#but then i decided that was cheap and a cop out and sometimes you just have to write something that's sad
Text
JASICO WEEK DAY 3: Angst/Comfort
CW: major character death, grief
Nico runs his brush over the lettering on the face of the headstone, delicate despite the dirt worked into the cracks. He should be harder with it, he knows - it’s not like he’ll be able to break it. The headstone is too new for that, not worn down with age like the others in the cemetery. The dirt around the grave is so fresh, weeds haven’t even begun to grow over it, not that Nico would let them. He’s gotten good at weeding. Pruning flowers. Anything, to take care of this spot.
Jason Grace, the headstone reads. Beneath that, his rank, and years of service. The date he died.
Nico brushes his thumb over the curves which mark Jason as seventeen on his day of death. One of the eldest in the graveyard.
Back when he first heard, when Nico first felt the impact of Jason’s death like a saw blade through his gut, Nico couldn’t come visit the grave at all. Every reminder of Jason being gone was too much, the weight of loss sitting in him in a way Nico hadn’t felt since he was ten years old. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with his grief, except to cry, and cry, and cry.
He’s glad to be past that stage. His heart still aches, every day is still hard, but Nico can breathe through it, now. He can clean the gravestone, and talk to Jason even if Jason doesn’t talk back. He can make sure this site is as respected as the man it honors.
Nico adjusts the flowers Hazel brought last night, a bouquet of blue and purple and white. Jason would think they’re pretty. The smell would make him sneeze.
His favorite color was yellow, though. Nobody ever brings Jason yellow flowers. Always blue, like his eyes, like the sky, like his father.
Daffodils. Nico will have to bring him some daffodils tomorrow. And irises, and carnations. Maybe Persephone will help him put together a bouquet. She always had a soft spot for Jason, not that she’d ever admit to liking one of Nico’s friends. Whenever Nico would talk about Jason with her, she would listen with this look on her face, like Nico was saying the most interesting things. It felt good to know someone appreciated Jason in the same way Nico did.
Maybe not the same way. But as close as someone else could get.
“It’s been a good day today,” Nico says. He runs the brush over the crown of the stone again, gentle as before. “Things have been slow. Father hasn’t given me as many jobs this week, and there’s finally been a lull in attacks near the borders. Hazel and Frank are introducing a new bill to the senate tomorrow, which…well, I’ll tell you how it goes, then. I don’t want to jinx it for them.”
A breeze blows through the valley. Nico leans back, tilts his chin up into it.
He closes his eyes. He can almost imagine the wind in his hair is Jason’s hand, ruffling in a way nobody else has ever been brave enough. Easily affectionate, despite all the ways Nico threatened him, kept him at a distance. Jason was just like that, always eager to be there, to hold, to comfort.
Gods, Nico wishes he could’ve accepted one more hug. Had one more conversation.
It’s starting to rain. The temperature drops and the sky darkens and Nico can smell it, the dampness in the air. The first drops splatter across his cheeks and his nose, his lips. He doesn’t flinch. He’s used to sitting out in storms, now.
“I love you,” he tells the sky.
In return, the rain pelts harder, quickly turning from a drizzle to an outright downpour, soaking Nico’s hair to the root in seconds. His clothes stick to his skin.
He still doesn’t move.
“Don’t cry with me.” It’s silly, to act like the rain is Jason’s doing. Still. It helps Nico cope. Sometimes, if he imagines hard enough, he can still see memories of Jason’s grin, that scar on his lip, the tilt of his nose while the skies opened up around them, a display of power, a force of nature.
Nico never saw Jason cry. He supposes Jason never saw him cry, either. Just another thing they’ll never get to share. Another thing they missed. “You’re going to drown your flowers, at this rate.”
The deluge does not die down.
It’s enough to almost make him laugh, the sudden mental image of Jason scowling down at the flowers he doesn’t really like at all, the ones that make him sneeze and itch. Jason Grace, mighty son of Jupiter, champion of Hera, using all of his power to destroy a few flowers that have wronged him.
Nico didn’t get to know that side of Jason very long, the side of him that was a young boy, the side of him who was a person. But gods, of everything they did get together, that is what he’s happiest to have had. The truth. Not the son of Jupiter, not the champion, not the praetor. Just the boy.
Nico smiles, even as he cries, leaning back in a graveyard during a near-biblical rain storm. Nico smiles.
Every day, it gets a little easier to. Every day, he hopes Jason is smiling back, from wherever he is.
#jasicoweek2023#day3#tw major character death#tw grief#tw this shit sad#jason grace#nico di angelo#jasico#i'd say sorry for this but I'm not#It's supposed to be comforting but I don't know if that part comes across LMFAO#i was going to have this end with Nico going home and Jason is actually still alive and the grave is just there as a reminder#but then i decided that was cheap and a cop out and sometimes you just have to write something that's sad#i'm guilty of always trying to Fix Things in my fics and make them Better#instead of letting the characters learn to deal with their situation#so here is my first foray into 'this situation fucking sucks but i'm making the best of it because it's what he would have wanted'
76 notes
·
View notes
Text
DESERVE IT - PART TEN
Javier Peña x f!reader
Summary: you are forced to hear what Manu has to tell you, and a surprise at the office makes you rethink your relationship with Javier
Warnings: hurt, angst, offenses, fluff, mentions of smut, sexual tension, jealousy and more angst
A/N: sorry taking so long, I was sick and I was caught up in a sudden Agent Whiskey vibes that got me distracted from Javi and Joel 🥺
Also, I think it's pretty obvious I have no idea how the DEA office works in the show, so in my story, I picture it as the station of B99 where there's the upper floor department which is the DEA and the lower floor department that it's the station, lol
• PART ONE
• PART TWO
• PART THREE
• PART FOUR
• PART FIVE
• PART SIX
• PART SEVEN
• PART EIGHT
• PART NINE
5.3k words
When Manu left his home that Sunday morning, he was determined to face the man he hated the most in the world.
He wasn't sure how he began hating that man, but it had something to do with the moment he joined the police enforcement in Colombia.
He was a typical american guy, looking down at everything in Manu's beloved country and always thinking he was above all.
Maybe it was his smug smile, those stupid tight pants as if he'd been trapped for over a decade or how the office girls swooned for him. He hadn't exchanged more than two or three words, but whenever they had some mission concerning Escobar and the DEA dogs, that motherfucker walked around with that attitude, as if he was better than anyone else.
Manu just hated how pretentious he was, how he swore he had all those women on his feet. Most of the time, he did, but the women he had on his feet weren't the kind of women Manu liked. They were usually cheap, easy girls, or literally prostitutes. And then he saw you.
You were possibly the most beautiful woman Manuel had ever seen in his life, you were always sweet and kind to everyone, politeness and efficiency were something everyone from the office noticed, you treated everyone equally… except for maybe Colleen, it was noticeable how you couldn't stand her, but no one could actually blame you as that woman was kind of annoying. Manu watched you from afar every day, since you began working at the station. He liked admiring you, he had never spoken to you, but in his mind, he was sure you were a beautiful person, inside and out. He just didn't understand why you seemed to be attached to Peña's hip, you weren't a cop, you weren't his partner and you certainly weren't his girlfriend, as the word on the street said Peña didn't do relationships.
And yet, you gave him the heart eyes, you were always laughing together and very often you giggled at whatever he had said.
Manu was always confused as to why someone like you, could orbitate around Javier.
Then, Carlos initiated his weird obsession with you. He still went after the girls in the office, but you seemed to linger longer in his mind. One of the reasons was that, just like Manu, he also couldn't stand Javier. And winning one of his girls would be a great victory for him. And also because you never gave Carlos the time of the day, and it drove him mad. Not many women refused him, but you did, so when flirtation didn't work, he turned his aim at you, and tried making you the office's joke, which Manu immediately put an end to it, when he was around at least. He didn't need people gossiping around and distracting themselves from work.
So he just decided not to listen to any of that gossip and remind himself that everything that came from Carlos was pure shit.
And then you were transferred to his department, and when he met you, he knew he'd made the right choice by not letting any gossip about you influence him. You were everything he'd dreamed of in a person and just the fact that you actually took a liking on him, was enough to show Manu that sometimes good things happened.
During your brief relationship, Manu never really liked the fact you were once so close to Javier, but just as he had his own past relationships, you did too, besides, you were always so honest when you said you didn't have anything with him, you two were friends and nothing else, and well, as for Manuel, he had no reasons to doubt you.
He was bothered ever since he woke up the day before, he'd spent a wonderful night with you, you had finally had sex, he was staying at your house and that must've been a big deal, right? But once he woke up, he heard you whimpering and moaning in his sleep. He smirked happily, assuming you were dreaming of him and possibly wanted another round of him.
So he trailed kisses around your neck and your shoulder, which you sleepily welcomed with more moans, but then he heard Javier's name coming out of your lips.
Manu didn't really believe it at first, he must have misheard what you said, and even after he questioned you and you explained yourself saying you were just telling him good morning. Once again, he believed you, he had no reasons to doubt you after all.
Then when you both got to the barbecue, he couldn't help but have that characteristic feeling of hatred and anger spreading through his body. The mere presence of Javier caused that. Everything about that guy bothered him, made his skin crawl and the fact he kept his stupid, ridiculous sunglasses on all the time pretending he wasn't eye fucking you, was driving him insane.
Manu couldn't lie about the fact he was a little disappointed when you asked him to go home, he loved every minute of the night you had spent together and every fiber of his body was longing for a repetition of that, he wanted to do it again, to have you lost in his arms, being in so much pleasure you couldn't help but being loud as hell. However, he didn't want to overstay, if you were asking him to leave you had a good reason, and for the third time, Manuel Herrera believed in you because he had no other reason not to.
When he woke up that Sunday morning, he sighed as the side of the bed you were supposed to take as your own was cold and empty. He hoped he could wake up to your sleepy, smiley face, but that was not happening. He got up and made himself breakfast, taking his time to think about your relationship and smiled at himself, he had something good going on and he wanted to assure things would continue that way. An idea crossed his mind and after debating it with himself, he decided to do it, as there was a slim, but consistent possibility it would work out.
He saw himself driving to the place of the guy he hated the most in the whole wide world: Javier Peña.
At first he hadn't planned it very well, but it was something pretty simple, he was going to talk to Javier in a straightforward way, no beating around the bush, he was just going to straightforward ask Javier to leave you alone once for all.
He wasn't trying to control your friendships, but he didn't trust Javier and since you seemed to have been so vulnerable towards him, he thought it could be a nice request, a fair request, even. Especially since Javier had been treating you like shit for months, Manu thought it would be a decent idea. First he was going to knock on his door, have a chat with him and then he would go to your apartment, kiss you on the lips and take you out for lunch.
He stood in front of Javier's door, knocking on it and as soon as the door opened, he recited the words he'd rehearsed in his mind, until he went completely silent at the image of you, standing there, naked underneath that shirt and Manu's world was forever changed by that.
At first, it took him a split second to recognize you, he'd eyed first the naked legs and only then his gaze went up until the confirmation of who it was hit him harder than a train running right off the track. His first assumption was that it was just another hooker opening the door, but when he realized it was no one but his own girlfriend, it felt like the ground had disappeared from under his feet.
"Manu?" You whispered in shock, he was literally the last person you thought that would knock on Javier's door. You were even holding his badge, being sure Javi himself returned to get it, but not your boyfriend. He just stood there, with a shocked and horrid expression, he didn't dare say a single word, instead he saw as your lower lip trembled and your eyes immediately filled with tears.
"Manu" his name was nothing but a ghostly whisper coming out of your lips "I'm so sorry…" you began your apologies but he didn't want to hear any of it.
He ran his hands through his hair, in frustration, pain, heartbreak.
"How long, Y/N?" His voice was steady, he really thought it was going to break, show you how gutted he really was, but to his own surprise, it came out as emotionless as it could be.
"Manu, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for anything to happen, I was gonna go and talk to you later today, explain to you what's happening, I know I hurt you, but I don't want you to hate me…"
The way he stood there, not moving, not speaking, just staring at you was worse than if he was throwing a scene. So far, you had only met the good side of him, the side that was docile and sweet, you had no idea how he'd react to the shock of catching you red-handed.
"How long, Y/N?" He repeated himself "how long have you been double dealing like that? How long have you been cheating on me with Peña?!" He raised his voice and grabbed you by the arm. His grip wasn't painful but it was strong enough so you couldn't simply break free from it.
He took you inside Javier's apartment and closed the door, not wanting the neighbors to experience that scene.
"I-I haven't been with Javier for long… it happened last night, but I was gonna talk to you Manu, I swear. You are a great guy, and you deserve someone good to you, someone who doesn't hurt your feelings and can love you…" you explained, as you couldn't control your sobs, too many feelings flooding you all at once, finally the guilt and shame you had been lacking appeared. It was completely different now, at the light of the day. During the night, you'd been so caught on in your feelings for Javier, he was arms length close to you, he was right there, you couldn't resist, and your boyfriend… well, at that moment he was just an idea, a thought pushed away to the back of your mind. But now, Manu stood there, flesh and bone, right in front of you, anger and disappointment all aimed at you, and he was right in every single aspect. What you did to him was inexcusable, you couldn't even try to justify… what could you tell him? You couldn't resist Javier? You were carried away in the moment? You loved Javier and the whole reason why you dated Manu in the first place was because he made you forget your heart break for a little while? Would all those excuses be enough for you if the roles were reversed and you just found out your boyfriend had spent the night with the woman you hated the most in the world? You knew it wasn't enough.
"Ay, eres tan dulce!" He scoffed and looked at you, before turning around and taking a good look at the apartment "even when you were bouncing on Peña's cock you were still worried about my feelings… aren't you a great girlfriend?"
"I'm so sorry Manu, I never meant to hurt you, I really care for you, but we are not right for each other.."
"I'll give you one on that, querida, we are definitely not right for each other, because unlike your new boyfriend, I don't go out with whores" he said in a low voice "you know, Carlos always said you were one of those, a whore, a tiny little stupid girl who ran after Peña like a puppy with stupid heart eyes in hopes one day he would pay the slightest attention to you, and I always thought he was wrong… but now, I see he was absolutely right. I just came over to have a small chat with him, about you, by the way! So he would leave you alone, and I find you here, playing housewife, cleaning up after his mess, look at the way you are dressed, for fuck's sake, I've seen Peña pick up prostitutes wearing more clothes than you are right now! But I guess Carlos was right, you are not only a bitch, Y/N, but a real stupid one… out of all the men you could get involved with, you go and choose Peña?!" Manu laughed softly "I don't usually have hard feelings, and to be honest, if I could I'd wish you to be happy with him, but the problem is that I know you won't. Because he is an asshole, he's a manwhore, and you and your tight little pussy aren't gonna be able to keep him to yourself much longer, eventually he'll grow tired of you, and he'll go after other whores to seek the pleasure you won't be able to give him any longer, so I just know for a fact you won't be happy with him, but it's fine by me, because you deserve every single heartbreak he's gonna put you through, Y/N" Manu said giving you one last glance, a glance full of despise and walked out the door, leaving you alone with your guilt.
Now, if Manu had slapped you across the face, or kicked you in the guts it would've probably hurt less than his words.
You knew he was right, you couldn't even try and argue, he was just right. You had played with his feelings, used him in order to feel better about yourself and pretty much just to make Javier jealous.
You felt so ashamed of yourself and you wanted to curl up in some corner and disappear, everything he'd told you echoed through your mind. You didn't regret your night with Javi, not in a million of years, but now you saw you could have handled things better, not only that, you should have handled things better, that was the bare minimum. Manu never deserved the heartache you put him through and you would live with the guilt of that.
You walked back to his bed and curled up under the blanket, you wanted him there, you wanted to assure yourself he was real, what you two had was something worth screwing up your relationship for, but at the same time your ex's words were haunting you. Was Manu really right? At some point, would Javi just get tired of you?
You didn't know when you fell asleep, but you certainly did so while you were still crying, and only at the smell of Javier as you buried your face into your pillow was able to calm you down.
•••
Now, Javier was annoyed.
He wasn't just annoyed, he was pissed off. If he were trapped in a room with Steve Murphy and Pablo Escobar chances were he would shoot Murphy.
Javi felt he had been ripped off a dream, he'd spent the perfect night with you, the woman he loved and craved and he had made plans to spend the perfect day with you.
He would bring you breakfast in bed, sit next to you and enjoy your company, maybe share a cigarette with you. Then, he would invite you to shower and play with your tight, sweet and beautiful pussy there, kiss your body and soap all over it, so his hand would be a lot slippery when he explored your body.
Taking you to bed, he would probably rail you, and god, he wouldn't save any of his fantasies, he would have you on top of him, doggy style, topping you, it didn't matter, he just wanted your body against his, he wanted to spill inside of you and keep you to himself.
Then, as a gentleman, Javi would take you out on a date and finish this perfect Sunday buried balls deep inside of you once more. But then, Steve began knocking on his door like a madman demanding Javi to go check on La Quica information that led to nothing and deprived him from a whole day of you.
He wondered what you were up to, though. As he drove through the streets of Colombia and pretended to hear Murphy's words, as he blabbered about his wife, his kid and his life. But Javi's mind… ohh that was elsewhere.
He licked his lips and focused ahead, but all he could think of was you. He wondered if you went back to your place, if you'd changed clothes… what if you were on his bed, legs spread and fingering yourself thinking of him? The thought made him groan and his jeans get a little tighter.
"Wow, pay attention, man!!!" Steve suddenly said as Javi had run the red light and nearly hit another car.
"Jesus… sorry" Javier mumbled as he got back to his senses, your sweet pussy nearly got him killed, he smirked at himself.
It didn't take much longer to get home, he was just so eager to see you. Javi was convinced you were getting ready for your date, maybe he should have bought you some flowers? He wasn't sure, he hadn't been on a date in ages, what if you didn't like flowers? Was it possible? Women usually liked flowers. He could always get some on your way to the restaurant, it didn't really matter, he just wanted to be near you.
He barely paid attention to Steve saying his goodbyes and got into his apartment. He knocked on your door first, but as he had no replies, he went to his own, maybe you were still there.
He silently walked inside, and headed to his bedroom, he called you in a low voice but didn't get an answer, he didn't like that silence and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be taken back to his pop's ranch, he was sure he would never be welcomed by silence, instead there would always be music, laughter and giggles, coming from his loving wife, you and your babies.
He shook his head, he couldn't keep having these thoughts, it was too damn early for that, he didn't even know if you relationship would last. He wanted to, of course, but he also knew you deserved better, so if you ever found someone really good and would like to be with the new guy, Javi was sure nothing could be done.
But those self loathing thoughts died the moment he found you in his bed. You were still in his shirt and his heart clenched at the image.
You were just so relaxed, so gorgeous, and he smiled at himself. It felt like a whiff of new air, leaving the suffocating feeling he constantly had in his life, his job and just going home to something good. Suddenly he understood what his dad meant, fuck, he understood what Steve meant. It was about having something to come back home to.
Javi got rid of his shoes and sat next to the edge of the bed, he admired you, your hair, your body. You were everything Javier ever wished for, and he was aware it was too much for him, but it didn't matter at that time.
His hand went for your hair, caressing it gently, seeing how you barely moved in your sleep. His hand ran down your back this time, he stroked you over the shirt, and saw how it rolled up, exposing your cheeks. He bit his lips, your ass was so perfect, so gorgeous, inviting, it was a sight that would always drive him insane, but at that very moment, he didn't want to touch you inappropriately, he wanted to feel you closer. He lowered his body and sank his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, it smelled like home to him. Javier chuckled at himself at how pathetic he was, you definitely put him under your spell and he loved every single minute of it.
When Javi wrapped his arm around you, you shifted and raised yourself startled as you didn't even remember falling asleep in the first place.
You turned around and saw him, he looked puzzled, confused even, but you didn't care. You just threw your arms around his neck and pulled you for a real tight hug. You tried controlling your tears, but it was hard. That heaviness in your chest wouldn't go away, it seemed every time you took your breath something stung inside and it was like a pool of tears were being contained by a thin curtain that was about to burst at any minute.
Javi just held you, keeping you in his embrace as tight as he could, though he immediately demanded to know what was going on. Through his mind the worst possible scenarios ran freely, he gulped thinking of what could've happened to you, fuck, for a moment he feared even someone from Los Pepes had tried to harm you in any way, but when your shaky, low voice professed the name of your now, ex-boyfriend, everything made sense.
Truth was, Javier was so drunk in love, he spent his afternoon living in a world where only you and him mattered and only you and him were a couple. No one else existed, no else was in the picture, so of course he forgot about Manu's pathetic existence, and consequently, also forgot you were going to talk to him.
"Shit baby, what happened? Did he hurt you? Did that motherfucker harm you? If he touched a strand of your hair I'll go over there and I'll fucking kill him!!!" Javier raged, though you didn't seem physically bad, he didn't trust Manuel at all. But your head shook and your grip got tighter around his body, in a clear sign you didn't want him to leave at all.
So he patiently waited. He rubbed your back, pulling you so close you were now on his lap again, and for the sweet coincidence of having you on top of him like that for the second time in less than twenty four hours, he smiled. With the exception that this time you were the one who needed to be comforted.
And eventually you started talking.
You told him in details, how you noticed Javi had forgotten his badge and you were just so sure he was the one knocking on the door. You told him about Manu's shock, how silent he was, until how he crushed you with his words.
But you didn't stop there, you looked into Javier's eyes, not hiding your tears and told him how every single word Manu had told you was right, how guilty you felt and his heart shattered, as he had no clue on how he could help you.
Javi cupped your cheeks, wiping your tears with his long fingers and pecked your forehead.
"Guilt is painful too, when you have conscious, it hurts to deceive someone you care about. I'm sorry it is eating you up alive, cariño, but the damage is done and all I can tell you is that I'm here for you… maybe it's too soon, maybe it's stupid but if you want to try, I want to try, we can make something out of this situation… maybe what he talked about last night, about the ranch, about leaving our jobs, maybe it could happen.."
Javier's eyes were so hopeful, so full of expectation you couldn't even believe in yourself. It was just too much, too many feelings overwhelming you, crushing you and he was there, wanting to date you.
Oh my god, the date.
You were supposed to go on a date with Javi, and there you were, crying your eyes out because your ex barked a few mean words to you.
You felt so angry and so tired, you could feel another wave of hot tears threatening to spill from your eyes, but his soft touch snapped you out of your crisis.
"Come on, princesa, let me get you home" he said in a calm voice, helping you out of his bed and crossing the hallway with you. It was funny how close you two were living and how easy it was to just come and go.
He closed the door to your apartment behind him and once more cupped your cheeks, holding your head in place and making you pay attention to him.
"You need to rest, you're too nervous… it's just a lot of emotions, I ain't no expert, but I guess it is making you suffer, so you should take a shower, put on some of your own clothes…" he pointed at his own shirt that covered so little of your beautiful body "we can just go on our date tomorrow or some other day, there's no pressure… I can also stay tonight, or not… you can think about that while you shower" his voice was calm and he just walked you to your room, opening the wardrobe and picking you something he thought you would enjoy wearing.
That was some domestic Javier Peña you didn't think you would ever witness. It made your heart warm, melting slowly and you suddenly felt like your chest had been cleared away, like a wave of good, positive feelings were going through your veins and for a brief second, that known feeling everything would be alright.
You didn't even bother looking at the clothes he pick vced for you, instead, you just got rid of his shirt.
"Javi?" You whispered and waited as he turned around, you rested your arms on the side of your full naked body, a little nervous, not sure what to do with them, as Javier stopped everything he was doing and stared at your gorgeous, naked body.
He had touched you, and he had eaten you out, sure, but it was dark the night before, he'd seen you but not as explicit as he was at that moment, and he loved it.
He could feel his cock twitching in his pants and didn't hesitate in walking to you, arms around you, pulling you for a deep kiss.
You corresponded to it, wanting his body on yours. It wasn't enough, you were craving him just as much as he craved you.
"I want you to shower with me, Javi… please" you begged against his lips, though you knew you didn't have to beg, he would take you right there and then if it were to him.
As you helped him undress, you both jumped at the phone ringing.
You ignored it at first, your hands unbuttoning his painfully see through white shirt, giggling as you kissed along his jawline and down his neck.
But then the phone rang again, and again and at some point, Javier sighed annoyed and broke the kiss, walking to your living room and picking it up. He didn't care if it was your mom, your dad, your sister or Pablo Escobar calling you, he didn't make any efforts to sound remotely polite, he just wanted whoever was calling you to stop.
"Oh, hello agent Peña… I've been calling your apartment but I had a gut feeling you would pick up Y/N's phone…" Manu's voice greeted the man with a sinister excitement, he sounded way too happy for someone who had just found out he'd been cheated on.
"Anyway, I'm sorry to interrupt your night, but as Y/N might have mentioned, I got the evening shift at the station tonight and we made an arrest… now our prisoner is asking specifically for you, to see if you can help with the release"
Javier's blood ran cold.
What if they'd arrested someone from Los Pepes, that would explain why that son of a bitch was probably grinning as he talked on the phone. In fact, the whole call was weird, it sounded like a trap to begin with, but he'd called and asked for Javier himself, and not for you… so he didn't really think Manu would try and do something against him, then yes, you confirmed he had the evening shift that Sunday, which meant he might have been telling the truth.
And it also meant Javier would only find out when he got there.
At first he said no when you insisted on going with him, even if Manu had come up with an evil plan, Javi was driving towards the office, there was no problem, there were always so many people no matter what time of the day, so he couldn't really try to do anything against him. But Javier wasn't comfortable with the situation, what if it was indeed someone from Los Pepes, he didn't want you to see it, to witness it… it was humiliating, embarrassing even. But then you gave him those beautiful puppy eyes of yours and he had to give in, he always did when you begged him right.
As you both arrived not later than 30 minutes, you both saw Manu waiting at the door, he was in his full uniform and smiling big as he realized you'd come along. Just like he had planned.
He greeted you both good evening, which was ignored as Javier rushed inside, getting to the cells as fast as possible, you followed him right behind, being also tense and curious to know who was the mysterious prisoner.
"So, as I was trying to say, the prisoner is an old friend of yours, Agent Peña…" Manuel couldn't hide his excitement as the two of you stood in silence.
"JAVIIIII!!!" a squeaky voice came from the inside of the cell, where the prostitute was being held.
"G-Gabi?" Javier stuttered, swallowing hard as he looked from you to the woman.
Gabriela used to be his favorite girl to go to when he needed a hand… or a mouth… or any other part really. He'd spent quite a lot on her services over the years and the two of them had the closest thing Javier could call a relationship before you came along. He'd paid for her services, enjoy them and she would still linger around for a cigarette or two, there was even a time she ended up falling asleep next to him, and they only woke up in the morning, and of course, she didn't charge any extras.
Manu saw your jealousy expression and felt so much joy. He had predicted Javier would screw things up with you, but he just had no idea of how fast he would do it. Even if Manu was enjoying every single second of it, even he thought it was kind of ridiculous how quick your fantasy of living a happy life with Javier was falling into pieces. Because even if he did get his shit together - which Manu and everyone, even you deep down, doubt it, would you still be able to deal with his past?
Manuel grabbed the key and opened the cell "here it is, the person you requested, ma'am" he bit his lip to try to hide the smile the moment Gabi dramatically wrapped herself around Javier's neck and began crying into his shirt, telling him a sob story of how one of her clients refused to pay so the situation turned into a whole scene and the cops were called and she was arrested even if it was unfair.
Your stomach churned at the scene and you tried your best to remind yourself Javier had a life before you, a very busy one, but would that be frequent? From time to time you'd have to handle ghosts from this past like that?
When that that woman who knew your man better than you did, intimately, more than you did, wrapped her arms around his neck, you knew you had enough for the night, not only for that, but for the whole weekend.
You turned around and walked out of the station.
____
A/N: so I guess Manu's "revenge" was pretty satisfying, wasn't it? I told you guys I wouldn't turn him into a bad guy, and idk to me he had all the right to call reader that way and he could've done it even worse but I guess he's just a good guy after all. And then he had a little help from destiny and now we gotta wait and see what happens next!!! Tell me what you guys think of this chapter besties ❤️
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x y/n#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal imagine#javier peña#javier peña x reader#javier peña x you#javier peña x y/n#javier peña fanfic#javier peña fanfiction#javier peña imagine#javier pena#javier pena x reader#javier pena x y/n#javier pena x you#javier pena fanfic#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena imagine
426 notes
·
View notes
Note
I’m moving into college in 3 weeks have you got any tips :0
yes!! quite a few actually. :) *for mutuals outside of the u.s., this advice is based on a U.S. American university experience, so some of it may not apply to you.
PLEASE SEND ASKS if you have specific questions, and I’ll either speak from my own experience or give information from other friends in university rn!!
packing:
You don’t need to bring ALL your stuff. (Really, it’s okay. Also, you have limited space.)
A quick Google search of “college packing list 2023” will yield many results. It’s up to you to decide what “essentials” are actually essential, but suffice it to say, think about the things you use on a daily basis and then think about what you don’t have at home that you’ll need in student housing.
Apartment or dorm, unless you’re really lucky—you’ll be sharing living space & appliances with other people. Yes, that includes showers. If you can get toiletries cheaper locally than in the location of your university, save yourself the time and money. Shower shoes are an absolute must, because those showers can get disgusting.
If you have a meal plan that lasts the entire year, you don’t really need to pack a bunch of food (or go grocery shopping a ton during the school year) but it can be nice to have dry goods & snacks on hand. (I keep rice, macaroni & cheese, crackers, & some type of dried fruit around, if nothing else. Whatever tastes strike your fancy, feel free to add/substitute.) If you’re cooking all your own food, you’re going to need at least a cooking pot, frying pan, spatula, dish sponges, and dish soap, as well as some resealable food storage containers and cheap cups and bowls (I got most of that at Target. They tend to have back-to-school sales and bowls & cups go for less than a dollar each.)
Laundry is going to be a pain in the ass, unless again, you luck out and have a washer and dryer in-unit. Ditto for dishes (unless your space comes with a dishwasher). Do yourself a favor & get a huge bin of Tide pods, pack of laundry sheets, & at least two paper towel rolls so you don’t have to run out every week to replenish cleaning supplies. (I personally despise having dish towels to wash, so if you don’t mind them take the paper towel advice with a grain of salt.)
My dorm was weird and had a sink in it. If you’re responsible for cleaning your own sink it will get nasty quickly. Either take turns with your roommate(s)/housemate(s), or figure out who the designated sink cleaner is.
friends/socializing:
Your first friend group in college will likely not be your last, nor will it last. This group is usually composed of people close in proximity to you aka convenience friends. You might realize three or four months in that these are not your people and you don’t like hanging out with them. This is perfectly normal and okay! You’ll find people who you do vibe with. I encourage you not to limit making friends to your specific university, although if you go to a small one like I do that can be tough.
Universities often have events with free stuff, including free food. Take advantage of these events if & when you can. They’re usually very laid back, and if you’re not in the mood to stick around, you can grab food and then dip.
Orientation events & icebreakers within your first week are to be expected. Try to remember a fun fact about yourself (which is what you usually get asked, along with your intended major, name, pronouns—sometimes, & hometown).
Your RA(s) aren’t cops, but they also aren’t your friends. They’re required to report sketchy shit that happens. My RAs had a rule that if they didn’t hear, see, or smell anything suspicious, it was like nothing happened, but try to get a feel for what yours look out for.
It is more than okay to need/want therapy. You’ve just gone through a massive change in your life and you did it mostly, if not all, by yourself. Your university counseling services (if applicable) are generally not the best place to go for therapy, though. This is especially true if you’re worried about your privacy. I don’t think I’ve heard of student discounts for therapy, but some therapists have this policy called sliding scale where you pay what you can. Find a person you can talk openly with and who is experienced with your mental health concerns/practices the right kind of therapy for you. (CBT, DBT, & EMDR are a few examples.)
dating, love, etc.
First and foremost, if this section doesn’t apply to you because you don’t participate or aren’t ready to in college, please feel free to skip!
If you’re still here, obviously I am not the expert on your love life—you are. That being said, without getting too personal, here are some things I’ve picked up through trial and error.
If you’re starting college, and haven’t yet dated anyone, it’s okay to feel behind. What isn’t okay is being patronized or taken advantage of for your lack of experience. I wish I could say it’s just common sense, but it’s crucial to figure out what your boundaries, limits, & standards are before getting into an intimate situation with somebody. (I myself learned this the hard way.)
simply put: It is okay to be picky! (Read that again.) Or not—what works for one person won’t work for everyone. Some people date & hook up just for fun, especially during college when a lot of changes are happening, and that suits them fine. Some people want stronger, longer connections, and that works for them. Some people focus on friends over partners and refrain from the entire dating & hookup scene. All are valid and healthy. (As long as you stay safe, sane, & consensual, and get tested.)
school stuff:
Please do yourself a favor and don’t schedule 8am classes five days a week. I don’t care if you could do it in high school—chances are you’re going to need to wake up way beforehand to get ready OR your roommate will do something ridiculous in the middle of the night that will wake you up. In this more than likely event, you won’t want to wake up and go straight to class. If you’re not a STEM major, this advice is easier than if you are (and if the first applies, my condolences and much love).
You need sleep no matter what—if that means midday naps, go for it. I don’t recommend skipping class to nap unless it’s an emergency though.
Re skipping class: some professors take attendance and your grade can suffer if you don’t attend. Aside from mental health days, skipping class for fun can be a slippery slope at some universities. (At some, Cs get degrees and grades don’t matter as much, especially if you aren’t looking to go down the postgrad path.)
#college#university#uni#universidad#college tips#college advice#general advice#asks#answered#school#studyblr#ref#host posts
113 notes
·
View notes
Text
Everyone loves the basic feeling of competence. No matter what field of human endeavour, doing well at it gives us a little zing of all the good brain chemicals. Sometimes, for those pursuits that are beneficial in some way, there’s even social recognition. The approval of your peers. What could be better? Prize money, which you can also get if you do especially well. Just not at anything I’ve ever been good at.
So when the county fair was in town, and they offered a $500 prize for best burnout, I figured I would head on down. Now, traditionally the burnout contest has been exclusively the domain of hoity-toity redneck in-groups. They align along vehicle brands, or trucks in general. Because of this elitism and exclusionary belief structure, they would never accommodate someone like me, who is more like a freelance piece of human detritus and holds no particular loyalties to any kind of vehicle except “cheap.”
However, the county fair, being a socialist meta-construct of the government-oversubsidized 4H Club and taxpayer-fattened county, made a rule that said any dumbass with an automobile could enter into the competition. No making rules that exclude, say, a barely ratcheted-together 1977 Dodge Aspen that spends most of its combustion cycle billowing steam from a blown head gasket and the other portion emitting plasma-torch-hot nitromethane fire from the exhaust barely cooled by their circuitous torment inside the twin sequential turbochargers, themselves stolen off of poorly-supervised industrial equipment and ported to a mirror sheen with a combination of primitive die grinding and a near-manic attention to detail after accidentally reading back issues of Hot Rod at 3AM and deciding maybe sleep was optional this month. No, they’d have to let me play. Mom said.
Did I win? Beat all the other kids? Show them the biggest, nastiest burnout that had ever existed? Not exactly. It turns out that to hold a burnout for more than about ten seconds requires two things. First, tires that are not actively bald and whose carbon-steel structural cords are not dangling out of the holes in the carcass. The second, and much more important thing, is brakes that work in order to hold the car still enough to skid the tires. These brakes also keep you from taking out the county reeve and his family, who sat in a remarkably un-protected area of the judging booth. On the plus side, I did get to show off how good I am at running from the cops. That sort of thing feels good.
213 notes
·
View notes
Note
This is my first request and I hope I am doing it right!!
Can you do any version (if you can TNBA but any is fine) of Jonathan Crane with prompt 10? (“Did you just fucking bite me?”) Where S/O just randomly bites Jonathan because he was panicking (for whatever reason). And it takes him out of his panic because wtf and S/O kind of just shrugs it off and asks if he is still panicked.
-🦷👁🧠
For the record, I still haven't watched TNBA but i've seen clips of that version so i'm going off of that so it might be OOC. also slipped in 2 more versions of scarecrow since they ended up shorter than initially planned :D
TNBA, BTAS & BTAA Scarecrow x reader
"Did you just fucking bite me?"
Warnings & Notes: Eh might be OOC idk it's 2am rn not proofread
TNBA
“The batch is now entirely wasted. ”He sighed, paying you no mind as he walked past you. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted them with shipping the containers – It was bound to end in disaster.” He was always calm. Even now, after whatever the hell happened with his henchmen – It was in his nature. Never could lose his cool or be caught by surprise. You could tell, though. He was frustrated – maybe even a little bit panicked about it. He had a deadline to reach, and making the needed amount of toxin would take time.
The easiest way to ease his stress was usually just talking with him – a way of distraction. Occasionally a horror movie helped. But the way he was rambling in his always so… calm voice, getting to say something between his words without interruptin him was going to be a challenge. So, getting his attention without talking was the best course of action.
You waited for him to walk by you, and bit his arm. He continued walking for a few steps, until he stopped, and turned around to look at you slowly.
“Did you… just bite me?” He asks, head tilted to the side ever so slightly. You confirm with a hum, looking up at him. “...Why?” He asked, a confused tone in his voice.
“You were panicked.” You stated, watching as the confusion only got more visible in him.
“And you decided that biting me would help?”
“Are you still panicked?” You asked, and he hummed in thought.
He looked right at you, Answering, “I suppose not. As much as I’d like not to admit it, you caught me by surprise.”
BTAS
disheveled.
That was the best way to describe Jonathan’s state currently – hay peeking out from under his clothes and hair, scythe in two large pieces. You tilted your head at him, confused. “...You alright there? What happened?”
“The bat!” He yelled, “He humiliated me! Me! The scarecrow!”
Allright, so he was in one of his ranting moods. You didn’t mind – you’d listen to him. You needed to get rid of all that hay first though. Only problem was actually getting to do that -He’d already started, getting him to stop would be difficult. Unless…
You stood up from your chair, walking behind him while he was turned away from you. He slightly jumped when your teeth met the fabric covering his shoulder. “What are you-” He turned, looking at you with his wide eyes. “Did you just-” He sputtered, “Bite me?”
“Yup!” You confirmed. “Need to get all the hay out of your clothes ‘nd hair.” You replied, smiling at his wide eyes as if biting him was a normal way to get his attention. “I mean, you were upset, and didn’t want to interrupt by speaking on top of you so…”
“Well, you did get my attention.”
“Exactly, so it worked!” you chimed, picking up some hay from his hair. “Anyhow, Go sit on the couch, I’ll help you get all the hay out.”
THE AUDIO ADVENTURES
“Oi, Don’t take the expensive stuff yet! Get the cheap stuff, for god’s sake!”
“And you, you, where’s the cop? What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? He tried to rat me out! Yeah, that guy! Put the collar on him!”
Yeah, Jonathan was an intelligent person, But god was he insufferable sometimes. You didn’t know what the fuck had him so… frustrated today, but it was getting tiring. Sighing, you walked inside the room where he was, mask on and shuffling through countless papers – shipment info, perhaps? You walked closer to him, stopping a few feet behind him. Would he snap at you? Possibly. Would he gas you? Probably not. Thinking through your options, you decided that fuck it, walked up to him and bit his shoulder. He turned to face you so quickly you were surprised he didn’t get whiplash.
“Did you just fucking bite me?” He asked, surprised from your sudden… affection? He sounded almost offended, if you were being honest.
“Yes?” You looked at his burlap-covered face, smiling innocently.
“Why are you acting like that’s a normal course of action to do?”
“you’re not exactly the best person to lecture me about normalcy” You walked next to him, leaning on the table. “Anyhow, What’s up? You’re usually pretty… Cheery. What’s made you so bitchy today?”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you just called me a bitch-”
“Thanks.”
“And- can you not talk over me? Thank you. Anyway, this cop...”
#🦷👁🧠#btas scarecrow x reader#tnba scarecrow x reader#BTAA Scarecrow x reader#scarecrow x reader#jonathan crane x reader
105 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Donovan Litter — p. blinders
previous — masterlist — next
You lacked memories of your mother. Out of her six children, you could recall the very least of her. William, your oldest brother loved to talk about the way she sung as she would make breakfast. Louis could recall how she would sit at each of their bedsides and tell stories before bed. Samuel connected to her through their love for music while Francis missed how she could make any situation positive. Last of your brothers being Theodore. He rarely ever spoke and when he did it was with William in confidence.
The entirety of your life existed in your four bedroom home with in Small Heath. Your brothers shared rooms while you had an entire room to yourself. William, Louis, and Samuel shared the big room leaving Francis and Theodore to the other medium sized room. The fourth room, your mothers room remained untouched. You had never seen the inside of it as the room door was locked at all times. Only once had you almost seen inside of it. You had been home alone on one of the rare occasions that your father decided to make an appearance.
When you opened the door he staggered through, the stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes followed him. He took what he wanted from his family and gave nothing in return. This is all you knew of him your entire life but ironically there was a time when he was a good father. In that time you did not exist, your birthday marking the date of when he became a deadbeat. William telling you how your father spent hours in failed attempts to put your crib together meant nothing. Not just William, Francis could vividly remember the walks to the canal with their father. While Samuel remembered the entire families excitement for your arrival. You shrugged all of this information off as those realities were not your own. Your reality would always have you exist as a poor orphan in Small Heath.
Even now in adulthood your entire family still operated like poor orphans working together to scrape by. When the war rolled around William was the only one drafted, Theodore enlisted leaving Samuel, Francis, and Louis to look after you. By the end of the war William and Theodore returned. Beyond some nightmares William kept his struggles to himself. Theodore on the other hand somehow grew colder than before. You would be lying if you said you knew anything about Theodore or what he did daily. By the end of the month he always brought in his share of the money for the family expenses.
Rain fell hard outside forcing people into the shelter of their homes. You sat at the dinner table with the fund book in hand. Your contribution to the family being the only person in the house good with numbers. Any and all expenses went through you, even the vague ones that Theodore would explain little to nothing on. For a rainy day your household was busier than most. Sometimes you could hear the whispers of others, those damn Donovan kids.
Broken from your thoughts Samuel rushes into the house, his clothes barely on him as water soaks through. He quick locks the door, ignoring your complaints of him soaking the floor.
“Will!” He yells as he runs up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. After a few seconds he comes down in dry clothes, now damp from his skin. In his hand the key to the gun closet. “What’d you do?”
“Remember Mrs. Baker? Lives by the Shelby’s. Would give us treats when we would lingered near her garden,” Samuel rambles quickly as he unlocks the closest and removes a pistol. He checks the amount of bullets before shoving it into the waistline of his pants.
“Not again. Sam we talked about this,” You whine, Mrs. Baker’s husband was not only a cop but white. Known for his tirades about about the Jews, Gypsies, and Blacks.
“I know, I know, bad idea, eh?” Samuel questions as William walks down the stairs groaning about the noise. At first glance his shoulders fall as he sighs and breaths out Mrs. Baker’s name.
“You are trying to get yourself killed aren’t you? Stop sleeping with that mans wife!” William pinches the bridge of his nose as you cross your arms and the room fills with the rain thundering against the roof. “Did he catch you?”
“Yeah,” Your brother nervously bounces on the balls of his feet under your own and William’s gaze. William calls him an idiot as you point out that poor weather will not stop Pete Baker from reigning hell upon them. Almost as if on cue banging onto the door reach their ears.
“Come on in case he comes through. I’m going to hide him (Y/n) you know the drill. Count to thirty then answer the door,” William and Samuel walk to the cellular doors, you lock it behind them before starting your count. Pete’s banging does not desist as he spews out all kinds of vile names. At the count of thirty you open the door to be met with the tall burly man. His face redder than you have ever seen anyone’s face and you note the gun on his hip.
“Hello Officer Baker. Is there something I can help you with?” You smile, feigning cluelessness as he stands in the open showers. His glare does not falter as he looks past you, his eyes scan your living room.
“Where is he?” His orotund voice pairs well with the ominous glow of the nights rain. You tilt your head still smiling as your eyebrows pull together. A door upstairs opens but no footsteps follow. You pay little attention to this.
“I’m sorry?” Despite the welcoming tone and at ease expression your hearts racing. You take deep breaths to keep your hands from shaking as you clasp them in front of you.
“I have no care for these silly games. Listen here bitch, fetch me Samuel fucking Donovan!” He speaks with a raspy low tone, his voice level as it slowly climbs to a raucous growl while his hand bangs against the side of the door frame. You stand without a single idea of what to say. A frown on your features as you eye his pistol.
“Pete Baker,” Both your own and Pete’s heads whip toward the stairs. Theodore’s modulated tone seemingly silences you both as he sits on the steps with a cigarette. He narrows his eyes at nothing in particular and you find it rather strange to see him without his cap. “Officer Baker. First and foremost get your house in order. Me brother only sleeps with willing woman. Second apologize to my sister, she is a woman treat her with some respect. Lastly threaten my home again and there will be an issue. Do we have an understanding? I don’t take well to threats.”
Pete’s jaw clenches but you watch as his rage does not dissipate but redirect. His apology hollow as he glares at you, but even then you accept it. Theodore tells you to go to your room and you do so without protest. Before your bedroom door closes you hear Baker’s wobbly voice.
“—Shelby know of this?” You wonder what the Shelby’s have to do with anything. Another family of orphans nearby, one would have thought your family and theirs would be friends. Somehow the only interaction you ever truly had was between you, Ada Shelby, and Freddie Thorne. You caught them by the bridge but assured them you would not tell a soul. Besides that Theodore was good friends with John Shelby.
“Francis what the hell?” You whine as your brother cuddles your pillow and blanket. He whines your beds softer as you yell at him for not bathing before he climbed into your bed. Black soot litters small patches of his skin. You grab your extra blanket and pillow from your closet before you exit your room. Theodore unlocks the cellular door as you set up back on the couch. Louis walks down the stairs yawning as he managed to sleep through the entire ordeal. Samuel and William walk back up from the cellar.
“Mrs. Baker again?” Louis laughs as Theodore murmurs it’s not funny and that it needs to stop. Samuel keeps his head hung low while you observe your brothers. Louis and Francis find Samuel’s impulsiveness amusing while Theodore detests it and William grows more frustrated. They all lack was your worry of it, you are certain Samuel meant no harm.
“I don’t go looking for this trouble. She found me,” Samuel said. It’s not long before the tension eases. William, Samuel, and Louis share a smoke. As you voice disgust against it they chat about Mrs. Baker’s sex life. Theodore stands with his own smoke listening closely.
“What are we eating for dinner?” Louis’s question brings a silence over the room as the attention shifts onto you. You frown as Louis was already looking at you and the others slowly join him.
“Aren’t you all just the progressive lot! At one point today did any of you consider what your family may eat for dinner?” The sound of Francis’s slow movements down the stairs fills the silence. He rubs at his eyes as a yawn escapes him, “(Y/n) what’d you make for dinner?”
“Pasta and garlic bread,” You whine sulking into the kitchen as your brothers happily follow you. Dinner carries on like most dinners; everyone talking at once without one discernible conversation.
The next day you stroll around the market with your head in the clouds. For the past ten minutes you stare between two mushrooms, the vendor provides little assistance beyond gushing about their product. Your knowledge on cooking focally being from trial and error, most of your meals were experimental and still your brother were eager for them.
“Let me see that,” You flinch from your thoughts as Polly Gray pulls the mushroom from your right hand and brings it to her nose. Her eyes narrow before doing the same with the mushroom in your left hand. “Get the left one it’s fresh. You can spot a foul mushroom because it’ll have a fish smell to it.”
“Thank you Ms. Gray. I am (Y—“ You stumble over your words as her dark eyes bore into your own. The mushrooms provide you an opportunity to avoid her gaze but as you finish she has already said your full name.
“How can anyone not know of the only girl in the Donovan litter,” Her smile brings you ease as you fiddle with your fingers.
“Be careful legend has it we’re an invasive species,” You say earning a laugh from Polly, the two of you stroll around the market. She speaks to you about her family as if you are Shelby yourself. She rambles about her impulsive nephews and wild card Ada.
“Don’t even get me started with that brother of yours Theo. Some days I forget he is a Donovan and not a Shelby!” She laughs happily as you purchase the final item on your list.
“Theodore is so secretive so he probably is a Shelby,” You smile as she shrugs telling you Shelby’s and Donovan’s are cut from the same cloth.
“Be a dear and help me with these groceries. It’s on your way home is it not?” Polly asks wearing a warm smile to which you return the sentiment. While she does not say a word her eyes glimmer with joy. Polly’s certain you are the perfect girl for her darling Michael.
“Of course Ms. Gray,” You say joining her down the dirt road.
“Just Polly dear,” She says and the two of you fall into comfortable conversation. You listen closely as she speaks of your casually. Much like your brothers do, Polly paints the picture of a cheerful woman. One more than happy to be a mother.
Inside the Shelby residence you get two steps in before a Finn and Arthur Shelby race by.
“Sorry!” The boy yells before disappearing into the next room. Polly yells for Finn to stop running.
“Sorry Aunt Pol,” Arthur grumbles as he enters the room. He looks at you with narrowed eyes before they soon soften with familiarity.
“Theo’s little sister right?” He says, nodding your head you offer your name to which he smiles large. “Arthur Shelby. Hate to break it to you sweet heart. You share a face with a fucking wanker.”
“Many say we look like our Mum,” You chuckle at Arthur and he offers a kind smile to you before excusing himself. Ada comes into the kitchen for a few seconds. Her eyes watch you cautiously before easing as Polly praises your help with the groceries. You shrug it off as nothing before the front door opens.
“Polly I need to speak—we have a guest?” Thomas enters with an urgency that fades at the sight of you. It’s obvious he tries to place a name to your face but before he can John and Theodore enter behind him. Theodore’s laughing—an rarity you cannot say you are accustomed to witnessing. Almost as if you look at a completely different person. In seconds it flushes away at the sight of you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Theodore questions and you lift up your own groceries explaining your journey from the market. He excuses you both before ushering you out of the front door, taking your groceries from your hand.
“What’s got you in such a foul mood?” You question, groaning as you tread through the muddy ground from the nights heavy rain. Theodore ignores you, the same dejected stare he seemingly only ever offers you. Rolling your eyes continuing to trudge through the mud. “The Shelby’s seem very kind.”
“Under no circumstances do I want you hanging around any of the Shelby’s. Do you hear me?” You flinch back as he stop abruptly swinging his right foot over to turn and stop you in your tracks. He holds his finger out toward you with a sharp look in his eyes. You want to tell him to piss off, call him an ass and continue home. Instead you nod your head knowing the illusion of control brings more answers than active resistance.
Information does not come early. You have no run ins with a single Shelby for weeks. Life goes on as usual, Samuel starting fires and the rest of you putting them out. Theodore being detached as always but unsuspecting. You note how often he leaves at odd hours and returns home quietly, too quiet.
Francis joins you on your walk down to the market. The sun shines unusually bright and Francis complains of Theodore waking him up early.
“Really? I thought I heard something this morning. Where does he even go?” You shrug your shoulders feigning disinterest as Francis rolls his eyes.
“Don’t make the mistake of asking. I did once and he threatened to break my arm. Cocky little shit. My little brother thinks he’s snapping my arm,” Francis scoffs as you nod your head absentmindedly. Theodore can without a doubt snap Francis’s arm, as he feigns disbelief you say nothing. The conversation telling you nothing about Theodores secret life he rather aggressively hides from you all. In the market Francis touches things as you swat your hand back toward him and focus on your list. “I’ll be two seconds. Yell for me if you need me.”
“Yeah sure,” You mutter not looking back as your eyes scan the vendor stands. Stopping by the horses you smile at Mr. Strong who brushes the fur of a beautiful black horse. “Hello, Mr. Strong!”
“You never quit with the formalities do you (Y/n)?” Mr. Strong asks as you join him next to the horse. You shake your head while gently rubbing at the back of the horses neck. “In the market for a horse?”
“I wish. What’s his name?” You ask, smiling as he nudges you with his nose, giggling you keep your eyes on him as Mr. Strong reveals his name to be Midnight.
“I think Midnight likes you. He doesn’t like anyone,” Mr. Strong explains, he watches how Midnight eases into your touch. You almost forget you stand in the middle of a fairly busy market.
“Wasn’t aware you got a new stable hand Charlie,” Your head whips to find Thomas’s eyes boring into your own.
“Oh no I’m not just saying hi is all,” You manage out turning back to Midnight as you clear your throat hoping one of them will steer the attention away from you.
“That’s a shame. You’re good with him,” He says, lighting a smoke before turning away. Mr. Strong raises an eyebrow as he watches Thomas walk away before turning his attention back to you.
“How come midnight has no owner?” You ask, readjusting your bag on your shoulder and Mr. Strong chuckles.
“Make no mistake he has an owner,” He says and you frown but his amusement soon makes sense as the name leaves his lips, Thomas Shelby.
#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinder fanfic#peaky fucking blinders#peaky fookin blinders#peaky blinders#peaky blinders au#peaky blinders x reader#peaky blinders x y/n#thomas shelby x black!reader#thomas shelby x reader#thomas shelby imagine#thomas shelby#arthur shelby imagine#arthur shelby#john shelby#john shelby imagine#ada shelby#ada shelby imagine#polly shelby#polly shelby imagine#polly gray#polly gray imagine#elizabeth gray#elizabeth shelby#michael gray#alfie solomons#freddie thorne#grace burgess#Peaky blinders x black!reader
255 notes
·
View notes
Text
Movies I watched lately
Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975): This is a movie about being out of your depth in a mysterious universe of frightening powers and Valentine's Day being on the wrong day
Perfect Blue (1997): Scarier than The Shining. Definitely much more uncomfortable, with all the sexual violence. But that might just be because pop culture spoiled every part of The Shining ahead of time, whereas in Perfect Blue I didn't know what to expect next. In a twist, Perfect Blue actually explains exactly what's going on with the disappointing "mentally ill murderer" trope
The Handmaiden (2016): At first I thought, despite the colonialist setting, this was going to be a boring period drama about polite people in fancy costumes, but then came the first twist and I was hooked. I don't know if this subverts the male gaze or whatever. But this film is definitely entertaining, each shot an almost painterly composition, the small cast of characters all well realized. The setting was so over-the-top it felt a little like a cartoon. Shame Park Chan-wook decided the movie needed a gory torture sequence instead of focusing on what the female leads get up to except for putting those metal balls in their pussies
Zardoz (1974): This film unironically engages with the concepts L. Frank Baum introduces in his later Oz novels, when he turns Oz into a dystopia hell world by accident. The Tabernacle is Ozma's Magic Picture. Not sure how to feel about having a habitual rapist as our protagonist, but it was the 1970s, so the actors probably just hated women that much in their daily lives anyway
Puella Magi Madoka Magica the Movie: Beginnings (2012): It's like a slightly worse version of the show. Took out three memorable bits: Madoka's dream in the opening, Mami's backstory, and Hitomi screaming about lesbians. The dream is an especially odd deletion since without that, the opening is boring. But you can't call this scene-for-scene remake a cheap cashgrab because the new visuals are baroque, sometimes to the point that it becomes ridiculous. Why the hell is Kamijo's hospital room a gorgeous palatial chamber full of books and a collection of the weirdest chairs that have ever existed?
Puella Magi Madoka Magica the Movie: Eternal (2012): Ditto
Puella Magi Madoka Magica the Movie: Rebellion (2013): This expands on the wrong things from the show until it develops into just an avalanche of the wildest colors and visuals. Can't say it's not gorgeous though. The one new character is a little girl whose defining character trait is that she is obsessed with cheese. With a fourth Madoka movie coming out, I do not trust the creators not to ruin the series. Have Homura kiss Madoka you cowards
Manhunt (1976): This film's original Japanese title is something like "You Must Cross the River of Anger!" Very Alfred Hitchcock vibe. It is most notable because of its popularity in the PRC. I was glad that the writing was intelligent enough to recognize the main character would not return to the police force after what he goes through. On the other hand, it concludes extrajudicial execution is fine if the person is evil enough. This message is only true if you're a revolutionary socialist, not a cop,* so I have to cancel this movie sorry
*This is ironic and not actually something I believe (you still need some kind of fair trial, even if the outcome is a foregone conclusion)
Up Tight! (1968): Speaking of revolutionary socialists killing someone. A lot of people in this movie abruptly start shouting and wailing and attacking people and then have to be pulled off. It's a shame the gay character's homosexuality is treated as a sign of how he is an unreliable class traitor who loves cops
Do the Right Thing (1989): This is a really good movie about a hot day on a street where a lot of angry people scream at each other. Apparently, Spike Lee wrote the screenplay in two weeks. I am jealous. That got me thinking how many talented people it took to bring the screenplay to life. I don't know how Sweet Dick Willie's dialogue could be planned instead of extemporaneous, but that's the magic of cinema. The ice cube scene is weird
Total Recall (1990): I don't buy that Quaid and Melina could just get up and be fine after the air rushes over them in the finale. Their eyes were boiling! And whoever built the Mars colony in GLASS DOMES, brittle, ordinary glass, was so stupid that they could not possibly exist. This proves the story was a hallucination inside Quaid's head. Didn't expect the movie to feature a dwarf sex worker mowing down cops with a machine gun. They should have made a movie about her instead
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
I am Batman AU Part 3
Okay so Dick does not go out until he's at least thirteen, which was the result of a lot of arguing and fighting. But he kept picking the locks, and Bryce gave up after awhile. Alfred finds it funny.
Dick goes by Talon as a 'fuck you' to the Court of Owls and because he really doesn't want to have Robin be tarnished here by being connected to 'all the dead souls'.
Bryce around this time begins to interact with Gordon who isn't commissioner yet. A few videos end up released of their conversations and people assume the guy is BAMF cause he's going up against the Bat.
Through this, they spread the word that the Batman is to full of souls, and parts break off if needed. "Talon is a child but will not stay. We feed and feed each day, he will grow." that sort of thing.
Of course, people are HORRIFIED in this AU a child became an undead monster.
Yet you know, it WORKS. Especially since Dick goes full blown crazy acrobat child and pulls weird stunts and moves like a spider at times. It's kinda funny.
Bryce and Dick have an uneasy relationship at first. She doesn't want to replace his mom, but also wants to be there for him. Dick also struggles. However in this AU Bryce is much easier to communicate with people. Plus, honestly- farm work is great to work out tension.
Which also brings up the farm!
Honestly I think I need an entire post on it's own for the farm. Plus it would include all the batfam anyway...
But yeah. Superman ain't the only farm boy anymore. Dick likes the chickens. The farm sells eggs, and vegetables. I think that also though the townhouse they own is also like one of those little mom and pop stores? I was saying bakery earlier but changed my mind.
It's all cheap and a lot of people go there.
But farm. So, while Bryce does try and talk things out, sometimes the best thing to do is fix a fence/haul hay/clean the coop or just go out and dig a hole.
Dick named all the chickens. Then they ate them and he had a few months of vegetarianism until he decided fuck it, he missed meat.
Also they still have money. Lots of investments.
Oh also before I forget: Dick is like nine when Bryce takes him in, she's 22 when she does. Four years later she's 26 and here is when Barbara joins in.
I'll be real: Jim Gordon does not buy into the whole 'Batman is the horror of Gotham'. Bryce has faceplanted in front of him while still really getting used to it. He knows that's a normal person.
He finds it funny. But thanks to this Barbara knows to. And when a little Talon follows her, goes: fuck this I'll do it to.
She quickly gets into trouble. Batman swoops in, and then well... Bryce knows how it'll go.
The issue is creating an idea for her. Barbara is fifteen, smart and skilled. After some time and thought, they create an idea for her.
Batman gains a new shadow. A wraith, a shrieking woman with a to pale face.
She reacts the worst to dirty cops, and a witness overhears her snarl she'll get them for what they did to HER.
So yes, now all the goons/cops think she's the ghost/souls of people the corrupted cops killed. Which... makes a lot of cops quit out of 'concern she'll target good cops'. Ha, yeah right.
Barbara ends up tutoring 'Dixon White' and it's all fun.
Side note: Barbara is Jim's kid. His wife died, they had no other children cause I'll be real that's just to much to include EVERYTHING there.
I... I feel like everything with the Justice League is to much to fit here because I have this plot line for Batman, and I'm following it and... yeah. Part 4 will come soon.
#i am batman au#bryce white#alfred pennyworth#dick grayson#richard grayson#batman#batman au#barbara gordon
48 notes
·
View notes
Text
STORY: Ups And Downs
St. Regis
“You were good, kid. The money’s on the dresser.”
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that line over the past few weeks. I should be in college right now studying business administration and maybe getting a minor in art. Instead, I’m turning tricks near Piedmont Park in Atlanta.
And when I’m not working the streets and the sheets, I spend as much time as I can at the nearest library scouring the newspapers and online services for job listings, but times are hard, and jobs are few and far between, especially for someone with only a high school education.
It’s been almost a month since my dad kicked me out of the house. The envelope my sister Amy gave me on my last day there contained a note from Mom and a couple hundred bucks. That, combined with the money Amy gave me and what I had saved up, allowed me to get from Columbus to Atlanta and kept me housed and fed for about a week, but the money soon ran out, and I found myself sleeping in homeless encampments and eating in soup kitchens.
That’s where I met Andre, who told me I could make some money turning tricks.
“I did that for a while myself,” he said, “and the money was pretty good, but the gig was not always easy. I’m not a big guy like you,” he continued, “so when some of the johns decided to get rough, I was no match for them. But you’re big and strong,” he added, admiringly. “You don’t gotta take no shit offa nobody. You’re damn good looking too. You’ll be very popular out there, make lots of skrilla…benjis.”
Fortunately, I had listened to enough rap music to know that ‘skrilla’ was slang for money and a ‘benji’ was a hundred-dollar bill, named for Benjamin Franklin, whose mug appears on the currency.
And Andre was right. I got $50 for a blow job and $200 for a fuck. Blow jobs were the most lucrative because I could do four or five of those in an hour, often in their cars or sometimes behind a dumpster in a dark alley, whereas a fuck often required an hour and a half or more, including the time it took to get to and from the cheap motels that most of the johns frequented.
In motel rooms, most of the johns wanted to fuck me. They were often married but weren’t getting enough pussy from their wives or girlfriends, so they turned to male prostitutes. Damn! Is that what I have become, a prostitute? Those tricks were lucrative because I could do an unlimited number in a night.
About 20% of the men wanted me to fuck them, and I could usually manage three or four of those in a night and another couple in the morning for guys who wanted a quickie before work or during their lunch break.
A similar percentage didn’t really want oral or anal sex at all. Sometimes they only wanted a hand job or just wanted me to watch while they jacked off or to watch me rub one out, and sometimes they wanted us to beat off together. These guys would often reminisce about what good times they had jerking off with their buddies when they were teenagers.
Another group of men just wanted to cuddle, and sometimes they wanted to talk while we cuddled, mostly about how disappointing sex with their wives or girlfriends had become. It was so obvious that those men were trying to deny their homosexuality, but I couldn’t tell them that. For one thing, they wouldn’t have wanted to hear that from me, and for another, I couldn’t afford to lose the repeat business.
I know it sounds like I was rolling in dough, but there was that one time when I got mugged, and they took all my money. I could have handled one…maybe two…but there were three of those guys, and they had guns. Then there were the crooked cops who would occasionally shake us down. Usually, they just wanted a blow job, but sometimes they would take our money too—as payment for not running us in.
Andre was right about the rough stuff too. I would often see some of the other hustlers go off with some guy and come back with a black eye or a busted nose. Two or three johns tried that with me, but they soon found out that I would take none of that crap. Some guys wanted to spank me, and I was OK with that—up to a point—but if they dared to make a fist, I let them know quickly and in no uncertain terms that that kind of rough stuff was out of bounds.
And then there was that one creep who really freaked me out. He never approached me or any of the other working guys. He just sat there in his big black Mercedes GLS for hours at a time, almost every night for nearly a week. I couldn’t get a good look at him because of the tinted windows that made me wonder if he was an FBI agent, a hit man, a drug lord, a jealous boyfriend, or just a guy trying to work up enough courage to whip out his dick.
Finally, one night I caught a glimpse of him when he got out of the car to go take a leak, and I was surprised at how good looking he was. He was also tall and well built. My first thought was, “Man, if you would just walk into any gay bar, you could take home any guy you wanted,” but, of course, the guys who came to us wouldn’t be caught dead in a gay bar. They would be scared shitless that they would get busted either by the cops, their wives, or their Southern Baptist congregations.
As I said, I usually didn’t have to worry so much about getting roughed up, but there was that one night when I got picked up by two guys who said they wanted to tag team me. I had always enjoyed tag teaming guys in the back of the hardware store with Mr. Sullivan, so I told them I was OK as long as they understood that the cost was the same—$200 apiece. They agreed, and we took off for one of the cheap motels nearby.
Once they got me naked, though, they started to get rough, and when I tried to explain where I drew the line, they just laughed like Satan welcoming new arrivals to Hell and came at me with fists clenched. I got in a few good licks before one of them tackled me to the bed, and the other one started to…. Well, let’s just say it would not have been pleasant except for…BAM. All of a sudden the door flew off its hinges and a stranger burst into the room, banged their heads together, dragged them down the hall, and threw them down the stairs, but not before he rid them of their wallets. It was the good-looking stranger from the black Mercedes SUV.
“Are you all right?” he asked, re-positioning the door behind himself as best he could considering it was off its hinges.
“I may be bruised,” I replied, “but I can still take you down,” I boasted, but knowing I was displaying more bravado than actual bravery.
“Relax,” he said consolingly. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Well, who the hell are you?” I demanded to know, “and what the fuck do you want from me?”
“We’ll get to that,” he replied, “but first let’s make sure you’re OK.” I flinched when he approached me, but he reassured me by backing off immediately.
“I just want to make sure I don’t need to take you to the hospital, Joe.”
“Wait! What the fuck? How do you know my name?”
“We know a lot about you, Joe, and—”
“We? Who the fuck is ‘we’?” I yelled, stiffening my spine again.
Seeing my anxiety, he backed off again, but then he pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed, sat down, and leaned in.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Joe. In fact, my boss sent me here to help you, and that’s what I’d like to do if you will let me.”
“Your boss? Who is that?”
“I will answer all of your questions, Joe, but let’s at least get you out of this flea bag and into someplace where we can talk, OK?”
Cautiously, I agreed.
Before we left the flea bag, though, he opened the wallets he had taken off the two ruffians, pulled out the bills, and handed them to me. There was almost a thousand dollars altogether. I counted out the $400 they had promised me and handed the rest back to the handsome Samaritan.
“Keep it,” he instructed. “Considering how they were treating you, you deserve it.”
I counted out another $200—“My tip,” I said—and handed the remainder back to him.
Accepting the balance of the money, he said, “We’ll give the wallets and the rest of the money to the hotel manager,” he said. “To cover the repairs on the door,” he chuckled. I have to admit, he had a very pleasant laugh and a killer smile that would disarm an entire battalion of even the most hardened infantrymen.
Considering that he was driving a $90,000 luxury SUV, I guess I should not have been surprised when he drove us to the St. Regis Hotel, the most luxurious—and most expensive—hotel in Atlanta.
“But my car,” I pleaded. “I need to get my car.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he reassured me. “It’s been taken to a safe place, and all of your belongings are safe as well.”
I was beginning to feel like I was in some kind of sci-fi movie, but so far, everything seemed OK, so I resolved to see where it would go. I didn’t let my guard down, though. I may have been needy, but I’m not stupid.
“You hungry?” he asked as we entered the luxury suite with a balcony overlooking the pool. “Of course you are,” he added when I didn’t reply immediately. “Stupid question. You probably haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.” He was right, of course, but how did he know that?
“There’s a steam shower and a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom,” he said, pointing the way, “and a comfortable robe hanging behind the door. Why don’t you freshen up while I call room service for some food. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
Seeing the scowl on my face, he remarked, “I didn’t think so. Two steaks coming up. Medium? Medium rare?”
“Medium well,” I replied.
“Southerners!” he frowned. “OK, medium well it is.”
A shower, a robe, and, I noticed immediately, only one bed in the room, king-sized. You talk a good game, mister, but you’re obviously after the same thing that everyone else is after. You just wanna bone me. Well, OK. You’re pretty damn hot and you did rescue me from those two bastards, so I guess I owe you.
After a long shower and an even longer soak in the Jacuzzi tub, I came out of the bathroom just as I heard a knock on the door. “Room service,” I heard a young man’s voice say. I wrapped myself in the plush terry cloth robe and walked out into the bedroom only to discover an adjoining room with a luxurious wrap-around sofa and a small table with four chairs where the cute bellboy was setting up our supper: 12-ounce T-bone steaks, baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, sautéed zucchini and squash, and amaretto cheesecake for dessert.
After showing the bellboy to the door and tipping him, my handsome host—I still didn’t know his name—offered, “Wine? It’s a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon. There are also sodas, bottled water, and spirits in the fridge,” he added.
To be perfectly honest, I had never had much wine and what I had experienced was mostly the cheap stuff. From what I had seen thus far, I knew this would not be cheap shit, so I gladly accepted the opportunity to sample the good stuff.
“A toast,” he said, “to more ups than downs.”
“I’ll definitely drink to that,” I almost gushed.
Supper was accompanied by small talk. Every time I tried to ask more pertinent questions, he managed very smoothly to steer the conversation back to mundane topics such as the weather, sports, or which movie star was rumored to be sleeping with whom.
With supper finished, he led me over to the plush sofa, where I figured he was planning to make his move on me, but I finally blurted out. “Enough! I really appreciate what you did for me back at that motel, and this evening has been delightful, but who the hell are you and what the fuck do you want from me?”
“Actually,” he grinned, “you contacted us.”
“What? What do you mean? And who is ‘us’?”
“Houseboy.com,” he said.
Ah, yes. My friend Andre, the guy who told me I could make money by offering myself on the streets, had also told me about this Website where employers look for domestic help—ostensibly. Many of them are actually just looking for boy toys they can fuck whenever they want, but at least the boys get free room and board in exchange for doing some housework. And since I was used to doing chores around the house, I figured I could do that, and what if it is just another form of prostitution. I’m already doing that, and I might luck out and get an employer who I actually wouldn’t mind sleeping with on a regular basis. The hot stud sitting across the table from me was just such a case, it seemed.
“Yeah, I’ve been to that Website,” I acknowledged, “but I don’t recall seeing your profile. If I had, I certainly would remember it.” Careful, Joe. Don’t appear too eager to let this guy get into your pants…or your robe. Slow and easy.
“Oh, not me,” he laughed, flashing those beautiful pearly whites again. “Do you remember sending an inquiry to a man named Art?”
I had to rummage through my frazzled brain for a few seconds before I recalled, “Oh, yeah, the guy in New York who said he was looking to replace an assistant who is leaving.”
“That’s right. Raphael has finished his college degree and is moving on to pursue his career in hospitality management, so Art…Arthur Block…is looking for someone to assume his duties.”
“Who is this Arthur Block,” I asked and, raising my voice a bit more than I perhaps should have, “who the hell are you? Do you have a name, or should I just call you St. Regis?”
“That’s good,” he laughed. “I like you, Joe. You’ve got spunk. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Block is going to like you too.” After a slight pause, he continued, “Woody. My name is Morgan Woodward, but everyone calls me Woody.”
“Well, all right, Woody. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I couldn’t help wondering if his nickname was actually derived from his last name or if it was a not-so-subtle reference to another asset, one which I was about to observe up close and personal. “So, are you Mr. Block’s chief houseboy, or what?”
“Rule number one,” replied Woody. “Mr. Block does not like the term ‘houseboy.’ First of all, he hires men, not boys, and second, he doesn’t like the connotations often associated with that term.”
“Connotations?”
“I’ll let Mr. Block explain that when you meet him.”
“Meet him? Is he here?”
“No,” replied Woody. “Tomorrow you and I are flying out to California.”
(To be continued)
+
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
@ofsavior said: 🍻 + “ why are you always smiling ?” (Chifuyu & Hanma)
send 🍻 + a question for my muse's drunken (honest) answer
The usual cheap beer that Hanma typically sips os has been traded for harder alcohol, which was a terrible idea on an empty stomach but Hanma didn’t have a record for caring about terrible ideas. Evidently Chifuyu didn’t care for terrible ideas at the moment either considering he decided to chit chat with Hanma while he was drinking. ( Although Hanma's never been a violent drunk.) He laughs at Chifuyu’s question like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all night. Mainly because it is in his eyes. Always smiling? What a fucking joke. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig before speaking.
“ Honestly? I don’t really smile that much. I don't when it's just me. I just do it around everyone else ‘cause it unnerves them or pisses them off just like it pisses you off. “ Hanma answers with a snort, leaning back against the cold stone as it digs into his spine as he sits on the ruined steps. It’s a weird thing to have Chifuyu here, but Hanma can’t say he cares. When does he care? The list of times he does care is much, much shorter compared to the years worth of moments of not caring. “ It’s funny watching them get irritated. So I smile when I’m around everyone just because. “
Hanma regards Chifuyu got a moment before he grins and leans forwards like he’s sharing something top secret. “ Wanna know my secret, Chifuyu ~ ? “ He asks, drawing out the blonde's name with a musical, gleeful tone. “ I don’t fucking care. “ He loudly whispers, eyes widening slightly and his grin stretching wider over his lips. “ About anything. I don’t care if everyone in the world hates me, I don’t care what happens five minutes from now let alone tomorrow. To me or anyone else. Life’s easier that way. Cause fuck, how’s someone to live day in and day out when its so boring that everything feels like a chore? “ He stretches his arms for a moment, gesturing around them before letting his hands rest on his knees again.
A flash of gold catches his eye and provokes a new, drunken thought when it reminds him of gold rimmed glasses. The thought tumbles from his lips before he can think any further about it. “ Sometimes I smile though cause some thing is surprising or fun. I like those times. I guess even that’s just ‘cause Kisaki makes things fun. I don’t mind him using me when I profit from it too. “ His shoulders rise and fall, lifting the bottle to his lips. “ Sometimes you surprise me though. Every now and then it happens with someone, or something really is fun. Like the look on Mikey's face when I caught his kick the first time." That had been hilarious. " That helpful to you? “ He asks, dangling the bottle between his fingers with raised eyebrows. " Or wanna interrogate some more? Maybe I'll entertain it." ....Chifuyu would probably look funny with a cop hat but it is a funny enough image that Hanma cracks an amused puff. " Don't normally drink this much, so nows your chance ~ " He sings.
#ofsavior#hamna just 'bc it bothers ppl'#and really are we surprised?#᛭ — [IC] death follows in the wake of the reaper [SHUJI HANMA]
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Okay. Things got worse. I'm gonna get real with y'all - we need help. This is a long one, so please, bear with me (or, tl;dr, my roommate got laid off, I'm still unemployed, and we have two months to save our asses or we lose our apartment).
Since my last attempt at a donation post, my roommate got laid off. It wasn't their fault, four entire departments got gutted when their company decided to say "fuck you" and outsourced so they could get cheap labor. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people lost their jobs.
I have actively been looking for work for a year. I haven't been able to hold a physical job due to my (still undiagnosed, 7 years later) physical disability, and I had to quit working call centers because I was having panic attacks so severe I was harming myself. In the last month, I've been applying for any and every remote job I can find, despite all this, because we are going to lose our apartment if I don't find some kind of employment.
On top of all of this, our neighbors have been escalating. Our neighbor is a woman with three kids, ages 9-17, and sometimes her boyfriend. The mom and kids alone are a nightmare, but tolerable - what's not is the screaming and death threats between her oldest son and her boyfriend. Yes, we've even called the cops. They won't do shit. Me, my girlfriend, and my roommate all have severe PTSD, and this is making our lives a living hell. We escaped toxic, abusive situations, just to end up living right below another. We have to get out as soon as we can.
Please, every bit of interaction helps. I am desperate.
Cashapp: $FenElkheart
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Omega Detective
A Retrowave/80s inspired omegaverse vigilante detective series
Setting: An alternate 1980s Miami [I think?]
Tropes: brilliant inventor heroine - badass Omega - secret identities - villain reverse harem - slowest of slow burns - enemies to lovers - 80s nostalgia/retrofuturism - tv show inspired format
Deisi met the Big Bad Wolfe. A wrong turn that could’ve snuffed out her life, she walked into the wrong mall and right into a crime scene in progress. But like he said - she was just some lil Omega. Nobody would ever believe her. He let her go, and gunshots followed her out.
It’s a decade of change, they say. But Deisi can’t get a job outside of the library because no one wants to hire a mateless Omega. Her neighbors mean well but they still call her ‘sweet girl’ and invite themselves over with strangers for her to meet. She tinkers alone in basements and garages, listening to the radio, padding her paycheck with repair jobs and babysitting. She’s not sure there’s anything sweet left in her anymore.
People are angry. You can feel it sizzle in the heat. Crooked cops and sleazy businessmen, night club drugs and money to burn. Gunshots in the darkness. Bodies on the beach. Desperate people. Something’s gotta give. Somebody’s gotta do something.
Deisi’s found a way to change. To switch her scent and her appearance and be seen as an Alpha. She’s gonna put that to the only possible use she can.
Deisi met the Big Bad Wolfe, and saw him face to face. Deisi’s just an Omega, nobody’s gonna listen. But she’ll make them listen. She’ll make the whole city sit up and pay attention.
Deisi De La Rosa is the Omega Detective, and she’s not letting any of it go again.
CONTEXT:
My friend Jay challenged me to just let loose with this idea. So that's what I'm gonna do.
This story is inspired by 70s/80s copoganda shows, especially Miami Vice, so I’m theming it similarly. Each part is an ‘episode’ - each episode is part of a season. For now I’ll be releasing the episodes for free but eventually I’ll bundle them all up and sell the ‘season’ somewhere with some extras, like ‘behind the scene footage’ or ‘deleted scenes’, etc etc. IDK, I think it’s fun.
Each episode will be well under 50k words - maybe novelette or novella length, maybe short stories, I haven't decided yet
It might get 'spicy' but I’m not actually sure. We’ll see!
This story is junk food reading. I’m not trying to make anything challenging here. I want to have fun, and make sure the reader has fun. This is gonna be a solid 3 out of 5 star series.
THE VIBES:
Pulp as hell tbh
Palm trees, beaches, neon, sunscreen, boom boxes, big hair, short shorts, warm rain
Smuggling, trafficking, robbery, kidnapping, drugs, prostitution, corruption, the dark side of the decade of excess
In other words, 80s nostalgia that goes deeper than cheap pop culture references [looking at you, RPO]
Kpop! Yes, really. It’s my story, damn it. I do what I want. I don't care if it's the wrong decade, I want to have fun.
MAIN CHARACTERS... SO FAR
Deisi De La Rosa: A Latina Omega with a bright smile and boundless energy, a love of technology and science, and a way of getting into people’s hearts. No one would ever connect her to…
The Detective: An Alpha vigilante and private detective, she has a short height and sharp mind. She doesn’t play games when lives are on the line - and they always are.
Hazel Carpenter: a Black 15 year old gamer Deisi sometimes babysits. She loves arcades, flavored lip gloss, bright colors and boy bands. A surprisingly good source of information.
The Big Bad Wolfe: A notorious criminal that haunts the city streets. He's got a lot of connections and never lets anyone who sees his face survive - with one exception. Currently the only white person in the cast, which was not on purpose but I'm rolling with it.
VI-Lains: A six man musical group from South Korea who crashed onto the world stage, bringing with them bad boy appeal and intense good looks. Hazel is obsessed with them. Deisi is baffled.
Blacklist: A mysterious criminal organization from overseas, there’s not much information on them or the appearance of the six masked men in the city who work for them. Look, you can connect the dots here, it’s gonna be revealed in the first ‘episode’ anyway.
STATUS CHECK: Planning and world building; ETA Episode 1 - Spring 2023?
Note: I have a very outdated blog dedicated to an older version of this idea. If there's a desire I'll move most of my work on this over there. There's also an Instagram but I don't really use Instagram...
#writeblr#wip intro#writing wip#current wip#I see you kpop fans following this blog - here's a thing for you#I won't let my insecurity get to me this time#kpop original character
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Old TV Review: Chameleons (1989)
Chameleons (1989) is a TV pilot by Glen A. Larson (of Knight Rider and A-Team fame) that I’d been looking for off and on for years, and finally stumbled on again on YouTube thanks to a sharp-eyed TV fan on DeviantArt. It was made, shown, and yet turned down as an ongoing show by both American and international networks. Sometimes it’s interesting to check out things that didn’t work, and try to figure out why, so you don’t make the same mistakes. (As a writer and human being of course you’ll make entirely different ones, but hey.)
I personally found it hokey but amusing, 3.5 out of 5 stars. And it might have made a really interesting book series, but there were Serious Problems with this even as a first episode, when you’d expect things to not be working quite smoothly yet. I’m sure people can find more, but I’m going to focus on the two biggest ones.
First, the acting. I’m going to go ahead and facepalm here. There are two really good actors in here, the lady playing the (somewhat) crazy cousin, and the butler. They have moments of Large Ham, but those are appropriate to the story and seem in-character. Everyone else - wow. Just wow. There is so much scenery being chewed. So much. And not even by the mastiff, Brutus. (Who is a very Good Dog, yes.) Captain Chameleon and the superheroic grandfather are the worst offenders with Pulp Dialogue; so pulpy you’d think you were straining OJ with your teeth. “May the Paraclete of Justice relieve itself on your enemies!” Why. I mean, why. The Bad Guys are a bit less pulpy, a bit more stock Corrupt Cop/Government Officials/Etc. But there is a straight-from-the-pulp-mags Council of Evil going on, with voice changers and faceless thugs in uniform, right in the middle of a modern city. Oyyyy.
...Okay, there are three good actors. Because if you think you’ve spotted a younger version of Jim Ellison (The Sentinel) as an antagonist - yes, yes you have, that is the same actor. He was also a bad guy in a Viper episode.
Second - the special effects/practical effects in here had to be very expensive. Specially modified car, making it change color, computer screens, “automated defenses”, the “invisibility/color changing” superhero outfit tricks, and multiple uses of a helicopter. None of that would have been cheap, and all of it viewers would have expected to see in every episode. And the whole “Carmeleon automated defenses” were, as one character lampshaded, so slow to get through the activation sequence that “by the time you’ve answered you’re already dead”. That’s expensive bad writing!
So. Yeah. I can see why network execs decided to pass on this one. But it was fun to watch. And possibly to mull over, so we don’t make the same kinds of mistakes!
Chameleons 1989
0 notes
Text
Sleeping Dogs Review
Most of what I knew about this game came from Dunkey's video. I knew it was a beat-em-up sort of thing with elements from Yakuza and other open world games mixed with a Chinese flare and a decent amount of cursing but it didn't exactly break many molds that I heard of despite its audacious story premises.
One day the main menu theme came up on my YouTube theme and I've been listening to it ever since and that was enough to put it back on my radar so I put it on my Steam watchlist. I thought maybe I'd pick it up when I was done with Yakuza as a sort of side game thing but then I saw that you can drive in this game and that set me over the edge, maybe it wasn't just a Yakuza clone, I was going to play it. I bought it during one of the Steam sales for super cheap, definitive edition too so it has all the content, not as big of a fan of the remixed menu music but it's fine.
Immediately what stuck out to me was the atmosphere, everything is all warmly colored with a dark wash to it, gangs, slums, tightly packed market spaces, a variety of NPCs roaming the streets, it seemed like a good time. But let's take a shortcut to combat for a bit. The combat is very reminiscent of Yakuza with things like interact-able environments where you can throw someone through a window and stuff but it doesn't feel heavily reliant on weapons which is fine with me, it gives it a bare knuckle brawl sort of vibe that you'd see on the streets. It also adds countering though which is pretty cool, that alone can make the combat seem different and varied because you can give it more flow.
Other than that, it's your run of the mill combat system. A lot of other things are pretty reminiscent of what I've mentioned with Yakuza such as side-quests, finishers, even the karaoke but the ability tree has a little gimmick worth mentioning. It's split up into two paths because if you don't know, you play as a cop posing as a gang member so you get cop points and triad points and you use those to unlock different abilities. This doesn't affect the run as a whole because there's only one ending but there is side material where you can act as a cop and take down a quick riot in the back alleyways with a few of your other cop buddies. As well as the main quests being split between those two but any quest deals with the system where doing things lawfully rewards you more cop points and not so lawfully more triad points so there's that.
It has some cool finishing moves like you can do wall kicks and then jump kicks. There was this one part where you had to take pictures for this lady and this guy photobombs you in front of the sunset, it's really funny but the goal is to try and get him out of the way so what I chose to do is pick him up and throw him into the ocean, it's just so great the kind of comedic moments you can create.
The NPCs and cars can be the same models and walk right next to each other but the world is so vast and there's so many variations that it's fine. Sometimes an enemy will grab you from behind and it tells you to kick which is meant to kick another enemy in front of you but sometimes there is no enemy to kick so you're left at a stalemate until the reaction command decides it wants to change to something else.
The actual Steam port itself could use a little more because I was using my PS4 controller but it only recognizes Xbox so when it says "press X" I would but where the X is on the Xbox, is the place where the square is on the Playstation, so I messed up all the time. The camera is also a bit shoddy at times, especially while driving, it made me dizzy (which is easy to do nowadays but still) you can hold back on the analog stick and it shows a reverse view. You can do U-turns a little easier though if you get the hang of pressing circle and then 180 the control stick. So yeah, I think if you don't like this game initially, give it a look up online because there's a ton of stuff that you can do that the game doesn't tell you and it made the experience that much more enjoyable for me.
But other than that, if you can see it, you can usually drive it, doing those side missions unlocks bonuses which sometimes include vehicles and clothing. There are some dumb missions sometimes though, I'll say that much. Like this bus vs bus one that took absolutely forever, basically anything you have to run them off the road and destroy their car is a really tedious mission to try and beat. You can paint them usually too but it's kind of odd for bikes especially because of how far away the camera is and how dark the lighting is, there's no way to swivel or zoom or anything, it's just static. But yes, you can run into parking meters and get money from them so I guess it evens out. It wouldn't even be too farfetched to say you can drive the Batmobile.
I'll talk about the DLC in a separate post later on but as far as a rating goes, I'm a bit mixed. Because a 7/10 seems fair but in terms of personal value, while I think it delivered better on what it was trying to do, there are games that I've given lower scores and liked more such as Resident Evil 3 Remake, Metroid Other M, Prince of Persia Warrior Within so I might bring it down to at least a 6. Is it underrated? Yes, there's nothing really wrong with it, I like it's asian representation and there's a lot of care there, but despite that I just don't feel overly passionate about the game.
0 notes
Text
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
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
Filing // Mycroft x reader (smut)
Warning: smut (vanilla)
1154 words
You and Mycroft had decided to take the opportunity for him being home by spending some much needed time together, although you knew Mycroft could never have a day off as one call could pull him back to work.
You laid on your partner as you both watched a movie, it was his choice so it was some strange back and white cop movie which you found slightly boring. Instead, you ended up just listening, your face snuggled into Mycroft's chest.
The movie ended and you looked up at Mycroft. "When will you next have a day like this?" you asked, your hands moving further around him.
"I am not entirely sure" Mycroft said, moving to get up but you didn't move from your position making sure he could not get up. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and tutted slightly. "If you wish for me to find the date you must let me get up"
"You can get it later" you said. "I am warm and comfortable"
Mycroft sighed, one hand going to the top of your head and stroking your hair gently while another went to your hips. You sat there for a while, enjoying each other's company and how you held each other. It was nice for Mycroft, being usually touch starved.
You could tell something was up with Mycroft, he had shifted a little and you could feel something poking up through his trousers. You raised your eyebrows and Mycroft huffed. "Unavoidable my dear" he muttered, disliking his body and it’s natural inclinations.
"We have an opportunity" you murmured. "You are on holiday"
Mycroft raised his eyebrow and a small smile formed on his lips. One arm left your waist, checked his phone and placed his phone back down. He smiled, the hand lifting up your chin further, allowing him to press a long and gentle kiss against your lips. You kissed back and smiled into his lips as he turned you over with his body so that he lay on top.
Your lips left each other's and you grinned up at Mycroft who's lips soon returned to yours.
One hand went up to his waistcoat and unbuttoned it, pulling it off his shoulders. His hands went back again, this time to unbutton his shirt, letting it hang on his shoulders.
Lips left yours and Mycroft looked down at you, his forehead slightly furrowing as he reached down to your shirt, his hand slipping under and finding the edge of your bra.
"New" Mycroft commented.
"Yes new" you confirmed, catching his lips in yours with a quick kiss.
"I will be sure not to damage it" he murmured, pulling off your shirt and in turn the new bra, placing it carefully on the side. "It is rather fetching" he commented, tearing his eyes away from the bra and to your face.
With one hand he reached down and unzipped your trousers and saw your pants.
"Also new" he said, feeling the fabric between his fingers and thumb.
"Your eyes always catch everything" you say, reaching down to play with his fly. Mycroft's hands met yours and he batted them away, undoing his own trousers. He breathed heavily for a second and watched your face as he pushed inside you. Your breath hitched and you grabbed Mycroft's hand, squeezing it as he began thrusting in and out of you.
Mycroft's eyes stuck to your face. He usually did not like partaking in sex, not having the time or being slightly disgusted by it. However, when the time is right he will do it with you and it will both remind him why he does not enjoy it like a normal person does but also shows him that sometimes sex is worth it both for yours and his pleasure.
Mycroft panted above you, not used to the certain exercise his pace was faltering, but that was also due to the building pleasure which was almost ready to blow. You also were close, holding onto Mycroft's now Sweaty hand with yours like at any moment you would fall.
"Mycroft" you moaned, closing your eyes and breathing harder, Mycroft faltered slightly and you slowed your thrusts which you had been doing with him, one hand had been fiddling with your clit and increased its movements, accommodating for how he slowed.
"I love you dearly (y/n)" he murmured.
"I love you also" you said back, feeling Mycroft orgasm into you, you groaned, laying your head back as your own pleasure filled your body, together you held each other, a moaning mess together. Suddenly the phone went, bringing you both out from your highs. Immediately Mycroft went for it, the man still inside you as he answered.
"yes? What, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, he was still panting from the sex and his throbbing member was still nuzzled inside you.
"Why are you out of breath?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft looked down at you. "Filing" he sighed. "What do you want?"
"I need your answer Mycroft, as a matter of urgency"
"Ansswer?" he asked impatiently, Mycroft wanted to get back to you, the usual after sex treatment was cuddling until you both felt the need for sustenance.
"Even at the eleventh hour, it's not too late, you know." Sherlock said.
"Oh" you both groaned.
"Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered." Sherlock carried on saying.
"It is today" you murmured as Mycroft said the same thing down the phone. "No Sherlock I will not be coming to the night-do" Mycroft carried on "as you so poetically put it" you pouted slightly, a night-do sounded rather fun, especially as it was the wedding of John and Mary.
"What a shame, Mary and John will be extremely""Delighted not to have me hanging around" Mycroft interrupted.
"Oh, I don't know. There should always be a spectre at the feast, and I am sure that (y/n) would love to mingle with at least one human today" Sherlock said. Mycroft huffed. "I should let you and (y/n) get back to it then" he chuckled. "I cannot wait to meet my new niece or nephew" and at that, the phone was put down.
Mycroft placed it down on the side and got out of you, and laid down on the bed, sighing loudly.
"It would be fun to go" you promoted, slightly pouting.
Mycroft looked at you out of the corner of his eye. "Now really (y/n)" he muttered. "I do not mingle and do not do well in parties" he turned up his nose at this and faced you, shaking his head.
"Not even for an hour?" you asked.
Mycroft frowned and rolled his eyes. "If you must" he muttered. "But we shall be there only for only thirty minutes, you are lucky that the wedding is close"
"An hour" you bargained.
"forty minutes"
"forty-five"
"Fine dearest" Mycroft said, slowly standing. "However if you get drunk on their cheap alcohol you will only have yourself to blame"
#mycroft holmes x reader#mycroft holmes#mycroft#mycroft holmes smut#smut#holmes#mycroft x reader#mycroft x reader smut#mycroft smut
232 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
kiddwilliford01
The Journaling of Mygind 085
iconsofeverything
Edits and shit
beni-goren-li-kzat
עדי ביטי מכשפה כשפים
roadrevamp
Sin título
frogndtoad
we sing it anyway