#Car Accident Pain Relief | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 8 months ago

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War Is Over

Lewis Hamilton x Rosberg!Reader

Summary: Lewis parks his car … right into his best friend-turned-nemesis’ little sister (and somehow reunites Brocedes in the process)

Warnings: descriptions of serious injury

Note: the fact that he not only won a race again but it was his home race … this calls for a Lewis Hamilton fic 🥹

The Monaco sun glints off sleek sports cars lining the streets as Lewis navigates his Mercedes through the winding roads. He’s running late for dinner with some sponsors and the traffic is only making things worse.

Lewis mutters under his breath, “Come on, come on. Just need to park this thing ...”

He spots an open space in front of the restaurant and starts to maneuver in, glancing at his watch. The ticking seconds only increase his frustration.

“Bloody hell, why is parking always such a nightmare here?”

Lewis throws the car into reverse, not bothering to look behind him. He’s done this a thousand times before. What could possibly go wrong?

The sickening thud comes a split second before he slams on the brakes. His heart leaps into his throat as he whips around, praying he just hit a trash bin or something.

But the crumpled form on the ground is undeniably human.

“Oh God, oh God, no ...” Lewis fumbles with his seatbelt, hands shaking as he bursts out of the car. “Please be okay, please be okay ...”

He drops to his knees beside the prone figure, a young woman with long hair obscuring her face. Blood is already pooling beneath her head.

“Miss? Can you hear me?” Lewis gently brushes the hair back, and his world stops.

It’s you. Nico’s little sister. The girl he’s known since she was in pigtails, cheering from the sidelines at their early karting races.

Lewis’ jaw drops open as the full horror of what he’s done sinks in. “Y/N? Oh God, Y/N, please wake up!”

He cradles your head, heedless of the blood staining his designer shirt. Your eyes remain closed, skin alarmingly pale.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Lewis shouts, his voice cracking with panic. “Please, somebody help!”

A crowd starts to gather, murmurs of shock and recognition rippling through them. Lewis barely notices, focused solely on your still form.

“Y/N, come on, open your eyes. Please, you have to be okay,” he pleads, gently patting your cheek. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I swear I didn’t mean to ...”

Your eyelids flutter, a soft groan escaping your lips. Lewis nearly sobs with relief.

“That’s it, that’s it. Can you hear me? It’s Lewis. You’re going to be alright.”

Your eyes open, unfocused and confused. “Lewis? What ... what happened?”

“Don’t try to move, okay? There was an accident. Help is on the way.”

You try to sit up, wincing in pain. “My head ...”

“Shh, just stay still. I’ve got you.” Lewis supports your shoulders, keeping you from moving too much.

“Did ... did you hit me with your car?” Your voice is small, disbelieving.

Lewis swallows hard. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t see you, I swear. God, Y/N, I would never ...”

You manage a weak smile. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, Hamilton.”

Despite everything, Lewis can’t help but chuckle. “Don’t joke about that. You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry to ruin your evening,” you mumble, eyes starting to drift closed again.

“Hey, hey, stay with me.” Lewis gently taps your cheek. “Keep those eyes open, okay? Talk to me.”

You force your eyes open. “About what?”

“Anything. Tell me ... tell me what you’re doing in Monaco. Are you visiting Nico?”

You shake your head slightly, then wince. “No, I ... I moved here. Got a job at the yacht club.”

“Really? That’s great. When did that happen?”

“Few months ago. Needed ... needed a change of scenery.”

Lewis nods, desperately trying to keep you engaged. “I get that. Monaco’s beautiful. Although the parking situation leaves something to be desired,” he adds wryly.

You manage a weak laugh, then grimace. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Lewis glances around anxiously. “Where’s that damn ambulance?”

As if on cue, sirens wail in the distance. Lewis breathes a sigh of relief.

“Help’s coming, Y/N. Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

You nod slightly, eyes becoming unfocused again. “Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Nico.”

Lewis’ heart clenches. “Y/N ...”

“Please. He’ll kill you. And then me. For being stupid enough to walk behind a car without looking.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Lewis insists. “I should have checked my mirrors. I was distracted, rushing ...”

You shake your head stubbornly. “Promise me. Don’t tell him.”

Lewis hesitates. “Y/N, I can’t just ...”

“Promise,” you repeat, gripping his arm with surprising strength.

Lewis sighs. “Okay, okay. I promise. But he’s going to find out eventually.”

“Let me handle it. When I’m not ... you know. Bleeding on the pavement.”

The ambulance pulls up, paramedics jumping out. Lewis reluctantly moves aside to let them work, hovering anxiously.

“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” One of the paramedics asks as they begin assessing your injuries.

Lewis runs a hand through his hair. “I ... I hit her with my car. I was backing up and didn’t see her. It was an accident, I swear.”

The paramedic nods, focused on taking your vitals. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

“Y/N Rosberg,” you mumble.

The paramedic’s eyes widen slightly in recognition, but he remains professional. “Alright, Y/N. We’re going to get you to the hospital. Just try to stay still for me.”

As they prepare to move you onto a stretcher, Lewis steps forward. “Can I ride with her?”

The paramedic hesitates. “Are you family?”

“No, but I’m ... I’m responsible for this. Please, I need to make sure she’s okay.”

You reach out weakly, grasping Lewis’ hand. “Let him come. He’s ... he’s family.”

The paramedic nods. “Alright, but stay out of the way.”

As they load you into the ambulance, Lewis climbs in beside you, still holding your hand. The doors slam shut and the sirens wail as they speed towards the hospital.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lewis says softly.

You give his hand a weak squeeze. “Couldn’t let you ... sulk all night. You’d probably ... crash into a street lamp next.”

Lewis chuckles despite himself. “There’s that Rosberg wit. You sound just like your brother sometimes.”

You grimace. “Don’t insult me when I’m down, Hamilton.”

The banter feels surreal given the circumstances, but Lewis is grateful for it. It keeps the crushing guilt at bay, if only for a moment.

“Y/N, I ...” he starts, then falters. “I don’t even know how to begin to apologize.”

You shake your head slightly. “Later. When everything ... stops spinning.”

Lewis nods, throat tight. He watches the paramedics work, feeling utterly helpless.

“Tell me something,” you murmur after a moment.

“What?”

“Anything. Distract me.”

Lewis thinks for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time Nico and I got lost in Ibiza?”

You manage a small smile. “No. Spill.”

As Lewis launches into the story, embellishing for comedic effect, he can’t help but marvel at your resilience. Here you are, cracking jokes and asking for stories while bleeding from a head wound he caused.

The guilt threatens to overwhelm him again, but he pushes it aside. Right now, keeping you conscious and calm is what matters. There will be time for apologies and recriminations later.

As the ambulance weaves through Monaco’s narrow streets, Lewis silently vows to make this right, whatever it takes. He may have destroyed his friendship with Nico, but he won’t let you pay the price for their rivalry.

The hospital looms ahead, and Lewis squeezes your hand. “We’re almost there, Y/N. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You meet his eyes, a flicker of something — trust? forgiveness? — passing between you. “I know,” you whisper. “I’ve got my guardian angel, after all. Even if he is a bit rubbish at parking.”

Lewis laughs, the sound catching in his throat. As they wheel you into the emergency room, he realizes with startling clarity that nothing will ever be the same after tonight.

But looking at your brave smile as the doctors surround you, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, that might not be such a bad thing.

***

The steady beep of the heart monitor fills the hushed hospital room. Lewis sits hunched in an uncomfortable chair beside your bed, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. The stark white bandage wrapped around your head is a constant reminder of his guilt.

A nurse pops her head in. “Mr. Hamilton? There’s someone here to see-”

She’s cut off as Nico barges past her, his face a mask of fury. “You son of a bitch.“

Nico’s fist is already swinging towards Lewis’ face when a doctor in a white coat steps between them. “Gentlemen! This is a hospital, not a boxing ring!”

Nico’s momentum carries him forward, nearly stumbling into the doctor. He catches himself, chest heaving as he glares daggers at Lewis.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nico snarls.

Lewis stands, hands raised placatingly. “Nico, I can explain-”

“Explain? Explain how you nearly killed my sister?” Nico’s voice rises, causing you to stir in the bed.

The doctor clears his throat. “Mr. Rosberg, I presume? I’m Dr. Moreau. Perhaps we should step outside to discuss your sister’s condition.”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn between getting information and pummeling Lewis. Finally, he nods curtly. “Fine. But this isn’t over, Hamilton.”

As they step into the hallway, Lewis sinks back into his chair, running a hand over his face. He glances at you, relieved to see you’ve settled back into sleep.

In the corridor, Dr. Moreau speaks in low, measured tones. “Mr. Rosberg, your sister suffered a severe concussion and a fractured skull. There was some internal bleeding, but we’ve managed to stabilize that.”

Nico’s knees go weak, and he leans against the wall for support. “Oh God ...”

“She also has three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and various cuts and bruises,” the doctor continues. “Frankly, it’s a miracle she wasn’t more seriously injured. The impact could easily have been fatal.”

Nico slides down the wall, sitting heavily on the floor. “She ... she almost died?”

Dr. Moreau nods gravely. “It was touch and go for a while. But she’s young and strong. With time and proper care, we expect her to make a full recovery.”

Nico buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. After a moment, he looks up, eyes red-rimmed. “Can I see her?”

“Of course. But please, try to stay calm. She needs rest.”

Nico nods, pulling himself to his feet. He takes a deep breath before re-entering the room.

Lewis stands as Nico approaches the bed. “Nico, I-”

“Save it,” Nico snaps, but there’s less venom in his voice now. He gently takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.

Your eyes flutter open. “Nico?” You mumble groggily.

“Hey, little sis,” Nico says softly, managing a weak smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a car,” you deadpan.

Lewis winces, but Nico actually chuckles. “Well, your sense of humor is intact, at least.”

You try to sit up, grimacing in pain. Lewis and Nico both move to help, then freeze, glaring at each other.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Both of you, help me up. And then explain why you look ready to kill each other. Again.”

With their combined efforts, they manage to prop you up against the pillows. You look expectantly between them.

Nico breaks first. “How can you even ask that? He nearly killed you!”

“It was an accident,” you insist.

“An accident?” Nico scoffs. “He hit you with his car!”

“Which I’m pretty sure he didn’t do on purpose,” you retort. “Right, Lewis?”

Lewis nods emphatically. “God, no. Y/N, I swear, I never saw you. I was distracted, rushing ... but I would never intentionally hurt you. You have to believe that.”

Nico’s jaw clenches. “Maybe not intentionally. But your carelessness nearly cost my sister her life. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Lewis says quietly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. But Y/N is the one who was hurt. Shouldn’t it be her choice?”

You nod, wincing at the movement. “Exactly. And I choose to forgive you, Lewis. It was an accident. A stupid, awful accident, but still an accident.”

Nico shakes his head in disbelief. “Y/N, you can’t be serious. You’re lying in a hospital bed because of him!”

“And he’s been by my side ever since,” you counter. “He rode in the ambulance with me, held my hand through all the tests and scans. He’s barely left this room in hours.”

Lewis looks down, uncomfortable with the praise. “It was the least I could do.”

Nico runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “That doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you agree. “But it shows he cares. That he’s taking responsibility.”

“I’ll pay for all her medical expenses,” Lewis adds quickly. “And anything else she needs for her recovery. It’s the least I can do.”

Nico snorts. “You think you can just throw money at this and make it go away?”

“No!” Lewis insists. “I know nothing can undo what happened. But I want to help however I can.”

You reach out, grabbing both their hands. “Listen to me, both of you. I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I don’t have the energy for your macho posturing right now.”

They both have the grace to look ashamed.

“Nico, I love you, but you need to calm down,” you continue. “Lewis made a mistake, a big one. But he’s trying to make amends. And frankly, I need both of you right now. I can’t deal with you at each other’s throats on top of everything else.”

Nico’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just ... when I got that call, saying you were in the hospital ... I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

You squeeze his hand. “I know. But I’m okay. Or I will be. And having you two fighting isn’t going to help me get better any faster.”

Lewis clears his throat. “She’s right. Nico, I know you have every right to hate me right now. But can we please call a truce? For Y/N’s sake?”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn. Finally, he nods stiffly. “Fine. A truce. But only for Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing back against the pillows. “Now, can one of you please get me some water? And maybe sneak in some real food? I’m starving and the hospital jello isn’t cutting it.”

Lewis jumps up. “I’ll go. Nico, you stay with her. I’ll be right back.”

As Lewis hurries out, Nico settles into the chair beside your bed. “You sure you’re okay, little sis?”

You manage a small smile. “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “When have you been worse than having a cracked skull and broken ribs?”

“Remember when I was eight and fell out of that tree in the backyard?”

Nico chuckles. “God, I thought Mama was going to have a heart attack. You were so stubborn, insisting you could climb higher than me.”

“Still can,” you tease.

“Maybe hold off on the tree climbing for a while, yeah?”

You pretend to pout. “Spoilsport.”

The banter feels good, normal. For a moment, you can almost forget you’re in a hospital bed.

Nico’s expression turns serious. “Y/N, are you really okay with forgiving Lewis so easily? You don’t have to, you know. Not for my sake or anyone else’s.”

You sigh. “I know. And believe me, I’m not thrilled about the whole getting hit by a car thing. But Nico, you should have seen his face when he realized it was me. He was devastated.”

“He should be,” Nico grumbles.

“I’m not saying there won’t be consequences,” you continue. “But I don’t believe for a second he meant to hurt me. And holding onto anger isn’t going to help me heal any faster.”

Nico studies your face for a long moment. “When did you get so wise, little sister?”

You grin. “I’ve always been the smart one in the family. You were just too busy crashing karts to notice.”

Nico laughs, then sobers. “I was so scared, Y/N. When they called and said you were in the hospital ... all I could think was that I couldn’t lose you.”

You squeeze his hand. “Hey, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. It’ll take more than Lewis Hamilton’s terrible parking skills to take out a Rosberg.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Nico says, but he’s smiling.

Lewis returns then, arms laden with bags. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a bit of everything. Sandwiches, fruit, some pasta salad ... oh, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

You beam at him. “My hero.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but there’s less hostility in it now. “Is this really the time for sweets?”

Lewis grins sheepishly. “Hey, chocolate has healing properties. I read that somewhere.”

“Sounds like solid medical advice to me,” you chime in, already reaching for a candy bar.

As Lewis unpacks the food, a tentative peace settles over the room. It’s fragile, built on shared concern for you rather than any real reconciliation between the two men. But it’s a start.

You watch them, noting how they unconsciously mirror each other’s movements as they fuss over arranging the food on your tray. For all their differences, for all the bad blood between them, there’s still an underlying connection there. Years of friendship and rivalry can’t be erased so easily.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful of sandwich, “this whole arch-enemies thing you two have going on is getting a bit old.”

They both look at you, startled.

“I mean, come on,” you continue. “You were best friends for years. You’ve known each other longer than most marriages last. Is it really worth throwing all that away over some stupid trophies?”

Nico frowns. “Y/N, it’s more complicated than that-”

“Is it, though?” You interrupt. “Because from where I’m sitting — or laying, I guess — it seems pretty simple. You both love racing. You’re both insanely competitive. And yeah, sometimes that caused friction. But at the end of the day, who else understands what you have been through better than each other?”

Lewis and Nico exchange uncomfortable glances.

“I’m not saying you have to be best buddies again,” you add. “But maybe ... I don’t know. Maybe you could try not actively hating each other? For my sake, if nothing else. I’m going to need both of you while I recover and I really don’t want to deal with World War III breaking out in my hospital room.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Finally, Lewis speaks up.

“She’s right,” he says quietly. “Nico, I know things have been ... difficult between us. And I know this situation hasn’t helped. But Y/N’s important to both of us. Can we at least try to be civil? For her?”

Nico hesitates, then nods slowly. “I suppose we can try. But Lewis, I swear, if anything like this ever happens again-”

“It won’t,” Lewis says firmly. “I promise you, Nico. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

You beam at them both. “See? Was that so hard? Now, who’s going to help me eat all this food? Doctor’s orders, you know. Got to keep my strength up.”

As they both reach for the tray, playfully battling over who gets to hand you what, you can’t help but smile. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. But it’s a beginning.

And really, you think as you watch the two most important men in your life grudgingly share a bag of crisps, sometimes beginnings are the best part of any story.

***

f1-fanatic-2024

[Image: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg exiting a hospital, walking side by side]

OMG IS THIS REAL??? Brocedes spotted together??? What year is it???

#what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

brocedes-no1-stan

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

I’m sorry, but are we just going to ignore the fact that they’re leaving a HOSPITAL??? Is everyone okay???

#concerned #hope everyone’s alright #but also lowkey excited

---

vintage-f1-vibes

Okay but why does this feel like a glitch in the matrix? Haven’t seen these two willingly in the same frame since like 2016 😭

#blast from the past #what year is it #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racing-queen-93

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

BROCEDES RISE!!! 🙌🙌🙌

My 2014 heart is SOARING right now. Never thought I’d see the day. BRB, gonna go cry in a corner.

#i’m not crying you’re crying #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1

---

silverarrows4ever

[Image set: Multiple angles of Lewis and Nico leaving the hospital, including one where they appear to be mid-conversation]

New Brocedes content in 2024? Maybe miracles do happen 😭

But seriously, hope everything’s okay. Weird to see them at a hospital.

#concerned but hopeful #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1 #brocedes

---

formula1-history-nerd

[reblogging silverarrows4ever’s post]

Okay, but can we talk about how neither of them has aged a day??? What kind of vampire magic-

#aging like fine wine #drop the skincare routine boys #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

Me: I’m over Brocedes, that ship has sailed

Also me seeing these pics: 🥺👉👈

#i’m weak okay #f1 #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

Everyone freaking out about Brocedes and I’m just wondering why they’re at a hospital??? Hope everyone’s okay!

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

f1-drama-central

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg spotted leaving Princess Grace Hospital together. Sources say they arrived separately but left at the same time, engaging in what appeared to be civil conversation. More updates as the story develops!

#breaking news #what’s the tea #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

retro-racing-vibes

[reblogging f1-drama-central’s post]

2014 me is SCREAMING right now. 2024 me is cautiously optimistic but also kind of worried because ... hospital?

#conflicted feelings #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

formulaonefanatic

[Image: Close-up of Lewis and Nico talking, both with serious expressions]

Whatever brought them together, it looks serious. Hoping everyone’s okay. But also ... is it wrong that I’m a little excited to see them talking again?

#concerned but intrigued #brocedes #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

***

f1-gossip-central

[Image set: Lewis, Nico, and Y/N on Lewis’ yacht. Another photo of Lewis kissing Y/N with Nico cringing in the background]

WHAT IS HAPPENING??? Lewis and Nico on the same boat??? Lewis kissing Nico’s sister??? I need answers!!!

#what timeline is this #i’m shook #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-ride-or-die

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

EXCUSE ME??? Lewis and Y/N??? When did this happen??? How did I miss this??? 😱😱😱

#new ship alert #what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

vintage-f1-drama

Okay but Nico’s face in that last pic is sending me 💀💀💀 Big protective brother energy

#siblings be like #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

formulaoneobsessed

[Image: Close-up of Lewis kissing Y/N]

New F1 power couple alert? 👀 But also, how is Nico okay with this?

#f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

racingheartstrings

[reblogging formulaoneobsessed’s post]

I can’t decide if this is the best or worst plot twist of the 2024 season 😂

Either way, I’m here for the drama!

#pass the popcorn #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

silverarrowsforever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico chatting on the yacht, looking relaxed]

Can we talk about how this is the most relaxed we’ve seen these two together in YEARS??? Whatever’s happening, it seems to be healing old wounds and I’m here for it 🙌

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

f1-fanfiction-addict

Me: furiously rewriting all my Brocedes fics to include Y/N

The plot twist we never saw coming 😅

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg #fanfiction problems

---

speed-queen-101

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

Y’all are focused on the Lewis and Y/N kiss but can we appreciate how GOOD everyone looks??? That Monaco sun is doing wonders 😍

#glow up #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

formula1-history-buff

Imagine telling someone in 2016 that in 2024, Lewis would be dating Nico’s sister and they’d all be hanging out on Lewis’ yacht. They’d think you were crazy!

#how times change #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

[Image: Nico’s cringing face as Lewis kisses Y/N]

Tag yourself, I’m Nico 😂

#third wheel vibes #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging racingdaydreams’ post]

Petition for a reality show following this trio because I would watch the HECK out of that

#make it happen netflix #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

f1-drama-queen

THEORY TIME: What if the hospital visit from last week was for Y/N??? And that’s what brought Lewis and Nico back together??? 🤔

#conspiracy theory #but makes sense #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-forever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico laughing together on the yacht]

My Brocedes heart is THRIVING right now. Yeah, the Lewis and Y/N thing is cute, but look at these two 😭❤️

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes #friendship goals

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woso-story · 1 month ago

Text

Car Accident

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Alexia sat at a long table in a cozy restaurant, surrounded by her teammates. The FC Barcelona women’s team was deep into their bonding night, the room alive with laughter, shared stories, and the occasional inside joke. Alexia smiled as she listened to Mapi's recount a ridiculous tale, her laugh blending seamlessly with the others.

The moment was warm and light—until Alexia’s phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Normally, she would ignore it during a night like this, but something about the timing made her pause. She excused herself quietly, stepping outside into the crisp night air before answering.

"Ms. Putellas?" a professional voice greeted her. "This is the hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Y/N. There’s been a car accident, and the ambulance brought her here."

Alexia’s world seemed to tilt. Her breath caught in her throat as panic gripped her chest. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Is she okay? What happened?"

The nurse’s voice was calm but firm. "She’s stable, but we can’t share details over the phone. The doctor will speak with you when you arrive. Please come to the hospital as soon as you can."

The call ended abruptly, leaving Alexia frozen on the sidewalk. Her heart pounded, her stomach twisting in knots as her mind raced with unanswered questions. Was she alive? Was she in pain? Her hands began to tremble, and tears blurred her vision.

“No,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head sharply. “I have to keep it together. I need to get there.”

Taking a deep breath, Alexia wiped her eyes and stepped back inside the restaurant. Her teammates noticed immediately that something was wrong; her usually composed demeanor had crumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Mapi asked, her voice laced with concern.

Alexia’s voice cracked as she replied, "Something happened to Y/N. She was in a car accident—I need to go."

Mapi’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood up. "I’m coming with you," she said firmly.

Alexia nodded, unable to speak. The fear clawing at her chest felt unbearable, and she was grateful not to face it alone. Ingrid, overhearing the exchange, quickly joined them. “I’ll drive,” she offered, grabbing her keys.

Ingrid’s car sped through the quiet streets, the tension inside it palpable. Alexia sat in the backseat, her knee bouncing anxiously. Mapi held her hand tightly, squeezing it gently in an effort to calm her.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mapi murmured, though even she sounded unsure.

Alexia didn’t respond. She stared out the window, her mind a whirlwind of worry. Images of you—hurt, scared, alone—flashed through her thoughts, and her chest tightened with helplessness.

---

When they reached the hospital, Alexia was out of the car before it fully stopped, sprinting toward the front desk. Her words came out in a rapid flurry of Spanish, her desperation clear. The nurse behind the counter looked overwhelmed, struggling to keep up.

Ingrid stepped forward, her calm and steady voice cutting through the chaos. Meanwhile, Mapi placed a reassuring hand on Alexia’s shoulder, guiding her to a nearby chair.

“Sit,” Mapi urged gently. “Take a breath. Ingrid’s handling it.”

Alexia sank into the chair, her hands still trembling. Mapi knelt in front of her, meeting her eyes. "You’re not alone, Ale. We’re here. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together."

Moments later, Ingrid returned with a doctor. His face was calm, which gave Alexia the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Someone ran a red light and collided with her car,” the doctor explained. “She has a concussion, some bruised ribs, and a broken collarbone. But she’s stable, and it could have been much worse. She was very lucky.”

Relief flooded Alexia’s body, and she exhaled a shaky breath. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears, but this time, they weren’t solely of fear. “Can we see her?” she asked.

The doctor nodded, leading the three women down the quiet hallway to your room. Alexia hesitated at the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. Mapi gave her a reassuring nod.

“You’ve got this,” Mapi said softly.

Taking a deep breath, Alexia pushed open the door. Her heart clenched at the sight of you lying in the hospital bed, bruised and bandaged. She approached quietly, sinking into the stool beside your bed and taking your uninjured hand in hers.

“Mi amor,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound. When your gaze met hers, a small, weak smile tugged at your lips. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice hoarse.

Tears spilled down Alexia’s cheeks. “You’re okay,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was so scared…”

Despite your pain, you reached up with your free hand to wipe away her tears. “I’m fine, Lex. I promise. Everything’s okay now.”

Mapi and Ingrid approached the bed, their expressions soft with relief. They greeted you warmly, their words filled with care. You smiled at them, your voice barely above a whisper as you thanked them for coming.

After a few minutes, Mapi and Ingrid excused themselves to retrieve some essentials from your apartment. Alexia hugged them both tightly before they left.

---

Once alone, Alexia stayed by your side, her hand still clasping yours. You noticed how tightly she was holding on, as if afraid you might disappear. Mustering a faint smile, you tried to lighten the mood.

“Well,” you teased weakly, “looks like you’re going to have to lend me your precious Cupra now.”

Alexia blinked, caught off guard. “Not funny,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

“Come on,” you whispered, your smile widening. “You love me enough to let me borrow it, right?”

Her faint smile grew, though her voice was stern. “You’re not driving anymore. I’m driving you everywhere from now on. No arguments.”

Despite your exhaustion, you chuckled softly. “Sure, Captain. Whatever you say.”

When Mapi and Ingrid returned with a bag of essentials, you were already asleep. Alexia hugged them both again, her gratitude unspoken but deeply felt.

---

Later that night, you stirred awake. The room was quiet, and for a moment, you were disoriented. Then you remembered the accident, the hospital, and Alexia. You turned your head to see her asleep in the uncomfortable chair, her hand still clasped around yours, her head resting against the edge of the bed.

“Lex,” you whispered, squeezing her hand gently.

Her eyes flew open immediately. “What’s wrong?” she asked, concern flooding her face.

“Nothing,” you reassured her. “But you look miserable in that chair. Come lie down with me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you insisted, shifting slightly to make room. “I need you close.”

She hesitated, but when you gave her your best puppy-dog eyes, she sighed in defeat. Carefully, she climbed into the bed beside you, wrapping an arm around you as you rested your head on her chest.

“You’re my safe place,” you murmured, the sound of her heartbeat lulling you.

Alexia kissed the top of your head. “And you’re mine.”

The two of you fell asleep together, the weight of the day easing in each other’s arms. For the first time since the accident, Alexia felt a sense of peace, knowing that you were safe and by her side.

---

The next morning, the doctor cleared you to go home with strict instructions for rest and recovery. Alexia was by your side the entire time, helping you into the car and settling you gently on the couch once you were home.

Over the next few weeks, Alexia rarely left your side. She ensured you followed the doctor’s orders, bringing you meals, fluffing your pillows, and doting on you in ways that melted your heart. She rearranged her training schedule to spend as much time with you as possible, and on the rare occasions she had to leave, she checked in constantly.

#woso fics #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia x reader #woso #woso community #woso x reader #woso fanfics

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traveler-at-heart · 6 months ago

Text

The Doctor's In

Summary: Billy Maximoff sustains an injury and Wanda comes to you, her neighbour who happens to be an ER doctor.

Wanda Maximoff x F!R

For @esposadejoyhuerta - hope this week is better to us <3

Tired.

That’s all you are. You don’t even know how you manage to get home, dragging your feet through the door and dropping your bag next to the couch.

Sleep or eat?

You look between the kitchen and sofa, and the view of the cushions and the blanket you left there is far more attractive than the prospect of food.

Sleep it is.

Dropping face first on the couch, you sigh, excited at the idea of sleeping for the next few hours, until your next shift at the hospital.

You close your eyes, and don’t know how long you’ve been asleep until a desperate knock wakes you.

“Who is it?” you say, scared by the sudden noise.

“It’s Wanda”

You relax instanty, sighing with relief. Though you don’t speak regularly to your neighbours, Wanda is by far the nicest.

“Is everything ok?” as soon as you open the door, you can see her disheveled state and the fear in her eyes. “Wanda, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Billy had a little accident in the stairs and he’s in pain, I didn’t know what to do and remembered you’re a doctor”

“Come on” you let her lead the way, opening the door. As soon as you enter you can hear Billy’s cries and Tommy by his side. The boy is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, holding his right arm.

“Hey, Billy. Wanna tell me what happened?”

“It hurts” is all he manages to say.

“May I examine you? You can tell me if it hurts a lot or only a little, yes?”

The boy nods, trying to calm down as you inspect his arm. At a certain movement, he flinches, and you sigh, turning to Wanda.

“He needs an X-Ray”

“Ok, I’ll take him now”

“Why don’t I drive you?” you say, thinking it might be dangerous for Wanda to get behind the wheel when she’s in so much distress. The woman nods, and you help Billy up, making sure he doesn’t move his arm.

Wanda sits with both boys in the back of your car, her hands going through Billy’s hair to calm him down.

“Sorry about the mess” you say, looking at all the junk you had in your car.

“It’s alright” she says, looking a bit more relaxed. “I’m sorry for making you drive us, you must be exhausted”

“I don’t mind at all”

You look through the rearview mirror, Wanda smiling softly and you return the gesture, feeling a bit flustered.

“I thought I told you to go home” Chief Fury says as soon as you walk through the ER.

“Uh… my neighbour’s kid got into an accident so”

“Alright, then” his threatening glare softens as soon as his eyes land on the woman walking behind you and her two kids, Billy in a wheelchair.

“He needs an X-Ray, I didn’t see signs of a concussion or any other injuries”

“Admit him, get vitals and go to imaging. Ma’am, you can wait here while Dr. Y/L/N checks on your son”

“Can’t I go with him?”

“I’m afraid not”

“It’s alright, I won’t leave him alone” you squeeze her hand, pushing Billy to the X-ray room.

Luckily it’s empty when you walk in, the technician setting everything up quickly.

“I thought your shift ended” Darcy says and you shrug your shoulders.

“Shit happens”

Billy laughs and your eyes widen, forgetting you were around a child.

“Uh, maybe don’t tell your mom I said that, kid?”

“Hey, don’t do it for free. Get something in return for your silence” Darcy intervenes and you want to smack her. But Billy keeps on laughing as you argue with your friend, and it’s nice to see him smiling after being in so much pain.

Darcy whistles as soon as you look at the image of Billy’s fracture.

“Clean split”

“Yeah, he got lucky”

You figure it’s better to ask for an Ortho resident to help with the cast. Darcy keeps Billy company while you go talk to Wanda.

“Hey” you sit next to her, offering a cup of coffee you brought from the machine.

“How is he?” Wanda asks, looking at Tommy, who is sound asleep in the chair next to hers. You motion for her to stand up to talk without waking him up.

“Billy broke his arm but won’t need surgery. Just a cast for a few weeks and then we can remove it”

“I’m such an idiot” she curses and you’re taken aback by her outburst. As a trauma surgeon, you had seen your fair share of ugly situations, so a cast was one of the best outcomes all things considered.

“I shouldn’t have let them play, but it was late and I figured they just needed to run a bit more before they got tired” she goes on, hand running through her hair. You can see the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, stop” you place your hands in her arms, waiting until she looks at you. “Blaming yourself is not helping at all. Listen, kids get hurt playing, it’s practically a rite of passage. And I know it sucks and it’s scary but Billy is fine and I’m always around for anything, ok?”

“Ok” she nods and without thinking, you pull her closer, hugging her. Wanda rests her head on your shoulder, her scent pleasant and calming. You rub circles down her back and she relaxes.

“Thank you” she says, her hands still on your waist. You can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks, even in her disheveled state and your eyes travel to her lips.

“Dr. Y/L/N?” a resident approaches you, clearly hesitant to interrupt.

“Yeah” it takes you a second too long to look away, making Wanda blush.

“Billy is all set up” she informs you. “If Miss Maximoff filled out all the forms he’s good to go”

“Yeah, I did” the woman nods next to you, picking up her things and waking Tommy up. The resident leads you to a room where Billy is waiting for his mother. Tommy runs up to him and admires his cast, looking at the material in his brother’s arm.

“Here” you say, adjusting an armsling for him to rest. Signing his discharge and picking up some pain meds, you lead the Maximoffs out of the hospital.

By the time you park in your driveway it’s 2 AM and you have to be at the hospital in less than 12 hours.

“Come on sweetheart” Wanda tries to wake Billy, but you stand next to her and offer to carry him all the way to his room.

You’ve known Wanda for almost two years now but had never gone inside her house. As you carry the boy upstairs, you notice all the family pictures and drawings that the twins made.

“Sleep tight, little man” you say, moving aside so Wanda can remove his shoes and tuck him in. “Let me know if you need anything, ok? I’ll be home until noon”

“Oh, actually, can you wait a second for me? I’m sorry, it won’t be long”

“Sure” you nod, going down to the living room.

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or Wanda has an incredibly comfortable couch, but as soon as you sit there, you relax and drift off.

By the time Wanda tucks in both boys and comes downstairs, you’re fast asleep. The woman smiles, your features soft as you catch up on much needed sleep. Wanda pulls out a blanket and drapes it over your body, hoping you’ll finally be able to get some rest.

—

It smells amazing.

The scent of fried bacon and butter makes you open your eyes, your stomach suddenly very aware that you forgot to have dinner last night.

Looking around, you realise this isn’t your house, but it still takes a minute to remember everything. Wanda, the twins, the hospital.

“Morning” the woman says when she sees you looking confused; the way you rub the sleep off your eyes makes her heart flutter.

“Wanda, hey. Sorry, I crashed in your living room. I’ll get out of your way now”

“I’m making breakfast. I bet you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday”

“Well…” you rub your neck, stretching. You fold the blanket and walk to her, your mouth watering at the smell of everything.

“Orange juice?” she offers.

“Yeah, thanks” you take the glass. “Can I help with anything?”

“You’ve done enough, Y/N. Come on, sit. Enjoy”

You smile sheepishly, grabbing pancakes, bacon and some jam. The first bite is so good, you let out a loud moan.

“Sorry” you blush, Wanda biting her lip curiously at the sound you just made. “These are like the best pancakes I’ve ever had”

“Thank you” she sits across from you, drinking coffee and resting her chin on her hand. “Do you have to be back to work soon?”

“Yeah, in a couple of hours. I’ve got surgery and gotta make the rounds on some patients from yesterday”

“You work too much” she admonishes in her mom voice and you laugh.

“I’ve heard that one before”

“Your boss?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have any family here and all of my friends are at the hospital, so it’s better than being home alone doing nothing”

“Not all of your friends are at the hospital” she says with a shy smile and you nod, appreciating her words.

“What about you? Anything interesting going on?”

“Aside from Billy and Tommy being pure chaos? No, that’s enough for a lifetime” she laughs, and it’s honestly the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“They’re really sweet kids. It must be hard work but you’re doing amazing with both of them, Wanda”

“Thank you” she looks down at her cup of coffee and you nod, eating the rest of your food in silence.

Wanda is about to say something else when your pager goes off.

“Oh, great” you mutter. “My surgery’s gonna be earlier. Gotta hurry up”

“Chew your food!” Wanda scolds when you began to put everything in your mouth.

“Sorry” you say, trying to slow down. Wanda rolls her eyes. “Can I at least do the dishes?”

“Fine” she concedes, and shows you where everything is. “You better eat before your surgery. Or I’ll pack you lunch”

“I promise I’ll eat” you say, rolling your eyes. Once the dishes are done you pick up your stuff and walk out the door, Wanda close behind. “Let me know if you need anything? Billy might have some discomfort but the meds should be enough. But either way, call me”

“I don’t actually have your phone number” she says, making you frown.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Here” You take out a piece of paper from your pocket and scribble on it. “Anything at all, call me. Even if I’m in surgery, I’ll make sure one of the nurses answers for me”

“Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Those pancakes were heavenly. Thank you”

It’s hard for you to say goodbye to Wanda, but you hear the twins calling and decide it’s time to go back home.

The woman gives you a nod and you reach out, squeezing her hand. You feel warm as you go back to your place.

To be honest, you’re hoping Wanda calls you, for more than just a consult.

Part 2

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n

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helenanell · 10 months ago

Text

Contempt of Court || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

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unintentionalseductress · 7 months ago

Text

A Helping Mouth

Warnings: MDNI, lactation kink, mentions of motherhood, mild threesome, clit play A/n: Here it is you milk-loving sluts (said with a lot of love). Enjoy. Not really proofread.

You swiftly walk back to your office, rolling your shoulders and sighing. It had been a long day but in a very satisfying way. Returning to the office as a new mother had left you with some doubts and trepidation but as your mother had said as she waved you and your husband off into the car, it was good for everyone to spend some time away from the baby.

Your mother had sent a few photos throughout the day reassuring you the baby was fine and truthfully, you found that she was right. After nearly 3 months of maternity leave, it felt good to be back at work, talking to people your own age and teaching strategy. And the glorious joy of dressing up to go to work, in your neat office outfit, which your husband had been kind enough to buy a new dress shirt for. You had settled back into the rhythm, humming as you turned down the hallway.

Nothing could go wrong. You were wearing comfortable shapewear, your makeup and hair were neat, there was nothing that could go drastically wrong today. But as you took a step, you felt an odd tingling sensation in your breast, followed by a stab of pain hard enough to make you stop and put a hand up to the mound of flesh. No, it couldn’t be…you had pumped earlier in the morning.

But as you hold yourself, you feel the undeniable sensation of warm wetness, and when you remove your palm, see the unmistakable smudge of milk on the front of your brand-new dress shirt. You feel tears in your eyes, the new shirt your husband had brought now going to smell like milk like the rest of your ugly tees and sweats, the pain intensifying and being felt in your other breast now. You let out a small gasp and try to keep walking, hoping to make it to your office, to do what, you didn’t know. You didn’t have a breast pump here, no change of shirt, nothing. The first day back at the office was ruined, all your joy turning into embarrassment and slight defeat.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” You halt as you hear your husband’s voice, unsure whether to feel relief or shy away from him. You turn to face the tall, blond, muscular sorcerer walking towards you.

“Kento I-” You pull your hand away from your shirt and he sees the milk stains dotting your front.

“Oh, honey.” He comes closer to pull you near him and you angle your body to prevent your milk from staining his clothes as well.

“It hurts Kento…I’m in so much pain and…I didn’t bring a pump, or towels, or a change of clothes.” The tears spill from your eyes and your voice trembles. “I should have listened and waited a little longer to return to work.”

“Ssh. Nonsense. These things happen. I bet it happens to more mothers than you think.” He soothingly strokes your back and you try to calm down.

“You can wear one of my shirts. Come to my office sweetie.” Kento puts a hand on your waist and starts leading you in another direction and you lean against him, praying no one sees you this way.

“I need a bra though. These things have gotten all huge and floppy now so I can’t not wear a bra.”

A low rumbling chuckle leaves your handsome husband’s lips. “They aren’t huge, they’re just fuller now. And I have one of your bras in my office.”

Your eyes widen, your inconvenient lactation momentarily forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“You kind of left it here by accident. Remember that time right before your delivery, you got really horny and we fucked on my desk?” Kento whispers slyly into your ear, making you blush. “It’s been in my desk drawer since then.”

“You pervert,” you manage to crack a smile. I’m shocked at this inappropriate behavior but right now, I’m willing to let it slide. Oh, thank god for the drawer bra.”

Kento leads you into his office and closes the door. As usual, you sit on his desk, the position so normal that it didn’t feel right to sit anywhere else. You wince and hold your breasts as pain stabs through them. Kento removes the buttons one by one, eyes darkening as he sees your soft flesh, the cream-colored bra also victim to your milk, leaving two round stains seeping into the cups. He licks his lips.

“Kento…” you say blushingly as you see his expression. “Stop looking at me like a starved man.”

“A starved man I am right now darling.” He lets the shirt hang off your shoulders and undoes your bra, pulling off the straps and carelessly throwing the stained garment onto his desk chair. Your lovely nipples were on full display, softly leaking little beads of creamy fluid. He languidly dips his head, making you gasp, as he draws one of the aching buds into his mouth, suckling, feeling his cock harden as the sweet fluid hits his tongue.

You moan softly, yet you’re helpless to push him away. You’d had sex in his office before, but somehow having him nurse from you felt far more intimate and taboo and you resisted, albeit very weakly.

“Kento no…not here…” you whimper, despite feeling the wonderful release of pain along with a throb of carnal pleasure between your legs.

“Don’t your breasts hurt?” Kento releases your nipple with a pop, milk dripping steadily from the hardened peak towards your naval. He goes to the other one, and you let out a weak cry of relief, feeling aroused yet bashful at the same time.

“They do but…Are you enjoying this?” He lets go of your nipple, licks his lips, and looks up at you, in a trance.

“Darling, you taste absolutely divine. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to sample you?” His tongue laves the very tip of your nipple, licking a bead of milk from it, making your brain fog up in a sexual haze.

“R-really? This? Milk?”

A low hum leaves his mouth as his lips latch onto you to suckle again, and you can’t help but cradle his head, softly playing with the beautiful hair, and whimpering as he helps you. Your free nipple, stimulated by the action on the other leaks freely, pearlescent beads flowing onto your body which he kept rubbing off with his thumb, licking it clean in between his tender sucks.

Your pussy is wet and you can feel the slick folds gliding against each other and you squirm slightly from the attention, feeling like you might sob from the comfort of your husband’s mouth. It was so unconventional but it was helping you and the fact that he found you so appealing even when you were dripping milk felt so powerful, your inner feminine psyche purring at the knowledge. You begin to rhythmically rock your hips, getting friction between your legs.

Noticing this, Kento smoothly slips a hand under your skirt, pushing aside your soaked panties to gently rub and roll your clit. You rest your head on his shoulder, moaning quietly, feeling the promise of a very delicious orgasm building inside your belly, heat rushing towards your core, little jitters of electricity running down your spine. Kento’s name spills from your lips, your fingers tightening on the locks of blonde strands, eyes closing in ecstasy…

“Nanami, I wanted to-” All the sensation stops suddenly as Kento’s office door opens, and Kento, lips glistening with milk, glances over your shoulder to see Satoru walk in, dumbfounded.

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly in shock, and you’re thankful your back is facing the door, torso covered by your shirt, but it was obvious what was happening. Kento’s hands deftly hold the sides of your shirt closed, pulling you closer to him. He licks his lips clean and talks in a surprisingly calm voice to Satoru.

“Gojo. Didn’t expect to see you.”

“And I would have expected you to lock the door Nanami,” Gojo says pointedly. “What’s going on here?”

Nanami’s voice becomes professional and practical within a split second, the transition amazing you. For a man who was discovered nursing from his wife, he was surprisingly composed.

“As you’re well aware Gojo, my wife just had a baby. We might be a top Jujutsu school, but we lack a lot of facilities needed to support women returning to the workforce as mothers. I was merely helping my wife through a difficult time. Since you are not a parent, you wouldn’t be aware of how painful it is for milk to remain for too long in the breast.” Kento looks at Satoru almost defiantly as though daring the white-haired man to challenge him.

Instead, your heart skips a beat as you hear a soft click of the door being locked, and footsteps as Satoru moves towards both of you, coming behind Kento and leaning over his shoulder to take a look. Your clit throbs in unbearable arousal, wedged against Kento’s calloused fingertips as Satoru, eyes covered by the blindfold, appraises you, before asking Kento, “Won’t it get messy if her other breast leaks freely like that?”

He gestures towards the streaks of milk on your abdomen and Kento nods. “It does.” Then he looks at you. “Honey, do you think you want extra help?”

You turn red but at the same time, the idea is appealing, turning you on even further. Kento suckling your milk was one thing, but the thought of another man also drinking your milk simultaneously was turning you on like crazy. You look at Kento and there’s no judgment in his eyes. You nod your consent and Satoru shuffles to your other side as Kento lets go of the shirt, and takes your free nipple into his hot, moist mouth.

It was exquisite, feeling your milk flow, the soft sounds of slurping filling the office as both men drank your milk like an elixir, Kento’s fingers softly rubbing circles on your engorged nub, your gasps and moans filling the air as they suckled to their heart’s content.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined yourself in a situation like this but it was happening and despite knowing this began as a pain relief exercise, you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, body becoming a mess of pleasure as your nipples flowed freely into their eager mouths.

“She’s so sweet Nanami,” Satoru murmurs before quickly placing his lips back onto your moistened bud.

“Don’t hog all her milk Gojo. Remember she’s mine.”

An urgent need grips your body as they talk, Nanami’s fingers bringing you close to the edge. The fact that they were fighting over you, over your milk, was another delightful turn-on, suckling almost competitively now, as though trying to see who could drink more from you.

Your cries become shamefully louder and abandoned, feeling the way your abdominal muscles clench, the way your pussy flutters in desperation until a hot wave of gratification hits your body like a shock, sending pulses of pleasure flowing through your body. Neither of them stop, gently nudging you through your orgasm until the last throb of pleasure vanishes away.

Neither of them let go, however, and continue to drink from you.

“Guys?” You tap their shoulders, and they look up at you, Kento’s whiskey eyes hazy, Satoru’s blue ones covered by the blindfold, both of their mouths still suckling relentlessly. “Shouldn’t we stop?”

At your question, it becomes obvious neither of them wants to let go. With a sigh, you lay back on Kento’s desk, folding your hands behind your head, letting them nurse, playing with their hair. If they wanted to waste an afternoon on your breasts, the least you could do was get comfortable.

@actuallysaiyan @aether-seawolf

@makingtimemine @snwvie

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stevieschrodinger · 7 months ago

Text

for @brazenliar

Part One Two Three

tw; childbirth

Eddie’s never moved this fast in his life; keys, phone, wallet, one quick mouthful of now cold chicken off his dinner plate, jacket, crocs off, sneakers on and he’s out the door.

Eddie carries Steve’s bag and the car seat, the towel rolled up under his arm, while Steve waddles along besides him.

He has to stop occasionally to take some deep breaths, obviously in pain, but it doesn’t take that long to get to the van. Eddie sets the towel on the passenger seat, rolling his eyes as Steve insist on it. Once he’s settled, Steve calls Robin and explains the new plan. Chrissy’s on her way apparently, so it shouldn’t be too long.

Eddie’s never been a nervous driver. Eddie’s never been in an accident that was his fault. He got rear ended one time and the bumper fell off, but that was about it. But now; this journey? Eddie’s driving like there’s a very full jug of gravy strapped into the passenger seat.

It’s a huge relief when they make it to the hospital. Eddie just throws the van into one of the spots out front; he’s not sure if he’s even allowed to park there but, honestly, fuck it. If he gets a fine he gets a fine.

Steve’s taking some awfully deep breaths and white knuckling his seatbelt strap, but otherwise seems okay. Just scents a little nervous mostly, a little scared, but Eddie can’t really blame him for that at all.

Once Eddie carefully wrangles Steve out of the van, he realizes Steve was absolutely right because, to be fair, Steve has left a fair old mark on the towel, so maybe Eddie will let him off for insisting.

Eddie leaves the carseat, figuring he can grab that in a bit – it leaves him a free hand for Steve to hold on to while they walk – and waddle – into the hospital.

They get directed to wait until a nurse can come down with a wheel chair, but in a sharp and really, really uncharacteristic show of temper, Steve snaps at the lady behind the desk that ‘he can walk, thank you very much. He is in labor, he is not incapable!’ And for the first time ever, Eddie scents the spicy scent of Steve's irritation.

She looks at Steve dubiously, but directs them in the right direction. Eddie is incredibly relieved that a nurse with a wheelchair meets them half way anyway, Steve still refuses to sit in it, so she follows along just in case she’s needed.

She seems really nice, from what Eddie can tell, and when Eddie looks over at her, she mouths a clear, ‘don’t worry,’ with a smile on her face, so Eddie figures this is all cool or normal or whatever.

Especially since Eddie has not a fucking clue what to expect here.

They make it to a set of doors with a keypad; the nurse lets them in. It makes a lot of sense, and gets rid of a worry Eddie didn’t even know he had; Steve’s going to be safe here. This bit of the hospital is extra secure for Steve and the pup.

“Eddie,” Steve stops walking, “there’s something-” and then Steve makes an unholy noise, doubling over as yet more bloody liquid gushes out of him. It’s like when the elevator doors open in the shining. Or that bit at the end of Carrie.

No it isn’t. It isn’t anywhere near that bad, it just looks like it is since there looks like there’s a lot of it and the fact that it's coming out of Steve probably makes it look worse than it really is.

Steve’s sneakers are going to be fucked, Eddie thinks absently, while having his hand near as damn snapped in half. There’s a nurse there with some sort of absorbent padding, thin blue plastic on one side, and white diamond pattern of white padding on the other, “don’t worry, we got you.”

Steve starts to list to the side, Eddie drops the overnight bag to come in front, Steve flailing and grabbing Eddie’s other hand as he pants his way through something that looks pretty fucking painful from a spectators point of view.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, I have to have a look.”

“Need the chair?” Nurse number one asks.

“Nope, way too late for that, he’s crowning,” and then suddenly a lot happens all at once. There’s another nurse there suddenly, gloved up and wearing an apron. Steve drags Eddie down with him as he sinks to his knees.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, you’re going to feel the urge to push on your contraction, you go ahead and do that when it feels right.”

Steve’s clawing at Eddie, his hands move for purchase on Eddie’s shoulders, “Eddie, I don’t want to have my baby in the fucking hallway,” he pants, face buried against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Uhm, not sure we can stop it,” Eddie says really really unhelpfully, right as Steve growls out a sound Eddie didn’t even know Omega’s could even make.

Eddie's forced to have his chin hooked over Steve's shoulder due to their positions, and that means Eddie's looking straight down Steve's back; he has front row seats for what happens next.

The nurses are all talking to each other, and they're all pretty calm, like this is a normal day at the office, except for when one of them shouts for something...and then there’s a baby. it just sort of slips free of Steve's body, like a magic trick, Steve making another one of those noises right in Eddie's ear.

The pup is crying and one of the nurses says, “is that a new record?”

A different one replies, “nah, there was that lady who only made it into the lobby.”

Eddie stares in wonder. And also, a bit in horror. It’s a boy, very definitely a boy, in fact. Eddie’s instinct is that Steve’s just given birth to an Alpha. One who’s covered in gack and blood, and he’s waving his arms and legs around like he doesn’t know what to do with all the space he’s suddenly got. He’s kind of covered in whitish slime, and he has got a lot of hair. Like a lot.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with his lungs.

“Are they okay? Eddie, please- is-”

“Yeah,” Eddie comes back to earth with a bump, Steve whispering in his ear, Eddie watches the nurse tie off and cut the umbilical, “yeah he’s absolutely fine Steve.”

“He?” Steve sobs against Eddie’s neck.

Eddie watches as a nurse kind of randomly sticks her fingers in the babies mouth, and then they’re taking him away and Eddie is not at all fucking happy about that but is distracted again by a nurse.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, once more and you’re done.”

For a split second, Eddie thinks Steve’s having twins, but then he finds out the placenta is a whole other thing that needs to happen.

Every day’s a school day.

Eddie’s kneeling on a hallway floor, taking half of Steve’s weight, and Steve’s just had a pup. Steve snuffles at Eddie’s neck, and Eddie is flooded with a bone deep certainty that he is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“Eddie, I have to get up.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah.”

Eddie helps, making it half way before wheelchair nurse is back, and Eddie helps Steve, really gingerly and a little awkward, settle into the chair.

“Where is he?”

“They’re just cleaning him up, lets get you onto a bed and he’ll be there.”

Steve just...strips in front of Eddie. Eddie catches stretchmarks and then the curve of Steve’s ass as he climbs into bed, and then, true to their word, swaddled in a hospital blanket, the baby is half unwrapped so that they are skin to skin, and deposited onto Steve’s chest, “seven pound four,” she tells Steve.

She waits, making sure Steve doesn’t have any problems with the baby ‘latching’ – which Eddie works out is the proper word for the little guy getting on Steve’s nip – and then she goes to get Steve some water and pain relief.

Eddie just stands there, next to the bed, quietly amazed. It’s like the whole world just shifted a little to the left; this tiny thing suckling at Steve’s rounded chest is just...suddenly the most precious thing in the world. Steve's got a fair bit of chest hair for an Omega; Eddie cannot stop staring at where the tiny pups fingers are gripping at it as he suckles.

“Steve,” Steve looks up, he looks tired, and a little washed out, but so fucking happy, “congratulations.”

Steve smiles, “thanks Eddie.”

“So what are you going to name him?”

Steve’s had a drink, some pain meds, and been inspected by a doctor. Eddie was aloud to sit in the arm chair and hold the little pup while Steve got checked out and...he didn’t cry, but it was close. The scent of pup seems to have already ingrained itself on Eddie’s soul.

He’s asleep now, and neither of them can stop staring at him, they talk in whispers.

“I don't know, I thought I’d just...see them and know, somehow.”

Eddie hums, thinking. “How about Ronnie James?”

“Uh hu. And who is that?”

“Ronnie James Dio Steve, only the greatest musical talent of all time.”

Steve sighs, “I like James.”

“Yeah?”

“Jamie, yeah, James Robin Harrington, what do you think?”

“I mean...I’m kind of biased but yeah. Yeah I like it.”

“Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Steve.”

“Hey, Robbie.”

Robin comes into the room slowly, and Eddie can tell she’s barely holding back, “I missed it. Oh I’m so sorry I missed it I-”

“Hey it’s okay, honestly it happened so fast I nearly missed it.”

They keep chatting, Robin apologizing and then, crying. And then Steve starts crying. And Robins saying she’s so proud and they’re scenting each other and Robin's scenting the pup and then they’re crying again and Steve’s telling her the name and then that’s a whole thing because Robin didn’t know about the middle name, apparently-

A blonde beta female has sidled up to Eddie, “I’m Chrissy, Eddie, right?”

“Yeah, nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah same and...this,” she vaguely indicates where Robin and Steve are now, cuddled on the bed with the pup, “we just have to let this happen, you want to grab a coffee?”

Eddie doesn’t want to leave, he wants to climb into bed with his mate and his pup and never leave them, but he also recognizes that instinct for what it is; batshit. “I’d fucking love one.”

Part Five

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #pre getting together #pre steddie #dustin henderson #omega steve harrington #alpha eddie munson #ao3 author #ficlet #ao3 writer #mpreg #tw birth #tw pregnancy

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sunny44 · 6 months ago

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Pole position and broken wrist

Pairing: Max Verstappen x GF!reader

Warnings: broken wrist, medical center, medications etc…

Summary: Where Y/n broke her wrist on qualifying day.

It was one of those days when everything seemed to be in the right place. I woke up with Y/n by my side, her hair spread out on the pillow and a serene smile on her face. The sun was shining outside, and I felt a positive energy in the air. Today was qualifying day, and confidence was high. The car was fast, and the team's work had been impeccable throughout the weekend.

Y/n and I had a special ritual on race Saturdays. After breakfast in the motorhome, we would go to the paddock together. She was known for her vibrant personality and, of course, for her ability to get into unusual situations. I still remember when she spilled a tray of drinks on the team boss during her first visit to the paddock. But those moments, no matter how chaotic, only made me love her more.

We arrived at the paddock, and Y/n quickly started interacting with the mechanics and engineers, drawing smiles and laughter. It was impossible not to be infected by her light and carefree spirit. While she mingled, I focused on the qualifying session ahead. I knew she would be there supporting me, as always.

The qualifying session started, and the car was perfect. I managed to top the timesheet right in Q1, and that pace continued until the end. When I crossed the finish line in Q3, with pole position secured, my heart raced with excitement. I knew Y/n would be waiting for me in the garage, ready to congratulate me with that smile that made all the problems in the world seem insignificant.

But when I returned to the garage, something was off. I didn't see Y/n anywhere. Usually, she would be jumping with joy, ready to give me a celebratory kiss. Instead, I was greeted by worried looks from the team members. Before I could ask what was going on, one of the mechanics, Dave, approached me, a concerned expression on his face.

"Max, there’s been an accident... with Y/n," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

My heart froze. "What happened?" I asked, trying to stay calm.

"She was walking through the paddock, and you know how she is... Always bumping into things. Apparently, she tripped and fell. She tried to grab onto a metal structure but ended up slipping and falling hard. She broke her wrist."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The image of Y/n, hurt, flooded my mind, and a sense of panic started to grow inside me. "Where is she now?" I asked, already moving towards the garage exit.

"They took her to the medical center here at the circuit. She was in a lot of pain, but they said she's going to be okay. They just need to immobilize her wrist and maybe take her for more detailed exams."

Without wasting any more time, I ran towards the medical center. Everything around me seemed like a blur. The people, the sounds, even the noise of the engines... It all disappeared. The only thing that mattered was getting to Y/n.

When I entered the clinic, I found her sitting on a bed, with an expression of pain mixed with frustration. Her arm was already in a temporary splint, and the doctor was beside her, explaining what they would need to do next.

"Max!" Y/n exclaimed when she saw me, her eyes shining with a mix of surprise and relief.

"Y/n, what happened?" I asked, approaching her, feeling a wave of relief seeing her conscious and talking, even though she was visibly uncomfortable.

She gave an embarrassed smile, something she always did when she was in trouble. "I’m a complete klutz, Max... I tripped over one of those damn toolboxes and, trying to balance myself, ended up falling. And, well... you know the rest."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair and sitting next to her.

"Is it hurting a lot?"

"Yes, it hurts like hell."

"Do you have any idea how much you scared me?" I asked, taking her free hand and intertwining our fingers.

"I'm so sorry... It wasn’t my intention to ruin your pole day," she replied, with a pained little laugh.

"The only thing that matters to me right now is that you're okay," I said, kissing her forehead gently. "And, look, we’re still going to celebrate this pole. We’ll just do it at your pace, okay?"

She smiled again, this time more confidently, and nodded. "Sounds like a good plan."

The doctors entered and started discussing the next steps, mentioning the need to take her to a hospital outside the circuit for a more detailed X-ray and possibly to cast her wrist. The idea of her having to spend the rest of the race weekend with a cast worried me, but the relief of knowing it was "just" a broken wrist calmed me down.

After a few hours, we left the hospital with her wrist properly casted. I insisted we return to the motorhome and spend the rest of the day there, away from any potential dangers in the paddock. She hesitated a bit but eventually agreed.

We settled on the sofa in the motorhome, with Y/n lying next to me, her arm carefully propped up on a pillow. The TV was on, showing a replay of the qualifying session, but I hardly paid attention. My focus was on her, making sure she was comfortable and cared for.

"Max, you don’t have to stay here with me the whole time," she said softly, looking at me with a shy smile. "You should enjoy the rest of the day with the team, celebrate the pole."

"I'm exactly where I need to be," I replied, running my fingers through her hair. "Besides, who’s going to take care of you if I'm not around? What if you trip over the carpet now?"

She laughed, though she winced in pain right after. "I really am fucking clumsy, huh?"

"You are, but you’re my clumsy, and I love you for it," I murmured, leaning in to kiss her.

...

The next day, I woke up to the soft sound of Y/n's breathing beside me. Her arm, now casted and propped up on pillows, was a constant reminder of how clumsy she could be. But seeing her there, sleeping peacefully, I knew that even with a broken wrist, she would still make her day and mine unforgettable.

When Y/n finally woke up, the lazy smile she gave me warmed me inside.

"Good morning, champ." she murmured, trying to stretch without moving her arm too much.

"Good morning, clumsy." I replied, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Ready for another day of adventures?"

"More than ready," she said, with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Is it hurting a lot?"

"It’s starting to hurt more now, I think the painkillers are wearing off."

"Well, you stay there while I get dressed and grab your meds." I said, getting up.

"I can get them." She tried to get up but I stopped her.

"No, no. You stay there, safe and sound, I’ll get the meds." She agreed and lay down.

After I went to the bathroom and got dressed, I got her meds and handed them to her. She got up afterward, went to the bathroom, and I helped her get dressed since moving her arm was straining her wrist and hurting.

"Ready?" I asked, putting a Red Bull bucket hat on her head and giving her a peck, making her smile.

"More than ready." She said, and we left the motorhome together. "You know, I was thinking… since I’m going to have this cast on for a while, I’ll make it more interesting."

"Interesting how?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Autographs!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most brilliant idea in the world. "I’ll ask some of the guys to sign it for me. It’ll be a nice memory of this whole thing."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You really are full of ideas, aren’t you?"

"You knew who you were getting involved with when you asked me out," she replied, winking at me and holding my hand.

Y/n was visibly excited, and even with her arm in a cast, she radiated a joy that was contagious.

Lando was her first target. As soon as she saw him, she ran over to him, carefully balancing the cast on her arm.

"Lando! You have to be the first to sign!" Lando, always the jokester, gave a mischievous smile and took the Sharpie Y/n was holding with her free hand.

"So, do you want me to write 'Caution: very clumsy' or something like that?" He asked, as he signed the cast, and Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t hold back her laughter.

"Just sign it, Norris. And make it look nice."

"Alright, bossy." He handed the pen back to her, and after chatting a bit and wishing her well, we went after the next victim.

Charles was talking to some members of his team, but Y/n wasn’t intimidated.

"Charles! I need your autograph, please." she said, waving the cast in his direction, and he smiled warmly, taking the pen.

"I saw pictures of you online with a cast but didn’t know what had happened. Are you okay?"

"I’m better, yeah. I tripped over a toolbox... Long story," she replied, laughing at herself.

"Well, I hope you get better soon," he said, carefully signing the cast with his name and adding a small heart next to it. "And try to stay away from toolboxes for a while."

Carlos was next, and Y/n knew he wouldn’t miss the chance to tease her. When she approached him, he raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look.

"Max, you really have to keep an eye on her," Carlos said, laughing. "She’s a danger to herself."

"Tell me about it," I replied, smiling as Carlos signed the cast.

"Y/n, are you collecting accidents now?"

"Let's just say I'm adding a little drama to the weekend," she replied, extending her arm.

"There you go," he said after adding 55 to the end of his signature. "I hope you get better soon."

"Thank you Chili." He gave her a side hug and started walking towards the Ferrari garage.

"Try not to break anything else," he yelled and went inside.

Alex was walking past us when Y/n spotted him. "Alex! Please sign here," she said, and he promptly complied.

He made a neat signature, adding a small trophy to the side. "I hope this brings you luck to recover quickly," he said.

"Thank you, and bring Lily to the next race." He nodded and left.

Oscar was the last one before we returned to the Red Bull garage. He was focused, but when he saw Y/n approaching with that smile that said “you have no choice”, he smiled too.

“Oscar, you’re next on the list,” she said, shaking her cast.

“Honored to be a part of this collection,” he joked as he signed it, drawing a little kangaroo next to his name.

Finally, we made it back to the Red Bull garage, where Y/n handed me the pen.

“Now it’s your turn.” She said smiling.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” I said, taking the pen and thinking about what to write.

I decided on something simple but meaningful. I signed my name, and next to it I wrote, “I love you, my clumsy.”

She looked at the cast and then back at me, her eyes shining with emotion.

“It’s perfect, it’s definitely my favorite signature,” she said, smiling.

The day went on, and soon it was time for the race. Y/n was by my side until the last second before I got in the car. Even with her injured arm, she was there, smiling, supporting me, and reminding me of what really matters. mattered.

When I finally got into the car and got ready for the race, I knew that no matter what happened on the track, I had something very special waiting for me at the end of it all. The race was important, sure, but Y/n… she was the reason I gave my best, on and off the track.

Bonus scene!

Yourusername Instagram stories

“Before the accident X after the accident”

Ps: I’m okay guys, just a broken wrist

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houseofanticipation · 14 days ago

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I put you in the basement at first. Obviously. I can't just give you free rein of the house, not when you still believe there's a life for you outside it. No, you stay in the basement, and because I don't have you trained yet, you stay chained to the wall. This is probably about as frustrating for me as it is for you. You don't like being chained to a wall? Imagine how tiresome it is for me that I have to come all the way downstairs every time I want to rape you.

When some of the fight has gone out of you (it may be as short as a week or as long as several months, depending on how willful you are), I let you roam the basement freely. There's not a lot to do down there, but at least you can pace if you want, and I'm sure it's a relief to have that cuff off your ankle. At this point you're probably still planning to escape eventually, but you've realized you need to be smart about it. You need to wait and bide your time. Be a good girl for me and let me get complacent, and eventually I'll slip up.

Of course, what you're telling yourself each day you wait is that some amount of rape is acceptable. When you hear me coming and get on the bed preemptively, so I don't have to beat you down. When you spread your legs for me instead of trying to resist. When you touch yourself beforehand, just to make yourself wet enough that it's a little less painful when I force myself into you without lube. With each little act of acquiescence, you're telling yourself, I choose this. I have weighed the options, and this rape is what's best for me at this moment. I think you'll be surprised by how much that sentiment can build up.

One day, a few months after I unchain you, I leave the door open. Not by a lot, not enough to be obvious, but you notice. It seems like an accident, like I got careless and forgot to make sure it latched on my way out. You wait until you think I'm asleep and then you make a break for it. I let you get as far as the driveway before I stop you. And when I use you that night, believe me, it is brutal.

In the coming weeks I "forget" the door more and more often. Maybe the second time it happens you really believe you've just gotten lucky again. But by the third time you see the game: I don't bother with the door because I'm not worried about you escaping. I'm stronger and faster and smarter than you, and I know when you're going to try to escape before you do.

My favorite little trick comes a few weeks later. At that point I've stopped bothering with the door entirely, and you no longer try to escape every night. You're biding your time again, waiting for the crack in cage, only this time the cage is bigger, and it's harder to tell where the walls are. But on this night you do try to escape (you think you've figured out my sleep schedule), and you make it all the way down to the road. You flag down a cop car as it drives by, and explain breathlessly to a horrified officer that you've been held captive, raped, beaten, that the man who did this to you lives right up there on the hill, that any second I'm going to wake up and notice you missing, and you need to go now. The officer calls for backup, puts you in the back seat of his car, and proceeds to drive you right back up to my house, where I'm waiting for you.

As a bonus for helping me out, I let him rape you right there in the backseat of his car.

It doesn't take many games like that before you stop trusting anyone at all. You walk half a mile down the road to my neighbor's house, he gives me a call the second he sees you coming up the driveway. A long-haul trucker picks you up in passing, and he takes you to a local dive bar where he and his buddies can have their way with you while you wait for me to come pick you up. All it takes is a few well-placed friends to make you believe I somehow know everyone in the world, and they're all going to give you up the moment you ask for help.

So you stop asking for help.

You're tired of the punishment. You're tired of the brutality. Better some rape than cruel, brutal rape. Isn't it? You stop trying to escape. You stop resisting. You come when I call, you suck when I tell you to suck, you swallow when I tell you to swallow. And in return I keep you comfortable, well fed, taken care of. Not such a bad trade off, really.

I know I've won when I can go on vacation. I'll just leave one day for a long weekend. I don't bother telling you where I'm going, or how long I'll be gone. You wander the house, maybe even go out in the yard, but you don't try to run. There's a little voice in the back of your head telling you this is all a trick, I want you to run, I'm out there waiting for you to break the rules so I can hurt you worse than I've ever hurt you before.

You decide not to risk it. Better to stay here, where it's safe.

#rapekink #rapedoll #rapetoy #r@pe kink #rape/noncon #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #cvmdump #cnc abuse #cnc gaslighting #cnc cumdump #r@petoy #library 🜞

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sheetschiropracticcenter · 1 year ago

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#massage in Mission Viejo #wellness care in mission viejo #back pain chiropractor mission viejo #relief care in mission viejo #car accident chiropractor mission viejo #neck pain chiropractor mission viejo #joint pain chiropractor mission viejo #chiropractor in mission viejo

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steddiehyperfixation · 1 year ago

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don't you forget about me (steddie fic)

saw this post and was inspired to write something angsty <3

The first thing Eddie is aware of when he wakes up, before he even opens his eyes, is the dull, aching pain throbbing through pretty much his entire body. The second thing he’s aware of is that someone is holding his hand.

“Eddie?” The hand in his tightens its grip as Eddie begins to stir; the voice it presumably belongs to sounds immeasurably relieved, yet only vaguely familiar.

Eddie groans. His eyelids flutter, blinking awake, and he groggily rolls his head to the side to get a look at whoever had spoken.

The voice sighs again, “Oh thank god-”

“Harrington?” Eddie’s eyes fly open wide now as they land on the mystery man sitting beside him on the edge of the bed - a man he most definitely is not close enough with to be holding his hand, and a bed that is most definitely not his own. He snatches his hand away. “What the hell are you doing? Where am I?”

“Ed-” Another man’s voice, this one just as relieved and infinitely more familiar. It fills Eddie with relief too as he looks to his other side to find his uncle Wayne rising from a nearby chair to come up next to him.

“Wayne, what-?” His surroundings are becoming more clear. “What happened? Why am I in a hospital? And why the fuck is King Steve at my bedside?” Eddie tries to sit up only to gasp and wince in pain as the dull ache in his sides sharpens to near agony at the movement.

“Take it easy, son.” Wayne’s hand lands on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down onto the pillows. “You were hurt real bad.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Eddie grumbles out. He sucks in a deep, intentional breath and exhales slowly, the pain beginning to dull again now that he’s settled. His questions are still largely unanswered, though. Blank mind reaching desperately for any logical piece to this bizarre puzzle, he turns an accusing glare to Harrington. “Did you land me in here? Is that why you’re here, some sort of weird guilt thing?”

Harrington’s looking at him like a kicked puppy. “What? No, I-” he falters, takes a shaky breath and swallows painfully like he’s trying not to cry. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember what? Will someone just tell me what happened?” Eddie’s confusion is rising more and more into agitation with every second he remains without an explanation.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Harrington asks quietly.

“I was driving home from school, just found out I wasn’t gonna graduate again.” Eddie frowns as he thinks back, still trying to put pieces together. “Did I crash my car? Is that it? I was emotional and not paying attention and got into an accident?”

Yet again, he receives no answers.

“Eddie, what month is it?” Wayne asks instead, his tone dangerously measured and serious. “What year?”

“May…” Eddie says warily, “1985.”

His words hold a weight he doesn’t understand, landing heavy on the others in the room and thickening the air. It sends a chill of dread down his spine, the way his answer etches concern deep into the lines of Wayne’s face, the way Steve Harrington seems to take it like a blow to the chest.

Harrington exhales sharply as if he’s been punched, standing abruptly and taking a few stumbling steps back. Wayne says, “It’s April of ‘86, Ed.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “No. No, it can’t be.”

“I’m gonna go tell the nurse you’re awake,” Harrington mumbles, his voice strained and his eyes glassy with barely held-back tears.

“I’ll go,” Wayne offers, pushing himself away from Eddie’s bed. He gives Harrington a meaningful look, though what that meaning is, Eddie can’t decipher.

Harrington turns his devastated gaze to the older man. “But, Wayne, he doesn’t-”

“I know, kid.” Wayne gives a sad smile and places a sympathetic hand on Harrington’s shoulder as he passes by. “Just talk to him.”

Eddie is thrown off by this familiarity between them. Since when were those two close? He feels like he’s entered some sort of parallel universe where everything is just ever so slightly wrong. It leaves an itch beneath his skin, uncomfortable and out of place, like he no longer quite fits in his own body, in his own life. He’s lost 11 months, apparently, and this world is no longer his; he doesn’t know where he fits into it anymore.

Wayne leaves the room, and Eddie wants to protest: Don’t leave me here with this guy I don’t know in this time I don’t know, please, you’re the only thing that feels safe and familiar! Anxiety is crawling through him like a thousand tiny bugs in his veins. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to run. Anything to shake this feeling loose. But he’s confined to this bed, trapped both by his pain and by all these machines he’s hooked up to, and he sure as shit isn’t going to have a breakdown in front of Steve goddamn Harrington.

Instead, Eddie resigns himself to this situation and casts a sideways glance at Harrington who very much looks like he’s also trying not to have a breakdown. “I’m freaking out, man,” Eddie says finally, hating how shaky and pathetic his voice sounds. “I swear to god, Harrington, if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on…”

Harrington worries his lip between his teeth as he hesitates. “It’s a lot to explain.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Eddie scoffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m missing nearly an entire year, of course it’s a lot to fill in. Unless I’ve been here this whole time?”

“No.” Harrington shakes his head. “No, you’ve only been here about a week. I- I don’t know why you’re missing so much time, the whole Vecna thing only started like a week before that-”

“Vecna?” Eddie interrupts to question. “What does any of this have to do with the D&D campaign I was planning? And, also, how the fuck do you know about that?”

Harrington closes his eyes for a second and takes a breath, like having this conversation is the most painful thing he’s ever had to do. “I’m not talking about D&D, Ed. Vecna was a real-life monster from a real-life alternate dimension we called the Upside-Down. The kids only called him Vecna because we didn’t know who he was at the time and he, like, cursed people before he killed them, but he was actually Henry Creel, which is a whole other fucked up story.”

“Okay…” Eddie doesn’t know who ‘the kids’ are and he’s skeptical of the way Harrington talks so factually about monsters and dimensions and curses existing in the real world, but he does remember his uncle telling him stories about the demonic tragedy of the Creel family, which is the only thing that makes any of this even halfway believable. It still doesn’t explain how Eddie wound up in the hospital with his entire body feeling like it’d been run through a blender, though, or why the former king of Hawkin’s High was hovering over his sickbed. He gestures for Harrington to continue.

“I never wanted you to get involved in all this Upside-Down shit,” Harrington’s voice breaks. He steps closer to Eddie’s bed again, and he looks so so sad as he stares down at him that it makes Eddie’s own heart ache, just a little bit. Harrington’s hand twitches at his side as if he means to reach out for Eddie but then thinks better of it, running the hand through his hair instead as he continues, “I tried to keep you from it for so long, I really did, but then Vecna killed Chrissy in your trailer and the whole town blamed you and you were just a part of things then, there was no getting around it. You helped us fight him - Vecna. You kept his army of bats off our ass while we weakened his body and El weakened his mind. If it weren’t for you we never would’ve defeated him and we certainly wouldn’t have all made it out alive.” Harrington’s gaze softens, as does his voice, his next words almost a whisper, “You were a hero, Eddie.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Eddie says, like that’s the least plausible part of Harrington’s story. And, really, it is. He can wrap his mind around a lot of things: a murder in his trailer - sure, Forest Hills always was a shady place; the whole town accusing him of being a killer - yeah, of course, that tracks; even an evil wizard from another dimension with an army of bats - fine, okay, why the hell not. But Eddie Munson is no hero, and he’s definitely not any sort of fighter either.

“No, you never did think so, did you?” Harrington mutters with a sad sort of fondness and the barest trace of a wistful smile. “But it’s true. Dustin was in danger and you didn’t even think twice. You ran right into the fray without a second thought, sacrificed yourself so that the rest of us might survive. Those bats nearly killed you, b-” he breaks, choking on whatever word he was going to say. His eyes swim with yet more unshed tears. “I almost thought they had killed you, you know. I thought you were dead when I carried you out of the Upside-Down,” he admits shakily, choked up and barely managed, “and even when I brought you here and you were stable, I was still so scared you wouldn’t wake up…”

Eddie doesn’t know how to react to any of that information or to such a display of emotion. His own hands twitch now with the urge to reach out and comfort him, but he too denies that instinct. He tries for humor instead, something lighter, cracking a grin and teasing, “Aw, Stevie, I didn’t know you cared.”

Harrington makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Oh, Ed, you have no idea.”

“We were friends then, weren’t we?” Eddie guesses now, carefully. It’s rapidly becoming the only possible explanation for the guy’s behavior around him. “Before all the Vecna stuff?”

“Yeah,” Harrington manages, forcing a small, sad smile as his eyes finally overflow and streak his cheeks with tears. “Yeah, we were good friends.”

Wayne reenters the room then with a nurse in tow, and Steve quickly turns away and rubs his hands over his face. He needs to pull himself together; he can’t break down right now, not yet, not here.

He listens, distantly, as the nurse asks Eddie a bunch of questions and then tells the rest of them that she needs to take him in for some tests to determine the cause and prognosis of Eddie’s amnesia. He watches, numbly, as she wheels Eddie’s entire bed out of the room.

Steve can barely hear, barely see, his emotion clouding his eyes and roaring in his ears. He stares blankly through the open doorway and struggles to swallow down the ever-rising lump in his throat.

Wayne’s voice rumbles from somewhere beside him, but he can’t quite make out the words. “What?”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Wayne says, the sound reaching Steve’s ears a little clearer now. “I asked if you were alright.”

Steve shakes his head. His voice comes out coarse and raw, “‘Course I’m not alright.”

“Right, ‘course you’re not,” Wayne echoes. He follows Steve’s mournful gaze to the door Eddie had disappeared through. “What did you tell him?”

“Told him he was a hero,” Steve croaks, “...and that we were good friends.”

“Ah…” Steve’s vision is so blurred behind a thick layer of tears he can’t see the sympathetic frown on the old man’s face, but he knows it’s there. “At least he’s alive, kid,” Wayne tries to be comforting. “You can always start over.”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t- I don’t want to start over, I just want-” Steve chokes back a sob. He just wants Eddie.

It’s a horrible thought, but Steve almost thinks that this just might be worse than if Eddie really had died… Because how is Steve supposed to handle the fact that his boyfriend of 9 months no longer knows him? How is he supposed to cope now that the love of his life looks right at him and no longer sees him?

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids, inhaling a shaky breath and exhaling an even shakier sigh. Steve whispers, “It feels like I’m losing him all over again.”

(part two is here!)

(also on ao3)

#i have plans to fix it don't worry. eventually. maybe #i'm really really bad at writing longer multi-part fics but i've got a lot of ideas spinning around my head for this one so #hopefully i will continue it if any of y'all are interested in more of this #steddie #steddie angst #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #ficlet #fanfic #mine #1k #dyfamsteddiefic #<- tag to follow for this story

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anotherworldawaitsus · 26 days ago

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Crash

Summary: An accident pulls you and Melissa further into each other’s orbit.

Chapter: 1/4

Chapter 1

Melissa passed the crash on her way to school. By then, road cleanup services were removing shattered glass and twisted hunks of metal from the street. As traffic slowed and she maneuvered around the remains of the accident, she saw a bike that looked just like yours being loaded onto a tow truck. A sick feeling washed over her. She floored it the last few blocks of her commute, tires squealing as she turned into the parking lot of Abbott Elementary.

Classes hadn’t officially started back yet. Today was a designated teacher planning day at the end of winter break. Most of the staff would trickle in later, enjoying the relaxed pace of a morning with no students. But Melissa had left the house early. She wanted to grab a cup of coffee, gab with Barbara, ease into the new year. And alright, yeah, maybe she was also hoping to see you, swap a few family holiday horror stories (“trauma” as you preferred to call it), and make fun of whatever godawful healthy thing you brought in for breakfast. She didn’t usually trust school shrinks—any shrinks for that matter—but everybody knew she had a soft spot for you.

Melissa scanned the parking lot anxiously, praying to see your motorcycle tucked safely into its usual spot. You had been so protective of that stupid bike when you first got hired, she almost wrote you off as a ginzaloon gear-head. But once you realized how gah gah the kids went over it, you started parking right next to the playground—even occasionally caving to the demands of her excited second graders, revving the engine during recess as they cheered you on.

She had rolled her eyes at the time, but she didn’t mind the theatrics. She also didn’t mind the sight of your long legs straddling that leather seat. Had even indulged in a brief fantasy of what it would feel like to join you there, slipping her arms around your waist, nuzzling her face into the middle of your shoulders. That was before this morning, before she’d seen the mangled leftovers in the road. Before she decided she hated motorcycles.

Melissa locked her car and hustled into the school, past your ominously empty parking spot. As the school psychologist, you worked in a private office near the front of the building. It even had an en-suite bathroom, a fact which caught you major shit with the other faculty. Especially from Melissa, who had given you endless grief at the start of your first semester.

She pulled out her cell phone, trying not to panic as she made a beeline for your office. A dozen terrible images flashed through her mind. You crumpled on the side of the road; you being lifted into an ambulance; you lifeless on a cold slab in some distant part of the city. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

The redhead rounded the corner at breakneck speed in her high-heels, starting to dial your number with shaky hands. But the door to your office was slightly ajar and a dim light was spilling out into the hallway. She breathed an instant sigh of relief, calling your name as she booted her way into the room. “Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack—“

Melissa froze in her tracks. A bloody white t-shirt had been discarded on the coffee table, and your helmet sat on the little sofa beside your desk. Its visor was shattered and there were long, ugly scratches on the side. “Melissa?” Your voice sounded strange and faint from inside the bathroom.

She dropped her bags and sprang toward the door, jiggling the handle. “Open this door right now or I swear to god I’ll break it down.”

She heard the familiar huff of your laugh, cut short by a grunt of pain that made her heart clench. “Gimme a sec,” you said softly.

“Right. Now.” Patience had never been one of her virtues.

She shifted back and forth, willed herself to be calm. There was some shuffling, a few more agonizing seconds, and finally the click of the lock. Melissa pushed the door open carefully and you stepped back until your hips hit the sink.

Her hands were on you in an instant, insistent but soft, surveying the damage. You gripped the edge of the porcelain for support, blinking hard through an unpleasant wave of dizziness.

“You should see the other guy,” you said, hoping to ease the tension rolling off the other woman in waves. She ignored you, gently running her hands over your body as she made a thorough inventory of every bump, bruise, and bloody scrape. You swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. Finding yourself half-naked in front of Melissa Schemmenti had not been on this morning’s bingo card. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“I’ve been trying to put on a clean shirt for the past 10 minutes,” you explained lamely, gesturing to the oversized Abbott Elementary Field Day tee folded on the vanity. “But I’m moving a little slow.”

That was an understatement, especially now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. The EMTs had diagnosed you with one or two cracked ribs, some gnarly abrasions, and plenty of bruising where your bike had slammed into the median. But mostly they had diagnosed you as lucky. Very, very lucky.

“What’s broken?” Her tone was clipped, still tight with fear.

“Nothing.”

She gave you a “cut-the-bullshit” look and you folded instantly.

“Maybe some cracked ribs,” you amended, trying to make this sound as breezy as possible. “It’s ok, really. It looks worse than it is.”

You sucked in a shallow breath as her fingers ghosted over the bandages on your side. Green eyes flashed up at you in outrage.

“It looks worse than it is?” she repeated softly. You shivered as she rested her hand on your hip. “Well, it looks pretty fucking bad. It looks like that tonto bike almost got you killed.”

You swallowed nervously, caught off guard by the absolute iciness of her voice. “It wasn’t my fault,” you tried to explain. “Actually, it was—“

“I don’t want to hear it!”

You flinched as she practically spat the words at you, splotches of red rising in the ivory column of her throat. Her legendary temper was something you’d seen in action plenty of times. But this went beyond angry.

“There’s no excuse for putting yourself in danger, capisce? It’s unacceptable to me!” She was shouting by now, eyes brimming, chest heaving.

You placed a tentative hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off and turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was a gesture you’d seen her make only a handful of times—during the always-tense active shooter drills and, on one frightening occasion, when they’d briefly lost track of a student during a field trip. Seeing it now, and being the cause of it, made you feel miserable.

Melissa had barreled into your life about a year ago when you first started working at Abbott. You liked her immediately. Leather pants, mischievous smirk, loud as hell. She was all rough edges and no apologies. More than anything, she was complicated. Guarded but generous, tough but tender. A dozen fiery contradictions that made your heart race.

She teased you from the first moment she laid eyes on you—for being the new kid on the block, for being a “touchy-feely” therapist, for being a millennial. Rather than making you feel ostracized, the attention lit you up. At first you’d worked your ass off just to impress her, to earn her respect. Then you saw what a dedicated teacher she was. You started seeking her out for advice about some of the more troubled kids in your care, going for drinks with her on Fridays, getting her to open up to you. By the time she realized what was happening, you’d slipped straight past her defenses.

“Sorry,” Melissa said gruffly, wiping at her eye makeup. “I shouldn’t’a yelled.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you said, shifting off the sink and limping toward her. “Why don’t you head down to the teacher’s lounge and get a cup of coffee? I can clean up here and meet you in a bit, you don’t have to deal with all this.”

She looked up at you defiantly. For the first time, she noticed a cut near your hairline. There were small butterfly stitches pinching the skin together. All the fight went out of her at once.

“You think a little blood is gonna scare off a Schemmenti?” She reached up and cupped your jawline. Tender.

“I ain’t lettin’ you out of my sight,” Melissa added with a growl. Tough.

She took a moment to drink in the full miracle of you, alive and mostly in one piece. And what a piece it was. Her gaze drifted down to your sports bra, your low-slung riding pants, the band of your boxer-briefs just visible on your waist. Melissa shook her head, withdrawing her hand.

“Need some help gettin’ dressed?”

You blinked, refocusing on her with considerable effort.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you said.

Again you felt a little ripple of shyness, exposed and disheveled in front of Melissa who looked good enough to eat—as always. Thick red hair cascading over her shoulders, clothes that hugged her figure in all the right places, gold necklaces with pendants of the saints cradled in the valley of her creamy cleavage. She smirked, unfolding the fresh t-shirt and giving you an appreciative once-over.

“You been working out?” she asked.

You chuckled. “Glad someone finally noticed.”

Melissa pursed her full lips and tilted her head to the side. “Not bad.”

You knew this was just a game to her. She was a flirt by nature and she loved to make you squirm, make you blush. Still, your stomach twisted pleasantly at the compliment.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, noting your obviously pleased expression. “It’s a little dramatic as far as cries for attention go.”

“What do you mean?” you asked as Melissa guided your head carefully through the neck of the shirt, tucking a few flyaway strands of hair back into place. You shivered at the featherlight feel of her fingertips around the shell of your ear.

“Playin’ evil knievel,” she clarified. “Just for an excuse to take your top off in front of me.”

“Look who’s talking!” you fired back. “For all I know, you hired that guy to run me off the road so you could get me alone in a state of undress.”

Melissa, who had been grinning at you from under her long eyelashes and fussing with the hem of your shirt, stilled. The smile slid off her face.

“What’d ya say?”

You frowned, backpedaling. “Sorry, bad joke—“

“No, not that part.” She waved her hand, gold bangles clattering. “The part about someone ran ya off the road? On purpose?”

You nodded your head.

Her voice dipped back into a decidedly frosty register. “And you’re just now tellin’ me this?”

“Well, I tried to mention it a second ago but then there was all the yelling,” you explained. “And you know how I feel about yelling.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “You feel that it ain’t productive,” she said, applying heavy air quotes around the last word.

“But I appreciate that it’s a cultural norm in many families,” you said. “I know Italian-American households—“

“Jesus fucking Christ!” she exploded. “Someone tried to fucking kill you! Do you appreciate that?”

You winced at the volume of the outburst, headache lurking in the base of your skull. “Yeah, I reported it to the cops who came to the scene, okay? They’re looking for the guy.“

Melissa placed a red lacquered fingernail under your chin.

“You’re never riding that death trap again, you hear me, kid?”

Her green eyes, challenging and possessive, bored into yours. You wondered what would happen if you defied her, told her no, refused outright. The only problem was…you so desperately wanted to give her exactly what she wanted. Not just today, but every day. Trying to please Melissa Schemmenti had become a kind of obsession, a thrill you chased at your own risk.

“Well you don’t have to worry,” you said, mouth suddenly dry. “The bike is totaled.”

She gripped your chin, intent on eliciting a promise. “I mean it.”

A shiver went through you at her low, commanding tone.

“Ok, ok,” you relented. “I’ll be a good girl, mommy.”

It was supposed to be a joke but the words came out as a desperate whine. You felt a flush of color rising in your cheeks as Melissa quirked an eyebrow at you—half scandalized, half delighted. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, the intercom crackled to life. The sudden noise made you both spring apart.

“All faculty please report to the assembly hall in 15 minutes.”

You hissed at the sudden movement, curling over slightly. Melissa’s hands shot out to steady you.

“You alright?” she asked. All traces of teasing laughter had vanished from her face. “What am I, an idiota? Of course you’re not alright. I should drive ya home!”

“No,” you said, waving the suggestion off wearily. “I don’t wanna be by myself all day. I’ll go crazy.”

“Look at youse,” she argued, concern clouding her eyes. “You can barely stand upright. Your helmet looks like it was in a blender, for chrissakes. You came this close to…to—“

She made a small choked noise, unable to finish the sentence. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, clearly trying to block out some unwanted mental image. You intertwined your fingers with hers carefully, sweetly, and brought her hand away from her face.

“Nothing happened,” you said evenly. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Don’t use your therapy voice on me,” she warned, dabbing at her eyes again. She looked down at your hands loosely joined together and brushed a finger over the back of your knuckles. When she spoke she sounded uncertain, none of her usual cocksure confidence.

“You swear you’re alright to stay for the day? You won’t…make yourself worse?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. “Just hurts when I…”

“Move? Breathe? Blink?” she guessed, tone sarcastic once more. “Am I gettin’ warmer?”

You winked. “You’re red hot.”

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “And don’t you forget it, baby.”

Melissa considered you for a moment. She didn’t like the way the skin around your eyes was pinched, or the protective way you held yourself. But she also didn’t like the idea of you being on your own all day. Better to keep you close.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “You can stay, but on one condition—you don’t overdo it.”

You rolled your eyes. “We work in an elementary school, not the ThunderDome.”

“No jokes,” she insisted. “I mean it, say you swear.”

It was a rare display of vulnerability from Melissa, who walked through life making demands rather than requests. You schooled your face into a serious expression. Looping your little finger around hers, you brought your fist to your mouth.

“I pinky promise,” you said. “Seal it with a kiss?”

Her eyes flickered down to your lips and lingered for a fraction of a second too long. Even a year into this dangerous dance with Melissa, you weren’t quite sure where the line was, or what would happen if (when?) you found it, crossed it.

“Millennials,” she said, but her voice was husky. “What’s next, gonna ask me to join your polycule?”

Slowly, you both leaned in. You were close enough to smell her shampoo and the bright citrusy lotion she used on her face. It made you swoon. Her eyes closed as you both planted chaste kisses on your fists, faces only inches apart.

The tacky sound of Melissa’s lip gloss making contact with the inside of her own hand sent an unexpected jolt of arousal right to the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, you found yourself lost in a little fantasy, wondering what it would be like to pull her close, to drag your fingers through her hair, to feel the inside of her soft mouth with your tongue. A familiar and ferocious longing—one that you worked very hard to neutralize during working hours—seized you, painful and roaring and undeniable. A longing for more of Melissa, for whatever she would give you.

The other woman cleared her throat suddenly, breaking the spell.

“You ready, hon?” She was gazing at you cautiously, like you might break apart. You shook your head, hoping you didn’t look as strung out as you felt.

“Sorry,” you said. “Let’s head down to the auditorium.”

She smirked, looping an arm around your waist and helping you out of the bathroom. “I’ll say this for ya,” she said, flicking the lights out and closing the door behind her. “You sure know how to start the new year with a bang.”

Chapter 2

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader

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linoxpudding · 6 days ago

Text

Breakup Pt. 2 - Lee Know

summary: three years after the break up, you meet him in a life threatening situation

pairing: lee know x reader

word count: 3018 words

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

warnings: mentions of accident, injury, unconsciousness, broken ribs, blood, emotional distress

a/n: wow my longest fic till date, based on the poll results, here is the second instalment of the breakup series

PART ONE

Masterlist

*images are taken from pinterest*

~°~

Three years ago, you had no choice.

The threats, the hate messages, the constant barrage of cruel words—it had become unbearable. You had tried to endure it, for him, for yourself. But every day, you saw the pain in Minho’s eyes as he watched you crumble under the weight of their words.

He begged you to stay.

"I’ll leave the band. Just stay with me. I don’t care about anything else."

His words still haunted you.

But you knew he cared. You knew he loved his members, his career, his dream. He would have resented you one day. So you made the choice for both of you. You couldn’t let him do that. You couldn't be the reason he gave up his dream.

So, you walked away. And Minho let you go, even though it shattered him.

*******

Now, three years later. Your life had finally settled into something normal. No cameras following your every step. No hate comments flooding your notifications. No sleepless nights wondering how much longer you could take it before you finally broke.

But normal didn’t mean happy. Not when you still felt the emptiness he left behind. Not when your heart still ached for something—someone—you told yourself you had to let go. You had spent the last three years convincing yourself that leaving Lee Minho had been the right decision. That the loneliness was better than the suffocating pressure of being his.

That you had done what was best for both of you.

Then, you saw the news. And everything shattered.

"Breaking: Stray Kids’ Lee Know involved in a car accident—"

Your heart stopped.

Your chest caved in.

Your lungs forgot how to breathe.

Your stomach is twisting with nausea.

No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

You fumble to open Twitter, your breath coming in short gasps as you type in his name. And then you see it.

#GetWellSoonLeeKnow

#PrayForLeeKnow

#StayStrongMinho

Thousands—millions—of tweets flood your screen.

Videos of the accident scene. Reports of his injury. Photos of the ambulance.

Your vision blurs. Your hands go numb.

Hands trembling, you begin to open your contacts to type a message to a number you hadn’t texted in three years. As you opened the contact, your last conversation with Bang Chan appeared on the screen—

You: Tell Minho I’m sorry.

The last reply you had received from Chan was him pleading for you to reconsider, to give Minho another chance.

Now, with your heart pounding, you tapped on his contact and typed a desperate message.

You: Chan, please tell me he’s okay.

Seconds felt like hours before your phone vibrated.

Chan: Y/N… it’s bad. Really bad.

The blood in your veins turns ice cold. Your fingers shake as you type.

You: Is he—?

You can’t even finish the sentence. Your mind refuses to go there.

Chan: He’s alive.

You nearly collapse from relief. But then—

Chan: But it’s serious. Chan: He hasn’t woken up yet. You: Where is he? Chan: Seoul General Hospital.

And then you’re moving—grabbing your coat, your keys, your phone—your body acting on instinct, fueled by nothing but pure, suffocating terror.

You don’t remember getting in the car. You don’t remember the drive. All you know is that you need to get to him. Now. Before it’s too late.

*******

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and dread.

Your legs carried you through the hallways on autopilot, your heart hammering so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

“Y/N.” Chan softly called out.

You turned to see him standing near the waiting area, his face pale, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes skimmed over the familiar faces of people who had once been like family.

Stray Kids, his brothers, they were all there. Silent. Huddled together in quiet devastation.

“How—” Your voice cracked. “How bad is it?”

Chan exhaled slowly.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” he took a shaky breath, “he has a head injury, a broken rib… a lot of bruises.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

Chan reached out instinctively, steadying you. You collapsed against him, sobbing into his shoulder.

“I c-can’t—” Your voice cracked. “Is he—”

“He’s a little stable,” Chan murmured, his hand soothing over your back. “But he hasn’t woken up.”

A fresh wave of grief crashed over you.

“Take me to him,” you whispered.

Chan pulled away, nodding, taking your hand gently.

“This way.”

And then you saw him.

Minho. The love of your life.

Lying in that hospital bed. Unmoving. Pale. His face was covered in cuts, a bandage wrapped around his head, wires and IVs connected to his body. Your breath hitched in your throat.

This wasn’t the Minho you remembered.

The Minho you knew was strong. Untouchable.

But this Minho?

This Minho was breaking you.

A sob escaped before you could stop it. And suddenly, you were at his bedside, reaching for his hand, clutching it tightly.

“Minho,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I’m here.”

No response. His fingers were cold. Too cold.

“Please,” you choked out, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Please wake up.”

Nothing. And the weight of everything—three years of distance, of heartbreak, of trying to live without him—crashed down on you all at once. You bowed your head, pressing your forehead against his hand.

Tears blurred your vision as you gently laced your fingers with his.

Chan exhaled softly behind you.

“I’ll give you some time.”

You barely registered him leaving, too focused on the unconscious man before you. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, voice breaking, “I never stopped loving you.”

The words fell from your lips before you could stop them. You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you whispered. “I thought I was protecting myself. But I was just running.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, “I should’ve fought for you.”

Silence. Only the soft hum of machines and the distant chatter of nurses. You closed your eyes, pressing a trembling kiss to the back of his hand.

“Please wake up, Minho,” you pleaded, “I can’t—” your voice cracked. “I can’t lose you.”

“I was wrong,” you whispered. “I thought leaving was the only way to protect you.” A shuddering breath. “I thought I could live without you.”

You let out a broken sob. “But I can’t.”

“So please,” your grip tightened. “come back to me.”

Silence.

*******

It has been almost three days.

You never left his side. Chan brought you food, Hyunjin made you go home to shower, but every time you returned, Minho was still unconscious.

You met Minho’s parents for the first time after the breakup. His mother gasped when she saw you, her eyes widening in shock before softening into something warm.

"Oh, Y/N…" she whispered. And then she hugged you.

You stiffened for a moment, unsure if you even deserved this, but the warmth of her embrace overwhelmed you.

"We never blamed you," she murmured. "We understood. We knew how hard it must have been for you." She pulled back slightly, brushing a tear from your cheek with a mother’s tenderness. "But we always loved you."

Your heart twisted. "I’m so sorry," you choked out.

She gave you a small, sad smile. "Don’t be."

Then, Minho’s father stepped forward, giving you a firm, fatherly side hug, a strong hand resting on your shoulder. "It’s good to see you again," he said simply.

You swallowed thickly.

You had expected resentment. Anger. But instead, all you found was understanding.

And for the first time in years, you wished—God, you wished—you had met them again under different circumstances.

Chan found you beside Minho on the second night, curled up in one of the chairs, staring at the floor and holding Minho’s hand. He sat beside you with a sigh, handing you a bottle of water.

“You look awful,” he muttered.

You let out a weak laugh. “Thanks.”

Chan leaned back, studying you. “You still love him.”

Your fingers tightened around the bottle.

“…I never stopped,” you admitted.

Chan exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly. “Then why did you leave?”

Your throat burned. “Because I thought it was the only way to keep him safe.”

Chan scoffed. “Safe from what? Loving you?”

You blinked up at him.

“You leaving didn’t protect him, Y/N. It destroyed him.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ve never seen Minho so broken. He never moved on. He never even tried.”

Chan continued, “Minho... he was wrecked when you left. He was angry, hurt, devastated—every possible thing. And the worst part? He never let himself hate you for it.”

You shut your eyes, a sharp pain twisting in your chest.

“He told me once,” Chan continued, his voice quieter now, “that he realized he was being selfish. That even though he wanted to chase after you, he knew he had to let you go. Because you needed peace. And he loved you too much to take that away.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe it’s time you stop running.”

You swallowed hard, your heart beating faster.

Maybe it was.

*******

The next day, you were dozing off when it happened.

A soft shift. The rustle of sheets. A weak inhale.

Then—

“…Y/N?”

Your eyes flew open.

Minho’s gaze was hazy, unfocused, but he was awake. He was awake.

A sob escaped your lips as relief flooded through you. With trembling hands, you quickly pressed the call button, your voice shaky as you called out, “H-He’s awake!”

Within seconds, the door burst open, and a nurse rushed in, followed closely by a doctor.

“You’re awake, Mr. Lee,” the doctor said, his voice calm but urgent. He quickly moved to Minho’s side, shining a small light into his eyes, “Can you hear me?”

Minho blinked sluggishly. “…Yeah,” his voice was hoarse.

The doctor nodded in approval before checking his vitals. “Do you remember what happened?”

Minho was silent for a moment, his brows furrowing as he tried to recall. “Car accident…?”

“That’s right. You suffered a concussion and a fractured arm. Do you feel any dizziness or nausea?”

“A little,” Minho admitted, shifting slightly, only to wince when pain flared up in his side.

“Careful,” the doctor warned. “Your ribs are bruised, so try not to move too much.”

Minho exhaled slowly, nodding. “How long…?”

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” the doctor answered, adjusting the IV drip. “Your condition has been stable, and waking up is a great sign. We’ll continue to monitor you, but for now, try to rest.”

The nurse made him drink some water.

Minho gave a weak nod, his gaze still sluggish. The doctor turned to you then, offering a small, knowing smile. “He’s lucky to have someone watching over him.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to nod. “Thank you, doctor.”

With a final check of the monitors, the doctor stepped out, leaving you and Minho alone again.

Silence hung between you.

“…Why are you here?” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. But it wasn’t just exhaustion that made it sound weak. It was hurt.

Your heart clenched.

“I—” You swallowed hard. “I saw the news. I had to come.”

His eyes scanned your face, searching. But this time, they weren’t hazy at all. They were filled with heartbreak.

“Three years,” he murmured. “It took three years and an accident for you to come back.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

Minho exhaled shakily, looking away. “And did it work?”

Your breath hitched.

“No,” you admitted. “It was hell.”

Silence stretched between you. Then you softly said, "I still love you."

His head snapped towards you. Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I never stopped, Minho.”

His chest rose and fell unevenly. His eyes glistened, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something—but then, with a broken breath, he reached for you.

You barely had time to react before he pulled you into him. His grip was desperate—arms shaking as they wrapped around you, holding you so tight you could feel his heartbeat against yours.

“Be careful,” you worriedly said, he still has body aches after all.

He buried his face into your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

“…I thought I lost you forever,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You clung to him, sobbing into his hospital gown. “I’m so sorry, Minho. I should have never left.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your sweater, his body trembling against yours.

“You broke me,” he murmured, voice raw. “But I still love you.”

A choked sound escaped you. “Minho—”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face, his thumb brushing away your tears. His own eyes were wet now, his expression open, vulnerable.

Then, before you could say another word, he kissed you.

It was desperate, shaky—filled with three years of pain, longing, and love that never faded.

You melted into him, your hands fisting the front of his gown, as if letting go would break them all over again.

When you two finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“You’re staying this time,” he murmured, more a plea than a demand.

You nodded, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“I’m staying.”

*******

The hospital room felt smaller now with everyone surrounding Minho. After three days of restless waiting, Minho was finally awake.

His parents had been sobbing hard when they saw their son’s eyes open finally, his mother gently brushing his hair back while his father squeezed his hand in quiet relief.

The boys all shared a group hug after a mixture of teasing and scolding, masking their overwhelming concern. They had spent sleepless nights here, waiting, hoping.

And then, one by one, they left.

Now, it was just you.

Just you and him.

The door clicked shut behind Seungmin, leaving a comfortable silence between you.

The hospital room is quiet now, save for the faint beeping of monitors and the distant hum of voices outside. You’re curled up in the small space of Minho’s hospital bed, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

His arms are wrapped around you, holding you as if you might disappear if he lets go. His fingers draw absentminded circles on your back, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

“I really thought I lost you,” you whisper against his hospital gown, voice thick with lingering emotion. “I thought I’d never get to do this again.”

Minho exhales softly, his chin resting on top of your head. “You almost did.” His voice is quieter than usual, raspy from exhaustion, but the underlying pain is there. “You left, Y/N. You just... disappeared.”

You shut your eyes tightly. “I know. And I regret it every single day.”

Minho lets out a shaky breath. “Three years.” His grip tightens slightly. “Do you have any idea how many times I reached for my phone to text you? How many times I saw something and thought, ‘Y/N would love this’?”

Tears prick your eyes again. “I thought about you every day,” you confess. “But I was scared.”

Minho shifts slightly, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him. His gaze is softer now, but there’s still something raw in his eyes. “Scared of what?”

You swallow. “That I’d hurt you more by staying than by leaving. That I’d ruin your career, your life.”

Minho stares at you for a long moment, then exhales deeply. “I was so angry when you left,” he admits, voice thick with unspoken emotions. “Angry, hurt, upset—every possible emotions. I wanted to hate you, but I couldn’t. And after a while, I realized I was just being selfish.”

Your breath catches. “Selfish?”

Minho nods. “I wanted to keep you, even when you were struggling. I wanted you by my side, no matter what. But if being with me meant losing your peace, then... I had to let you go.” He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. “But even then, I never stopped loving you.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. “Minho...”

“I’ve been single all this time,” he confesses, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Not because I couldn’t move on—but because I didn’t want to. I kept telling myself that maybe, if the band contract ever ended, I could find you again, and we’d have a chance.” He gives you a weak, self-deprecating smile. “Realistically, I knew you might’ve moved on by then. But I let myself live in this fantasy world where you were still mine.”

A soft sob escapes you, and you shake your head, gripping his shirt tightly. “I never moved on, Minho. I never dated anyone either.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “You didn’t?”

You shake your head again. “No. I couldn’t. No one could ever be you.”

Minho lets out a shaky breath, his expression crumbling before he pulls you into a crushing embrace. “God, I love you,” he whispers into your hair.

You cling to him just as tightly. “I love you too.”

For a while, you just lay there, wrapped up in each other. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his fingers stroking through your hair, lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in so long.

Then, after a few moments of silence, you murmur, “You know, your arms will go numb if you keep holding me that tightly.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Let them. I’m not letting you go.”

Minho’s arms wrapped around you, holding you even more tightly, grounding you. His fingers tangled into your hair, his breaths uneven against your shoulder.

"Don’t leave me again," he whispered, his voice raw.

You clung to him. "I won’t."

A shuddered exhale. A soft, lingering press of his lips against your hair.

"You’re mine, right?"

You buried your face against his chest, whispering, "I’ve always been yours."

Minho exhaled, his body genuinely relaxing for the first time in three years.

And this time, you weren’t letting go.

#lee minho scenarios #skz x reader #skz au #stray kids #skz #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee minho angst #lee minho imagines #lee minho fic #lee know fic

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