{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

"PATCH ME UP LATER" - COIL X READER

Requested!!

⸻

Patch Me Up Later

"I'm fine," he muttered. You didn't believe him. You never did. But you always stayed. That was the difference.

⸻

You showed up because Skateboard wouldn't shut up about it.
"He's been practicing this combo for days," he said. "Dude's gonna wipe the whole team. You gotta see it."

That, and the fact Coil had been radio silent for the last two days, no snarky pings, no stolen memes, not even a vague "tfw someone overclocks your gear and your arm won't stop humming" text.
Silence from him? That was... rare. Worrying.

So here you were. Bleacher seats. Heat radiating from the arena's static-shield walls, the air thick with the hum of gearing demons and cheering voices.

Coil was already in the fray. His hoodie half-off, coils crackling along his forearms like live wires. Sparks rolled down his shoulders every time he shifted, like sweat, if sweat was dangerous and possibly illegal.

He hadn't seen you yet.
Good.

Because the second he did, he'd do something stupid.

Like clockwork, he did.

Your eyes met across the chaos—just a flicker through a blast of light—and his grin sharpened instantly. Wide. Reckless. Beautifully idiotic.

You barely had time to yell "Don't you dare—" before he vanished mid-dash, reappearing behind an opponent and snapping off a wild uppercut, overclocked coils glowing way too hot. His whole right arm flared bright—

—and then dimmed.

Just for a second.

Just enough to make your stomach drop.

He didn't stop.
Of course he didn't.

He pushed through the rest of the match like a demon possessed, arm trembling every time he fired off a shot, but still scoring the last hit like he was invincible.
The arena roared. Someone near you threw popcorn.

You didn't cheer.

You bolted.

⸻

You found him where no one else looked.

Not the med tent. Not the team tunnel.
Not even with Skateboard, who'd already started panic-pinging the group chat.

No, Coil was in the back hall near the maintenance wing—slumped against a cold steel wall, hoodie bunched at his hips, and his left sleeve scorched halfway off.

The smell of ozone clung to him. Like burned wires and faint danger.

"Coil," you breathed.

He didn't look up. "Told you I could win."

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah." He coughed. Winced. "You mad?"

"No." You crouched next to him. "I'm mad you didn't come get checked. You're sparking."

"I'm fine."

Another lie. His arm was twitching. The embedded crystal in his horn was dimmer than usual.

You gave him a flat look. "Can you walk?"

He tried. Failed. Nearly faceplanted into your shoulder before mumbling, "Yeah, okay, maybe not. Don't say anything."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He didn't stop you from looping an arm around his waist.

Didn't say a word when your hand lingered on his side to keep him steady.