#and often with a full-time professional job in hand! They set the rules for your engagement on their terms—which is great for the freelance
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currently still thinking about cowboy!rafe lmaoo you made him SOOO DREAMY I CANT
may we please get some fluffy/flirty moments with him?
I’m going to kind of just include multiple moments because I like this format a little better for this concept
When you agreed to be his girlfriend that night, he already knew what he was going to do. You’d walked into work that day expecting the usual ‘mornin darlin’, assuming he didn’t want to draw any attention to the two of you. But instead, he pulled you into a dip kiss, supporting your back as you balanced on one leg and wrapped your arms around his neck. You could hear your fellow ranch hands whistling and hollering at the two of you when he pulled you back to both feet. A wide smile of your face as he yelled a proud “This pretty girl is mine fellas!” flashing you a pearly smile and letting you get to work
He started buying you jeans that he knew would hug your curves perfectly, he insisted it was because you just needed some jeans that could stand the wear and tear, but the gaze on your ass at all times said different. Each time you’d bend over to grab a stack of hay, or reach down to grab a bag of feed when he was around? You’d be met with a slap on the ass and a cheeky smirk on Rafe’s face. “ ‘M sorry sweetheart, just can’t help myself round ya is all, too gorgeous” you’d roll your eyes playfully and get back to the task at hand, swaying your hips dramatically and laughing at the groan he let out
You could keep things professional most of the time when you worked. After all, you got to go home with him almost every night and be as unprofessional as you wanted. But the way he was swinging his lasso around to rope in the new herd of cattle was really doing something to you. You’d be leaning against the bars, thighs slightly clenching at the way he used the rope so perfectly. He was putting on a show for you, flexing every possible muscle he could and smirking in your direction every so often while still focusing on the herd. Once he’d successfully roped them all in, he’d walk over to you and tip his hat, giving you a small kiss. You’d reach over and pull his hat off, placing it on your head and giving him a devilish grin. “Cowboy hat rule still apply for your girlfriend Cameron?” swaying your hips as you walked to his office. “You’re killin me darlin, absolutely killin me” he’d mutter, following you into his office and locking the door.
At the end of a long day, he’d occasionally stay a bit longer wanting to make sure everything was in order before he went home. You never questioned why he’d been staying late the last few days, he was in charge of the place and it wasn’t that uncommon. But what you didn’t know, was that he’d been preparing a moonlit dinner place for the two of you. He had a secret spot his mom used to take him to as a child that was at the end of a nearby trail, he’d put a small projector down and a large blanket, put up strings of fairy lights, took his comfiest pillows. He asked you to stay with him that Friday night and you of course agreed, happy to give him the extra help if he needed. “Do ya trust me?” you of course nodded, he smiled and walked over to the stalls with the horses, walking out with his horse that nobody was even allowed to touch. He climbed up, offering you his hand and pulling you up with him, arms wrapping around his waist as you began moving. The sky full of twinkling stars setting a romantic mood, he told you to close your eyes right before you got to the place so you did. The horse came to a stop, Rafe tying him up to the tree, before jumping off and grabbing hold of your waist to help you down. His hands covered your eyes as he guided you to the blanket, finally uncovering them and telling you to look. A loud gasp falling from your lips at the setup. “Do ya uh, ya like it?” his hand nervously rubbed the back of his neck, worried he didn’t do a good enough job. “I love it Rafe, thank you” wrapping your arms around his neck and deeply kissing him. You’d both sit down, spending the rest of the night enjoying the stars and each others company.
(And finally) Everyone knew you were dating, it wasn’t a secret. They’d seen you kiss and grab on the other when you were free, but nothing more. You could usually keep it professional until you got home, but today you were both far too needy for the others touch and snuck into his office for a quick fuck. You thought Rafe locked the door, he thought you did, and so when one of the older ranch hands opened the door to find your pants around your ankles and you bent over the desk? Safe to say you were both shocked, he quickly shielded you with his body to the best of his ability as the guy apologized and quickly turned around to let you get dressed. You’d pull your pants on urgently and quickly leave the office, Rafe watching with a small smirk as the man turned around and avoided eye contact. He’d just have to make it up to you later…
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5 Reasons Why You Should Get Your Music Mastered
A lot goes into the creative process behind music and mastering is becoming quite overlooked as a step to only make things louder. However, there is more to it than that! The process is an important final touch that can make or break the quality of your tracks. A mastering engineer can help you elevate the quality of your hard work and unlock the full potential of your release. Here’s how!
1. Crisp clarity and focused sound.
One of the most significant advantages of music mastering is the enhancement of sound quality. If your mixes are falling flat or don’t feel as exciting as they should, mastering could help turn things around. Many people, including artists who record and mix their own work, might not have the right monitoring or experience to hear some of the subtleties and balance problems that might stand in the way of a great release.
2. Consistency Across Tracks:
If you’re releasing an album or an EP with multiple songs, mastering helps ensure consistency across all tracks. Mastering engineers use their trained ears and technical skills to make sure that each song has a uniform loudness, tonal balance, and overall feel. This consistency is vital for creating a cohesive listening experience and maintaining the integrity of your music project.
3. Loudness Optimization:
In today’s music industry, loudness matters. Mastering is a way to ensure appropriate loudness levels for your music without sacrificing quality and impact.
4. Quality Control:
Mastering is not just about making your music sound great; it’s a critical step in ensuring the highest quality of your audio. Mastering engineers have a keen ear for maintaining the integrity of your music, carefully reviewing each element. They meticulously assess tonal balance, dynamics, and overall clarity to ensure that your music is presented in its best possible form. In addition, people who have worked for hours or weeks on a mix might experience fatigue and fail to notice key elements that need to be improved. Attention to detail and commitment to quality sets professionally mastered music apart from the rest, ensuring that your music is not only heard but truly appreciated by your audience.
5. Expertise Over Automation:
In today’s digital age, it’s tempting to rely on AI or automated mastering services to save time. While these tools can get the job done, they often lack the nuanced touch of a real person on the job. An experienced mastering engineer brings an invaluable human element to the process. They’ve spent countless hours listening to music across various genres and have honed their craft through years of hands-on experience. To add to that, hiring an actual mastering engineer doesn’t have to be prohibitively expensive!
Hiring a mastering engineer isn’t just about applying a set of rules; it’s about having a passionate individual who is dedicated to making your music sound its best.
Investing in a mastering engineer is an investment in the artistry and emotional impact of your music. So, when it comes to the finishing touches on your musical masterpiece, consider the irreplaceable human touch that an expert can provide.
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How to Hire a UX/UI Designer to Make Your App Stand Out in 2023
As software standards have matured, good design has become integral to development. Throughout the software development life cycle, designers of the user interface (UI) and the user experience (UX) work together to determine the structure and flow of the final product's interface and, by extension, the app's or website's business logic.
Designers for user interfaces and user experiences come in many flavors. Many seasoned experts, however, function in both roles. Remember that for complex and extensive projects, it is essential to employ specialized hire UI/UX designers.
Why should you employ a UI/UX designer?
Software companies battle it out for the attention of consumers. Businesses that can grab consumers' attention swiftly tend to do well. While business owners are usually interested in the inner workings, users couldn't care less.
User interface and user experience designers are responsible for these aspects of a product. Subtle UI components that evoke associations may be used with color and design choices to establish the appropriate mood.
On the other hand, user experience design is geared at streamlining and improving the user's ability to accomplish their goals. UX designers can put themselves in the customers' shoes and understand their needs. They research client preferences and develop strategies to meet their demands.
Designers that focus on user experience determine who you want to reach, influence their behavior while using the interface, and hopefully lead to a sale or further interest.
Where to find a UX/UI designer?
1. In-house designers
Full-time or part-time, an organization may employ an internal designer. As a result, there must be enough workers to pay expenses. Paying salaries, giving benefits, making allowances for sick days, and processing payroll taxes are all examples.
Having a designer on staff has certain benefits, including the designer's familiarity with the company's culture, the designer's ability to acquire knowledge specific to the company's needs, and the designer's adherence to management rules.
It might take some time to complete the process of hiring an internal user experience/user interface designer. Since this design job is time-sensitive, you will probably need to hire a third party to do it for you.
2. Freelance fashion designers
Freelancers, also known as independent contractors, do not become full-time employees but rather work on one-off jobs as needed. Because of this, you can relax about your employment worries.
Freelance designers are highly sought after due to their affordable rates. However, the cheapest option is not always the best. When designers work alone, they often have to be managers and supervisors.
Finding a genuine specialist who is also accessible might be difficult. Freelancers who have more time on their hands are usually spread out across many projects. Therefore, expecting a freelancer to adopt your company's procedures and ideals is impractical.
3. Dedicated designers
You may hire a dedicated UX/UI designer in a design studio or tech company if you want to hire a designer full-time. Management may be done in-house, or you can employ a third-party service.
Saving money on salary and other employee incentives makes hiring a dedicated designer more cost-effective than hiring an in-house staff. Furthermore, you don't have to maintain paying for a specialist designer's services if there isn't a regular stream of design work.
Alternatively, the company may assist you in expanding your design team if the task is very challenging at an affordable ui/ux designer cost. On the other hand, a full-time designer is more reliable and professional.
If you hire web designers full-time from a reputable company, you can be confident they are competent. The agency industry places a premium on excellence and reliability. That's why agency designers must have varied skill sets and keep up with the latest developments in their field.
A dedicated UI/UX designer’s field of responsibility
Some of the most common tasks performed by a hire a dedicated UX/UI designer UI/UX designer:
Learning about the level of competition. This is essential for determining which current UX/UI solutions are the finest and which pitfalls should be avoided.
Generating fictitious end-users. A designer's efforts here will paint a picture of a potential user and provide insights into their needs, requirements, and issues.
Tracking the actions of users. This project aims to get you thinking about other ways to utilize the product in the real world.
Creating wireframes and interactive prototypes. These allow you to experience the finished product before it is ever built. Making design adjustments based on user feedback is another area where wireframes and prototypes be functional.
Conclusion
Every single digital product needs to Hire dedicated UI/UX designers. Customers now have more options than ever before when it comes to software, and as a result, the bar for success in the software industry continues to rise higher and higher each year. An outstanding user interface and user experience are crucial to increase conversions, engagement, sales, and revenue.
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What is wealth?
Wealth means different thing to everybody. To some, it is tantamount to traveling around the world; to some others, it is making the dream purchase. Yet, others see wealth as having lucrative investments. Notwithstanding the different perceptions, we all aim to achieve the same fundamental goal: live comfortably, debt-free, and well-prepared for whatever the future may bring.
With long-term savings and frugal spending, you can pretty much set it and forget it, as long as you stick to a handful of rules. Follow us as we explore the best ways you can quickly build wealth in this article. Keep reading to learn more.
How to build wealth
Personal Development
Life is full of opportunities. To maximize these opportunities, you require vital skills. If you want to get rich, you have to make changes. And the first changes you need to make will be those that focus on self-improvement. There are two ways you can grow your income and investments in returns. You can either lower your expenses or increase your income. While most people focus on the first, the second is equally important, or even more. You can increase your income by honing your skill set.
To build wealth, you have to be intentional about your personal development. There are different ways you can improve on yourself. You can upgrade yourself if you:
Learn in-demand skills
Sign up for relevant courses
Take professional exams
Attend impactful events
Expand your income sources
The secret is simple: find value, give value, and make money. After developing yourself, monetize it. You can monetize the skills you have acquired and can start a small business with it.
Even if you have a job already, you don’t have to rely on your paycheck. You can’t build wealth by relying on only one source of income. Try to diversify your income source. There is one thing you can do to achieve this: get a side hustle.
You can run a successful side hustle to increase your income. You can turn your talent or skills you have acquired into monetary value during your free time.
With your mobile phone and internet connection, you can engage in the following side hustles to increase your income base
Work as a virtual assistant
Freelance writing and editing
Copywriting
Online tutor, coach, consultant
Web design, app development, coding, etc.
Other side hustles that don’t need internet access include:
Part time driver
Part-time gym instructor
Becoming a shopper
Have a mentor and Accountability partner
Make friends with people who have the same goals with you. Be careful of who you admire, what you learn from them. In fact, make friends with those on a similar journey with you. This will help to keep you on the track and get your eyes set on the goal.
Build Networks
It is often said that your network is your net worth. If you want to build wealth, you have to build a good and viable network. Know people that really matter and be noticed in the right place.
A strong network is like money in the bank. Your network can help you build visibility, connect you with influencers, and open up doors for new opportunities. Building and nurturing a network is one of the most powerful things you can do to build wealth. To be a strong network, You have to be proactive and strategic.
Invest
You’re making enough money and saving enough, but you’re putting it all in conservative investments like the regular savings account at your bank. That’s fine, right? Wrong! If you want to build a sizable wealth, you have to take on some risks. Investment is about taking risk. When you invest your money, it gives you more money in return. You can invest your income in the stock market, and in real estate and retirement accounts. Buying company shares is one of the best and straightforward ways to build wealth. Also, investing in real estate investment trusts gives you a chance to profit from the real estate industry without direct involvement
Save More
Saving money is another crucial step in building wealth. Once you have enough income to cater to your basic needs, it’s time to save. Remember, saving small amounts regularly compounds to substantial wealth over time.
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Should I hire an agency over a freelancer for my business?
This is the first question that pops up when you, as a business owner, decide to take your company digital or create an impressionable presence for your business. A successful venture is built with a mix of online & offline strategies that can maximize reach and help take your business to a level or even 10 levels ahead. But the question remains, who can advise, execute and help your business grow better?
Which is a better-suited option-an agency, or a freelancer, for outsourcing digital marketing services for businesses starting out, in their bloom, or even cohesively established? The answer is a long-running debate, never as simple.
When it comes to getting to work, both can have bags of merits & demerits, but from the two, one answer surely beats the other. And, since you’ve even googled it, we know this daunting question is probably running rounds like the merry-go-round, on & on in your mind. And, we? We’re here to help put a stop to it by simplifying the answer!
Ready to read our take?
It’s always an AGENCY!
Before you think we’re biased, we’ll go ahead and tell you why they are a best-fix for the long run.
-When You Aim for Business Growth, Look for Reliability in the Long Term!
We do not deny that freelancers can be reliable. But what when they have prior engagements just before your urgent deliverables or go AWOL on you?
Most freelancers work on multiple projects, and often with a full-time professional job in hand! They set the rules for your engagement on their terms—which is great for the freelancers but acts detrimental to your business.
Agencies, on the other hand, have a proven track record of being the most trusted & reliable partners for outsourcing digital marketing & advertising. The reason is simple, their only goal and business value are to help ventures with professional services & conduct that translates to long-term business relations. You can rely on their set business process to deliver planned & strategic branding, digital marketing, or even offline requirements; even find them readily available to deliver those last-minute requirements that you suddenly remember before the big event!
They don’t easily shy away from the responsibilities and have a team of professionals ready to get your work done.
So, when you're in the market to make a mark, do consider the long-term game.
-Why Settle for Good, When You Can Get the Best?
You may find that one stellar freelancer—who fits your budget and can also get the job at hand done, but is that good enough?
The answer is a most definitive no.
The best freelancers can get their expertise from years of experience in one domain. But, as a business, you need to adopt a holistic approach and find the right people who get your business covered from every angle when it comes to outsourcing social media marketing.
Never settle for good; when you can get hold of the best professionals, marketers, designers, strategists, writers & other vendors-all under one roof with one simple decision of hiring or outsourcing to the top agencies in India or other countries.
Agencies are a business in themselves, which means they hire the best in the field. They grant you access to a pool of talented, experienced resources that prioritize your work to deliver the best quality with utmost efficiency. It also saves your business so much time and precious money as they understand the art of balancing multiple deliverables and workflows by leveraging a team of adequate resources to deliver high-quality, comprehensive tasks to reach your goals.
-Your Business Deserves Only 1 C!
Not Compromise, Consistency!
As a business owner, there’s no room for compromise when there’s so much at stake! It’s not just the big bucks that you invest but also the time & outcome of those investments.
When you hire a freelancer, your POC generally is on their toes or is staying awake, listing all the work still pending or running behind the freelancer for the 10th change. You may end up getting your hopes high on an inexperienced or not-so-professional freelancer to do the job that’s out of their forte. What then?
Would you rather start the hassling search for the right professionals all over again,
Or
Hire the right people from the go and leave no place for unwarranted stress?
Consistency is the key for any business when it comes to creating a brand name & establishing a brand presence in your niche. Social media services & other affiliated advertising tasks is a process of setting consistency in everything-your communication, design & feel to create a unique identity for your business that your target audience can easily relate to! This means getting the work done in strict time frames & drawing up short & long-term strategies and working on them consistently.
Once you’ve briefed your requirement to social media outsourcing companies, you can consider the job done! You never have to worry about petty excuses because an agency is always ready with their backup plans C & D if plan A is running off course!
We could ponder over so many more reasons that clearly enunciate why outsourcing to the top agencies is any day better than hiring a freelancer. But, since you’ve read till here, you’ll already have your answer. And in case you’re still not convinced, we’ll leave you with a piece of bonus advice.
Agencies are registered companies, which means they follow government regulations, consumer protection norms & the regulations of the market.
You always have support from the top managers of the agency & even seek ease of redressal through legal norms in case of grievances.
Can you do the same for freelancers?
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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.
#feedback is appreciated!!#boxer!harry#harry styles oneshot#harry styles x reader#harry styles x you#harry styles x y/n#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fic#harry styles imagines#harry styles preference#harry styles#one direction imagine#one direction preference#one direction fanfiction#one direction fic#one direction smut#harry styles smut#boxer!harry styles#watermelon sugar#watermelon sugar music video#fine line#fine line album#writing
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it’s my blog and i get to write the self indulgent nanami scenarios <3
business before pleasure; nanami x fem reader, not sfw - guilty pining/masturbation (2.25k)
nanami’s brain always seems to be wired differently when you’re around.
It’s not that Nanami turns his brain off when he’s working. His line of work means staying sharp, of predicting the moves of any opponents before they can make them – either you do that, or you risk dying where you stand. Much the one he wields with his fist clenched and his eyes narrowed, his mind is a finely honed blade.
No. His brain doesn’t turn off. It just . . . grows used to a certain kind of pattern, he supposes. It works out his ratios, it helps him strike, it makes both ordinary plans and contingency plans in the blink of an eye; and it does it all as if automated. It works on known variables. He knows a curse will attack, he knows he will have to harness his technique, he knows that he will have to arc his arm and slice--
You are not programmed into his method.
He has his work brain, and his respite brain – his leisure time brain, if you will. He does not mix the two. He watched others at his office get tangled with one another, and saw how it would leak through into their work – how, when things inevitably came to a messy conclusion, the people involved seem to wilt into pieces and lose their resolve. They got messy.
Jujutsu sorcery is already messy enough, he thinks. He does not need to tempt fate.
So he sticks to the rules he made for himself. He does not mix business with pleasure. He does not allow a conflict of interest. He does not date colleagues. The latter was occasionally directed, not unkindly, at people in the office who would notice his sharp cheekbones and the lines of muscle underneath his well-pressed suit. They would approach him hopefully, asking if he would like to get lunch together, or asking about new restaurants having heard he was something of a connoisseur in that regard - and he would let them down gently.
Until you came onto the scene, he had never even thought about it in regards to jujutsu sorcery. The pool was too small for it to ever seem even an option to be ignored.
But then . . .there you were. Occasionally paired up with him because the higher-ups were considering promoting you to the next grade, always with a smile for him and a polite greeting.
That would be fine. He can handle working with other people; he’s a professional, after all.
What he can’t handle is the rest of you.
The way you look at him. Your ability to shift, in moments, from dangerous to dutiful. The way you remember little things he says, how you do things just because you can. Little kindnesses like remembering his favourite bakery and picking something up for him as well as for you. A gentle nature when there are civilians too close to where you need to be and you urge them to go somewhere else.
Most jujutsu sorcerers, he has found, have something about them that is simply too much. Whether they enjoy violence too much, or they do not think of other people, or they are Gojo Satoru – who is too much of more things than Nanami can count – he has never wanted to mix with them outside of work.
But you . . .
It’s not enough that you are sweet-natured, that you are kind, that you are hard-working and good at your job - that you are clever and hold up your end of conversations, when Nanami has time to snatch them with you. But his eyes cannot help but be drawn to the curve of your body underneath your clothes, the set of your mouth, the colour of your eyes. He cannot help but think of you sun-dappled in a morning, lazy-eyed and tired in an evening.
He cannot help but think of you beneath those fabrics, bared to his hungry gaze.
And – especially nights like tonight, when he has worked late, when you have barely bid him goodbye – he cannot always stop himself.
He shouldn’t.
He is enough in control of himself to feel like it’s a gross disservice to you, to reduce you to nothing more than fantasy fodder in his brain. But as he sits on his bed and loosens his tie, sighing, he cannot shake the feel of your body against him when he’d pushed you out of the way of a curse’s attack. Nor can he make the scent of your shampoo and conditioner leave his thoughts, the little gasp of surprise when you’d felt him make contact with your body.
He wonders if you would make similar noises, if he were to unbutton your clothes. If he were to press his nose against the junction of your shoulder and throat and breathe in the scent of you.
His slacks are getting uncomfortable. He takes off his glasses, tilting his head back, his sigh chest-deep.
He loves the way you say his name. Perhaps he has gotten too used to being called cute names by other people, that basic manners have become attractive to him – but your voice, softly caressing the syllables, always just a little hesitant as if you don’t want to bother him too much . . . Would you call him something else, if he kissed you? He doesn’t know if he’d mind you calling him Nanamin, if it were soft against his ear when his hands touched bare skin and he pulled you in closer.
He swallows as he folds his tie neatly. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. He shouldn’t be imagining skin beneath his fingertips and shuddering breaths. He shouldn’t imagine that it’s your hands, unbuttoning his shirt. He can see you in his mind’s eye nevertheless, lip caught between your teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. Hands soft against him, meticulous and careful--
His shirt is shed. He doesn’t bother to neatly fold it, to place in his laundry basket, though he’ll regret not doing it tomorrow. His mind is racing. He’s far too busy thinking about whether you would straddle him to kiss him, imagining your warm weight on top of him.
No. That’s a pleasant fantasy, he thinks, but for the first time he thinks he would like to be in charge of you. Sit you down on your knees and tip your chin up as he undoes the button and zipper of his slacks.
He palms himself through his underwear to the thought of your pretty eyes widening when you saw what was between his thighs. He’s not, as a whole, a conceited man – but no partners have ever complained before, and he doesn’t think you would be any different.
He imagines the soft gasp of his name, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you inched forward, shyly. He imagines how hot your cheeks would be underneath his fingertips if he caressed them, holding you tenderly. Telling you he knows you will do a good job.
It’s well-known that Nanami does not give out praise easily or often. Once, after an exorcism, he had thrown out some compliment to you – time muddies the thought of what you’ve done, but it doesn’t muddy your reaction, seared onto his brain. The widening of your eyes and the swallow, the brief stammer as you’d thanked him. It had haunted him for nights, imagining what you might do if he patted your cheek and told you how well you were doing.
He lets himself imagine it now.
One of his hands fists into the bedsheets behind him whilst the other encircles his shaft, a shaky breath escaping his parted lips as he imagines your mouth opening, your tongue darting out to taste him. His throat feels too dry as he imagines how warm and wet you would feel, how cute you would look as you gently eased your mouth further and further onto his cock.
He imagines petting your hair and growling low in his throat how good you feel, how it would send a spark of bravery through you – how you’d take more of him into your mouth, too full, swallowing down as much of his cock as you could. He would perhaps be more liberal with his praise, for you.
He has been doing this too often. You have no idea, when you smile and greet him and say you’re glad to be working with him again, that he’s spent so many nights with his fist pumping his cock imagining your voice pitching and breaking. That’s all it is, he tells himself, sternly. Fantasy.
Fantasies that he can’t stop himself from having. He groans as he relaxes back onto the bed, thumb swiping across the slit of his cock where he’s already beading pre-come. He imagines you pulling back from his cock, shifting uncomfortably where you’re knelt on the floor--
He throws one arm over his eyes, his breathing getting heavier and heavier with every beat of his heart and filthy thought that crosses his mind. Where would he want you, next? He thinks you would easily let yourself be overpowered, beneath all six foot of him.
There. Underneath him. He can almost feel the softness of your body pressing against where he is carefully maintained muscle. Can imagine your soft fingertips trailing over his skin, your lips leaving heated little kisses-come-pleas against his body.
His hand is getting faster.
Though common sense tells him that you are probably not a virgin, in Nanami’s mind, you always are. You’re always unsure, trembling – surprised by how good his hands feel all over you. Eyes rolling back when he lets his tongue lathe over the swollen points of your nipples, heart jumping when one of his big hands delves between your thighs to the slick valley of your sex.
In his mind, you always cling to him. You always make soft panting noises, whimpering, as he works you open with his fingers – you’re always aching hot, so tight around him that he thinks for a moment you might break. He imagines your fingers raking through his hair, dishevelling the careful styling. He thinks about you whispering his name like a prayer, over and over again, keening and pitching and breaking.
He is all over heat, helplessly bucking up even as he fucks into his hand and imagines it’s the warm, soft confines of your sex. He’s groaning, breath catching in his throat. He imagines you, hot and tight and wet – your legs clamping about his hips, your thighs in his hand. Your body rocking against his.
He imagines ‘please, please, please--’ in your voice, all breathy pleading and begging. He imagines you blinking up at him with your eyes all dark and needy – your godforsaken eyes, when so many other jujutsu sorcerers keep them covered--
If you didn’t look at him like that, maybe he wouldn’t be rutting into his own hand like a teenager. Maybe they wouldn’t haunt him, imagining what they’d look like when he was hilted deep inside you, or when they were looking up at him from his parted knees, or when he made you come with just his fingers--
The slick noise of his hand jerking erratically backwards and forwards on his cock seems to echo around the room, intermingling with his own heavy breathing. He wonders, sometimes, if you ever imagine him like this – rumpled and messy. If you did, maybe he’d feel better about how he just can’t stop objectifying you in his mind.
He knows you don’t, though. You’re professional and careful and unfailingly polite. And he does not think himself someone who is fantasised about.
The tight thread of tension within him seems to snap and he groans your name aloud, releasing it like a charm into the sacrosanctity of his bedroom. A white-hot bolt of pleasure followed by duller jolts and pulses, as he comes over his stomach to the thought of your face all needy and pretty and fucked out.
That image flutters in his mind longer than it has any right to. He misses when he could do this just to work out tension, without having your smile and your body and how you would react floating to the forefront of his mind. If you ever knew--
Those familiar pinpricks of shame begin to needle all over him, as his come cools and uncomfortable stickiness takes the place of heated desire. Nanami heaves a sigh as he reaches into his bedside table for a tissue to clean up.
No mixing of business and pleasure, he reminds himself. A recipe for disaster. He has to stop doing this.
But the next morning, he meets you outside of the location you’ve been called to and you press a steaming hot coffee into his hand.
“It’s cold,” you say. “I got myself one, and thought I should get you one too.”
He swallows before thanking you as you give him an earnest, hopeful smile. He knows that later on, he’ll recall that smile – imagine it before he imagines you kissing him, or before he imagines you enveloping his cock in your mouth or before he imagines you asking him to fuck you so hard you forget who you are.
Who is he kidding? He’s not going to stop doing it. Not when everything about you calls to him like a fucking siren call. He takes a sip of his coffee and tries to pretend that everything’s fine.
#jjk smut#writing#nanami x reader#not sfw#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento x you#jjk x reader#jjk posting#no proofreading we die like men#afab reader#jjk writing tag
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LUCID | NCT DREAM ‘00 LINE X READER | CH.3
LUCID DREAMS - A TYPE OF DREAM WHEREIN THE PERSON IS AWARE THAT THEY ARE CAUGHT IN A DREAM WORLD.
Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless, professional transaction. You were to tutor a group of boys, get your pay at the end of the day, and go home to your loving fiance. Kids aren’t supposed to be dangerous, right? So why, then, are you caught up in a web of madness that slowly makes you feel like you’re in a living nightmare?
A/N: Third chapter is here! Again, thank you to all those who are supporting the story. Once again, this is a yandere plot featuring NCT Dream ‘00 line which means there will be mature themes in the story as well as obsessive, toxic behavior. If you’re a minor, please refrain from interacting. If this isn’t your thing, then just scroll and skip. In no way am I condoning anything written here— this is not love, this is obsession—nor do I think that any of the people mentioned here will act any way like in this story. This is purely a work of fiction.
Genre: yandere, horror, suspense
TW: abuse, obsessive behavior, toxic relationships, suggestive scenes, stalking, possible kidnapping, mental health. Age gap–though nothing dramatic. Everyone is of legal age. Creepy, creepy, creepy! This will be updated as the story goes along.
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
“Insane madness of the living can be more, more terrible than the bloody hunger of the undead...”
― Silvia Liam
The rules of hunting down prey are simple. First, you observe to take note of their weakness, then you stalk...waiting for the right opportunity to take your shot. Hunting is more often about a game of time than aim sometimes. You jump too soon and you risk scaring your target to a successful escape, or you do it too late that you let them fully slip through your grasp. Hunting... has always been about perfect timing.
"You already know the rules of the game, right boy?"
The frail form of a seven year old child cowered against the foot of a dead tree, eyes shaking as it regarded the man leering at him. The sky was a deep dark velvet above them, and the only source of light came from the full moon that dipped in and out between the passing clouds. A bell dingled from the tight chain strapped around his left ankle when he moved, the sound causing the smile on the man's face twist into a wicked grin.
The hum of a gun being cocked sent the boy to give a choked sob. He shakily tried to stand up from his spot and pressed his palm against the rough bark of the tree to support himself, his wide eyes set on the looming form that has taken a step closer to where he stood.
"It's the first sturgeon moon tonight, so we are going to change the rules a little bit, okay?" Those words only made the child shake harder, the thin shirt he had now clinging to him like second skin due to the cold sweats gripping him.
"You run. And if I catch you, you die," the man cooed as he craned his face a bit to the side, causing the light from the moon to illuminate his features briefly. He looked handsome, inhuman, like he was one of the fallen souls exiled to earth at the beginning of times.
The man moved the arm holding his hunting gun and used it to lift the chin of the boy still cowering in front of him. He smiled—a smile so beautiful and dangerous it can make angels weep.
"But if you die, then your brothers will be the one running in this forest to take your place. So...make sure I don't catch you, hmm?"
Tears finally streamed down the bruised cheeks of the child as he realized what he was up to tonight. Eyes wide with fear, he pushed himself off the tree he was leaning on and started making a run for it.
He could still hear his words even as he dove deep into the woods, the bell on his feet masking his thundering footsteps.
"Seven bullets! You have one minute to hide, son~!"
Gunshots pierced the night air like a wailing scream.
------
Bang!
Jeno lowered his hunting rifle and let go of his breath slowly. Despite the shadows cast by the towering trees surrounding him, his eyes could still clearly see the slight flailing of the fawn he just shot before it went completely still. Above him, a flock of crows looked down on the fallen prey with their beady eyes, as if gauging the best time to dive for their feast.
He slowly picked himself up from his hiding spot, a wide oak tree with overarching branches that hid him from sight. He's been crouched there for a good half hour or so, just waiting for the fawn to finally circle the area. He's been observing it for the past week or so, taking note of its routes, and today he decided to make the kill.
Unlike other hunters, Jeno prefers the thrill that comes with stalking his prey over simply making a successful game. For him, the fun of hunting is in the process and not in its ending—a kill , after all, means nothing if you didn't work hard for it.
He looked down on the small fawn now as it lay lifeless on the mossy forest ground with its glassy eyes still open. Leaning over, he lightly pressed his hand over it to feel its heartbeat just to check if he killed it properly.
It was so beautiful and graceful just prancing in the forest a few days ago….it would be a shame if it suffers now.
"Hey, you got it?" A voice from the edge of the clearing made him look around. Haechan emerged from between the trees, his own hunting rifle slung over his shoulder.
"Yup. What did you get?"
The other boy lifted a brown sack and gave it a light shake.
"Got three rabbits. I'm too lazy to skin them here so I'll just ask Taeyong-hyung to do it. Want to go back now?"
Jeno turned to look back at the fawn in front of him briefly before finally shaking his head. He didn't really want to go back to the mansion yet, so he decided to just throw an excuse to the other for now.
"You go ahead. I'll just skin it right here," he said casually over his shoulder at his brother. Haechan, too cold and too bored to stay another minute in the humid woods, gave a wave of his hand before turning back. Unlike Jeno, he prefers the comforts and luxuries of the manor over anything else.
"I'll go ahead then. Try to get back before nightfall, the forest can be a dangerous place~" he said in a sing-song voice, knowing full well it was a useless warning he just gave.
Jeno simply ignored him and silently pulled his skinning knife from his belt so he could get to work. Nights in the forest have never scared him, he knew it like the back of his hand.
If anything, it is the creatures there who should be terrified of him.
------
You glanced over at Jisung and Chenle who were currently immersed in their readings over the page you’ve been scanning. The sun is about to set in just a few minutes and you have the last session of the day scheduled for the pair before you could pack up and go home. Your lips slightly quirked into a smile as you watched Jisung lean over slightly into the other to silently ask about something, Chenle looking up from his pages to roll his eyes before patiently answering. The two have such different personalities from each other, which adorably and ironically, makes them work so well together.
If you're going to be honest with yourself now, you'd say it is your time with the two youngest that you enjoy the most as Rosewood's tutor. Chenle and Jisung were withdrawn and shy at first, but the pair slowly started warming up to you as time went by. Maybe it's because they are younger, but you prefer the innocent air around them every time you would have your lessons. Chenle is the chattier and the more confident of the two, but with his help, even the shy Jisung also started lightly joking around with you on his best days.
That's not to say that you hate your time with the rest of the brothers. You've only ever had one session with Mark—which went so well as expected from the eldest—while the rest have always been polite and casual. There isn’t really anything about your job and connection with any of the boys that should put you on edge and yet... you have to admit that there are still those rare moments when you just feel as if something is out of place. You couldn't really place your finger on it, nor have you blatantly caught anything suspicious, but sometimes you just feel odd whenever you are around any of the four middle children. It’s something similar to being watched...like there is an imaginary pair of eyes always pinned to the back of your head, or the ghost feeling of hands hovering around your throat.
Your eyes flickered now to the grand clock on the far side of the room which finally struck five. Closing your own book which you have been scouring over, you called out towards the two who quickly looked up from their work.
"Alright, time's up. Have you answered the first two questions at least?" You asked with a smile. Chenle groaned and pointed at Jisung accusingly.
"I only got three questions because he kept disturbing me, noona."
Jisung frowned and you had to keep your laugh back with how offended he looked.
"Hey, I wasn't disturbing you. I was just asking questions."
"Okay, okay. Don't fight now. Do you want an extension for the chapter quiz? We do have our next lesson the day after tomorrow."
Their faces simultaneously lit up.
"Can we do that?" Chenle asked.
"Yes, but I'll have to leave you the assignment of reading another chapter and finishing the questionnaire for that as well. That'll be your homework, okay?" You tried your best to put on your best impression of a stern look, which only made the two giggle.
"Okay, noona."
"You promise you'll do it?"
Jisung put up his right hand and placed his left one over his heart.
"We promise."
That made you chuckle. "Well then, that will be all for today. I'll see you again tomorrow, okay? I'll have lessons with your brothers but just come to me if you have any questions." You gathered the rest of the papers that you have sprawled on the desk you were using before waving the two goodbye.
You were in the middle of trying to fit in a rather stubborn pile of files on your bag that you didn't really notice the tall figure that entered from the front door. When you finally looked up, it was already too late for you to stop crashing straight first into someone's chest, if not for the strong hands that held you steady. You felt an arm settle on your waist, and another on your back as you almost toppled when you hastily stepped back.
"Oh! I am so sorr—" you looked up with wide eyes to see Jeno looking down on you. Your words died in your throat when your eyes caught the red stain on his neck and you gasped.
"Jeno, what happened?!" Your voice raised in panic as you stared wide eyed at the blood running down the side of his neck. He gave you a slight look of confusion before raising a hand to touch the area you've been staring at.
"Ah… this…"
You didn't wait for him to finish. Quickly, you grabbed his hand and turned on your heels to drag him to the opposite direction. You didn't look back to see his surprised expression, and before he could even say anything, you had already pushed him into one of the expansive bathrooms down the nearest hallway.
"Sit there."
You pushed him urgently on the closed toilet seat before you proceeded to rummage on the hidden compartment behind the mirror that Taeyong showed you before. You quickly grabbed the box of first aid kit there and hastily opened an antiseptic wipe.
"Uhm...noona…"
You didn't pay him any attention, too focused on what you needed to do. You quickly kneeled in front of him so that you were more eye-level with each other before finally pressing the damp wipe against his injury.
"Shh. This might sting a little. We have to see how deep your wound is and stop the bleeding," you said, a small frown creasing your brows as your fingers gently dabbed at his skin. You were so focused on what you were doing that you didn't notice the light in his eyes shift as he looked at you closely.
His gaze dropped to your slightly parted lips, then at the look of concentration on your features.
Are you...worried about him?
Your frown deepened as you finally managed to wipe most of the blood away from his skin. The antiseptic sheet you were using has already turned dark red from the liquid, but still you haven't—
"It's not my blood," Jeno said plainly, his voice suddenly sounding too close to you. You looked up to him in confusion, and for the first time you realized how close the two of you were. His gaze didn't waver from your face, pinning you into the spot where you are kneeling in front of him.
"Not your…"
"I was hunting. I was skinning the game I caught but my hand slipped and I hit a major vein. This is deer blood."
If your face wasn't burning after realizing how close the two of you were at the moment, it is definitely on fire now. You opened your mouth to say something, then closed it again in embarrassment. Jeno continued staring at you and you watched as his lips ever so slightly curled into a smirk.
That made you suddenly stand up from your crouch. He calmly followed you with his gaze, a mix of curiosity and amusement in his brown eyes.
"I-I'm so sorry. I thought you were injured so I panicked," you stuttered as your eyes fell on the bloody wipe that is still on your hands. You quickly ducked to throw it away just so you could avoid his gaze.
Jeno followed your every move closely before slightly leaning his head to the side. He seems to be mulling over something, face now devoid of any telling emotions.
"Were you concerned about me?" He asked, tone curious. You glanced at him in surprise, stunned that he would ask such a question. It was bad enough that you stumbled over your words when you finally managed a reply.
"Of course I was concerned. Anyone would be."
Jeno slowly stood up from where he sat and for the first time, you realized just how much he towered over you. It didn't help that the two of you were in a much smaller space than usual which sent a wave of claustrophobia to wash you over briefly. You involuntarily took a step back, eyes only high enough to meet the base of his neck.
"Why though?" He asked again, and you could genuinely hear the curiosity in his tone. You frowned. He was asking...as if he isn't used to such a level of care. As if things like this are so foreign to him.
"Because you are my student. And I wouldn't want to see anyone hurt."
For a moment, Jeno didn't say anything else. He simply looked at you while you tried so hard not to flinch under his heavy gaze.
Then, as if a switch had been turned, he took a step to the side to free some space between the two of you. Your eyes shot to his face when he did that, and you were met by his boyish smile that crinkled his eyes into half moons.
That made you blink. You see it on him whenever he is with the rest of his brothers, but it was the first time he ever smiled that way to you.
"Thank you, noona. I appreciate it."
It was as if a blockage in your throat dissolved all of a sudden. You smiled back, a sense of relief overtaking you.
"Don't worry about it. I'm sorry I panicked, too."
"It's cute. Nobody has ever…" he trailed off before shrugging. "I guess, it's because we're all men here. So none of us are used to that kind of care."
You nodded slowly at that. It really must be hard...being in this kind of household. Now that you think about it, the boys are technically orphans.
"Anyway, I have to go. I need to get back before dark. I'm not really a big fan of night drives," you said as you picked up the bag you had haphazardly thrown into the sink in your panic earlier. Jeno simply watched you silently from where he stood.
"Make sure to be careful next time alright? Don't give anyone a heart attack again," you smiled before finally excusing yourself out. He smiled back and gave a nod of goodbye as you closed the door.
Jeno turned to the mirror in front of him and slowly touched the part of his neck where your fingers grazed earlier. It was cold now from the antiseptic you had rubbed, but he could still remember how good the warmth of your touch felt against his skin when you were trying to wash the blood away. He curled his fingers slightly over the area now, leaving half moon marks as his nails dug there.
Oh what he would do to have you touch him again.
-------
"Pretty neat, huh?" You grinned at Jaehyun as he parked the car in front of the manor. You watched as your boyfriend's eyes moved over the impressive facade of the structure in front of him, knowing full well that his architect training is kicking in.
"Not bad. Victorian-era, probably. The stones look old but the place looks pretty well-kept…"
You grinned to yourself now as you leaned back on your seat. Of course you have absolutely no reason to be proud of something you don't own, but you can't help but boast a little at your boyfriend. It is your workplace after all.
Jaehyun turned to his seat now to give you a slightly guilty smile. He sighed before reaching out for your hand.
"Are you sure you will be okay though? I'm sorry about borrowing your car all of a sudden, the timing is just so bad."
You gave his hand a squeeze before patting it with your other. He was supposed to go on a three day business trip away from the city when his car, all of a sudden, just wouldn't start this morning. He wouldn't make it if he waits for the shop to fix it so the both of you decided to just have him use yours for now. At least he has enough time to drive you to work, which is why the two of you now are parked outside the manor, 10 minutes before your first lesson has to start.
"Don't worry about it. I'll make sure to pick up your car later. I'll have the taxi drive me there."
Jaehyun glanced back at the mansion briefly.
"Are you sure you can get a taxi here though? This is pretty far off the main road…"
Well...to be honest, you weren't even really sure about that yourself but he didn't have to worry about it right now. You nodded and reached over for your bag with a smile.
"Yes. Or I'll just ask Taeyong for help if I can't get one. I'm pretty sure they have some taxi companies in contact."
Jaehyun still didn't look convinced but gave you a small nod nevertheless. His eyes were back to studying the house again which made you chuckle.
"Jae, I'll be fine. You have to go now or you'll be late to your conference. Thanks for driving me here," picking up the last of your things, you leaned over to give him a quick peck on the cheeks. He responded by pulling you over for a slightly longer kiss when you tried to move away.
"Yah, Jung Jaehyun. We'll both be late if you don't stop," you whispered softly with an amused tone. He laughed before finally letting you pull back.
"Just getting my fill of it since I won't see you in three days. Call me once you get home later, okay?"
"Mmn. Take care, too. Go get that deal closed," you gave him a wink before finally opening the passenger seat. You watched as he finally pulled away from the driveway and waited until he disappeared again on the long winding road before turning towards the manor again. You were almost at the front steps when the doors finally opened, spilling Haechan, Renjun, and Jaemin out of them. You frowned slightly as you took notice of the canvases they were carrying as you approached the group.
"Hey...are you going somewhere? Class is about to start." You asked curiously, eyes landing finally on the small leather bag that Renjun was carrying. It seems to be full of art supplies.
"We're doing a free art class today, right noona?" The eldest of the trio asked. You nodded, still a bit confused.
"Renjun suggested we do it in the garden since the weather is nice today," Jaemin finally said. "We think it'll be a nice change from the stuffy rooms inside," he slightly jerked his head back at the wide windows of the manor which are currently shut back with thick curtains. You glanced at them briefly too before nodding slowly in understanding.
"Oh… I mean… It's not a bad idea. We can have the first session outside while the sun is still bearable, I guess."
That made Jaemin, and most especially Renjun smile. The boy can be withdrawn most of the time, but you did notice that he looks happiest whenever you do creative classes.
"Thank you, noona."
"No problem. I'll just put my bag inside and then I'll follow you. Why don't you set up your things first?"
You've taken a couple of steps towards the front door already when Haechan suddenly spoke up.
"Who was with you, noona?"
That froze you on your tracks. Slowly, you turned to face the trio again. They saw Jaehyun drive off?
"Oh, that was my boyfriend. He dropped me off today," you said casually with a smile. Haechan leaned his head a little bit to the side in curiosity.
"But he took your car…"
"Yes, he did. His broke down so he had to borrow mine. He's leaving for a three-day trip so—" you stopped all of a sudden, realizing that you're explaining things too much. There's nothing wrong about what you said but there was still a part of you that made you feel a little...exposed. Jaemin, Haechan, and Renjun, fortunately, didn't seem to notice and continued to politely look at you.
"Anyway, I'll just grab a cab to go home," you continued with a smile. "There are some who stop by here, right?"
"Yes. Or we can just ask Taeyong-hyung to drive you. He is the only one who has a license among us," Jaemin offered with a casual shrug.
"Ah, maybe I'll have to bother him this one time if I can't get a cab," you said with a sheepish smile. "Okay, I do have to bring my things inside. I'll see you."
You have already reached the top of the steps before the double doors when you finally realized something. Quickly you turned to the three boys who were just about to disappear to the side of the house leading to the manicured gardens.
"Wait, where's Jeno?"
It was Jaemin who answered.
"Oh yeah. He can't come. He is on bed rest."
You frowned.
"What happened?"
Haechan snickered which caused Renjun to shoot him a reprimanding look.
"He got into a hunting accident," the boy explained as he barely tried to keep his lips from twitching with amusement. "He was foolish enough to get stabbed in the chest by a stag."
-----
You gave the oak wood door a few light taps before drawing your hand back to yourself. You still weren't sure if this is a good idea, and yet here you are standing outside Jeno's room, the expansive hallway making you feel too small and out of place. This is the first time you've been in this part of the mansion since you only ever roamed the lower floors for your classes, and you couldn't help but feel a little strange at the heaviness of the air clinging around you now.
Maybe it's because it is where the private quarters of the boys are, but the corridor was only slightly illuminated by dimmed lighting from the lamps on the walls. Everything was silent, and for a moment you wondered if you got the wrong door that Taeyong gave directions to when you told him you wanted to check on Jeno. You have already taken a step back and was about to turn away when you heard some rustling from inside the room. It was followed by a voice muffled by the thick wood separating you from the other side of the door.
"Come in."
You froze on your spot for a few seconds before finally managing to shake yourself to open the door before you slowly. Peering around it, the first thing you noticed was how big the room was—it looked more like a smaller section of a house than a private quarters. It was dark, but a quick look at it told you that it was mostly bare if you don't count the essentials, which is a simple desk by the side, a long couch, and, in the middle, a four poster bed.
Your eyes landed on Jeno who was looking at you with equal mild surprise. He was propped against the headboard of his bed, the light from the laptop on his lap illuminating his face. You noticed that he didn't have a shirt on, but most of his skin from the right shoulder down to his chest was covered by bandages.
"Hi," you smiled, suddenly feeling conscious now as you stepped into his room.
"Um. Hi. What are you…"
"I heard that you were injured so I just dropped by to check on you," you quickly answered to diffuse any awkwardness that is in danger of settling between the two of you. Jeno blinked, as if processing what you just said.
"Uh… sorry, I didn't realize that I might be disturbing you. I can also just go back another time and—"
"No," He said all of a sudden before you could excuse yourself. Quickly, he closed his laptop and put it away on his side. "You can stay for a bit."
"Oh...great. I uh…" your eyes roamed around his room once again, hoping to find a chair that is closer to his bed. There was none. You figured the couch was the only place you could go to so you started walking towards it, Jeno's eyes on you.
"You can sit here," he suddenly said and you looked up to see him pointing at the foot of his bed. That made you stop before glancing again at the couch at the farther side of his room, something which he immediately noticed.
"It's too far away. It'll be awkward for us to talk if you sit there,” he said, as if he read your mind.
That...makes sense. With a slight nod, you closed the distance between you and the bed instead and chose to sit by its far end.
Jeno was back to watching you as you settled down, his expression curious. You softly cleared your throat.
"How are you feeling?"
He glanced down his chest briefly. "Oh, I'm fine. It didn't hurt as much during the weekend, but I was still told to stay in bed. I can't really move that much yet."
"What happened anyway?"
He scratched the back of his head almost sheepishly and looked away.
"I was trying to hunt a deer. I didn't know its mate was just around the area when I approached it so...yeah."
You winced as your eyes fell on his bandaged chest. You know next to nothing about hunting, but you know enough that an angry stag doesn't spell good news for anyone. Things could have been more serious for him.
"Are you sure that you shouldn't be in the hospital though?"
"Yes. We have a private doctor anyway. I just need to make sure I don't move too much to keep my wound from opening. And I also hate hospitals so I prefer to stay here…"
"You have to be more careful next time, okay Jeno? The forest is such a dangerous place…" you sighed before shifting your attention towards the window at the far wall of his room. He only had his curtains partially open but you could still see a sliver of the woods from where you sat.
Something about what you said shifted something in him. You missed it entirely thanks to the shadows from the room's dim lighting that masked his features, but it was there, hiding in plain sight.
"You take care of us so well."
You turned to him again as you heard him whisper something.
"What?"
Jeno simply smiled. He leaned back against the headboard, as if mulling over something.
"Since noona is worried about me, can you help me change my bandages?"
You blinked. That wasn't something you expected him to ask at all. Before, you figured Jeno to be one of the more withdrawn among the brothers, always with this air of intimidation about him, but lately, he has been throwing you off with these kinds of moments. He isn't flirty like Jaemin or sly and playful like Haechan, but he’s just so...direct. Almost pushy, sometimes.
"I uhm… I don't know. I wouldn't know how to do it, maybe I can call someone and—"
You watched as he already started to undo the bandages on his torso, your eyes growing wide as he started to expose more skin.
"Jeno wait, I think we should call Taeyong for thi—oh my god."
Your words were cut off when he finally let the last of the bandages fall to reveal the cut on his torso. It started from his right chest, a few inches above the collarbone, and ran sideways to the middle where it cut off. Stitches held the skin together, and you could see the darkening sides of the flesh where it broke.
Yet it wasn't only that which caught your attention. Despite the dimness of the room, you could see other marks in his body, old scars that adorned his pale skin here and there. They varied in length and thickness, and you couldn't figure out what might have caused them. Were they from hunting accidents too…?
You immediately turned to look away. You didn't want to seem rude for staring. Jeno, however, seemed unbothered, if not mildly amused. Watching you through hooded eyes, he let you squirm for a little bit first before finally calling for your attention once more.
"Noona."
"Yes?"
"Help me, please?"
The tone he used on you finally made you turn with a slight wince, which only made him chuckle.
"You're not used to seeing injuries?"
"I'm not fond of them. I don't think anyone is."
“So let's get this over with then. I just need you to hold one side of the bandage for me while I wrap it again. It's hard when I do it alone."
You were about to open your mouth to say something again but chose to purse your lips after in the end. With a soft sigh, you finally picked yourself up from your spot by the foot of the bed to move closer to him. Jeno had already uncapped what looked to be a bottle of antiseptic at this point and had started to dab gently at his cut. You tried to watch without wincing too much as he tried to do the job, but it was probably too painful for him to move too much because he was missing a lot of it.
"Hey, just give me that. I'll do it," you asked as you gently took the cotton pad from him. Jeno wordlessly let you take it, eyes closely watching you as you ducked a little to clean his wound. You tried your best to keep your eyes on target, not allowing them to move anywhere else…
"It looks so bad… I'm surprised you can still move…" you whispered, more to yourself than to him as you frowned over it. You completely missed the way the corners of Jeno's lips ever so slightly tilted as your fingers brushed against his skin.
"Your fiance must have never gotten injured before, noona."
Your hand froze at what he said. Slowly, you looked up at him, only to see him smile at you.
"How did you…"
"Oh, Taeyong-hyung told us. He just reminded us to be nice to you or else you might quit. He said you are saving up for your wedding."
You didn't say anything at first after his explanation. There's nothing wrong about it, and it seems very in-character for Taeyong to say that since he seems to be the most worried about the possibility of you quitting. Still, you couldn't help the odd feeling that tugged at your chest, one you tried to shove back as you turned your attention again to what you were doing just so you could escape Jeno's gaze.
"Well… yes. I am saving up for it. But I also enjoy my time here… so far…"
Jeno smiled to himself as he looked down on you, eyes watching your every move.
"We'll behave too, we promise," he said softly that you almost didn't catch it.
"Until then, I'm sure your boyfriend wouldn't mind us borrowing you from him."
----
"Jisung! Chenle! Don't run too far into the forest, okay?" Taeyong called out to the two boys who have already turned on their tails and have started running towards the woods. You watched as the two laughed and pushed at each other playfully before finally disappearing into the forest edge.
Taeyong sighed beside you and let the hands he had on his hips fall to his sides. You turned to him and he gave you an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry for suddenly asking you to watch over them. I totally forgot that I had to drive the rest to their dentist appointment today," he said with a scratch of his head. You simply shook a hand at him to wave him off.
"Don't worry about it. I don't have any other classes today anyway so I'll just wait here for them. But... uh... are you sure that it is safe for them to play there?"
"Yes. As long as they stay in the right zones. There are parts there where some wild animals might roam around this season but Jisung and Chenle already know that, don't worry. It won't be the first time they'll be going there too. They've been playing there since they were kids."
You nodded slowly, still a little bit unsure as your gaze floated over to the woods once more. If it were you, you wouldn't let them go near it, especially after what happened to Jeno.
"I'll have to go then. I promise I'll be back by 5. Then I can drive you back to town after."
You turned to look at Taeyong once more and gave him a grateful smile. You usually would have declined the offer under normal circumstances, but you honestly think it will be easier and safer for you to just have him take you back later.
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
The other nodded before giving you one last smile. Turning around, you watched him go to the car where Haechan, Renjun, and Jaemin were already waiting. Jeno was still in bed rest, so he is skipping the impromptu trip this time.
You only turned back to look at the woods ahead when you finally saw the black sedan disappear down the road. The forest looked foreboding in front of you, one look at it and you know there is no way you'll venture there in your own free will. With a sigh, you picked up the book you've brought with you and let yourself take a seat by the grass as you wait for Jisung and Chenle to return.
A sudden sharp caw that tore the air made you look up in surprise from the current chapter you were reading. You didn't have any idea how much time had already passed after you lost yourself in your book, but you were surprised to see that the sky had gone red over the horizon as a flock of crows soared from the depths of the forest. You watched as they circled just above the trees before finally disappearing far into the sky. That was when you realized it; it's been a while since Jisung and Chenle left.
With panic slowly creeping into your chest, you glanced at your watch then back at the mansion behind you. Taeyong didn't say anything about a curfew for the two kids, but your own sense told you that the pair should be back before night falls. Your gut told you that you should start looking for them, but the problem is that there is still more than half an hour left before Taeyong said they will return and the only other person left in the manor was Jeno—who can't even get out of bed.
You swallowed. Before you could make any decision, however, a bone-chilling sound floated into the air that made your blood turn cold. It was faint at first, making you wonder if it was just your imagination playing tricks on you, but then it called out again, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach.
It was Chenle. Screaming.
You broke into a run without a second thought.
It took you everything you have not to topple over the uneven forest floor as you wove through the trees. You have no idea where you were going, your mind and vision reeling as you tried to follow the voice. Your skirt have caught countless times on shrubberies and wayward tree barks as you tore through the woods but you kept going, not minding the tears on the fabric and the skin of your legs.
"Chenle! Jisung! Where are you!"
You called out desperately when the cries suddenly stopped. You were only barely aware of your heart thundering in your chest and your lungs burning from overexertion.
No. No. Don't stop screaming. I can't find you if you do.
"Chenle! Jisung!" You called out again desperately as you stopped at the edge of what seemed to be a small patch of land that dropped off to a ravine. The trees beyond were denser than the ones at the edge of the forest and the already fading light of the day wasn't helping the thick canopies above you that rained shadows on where you stood. You looked around and swallowed thickly. Something inside of you told you to turn around and run again but you stayed frozen on your spot, waiting for any sound from the kids.
It took you a few more heartbeats to pick up something again. Jisung's voice sounded far off to your right, maybe about 15 meters from where you currently are.
"Noona! Help! Chenle fell down!"
Your adrenaline jumped into action again.
"Jisung?! Jisung! Wait—Is Chenle with you?” A soft voice called out and you breathed in as you recognized the latter's tone. “I'm coming! Don't stop calling for me, okay, so I can find you!"
You were about to turn away from the edge of the steep ravine you were still standing on when you felt your back hit something hard. Before you could even turn around to look at it, however, a blunt force hitting the middle of your shoulder blades sent you toppling forward, straight into the sharp fall beyond.
You screamed, before everything went quiet as your head hit the bedrock below.
---
A.N. GOD THIS WAS SO LONG IM SO GLAD IT IS FINALLY DONE.
Taglist: @negincho, @jhornytrash, @jaeminhyuckiii, @jungwoosswhore, @jsturkey, @aj--7, @pukupukupawpau, @tomiesgirlfren, @vsszn
CHAPTER 4
#ugh tags are not working again T.T#WHY#nct dream#nct dream yandere#nct dream fic#nct dream yandere au#nct dream 00 line#nct dream 00 line x reader#renjun x reader#jeno x reader#haechan x reader#jaemin x reader#nct!yandere#nct-writers#nct horror au#nct taeyong#nct jisung#nct chenle#nct renjun#nct jeno#nct haechan#nct jaemin#nct jaehyun
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Tattoo Shop AU - a quick, practical guide for writers
Guest Post by lebanon-hangover
lebanon-hangover said: this is based on my personal experience with the industry only, so depending on the era and country you are portraying, it may not be 100% accurate for your setting.
Hygiene
It may not be obvious at first glance, but most tattooists are clean freaks. We work with human blood every day, and we get clients from all ages, ethnic and social economic backgrounds, with all sorts of medical conditions.
We usually mop frequently, bleach the sinks, wipe down everything, and use cling film or bags to wrap everything. I mean fucking everything. We also scrub in, and sanitise the area on the person we work on.
Needles are collected in a sharps bin, and handled very carefully. Medical waste goes in yellow bags, and both are collected by a professional service.
Used ink caps may look full, but the ink gets diluted by blood. Like you dip the inky needle into the person, but you also dip the person’s blood into your ink. These are medical waste too.
Cleaning up must be done promptly after the session. Bin everything disposable, put things through the ultrasonic and the autoclave, and sanitise the area. We may take machines apart, but more for maintenance than cleaning, sometimes we swap parts in them too.
We have two sinks, one for hand washing, one for cleaning.
All inks and needles have use by dates.
The internal dynamics of a studio
Depending on the country, some tattoo shops tend to have ties to biker gangs, and some of those internal dynamics and unwritten rules are often present.
There’s a pecking order and it’s dead serious. Basically the longer you’ve been in a shop, the higher ‘rank’ you are, you get the better positioned stations, first pick of walk-ins, etc (Unless the client is asking for someone by name). Regardless of your actual experience in the industry, like if you move into your old apprentice’s shop, they are still senior to you. If the owner or their partner is an artist, obviously they are on top of the chain by default.
We are self employed, but we have a boss. You are only making money if you are working, but you still have set work hours.
We get paid by the clients, and we pay the studio a cut. In return, there are some items provided by them, and some we buy for ourselves. Usually the chairs, tattoo beds, gloves, cleaning products, clip cord covers, masks, aprons, ink caps, vaseline, green soap, and some basic ink is provided by the shop. We buy our own machines, arm rests, stations, pedals, power supplies, clipcords, tips and grips, needles, special colours, stencil fluid…these are a personal preference, and often depend on the artists’ style.
We totally ask to try out each other’s equipment sometimes, or ask for a certain type of needle if we ran out.
The receptionist is usually just one of us, maybe a piercer, but it also can be a hired person in top studios.
The apprentice in the traditional system is often mistreated, and they have to pay for their education, have to be there multiple days a week and don’t make any money. It’s kind of like a tear them down, build them back up again thing to see if they are really serious about the job. Times are slowly changing, but 99% of them will always need a second job. Most of them are working as bar staff.
When you open a new studio, you must visit all the existing local ones and introduce yourself, otherwise you may get a brick through the window. Otherwise there’s not much beef among individual artists, they are often friends, go to conventions together and party after, etc.
The Artists
Tattooing is a fairly physical job, stretching skin is very important. We have to also keep our clients safely still, so we often use positions to pin them down a bit. Sometimes you hit a reflex point on the foot or under a knee, and you don’t want to get kicked. Sometimes you have to pull away super fast, cos they are sneezing, yawning or giggling.
Most tattooists drink a lot of coffee, tea or energy drinks.
Some people are all rounders, some have specific styles, but we recognise each other’s art styles. Sometimes we delegate work to each other, if we think our coworkers style fits the concept better. For example if there’s a person who does script well, we give them those projects.
We don’t like when people come in with designs from other artists. Art theft is frowned upon, and we work best with our own drawings.
Most apprentices practice on their own legs, and sometimes we tattoo each other when it’s quiet. Most people have cover ups, or bad pieces from their early days. The artists’ own tattoos sometimes are in a different style than what they do, but we like to collect ink from friends or colleagues we admire.
In the first 1-2 years one is an apprentice, then junior artist. At 5-8 years of tattooing, you have earned your stripes and are considered an experienced artist.
Conventions are really fun, but can be stressful. You can make good money working at one, and sometimes get awarded for it too. We can also spend a lot at a convention.
Sometimes we poke our fingers by accident, and it’s a scary thing. Good case scenario is just some random dots on your fingers. Let’s not go into the bad case scenario.
We do guest spots sometimes, just to meet new clients, and change it up a bit.
We spend a lot of time drawing up things, and designs are meant to fall on specific muscles, stretch with the skin a certain way, so they are tailored to the body proportions of the client. A good tattoo is also an optical illusion, complimenting the body shape.
Social media presence is like a second job, you need good photos, and you need to market yourself.
Tattoo ink does not wash out, so some stains are inevitable when pouring it out. Those ink bottles get stuck so easily, and we wrestle them a lot. We try to avoid it, but wearing all dark colours is a thing for a reason.
The Clients
Tattooists need to have a good ‘bedside manners’ too. We get nervous or self conscious people, and we are told personal things during long sessions. For example scar coverups and memorial pieces can be very emotional.
We have pretty good poker faces and first aid trainings. People can faint, get shaky, throw up, some have seizures, have b.o., get sweaty, etc the same way as at a blood donation event? It’s no big deal really. We sit them down, give them some water and some sugar, and re-book them if necessary. Most artists keep some wet wipes, mouth wash, deodorant, sweets, maybe even some clean clothes at work, just in case.
If someone comes in with a wild idea for a jobstopper, we would sit down and have a long talk. If they haven’t got many tattoos, we usually try to stir them towards more safe choices, offering them creative ideas. It’s like those jedi mind tricks sometimes.
If someone is undecided, we show them our own hand drawn flash sheets. Once its gone, its gone tho, we don’t use the designs twice.
Pinterest is full of photoshopped fake tattoos, some that won’t even work as real ink. Many people also touch up their work digitally on photos, so some clients have really unrealistic expectations.
We can totally tell if someone is intoxicated or hangover. It thins the blood, and they bleed out the ink, and it’s super annoying. if it’s bad, they will be sent home and rebooked.
Some folks are self conscious about body hair, their size, stretch marks and scars. Chances are, we have seen similar, and we aren’t bothered by it, because it’s work. Surgery scars, scars from accidents, self harm scars, burns, we see it all the time. We shave some really hairy dudes all the time girl, your legs are fine. Seriously. If something makes tattooing you dangerous we will tell you.
Fit, muscular people are harder to tattoo because they are really firm. Its a workout for us.
Everyone gets midnight messages about the aftercare from nervous clients, and drunken booty calls about getting inked right at this second. We have copy paste replies…
We get creeps sometimes. Stalking, weird conversations, tmi info dumps etc.
Other things to include (for fun, or for plot reasons)
We sometimes have those “oh fuck” moments. We all do, but mistakes can be fixed, and we play it cool.
Tattooing takes time. Usually 30 minutes to multiple sessions though years and years.
Healing tattoos takes about 2-4ish weeks, and your characters shouldn’t go roll around in dirt, sunbathe, swim, pick at the scabs. Nasty infections, and messed up tattoos would be the results.
If you have a strong immune system, and you get a lot of work done in one sitting, you may get a brief bit of a temperature. It’s normal, and will go away.
Its a lot easier to get seriously drunk after getting a tattoo. Be careful.
We sometimes draw on each other for practice with our marker pens.
Tattoos are inside the skin, not on top of it. Imagine a low opacity, skin toned layer over the ink, adding to the healed tattoos’ colour. Please stop making your characters skin fully transparent.
Heavy blackwork and palms are done in multiple sessions.
You can’t cover up moles, because if they develop skin cancer, the dermatologist can’t see the signs.
There’s a stereotype about piercers having blacked out sleeves.
Stencil fluid looks just like cum.
You get that annoying itch on your face when you scrubbed in, put on gloves and finally ready to go.
Some artists have a strong preference for coil or rotary machines, and they bicker about it a lot. Coils are louder, more punchy, and more traditional, perfect for lineart. They can be customised, and they last forever. They are also called glorified doorbells by people who prefer rotaries. Rotary machines are smoother, lighter, and often use needles that are pulled back into the cartridges for safety. They are better for shading and delicate line work. Older tattooists often say they are dildo or butt plug shaped, overly delicate and are for “soft millennials” only.
Every artist owns like 5 to 20 machines, and they have specific machine builders they are loyal to.
The “which cable is broken and cutting out” guessing game. Clip cords and pedal cables get worn out easily, and that results in your machine running really jerky.
Walk-in always show up 10 minutes before closing.
We often look quite silly at work. Sleeves rolled up, folks use all sorts of plastic ppe, headlamps, and we tie up our hair. Add couple of purple smears from carbon paper, and we aren’t scary at all.
#writing guide#writing tips#writing advice#writer's guide#writeblr#writing community#writing#writing help#submission
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The news that Red Bull is intending to employ a lawyer to advise them on appealing the steward’s decision from last week’s British GP with the intention of getting Lewis Hamilton a race ban or worse had my legal brain itching. Under the ‘read more’ button you’ll find an explanation of what Red Bull’s options are as well as my humble expectations of the whole situation, should Red Bull go all-out on this.
I'll tag @race-week, @babssionate and @weraceasone because they're bound to get questions about this and maybe this'll help :)
FIA appeal procedure
The FIA has its own appeal procedure. If a team, a driver, or any motor sport figure/authority does not agree with a decision, this decision is firstly appealed to the stewards who made the decision. This can also be read in the decision itself (here). The stewards can then re-evaluate their decision. If they decide not to change the sanction they decided on (in this case, the 10-second penalty) or if they change it but any party still doesn’t agree, they can appeal this decision to the FIA International Court of Appeals (ICA), which is an international tribunal with 32 (independent) judges. I won’t bore you with the full procedural course of an ICA case, if you want to you can read it here (in the FIA Judicial and Disciplinary Rules), but if you don’t want to or can’t, just take it from me that this is a lengthy procedure, time-wise. It is also expensive: just the filing of the appeal in and of itself costs (in this case) €3000,- (Article 9.1.1 FIA Sporting Decision), not even beginning to think of the costs of travel (parties are obligated to appear in person to the hearings) and legal representation (you can bet your ass that Red Bull Lawyer is being paid good money).
So, summarizing, a FIA decision can be appealed as follows:
Original decision made by the stewards – appeal with the stewards – appeal at the ICA
Wait - what is a tribunal?
Now seems like a good time to explain what a tribunal is, exactly. A tribunal is a specialised court that focuses on one single event or one single professional group. On the one hand you can think of war tribunals, like the Nuremberg Tribunal after WWII. Tribunals exist in day to day life in professional groups that have their own set of rules and regulations. For example, there are medical tribunals for doctors and surgeons who break medical rules, there are legal tribunals for lawyers who break behavioural codes, and there are military tribunals for soldiers who break the law. Think of it as a small legal system within the larger existing international legal system. The FIA is the same, it’s its own ‘legal system’ with its own legal code (the International Sporting Code and all affiliated codes) and its own court and appeals system.
So – what happens after the ICA?
The reason it is important to understand that the FIA is its own legal system is because it means the ICA is the final body where an FIA decision can be appealed. What the ICA decides, goes, no more appeals possible.
But what about the ‘regular’ court then?
So let’s say the ICA decides not to give a race ban, and decide that the original 10-second penalty was a correct penalty. Can Red Bull take the case to a regular court? Well, yes and no.
They can’t bring any party to court based on the FIA Sporting Code. As explained above, the FIA has exclusive jurisdiction over the application of this Code. If Red Bull wants to bring any party to a national court, they’d have to base it on national law, not the sporting code.
Now this is where it becomes interesting and also legally very improbable that Red Bull is going to achieve something. Red Bull has two options here, either taking Mercedes to court or taking the FIA to court.
Taking Mercedes to court
This would be a private case – and most likely be ruled by British law as both teams are based in GB. Now, I am not well versed in British law at all because the British legal system is fundamentally different from the one I study (Dutch). However, this would come down to some sort of personal damages and liability claim. This would be such a lengthy, complicated, impossible case that I doubt anyone will take this route. They’ll have to hire experts to analyse the actual move on track, wait for reports – it would take years. Meaning it would be wrapped up years after this year’s WDC is decided. Also taking into account that Max hasn’t suffered any permanent physical damage either (thank god), this is such an improbable scenario for Red Bull to win I just don’t think this is a route they’ll take.
Taking the FIA to court
Speaking of complicated cases: this. If it would get this far, Red Bull would be taking the FIA to court based on the FIA breaking certain procedural rules or fundamental legal principles. I won’t explain this too far because (1) it’s very complicated anyway en (2) I just cannot be asked to take all my Dutch legal knowledge and properly translate all the legal terms to English because that would take hours to convert.
Since the FIA is based in France and Red Bull in England, but is an Austrian company, I’m not sure to which national court this would be taken. To find that out I’d need to check several international treaties and, well, I disliked my International Law courses for a reason so I am Not Doing That.
So, what do I think will happen?
I think there’s a high chance Red Bull will appeal the decision at least once. However, I am not deeply familiar with the Sporting Code. Since I couldn’t say which Articles from the Code they’d be using I can’t really predict the success rate of that appeal. I’m guessing Red Bull are currently employing that lawyer to find out just that: how sensible an appeal would be. Assuming an appeal had a high chance of success, I think there’s a solid chance they’ll take it up to the ICA. However, I think the chance of them taking this to a regular national court is slim to none regardless of the final FIA decision.
This news sounds a lot more dramatic than it actually is - don't blow it out of proportion! I just wrote this because I enjoy this topic and I like informing people, lol.
All in all, Red Bull for now has only hired the lawyer for advice - this is incredibly common all across the corporate world and is by no means alarming. Remember: asking a lawyer for advice does not always lead to an actual court case. Advice and mediation is often a far larger part of a lawyer's job than taking things to court!
#felt like that last part was necessary since many people have the wrong idea of what a lawyer actually DOES lol#this is literally just an excuse for me to do some legal research that isnt my thesis <3 hope y'all enjoy or despise it#lin talks#british gp 2021#f1#formula 1
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“ Madison, who works a customer service job at an airport spa, has an employee handbook that says “makeup should be well maintained” and “hands and nails must be well manicured.” She says the few men she works with just ignore these guidelines “because they’re meant for women but [it] doesn’t explicitly say that.” Her wages ($13.25 per hour + 15% retail commission) do not include additional pay to purchase manicures or makeup. During her interview, her now-boss commented on how nice her makeup looked and how well her shoes matched her purse—comments that make her feel like she needs to keep up that kind of appearance even though she already has the job.
It’s well known that a persistent wage gap exists for women workers in the United States, a gap that becomes even wider when race, industry, age and geography are taken into account. But less frequently discussed is the often silent expectation around appearance imposed on women workers, which has its own financial costs—known as the “grooming gap.” The grooming gap refers to the set of social norms regarding grooming and appearance for women, including the time women workers must spend to conform to these norms and the material consequences it has on their lives.
We’ve all heard the common advice to “look the part” at work. For men, that can often just mean business casual clothing and a short haircut. For women, it can mean hours spent each week on makeup, hair styling and curating an outfit that’s both attractive and professional.
The rules are usually unspoken; even when employers do not explicitly require workers to wear makeup, for example, women workers often feel required to wear it anyway.
They’re not wrong: Sociologists Jaclyn Wong and Andrew Penner found that physically attractive workers have higher incomes than average-looking workers, but that this relationship is eliminated when controlling for grooming in women. In other words, if you purchase the right clothes, makeup and haircut, higher wages are more within reach. It’s true that men need to abide by certain grooming rules, too, but they are less complex, less expensive and less time consuming. Men’s haircuts, for example, often cost much less than women’s haircuts—regardless of hair length. The grooming gap essentially constitutes a pay cut catch-22: If women don’t conform, they are paid less; if they do conform, they’re expected to use those higher wages on beauty products and grooming regimens.
Grooming costs for women can be extremely expensive; the global beauty industry, valued at $532 billion worldwide, directs aggressive advertising toward women to convince them they need to purchase a whole host of products to have a chance at being beautiful, well-liked or successful. The industry relies on maintaining impossible expectations around women’s looks so it can continue to rake in enormous profits. One 2017 study found the average woman puts $8 worth of product on her face each day; another found the average woman spends up to $225,000 on skincare and makeup during her lifetime. And then there’s the “pink tax”: Studies confirm that, 42% of the time, products marketed to women are more expensive than comparable products targeted to men.
The grooming gap also results in a loss of free time: 55 minutes each day for the average woman, the equivalent of two full weeks each year. Sara Nelson, president of the Association of Flight Attendants-CWA (AFACWA), says that, in her industry—a workforce that is 79.3% women—the expectation around appearance literally “interrupts your sleep”: Flight attendants get minimal rest between flights, and that rest time is further shrunk because they are expected to appear “perfectly coifed” before their next flight. Nelson says that all of her grooming tasks took 30–40 minutes each day (more than two hours in a five-day work week). Madison agrees: it takes her 45 minutes to do her makeup and style her hair before her 7 a.m. shift—and she wakes up at 5 a.m. to get it all done. Prior to this job, Madison says she worked at the beauty department at Target, where she spent $200 on products every other week.
Restaurant and hospitality workers are perhaps hardest hit by the grooming gap, as they rely on tips to survive. When I was a barista in 2010–2011, the only official dress code rule was to wear closed-toed shoes, for safety. Still, I knew I had to show up looking pretty to pay the rent; I made less than $10 an hour and I needed the tips.
Katie, 36, a veteran bartender and server in Fort Smith, Ark., says at her current job, it’s “understood” she should wear makeup. At a previous restaurant, a manager even told her and her coworkers they would “make better tips if [they] wore makeup.”
“Based on my own appearance—weight fluctuations, makeup versus no makeup, jewelry versus no jewelry—there’s a definite difference,” Katie says. She adds that she was passed over for the most lucrative bartending shifts at her previous job after overhearing her managers say they wanted “cuter girls” to bartend instead.
Multi-billion dollar industries also market fad diets and anti-aging products to women. Both Katie and Jeeva, 24, a bartender and member of UNITE HERE, the union representing hospitality, hotel and airport workers, worry about aging. “As you get older, as a female bartender, your tips can go down,” Jeeva says. Katie says she “hope[s] to leave [the service industry] in the next 10 years, before I get too ugly.”
The grooming gap’s effects are compounded for women of color. According to Restaurant Opportunity Center, restaurant owners look for workers who are “clean-cut, [have] good hygiene or a professional appearance, all potential code words for race.” For instance, Black women spent $473 million on relaxers, weaves and other hair care in 2017, in part because of racist ideas that natural Black hair is not professional or attractive. Black workers annually spend nine times more on hair and beauty products than other workers.
For transgender women, too, there can be an added layer of work, stress and self-consciousness. Autumn, who transitioned while at her current publishing job in Washington, D.C., says she quickly realized how much time and energy it takes to perform femininity for work. She used to spend 20 minutes to get ready in the morning, but now takes at least 45 minutes. Autumn adds, “I have to do things that cis women don’t have to… [but] it’s gotten easier with time and practice,” like tucking and dealing with facial hair. Because she presents extremely femme, Autumn says she hasn’t dealt with enforcement around her appearance, but other women workers around the country have been disciplined and even fired for appearing insufficiently feminine. Women workers have sued—and won—over gender discrimination that manifests as attractiveness discrimination.
Nat, a trans woman who works at a union in the Washington, D.C., area, says, “I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be a woman if I liked masculine things. It delayed any kind of self-reflection” about gender and identity “for such a long time.”
At work and in the world, all women—cis and trans—feel the pressure to conform to normative standards of femininity and attractiveness. But the solution to this problem isn’t to throw away all the eyeshadow or take out a new line of credit for weekly manicures. The solution is to organize together.”
Continued in the link to the article, but uh
TL;DR: There’s a significant wage gap between women who conform to traditional feminine beauty standards by, for example wearing makeup and heels and using a lot of hair and beauty products, and the women who don’t. Meaning women are financially punished for not conforming to femininity or beauty standards. The gap is worse for women of color and trans women because there’s higher beauty standards for women of color and trans women.
And when women do get those higher wages by playing the game and conforming to beauty standards and femininity, they have to spend 2x-3x+ more on grooming and their appearance than their male colleagues, so those high wages just disappear and go right back into keeping up their looks, making it difficult if not impossible to keep up financially with men, this isn’t even mentioning how much more time women lose each day to having to keep up their “professional” appearance compared to male colleagues.
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@kookiya17 this reading is for you💗
Character
You are an energetic person, never satisfied unless you are up and doing. You are strong in mind and strong in body and full of enthusiasm for the work in hand. You have unlimited courage, and all these qualities combined tend to make your life varied. You are not going to stay at one thing just because you have set out in that direction. You will change your job, your friends, your hobbies or anything whatsoever provided you think the change is for better. Unfortunately for you, you will not always count up the pros and cons of the change as carefully as you should and this impulsiveness may often lead you into difficulties. Still you have a courage, you are a born fighter and are endowed with plenty of enterprise. All of which will enable you to succeed in the end.It is unlikely that you will amass great wealth but money is only useful for the happiness it can bring and of happiness you will have your full shape and more.There are many reasons for thinking that you will move from place to place a good deal and probably you will see much of the world. If a man, you are likely to take up posts in various parts of the country, and, if a woman, it would not be surprising if you called upon to travel because of the requirements of your partner's business or profession.We would suggest that you should endeavor to cultivate the quality of patience, and that you reason out the cost more thoroughly before embarking upon some fresh enterprise. There are little points but they help to mar your success. Moreover, avoid being a rolling stone (avoid changes) especially after the age of 35.
Career
You should find jobs which involve you with groups of people and where there is no pressure to meet commitments and responsibilities on a commercial level. You would find success in a career which would help people, such as group leadership.
Love matters
You need love as much as food. You are capable of deep affection and make excellent partner. You must guard against marrying someone with a lower status than yours because you lack just the toleration required for making such a union success. You are a true charmer, have excellent taste and tend to seek contact with artistic people.
Other
You leave no stone unturned in achieving your desired results.
Financial conditions will be very contradictory for you.
Your best chances in relation to the new ideas are, such as electric inventions, wireless, radio, T.V., cinemas and unusual building or construction work, also in literature or highly imaginable creations.
Outdoor pursuits engage much of your leisure time and you find them exceedingly beneficial.
You are best motivated when you are alone to do whatever you want to do, and at your own pace.
Till 2035°longperiod° You will get full co-operation from superiors or people in responsible or influential positions. You can make great progress professionally. Business/trade prospects will be very good, a promotion should be anticipated if employed somewhere. You might have to shoulder important responsibilities both at the career and domestic fronts. There will be a good opportunity to come into contact with compatible persons in the course of your official duties/ travels. Your relationship with your brothers and sisters will be fine. Though there will be problems to your siblings.
Your emotions are on your clear on your face.
You might be/get popular within your circle.
Have artistic skill with hand maybe 🤔(any kinda art i.e massage, actual painting or anything 😴)
Inherent traits and quality from mother.
Your mother's property will belongs to you.
Marry either before 24 or after 27 years of age.
enjoy a comfortable sleep at night.
Opposite gender might easily be attracted to you.
Long life,fearless and a loyal friend and would be a clairvoyant for seeing future in dreams.
~Future spouse prediction
{ dk=mars sitting in 6th house ,ruled by Venus}
He/she is handsome/pretty 😍😭
Likes luxurious and Beauty things.
Libra qualities (it doesn't mean they will be Libra but maybe strong Libra/Venus placement or maybe Venus as AK)
Very relationship oriented or you will have a business together.
They can also be rather athletic and enjoy physical activity.
Your spouse tends to believe that “their way is the right way.”
You both will have strong attraction.
MARS 🫰- head strong and competitive nature,always be ready to fight, mature, smart.etc
You will be happy with your spouse.
As they are mars person and you are a Venus person definitely a strong attraction.
You both will have some things in common as both have strong Venus influence.
They needs control
(now depends if you/them like submission or not 🥲 but hard for you both to loose control as you too are stubborn as with earth asc.)
Now ig you can make stuff juicy with your own mind 🙂 overall hints are
DADDY/MOMMY Vibes,
Should I say that again?!?
DADDY PLZ!!!!!!!😭
MOMMY PLZ!!!!!!!😩 (whatever your preference is)
NEEDS control. If they are mad at you GOD BLESS your🥒/🐱🍑.
Watched 50shadesofgrey?!? Ofc you did 😂
The same but actual logical story not some porn but not porn story 🙂
They have some Venus quality so making you happy or letting you lead is their wat to please you so maybe sometimes let you have control or control outside bed.
Rest use your imagination.
A good Mars will give a protective, logical, and problem-solving spouse, whereas an afflicted Mars you can find yourself being bullied by him or her. Mars-type people are naturally very good at taking what they need/want. This works out if your needs are the same, but if not your spouse will try to run the show. Issues of diplomacy may come up.(strong or major scorpion/Aries)
(😩lemme have them plz • though I'm already having one 😭😂😁 I've same mars prominent one but with office romance thing 🤓)
I've read so many charts for future spouse, now I just look at placement and know how they are gonna be 🤓 but zyada practice ho gyi.
#art#astrology#celebrities#education#music#spirituality#kpop#writing#future spouse#prediction#personal#open reading
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Humans are Weird, “A Preoccupation with Death.”
Hope you enjoy :)
Analysis By Dr. Krill MD
Humanity’s preoccupation with death has always fascinated me: I say fascinated because to say that it disturbs me would be rather unscientific, and I have been attempting to reign in my anger… I have had some… complaints over the last year about the unprofessionalism of my previous papers. The GA community does not appreciate, and I quote, “Excessive swearing, and screaming” in virtual reports, so today I will attempt to be calm and relaxed as I explain to you, common human traditions based around death.
Now you must understand, from my perspective these practices are quite bizarre. Vrull have no rituals associated with death. The Vrull are disposed of and their bodies are incinerated. The ash is then disposed with by mixing into the soil to produce needed plants on the planet surface. There are no other options, and no other arrangements are made.
However, I am told that funeral rights with humans are, often, more to do with what the living need than what the deceased do. However, there are some funeral rights believed to be required in certain human cultures, so that rule does not always hold completely true.
I will begin from the moment of death.
Unlike the Vrull humans do not know their exact time of death. Granted this is not because the Vrull have a set clocking system in their bodies which sets the time in which we die, but because our society sets forth a time of our usefulness. No one knows how long a Vrull can feasibly live because no one has tried it before. I myself might plan on finding out, as I have no intention of returning for my scheduled termination, which is already a year overdue.
Humans, like most other species die in several different ways, accidents, sickness, or the sudden failure of the body due to old age, the final one generally happening peacefully and in their sleep.
However this is where humans tend to diverge from their inhuman counterparts, in that they are very social creatures, the death of a human is usually witnessed by multiple family members and friends, in the case of sickness, and is mourned many weeks after because the death of someone in your social circle changes that circle forever. Social bonds are cut and entire social lives are upended. Humans bond so heavily with each other that the loss of one of their own can lead to mental and emotional trauma extreme enough to require medication and hospitalization.
Humans plan their deaths months to years in advance. In certain instances, their jobs force them to plan their death in advance in case something were to happen. Decisions need to be made about who owns their property, where it goes, what happens to their dwellings, and how the surviving members of their family will be supported. Sometimes they plan this due to terminal illness which they knew will lead to their deaths, otherwise they might just do it out of precaution.
There are many different ways of disposing of a corpse. First of all, you must determine if any of the human parts are recyclable: this being the very morbid idea of taking someone else’s organs and giving them to another person. Now with the advancement of this technology, organ transplants from donors is not as common as it once was seeing as they can now 3D print organs. However, this method is not time effective and is very costly, in some cases leaving the harvesting of deceased human organs to be the only viable option.
Yes, they take organs from dead people… the doctor and surgeon in me admires that thought process, but the thinking breathing creature inside of me recoils heavily at the idea.
Assuming that no one requires your organs, or if you have especially requested for your organ not to be used than there are other questions that need to be addressed. There are humans who have jobs especially in the business of taking care of dead bodies. They are generally moved in special containers and placed in refrigerated units to slow decomposition while the relatives determine what they want to do with the body.
In certain cases, where the death is suspicious, as related to murder, there are, in fact, humans who specilize in determining the cause and time of death based on the decomposition rate of a body and the stiffness of the flesh itself. This is a semi-common practice across the galaxy, and I myself have performed one or two autopsies since my professional career began though they are far more common for humans.
I find that the most humane method of human enterrement, and the one that makes most sense to me as a Vrull is the idea of cremation. The body is taken and placed in a furnace that is then heated enough to turn the body to ash leaving only bone fragments and the occasional mineral deposit. The ash may then be given to the family members or disposed of accordingly. Some humans find it comforting to keep the remains in some sort of container.... A fact which I find morbid but, we have proven in abundance that I find much of what humanity does, rather morbid.
It is only going to get worse.
The other method of disposal, popular through human history, however made someone obscure in recent centuries due to the proliferation of human burial sites…. The common north american and European Burial and funeral rights went as follows. After death, and freezing in the morgue, a special human with the job of mortician is called in to prepared the body for burial…. This is where it gets very morbid.
The body is drained of all of its fluids and then pumped full of preservatives to slow down the process of decomposition. The faces are then painted with makeup to give the corpse the appearance of sleep rather than death. The body is dressed in fine clothing and placed inside a coffin or casket: these in themselves can cost thousands of dollars as the family members decide what materials the box should be made out of and lined with, precious metals, woods like oak or steel, and the inside lined in velvet satin or silk. The body is placed inside with the person dressed in a finely tailored suit before a hearse: a special vehicle designed to carry caskets is brought to the place of mourning, generally a curch or a funeral home.
Many times the body is then put through a “viewing”.... It sounds just as bad as I make it seem, when the humans come in…. In large groups…. To stare at their dead relative. Just…. Stare at their rotting corpse before it is hauled away and lowered into an six foot hole in the earth. A decorative rock is then place on top of that inscribed with the deceased’s name so that everyone knows where to find their moldering corpse….
….
….
I am told this provides a lot of closure for family members, though I have yet to understand why staring at a painted corpse would be helpful.’
Unfortunately, with humans, this isn't the most gruesome method they have of corpse disposal, nor the most involved
You may also chose to donate your body to science…
They might hand your bod over to a medical school, where aspiring doctors will, in groups, dissect your corpse slowly over an intervening few weeks or months. It is… gruesome, but a necessary part of the learning process. Your skeleton might even be recycled for use as a tool to demonstrate the skeletal structure to those very same students.
Perhaps your body will end up in a museum, where they will encase your nervous system in plaster and place it on a wall for school children and visiting day travelers to view.
Perhaps you might donate your body to…. A body farm. A palace where scientists will toss your corpse out into different elements to observe the rate and change of decomposition based on different dump sites. They will examine the decomposition, the moisture loss, and the bugs which take to eating your body. This research will then be used to determine the cause o death for other corpses disposed of by murderers or in similar fashion.
It is gruesome, but I suppose…. It is useful for scientific efforts.
These aren't the only methods of body disposal.
Bodies have been tied to the top of large towers
Thrown into the woods to be eaten by animals
Dumped into pits.
And in a couple of cases, launched into the vacuum of space.
Different rituals require family members to spend more or less time with the body, to wrap it in special cloth, or to anoint it with certain oils.
The Egyptians were widely known for their complex and involved enterrement rituals commonly known as mummification.
The body was first embalmed
The brain was removed
The organs removed and placed in specialized canopic jars
The body was then dried
Then wrapped which continued to help in the drying process
Then the body was finally entered, and due to the sandy heat of the desert, the body was often preserved to a great and surprising degree. Egyptians believed that those things you had in life would come with you after death, and so egyptian rulers were entered with great riches and inside grand palaces
Then of course there is the last ritual which I learned about just recently.
Certain tribal societies will….. Eat…. their dead….
They will eat them….
As in the entire village will get together and consume the corpse in a feast, believing that without this they cannot enter the afterlife.
…..
…
…
…
…
I am going to draft a proposal to the GASC that screaming and profanities should be considered scientifically appropriate when in regards to humans
#humans are insane#HUMANS ARE WERID#humans are space orcs#humans are space australians#humans are space oddities#earth is a deathworld#Earth is space Ausralia
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play by the rules [1]
Nanami Kento is a well-known bodyguard who always adheres to his own set of principles when completing a job. But when his next assignment is protecting you, he suddenly finds himself second-guessing his morals and questions whether or not some rules are just meant to be broken.
pairing: nanami kento x f!reader
words: 2.7k
warnings: none for this chapter, please look at the series masterlist for general content warnings
notes: i’ve been meaning to write a multichap fic for nanami for so long and i finally got around to outlining most of the story and writing the first chapter yay! i’m a little unsure if the plot will actually be good or not lol but i’m hoping it’ll turn out okay! thanks for reading!
series masterlist
There’s a distinctive knock on your door that pulls you out of your thoughts as you lay on your bed with an unopened book in your lap. You had been meaning to read the story for the past three months after seeing rave reviews about it online, but for some reason, you couldn’t quite find the energy to start reading. Every morning, you pulled the book from your shelf with the full intention of getting past the first page. But every night, it was returned to the same spot on your shelf, remaining untouched.
With a quiet sigh, you force yourself to crawl out of bed, leaving behind the comfortable warmth of your blankets. You drag your feet as you walk over to the door, dreading the imminent conversation you’re about to have.
To be honest, you’d rather he just leave you alone to wallow in self-pity in the comfort of your own room. You knew he had good intentions, but you dreaded his frequent check-ins with you. If he had no good news to deliver, you didn’t want to see him. And there had been no good news for the past three months.
You have no expectations that today will be any different.
With a hesitant hand on the doorknob, you take a deep breath and try to suppress the bitterness you feel towards the person on the other side of the door. Once prepared, you open the door with a wide grin and a bright twinkle in your eyes.
“Hi Dad!” You greet him with a high-pitched, chipper voice.
Your father looks pleased to see your lively expression. “Good morning, princess. Do you mind if I come in?”
You manage to hide your surprise. Most of his visits consist of a quick hello just to confirm you’re alive in your room, but he heads off to go back to work. If he intends to enter your room, there must be something serious he wishes to discuss. You try to ignore the small glimmer of hope that flutters in your chest.
“Of course!” You waltz over to your bed and sit down, patting the space next to you. Your father sits on the plush bed beside you, twiddling his thumbs idly in his lap.
“I’m aware these past three months have been hard on you, princess,” he begins.
You dig your nails into the palm of your hands and bite your tongue to prevent yourself from spitting out a harsh retort.
Yeah, no kidding.
“They’ve been tough for me too.” He pats your leg comfortingly, giving you a sincere, apologetic look. “I hate seeing you stuck in your room all day, but you know I only do this because I love you and because I want to keep you safe.”
Your father’s words are genuinely heartfelt. There’s no doubt he cares for your well-being and bemoans the unfortunate situation, but you’re not in the mood to be swayed by his guilt.
After all, it’s because of him that you’ve been trapped inside for three long months.
“It’s okay, Dad. I don’t blame you.” You try your best to act like a caring daughter who wants to console her father and assuage his fears that you despise him for his actions. “I know it’s for my own good.”
Three months ago, your father fired your personal bodyguard.
This also meant that three months ago, your father shredded your only ticket to the outside world.
You can only venture outside the family’s property lines if a trained professional, tasked with keeping you safe from potential harm, accompanies you to pre-approved destinations.
Your father worries about your safety in public, because he often does business with local mafia groups in the area. He is not an influential or well-known member of the underground economy, but in this line of work, it isn’t unusual to piss off the wrong person in a deal gone bad. Family members are the most common targets, so you are a natural choice for disgruntled clients to take their frustrations out on.
On one hand, you believe it is unfair that you are forced to live a restricted life under the constant protection of a bodyguard because of your father. You have nothing to do with his business, yet you must suffer from the consequences of it.
On the other hand, there is no doubt that you reap the benefits from the success of your father’s career. You had never worked a day in your life and always received any material goods you asked for, so perhaps you do deserve to face at least a share of the consequences.
Your father is insistent that you must have your own personal bodyguard after an incident involving your mother that occurred when you were just a baby. There was an altercation when she had encountered one of your father’s enemies while doing some errands alone in the city.
It hadn’t ended well, to say the least.
So for three long months, you were stuck inside. To his credit, your father had immediately begun the search for a new bodyguard, but his vetting process was so rigorous that it was not a timely process. There had been some mishaps in the past with previous guardians, and your father had vowed to never let those mistakes happen again.
You know you should be grateful that your father cared about your safety enough to have a dedicated group of his team spend endless hours thoroughly investigating each and every potential candidate. You also know you shouldn’t complain about being trapped in a luxurious mansion, but you hate being at home.
You hate seeing your father’s workers around the premises.
You hate thinking about what sort of shady business deals are happening just a floor below you.
You want nothing to do with it. You don’t even want to think about it, which is why you prefer to spend as much time as possible away from home.
“I’m so glad you understand,” your father says with a relieved sigh. “But I have some good news this time.”
Your breath hitches in the back of your throat. The moment feels almost surreal. You had been waiting to hear those words for so long, you almost thought it would never happen.
“I approved your new bodyguard.”
This time, you didn’t have to fake your excitement.
“Really?” you gasp, looking at your father with wide eyes.
He nods at you.
Unable to contain your burst of elation, you throw your arms around your father with a squeal, giving him a fierce hug. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Your father lets out a hearty laugh, patting your back as he revels in seeing your utter joy. “He starts tomorrow, so you may leave the property again in the morning.”
In less than 24 hours, you are free to once again explore the city, visit popular shops, and stop by your favorite restaurants. You can barely contain your enthusiasm as your heartbeat drums in your chest from the rush of adrenaline after hearing such wonderful news. Pulling away from your father, you continue to beam at him, feeling an unusual wave of gratitude towards the man.
A loud beep disrupts the heartfelt moment.
Your father looks at his smartwatch with a tight frown. “I’m so sorry, princess, but I have to go to a meeting now.” He gets off the bed and gives you a small smile. “I’m glad I could finally give you some good news. I’ll hopefully see you for dinner tonight.”
Before your father can leave, you reel in your scattered thoughts after being almost too excited to think straight. “Dad, before you go, can I at least ask for this name?”
You cannot believe you almost forgot to ask such a crucial question.
“Nanami. Nanami Kento.”
You nod at him. “Thank you! Good luck at your meeting!”
Alone once again, you throw yourself a little celebration which consists of childishly dancing around the room blasting your favorite “good vibes” playlist. Afterward, you grab your laptop and plop onto your bed with a satisfied grin. You crack your knuckles.
It’s time to get to work.
In order to maximize your free time tomorrow, you need to have a rough idea about what you want to do and where you want to go. But before you start the task, you need to make one important phone call.
“Hey, Itadori.”
Itadori Yuuji is one of your father’s henchmen, but he’s a sweet boy who had nowhere else to go when his grandfather died. Luckily, he isn’t directly involved in the main operations of your father’s business. Known for his fast feet and powerful arms, he is mostly used as a source of manual labor to move heavy boxes that are brought in or shipped out of the various underground warehouses scattered throughout the property.
The two of you had become friends when you saw him trying to sneak food out of the main kitchen during the late hours of the night. Only your family and your father’s trusted confidants had permission to be in this part of the mansion.
Itadori immediately got on his knees and begged you not to tell anyone that he was stealing food, but you just laughed and showed him where the good snacks were located. Together, the two of you had a mini feast using the leftovers from the culinary staff. It was the first of many secret dinners to be held.
“Hey. What’s up?” he answers.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Can you sneak into my father’s office and copy a file for me? It’s someone named Nanami Kento.”
There’s a groan. “Seriously? But you know how hard it is to sneak into his office,” he whines over the phone.
“I’m sorry, Itadori,” you apologize. You know you aren’t making his life any easier, but you need him to do this for you. “But I know you can do it. You’ve done it plenty of times before without a problem.”
Itadori sighs. He knows he can’t refuse you, not because he’s afraid that you’ll turn him in for punishment (or worse). No, Itadori genuinely likes you, and he’s grateful for your presence in his life for many reasons. Therefore, he does whatever he can to help you out whenever you ask.
“Alright. You got it.”
“Thanks, Itadori.”
Several hours later, a manila folder is slipped underneath your door. With a victorious grin, you grab the folder and set it on your desk. You shoot Itadori a quick text confirming that you got the delivery and thanking him once again for his help.
Quivering in anticipation, you open the folder and see a grainy, black and white copy of a man’s photo on top of the stack of papers. Even with the image’s poor quality, you can see the man’s sharp cheekbones and styled, light-colored hair. You think he looks rather handsome, but you’re not quite sure with the fuzziness of the copy.
Setting the photo aside, you read his file with an interested hum. Because of your father’s rigorous vetting process, the folder is stuffed full of numerous background reports. You vaguely wonder how Itadori slid such a large stack of papers under your door.
Nanami Kento, huh.
You flip over a page and continue reading.
What an interesting man.
“Did you finally accept a new job?” Gojo asks curiously, craning his neck to get a better look at the papers spread about on Nanami’s desk. He spots a photo of a woman among the various files that catches his attention. “Who’s that?”
Nanami rubs his face with an exasperated groan, wishing his coworker would mind his own business for once. He tries to hide the photo under other papers, but Gojo is too quick. The white-haired man easily snatches the photo off the desk before Nanami can touch it and waves it in front of him in a teasing manner.
“Nice try,” he grins, pulling back to observe the photo up close. “Oh, she’s pretty cute. I’m guessing she’s your new client?”
“No,” Nanami answers begrudgingly. He knows Gojo won’t return the photo or leave him alone unless he partakes in the conversation. “Technically her father is, but she’ll be the one under my protection.”
“Oh, so you did accept a new job then.” Gojo returns the photo with a satisfied grin now that his original question had been answered. “Surprised it took you this long to choose one. How long has it been since you finished your last assignment?”
“About three months. I wasn’t in a rush to start a new job.”
Nanami can afford to be picky about his assignments now. Over the years, he has built a strong reputation as a proficient bodyguard who always follows orders and always gets the job done. Now that he is well-known in the industry with a long list of satisfied clients, Nanami no longer has to scramble to accept any odd job. Plus, as part of Gojo’s renowned bodyguard service agency, he can rely on the secretaries to filter out any scams or seemingly impossible requests before they reach his desk.
Nanami is now constantly flooded with inquiries from influential celebrities, notorious mafia members, and other wealthy figures. These people are always willing to pay big bucks for an extra sense of security as they go about their lives, but Nanami is no longer interested in solely the money now that his multiple bank accounts are flush with cash. Instead, he wants to take it easy with a simple, straightforward assignment that won’t involve a lot of gunfire, blood, or death.
Being a bodyguard is a lucrative career, but it is also both physically and mentally taxing.
Simply put, Nanami is tired.
This is why he waited three long months to find his next job. With each additional request, he ignored how many zeros were listed as compensation and instead took his time to scrutinize the client, their family, and their motivations in seeking a bodyguard. He had a mental image of what he was looking for in his “perfect” job and much to his surprise, he stumbled upon a request that checked almost every box.
While Nanami was lost in his thoughts, Gojo had secretly snatched your file from the desk and had been skimming through it. He couldn’t resist learning more about this new client.
When Nanami returbs to his senses, he sees the missing file on his desk and glares at his white-haired coworker. Gojo just laughs in response.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just curious to see what kind of person would pique your interest after all this time, Mr. Picky.” He purses his lips. “Hmm, she’s not much younger than us. Surprised she’s still single too. Aren’t most women in these sorts of families forced to marry early to strengthen business ties? Oh, maybe her personality is so bad her father can’t marry her off to anyone!”
Nanami rips the file out of Gojo’s hands with a scowl. “None of that concerns me.”
“Aww, come on, Nanami,” the white-haired man pouts. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time with her. What is she’s a demon in disguise? Women are pretty scary, you know.”
Nanami figures Gojo skipped the part in the file where your father had described you as a “bright, bubbly young woman who loves to shop and eat”.
“I think I can handle it,” Nanami responds flatly. “After all, I can reasonably get along with everyone except you.”
Gojo clutches his chest dramatically, acting like he had just been shot. “Nanami, you’re so cruel to me!” He then drops his hands and places them on his hips with a devious grin. “Alright, I’ll leave you alone now. Good luck! And don’t fall in love!” He lowers his sunglasses and winks. Gojo can’t help but get in one last jab to irk his coworker.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
Nanami is a serious professional, one who always plays by the rules. He adheres to a certain set of principles in order to remain successful in this line of work. Without them, situations can get messy, and he has all too often witnessed other bodyguards make the mistake of deviating from protocol and facing the consequences.
There are three fundamental rules that Nanami always follows without fail:
Never go above and beyond what a job asks you to do.
Once a job is finished, leave immediately.
Never get personally involved with a client.
And under no circumstances would he ever disregard any of these rules.
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➔Pairing: Camboy!Haechan x Reader (Female)
➔Other Members/ Characters: Renjun + Jeno + Jaemin
➔Genre: Smut
➔Warnings: Penetration (F) | Masturbation (M) | Oral (F+M) | Voyeurism | Sex with animal masquerade-like masks (foxes)
➔Word count: 4,069
➔Summary: You’re going to fuck popular CamBoy! Haechan for the very first time. Will your nerves get the best of you?
The mask he wore protecting his identity looked like a fox face. White and glittery, with ears and a small nose, it hid half of his handsome face. It sat flush against his cheek, not even sweat daring to move it. He had worn it many times, and each time, you would count the crystals adorning the mask.
You observed his shirtless body from across the room with interest. His body was lightly toned, the little moles on his stomach making you want to connect the dots with your tongue. He wore belted suit paints and nothing else. Even half-dressed, he looked more put together than you ever would.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
You had never worked with him before. As far as you could tell, he was a true professional. When you arrived, he asked if you had eaten. He gave you a drink before you could decline, and when you asked him where the bathroom was, he guided you with his hand hovering over your back. Easy on the eyes and a voice so silky soft, it was hard not to fall for his charm.
“I don’t think so,” you said. “I’m pretty satisfied.”
You looked down at your white silk lingerie. Having watched his work before, you purposely purchased it to match his mask. You looked innocent, maybe a little naive while wearing it. It was the opposite of how you were feeling, as you devoured him with your eyes. You had been in the sex industry for awhile, so you were well aware of the rules, and how not to break them. You were polite and engaging, respectful and eager to learn, but you really wanted to have him.
“We can start in a few minutes, if you like?” he asked.
You nodded. “Sounds good.”
Around the room were cameras facing a lone bed that sat in the middle of the floor. Studio lights lit up the space, with fairy lights hanging from the ceiling to soften the mood when the need called for it. Various chains hung from the headboard. There was a chest of toys by the side of the bed. He worked frequently in that very room. You knew because you had watched his cam to learn what he liked. You would log on anonymously, at first. Once a healthy repertoire was built between you, you came out of your shell. He asked if you would like to work with him, and you jumped at the chance. You enjoyed sex work, but you only agreed because you had a small crush on him.
“Haechan?” you asked, jumping up from your seat. “I forgot. Are we having sex with the condom, or without? I’m okay with either. I’ve been tested, and I’m on contraceptives.”
Haechan was buttoning up his suit shirt, the small white buttons slipping from his fingertips. He licked the corner of his mouth, as he was thinking. You knew he was also regularly tested. He had to in order to continue fucking all of his girls. Suddenly, and you didn’t know why, you began to feel nervous. You pulled down the lingerie so it covered your thong. Your cleavage was made obvious, but the gentleman in Haechan did not look. You were afraid he wouldn’t like you as well as he liked the others, afraid that you didn’t check all of the boxes.
“We can see where the mood takes us?” he suggested.
“Alright,” you said. “I’m okay with that.”
You sat back down and watched him finish getting ready. You began to feel a little like an amateur, and cursed yourself that it was so easy to feel anxious around him. He really was so handsome. The suit he wore was tailored to his body perfectly, and the way the pants hugged his ass made you crane your neck to get a better look.
“You’re tense.” he said.
“What? I am?”
He crossed the room and took a seat next to you, his thigh touching yours. When you worked with other men, they didn’t bother talking to you until the cameras were rolling. With Haechan, since you had walked through his door, he had done nothing but make you feel comfortable.
“Are you okay with shooting today?” he asked.
“I am,” you said. “Do I not look okay?”
He smiled, bringing out the boyish appeal that raked him in lots of money. For a brief second, he removed the mask so you could see his face. His eyes were soft and kind, his cheeks full and fed. He tried joking with you to loosen you up, but every time he nudged you, you could feel your timidness returning. Haechan took your hand and held it, rubbing his thumb over the back of it to soothe you.
“Is it me? Are you nervous because of me?” he asked. He gestured to everything in the room with a wave of his hand. “Does all of this scare you?”
You were going to lie through your teeth, but you didn’t want to do that to him. Instead, you nodded and told him it was because you found him so irresistible. You didn’t know if you could compare to the women he’d been with previously. You riddled him with compliments about how sexy he was, and how each woman he was with left the room feeling changed.
“You give me too much credit,” he said. “They leave me just as breathless. I’ve seen your work and-”
“-you have?” you interrupted, unable to keep the surprise from your voice.
Haechan touched his fingers to your chin. You felt lost in his eyes. When he leaned in close to kiss you, you felt like you were being hypnotized. His lips were soft, and you never wanted to stop kissing them. He pulled away before you could slip your tongue inside of his mouth.
“I promise you,” Haechan began. “I want to fuck you as much as you want to fuck me.”
A lot went into being a successful cam boy. Your set-up was small and intimate. You often did solo cams where you masturbated with toys. Sometimes, you did non-sexual things for money. It was always different, but it always had the same chill vibe. It was always just you, a camera, and your legs spread wide. But Haechan put all of your work to shame. After the third person came in and out of the room to check something, you realized they were there to stay.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Do you like it?”
“I like it,” you said. “It’s interesting. It looks like a lot of work.”
While talking about the details of the set-up, three people came over that Haechan wanted to introduce to you. You had seen Jaemin around at different parties, but meeting him while you were half-naked made you feel shy. You shook hands with him and greeted him, careful to avoid a lot of eye contact.
“And this is Jeno,” Haechan said, pointing at his handsome friend. “And lastly, Renjun. All three of them help me make this what it is. They stay in the room while we perform, but if you’re not comfortable, I will ask them to look away.”
“Will they be on camera?” you asked. “Can the viewers see them?”
“Absolutely not.” Jaemin said.
Renjun laughed. “No one wants to see my body.”
You looked at Renjun and winked. “I wouldn’t mind seeing your body. “
Haechan, Jeno, and Jaemin laughed when Renjun became flustered. The mood was lightened a little bit, and after that, you didn’t mind so much that they were in the room with you.
You looked around, while the rest of the set-up was being finished, placing your wrist in and out of a pair of handcuffs, and not caring if your ass was hanging out of the lingerie.
“Are you ready?” Haechan asked, touching your elbow.
“Yes.”
From beside him, Haechan pulled his arm up to reveal another fox mask in the color blue. It was prettier, the crystals shining more brightly. He fixed it to your face, taking extra care not to mess up your make-up or hair. When he was done, the kiss he left on your lips was faint. Your nerves seemed to dissipate even more with the attention Haechan paid to you, but it still wasn’t enough. You were feeling like something wasn’t quite complete.
“Wait,” you said. “Can I do something first?”
Curious, Haechan nodded. You went over to Jeno, Jaemin and Renjun who were standing in the corner of the room, each boy at their respective post. Everything had been set up, and there was little need for them to observe the scene in its entirety. You grabbed blindfolds from a nearby table and tied them around each boy's eyes so that they couldn’t see. Jeno licked his lips in anticipation, Jaemin instinctively reached out in front of him, and Renjun smiled mischievously, which was more than you thought he would do. When you were done, each of them looked to where they thought you were.
“You can hear,” you said. “But you don’t get to see. You can only take the blindfold off when you’re turned on.”
You backed away until you were in Haechan’s arms. He came behind you and hugged you, his arms around your neck. You were scared that your plan would backfire, that each boy wouldn’t be able to do their job without being able to see, or that none of them would remove the blindfold. When Renjun reached for the camera button with ease, you knew things would be just fine.
“Going live on air in three counts,” Renjun said. “One-”
Jeno double checked the lights, calling out to Haechan for approval. Jaemin checked the audio, and gave a thumbs up when he realized the sound worked fine.
“-Two”
Before Renjun said three, Haechan spun you around and looked into your eyes. “Trust me,” he said. “And I’ll trust you.”
“-Three.”
Just like that, you were live, and hundreds of people were watching you. As soon as Renjun said the word, Haechan had snapped into his role. There were no more kind eyes, no more soft touches. He pushed you back onto the bed. You fell hard and crawled backwards as he crawled forward on his knees, his fox mask bearing down on you. His shirt buttons were popping open from the strain of his chest, little keyholes revealing his skin. Haechan caught your left wrist in his hands, as you tried to get away, and took the soft cuffs, restraining you against the headboard. You reached out and touched the right cuff, pulling yourself up into a sitting position. Haechan cocked his head, his fox nose pointing in another direction.
Instead of speaking, he stood up on the bed, bending his knees so his crotch was level with your face. He unzipped and unbelted his suit pants, taking his soft cock out of his pants. You made eye contact with his member, your eyes hungrily taking him in. With your free hand, you reached out to rouse him, but Haechan restrained you. You made eye contact with him before facing his twitching cock slowly coming to life. You had seen it on camera many times, but up close, it was so pretty it made your mouth water. Haechan took a handful of your hair and yanked your head back, the pain from your scalp making you yelp. He moved forward and put his balls near your lips. You opened your mouth and sucked them gently, rolling your tongue around the delicate skin. All you could see was the darkness of his cock resting on top of your fox mask and messing up your vision. Before you were done pleasuring him, Haechan took his balls out of your mouth. His cock was half-hard, the tip staring you down. He rested his cock head against your bottom lip, but as you opened your mouth to lick him, he pulled himself away.
The torture of watching Haechan zip his cock away made you pull against the restraints. You could feel how badly your body wanted him. Your nipples were hard, your pussy throbbing, and your toes were curling with the foreseeable future of finally getting to use his cock.
“What should I do next?” Haechan asked, making his voice a little deeper than it naturally was. “Should I finger you? Work you up until you’re finally ready to orgasm, and then take it away? Should I leave love bites all over your body? Tear that pretty lingerie and masturbate over your chest? There are so many options.”
“All of the above.” you said, your own voice sounding unfamiliar.
Haechan pushed himself swiftly off the bed. He went to the camera and looked into it, a smile on his face. Since Renjun couldn’t see, Haechan angled the camera himself. The puckered kiss he gave the viewers was felt all over your body. When he came back over, he grabbed your left ankle and yanked your body until you were laying down fully, your feet nearing the edge of the bed. He used restraints on you so that you were spread across its face and fully restrained on all four corners. The silky white triangle that protected your modesty was seen as your lingerie lifted to reveal your bare stomach and the hickey that was already there.
“Who did this?” Haechan asked.
He touched his fingers over the fading purple mark. Your skin tingled, and you squirmed away from his touch. You tried clamping your legs shut, but the restraints made it so you couldn’t even lift up your legs from the bed. Haechan had you exactly where he could do anything to you.
“Not you.” you said.
Haechan let his fingers linger before hooking them underneath the triangle fabric and peering inside. You were freshly waxed, and as he pushed the back of his fingers against you to spread your lips, you were very wet.
“Mmm,” Haechan moaned. “Watch your mouth.”
He took his hand out of your thong from that angle and moved them to the side to reveal your whole pussy. You were aware of the hot lights and how they made your skin glisten with sweat. Being vulnerable made you feel so sensitive to his touch. Just a slight brush against your clit wouldn’t normally make you shudder, but you couldn’t stop it before it happened. He liked the way you jerked. It brought a smile to his lips, his fox mask seeming just as sly.
“Do you like this?” he asked.
His fingers were inside of you, pushing into you, again and again. You squeezed the restraints and raised your hips as much as they would allow. You wanted to move yourself down, to fuck yourself on his fingers, but every time you tried, he pulled back. Haechan got as much of your juices as he could on his fingers before bringing them to your lips. You sucked on his fingers with the same kind of ferocity as when you had his balls on your tongue.
“I like it.” he said.
Leaning over, he swirled his tongue over you and kissed your clit. His fingers found their way inside you once more, but they didn’t let up. He fingered you, his eyes watching as your body misbehaved. He had no plans on being lenient. He fucked you with them, crooking his fingers to get at your g-spot, alternating between coming out to rub your clit until you couldn’t take it anymore. Every time you felt like you would orgasm, he stopped and looked off camera like he was bored. He took a vibrator from the chest, but the feeling of him pressing it against you and then lessening the pressure drove you crazy.
“Please.” you begged. You didn’t like the way your clit pulsated when he wasn’t touching you. You needed to feel his rough fingertips on you again, needed him to finish the job.
“Please what?” he asked.
He went in on you again, one hand inside of you, and one hand holding the vibrator to your clit full-on. Your legs were shaking, your body nearly convulsing. You held your head back and moaned, hoping the sound wouldn’t be too loud on the viewers end. After everything, you felt yourself squirt, bursting like a water balloon.
“Wow,” Haechan said. “First time I had that happen.”
He looked down at his soaked hand and felt pleased with himself. You, on the other hand, felt embarrassed. Before you could wallow in the feeling, he cleaned you both up and stripped the sheets from underneath you. The move was sexy and swift.
“How about I give you a little break.” Haechan said, his voice getting softer.
He climbed onto the bed and took off the restraints around your ankles. He rubbed the marks they left behind. Your first instinct was to close your legs, but he moved between them to kiss your thighs. He threw your calves over his shoulders and kissed all around your pussy, his supple lips barely wet and avoiding your delicate clit. He used his hands to hold your waist in place while he moved up your stomach to kiss you, the fox mask scratching against your skin. The higher he went, the rougher his mouth got. He pulled the lingerie up your body until your breasts were revealed. You watched him leave hickeys on your skin, the marks taking awhile to show, but his ambition never letting up.
“Darker,” you said. “I want to see them for a long time.”
His eyes were focused, his body moving up yours to give you your wish. You could feel his hard cock against your thigh at the same time his lips were on your neck. You couldn’t see them, but you knew he was leaving little marks all over you. You looked to the side to watch Jeno, Jaemin and Renjun. You had forgotten they were there. Jeno was looking in your direction intently, his blindfold still in place, and his hands in his lap. Jaemin was sitting down and fidgeting with the sound, his back straight and tense. Renjun’s blindfold was on the floor, his cock in his hand. He watched you watching him fuck his fist, and he didn’t care.
“Next,” you said. “Masturbate for me, Haechan. I want to feel your cum on me.”
Haechan lifted his head up. Your face was burning where the fox mask had scratched against it. Haechan noticed and gave you sweet kisses before kissing your mouth. He finally gave you his tongue, the saltiness from your sweaty body the main flavor. He got up off the bed and walked around the room to rev himself up. He looked into the camera and suggestively licked his fingers clean. Next, the suit jacket came off because he was hot and his back was sweaty. He unbuttoned what buttons were still together, and let his chest free. He looked different than the man who met with you earlier.
“I’m waiting.” you said.
“That mouth,” Haechan laughed. “Will get you into trouble.”
He crawled back onto the bed on his knees and made his way over to you. He touched the silk of your lingerie gently before bunching it in his fists and tearing it open, straight down the middle. His cock was in his hands, and he was rock hard as he stroked himself, his adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“Come on,” you said. “Hurry up. I’m impatient.”
You urging him to move faster made him stroke himself lightning fast, like he would do if he were alone and in need of a quickie. Haechan only slowed down the stroke to throw his leg over you and use your stomach to rub against. He came against your skin, his cum spurting up around your breasts. He came quietly, a few grunts as he did, with his cock still moving against you.
“No condom,” you said. “Fuck me now, Haechan.”
Your legs were glued together, underneath his body. As he was straddling you, he only had to move back a little bit. You knew he would be ready. You had watched him before and knew he didn’t need much time to recover. Haechan ripped the string of the thong and pushed the fabric out of the way. Since your pussy was closed tight, it was difficult for him to push himself inside of you, but when he did, the feeling was much different than what you were used to. He fucked you with your legs closed, the friction of your thick thighs squeezing his shaft and making him roll his eyes back. You let him do what he wanted to do to your body because you couldn’t touch him, but you were driven by the prospect of getting to fuck him the way you wanted to. You came first, your pussy already so sensitive.
“Your turn,” you said. “Don’t you want to come inside of me? Keep thrusting, baby, keep going.”
Haechan kept thrusting for a few moments before shucking off his shirt and shifting positions. Your legs were open and free, but he wasn’t done with you. With his cock still in you, he sat back on his knees and lifted your body up until your back was arched and you were in mid-air. He held you from underneath as he kept fucking you, bouncing your body on his cock. When he came, he slowed down, easing you back down onto the bed.
“Now,” Haechan said, trying to collect his breath. “We have fun.”
He let you out of your restraints. You launched yourself at him, and he caught you, laughing as you tackled him. You could feel your fox mask slipping off so you just removed it and threw it across the room. The look in your eyes must have looked feral. Haechan’s eyes widened in shock before he ditched his own mask, his look matching yours.
“No. Now, they can see how pretty your face looks when you come.” you said.
Your lips were wrapped around his cock. You were sucking him with two thoughts in your mind: You wanted to get him back for overstimulating you, and you wanted to suck him dry. Every time you went up, you took him out of your mouth and waited five seconds. The count was agonizingly slow. Haechan was moaning and breathing heavily, but he let you take it out on him as much as you wanted. It took him a long time to come a third time, since his body was so spent. You sucked him, not really caring if you had the privilege of swallowing him or not. You only wanted to make him feel good, to give him your hands and mouth like he gave you his.
“Can you handle it?” you asked, smirking that you had to ask.
Briefly, you could see the real Haechan peering up at you with admiration. He smiled and touched his hand down the front of your body before helping his cock inside of you. You rode him, taking the time to look back at the camera as you did. You felt liberated riding him, felt the way all attention was on your body as you took his cock. All four boys had their eyes on you, waiting, watching. The blindfolds were all ditched, and so were the nerves. You turned around to ride Haechan in reverse, leaning down to hold his ankles so he would get a good view of your ass, and you could get a better view of Renjun coming all over his knuckles. You were hoping the viewers would get a good look at the way Haechan’s cock disappeared inside of you, or at all of the marks he had left on your skin.
“One last time.” Haechan said.
For the last position, Haechan had you on your knees so that he could fuck you from behind. You were having a hard time holding yourself up, but you moved back to meet his cock without complaint. You rested your head down, crossed your arms and placed your chin on top of them. Haechan grabbed your ass and drilled himself inside of you, the feeling deep and full. Before he was getting ready to come, you looked into the camera lens and grinned.
#haechan#haechan smut#lee haechan#donghyuck#lee donghyuck#nct smut#donghyuck smut#lee donghyuck smut#nct 127#nct dream#renjun#jeno#jaemin#nct fanfiction#haechan fanfiction#donghyuck fanfiction
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Vivaldi on Full Volume
Summary: Spencer's done enough pining, so he decides to write a letter for Aaron telling him exactly how he feels and gives it to him on the jet. He cannot be held responsible for what happens when they land.
Tags: Love Confessions, Fluff, Getting Together, Insecurity, My Typical CM Characterisation: Protective Aaron, Shy Spencer oops
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
Word Count: 5.2k
Read on Ao3
The Love Letter, Uninterrupted
Spencer’s hands are shaking as he gets up from his seat in the corner of the jet. They’re 40 minutes away from landing, deliberately planned well in advance: everyone’s well and truly settled, there isn’t long to wait for a private conversation and people haven’t woken up to prepare for landing yet. This is well thought out, he tells himself, trying to be convincing. There isn’t much that can go wrong.
Except there absolutely is. He’s run all the possible outcomes over and over in his head, at night, on the jet, spare moments in cases; he knows pretty much every possibility in and out. The worst case scenario, of course, is Aaron flips and hurts him or never talks to him again, but he knows logically that this is unlikely. No, the most likely situation is a polite rejection and a rift in their relationship, but it’s a risk he has to take. This limbo is too painful to exist in forever: he has to give himself a chance at happiness, and if that doesn’t happen he needs a chance to get over him.
Aaron is, predictably, sitting on his own at the other end of the jet, getting a head start on his paperwork. He’d shot Spencer a questioning look when he’d opted to sit on his own instead of opposite or next to him, but everyone knows that Spencer sometimes needs a moment to himself and after he’d responded with a reassuring smile, Aaron had smiled back and looked down.
“Reid,” he greets him as he looks up from the plethora of forms and files and reports littering the table in front of him, that questioning look returning and bleeding into his voice. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks after Spencer stands there frozen for a moment, shaking him out of his head and reminding him of his mission.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says softly, chuckling a little. “Here. Can you do me a favour and… read this for me? All the way to the end? Leave your questions for the end, and we can talk once we land.” He hands him the pretty stationery wrapped in a tissue paper envelope. The seal is a deep navy that had reminded Spencer of Aaron the moment he saw it in the shop, and he used it even though he knew it would tear the tissue and was utterly pointless. His hands still shake a little as he passes it over, but he doesn’t blame himself. Anyone would be nervous. This isn’t just a Spencer thing.
Once Aaron has the letter in his hands he turns it, looking it over, before meeting Spencer’s anxious gaze with his own steady one, now filled with growing curiosity. “Of course,” he says, indulgently. It’s one of Spencer’s favourite things about him, his stoicism in the face of a surprise. He doesn’t react in a way that might further upset somebody when they share something with him, and it makes him an excellent leader.
Spencer shoots him another nervous but meaningful smile, the kind he uses with his friends, with Henry, with people he cares about. People he’s been in love with for five years. Whatever.
He turns away and doesn’t look back.
★
Aaron struggles to contain his curiosity long enough to wait until Spencer is settled back in his seat on the other side of the plane. This must be why he’d chosen to sit somewhere other than next to him on this flight which had admittedly confused him a little, Spencer usually liked the familiarity and comfort of sitting next to him. He’d suspected he needed space but now it seems as though he was psyching himself up to hand this letter to him.
It’s not a resignation letter, Aaron is fairly certain of that, Spencer would never use such beautiful stationery and a seal in his favourite colour for something so straightforward and professional. He’d also given him one of those heart-warmingly open and trusting smiles before turning back, even if it was a little anxious. This is something personal.
Finally giving into his curiosity, he carefully opens the handmade envelope and pulls out the letter written on high-quality paper in Spencer’s delicate script.
Aaron,
I have debated sitting down and putting pen to paper to write this letter for a long time, much less handing it to you to read. This is perhaps the most forward thing I have ever done, and you will understand that it is also the bravest. I know I am crossing a line in writing this. I have never been one to break the rules, it's something we have in common, isn't it? We're both straight arrows. Perhaps I am hoping for too much. I am not the object of many's desire and maybe it is foolish to hope that someone as amazing as you could possibly be the exception, but if I don't get it out of my system I'm afraid this secret may bubble up and swallow me whole, its acidic aftertaste never quite leaving my mouth.
Immediately, Aaron’s heart starts beating out of his chest. Spencer rarely calls him Aaron -- the whole team operates on a largely last-name only basis -- but he’d be lying if those infrequent times when his first name leaves Spencer’s lips don’t make his heart flutter and insides warm. His face betrays him, he knows, but this might just be everything he’s been hoping to hear for the last four years and the team is asleep or preoccupied right now, thanks to Spencer’s clearly well-planned timing. He can afford to let his guard down a little.
His stomach clenches, though, when he sees Spencer’s insecurity bleeding into his writing, the ink revealing his painful self-doubt where his lips keep them tightly sealed away. He’s absolutely everything Aaron is craving, and if others can’t see that then it’s their own loss. He knows, though, that Spencer is too oblivious for his own good: the rest of the team don’t miss the looks he gets when they go out for drinks, but Spencer does. Spencer could get anyone he wants, even if he doesn’t realise it, and the honour of being the chosen person isn’t lost on him.
The truth of the matter is we live dangerous lives. This plane could crash, one of us could get shot, stabbed, blown up and not survive it next time. I need to take advantage of the fact that right now we are alive, and if there is any chance that I could live my life alongside yours then I must take it.
That makes Aaron let out a small, breathy laugh. He’d thought the same exact thing so many times, but Spencer was a lot braver than he was. Even if it didn’t have the potential for a sexual harrassment suit and the loss of his job, he’s not sure he’d have the bravery to tell Spencer just how in love with him he is. Not in a letter written with a fountain pen on pretty stationery, not to his face, not in front of others, not alone. Spencer has guts he’d lost a long time ago. A risky job had led to a tightly controlled personal life. He plays it safe. Spencer doesn’t.
Here is what I want:
I want to throw caution to the wind and live vicariously with you. Let's eat pancakes for dinner, drive down the interstate with the windows down and listen to Vivaldi on full volume, let's hold hands in the street in Virginia and say fuck it to anybody who has a problem with it. I want to get stuck in your head the way you're stuck in mine: when you're doing paperwork, I want to be in the back of your head. I want to excite you when you think of me naked, when you think of me spread out beneath you. Not a moment goes by where I don't think of you, Aaron. I wish I was on your mind in the same way.
Aaron’s face breaks out into a much wider smile. Oh, God, Spencer, he thinks, sending his eyes to the ceiling of the jet. You have no idea. Spencer doesn’t have to wish for this, to crave such a thing, it’s already happening. It feels like paperwork takes twice as long as it used to do before he fell in love with Spencer. It’s not even limited to his job: doing laundry, washing the dishes, cooking dinner, driving Jack to a soccer match, watching TV -- everything he does is consumed by thoughts of Spencer.
And Jesus Christ have mercy, the thought of Spencer spread out naked beneath him, what he looks like under those conservative button ups and cardigans, plays out behind his eyelids far too often. It’s made him feel like a pervert for years, fantasising about his much younger coworker and wondering what he likes in bed, how he could make him feel good. The idea that the same thoughts about him fill Spencer’s brain has him weak at the knees and hot under the collar. Of course he chose the jet to do this, he thinks amusedly.
Let's find new TV shows and movies together! There's nothing I'd like more than to cuddle up against your chest after a hard case and watch something that we both enjoy, that gives us a sense of comfort and familiarity. On the weekends, let's get dressed up and visit fancy restaurants only to have a cheap crepe at the end of the night before rushing back home to get undressed again. I want to be yours, and I want you to prove that to the world.
Aaron’s heart is melting slowly, dripping down the inside of his chest, he’s sure of it. He’s walked into his apartment after a hard case feeling empty and defeated, wishing Spencer was there to give him a hug and take away the pain far too many times. It only ever made him feel worse, the belief that that would never happen, it never could happen, only now he’s being proved wrong.
He already knows the first place he’ll take Spencer. Rossi had treated him to dinner there once after Haley passed away, and the ambience and seafood paella had wedged itself firmly into his mind. He’d fantasised many times about how Spencer’s eyes would look in the soft lighting, how he’d laugh in the relaxed setting, how he’d feel spoiled and loved when Aaron footed the bill, ignoring his protests. His heart feels full and bursting at the thought that soon these ideas might not be as far-fetched as he’d convinced himself for so long. He wishes he could see Spencer right now, but he knows he’s probably panicking quietly in the corner, and he was told to save his questions for the end. He’ll play on his terms, especially since it was Spencer who’d had the bravery to do this in the first place.
My biggest fear in writing this letter, though, may not be that you simply won't return my affections, but that you're still in love with Haley. I could never seek to replace her, but I know how deeply you loved her and how painful the wounds of your grief still are. I hope you know, Aaron, that if you do love me back, I'm not jealous of Haley. Not at all. I respect her and I respect your grief.
He can’t help the stab of pain in his gut at the mention of Haley. He’d loved her so deeply and he knew the team was acutely aware of that, Spencer probably more than anybody else if this letter was anything to go by. It strikes him then, just how kind Spencer is. He’s always known it on some level, of course, but the selfless compassion and love for the people around him is so overwhelming when he takes a moment to properly comprehend it. He could have glossed over his late wife in such a letter, but instead he chose to promise Aaron that he could share his heart with Haley. He knows Spencer will keep such a promise.
I've tried for years to hide the way I feel, Aaron. I went on dates to try and get over you, I dodged you in the break room and bullpen to avoid conversing with you which only made my infatuation worse each time, I feigned plans to get out of family nights because seeing you in a casual setting is so cuttingly painful. I can't hide it anymore, though. I'd rather transfer out of the BAU than continue in this limbo of awkward pining. If you hate me, that's okay, I can deal with that. But there isn't much I don't know, and not knowing this? It's agonising.
Aaron’s stomach clenches again. He wishes they hadn’t been pining all these years so Spencer didn’t have to exist in the parallel of his own realm of wistful agony. The thought of him avoiding him in the break room with the empty ache of unrequited love filling his insides, believing he could never have him when Aaron had been doing the same thing is almost laughable: they were both so oblivious.
Seeing Spencer dressed in jeans and a t-shirt last year when Morgan had invited them all to one of his renovation projects had tortured him for weeks afterwards, and now he was being told that he’d done the same to him; Spencer had gone home after those gatherings and thought about him casual and relaxed, unbuttoned polo shirts and all. It’s almost unbearable.
It’s reassuring, though, to know Spencer is as committed to this hypothetical as he is. Aaron would leave the BAU, too, if it came to it. If it meant he got to come home to Spencer and cuddle him on the sofa with history documentaries playing on the TV that Spencer was subconsciously memorising and would repeat the next time it was even slightly relevant in conversation. If it meant he could smile knowingly, and wrap an arm around his oblivious boyfriend’s waist, proving to the world that Spencer was his, just like he asked.
The only way to end this letter is with hope. Any answer you give me I will respect, but I am holding out hope that you will say all this back to me, that you will write your own love letter or profess your own love. That you have similar fantasies and daydreams about me, that you've thought of all these things, too. Thank you for reading this all the way through, Aaron. All that's left to say are five simple words:
I'm in love with you.
Spencer.
Aaron reads the letter over once more before folding it carefully and placing it back in the envelope. He’s completely floored, to be honest. The last thing he expected after a fairly straight-forward case in Seattle was a love confession from the man he’d been in love with since before Haley even passed away, but he’s going to take it and run with it, consequences be damned.
The plane starts to descend and the rest of the team begin rousing from their naps or putting their books down as chatter starts to rise. “Right,” Aaron says, grabbing everyone’s attention, though Spencer keeps himself carefully tucked away in the corner. “We should have the next few days off though we are on standby, okay? Everyone get some rest, make sure you come back refreshed and ready to tackle the next case. Don’t forget your reports though, have them emailed to me or on my desk by Monday.” He gives everyone a tight smile before turning away as conversations resumed.
He knows Spencer is tormenting himself by analysing every cadence in his voice, trying to gauge his reaction and he longs to walk over to him and kiss his anxieties away, but he can’t. Spencer specifically asked him to wait until they landed, and he can’t reveal anything to the team so early, certainly not without discussing it first. Instead, he sits back in his seat, abandoning the paperwork in front of him in favour of fighting the fond, excited smile off his face and imagining his first kiss with Spencer, the anticipation making it so much more intense now that it’s actually real.
Time, as it always does, passes, however slowly. They eventually land and Aaron schools his face as the rest of the team pour out onto the tarmac. “Right everyone, I’ll see you in a few days but keep your phones on in case we get called up,” he calls once they’re all off the plane. As everyone starts to peel off to the garage or the office, he turns to Spencer, still keeping his face straight for the sake of others around them. “How about we go to my place and talk.”
“That sounds good,” Spencer says, small smile taking the edge off the anxiety on his face.
★
The car ride back to Aaron’s apartment is quiet. “I don’t need to pick Jack up until the morning, so it’s just us tonight,” he explains, and Spencer is relieved to see his face soften significantly now they’re alone. He allows a dash of hope to flare in his chest before forcing himself to temper his expectations. You don’t know anything yet. He could be letting you down easy, this could be a pity thing. His fingers drum anxiously against his thigh as Aaron drives, eyes focused straight on the road, his face still unreadable. God, does he have to be so sexy when he drives?
Just like the time on the plane, though, the time in the car eventually passes, the tension thick between them by the time Aaron pulls into his apartment complex. He smiles gently at Spencer as he takes the key out of the ignition. “Shall we head up?” he asks, and Spencer’s floored at what he sees in his face: he’s wearing the expression he only pulls when he looks at Jack or the team as a whole on a relaxed evening out. To see it directed at him exclusively is a kind of intensity he isn’t prepared for and it bowls him over for a second.
“Yeah,” Spencer laughs breathily. “Sorry, yeah. Let’s go up.”
The apartment door closing behind them sounds way too loud to Spencer and, sick of the tension, he decides to try and clear the air. “Look, Aaron, Hotch, can you just tell me--”
He’s cut off by Aaron’s lips pressing firmly against his own, a hand coming to rest on his waist while another grips his face gently. It takes him a second to catch up before he’s kissing back, overwhelmed by the feeling of Aaron’s hands on his body, the very hands he’s admired for years, the hands he’s fantasised about, the hands that make him feel things. He reaches up to place his own on Aaron’s chest, feeling the broadness there, the strength in the body against his making him weak at the knees.
Aaron pulls away eventually. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, voice as breathless as Spencer feels.
“Me too,” he replies, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “Maybe… maybe we should do it again.” He smiles shyly at Aaron before leaning in again, this time gasping a little as Aaron pushes him back against the door for leverage, tracing his hand up and down Spencer’s sides, making him tremble in his grip.
“God, Spencer, you’re so damn breathtaking,” Aaron says in between fervent kisses. “Literally.” They both giggle into each others’ mouths at that, relief filling both of them up to the brim as the knowledge that finally, finally, their pining is over sets in. This could be it, they could build something real.
“Aaron,” Spencer moans, trembling more as Aaron presses himself closer, right hand moving to grip the back of his neck gently, holding him firmly against his body. It overwhelms Spencer a bit, feeling completely surrounded by a man who was so unattainable for so long, by the person he’s been in love with for years.
It was completely involuntary, but it makes Aaron pull away, resting his forehead against Spencer’s as they both breathe deeply. “We should talk,” he says softly, pressing a final chaste kiss to Spencer’s lips before pulling back completely and taking his hand, leading him to the sofa.
“Could I have a blanket or something?” Spencer asks shyly, looking sheepish. “I’m a bit chilly.”
He sees realisation dawn on Aaron’s face along with a little bit of guilt. “Of course, Spencer,” he says. “Sorry this is so backwards. Do you want anything else? Something to eat or drink?”
“No, I’m fine,” Spencer says lightly. “Let’s talk and then we could order some dinner?”
“Sounds perfect,” he smiles, reaching over into a cupboard and bringing out a thick, fluffy blanket. He drapes it over Spencer and makes sure he’s completely comfortable before sitting down opposite him on the sofa himself. “So. Your letter.”
Spencer ducks his head, a light flush tinting his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t know how else to say it?” he says, a question colouring his voice.
“No, I’m not criticising you,” Aaron rushes to clarify. “It’s possibly the most romantic, beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me, and the truth is, Spencer, I’m in love with you, too.”
Spencer’s head darts up, wide, earnest eyes meeting Aaron’s serious gaze. “You are?” he asks, voice filled with the surprised sort of wonderment that always betrays him whenever any sort of love or affection is revealed to him.
“I am,” Hotch chuckles fondly. “Very much so. I’ve loved you since before Haley passed, to be honest. I’ve done all the things you wrote in your letter, too; I want all the same things you do.”
Spencer’s blush darkens a bit at that, remembering… certain parts… of his letter that he hopes Aaron includes in that statement. “All of it?” His voice is a little squeaky, almost cracking as he clears his throat at the awkwardness.
“Yeah,” Aaron grins cheekily, loving that he can appreciate the blush on Spencer’s cheeks openly now. There’s no more room for hiding. “All of it.”
Spencer clears his throat again. “So, is this what you want? Me? A relationship?” he asks, still a little uncertain, not quite secure in the fact that Aaron won’t back off and say this was an experiment, he’s not really committed in the same way Spencer is.
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Aaron says earnestly. “I want you. I want everything that comes with you, I want the highs and lows of a relationship, I want commitment, I want fun, I want seriousness. Spencer, will you be my boyfriend?”
Spencer’s brain short circuits for a second before he looks up with the widest smile, one usually reserved for Henry, the kind that reveals unadulterated, unconditional love. “Yes,” he whispers as he launches himself across the sofa and into Aaron’s arms, resting his head on his chest as he revels in the comfort of that exact moment. Finally, though, the extreme emotions of the evening catch up with him and he can’t quite fight them off anymore, maybe his brain is finally convinced that he doesn’t have to, that he’s safe here. Whatever the reason, he can’t help the tears that start to leak from his eyes, or the sobs that softly wrack his shoulders.
“Spencer,” Aaron whispers back, voice dripping in concern. “Spencer, what’s wrong?”
“It’s just… it happened,” he tries to explain through his snivelling. “What I hoped for… at the end of my letter. I wrote ‘I am holding out hope that you will say all this back to me, that you will write your own love letter or profess your own love. That you have similar fantasies and daydreams about me, that you've thought of all these things, too.’ And you did. You do.”
“Yeah,” Aaron says, struck with awe, too. “It’s pretty overwhelming for me, too.”
They lie like that for a while longer, finding comfort in one another’s arms, the weight of Spencer weighing Aaron down in a way that feels like security and Aaron’s arms wrapping around him in a way that gives him all the comfort and protection he craves.
Eventually, Spencer picks his head up and meets Aaron’s tired eyes. It had been a long case and an emotionally exhausting evening, and it was nearing midnight. “Shall I order some pizza?” he asks, playing with the tie Aaron was still wearing, slightly loosened but still sexy enough for Spencer to very much appreciate.
“Please,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “I can’t believe I just get to do that now.”
Spencer hums in content. “Well, by all means, Mr Hotchner, do it again,” he says in a sultry tone.
Aaron groans. “You’d better not talk like that, Spencer, or we’ll never get our pizza.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles. “You get us some drinks and get the telly set up. I’ll be right back.”
Aaron closes the curtains, turns off the overhead light and turns on some lamps and lights some candles. Spencer raises an eyebrow at that and he puts his hands up defensively. “What? They’re cosy!” Spencer giggles at that, kissing him again.
“Can we put the history channel on?” Spencer asks while Aaron turns the TV on and fiddles with the volume.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less, sweetheart.” Spencer ducks his head and blushes, insides warming and tingling at the affection. He’s still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. Aaron, unfortunately, doesn’t miss it. “Aw, are you blushing? Do you like that, you like it when I call you sweetheart?” he teases, smiling warmly at Spencer, clearly relishing in the deep red colour of his face. “Or is it just any pet name? You like it when I call you pretty names, baby?”
Spencer nearly outright moans at that but manages to stifle it, not that it makes much of a difference in Aaron’s delighted expression. “Stop, Aaron,” he whines in a manner that conveys he would very much not like Aaron to stop.
“God, baby, you are too much to handle,” he groans, leaning across the sofa to pull Spencer away from his perch against the corner and into his chest. They lay quietly like that for a few minutes while the history channel plays a documentary about the Battle of Trafalger, breathing deep and slow as they appreciate this little slice of serenity while they wait for their dinner to arrive.
Once their pizza boxes are empty and they’ve finally had something to eat, Aaron turns to Spencer who’s meticulously wiping the pizza grease on his fingers away with a napkin, making him smile fondly. “Hey, Spence?” he asks, grabbing the attention of the younger man. “I wanted to talk to you about something you wrote in your letter.”
Spencer looks a little bit like a rabbit caught in the headlights, hesitant as to what Aaron is about to say. What if he was mortally offended by something, or he didn’t like something I wrote? Was I too forward?
“First of all, I’ll always love Haley, but in a distant, wistful kind of way that I can’t quite explain. She’s been gone for a while now and I’ve moved on,” he explains, and Spencer’s flush returns. It’s one thing to write the letter, hell, it’s one thing to hand it to Aaron, but it’s another thing entirely to discuss the ins and outs of his heart in such graphic detail. “I fell in love with you very slowly, but I’d realised it around four months before Haley died. I’ll grant you that in the following year I didn’t really have much time or emotional capacity to dwell on it but it was always there in the back of my mind, and it’s only intensified over the last two years.”
“Really?” The flush is still firmly rooted to Spencer’s face, but his eyes are wide now, staring into Aaron’s with an earnest sort of intensity. “I had no idea.”
“Well I had no idea that you wanted everything I did, either,” Aaron chuckles. “Instead we’ve just been existing in a state of perpetual mutual pining and if you hadn’t had the bravery to do what you did, maybe we never would have known.”
“It was rather brave,” Spencer smiles, joking a bit, but they both know it’s the truth. “I’ve been in love with you since the Tobias Hankel situation. After you understood me and knew how to find me, how you saved my life. It spiralled from there and no effort to try and get over you has succeeded.”
“Mmm you mentioned,” Aaron hums. “I must say, I’m a bit jealous of these other dates you speak of.”
“Well you shouldn’t be,” Spencer says. “They didn’t hold a candle to you, and the few that made it past the first couple of dates knew that all too well.”
Aaron chuckles lightly at that before they settle into a comfortable silence, the TV still playing the background. “Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asks, voice low and a bit unsure. “No funny business, I just… don’t want to let you go yet.”
“Me neither,” Spencer says honestly. “Of course I’ll stay.” He can hear his voice still sounds a little squeaky, still vulnerable in this new situation.
Aaron smiles back and turns the lights and TV off, blowing out the candles before offering a hand to Spencer as they make their way to his room.
“Oh,” Spencer says, stopping in his tracks as soon as they step into Aaron’s bedroom. “I left my go bag in the car.”
“I’m sure we can find a solution to that,” Aaron smirks, pushing the bedroom door closed with his left hand and crowding him up against it with his right, diving for his neck. Spencer moans high in his throat, pressing forward further into Aaron’s hold. “You can wear one of my shirts. God, I’ve fantasised about you in my clothes for years, baby.”
“So… so possessive,” Spencer teases through Aaron’s kisses.
“Yeah, you love it.”
“I do. I love you.”
That gets Aaron to pull away, looking deep into Spencer’s eyes, awe filling his gaze. “I love you, too. Fuck it feels so good to hear that, to finally say that.”
“I know.” Spencer’s blushing slightly, the forwardness of his remark embarrassing him slightly.
“Come on,” Aaron says, pressing one final kiss to Spencer’s lips. “Let’s get ready for bed. I’ll find you a top and I know I have a spare toothbrush around here somewhere…”
Spencer smiles, sitting on the bed as he watches Aaron bustle around the room, finding the stuff he needs for the night. This could be it, he thinks. This could be my life now. Domesticity had never much appealed to Spencer, but sitting there now as Aaron chatters away about the visit to the shopping centre that has resulted in buying the top he tosses Spencer’s way, he knows he was right to change his mind. He was right to crave this, to crave pancakes for dinner and new TV shows and lazy mornings.
And when they’re finally cuddled up in bed, warm under the covers and safe in one another’s arms, he knows he was right to share that craving with Aaron.
#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds writing#spencer reid#aaron hotchner#hotchreid#hotch x reid
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