float like a butterfly, sting like a bee

6.5.16 // Probably one of my favorite spreads so far. Loving these mildliners! 😍

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” - Muhammad Ali

Fake Chats #61
  • Taehyung: Kookie, you gotta float like a bee, sting like a butterfly.
  • Jungkook: that's not how it goes.
  • Yoongi: bees don't float and butterflies don't sting.
  • Taehyung: exactly. Be like that, Kookie.
  • Jungkook: be contrary and harmless?
  • Taehyung: yeah.
  • Yoongi: that's not gonna happen.
  • Jungkook: that's not gonna happen.

Kirk: I don’t want to scare anyone but I still demand respect so I’m going to lovingly throw this music at your face. *balls up sheet music and chucks it at a trumpet playing*

Spock: *Throws a music stand at the door breaking the music stand* STOP BEING NERVOUS ABOUT YOUR SOLO!!

Bones: When I fix your tune don’t change it! Be like a dog and stay fixed!

Uhura: Flutes! It does not go ~da ~da BLAHHHH! *picks up music and point at it* Do you see a blahhh here?

Sulu: Remember everyone be graceful in the contest. Grind the competitors into dust but be graceful about it.

Chekov: *looks around* I’m trying to figure out what I can throw that won’t break your nose.

Scotty: Ya’ll know Muhammed Ali? He floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. Well, you guys float like a brick and sting like a spoon!

Jaylah: For the last time I will not ask “What’s updog?”

Out for the count.

Authors note: Part 3 to boxing Au.
Part 1
http://imagine-that-one-thing.tumblr.com/post/156567115971/round-one-float-like-a-butterfly

Part 2
http://stylesfics-xx.tumblr.com/post/156618245691/sting-like-a-bee-round-2

———

The words roll of your tongue before you can even think of something else to say. This is not how you had contemplated telling him. It was meant to be sweet and thought out; not on the side of the road after a prizefight and after throwing up. “You’re lying.” He shakes his head, catching you off guard as the words roll of his tongue, shocking you.
“You, you actually think I’m lying?” You get tongue-tied, undecided of whether the man in front of you is the man you married given that the man you joined in marriage would absolutely never question your integrity.
“It could be your plan to stop me from boxing.” He answers, your eyes leaving his gaze. Disappointment being the only expression your face shows.
“Look at me.” He gives precise instructions, placing his hand under your chin to force you to gander up at him. “Are you serious?” He says in a low voice, his eyes tender and saturated with joy, something you haven’t seen in quite a while. You roll your eyes, incapable of stopping the sarcastic retort, “no, I’m throwing up on the side of the road because I feel like it.” You murmur, incompetent of controlling your words. At least now you have justification for your outbursts of bitter sarcasm, not to mention his foolish question on whether you’re participating in a lie about being pregnant or not; it’s not like you gave the appearance of throwing up in front of him just for humour.
“So— you’re growing a baby?” He gapes, lost for words, and you can’t help but chuckle, holding back a smart ass comment as you nod your head, admiring how his eyes are gleaming and full of such pleasure. You imagined his ravishing emerald eyes would reflect brilliancy with joyousness, but you didn’t imagine he’d ask such imbecile questions. “A baby? Ten fingers, ten toes?” He continues, seeming rather excited.
“Hopefully.” You agree with a smile, disregarding his oafishness, “ten fingers, ten toes, two long legs, and two long arms.” You continue, your heart filled with so much exultation as you continue to observe Harry’s expression. “But, the baby needs a daddy without cuts, bruises, and broken bones.” You pressure, drawing the conversation back to the ultimate plea. His eyes continue to gaze at you, uncertainty playing a role in the anxiousness you’re feeling, along with the nausea. “I can’t.” The words break your heart, your hopes of the baby changing things shattering entirely. “I can’t stop. I know it’s what you hoped and planned, but no.” He shakes his head,
“We can talk more when we get home, but I want to be there for you, holding your hair and your hand instead of you getting me ice and all.” He continues, minimizing the importance of your thoughts and feelings. You look at him, a little heartbroken that the announcement didn’t go to plan, maybe you shouldn’t have told him with the aspirations that the news would change his ambitions. “Here, I’ll drive.” He adds, gesturing for you to go over to the passenger side. You shake your head, not having many words for him, “baby, you don’t look too good, just let me drive.” He presses and you allow him to guide you to the passenger side.
For years you have stood by him, took charge of the aches and pains he’s put his body through, been to every doctor visit, every hospital call, you’ve been the best girlfriend, best wife he could possibly ask for. You’ve never expressed dissatisfaction when he’s woken you up at five in the morning because his ribs are killing him, you’ve never protested when you’ve had to care for him and keep him occupied while on bed rest, never once have you asked him to skip a fight or a training session. But, now is the time for him to stop, to invest in activities that don’t harm him in negative ways. You rest your head against the window, pretending to sleep as Harry drives, doing his best not to adjust his shoulder too much. The thought comes to your mind on whether you want to raise your child to be an athlete themselves, perhaps they’ll inherit the boxing trait from Harry, but do you really want the little one to come home in the same condition Harry does, black-and-blue with new scars?

***

To say Harry has been too interested in his boxing would be an understatement. Not being able to compete the last two months, (thanks to his shoulder), has put him in a full rage to uninterruptedly train and overwork his body, it’s as if he has to get his energy out to be able to stay sane.

It’s four in the morning when he rolls over and elbows you gently, thinking you’re already sound asleep, but to your disappointment the feeling of queasiness has been striking you every morning between two and eight for the past two weeks; carrying twins doesn’t make anything easier. “What?” You question, your eyes staring up at the ceiling as he slowly moves within the bed. You two haven’t been on best terms, primarily granting that you’ve had enough of everything, your hormonal outburst of emotions not making anything easier. “It hurts to breathe.” He lets out, striking your attention instantaneously. You’re used to the conventional aches and pains he feels after training and strings of events, the usual muscle cramps, hand bruising, and the occasional headaches that keep him up, but never has he griped over his breathing. “You fought tonight, didn’t you?” You hiss, coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t just decide to train from the hours of six to eleven this evening. “You’re a fucking idiot.” You growl, trying your hardest not to move within the bed, taking into consideration his body is presumable in a lot of pain.
“I appreciate the help.” He moans, pushing the covers off his body,
“Just like I appreciated your help the last two weeks.” You remind him of the mornings he slept through and how he has been a dreadful husband for not waking up and holding your hair or even making sure you’re okay. Sure, you’re a grown adult and can take care of yourself, but it’s pleasurable to have a husband who at least pretends to give a damn. “Oh c'mon, I’m a heavy sleeper, and breathing and morning sickness are two different things.” He coughs as he leans over to turn the light on, another grunt escaping his lips, “fuck.” He exclaims, lying back down on his back.
“I’m carrying two babies in me, and you want to compare that to your moronic decision to box and get hurt?” You ultimately question, sitting up in the warm bed and looking over at your spouse, who lies beside you with soreness. He rolls his eyes, biting his lip before taking a few deep breaths, “did you get examined by the physician after your fight?” You delicately ask, your heart tenderising as you take notice of the ache in his eyes, he nods, not giving you any detail on what the physician said with the examination, “care to share?” You challenge, needing more detail so you know whether you’re about to be making a trip the the emergency room or not.
“Probably bruised ribs, he said to get an X-ray in the morning. But, I didn’t go through with his directions.” He reports to you, reminding you of just how intellectually dull and stubborn your husband truely is.
“Lift up your bloody shirt.” You give preliminary instructions, your hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, he leisurely lifts the shirt with your assistance, your eyes trailing to his left rib cage that’s sketched with a hell of a sized carmine-coloured bruise. “You got the fuck knocked out of you.” You gape in amazement, his hands instantly grabbing yours as they inch closer to his side,
“Please, don’t touch.” He pleads. You delicately pull away from his hand and go against his wishes, very lightly placing your cold fingers on his ribcage. “You’re going to your doctor and getting checked out when his office opens, I don’t want to hear whining, you could have fractured your ribs.” You inform him intently, giving him no room to dispute your demands like he’s previously done before with certain injuries. “I hope you learn your lesson.” You grouch, getting out of the bed, putting your own discomfort aside for the moment. “Wait, where are you going. Don’t leave me.” He wails, somewhat humouring you as he requests you to stay. You ignore his comment, exiting the bedroom.

You re-enter into the bedroom walking over to your husbands side of the bed as he miserably lies on his back, “put this on your bruise.” You hand him the ice, “and sit up.” You brief, watching as he stares at you and shakes his head, “sit up so you can take these.” You wearily sigh, placing two pain killers on the side table, offering your hands to help him sit up. He places his hands in yours and you gradually help him sit up, your heart breaking with the grunts that escapes his lips. This is exactly why you wanted him to stop, distinctly the dislocated shoulder wasn’t enough, now he’s got bruised ribs, possibly even broken ribs and this could have been prevented if he had of listened. You definitely don’t want to raise the twins watching their fathers body deteriorate and become beaten and damaged. Not to mention your doctor couldn’t stress more that you don’t need any extra and unnecessary strain while carrying two little bundles of joy, they’re going to be stressful enough on your body. “Lie back down and try sleep.” You mutter, walking to your side of the bed and carefully getting between the sheets,
“Y/N, I can’t sleep.” He instantly comments, not even trying to close his eyes, his body far too awake and in too much discomfort to sleep just yet.
“Then reflect on how I asked you to stop boxing and your dumbass continued, and now you’re in more pain than ever.” You ungraciously grumble, giving him a little bit of tough love to try get your point across. For too long you’ve been too nurturing, understanding, and caring, which has ultimately landed the two of you in this position. “I can’t stop.” His voice is low and weak, full of exhaustion and soreness.
“Then you can’t complain.” You harshly respond, pulling at the covers and leisurely getting comfortable within the bed. You may be a little heartless within the conversation, but you refuse to move too much within the bed. If it wasn’t for being pregnant and already uncomfortable, you’d move to the couch to give him the whole bed to relax in. “Do you hate me?” His questions catches you off guard as you’re close to drifting off to sleep, for a moment you stay silent, beginning to feel guilty for how you’ve been treating him lately. “I know you’re not asleep.” He continues, his legs moving within the comfort of the sheets.
“No, why?” You murmur drowsily, curious as to what his response could possibly be. You haven’t been too mannerly to him, but it’s with good reason. You feel his hand gently find yours under the covers, “because I haven’t really been there for you when you’ve needed me. I kinda slept through all your morning sickness or I ignored it.” He expresses recognition of his terrible actions, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles and you allow him to continue holding your hand. Perhaps this is his strange way to apologise.
“You ignored it?” You interrogate, not entirely flabbergasted that he overlooked the dreaded mornings. You’d ignore them, too, if you could. He confirms with a nod,
“Yeah, when I had early training sessions I’d leave and you’d be throwing up still.” He reminds you of the times you’d actually managed to forget. “I really haven’t been the greatest.” He confesses with an extremely low voice.
“I want you to quit boxing.” You straight out comment, hoping that he will see the light and come to his damn senses.
“It’s all I have. I need it.” He disputes, still not raising his voice in the slightest. “I need to release my energy somewhere.” He continues, beginning to explain the advantages to his sport.
“I want you to stop. If you won’t stop for your own body, stop for me and your two little babies.” You delicately pressure, keeping your voice low, not wanting to argue with him, at least not while it’s four-forty-two in the morning and while he’s in pain and trying his best to conceal it.
“They won’t be here for another six months. I’ll stop then.” He breathes, somewhat compromising, but it still doesn’t satisfy you enough.
“I don’t want to go through this alone for another six months, you need to make a decision, and I hope you make the right one.” You whisper, your heart breaking as you’re forced to give him an ultimatum. You never expected your marriage to come to a point where giving an ultimatum to your husband would be such a thing. You expected to have to remind him of his stupid ideas, of how he can’t always lounge about in his boxers, or how he can’t sleep all day because too much sleep can be detrimental for him. Never did you expect to give him the ultimatum to choose between the person he loves or the sport he loves. You’re doing it for his own good, and for the family the two of you have made. After moments of silence, Harry’s voice cuts the air, “I want one last round.” He informs you, not allowing you to dispute his wishes. “One last round, I’m not stepping down after being defeated tonight. When I’m cleared by the doctor, I’m taking my last fight.” He composedly notifies you, making his decision.
“Harry, it’ll take a while to recover and get another match. At least three months.” You sigh, not wanting him to get his hopes up or to have one last fight and decide he wants more. It’s almost like boxing is his narcotic, he gets high off the adrenaline, and the sound of punches hitting skin.
“I need one last round.” He presses with a desperate tone,
“Harry, you’re out for the count. Two back to back injuries should be enough. What’s next after a dislocated shoulder and possible broken ribs?” You implore, not wanting to even think about the next injury he could perchance harbour. After all, they do say it comes in threes. “Please, one more?” He entreats, playing on your emotions as his voice stays soft and vulnerable. You nod, giving in. You can deal with one last round as long as it is the last round you’ll ever have to endure Harry coming home with new scars and battles painted on his skin. They say it comes in threes; hopefully Harry puts the myth to shame.