onewhoturns

A/N Dec 2018: Anyway, here’s the rest of what I’ve got so far on the Jacob/Reader ficlet. This probably won’t be the last of it, but it does wrap up cleanly for something resembling a chapter. And I’m happy with it, so I figured I’d share. ^^ Also, have I mentioned how much I love this art by @kingsdarga? Because it may have contributed to my enjoyment writing this. Cross-posted on Tumblr.

Title: N/A (in other words, I have no clue)
Chapter: 2/?
Pairing: Jacob Frye x Reader
Word count: 3356
Rating: T for canon-typical violence
Summary: You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good on him. [fight club!Jacob]
start here (1/?)

Previously: And that was how you ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of you made your way to the foundry. You held her arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted your fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He’d laughed, claiming your eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.

It was grotesque in a sort of fascinating way, where you didn’t want to watch and yet you couldn’t look away. It was disgusting, and so often brutish, but god there was something exhilarating about it.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been there before you’d sobered up just enough to remember your curfew. Just as you asked William for the time, the bookie with the ridiculous hat (and jacket, and trousers) announced a new challenger.

William shook his head, brushing off your request. “Give it a minute. I saw this one at a club down Lambeth way, he’s brilliant.”

Pursing your lips in annoyance, you tried again. “That’s lovely and all, but this fight could take ages and I need the work.”

Will didn’t even look at you, eyes focused on the challenger, letting out a slight snort of laughter. “Nah, this’ll be quick,” he assured. And with a pat to your back he quickly extricated himself and headed for the bookie, quick to place bets before the fight began.

“Rude.” You observed to Emma, who gave you a quick squeeze around the shoulders.

“Have some faith, I’m sure you’ll be back in no time. I’ll pay the fare if you really need it.”

You hadn’t realised just how correct she’d be.

At first glance, the challenger seemed a decent prospect, but nothing special. Average height - perhaps shorter than most of his opponents - broad-chested and stocky, though it was quickly apparent that that ‘stock’ consisted primarily of highly responsive musculature. The first round and he’d taken down his three opponents in mere moments.

“...Oh.” There wasn’t much else for you to say about that. Damn.

A few minutes between rounds, and you spent the time studying him. He looked familiar, though your experience with shirtless men was few and far between, and - god - well, he had tattoos, and those were distracting as well. Had you met anyone when living in Southwark that had matched his description? It took a moment to drag your eyes from his bare chest and back to his face, which you examined carefully.

If you were the sort to find dangerous men attractive -- and you weren’t, of course not, because danger was danger, whatever it might be dressed as -- you might consider the scar cutting through his brow to be… well, dashing didn’t seem quite right. In combination with the similar scar on his (surprisingly well-groomed) jaw, you settled on the descriptor of roguish. You couldn’t quite place the colour of his eyes from where you stood amongst the crowd, but that wolfish grin was eerily familiar as well. Gaze flicking down once more you considered the tattoos again. A sort of stylised cross, not a symbol you recognised, and a swooping bird. Beside the bird hung what from here looked like a coin on a thin cord of leather, like a necklace. That too prickled at your memory, like you should recognise it. It was almost irritating.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing them casually, mouth a cocky smirk as his next set of opponents assembled, ready to jump into the ring. He didn’t even turn as the first approached him from behind, not at first, but when he did it was a flash, ducking under the man’s swinging arm and slamming a fist straight up into his jaw. You could only stare in amazement, along with the rest of the crowd, as the first opponent dropped like a sack of potatoes. Brutal.

You watched the muscles of his back tense and flex as he examined his wrapped palms once more, and you could only imagine the look on his face as he spoke, voice a fine-edged casual drawl: “Come now lads, don’t be skittish.”

He was baiting them - though for god’s sake why he was inviting four men to attack him all at once you couldn’t reason. Whatever his intention was, it seemed to work. Soon he was surrounded, an elastic weaving of bodies and fists, dodging and striking and-- You winced at the audible crack as one of the men’s arms folded in a manner it really shouldn’t. Still, the tattooed challenger moved with a savage sort of grace, like some kind of devastating dance, taking down one opponent after another, moving far faster than you would have presumed possible.

You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good on him.

It wasn’t until the third round that a single punch connected with him. A fraction of an instant after taking a blow to the shoulder he had already ducked back to circle around the fellow who’d thrown the punch, hooting his approval. “Well done, sir! First touch of the night - you should be proud!”

With a growl the fellow charged again, but he was met with a dodge, a strike, and one arm was pivoted at such an angle as to send the man barrelling toward the edge of the ring. You took a reactionary step back as he slammed into the boards, brows lifted in astonishment, briefly wondering if the fencing would hold.

Emma gripped your sleeve, squealing in that way young women do when faced with sensationalism. You couldn’t look away, watching as the now-defending challenger stepped to his groaning opponent. His lips twitched into that small smirk, somewhere between amusement and satisfaction, that you now recognised. That smirk, that coin - hell, how hadn’t you recognised the waistband before now?

When he spoke it was too playful to be deemed sneering, though the casual murmur still would never qualify as sincere. He gripped the man’s shirt with both hands, watching his fingers in the fabric rather than addressing the man himself, amused as he shook his head. “...So proud.” He punctuated the statement by pulling the dazed man to him, butting him in the head before drawing him back and raising his knee, using a hand on the back of the man’s head to slam him face-first into it. Even if the opponent hadn’t passed out he certainly didn’t plan to keep fighting, body tumbling to the ground as the tattooed challenger rolled his shoulders back.

You finally got a look at his eyes. Brown, or maybe hazel, clouded by a haze of adrenaline but glinting hungrily nonetheless. He wasn’t looking at you, merely half-focused beyond the edge of the ring where you happened to be standing. It made the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. Your own eyes widened, spotting the two men who had edged their way closer, looking livid despite - or maybe because of - the injuries they’d already received. Your mouth opened, reflexively prepared to call out a warning (useless as it was), and you saw the second his eyes snapped to your face, determined the cause of your expression, and that wolfish spark came back to his grin as he turned and-- 1, 2-- hook- jab- pivot and strike and both men were down for the count.

“You promised a challenge, Topping!” He jeered, hands outstretched and gesturing to six fallen opponents.

The bets, apparently were gradually tilting toward his favour, though the next round of opponents looked particularly intimidating. From what you could gather, the rounds had some unspoken system based on previous performance of some sort, some way of keeping the best fighters fresh for the last bouts, and the hulking men that now grunted and spat looked unambiguously imposing in comparison to the smaller but more nimble survivor of the first few rounds.

This time, he wasn’t quite so lucky. The first few swings were dodged easily, countered, with a propensity for head-butting (hard-headed, of course he is), but then a solid punch to the cheek snapped his head to the side. You had to admit, while you’d felt a bit bad for the opponents in the first round or two, you found yourself rooting for the challenger this round, perhaps only in the face of such massive opponents. You hissed in sympathy along with several other spectators.

He wasn’t even fazed. It was almost off-putting, the cocky grin tinged with blood. His voice had dropped from a loud boasting jeer to something quieter, more menacing, on the malicious side of playful. “Now that’s more like it.”

If you thought he’d been brutal before, you must have been mistaken. He’d been toying with them before, that was clear to see now, treating the fight like a game. But a switch had just been flipped. You felt the colour draining from your face with each subsequent thud and crack and snap, watching blood trickle from wounds you hadn’t thought possible from bare hands. A few more hits connected with him as well, though they were glancing, redirected before they could do any severe damage. There was no way this man was an amateur. Surely he was trained. He had to be, to be that… efficient.

You found yourself almost as irritated as you were impressed. These men had jobs, had work they needed to do, maybe even families to support, and he very well could be crippling them for life. It wasn’t competition, it was condemnation. Hiding your disapproval behind guarded eyes, you patted Emma’s shoulder, murmuring in her ear. “That’s him.”

“Who?” Her eyes were wide, a flush brought to her cheeks at the exhilaration of the fight.

“The thief. The madman in the carriage.”

Her eyebrows shot up, blinking in surprise before glancing back to the man in the ring, his opponents now all down for the count, his knuckles and face both bloodied for his effort along with a bleeding scratch across his chest, lifting a fist to strike at the air and enjoying the cheers of the crowd perhaps a bit too much. “The gentleman thief?” She sounded incredulous.

Your tone was wry as you took him in again, focusing on those familiar features. “Yes, well… I may have been mistaken about that,” you observed drily. He was no gentleman. That was becoming plain to see.

Emma snorted. “Apparently.” She’d turned to look as well, and you could swear you spotted the moment a horrible idea came into her mind, the way her eyes flashed in the fiery glow of the foundry.

Why was she smiling? “He’s mad.” You weren’t sure why, but you felt the need to clarify that point to your friend. “Stark raving. As in ‘Will saw him in Lambeth ‘cos he’d escaped the asylum’ mad.”

“Hm.” There was no positive outcome from a thoughtful response like that. You could sense the gears turning in her meddling head as she murmured, distantly, “Maybe.” Christ, that smile meant nothing good.

You thought to warn her off whatever she was planning, or perhaps poke about with questions until you could determine what exactly it was, but it seemed that the fights were over for the night, the night’s star challenger having been deemed the new champion, and your plans were interrupted as other spectators filed past. William had gone to the bookie seemingly ages ago and hadn’t yet returned. You thought you spotted his head in the crowd of people seeking their payouts. ...This would take a while. You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back against the edge of the ring so you could face Emma.

“What’s the look for?” Your eyes had narrowed, tone suspicious as you focused your undivided attention on your friend who now shifted foot to foot, avoiding your gaze remarkably casually.

“What look?” Her tone belonged in a charming Sunday stroll in the park, not on the grimy floor of a foundry-turned-fight-club.

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. “That look. With the eyes and the lips and the ‘who, me?’” you mocked.

She gestured to herself with wide eyes, pouting, and you could hear her who, me? ringing clearly in your head.

You scoffed a laugh. “Right. Of course. Play innocent, then. I’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.”

Emma batted her eyelashes, and you saw her gaze flick sideways for a moment before she glanced more pointedly toward the crowd around this so-called Topping’s distinctive hat. Garish man. “Wait here a moment, will you? I’ll check on William.”

You frowned. She was at it again, with this naive idea that her fiance just radiated some kind of protective aura. But she’d gone before you had the chance to lecture her on the importance of not leaving a lady alone, particularly in a place like this. You scowled at her back.

The sound of wood scraping against stone caught your attention, and you turned back to the ring only to find the night’s champion propping a stool beside the fence not six paces away. You shifted, uneasily, and finally settled on drawing back from the boards, angling yourself to keep both the fighter and the crowd around the bookie in your line of sight. You’d rather not have your back to someone like him.

Unfortunately, your movement away only seemed to catch his attention. You were surprised when instead of making a comment he merely caught your eye, nodded respectfully, and returned to his own activities. Which, apparently, was gulping down a full bottle of what you hoped was water, because if it was gin he must have a stomach of steel.

His hair was wet with sweat - along with the rest of him, though you tried not to notice - and skin reddened in patches where you suspected there would be bruises in the next few hours. He hadn’t come out entirely unscathed. Liquid spilled from over-eager lips, and you blamed that last pint for the way your eyes followed it’s path down his neck until it mixed with the blood from the scratch on his chest. You watched the pull and strain of muscles under skin as he set aside the bottle, unwrapping first one hand and then the other, revealing skinned knuckles and calloused palms. Reaching out of sight, you heard the quiet hollow pop of a stopper being released, and when his hands came back into view he was pouring an amber liquid over one of them. He’d just switched hands, as if to repeat the motion, when he paused.

Curious as to what could have made him stop, you tried to keep your glance around the area subtle, but couldn’t find anything particularly of note. Finally looking back to the man, you realised with a start that he was staring at you. Smiling. Rather cheekily, if you judged it correctly.

“I’m flattered, madam, truly.”

Yes, cheeky seemed the right word for it.

You felt your own cheeks heating, and realised what you must’ve looked like, watching this bare-chested man so openly. Quickly your eyes were on the ground again, a bit irritated to be stuck doing your little display of meekness, in all honesty; even you had thought going out with William would have made the tactic unnecessary, but alas. Shoulders rolled forward, head down, hands slipped from their confrontational stance to clasp mildly before you. You trained your face blank and vacant, shifting to turn even further from the man, though keeping him enough in your periphery to be aware of any trouble from his direction.

You saw forearms draping over the boards as the man turned to face you fully, leaning forward onto his elbows. You didn’t want to look high enough to see his face. Avoid eye contact, avoid trouble.

He let out a low whistle. “Impressive.” The word was said so casually it was hard to interpret his intention. And you didn’t intend to seek it out. Hands tapped absently against the boards, drumming out an inconsistent pattern as he waited for some kind of response. Then they paused once more. “Have we met?”

You couldn’t help it -- you glanced over, slightly irritated at his persistence, just to read his expression before your eyes flicked back to the floor. He was watching you, eyes glinting in a manner far sharper than the genial quirk of his lips. Hesitating for only a moment, you shook your head. The silent, bland girl, eyes on the floor. Maybe he’d get bored and leave you alone.

“You’re sure?”

There was something in the question -- amusement, though you weren’t sure if he was making any attempt to hide that.

After another pause, you nodded.

“Really?” You saw him shift in the corner of your eye, straightening, though he still rested his arms against the side of the ring. His tone was almost theatrically casual. “Because I could’ve sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense.”

You felt the pink rushing up your neck as you flicked your eyes to him again, unable to stop your lips from their slight purse of irritation before your eyes were on the ground again, blanking out your expression once more. “I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir.” Your words were mumbled but inside you were cursing. The smugness practically rolled off of him in waves. He had you pegged.

“You are very good at that,” he observed again, conversationally. “Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?”

You tried to swallow your incredulous snort, and it came out as a soft cough. You almost wanted to tell him the truth, just to knock him down a notch. Cautiously, you looked up only to find a delighted grin on his face. He so obviously wished you to say yes.

“Please tell me I’m special.”

Your lips did twitch at that, turning ever so slightly toward him, a bit smug at your own spot-on reading of the man. But damn it if his eagerness wasn’t a bit endearing. He was a charmer, wasn’t he?

He’d returned to cleaning his wounds once you finally gave him the attention he so obviously craved. Still, even as he swabbed the broken skin of his hands and the cut on his chest (and that balm was assuredly medicated and not the sort of thing any old street thug would keep on their person -- who was this man?), he kept glancing back to you, apparently awaiting an answer. Despite your better judgment, you had to pinch your lips between teeth to keep from smirking right back.

You wondered just how much of your behaviour you could blame on the alcohol as you realised you’d taken a few small steps in his direction. “You…” You glanced away, sure your bemusement must show in your face but not sure how exactly to respond to the question.

“Jacob.” He held out a hand, still shiny with whatever greasy ointment he’d been using to dress his wounds. “Frye.”

Turning your eyes back to him, there was no attempt made to hide your scepticism, an eyebrow raised incredulously at the offered hand.

At first surprised, after glancing at his own hand he seemed to concede that it wasn’t exactly the most appealing thing to touch at the moment. He nodded, an air of ‘can’t blame a lad for trying’ in his small smile.

Please tell me I’m special.

“You’re… something, Mister Frye,” you finally capitulated.

Admittedly, he still managed to be quite handsome despite the marks of his fight as he grinned at you. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

You huffed a small laugh, glancing back to the diminishing crowd by the exit. Emma was watching, looking far too self-satisfied. Eyes narrowing at her bright smile, your words came out wry, though lacking any malice. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

Hearing a click of his tongue you looked back again only to find a mockery of hurt on his features, though not coming even close to those laughing eyes. “You wound me, madam.”

“Miss,” you corrected him automatically, the word a half-considered murmur. Upon realisation of the implication, you cleared your throat, immediately turning back to the foundry’s entrance as his brows lifted and lips curved into a smirk, ignoring - or trying to ignore - the heat on your skin.

“Miss…?”

But you were already walking toward the two you’d come with, feeling a small hint of pointed satisfaction as you called over your shoulder; “Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye.”