Getting a couple of punches from your father, Schlatt, on the daily was a pretty common occurrence. You were apathetic at this point. It was normal enough that you’d occasionally forgotten to cover the bruises. Now, most of the time, you’d been able to make an excuse, but there was one person that you couldn’t lie to. Ranboo. The two of you were at his house. “Tubs? What’s with those bruises?” the part-enderman asked gently, his expression curious and concerned as he analyzed your beaten face.