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theoldsports · 8 months ago

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SOLUTION.

Art Donaldson x Reader | 5k words

SORRY SERIES LINK.

warnings: pregnancy, implied discussion of abortion, a boy groveling on his knees for his family, there’s a dog (a real one, not just Art), talk about Art’s forced weird athletic borderline disordered eating.

okay, i lied last time. THIS is my best work. this is very out of my brain and i hope you love it. holy shit.

Have you ever sat and listened to a leaky faucet? I mean, really listened?

Steady. Like a heartbeat, if you think about it.

Sometimes, though, if the leak is slow enough, it’s more like the kind of heart rate that sends the nurse with the crash-cart sweeping into the room to shock you out of an AFIB pattern. Or however that worked.

[Y/N] was listening to it. The dripping. The kitchen sink. It hadn’t stopped for days. When it began, it was steady. Now, it was irregular. It started the day Art left

Art had been away at an early season tournament. [Y/N] had an impossible work week, so Art had told her he was happy to go for the better part of the week on his own. They both knew Art really did hate to be alone in situations like that. He had always had one of his people there. His mom, Patrick, [Y/N]; one of them was in his corner at these things. This time, he was truly on his own. Art could not stand to travel alone. He had his team of physios and coaches, but not his family. [Y/N] was going to swing by and surprise him at the end, but her boss had leaned into her for trying to take more days off during release season for the big summer blockbusters. Plus, someone did have to watch the dog.

This context about Art’s being away is important. It’s not that Art was the epitome of a handyman, but he really liked to feel like he was contributing to their home’s ecosystem when a lightbulb went out or a switch needed replacing. The man was incredible with the small things. Yet, [Y/N] sat at the kitchen table with a frown on her face, trying to rough in an outline for an article. With the faucet dripping. If Art were there, or if she was with Art three states over, the faucet wouldn’t be dripping against the porcelain basin.

It wasn’t like the wifi signal was strong enough anywhere else on the property for her to up and move either.

drip drip drip. Said the faucet.

[Y/N] was damn near the point where she was going to run upstairs to the bedroom and get the baseball bat Art kept with the express purpose of running down the stairs in his briefs and cracking up on possible intruders. All she could think about was bringing the wood down against the glass and cheap metal on her kitchen counter.

A new house would have a working sink and a bathroom counter that wasn’t too small and a halfway decent wifi signal.

Instead, [Y/N] set her face down upon the cool blue faux granite countertop. The temperature helped ease the feeling of the hyperbolic corkscrew being driven between her eyes. The dripping kept dripping and [Y/N] wanted to cry.

This agony wasn’t all the sink’s fault, though.

[Y/N] saw on the tennis channel before she even got a call from Art that he’d won that weekend. He still hadn’t called. The lack of a call from made her feel ashamed. Not a soul there to celebrate the success with him. She felt an immense sense of guilt slide across her skin because she wasn’t there to witness that smile he got when he won. Sweaty and angry, but relieved every time. He still got that look when he won. Art was a machine on the court, and a competitor not worth counting out at this point in his career. He still looked surprised and delighted every time he, of all people, hit the winner. [Y/N] loved that look. Art loved how she would celebrate with him after a win, too.

[Y/N] prayed Art made his flight without delay that evening. Selfishly, because she wanted her boy back. Also because Art was mortally terrified of airplanes. Planes made him feel out of control due to lack of trust with the pilot. Without that phone call from him, [Y/N] was scared knowing he was out on his own and that he likely felt anxious enough to give a horse a heart attack. She would have no way of knowing if something had happened between the match end and now.

She did know that the sink was leaking.

She also knew her period was two weeks late.

That, Art couldn’t fix on his own. In fact, it was fairly obvious that the delay was more or less Art’s fault.

[Y/N] hadn’t yet taken a pregnancy test at that time. If she took the time to take one, it would make everything the obvious answer a reality she would have to deal with. She had scares before. Ones that she had never, and would never, tell Art about. She would wait for her delayed—not missed!—period and everything would be fine. Like the other times. It had to be fine.

She checked her phone. It was a blue slidephone with small rhinestone stickers she had applied to the back. Still nothing from Art. He said he would call first right after the match, but he still hadn’t actually called, so maybe it was time to call first. It had been hours since he said he’d ring up. It wasn’t a major concern that Art would blow her off. Ideas of danger and uncertainties flooded her head.

“I’m the one that wants marriage so bad. Not Artie. What if he says no? Or not now…?”

[Y/N] sat on the beach with her back against Patrick’s shins. Art and [Y/N] were completing their first year completely post college. [Y/N] and Patrick were twenty-four and Art was almost twenty-four. His November birthday set him behind.

Patrick’s hands were on her shoulders and his body in a beach chair behind her while they both stared off over ocean as the sun set. “You’re actually stupid if you think he’ll deny you, [Y/N].”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to step on his game, or whatever. The guy is supposed to ask. Isn’t this going to be… emasculating or something?”

“Emasculating for Art? For pretty baby? Yeah, okay,” Patrick teased. [Y/N] threw a fistful of sand at him. “Christ, okay, okay. Cool it.” He spit.

Art had run back up toward to hotel to grab his water bottle, while Patrick and [Y/N] stayed at the dunes. [Y/N] wanted to propose to Art by trip’s end. She thought it would be sweet. Art was extremely forward when it came to her her, but he hadn’t been forward about the whole proposal business. He seemed scared about marriage. [Y/N]he would do it herself.

She was grateful for the time alone with her best friend too. Sitting and doing nothing, or partying. Either was more than welcome. “He’s not going to say no,” Patrick continued. His mouth casually leaned close to her ear. “Because it’s insane how whipped you’ve got him.”

“Don’t say that—“

“He wants to have your babies. Ask him. Trust me, he’ll say yes and he will be all the hell over you.” His fingers worked into [Y/N]’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. He took his hands off of her when Art came running down the beach.

[Y/N] heard a click in the lock. Her head flopped to the left, still pressed against the counter, to glance at the door. Her heart rate increased. She was so tired and the speed of the situation so fast, that she didn’t both moving or attempting to defend herself.

Most fortunately, when the door swung open, it was her Art. The sun was going down behind him. He looked a bit ragged and had a racket bag over one shoulder and two duffels in the other hand. She sat upright sharply on the kitchen barstool. “Pretty baby!”

All Art’s gear hit the floor. The door was left open behind him (taking a big chance that their Labrador mix, Cheese, didn’t run down the stairs and bolt out and away). Art walked toward [Y/N], arms extending. His strong arms pulled [Y/N] in close to his chest. She rested her head against his soft gray t-shirt. Her own arms embraced him back and one of her hands tucked comfortably into the back pocket of his jeans. “[Y/N]… I missed you.” Art said into her hair.

“I missed you… I-I… You didn’t call. How did you get here—“

“Final match actually started on time, so I gambled on moving my flight to the earlier one. I didn’t have time to call if I was taking the early one. I should’ve texted. I got nervous with the-the flight. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

[Y/N] leaned back to look at him. There was no more welcome sight in the world than Art Donaldson. Irish genetics saw to it that Art was freckled from the spring sun. With shaggy hair boyishly covered by a baseball cap tipping back dangerously, he practically glowed. Even though he looked like shit. His sunglasses were hanging on his shirt. [Y/N/] tilted her head up, signaling for a kiss. Hungrily, Art leaned forward to take as many kisses as he wanted. His lips tasted like spearmint gum. Like always.

Cheese did run downstairs when Art’s hand climbed up the side of [Y/N]’s throat and when her own hand started to squeeze from under the fabric of Art’s back left pants pocket. Art had to pull regretfully away to grab Cheese by the collar and shut the front door.

Delightedly, Art did gteet Cheese with ear-scratches and a belly rub. Art received the customary licks and a tailwags in return. Cheese was always pretty down when the whole family wasn’t together. He walked and played a bit, but when his dad wasn’t around, Cheese kind of deflated. He had spent most of the time laying flat on Art’s side of the bed. It was obvious the dog was grieving the disappearance of his boy.

When Art bent down to pat his beloved Cheese, [Y/N] stood from her chair and bent at the waist. She pulled Art’s hat off and set it on the counter. Gently, she kissed Art on top of the head. With a scratch not unlike the ones he gave to the canine to the back of Art’s neck, the man looked up at her from the ground with a half-smile.

“Congrats, baby,” [Y/N] said. Art cut his eyes curiously from her to the tennis channel on the TV playing in the next room. That had him realizing where she would have gotten the information of his win from so efficiently. “How was the tournament? I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

“Sure, sure, but I bet Cheese here is pretty glad you were home,” Art said and stood up with one final pat to Cheese’s flank. “The whole thing was great. I… I’m kind of surprised I won, if I’m being honest.” Art said, wrapping an arm around [Y/N]’s waist.

Naturally, her hands flattened against his toned chest when he tugged her towards him. “I’m not. You’re fucking good at tennis, Art.”

His ears reddened in embarrassment as he tucked his face into [Y/N]’s neck to hide his face. Art was used to praise and loved it more than anything, no matter where it came from. Every compliment from [Y/N] was worth a hell of a lot more. Art hated thinking about why that was the case. He knew why, though. She had seen he and Patrick play and even then thought Art was good. Art still won the match when it came to [Y/N] and he would never tell her that.

“Hush…” He mumbled into her neck, planting a biting, teasing kiss there. She laughed. He laughed. “I played against an eighteen year old kid yesterday. He played really well,” Art leaned back to look at her again. “You saw, I’m sure,” he indicated the TV with a nod. “He would’ve won this weekend if I hadn’t won that match. Just… I’m twenty-six. Made me feel old.”

“…Glad you won, then.”

“I said if I hadn’t…”

“Well, if you’re sooooo down on your win then congrats on flying home all by yourself like a big boy.” [Y/N] smirked.

“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Art withdrew his hands from his wife’s body and put them teasingly on his own hips.

[Y/N] nodded. “Yeah. If you’re old, imagine how I feel.”

“Ancient, probably.”

Art leaned in for another kiss. She pushed him back playfully. “No! You called me old!” [Y/N] laughed.

She leaned one way, then the other to avoid Art’s beautifully wrinkled nose and smiling mouth. “Please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re-you’re not old!” Art said and attempted to trap her with his arms and give her a kiss.

[Y/N] turned hard over her shoulder and ran up the stairs. Cheese gave a woof from the couch when Art chased after her. Art spent his life chasing after her.

“No! You can’t kiss me! Doghouse! Bad Art! Bad!” [Y/N] accused jokingly. Art jumped up the stairs. He took them two and three at a time.

Art backed her against the bathroom door. Nowhere left to run. His rough hands settled on her hips. “Gotcha. You’re pretty fast for an old lady, y’know. Late for bingo, or—“ Art smirked when he leaned in to kiss her.

[Y/N] shut him up with a kiss. She had missed his stupid boy babbling. His mouth was soft against hers. Art put one of his hands on the wooden door beside her face to hold himself up. The other hand found her belt loop, keeping her body close to his.

“I love you,” Art whispered between kisses. “I love you so much, honey. I missed you.”

[Y/N]’s head leaned back against the door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat. “I love you t—mmh!” Art leaned in for another kiss.

The joy of being Art Donaldson’s wife was that he never got tired of touching her, or being physically close. Sometimes, [Y/N] would look over at him while she was writing, or making dinner, and he would be staring, or slowly extending his hand to her and seeing how long it took for [Y/N] to acknowledge his presence. It never ceased to make her feel beautiful. “Can we…” his fingers danced over the button on her jeans.

“Can we what…?” She asked coyly.

Art blushed, but smirked and lowered his lips by [Y/N] ear. “Can we fuck? Please?” He asked too politely for as dirty as those words were. Like the good midwestern boy that he was.

She tipped her head back further. Art kissed her neck with all the energy he could muster. “Can I not make you dinner first? You-you a cheap whore as well as old now, too?” [Y/N] jeered. Art snorted a laugh. The warm air from the giggle spread over [Y/N]’s skin, causing goosebumps to raise. “I’m never letting you leave home alone again, then.”

Art nodded against her skin, sucking and licking a spot they both new would bruise dark. The sound she let out was absolutely disgusting and Art loved it. “I would prefer to never be let out of your sight, personally.” He said when he pulled away.

“Come on, house boy… We’re havin’ dinner. And you’re gonna eat some bread,” [Y/N] said, pointing a finger at Art’s chest. He started to put up a fight about the ultra-low nonexistent amount of inactive carbs he was eating during the season, but [Y/N] kept chattering. “Stop talking. Your brain doesn’t work right without carbs. Braindead. Come on, dinner.”

“You’re bad for me.”

“I know.” [Y/N] smiled.

Normally, [Y/N] drank a cup of coffee when the pair made dinner. Art knew the pattern. He made her the cup of coffee every time. It sat mostly unfinished that night, though. She found herself heating and reheating it in the microwave as they cooked. She started to space out as he recapped the tournament in full detail, as she requested. If Art noticed, he didn’t let on. [Y/N] noticed, though. Little stood between her and coffee. She didn’t want to drink it. That was violently unusual.

“Hey, I’m gonna go piss. Can you—“

“Watch the sauce?” Art asked, indicating the creamy pesto she had on the stove while Art cleaned and cut vegetables.

“Mhm.” [Y/N] confirmed. Art slid over to take the spoon from her. He placed a hand at the bottom of her back as she walked away. Art fit perfectly into her life. It wasn’t fair how right he was for her.

She went to the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs one. She hoped that didn’t set off Art’s sixth sense about the way-things-had-to-be. Once upstairs, [Y/N] wasted no time yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was overflowing, naturally. Makeup, supplements, condoms, hair ties, pill bottles, loose painkillers. It was a disaster. There was also a pregnancy test.

A laughing Art had given it to [Y/N] as a joke the morning after their wedding night and she had hit him hard enough to bruise across the chest. The test sat wrapped and in the box behind the mirror every day since. Just in case.

[Y/N] had officially arrived at just in case.

She gingerly tossed the empty box under the sink so Art wouldn’t see it without looking for it. Then, [Y/N] undid the buttons on her overalls and, well, took the test.

Lacking the time to sit and watch it come back positive or negative, [Y/N] tossed the clean cap on the stick, slid it into the pocket of her overalls, washed her hands and went downstairs like nothing was wrong.

Except she knew something was wrong. Now she felt like she had a loaded gun in her pocket. She was too cautious with her movements due to the fear that the test would slip out of her front right pocket in front of Art.

She was damn near about to step into the pantry and shut the door just to see if the pee stick had one line or two. If he wasn’t already suspicious, that would do it. [Y/N] felt that the anxiety created was easily the worst anxiety she had ever had. Oops.

[Y/N] got quiet. She was talking less and listening more. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she was a chatterbox. Art would notice her blanched face and wrinkled brow eventually, she worried.

Ever the perceptive bastard, Art did. When he sat beside [Y/N] at the counter to eat a bowl of pasta with more inactive carbs than he had eaten in six months, he kept cutting his eyes at her. His bare foot nudged her ankle. Her dish was relatively untouched. “You good, babe? You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are being weird because you’re not being you. I’ve barely asked you how you’re doing with all the excitement. Long day?” Art asked, setting down his fork to drag his hand across the back of her shoulders.

“Yeah, a bit.” [Y/N] said. What she meant to say was I have a pregnancy test and I bet it is positive in my pocket right now and I’m so terrified that I can practically smell my pit stains right now, baby. But she didn’t say that.

Art spun to face her, taking in her expression and demeanor. There was that contemplative knot perched between his eyebrows. The back of his hand landed calmly on [Y/N]’s forehead to check her temperature. “Art…” [Y/N] said, pushing his hand down.

“No, hang on.” Art said firmly. He tried to put his hand back on her face. Instead, not having a clue what it said, [Y/N] reached into her front right pocket and slammed the pregnancy test down between them. Art retracted his hand and flinched back a bit at the sudden movement. The test was face down on the counter.

Art’s eyes cut from the test back to her. His face was suddenly very solemn. “Are you—“

“—I dunno. I didn’t-I couldn’t look. It’s been in my pocket for twenty minutes. No idea.”

“Do you think you are?”

[Y/N] shrugged and looked at her bowl. It looked too green. sick sick sick. drip drip drip said the faucet.

“Do you want to know if you are?” Art asked wide-eyed. “I want to know, personally. Do… Do you?”

Again, [Y/N] shrugged. “If we don’t look, it’s not real.”

“…That’s stupid.” Art shook his head.

“You’re stupid.”

Art sighed. “I’m gonna look. I mean, I’m going to turn it over,” his eyes frantically reached for [Y/N]’s. He grabbed her hand with his to get her attention. “I’m going to look. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.” She whispered and it was okay.

And she was pregnant.

Two blue lines stared at them.

“Fuck.” [Y/N] said. She felt both elated and humiliated. She wanted so badly to be a mother. She wanted to cry. How could they keep it? The timing was wrong. She hadn’t agreed to this. The two of them had so many fights about it. She barely understood how this happened. She thought they were being so careful. It didn’t make any sense. Every precaution she could think of had been taken at one point or another.

And the fucking faucet was still dripping. She could hear it. drip drip drip. Over and over.

“Fuck.” She said sliding out of her chair and standing unsteadily. That wasn’t the result one should feel when they get something they have spent so long wanting.

Art ran his hands through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling when she looked so worried. His face betrayed the wide smile he hoped to hide. That’s exactly what he wanted to see. Fuck.

“Honey… Hey, hey. You’re okay. This is awesome. C’mere.” Art said like he was diffusing a bomb. His arm were wide open to hold her.

“Art…”

“No, uh-uh. Just come here. Please.”

Cautiously, [Y/N] made her way into her favorite pair of arms in the world. “It’s not supposed to be like this.” [Y/N] choked out as Art held her.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Art said calmly. His left hand’s fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “But that’s how it is now. We have to accept that and solve for the next move, right?” It was silent for a while after that. [Y/N]’s arms were tightly wrapped around Art’s shoulders and their bowls of pasta were certainly cold. She felt that she had ruined everything.

She glanced at Art’s face. The small smile betrayed him. “Art… We can’t. Not now.” she had told Art not now so many times that it felt forced and rehearsed. Now that [Y/N] that was actually pregnant, she wanted nothing more than to stay pregnant. The timing was far from good. She had articles that were still very due the next day. She had a husband who very much traveled often for work (who she traveled with too). She had Cheese, who was staring at her weird over the back the couch because he didn’t understand crying.

“What do you mean we can’t?” Art said quietly. “We-We can. We… have. We are… Actively.” He fumbled.

“We can. We did! But… You know now’s not a good time, baby.” [Y/N] countered weakly.

Art’s hands never left [Y/N]’s waist. “Let’s run pros and cons.”

“Pretty baby.” She said accusatorially. Good old analytic Art…

“Let’s run pros and cons.” Art repeated unflinchingly. He sprang up off of his barstool to gather a sharpie and a legal pad from some drawer. Art uncapped the marker harshly with his teeth. Cap between his teeth still, he asked: “Do you want it?” while he found a clean, smooth page.

Before she could respond with her head, [Y/N] responded with her heart. She nodded a yes to him immediately. “Do you?”

Art capped the back end of the marker to free up his mouth. “More than anything ever, I think. It would probably kill me a little bit, actually, if… Yeah. I understand and it’s all up to you, honey, but… Yeah.” His hand created a PRO column and a CON column on the page.

Under PRO, Art added the items he knew would cause no trouble in his blocky capitalized handwriting:

FINALLY START FAMILY

NATURAL/EASY START

SEASON ALMOST OVER

[Y/N] HAS FLEXIBLE HRS

DREAM COME TRUE??

WILL BE GR8 PARENTS

[Y/N] nodded in approval. She couldn’t think of more pros, but Art handed her the marker and she started in on the CON list:

OLYMPICS??

ART’S NEVER HOME

EXPENSIVE

SMOKING/COFFEE

CHEESE JEALOUS?

TOO YOUNG!

Art drew the line at giving up stimulants and assigning the dog human traits and struck both of those off the list with a frown.

Frankly, Art thought the cons list turned out rude.

“I haven’t qualified for the Olympics yet,” he protested. “And if I do, imagine how early on that would be. Before all the hard stuff.”

[Y/N] replied with the thing they both knew was the most real problem. She had waited forever to say it out loud. “No offense… You are never home anymore. You’re busy all the time. Which I get. It’s your job. You’re good at your job. But look how excited the fuckin’ dog got to see you because you were gone so long. You are never here. We can’t put a human in doggy day camp all the time. It would be fucking impossible to raise—“

“I’ll quit,” Art said, wincing. He wouldn’t. [Y/N] felt that this was a bluff. He tried in vain to hide his expression of shame. “I’ll quit tennis.” He said. He wasn’t going to.

“That would worsen the problem. No money.”

“I’ll work at the 7/11. I’ll be a construction worker. I could be a fuckin’ coach. I actually have a degree, y’know, I can use it. I’m more than a racket. I don’t want you to feel alone here. I want to be here for all of it, I can—“

“You know I’m alone here a lot, babe. A lot. You don’t… You’re in a position where you’re unable to help constantly. Because you’re gone. That’s okay. I married you knowing that, right? But a baby, Art? That’s not fair.”

“I’ll bail on a season. I will. I just…” Art stared at her. “Please. I’m begging you. See this kid through with me.”

The sharpie was forgotten on the counter along with dinner. Art’s knees landed on the floor before [Y/N]. Art practically lived on his knees in front of [Y/N]. He gathered [Y/N] hands in his. “Please. It’s your call, but hear me out. Because that thing is part of both us. I don’t want you to hate or resent me or the little stinker forever, but you want it. I know that. Hear me out.” His beautiful two-tone eyes stared up at her.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“I will give you anything. Please, my world is you. Not tennis; you. I’m telling you, I-I would leave that behind to be anything you need right now. Just ask it. You’re my fucking priority, you got that? I just.. I… Please? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to keep it too, but—“

“Then what’s the big deal?” Art asked hopefully.

“It isn’t a good time. It’s too soon.”

Art’s mouth trailed kisses across his wife’s stomach and hips and hands and arms. He let this go on for several minutes. “Please,” Art whimpered pathetically into the skin of her wrist. “Please, please, please. I will do anything, my love. I’m on my knees here,” Art looked up at her through thick lashes. “We can do this. Both of us together. I’ll do whatever you want. You know I will. This can be good for us. I’m really sorry we’re here, but here we are, hon. What time’s going to be the right time? Please. I love you.” Art pleaded desperately.

[Y/N] knew this was going to be a disaster. But she wanted to keep it. What time’s going to be the right time? rung in her ears over and over, like the faucet. They had put so much time into arguing about the time and the place that would be right for a family. Now it was right in front of them. Her hand caressed Art’s face. She loved it when he groveled like that. This time, on his knees and everything. On instinct, he nuzzled his face into her hand and looked up at her through long lashes.

“Will you fix the faucet? It’s been dripping all week.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m going to think about it. The baby.”

“You will?” Art’s teary eyes widened.

“Objectively, this is a terrible fucking idea. We both know that. But if it’s really so terrible, why do I feel, like… happy about it…”

Art’s face lit up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. [Y/N], honestly, found it very hard to say no to Art. His arms wrapped carefully around her thighs while his head rested against her middle as he knelt. [Y/N] could feel his silver ring through the denim of her overalls. “God, I love you. I love you, [Y/N]. We’re not going to regret this. Holy shit…”

“Love you too. We’re gonna… We’re gonna try, maybe? This doesn’t feel real. Does this feel real? I…”

“It feels like a dream is what it feels like,” Art mumbled into her clothes. “I love you.” Art said, pressing a kiss to her stomach.

“I love you.”

“I’m gonna be a dad…” Art almost wept. “If you, y’know, but… Shit. I’m sorry.” Which part he was apologizing for was unclear.

At that, [Y/N] laughed and tangled her fingers in his curly blonde mop of hair. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a fucking dad, pretty baby.” She smiled.

[Y/N]’s next instinct was to say: I have to call Patrick. Then she remembered couldn’t call Patrick.

TAGLIST (ask to join):

@diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @shysstuff @soberbabes @avylanchce

apologies for tag issues. i’ll dm those it didn’t work for!

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #art donaldson #challengers movie #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #sorry series #father art

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p0orbaby · 24 days ago

Text

Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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lunarflare64 · 2 years ago

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January 2023 has been three years long and there's still another week to go

#im not the only one who feels this right #this is fucking ridiculous #ive had an mri and a two week long heart test (and had an allergic reaction to the electrodes)#and next week i have an eye test #ive seen my OT twice and my physio and dietitian once and tomorrow i will have seen my councillor twice #ive had great sleep and started getting very poor sleep #ive gotten to spend more time with my brother than i have in all of 2022 #my washing machine broke and had to be replaced #WHY IS THIS MONTH SO FUCKING LONG #AT THIS POINT IN THE MIDDLE OF FEBRUARY MY BRAIN WILL BE TELLING ME ITS JUNE WHAT THE HELL

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heavenbarnes · 9 months ago

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Oh my god. I just read your older!bf Simon returning from deployment and I LOVED it! It was so PERFECT.

Can you maybe do a part where he does decide to retire from the TF141 and decides to settle down? Stay home with reader and enjoy a normal life, without them having to worry that Simon might not return. I adore your writing style!

course i can 🫶🏼 got a headache, need something soft lol

when your older bf!simon finally makes the call, has the come-to-jesus with price- it doesn’t come easy.

they have to have a sit down, one where simon finally admits that he just can’t do it anymore. not with you around, not when he’s finally got something to lose.

it’s the nightmares that kick things off, that recurring one where he’s like an omniscient being looking down on you and the empty house. the one where you finally get that knock on the door.

it scares the shit out of him.

simon never used to think- let alone dream about his own mortality. that was until you.

he thought it’d be tough, that price would tell him how much the team needed him- how much king and country needed him.

“good choice mate, i’m proud of you”

simon managed to hold back the tears till he got home.

he hadn’t even told you what he’d planned, you’d definitely spoken about it but usually over dinner or when he was all soft and pliable post-sex.

the times where he could really see himself being normal with you. being safe.

you’d known the minute he walked in the door that something had changed. he wasn’t carrying an unbearable weight on his shoulders, for one.

“simon- what’s happened?”

that broke the floodgates.

it was an amalgamation of all that’d been following him since he joined the force. learning to live with eyes in the back of his head. accepting his own fate. becoming a ghost.

that and hearing those words from a man like price.

simon was man enough to admit he was also dog-tired. mid-forties, set of shoulders that you could bounce bullets off they were so tense. his lower back was absolutely fucked these days.

he was so tired.

and here he was, locked in your arms as your ran soothing circles along his spine- softly cooing a gentle “shh” while he cried.

cried like a fucking baby.

anyone else knew about this? he’d turn inside out. but that was before you, that was before he learnt he could show you every ugly little thing about him and find you loving him regardless.

you who loved him whether he was a perfect soldier or a good man.

you who forgave him for everything he’d yet to forgive himself for.

simon had never felt so alive.

stay-at-home-husband looked good on him.

washing basket in hand, cursing at the machine (he’d loaded it so poorly). vacuum trailing behind him, getting caught on literally everything. dishwasher stacked at all odd angles.

you were just happy to have him home.

happy to walk through the door and smell the dinner cooking. happy to hear him in the garage fixing up his car. happy to hear him fixing everything that’d been waiting for him to find time.

happy to have him safe.

simon joined the local rugby club (after you’d made him get a regular physio). he’d laid a pretty wee garden under the kitchen window for your herbs. he could usually be found at your elderly neighbour’s house, carrying her groceries in and staying for a brew.

he’d been allocated a military issue fresh start.

#i just really like building on his domestic possibilities #want to give this man the life he deserves #older bf!simon #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley blurb #simon riley drabble #simon ghost riley blurb #simon ghost riley drabble

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wosoragebaiter69 · 11 months ago

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a bit hot

barça fem x teen!reader

request: here

A/N: yesterday i was in shambles trying to write this.. i keep getting sickness i write about 💀food poisoning next 😃

TW: Vomit, passing out, illness

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

It all started with a small headache, it was one you could tolerate, probably just a bit of exhaustion and would go away once drinking water. The thing was though, it didn’t go away.

It was hot in Barcelona, 37° C hot. Water intake for everyone was high, and you were being made to drink extra water by not only the physios, but also your Captains.

Honestly, you thought everyone was feeling like this if you’d been drinking the most and still feeling headachy. You persevere though determined to not let a bit of pain decide how the training goes.

But when ignored, problems only get worse.

It only takes half an hour for your overall health to decline, and obviously people notice. How couldn’t they when it looked like you couldn’t even think straight.

Which is true. You don’t recognise what’s happening until Alexia is pulling you away and inside the air-conditioned room.

“Dios Mío. What are we going to do with you.” Is the first thing she says, putting you in the direct line of 18° coolness blasting. It isn’t enough though.

You feel yourself growing tired, your head dropping every few seconds.

“Hey, hey. Stay awake for me yeah?” Your captain asks you. The only thing you are capable of doing is groaning before ultimately passing out, falling into her chest.

- - - - -

When you wake up again, you’re in a different room. A fan blowing on you and a UV line dripping into your skin. Alexia is also there, who has been joined by Marta and Mapi.

You feel sick to your stomach, shutting your eyes in hopes of holding anything inside back. Conceal don’t feel right? That’s what Elsa says.

You hear footsteps cautiously approach, you don’t have to open your eyes to know it’s Alexia.

“Nena?” She whispers quietly, placing her hand on your still slightly warm skin. You shake your head, trying to suppress any indicators that you were about to throw up. She knows better, Mapi knows better, Marta knows better.

The other captain throws Alexia a puke bag who holds it in front of your mouth.

“Come on, I know you don’t want to but please. You’ll feel better.” You give into her and into yourself. Retching into the bag, making all the girls in the room cringe at the sound.

Once you’ve pulled yourself together, Alexia closes the bag and disposes it in a bin in the corner.

“Are you going to throw up again soon or no?” She asks, sparing a glance at the other two.

“I should be fine, thanks Ale.” Your voice is hoarse and slightly cracks.

“Ok, good.” She leans against the table you’re on thinking about what to say next. Marta beats her to it.

“Why didn’t you speak up about how ill you were? We would’ve brought you in sooner.” You sigh.

“Well I thought we were all going through that! I had been drinking more water than you guys yet I’m still the one who is plugged into a machine?”

“You have to promise to tell us next time ok?” Alexia asks, you nod.

“Bebita, I have Ingrid ready in the car when you feel well enough. The doctor said you could take the UV out when you wake up” You smile at the thought of getting into your bed at home.

“Ok, thanks Mapi.” She pats your leg smiling.

“We’ll talk about this another day ok? Go home, get rest. You are not going to be training in conditions like these over the next few days. Some investigators are looking into why this has happened so they might want to talk to you at some point.” She finishes curiously.

“Well, sounds fun. I wanna go home now.” Mapi nods, helping you stay up and walking toward the car where Ingrid is already situated.

- - - - -

When you get home you’re exhausted, hungry and sweaty.

“Come on elskling, I’ll run you a bath while Mapi gets you some light food. Then you can sleep for however long you need. Is that ok?” Ingrid says, pushing you inside.

“Mkay, thanks Ingrid.” She kisses your temple placing the training bags she was holding in her room before going to the bathroom to start a cool bath.

“I won’t make you anything warm, do you want a salad?” A salad does sound good, and refreshing.

“Sounds good.” She leads you to the bench, the cool countertop doing wonders against your warm skin.

She gets the salad ready rather fast, it’s not that big, but definitely enough that you won’t go to sleep uncomfortable.

Soon after eating your food, Ingrid comes back.

“Bath is ready when you are.”

You nod, legs still shaky so the couple helps you to the bathroom sitting you down.

“You’ll be ok?” Ingrid asks feeling your forehead, still cringing slightly.

“Yeah, I will. Thank you both… this means so much to me.”

“Don’t worry bebita, it’s the least we can do.” Mapi says smiling.

They both take your silence as a que to leave the room so they do. The bath relaxes you, and takes away most of the uncomfortable feelings inside.

When you’re done, you change into shorts and an old shirt, walking out slowly to the living room where Ingrid is reading a book and Mapi is playing with Bagheera.

Ingrid notices you first.

“Do you want medicine? Then you can sleep.”

“Yes please.” She gets up, going to medical cabinet pulling two paracetamol out and handing them to you with a glass of water.

“Drink.” You do as told and you finally let the exhaustion of the day come up to you. Before you realise what’s happening, Mapi has lifted you up and is taking you to your room.

“If you need anything, we’ll be here. Promise.” She whispers, putting you to bed. You smile up at her before falling into a peaceful slumber.

—————————————————

thanks for all the love and support guys, i hope that i can post the other fic tonight so you get 2 in one day 😘

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #woso fanfics #barcelona femeni #barca femeni #barcelona femeni x reader #barca femeni x reader

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magics-neptunes-things · 1 year ago

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Hi guys!

After the last one, I needed another with fluff and easy love, so this just come from my imagination. I hope you will like it ♥

Resume : Motherhood is hard, especially when your better half is in training camp far from you.

TW : Little Angst, but fluff :)

PART 2 IS HERE!

______________________________________________________________

Alexia and you met when she was going through one of the worst moments of her life. It was when the footballer made her ACL. For your part, you had graduated as a physiotherapist a few years ago and were looking for a new challenge. When you heard that FC Barcelona were looking for a new physio, you didn’t hesitate to apply. It was hard, but by some miracle, you got the job. The managers didn’t tell you that the job was for the women’s team, but it suited you even better.

A month after you arrived at your post, Alexia began to follow her treatment after her operation. You’ve been assigned as Miss Putellas' special physiotherapist, probably a bit of a probation. You’ve been warned that she might be difficult to handle, her injury having affected her otherwise than physically.

And it was true, in the first few sessions, she barely spoke. She was polite, said hello, thank you, and goodbye. For your part, you remained calm while being empathetic. As you were told, she seemed even more troubled psychologically than physically and you could feel her pain. So you searched about her favorite songs and you made a playlist for her during your massages or during her exercises.

Over time your relationships relaxed and you found yourself eagerly waiting for the time of day when you would have to take care of Alexia. You obviously noticed her beauty and the aura that reigned around her. A friendship and mutual trust was quickly created between you two and she gradually confided to you. On trivial things at first, before your discussions become deeper.

She told you about her father, her family, her fear of not being able to play again and the difficulties she was experiencing with the Spanish Federation. You were shocked to learn what was happening and immediately felt angry. And the first feeling you had was a vital desire to protect Alexia from all this. And the other girls you’re playing with at FC Barcelona as well of course, since you’re the one who plays nurses on the bench at all their matches. But Alexia was coming first.

The first time Alexia could start running on a machine now, you could have cried of joy and relief. She was recovering well, even faster than the best prognosis. And seeing such a sincere smile come back on her face was something really comforting for you. The embrace you exchanged that day gave you chills you still remember.

The day she returned to the team for her first training on the pitch, you were there too, but in the back. Her friends/teammates welcomed her with big smiles and hugs, but at the end of the training she came to you. She once again took you in her arms and whispered a thank you in your ear. No need for long speeches, you knew perfectly well how much this word meant to her.

While you expected this to signal a new distance between the two of you, Alexia surprised you by asking if you were free the same evening to go for a drink. It surprised you, Alexia having the habit of not changing her schedule meal, back to school or bedtime. But when she stuttered "For like, you know, a d- a date?" you couldn't say no.

The rest is history and here you are years later in an healthy, loving et happy relationship. You even got engaged last Christmas.

Alexia always wanted to start a family and your heart melt every time she was interacting with a baby or child. On your second date, she asked you if you wanted children, testifying to the importance she already attached to a future family life between you two. You answered positively, because yes, you wanted to have children and with Alexia would be amazing.

So, a month ago, you welcomed into your lives Santana Eli Putellas. A perfect photocopy of Alexia, even if you were the one pregnant. Thanks to modern methods, you were able to transfer her egg into your body. It was much easier for Alexia’s career, even though she was more attentive to you than ever.

The same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair, the same face, the same look. Even Eli couldn’t figure out which of the two photos was Alexia and Santana when faced with this plot. It’s almost disturbing, but the idea of having created a second perfection in this world suits you perfectly.

Except that even perfection has its difficulties and you realize it more than ever today. For some reason, Santana hasn’t stopped crying since her afternoon nap. Despite her clean diaper, her full stomach, her usual afternoon stroll or her favorite nursery rhymes, you were unable to calm her down. So much so that you couldn’t even answer Alexia’s messages, who went to training camps for the national team.

Even if this camp is held in Barcelona, the team lives in a hotel for a few days, before flying to Canada for their first match. Your lack of answer probably explains why you find yourself having to answer a call from your fiancée after 9pm. You hesitate before answering, your physical state must be scary and Santana is always sobbing on your shoulder. But knowing Alexia’s protective lioness instinct, you’d rather not worry her any longer.

"Hola mi Amor" you try a smile when a frowning Alexia appears on the screen.

"What happened? Why didn't you answer to my text? I was beginning to believe that something serious had happened to you"

"Don't worry, we are fine"

You were still rocking Santana on your shoulder, putting your phone on the counter of your kitchen. After bathing her, you put on her pajamas in the colors of FC Barcelona and she is currently digesting her second bottle of the evening. Whereas normally she takes only one before falling asleep to wake up at midnight and then around 6 am. This baby is really perfect. Except that today something seems wrong.

"Are you sure? You look exausted mi vida"

The concern on Alexia's face is deep and you don't want to worry her. You don't want her to believe that you can't take care of your daughter for a day either. Alexia only left this morning after all.

"We are fine Ale, I pr-"

"Does the best goddaughter in the world make her Mama miserable?"

Mapi’s face suddenly sticks to Alexia's, certainly so that she can also have a glimpse of Santana. Choosing Mapi as godmother was the best idea, the tattooed one being the most adorable with Santana. A chaotic godmother certainly, but you know perfectly well that she too would be ready to take out her claws to defend Santana if necessary.

"Kind of, but everything is under control" you laugh, before realizing that she wasn't listening to you at all, cooing sweat words to Santana. "Did I suddenly become invisible?"

"Not for me" Alexia answer with tenderness in her voice. "I miss you both of you so much, I don't know how I will survive two weeks so far away"

"You will be perfect, as always mi Amor"

She smiles at you, Mapi having a side conversation with your daughter, and you see the concern coming back.

"Can you promise me that you are fine?"

You bite your lip and sight. It was not fair of her to play the sincerity card. She knows that you can't lie to her, even when you want to make her surprise, you have to ask the help of someone.

"Look, she's just having a bad day that's all. Tomorrow will be better."

Alexia opened her mouth to speak and most certainly contradict you, but noise next to her announces the arrival of other people. You smile when you see Ona and Ingrid appear on the screen, Mapi pulling the sleeve of the Norwegian to almost stick her face to the screen ("Look at her, how is she so cute?").

You greet them friendly and discuss with them a few more moments before feeling that Santana starts to agitate again. Before Alexia can see how bad, you tell them you’re going to put her to bed. After promising Alexia to write to her as soon as Santana sleeps, you hang up and gently lift your daughter to put her face up to yours.

"Now that you’ve heard Mama and your Godmother, maybe we can get some rest yeah?"

After a final diaper check, you enter your daughter’s room and sit on her rocking chair. His blanket between you two, a little melody and a lull, it should go well and quickly.

An hour and a half later, you must realize you’re not. Santana continues to struggle with sleep and has begun to cry again. Seeing her like this ended up making you cry. After walking around your house trying to put her to sleep, you went back to her room. You don’t know what to do anymore.

You were thinking about calling Eli or your mother for help when you hear noise on the ground floor. Which shouldn’t happen, since you’re alone in the house with Santana. You listen despite the cries of your daughter and your hear footsteps, making you shiver. Holding your daughter close to your heart, you rush to the kitchen to grab a knife. Putting Santana safely in her crib might have been smarter, but you can’t bring yourself to leave her alone while a danger lurks in the house. The baby stopped crying, like if she understood that something bad is happening.

The noises of footsteps approach the kitchen and panic fades to give way to a cold determination. You have to protect your daughter no matter what. Sticking your back in the fridge, you raise the knife you hold in your hand, ready to hit the figure that enters the room. But...

"Wow! It’s me Baby! It’s me!"

With both hands in the air, Alexia looks at you with wide eyes less than a meter from you.

"Alexia? Wha- what are you doing here?"

"You weren't answering my text again and I... Can you put this knife down please?"

"Oh... Yes, sorry."

You were shaking. The sound of metal that the knife makes when you put it on the marble of the worktop resonates in the room.

"I was too concerned to leave you both alone."

Alexia confesses with almost shyness, certainly fearing that you would take this information badly. You could have, a few hours before. Exhausted from this day, you carefully avoid your girlfriend’s gaze.

"I’m so sorry I scared you. Can I have her?"

Santana started to squirm in your arms and cry again and you gently reach her to Alexia. With a natural ability, the blonde forms a small nest with her arms to accommodate the little body of your daughter. She calms down almost instantly and only then do you realize you have tears in your eyes. After admiring Santana for a few moments, Alexia looks up at you and notices it too.

"Come here" she says, extending her free arm to you.

You cuddle against her, hiding your face in her neck. Her arm squeeze you thigh against her. Her smell helps you to relax and you mumble against her skin.

"I don’t understand what I did wrong today"

"Probably nothing mi Vida. Just like you said, she's just having a bad day. Let me take care of her and go take a hot shower and put on comfortable pajamas, alright?"

You hesitate for a few moments, but Alexia kisses you tenderly before gently pushing you towards your bathroom. You end up obeying, enjoying feeling your muscles relax under the hot water. When you get out, the condensation masked the mirror above the sink. After putting on Alexia’s shorts and t-shirt, you go looking for her in the calm of your home.

She delicately closes the door of Santana’s room when you appear in the corridor.

"Is she asleep?" you ask, incredulous.

Alexia answers with a simple smile and a nod, before taking you into the living room.

"How did you do it?"

"As usual"

Alexia shrugs while smiling and you sighs. That’s what you did, but you are still convinced that Santana simply miss Alexia. You’d rather not say it out loud, though, fearing it would prevent Alexia from focusing on her professional obligations.

"When do you have to go back?"

You try not to pout by asking her the question. It was the deal anyway, you knew very well what could happen when you decided to have a child.

"Not tonight, I informed the coach. I have to be in training tomorrow morning anyway."

The information makes you much too happy, you who promised not to prevent Alexia from following her professional ambitions. But you cannot hide your smile and you stick against her again, in search of affection and tenderness. Accepting your request, Alexia tightens her two arms around you, allowing you to feel perfectly safe.

You stay here for a while, simply taking advantage of the other’s presence. Alexia’s hands play with the tip of your hair while yours fondle her lower back tenderly.

"Did you eat?" you ask her after a few moments.

"No. What about you?"

You pout and Alexia doesn’t need any other words to answer. You just haven’t had time to swallow anything since your breakfast shared with the pretty blonde.

"Let me cook you something. It’s your turn to go put on your pajamas"

You let go of her arms and put a tender kiss on her lips, happy to have her with you when it was absolutely not planned. A few minutes later, you find yourself cooking a fideua, Alexia’s favorite.

Lost in your thoughts, still exhausted from this day, you don't hear Alexia’s steps coming in your direction. You’re too tired to jump when you feel her arms go around your waist, her lips kiss behind your ear making you smile.

"It smells very good mi Vida"

"That’s good because it’s ready"

You tiptoed to grab two plates, paying particular attention not to make too much noise to avoid waking Santana.

"Why don’t we sit on the couch and watch the television?"

Alexia’s proposal surprises you, but you willingly accept. You sit on the couch, letting Alexia settle against you this time. After all, she too is probably tired from her training. Seeing her eat your dish with enthusiasm makes you happy and you find yourself admiring it rather than feeding yourself.

"You're starring"

Alexia smiles and glances at you, making you smile back.

"Perhaps, but it's certainly by admiring you as soon as I have the opportunity that I was able to clone you" you joke softly.

Alexia laughs and puts her plate and cutlery on the coffee table, as you did a few minutes before her. She turns around abruptly before throwing herself into your arms, making you fall over on the couch. Seeing her so spontaneous with you while she tends to constantly master her image makes you melt. And when she puts dozens of kisses all over your face, you can’t help but giggle.

"I guess today’s not the day to tell you I want a big family?"

Her mischievous smile makes you roll your eyes.

"We’ll talk about it in like two years, if you don’t mind."

#woso x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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delfiore · 1 year ago

Text

—MY DEAREST FRIEND AND ENEMY. (2/5)

pairing: ona batlle x fem!reader

synopsis: you and ona become much closer, but in the wrong way; an offer on the horizon threatens to tear you apart.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: description of collision in football

PART I, PART III, PART IV, PART V

Sports Illustrated: USWNT International Y/N Y/L/N Scores in First Game Back From Injury “Y/N Y/L/N will not stop scoring. The Man City star returns to action with a stunning header in a home game against Everton since picking up an injury this summer in the CONCACAF final against Canada. Though the U.S. emerged victorious thanks to Alex Morgan’s penalty kick, Y/L/N was forced off in the 68th minute with a torn hamstring. She was expected to be sidelined for 3 months. […]”

You skimmed through the article, waiting for your coffee to brew. It has been an arduous few months as you focused on rehabilitation. You were supposed to be match-fit at the start of the season, but the physios determined you needed at least a few more weeks before you could play. Your thigh still felt a bit tight every time you stretched them. Nonetheless, you were back to playing, that was all that mattered.

It was early November, and the winds were picking up in Manchester, and yet you were warm.

“Morning,” you said, smiling at the figure waddling into the living room.

Bratwurst was wagging his tail by her side, no doubt looking for more food as if you hadn’t fed him half an hour ago.

“Good morning,” Ona said, rubbing her eyes.

“Coffee?” You nodded towards the machine.

“No, I have to get to training. Thanks, though.”

“In my shirt?” You smirked at looked down at her top. Sure enough, it was the old T-shirt you lent her after you were done last night.

“Hah hah.” She mocked you, but then took off the shirt, leaving her top half completely bare, and threw it at your face. “Obviously not.”

You let your eyes travel freely, as she went back into your room and returned wearing the clothes she came in last night.

“Looks like you’re back to being your insufferable self.” She walked to where you sat, putting on her necklace. “Can’t even go on social media without seeing people praising your goal.”

“All in a day’s work,” you said, grinning.

Ona rolled her eyes and put on her shoes. “I’m glad you’re back, but I won’t go easy on you.”

You stood up and pecked her lips.

“I never asked you to,” you leaned closer, ducking your face into her neck. “Maybe when we’re alone.”

She snickered quietly and patted your cheek. “Try not to miss me too much. Bye-bye, Bratwurst.”

The pup sat by the door as he watched her close it behind her. Ever since she started spending time at your apartment, it felt like he liked her more, always following her around and snuggling with her as she gave him pets.

Ona had been coming over since the kiss at the end of last season with the premise of meaningless sex. You both had an arrangement, and you were committed to keeping to it. You were surprised when she suggested it, thinking her not to be the type, but Ona continues to surprise you.

You had only meant to meet up over dinner to talk about what happened, but the night ended with her hands tangled in your hair and your legs tangled in her sheets. The ups and downs these past few months never deterred you from seeing each other. In fact, Spain losing out in the Euros prompted her to come over and forget about it for a night. In a way, you both had each other.

Your teammates at Man City were especially amused whenever you’d forget to cover up and come to practice with marks on your neck.

“Who’s the unlucky gal this time, Y/N?”

“Have you been busy while you were injured?”

Every time, you would just shake your head with a grin because you’d never kiss and tell. Also, because Leila and Laia would flip out if they knew you’d been screwing their teammate on the national team.

Your arrangement worked for a while, both of you still too young and too committed to football to think about anything else. While a lot of your colleagues would disagree, it was the excuse you told yourself to fully admit that what you felt for Ona was beyond just carnal desires.

You were treading on dangerous waters, your feelings bubbling to the surface every time you saw the girl. It was much more challenging to keep them under wraps, especially when you had to play against her every couple of months. From what people knew about you two, you were rivals, and that was your relationship. Rumors of a romance surfaced too, amongst younger fans, but it was the result of baseless shipping. If only they knew.

Ona wasn’t an incredibly affectionate person, not by a mile. The only times you would catch her lowering her guard by the tiniest of margins were when she was tired, maybe then she’d let you cuddle her after sex. But you remembered when Spain was knocked out of the Euros way too soon, and she was crying on the phone to you. You had just won the CONCACAF with the US across the Atlantic, and yet all you wanted was to hold her.

And so that was what you did. Two days later, after you were dismissed from your international duties, you flew back to Manchester and waited for her. Ona liked to be the little spoon whenever she was sad, and you were very happy to oblige. If she was feeling generous, she would even thank you for it. As much as you wanted to, you never teased her about it, because you knew what you had was fragile, and a slight mention of it could topple everything to the ground.

That was how it was with your Spanish beauty.

“Wooooooow . . . You’ve got a handful,” said your teammate, Chloe, as she stood in your kitchen, eating your chips.

“Yup,” you pressed your lips thinly, grabbing some seasoning from the cupboard. “That’s my life right now.”

You proceeded to tell Chloe everything one day, omitting a few saucy details, of course.

“Have you tried talking to her about it?”

“That’s the thing, though. There’s nothing to talk about. I can’t just walk up to her and demand something that wasn’t part of the arrangement to begin with.”

“I know, but it’s clearly affecting you. You like her, don’t you?”

“No.” A few seconds of silence followed, and Chloe was looking at you with a glare. “Okay, I think she’s cute, like, really cute.”

“I think you should talk to her, Y/N,” Chloe said. “Worst case scenario, you lot stop whatever you’re doing with each other behind all of our backs. Best case scenario, you date her.”

You smirked, but nothing no usual quippy or smug remark came out. “I should try,” you spoke quietly.

Chloe nodded expectantly and continued eating her chips, now. “I can’t believe it. You tricked all of us! It was Batlle all this time!”

“I didn’t think you’d come tonight,” you whispered quietly into the room, sitting by the edge of your bed.

Ona was under the covers, on her phone. “Why? ‘Cause we played against each other?”

You nodded bashfully.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she set her phone down. “Or did you not want me to come?”

“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” You said, gesturing at the clothes strewn on the floor.

You let her study you for a moment, finding the ruffled sheets much more interesting instead.

“What’s wrong?” She said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re too quiet.” Her voice was low and calming. She reached out and caressed your hand. You wanted to bury your face in her neck and be done with the conversation instead.

“I was just wondering . . . would you like to come over a bit earlier from now on?”

Your question made her look at you with a puzzled expression. “Have I been staying too late?”

“No, no. I mean—you can stay as late as you want, but come a bit earlier. I can cook for us, and then we can just sit and . . . talk.”

You fumbled with your fingers, your eyes drifting up to her, seeing the realization dawn on her. She exhaled. “Okay, that sounds nice . . . but as friends, right?”

“Um . . . no?”

“Y/N,” Ona breathed. Her silence was killing you. Finally, she looked up. “That wasn’t our arrangement, and I’d like for it to stay as we’ve agreed. You’re okay with that, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, caressing her arm and flashing a smile. “It’s for the best.”

She nodded but watched you closely. “Come here,” she whispered.

You obliged, letting her pull you into her embrace. A searing kiss followed, leaving you to straddle her bare waist.

A short gasp left your lips. “Fuck me, Ona.” You pleaded quietly, hoping she’d fuck you until you forget the conversation ever happened. But you also hoped she’d go slow and make love to you, proving that she’d finally reciprocated your feelings.

You’ve decided that you wanted both. Maybe then, you’d finally get what you wanted.

You didn’t know that Ona was scared to let you in too, so she settled for sleeping with you.

You had been an obsession of hers for three years, a game she played besides having to focus on the actual game she was paid to play. But now, here she was—sleeping with someone who could possibly be her mortal enemy. She didn’t know when, but suddenly, she couldn’t bring herself to see you harmed.

She wanted you, but that was the selfish part of her speaking.

In the morning, you had expected her to be there, but your bedside was empty.

Ona moved through her days like a ghost. She didn’t expect it to be this hard three years ago when she first set foot in Manchester. She didn’t expect a forward to make her life this hard, or that she would fall in love with you. Every minute she spent tangled up in bed with you were minutes where nothing else outside that bedroom mattered, and it scared her.

It scared her that only you could make her feel that way, that something she had spent so hard working towards for herself, you did so easily for her.

She thinks of the nights after the Euros when she practically stayed over all day, and how you took care of her. She thinks of the cheeky winks you would send her way whenever she played against you, and the not-so-innocent brushes that you sneak in whenever she defended you. She think of your face when she shut you down, and how quickly your walls came back up.

She thinks of you the entire time she was on the Zoom call with her agent.

“You need to decide soon, Ona,” her agent had told her. “Barcelona doesn’t wait for anyone.”

It was a no-brainer, but she thinks of you all the time.

The referee blew the whistle and the 90 minutes were over. You collapsed on your knees as the Etihad erupted into cheers. Man City had reached the semifinals of the Women’s Champions League for the first time ever in the history of the women’s club. You would be playing Wolfsburg next, but you couldn’t care less about that right then. You just wanted to celebrate with your teammates.

You wished that you could celebrate with Ona too.

You sent her a text much later in the night, but she didn’t respond. Thinking it to be too late for her to come over, you went to bed, soaking in your victory.

But then, she didn’t respond the next day, then the day after that. A week later, she still hadn’t responded. Then the first leg of the semifinal came, and City drew 2-2 to Wolfsburg. You had given her space to deal with whatever she didn’t want you to know and knew double-texting made you look desperate, but you have had enough of the silence.

A vote of confidence would have been nice Sent 4:29pm

Nothing.

You weren’t going to put your life on hold for her. You wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

The week of the return leg, you had almost forgotten all about Ona from the amount of training you were doing.

“Okay, ladies. Gather around,” said Chris, the assistant coach. “This will be our last practice session before the Champions League game. We’re gonna do some passing to start with, then a set-piece practice, and we’ll close off with a 5v5 scrimmage. That sound good?”

You were starting to feel more confident than jittery. Your movements were sure and steady, so were your finishes. Big games never deterred you, but it was the added fact of Ona not responding to your text that caused you to check your phone every time you were able to.

“No phones, Y/N,” Chris said, and raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, Coach. Just checking news from family,” you lied. He extended his hand anyway, and you begrudgingly handed your phone over.

“I can’t have you distracted, Y/N. The match is tomorrow.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been good, though, haven’t I?” You grinned, taking a swig of water.

Practice ended later than scheduled, but you didn’t mind. You needed the extra preparation, and you were glad to have done that with your teammates. Chris finally gave you your phone back, like a naughty student, and you quickly checked your messages. Still nothing. It wasn’t like this was the biggest game of your life or anything.

Going to the news, flipping through articles upon articles on politics, your eyes landed on one about sports.

The Busby Babe: Ona Batlle Set For Barcelona Return “Manchester United and Spain star right back Ona Batlle is reportedly on the verge of completing a move back to Catalonia, rejoining Barcelona Femeni at the end of her contract with the Red Devils. […]”

The match of your life started. You were on the left wing as you always were, playing inverted so Laia would be running the flank. You scored one, but Wolfsburg got one back towards the end of the first half.

“Make those runs, ladies. If you see them coming at you, call out to your teammates. Use the third man to break free of the defense.” Gareth pointed at the board, showing hypothetical scenarios that the team could exploit for an opening.

“Hey,” Chloe sat next to you, her forehead glistening. “You alright?”

You uttered a small ‘yeah’ and closed your hand over her sweat-clad one over your knee. You couldn’t be distracted. You owed it to Chloe and everyone else on this team.

You were slamming your fist on the door, but you didn’t care. Your jaw clenched as you swayed on your feet waiting for her to open up.

“What the fuck, Y/N?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You stepped into her apartment.

Her face went pale. “How did you know?”

You let out a laugh. “You’re pathetic. You’re a coward for not even saying a single word.”

The ball was sent over long from deep aiming towards you. You called for Filippa for a one-two, but once you dribbled, you were tackled inside the box. You put your hand up at the referee but huffed in disbelief when she only shook her head and granted a corner.

Slapping your hand on the grass, you sprung up with a grunt. It must have looked like you were throwing a tantrum, but you couldn’t care less, you wanted to win.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“So you were just not gonna say anything at all?! You owe me that much to—”

“I don’t owe you anything, Y/N.” She snapped. She had never snapped at you before, not while off the pitch. “You know what we have is just sex. That’s all we ever had and that’s all we will ever have.”

Tears formed in your eyes. You felt like a kid again, being scolded and taken for granted. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but this isn’t some fantasyland,” Ona said firmly. “I told you what I wanted, and I thought you agreed.”

There was a period of struggle over the ball soon after, mostly in midfield. You were growing increasingly frustrated as passes continued being cut off just before they reached the attacking third.

“Come on, guys! Let’s finish this!” You called out to your teammates in an attempt to hype them up before a throw-in.

Your irritation mounted, but you told yourself to quickly snap out of it. I need to stay calm, my team needs me. It proved quite difficult when Lena Oberdorf slithered up from behind to mark you. She dug an elbow into your back to keep you at bay, and when you moved, she moved. So you pushed back, much harder than you anticipated. It set her off. Good, stay off me.

Soon, you heard the ref’s hurried whistle, as Lena shoved you back. “The fuck are you pushing for?!” Your opponent seethed, getting all up in your face to challenge you.

You were feeling bold, so you smirked at her. “Come closer, see what I’ll do. Or do you just want a piece of this, huh?”

It wasn’t your best quality, you admitted it, but you liked it when you set off an opponent. You didn’t care when Lena was hurling insults at you in German as she was being led away. What mattered was that you had gotten in her head, and it would be much easier to break her defense from now on. The referee blew her whistle again, and a few teammates of yours attempted to separate you from Lena.

“Sei ruhig, Mann. Bleib’ da drüben.” Be quiet, man. Stay over there. Waving at her dismissively, you saw the way her eyes looked like they would pop out of her sockets in fury, knowing she didn’t expect you to know German. You couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

“Last warning, Y/L/N.” The referee warned before continuing the match.

There would always be one player that completely drove the opposition crazy, and you would gladly be that asshole, so your teammates wouldn’t have to. You wanted to win.

“You kissed me first. I thought . . .”

“Please, don’t make this any harder than it already is,” Ona said quietly.

“I thought we had something, Ona,” you tried to steady your voice. You knew you sounded pathetic, but you never believed Ona could betray you in such a way.

She only pressed her lips thin. “We don’t. The only thing we have is our arrangement and however you feel about me on the pitch.”

Bunny scored in the 75th minute, and that would be the last goal for City in this match. The game went to extra time, and you could feel your teammates getting tired and sloppy in possession. You were tired too, but you wanted to keep fighting, anything to keep the thought of Ona out of your head.

You were so focused on the ball that you didn’t see a defender coming up beside you, her body colliding with yours in an attempt to redirect the ball. You fell to the ground with a thud, the stinging impact beginning to spread across your back. You felt the wind getting knocked out of you, your vision beginning to fade until all you could see were the lights atop the stadium, until those faded too.

The next thing you knew, you were on your side. Then the uncomfortable pain in your gut started to become more apparent, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. You gasped for air, just as a couple of your teammates knelt beside you.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Medic!” You heard a voice almost like Demi’s call out.

You didn’t know who knocked into you, you didn’t care anymore, because you had the overwhelming urge to throw up whilst still struggling to breathe.

“Can’t . . . breathe,” you wheezed out, tears starting to fill your eyes. You wanted to go home.

One of the medics shone a flashlight in your eyes. “Pupils are PEARL,” she said. “Okay, I need you to try and take deep breaths for me, alright, darling?”

You drew a shaky breath. There was a wheezing noise, in and out. In and out. The more you did, the easier it got. Your head was dizzy when you stood up, just as you heard applause ringing throughout the stadium.

Chloe appeared in front of you and offered her arm while a medic took your other as you walked toward the sideline.

“You’re alright, love,” she flashed you a warm smile and wiped away the stray tear that lingered on your cheek.

It was much too unfortunate, because you still had a lot more to give, but you were done for the night. Gareth knew it too, so he sent Hempo in to take your place.

You finally let the tears fall freely when the final whistle came.

“When do you leave?”

“In two weeks.”

A scornful laugh escaped you that you didn’t even bother to hide. “You didn’t even have the decency to tell me, not as your booty call, but as your friend.”

But you were kidding yourself. You knew Ona and you were never friends, never quite lovers either. Only two people floating around in a sexual limbo who were too scared to admit to themselves what was right in front of them. Now she was leaving, and you would never get the chance.

It didn’t matter anymore, any of it. You had a Champions League semifinal to play.

ESPN: Wolfsburg Grabs Victory in Extra Time to Reach Women’s Champions League Final “[…]”

a/n: it was so heartwarming to see the support for jenni and the players :’) it’s abt fuckin time man let’s hope this continues until rubiales and vilda’s resignation

#ona batlle x reader #ona batlle imagine #ona batlle imagines #ona batlle angst #ona batlle #woso

784 notes · View notes

overtake · 4 months ago

Note

grass stains on blue jeans!!

CW: coming to terms with infertility, mentions of crash injuries

Max lays across the grass, panting and red-faced. His niece and nephews giggle as they dart away from him, taking immense pleasure in making their uncle suffer.

Max says something to them in Dutch, curls his fingers into claws like a lion and bears his teeth, and they all break into matching squeals.

While the two boys scamper into far-off corners of the yard and Max takes big, monstrous steps toward them, Hailey toddles up to Daniel and wraps a tiny, chubby arm around his leg.

“Up, please,” she requests. Her English is slow, careful, mostly just tiny phrases she’s learned to demand things from Daniel because his piss-poor Dutch doesn’t cut it for her.

He acquises, leaning down and pulling her up with a small groan to rest on his hip. She sucks her thumb into her mouth and rests her head against Daniel’s shoulder, content to observe her brothers from up here.

Her little face is so reminiscent of Max, Daniel thinks. It’s not as obvious as Luka or Lio, who look like Max was thrown in a time machine and reverted back to childhood. It’s still there though, in her little pouty mouth and sweet cheeks.

Eventually, the boys tire themselves out, and Victoria’s husband comes to collect the kids for dinner. Hailey’s half-asleep on Daniel by then, and he conducts the transfer carefully. She makes the tiniest noise of protest when she realizes her dad is stealing her back, and it’s the same discontent grunt Daniel hears from the other side of the bed every time he wakes Max up before 10.

Something rotten and sad swells up inside his chest then, sticking him in place. Max had moved to follow the boys inside, but he pauses and doubles back to Daniel.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He moves his fingers to catch Daniel’s wrist, holding long enough to feel the pulses that prove life. Daniel catches him doing it often enough that he doesn’t think Max even realizes. He’s not scared — you can’t be, to have gotten back in a race car after it happened. You can’t be that fixated on mortality. Still, since Daniel’s crash —

Daniel swallows, pulls his wrist back to himself and tries to ignore the phantom pains shooting up the right side of his body.

“All good,” he says, trying to force a wobbly smile. He avoids Max’s eyes, redirects his gaze to Max’s grass-stained skinny jeans instead. “Another pair ruined,” he points.

Max shrugs, unbothered. “They barely fit anyway.” He only officially retired a few months ago, but he’s finally eating enough for once, his stomach no longer constantly left with room for more. Anyway, he’d probably ruin every pair of pants he owned to make the kids happy.

They’re silent for thirty seconds, then Max clears his throat. “So?”

Daniel sighs and slumps into Max’s side. Max moves to wrap a hand around Daniel’s hip, easily supporting Daniel’s weight.

“Do you ever wonder what our kids would’ve looked like?”

Max stills.

It’s a touchy subject with them. Not because they don’t both want them — it’s a given, especially with them both officially retired from F1. Max still has other series he’s trying, other projects taking up his time, but it’s etched into the plans. Finish F1, do some endurance racing, have kids. It’s always been the plan.

The plans got fucked up when that Aston Martin crushed half of Daniel’s body three laps into a brave, and incredibly dangerous, overtake in the Spa rain. They saved his mobility, but there are plenty of lingering consequences.

There were other options, of course. Max doesn’t have the genes to carry, but there’s surrogacy or adoption. People with their wealth and status have all the options in the world.

It’s selfish of Daniel to think that sometimes they don’t feel like enough. It’s mean, privileged. He still has a choice when so many others don’t.

Still, he mourns it. He and Max sat in a sterile hospital room and focused on his physio and rubbing scar cream into his skin so they didn’t have to focus on the things they’d lost. Daniel could come to terms with losing F1 — had to even before the crash, back in 2022, and truly meant it then when he said he could live without it.

They left the other part a gaping wound, focusing on the physical ills so they never had to think about the last cut left to be stitched up.

Max still hasn’t answered. He’s buried his nose into Daniel’s neck instead.

“They’d just look like you, I think,” Daniel continues, forging on alone. He thinks he’s more ready to face this than Max is, has had plenty of time to settle a hand over his stomach and acknowledge what will never be. “Those Verstappen genes are terrifying.”

Max huffs out a hot breath, somewhere between a laugh and a tiny sob. His hand remembers how to move again, and he begins sweeping it in tiny circles over the sharp jut of Daniel’s hipbone.

“I’d want a million little Daniels,” Max tells him, his whisper a confession that he still thought about it too.

Daniel lets them sit in their sadness for just a moment longer, then straightens so Max is no longer supporting half his body weight.

“Well, our kids will be very cool anyway,” he informs Max. Max looks at him with suspiciously watery eyes, then reluctantly matches Daniel’s smile when he realizes Daniel’s truly okay.

“Not if they’re anything like you,” Max says grimly. It takes Daniel a second to process the jab, and he yelps and squeezes Max’s side. Max breaks into his relaxed, squinty giggle. His throat is still suspiciously clogged, but he chases Daniel around the yard anyway and gently tackles him to the grass when he catches him. He pulls Daniel’s weight atop him and they both breathe in, then out, collecting their breath until the intakes match.

Their knees are both grassy, green stained on blue denim, but Daniel can’t bring himself to mind.

#fics #maxiel #i had such a good time with this one #as sad as it is

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astonmartingf · 9 months ago

Text

YOU'RE IN MY MIND, IM IN YOUR SHADOW ; FA14

fernando alonso x ferrari teammate! reader . . . after getting involved in a race accident with fernando, you're left with the repercussions of that crash

amgf accidents, crashes, and hospitals, it's just angst uhm yeah, it's angst, who compelled me to do this 😀🫵 literally no one ever but enjoy 👍 AHAHAHA. i bet you weren't expecting this but here you go

One blink and it all came crashing down.

Literally.

It all happens so fast, it's usually how it goes, one second you're trying to maneuver into a turn, the next you feel your teammates' front wing behind your back. And from then all you see was black.

"Miss LN? If you can hear us please blink your eyes." Wincing, you pull back from the glaring light in the room. Immediately the smell of antiseptic and bleach fills your nose, scrunching from the overwhelming scent wafting in the room.

You blink adjusting from the light, gulping at the dry feeling on the back of your throat, you don't attempt to talk. Closing your eyes, you shake your head, ignoring the questions as doctors and staff hover over your bed.

You knew better than to misbehave, it wasn't the doctor's fault, they were just doing their job, something you didn't do clearly as you got into a crash.

What a rookie mistake— you couldn't care less about the pulsating pain all over your body, knowing fully well they won't hurt as much as the blow of being dropped off by Ferrari.

You knew deep down they were going to choose him. Fernando Alonso, teammate, rival, lover.

Opening your eyes, you're greeted with fewer people in your room. Mainly your manager, physio, a few members from Ferrari, and Flavio Briatore. It only dawned on you what had happened.

You crashed onto Fernando Alonso, and right now his manager is in front of you. Just how long were you under? How much damage was done to the car? There were so many questions going through your head, mainly of Fernando, second of your career. What was going to happen after this?

"Where—" The dryness of your throat scratches back at you, coughing from the unexpected friction. You accept the bottle of water offered to you, it was only then you realized the sore and numb feeling of your body.

You gasp as the bottle slips from your fingers, leaving you staring at your manager, tears welling down your eyes. The feeling of vulnerability seeps through as you look away and stare at the pool of water beside you.

You watch your team tiptoeing around you, their eyes filled with pity. It's sickening. Lifting your blanket you catch a glimpse of the bruises littering your body, shifting in the bed your face scrunches feeling you back burning in pain.

Your manager holds a new bottle of water in front of you, this time with a drinking straw on it as you glance around the room looking for inkling clues on Fernando's whereabouts. Your thoughts trail back moments before the race.

Sneaking in his room beside yours, away from the eyes of the cameras capturing every moment of your rivalry. You still hold the warmth, the lingering feeling of his kiss before the race began. His words, whispering sweet nothing in your ears, replaying every moment before you stepped into your car. It was flashing in front of your eyes, it only scared you more.

He was nowhere to be found, and the silence around you only made it more frustrating, they could only stare at you with the sickening pity on their eyes. No one stepped in to talk first, the rhythmic beeps of the machine connected to your fingers supplying the only source of sound remaining in your room.

Pressing the button, all eyes turn towards the television. Coincidentally you're greeted with the familiar Ferrari Red on the screen, you notice your car turning on the familiar corner before being flipped in the air. It was only then you realized that you were watching Fernando's on boards.

Your eyes scan the news headline in red, "FERRARI DRIVERS' YN LN AND FERNANDO ALONSO INVOLVED IN A COLLISION DURING LAST WEEK'S GRAND PRIX." The date on the other side of the screen indicates the day of the week— it's been three days. Three days it took for you to wake up, with Flavio in your room it must mean one thing.

"He's in a coma."

The words the doctor said as you sat in a wheel chair, in front of Fernando's door. The smile on your face dissipates, frozen in front of his hospital room. Fernando wasn't awake yet. With shaky hands, you drop them off the doorknob, instead you push yourself back to your room.

You couldn't bear looking at him. It would be unfair to blame it all on him, but it hurts you more that he was the one who crashed into you, and look at what he had done. Not just physically, you're on the verge of breaking down every second of the day, tears pulling at the corners of your eyes and you couldn't say anything.

To your team, you were just mourning the loss of the race and points, but deeper you were worried about Fernando, he was your boyfriend for God's sake yet you couldn't do anything. You couldn't even defend him as rumors and articles slowly come out about the crash, with Fernando's ulterior motive making you lose points for the Driver's Championship.

You knew what they were saying wasn't true, but with the isolation and avoidance of the situation you slowly begin to spiral in the what ifs and question if there truly had been some power play before the race.

Fernando wouldn't do that to you? He wouldn't... And as the hours turn into days, your desperation for answers gets clearer by the day. You find yourself sneaking into his room, wishing nothing but to pour your heart out in tears, and crying yourself to sleep. But you couldn't.

You couldn't even let yourself be vulnerable for a second, because to them, you were rivals before teammates. You just sit and stare at him, watching as he breathes peacefully, unaware and no clue of the commotion he has caused.

You can't help but laugh at the situation you're in. Three years ago, you'd laugh and pray for his downfall, only three years later you would find yourself crawled up in his sheets, grasping for warmth, getting the last minutes of sleep before sneaking out of his hotel room and playing the character of his racing rival.

You smile to yourself, wiping the tears off your eyes, "I'm not mad at you. I don't care if you planned this, you could crash at me for the rest of the race, I'm telling you please wake up. If you blame me, I would take it, I'd take that, tell me you hate me. Tell me it's my fault, I just want you back."

By some stroke of luck, or that your prayers had worked Fernando woke up the next day. You woke up to the sound of whispers in your room.

You heard from nurses that the patient from 3314 had woken up. You find yourself preparing to meet him, looking forward to a nurse inviting you to his room.

What wishful thinking.

It had been days since Fernando woke up, yet you were still blind to his condition. Despite feeling better, and walking to and from the hallways you haven't heard anything about Fernando.

"Good morning YN, we're going to visit Fernando today." You raise your brows at Flavio's words, unsure of his implications. You knew of their close relationship, but you both decided to keep your relationship under the wraps— as tight as can be, that really there are only two people involved, you and Fernando himself.

The rest of the world only saw you as racing rivals and nothing more, which made you bitter given the situation. There was always an ulterior motive behind the interactions with you two, and even now, you couldn't believe yourself for staying away from him so long.

Maybe it's because you were focused on your healing, and the wishful thinking that Fernando would also keep you in his thoughts as he recuperated, albeit slower than you, you prayed that you would meet him soon, despite being placed two rooms apart, you barely saw glimpses of him, much to your dismay.

But maybe it was for the better, your mind immediately blanked out after his doctor spoke about his condition. His words pass through your ear and out the other, standing still with both feet glued in the same spot, hands growing sweaty and bracing yourself from the impact of his words.

"He— Fernando has amnesia? Is that what you're telling me?" Your voice is slowly thinning out, shaking away the tears building up your eyes, your heartbeat picking the pace as you're left to fully comprehend what the doctor said. Giving yourself little to no time to prepare.

You stop Flavio from opening the door, "Does he remember you?" You watch Flavio nod his head in confidence.

"I doubt he will forget you, you're his rival out there, he's been asking about you since he woke up."

Your ears perk up at his words, nodding to yourself. Of course he'd say that, Flavio doesn't know a thing. You let go of his hands, along with the nerves building up.

Trying to not let your excitement show, you follow Flavio into the room, matching his pace hiding behind his figure to hide yourself from Fernando. Flavio moves aside and you're struck, slowly taking in Fernando's state, the bandages no longer crowned on top of his head as you scan the healing bruises on his body.

"LN. You're here to pray for my downfall? I bet it was your recklessness that caused this crash." The coldness of his voice felt like water splashed all over your face, throwing you off.

Flavio instinctively moved you behind him, shocked at his hostility.

You stumble behind, lost in your thoughts, he hasn't called you that since you were together. You dare your eyes to catch a glance at his, it was no longer filled with the same softness he cast upon you when you're alone. Instead you were met with the cold glare in his eyes, "What are you staring at for? Think you can beat me now that I'm injured? You better watch your back LN."

LN. He hasn't called you by your last name for the last two years, not in public anyway. When you two were alone, it was always, amor— or some stupid nickname to set you off.

You deny the idea of him forgetting about you two, thinking if this was one of his games, a rather cruel one to play, but it wasn't as if you'd have it any other way. You look through his eyes once more, ignoring the clawing feeling in your heart, the pressing signals in your head to stop, but you can't help but try once more. Maybe this time, he'll realize and see it in your eyes. The relationship you have together, buried in the memories of your longing eyes. "Do you really not remember me?"

Fernando rolls his eyes with a 'tsk' "Now you're getting annoying, I told you LN, stop with this good girl act and get out of my room."

You don't need to be told more, turning your feet, you feel the room blur as your vision shakes, the ringing in your ear grows as you make your way to your room. Muffling the sound of your tears, you feel your legs weaken, back leaning against the door, shaking your head in disbelief.

Fernando was finally awake. Fernando survived the crash and is finally healing.

But this Fernando has forgotten four long years of history. Four years ago, back when all you were to Fernando was another rookie in his way, filled with hatred and not love.

#f1 x reader #f1 angst #f1 imagine #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso imagine #fernando alonso angst

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