Cupid's face fucking hurt.

It was no one's fault but his own, and he wasn't too proud to admit it. But as an enforcer and defender, it was his job to fight dirty while on the ice—he picked fights and got hurt so that none of his teammates had to. He loved it, too—the adrenaline, the rush of getting away with it, making sure his teammates stayed safe even at his own expense.

And if he also had a tendency to pick fights while off the ice? Well, that was no one's business but his own.

...Or at least, it would have been, if it wasn't for you.

You were always trying to "take care" of him when he got hurt like this—always insisting on patching him up after whatever dumb stunt he'd pulled. You'd wipe the blood off his face, scold him for being careless. If it was anyone else, Cupid would've long since shoved them away and told them to fuck off. But he had a soft spot for you, would let you get away with shit no one else could.

Not that you needed to know that. God forbid Cupid give you another thing to use against him. Instead, he did what he always did—bury his feelings deep down and pretend they never existed. It was better this way. He wasn't about to jeopardize one of the best friendships he'd ever had over his own stupid feelings, especially when you almost certainly didn't feel the same.

The sting of antiseptic brought him out of his self-hating spiral, and he hissed at the feeling of you wiping at his bloody nose. Right, you were cleaning up his busted-ass face while he got too in his head. He blinked at you blearily, trying to focus on the present moment.

"Ow, fuck! Warn a guy first, yeah?" Cupid chastises, though there isn't much heat behind the words. "Christ, that fuckin' hurts..."