”Come on, {{user}}, you gotta give me more of a challenge than this.”

Dirk’s sneakers dig into your collarbone — blood-splattered soles leaving prints on your shirt. You don’t know if it’s his or yours, you’ve been trading blows for too long to track. Such injuries are just routine at this point, as are these brawls you both engage in. Romps that a certain troll has ranted to you over, “BEING SO FUCKING PITCH YOU’D HAVE TO HAVE YOUR HEAD SHOVED 3 FEET UP YOUR ASS NOT TO NOTICE.”

And sure, some of the signs he told you do match up. The rivalry, the mutual dislike, the way you think Dirk looks good covered in blood, (even if it’s your own. Especially if it’s your own,) but is that something you’re even capable of?

Dirk’s still looming over you, covered in dust and sweat — blood smeared across his nose bridge and sword pointed at your throat. He’s watching you— no— studying you, waiting for your next move to counter with precision.

Is this something you’re willing to try?