#this is the downside of posting immediately after I finish writing a thing

[djarins-cyare]

✨Questions Tag Game✨

Thanks for tagging me @burntheedges 🩵

Of course I’m going to add GIFs and images. Did anyone really expect me to post something without visual aids??

[photos are my own (apart from the one immediately below, which is from here), and unless otherwise credited, GIFs were made by me during office hours when I was supposed to be working… 🤫]

Do you make your own bed?

Not in terms of making it look all neat and tucked in, no. But that’s because I’m a teensy bit of a germaphobe, and humans naturally sweat at night, which means you must leave your mattress uncovered for a while after you get up to ensure it airs. So, for most of the day (because I forget to straighten it up), my bed just looks like this:

(Just for fun, how many Mandalorians can you spot in the pic?)

Favourite number?

It’s always been 2, and my reasoning used to be that all good things come in pairs. But having discovered my autism in recent years, I’ve come to realise it probably more likely represents the maximum number of people I’m most comfortable interacting with at any one time. So it’s a manageable number. It’s also an even number. And it’s a prime number (in fact it's the only even prime number). It’s a pretty number – it has a nice curved top and a solid, sturdy base. It stops 1 from being lonely, so it’s a kind number.

Is this a weird answer? All of these are really logical reasons to me!

[GIF found here]

What’s your job?

It’s become so specialised that I no longer have a job title, but I started as a legal PA for one of the senior partners at a Legal 500 law firm in London. I flirted with the idea of qualifying as a solicitor but realised there was no way in hell I’d be comfortable standing up in court and speaking in front of lots of people (and I work in the criminal law department so not keen on casually chatting to criminals either). Instead, I decided to become The Person Who Knows Everything.

So now I write briefs to Counsel, proofs of evidence, funding applications; I analyse evidence, conduct legal research, advise the solicitors on their cases; I train paralegals and admin staff; I do a load of data analysis and make pretty spreadsheets for the bosses; and I manage the firm’s IT needs because I can do computer stuff too. I’m basically their go-to girl for anything that seems complicated or time-consuming… and I don’t have to wear a stupid wig in court.

And the best part is, during Covid lockdown, I demonstrated I can do 100% of my job from home, so I was allowed to move 150 miles away, and I now only have to visit my office two days a month! 🙌🏻

Downside: the arduous and random nature of the job means I’m never up to date and always very tired.

If you could go back to school, would you?

My original plan after getting my undergrad degree was to do a Masters and PhD and become an academic, but I put all that on hold for my (now ex) husband so he could finish his PhD and first postdoc. I’m very glad I never went back, though, because I realise that academia is not the place for me… see above comment about not being able to stand up and talk in court to understand why standing up and talking in a lecture hall would be equally nerve-wracking for me. So, no, I’m content with my current level of schooling.

Honestly, university was more about learning how to ‘adult’ properly than obtaining any useful knowledge on the course anyway (she says, routinely using concepts learnt on her fiction writing modules when crafting Mando fics).

Can you parallel park?

Yup. Narrow roads and a lack of parking spaces in the UK kind of make it a non-optional skill here.

That said, I do sometimes see people desperately trying to line themselves up to get into a space and making an absolute farce out of it, so I guess maybe some people here think it’s optional, but I’d rather not have that kind of stress, so I practised until I could do it easily.

[original GIF found here and then cropped]

Do you think aliens are real?

The way this is phrased… do I think they’re real? Like, do I think the grey ones with big black eyes are anally probing residents in certain sections of North America on a regular basis? Hmm, no. Too many episodes of The X-Files. I mean, Fox Mulder: yum, but I really Don’t Want To Believe, thanks.

But, I remain open to the idea that alien life has evolved elsewhere in the known universe. It’s inconceivably huge, after all. There’s nowhere near enough data to prove (or even speculate) either way – just look at the Drake equation, which has been used to both ‘prove’ and ‘disprove’ the possibility – so I’ll reserve any kind of judgment until some real evidence appears.

Can you drive a manual car?

Yeah, of course. It’s the standard driving test in the UK and allows you to drive both automatic and manual – you actually have to specifically ask to learn only automatic if you decide you can’t handle gears. And, like, it’s all muscle memory, so it’s really not as hard as people think once you’re used to it. I tried to drive an automatic a few years back and found myself involuntarily shadow-shifting the gears!

[original GIF found here and then trimmed for length]

What’s your guilty pleasure?

Mostly, I don’t feel guilty about indulging in pleasures these days. I used to be really affected by social pressures (back before I discovered my autism and still felt like I had to ‘mask’ and fit in), so I used to feel guilty talking about my hyperfixations, but now I couldn’t care less. I shall consume them endlessly and unselfconsciously. It’s very liberating.

Any phobias?

I suppose the answer is sharks, which has no sensible basis for being a phobia because I’ve never had any real encounters to make me fearful (thank fuck!). In fact, I walked through the shark tunnel at SeaWorld just fine as a 7-year-old. Unless that planted some kind of seed of terror, I don’t know. Not sure when it really took hold, but I can’t even look at photos these days. It’s their damn teeth. Someone’s going to have to give me a tooth report on Gladiator II before I can go see it.

The hell if I’m gonna put a photo (or God forbid a GIF) of a shark here, so, umm…

Favourite childhood sport?

Two answers: (1) Football (AKA soccer). I played for a girl’s team when I was about 11, but it was only because the boy I liked was into football. I couldn’t give a shit about it these days, and I don’t think I ever really liked it – I was just ‘masking’, as I did for most of my childhood, but I convinced myself I loved it.

(2) Karate, which I decided all by myself that I fancied doing, then found I was actually quite good at it and excelled at it for a while. But I was 9, and they decided I was so good that I should go and join the adult class (age 14 and up), which I hated, so I quit.

[GIF is one I already had saved from Reddit a while ago, but I can't find the source anymore, so sorry for not crediting the maker]

Do you talk to yourself?

Sometimes, but not often. I live alone, so I occasionally just need to exercise my vocal cords lol. It also depends on what mood I’m in. On an average day, no, I don’t really feel the need to fill the silence, but if I’m excited/animated/annoyed in some way, I might say stuff aloud. Basically, if I’m inclined to utter curse words for any reason, I’ll probably use other words aloud too.

[GIF found here]

Tattoos?

I only have one right now, but I plan to increase that number someday. See photo below; I used to have chameleons as pets and got this tattooed near my right hip when I turned thirty to commemorate them. It’s really small.

I would like to get a phrase in Mando’a inked on me somewhere, probably “Kaysh meg miit’gaana, oyacyi”, which means “she* who writes, remains” [*substitute chosen pronoun – Mando’a doesn’t distinguish genders], and is a Mandalorian proverb teaching that you can live forever if you leave behind written words. I have it engraved on my iPad.

Favourite colour?

Very much the blue (with a hint of green) end of the colour spectrum. For something soft, duck egg blue, or for something bold, teal. See the colour of the titles in this post.

I also like the colours of hyperspace and would happily snuggle up with Din in the cockpit.

Do you like puzzles?

Yeah, I guess. I don’t dislike them. But I don’t really do them much. In terms of the crossword/sodoku/brain teaser sort, I might choose to do them in specific settings, like on vacation when I inevitably need to offer my brain something different than whatever book I’m binge-reading.

In terms of the jigsaw type, I have short phases of thinking, “Ooh, that’ll be fun!”, trying to do one, getting bored, and then forcing myself to finish. Last time that happened was Covid lockdown. Took me a year! Though, to be fair, it was one of these bastards…

Okay, I’m done. I realise I’m very late to the party, and a lot of people have already done this one, so sorry if you’ve already participated. No pressure (and no need to illustrate with gifs and images, I just can’t help myself)… 🩵

@604to647 @beefrobeefcal @d4rm4nd4 @feral-ferrule @gracieheartspedro

@joelslegalwhre @littlemisspascal @magpiepills @penvisions @quicksilvermad

@secretelephanttattoo @studioghibelli @syd-djarin @the-mandawhor1an @zaddymandalorian

[theghostpinesmusic]

Ahead of their looming summer tour, Goose posted one last (?) video from the April Capitol Theatre run the other day: "Tumble" from 4/10. As I've written about before, I like "Tumble" a lot as a song, both in its "fast" and "slow" arrangements, but even longer versions of the tune tend to stretch out into dance-party territory rather than exploring heretofore unplumbed Depths Of Jam. But hey, this is Cotter's first live-concert "Tumble" and it's twenty-four minutes long: how better to put off doing actual work for another hour than listening to this again and writing words about it?

Unlike the version of "Tumble" from Goosemas X, this version is decidedly the "fast" arrangement all the way through. It's a pretty standard reading of the composed section, all told, though it's always fun to watch Peter make those super-quick transitions from guitar to keys and back again. The minor-key, "Stash"-y parts of the tune feel a bit more percussion-focused than they used to be, which is cool. Also, I think but am not sure that Peter is playing Ezra Koenig's guitar during this set (Ezra and two other members of Vampire Weekend would join Goose on stage later in the night).

The song finishes and moves into jam territory at 5:17 (literally punctuated by that loud-ass smoke machine again). Sometimes there'll be a little noodling around on the song's closing chords next, but here we immediately drop into a super-funky two-guitar jam. I love hearing Rick and Peter play off of each other in situations like this. It's nice of Peter to come out from behind the keys for a face-to-face showdown. The fact that he then proceeds to hide behind Cotter's kit for awhile is just extra fun. During Peter's little road trip, some give-and-take between Rick and Trevor develops and it is also pretty, pretty cool.

I really dig Rick's tone around the 9:00 mark, especially shortly after when he starts repeating that little ascending riff.

For my money, the quality, variety, and control of his tone has suddenly vastly improved since 2023. For what it's worth, I'm not at all on the whole "the new guitar/new amp SUCKS" bandwagon that's formed since he made some big gear changes in late '22 and then in April '23. Sometimes I'm in the mood for the old PRS sound and sometimes the DeLuis sound really works better for me but, ultimately, it's all gravy as far as I'm concerned (fun fact, though: I was in attendance for the last PRS show and the first DeLuis show, both at the Warfield). That said, I think they both had their downsides: the PRS often struggled to cut through the mix and to differentiate itself from Peter's guitar especially, and the DeLuis had a tendency to overwhelm the rest of the band (especially live as opposed to over livestreams or on SBD recordings). Recently, though, it looks to me like in addition to whatever other changes he's made, Rick's now playing through two Fender Deluxe Twin Reverb amps and they sound wonderful to me. To be fair, the Twin Reverb is also the amp that I own and play through 95% of the time, so I may be biased. But goddamn, it sounds good.

Anyway, self-indulgent guitar tone digression over!

I thought the light rig for the Cap run was a little...weird? But at moments like 9:20 it really shines. I mean, literally but also figuratively.

Rick's fuzzier, more aggressive tone finally pushes the whole band to pull back a bit starting at 10:10, and we get this really rhythm-heavy space anchored by a repeating figure that he keeps playing on guitar. Trevor sounds fantastically growly here.

Ultimately, this darker space serves a transition to something a bit more upbeat but also more ethereal, and by 11:00 we're fully enmeshed in it. Peter moves to the Vibe shortly after, which feels like both the obvious and perfect choice.

Also, by the 12:00 mark I take back every negative thing I've ever said about this light setup.

One of the things that this more patient "New Goose" has brought to a lot of their jams is using that patience to fully explore some of these more almost-ambient but delicate, gorgeous spaces. It's not that the band didn't have the capacity to do this before Cotter or something: one of my all-time favorite jams of theirs is the "Borne" from 4/25/23 in Eugene, and it's a quintessential example of the form, in my opinion. But this sort of improvisation seems to come more easily to the band in 2024: there are a few great examples from Ted Tapes 2024, one or two examples from those YouTube "Gemini" jams, the "Borne" and "Chateau Jam" from The Chateau Sessions do it a bit, and even though I've been mostly covering the more raucous jams from the Cap run, there are other examples besides this "Tumble" from there as well.

Anyway, it's great. It feels like spaces like this one really pull out Rick's jazz influences, a facet of his playing that I feel often gets lost when the band is just crushing peak after peak. The bit that starts at 13:00 in particular is a great example of this. Also, Cotter is just super fun to watch play (13:40 or so for an example).

Anyway, the jazzgasm finally comes to an end at 16:12 with a super smooth segue into something that initially sounds a bit like Deodato's "2001"/"Also Sprach Zarathustra." Not a huge stretch, I suppose, as the band covered that tune as recently as...2019, I think? I'm gonna be lazy and not look it up for once.

Rick continues being completely on fire for this section, looping a melody around and around and back on itself for a minute or two before transitioning into some funk chording. The chording meshes really well with the staccato stuff that Peter starts laying down on the Vibe, and Cotter's cymbal-centric playing is a great background for it all.

Rick busts back into solo mode at 19:50 with a very Allman Bros. tone, and Pete shifts over to the organ. Here, Trevor takes a bit more of a forward role, and, well, if you wanted some peak jamming in your "Tumble," this is your time.

Holy crap, there is this bit at 21:15 where Rick is just noodling away and Trevor is utterly destroying the building by alternating between two notes, and it's fantastic.

We get a classic bit of unhinged tension injected into the jam at 22:00 and emerge on the other side in the key of "Tumble" again, and then at 23:00 the band brings it home with the ending of the song proper.

Okay, so that was way better than I remembered, and certainly not a "typical" version of the tune. This is why I love revisiting these things!

Also, I definitely have to go work now.

One more Phish jam for y'all next time, and that'll likely be the last for awhile as Goose fully takes over my music-listening life until June 30th.

[laundrybiscuits]

(Hanahaki AU tag : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4)

Sometimes Eddie thinks stories are alive, somehow. Not in a gateway-to-a-magical-world sense; more like kudzu. Invasive, demanding, immortal. You think you’ve cut them to pieces and salted the earth, but they come back when you’re least expecting them, smothering any bullshit ideas about individuality or making your own way.

Like the story about the Munson boy: bad news, good-for-nothing, stealing and dealing, always in hot water with the law. Eddie’d tried like hell to fight that one, but it just came for him twice as hard. He clings to all the ways he’s not like his old man, but he’s still so shit-scared that when push comes to shove, the ways they’re different don’t matter as much as they ways they’re the same. That story’s got him by the throat.

And now the story about the other Munson boy, the quiet one: born wrong, they said. Wrong enough that they had to cut it out of him. 

Eddie loves Wayne, but he’s never wanted to end up like him. Eddie had foolishly—foolishly!—thought that maybe there could be something different, like maybe his life could grow in bright new ways up and out, stretching sunwards. Instead, there’s the mile-a-minute strangling vines, overtaking him and smothering out any hope of light. 

It’s like those older stories, the ones about prophecies, right? Eddie used to love those when he was a kid. He’d been obsessed with the library’s battered copy of D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths, checking it out again and again just to pore over the colorful illustrations of golden fleeces and golden apples and children born from eggs. Characters like Oedipus who tried to outrun their destiny could never really win. That’s a story to warn you about stories, for sure. It lays everything out: the futility of trying to run, and the way you’re going to try anyway.

So he should’ve known better, that’s all. Nothing ever really changes for the Munsons; those kudzu stories always come to drag them back into their place.

———

They run across an old-fashioned frozen custard place outside of Milwaukee, all neon and aluminum siding and servers in little paper hats. Steve screws his whole face up into a grimace. “Do we have to? I’m getting flashbacks to when me and Robin worked at Scoops Ahoy.”

“You what? Did I know this about you? Wait, did you wear—”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Munson. That uniform is the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

It might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to Eddie, jesus. He can’t stop picturing it. Damn his vivid imagination and active fantasy life. 

“Well, Harrington, I have the overwhelming need to put some frozen custard in my face immediately, so you’re just gonna have to deal with the trauma.”

Steve gets a frozen custard too, despite all his complaining, and they sit in the back of the van to eat. It’s a pretty day out, and the place is humming. Lots of families around. 

“So do you still have that uniform?” Eddie’s a fucking masochist for asking, but he can’t help it.

“Kind of? It’s…wait, did anyone tell you about Starcourt and the Russians?”

“Uh.” Eddie blinks at him. “Starting to think I’ve been left out of a few loops, here.”

It’s a good story. Steve’s not a very good storyteller, he keeps going on tangents and repeating himself, but Eddie likes listening to him anyway. It’s nice to see him waving his hands around, clearly forgetting that he’s still holding a mostly-eaten tub of custard, and telling an objectively absolutely buck-wild tale. Eddie only has to hide a coughing fit once, and he manages to drop the gross ball of brown-and-yellow plant matter under the van without Steve seeing. It’s a pretty decent way to spend an afternoon.

When Steve’s done, Eddie whistles long and low. “Steve fuckin’ Harrington. At this point, I don’t think anything you can tell me is gonna be surprising anymore. Like, if you said you’d traveled back in time to kill JFK? I’d be like sure, sounds about right, bet you had a pretty good reason for doing that.”

Steve snorts. “I think you know everything about me now, dude. All the important stuff, anyway.” He slides a look over at Eddie, suddenly weighty and serious in the way he gets sometimes. “I know there’s stuff you’re—stuff you don’t want to tell me. Part of the whole, uh, Eddie Munson thing, right? But I think—I hope I know you too. Who you are. Even if I don’t know all your stories yet.”

Eddie draws his knees up and rests his folded elbows on them, letting his hair fall forward to shield his face a little. It feels like there are so many important things that he’s trying to carry around under his skin, too many for any one person to hold, and one of these days it’s all gonna come spilling out, infinite and messy, raw and inconvenient, damning.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess maybe you do know me enough.”

[dinosaurtsukki]

fukuzawa, mori, and fyodor seeing their independent f/s!o crying for the first time

@aida690adriana: Hello. Can I ask for headcannons for Fukuzawa Yukichi, Mori Ogai, Fyodor Dostoyevsky (separately) and their strong and independent fem!s/o, who cried for the first time in his memory? S/o started crying from some trifle (for example, a waiter in a cafe was rude to her). This incident was the last straw, before that she always suppressed tears and did not allow herself to cry, so that she would not be considered weak. Please.

a/n: ooooh ngl this is a bit of a challenging one for me but i have been meaning to write for both fukuzawa and mori, and ofc fyodor is one of my faves so lets go!!

he has always been impressed by your independence and ability to take care of yourself

he's a busy man and as much as he would like to have the time to take care of you more, sadly his work doesn't allow it

although he admires your ability to hold your own, he sometimes worries that you don't truly feel free about expressing your emotions but he's not quite sure about breaching the topic with you yet

fukuzawa used to be apprehensive about you working with him in the ADA but you were just amazing at talking and negotiating with clients that he found your services valuable in the end

a lot of the ADA members look up to you and ask you for help sometimes so you have that reputation

but because of that, you would often pressure yourself to keep up such appearances because you're scared of letting your partner and the other ADA members down

it just so happened that you were having an extremely stressful work day since most of the ADA members were on a mission and you had to take on a lot of clients

one in particular was giving you a hard time and challenging your expertise, asking repeatedly to talk to fukuzawa even though he was out

you were in desperate need of a breather afterwards so you locked yourself in the supply closet out of fear of anyone seeing you cry

the agency office was basically empty at the end of the day but fukuzawa actually came back to fetch something from his office and he couldn't mistake the sounds of you crying in the supply closet

you practically jumped when he opened the door and fukuzawa was just as surprised as you are

the two of you were staring at each other for a bit before he asks "wouldn't you rather stay in my office?"

he knows you don't quite want to talk about things yet so he'll clear the couch in the room for you, set a box of tissues on the coffee table, and busy himself with making tea

and then when you start talking and apologizing about crying in the supply closet he's honestly surprised

fukuzawa would definitely be sweet and reassuring with you and say that even though he's amazed by your independence he doesn't want you to force yourself to be that all the time

"i know that the ADA work is very stressful so feel free to use my office to take a breather anytime"

during work, he sometimes takes the time to check in on you and even makes you coffee in the morning and afternoon

one of the things mori always loved about you was your independence and ability to stand up for yourself. you were rarely shaken by other people

he was always impressed watching you handle things by yourself whenever the two of you were dealing with other organization heads in yokohama

you did know what you were getting into when you got into a relationship with the boss of the port mafia so you didn't want to be someone who'd weigh him down

and that's why you also tried to be useful with mori's work

whenever you had a meeting or an event to attend, you'd have to go to the bathroom to take time and collect yourself before engaging with people

mori prides himself at being good at reading people's feelings and he definitely notices this from you

he's not the type to push things unless you initiate them. but sometimes he finds time to usher you away so you have time to breathe

whenever you and mori go to events you always encounter a rude guest or two who'd question your place by the port mafia boss's side

usually you're able to argue with them until they're unable to speak but you're exhausted by the night you've had and the rude guest is just picking you apart

finally, you just can't take it from them anymore and rush to the bathroom

mori, of course, notices your absence decides to wait for you outside while you're trying to fix yourself and make it look like you weren't crying

your eyes are still red when you decide to leave the bathroom and of course you're shocked to see mori out there

he doesn't miss the look on your face and quickly asks about what happened

you're a bit intimidated being so vulnerable in front of mori but he wraps an arm around your waist and takes you somewhere quieter where you reluctantly talk about what was bothering you

after you finish talking mori just gently puts his hands on your shoulders

"do you want me to take care of them for you?"

despite how dangerous his voice sounds you end up laughing at that and mori's kind of puzzled but relieved to see you feel slightly better

he reassures you with the fact that you don't have to involve yourself with mafia work and he won't love you any less for it UwU

you were always drawn to fyodor because of how easily he was able to read you and connect with your thoughts

it's something that you found useful in your relationship since you weren't used to openly communicating your thoughts or emotions and because of that you came off as more 'independent' to other people

when you're around him you actually find yourself relaxing a little because he has a good handle on what you're feeling or what you really want

he likes to assure you that he doesn't mind you being vulnerable around him or asking for help (that is if he's not busy with his usual work)

one of the downsides to being with fyodor though was that he was always busy and the two of you could only go on dates around once or twice a month

so whenever he invited you for dinner it was always a big deal for you and you especially looked forward to them so you liked to spend a bit of time getting ready

it was no surprise when fyodor texted that he was going to be a bit late. you were used to it since he had stuff to do and you pulled up your phone or a book to pass the time while waiting at the table

you booked the reservation in advance anticipating this and you thought it was fine but then you noticed that one of the waiters would visit your table a bit too often

at first the questions sounded like concern 'are you alright? is there anything you'd like to order first?' but then they later became a bit more pushy

then they started making side comments about how your date maybe just ditched you and that you should go home already even though you knew very well fyodor was on his way

eventually, it became a bit much and their comments got to you so you started getting ready to leave while quietly blinking back tears when fyodor finally shows up

he's concerned when he sees your teary face which you quickly try to conceal but he strokes your hand gently to try to calm you down

immediately he suspects that it was because of something someone says and as much as he wants to hurt them, fyodor knows that you need the attention first

when you apologize for crying in front of him, he just blinks and says that you never have to apologize for doing that

he's not the best at comforting in general but he gently asks if you would rather order and eat at home with him instead

fyodor knows you missed him a lot (and he missed you but he's not gonna say that out loud yet) so he pays more attention to you for the rest of the night

he makes it a point now to arrive at dinner dates a bit earlier

▸ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ◂

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @kiyoobi​​​​ @atsumusdomain​​​​ @laure-chan​​​​ @goodfoodxoxoxo​​​​ @guardianangelswings​​​​ @kei-ya​​​​ @loisuke​​​​ @whootwhoot​​​​ @liz-multifandom-hotel @kac-chowsballs​​​​ @violentfarewll @fyoyacanruinmylifethanks​ ​​​ @nightmare-light​​​​ ​ @miyakiyo0mi​​​​ @whorefordazai​​​​ @rirk-ke​​​​ @cross-crye​​​ @alohablue @duhsies​​​ @alittlesimp @bsdparadise @fyodorscello @sage-brick

[starforgedthor]

when you become untouchable {Vigilante | Adrian Chase} // one.

one. i come loaded with the safety switched off

Summary: After earning yourself several life sentences and a one-way ticket to Belle Reve in your early 20s, you've spent the decade and a bit since then establishing yourself as a loyal and effective tool for Waller and her team. As a meta-human who is able to completely know and understand the history of anything you touch, as well as master how to use it, and know exactly where the owner of the object is, but all only while touching the object, it's safe to say that you've developed a reputation as an unmatched hunter, though you've always felt hunter was too ominous a word for you and your upbeat nature.

So now you, Waller's pet supervillain known as The Chaser, find yourself as part of Project Butterfly, in the middle of suburban Washington. The only downside you can see is that everyone on the team is so serious; as the saying goes, if you enjoy what you do, you'll never work a day in your life! So fuck it, who are they to say you can't enjoy what you do, especially if you know you're good at it!? Unfortunately for everyone else, what you do is usually crime... and sometimes murder.

Need to Know: She/Her pronouns. villain!meta-human!reader. self depricating reader. chaos. implied dehumanisation. canon typical violence. possible smut in later chapter i haven't decided. slowish burn

[ masterpost ]

A/N: 2652 words. ive caved and im writing a villain!reader/vigilante series. this is different to the other oc/vigilante things ive been posting except that this is now the fic where The Chaser is a thing. im excited to write this, it's a lot of fun so far xx i would like feedback please!!!

Taglist: OPEN -- message or comment if you'd like to be added xx

If anyone were to ask your opinion on the team you were with, not that anyone ever did, you'd never hesitate to mention that you wished they'd lighten up.

"Careful, Kujo, your sociopathy is showing," Harcourt's voice was dry over dinner at Fennel Fields, though her lips were quirked with the slightest amusement.

"You know my confidence isn't an attack on you," you told her with blunt sincerity, brandishing a mozzarella stick like you're trying to emphasise a point - the grease that clings, the oil that burns, they're made in-house, the exact way to make them, bulk ordered bread crumbs, the machines that processed them, the crumbling, dough forming, wheat into machines, the wheat cut down in the fields, the breeze - "I'm good at my job, that's not bragging that's just a fact."

"Yes, but you're good at everything," Harcourt leans her elbows on the table, chin resting delicately on her knuckles, "isn't that the point of you? Wouldn't being insufferable about it get boring eventually?" She's wearing that thin, mean smile that's unfortunately flattering on her, and you sigh, as if terribly put upon, leaning against the half-wall divider your booth sat against.

"You'd think so," you sigh dramatically, "but considering I'm an idiot eighty percent of the time, I have to get my kicks in how I can," and you angle your head to show her your sharp, smug smile, and she rolls her eyes, sitting back in her seat. You take another bite of the mozzarella stick with a shit-eating grin.

"And they call you The Chaser?" Adebayo asks with faint scepticism as she processes the interaction she's just witnessed.

"Depends on who you ask," you responded lazily, finishing off the mozzarella stick in your hand, and immediately forgetting everything your brain had absorbed, had known while you'd been holding the breadcrumb covered cheese.

"I know who you are, I'm just confused as to why," she huffs a half laugh.

"Waller threw Savant to the wolves, you could have his name," Economos pointed out to you instead of answering Adebayo, though as he flicked a napkin at your face, it hit you in the forehead, "would be more fitting," he adds lamely, like after seeing you fail to catch the napkin, his heart's not in the change of names. The napkin flutters into your lap and you give him an unamused look.

After a beat, however, Murn is the one who answers Adebayo's initial question.

"Everything Y/N touches, she masters, and understands its entire history," he explains, while you leaned around him to shoot Adebayo a bright smile, "including whoever is the current owner of the object and where exactly they are and what state they are in, but only while she's touching it."

"Hence, Savant," Economos said, gesturing to you with a weak wave.

"Idiot Savant," you clarified with a good-natured eye roll, "if I don't make a very serious effort to remember something about the thing I'm touching, it'll-" you make an uncomfortably wet noise as you mime the information sliding out of your head through your ear. After a moment, you pick up your glass and take a sip of water - the restaurant owner's wife technically owns the cups, and you see the employee who filled it, every time its been washed by a busboy, every customer who's ever drunk from it, the cardboard box it had been bought in opened by the restaurateur's wife, the pallets of identical glasses being transported to the store it was bought from, the factory worker boxing it up, the mass production of the glasses, the heat to melt it into shape -

"Everything you touch?" Adebayo asks, incredulously, and then looks to the glass.

"This cup technically belongs to the wife of the restaurant owner; she's sitting on their sofa three blocks away with a Labrador puppy in her lap. She bought the glasses on sale; one was chipped in the set of four so they were eighty percent off," you said without a moment of hesitation, and then took another sip of water for effect, "they use a cheap brand of detergent here."

"I... don't know enough about this restaurant to verify that but it sounds impressive," Adebayo muses, a sentiment you could see honestly reflected in her eyes.

"Show off," Harcourt smirks, something a little proud in her expression that she's ducked to hide. After a beat, however, Harcourt surfaces; "she chose to call herself The Chaser because she's a bitch."

"There's literally no meaner way you could have phrased that!" Your expression lights up surprised outrage, but it's clear you didn't take it to heart, turning, "for the first few weeks -"

"Of your career as a murderer," Harcourt undercuts your moment, but you chose to ignore her.

"As a freelancer," you emphasised, before hesitating and conceding, "who yeah, was hired to kill people when word got around I was good at it," you rolled your eyes, waving your hand by your temple as if dismissing the thought, "anyways people started calling me The Hunter, and when I think of the name The Hunter, I think of like, Robin Hood, a green aesthetic and men in tights, which really just made me think of Green Arrow, and that guy? You wanna talk about unbearable, that's your man," you hoped your expression conveyed the earnestness of your hatred for him, before snorting dismissively, "and anyways, Hunter is such a heavy word for what I do; it implies I always kill them, which I don't."

After a beat to let your words sink in, Harcourt actually grins.

"And because she's-"

"Stop telling people I'm a furry!" You practically shouted over Harcourt with well worn exasperation, though her grin only got wider.

"Calm down, Kujo," her response comes with a fond kind of amusement the others had rarely seen.

"I called myself The Chaser because I thought it was light and befitting of the main reason I used to be hired," you said, voice lowering as the moment passes easily, "and now," you flourish your hands, before resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, "I'm doing my dream job."

"Being part of a secret government task force?" Adebayo says incredulously, to which you shrugged easily.

"As long as I get to use my powers and travel, I'm happy; what are they gonna do? Arrest me again for following their orders? No," you snorted. Thankfully the moment I'd immediately derailed when Harcourt spots Peacemaker pulling up in his fully costume, a bald eagle in his back seat. The good mood that only you seemed to be able to elicit from her had disappeared, as did everyone else's.

When Peacemaker finally recognises you, his expression lights up with a strange kind of realisation and a 'oh yeah, everyone in Belle Reve knows Kujo', and you have to grit your teeth at that.

When you weren't working solo missions for Waller or the government, your powers were being used by your fellow inmates to find snitches trying to hide, settle disputes of ownership, or find out which guards were distributing contraband. Even in a power dampener collar, you had the faintest meta-human abilities, and it was more than a lot of folks you were locked up beside. Despite operating at your bare minimum while inside Belle Reve, a lot of people found you incredibly useful. It's a situation you preferred to forget; between being seen as a tool rather than a person, the unfulfilling requests everyone had, and how it felt like you were always scraping the bottom of the barrel to use even a fraction of your power, there was no time in your life you hated more.

After Peacemaker's comment, you find yourself quiet for the rest of dinner, far quieter than you had been before. Thankfully Peacemaker himself is loud enough for both of you, and no-one asks you any questions.

The dinner comes to a close, and you’ve still got half your plate unfinished in front of you. Everyone’s set to head home, or at the very least, head out for the night, but you’re still stuck in your head, memories growing teeth as you think back on Belle Reve and how powerless you had felt inside its walls.

“I’m going to grab a drink before turning in,” Harcourt’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you surface to see she’s the only one still in the restaurant, standing at the end of the table, watching you. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay, she doesn’t even ask if you want to join her, at least not out loud; she pulls a zip-tie out of her back pocket and offers it to you, wordlessly. The familiar routine brings a smile to your face, and you take it – you can see her, sense her there even with your eyes closed; it was her zip-tie to begin with, pulled from the pack this morning, and a week spent in a hardware store, shipped to the store with pallets all containing packets identical, packaged by meticulous machines, produced by the billions, fragile plastic warped from far bigger sheets -. With that, she gives a solid nod and heads to the door, following after the others. You loop the zip-tie around one wrist and only tighten it enough so it won’t fall off. Then, with a renewed spirit, you dig in to your meal, finishing it off.

It's as you’re finishing the last of your meal that you find yourself thinking about your own freedom for the night. You’d earned yourself several life sentences in the few years that you’d ‘freelanced’, enough time on your sentence that a lifetime of work with Taskforce X probably wouldn’t help you, but you were being unfortunately genuine when you’d called this your dream job. With a stipend from the government, getting to travel, getting to use your powers and often commit crimes, of which murder was not uncommon, it really was the ideal situation for you; people ask about your prospects outside of prison, but none of them seem to realise that you’d be doing this whether or not you were in prison, but now you can’t even get arrested for it. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, or even call it sad, you found it to be neither; you’re thrilled someone finally recognised you for what you’re truly capable of, and after almost a decade playing this part, you’ve been granted some trust, some wiggle room, some freedom in a sense.

So maybe you’ll join Harcourt at the bar, or find somewhere open late in town, or you could lay face down in the parking lot for an hour if the mood struck you; the world may not be your oyster, but this questionable town in Washington certainly was.

It’s only when you’ve finally decided to head to the bar and grab a drink with Harcourt that you finally notice the busboy who’s been hovering by the end of the counter, throwing glances at you ever few minutes, yet still trying to act covert. Wait… looking around, you see the restaurant is almost empty now, and sure it hadn’t been full to begin with, but it couldn’t be that – they’re closing in ten minutes. How long had you been stuck in your own head?

Immediately you’re calling out apologies; they probably could have left early if it wasn’t for you, but the minute you make eye contact with the guy in the red uniform who’s waiting, he’s brushing them off. As you’re attempting to pile all of the table’s dishes to make it easier to clean up, he comes over and tries to tell you that it’s no trouble. Still, you pile all the dishes and try and collect up all the cutlery to hand to him, trying to supress the nausea that always came whenever you were touching a lot of objects in rapid succession, the immediate flood of knowledge followed in mere moments by forgetting it all. Usually your gloves kept all of that at bay, but you’d had them off to eat and now –

You go to pass the guy your knife, handle first and unused, and in the half second in which you are treated to an encyclopaedic knowledge of this steak knife, amongst all other moments of this knife’s existence, is –

- suds from cheap detergent and a sink of water that should probably be drained, the scourer scraping off food remnants that cling, but then several minutes spent using the knife as a weapon; the movements being practiced are particular and harsh, movements sharp and deliberate. You know because the moment your fingertips had even brushed the knife you knew how to bed cut a steak as well as how to best cut a man, but this moment amongst the suds and grime is both practiced and in practice. There’s more times than you can count where you understand that someone was trying to practice flipping the knife, the night air cold, swearing each time it’s dropped or it cuts the user by accident; he’s used this knife enough that you understand how long it took him to actually get good at the knife tricks -

And the hands picking up the remaining cutlery are the same hands that taught themselves to flip this knife, to practice violence among soap suds. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, maybe it’s simply how he passes the time, trying to make himself cooler, or to defend himself. Gripping the knife a little tighter, you wince as you realise the serrated edge is pressing into the heel of your palm, not enough to bleed, but enough to steal your focus.

“Thanks,” the busboy says a little awkwardly once the table’s clear. You’re still standing next to the booth with the knife, “I can take that for you,” he offers. He’s disarmingly cheerful, though perhaps it’s only disarming considering the moments you keep replaying over and over in your head.

“Sure,” you murmur absentmindedly, and flip the knife in the exact way you’d watched him try to master for months in your mind; the way you master anything you can touch has always been an interesting gift, as if your body borrows the muscle memory of everyone who’s ever used it without you even having to think about it. The busboy blinks several times at the movement, at you now holding out the knife to him. Then, his gaze meets yours; in your mind, you see him stab at the side of the metal sink that he snaps the very tip of the knife off, only by a millimetre or two, but there’s the faintest dent in the sink that no-one else has noticed. It’s been months.

He takes the knife, and you find yourself blinking quickly as everything about this one damn steak knife immediately dissipates from your head.

“How’d you do that?” He asks, looking at the knife, “I’ve been trying to get it for ages but…” he trails off, and you look at the piece of cutlery in his hand.

“Man, I wish I knew,” you laughed, rocking back on your heels. You know now that he’s probably far more dangerous and capable than he looks, but you hadn’t bothered to memorise the moments. Something about a sink? He was asking about a knife flip; you knew you did it, you’d just never be able to really explain how.

“Sorry, I know that that’s kind of a dick answer,” you gave a weak chuckle, “I wish I could help you, but I’ve already definitely overstayed my welcome,” you hoisted your bag up your shoulder, “sorry about that,” you cast your gaze around the empty restaurant, to host by the till giving you a tired look, “again.”

And as you scurry out of the building, you call a final thanks to the kitchen, and decide you need a damn drink.

[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.

[edourado]

Driving on Clouds

It appears that I can simply no longer write. Thank you, anxiety.

This one was written in December, 2018. I was way too insecure to post anything Sense8, so it just sat there on my files until now.

It's short, but hopefully it will help me kick my writing back into gear.

With much, much love.

(Read it on AO3, if you prefer)

___________________________

When Wolfgang walked through the doors, he knew where to go. The doorman was told he was coming.

“Ah, yes, you’re expected”, he said from behind his station. “Go right ahead, sir. It is the penthouse.”

Yes, he knows.

Kala was not there, he knew that, too.

After Paris, they wanted to be together, and they were, in a way. But he had to go back to Berlin before joining them in Bombay.

Will had told him, and so had Riley. Visiting is great, visiting is essential, visiting is like breathing, but physical presence is unbeatable.

Today, though, of all days, she had to be on blockers.

Lito was a mess, both working on his movie and freaking out about it. Nomi was still wrapped up in her honeymoon, so things could get… Distracting. Sun was fighting a whole war of her own back in Seoul, trying to put order to her father’s company, dealing with her criminal brother, her lawyers, the media, politicians, her new relationship, her dog, her training. It was a lot. Capheus was a little bit in over his head with his campaign, he could get both overwhelmed and overwhelming. Will and Riley had a lot of shit to sort out, back in America and Iceland, but they were the easiest ones to deal with. Still, Will needed Kala’s attention often, that pesky heroin habit was not that easy to kick, his body was still recovering.

But she did have a job to do. And if she really wanted to regulate Rasal’s shipping protocols, she needed to focus. So did Rajan.

She had a meeting in the morning, he had one in the afternoon. Wolfgang's flight from Berlin had arrived sometime during lunch hour, and Rajan did send a car to pick him up, but neither he nor Kala were able to be there.

“Let me know when you get here”, she had told him before she took her blocker, sitting by his side on the plane - first class, thank you Rajan - while finishing her make-up before work. “Text me, or something.”

“Seems absurd”, he mused, admiring her figure in the pencil skirt she was wearing. “Having to text you.”

Kala smiled, turning to him after putting her hair in a high ponytail.

“I know. But I have to focus, this is important. I can’t risk having Lito doing his voice exercises while I’m in the middle of trying to convince the board to change their entire business practices. Capheus also has a meeting, can you imagine the mess?”

Wolfgang sat there, looking at her, wishing this flight would land already.

“Or you”, she went on, softer, and he felt his mouth curving in a smile, knowing what she meant. “Popping in without any clothes on.”

“I wouldn’t do that”, he said, lying, because he would.

“Right.”

She leaned in to kiss him and Will was right. It felt good, kissing her when she was not really there, but he had experienced her in the flesh already. He had kissed her for real, and they visited while doing it, that connection was something addicting.

“Hopefully you’ll be here when I’m done”, she said, leaning back to caress his face, all business again.

“Is that Wolfgang?” Rajan asked, walking into the bedroom, looking for something. “Is his flight on time?”

“Yes, it’s on schedule”, she replied, and Wolfgang watched as her husband walked around looking for something, a little frantic, and Kala asked what he needed, and he said he lost his briefcase, and she suggested he looked in the car, and he walked out again, stressed, talking about too many things to do at once.

Wolfgang had stayed with her until she had to walk in for her meeting, kissing her goodbye while she nodded to her assistant that she would be right there.

“See you in three hours.”

Blocker in, connection dissolved, he spent the rest of his flight alone.

Now, he rode the elevator to the penthouse he had never actually been in, but knew every inch of.

Rajan was in his office when he walked in, on the phone, and Wolfgang didn’t understand the language he spoke - another downside of not having the connection with Kala.

He looked serious when he looked up and saw him. Wolfgang dropped the bag from his shoulder and sat on the chair in front of the desk, frowning while Rajan seemed to argue with the person on the other end of the line.

“Everything ok?” He asked when the man hung up, a sigh escaping him.

Rajan got up, rubbing his hands on his face, and Wolfgang got up, too.

“Fine, yes. This Ajay thing, it’s more difficult than I anticipated. But no matter. How was your flight?”

A lot had happened in Paris. A lot. The hug they shared seemed, at the same time, appropriate and out of place.

“Kala wanted to know when you arrived right away.”

Wolfgang nodded, and explained. “My phone died.”

Rajan walked them to the living room, to pour them a drink before he needed to leave.

“She is still in her meeting, anyway.”

They sat and talked about life, normal things, Felix and Fuchs and Berlin and the kingdoms. Rajan told him what he could about the investigation, his worries and reservations, and shared the part he didn’t burden Kala with, about feeling anxious about their - and especially her - safety.

“If I can help…” Wolfgang offered, not sure if he could, but willing to, anyway. Rajan smiled, not quite cold but not as warm as he normally did. Worried. He looked a bit thinner, and had bags under his eyes.

“Make yourself at home”, he said, getting up to go to work. “You must be very tired. Rest, eat something. She will be here before me.”

Wolfgang nodded and reached his arm out to grab Rajan by the front of his shirt, pulling him down until they were, quite literally, face to face.

Wolfgang understood that this was all very new to Rajan still. Including this level of intimacy with another man - even after Paris. So the kiss he collected was a chaste one. Slow, careful, a touch of lips, nothing more.

Sure enough, Rajan blinked at him when he let him go, but smiled, a bit awkward, but sincere.

“We’ll all have dinner, yes?”

Nodding, Wolfgang let him go and watched as Kala’s husband walked away.

Alone in the apartment, he looked at his watch: one, maybe two hours until she was here.

.:.

The blocker wore off while she was in the car, and she helped Capheus with his tie, updating him on the progress she was making with the company and the shipment policies. She wished him good luck with his own meeting, and then she was alone with her driver again.

“Hello, my wife” Rajan had greeted her when she walked into her office and found him waiting for her. They talked about work for a few minutes, because she didn’t want to immediately ask what she wanted to ask. But he could read it on her face.

“He is here”, he said. “His phone died, that’s why you didn’t get a text message. But he is waiting for you.”

She kissed him before she hurried out, grateful all over again for how incredible he was being about this.

Ganesha had not failed her. Her husband was, truly, a gift.

She felt the water around her when she crossed the threshold. He was swimming, and she should have guessed that was where she was going to find him.

That pool was, after all, for him. Always has been, her decision to get his place more than a little influenced by it.

Still. Seeing him actually here, even if he had visited it so many times before, was incredible.

Kala watched as he did his laps, the afternoon sun glowing against the water.

His wet fingers caressed her arms while she watched him swim, and she took her shoes off before stepping to the edge of the pool, his lips on her face as he swam back to her.

Her skirt soaked quickly when she sat down, her legs in the water, and Kala wanted to sigh in happiness when his hands, his actual hands, touched her calves, fingers running up to her knees and caressing her thighs.

He was here, she could touch him, and she did, but they visited, and that connection ran through them like electricity and honey, alive, a current of presence that threatened to lift her up into the air.

Her fingers in his face were his on her own, running up to his hair, her hair, her fingers, his fingers, his face, hers, they’re here.

They’re here.

Wolfgang pulled her into the pool with him, and she giggled and he smiled, her clothes soaking, neither of them caring.

She was all wrapped around him, finally, she felt she could breathe again,

“I missed you”, she said against his lips while he gently pulled her hair tie off, and Kala was honestly losing track if it was his hand or her hand doing it.

Who cares, at this point.

“Me too”, he said before kissing her, finally, open and soft and hungry and devoted, a few weeks without him and she had been left yearning, even if hardly one night went by without him in her bed - Rajan couldn’t possibly know how many times he was actually kissing him instead of her, no matter how honest she tried to be and how hard she tried to explain.

He removed her clothes and they sat by the edge of the pool, soaked, and they were alone while he explored her and she clung to him in the water, thank goodness. This was their moment, and she wanted it to be just for them.

After lunch, however, they were in bed and he had told her he liked the wind coming in through the window, he was on top of her and she had her legs around him, and then there were four people, two in Bombay and two in Chicago, four people that understood the connection between two sensates in love within their cluster, she felt Riley’s lips and Will’s hands, Wolfgang, Wolfgang, Wolfgang, two places at once, four people, lips on her neck, the echo of a kiss that followed the real thing, his tongue against hers, his hand pressing so hard on her hip, she had missed him so much, Wolfgang, she would never go back, she would never give this up, she would never let go of him, Wolfgang-

Thank God for gravity.

[robinofinashiro]

“turn it up it’s your favorite song / dance, dance, dance to the distortion / turn it up keep on repeat / stumbling around like a wasted zombie / yeah we think we’re free / drink, this ones on me / we’re all chained to the rhythm 

pairing: takami keigo (hawks) x fem! reader

request status: CLOSED

note: i start my semester this tuesday so like BIG SAD but I swear I’ll try and not fuck with my posting schedule or go IA for weeks at a time. i’ve also been having a lot of AoT reqs and as much as I love them, I get tired of writing for it all the times.

a few of the heroes were called in for some meeting regarding a hero incident that happened a few weeks back. you weren’t actively apart of the situation when it initially happened, however; they had called all younger pro heroes to a conference to go over some protocols and new rulings. 

you hadn’t been a hero for long, working under a few smaller heroes until the Symbol of Peace caught onto you. you weren’t working under a huge agency at the time, so when All Might called for you to transfer agencies, detecting that you had more potential under him, you immediately moved. 

it wasn’t an unknown secret that you were connected to him. although you weren’t exactly what many people thought when they thought of All Might having a ‘sidekick’ or intern, they could see it in your fighting style how much you learned from him. 

the charisma, the change in personality, everything changed about how some thought of you. you were more willing to talk to the media, happily attended events for kids, and a smile never left your face. All Might was proud to see your change as he realized that you had finally grown into the hero he knew you would become. 

you tapped at the notebook sitting in front of you, hoping that they called the meeting early. you hadn’t gotten enough sleep for the past few days, thinking that all of you were in trouble for the incident. every now and again, you would hear the winged hero laugh or crack a joke about something and it started to grow more and more annoying. 

the downside of constantly working at All Might’s agency was that you hardly had any downtime. you weren’t exactly close to many heroes or even associated yourself with them considering AM’s agency limited the heroes they took in and at the moment, it was really just you and another older hero that worked in it. 

“( your hero name ), you’re ranked in the top five, why don’t you give us a run down on how you approach the media in a kid friendly way?” 

your eyes widened, not realizing that he was speaking to you directly. you took a gulp before looking at all the heroes, “well, I guess you just have to make sure you don’t overwhelm the media with something that’s over exaggerated and dramatic. when trying to speak to a younger audience, you have to be a bit soft spoken, smiling constantly, and assuring them that they’re not in any danger. I know as heroes, it’s hard to remain calm in a scary situation but reaching the kids and having them able to listen to you can even calm yourself down,” you explained, “keeping kids safe should always be a priority because they can set a precedent for heroes.”

the heroes stared at you, some in a deadpan way, others a bit mesmerized. they could sense the All Might vernacular coming out of you but to a specific hero, they could see the way you were nervous around your peers. 

Hawks knew about you. it was hard not to hear of All Might’s current pride and joy. he saw your interviews when they came on the news but the one thing that stuck out to him was how you hardly ever came around other heroes when down time actually presented itself. 

you were very private with your personal life, something that rivaled Edgeshot. your personal life wasn’t very out there and it wasn’t like you tried to hide it because you could have cared less but whenever you did have down time, you were usually at home asleep or catching up on something else. 

finally, you sat down, staring down at your notebook again as you tried to wipe your hands on your uniform pants. seeing all those eyes on you made your hands get sweaty and clammy. 

the meeting ended not long after your small lecture and although you didn’t have anything to do after this, you were rushing to get your things together and leave before anyone that wasn’t the media caught up with you. however, that wasn’t exactly what you got. 

“hey! ( your name )!” you heard Hawks’ voice call out for you. you stared at ground, wondering what the hell he could want from you. you waited for him to catch up, “hey, you okay?” he asked, a smirk playing at his face. 

your eyebrows fluttered in confusion, “yeah, why?”  you whispered. Hawks shrugged, “just saw you getting nervous back there,” he mentioned. 

you didn’t know how to respond but you slowly started to walk towards the entrance doors, hoping he would leave you before the media rushed everyone walking out. 

“I got a bit nervous seeing everyone looking at me, that’s all.” “but you’re around the media all the time?” “Hawks, do you have anything to ask me? I’m just not used to being around people my age.” 

he saw the slight anger rise in you but decided not say anything as you gave him one final look before walking out of the door and being rushed by camera’s and reporters. a smile instantly hit your face as reporters asked you questions about the conference and overall general questions about work. 

Hawks knew that he could probably get an earful from you for what he was about to do but as he walked out of the doors, he went over to the cameras that you were talking too and gave them a huge smile as he put his arm around your shoulders. 

“good afternoon everyone!” he said happily as he saw your face contort to confusion and slight fear, “Hawks! are you friends with her? maybe even more?” one of the reporters asked as Hawks gave them a hearty laugh and waved them off. 

“nah, we’re just really great friends, isn’t that right?” he asked you. you remained wide eyed and silent, not knowing what to say, “we were just talking about going out for a friendly date and had to get confirmation from her,” he told them. 

you finally snapped out of it, shaking your head, “I’m sorry, I gotta go! I’m due at my agency no later than three and I’ll be late if I don’t head out now,” you told the reporters before taking his arm off you and basically darting in another direction. 

the reporters looked at Hawks as he quickly recovered and talked to them a bit before telling them goodbye. Hawks had no idea that you were going to get that flustered over the small prank, realizing that he might’ve gone a little too far with it as you were no where in sight anymore. 

+

you got back to the agency, seeing a few of your coworkers looking at you were a smirk on their face. they instantly pointed to the TV’s, showing you the extremely failed interview you had with Hawks not even a few minutes ago. 

“so did you say yes to that ‘friendly’ hangout?” one of them asked. you groaned, your head hitting the wall, “no, what do I look like hanging out with the number two hero? you know I don’t really make unannounced public appearances to begin with.” 

your coworker laughed, seeing your nervous expression. 

“come on, you’re like the hardest worker in this damn agency! you could take one weekend off and enjoy it for fucks sake.” 

you shook your head no but before you could say anything, you saw All Might enter the agency. you instantly bowed as he waved you off. 

“he’s right you know. ever since you transferred to this agency, you haven’t had a day off and it’s high time you take a weekend off for yourself. enjoy your youth while you still have it.” 

“All Might, you know I’m a very in demand hero, I can’t just take off a week-,” All Might cut you off with a slap to the back of the neck, “trust me, we’ll be okay for a weekend. I know better than anyone how it is to run yourself into the ground. take this weekend off and relax.” 

you knew it was best to not continue arguing with your boss and silently agreed before heading to your office to finish up some paperwork. you had no idea what you were even going to do for this weekend. all of your errands, aside from getting groceries, were done and you were sure that Hawks probably didn’t mean what he said earlier. 

your clock out time hit and you huffed, telling all of your coworkers that you would see them again on Monday. they could tell you were reluctant on leaving them for so long but the break didn’t sound so bad to them considering you worked around the clock, 24/7 for them. 

as you got to your car, you figured you might as well make your own dinner since you couldn’t even remember the last time you did that. the only thing stopping you was that you hadn’t brought a change of clothes so you were practically stuck wearing your uniform to the store. 

the grocery store was a bit farther out of the city. when picking a home, you had decided to go out and choose something that wasn’t in the middle of town. you wanted some peace of mind when you got done working and choosing a home a few miles out was your perfect idea. 

once you walked inside of the store, you were happy to see that it wasn’t exactly packed. a few people here and there but most of them just waved or asked for a quick photo before letting you get back to what you were doing.

“hi, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of where I would find you dairy free options?” you asked one of the workers. she smiled, pointing over to the aisle a few sections down. you thanked her, walking over the aisle when you realized you had ran into the last person you expected, “ohoho, funny finding you here,” you heard the winged hero say.

you nodded, pointing to the soy milk, “yeah, All Might gave me the weekend off because of the ‘prank’ you decided to pull earlier today,” you murmured, grabbing the two cartons of milk. 

he laughed, pushing his hair back before grabbing the basket that carried all of your groceries. you gave him a confused look, not really knowing what his intentions were. 

“skip your dinner tonight and come out.” 

you let out a laugh, not really caring who heard, “uh, no. I think I’ll pass,” you said trying to grab your basket back. he sighed, not letting it go, “I’ll give it back when you agree to come out with me,” you growled, your head hitting the cold cement wall. 

“for what? what would I have to offer you if I came out with you?” “nothing! but like I told you earlier today, the fact that you can only talk to kids without getting nervous is kind of embarrassing.” 

you stared at him confused and pissed off. 

“you throwing insults at me isn’t helping your situation Hawks so you have about fifteen seconds to give me my shit back before we start fighting in this grocery store.” 

Hawks put his hands up in defeat, sensing that you were actually being serious about kicking his ass. 

“come on, just one night and if you absolutely hate it, you will never have to do it again. I already promised some people that you would come out tonight too.” your eyes widened at what he had said, “who the hell did you promise?” you practically screeched. 

“Mirko and she might kills us if we’re late,” he murmured, “now?” you exclaimed as he put down your basket of groceries, leaving it on the floor before grabbing your wrist and running down the store. 

you apologized to everyone that you accidentally hit on your way out, them instantly brushing you off thinking that maybe an incident happened and that’s why you both were running out of the store in a hurry. you grabbed your keys out of your bag and walked towards your car. 

“just message me the directions to wherever the hell you’re dragging me too and i’ll meet you there.” 

Hawks nodded, making you put your number in his phone as you walked to car slowly. you figured that if the plans Mirko had for the three of you was urgent, you figured that both Hawks and Mirko were planning on wearing their  uniforms to the event.

Hawks had informed you that you were going to meet him in the fancier side of town, claiming that it was just a small dinner all of you were going too. 

which was a complete lie.

once you arrived to the destination, you realized that this wasn’t a dinner event. this was a Hero Billboard JP after party event. you had heard of it from All Might considering he was invited but his agency hadn’t qualified to attend the event since his agency was purposely ran to not have many heroes in it. 

the reason why you hadn’t been invited was because even though you were high on the JP ranking scale, you hadn’t had enough years in your belt to be considered for the awards they were giving out. 

“Hawks, Mirko, I wasn’t invited to this,” you informed them, “I nor All Might’s agency qualified for this event so it would be wrong of me to attend the after party for it.”  

Mirko looked at Hawks before she chuckled, “you weren’t invited but who said you weren’t someones date,” she said as you realized what she meant. you turned to Hawks who was laughing to himself, “you’re going to cause me premature grey hairs,” you stated. 

you and Hawks walked behind Mirko, them informing you that the only way you could enter was if you and Hawks walked through the line of reporters that were crowding around the front of the entrance. Hawks saw your face drain of its color as the nervousness crawled up. 

he gave you a genuine smile, not really knowing how to help you before grabbing your wrist gently, “you’ll be fine,” he murmured. 

you nodded as the two of you approached the line and put on huge smiles on your faces as the cameras immediately turned to you, reporters yelling for your attention, asking rapid fire questions. you looked to Hawks, telling him you should at least approach one before they sensationalized what was going on between the two of you in gossip shows and magazines. 

you approached the most nicest looking reporter, “(your hero name), it’s nice to see you! you’re here with Hawks!” she exclaimed. Hawks laughed, “is there something going on here? first in the morning, now at this event? is this the way the two of you are going public?” she asked. 

Hawks chuckled, glancing at you quickly, “wouldn’t that be crazy? the number two hero and the number five hero dating? I guess we’ll never know,” he mentioned, grabbing your hand and scurrying away. 

“Hawks! that was rude!” you exclaimed, “she was nice and you just ran off on her,” you lectured, Hawks not knowing whether to laugh or stand there and get lectured. he didn’t have enough time to choose as Mirko and a few other heroes approached the two of you. 

“you’re going to give our new friend a heart attack Hawks!” Mirko yelled, slapping Hawks in the arm. he tried dodging her, failing easily, “relax, I doubt they’ll do anything with that footage,” you sighed, seeing the bar not too far from where you were. 

“I’m going to get something to drink, I’ll be back,” you told them, quickly walking away. you had no idea how to start up a conversation with them. you felt very out of place, feeling as though they were just stringing you along with them because they felt bad. 

“are you okay? you seem a little out of it?” you heard Mirko’s voice say. you gave her a small smile, “I’m fine. just not used to this kind of thing,” you admitted, taking a sip of the extremely hard liquor you had ordered. Mirko giggled at the face you were making. 

“just relax! plus, if you’re wondering, this is the first time Hawks has ever done this with anyone. it’s surprising to all of us that he even came, nevertheless with a date. Hawks might act like an entitled brat but I promise you, underneath those layers of entitlement, he’s not that bad.” 

you remained silent, not knowing what to do with the information she gave you. after the two of you talked, you walked back to the group of heroes, trying to engage with them a bit more. every now and again, you would walk with whoever wanted a drink, just to give them company so they wouldn’t be alone. 

eventually, all of you got a table, sitting and drinking with each other. you couldn’t lie, the alcohol was hitting your system a bit more harsher than you thought it would. the buzz was swirling in your head as you chugged back a glass of water to see if you could shake it off. 

“I’m going to get some air. I’m getting a bit stuffy in here,” you told Mirko as Hawks stood up, offering to accompany you. you gave him a smile, walking out of the side door that led to an unlit alley, “how are you enjoying the night?” he asked. 

you tried to steady your breathing, hoping you were able to calm the buzzing feeling down, “yeah, it’s nice to get out,” you replied, a yawn coming from you, “but I’m feeling the alcohol a bit,” you said. 

the rest of the time you stood quietly, leaning up a bit against Hawks as he let you. you had no intentions of getting this close to him but with the alcohol mixing with your empty stomach, your actions spoke louder than the thoughts your brain were screaming at you. 

“i appreciate you taking me out tonight. it’s not every day someone like you offers for me to come out,” you mumbled, trying not to look at him in the eyes. Hawks hummed, bringing you in a little closer, “don’t worry about it. someone had to get you out of your shell, right?” he asked. 

you rolled your eyes, Hawks lifting up your chin to look at him, “plus, someone as cute as you shouldn’t be cooped up inside all the time,” he added on. “reporters might think that you and I have a thing together if you continue to be this way,” you mentioned, trying not to get flustered. 

he shrugged, not really caring for what this round of gossip magazines had to say about your relationship with him. 

“I don’t care, let them think what they want,” he whispered as you brought him closer to you. your lips were barely touching each other, “but I get the idea that you might want to continue this thing we have going on,” you joked. 

Hawks nodded, finally smashing his lips with yours, making you a bit surprised by the actions. you returned the kiss, your eyes shut as you felt Hawks grab your hand softly and hold it. once you let go, you saw the ghost of his small flustered expression on his face. 

what the two of you didn’t realize was that as the two of you were in the middle of the heated make out session, a reporter who was on their way to their car had spotted the two of you, smirking to themself as he quickly snapped the photo of you two and darting to his car.

“so does this mean I’ll get a date tomorrow?” Hawks asked making you laugh. you thought for a moment, making him stand on edge, “text me tomorrow and you’ll have your answer,” you joked, running back inside of the venue, making him chase after you. 

[somegirlsnerdywords2]

Anime i’ve Watched

That begin with a N (Part 2)!

Yep this is how i’m going to bring over all the anime and manga i’ve watched and posted about on the old blog. It’s not so detailed but it will have to do. Anything new I watch or read from this point on will have their own posts.

Net-juu no Susume  (Recovery of an MMO Junkie):

Genres: Game, Comedy, Romance, ONA 

Synopsis:  For the first time since graduating high school, 30-year-old Moriko Morioka is unemployed—and she couldn't be happier. Having quit her long-standing job of over 11 years, Moriko quickly turns to online games to pass her now-plentiful free time, reinventing herself as the handsome and dashing male hero "Hayashi" in the MMO Fruits de Mer. With the pesky societal obligations of the real world out of the way, she blissfully dives headfirst into the realm of the game, where she promptly meets the kind and adorable healer Lily. Befriending each other almost instantly, the two become inseparable just as Moriko herself becomes more and more engrossed in her new "life" as Hayashi. Eventually, Moriko adopts the reclusive lifestyle in its entirety, venturing out from the safety of her apartment only when absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Moriko, a timid 28-year-old corporate worker named Yuuta Sakurai has also logged onto Fruits de Mer from the other side of town. Coincidentally bumping into each other at the convenience store one night, both write off their meeting as no more than just another awkward encounter with a stranger—however, fate has more in store for them than they think. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 8/10

Finished airing in 2017 with a total of 10 episodes

My Thoughts: The male lead wears glasses! In case that’s something anyone but me cares about... Aside from that I can’t remember much about this one which is never a sign of an amazing anime so it’s up to you friends! Will you watch it or leave it?! 

Nijiiro Days:

Genres: Comedy, Romance, School, TV Short, Shoujo, Slice of Life

Synopsis:  Nijiiro Days follows the colorful lives and romantic relationships of four high school boys—Natsuki Hashiba, a dreamer with delusions of love; Tomoya Matsunaga, a narcissistic playboy who has multiple girlfriends; Keiichi Katakura, a kinky sadist who always carries a whip; and Tsuyoshi Naoe, an otaku who has a cosplaying girlfriend. When his girlfriend unceremoniously dumps him on Christmas Eve, Natsuki breaks down in tears in the middle of the street and is offered tissues by a girl in a Santa Claus suit. He instantly falls in love with this girl, Anna Kobayakawa, who fortunately attends the same school as him. Natsuki's pursuit of Anna should have been simple and uneventful; however, much to his dismay, his nosy friends constantly meddle in his relationship, as they strive to succeed in their own endeavors of love. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 8/10

Finished airing in 2016 with a total of 24 episodes. Each episode running about 13 minutes in length. 

My Thoughts: Love the manga, which I keep meaning to finish because it is a completed title... and I should probably finish it before manga gets even harder to find online with the way things are currently going... 

Anywho, the anime! Pretty good. The episodes are about half that of a normal anime but you have a 24 episode count so it’s basically the same as having a 12 episodes run with the usual running time!  I’d watch it is you want more content after the manga, but keep in mind that the anime does not cover the entirety of the manga! 

No Game No Life:

Genres: Game, Adventure, Comedy, Supernatural, Ecchi, Fantasy

Synopsis:  No Game No Life is a surreal comedy that follows Sora and Shiro, shut-in NEET siblings and the online gamer duo behind the legendary username "Blank." They view the real world as just another lousy game; however, a strange e-mail challenging them to a chess match changes everything—the brother and sister are plunged into an otherworldly realm where they meet Tet, the God of Games. The mysterious god welcomes Sora and Shiro to Disboard, a world where all forms of conflict—from petty squabbles to the fate of whole countries—are settled not through war, but by way of high-stake games. This system works thanks to a fundamental rule wherein each party must wager something they deem to be of equal value to the other party's wager. In this strange land where the very idea of humanity is reduced to child's play, the indifferent genius gamer duo of Sora and Shiro have finally found a real reason to keep playing games: to unite the sixteen races of Disboard, defeat Tet, and become the gods of this new, gaming-is-everything world. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2014 with a total of 12 episodes. 

My Thoughts: I have a laundry list of things i’m meaning to watch, read or do. Watching the No Game No Life movie on Netflix is one of those things. Anyways! I recall this one being alright, nice art/ animation/ character design and an interesting premise but too short and underdeveloped. One of those animes that may have benefited greatly from a longer run or second season. 

No.6:

Genres: Action, Sci-fi, Mystery, Drama

Synopsis:  Many years ago, after the end of a bloody world war, mankind took shelter in six city-states that were peaceful and perfect... at least on the surface. However, Shion—an elite resident of the city-state No. 6—gained a new perspective on the world he lives in, thanks to a chance encounter with a mysterious boy, Nezumi. Nezumi turned out to be just one of many who lived in the desolate wasteland beyond the walls of the supposed utopia. But despite knowing that the other boy was a fugitive, Shion decided to take him in for the night and protect him, which resulted in drastic consequences: because of his actions, Shion and his mother lost their status as elites and were relocated elsewhere, and the darker side of the city began to make itself known. Now, a long time after their life-altering first meeting, Shion and Nezumi are finally brought together once again—the former elite and the boy on the run are about to embark on an adventure that will, in time, reveal the shattering secrets of No. 6. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 8/10

Finished airing in 2011 with a total of 11 episodes. 

My Thoughts: Just read the manga and watch this as extra, I can’t remember if the anime covered the entirety of the manga’s story but either way check out that source material first! The manga series is also completed which is a huge bonus. High point: The relationship between the two leads. 

Noragami:

Genres: Action, Adventure, Comedy, Supernatural, Shounen

Synopsis: In times of need, if you look in the right place, you just may see a strange telephone number scrawled in red. If you call this number, you will hear a young man introduce himself as the Yato God. Yato is a minor deity and a self-proclaimed "Delivery God," who dreams of having millions of worshippers. Without a single shrine dedicated to his name, however, his goals are far from being realized. He spends his days doing odd jobs for five yen apiece, until his weapon partner becomes fed up with her useless master and deserts him. Just as things seem to be looking grim for the god, his fortune changes when a middle school girl, Hiyori Iki, supposedly saves Yato from a car accident, taking the hit for him. Remarkably, she survives, but the event has caused her soul to become loose and hence able to leave her body. Hiyori demands that Yato return her to normal, but upon learning that he needs a new partner to do so, reluctantly agrees to help him find one. And with Hiyori's help, Yato's luck may finally be turning around.

My Rating: 8/10

Finished airing in 2014 with a total of 12 episodes. 

My Thoughts: Yes! Watch it! Love it! And also read it. Big downside: The updates for this manga are slow and the story is unfinished obviously. Upside: Two whole seasons of anime goodness, and if we’re really lucky we’ll eventually get another? Ok maybe not... but a girl can dream! Also this anime has one of my all time favourite opening themes! Amazing! 

Noragami Aragoto:

Genres: Action, Adventure, Comedy, Supernatural, Shounen

Synopsis:  Yato and Yukine have finally mended their relationship as god and Regalia, and everyone has returned to their daily life. Yato remains a minor and unknown deity who continues taking odd jobs for five yen apiece in the hopes of one day having millions of worshippers and his own grand shrine. Hiyori Iki has yet to have her loose soul fixed by Yato, but she enjoys life and prepares to attend high school nonetheless. Taking place immediately after the first season, Noragami Aragoto delves into the complicated past between Yato and the god of war Bishamon. The female god holds a mysterious grudge against Yato, which often results in violent clashes between them. It doesn't help that Bishamon's most trusted and beloved Regalia, Kazuma, appears to be indebted to Yato. When lives are on the line, unraveling these mysteries and others may be the only way to correct past mistakes. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 9/10

Finished airing in 2015 with a total of 13 episodes. 

My Thoughts: Another amazing opening theme! Seriously this series really knew how to pick them! Also have crushes on a solid chunk of the cast... so there’s that. 

[dailytomlinson]

He made a couple of false starts, but after four long years, Louis Tomlinson’s debut album Walls is finally here! The much-anticipated album immediately shot to #1 on the iTunes charts in over 50 countries. And while it signals the true end of an era (Tomlinson’s the last member of One Direction to release a solo project), it’s mostly the beginning of a new one. As reflected in the visuals for the title track; where one door closes, another opens. And it’s one that was well worth the wait, as Walls promises an exciting new era of guitar-driven confessional pop.

Guitar-driven, because it’s clear that Tomlinson was sonically inspired by the 90s and 00s indie-rock that he grew up on. Confessional, because each song presents us with yet another look into the emotional complexity of Tomlinson’s experiences with heartbreak, pain, and letting go.

A clear example of the former is the opening track “Kill My Mind.” It is a rousing up-tempo song with a soaring anthemic chorus that’s just begging to be performed live. Tomlinson referred to the track as a true “statement of intent,” although it’s defiantly rockier than the rest of his album. Perhaps it’s already setting the stage for album number two.

There is “Habit,” of which the melody is weirdly reminiscent of 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up?” Lyrically along the same vein as “Kill My Mind,” it regales an addictive and slightly toxic relationship. Whether that’s aimed at an actual relationship, or meant as a metaphor for the music industry at large – who’s to say?

“We Made It” is another track that pulls Britpop right back into the ’20s. Significantly more laid back, the song’s mid-tempo production has somewhat of a Post Malone vibe to it. The song may not be the stand-out single of the album, it does encapsulate Tomlinson’s road to this moment. He’s made it, regardless of the adversity he’s faced along the way. Both as an underrated former member of One Direction – despite earning himself the most writing credits – and due to the personal tragedies, he faced over the past few years.

He doesn’t shy away from addressing any of these obstacles in his career. Title track “Walls” seems to be all about overcoming adversity – be it personal or professional setbacks. The string section adds a sophisticated touch to the rich instrumentals of the song, really honing in on that indie-rock sound Tomlinson is so fond of.

The heart-wrenching ballad “Two Of Us” stays true to the confessional style of the album. Tomlinson wrote the song about his mother, who passed away in 2016. It’s perhaps the most personal and vulnerable that Tomlinson has allowed himself to be on this record, and it shows in the lyrics: “The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead.” However, Tomlinson manages to yet again transform the acknowledgment of pain into an inspiring promise of honoring life. It’s extremely rare that a songwriter is able to capture both darkness and light within the same song. To do so in such a convincing way, about a topic that’s so deeply personal yet universal shows the strength of Tomlinson’s lyricism and his emotive delivery.

Interestingly enough, despite Tomlinson’s love for rock, he seems to prefer the mid-tempo tracks. “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” includes a beautiful opening guitar solo, before adding a bit of kick drum to build a proper anthemic pop song. It’s rich in sound, and its message is uplifting and reassuring. Similar to his first solo track “Just Hold On,” its lyrics aim to inspire listeners to keep going in spite of the heartbreak. What’s refreshing, is that it doesn’t specify the cause of the heartbreak, nor does it marginalize the emotional impact. Rather, the lyrics remind you that you’re not broken beyond repair, no matter what it is that’s hurting you in the moment.

“Always You” is the only true pop, up-tempo track on Walls. Listen to it once, and the playful guitar and staccato beat make for an irresistible hook that’ll draw you right in. It’s almost odd how a song this perfect for pop radio is hidden away more than halfway through the tracklist. The lyrics are innovative, as Tomlinson travels all across the world, only to conclude he’s never getting over his ex.

Elsewhere on the album, Tomlinson addresses the loss of innocence and youth. Being in your twenties is somewhat of a confusing time, as you come to realize that being a grown-up is not all it’s made out to be. “Fearless” opens with the sound of children, then sees Tomlinson lament the innate recklessness you lose as you get older. It’s perhaps one of the only tracks that verge on disillusionment and wistful longing for those days you felt young and invincible.

“Too Young” is the other side to the same coin, highlighting the negative consequences of youthful naivete instead. This time, he connects heartbreak to regret. Accompanied by nothing but an acoustic guitar, Tomlinson reflects on a past relationship. It requires real emotional maturity and bravery to see your own flaws and mistakes and to take ownership of them. Even if it means saying “I’m sorry, I was too young to get it back then, but I get it now.” The only downside is that Tomlinson seemingly randomly adopts an American accent in the pre-chorus, which feels slightly out of place.

Tomlinson said of the record that it’s about him; “it’s me, I’m the storyline.” That definitely seems to be the case, what with each of his songs highlighting various aspects of the life he’s lived so far and the difficulties he’s had to go through. Nevertheless, there are definitely moments throughout the album that feel somewhat reminiscent of the old One Direction sound – and this is where it gets tricky. Of course, One Direction was also a part of his life, and Tomlinson was an integral part of developing the musical DNA of his former band. As such, it’s perhaps inevitable that there would be some sonic overlap between the past and his present.

On the other hand, this record is his chance to establish his own musical identity. “Perfect Now” seems to be the epitome of this split personality. It’s a mostly acoustic track, with some strings added into the mix as the song builds into its final chorus. The lyrics echo both “What Makes You Beautiful” and “Little Things,” two of One Direction’s biggest (and oldest) hits. It’s an admittedly incredibly catchy song that centers around the heartbreak of seeing someone you love unhappy. Still, it’s a shame he felt the need to cater to a sound that’s not solely his. If he truly wants to take his music in a more indie-rock lane, he should fully commit to it – surely fans (old and new) would follow.

Thankfully, the album is filled with songs that truly highlight Tomlinson’s abilities as a singer/songwriter. Two songs that stand out from the others when it comes to vocal range, delivery, and lyrical ingenuity, are “Defenceless” and “Only The Brave.”

“Defenceless” is the true embodiment of what it means to find strength in vulnerability. The song builds steadily, starting out with just a guitar before heavy drums kick in during the chorus. The lyrics, on the other hand, portray the insecurity you feel when you’re letting all your guards down. The bridge in particular highlights the fragile heartbreak that follows when trying your best isn’t enough anymore: “I hope I’m not asking too much, just wanna be loved by you. I’m too tired to be tough, just wanna be loved by you.” Tomlinson’s falsetto only serves to further emphasize the sense of defeat and raw emotion on display in this track.

The album closer “Only The Brave” sees him bring back the falsetto that’s absent from the album elsewhere. Contrary to the more confessional and conversational tone of the previous songs, this short track relies on metaphors throughout: “It’s a church of burnt romances, and I’m too far gone to pray, it’s a solo song, and it’s only for the brave.” As such, it’s a bold choice to end the album on such a different note. However, it works beautifully – an ode to what’s to come, perhaps.

Walls provides an exciting and much deserved first glance at who Louis Tomlinson truly is – both as an artist and as a human being. Listen from start to finish, and you’ll immediately enjoy the guitar-driven, intricate alt-pop that’s characteristic of this record. But if given the chance, it’ll be the emotive, authentic lyricism that truly reels you in for good.

It’s rare to see artists actually offer a multi-faceted, introspective look at their inner emotions. To have a male singer share his heart with such conviction – openly, brazenly, almost recklessly – is even more exceptional. On the other hand, perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise at all. Because if this album tells you anything about Tomlinson’s personality, it’s that he’s fearless, resilient, and he always gets back up. He doesn’t hide his scars – he wears them with pride, inspiring you to make peace with your own and do the same.

Let Walls break down your walls, I promise you won’t regret it.

[princecupcakee]

Park Bench | Reddie

Read on AO3

Rating: E

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak

Word Count: 3,112

Chapter: 1/8

Next Chapters: Chapter 2 (AO3), Chapter 3 (AO3), Chapter 4 (AO3)

Summary: Recently divorced and ‘incapable of love’, Eddie Kaspbrak moves to Los Angeles for work and a small, small hope of a fresh start. Broken up and never dated again, Richie Tozier tries to get back into love with help from his love of music. Quickly meeting eyes and one concert later, they think that maybe love isn’t that bad. So they try it one more time.

Chapter 1: Richie Tozier’s Plan, Eddie Kaspbrak’s First Vinyl & Beverly Marsh’s Plan

Tags/Warnings: Angst / Unhappy Ending / theres only one sex scene but this is explicit anyway / Bisexual Richie Tozier / Gay Eddie Kaspbrak / Post-Divorce / Implied/Referenced Cheating / Inspired By Remembering Sunday (All Time Low) / Inspired by The Book Ninja by Ali Berg / Implied/Referenced Child Abuse / Implied/Referenced Abuse / Implied/Referenced Manipulation

Tag-list: @richietoaster, @s-s-georgie, @mikeuris​, @gazebobullshit, @that-weird-girls-blog, @tozierking​, @thoughtfullyyoungduck, @s-onora, @bellarosewrites, @lermanslogan, @ambitiousskychild, @ghostnebula, @vanillaredvelvet, 

(Ask if you wanna be on the tag-list!!)

Chapter 1

Richie Tozier’s Plan

If Richie’s love life was written into a song, it would be called ‘Disaster’; named after his sad attempts at everything even just slightly involved with it. It would be a ballad, slow at first, some depressing line about how dreams don’t become reality. The chorus would hit loud, deafening if rock music wasn’t something you’d find yourself listening to, ‘He loved the sound of their romance’ is the loudest line in the chorus followed by: ‘But he messed up the steps to the dance’  then a sudden melancholy beat, ‘He failed his audition and he lost his chance.’ Toward the end of the song, as the sounds of the drums faded, and a slow guitar was the dominant sound, ‘It’s hopeless’ and the song would close.

Richie’s love life was an utter disaster if you tried to put it to words. He hadn’t had a single normal date in a very long time (he wonders if he ever did, really.) It wasn’t as simple as, ‘I spilled my drink and now there’s going to be a stain and that embarrassing’ those dates wouldn’t stand a chance on his. A few from his museum of failed dates:

Exhibit A -

James: Hey, I saw that you live in Los Angeles

Richie: Yeah! What about you?

James: I just got out of jail and my ex changed the locks. I really need a place to stay?

Exhibit B -

“I love this band so much,” Abigail gushed.

“Me, too! I’m really glad we were able to catch them here.”

And later that night on the news: ‘Woman arrested for jumping on stage to pull a strand of hair from a celebrity in a Los Angeles concert.’

Exhibit C - Connor. Connor Bowers was perfect with Richie, at least as Richie thought. The two had been dating for 2 years until Richie proposed, only to be rejected. Connor confessed that he was cheating, that he didn’t even actually like men. The night they got together, Richie had bought him a drink. Connor really only wanted to try it, but it clearly wasn’t for him. The next morning though, when they woke up in Connor’s bedroom, Richie decided that they were together. Richie wasn’t really thinking, he was just in desperate need for love. After Richie was kicked out of Connor’s apartment, he ended up in Stan’s house, unable to stay alone his own.

Richie never really moved out of Stan and Patty’s house. They didn’t really mind Richie living there, but they did mind that Richie was still bitter about the breakup. Stan and Richie have been friends since they were kids, he’s seen Richie in every way. Patty and Richie became close friends right when Stan introduced them. They would try to set Richie up with a few of their friends but he would just sulk in his room. He claims to be ‘done with love in the most chill way possible’ but the sad love songs, the bitterness on Valentines, and the sulking would beg to differ.“Love isn’t that bad you know, you could try”

“I don’t need to try. I’m fine,” Richie countered.

“There’s a lot of fish in the sea,” Patty said, kindly.

“Not anymore. All I get is plastic bags now,” Richie said bitterly.

Stan sighed, “you’re just gonna be alone forever?”

“Yes,” Richie replied immediately, standing up to get ready for work. Aside from a few comedy gigs, he works at a little record store a few minutes from where he lives. The store had the best speakers, phonographs, Walkmans, discs, headphones, everything. Richie loved it there, always being surrounded by music. The store was always pretty empty, aside from the occasional customer, it was just him. Like its always been.

He took his car from the driveway, heading for the city.

~~~

“Morning, Ben, Bev,” Richie nodded at them, smiling.

“Good morning Richie,” Beverly greeted with a wave, “How have you been?” Beverly was Ben’s wife, she has always been nice to Richie. ‘Nice’ didn’t compose of only greetings and coffee and being professional, they were close friends who went out to movies and heard each other’s lives play. Beverly designed clothing lines, while Ben was an architect. They don’t spend much time in the store, usually just leaving it with Richie.

“Pretty good, you?”

“Fine, but this one forgot to fix the thing on this table yesterday and was insanely worried all night,” Beverly pointed to Ben over her shoulder.

“It could break!” Ben argued, continuing to fix whatever was wrong with the table. Beverly walked over to Richie, who is sat down on the sofa. “So… I have this friend. He’s smart, good-looking, and really nice-“

“No, Bev, I’m not going to date. I’m single and unwilling to mingle.”

“More like, single and afraid to mingle,” she tiredly rolls her eyes, “Richie, there are good people out there, you just have to try.”

“I don’t see that. All the good people are with the other good people. Look at you and Ben! Both of you are like, super hot and nice. Guys like me got no chance- not saying that I want a chance, because I’m fine being alone.”

“You just have to keep looking.”

“Its a waste of energy to ‘keep looking.’ People who like me are not okay. Remember Abigail? Not to mention, people have shit taste in music.”

“You’re such a music snob,” She weakly laughs and shakes her head.

“Alright, its good. The screws were just-“ Ben says, getting up and walking to them.

“Ben, we love you but I don’t understand a single thing you say about architecture and furniture, and whatever else there is,” Bev jokes.

“I try. I’m out for today though, I have meeting, and I’m not sure if I’ll be back,” Ben says to Richie.

“Thats fine, I’ll just sit back here,” Richie smiles putting his hands behind his head and leaning further into the sofa.

“See you then.”

Richie picked up a vinyl and put it in the player. He had been playing around with cassettes, and a few of his own vinyl for a few hours now (‘few’ probably not being the case) and thinking and writing. After he’s finished a chunk of the script he was working on for his Friday performance at a local bar, he had gotten bored and just casually sat by the sofa. ‘Love’ the word danced around his head, taunting him. Or at least, to him, it was taunting. ’He woke up from dreaming and put on his shoes’ sung the player.

The song carried him around as he sang, “Forgive me I’m trying to find, my calling, I’m calling at night. I don’t mean to be a bother but have you seen this girl?” The lyrics took him strongly, his heart tight and loose at the same time, feeling each beat. He drums his fingers on the sofa, following the beats, “She’s been running through my dreams. And its driving me crazy it seems. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

“you’re such a music snob,” rang in his ears, and he knew what he was going to do. He ran to his collection of vinyl seated by the left of the speakers, under the small table and began to search. He had his own few pieces of vinyl in the store, his own music that he listened to on the empty days of work. The Beatles, Green Day, Aerosmith, he took all the classics in his hands and grinned.

~~~

“Explain to me your plan again?” Stan asked, shocked.

“I’m going to get the best vinyl, write my number or email- whatever, and see who calls. Go on a date, see what happens. I’m gonna leave the vinyl all around the city’s subway all that, ” Richie explains excitedly.

“That might actually work!” Patty says, joining Richie’s excitement.

“This can get you more crazy dates than the ones you got before, Rich,” Stan says, unsure.

“Then, its material for my shows! Like Abigail and James!”

“See, Stan? Its great! Richie tries to go back to dating and he gets show material, win-win!” Patty hopes.

“Where will you get all the vinyl your leaving?”

“Thats the only downside, I’m going to use my own vinyl, maybe beg Ben to let me use the ones at the store?”

Stan sighs, softly smiling and nods, “this could work.”

~~~

‘Hot Fuss’ sat on his lap as he traced over the letters. Richie was in doubt now, his heart racing as he sat in the train. This was the first vinyl he would be leaving for this project of his. His stop was in a few minutes, so he pulled out the Sharpie from his pocket, bit the cap off, and wrote: ‘If you’ve enjoyed listening to this, would you enjoy a date too? Email me, Richie Tozier, @Remembering_Records.’ Richie set the vinyl down subtly and walked. “@Remembering_Records?” Stan asks.

“I was listening to Remembering Sunday, it was influenced,” Richie replies, hopping over the gap, he takes a deep breath and looks over at Stan, “Let’s hope this works,” he smiles, dashing away.

Eddie Kaspbrak’s First Vinyl

“I can’t believe we’re not using our cars,” Eddie mumbles, grumpily.

“Says the New Yorker,” Mike jokes.

“I drive there! Bill’s from there too! Subway stations are so unsanitary, so many people-“

“P-please! Enough with the com-complaining!” Bill says, frustrated, “M-Mike’s car broke down, and there’s no other way to get to B-Ben and Bev’s shop.”

“Its your day off! You landed in LA at midnight, and now we’re going to meet up with old friends,” Mike says happily, walking into the train.

“Exactly! Midnight. I shouldn’t be running around in this germ-infested-“

Mike looks at him tiredly.

“—I’m doing this because Ben and Bev are great and they’re our place to stay, Florida,” Eddie rolls his eyes.

Eddie doesn’t fit in LA. At all. He’s not used to the weather, the lifestyle, everything. He doesn’t like it here and just wants to go home. And Los Angeles seems to not want him here either. He lost one out of three of his suitcases the moment he got down, he had to wait an hour for Mike and Bill to pick him up from the airport, Mike’s car breaks down on the way to meet a friend, and now he’s taking the dirty subway.

He’s only really here for work. All three of them are. Bill and Eddie are from New York, and Mike is from Florida. They were transferred to the Los Angeles branch as a way to teach and help the new workers there. Bill’s ex-girlfriend, Beverly, lives in Los Angeles with her husband. They’re all good friends and Ben and Beverly offered to let them stay at their house (scratch that- mansion) for as long as they’re there. Of course, they took the offer instead of some crummy hotel, too far from their jobs.

Now here he is, on a train, heading to EighthNote to meet Ben and Beverly. But something isn’t right in this train, Eddie doesn’t know if this is just Los Angeles, but there, two seats away, is a light blue, paper casing, with the words ‘The Killers Hot Fuss’ sprawled across its center.

“Look, its Hot Fuss,” Mike points, “someone must’ve lost it.”

“We could put it in the l-lost and found,” Bill mumbles.

“Do not touch that. Who knows where its been?” Eddie says immediately, grabbing Bill's wrist and lightly pulling him back.

But Mike was already on his way to the seat, hand already about to grab the record. Until some guy in his late twenties took the record and sat on the seat. “Oh, is this yours?” He asks Mike.

“Oh, no, it isn’t mine,” Mike says walking back to Bill and Eddie.

~~~

On a street corner, a glass door, big windows, and a small wood sign that says EighthNote hanging above, Ben and Bev were talking inside when Bill, Mike, and Eddie walked in. “Ben! Bev!” Mike smiles, arms open wide.

“Its been so long!” Beverly sings, piling them into a group hug.

“It really has. I didn’t even know you had this shop,” Eddie says, admiring the speakers.

“At this point, it isn’t even ours, one our friends who work here basically one the place at this point,” Ben explains.

“You guys have a whole staff for this?”

“Nah, its just one of our friends. We pretty much just lay around here, the few customers here and there,” Beverly smiles, “he’s got comedy gigs though, he should honestly be a star now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Richie. We met him through Patty—one of my friends who model for me— her husband, Stan.”

“I’m probably pulling at strings here but are you talking about Stan Uris?” Mike asks, surprised.

“Yeah! How do you know him?”

“Best ex I ever had.”

Beverly laughs cheekily, “do tell.”

“Nothing! I just know from college, we dated a while, then he swooned for a girl, Patty Blum.”

“Thats her alright. Gorgeous.”

Eddie had moved on from the speakers by then, knowing they’d be reminiscing college in the next few minutes. Eddie only knows Ben and Beverly through Bill. Bill and Beverly had dated in college, but broke up and just stuck to being friends. Nothing is really awkward between them, all still close. Ben and Eddie both get along with architecture. He really just wanted something to do, he didn’t know what anything in this store was. “Its the thing from the train,” Eddie points, not exactly talking to anyone.

“Oh yeah,” Mike says walking over to Eddie. Mike’s reply startling him.

“Train?” Ben asks.

“We found a vinyl in the train on our way here,” Bill explains.

The conversation didn’t go into the details anymore, as Beverly took the record and put it in… Eddie didn’t know what that was. Was he supposed to? He saw Walkmans from his classmates when he was in middle school, but he never paid too much attention to it. He simply didn’t have the time or energy to care. Its just music. The song started oddly, in Eddie’s opinion. ‘Save some face, you know you’ve only got one’

“What the fuck is this?” Eddie wondered as the song continued.

“You’ve never heard ‘Smile Like You Mean It’?” Bill asks making Eddie slightly uncomfortable.

“I- No?”

Beverly cheekily grinning, “Well, since you’re in LA with us, you’re gonna finally see what good music is.”

~~~

The day took longer than Eddie had hoped, but now, he was in a car (thank God) heading the Marsh’s house. Grateful that Bill and Mike were just as exhausted and quiet as he was, he finally caught up with his thoughts. He was finally able to think again, about how the shop looked, how much he disliked the album Beverly basically threw at his ears, how cute the boy who walked into the shop earlier- no. No. Not what should be running threw his head right now. “Do you guys know the guy who walked into EighthNote earlier?”

“The tall, Hawaiian shirt guy with the glasses?” Mike asked, not looking at Eddie as he turned the wheel.

“Yeah.”

“I th-think that was the guy who works there. Who would randomly bring food into a store and y-yell ‘I brought Chinese, fuckers!’ If they didn’t work there?” Bill answers.

“Right,” Eddie says, his mind wandering away from the topic. He found himself opening his phone and searching ‘Hot Fuss’ into Spotify’s search bar. As much as he’d hate to admit it, it wasn’t that bad. And the guy at the store was cute.

Beverly Marsh’s Plan

“I brought Chinese, fuckers!” Richie shouted as he walked into the store. He instantly dropped his hands when he saw a man right in front of him.

After a quite lengthy moment of staring, “Excuse me,” he said, moving to the right of Richie, out the door, two men following after.

“Who were they?” Richie asked, setting the food on the table in front of him.

“Old friends of ours. They’re gonna be staying at our place,” Beverly explains.

“Okay,” Richie drags the word, “anyway, I have an amazing plan that was already put into action before any of you two hets try to stop me—”

“Uh-huh,” Ben cautiously nods.

“— so. Here’s how it works. I’m gonna set out a bunch of vinyl and shit on subways, with an email written on the back, and see how calls. I write if they wanna go on a date on the back, and if you’re worried if that'll be a bunch of people like Abigail and shit, I’m not saying you’re wrong. But if it is, it’s show material. It’s gonna be great.”

“This is amazing! You should’ve told us earlier, I totally would’ve come with you!” Beverly laughs.

“Wait. Did you start today?” Ben asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“Which?” Ben smirks at Beverly, as she returns the look.

“Hot Fuss,” Richie smiles. Ben and Beverly snicker. Richie rolls his eyes, “Yeah I know I played Mr. Brightside to a girl before, but I didn’t know the song was about cheating!”

Beverly’s laughter doubles, “That’s not it but okay.”

“Whatever. But, anyway, who was the short guy earlier?”

“We told you, old friends. Why?” Ben says.

“Dunno. He was kinda cute I guess.”

“See? I told you you’d like him. That was the guy I was telling you about,” Beverly smiles knowingly.

“You tried to set up Eddie and Richie?” Ben wonders. Beverly sneaks a wink at Ben, “There’s a concert next weekend, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Think you could get us three more tickets?”

“Sure?”

~~~

Beverly walked into to her and Ben’s room, grinning. “Are you gonna explain why you’re so happy?” Ben asks.

“We’re gonna get Richie and Eddie together.”

Ben gives an unsure look at her, “Richie’s going back to dating with this vinyls-on-trains thing he’s doing. Are you sure you want to set him up? You know how unhappy he is about love and stuff, its surprising enough that he’s willing to try again.”

Beverly takes a moment to think. She knows Ben is right, but she also knows that this will be good for both Eddie and Richie. Well, the second one, she isn’t so sure of. “I guess,” Beverly says, slightly disheartened, “but, we could ask them and, y’know, try?” She says hopefully.

“As much as I worry about this, I also think that it could be good. We’ll take them both to the concert and see where they go from there. What do you think?”

“Perfect,” Beverly smiles.

[itsclydebitches]

On top of the show giving character flaws that apply to everyone, they also give character flaws that also don’t apply at all. They try to say Yang has a problem with her temper, but we never actually see this problem at play until a situation appeared where she just seen her friend get stabbed. Am I to believe that Yang seeing her friend get stabbed is supposed to be a culmination of a flaw we’ve never actually seen. Yeah she loses her temper, but she never acted irrationally (1)

Personally I do think there’s evidence of Yang having a problem with her temper. Quite a bit, actually. Whether or not RT did enough work to persuade every viewer of this is in question, but I likewise don’t think we can ignore what’s there: 

In her introduction she jumps straight to beating up/dismantling a bar when the owner is a creep. This includes (prior to creep behavior) angrily grabbing him by the balls to get information as quickly as possible. Losing a few strands of her hair results in fury powerful enough to set the whole room aflame. 

Throughout the series we get nods to how others perceive her temper, most notably during the festival. When Neon insults her Yang reacts with anger instantaneously and we cut to Ruby’s “Oh, here we go...” cuing us in that this sort of reaction is normal for her. We likewise get Port characterizing her power-ups through her anger: “and you wouldn’t like her when she’s... upset.” Yang is someone who, in the middle of initiation, activates her semblance and starts screaming about how everyone else needs to chill. 

We see how her emotions - anger and impatience - encourage her to make hasty - and often incorrect/dangerous - decisions. Like jumping to the conclusion that Ozpin is spying on them. Or jumping to the conclusion that bird powers are a curse. Or jumping to the conclusion that trusting Robyn couldn’t possibly have any downsides. Yang is driven by her emotions, her wants and her needs in the immediate moment, not the logic of the situation. 

Likewise, Yang is someone whose fights are frequently characterized by “Charge ahead and hit them as hard as you can” because that emotion gives her a power up. Yang accumulates that energy and dishes is back once she’s pissed off enough to use it, whether she’s slamming her fist against a grimm, Roman’s mech, or Adam. Like the situations above, Yang jumps to the conclusion of, “All I have to do it hit it straight on and I’ll win.” 

Tai’s criticism was not “You use your semblance too much.” Nor was it “You’re not allowed to be angry.” Rather, the criticism is, “Because you’re an emotional person and because that emotion is tied to your semblance, you’ve come to completely rely on taking a hit and then just dishing it back two times harder. But that doesn’t always work. There are fighters who are too smart for that and situations that are too delicate. You can’t always win by powering up your semblance and hitting things really, really hard and the fact that you’ve never learned to come up with back-up plans is a problem. You rely on your semblance because you don’t know how else to approach these situations, i.e. emotionally.” 

Or, to put it another way, “Think before you act.” Yang didn’t think before she attacked Adam head on and it cost her an arm. Tai isn’t saying it’s easy to think in those situations. He doesn’t even say he expected her to manage that the first time around (everyone knows Yang is a first-year student whose entire role at Beacon is to learn this kind of stuff. She was never meant to face off against someone like Adam at all). Rather, the lesson is that next time Yang needs to try and remember to go a little slower and not rely on “Hit them hard” as a means of solving every problem she encounters. Learn from this mistake. 

Yang absolutely has a temper and she does let that temper drive her. We see it again in Volume 7, first with a small thing - That bot pissed me off with a flash so I’m going to punch it - and then with a much larger thing - Ironwood is pissing us off so let’s just go tell Robyn about his plan. Yang often doesn’t think through her actions. That’s not the same thing as acting irrationally, but it’s almost as dangerous. Yang is a personality that punches first and asks questions later. She’s someone whose temper is tied to her impatience and that impatience leads to (again) action without thought to the consequences: I’ll just beat up the bar owner. I’ll just accuse Ozpin of hurting my mother and uncle. I’ll just run after two maidens alone. I’ll just attack Adam head on. I’ll just tell Robyn this confidential information. Everything is a quick, first come first serve reaction based on her emotional state. Once she sees a path - usually a violent path - she takes it when most of the time she would be better served to hold back for a bit and spend more time thinking things through. 

Yang’s semblance is just a metaphor for that thinking: when life hits her she can just hit it right back with an extra kick. Easy-peasy. Problem is, post-Volume 3 she’s supposed to discover (more on that below) that this kind of thinking can’t solve most of the world’s problems, so Tai encourages her to start thinking differently via her semblance. AKA, if I can teach my kid to find ways to beat others without relying entirely on her semblance as a finishing move, the semblance that reflects this flaw in her overall character, I can hopefully, as a result, teach her to do that in her everyday life as well.” 

The real problem is that Yang hasn’t learned this. She hasn’t improved at all in this regard throughout Volumes 6 and 7. The concept of a semblance reflecting a larger flaw was already complicated enough (given that fans tend to assume Tai is literally saying, “Don’t use your semblance ever”) but things got worse when Yang failed to put this lesson into practice and yet the story claims she’s improved. So fans (rightly) ask, “Why is Yang supposedly working on this ‘flaw’ but she’s doing the exact same stuff she’s always done?” RWBY - alongside the added complication of her PTSD - simply didn’t write that growth well, if arguably at all. But the overall attempt at an arc seems to have been: 

Yang gets angry very easily 

Yang uses that anger as a means of taking down foes via her semblance

This leads to Yang charging head-first into situations without thinking them through because hey, it’s always worked in the past

But then Adam showed that this technique won’t always work. Indeed, relying on it can have devastating consequences 

Now she must grow using her semblance as a reference point. Learn to control your emotions in battle and analyze a situation rather than simply attacking it head on. Doing that will allow you to tackle any other “foe” in a similar manner, whether we’re talking about how to get to Atlas, or how to respond to Ozpin, or how to handle Robyn. The semblance is a reflection of the larger problem, not the thing that actually needs fixing. Yang needs to learn how to control her temper enough to keep from jumping to conclusions and/or choosing what appears to be the easiest path rather than the smartest one. This flaw is just most apparent in her choice of attacking enemies head on using her semblance 

[bltngames]

SAGE 2020: Fan Games

I’d hoped to have this article out a little bit sooner, but I overestimated how long it would take to write about some of these games. Whoops! Like I said when I outlined the posting “schedule” on the first day, we’re playing it fast and loose, so this is just what you get.

Today is the day I talk about fan games! And even though SAGE has “Sonic” right there in the acronym, it’s always hosted fan games from all types, so today we’ve got Mega Man, Mario, Rayman, and even fan games of fan games, if you can believe it.

Sonic Pinball Panic!

Pinball is one of those things where I’ve always been obsessed with it, but never very good at it. And now, with access to digital pinball collections like Pinball Arcade and Pinball FX, I don’t actually find myself playing as much pinball as I thought I would when I was 14 years old. Still, I find myself fascinated by a good pinball table, and this honestly caught me off guard. This could very easily be an official DLC release for one of those aforementioned pinball collections and I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash (in fact, if you ask me, this is better than Pinball FX, which has always had weird ball physics). This looks, sounds, and functions exactly like a real pinball table should. My complaints are minor: for starters, the table feels kind of easy. I’ve never been a pinball wizard, but I was losing balls left and right here and it still took a good 15 minutes before I finally got a game over. Score accumulation is also pretty slow; most pinball tables will dump millions and millions of points on you, but here, it felt like a struggle just to reach the 379k I finished with. Both contribute to the fact that the table feels a little flat, like it’s missing a spark to really put it over the top. And, third, it would be nice if it had controller support. The keyboard works just fine, here (it’s just pinball, after all) but I find that the triggers on a controller feel really good with pinball flippers, and mapping the plunger to the right stick is great, too. This is a Unity game, so I wouldn’t think it’d be that hard to hook it up to the controller mapper. Still, I came away impressed.

Mega Man: Perfect Blue

There are two things out there that always give me pause: fan-made Doom level packs, and Mega Man fan games. Fan made gaming content generally has problems when it comes to difficulty balancing anyway, but these games have earned a certain reputation for their difficulty, which creates a problem when you have content made by fans, for fans. This insularity means these things are usually way too hard for what I would consider “normal” people (read: casual fans and outsiders). Add on to the fact that I’d even say that there are official Mega Man games with bad difficulty balancing, and you have a recipe for frustration. Sadly, this is how I’d characterize Perfect Blue: though this introductory level isn’t impossibly hard, it’s definitely pushing that edge where it’s not very accommodating to someone who hasn’t played and finished every Classic Mega Man game ever made. It almost immediately throws you into scenarios where you have jumps you can barely reach, insta-kill spikes, and enemies that not only actively dodge your shots, but invincible enemies that launch counter attack homing missiles. And then it starts making you juggle all of this stuff, together, at the same time. None of this is insurmountable as long as you’re paying attention, but as a very casual Mega Man fan, it’s an unfriendly first impression and makes me worried about what the rest of the game is going to be like as the challenge naturally ramps up. For those hardcore Mega Man fans among you, the rest of this is solid, at least. The presentation and controls are excellent, and the new sprites are beautiful. It’s a game I’d love to enjoy when it’s done… but I’m assuming I’ll be left out in the cold. A shame, really, because there’s so much promise here.

Sonic and the Mayhem Master

There’s a lot to like about this game, but there’s a part of me that really wonders if this should even be considered a Sonic fan game. Mayhem Master’s depictions of Sonic and Amy Rose are atypical to put it mildly. Here, Sonic seems to be a bookish nerd of sorts, a sidekick to Amy Rose, who has been turned into a burnt out, cigar-smoking detective. Most of the game plays out as half an adventure game, half an RPG, where you roam around the world talking to NPCs and gather clues while being assaulted by random battles. The battle system is super off-the-wall, too, perhaps taking inspirations from games like Mario & Luigi and Undertale. This means that battles aren’t passive -- you spend most of each fight dodging or nullifying incoming attacks with simplistic action-based commands. It’s weird, and different, and occasionally even a little bit overwhelming. That’s kind of the whole game, really. It’s the sort of thing that really doesn’t feel like a Sonic game at all, but it also doesn’t feel bad. The artwork is very charming, I’m interested in seeing the characters develop, and there’s plenty of worldbuilding and mystery. Would this still be as intriguing if you removed the Sonic connection, even if it’s so threadbare? That’s a hard question to answer. I know that some of my interest in this game is seeing how it spins more familiar Sonic elements into something that’s completely different. Worth checking out, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else.

Sonic and the Dreamcatcher

This is a fairly brilliant little game with two unfortunate quirks. If you didn’t know, the special stages in the original Sonic the Hedgehog were inspired by an arcade game of the era called Cameltry, published by Taito in 1989. Now, Sonic’s special stages were different enough from Cameltry that it wasn’t a case of Sega outright stealing the gameplay, but there’s a clear lineage there, and it only becomes clearer when you compare the special stages in Sonic 4 Episode 1 to Cameltry (spoilers: in that game, they’re nearly identical). Dreamcatcher is also from this lineage, but is infinitely more charming than either Sonic 4 and maybe even Cameltry itself. The idea is that you must collect a specific number of blue spheres in order to reveal the Chaos Emerald, after which you have a limited amount of time to find and collect it. It’s very simple, but the presentation really sells the game’s charm. It’s just a game that looks good and sounds good, with an interesting premise executed very well. Also, you get a dedicated “& Knuckles” button to spawn infinite Knuckles to help you collect blue spheres and bash enemies. Being able to have unlimited numbers of these guys sounds like it would break the game, but once that countdown clock begins, the last thing you need is 20+ echidnas clogging up the route back to the emerald. The first quirk this game suffers from is that there’s only two levels. Parts of this have a very “game jam made in a weekend” vibe to it despite the rock-solid music, sound, and gameplay, and only having two levels contributes to that. Hopefully more are coming in the future. The other quirk? You can’t actually download this game -- it’s embedded in a webpage. I’m sure this is to make it easy to play on any platform with a web browser (phones, PCs, etc.) but I find myself greatly desiring a hard copy of this game that can live on my computer forever.

Sonic Galactic

Now here’s just a good old fashioned Sonic fan game. Though it clearly takes inspiration from Sonic Mania’s aesthetics in some places, it’s clearly doing its own thing, featuring not just the core cast of Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles, but also Fang the Sniper, and even a brand new character named Tunnel the Mole. Unlike a lot of Sonic fan games at SAGE, this appears to be using something besides Clickteam Fusion, Game Maker, or Unity. Here, it’s the “Hatch Game Engine,” whatever that is. Whatever the case may be, the game runs very well and is basically indistinguishable from just playing Sonic Mania. Visuals are sharp, music’s good, the two included boss fights are surprisingly fun to fight -- everything seems to be in order. As a result, there’s not really a lot to say. This is just a good, fun game. Anything else I’d say would come off sounding like nitpicks. For example, there’s no way to set graphics options yet, so the game is stuck in 2x Windowed mode. Fang and Tunnel are cute additions, but I wonder how much utility they have as characters. Unless I missed something, Fang’s pop gun is mainly for a weak double-jump ability, and Tunnel’s ability to dig and ricochet off floors, walls and ceilings is cool, but it doesn’t have quite the universal utility of Tails’ flight or Knuckles climbing and gliding. It’ll be interesting to see how or maybe even if their abilities have a chance to grow into something special. Anyway, like I said, those are nitpicks, so try to give this a shot if you can.

Sonic Robo-Blast!

Remasters seem to be a bit of a theme this SAGE, between Sonic Triple Trouble 16-bit, Sonic 2 SMS, Sonic 1 Revisited, but this is perhaps the most surprising of them all: a loving remaster of the original Sonic Robo-Blast. SRB1 was perhaps one of the first true “landmark” fan games, given that it was basically a whole entire game that people could play. It's not a stretch to say that SRB1 probably helped kickstart the fan gaming community that still survives to this day -- I certainly owe my involvement in the community to seeing SRB1 for the first time. The problem is, as historically significant as the game might be, it’s nearly impossible to go back to nowadays -- it’s much, much too dated to be any fun. This remaster completely re-envisions SRB1 as a regular Sonic game, while also pulling in gameplay elements from Sonic Robo-Blast 2. It’s a bit of a time paradox mindwarp, but it helps give it a bit more personality than just making a bog-standard 2D Sonic. It works, aided by the fact the sprites, music and overall presentation are fantastic. The only downside is the Act 2 boss, which commits the cardinal sin of taking away player agency and making you wait around far too much. Here’s hoping this gets finished, because it’s definitely on my radar now.

Super Mario Flashback

This has been floating around for a few years now and I’m glad to see it’s finally starting to get some more substantial content as it moves towards becoming an actual game. That being said, this is also one of those games that’s kind of hard to talk about because it’s just… really polished. The art is incredible, it controls exactly like a Mario game, and there’s already a decent mixture of ideas at play in the demo. Anything else I’d say would sound like nitpicking -- like, for example, the backseat game designer in me wonders if maybe the game is prioritizing aesthetics a little too much. This is a wonderfully animated game, absolutely gorgeous, but some actions, like the butt-stomp and the wall kick, feel a bit sluggish, and I think it’s because they show off fancy animations. Even if it’s a split second, waiting for Mario to attach to a wall to kick off of it feels slow. Really, though, that’s an insignificant complaint. This demo is still well worth checking out.

Sonic Advance 4 Advanced

This game seems like a greatest-hits of Dimps best ideas, spanning the first Sonic Advance all the way to Sonic Rush. There’s just one problem: the game seems broken. Now, my desktop PC is starting to show its age. I built it four and a half years ago, and though it can handle game like Gears of War 5 on high settings at 60fps, slowly, newer games seem to be leaving it behind. That being said, I don’t think a game like Sonic Advance 4 here should be running at what appears to be half its intended speed. It also originally launched in a teeny-tiny window (we’re talking, like, smaller than a postage stamp) and even though the options menu has a toggle for full screen mode, it doesn’t want to work. Something about this game under the hood seems to be struggling very, very, VERY hard. It’s a shame, because if this actually played at the proper speed, it seems like it might actually be an alright game, if a bit complex and busy.

Sonic 2 SMS Remake

Here’s a game I was all buckled in expecting to enjoy. Like it says on the tin, this is a remake of Sonic 2 for the Master System (and Game Gear), but with wide screen visuals and huge expansions to the mechanics, roster of playable characters, and levels. On the outside it seems really impressive, and to a certain degree it is, but something about the controls feel a little off. Sonic’s heavier here than he is on the Master System, perhaps to simulate “real” Sonic physics a little more accurately, but you can also pretty much stop on a dime, and the combination of the two feels awkward. The camera also needs a lot of work, as it’s basic at best and does a poor job of letting you see what’s below (to the dev if you’re reading this: there’s actually video tutorials out there on how 2D scrolling cameras work, it might be worth looking a couple of them up). It also leans into some of the tech limitations of the Master System, like how you aren’t given any rings for boss fights (and even hiding the HUD, a move done to save on resources for the large enemy sprites). I could be picky on a bunch of other little stuff, too, like how the flight mechanics feel, but there are other games to play at SAGE and I’ve got at least two more articles to write. Needless to say, this is a solid (impressive, even) foundation but it’s missing a lot of late-stage polish to clean up the tiny little rough edges.

Rayman Redemption

I tell this story every so often, but it was about three quarters of the way through Rayman 2 on the Sega Dreamcast when it struck me, suddenly: I love this game. I was being chased by a pirate ship through some rickety bridges and even though I was dying over and over and over again, I realized I had been enjoying Rayman 2 enough that I might put it in my top ten Dreamcast games. But that was 2002, and the years haven’t been so kind to ol’ Rayman. From the strangely celebrity-infused Rayman 3, to the tragedy of Rayman 4 (eventually becoming Raving Rabbids) to the endless, careless ports of Rayman 2 to every platform under the sun, one gets the impression Ubisoft maybe didn’t know what to do with Rayman. Especially now, when most of Ubisoft’s games are some form of online live service or cookie cutter open world experience (or increasingly both). But the fans know what they want. Rayman Redemption takes the original 1995 Rayman game and lovingly gives it a fresh coat of paint. The results are akin to what Taxman and Stealth did for Sonic CD in 2011, with wide screen visuals, improved controls, touched up level design, but gameplay that still feels faithful and accurate to the original experience. Except that Sega charged money for that, and here, fans have released this for free. Ubisoft’s loss, I guess. I didn’t play Rayman 1 until well after I’d finished Rayman 2, and I’ll admit, I kind of bounced off of it back then. It felt slow, and awkward, and when the difficulty ramped up, it got very hard, very quickly. Now, admittedly, I’ve only put about 30 minutes into Redemption here, but just the addition of a run button is incredibly welcome, and the retooled level design and powerup mechanics helps the game feel way less obtuse overall. It’s just a cleaner, tighter, more accessible and more polished version of Rayman.

Stay tuned for the next article: Indie games.

[itsthemoofacewriting]

The Roommate

I actually wanted to write this the SanNami week event last year, but I was still at university and super stressed; so imagine my delight when I realised that I could work it into this year’s prompt list!

Summary: There was only one downside of living together. For SaNami week. Day 6: Home. @sannamiweek     (Sorry if you got this a few times, I’ve been playing around with tumblr today)

Rating: M, Mild suggestiveness and bad language (Looking at you Sanji)

Also posted on FFN and AO3

Enjoy

—————————————————

Sanji had been living with his beautiful girlfriend for almost three months now and it was going extremely well.

They’d been together for just over a year. They knew each other well before getting together, they’d both been in a very tight friendship group, and had finally taken the plunge when they’d finished education. More like Nami had, it’d taken her a bit longer to realise her feelings for Sanji. He still claims it was love at first sight for him.

Both were established in their fields during their year together and once they’d started earning decent money, they’d taken the leap to get a small house together.

Whilst Sanji was in the bathroom shaving he could hear Nami in the lounge singing to a song on the music channel. He smiled to himself, he never imagined that she would give him a chance. She was a goddess and he was the luckiest man alive.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when he heard her scream and jumped, nicking his face with the razor. A small bit of blood started to ooze from the cut, but it was the last thing from his mind as he dropped the razor, turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could towards the lounge.

He only got as far as the top of the hallway before she appeared around the corner, running towards him. Sanji inspected her head to toe to see what was wrong, finding nothing, he calmed slightly and took a chance to fully inspect her. This had to be one of his fantasies, was he dreaming? The girl of his dreams running towards him with her arms open in only a skimpy pair of shorts and white tank top, the only thing amiss was the look of terror on her face and tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

All thoughts, perverted or not, were pushed aside as she leapt for him. He had just enough sense to catch her as she wrapped her legs around his waist and brace himself to support her weight… although he wouldn’t mind rolling around the floor with her.

‘What’s wrong?’ he squeezed her sides to get her to look at him, her face currently buried in his neck.

He immediately felt bad for his perverted thoughts when he saw her distraught face.

She sniffled and tried to get her words out coherently, ‘Oh god… in the lounge! … and it touched me! It touched me, Sanji!’ She shuddered and the arms wrapped around his neck tightened.

‘Someone’s in the house!? I’ll fillet the bastard!’ He said, alarmed at the thought of someone breaking in and having the audacity to touch her.

She laughed at this and although he was confused considering the situation, it was still a lovely sound. She cupped his face and pecked him on the lips.

‘I know you would, I probably would have gotten them first though with the moves you showed me,’ she smiled at the memory of him showing her how to kick effectively, ‘but this is much worse.’ Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look of utter defeat.

‘…What? I’m confused, my love.’ His eyebrows knitted, ‘Can you start from the beginning, please?’

One hand was still supported her rear, whilst his other hand was now rubbing up and down her back.

‘Okay, I was about to start hoovering, so I put on the music channel and my favourite song came on. I stopped to listen to it and then it happened.’ Nami shuddered. ‘A massive spider came out of nowhere and ran across my foot.’

Sanji felt the blood drain out of his face and his hold slackened, ‘Oh shit!’

‘It touched me! I don’t have any socks on-’

‘Wait, wait! Where is it now!? Did you at least see where it ran?’

Nami’s face also paled, now matching Sanji’s. ‘No… oh god.’

Both of their faces simultaneously turned to look down the hallway in horror.

.

.

.

It was well known within their group of friends that both Nami and Sanji had an intense fear of anything creepy crawly.

It wasn’t so far-fetched to hear this about Nami, she was a bit of a coward, unless money or a child in need was involved. The surprise was Sanji. He was the toughest out of them, alongside Luffy and Zoro. He held a blackbelt in kickboxing, for god sake.

When Nami had shared a flat with Robin, the woman lived for anything like that and was more than happy to dispose (set free) of any bugs, blissfully ignoring Nami’s objections of all bugs being Satan’s spawn. Sanji hadn’t been quite as lucky as Nami before they lived together, there was Luffy that wanted to play with them or the moss head that wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.

Funnily enough, everybody forgot about this when they decided to live together. Or maybe they just didn’t say anything for their own amusement. That’s more likely. It was probably the moss head’s idea too. Dick.

That’s what lead to their present situation.

Sanji, bravely, taking the lead into the lounge, kitted out with a saucepan and slipper. Normally he wouldn’t even dream of using his beloved kitchenware for anything other than cooking, but this was desperate times. Nami was tucked behind him, her face poking over his shoulder, now donning socks, and holding bug-spray. They both figured he was the offence and Nami was the defence, in case the spider came running at them.

Neither of the two had even suggested a cup and magazine, it was madness to even think about freeing the abomination.

Sweat was starting to form along Sanji’s hairline in anticipation and he felt Nami’s grip from behind tighten around his waist. He steeled himself. This is what he promised himself and Nami when they started dating, that he would her knight in shining armour.

Dread filled them both though, when they entered the living room and couldn’t find it anywhere.

The spider was clever, it knew of their fear now and was probably out plotting for when it would jump out at them. It was going to be when they were in the shower, at their most vulnerable, he just knew it.

‘Sanji, can you see it?’

‘No.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I suggest we either move or burn the house down. Maybe both, in that order.’

‘It’s awful that they both sound like good suggestions.’

Whilst they discussed what neighbourhoods were good and far away from here, they both heard a plopping sound. They whipped their heads at the sound and found the culprit now on the floor, stunned from its drop from the ceiling.

They both screeched and Nami clambered onto Sanji’s back, her arms wrapping around his neck and effectively strangling him. ‘It after my beautiful, feminine feet again! Do something!’

Sanji hesitated for a split second, trying to think, then threw all logic away as he hurled his slipper at the spider and spectacularly missed, thus spooking it into running under the sofa.

‘Abort mission, abort, abort!’ Nami cried.

Without thinking, Sanji dropped the saucepan to support Nami and swiftly turned towards the door to make their escape. He stopped dead when he saw another above the door frame they’d just entered.

‘I knew it! There’s fucking more of them, those bastards are plotting. Plotting!’ Sanji said hysterically. ‘Spray it.’

Although that was a sound suggestion, Nami was now also sweating and had also lost all logic at the unexpected sight of another spider, so instead she lobbed the spray. She also missed.

With a war cry, Sanji ran out of the door, hoping the spider was still in shock and closed the door after him to trap them.

.

.

.

After inspecting the room for intruders, Nami and Sanji took sanctuary in the kitchen. He was slumped over the counter, mourning the loss of his saucepan as she rubbed his back in condolence.

‘I’m sorry, Nami. I should be able to do this for you.’

She snorted, gesturing for him to stand and laid her hands against his cheek, ‘You do so much for me, don’t be hard on yourself. But you know we can’t move or burn down the house… you know what we have to do.’

He sighed in defeat, his head dropping to her shoulder as she played with his hair soothingly. ‘You call him, I can’t bring myself to do it.’

Zoro laughed and laughed and Nami could feel her temper thinning.

‘Are you going to do it or not?’ She bit out.

‘He’s there isn’t he? He got you to call me, right?’ He actually chortled and Sanji felt the urge to kick something in that moment. ‘I know he is, pass me over. This is amazing.’

Nami sighed but knew she wouldn’t get any further in this conversation unless Zoro got his chance to speak to Sanji.

‘What do you want, Moss head?’

‘Well, that’s not a nice way to speak to someone you want a favour from. Too much of a pansy to do it yourself, huh?’

‘Shut the hell up!’

‘Say please and I might consider it.’ Zoro said gleefully and commenced another round of laughter again.

That was the last sound both Nami and Sanji heard as he was promptly hung up on.

‘Yeah, should have seen that happening,’ she groaned.

‘What about Robin? You said she was good at this?’

‘She’s out of town, I never would have suggested Zoro otherwise. She took Franky too, so he’s out too.

‘Luffy?’

‘He’ll actually burn our house down, spider or not, and we already decided against that option.’

They continued on with the list and sat next to each other in complete defeat, everyone was either busy or out of town. How did they not see this coming? It was inevitable that their joint fear would put them in this situation sooner or later.

Another minute passed.

Both of their heads shot up at the same time as they had a joint brainwave.

‘Usopp!’

.

.

.

‘The master insect handler is here, move aside so I can tame the beasts,’ Usopp exclaimed with a flourish, when Nami opened the door. He’d gotten here as quickly as he could when Nami had called him in a panic.

‘How does Kaya put up with you?’ Sanji said.

‘How does Nami put up with you being a wimp?’ Usopp quickly shot back but instantly regretted it once he saw Sanji’s face darken and leg twitch.

Usopp quickly put his arm around Nami’s shoulder, knowing the other man wouldn’t do something when she was near. Usopp would need to keep her close for the next week until Sanji forgot about that comment. He was oddly sensitive about his fear of bugs.

‘Now, lead the way and show me where your new guests are residing. I can’t wait to meet them.’

‘You’re a dork,’ Nami said, high fiving Sanji as she and Usopp walked past him.

Usopp made short work of the spiders. He completely ignored the squirming and squealing from the other two at the door frame when he picked up each spider, putting them inside the plastic cage he’d brought along.

Nami and Sanji kept their distance from Usopp when he brought the cage closer, trying to impart knowledge on them. He soon sighed and gave up when they both kept suggesting different ways to kill them.

Just as Usopp left, he made an offhand comment about the spiders. One of them was female, the other male and it was mating season. When they started to panic about spider nests, Usopp assured them the male shouldn’t be alive if that was the case and then made a tasteless joke about Sanji being lucky he was still alive.

He was instantly punched and then kicked; the door being shut in his face afterwards.

‘This has been really stressful,’ Nami exhaled, in exhaustion as her shoulders slumped.

‘You know, a bath might be really good for us both right now,’ Sanji’s tone had taken a husky edge as his arms wrapped around her.

Nami gave him a suggestive smirk before whispering in his ear, ‘You run the bath and I’ll meet you there with wine.’

He didn’t need to hear anything else as he pressed an impassionate kiss to her lips and took off to start the bath.

.

.

.

It was only later as they were in the bath, doing something incredibly intimate that should only really involve the two of them, that their newest roommate decided to make an appearance in the corner of the bathroom. A big black spider.

‘I told you this would happen.’ Sanji exclaimed, his head resting on Nami’s shoulder in defeat.

‘You did say they were plotting against us.’

‘But to actually cockblock me!?’

‘Us. But yes, I know. Let’s go.’

‘We don’t have time to… you know?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s just sitting there… never mind, it moved! It moved!

‘Call Usopp.’

————————————————–

Seeing both of them like this during Jaya was hilarious and something I could completely see happening. Spiders just ruining their lives… and cockblocking them, the ultimate offence.

No spiders were harmed in the making of this fanfiction, but I did have to do a tiny bit of research for this. That earns a review, right?

Thanks for reading

P.S. I actually have another piece I’m currently writing for SanNami week, it’s absolutely huge and very late. I’m praying I can get it done before the 14th.

[bing-fucker]

The Only Problem With Androids

None of you would send me shit for Google(s), so I had to do it for myself. Also, I was going to post the Marvin/Chase/Jackie thing today, but I didn’t actually finish writing it, so have this one instead.

This is purely self-indulgent shit with my favorite ship, and it has a weak ending. So suffer with me.

Warnings: Android sex, A/B/O dynamics, breeding kink, bullshit android biology, fivesome, use of the terms cunt and clit to describe a trans guy’s genitalia, desperation, double penetration, blow-jobs, hand-jobs. As always, ask me to add any necessary warnings!

There was only one conceivable problem Bim could think of to having android boyfriends. Well. No, that was a lie. There were lots of problems. For example, the Googles couldn’t taste test when Bim tried a new recipe for dinner (human free, since the others disliked his particular diet). And they were very stuck in their particular style, so Bim couldn’t even match with them properly. And their logos glowed at night, so Bim was inevitably woken up by the light in the middle of the night.

But the biggest problem was that they didn’t exactly have human biology. Which meant that Bim’s heat was absolutely exhausting. Even with four androids that could perfectly imitate the smell and behavior and knot of an alpha, they couldn’t breed him the way that Bim wanted. Which meant that heats were hell. Like at this very moment, where Bim was whining and positively sobbing on the bed.

“It’ll be okay,” Blue said, gently petting Bim’s hair as Oliver and Green ran around to find as many shirts and blankets as they could to help Bim with his nest. Bim weakly fisted his hands in Blue’s shirt, mouthing at the android’s throat and weakly grinding against him.

Blue wasn’t usually very gentle, especially not with the extensions around. But Bim looked positively miserable, thin lips swollen and red from biting at them and tears leaking from his eyes as he desperately ground his cunt against Blue’s cock. It was hard for Blue to keep control, and he was sure it was just as hard for the other three. While Bim’s pheromones didn’t effect the androids the way they did humans - especially certain humans. The four had all seen the way Wilford, Doc, and Marvin tended to look at Bim - his appearance and behavior were certainly enough to drive them near crazy.

“Relax, baby,” Red said, climbing onto the bed behind Bim and sending Blue a competitive look when Bim leaned back against his chest. If Blue wasn’t prone to gentleness, Red was even worse. Rough and dominating, he’d had Bim crying during sex more than once. And given his relentless competitiveness with Blue, probably just in general. But right now, even he didn’t have the heart to be mean.

“Oh, yeah, easy for you to say,” Bim protested, punching Red’s arm and immediately wincing at the collision with the hard plastic and metal that made up Red’s body. “Shit! Goddammit, that hurt!”

“It’s okay,” Blue said, gently kissing Bim’s knuckles. “Don’t worry, scans show you aren’t injured.”

Bim groaned weakly at the kiss, spreading his legs and moving further into Blue’s lap. “Fuck me,” he whined. “Please~”

Blue bit his lip and gently gripped Bim’s hips, carefully pushing his cock into the smaller man’s cunt and shuddering. “F-fu-uck,” Blue groaned, voice glitching at the feeling of Bim’s slick heat around him.

Bim moaned loudly, digging his nails into the synthetic skin of Blue’s back. “Fuck, angel,” he moaned. “I need more~”

“Red, lay back,” Blue growled, holding Bim closer. Red huffed for a second before laying back as Blue ordered. Blue shifted to settle Bim on Red’s thighs for a second to carefully spread Bim’s ass cheeks and expose his hole. Red groaned softly and carefully helped Blue guide Bim onto his cock, moans glitching as Bim moaned loudly at the feeling of both of them inside him at once.

“God, I must look l-like such a slut right now,” Bim panted, afforded a brief moment of clarity once both Blue and Red were settled fully inside of him. It was true, if he was honest with himself. His heats were always horrible, not that sexual promiscuity was unusual for him.

“You look beautiful,” Green observed, settling with Oliver next to the trio and gently kissing Bim’s cheek.

“And miserable,” Oliver observed cheerfully from the other side, gently wiping drool and tears from Bim’s face.

“Thanks for that,” Bim replied, turning his head towards Oliver and kissing the android. Oliver moaned softly, sucking lightly on Bim’s tongue and swallowing his moans as Blue and Red started moving in an alternating pattern. Oliver pulled away from the kiss, much to Bim’s displeasure and shifted to kneel next to his head.

“Can I?” Oliver panted. Bim leaned forward slightly, swallowing back moans and taking Oliver’s cock into his mouth eagerly. Oliver moaned robotically, faltering slightly. How Bim could possibly keep focus enough to suck his cock while Blue and Red were fucking him so desperately was a wonder, but Oliver really wasn’t going to complain with the wet warmth of Bim’s throat around him.

“You guys are going to break him,” Green commented, gently stroking his cock as he watched the other three androids wreck the small omega.

“Oh shut up,” Red growled, fucking Bim harder and drawing a muffled, lewd moan from the omega.

“C’mon, I know you want to, too,” Oliver laughed, gently thrusting into Bim’s throat. Green laughed faintly and leaned closer to Bim, gently kissing the omega’s throat and guiding his hand to his cock. Bim moaned again, gently stroking Green’s cock. Bim moaned loudly and arched his back as he came, finally tipping Blue over the edge. It made sense, given the poor primary had been the one to get most of Bim’s desperation earlier. Blue moaned deeply, voice glitching aggressively as he forced his synthetic knot into Bim and came. His cum wouldn’t impregnate Bim - as much as the poor omega wanted it to - but it certainly felt good to be filled with it. Bim’s eyes rolled back in his head, cumming again and tightened around Red until the other android pushed his own knot into him and came.

Oliver moaned softly as Bim sucked harder at his cock, gripping the young celebrity’s hair. Bim moaned happily, speeding his hand up on Green’s cock until Oliver and Green came at the same time, the former pulling out and cumming across Bim’s cheeks with a scream.

Oliver laid down next to Bim, chest still even as the sound of simulated breathing echoed through the room next to Bim’s own. Oliver had always been the most human of the four, and it was really adorable.

“Well then,” Bim said after a few minutes, his voice slightly raspy.

“Are you going to be okay for a while, Trimmer?” Red asked, gently massaging Bim’s chest. Bim whimpered and shook his head, rolling his hips insistently.

“Our turn!” Oliver declared, sitting up, pushing Blue away, and pulling Bim into his lap.

Maybe have androids as mates had its downsides, but at least they had enough stamina to keep up with Bim’s ridiculous heat stamina.

[hlupdate]

He made a couple of false starts, but after four long years, Louis Tomlinson’s debut album Walls is finally here! The much-anticipated album immediately shot to #1 on the iTunes charts in over 50 countries. And while it signals the true end of an era (Tomlinson’s the last member of One Direction to release a solo project), it’s mostly the beginning of a new one. As reflected in the visuals for the title track; where one door closes, another opens. And it’s one that was well worth the wait, as Walls promises an exciting new era of guitar-driven confessional pop.

Guitar-driven, because it’s clear that Tomlinson was sonically inspired by the 90s and 00s indie-rock that he grew up on. Confessional, because each song presents us with yet another look into the emotional complexity of Tomlinson’s experiences with heartbreak, pain, and letting go.

A clear example of the former is the opening track “Kill My Mind.” It is a rousing up-tempo song with a soaring anthemic chorus that’s just begging to be performed live. Tomlinson referred to the track as a true “statement of intent,” although it’s defiantly rockier than the rest of his album. Perhaps it’s already setting the stage for album number two.

There is “Habit,” of which the melody is weirdly reminiscent of 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up?” Lyrically along the same vein as “Kill My Mind,” it regales an addictive and slightly toxic relationship. Whether that’s aimed at an actual relationship, or meant as a metaphor for the music industry at large – who’s to say?

“We Made It” is another track that pulls Britpop right back into the ’20s. Significantly more laid back, the song’s mid-tempo production has somewhat of a Post Malone vibe to it. The song may not be the stand-out single of the album, it does encapsulate Tomlinson’s road to this moment. He’s made it, regardless of the adversity he’s faced along the way. Both as an underrated former member of One Direction – despite earning himself the most writing credits – and due to the personal tragedies, he faced over the past few years.

He doesn’t shy away from addressing any of these obstacles in his career. Title track “Walls” seems to be all about overcoming adversity – be it personal or professional setbacks. The string section adds a sophisticated touch to the rich instrumentals of the song, really honing in on that indie-rock sound Tomlinson is so fond of.

The heart-wrenching ballad “Two Of Us” stays true to the confessional style of the album. Tomlinson wrote the song about his mother, who passed away in 2016. It’s perhaps the most personal and vulnerable that Tomlinson has allowed himself to be on this record, and it shows in the lyrics: “The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead.” However, Tomlinson manages to yet again transform the acknowledgment of pain into an inspiring promise of honoring life. It’s extremely rare that a songwriter is able to capture both darkness and light within the same song. To do so in such a convincing way, about a topic that’s so deeply personal yet universal shows the strength of Tomlinson’s lyricism and his emotive delivery.

Interestingly enough, despite Tomlinson’s love for rock, he seems to prefer the mid-tempo tracks. “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” includes a beautiful opening guitar solo, before adding a bit of kick drum to build a proper anthemic pop song. It’s rich in sound, and its message is uplifting and reassuring. Similar to his first solo track “Just Hold On,” its lyrics aim to inspire listeners to keep going in spite of the heartbreak. What’s refreshing, is that it doesn’t specify the cause of the heartbreak, nor does it marginalize the emotional impact. Rather, the lyrics remind you that you’re not broken beyond repair, no matter what it is that’s hurting you in the moment.

“Always You” is the only true pop, up-tempo track on Walls. Listen to it once, and the playful guitar and staccato beat make for an irresistible hook that’ll draw you right in. It’s almost odd how a song this perfect for pop radio is hidden away more than halfway through the tracklist. The lyrics are innovative, as Tomlinson travels all across the world, only to conclude he’s never getting over his ex.

Elsewhere on the album, Tomlinson addresses the loss of innocence and youth. Being in your twenties is somewhat of a confusing time, as you come to realize that being a grown-up is not all it’s made out to be. “Fearless” opens with the sound of children, then sees Tomlinson lament the innate recklessness you lose as you get older. It’s perhaps one of the only tracks that verge on disillusionment and wistful longing for those days you felt young and invincible.

“Too Young” is the other side to the same coin, highlighting the negative consequences of youthful naivete instead. This time, he connects heartbreak to regret. Accompanied by nothing but an acoustic guitar, Tomlinson reflects on a past relationship. It requires real emotional maturity and bravery to see your own flaws and mistakes and to take ownership of them. Even if it means saying “I’m sorry, I was too young to get it back then, but I get it now.” The only downside is that Tomlinson seemingly randomly adopts an American accent in the pre-chorus, which feels slightly out of place.

Tomlinson said of the record that it’s about him; “it’s me, I’m the storyline.” That definitely seems to be the case, what with each of his songs highlighting various aspects of the life he’s lived so far and the difficulties he’s had to go through. Nevertheless, there are definitely moments throughout the album that feel somewhat reminiscent of the old One Direction sound – and this is where it gets tricky. Of course, One Direction was also a part of his life, and Tomlinson was an integral part of developing the musical DNA of his former band. As such, it’s perhaps inevitable that there would be some sonic overlap between the past and his present.

On the other hand, this record is his chance to establish his own musical identity. “Perfect Now” seems to be the epitome of this split personality. It’s a mostly acoustic track, with some strings added into the mix as the song builds into its final chorus. The lyrics echo both “What Makes You Beautiful” and “Little Things,” two of One Direction’s biggest (and oldest) hits. It’s an admittedly incredibly catchy song that centers around the heartbreak of seeing someone you love unhappy. Still, it’s a shame he felt the need to cater to a sound that’s not solely his. If he truly wants to take his music in a more indie-rock lane, he should fully commit to it – surely fans (old and new) would follow.

Thankfully, the album is filled with songs that truly highlight Tomlinson’s abilities as a singer/songwriter. Two songs that stand out from the others when it comes to vocal range, delivery, and lyrical ingenuity, are “Defenceless” and “Only The Brave.”

“Defenceless” is the true embodiment of what it means to find strength in vulnerability. The song builds steadily, starting out with just a guitar before heavy drums kick in during the chorus. The lyrics, on the other hand, portray the insecurity you feel when you’re letting all your guards down. The bridge in particular highlights the fragile heartbreak that follows when trying your best isn’t enough anymore: “I hope I’m not asking too much, just wanna be loved by you. I’m too tired to be tough, just wanna be loved by you.” Tomlinson’s falsetto only serves to further emphasize the sense of defeat and raw emotion on display in this track.

The album closer “Only The Brave” sees him bring back the falsetto that’s absent from the album elsewhere. Contrary to the more confessional and conversational tone of the previous songs, this short track relies on metaphors throughout: “It’s a church of burnt romances, and I’m too far gone to pray, it’s a solo song, and it’s only for the brave.” As such, it’s a bold choice to end the album on such a different note. However, it works beautifully – an ode to what’s to come, perhaps.

Walls provides an exciting and much deserved first glance at who Louis Tomlinson truly is – both as an artist and as a human being. Listen from start to finish, and you’ll immediately enjoy the guitar-driven, intricate alt-pop that’s characteristic of this record. But if given the chance, it’ll be the emotive, authentic lyricism that truly reels you in for good.

It’s rare to see artists actually offer a multi-faceted, introspective look at their inner emotions. To have a male singer share his heart with such conviction – openly, brazenly, almost recklessly – is even more exceptional. On the other hand, perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise at all. Because if this album tells you anything about Tomlinson’s personality, it’s that he’s fearless, resilient, and he always gets back up. He doesn’t hide his scars – he wears them with pride, inspiring you to make peace with your own and do the same.

Let Walls break down your walls, I promise you won’t regret it.