now and it would still be the best moment of his life. His tongue in your mouth tasting your desire and his hips moving in tandem with yours. It’s heaven.

To you it’s pure ecstasy. You’ve never experienced this type of gut wrenching pain before. A need so desperate you’ll do anything to quell it.

Even if it meant letting your captor fuck you senseless.

You’re unashamed. There is no room in your head to think about such things when your body is on fire like this, burning as your floor muscles clench and unclench so hard it’s excruciating. Trying desperately to squeeze around something and adding to the fire when they find nothing.

The little drop of relief you felt with Uvo was enough to spur you on. If he was the cure then consequences be damned. You were trapped anyway.

You learned you couldn’t outrun him, definitely couldn’t fight him, and now you’d just proven that given a little push you’d actually be with him. You let the thoughts float away

If this was your bed, you’d lay in it.

“Y/n” he lets out a grunt as the spot between your thighs coats his cock through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Y/n... let me take these off.”

You don’t respond. Instead you grind down harder against him.

Uvo tears the flimsy material off of you body, your bra following soon after.

He’s watching the way your breasts bounce at the force, eyes only ripping away when a high pitched whine leaves your throat.

Your eyes are closed, only focusing on his cock sliding between your folds with every glide of your hips.

Hot and thick, you sob with relief. And still, it wasn’t enough.

“Please Uvo”

“Please what baby? What do you want?”

And with the most conviction you’ve had tonight you beg him “I need you inside of me. Please Uvo. Make it stop.”

He’s breathless. You’ve never wanted anything. No gift would satisfy you, no amount of money could buy your love. And with one measly pill he’s got you writhing on top of him, begging for him to fill you up with his cock.

It gives him a head rush. The only thing you’ve ever asked for is to be stuffed full.

And we all know Uvo is packing some heat right?

Uvo even knows he’s huge, and right now this mans ain’t trying to tear you open unless you wanted him to.

Even though he wants nothing more than to simply seat himself fully inside the tight clutch of your warmth, and god how easy it’d be in this position to just pick you up and sit you down on his length, he flips over. Being careful not to use too much strength in his excited state, so you’re laying beneath him on the bed.

You’re disoriented, and by the time you even fully process what’s happened he’s got his middle finger knuckle deep inside of you.

You arch your back, vision going black and mouth opening into a silent scream with how hard you cum just from one drop of relief.

And he’s trying so fucking hard to keep it together. The way your eyes roll back and your sex already trying so desperately to milk him, tightly clenching and unclenching around his digit.

He’s sure you’re going to drive him mad with desire.

You catch your breath and Uvo’s panting along with you too.

“Did that feel good baby?” And you nod up at him, still too dazed to speak.

“I bet you needed that huh?” smiling down at you, eyes blown wide with lust.

But even though his finger is plenty thick enough, it’s like your body KNOWS that it wasn’t his cock. You still ache for him, the release just pouring gasoline to the flames licking up your spine.

Your voice is just a whisper when you ask him

“More...” you look up at him, lips puffy and trails of tears running down your face. “Please”

And not for the first time tonight, Uvo almost snaps. He closes his eyes, blinking slowly before he takes a deep breath.

“Fuck baby... yeah, yeah I know what you want. Just. Just let me get you ready first okay?”

You give a reluctant nod and Uvo slides a second finger into you.

Any pain you feel at how thick he is, is masked by the spine curling burn in your veins. All you feel from the stretch is white hot pleasure.

And with a shaky breath your thanking him again, boosting his ego as he flicks his wrist to push and pull at the heat clutching around his fingers.

It feels like he’s stuck in a vice. So tight and wet for him... only ever for him. Eyes blown wide he watches as you shake beneath him, chasing any chance of stopping the pain you feel. He scissors his fingers open. He needs to stretch you out enough to fit.

When you start to get close again he pulls out. While he does want to draw this out, he mostly does it out of curiosity. Wants to see what you’ll do when denied your pleasure.

He gets his answer quickly as you let out a scream of frustration, moving your hands from the sheets beneath you to grip his hair, using all your strength to try and get his mouth down to yours in search of any piece of him you can get.

Obviously he doesn’t budge he’s like a thousand times stronger than you. BUT you do succeed in lifting yourself up to meet his lips, biting at them with a low growl in your throat.

For once in this relationship Uvo feels completely in control. He has you right where he wants you. Completely feral for him. Your reward is not only the return of his digits, but also a third finger fucking deeply into you as well.

“Lay back down” he growls out “ be a good girl for me again”

And you do. You’ll do anything for him. A sigh leaves your lips as the pain recedes, replaced with the pleasure Uvo is giving you. It towed a thin line between pain. Any time he slowed down it creeped into your consciousness again. He was your salvation, your only respite from whatever was doing this to you.

He’s your god, and after what felt like forever, he finally answers your prayers.

“S’gunna sting baby. Don’ wanna hurt you but I can’t... I can’t take any more.”

His fingers are gone. In their place is the head of his cock sliding between the soft petals of your pussy.

Uvo moans at the feeling. The feeling of you wanting him, slick and waiting for him.

Such a pretty little thing. He wants to mark you up, leave your body bruised with his signature. To feel the weight of your breasts in his mouth. Wants to bite down gently on your shoulder and taste the iron of your blood on his tongue. To feel your lips swallowing around him, to drown in the taste of your cunt as it clenches on his tongue. He wants every single part of you. But most of all, He wants to ruin you.

You moan, pulling him out of his reverie. “I - I need more Uvo! Not enough, please.”

All of those things can wait for now. His focus in this moment is on making you realize just how much you need him.

Gritting his teeth he slides the tip in, watching with wide eyes as it disappears inside of you.

It’s stretches you out, a whine escaping at the noticble sting of it. Uvo watches your face before slowly plunging deeper within you. You let out a cry as he stretches you out.

after a few pushes and pulls, slowly fucking you open Uvo finally sinks down until he’s fully sheathed inside, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He’s paralyzed for a moment, his attention solely on how warm and wet you are. It’s firm yet gentle around him. Better than everything he imagined. Like silk, only alive, and he swears he can feel your heartbeat enveloping him.

He buries his head in your neck, licking a stripe up a line of sweat until he’s kissing you again. Swallowing every whimper that slips past your swollen lips.

His mouth stays on yours as he slowly pulls back and ruts his hips against yours completely for the first time. You’re scratching his back and god he wishes you could mark him up. Wishes beyond measure that he could carry the sting of you wherever he goes.

“Yeah..right t-there. Fuck!”

 Your shy demeanor is being forcibly torn away. This is the first time he’s heard you curse, the sound of it making him let out a low growl. Thoughts of how he’s awoken some part of you he’d never seen before floating into his mind. his dirty little girl... he wonders how far he can push you until it becomes too much? It’s a question for another day. One where you’re used to taking his hard length, a day he’s not fucking you open.

“Tell me how you feel sweetheart”

You can’t even remember your own name, let alone construct a fully fledged sentence for the man above you. He’s pressing something deep within you that’s making your head even more dizzy than it was before. You clutch him as he rolls onto his back, laying you on his chest as he swivels his hips up into you, lazily grinding against your clit until your mewling.

“You needed this? Needed me? Just too shy to say it...”

He’s rambling, too far gone with pleasure to dice his words.

“Wanted to fill you up for a long time. You love this huh sweetheart? Love me inside of you like this.. so tight, made for me...All mine.” And then he quiets for a moment. His thoughts leading him elsewhere.

He pulls you tighter against his chest, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. Trailing his hand down to your clit, picking up the pace as he feels the beginning of your orgasm approach.

The pain is a distant memory at this point. The only feeling now was the all consuming pleasure Uvo was giving you. You try to writhe against him as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap, but his grip is iron clad on you. You’re so close, so close that your back starts to try to arch against him.

But with grunt he pulls completely out of you, steeling himself against the agonized wail that pass through your lips.

 “Tell me you love me y/n.”

The denial.. the pain slowly consuming you once again. Your cunt clenches around nothing, broken cries leaving your dry throat.

“Say it and I’ll make you feel better. I’m the only one who can make you feel like this. “

He’s tense but his words are desperate. Brows furrowed as you try, and fail, to squirm out of his grip.

“Uvo...”

“Say it for me sweetheart.”

You gulp, the choice excruciatingly clear as the seconds tick on.

Uvo I ... I love you.” it’s whisper quiet but the way that his fucks back up into your aching core with renewed vigor is proof enough that he’s heard you.

Delirious with your confession he starts talking again. Mumbles interlaced with his sounds of pleasure of how good you are, how tight, how he’d kill anyone who harmed you, whatever you want is yours just say the word, he’s yours. All of him until he draws his last breath.

As he hits that sweet spot inside of you again and again and again the coil snaps. A pleasured cry wrenches what little voice you have left from your sore throat as you’re hit full force. You can’t help how your body thrashes to escape his grip. He makes you cum so hard you almost pass out, black dots clouding your vision as he stills inside of you.

He stops thinking, stops talking as his mouth falls open at the clench of your pussy around him. You squeeze his length, so hard that he doesn’t have to move to cum. He lets your body finish him as he plays with your clit, turning a deaf ear to your overstimulated whine. 

The feeling of your pussy milking the rest of his release inside of you quickly becoming addicting. He’s never cum so hard in his life.

Months of pent of frustration paint your walls, the warmth seeming to soothe what is left of the painful ache of the drugs in your system. You let out a sigh of relief and relax as Uvo moves so he can spoon you, making sure to stay firmly rooted between your legs.

He pets your hair and whispers praises between gentle kiseses to you neck. You must be so exhausted, he knows. You let your eyelids droop, nows not the time to think about consequences. With Uvo’s strong arms wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep, you let yourself be lulled to sleep.

[icerosecrystal]

Jasonette - A Second Chance Pt. 1

Next

This one-shot contains major character death as well as blood and violence. BTW, to clear up their ages at the beginning of the story.

Alfred: IMMORTAL, MY CHILDREN

Bruce: 44

Dick: 29

Jason: 24

Marinette: 23

Tim: 21

Damian: 14

(Marinette’s POV)

Ladybug had failed all of Paris. She had gone into today’s battle, thinking that she and her partner Chat Noir would work together to defeat Hawkmoth. But, right when she had asked Chat Noir to take Hawkmoth’s miraculous, he froze. He then did the worst thing she could imagine he laughed. Chat then walked up to Hawkmoth while Hawkomth chuckled, “Little Bug, even your partner doesn’t support you anymore. Just give up.”

Ladybug froze, her mind racing. Her partner had betrayed her. He had decided that the cause they had been fighting for the last decade was no longer worth the fight. (I was going to make you’ll do the math, but then I saw I already told you Marinette’s age above, lmao.) She screamed in frustration and then shouted, “ Never!”

Ladybug or Marinette was a great fighter, especially after having been in the superhero gig for so long. But, Chat Noir was also pretty good, and he was allied with both Mayura and Hawkmoth. It was safe to say that the odds weren’t looking well for Marinette. She was growing tired, and Tikki didn’t have much energy left within her.

That’s when it happened, Marinette made a mistake. The next thing she knew, Hawkmoth had her pinned to the ground and had pulled off her miraculous, consequently revealing her identity. Hawkmoth handed over her miraculous to Chat Noir, who put it on. Chat, then turned into a deep purple, and a voice asked him, “What do you wish for, oh young one?”

Chat replied, “I wish for the rebirth of my mom, Emilie Agreste.” Marinette’s heart stopped. Her ex-partner was Adrien Agreste. And if he’s assisting Hawkmoth, that must mean that Hawkmoth is Gabriel Agreste, her idol. Then Natalie Sancoeur must be Mayura. Marinette came to those conclusions in a matter of seconds. But, after a minute, she started feeling sluggish.  She felt her heartbeat slow down. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep forever. She didn’t feel so good at this point. Through her blurry vision, she saw a woman that looked like Adrien’s Mother appear. As Emilie returned to full consciousness, that’s when Marinette started losing consciousness. The last thing that she heard in a whisper was, “ A life for a life, that was the price.” Before she closed her eyes,  succumbing her body and mind to the darkness that lay ahead.

(Talia POV)

Talia Al-Ghul was expecting a lot of things today. What she was not expecting was to find Paris in a mid-battle, for one of the heroes partners to betray them, the villains winning, and then said hero dying. She looked at the body of the girl that everyone was staring at and thought she didn’t deserve to die like this, plus she might be useful to the league. Talia pulled up her mask to cover her face and then blended in with the shadows. No one actually so her until she grabbed the girl and disappeared. Her actions prompted a lot of commotion back at the battle location.

Talia boarded her plane, carrying the body in her arms. She was slightly worried about the potential effects the Lazarus pit could have on her. She had experienced the worse side-effects, courtesy of one Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. Talia could still remember his screams as he clawed his way out of the Lazarus Pit and started to attack all the assassins with the intent to kill anyone and everyone. They had barely managed to restrain him. She hoped that this girl would not receive similar side-effects. But, based on the amount of trauma and betrayal she held within her like Jason, it would be inevitable.

Once Talia arrived at the league with the dead girl, she walked out of the plane got some bandages. Talia then took the girl, or rather Marinette. She found out from a face scan that pulled up all her legal documents as well as her background information, to her father, Ra’s. Once she arrived before her father, she bowed her head in respect for him.

“Ahhh, daughter, you’ve returned. And who is this you’ve acquired.”

Talia answered, “Her name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, twenty-three-years-old, and an excellent fighter. She lived in Paris, France, and was the main hero. Today was the final battle, and her partner ended up betraying her, getting her killed in the process.” She then handed over all of Marinette’s legal documentation as well as her background info to her father.

Ra’s looked through it and then asked, “How would she be a useful asset to the league?”

Talia responded, “After what happened with Marinette, she would have a thirst for revenge on the people that wronged her. I’m enunciating that we can use that to our advantage. The only problem is that Marinette carries around a lot of trauma, betrayal, and loneliness like Jason Todd. I’m concerned that she might have the same reaction for dipping in the pit.”

Ra’s nodded, considering the idea and agreeing that a person with the thirst for revenge would be a useful addition to the league.

Talia watched Ra’s, hoping to get an idea of what he was thinking. He then beckoned for her to follow him. He leads her to the Lazarus Pit, and Talia now knew that Ra’s supported her decision. She put Marinette down and wrapped her in bandages before dipping her in the pit. What happens next is alarming.

Marinette has the same reaction as Jason. This time though, everyone was ready. Talia quickly took hold of her and started whispering how she got to her destination and how she came back to life. Unlike Jason, though, Marinette doesn’t have as much of a temper, which helps Talia efficiently calm her down faster. Talia then tells Marinette, “Would you like to be an Assasin and fix those who have wronged you?”

Talia wasn’t asking. They would force Marinette if she refused, but they wanted to be her ally rather than as her foe. But what would she choose?

(Marinette’s POV)

A burning sensation was all Marinette felt. But she was supposed to be dead. So, what was she doing alive she got out of the green ooze that she was inside. Marinette frantically looked around while clawing the bandages on her to get rid of the burning sensation. When it didn’t work, she tried to claw her way out of the goop to ease the burning until someone caught her around her middle. The same person took her out of the green goop and started whispering reassurance in her ear. Marinette relaxed until the women asked a question that would change everything, “Would you like to be an Assasin and fix those who have wronged you?”

The logical side of her brain argued that she shouldn’t yield herself to killing others, that it was wrong. The other side of Marinette’s brain felt hazy from dipping into the ooze. It was also hazy because of her grief, pain, betrayal, trauma, and loneliness argued that revenge was the only way to go. She slowly let the murky part of her brain take over until revenge felt like eating ice cream on a hot summer day, great. She nodded her head in agreement with the proposition. The woman smiled and then introduced herself as Talia Al-Ghul, the demon head’s daughter. She spent the rest of the day explaining everything about the league to Marinette. Talia also explained rules that applied specifically to her. By the end of the day, Marinette had an outfit that she would use on missions and during training. Talia then left Marinette to settle in. Marinette looked around the room and sighed, getting ready for experiencing this every day from now on.

(Four months time skip)

It had been four months since Marinette became a member of the league of assassins. And as expected, she was a valuable member of the order. Her need for revenge drove her to work harder on missions.

One morning, Talia awoke Marinette with some news. “You will be going to Gotham to check on my son, who should be 14 now. You will observe how he communicates with his family, and if there any problems arise, you will assist them. Report back to me every day, understand?”

Marinette nodded, “Yes, Mistress.” Talia nodded back and then left to get the plane ready. Marinette wore her usual assassin outfit.

Marinette then went outside and stood before Talia. Shed waited for Talia to give her to okay to board the plane. Once she did, they both got on and reviewed everything they knew about Damian and the Waynes. By the time they arrived in Gotham, Marinette had memorized the information of every single Wayne. She said goodbye to Talia and tracked down Damian, watching him from afar in the shadows.

(Time Skip of a Week)

It had been a week since Marinette started observing Damian. She had to say that he was growing soft. Although, it had been four years since Damian was under league supervision. Everything was going all right on the bat’s patrol until it wasn’t.

The bat family was fighting some thugs at the docks when a thug snuck behind Damian, or rather Robin, and shot him in the stomach. Damian fell to the ground in pain, but still alive. This action provoked Marinette to let out a deep, feral growl. She then grabbed some of her throwing stars and launched them at the thug, effectively killing him in the process. Her actions lead the bat clan to shift their attention to her. They quickly fought off the remaining thugs. They then walked up to a bleeding Damian and Marinette standing in front of him as if to guard him.

Batman then asked, “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Marinette answered, “My name is Dark Angel. I was sent by Mistress Talia to look after Damian for a little bit and see how he’s fitting in.”

Batman then stated, “You killed the man.”

Marinette shrugged, “It comes with the job description. I’m an assassin. You know, a murderer who targets people that would be better off dead?”

Batman sighed, “Nobody is better off dead.”

Marinette shrugged again, so done with this conversation, “Speak for yourself.”

(Jason’s POV, sorry for the abrupt change)

Jason stared at the woman in front of him, who must be his age. He recognized her behavior from somewhere. Jason suddenly realized where he had seen this behavior before he exhibited this demeanor after he came back to life. That meant that she had died, and Talia was using her want for revenge like the league used his.

Jason asked, no stated, “You died.”

Dark Angel stiffened, “Who wants to know?” Yup, her reaction confirmed his suspicions she had died and was then brought back by the Lazarus Pit. Most likely recently by how raw her emotions still were.

Jason walked up slowly to her and remarked, “You died and later brought back to the Lazarus Pit. You probably have a thirst for revenge. I can see a lot of you in me. I can help you.” He tried to be as gentle as possible, which was hard considering his character.

Dark Angel backed away while shaking her head, frantically", No, you know NOTHING ABOUT ME! YOU DON’T KNOW THE BETRAYAL, THE TRAUMA. YOU KNOW NOTHING!!!“ She then ran away, trying to get away from the Bat Clan.

Jason looked over at Bruce, or Batman, with determination clear, in his eyes, "I’m going to go find her.”

Batman nodded, “Take RR and Nightwing with you. I’m going to take Robin back to the Bat cave, where Agent A can patch him up. Once you find her, bring her to the cave so that we can talk with her.”

Jason then nodded and grappled in the direction that Dark Angel went, with Red Robin and Nightwing following in his wake. After running for a little bit, they caught sight of her blending in with the shadows. They decided to split up to cover more ground. Jason ran as fast as he could along the rooftops when he finally caught sight of Dark Angel. She looked to be crying. When she saw him, she jumped off the roof and opened a portal falling through. Jason jumped after her and barely went through in time. He then fell on top of something and groaned. Jason got up and looked around. He realized that he was standing on the Eiffel Tower, was he in Paris?

(Marinette’s POV)

After Jason or Red Hood confronted her and tried to compare herself to him, she ran. She started crying, the emotions too overwhelming to not cry. Marinette cried for a little bit. But, she then caught sight of Red Hood running up to her. She glared at him and asked Kaakki to open a portal. A week after she had managed to become an assassin, she had returned to her room and got the miracle box back in her possession. Talia had no idea, and Marinette had no desire to tell her.

She jumped through the portal, she landed on the Eiffel Tower, and took a deep breath. Behind her, she heard a loud thud and then a groan. She whipped around to find that the idiot Red Hood had followed her through the portal. She saw him get up and look around before a look of realization spread through his face. Marinette saw him look at her. She quickly ran away. She felt him running after her. But she had a mission, and she wasn’t going to stop until she accomplished it. Marinette’s mission the demise of everyone that ever hurt Marinette.

She ran to the Agreste Mansion and went through Adrien’s open window. She saw him sitting at his computer happily looking at something. That asshole, he killed her and was enjoying life himself. “Adrien,” she crooned sweetly, “How are you? Are you having a good time since you got your mother back by killing someone else?”

Adrien looked frightened, “How do you know that?”

She walked up to him, hips swaying. She then pulled out her dagger and slid her finger across the blade, “I know a lot of things about you. Like how you are a selfish, asshole.” She then pulled him closer to her and put the dagger to his neck. “You deserve to die, slowly and painfully, and I will happily help you.”

Before Adrian could scream for anyone, Marinette had already stabbed him in the stomach where his lungs were. She was going to do his heart or behead him, but that let him off too easy. The look of pure horror etched onto his face as he fell on the floor with blood all over him, and the floor had Marinette smirking. She grabbed the cat miraculous off of Adrien’s finger and the ladybug miraculous off of his ears. She knew that Red Hood was behind her, but she couldn’t care less.

Next, Marinette went looking for Gabriel and Natalie. It looked like Emilie was out right now. So, Marinette wouldn’t kill her. She also didn’t take part in killing her. She found Gabriel and Natalie in the house’s atelier. Once they saw her, they prepared to attack her. But she had already whipped out a gun and had shot both of them. She had tried to shoot them approximately below where their heart was. As Marinette got closer to examine them, she realized that she had damn good aim. The bullets had hit them directly in the area she was hoping. Close enough to kill them, but far enough to cause them pain. Their blood was gushing out of them, and Marinette could tell that they would die. She grabbed the butterfly miraculous and the peacock miraculous. She brought Adrien downstairs to lie next to his family. Marinette then went back into the shadows with Red Hood following her right as Emilie arrived.  

Marinette watched as Emilie looked at her dead family and started sobbing. Emilie then took notice of the note next to them.

It read:

THEY TOOK A LIFE, AND NOW I DESERVE TO TAKE THEIR LIFE FROM THEM IN TURN. EMILIE, YOU ARE SPARED BECAUSE YOU TOOK NO PART IN ANYTHING.

~DARK ANGEL

Marinette watched Emilie drop down to her knees and continue wailing while crushing the note in her hand. Marinette watched closely, and she wondered if her parents did the same or if they replaced her like everyone else. She shook the thought off and then went to another house, the house of Liar Rossi.

Marinette her house, and went around it trying to find the liar. She found Lila in her room, practicing her crying. Marinette smirked to herself. She always knew that Lila had to practice crying with how many crocodile tears she let loose every day. She snuck up behind Lila and whispered, “I’ll give you a real reason to cry.”

Lila stopped her tears and turned around, scared out of her mind. “Who are you?”

Marinette snickered, “I’m Dark Angel, or more specifically, you’re worst nightmare.”

Lila started crying again, except this time, her tears weren’t as fake as her life. “PLEASE DON’T HURT ME, I’LL DO ANYTHING! I HAVE A LOT OF INFORMATION ABOUT THIS COUNTRY’S GOVERNMENT!”

Marinette took a knife out and ran it across Lila’s skin, causing a scream out of her, “Here’s the thing, Ms. Rossi. You are extremely selfish. You were willing to sell out your country just like that. Plus, I know you’re lying. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. So, here’s the deal, the more you lie, the more I torture you.”

Lila spent the next thirty minutes telling lies. When Marinette knew she would be confessing, she gave Lila’s phone to Red Hood so that he could film her confession. Lila then broke, “OKAY OKAY, I AM SO SORRY!!! I DON’T KNOW ANY OF THE CELEBRITIES I CLAIM I DO. I DON’T HAVE TINNITUS EITHER! MARINETTE DUPAIN-CHENG WASN’T BULLYING ME, I BULLIED HER. I THREATENED HER IN THE FIRST PLACE WHEN SHE FOUND OUT MY LIES AND THREATENED TO TAKE AWAY ALL HER FRIENDS. I SUCCEEDED. I WAS ALSO WORKING WITH HAWKMOTH AND HELPED MAKE ADRIEN WHO WAS CHAT NOIR BETRAY LADYBUG!!! NOW PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!!!”

Marinette sneered and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.” Lila looked at her in hope until she stabbed Lila in the stomach, saying, “Oops, I lied.”

As Lila died, Marinette went to Red Hood and took the phone from his editing the video before sending it to all of Lila’s contacts. When she sent it to Alya, she asked her to post the video on the Lady blog before watching it. She then looked over at Red Hood, who was looking at her in shock. “Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’m not assassinating anyone else. Just torturing them.”

She then went to each of her classmates’ houses and tortured them, depending on how loyal they were to Lila. The person who Marinette tortured the least was Juleka, and the person that she tortured the most was Alya. Once Marinette had finished torturing all of her ex-classmates, she looked over to Red Hood and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go now.”

Red Hood looked at her, confused, “If you were going to go with me either way, why did you run?”

She shrugged, “Your clan had found me out. I wanted people dead. Plus, I was emotional as hell after your whole speech. I also still need to check up on Damian.”

(3rd Person POV)

Red Hood nodded and beckoned for her to open a portal. Marinette did so, and they both dropped through, ending up in the Bat cave. Their sudden appearance surprised all of the current occupants of the cave. Marinette walked up to Damian and asked him, “Are you okay?”

Damian replied, “Tt, ” and then nodded in affirmation.

Before Marinette could say anything else, Batman told her, “I now want you to explain to us who you are, why you’re here. Got it!” He then gave her the Bat glare in case she wouldn’t listen to him.

Marinette nodded and then spoke, “Hi, my assassin name is Dark Angel. My birth name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” A flash of recognition flashed through everyone’s faces. Unbeknownst to Marinette, Hawkmoth had been broadcasting the final battle. Everyone had seen when Hawkmoth had revealed her identity and when she had died. “I was a superhero in Paris. My partner and I were in the final battle when I found out that he had betrayed me and Hawkmoth’s side and was playing me this whole time. The villains won, and they made a wish to revive a dead person. In return, someone else had to die. In this case, it was me. The next thing I know, my whole body feels like it’s burning, and I’m inside of a pit full of green goop. Mistress Talia promised me revenge for the people that had hurt me. I excepted her offer. Since then, I’ve been an assassin for four months now, training every single day for hours. Talia told me to watch your family for a little bit as a mission, which was what I was doing until Damian got shot. You know the rest.”

Red Robin looked at her skeptically, “Where did you and Red Hood go when we tried to find you.”

Marinette looked at Red Hood before carefully answering, “I had some business in Paris, so to speak.”

Nightwing then asked, “And what was this "business” and how the hell did you get to Paris?“

Marinette sighed, rubbing her forehead to ease the throbbing, "You’re not going to let this go, are you?” When she saw everyone shake their head, she answered, “Fine. I was able to get to Paris because I have a miraculous that can open portals.” She showed them the miraculous and then demonstrated it to them. “Once I got to Paris, I committed my revenge. I killed my old partner, Hawkmoth, and Mayura. I also killed a liar who took away everything from me and was also working with Hawkmoth. I also exposed the liar. Finally, I tortured all of my old friends. Yay, I told you everything. Can I go now?”

Everyone looked at her, horrified that she was talking so casually as if she hadn’t just admitted to murderer and torture. Before anyone could say anything, Red Hood shouted, “No!” While taking off his helmet.

Marinette looked at him in irritation, “No? And why fucking not?”

Jason looked over at her, “Because I’m not letting Talia use you anymore.”

Marinette sighed, knowing he was right. Now that she had gotten her revenge, her mind was a lot more clear, and she realized why Talia wanted her to be an assassin in the first place. “Fine, so I’m staying here?” Everyone nodded, still in a daze from everything they just learned.

Marinette shook her head, and Alfred (THE AMAZING GOD THAT HE IS) came into the Bat Cave when Marinette was going to ask someone to lead her upstairs. As Marinette walked upstairs, she hoped that things would work out for her.

(one month time skip)

Marinette had been staying with the Bat Fam or rather Waynes for a month now. She honest to kwami had no idea how they were still alive. The number of times they pulled a weapon on each other was frightening, to be honest. As she got to know each of them, they felt more like her brothers and father, except for one person, Jason damn Todd. She really liked him. He was so gentle with her, and at first, she didn’t understand why. But one day, Jason told her his backstory. To her surprise, it was similar to hers. Once she figured that out, they connected on a whole other level. In fact, they had both sworn that they would try not to kill again. And naturally, the one guy who will probably ever understand her, she had to have a crush on.

Another problem was Talia Al-Ghul. She still hadn’t come to find Marinette. So she was either planning something big. OR SHE WAS DEAD! What, a girl could dream. Marinette then heard a crash downstairs. She ran downstairs and what she saw had her reeling. Talia was in the middle of the living room, playing with her dagger. Once she saw Marinette, she smirked, “Marinette, you’re here. We can go back to the league now.”

Marinette shook her head, “I like living here, and I don’t want to leave.”

The smile that was on Talia’s face disappeared, “Even if you do like it here, you still have to get revenge on the people that wronged you.”

Marinette clicked her tongue, “That’s the thing, I already did revenge on them. I killed the main ones and tortured the rest.”

Talia yelled in defeat, “Well, if you won’t come back, then you’ll just die!” (I know I made Talia super sweet at the start of the story. But let’s face it. She’s a manipulator and a bitch) She then charged Marinette with her dagger in hand. But before she could reach Marinette, she was dead on the floor with multiple bullet holes going through her.

Marinette, with a gun in her hand, sank to her knees sobbing. The Wayne family, having heard the gunshots, hurried to the first floor. There they found a sobbing Marinette and a dead Talia. Jason hurried to Marinette and pulled her into his arms. “Hey, Pixie, what’s wrong?” Marinette shook her head, still sobbing. The rest of the family, seeing that Marinette wasn’t calming down, decided to give some words of support before taking Talia out of the room and cleaning the blood.

Jason picked up Marinette, who was clinging to his leather jacket and took her upstairs to his room. He whispered soothing words in her ear the whole way. Once they arrived, he put her down on the bed and cuddled her, “Marinette, Pixie, Baby, I need you to tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”

Marinette’s sobbing started dying down. Eventually, it was only an occasional tear with some hiccups and sniffs. “I made a promise that I wouldn’t kill anymore. I broke that promise. Deep down, I really am a murderer.” She started sobbing again.

Jason sighed and crooned to her, “Oh, baby. Do you really think that? I used to murderer people all the time. Does that still make me a murderer? No! It doesn’t make you a murderer either.”

He then started kissing her cheek, her eyelids, her button-nose, her forehead, her head, her jaw. He trailed kisses down her neck while speaking, “I- love-you-so-much. And nothing-is ever-going- to change-that. You- are not- a- murderer.” He then planted a fervent kiss on her lips, which she deepened.

They continued kissing until Marinette broke away to say, “I love you too. You helped me so much when I was broken.”

Jason looked at her in the eyes with a raw intensity, “Then if you love me, never blame yourself for what happened to you.”

She smiled softly, “I promise”, before kissing him once more, with a deep passion.

He pulled away this time and told her, “You have a chance to have a second chance at life. Not many people get that. Use that second chance to fulfill everything you ever wanted. Leave the past behind. Be who you really are. Who you were before everything. But move into the future, with me by your side.”

“A second chance,” Marinette whispered, “A second chance.” Before kissing him once more. She was going to be okay. They had each other, and they were going to get through everything together. Together no matter what, they were going to give themselves a second chance, and they were going to spend every second of it together.

[multistoty]

❛  maybe you’re right.  ❜

Padme was still trying to fully catch up with all Anakin had just told her and she was sure the paleness of her face supported the sentiment. time travel? The force was a mystery for sure though the idea of such travel seemed more suited to a holonovella or an old world book instead of the jedi order. It had been a crazy turn to feel him being haunted while waking by his own demons. The brunette would wake up to a gentle mechanical hand and whispered words to the curve of her belly. This time she had insisted once again that she would be fine were it seemed to go past some boundary that he hadn't been able to fit her words around. Maybe she should teach Ahsoka, Rex, and Kenobi such a trick for stubborn and dramatic skywalkers. He had seemed to come back to himself in the last few days. Brighter, less haunted even if the half moons of purple bags laid claim to the delicate skin under his eyes. Her husband would not lie to her in something so serious especially about his children. Children. He had said their were two and they both were right about the girl and boy debate. Maybe she would have disputed this point too had he not come up with the very names she had decided on for both genders. His words held a power that made them believable as if he were confiding one of the darkest secrets to her on baited breath. Yet, the queen couldn’t stop the furrowing of her brows as the story he waved came fully into view. There was so much information passing those rose colored lips that it felt like she was a piece of land broken into pieces by his wave of words. Palpatine was the Sith Lord. that was why he didn’t want her on the slavery committee! Why he seemed to pull Anakin away any time he could. And she had thought him harmless, an ally even. That man had used her husbands love for her and the children growing up inside her to do and say the unthinkable. The blood could almost be seen on her hands as well. Younglings and Jedi a like slaughtered. Struggling not to sway on her feet, the pregnant woman found herself less then elegantly leaning on the bed next to him. Everything except him and his explanation lost to any of her sense even the rays of sun shining flares into her eyes. They couldn’t let this happen. They’d sacrificed and fought so hard to keep this secret for the sake of this republic. She wouldn’t let anyone even one of them to be it’s undoing. They couldn’t. For he who willingly goes into folly sins more than the man blind to consequences. She hoped that these were no consequences of love. Any words felt meaningless on her thick tongue had her mouth been able to produce the start of any croak like consequences. A quip would have usually come after such a thing about his dramatics or the fact that she was usually right. Now the girl just missed her wavy, chocolate tresses with worried ivory digits. The tactile experience painful though it let out some of her pent up emotions as she was to far along to pace as usual. Darth Vader haunted even the Anakin not yet to make such a mistake. The warmth of his blue eyes did not make an entrance as they were splashed with leaking love and regret. How long had he held this on his own? Closing the distance, the woman pressed a kiss to the man she loved lips. It would give her time to think and would hopefully show him that, beyond the horror in her eyes, she still felt the same for his wretched heart.

“I failed you, ani. I didn’t make you feel safe to trust your worries in me and I didn’t make time to do that properly. You shouldn’t have lived like a secret ever. The only thing I’m right about is the better chance we can have for our beautiful children when your by my side and we have more experienced doctors than a med droid and Kenobi even if he’s be the most like an uncle or grandfather they had . So much of me wants to believe that you are lying that you could never do such a thing to me, to us, to our family. But Darth Vader is not you and he never will be. He’s an omen of the dangers that are out there. A reminder that this. Our lips, our hands. Our found family. And our twins. No politics or order to speak of. You have visited the past to change our future so we must use the seeds of the present to bring in a better harvest. Do not let what you could be haunt what you are now do what you want. That is- if I am what you want. You always have an out of you need it. You are not a slave to me. You never were. I didn’t think you capable of such things, but you were manipulated. You let your demons control you more than you control your demons. Learn. Grow. For that is the way of the world. No weeds will choke me away from intertwining roots with you. You have to promise me that you will do your very best to stay with the three of us. If leia really loves a smuggler, I’m really gonna need your help. Although I’m a little jealous you got to see how they turned out. Be the better man the Obi-wan raised you to be.”

[theemptyskies]

Ok I'm posting this first chapter a little late haha. It was for @azulaweek for Day 2 Rare Pairs and Day 4 AU.

It's going to be a Buffy the Vampire Slayer and AtLA crossover.

Hope y'all enjoy! Shout out to @juniperhillpatient for motivating me to give this a shot. You're awesome 🙂

Any feedback is appreciated ❤

Displacement - A New Beginning

Content Warning: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Blood and Gore

Summary

The rise of Vaatu leads to unprecedented darkness falling upon the world. Unexpected events lead to Azula learning to live in an unknown world, preparing for an uncertain future.

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A spell to close the Hellmouth in "The Zeppo" has unexpected consequences. With no way of sending the newcomer home, Buffy, Faith and the Scoobies do their best to help the young girl adapt to her new home.

Or

While facing the possible end of the world, Azula finds herself transported through the newly created hellmouth, ending up in Sunnydale. Watch as she grows and adapts in this new world, learning to overcome the pain of losing loved ones, finding a family, and starting to see this as a new opportunity at life.

Anyone who thought the Fire Nation was evil was a fool. At least they should feel they are, given the darkness that has enveloped the world in the four years since the war has ended. It all began last year when Avatar Roku warned Avatar Aang that there was a risk of a dark spirit breaking free. He called it Vatu. It was the spirit of chaos and darkness, the antithesis to the Avatar spirit. 

The spirit had a sort of cult worshipping it. Avatar Aang tried to stop them himself, not wanting to involve their friends and risk our safety. That was his first mistake. It left Katara and myself woefully unprepared for the cult's ambush. We fought them off as best as we could, but there were far too many. In the end, our cottage was left in ruins, dead waterless foliage caked in our enemy's blood, I was nearly beaten unconscious, and Katara was taken. 

They times the kidnapping perfectly, just a day before their planned ritual to free Vaatu from his imprisonment. Avatar Aang, the foolish child that he is, refused to leave Katara's rescue to Sokka, Toph, and myself. His inability to let go of the infatuation he holds for Katara gave the cult enough time to break Vaatu's bindings. It was then the darkest days came.

Upon its release, Vaatu, with the help of its cult, performed a ritual. Black tendrils erupted from its body, tearing across the skies and burrowing into the earth, its physical dorm dissolving in the process. Agni's light was blocked by shadows stripping bending from Firebenders across the glow. From the five largest points, great beasts emerged. Enormous, otherworldly, monstrosities that the worst of nightmares couldn't compare to. Following their emergence, a diverse horde of smaller, equally horrid, creatures poured from the openings. 

There was no time to prepare. Within hours the largest cities were reduced to unrecognizable ruins. Formerly bustling streets were transformed into rivers of red. Body parts left strewn across the rubble. Images of beast feasting on children still haunt my mind. Even our own friends weren't able to escape the carnage. We managed to find Ty Lee the last of the living Kyoshi Warriors, just as she was impaled on the claws of a bald, gaunt humanoid-looking monster. It managed to rip an arm from her body by the time we closed the distance enough for Katara to decapitate it with a disk of ice. Her last words will forever be seared in my mind.

"I'm happy you're ok 'Zula."

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Over the two weeks, since The Emergence began, Aang was almost non-stop searching for and rescuing survivors. We established a temporary refugee camp at the unoccupied Southern Air Temple. Like an endlessly erupting volcano, the creature continued rising from the pits Vatu created. Isolated locations like the Air Temples and Water Tribes were the only places still safe, for now at least.

Knowing that allowing events to continue unimpeded, Aang turned to the spirits for guidance. The Air Temple's sacred grounds made the transition from the mortal world to the spiritual plane much easier. Sitting in the temple powerless as Katara held me, waiting for Aang to return from the spirit world, listening to the distant roars of monsters below the clouds, I don't think I ever felt so terrified. 

Almost like she could sense my fear, Katara held me tighter, softly kissed the top of my head while gently running her fingers through my now unkempt hair. It's strange how the moment I felt the most fear was followed by one where I felt incredibly safe. As her gentle caresses lulled me to sleep, I heard a whisper from my lover. A hope a clung to until the very end.

"Everything will be ok Zula. We'll make it through this."

Two days later, Aang returned from the spirit world. With the help of Avatar Roku, he had managed to make contact with Rava, the spirit of light and the source of the Avatar's power. With the information she gave us, we were able to come up with a plan. Vaatu's ritual tore open portals that were connected to another dimension. They were directly connected to the five largest beasts that first erupted from them. While the portals themselves couldn't be closed, the pits that housed them would be sealed, finally stopping the endless stream of monsters from pouring into our world. All they had to do was kill the five great beasts.

Admittedly, it wasn't much of a plan. As Sokka had put it "So all we have to do is take out monsters the size of small palaces? Great! You know, for once, why couldn't the world-saving plan be easy." I rolled my eyes at his remark at the time but didn't make a retort. The small smiles that our friends held were worth dealing with his rather poor sense of humor. Besides, he was family after all, and if he said something too stupid I'm sure Katara would've happily frozen him to the ceiling.

Rava's power, being the opposite of Vaatu's, would lure the massive beasts to Aang, acting as a sort of beacon. The general plan was that Aang would activate the Avatar State, he would kill the beasts near the pits, we would keep the army of smaller monsters away from Aang while he fights the bigger ones, don't die. Said like that, the plan sounded risky but simple. Unfortunately, it was anything but simple.

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There were a few Earthbenders among the rescued survivors that volunteered to help. We knew we couldn't hold back a never-ending army. After talking with Sokka, rapidly formulating and dismissing plans, the best we came up with was having the Earthbenders create a dome over the pit. This would grab the attention of the surrounding creatures. While they focused on not letting the army break through the barrier, the rest of us would protect the Earthbenders until the beast was slain. 

Naturally, it wasn't that simple. Rava failed to mention that as each beast died, only some of Vaatu's energy returned to the pit, sealing it. The rest dispersed to the remaining beasts, making them stronger. The first there battles went relatively smoothly, the growing strength of the beasts was more and more apparent with each successive fight. We experienced a handful of losses but nothing unexpected. Merely some inexperienced volunteers. It was the fourth battle that hit our group the hardest. 

The battle started just like every other, sealing the pit and fighting the surrounding beasts. However, due to the strength of this beast, this fight lasted far longer than the last. With our growing exhaustion, it was only a matter of time before someone made a mistake. As Sokka slew one of them, another managed to catch him off guard from behind. Faster than anyone could react, the hairless humanoid snatched his wolf-tail, yanking him back, and sunk its fangs into the side of his neck. Within seconds his skin lost all color and he was left hanging limp in the thing's arms, his sword slipping from his hands and his vacant eyes forever left wide in horror.

That fight ended soon after, with the Avatar finally defeating the creature. I had to nearly rip Katara away from her fallen brother, the last of her biological family. I held her as she cried during the entire flight back to the Southern Air Temple. Upon our arrival, Aang approached us after climbing off of Appa.

"I'm sorry for what happened to Sokka, Katara." He began. At the sound of his voice, I felt Katara stiffen in my arms. 

"You're sorry..." It was a whisper I barely heard as she pulled away, her face displaying a hatred I didn't know she was capable of. He began to speak again but she cut him off.

"How dare you come to me and say that!" She growled at him. "Like I'm sorry will make it all better! You could've stopped all of this! You could have prevented Vaatu from breaking free and none of this would've happened! Now SOKKA IS DEAD!" A loud slap echoed across the now silent temple as she struck Aang across the face. 

Her voice lowered to a whisper as she continued, tears freely falling from her eyes. "S-s-sokka is d-dead and it's all your fault... Just stay away from me..." Finishing her quiet statement, Katara ran inside the temple, away from the sympathetic stares of the gathered survivors. 

Aang watched her go, holding his own tears back before turning to me. He unfastened the strap holding Sokka's blade across his back. With both hands, he held it out to me. "Will you please give this to her. He would want her to have it."

I accepted the blade and he turned, beginning to walk away. "She didn't mean that you know. Katara's hurt and angry."

I don't know why I felt the need to offer him that small comfort. Maybe it was because Aang had taken the time, despite his exhaustion, to do this for her fiance. Regardless of the reason, he paused, shaking his head.

"Doesn't matter Azula. Even if she apologizes, we both know she's right." With that statement, he walked away. Turning, I walked in the direction Katara had run. I knew I wasn't the best at providing comfort, but that's all I could do for her now. I don't remember ever seeing her so broken, and I don't think there's anything I could've said to help.

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Katara squeezing my hand pulled me from my memories. "Are you ok?"

I turned to look at her, seeing the concern reflected in her eyes.  I looked over the edge of the Bison's saddle, noting that the sea was replaced by land below us, before responding "Ya, I'm fine. Was just thinking about everything that happened. What brought us here."

Katara stilled, appearing to look at something that wasn't there. She was probably lost within the same memories I was moments ago. I squeezed her hand softly, wondering for a moment how her hands remained so soft after the countless battles they've been through. She jerked slightly, her eyes regaining focus before giving me a small smile. It was a rare sight in recent months but still as beautiful as the day she proposed.

"Despite everything that's happened, I'm glad you've been here with me Zula."  Katara said softly before leaning in and giving me a soft kiss that left my heart stuttering. It's amazing that, after all this time, she still has the same effect on me. It faintly reminds me of how nervous I was when I admitted out loud to Ty Lee and Zuko that I wanted to marry her. Though the nervousness I felt that day grew to be far greater when she walked around the corner in the palace hallway, clearly having heard what I said. 

I couldn't stop the small smile from forming on my face as the memory washed over me. Leaning my forehead against hers, I recalled her walking up to me, her wide-eyed, surprised, expression shifting to one of pure happiness. 

"Ya know, I've been nervous all week about giving this to you, but suddenly I feel a lot more confident." She had said jokingly, a smirk plastered on her face as she pulled a small rectangle box from her robe. She opened the box, standing barely a foot away, revealing a blue necklace, simple in design. The pendant had the symbol of the Fire Nation in the center. Only, instead of black over a red background, it was ivory over a pale blue. It was simple but perfect. 

"In the Watertribes, we use necklaces to propose. I wasn't so sure before, but something tells me I can guess your answer. Will you marry me?" Her eyes twinkled in amusement as I nodded dumbly, too shocked over what had just happened. It certainly wasn't my most elegant moment. It had taken me a few moments to process what had happened before I launched myself at her, pulling her into a searing kiss which she smiled into. Pulling away from me, with eyes full of joy and a smile lighting up her face, Katara asked "Can I put it on you?"

I nodded again, not trusting my voice. Katara pulled the necklace from its case and walked around me as it looked over at Zuko and Ty Lee both wearing equally large smiles. As soon as it was fastened, Zuko pulled us both into a large hug, quickly followed by Ty Lee, who couldn't contain her excitement. "Oh my gosh Azula! Congratulations! You're getting married! There is so much planning we have to do! The decorations, oh you know there has to be music..."

I looked into Katara's eyes, not pulling away from her, returning the smile. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." I said softly so only she could hear, before closing the distance for another kiss.

We were pulled from our moment by Appa beginning his descent, and Aang jumping off, unfurling his glider and flying away, creating distance for his battle. Looking back towards the rapidly approaching ground of the western Earth Kingdom, I could see the sea of black dots below us start to become more defined, revealing the mass of creatures we'll soon be fighting. Appa landed with a massive gust of wind sending monsters flying, giving us a few moments to disembark and fall into formation.

As soon as Toph landed, she quickly entombed the pit in a think earthen dome, soon backed by two other Earthbenders, preventing the swarm of monsters from continuing to grow. Katara, myself and the other volunteer survivors formed a protective perimeter around them. I quickly unsheathed Sokka's black blade instead of using my dual tanto. Katara handed me the sword before we left the temple, saying Sokka would want to be here fighting with us. Looking at the gleaming dark metal, I knew she was right. 

The luminous light of the Avatar state in the distance, shortly followed by a deafening roar and rumbling earth signified the start of the battle. The monstrosities surrounding us, the same kind that butchered Ty lee, righted themselves before charging. There was a vindictive pleasure in cutting them down, watching their bodies crumble into dust as their heads rolled. The creatures were stronger and faster than normal people, that was unquestionable. However, for a veteran of the 100-year war, their attacks were laughably easy to read and counter.

As the battle drew on, the quakes from Aang's battle with the giant, snake-like beast continued, and exhaustion slowly began to seep in. There was a yell to my left followed by a sickening snap that drew my attention. The limp body of a survivor was held by one of our enemies, head twisted to an unnatural degree. It carelessly threw the body into another ally that was attempting to flank it before running towards the earthbenders.

"Katara!" I yelled, directing her to the monster. She quickly launched a disk of ice, decapitating the beast.

"Fall in!" I yelled, causing our allies to move closer to the earthbenders, closing the gap in our defense.

I risked a glance towards Aang's fight to see the serpent falling from a newly formed mountain, who's shadow covered our battlefield. The end of its tail was coiled around the light of the Avatar State. Not a moment later, a massive quake tore across the Earth, the impact echoing in its wake. Chaotic black and red energy tore through the air, washing over us, blasting through the cover of the pit, and, for the first time in ages, I felt my Firebending return as Agni's light shined once again.

Unlike before, when the energy entered the hole it pulsed. Before I could react, some of the energy solidified, wrapping around my waist, before it began to drag me with it. 

"Azula!" I heard Katara yelled as she raced towards me, skating across her ice. Using it, Katara launched herself off the ramp, rapidly closing the distance between us. Her left hand gripped mine as she used the last of her water to freeze her feet to the ground, stopping the energy from pulling me further.

I smirked at the display. "Very impressive Master Katara." I said causing her to roll her eyes.

"Only you could brush off nearly dying so easily." She said, her light tone trying to hide the strain of fighting the pulling tendril of energy. Her expression softened before she looked me in the eyes and said "I told you we would make it through this remember. I'm not gonna let you make a list out of..." Her words abruptly stopped as warm blood splattered across my face. "Zula... Your face..." Her voice was weak, words barely audible. My mind shut down, a sinking emptiness filled me as I started at the now crimson fist sticking through my fiance's chest. I couldn't help but look into her wide, horrified, blue eyes as the first extracted itself. Her grip on my hand didn't lessen as the bloodied hand gripped her hair, pulling her head to the side.

Gaunt, bald, fanged monsters peered at me from over her shoulder, giving me a sickening, malicious, grin before sinking its teeth into the side of Katara's neck. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, the grip on my hand weakening. The slick blood coating her front caused my hand to slide out of hers within a moment, my grip causing her ring to slide off with it. I watched, unable to speak, as the tendril of energy pulled me into to pit. The last thing I saw being the light leaving Katara's beautiful eyes as it tore its fangs from her throat.

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"For untold eons, demons walked the Earth. They made it their home, their, uh... their hell. But in time, they lost their purchase on this reality, and the way was made for mortal animals, for-for man. All that remains of the old ones are vestiges, certain magicks, certain creatures." -- Rupert Giles

[snicketstrange]

Rereading The End chapter 10

Rereading: Chapter 10 One of the biggest mysteries for me in Chapter 19 is what the end of the story Ish started to tell about his student who had only one eyebrow would be. - "Did you know I used to be a schoolteacher?" he asked. "This was many years ago, in the city. There were always a few children in my chemistry classes who had the same gleam in their eyes that you Baudelaires have. Those students always turned into the most interesting assignments." He sighed, and sat down on one of the reading chairs in the center of the room. "They also always gave me the most trouble. I remember a child in particular, who had scraggly dark hair and just one eyebrow... This was a little girl. only one ear. She was an orphan, and she lived with her siblings in a house owned by a terrible woman, a violent drunkard who was famous for having killed a man in her youth with nothing but her bare hands and a very ripe cantaloupe. .. the student in my class began to be very suspicious about the tea her guardian would pour for her when she got home from school. Rather than drink it, she would dump it into a house-plant that had been used to decorate a well -known stylish restaurant with a fish theme... The Bistro Smelt. he houseplant's owner was whisked off to Peru aboard a mysterious ship [,The Prospero,] even though at the time the ship was called the Pericles. But my student didn't know that. She only wanted to avoid being poisoned, and I had an idea that an antidote might be hidden—"... What is happening now and what happened then is part of the same story, If I don't tell you how I came to prefer tea that's as bitter as wormwood, then you won't know how I came to have a very important conversation with a waiter in a lakeside town. And if I don't tell you about that conversation, then you won't know how I ended up on a certain bathyscaphe, or how I ended up shipwrecked here, or how I came to meet your parents, or anything else contained in this book." What I can deduce from this story is this: Ish was a VFD teacher. Ish was informed by his student that her tutor was trying to drug her. Knowing this stopped Ish from drinking sweet tea. Also, because of this attitude, Ish had to talk to a waiter in a town near a lake. This is very similar to what Lemony had to do after being told that Olaf wanted to kill him and Beatrice. Lemony had to take a special ticket to a ship and flee abroad. Clearly Ish had to do something similar, perhaps in the same place, as the consequence was that he stopped on the island, meaning he was at sea at some point. Parallel to this, we know at what time this happened: at the time of Gregor's Schism. In other words, Ish's student would be drugged in preparation for being kidnapped by one side of Gregor's schism. We can see that this plan to drug children to be kidnapped during a VFD fragmentation is basically the initial plot of ATWQ. It is true that the times when this happened were different, but the attitude of S. Theodora Markson shows that this type of situation was already common and this was repeated at the time of Gregor's Schism. Professor Ish ended up having to flee so as not to be harmed by the possible violence that would take place during Gregor's schism. He was a total pacifist at this time, and Olaf knew it. When he arrived on the island, he was still with the aftermath of the violent world he was forced to flee from, and more determined than ever to establish a community based on total pacifism. According to Ish, The Island Book is where castaways write their stories. This shows how Lemony Snicket has access to stories experienced by the Baudelaires since before their house burned down: the Baudelaires wrote about it in the island book, and Lemony found this book later. The Baudelaires' parents arrived on the island a few months before Ish. In all, they only spent a few months on the island. Beatrice probably arrived on the island pregnant with Violet and left it pregnant as well. Is it possible that Lemony is Violet's father? Talking about possibilities, yes it is possible. Coitus would have had to have taken place not around the time of the canceled quasi-marriage, but around the time of Gregor's schism, around the time Lemony fought over the salmon along with Kit and Jacques. However, I find this unlikely. On TBL we have access to a letter from Lemony to Beatrice. In this letter, we learn that Lemony was informed of Beatrice's pregnancy, and it appears that the person inside Beatrice was Violet. In the letter, Lemony indicates that he hasn't seen Beatrice in a few years. This suggests that Violet is indeed Bertrand's daughter. (You can always think of a grand scheme involving lies, but I find that unlikely. If Lemony wanted to hide the fact that he might be the father of Beatrice's baby, the smartest thing he could do was do nothing. , Beatrice's hasty marriage would have already hidden any suspicion as to the paternity of Beatrice's baby). "They wanted to dig a passageway that would lead to a marine research center and rhetorical advice service some miles away." The Baudelaires exchanged amazed looks. Captain Widdershins had described such a place, and in fact the children had spent some desperate hours in its ruined basement. "You mean if we walk along the bookcase," Klaus said, "we'll reach Anwhistle Aquatics?" Ishmael shook his head. "The passageway was never finished," he said, "and it's a good thing, too. The research center was destroyed in a fire, which might have spread through the passageway and reached the island. was contained in that place. I shudder to think what might happen if the Medusoid Mycelium ever reached these shores." Beatrice and Bertrand arranged to begin construction of a tunnel connecting the island to AA's facilities. The justification was to take the documents to Dewey's library. If we are to believe that Beatrice's genuine interest was in providing content for the library, we also need to believe that at this time, Beatrice did not yet know of the danger Gregor A posed to the world. On the other hand, Beatrice and Bertrand's interest in finding a cure for the deadly MM fungus, as well as the precautions they took in case the deadly fungus reached the island, is evidence that they already knew about the possibility of the fungus being used as a weapon of mass destruction and start a great pandemic that could reach the island somehow. So it is more likely that Beatrice and Bertrand's real interest in building the tunnel was to see that the cure for the MM fungus reached the place where the fungus was contained. In fact, if everyone on the island had immunity to the fungus, they could provide for the controlled destruction of the deadly fungus, without having to resort to wildfire to eliminate that danger. Ish's narration makes it clear that Beatrice and Bertrand have found allies on the island. In fact, it's possible that their arrival on the island was not accidental. They were perhaps looking for a safe place for their experiments involving finding a cure for the deadly MM fungus. That Beatrice had already begun to perform tests that she considered dangerous is evident from the prior knowledge she had about the hybrid apple. After all, neither apples nor the roots used in the experiment have abortive properties in themselves. Some exotic substance was formed in the genetic crossing between species, and Beatrice was already aware of this substance to the point that she never ate her own bitter apples. I have a hypothesis that this information could have been gleaned from Mrs. Widdershins' studies, but this is still very speculative. If there had been no schism on the island at the time of Beatrice and Bertrand, Gregor's schism would not have had so many consequences, for the weapon of mass destruction would have been destroyed without the need to resort to Olaf's incendiary methods. I think this plot also explains another mystery of ASOUE: "the great truce." From Violet's birth until the Baudelaire mansion burned down, Olaf was apparently not chased by the VFD and he maintained a town house and theater group. This truce must have been a kind of reward Olaf received for helping to destroy a bigger and more powerful enemy of VFD: Gregor A and the deadly fungus MM. "In my experience, the Snickets are as much trouble as the Baudelaires" So, this is hard to understand. Ish considers the Snickets problematic, and he considers this based on his personal experience. His experience is with Jacques or Lemony, as in his writings he had claimed that Kit was someone's sister. This reveals exactly what I had previously thought: the Baudelaires and the Snickets were part of a different faction than Ish was. Ish preached total pacifism with the help of librarianship. His behavior on the island for all these 15 years only demonstrates that he has taken this philosophy to the max. He became like a monk during the Middle Ages, who retreated into its mysteries surrounded by manuscripts, while laymen were prevented from learning to read. Ish reveals in chapter 10 his entire philosophy of life: to keep the peace it is necessary to alienate the people of the world. He really considers himself a father to the island, and it's interesting that father is a religious term in many languages, including English. The answer to this way of thinking was said by Sunny: "I don't believe that bridging the freedom of expression and the free exercise thereof is the proper way to run a community." "This ring," he said, "once belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, who gave it to her daughter, who was also the Duchess of Winnipeg, who gave it to her daughter, and so on and so on and so on. , the last Duchess of Winnipeg joined VFD, and gave it to Kit Snicket's brother. It to your father, who gave it to your mother when they were married. Learned from her grandfather. The wooden box turned to ashes in the fire that destroyed the Baudelaire mansion, and Captain Widdershins found the ring in the wreckage only to lose it in a storm at sea, which eventually wa shed it onto our shores." This is a delightfully intriguing story. This story spans hundreds of years. Firstly: what is the importance of the ring? It appears to be originally a family heirloom. After that the rings are given to other people. We know Lemony gave the ring to Beatrice and in his mind it must be an engagement ring. I wonder why R gave this family inheritance to Lemony. He could have used any ring to ask Beatrice to marry him. Did he want something special, but being poor R decided to give him something dear? In this case, was Beatrice already rich? Among the reasons Beatrice would return the ring was certainly the fact that she would not marry Lemony. Was differences between social classes an important factor? Why did Lemony give the ring to Kit instead of keeping it, or instead of giving it back to R? And why did Kit give the ring to Bertrand? Did she want Bertrand to marry Beatrice? And why did Beatrice keep the ring so carefully instead of displaying it on her finger? The only answer I can think of is that Beatrice kept the ring as a symbol of the forbidden love she could have lived with Lemony but didn't. She was his bride at heart. I believe that Beatrice's marriage to Bertrand was not motivated by love, but it was a suggestion that VFD gave her, especially since she has inherited a large fortune. But in any case, Bertrand gave this ring to Beatrice only on the day they were married, not on their engagement. At the time, Beatrice believed Lemony was dead. No wonder she decided to keep a memento of her true love. Of course, these are all hypotheses. But the most important question is: How does Ish know all this? The last information he has is that Captain W took the ring from the wreckage of the Baudelaire mansion and left it lost at sea. How does he know it was exactly Captain W who took the ring? This information can only have been generated by Captain W himself. Did the captain drop his logbook overboard? Chances are, yes.