#zack asks

quillan salkilld x female oc, 6.4k words, one shot

Mondays. She’d always hated Mondays. After all, who didn’t? But this Monday was different. It was special.

She’d spent the last four years training and studying for something like this, and this was the final stretch before she finally got her masters degree. She’d had to travel to Sydney after a job interview she thought she’d completely fumbled, because she’d forgotten to check her emails and was absolutely stunned, only a week ago, to discover that she’d actually gotten it. She was doing her last stage, or placement, however people chose to call it, for the UFC (which still didn’t feel entirely real when she thought about it for too long).

It was probably the best thing about sports physiology, being able to observe events like this and actually take part in them, even if it was only in a small way. She’d already done that for MMA, mostly local stuff, smaller venues with fewer people and less pressure, but this was something else entirely. She wasn’t a fan, but she enjoyed all sports to the limit of her abilities, because her brain always came up with questions or things she’d want to do if she was there as a physio, and she couldn’t quiet that part of herself no matter how hard she tried. 

So she’d arrived on Saturday at her hotel room, still a bit disoriented from the travel, met with the man she was supposed to observe under, a nice middle-aged man named Mark, and now it was Monday, and she was in the lobby waiting for that same man so they could head over to the UFC temporary gym and attend to some of the fighters there.

She didn’t really know what to expect or what it was meant to look like there, whether it would be chaotic or calm, but she tried to keep that part of her brain quiet as Another Day by Paul McCartney blared into her ears.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around and removed her earphones, now faced with Mark.

“Ms. Murray, ready to go?”

“Yeah, all good,” the blonde said.

She’d made sure to wear stretchy and comfortable clothes, just in case her day of observation turned into a day of actually doing things. It had happened before, more than once, and she preferred to be prepared rather than caught off guard.

She thought he would walk out and get into a car, maybe, since they were meant to assess fighters and most of that would be done at a gym. Instead, he turned straight back into the lobby and led her off somewhere else, a big travel bag hanging from his hand, moving like he already knew exactly where he was going.

“The gym space has been set up inside the hotel,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her as he walked. “Better for the fighters, keeps them in a bubble.”

She nodded along, even though she was trailing a few steps behind him and he couldn’t possibly see her. After winding through what felt like a maze of corridors, turns, and identical doors, he finally stopped and pushed open a set of large double doors.

The space beyond looked like it had been assembled just for the week. It was probably a ballroom or a conference room most of the time.

She paused just inside the doorway, scanning everything carefully.

There was an open mat space laid out with foam mats, a few heavy bags hanging at intervals, and mitts, pads, and gloves lined up neatly against the wall. Even through the haze of her tired, slightly unfocused morning vision, she could pick out resistance bands, dumbbells, skipping ropes, and what looked like foam rollers too. 

On the other side of the room, separated by black curtains that hadn’t been drawn yet, was their section. Two exam tables had already been set up, everything arranged with precision. Towels folded cleanly, oils lined up, tape rolls stacked and exam tables waiting to be used. The temperature sat a few degrees warmer here than the corridor outside, enough to make the space feel almost welcoming.

Mark had already moved ahead, setting his bag down by the tables. He crouched slightly as he unzipped it, revealing even more tape rolls, oils, and towels. He gave her a small wave to come over.

“I stick with my own gear,” he said, pulling things out and placing them down. “Nothing wrong with what they provide, it’s all decent. Just… you get used to your own stuff, you know? Feels right. You can try both, see what works for you, but I’d always say bring your own when you can.”

“Alright,” Lillian nodded, stepping closer, her eyes flicking between his hands and the layout on the table “Wait… you’re actually going to let me do things?”

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, subtle, but there. “What, you’d rather just stand there and watch the whole time?”

She straightened immediately, almost too fast. “No, no. Course not.”

“Yeah, thought so.” He rubbed his hands together, already shifting into work mode. His gaze flicked over her once, quick but assessing. “You forget your badge or what?”

He tapped his own nametag lightly where it sat clipped to his shirt.

“No, no,” she said quickly, already reaching into her pocket. “Sorry. I just didn’t pin it on.” Her fingers fumbled slightly with the fabric of her shirt as she fixed the nametag into place, making sure it sat straight.

“Good.” He clapped his hands together once, sharp and sudden, the sound cutting clean through the room.

She flinched, just slightly.

“Alright,” he said, already turning back to the tables. “Let’s get into it.”

The morning was alright, pretty quiet overall. A couple of fighters came and went, mostly one by one, so she never really got the chance to step in and work on them herself. Instead, she watched Mark handle everything, juggling small talk with tired, slightly cranky fighters while also explaining his process to her, even though she already understood most of it. 

Their first proper encounter happened that afternoon. He’d come in to get a bit of training done, clearly having completely forgotten about the fighter assessments, and she ended up being the one to tell him.

He walked through the doors right as Mark had started working on another fighter whose name she had already forgotten. She wasn’t a fan, so she didn’t feel bad about not remembering. To her, all of this was just… medical. She could enjoy a fight, sure, but she never went out of her way to learn names or follow careers.

But she knew him. Well, she knew of him.

A friend had shown her that clip once, the one about a bakery and that completely insane knockout. It had stuck with her, not because she followed the sport, but because it had been so… odd.

So when she saw him walk into the space, she felt a flicker of intimidation settle in her chest. It wasn’t overwhelming, just enough to make her more aware of how she was standing. He was surrounded by three other men she didn’t recognise, though she stepped forward and greeted them anyway.

“Hello, Lillian.” She held her hand out, shaking Quillan’s first, then moving through the others one by one, making sure not to skip anyone. She noticed the training equipment they had brought with them and, after a brief pause to process, decided to take the lead. “I’m Lillian, physio in training. I noticed you’ve brought some training equipment with you. It would be preferable if we assessed you first?” It came out more like a statement than a question, her tone even.

The men shared a quick look. Quillan gave a small shrug, then nodded. “Yeah, alright. Sounds fair.”

As they made their way over to the assessment area, his team started warming up on their own. He gave the fighter next to him a quick fist bump in passing before sitting down on the bed. Mark greeted him as well, then turned to Lillian.

“Check muscles, injuries, joints, then ask your questions and do some assisted stretching, alright Lillian? Let me know when you’re done.”

“Okay.” She nodded, then quickly tied her hair back into a low ponytail, fingers moving with a kind of practiced precision.

“So, um…” She looked up, only to find his brown eyes already on her, steady and expectant. “How is training going?”

“Good, yeah. Going good.” His tone was easy, relaxed.

“Great.”

There was a pause. It stretched just a little too long. It felt awkward, maybe. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she let it pass without addressing it.

“Sorry, I’m still a student, so I might not be the best. Do you want to wait for Mark?”

“Nah, you’re right,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “I’m just here to get a bit of a sweat going, so I don’t wanna be sittin’ around too long before I get into it.” He rubbed a hand along his cheek, thinking for a second. “How long you got left before you finish up?”

“I’ll graduate at the end of this semester, hopefully.” She hesitated briefly before continuing. “Would you mind taking off your shirt and lying down, please?”

“Yeah, no worries.” He did it without hesitation, movements straightforward and unbothered.

“Okay.” Lillian rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them slightly. “I’m sorry if they’re a bit cold.”

She placed her hand on his left calf first, touch careful but firm enough to assess properly. “We’re going to work our way up, alright? I’m going to check for anything that might be slightly off. Tight muscles first, make sure to loosen them up. Then I’ll look at any injuries, current or past, that might still be bothering you, and after that we’ll go through your joints. Okay?”

“Yeah, gotcha.” He let out a quiet sigh as she started, his body relaxing into the table.

She flinched slightly at the sound, a small, involuntary reaction. He noticed straight away.

“Ah, sorry,” he said quickly, glancing at her with a faint, apologetic smile. “Not ‘cause of you or anything. Just starving, hey. UFC food’s alright and all, but I’d kill for a big steak right now.”

“It’s fine, I get it.”

No, you don’t get it, Lillian.

“I mean, no. Um… I don’t. But I empathise with you.” she said, her voice a little tight, like she was picking her way through each word.

It came out awkward. Probably more awkward than what most people would consider acceptable. At least, that’s what she thought. Her chest tightened slightly as soon as the words left her mouth, that familiar sense of having said something just off settling in. She dropped her gaze and focused back on her work, quietly mortified, missing the small smile tugging at his lips.

Work as a physiotherapist was something different. Precise, structured, safe. Usually, she wasn’t that good at dealing with being close to other people. Whether it was physical closeness or just social interaction, she had always struggled.

She had friends, sure. A few. But even then, she kept everyone at some kind of distance.

Touching was manageable when it existed within a clinical setting. It had purpose there, rules she followed. But when it didn’t? That was a whole different problem. It made her skin crawl.

Quillan was the only fighter she took care of that day. She did her best, carefully following everything she had been taught, checking in where she needed to, adjusting her pressure, watching his reactions closely. And her best, from what she could tell, seemed to be good enough for him.

When they were done, she stepped back and watched Mark with the last fighter who had finally come in. She stayed quiet, observing how he worked. She took mental notes, storing away small details she could maybe use later.

The day itself ended early, at least when it came to actual work. Once all of the fighters in the red corner assigned to this gym had shown up and been seen, there wasn’t much left to do.

With their main task out of the way, they spent some time putting the physio space back in order. She wiped down the beds carefully, methodically, making sure everything was clean.

Afterwards, they stepped out and had something to drink.

Mark talked about his studies. He reminisced, jumping from one story to another.

She mostly listened.

She was good at that. Better than she was at actually engaging, as her family often reminded her, sometimes jokingly, sometimes not.

Later, she didn’t do much on her own. She stayed in her room. Studied. Tried to read ahead even though she didn’t have to. Eventually, she went to bed.

The next morning was quiet.

She lingered in the lobby for a moment longer than necessary, half expecting Mark to come and get her like the day before. When he didn’t, she realised, with a small flicker of embarrassment, that it actually made sense. So she made her way to the temporary gym on her own.

He was already there, setting things up. Without saying much, she slipped into place beside him and got to work, falling into the routine easily.

She didn’t expect Quillan to be the first one in.

And definitely not alone.

She glanced up, surprised, even more so when she saw him heading straight for her instead of Mark. It threw her off for a second, enough that she paused mid-motion.

“G’morning,” he said, easygoing, holding his hand out.

She hesitated for a brief second before shaking it, her mind still half asleep.

“Hello, Mr. Salkilld,” she replied with a small, polite smile. 

“Quillan, please,” he said, scrunching his face a little, like the formality didn’t sit right with him.

He moved over to the bed, sitting first before lying back, pulling off his hoodie and shirt without much fuss, leaving himself in shorts, socks and slides.

“Yeah, sorry,” she said quickly, adjusting her stance as she turned back to him. “So…”

“My team’s still grabbing breakfast,” he said casually, one arm tucked behind his head. “Figured I’d come in early, get things sorted before they rock up.”

“Sorry,” she said again, the word slipping out before she could stop it. “I’ll try to be quicker this time. I mean, it probably will be, we already know what the problem areas are.”

She gestured towards his foot, the one he had injured after that whole bakery debacle.

Work was actually easy. All she had to do was work on mobility first. Ankle mobility, toe mobility, foot articulation. She tried to warm it up as best as she could before moving to soft tissue work, taking her time to feel for stiffness and tension under her hands, careful and methodical.

“You alright, doc?” he asked, voice low and calm, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“Hm?” She raised her head, a few pieces of blonde hair falling in front of her eyes.

“You look knackered,” Quillan remarked, watching her with a slight tilt of his head.

“I am.” Lillian smiled sheepishly as she started massaging his calf softly, her thumbs pressing in slow, controlled movements. “I’m from Perth. I’ve been awake for hours already.”

He smiled slightly. “Me too. That’s rough, hey?” He empathised. 

She nodded before moving onto the arch of his foot, adjusting her position slightly so she could get a better angle, studying his face as he scrolled away on his phone and let her do her job without interference.

“And I’m not a doctor,” she said after a moment, almost absent-mindedly. “Physios aren’t doctors.”

“They should be,” he said, simple as that, like it was obvious.

She kind of agreed.

Once it was done, she decided to finish up with some tape to make the area more secure, wrapping it neatly and firmly, checking the tension twice to make sure it would hold without restricting movement too much. It seemed she was quick enough, because Quillan’s head coach entered right as she finished up. She stepped back to give space, wiping her hands on a towel.

She was able to get some peace when Mark worked on fighters, observing closely, though keeping an eye on the one fighter she’d treated herself. She looked at him on the mats as he practiced punches and found herself mesmerised by the quickness, the smoothness of it, the way his eyes looked sharp and focused, tracking every movement like nothing else existed.

Until he looked at her, probably feeling someone’s stare on him.

And she snapped away, back to observing Mark’s techniques, forcing her attention onto something else.

It was embarrassing.

At some point, while Mark was working on a fighter, another guy came in. She found herself oddly anxious to work on him, already half-preparing in her mind for whatever injury he might have. He dapped up everyone around with an easygoing smile, moving through the room like he’d been there a hundred times before. A tattoo was poking out of the collar of his shirt, and his arms seemed to be covered as well.

“Hello, Dan,” he said with a nod of the head at her, casual but polite.

She nodded back. “Lillian.”

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Good, good,” she answered, a little quick. “You? Do you need a physio?”

He shrugged. “Eh.”

“I’m still a student,” she cut in, words coming out a bit too fast. “Just in case you’d prefer someone with experience.”

Dan smiled an easygoing smile before shrugging once more. “Eh, I don’t mind being a lab rat.”

She smiled, unsure how to take it. Was it a joke, an insult to her skills, or both? Perhaps neither.

She warmed her hands as he took off his shirt, revealing the tattoo underneath.

“That’s a cool tattoo,” the blonde remarked, genuine curiosity slipping into her voice.

The platinum blond smiled. “Cheers.”

He then proceeded to take his place where Quillan had laid down only an hour before, settling in like it was routine.

Dan Hooker was the second and last fighter she took care of that day. They seemed to all have their own schedules, spaced out enough that her help wasn’t needed much. She mostly helped Dan with his arm, which he’d broken before, testing mobility and working around the area as the man chatted away about the tattoos, picking up from the remark she’d made earlier and running with it.

That night, she struggled to sleep. She was tired, yeah, but she was also an anxious student, keen to do well. Fear had a way of settling deep in her chest, grabbing hold of her like she’d lost control of her own self, making her body go rigid and her thoughts loop in circles. The only way she knew how to deal with it was to work through it until her brain felt quiet again. So, at one in the morning, she grabbed her hotel key card, her laptop, and her wallet, zipped her hoodie right up, and headed downstairs in her slides, barely making a sound.

The hotel’s 24/7 food court was almost empty, save but one employee. She found a quiet corner, ordered a green tea, then settled in and opened her laptop. She went through the semester’s readings, once, twice, carefully, methodically, making sure she hadn’t missed anything.

As she was getting ready to do it a third time, she noticed, just at the edge of her vision, a figure lingering near the cookie display at the counter.

She tried not to pay attention. She forced her focus back onto the screen, rereading the same paragraph until the words started to blur slightly.

Lillian was easily distracted, that much was true, but why would she care that some random guy was hovering around cookies at one in the morning? People did weird things all the time. It wasn’t relevant. It didn’t matter.

After only a few minutes, though, a cookie was placed beside her, and the seat opposite dipped as someone slid into it without asking.

“Got this even though I can’t eat it,” Quillan said, letting out a quiet sigh, like it was a genuine tragedy.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

She slowly lifted her head over the top of her MacBook. Her blue eyes met his brown ones for a second, then dropped to the cookie. “So you want me to eat it?” she asked, just to be sure she understood the situation properly.

“...Yeah?” he said, one eyebrow lifting, like he wasn’t entirely convinced she was serious.

“Sorry,” she said automatically, even though she wasn’t sure what she was apologising for, as she picked up the cookie from the napkin and took a bite. It was bigger than she expected, but good.

He watched her.

“You’re pretty sleep deprived, aren’t you?” he said, tilting his head a bit, studying her face.

“Why do you say that?” the blonde replied, her tone even, though her grip on the cookie tightened slightly.

“Dunno, hey. Just… your social cues are a bit off. Not in a bad way, just… yeah. Maybe you should give the studying a rest for a bit,” he said, leaning forward to glance at her screen before gently turning the laptop towards himself without really asking. “Soft tissue manipulation and joint mobilisation? You’re already pretty solid at that, I reckon. Seen it.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “My social cues are always a bit off though, due to the autism.” She said it plainly before snapping her laptop shut.

“Oh. Right,” he said, pausing for half a second. “So nothing to do with the insomnia?”

“I don’t have insomnia!”

They stayed there for a good thirty minutes, which, for her, was longer than she would usually tolerate that kind of interaction. She worked her way through the cookie slowly, bite by bite, while he watched with open interest, licking his lips every now and then like he was regretting every life choice that had led to him not being able to eat it himself. He talked in short bursts, not pushing too hard, and somehow it didn’t feel as overwhelming as it should have.

The day after was relatively easy. She worked on him again, even though Mark was free at that time and could have taken over without any issue. He stepped in at first, trying to help where he could, offering suggestions, but it didn’t take long for him to notice that Lillian and Quillan had already found a rhythm that worked for them. They moved around each other without needing to say much, anticipating the next step, adjusting naturally.

Mark ended up stepping back, arms folded, just watching it play out with a small, knowing look, realising there wasn’t much for him to add.

On Thursday, she worked on him again. That time, she moved across his whole body, not focusing on anything too intense, just easing through it with lighter work and a few longer massages.

The curtain was drawn, cutting them off from the rest of the room, from Mark and the fighter he was treating on the other side. It felt quieter, more contained, like they’d been set aside from everything else going on.

Quillan seemed alright. He breathed in deep, then out just as slow. There was something steady about him, almost too steady for someone who was about to step into a cage in a couple of days. He looked peaceful. A bit too calm. So she asked.

“Do you not get anxious?”

“Hm?” He blinked, snapping out of whatever headspace he was in, eyes dropping to where her hands were working on his thigh. Her hair was still tied back low, but a few strands had come loose and hung near her face.

Lillian repeated herself.

“Nah,” he said, shifting slightly and tucking an arm behind his head. “Don’t really get anxious, hey. You?”

“No,” she answered, pressing her thumbs into a slow, controlled circle. “It doesn’t serve any purpose. Things are going to happen anyway, right? So why make yourself suffer by being anxious about them?”

Quillan nodded, more firmly than she expected. “Yeah. That’s it. No point wasting your head on it.”

Later, she was working on his back, his face resting through the hole of the table, his voice slightly muffled. His coach peeked behind the curtain and stepped in without much hesitation. She kept working, quiet and focused, easing out the knots along his shoulders while they talked over her.

“What’d you reckon?”

She kept massaging, assuming it was not meant for her.

“Lillian?” Quillan asked.

She paused for half a second. Right. They were probably trying to include her at some point. She hadn’t caught any of it, and she didn’t want to make them repeat themselves, so she just went with the first thing that came to mind.

“Uh… well… yeah?”

“Sweet, perfect.” His head coach gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. “Tomorrow. Room 247. Come by whenever suits you.”

Then he was gone, just like that, leaving the curtain swaying slightly behind him.

She stood there for a moment, hands still resting lightly on Quillan’s back.

She had no idea what she'd just agreed to.

“You didn’t listen to a word of that, did you?” he asked, voice slightly amused.

“…No,” she admitted.

That was how she ended up in hotel room 247 on Friday, standing there with a half-naked Quillan and a group of men she didn't really know.

She’d never assisted with a weight cut before. She’d read about it, gone further than what they taught academically just out of curiosity, but being there was different. The atmosphere, the routine, everything.

By the middle of the day, most of the team got hungry and headed down to the food court without much hesitation. The second they mentioned food, Quillan’s face shifted, something almost pained flickering across it. So she stayed.

He looked exhausted. Sluggish. His stomach made quiet noises that didn't go unnoticed.

She was fairly sure she had heard the scale beep more times today than she had heard her mother’s voice in the last month.

Weigh-in was only a couple of hours away.

“How do you feel?” Lillian asked.

“Like shit,” he snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended. Then, almost immediately, “Sorry.” He reached out and patted the closest thing to him, which happened to be her head. His hand dropped again, and he exhaled slowly.

“It’s okay.” She looked at him, something soft and understanding in her expression. Carefully, she reached out and patted his tattooed hand where it rested on the edge of the tub. He was trying to sweat out the last stubborn kilos. “It’s the worst part, right? Just keep in mind it’ll be over soon. You’ll be back in your room with water, proper food, all of it.”

“Mmhhhhh…” He dragged the sound out into a groan the second she mentioned food.

She stopped.

Right. Not helpful.

She didn’t really know how to distract him, how to pull his thoughts away from it. So she fell back on something people didn’t usually like.

She rambled.

“When I was little, I had a rabbit,” she began. “His name was Thunder. He was completely black, except for a white streak down one of his legs.”

She paused briefly, glancing at him. His eyes, warm brown, were focused on her. Alert. He was actually listening.

She tried not to overthink that and kept going, her fingers absentmindedly picking at the skin around her nails.

“My parents got him for me after I was diagnosed with autism. Rabbits were my favourite animal.” A small pause. “I spent every day with him. He was… my best friend.”

Her voice stayed steady, even if her hands didn't.

“But one day, he fell off the couch and broke his leg.”

Quillan reached out without thinking, his wet hand closing gently around hers to stop her from picking herself raw.

“He broke it, and I was devastated because I thought it was my fault. The vet treated him, put a cast on it, and when it came off, he still had a limp.”

She glanced down briefly at their hands, noticing the contact but not pulling away.

“I started looking into things. I read about hydrotherapy, about stretching, about ways to help him recover properly.” She shifted slightly. “I worked with him every day.”

Quillan’s grip stayed light, resting against the edge of the tub.

“And?” he asked quietly.

“He stopped limping,” she said. “That’s when I decided I wanted to help people. That was the first time I did something like that.”

There was a short pause.

“Well…” he started, voice softer now, “guess I’m glad the little bloke busted his leg then. You’re a good physio.”

“Thanks. Not a physio yet.”

“Yeah, yeah. Soon enough.” He shifted slightly, looking at her properly now. “Hey, when you finish your degree, you reckon you could-”

The door unlocked, cutting him off.

The sound of flip-flops slapping against the floor filled the room as the others came back in.

“Hello, hello, how’s Quillan doing?”

“Good, good,” Lillian answered, pulling her hand back gently. “I think he might be at the right weight now.”

He was, indeed, at the right weight at exactly the right time to pull himself together.

She tried not to hover, knowing he had a lot on his mind and that too many questions would only make it worse. Still, she could not quite help herself and asked if he had any soreness or cramps. He told her he was fine. Lillian nodded, even if she did not fully believe him, and left so he could get ready in peace. 

Mark, whose room was on the same floor as hers, ended up in the lift with her. She took the opportunity straight away, because if she did not ask now, she would overthink it later and probably not ask at all. He had not minded letting her observe a fighter’s weight cut earlier, which she had taken as a sign that he was approachable enough to handle her questions without thinking she was being annoying.

No, they did not need to be there at the weigh-ins. Yes, she could go, and he was going himself.

That was all she needed to know. She went to her room and got ready to meet him in the hotel lobby. She changed out of her work clothes and chose something more comfortable. A baggy pair of blue jeans and a green hoodie, loose enough that she would not be distracted by how it felt on her skin. 

Unsurprisingly, the weigh-ins were kind of boring. Not bad, just slow. She lost Mark somewhere backstage at some point, though she was not entirely sure when, but she managed to find a spot with a clear view. A good angle, which mattered more to her than standing with anyone.

That was until she saw Quillan from where she was standing backstage, and her breath caught before she could stop it. He looked so… normal. Not drained and worn out like he had in his room earlier. They announced his weight, and only then did she let her breath out slowly, realising she had been holding it.

Once it was done, he moved quickly, clearly not interested in hanging around any longer than necessary. She stepped in without thinking too much about it and handed him the bottle of water she had brought with her, already unscrewed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just wanna get back to the room, hey.” He took the bottle, nodding once. “Bit cooked, but I’ll be alright.”

Thankfully, the hotel was not far away. It was nothing a quick five-minute car ride could not fix, and the drive itself was quiet. They ended up back in the physio area at the hotel, where the atmosphere shifted back into something more clinical.

That was when he finally admitted, a bit offhand, that he had been dealing with cramps for a while.

“Didn’t think it was worth carrying on about,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just comes and goes. Bit annoying, that’s all.”

She did not yell at him for it. She wanted to, but she held it back. Getting angry would not help him now, and she knew that. Instead, she focused on what needed to be done.

They went their separate ways afterwards. He stepped out when the lift stopped at his floor, giving her a small nod before heading off, while she stayed inside as the doors closed again and carried on up.

She did not see him again until about an hour before he was fighting.

She and Mark had already been there, helping fighters warm up, when he showed up out of nowhere. She caught him in the corner of her eye, but he was gone so fast it almost felt unreal, like she’d imagined it.

Mark noticed. He told her to focus and pick up the pace, nothing more. She took it well. A bit embarrassed, sure, but she got on with it.

She checked her watch, listened out for announcements. The closer it got, the more wound up she became. By now, she considered him a friend. She didn’t want to miss his fight. Didn’t want to miss seeing him after either.

She was eventually dismissed when she got too agitated to keep working properly. The second she was free, she made a beeline for where she’d last seen him and pushed open the nearest door. Didn’t matter if she got it wrong and walked in on someone else. Lillian had a job to do.

Turned out it was the right room. And he was alone.

He looked good. Focused. He turned quickly when she walked in and gave her a small nod.

“When are you in?” she asked.

“Next,” he said, like it was nothing. “Pretty much up.”

“Oh.” A short pause. She stepped closer. “How do you feel?”

She remembered what they’d said before, about nerves. She watched his eyes closely and caught a flicker.

“Can’t lie,” he said, letting out a breath. “Got a few nerves, hey.”

“Hey.” The blonde tilted her head slightly. “Remember, being anxious or scared doesn’t actually help you.”

He didn’t look convinced. Like the fear of messing up in front of everyone was bigger than anything else. She stepped closer again, grounding herself before speaking.

“It’s not you. The fear’s just… something else. It’s trying to take over. Don’t let it. You’re better than that, and I know it. Whatever happens out there is going to happen anyway.”

He breathed in, eyes still locked on hers. She’d never felt someone look at her like that before, that steady, that intense. After a moment, he let the breath out and gave a small nod.

“Yeah… alright. Thanks. You’re right.”

He still looked nervous, but the tightness in his shoulders eased a bit. He shut his eyes for a second.

“You’re on!”

His team came in, loud and ready, and he gave her one last look before heading out.

For a moment, she just stood there, unsure what to do next. Then, almost on autopilot, her legs carried her back to where Mark was. There were screens set up, sound off, the fight already on. She watched him through the screen, not hearing a word from the commentators, fingers twitching, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Mark was the only one there now.

“Wanna head out there?” he asked.

“We can?”

“Yeah, course. Come on, we’ll go cageside.”

The minute or so she missed felt like the longest minute of her life.

And when she finally got there, she barely had anything left to see.

Because Quillan had already submitted his opponent.

Halfway through the first round.

And she screamed.

All that tension just left her body as she bounced on the spot, pure relief and excitement hitting at once.

The second the cage doors opened, he spotted her straight away.

“Told ya, hey, you were right!” he said, grinning, coming up to her. He patted her shoulder a couple of times, ruffling her hair. “You called it.”

“I was,” she said, nodding, almost dazed.

Then he was gone again.

She stayed, but she wasn’t really watching anymore. Not like Mark, who was completely into it. She didn’t care that much about MMA, and he clocked it straight away.

“Go on,” he said. “Go see him.”

“Sorry?”

“Go see Salkilld. You’ve been glued to him all week. Go. Reckon he’d be happy to see you.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, unsure, but she went anyway.

Same room as before.

Door open this time.

Empty again.

Where was everyone?

She hovered near the doorway until Quillan, sitting on the bench, looked up and waved her in.

“Hey, Lillian. C’mon, don’t lurk out there. Get in here.”

“You okay?” she asked, grabbing the bottle near him and handing it over. “Drink.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, taking a swig. “Better than good, actually. Over the moon.”

“You smashed it.”

“Cheers.” A pause. He shifted a bit, then looked at her properly. “Before I get cut off again like last time… this might sound a bit out of nowhere, yeah, and you can tell me to piss off if you want…”

She stilled, watching him.

“…but d’you wanna go on a date?”

A date?

She looked at him properly then. His warm brown eyes, messy hair, tattoos peeking over his shoulders. Really looked. The guy who’d bought her a cookie and stopped her from spiralling over her work. The one who made everything feel easy just by talking.

“It’s all good if you-”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yeah?” he blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, yeah?”

“Yes.”

He broke into a grin, wide and genuine. Still shirtless, still in his fight gear, still riding the high. And even when his team burst in, loud and celebrating, he didn’t stop smiling.

He stood, grabbed her hand, and lifted it up as music started playing somewhere in the background.

“C’mon,” he said, already bouncing. “Gotta celebrate properly, hey.”

And she did. She bounced along with him, a bit awkward at first, but smiling all the same.

tom aspinall x male oc, 6.9k words, one shot, angst & tension heavy

Time had stopped. It had been that way for a while. The world carried on turning, people carried on living, but he remained… there. Dimmed. Half-erased. Like something left behind after everything important had already gone. A body without direction. A life without purpose. What was he meant to do now, broken as he was, with the only thing that had ever made him feel alive forever out of reach?

He existed, if it could even be called that, with his aunt, his father’s sister, in Manchester. He had needed to leave London after it all happened. He needed distance, something less suffocating.

Before, Itzal had been everything he had ever wanted to be. Dancing with the Royal Ballet at the Royal Opera House had been the dream. Since he was a small child, it had all been leading to that. He had achieved it. He had made it real. And he would have gone even further, he knew he would have, had the injury not taken everything from him in one merciless moment.

Now, he was like a puppet with its strings cut.

His Achilles tendon had ruptured.

At first, he had clung to hope with both hands. He had told himself that with enough discipline, enough physio, enough effort, he would return. That he would rebuild, come back stronger, prove that he was not so easily broken. But time passed, and hope wore thin. Even when he could stand again, even when he could walk, something inside him had not come back with the rest. His confidence had vanished, and with it, his sense of self and his reason to keep going. It had all drained away, leaving behind something hollow that still answered to the name Itzal.

So he had left London behind.

Because staying there, surrounded by everything he had lost, had been unbearable.

He was twenty-eight now. It had happened when he was twenty-six. Two years, and he had done nothing but slip further away from who he used to be. He moved from therapist to therapist, never quite settling, never quite opening up, always circling the same emptiness without finding a way through it.

This one, though… she was persistent in a way the others had not been. Determined, almost. She kept pushing him, gently but firmly, towards something different. Something outside of the small, stagnant world he had built for himself.

She had suggested a book club once. He had not gone. Then the cinema, something quieter, something he could do alone, though she had quickly withdrawn the idea.

He stared at his reflection in the darkened computer screen as she spoke, his own image faint beneath hers. His hair, naturally a soft, dirty blonde, had grown out unevenly, hacked at clumsily at home until it fell past his ears in messy, unstructured layers. It would never have been allowed before, not when every detail of his appearance had mattered. His hazel eyes looked dull, rimmed with shadows from a restless sleep that never seemed to leave him properly rested.

And then there was her, neat and composed on the other side of the call. Dark brown hair pinned back carefully, glasses catching the light of her screen, that polite and professional smile fixed in place.

Placed beside her, he looked even more like something unfinished. Like something fading.

“So, Itzal.”

There it was again. The slight mispronunciation. Subtle, but always there. He had never corrected anyone. It did not seem worth the effort.

“I know you’re not keen on going out, but…” She paused, biting her lip, hesitating in a way that suggested she was choosing her next words carefully. “There’s this place. They run beginner classes, and I came across it the other day. It made me think of you.”

“What is it?” he asked, his voice flat, though there was a faint flicker of curiosity beneath it.

“Have you ever heard of MMA? Mixed martial arts.” She leaned forward slightly, encouraged by the fact that he had not immediately shut the idea down. “There’s a gym in Manchester that does beginner sessions. I think it could be good for you. It’s different. It’s still physical, still a sport, like what you used to do, but completely unlike ballet.”

Before he could refuse, she carried on, her words coming a little quicker now.

“It won’t be anything like ballet. It’s chaotic, it’s raw, there aren’t the same constraints. No rigid structure, no perfectionism in the same way. You told me you miss the physical side of things, the discipline, but you also said you were exhausted by the pressure, by the expectations at that level. This could give you something active again, without all of that weighing on you.”

She looked slightly nervous now, as if she had said too much, or pushed too far.

He just wanted it to be over.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, his tone dull, almost detached. “I’ll give it a go.”

And she made sure he did. Not by pushing him, of course. She had learned quickly enough that trying to force him into anything only made him retreat further into himself, curling up like a snail into its shell. Instead, she sent a single email. Just the address of a gym, and a link to their website. Nothing more.

So he signed up online, and gave himself a week to build up to going in person, just to ask about their beginner classes.

Several days came and went where he woke up and decided he simply could not do it.

Anxiety was a vicious thing. It wore him down gradually, quietly, until even the smallest task felt insurmountable, and most of the time he could do nothing but endure it.

Then one Tuesday, he woke up and decided he would at least try. It was unusually sunny for that time of year, the kind of crisp, bright morning that felt almost out of place. Birds were singing outside, the soft sound drifting in through his open window and reaching him before anything else. It grounded him, in a way.

It was enough to lift his mood, if only slightly. Enough for him to get up straight away and step into the shower, because he had learnt to act on motivation the moment it appeared. If he waited, it would vanish.

Once he was clean, his blonde hair falling into its usual uneven, slightly overgrown shape, he still carried that faint impression of someone who had never quite settled into adulthood, at least not outwardly. He pulled on a grey sweatshirt and black joggers. Comfortable. Simple. He did not feel like putting effort into anything beyond what was necessary.

He greeted his aunt on his way out, as he always did, exchanged a few quiet words, then headed to his car and set off towards the address his therapist had given him.

When he arrived, he turned the engine off but did not move.

He stayed there for a good fifteen minutes, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, staring at the building as if it had personally wronged him. It felt absurd, in a distant sort of way. There had been a time when he would have walked into any place like this without a second thought, eager, even impatient.

Now, the idea alone made his chest tighten.

It would be the first time in a long while that he had stepped into anything resembling that environment.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, then unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. After locking it, he pulled his hood up, more out of habit than anything else, and headed towards the entrance with his phone clutched in his hand.

He always kept it there. A sort of shield. As though holding it meant something could not go wrong. He did not quite know what he expected to happen, or what exactly he was afraid of, but the habit remained.

The inside of the gym was… alright.

Music played quietly in the background. The space looked clean, at least from what he could see near the entrance. It was not particularly busy, which he assumed was due to the time of day, and he found himself oddly grateful for it.

A woman stood behind the front desk. When she noticed him, she offered a friendly smile.

“Hello,” she said, gesturing for him to come closer. “First time here? Are you looking for information, or…?” Her gaze moved over him briefly, not unkind, simply assessing.

He hesitated, unsure how to phrase it, how much to say.

So he settled for the truth, plain and unpolished.

“Uh, yeah. I’m trying to get back into some sort of training,” he said, voice a little rough at first before he cleared his throat. “My therapist suggested I come down. I was just wondering if I could get some information about your beginner sessions… classes, I mean.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I had a ruptured Achilles tendon a while back, so I don’t really know what I can and can’t do yet.”

A part of him expected her to hesitate. To frown, or tell him it was not a good idea. Something that would give him an easy way out.

Instead, she simply nodded, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Oh, yeah, no worries at all,” she replied easily. “We’ve had loads of people come in after injuries, honestly. We’ll just take it steady with you, that’s all. Nothing mad, nothing you’re not comfortable with.” She leaned slightly on the counter, tone reassuring, casual in that distinctly northern way. “We’ll look after you. You won’t be chucked in at the deep end or anything like that.”

And just like that, his excuse slipped quietly out of reach.

So he’d been talked through what to wear for class by the receptionist, who tipped her screen towards him just enough to show a few examples. What he needed to bring. What the gym could lend him, which was relieving seeing as money was tight for him at the minute. Then she mentioned there was already a class in session, adding that he was more than welcome to sit in and watch if he fancied it.

So he did.

They were practising striking.

Everyone was paired off, headguards strapped on, shin pads secured tight around their legs, gloves raised in front of their faces. The sharp smack of leather against hard bodies echoed through the gym in uneven rhythms. Heavy bags swung gently in the background. Someone laughed after getting clipped too hard as the other apologised. Music crackled faintly through the gym’s speakers overhead.

Itzal stayed tucked away in the corner, trying not to draw attention to himself, trying to become part of the walls instead of another body inside the room. This was supposed to be one of the beginner groups, though to him they already looked frighteningly capable. Fast hands. Sharp footwork, though hesitant. There was confidence in their movements. Hell, the blond was not even certain he knew how to throw a punch properly.

Still, he stayed for the rest of the session, watching in silence. Watching the flow of movement, the balance, the discipline behind every strike, listening to the coach’s explanations even though they weren’t made for him. Watching bodies move together and against one another made something ache violently inside him.

It made him think of dancing.

Of polished studio floors beneath soft shoes. Of mirrors stretching from wall to wall. Of aching muscles. Of rehearsals that left him exhausted but alive.

The smell of sweat and the sound of pain reminded him painfully of everything he had lost, and everything some stubborn part of him still wanted back.

Walking into the gym had not been nearly as terrifying as he’d imagined. Discovering the place had been manageable. 

Actually doing something was the frightening part.

And he was nowhere near ready for that.

So when he came back the following week, he simply greeted the receptionist again. She recognised him immediately, giving him an approving thumbs up at the sight of the clothes he’d remembered to wear this time.

“You joining in today, then?” she asked curiously.

He honestly didn’t know.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

In the end, it became a sort of ritual.

Every week, at exactly the same time, the blond would appear. Sometimes he stood against the wall. Sometimes he crouched near the mats. Sometimes he sat cross-legged on the floor with his elbows resting loosely on his knees.

And every week, he watched.

Itzal observed everything with a strange sort of detachment, as though he were no longer a person at all, only a camera lens taking everything in. Something passive. Something invisible. He paid for every class despite never participating, despite nobody really knowing his name, despite convincing himself that nobody noticed him there in the first place.

But after nearly two months of sitting quietly at the edge of the room, something began to shift inside him.

A small spark of energy settled beneath his ribcage like a frightened bird curled inside its nest. Each week it grew a little stronger, fluttering awake whenever gloves cracked against pads or feet pivoted sharply across the mats. He could feel it moving through his muscles, through his veins, warming him from the inside out and coaxing him towards the floor.

Towards movement.

Towards life again.

But he still could not make himself do it.

“Why d’you never join in?”

The voice snapped him clean out of his thoughts.

Itzal turned sharply, rough-cut blond hair falling near his eyes as he looked up and immediately found himself confronted by an absolute wall of a man.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Solid muscle onto an already massive frame.

Christ.

He actually had to tilt his head back properly just to look at him.

For a second, the words dried up entirely in his throat. All he could really do was blink at the stranger standing over him. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A rough sort of goatee framing his mouth. 

The man spoke again before Itzal could think of a response.

“I’ve seen you here loads now,” he said, voice thick with that unmistakable Manc accent. “Same time every week an’ all. You just sit watchin’. How come?”

He looked as though he’d only just stepped out of the changing rooms himself. Training clothes clung tightly to his body, outlining every inch of muscle, every curve of his body. He carried his gloves casually in one enormous hand.

Itzal found himself staring at those hands for a moment too long. Wondering whether they were genuinely as massive as they looked. Wondering how much damage they could do compared to hands like his own, long-fingered and frail.

The stranger noticed his staring and gave the faintest grin.

“You alright there?” he asked, amused. “Look like I’ve proper frightened you off.”

“No, yeah… I’m good.” Itzal snapped out of his reverie, shoulders tightening as though he’d been caught somewhere far away, somewhere he wasn’t allowed to be. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t feel ready to join in.” He admitted it quietly to this stranger who, despite being built like a brick wall and towering over him, somehow didn’t feel intimidating at all. There was something oddly easy about him. Like the calm before a storm.

“I get that.” The man nodded, leaning his weight onto one leg. “You’re not really one for massive groups, are you?”

The words stung more than Itzal expected, because he used to be. God, he used to thrive in crowded rehearsal studios. Twenty people warming up at the barre, music echoing through the room, instructors shouting corrections. He had once lived for that sort of atmosphere. Now it made his chest tighten.

He shrugged, dragging a nervous hand through his blond hair. “No. Not anymore, I suppose. Used to be, though.”

The stranger tilted his head slightly, curious. Maybe confused too. Then, after a brief pause, he offered something that was strangely difficult to turn down.

“Well, I was just about to do some training anyway.” He jerked his head towards the open area, away from where the class was held. “You wanna come with me?”

It was ridiculous how quickly something inside Itzal eased at that. Maybe that was all he’d been waiting for. Not an open door, but an actual invitation. Someone extending a hand instead of expecting him to force himself through alone. Someone actually wanting him there.

“If it’s not a bother, then… yeah.” The blond answered, though his brow pinched with worry a second later. “I don’t actually have any equipment of my own, though. I don’t know if they’d be too pleased about me taking things if I’m not properly participating.”

The stranger simply brushed past him before he could overthink himself out of it. The coach spotted him immediately.

“Hiya, Tom!” he called.

The two exchanged a few quiet words. The coach glanced briefly towards Itzal before giving Tom a small nod. Tom carried on towards the shelves stacked with gloves and shin guards, rummaging through them before selecting a pair of each that looked about right.

“Right then, let’s go.” He passed by Itzal again, already walking away from the main training area as though he expected him to follow.

“Wait, where are we going?” Itzal asked, confused, though he still took the gloves and shin pads Tom handed him.

Tom glanced down at him briefly before starting up a flight of stairs. “I don’t train down there.” His Mancunian accent softened the words. “Got my own room up here. And besides…” He shot him a quick look over his shoulder. “You don’t really fancy training in front of all them lot, do you?”

Just the thought of it made Itzal grimace.

“Yeah, thought so.” Tom smirked faintly. “I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Itzal.”

Tom repeated it once under his breath as though testing the pronunciation. “That’s different. Where’s it from?”

He reached the top of the stairs, pulling a ring of keys from his joggers pocket before unlocking the door. Itzal couldn’t help noticing that. His own room. His own keys.

“It’s Basque,” Itzal explained as they stepped inside. “South-west of France. It means ‘shadow’.”

Tom looked back at him with raised brows. “That’s actually sick, that.”

The room itself was far larger than Itzal expected. Mats covered most of the floor. A heavy bag hung in the corner. Shelves lined one wall, filled with neatly organised equipment. But what drew his attention immediately was the MMA cage sectioned off to the side.

His eyes widened.

“Bloody hell.” His eyebrows shot up as he slowly turned in place. “This is… honestly a bit intimidating.”

Tom waved a dismissive hand, completely unbothered. “Nah, don’t worry about all that.” He shut the door behind them. “Looks worse than it is.”

Easy for him to say.

Tom tossed his own gloves onto the mats before turning back towards him. Up close, he was even broader than Itzal first realised. Thick shoulders stretching his shirt. It seemed he would be dangerous inside that octagon. And yet his expression stayed open and relaxed, like he genuinely didn’t want Itzal to feel uncomfortable.

“We’re basically just doing exactly what they’re doing downstairs,” Tom explained. “Only difference is, this time you’re actually joining in.”

There was a teasing edge to it that made warmth creep embarrassingly into Itzal’s face.

Tom noticed immediately.

“There he is,” he grinned. “That’s the first proper expression I’ve seen on your face, and I’ve seen it plenty.”

“Do you make a habit of spying on people?” the blond asked, one eyebrow raised.

At that very moment, Tom clapped his hands together and motioned for him to get ready so they could start.

Once he was set, gloves pulled on and shin pads forgotten for the time being, Tom grabbed a pair of small focus mitts and guided him towards the centre of the mats.

“Right then,” he said, lifting one of the pads. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me. Go on, hit it.”

So Itzal did.

Tom grimaced almost immediately.

“Ah. Right. Yeah, we’ve got a bit of work to do there.”

The brunet took off one of the pads and reached for his wrist instead. Goosebumps prickled instantly across Itzal’s skin as Tom’s warm fingers wrapped around him, guiding him gently. He tried to focus on the movement Tom was correcting rather than the heat of his touch.

It was not difficult to remember, really. Almost like choreography.

Jab, cross, hook, uppercut.

His body understood sequences better than anything else.

“Relax your shoulders a bit,” Tom said. “You’re too tense. You punch like you’re afraid of it.”

Itzal huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself.

“Sorry. I’ll try to be more violent.”

“There we go,” Tom grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Once he settled into it properly, things became easier. They stayed mostly in place, working through the punches one at a time while Tom called them out.

“Jab. Cross. Uppercut.”

The pads cracked sharply beneath his gloves.

“Again. Jab, cross, hook.”

Itzal followed the rhythm instinctively. There was something oddly familiar about it, the repetition, the precision, the constant awareness of balance and posture. Different from ballet in almost every way, yet strangely similar underneath it all.

And every time Tom nodded in approval or gave him one of those quick little smiles, Itzal found himself standing straighter, feeling lighter somehow. More capable. Less broken.

That first session was not particularly physical. By the end of it, they found themselves sitting side by side on the mats, the empty room quiet around them save for the distant hum of muffled voices downstairs.

Tom leaned back on his hands slightly.

“So,” he said casually, “what made you sign up in the first place?”

“Therapist’s recommendation,” Itzal replied.

He did not particularly want to elaborate. Still, after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled down the edge of his sock just enough to reveal the scar running along the back of his lower right calf, just above the ankle.

“See that?”

Tom’s blue eyes flicked down immediately, curiosity softening into concern as he looked at it.

Once he was sure he had seen properly, Itzal tugged the sock back into place.

“Achilles tendon surgery.”

Tom sucked air through his teeth with a wince.

“Oof. Nasty one, that.”

Absent-mindedly, he rubbed at his own knee, and Itzal wondered whether he had remembered one of his own injuries.

“How’d you do it?” Tom asked.

“Dancing.” Itzal glanced down at his forgotten gloves for a moment. “I used to dance professionally. Ballet.”

Tom looked genuinely surprised.

“Seriously?”

Itzal nodded once.

“Not anymore, though?”

“Can’t,” he answered quietly, swallowing against the familiar ache in his throat. “I can’t move the way I used to. It’s too risky now. If I overcompensate, I could injure something else.”

“Hm.”

Tom nodded slowly before patting him across the back.

The sheer size of his hand startled Itzal a little. Warmth spread straight through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he had to fight not to tense beneath the touch.

“I did my knee a few years back,” Tom said. “Not fun, that. But in this sport, injuries are just part of it, really.”

“How do you mean?” Itzal asked, finding that he genuinely wanted him to keep talking. It felt nice, having a normal conversation with someone who was not his aunt or his therapist for once.

Tom shrugged lightly.

“Well, the whole point of fighting is basically hurting each other, innit? So everyone gets injured eventually. Everyone’s already carrying something. Bad shoulders, knees gone, broken hands, whatever.” He paused. “The stakes are still high, obviously, but it’s different. Injuries don’t automatically mean everything’s over.”

Itzal looked at him properly then.

“That’s your career?”

Tom blinked.

“Oh. Right.” A grin spread across his face. “To be fair, I sort of assumed you knew that already with the way you looked at me earlier.”

Itzal immediately felt heat rise to his cheeks.

“That’s unfortunately just my face whenever someone speaks to me.”

Tom laughed under his breath, warm and easy.

“Fair enough.”

Then he tilted his head slightly.

“But yeah. I fight professionally.”

Itzal stared at him for a second longer than was probably socially acceptable. Of course he did. Suddenly, the expertise, the cauliflower ears, the impossible size of him all made much more sense.

“Right,” he murmured. “That does explain quite a lot.”

Tom’s grin widened.

“Hopefully next week I won’t scare you as much then.”

Then, with a soft groan, he unfolded himself from the mats and stood up, reaching over to grab his phone from the bench nearby.

“Go on then,” he said, unlocking it and holding it out towards him. “Gimme your number. If you want, I mean.”

And so Itzal did.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

When the next week rolled around, Itzal couldn’t have been more excited.

Working out had felt good. Better than good. It had felt almost cathartic. Even the ache afterwards had felt less like pain and more like release, like his body was finally remembering what it had once been made for. For the first time in years, he’d felt close to himself again. Maybe not close to a stage, or the rush of performance lights and orchestral swells, but close to feeling like Itzal again.

And Tom. Christ.

Itzal couldn’t quite put into words how grateful he was for the man. Tom was taking time out of his own day, free of charge, just to help him. No judgement, no pity. Tom treated him normally. Pushed him normally. Looked at him normally.

That alone felt dangerously addictive.

When Itzal arrived at the gym that afternoon, Tom was already there waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, phone in one hand, the other tucked casually into his joggers pocket. He looked unfairly good in the bright gym lighting, all broad shoulders and thick forearms, dark hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it.

Today they were introducing footwork.

Which was exactly why Itzal was nervous.

Tom seemed to sense it before they’d even stepped onto the mats. He was helping strap the gloves onto Itzal’s hands, fingers brushing against his wrists every now and then, steady and warm.

“Nervous?” Tom asked, glancing up at him.

The northern lilt in his voice did something strange to Itzal’s stomach.

“A little, yeah,” he admitted. “I don’t really fancy reawakening old pains. Or injuring myself again.”

“You won’t,” Tom said immediately. “We’ll make sure of that, won’t we? We’ll get a proper stretch in first. Twenty minutes at least before we start moving properly.” He nodded towards Itzal’s ankle. “Did you do physio after your Achilles tendon injury?”

“Some,” Itzal replied. “Not as much as I probably should have. I was planning on warming up anyway.”

“Good.” Tom gave an approving nod. “That’s what I like to hear. We’ll go through some basics while we’re stretching then. Save us wasting time later.”

So they did.

Tom talked him through positioning, balance, shifting weight, the importance of staying light on his feet. Itzal listened carefully.

Once they finally started, they eased into it slowly.

Tom moved around him with practised fluidity, sometimes stepping back, sometimes forwards, sometimes circling him entirely, mitts raised as he called for punches. Itzal followed instinctively, trying to keep pace.

Only, he quickly realised he didn’t actually have to try very hard at all.

Despite the years away from movement, despite the injury and the bitterness and everything he’d convinced himself he’d lost, his body still remembered.

His dancing background showed in every step.

The way he shifted his weight was smooth and controlled, every pivot steady, every adjustment instinctive. He didn’t have to think about where his feet were landing because, for the first time in years, he trusted them again. Trusted them to carry him where he needed to go without collapsing beneath him.

It felt strangely natural.

Like dancing with a partner.

A violent sort of duet.

Tom moved and Itzal followed, gloves cracking against the mitts in sharp rhythms that echoed through the gym. It became a strange game of cat and mouse, all smooth violence and breathless praise, with Tom’s blue eyes constantly flicking over him, analysing every movement. Itzal found himself watching him right back, studying the older man with equal intensity.

Predator and prey.

He just couldn’t tell which one he was.

Not until suddenly there was a wall behind his back and Tom standing only inches away from him.

Itzal hadn’t even realised he’d been backed into the corner.

Tom lowered the mitts slightly, chest rising with controlled breaths.

“You’re good,” he said, sounding almost surprised by it. “Like, really good.”

Itzal huffed out a quiet laugh, still trying to catch his breath. “I honestly didn’t think I would be.”

“I knew you’d move alright because of the dancing,” Tom admitted. “Balance, coordination, all that. But this?” He shook his head once, eyes fixed on him. “Nah. This is something else.”

“Better than my striking?” Itzal asked lightly.

If he were being truthful with himself, he’d admit he wasn’t asking out of curiosity. He just wanted to hear Tom praise him again.

“Loads better,” Tom said without hesitation.

And God, the way he looked at him when he said it.

Those blue eyes bored straight into his, intense enough to make Itzal’s pulse stumble awkwardly in his chest. He could feel a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth, small and helpless.

At the very least, he managed not to stare openly at Tom’s lips.

Though it was becoming increasingly difficult not to.

He knew he was absolutely fucked the moment Tom finally pulled the mitts off and Itzal caught himself discreetly searching his hands for a wedding ring.

He didn’t find one.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

“So, Itzal.” His therapist said from the other side of the screen. “Long time no see, hey? What’s it been now, a month and a half? How have you been holding up?”

“Good. Yeah, good.” He answered, a touch awkwardly, shifting in his chair. “I’ve kept going to the gym.”

That caught her attention immediately. Last time they had spoken, he had admitted he’d been going there physically without ever truly participating. Hovering around the edges, sitting through classes without joining in. Existing rather than living.

Now, apparently, that had changed.

“Really?” She nudged her glasses further up her nose with one finger. “And how’s that been going for you?”

He felt something warm and nervous flutter low in his chest at the thought of mentioning Tom. Even just saying his name aloud seemed dangerous somehow. He still did not know whether that feeling was going to become a problem or not.

“It’s… good.” He glanced down briefly, fighting off the smile threatening to creep onto his face. “I feel useful there. I train with one person mainly, because he noticed I was hesitant about joining the group and sort of stepped in.”

His smile won in the end, faint but impossible to suppress.

“He’s a professional fighter. And he helps me a lot.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Itzal.” She smiled back, though there was still the slightest crease between her brows, the kind therapists got when they sensed there was something sitting underneath the surface. “So why did you feel like you needed a session today?”

The blond paused.

His own reflection stared back at him through the computer screen. Hair still too long, falling awkwardly around his face. His features looked softer these days, less gaunt than before. Healthier, maybe. And there was something in his eyes that had not been there for months. A spark.

“I think…” He swallowed. “I think I might end up developing feelings for that person. And I don’t really know how to deal with that.”

Her expression softened immediately.

“What are you worried might happen?”

“I’m scared I’ll just…” He exhaled shakily. “Stop going altogether if things don’t work out. Or if he doesn’t feel the same.”

Because that was how it always worked, wasn’t it?

Ballet had been his entire life until his body betrayed him. He knew exactly how easily love could become grief.

The therapist listened carefully before telling him, gently and in far more professional terms, that he needed to do what was healthiest for him emotionally. Protect his peace. Maintain boundaries if he felt himself spiraling.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

So that was what he tried to do.

Or at least, he convinced himself that was what he was doing.

Because the next time Tom texted him asking if they were still training the following afternoon, Itzal cancelled on him, pretending he was ill.

And God, Itzal hated the warmth that spread through his stomach reading it, the little “Get well soon”. Hated how a simple text could affect him that much.

He decided he would kill whatever this was before it got any worse.

The week after that, he claimed he still was not feeling up to training.

And this time, guilt settled heavy in his chest afterwards.

He could practically feel himself withering the longer he stayed away from the gym. From the routine. From the only thing that had made him feel remotely alive again since the injury ended his career. And the sad little smiley face Tom had attached to his reply this time made Itzal want to slam his own head against the wall.

So despite every bit of better judgement he possessed, he returned the following week.

And Tom was already there waiting for him in exactly the same spot as always, leaning against the wall near the staircase with his gym bag at his feet.

Only this time he looked… off.

Not angry. Not cold. Just quieter. Less openly cheerful than usual. There was disappointment there, Itzal thought. Something restrained carefully behind Tom’s easygoing expression.

Their conversation on the walk upstairs felt strained.

Thin.

The usual warmth between them had vanished completely.

God, Itzal felt awful.

He could barely bring himself to look Tom in the eye.

Inside the practice room, they got ready in near silence. Itzal stretched carefully across the mats while Tom did the same. He could feel the taller man glancing at him every so often, though Itzal kept his focus firmly downward, pretending to concentrate on his movements instead.

“I was thinkin’ maybe next week we could start a bit of jiu-jitsu.” Tom said eventually in that northern accent of his. 

“Sounds good.” Itzal replied quietly.

And then they started.

Their dance.

Because that was what it had always felt like to Itzal, even from the beginning. Not sparring. Not training. A duet.

Only now, the rhythm had changed.

There was less praise from Tom. Less teasing. Less of that warm encouragement that usually followed every correction he gave.

And despite standing face to face, Itzal could not bear to look directly into his eyes.

Instead, he focused on Tom’s forehead. His jaw. His shoulders. Anywhere but his gaze, because one proper look might break whatever fragile composure he still had left.

“Jab.”

Itzal obeyed instantly.

“Cross.”

Another sharp hit against the pads.

“Uppercut.”

They moved together across the mats in smooth patterns. Duck, pivot, strike, step back. Their bodies still understood each other perfectly even if everything else suddenly felt wrong.

But the air between them had gone dry. Harsh.

His fists slammed harder into the mitts than before, each strike fuelled by a frustration he could not contain. It felt as though he wanted to reach into his own chest, tear his stupid heart out with his bare hands and throw it somewhere far enough away that it could never bother him again.

He hated the thing.

Hated it for ruining the only good thing he had left.

At least Tom’s training had made him harder to corner physically now.

More aware of his surroundings. Even faster on his feet. Tom’s patient coaching had sharpened him over the past weeks in ways Itzal had not even noticed until now.

But unfortunately, there were other ways for Tom to get his attention.

And perhaps the most effective method of all was doing absolutely nothing at all.

So suddenly, Tom lowered his arms to his sides.

No pads raised. No instructions. No movement.

Just standing there staring directly at Itzal, sea-coloured eyes fixed on him expectantly, silently asking for one thing and one thing only.

Look at me.

The blond took a breath and held it, his eyes fixed on the mats beneath his feet. Thoughts crashed through his head too quickly to catch hold of any of them properly. His chest felt tight. He did not know what he was supposed to say, or what he was supposed to do now that everything had finally caught up with him.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Tom looked completely thrown. Worried, maybe.

“What’s goin’ on with you, Itzal?” he asked bluntly, his voice softer than usual despite the directness of it. The way he said his name was effortless, smooth, familiar. Like he had been saying it for years.

“I don’t…” Itzal started weakly. His throat felt dry. “I don’t know.”

Tom frowned immediately.

“Have I done somethin’?” he asked again.

And then Itzal recognised the look in his eyes.

Hurt.

Actual hurt.

“No, you haven’t.” His answer came quickly this time, because that part was true. Tom had done absolutely nothing wrong. The problem was Itzal. It had always been Itzal.

Tom let out a quiet breath, relieved for half a second, but the tension never really left his shoulders.

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing, I swear.” Itzal’s voice came out sharper than he intended. Every question felt like another crack splitting through him. If Tom kept pushing, he was going to fall apart right there.

Tom tilted his head slightly, unconvinced.

“Can’t be nothin’, though, can it?”

Itzal blinked slowly. Hard.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady himself.

The mitts slipped from Tom’s hands and hit the floor with two heavy thuds.

Silence filled the room.

Then he felt Tom’s hands settle carefully on his shoulders, warm and broad and grounding in the worst possible way.

Itzal stepped back immediately, eyes still shut.

Tom stiffened at the rejection, though Itzal did not see it.

“Tom, I can’t…” He swallowed hard enough that it hurt. “I can’t train with you anymore because I’m scared of… of catching feelings for you.” The confession rushed out of him unevenly. “And I don’t wanna ruin this place for myself. Or for you.”

A bitter laugh escaped him then.

“But I think it’s already too late for that anyway.”

He turned away quickly, putting space between them before he could embarrass himself even more.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “I’ll just join the classes with everyone else. You can go back to actually training. You can ignore me. I won’t bother you, I swear.”

For a second, there was nothing.

Then Tom’s brows pulled together so tightly it almost looked painful. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again.

“Catch ’em, then,” he said at last.

Itzal blinked.

Tom shrugged once, almost awkwardly.

“I don’t care.”

Another pause.

“I still wanna train with you.”

And then, quieter this time, more vulnerable than Itzal had ever heard him sound before, Tom added,

“Why d’you think I came over to you in the first place?”

The silence afterwards stretched impossibly long.

Itzal stood completely frozen, like marble carved into shape. The way he slowly turned back around would have been comical if the moment had not felt so unbearably tense.

His eyes were wide.

“What?”

Tom smiled then. Small and crooked and almost shy.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that Itzal could feel the heat coming off him.

Tom’s eyes had softened completely now, all the sharpness gone from them.

“I was drawn to you,” he admitted with a shrug, like it should have been obvious. “So, honestly, hearin’ all that makes me feel a bit better.” A quiet laugh left him. “Thought I was losin’ my head over somethin’ one-sided.”

Itzal shook his head immediately.

One-sided?

Christ.

Tall, broad, unfairly handsome Tom, standing there in fitted gym clothes with those stupid blue eyes looking at him like that.

Not a chance in hell.

A warm hand caught his chin gently between thumb and forefinger, guiding his gaze upwards. Itzal had not even realised he had been staring at Tom’s chest instead of his face.

“Not one-sided?” Tom asked quietly, just wanting to hear him say it.

“No,” Itzal whispered.

The word sounded twice as loud in the empty room.

His heartbeat was going so fast he thought Tom might actually hear it.

Tom moved closer again.

So close.

Close enough for Itzal to see every shade of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could have drowned in them. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against his mouth, to feel the scrape of his stubble.

“Good,” Tom murmured softly.

And then he stopped himself.

Held back.

Like he was waiting for permission.

So Itzal closed the distance himself.

Their lips met all at once, messy and desperate and emotional in a way that made Itzal’s chest ache. Tom kissed him like he had been holding himself back for weeks. One big hand slid to the side of Itzal’s neck instinctively, careful but firm, while the other settled against his waist to pull him closer.

Itzal melted into him immediately.

Every bit of tension he had carried for months, no, years, snapped loose at once.

Their mouths moved together clumsily at first, then perfectly.

Like they’d learned choreography by instinct rather than rehearsal.

And they never stopped dancing.

charles oliveira x max holloway, hurt/comfort, 2,288 words, one shot.

Pure domination.

That was what they were calling it. Pure domination. Somehow it hurt more than any punch or kick that had landed on him tonight. His body had already gone numb to the pain. It tingled and burned at the same time, yet it also felt strangely still, like water that had just stopped boiling. He felt like nothing more than the remnants of a fire. Just ashes left behind.

Pure domination.

And everything he had said leading up to the fight kept replaying in his head.

I guess we’ll find out Saturday night.

Submit a submission artist.

Oh, he had definitely found out.

He was alone in his locker room. His family had stepped out, thank God, leaving him by himself so he could decompress. He sat on the bench with his head in his hands, gently pressing his palm against the goose egg swelling on the left side of his forehead. His mind kept racing. His clothes from before the fight were still hanging neatly on the hooks, untouched since he had walked in. A towel lay beside him, but he could not bring himself to pick it up. He could not make himself stand, could not make himself walk to the shower and step under the water.

It was bittersweet, really. Charles was loved. He understood why people admired him so much. Because of that, part of him felt oddly grateful that, out of everyone, it had been Charles who beat him.

Still, he felt stupid. Stupid for believing, even during that first round, that he might be able to turn the tide. At the time he truly believed he could. He tried to search for something positive in the whole mess, but it was difficult to find much. At least Charles had not humiliated him verbally. At least he had defended himself well enough to avoid the submissions. That alone was enough to keep him from completely falling apart.

He cringed just thinking about the small grin he had worn earlier, the way he had wiggled his eyebrows during the first round barely forty-five minutes ago. God, that had been dumb.

His eyes were closed now. He tried to clear his mind and push through the disappointment the way he usually did after a loss. But this was not just another loss. He could still almost feel Charles’s body against his. Skin pressed against skin, hot and tense, wrapped tightly around him like a massive snake coiling around its prey.

Knock knock knock.

He did not move. He felt as though shifting even an inch would shatter the fragile composure he had managed to build. One wrong movement and he might crumble completely, collapsing into nothing more than a broken version of himself.

Alessa would understand if he did not answer. She knew him well enough for that. She always knew when to give him space, when to leave him alone so he could work through things at his own pace. She was probably just checking on him.

Fuck. All he wanted was to go home, lock himself inside for a couple of days, play video games, and pretend none of this had happened.

Knock knock knock.

Who else could it be besides Alessa? He had no idea. His mind was too tired to think. Still, he had to open the door. That was the polite thing to do, right?

He pushed himself to his feet, suddenly feeling much smaller than he already was, simply because his pride as a fighter had taken such a heavy hit. His limbs ached as the adrenaline finally drained from his body. Most of all, his head throbbed with a dull, relentless pain.

It took him what felt like five full minutes to cross the room and place his hand on the door handle. Somehow he hesitated, staring at the lock, wishing he could just lock himself inside. But he knew himself. He knew that if he shut himself away now, it would take even longer to come out of his shell once he decided he was over it. So he opened the door slowly, taking his time.

It was not Alessa.

Surprisingly enough, it was Charles. Alone. Standing in the empty hallway. Still wearing his shorts, a towel draped around his neck, like he had stayed in the locker room for a long time debating whether he should take a shower before walking over here.

Max felt his mouth go dry. His throat tightened, almost like he might throw up whatever little was left in his stomach, and probably a lot of bile with it.

Why?

He could not ask it out loud.

He took a step back, out of shock, exhaustion, maybe both. He did not know. But Charles, his face serious, took a step forward and slipped into the room, limping slightly. Max had no idea what was going on. He did not know why Charles was here. He did not understand why he was not celebrating with his family somewhere, the belt resting proudly over his shoulder.

“I just wanted to check on you, brother. For real. Had to make sure you were good, you know?” Charles said in his native Portuguese, his voice soft but firm.

He did not speak much English. Only a little. Though he understood a lot more than people assumed. He had not brought his phone with him to use as a translator, and he was hoping his intentions would show clearly on his face.

“Brother,” Max said, letting out a sigh before he could stop himself.

He was exhausted. He was disappointed in himself.

“I don’t speak Portuguese,” he said awkwardly. “But hey… thanks for tonight, man. You’re the champ. No doubt about it. You earned that. I…”

Charles lowered his head slightly, listening carefully. He let the words form a puzzle in his mind, adding piece after piece together as best he could.

“Thank you. I understand,” he said in English. Then he added with a small, shy smile, “We are champ. We both. That’s how it go sometimes, brother.”

The English words still sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.

He studied his former opponent more closely and frowned when he noticed the large swelling that had formed on Max’s face. The goose egg was impossible to miss.

He had done that. He knew it.

Charles stepped closer to Max and gently reached out, angling Max’s face toward the light so he could get a better look. The swelling looked worse now than it had just minutes earlier in the Octagon.

“They didn’t give you ice for that?” he muttered to himself in Portuguese, one eyebrow lifting with quiet irritation.

“Ice?” he repeated in English, brushing the swollen area lightly with the tip of his finger. It felt hot and tight under the skin.

Max hissed and flinched away before relaxing again.

“They gave me ice,” he said slowly so Charles could understand.

He pointed toward the bench where he had been sitting earlier. A discarded ice pack lay there, half-melted and forgotten.

Charles clicked his tongue in disapproval before dragging Max back toward the bench despite his own limp. He bent down, grabbed the ice pack, and pressed it against Max’s forehead, letting the cold water run down his own arm and drip onto Max’s neck and chest.

Max’s skin broke out in goosebumps, and instinctively he reached for his towel.

“Hold this.” Charles told Max, who snapped out of his daze. He was not used to being ordered around like this by guys he had just lost to. Max kept his grip on the ice pack so Charles could slide his hand out from underneath Max’s and drape the towel over the other man’s shoulders.

“Let’s make sure you don’t catch a cold, yeah?” he murmured quietly to himself. A warm feeling settled in his chest as he took care of the other man. It was nice, in a strange way, to be there after the storm had passed, even if he had been the one who caused it.

He used the fabric of the towel to dry Max’s skin, his eyes skimming over the tattoo across Max’s chest. The shapes were intricate, layered, almost hypnotic, and Charles studied them with quiet curiosity while he thought. In his entire career, this had never happened. Visiting opponents after a fight, sure, that was normal. Checking on them, shaking hands, showing respect. But this? Taking care of them like this? Never.

Max’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Charles. I’m disappointed in myself, man. I don’t know.” He stopped abruptly, like he regretted saying anything at all, like the vulnerability had slipped out before he could stop it.

Charles immediately stopped what he was doing. Instead, he placed a hand on each of Max’s shoulders, steadying him, grounding him, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Talk to me. I’m not here to judge.” he said in shaky English.

Max understood him anyway.

“I thought I could beat you, you know? I really believed I could keep the fight standing longer than that. I thought I’d handle myself better on the ground too. But once it started, it felt like all my training just disappeared on me…” Max lowered his head.

Charles’ heart ached for him. The pain on Max’s face was impossible to miss, that heavy disappointment someone felt when they knew they could have done better. Charles had felt that plenty of times himself, of course, but for him it was always something private, something he kept buried deep inside.

So Max’s honesty impressed him. The openness. The courage it took to say it out loud.

Charles’ left arm slid around Max’s body, pulling him closer as he gave him a reassuring pat on the back. At the same time, he lowered his own head and rested it against Max’s shoulder. With his right hand, he gently guided Max’s head closer until the Hawaiian naturally let it rest on the Brazilian’s shoulder without Charles even needing to ask.

Their heads touched. They were almost ear to ear now. Charles could feel the ice pack leaking water down his shoulder and across his back, but he did not care.

“You did good, Max. Really good.” he said in English before continuing in Portuguese, the words coming easier in his native language. “You were strong on the ground. Stronger than most. You surprised me there. I respect that about you. I respect your heart, the way you keep going no matter what happens. I respect the skills you bring into that cage and the man you are outside of it. You’re a good man. You’ve got a good family. This fight doesn’t define you. None of this does. It’s a job, just like any other, maybe harder than most. And I’m grateful we got to do it together. I’m grateful we shared that moment in there. You just need a little time, that’s all. But I know you’ll lift your head back up and keep doing what you do. You always do, right?”

His voice stayed low and soft. His skin was still burning hot from the fight, and Max breathed slowly, steady now. The smell of sweat hung in the air, his and Charles’ mixing together in the quiet locker room. Charles’ voice, calm and steady, slowly settled the storm still raging inside him.

Max had no idea what Charles was actually saying.

But he was grateful for the visit anyway.

It took him a while to lift his head back up after that loss, a lot longer than it usually took him. Normally he bounced back quickly, the way fighters learn to do, but this time the weight of it sat heavy on his chest and refused to move.

After that moment, Charles and he stayed there together. They embraced for a while in silence, breathing in what the other breathed out, holding on like neither of them was in a rush to let the moment end. Then, sitting together after Max forced the other man to sit down because of his limp, they talked about life, about family, about the small everyday things that make up a life outside the octagon, about everything except what had just happened out there. That helped him unburden himself. The conversation slowly filled his head back up with better thoughts, the kind that push the noise and the doubt out of the way.

He was grateful to Charles.

The man had left after they promised each other they would visit once they were both feeling a little better, once the bruises and cuts had time to fade and things settled down again.

He was now on his couch, lounging, most of his injuries already gone, though the wound on his heart was taking a little longer to accept its stitches. Physical pain faded fast for him. The other kind sometimes took its time.

His phone buzzed.

charlesdobronxs: oi max, tudo bem? vc toparia vir me visitar no brasil? vc e sua familia sao bem vindos la na fazenda, irmao.

He clicked on the translation button and read it through. A smile slowly spread across his face.

blessedmma: for sure brother 🙏🏻 how about next week?

Charles answered almost right away with a smiley face and a thumbs up.

Max’s heart warmed at the thought of a quiet vacation in a normal place, somewhere far from cameras and the constant pressure of the public. A place where people would not tiptoe around him or treat him like he was either fragile or dangerous.

nahhh stfuuu pls if you post stuff on the internet you will have to be fine with this or dont post PUPLIC

LMFAOOOOO are u stupid on purpose or like on accident

dana white x every current ufc champ? ☺️☺️