#be it lying unconscious in a hospital bed

[mama-qwerty]

Tom Wachowski slowly crawled his way out of unconsciousness, the black of his mind swimming and mixing with the light glowing through his eyelids. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, or what had happened. The last thing he remembered was being . . . somewhere. A building. Maddie was with him, and they were doing something important. They were . . .

The memory stubbornly refused to come.

Words floated to him, flavored with a British accent.

“That was the scene three hours ago, when an explosion occurred in low orbit over the Earth, approximately 400 kilometers above the surface of the planet. We reached out to NASA, who refused to comment, instead directing our questions to the director of the Guardian Units of Nations, Amanda Rockwell. Director Rockwell assured our station that the explosion was nothing to be concerned with, as a meteor struck a satellite, shattering it with extreme force. The light show we saw was the pieces burning up on reentry into the atmosphere.”

Was this an episode of Doctor Who?

An explosion over Earth? Guardian Units of . . . G.U.N. He knew that acronym.

“Satellite my ass.”

He knew that voice.

Maddie uttered a frustrated sigh, and there was a click, cutting off the British voice in mid word.

“M’was watchin’ that.”

His voice was thick, sluggish. Like his tongue was too heavy for his mouth.

A gasp and then Maddie was closer, her voice soft and shaky and edged with either excitement or nerves, he couldn’t tell which. “Tom! You’re awake, oh thank God!”

“Wha happ’ned?” He willed his tongue to stop lying there like a lump so he could speak normally. Why did everything feel like he was moving through molasses? He tried to open his eyes, but even the orange-ish light of oncoming twilight streaming in from the windows directly across from the bed nearly blinded him. “Hngg!”

A gentle hand on his chest. “Don’t try to move, the doctors said you were pretty banged up.”

Tom relaxed back onto the bed. At least now he knew where he was. There was a faint beeping he hadn’t isolated before, coming from his left. Something squeezed his index finger on that hand. He gave his arms a little roll, and felt a pinch on one, where he was pretty sure an IV was inserted.

Hospital.

“Whad happ’ned?” he asked again, his tongue still stubbornly useless. He rolled his head toward where he sensed his wife, cracking his eyes open a narrow slit. “’R you hurd?”

She gave him a soft smile, shaking her head as she poured a cup of water and offered him the straw. “No, babe. Just you. The doctors said you have six cracked ribs, a lot of bruising, and probably a concussion. I didn’t know what to tell them when they asked how you got hurt, so I just said you were hit by a car.”

Keep reading on ao3

[the-depths-of-the-coral-sea]

sighs

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[gghostwriter]

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

They are friends, but Spencer is in love with her. Spencer gets in one accident and thinks she is more than a friend. He believes she is his wife. (Happy ending, please)

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem! Reader Trope: Friends to Lovers; Fluff! Just fluff Warning: Medical inaccuracies A/N: Reader is part of the BAU, hope that's alright. I had fun writing this, hope you enjoy anon! Main masterlist

Hallucinate. // Spencer Reid

It was Morgan’s turn—based on Garcia’s glitter paper schedule, to keep watch of Reid lying uncomfortably still on the hospital bed. The team was out for a local case—a series of murders that targeted male divorcees. They’ve profiled the unsub to be male in his late 20s, shy in nature, and comes from a broken household. The profile was correct. The team just didn’t factor in the possibility of another unsub—a subservient willing to do anything to let the dominant evade capture, including intentionally ramming a four door sedan to a government owned vehicle. The same vehicle that Reid and JJ were driving to the unsub’s residence. 

Spencer’s finger twitched, bringing his guardian out of his musings. “Reid. Reid,” the dark skinned agent called out.

A series of whispers escaped the patient’s mouth. “W’fe—” Spencer wetted his lips. “Wife, where—wife?” 

“Kid, what wife?” Morgan’s brows furrowed. As far as he knew, Reid wasn’t married. All he had was a tongue twisting, IQ dropping crush on the newest BAU addition, you. 

Spencer tried once more. “Y/N. Y/N, my wife—where?”

And as if you heard his pleas, you quietly entered the hospital room. Tilting your head to the side, silently questioning why Morgan was standing very close to Spencer. The agent smirked at your presence and waved you to come close. 

“Spence?” You asked, taking his hand into yours. His fingers cold, and for a moment, it reminded you of how still he was when he was pulled out of the driver’s seat. 

His eyes flickered under the lids. “Y/N. Wife—y’safe?” 

“I’m here, Spencer. Safe,” you murmured in a soft tone as you note that his hazel eyes were glassy and unfocused. A physical manifestation from the concussion that the physician had theorized when he was admitted. 

He turned his head to the sound of your voice in comfort before tightening his hold and his pupils blowing wide. “Wife—the baby? Is—baby okay?”

Your eyes widened in return. “What?” 

“Aurora—she, strapped in car seat, I need—need to see her,” his voice getting louder and louder as he unsuccessfully tried to push himself out of bed. 

You gently pushed his shoulders. “She’s—she’s fine, Spence. The team has her,” you coaxed him to relax back. Morgan cleared his throat beside you, clearly trying to not let a chuckle escape. 

“Good—good. Safe.” Spencer was locked in a hallucination where you were married and had a child, a girl—Aurora. You pictured a tiny long haired brunette with his waves, clinging to Spencer’s neck and smiling at you, a set of innocent hazel eyes looking at you with such adoration and trust. 

“Wife—you, love you,” he mumbled before closing his eyes and falling back to unconsciousness. 

Morgan took that as his cue and turned to face you—still clutching Spencer’s hand—with mirth dancing on his face. “Damn. Wife and kid huh, pretty boy sure moves fast.” 

You felt your cheeks grow warm. “It’s the concussion talking.”

“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that. Y’know I heard he said the same thing when Emily was keeping watch,” he paused dramatically to watch your reaction. “But there was no kid—that’s new.” 

“What. I—we’re friends,” you jested. Even to your ears it sounded like a feeble excuse.

Morgan appraised your reddened cheeks, your free hand repeatedly raking your hair, and your lips tucked between your teeth. His well experienced profiler eyes cataloging everything. “As I said, pretty girl, keep telling yourself that.” 

———

A few days later, away from the Morgan and Emily’s constant teasing, it was your turn to keep Spencer who was now alert and awake , company. His eyes darted all around the room, finding everything and anything interesting, except you.

“Spencer? You alright?” You sat on the chair near his bed.

He cleared his throat. “Morgan—Morgan said I called you—” his voice trailing off at the end, too hesitant and mortified to repeat what his fantasy conjured up and what his lips had let escaped in his state of confusion and vulnerability. 

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, you did.” 

“And that we—”

You nodded as you watched his blush travel down from his cheeks to neck.

“I also said that I—”

“That you love me?” You clarified in a whisper.

“You did.” 

He covered his face in chagrin. Spencer wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole or better yet, for all of this to be just a dream—a horrible dream. It was no secret to the team, except for you, that he had feelings for you. Amazed with how your mind noticed patterns in cases, grateful with how you actively listen to his conjectures, and stunned with how beautiful you look even on cases that leak into the late nights—how could he not fall in love with someone as incredible as you. It was impossible, trust him, he tried to deny it to himself and to others. He mumbled something in reply but his hands muffled it too much to understand. 

“What was that?” You asked.

He repeated again but made no move to remove his hands.

You sighed. “Spence, I really can’t understand.”

He steeled his nerves before facing you, without a blockage this time. “According to studies, hallucinations are simply a result of neurons firing incorrectly. But I-I meant it. What I said, I mean.”

Silence ensued. He’s been your ride or die since you entered the BAU. Your partner on cases and your person off cases. Penelope always teased you two together—attached to the hip. Like some magnets that need to move in unison, that need to be within reaching distance. “Oh.” 

His shoulders drooped, taking that as a sign of rejection. He wished he could have kept his mouth shut. He’d rather be your close friend than be an awkward colleague.

“It’s not like that,” you hurriedly explained. “I—it’s just—take me out on a date first,” your cheeks enflamed as the idea of progressing your relationship beyond what it was now excited and set butterflies on your stomach.

He perked up and smiled. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.” 

You watched as his hand slowly crept towards yours, stopping an inch away, as if waiting for your permission. You took the initiative and intertwined yours with his, watching him shudder from the warmth and settled back into bed. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. 

He didn’t let go of your hand even when Morgan entered the room to relieve you from watch duty. The profiler zeroed in and opened his mouth, unable to stop himself from teasing the blushing couple.

“So love birds, since you already named your first kid Aurora. How about naming the next one Derek?” 

My inbox is currently open for any more fluff requests! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[geralallfandoms]

Hii I’m not sure if your still taking requests but if you are could you write a mark sloan x reader which involves him protecting reader from something idk is that makes sense 🫶

Hiii! Yes ofc! Hope you like it!! 🫂✨🧚

Requests are open!!

[An unlucky day]

Being a doctor has never been easy. Not only because of everything that had to be studied, the long hours of work, the mistreatment of superiors, or the poor treatment of patients...for you, the most difficult and annoying thing about all of this were the drugged or drunk patients. Most of them did not know where they were or they forgot it all the time, they did not know why they had arrived at the hospital or they deeply denied having consumed anything although their studies will confirm it.They blamed the perfumes, the chocolates that their grandmothers had given them and they didn't know they had alcohol in them, or they tried to make excuses like birthdays, weddings, New Year's Eve or Christmas.

Your 42-hour shift was about to end, there were only 4 hours left and you could return to your comfortable bed. But of course those hours would not be peaceful. It was as if the universe knew you were about to leave, that it decided to send you a bunch of patients together.

"Car crash. Two cars involved. One of the drivers was under drugs. You two, come with me." Bailey said, obviously pointing at you and another resident.

You tried not to snort too hard, you knew that if Bailey noticed, every time a case like this came up, she would call you just because she knows it bothered you.

The ambulance arrived at the same time you finished putting on your gloves. The doors opened quickly and the nurses took out a man in his 50s, unconscious, with a wound on his arm and a couple of bruises and cuts on his face. Bailey, seeing that the man was not in life-or-death conditions, pointed a finger at you, indicating that the patient was yours.

The nurses helped you take him to a more private room, just as another nurse entered.

"Thank you very much, I can so ir alone from here. Could you call Dr. Sloan? His face has a couple of bruises that I want him to see." I asked the nurse who nodded quickly and left the room next to the stretcher bearer, leaving me alone with the patient.

You began to prepare your things, turn on the machines and other things, turning your back to the patient.

And that was the worst thing that you could do.

While you were preparing the needle with tranquilizer to give it to the patient, the man had woken up. And not in the best conditions. He was under substances, in a place he didn't know, tied to a stretcher, with his entire body in pain, with a possible concussion and with someone who was about to prick his arm with something he had no idea what it was.

"Oh-" You said when you saw the he had woken up. But before you could say anything, the man let go of the stretcher and hit your hand, causing the needle to fall to the floor.

"Who the hell are you! Where I am? Let me out!" He screamed as he tried to free himself from his other restraints.

"Sir...calm please, you are in a hospital, you-"

"NO! YOU'RE LYING, YOU DAMN BITCH!" The man yelled before he could completely let go.

When you saw that the man got up from the stretcher, you took advantage of the fact that he was distracted and ran towards the door. Just as your hand had grabbed the door handle, the man grabbed your hair, pulling it back at the same time as you opened the door.

Luckily for you, when the door opened, the first thing you saw was Mark's face.

"Let me out! Let me out or I swear I'll kill them!" The man shouted in your ear as his other arm wrapped around your neck.

The nurse behind Mark quickly ran off in search of more help, as Mark's face contorted on fury.

"Let them go now! You're in a hospital, you can't do these things. Let them go now if you don't want us to call the police." Mark said with a strong voice. Although the reality was that the police would come anyway to arrest him for driving under the influence.

"T-the po-police..." The man said as he backed away. His arm was beginning to let go of you and when Mark noticed it too, he grabbed your arm quickly, pulling you away from the man.

Mark quickly put you behind him. He was much taller and bigger than you, so you had been completely hidden behind him, seeing his big back. The man started screaming again, this time running towards us. Mark was backing away with his hands at your sides, trying to protect you from the man who was trying to grab you again. But the man was able to take Mark's robe.

Seeing how the man and Mark were pulling, you ran to the table, took a needle and filled it with a tranquilizer. once Once you knew it was enough to put the patient to sleep for a few hours, you quickly injected it into his shoulder.

The man turned around quickly, hitting you in the face, causing you to fall sitting on the floor. And just as Mark was about to hit him back, hospital security ran in, arresting the patient.

Once they had him grabbed, and pulled away from the room, Mark quickly approached you, crouching down next to you.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you? What hurts? That fucking son of a bit-" He said as he watched your nose begin to bleed.

"Mark!" You shouted to interrupt him. "I'm fine, really...and you?"

"Your nose is bleeding, probably broken, and your eye is black. Don't tell me you're fine, that bastard ruined your face..." He said seriously as he took a cotton ball and put it on your nose.

"But luckily I have you to fix it, right?" I said while smiling, trying to get him to relax.

"Of course darling..."

__________________________________

I hope you enjoy it! Sorry if something is written wrong, English is not my first language! But let me know!

🫂✨🧚

[goldenkiwistyles]

Don’t scare me like that LH44

Warnings: mentions of fainting, pregnancy complications.

Lewis Hamilton x wife!reader

George Russell x sister!reader

As the paddock buzzed with excitement she felt a bit of disappointment. The realisation this would be the last time this season she would experience the hustle and bustle of the paddock on the race weekend. The last time she would be able to support Lewis from the Mercedes garage.

As y/n had just hit her eighth month of pregnancy she and Lewis decided that Austria would be the last race she attended. She was looking forward to the next chapter in their life.

Lewis was currently in the media pen doing interviews so y/n decided to hang out in Mercedes hospitality with her brother George. It was an exceptionally hot day at the red bull ring, making the pregnant women fell rather uncomfortable.

George and y/n were about to head to the motorhome where it was slightly cooler when she started to feel a bit light headed.

"Georgie... I don't feel to good."

The younger Russell turns around just in time to catch his sister as she collapses. He gently lies her down, panic taking over as he tells Carmen to go find Lewis and yells for someone to call an ambulance.

-

As soon as Lewis saw Carmen running into the media pen the colour drained from his face. He knew something had happened to y/n. He abandoned the interview not caring he was half way through and followed Carmen back to hospitality.

The sight that met him shook him to the core. The love of his life lying unconscious in her brothers arms. Tears streamed down his face as he yelled at the crowd around him to do something, Carmen doing every thing she could to comfort him.

After what felt like an eternity the paramedics arrived saying she had passed out from dehydration, immediately starting her on fluids and transporting her to the nearest hospital.

-

When y/n woke up she felt very disorientated. From the beeping of machines and the white clinical walls she figured she was in the hospital.

"Hey your awake."

The women turns to find Carmen sat at her bed side panic instantly consuming her.

"What happened? Is the baby ok?"

Carmen grabs her hand trying to soothe her. "The baby is ok. You passed out due to dehydration. Were out for most of the day."

Realisation suddenly hit y/n. "Oh my god the race! Where are George and Lewis now?"

"They're on their way back from the race. Toto practically had to drag both of them out of here."

"What was the result?"

"George won. Lewis came 4th."

Sadness washed over y/n after finding out she missed her younger brother get his second win.

Just then an exhausted looking Lewis and George stubble through the door the latter of the two instantly rushing over to hug his sister.

"Your ok." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before pulling away.

"I missed your win."

"That's ok. All that matters to me is that you're alright."

Lewis just stood there silently staring at his wife. Sensing the couple need some privacy, Carmen excused herself and her boyfriend saying they would be in the cafeteria.

"Lew."

"Baby."

The driver broke down, the realisation that his wife and unborn baby where ok slapping him in the face.

"Come here lew."

Without hesitation he ran over, wrapping himself round her and crying into her shoulder.

"I thought I'd lost both of you."

Rubbing his back she whispers: "We are ok Lew. Everything is ok."

A/N: Not my best work ever but oh well.

[yurinaa-world]

Hello! How are you? 🤗 I'm wondering if you could write Jiaoqiu x childhood friend!reader where (takes place during the war) Jiaoqiu has feelings for the reader but never finds the right time to confessed to them. Unfortunately, Jiaoqiu received an unconscious reader who was severely wounded from battle and eventually went into coma. Believing the reader may have passed, Jiaoqiu becomes upset and spilled out his feelings for the reader. He never realized the reader finally woken up to hear his whole confession until they spoke.

"𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓽 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼; 𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓼."

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Jiaoqiu X Gender-Neutral reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: He must hold his piece. That's what he always told himself, to wait for the right moment to tell you his feelings until you get dragged into the conflict and he finds you on a hospital bed, in pain and unresponsive. He feels himself slowly break into pieces.

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: angst, mentions of blood, pain, angst to comfort? slight comfort ig, 800+ words?? that doesn't sound like me??,& Spelling Mistakes, not sure of anything else

💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I've lost my mind! can yall tell??🤗

💫𝒥𝒾𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓊 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒴𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓃𝑔"

Warriors coming from battle with torn skin, broken bones, eyes heavy and nothing left to live for, voices dried and died from what they’ve borne witness to.

Yet they still feel the emptiness of a limb or two and the sensation of a sharp point piercing their skin, threading throughout to pull two parts together, to make them whole again. The gazes he shares with the wounded, dead eyes and throat filled with words wanting to speak as if they might be the last.

Once they rise, patched up, they are never truly whole. They are just enough to stand (barely) and carry their weapons back into battle. It doesn’t matter if they look back or not; they still have to march back into battle without fear because that is their duty as Cloud Knights.

He didn’t want the last sight of you to be your willingness to go to the place where all of the dead warriors go or to have your body rot away on the battlefield, unclaimed.

Just don’t die. That’s all he hopes for you.

But now, it kills him more than ever, seeing you among the injured, lying there without any life, rigid cuts and wounds upon your body as if you were some kind of pin doll on the battlefield. He sucks in his breath, unable to say anything before a nurse quickly pulls you away to sort through all the new patients.

He couldn’t get the sight of you out of his head… A queasy warmth hits the back of his throat as he looks through the reports on all the patients, tending to the wounded or reading records as well. The feeling got worse until he couldn’t ignore it anymore, hitting like an extreme force, his eyes going dark as his head dropped.

Don’t. Not now.

His starving stomach clenched and his throat burned; he dropped everything and ran to the nearest trash he could find. The sound of his throat excreting substances from the depths echoed in the room. When it finally stopped, his throat was raw, eyes stinging. Coughing out whatever remained, the foul, sour taste lingered on his tongue.

His whole body was shaking, exhausted, like he’d been emptied.

No one came to help. No one checked on him. It would be a waste of time to pull anyone away from watching the patients to check on Jiaoqiu. They must go back to the battlefield immediately.

The piles of injured bodies leave him, or anyone else, unable to help you. He desperately wanted to help you, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t help you at all. Leaving you there, motionless on a bed, you’re alive—yet hanging by a thread that he isn’t holding.

That’s how the rest of his days went, checking in on you for a second to see if you woke. No matter what, he came to check on you. Just in case you wake up. Yet looking at your expression as you lay there, he feels himself shiver to the deepest part of his core.

Please. Please. He’d clasp his hands and get on his knees, just so you’d wake up and let him hear your voice.

“Please, I... don’t die. If for anyone’s sake, please don’t for mine…” he whispered, holding your weak wrist in his hands, just hoping for a miracle. “I’m delusional, aren’t I? Maybe it’s a delusion to want to marry you.”

He was insane… wishing to see you smile for him while wearing white, to take his hand in your own before stealing a kiss. He never wanted it to be like this…

…

"I... I am yours, utterly." Your throat is weak and raw, your chest feels tight, every breath a shallow, shaky whisper of air that barely fills your lungs. You’re aware of your bones, heavy and unfamiliar beneath your skin, and each heartbeat feels distant, a faint reminder that you're still here.

Handshaking as you slowly regain warmth while staring at him with hooded eyes. His eyes stare up at you, widened as if he were turned into a painting; he just stares at you. He snaps himself right to your face, putting a hand on your cheek, before crying into your chest, his hot tears melting into the thin fabric of your clothes, beneath which are bandages, as he tries to be as gentle as possible to not hurt you.

"Stay," he whispered, his breath shaky but steadying. "Just... don’t disappear."

[mamiobesssionfics]

Too Far

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Requested by: @gay4rhearipleyblog 

Warning: injury, blood

Summary: Rhea left to get in the car while you grabbed your bag. On your way out, you found her on the floor, covered in blood.

You felt your entire body shake. Your breathing picked up.

Your ears started to ring as the noises around you muffled, you felt like you were underwater.

You rushed to her side, panic rising in your chest as you saw Rhea all bloody, lying on the floor.

You panicked, realizing she was unconscious.

"Help, please!" you yelled as more people came around you to help Rhea.

Soon, an ambulance arrived.

You kept shaking and begging everyone to help her.

It almost got to the point where the paramedics had to take care of you as well.

But you soon collected yourself. But your shaking never stopped.

You decided to head to the hospital in the ambulance.

You held her hand the whole time.

As you waited in the emergency room, your leg was bouncing.

Your mind was running but at the same time, you couldn't think of anything.

You were terrified.

After a thorough examination, the doctors assured you that Rhea would be just fine, even if the doctor did confirm Rhea had sustained a fractured orbital bone.

"She is awake now, you can go in and see her." you thanked the kind doctor before heading in.

When you headed in, she opened her eyes.

"Hello." you said as she moved to sit up. "Stay." you placed your hand on her shoulder and pushed her down onto the bed.

She didn't say anything, only let out a long sigh and laid down.

"What happened?" you asked as you sat down by her leg on the bed.

"Liv and Raquel." was her reply.

"She... they did this?" Rhea only nodded as she looked into your eyes.

You never would have imagined for this rivalry to go this far.

"I want to kill her." she said.

"This is going too far Rhea." you said as you felt tears in your eyes.

"She took Dom, my championship and now this? How could I ever let this one go?" she said but soon realized the tears in your eyes.

"She nearly took you from me. But seeing you laying there... covered in your blood, it was too much." her hand found yours as she squeezed it.

"I'm sorry it got to that. The doctor told me to take some time off. So, I guess I will be home to annoy you a lot more." you knew she was trying to lighten your mood. It worked.

You chuckled a little bit.

"I know I scared you, Princess, I'm truly sorry."

"I'm just glad you are okay." you squeezed her hand.

"They told me, you found me. You saved me."

"I wish I would have been there earlier."

"You would have got hurt. I will... try and take it back a little. For your sake."

"We both know, you won't. Rhea Ripley will not go down without a fight. It is why I love you so much."

"I love you too. Kiss me." she said and you leaned down to give her a sweet kiss.

The doctor told you how serious her injury was, but you were ready to be there for her every step of the way.

To help her heal.

And later, for her to get her revenge.

If there was one mistake that they made, it was that they left Rhea alive.

[sxcretricciardo]

my everything

The roar of engines filled the air as the Formula 1 cars zoomed around the track at breathtaking speeds. Y/N, one of the few female drivers in the sport, was in a fierce battle for the lead with none other than her boyfriend, Carlos Sainz. On the track, they were fierce rivals, pushing each other to the limit, but off the track, they were the most admired couple in the paddock, their chemistry undeniable.

As the race progressed, the intensity grew. Y/N was closing in on Carlos, her focus razor-sharp. Suddenly, in a heart-stopping moment, her car lost control at high speed, veering off the track and slamming into the barriers. Flames erupted from the wreckage, and the race was immediately red-flagged. The sight of the burning car sent a chill down Carlos' spine.

"Carlos, are you okay?" his race engineer's voice crackled over the radio.

"Is she out? Is she okay?" Carlos's voice was strained with panic, his heart racing faster than ever. He didn't care about the race; he just needed to know she was safe.

The marshals and medical team were quick to respond, extinguishing the flames and reaching the car. The entire paddock watched with bated breath. Then, miraculously, Y/N emerged from the wreckage, staggering but on her own two feet. She clutched her side, pain evident on her face, but she was alive.

Carlos watched the scenes unfold on the big screen, a mixture of relief and worry flooding over him. He wanted nothing more than to jump out of his car and run to her, but the race officials were insistent that the drivers remain in their cars. She was taken to the hospital for further evaluation, and Carlos was forced to stay and finish the race.

With his mind partially elsewhere, Carlos managed to secure a third-place finish, though the podium felt hollow without her there. As soon as the race ended, he rushed through the post-race formalities and made a beeline for the hospital.

Entering the hospital, Carlos was directed to the intensive care unit. He found her lying unconscious in bed, various machines beeping softly around her. His heart ached at the sight. He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his, and whispered, "You really know how to give a guy a heart attack."

Time seemed to crawl as he waited for her to wake up. Nurses came and went, reassuring him that she was stable and would wake up soon. Despite their assurances, Carlos couldn't shake the fear that gripped him. He held her hand tightly, willing her to open her eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N's eyelids fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. She looked disoriented at first, but then her gaze focused on Carlos. A weak smile spread across her face. "Hey, you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Carlos felt a rush of relief and love. "Hey, yourself. You really scared me out there."

She tried to laugh, but winced in pain, her hand instinctively moving to her side. "Just a broken rib, nothing too serious."

"Broken ribs are serious enough," Carlos replied, his tone stern but his eyes soft. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "You won't lose me. We've got too many races to win... and too many moments to share."

Carlos smiled, leaning in to kiss her forehead gently. "You're right. I just... I couldn't think about anything else but getting to you."

"How did the race end?" she asked, her curiosity piqued despite her condition.

"I got third place," Carlos said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. "But it felt meaningless without knowing you were okay."

She smiled again, a mixture of pride and affection in her eyes. "I knew you'd finish strong. You're always strong."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the beeping of the machines a steady backdrop to their thoughts. Carlos brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. "You know," he said softly, "off the track, you really are my everything."

"And on the track?" she teased, her eyes sparkling despite the pain.

"On the track, you're still my everything," he admitted with a grin. "Just don't expect me to go easy on you next time."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she replied, her smile matching his.

Carlos stayed with her through the night, holding her hand and talking about anything and everything to keep her spirits up. They reminisced about their best races, their travels, and their dreams for the future. Despite the beeping machines and the sterile hospital environment, their bond felt stronger than ever.

As dawn approached, Carlos knew he would have to leave soon to let her rest and recover. He kissed her forehead one last time. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised.

"I'll be here, waiting," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stood up, reluctant to let go of her hand, but knowing she needed to heal. "I love you, Y/N," he said, his voice filled with emotion.

"I love you too, Carlos," she replied, her eyes closing as she drifted off to sleep.

Leaving the hospital was one of the hardest things Carlos had ever done, but he knew she was in good hands. As he walked out into the early morning light, he felt a renewed determination. They would get through this, just like they got through everything else—together.

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

'Til The End of The Line pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of hospitals

Summary: You get injured in a mission, and Bucky cannot bear to see you in such state.

Author's Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. English is not my first language, so please understand grammar or spelling mistakes.

Thank you for those who enjoyed the first part, and thank you again for waiting.

Part 2 is now yours.

The world around Bucky seemed to blur as he followed the medical team through the corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The sight of you lying so still, bloodied and broken, was something he never thought he’d see—not like this, not when he hadn’t even told you how much he loved you that morning.

As Dr. Cho and her team wheeled you into the surgical room, Bucky’s steps faltered. He felt like he was wading through quicksand, every movement heavy and slow. He wanted to be with you, to hold your hand, to tell you that everything would be okay. But he was kept out of the room, forced to watch through the glass as the doors closed behind you.

Tony, standing beside him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Bucky. She’ll pull through.”

But Tony’s words felt hollow to Bucky. He had seen too much death, too much loss. The fear of losing you was like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t lose you—not when you were his reason to keep fighting, his anchor in the storm.

His mind raced back to the last few months—the mornings spent in quiet domesticity, the late-night talks about the future, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes. How could it all be ripped away in a single moment?

Bucky pressed his hand against the glass, his breath fogging up the cold surface. His other hand clenched into a fist, the tension coiled tight in his chest. The image of you, fragile and bleeding, burned into his mind.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours—he couldn’t tell. Time had no meaning as he stood there, waiting, praying, hoping for a miracle.

Tony stayed by his side, silent. Steve joined them, his face drawn and pale. The guilt weighed heavily on Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky could see it. But Bucky had no room for blame—only a desperate need for you to come back to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Cho emerged from the operating room. Her face was tired, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “She’s stable, but it was touch and go for a while.”

Bucky’s knees almost buckled with relief, but he held himself upright by sheer will. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Cho nodded. “She’s still unconscious, but you can sit with her. It’s important she has someone she loves nearby when she wakes up.”

Bucky didn’t wait for further permission. He pushed past the others and entered the room where you lay. The sight of you hooked up to monitors, IVs, and machines tore at his heart, but at least you were alive. Your chest rose and fell steadily, and the color was slowly returning to your cheeks.

He pulled up a chair beside your bed, taking your hand in his. The warmth of your skin, even faint, was enough to give him hope. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing every detail.

“I’m here, doll,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m right here. Please, come back to me.”

The room was quiet, save for the beeping of the machines that tracked your vital signs. Bucky stayed by your side, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat—he just watched you, waiting for any sign that you were waking up.

Hours passed, and the rest of the team came and went, offering support, but Bucky barely registered them. His world had narrowed down to just you, lying so still in that hospital bed.

At some point, he must have dozed off because he was startled awake by a faint pressure on his hand. His eyes flew open, and he looked down to see your fingers twitching slightly in his grasp.

“Y/N?” His voice was barely a whisper as he leaned closer, his heart pounding in his chest.

You stirred, your eyelids fluttering weakly. It took you a moment to orient yourself, but when your eyes finally opened, they were full of confusion and pain. “B-Buck?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I’m here, doll, I’m right here.” Bucky’s relief was palpable as he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes misting over. “You’re okay. You made it.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips, though the effort seemed to exhaust you. “I… I thought… I wasn’t going to make it.”

“You did, though,” Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now. We’re together.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your hand trembling slightly in his grasp. “I… I heard you… on the comms. I was so scared… that I’d never see you again.”

“It’s quite a miracle that she woke up. But we still must keep an eye out for any damage to her brain,�� the doctor said.

“I’ll call Dr. Cho for further checkups. My job’s done for now.” The doctor left, and Bucky’s gaze returned to you.

Bucky sat back down beside you, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he clutched your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He couldn't believe you were awake, breathing, speaking to him. The terror of almost losing you hadn’t yet faded from his mind.

You looked at him, your voice barely a whisper but full of the love you had for him. “Hey, I told you I’m not going anywhere, didn’t I?”

Bucky let out a shaky laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, feeling the warmth of your skin that he thought he’d never feel again. “You scared the hell out of me, doll. I thought—”

His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, your free hand weakly brushing the tears from his cheeks. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”

He pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted, his voice barely holding together.

“I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand with as much strength as you could muster. “We’re going to get through this. Together.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at you, memorizing every line of your face as if afraid it might vanish if he looked away. The weight of everything he had almost lost hung heavily in the air between you, but so did the promise of the future you still had together.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the intensity of the words.

“More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too, Buck,” you replied softly, your eyes shining with the same intensity. “And I’m sorry for putting you through this. For making you worry so much.”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to get better. We’re going to get through this, and then we’ll live that life we talked about.”

A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, with the house, the backyard, and maybe… maybe even those babies.”

Bucky’s heart swelled with emotion at the thought. The future seemed so far away, but with you here, with your hand in his, it felt possible again. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice choked with emotion. “We’ll have that. I promise you, we’ll have that.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, exhaustion weighing heavily on you, but you fought to stay awake, to stay with him. “I’m going to hold you to that, Barnes.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You better. I’m not going anywhere either, doll. You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whispered, finally allowing yourself to drift off to sleep, knowing that Bucky would be right there when you woke up again.

As you slept, Bucky stayed by your side, his hand still holding yours tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid that if he did, this fragile moment of peace would shatter. But as he watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, he let himself believe that everything was going to be okay. That the darkness had passed, and the light of a new day would bring the life you both deserved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky allowed himself to hope.

---------------------------------

Tag list @baw1066 @hzdhrtss @mrsnikstan

---------------------------------

Thank you for reading and enjoy your weekend :)

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

feel free to reblog with your thoughts/opinions

[mod-kyoko]

Hello! Hope you’re having a good day/night. Could I please request Nagito x gn reader that was helping take care of him during the whole despair disease outbreak, and whenever Nagito said ‘I hate you’ the reader would just respond with something along the lines of “Love you too, Komaeda.” Could be headcanons, oneshot, or whatever. Whichever you’d prefer.

Sorry if this sounds weird, I don’t usually make requests lol. Thanks in advance!!

taking care of despair diseased nagito

type: in killing game, hc format, established relationship

a/n: anon it's so crazy i was literally just playing chapter 3 of dra2 and was at the part when they get the disease

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

you noticed right away that something was wrong with nagito

every word that came out of his mouth was a lie

it was almost like he couldn't speak the truth at all

when hajime felt his forehead and noticed that nagito was burning up, you knew that was the reason behind his behavior

monokuma popped up soon after, confirming that nagito was indeed afflicted by the lying disease

still, you didn't understand why some disease would cause nagito to say things like nothing is real, everyone is fake, and everyone is out to get him

but it was impossible to reason with him, especially because not long after he passed out, crumpling to the floor

you lunged forward, grabbing onto him to soften his fall, and pulled him onto your lap

"mikan! we need to get him to the hospital!" you yelled, while everyone else stood by in shock

the nurse helped you carry nagito all the way to the hospital on the third island, where you laid him in a bed

"u- um, we need to get him out of his clothes and into a gown," mikan said

"i got it, go help ibuki and akane," you replied, so she left it to you

nagito regained consciousness while you were slipping his shirt over his head

"ah! what are you doing to me? ah, are you planning to abduct me and take me to your home planet?"

you would have laughed at the silliness of the question if he wasn't in such dire condition. instead, you replied patiently

"i'm not an alien, nagito" you reached for his pants to slide them down his legs, but he swats your hand away

"i don't... want..." he was struggling to finish his sentence without panting from the fever

"i know, i'm sorry. but i need to get you into a gown. would you rather have mikan do it?"

"yes, i would much prefer mikan do it," he rambled, staring at the wall

your heart fluttered a little bit, knowing he meant the opposite of what he said. but this wasn't the time to be flustered

after wrestling with your boyfriend a little bit, you finally got his pants off, and draped the gown around his shoulders

once you tied it, you let him lay back down on the bed, and he closed his eyes

at this point there wasn't anything else you can do, with no medic knowledge, so you decided to just comfort him through it

you reached out to pat his head, smoothing down his hair

he reacted weakly, shaking his head as if to shoo away your hand

"get your filthy hand off me," he snarled

by now you were starting to translate his words in your head

"go away (please stay)"

"stop touching me (don't stop)"

with one hand running through his hair, your other laced your fingers in his, watching as he shifted between a state of being awake and being unconscious

"i... hate you" he spat, beads of sweat collecting at his temple

"i love you too, nagito" you smiled, gently squeezing his hand

"i seriously... hate you... go away."

"i'm here, you're okay. i won't leave you."

"i don't want you here! go away!"

his eyes were watering, and you didn't know if he was crying because he was in pain or angry, so you reached out and wiped the tears away

"i want to be here, i won't leave you, i promise."

you could have sworn you felt him squeeze your hand back once before he slipped back into sleep

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

[verstappen-cult]

hii!! <3

i love your work so much, may i suggest prompt 07 - sender wraps their arms around a hysterical receiver to calm them, with lando or daniel (or anyone you want really) as sender and reader as receiver ?

lots of love and all my support 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

PROMPT DRABBLES ★ LN4

FROM THIS LIST ━━━━ sender  wraps  their  arms  around a  hysterical  receiver  to  calm  them .

you pace around the waiting room, biting your nails as you wait for any news about your brother.

"hey," you hear geri say next to you, a sympathetic smile on her face. "i bought you coffee." she hands you a cardboard cup, her free hand drawing comforting circles on your back.

"thank you." you feel your throat closing up every time you try to talk.

you're about to take the cup when you decide to look up, catching a glimpse of the news on the television, your brother's name in big, red letters as the replay of the accident plays in the background.

you haven't actually seen the accident. you only got a phone call saying he was heading to the hospital, that it had been a big one.

the cup slips out of your hand, coffee spilling out at your feet. you count the seconds they take trying to pull him out of the car, too many seconds, too late. you feel your hands trembling as tears flow down your cheeks uncontrollably.

when they finally pull him out, he's unconscious. the video ends when they cover him up, so he can't be seen.

you can't see properly anymore, you're barely aware of geri trying to calm you. your legs give up, you wait to feel the cold hospital floor beneath you, which you never feel. instead, you feel big, warm arms surround you, as you cry, and scream, and beg for your brother to be okay.

"it's okay, it's—he's gonna be okay," you recognize lando's voice, fingers stroking your hair so, so softly.

it takes you a long time to calm yourself down, even when you don't have more tears to shed, you still feel very weak, body still trembling.

when you take in your surroundings, you see people looking at you with pity, sad expressions on each and every single one of them. then, you notice you're on the floor, sitting between lando's legs as he stills holds you tighlty against his body. you move your head to the side to take a look at him, finally seeing his tear stained face.

lando tries to give you a smile but it doesn't reach his eyes, there just are more tears streaming down his face instead. just looking at him and the memory of your brother lying on a cold hospital bed makes you start crying again, but lando's is there, holding you, whispering soft words, reminding you how strong and brave your brother is. you can’t be more grateful to have lando by your side.

[yua0ra]

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨

WARNINGS: mattheo x ravenclaw!fem!reader, breaking the rules, reader is brutally hit by an angry bludger (lol), established relationship. SFW. not proofread.

fluff ☏

SUMMARY: After a brutal bludger hit leaves you unconscious and in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey bans all visitors to ensure your recovery. However, just as you’re grappling with the “no more flying for a while” rule, Mattheo sneaks in, grinning like he owns the place. He’s armed with stolen sweets and endless teasing, and espite your protests, his playful banter, plotting and expected charm, makes recovery far less boring.

WC: +1.2K AN: ENJOY! <3

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The damage was done. The bludger collided with your head, its impact sharp and unrelenting. You hadn’t even seen it coming, and before you had time to brace yourself, your body was thrown off your broom, spiraling uncontrollably through the air. The ground rushed up to meet you far too quickly, and everything went black as you hit the dirt.

When you awoke, you found yourself lying in the cool, sterile bed of the hospital wing. The soft rustling of Madam Pomfrey’s robes filled the air as she hovered over you, fussing with her potions and muttering to herself in a language you couldn’t quite follow. Pain pulsed in your head, making it hard to concentrate, but you could still feel the weight of her magic working to heal you.

“You’re lucky,” Madam Pomfrey said with a tone that was a mix of relief and reprimand. “That was a nasty knock to the head, but you’ll be fine. No flying for a while, though.”

You barely heard her, your mind too foggy from the injury. Still, as the haze began to clear, one thought nagged at you: Mattheo. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, and despite the fact that he was on the opposing Slytherin team, you couldn’t shake the worry that he might be concerned. After all, Mattheo, sometimes was far from the usual Slytherin arrogance believe it or not. He had a unique, unpredictable way of showing he cared, a way that more often than not, got him in trouble.

But it wasn’t just him you had to worry about; it was Madam Pomfrey’s strict rules. She had already made it clear that no one was allowed to visit you while you recovered. And most importantly, what did she mean by “no flying”? The season was just starting and you couldn’t afford losing too much practice.

As time passed, you began to drift in and out of consciousness, the pain in your head still throbbing, though less intense. That was until you heard a soft, familiar voice break through the silence.

“You look terrible.”

Mattheo’s voice was low, full of that signature smirk of his, even though you could tell he was trying to suppress it. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know who it was. You could hear the unmistakable sound of his footsteps, deliberate and quiet, obviously trying not to alert Madam Pomfrey. Your eyes flickered open slowly, surprised but somehow not surprised at all. There, leaning casually against the curtain that separated your bed from the rest of the wing, was Mattheo, his mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“I feel terrible, and you’re not supposed to be here,” you muttered, the words thick and sluggish as you tried to sit up. “Never stopped me before,” he said with a wink.

“Besides, I’m just checking on my favorite girl.” He looked down at you with concern, his gaze softening as he caught sight of the bandages wrapped around your head.

You tried to shoot him a glare, but the effort only made your head pound more. “Madam Pomfrey will catch you.”

“She can’t catch me if she doesn’t know I’m here,” Mattheo said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “And I’ve got my ways. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkled with that spark of mischief that always seemed to follow him like a shadow.

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he quipped, his grin widening.

“Merlin’s tits Matty”

“I couldn’t leave you alone in here,” Mattheo ignored your comment, his voice quieter now. “Besides, I think I might have a little surprise for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “A surprise?”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small package of Fizzing Whizzbees “don’t worry, it’s not illegal… well, mostly not illegal, I stole them from Honeydukes,” he laughed. “Just a little something to make you feel better.”

“Aw… thank you baby!” You could have sworn you saw a pretty red hue decorating his cheeks but before you could comment on it, he cleared his throat “don’t get too comfortable, though. You’ll be back on that broom before you know it.”

“Madam Pomfrey said “no flying”, so… how am I supposed to do that?” you asked, the sarcasm in your voice evident as you glanced at the bandages still wrapped tightly around your head.

Mattheo’s grin grew wider. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a Ravenclaw, after all. You’ve got that whole ‘brains over brawn’ thing going for you, right?”

You shot him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, well, brains don’t exactly help when your head feels like it’s about to explode. But thanks for the encouragement, I guess.”

“Ah, well, if anyone can figure out how to get back on a broom while half-dead, it’s you.” He leaned against the bedframe, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe you could borrow my broom. I’ll give you a head start and all.” You chuckled despite yourself. “I’m pretty sure the last time you let me ride your broom with you, we ended up in a tree.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” he protested, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “It was the wind, or maybe some stray magic. Who can say? Anyway, I’m positive that wasn’t my broom’s fault. Just a… little accident.”

“A little accident?” you laughed. “Mattheo, you flew me straight into a tree while trying to ‘show off’ your skills.”

“Well, you can’t deny that my skills are impressive.” He shot you a cocky grin before straightening up. “Besides, I was just trying to make it exciting. Who wants a boring, uneventful flight, anyway?”

“You’re lucky I’m even talking to you after that stunt,” you said, shaking your head with a smirk. “I should’ve gotten you expelled for that, you know.”

“Oh, come on, love, you know I’ve got a face that gets me out of trouble.” He waggled his eyebrows at you, clearly proud of himself. “It’s my best weapon. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.” You rolled your eyes, but despite the teasing, a laugh bubbled up. “Well, you certainly make trouble look entertaining.”

“That’s the goal, obviously,” he said with a wink. “But seriously, once you’re back in shape, I’ll be there to make sure you don’t take any more unplanned naps on the ground. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine,” you said, though there was a hint of a smile on your lips. “But I can’t promise I won’t need a little bit of help staying out of trees next time.” Mattheo grinned, his tone turning playful again. “I’ll keep that in mind. You never know when a tree might decide to attack you.” He gave you a dramatic look of concern. “You might need a bodyguard for that. I volunteer as tribute.”

“Oh, please. You’d probably end up trying to fly into the tree again to impress me,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? It’s a gift. But don’t worry, I’ve got a much more foolproof plan for next time.”

“And what would that be?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Easy,” he said, putting his hands behind his back like a magician preparing for a big reveal. “I’ll just get you a helmet. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself on those crazy tree branches, would we?”

“Not sure if you’re insulting me or trying to protect my dignity, but thanks,” you replied dryly, though you couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, I’m just saying, we can’t have you falling off the broom again,” he said, his grin widening at the sight of you trying not to laugh. “You never know what could happen on your next ‘adventure.’”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, finally letting out a small chuckle. “Just make sure to stay out of my way when I get back on that broom. I’m aiming for no more tree incidents, thanks to your ‘help.’”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there to catch you—whether you like it or not,” Mattheo said, giving you a kiss on the forehead as he headed for the door.

You shook your head as he disappeared down the hallway, already planning his next ridiculous idea to “help” you back on your broom. For all his teasing and mischievous ways, you had to admit, it was nice to know you wouldn’t be alone in recovering from this latest incident.

Maybe mischievous Mattheo wasn’t as bad as you’d thought. Even if he still had a penchant for getting into trouble, you’d be lying if you didn’t admit that you secretly enjoyed every second of it.

[antiquarianfics]

Soon You'll Get Better

Desperate people find faith. Bucky's desperate for you to get better, so, yeah, he'll pray to someone else's god.

a/n: anngssst. angst. so. much. angst. this is not happy at all. sorry. or maybe not. idk. enjoy and be sad.

warnings: profanity, illness, seizing, mentions of canon level violence, not really proofed

note: I do not own the character Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to copy, repost, or translate my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and/or reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

Obnoxious beeping sounds from the monitors the doctors and nurses have you hooked up to, and the continuous noise is putting Bucky on edge. The super soldier clenches and unclenches his jaw, tightens and un-tightens his grip on the arms of his chair, and slowly blinks in some sort of weak attempt to ground himself. The beeping, the fluorescent lighting, the paleness of your skin: it’s all too much. It’s overstimulating and overwhelming. After all, you shouldn’t even be here.

Bucky raises his head up to the ceiling, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath, and when he looks back down, his eyes settle on the table next to your hospital bed.

A bouquet of flowers and a “Get Well” card sit there, mocking him. Next to that is a jug of water that he and the nurses have struggled to get you to drink from, and beside that, four or five orange pill bottles with your name on them alert him—and any visitors—that you’re unwell.

It’d been almost a month since he brought you to the hospital in a panic, your unconscious body limp in his arms. A raid on an old HYDRA facility had gone south, and an armed HYDRA operative had managed to get the jump on you, jabbing a syringe into your neck and poisoning you.

The doctors, poison control, the Avengers... no one had a clue what kind of poison coursed through your veins, weakening your immune system, draining your energy, and eating away at your muscle mass. For nearly a month, you'd only gotten worse; the doctor's were starting to talk about a feeding tube because you won't eat, and you're rarely awake.

If Bucky Barnes were to say he wasn't scared for your well being, he'd be lying. If he were to say he wasn't terrified you might die, he'd be perfidious. The fear—the trepidation—that consumes him? He feels it making him desperate for a solution.

Staring at the orange bottles next to your bed, Bucky finds himself transported back to his childhood—back to a day where he sat stiffly between his mother and sister in the pew, in an itchy suit, and did anything but listen to the words of the preacher at the front of the church. Yet, something about that memory, despite having never truly having been religious, Bucky finds himself clasping his hands together and his eyes settling on the ceiling.

"I might sound like an idiot," he says quietly, "but, hell, if you're up there—if anyone or any thing is up there—please, please save her. Please save my girl. I'm desperate. I'll do anything—anything. Just. Please."

"It always happens," a gentle, sympathetic voice breaks the deafening silence following Bucky's prayer. He turns his attention from the ceiling to the door where a young, 20-something nurse is entering the room.

"What?" He asks, voice gruff. He's aware he doesn't sound friendly, and he knows you'd scold him for it.

"The nonreligious start to pray when things stop looking good," she says, fiddling with the machinery that is tracking your vitals. She sighs. "Desperate people always seem to find faith, even for a moment."

Bucky hums in acknowledgement, slouching in his chair. He gets the feeling that if you were awake, you'd say something sarcastic like, "Hey, Buck! Hear that? You're acting like a normal person!" His lips uptick slightly at the thought.

"I prayed to Jesus, too," the nurse continues. "When my grandmama was sick."

"I feel like I'm screaming to a foreigner's god," Bucky admits. "Someone I don't believe in, but someone that someone else says can help. Not that I deserve help from any god, but she does."

The nurse nods in understanding. "Praying to someone else's god out of desperation is the purest expression of grief. It might not work, but, if you had any doubts, at least you know you love her."

The nurse finishes what she came to do, marks on your chart, nods to Bucky, and leaves. Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek as he lets his gaze settle back on you.

After a while, he scoots his chair closer to you and takes hold of your hand.

"Sweetheart, you're going to get better. You have to get better. Please. People need you. I-" Bucky chokes on his words and swallows before attempting to continue. "I need you. Please. You need to get better. You're going to get better. Soon. You'll get better soon. You'll get better." He repeats himself a few more times until his mouth becomes too dry to speak and he closes his eyes.

"I'll get better, soldier. Don't worry about me," you say, voice groggy as it breaks into his consciousness. He looks up at you quickly.

"Doll."

"Hi."

"You're awake."

"Mhmm," you hum, smiling softly.

He quickly stands to his feet. "Hold on, I'll get the nurse back in here."

Before you can protest, he has the nurse from earlier back in the room. She smiles at you as she enters.

"Rise and shine, sunshine!" The nurse greets. "How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad. Could go for a popsicle, though," you grin.

The nurse smiles as she double checks some things before leaving to go get you your popsicle.

"You know, I might be super fucking poisoned right now, but at least I get unlimited popsicles. I never get this many popsicles. I'm basically in heaven."

Bucky raises an eyebrow at your statement, but the way you smile at him, grinning from ear to ear, he can't help but smile back.

"If you wanted popsicles, you could've just told me. I would've gotten you some. You didn't have to go and get yourself poisoned," he says.

"Where's the fun in that?"

You open your mouth to say something else, but before you do, your eyes roll back into your head, your mouth falls open, and your body starts to shake. Bucky stands to do something, but he's not quite sure what to do. Luckily, the nurse enters the room with your popsicle just in time.

"Shit!" She curses. She turns and yells out into the hall. "I've got a patient seizing in here!" In just a few seconds, she and a couple other nurses are lying you all the way down in the bed and taking care of your person. Bucky thinks he hears someone call for a doctor as another person escorts him out.

As Bucky stands in the hallway, watching helplessly through your room's window to where the medical personnel are helping you, he can't help but feel selfish. If they don't save you, what is he supposed to do? Who is he supposed to talk to? If there's no you, then what is his purpose anyway?

"Come on, Doll," he says. "You've got to pull through. You've got to get better. You promised. You got to get better soon. You have to."

[defectivevillain]

guarded by the shadows

pairing: Michael Myers/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

No one wants a murder house, even when it’s absurdly cheap. No one except you, it seems.

In which you buy the Myers house.

word count: 1.7k | ao3 version

warnings: carbon monoxide poisoning, hospitals and IVs, unconsciousness

You knew what you were getting into when you purchased the Myers house in Haddonfield. It had been something of a ghost house for years, lying neglected and practically abandoned despite the countless realtors who attempted to sell it. Supposedly, many of their efforts were waylaid by Dr. Samuel Loomis—who has a bad habit of barging in and dissuading interested parties from buying it. He did the same thing to you: storming into the house just after your realtor gave you a tour, warning you that Michael Myers would likely return to his childhood home. 

His little display had scared you for a second, sure. But you weren’t going to let that frighten you off of the one property you could actually afford. Together, the realtor and you managed to get the man to leave—albeit with a lot of grumbling and muttering. Then, the two of you turned to each other and exchanged relieved looks. A few hours later, you were standing in front of the property with the keys in hand and a nervous smile on your face. 

Maybe it was a little optimistic of you, though, to buy the house so fast. Your moving process has been somewhat impeded by the basic repairs needed across the space: the cracked toilet, freezing cold water from the shower, broken stove, and shattered windows all desperately need attention. In your scramble to fix the seemingly endless amount of things that don’t work in the house, you forget to acknowledge one appliance: the carbon monoxide detector. The thought completely slips your mind, as you attempt to make your new home more livable and less imposing. You even have to get the garage door painted over multiple times—after a few rebellious kids spray paint “MURDERER” and other flattering messages all over it. 

Fortunately, as time passes, you slowly tackle each of these projects. It’s a bit harder than you expected to get plumbers and electricians to actually agree to enter your home, with its reputation. But you finally find some brave (or just uncaring) ones and, before long, you have functioning appliances. 

Even so, there are still a few eccentricities to the house. There’s a small darkened red-brown stain in one of the rooms—smeared as if someone tried to clean it up. You resolutely convince yourself it isn’t blood, even though you know deep-down it must be. The floorboards are very creaky; sometimes, the frames on the walls will shake and clatter in impatience; and you occasionally lose track of items you put down, as if someone is sneaking in and taking things. Although these happenings sometimes scare you, you manage to dismiss them as nothing more than coincidences. You’re a bit too preoccupied with making a living for yourself to put much thought into insignificant observations. 

The main problem you’ve encountered at this point, after weeks of living in the house, is the unstable temperature. The furnace is kind of shitty and the air conditioning is a complete joke. Even after you get these things fixed, though, you start to notice that you still feel a bit… off. At first, you write it off as  some sort of seasonal allergy. But allergy medicine doesn’t resolve the issue, and you’re soon fighting off pounding headaches every day. You’re beginning to suspect that you came down with some sort of bug. Eventually, it gets to the point where you have to leave work early and return home to rest. 

When you wake up the next morning, you find that you’re particularly weak and exhausted. You feel as if you’re trying to walk through quicksand. Frowning, you push yourself out of bed and attempt to walk out to the living room—only to collide with the nearby wall as your balance nearly gives out. You press a shaking hand to your forehead, idly wondering if you could have a fever. The cool sensation—combined with the fact that you took your temperature last night, only for it to be normal—convinces you that it can’t be a fever. Maybe you have some sort of head cold. That would certainly explain your loss of equilibrium and dizziness. 

You manage to get yourself back to a standing position and take slow steps out into the living room. It’s a very short distance—maybe five steps or so—but your chest is burning from the exertion. Why does everything look so blurry? You blink dazedly and attempt to get to the couch, only for your legs to crumple under you. 

You fall to the ground like a puppet with broken strings, feeling like a spectator to your own movements as your vision twists around and you hear a dull thud. A harsh pain reverberates throughout your temple. You think you’re shaking. Your chest still hurts; and the aching in your temple has spread down to your cheekbones and across your face. Your eyes slip shut and you slip into a bleary haze.  

You’re not sure how long you’re lying there before you manage to pry your eyes back open. But the effort is really no use—as you’re too weak to even move. Your headache is so strong that you feel the urge to throw up. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flicker of movement. A shadow passes across your vision and suddenly, there’s someone leaning over you. 

Even in your fatigued and confused state, you’re able to recognize them. Michael Myers is leaning over you, his mask secured over his face. A shiver rolls down your spine and you’re overtaken with fear. It seems Dr. Loomis was right. Michael did return to the house. Does he have something to do with this? 

All these thoughts and more run through your head, sending a renewed wave of adrenaline through you. You try to push yourself up and crawl away, but your body isn’t obeying any of your commands. A relentless drowsiness is pushing you back to the floor, alongside a dizzying spiral that makes your vision hazy and convoluted. Michael’s blurred head tilts. There’s a horrid ringing in your ears as you make one final attempt to move. A minute twitch of your fingers is the best you can manage, before you’re fading back into unconsciousness. 

You wake to the feeling of something digging into the skin of your arm. Wincing, you weakly reach out with your other arm and feel around for the intrusion, finding an object attached to your arm. You attempt to pull it off, but there’s a calm voice chiding you and pushing your inquiring hand away. Blinking away tears at the blinding fluorescent lighting above, you slowly take in the environment around you and come to an easy conclusion: you’re in the hospital. The pain in your arm is from the IV; the voice from before was your nurse. 

The nurse hands you a glass of water and you eagerly take a few sips, before they place it on the table at your bedside. You cough to clear your throat, recognizing a lingering pain in your chest. “What happened?” You remember to ask. 

“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” the nurse responds with a sympathetic grimace. Damn it—that was what you had forgotten to do. You never replaced the carbon monoxide detectors in the house. “One of your neighbors found you unconscious on your front lawn.” 

The front lawn? Your memories of that night are hazy and hard to reach, but after a few minutes of concentrated effort, you recall that you had collapsed in your living room. You frown. You certainly wouldn’t have possessed enough strength to make it out of your home and onto the front yard. How did you get outside? 

Before you can ponder the question any longer, the nurse is asking you a series of questions and evaluating your symptoms. When they’re finally finished, they’re about to leave—before they pause in the doorway and head back into the room, a contemplative expression on their face. “It’s a miracle you made it outside.” They say candidly. You blink at them. “Do you remember leaving the house?” The nurse hums. 

“No,” you answer, a frown rising on your face. A miracle. You resist the urge to huff in amusement. You can’t necessarily say that succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning was miraculous. And your supposed “escape” from your home is more perplexing than anything else. “I think I passed out in the living room.” You continue. 

A strange expression passes over the nurse’s face. “Oh,” they remark quietly, suddenly looking concerned. They shake their head as if to clear their thoughts. “Well, it’s a good thing your roommate found you!” There’s a somewhat forced cheeriness to their voice. But that observation fades to the back of your mind, when you comprehend what they’ve just said. 

“I don’t have a roommate.” You’ve lived alone for as long as you’ve stayed in that house. But the nurse’s remark does jog your memory, reminding you of the one presence who made himself known that night: Michael Myers. Goosebumps rise along your skin. The nurse seems to notice and pulls the blanket over you, which does little to quell your mounting fear. 

Then they seem to process your remark, and a somewhat patronizing smile rises on their lips. “Sounds like you have a guardian angel, then.” They don’t seem to believe you. But before you can ask any more questions, the nurse exits, leaving you to your growing confusion. 

Just what happened? You suspect someone saved you… but who? And why? You continue to contemplate these questions as you recover in the hospital; after a few days, you’re discharged from the hospital. You return home to find a note on your front door, wishing you a quick recovery and saying that the property has been aired out and cleared of carbon monoxide. A small smile rises on your lips and you remind yourself to thank your neighbor. 

The house is a bit brisk and cold, evidently thanks to the windows being open for so long. Otherwise, it looks entirely the same as you left it. Relief courses through you as you explore the house, double-checking that nothing looks out of place. You’re about to relax when your eyes find something on the kitchen counter: boxes of new carbon monoxide detectors. And through the nearby window, you catch a glimpse of a masked figure between the trees, watching you. 

A disbelieving, frightened laugh crawls its way from your lips.

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