#Exercise and Rehab Therapy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p0orbaby · 10 months ago

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It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

#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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baigepueckers · 1 month ago

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Nika Mühl X Reader

In Good Hands

You’re five minutes into your notes when you hear the door swing open with too much energy to belong to anyone but her.

“Miss me?” Nika grins, wiping sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her oversized Storm tee.

You don’t look up right away. It’s part of your defense mechanism. Five weeks of this and still, she walks in like she’s entering a spotlight… all swagger and sharp cheekbones and that unrelenting grin that makes it very hard to remember your degrees and your boundaries.

“I missed the part where you were on time for once,” you reply coolly, finishing a sentence in your rehab notes. You glance up, arch a brow. “But congratulations. This is the closest you’ve come.”

Nika shrugs as she walks over. “Recovery’s a process. So is punctuality.”

You hide your smile by turning toward the bench. She hops up onto it like she owns the place. You’re already pulling out her file when she kicks off her sneakers and stretches her arms above her head like she’s doing a GQ shoot instead of physical therapy.

“You always stretch like that for me, or am I special?”

You deadpan, “You’re still on a minutes restriction, Mühl. Keep it up and I’ll add talking to the list.”

Her smirk softens a little. “Bet you’d still let me talk if I called you boss lady again.”

Your fingers pause briefly at the strap of her knee brace. “Do you flirt like this with all your trainers?”

“Only the ones who make me feel something,” she says.

You glance up…not expecting her to say it so directly, or to be looking at you like that. Like she’s trying to memorize your face.

You swallow. “Let’s check that flexion first.”

You don’t remember exactly when it started feeling like this.

Maybe the first time she cursed under her breath when her quad gave out. Or the day she stayed after her session to help you re stack the resistance bands just because. Or the way she says your name when no one else is around…not Doc, not trainer, just soft, curious, sometimes reverent.

You see it in flashes. How she lingers after practice. How she watches you tape ankles with an intensity that has nothing to do with athletic training.

You should say something. Draw a line.

But the truth is: you look forward to her appointments more than you want to admit.

“You’re quiet today” she says, wiping sweat from her hairline as you finish another set of exercises.

“I’m focused.”

“No, you’re in your head,” Nika says, peering at you. “You get this crease right here when you’re overthinking.”

She taps between your brows, gentle. You freeze…more from the contact than the accuracy.

“Must be imagining things,” you say. But your voice betrays you…softer than intended.

She doesn’t push. Just gives you that lopsided smile and leans back on her hands, knee flexed in front of her like she’s trying to prove it doesn’t hurt anymore.

You check her progress. “You’re still tracking well. Stronger each session.”

“Thanks to you.” She looks down. Then, quieter “Seriously.”

You pause.

“Nika.”

She meets your eyes, like she’s bracing herself.

“This isn’t easy. Coming back from injury. You’ve worked your ass off. That’s all you.”

She nods. But the way she looks at you makes it feel like that’s not what she’s thanking you for at all.

Later that week, after practice, she finds you icing your wrist…you tweaked it earlier helping a post player stretch out her hip.

“You okay?” she asks, crouching beside you.

“Fine” you say. “Just sore.”

She gently takes the ice from your hand. “Let me.”

You let her….which surprises you more than anything. Her fingers are warm. She holds your wrist like it’s breakable. The moment stretches out, unspoken.

“You don’t have to look at me like that” you whisper.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

She doesn’t answer for a second. Then, very quietly. “What if I do?”

The room feels too small suddenly.

You pull your hand back gently, but not fast. Not like you’re running. Just…trying to keep steady.

“I’m your trainer, Nika.”

“Only technically” she says. “But okay. I’ll behave.”

She stands and heads to the door. Right before she leaves, she turns.

“You should still let me bring you coffee sometime. Doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be.”

You don’t answer.

You just watch her walk out with your pulse in your throat.

Three days later, you find a cupcake on your desk.

The icing’s a mess. White with green sprinkles, a half squashed swirl of Storm colors. The lid of the container is scrawled in black Sharpie:

“Thank you. For everything. — N”

You stare at it for a long time.

You don’t touch it until after everyone else has gone home.

The next time she comes in, she’s quieter.

Less teasing. No Doc, no boss lady. Just “Hey.”

You run through the session as usual…quad activation, glute bridges, single leg balance. She does them perfectly. No grimace, no hesitation.

But she doesn’t meet your eyes.

You try not to care. Try not to notice the ache in your chest when she doesn’t linger after.

Until she’s halfway out the door and stops.

“I don’t know how to hide it” she says, without turning around.

You freeze.

“I like you” she says, voice low and fast, like it might break. “I tried joking through it, but it’s not funny anymore. I think about you all the time. And if you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. Just…don’t pretend you don’t know.”

The door closes behind her before you can even stand.

You find her in the shooting gym. Alone. Hoodie pulled over her head, knee brace half unfastened, ball at her feet. She doesn’t look up until you’re standing beside her.

“You’re not supposed to be practicing alone” you say gently.

She shrugs. “Old habits.”

You sit beside her.

Neither of you talks for a while. It’s late. Quiet. The kind of quiet that waits for something to change.

“You meant it” you say eventually.

She nods. Doesn’t look at you. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” You pause. “You just caught me off guard.”

“Still friends?”

You take her hand. Slowly. Let her feel it…the weight of it, the warmth.

“I like you too,” you say softly. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

She finally looks at you. Eyes wide. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.

“I thought maybe I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.”

A pause.

“So what now?” she asks.

You smile. “Now we see what happens when you’re finally cleared to play…and I can’t hide behind the excuse of professionalism.”

She grins full on, bright, real. “Guess I better heal fast then.”

You squeeze her hand. “Guess you better.”

She leans her head against your shoulder. And for the first time since you met her, she doesn’t have anything to prove. Just something to feel.

#caitlin clark x reader #nika muhl x reader #nika muhl #caitlin clark #paige bueckers x reader #wbb x reader #ncaa wbb #wnba x reader #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #seattle storm #wnba imagine #wnba basketball #wnba #wlw yearning #wlw post #wlw #uconn women’s basketball

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uconnic · 1 month ago

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Everywhere, Everything - Pazzi

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

summary: paige helps azzi navigate through her rehab process and they finally meet up again in person. not sure if this was what everybody was looking for in this chapter, but it felt needed for what's to come. it's a bit short and sorry for the wait but hope you enjoy!!

part 1 part 2

word count: 2.2k

Everywhere, Everything: Part 3

They Got Their Own Thing

Paige didn’t answer right away.

She reread Azzi’s message – twice. Then a third time. The words blurred slightly, as if they were something sacred, not meant to be consumed too quickly.

“Thank you, Paige. And of course I remember you, superstar. How could I not? 💗”

She let the phone rest on her chest, staring at the ceiling of her darkened bedroom, heartbeat uneven. It was ridiculous – how a single message from someone she barely knew could make her feel like she could finally exhale.

She typed, deleted, typed again. Eventually, she sent a picture.

It wasn’t one she normally showed people. She was waist-deep in a therapy pool, hair slicked back, visibly crying behind a pair of fogged-up goggles. It was raw. Unfiltered. Taken by her mom on a particularly brutal day in month three of her recovery.

Attached was the message, “that was me. 7am hydrotherapy. my knee throbbed so bad i couldn’t see straight. i think i told my mom i hated her that day. still feel bad about that.”

It was a strange way to start a conversation, but Azzi didn’t hesitate. “I’ve thrown a resistance band at my physical therapist twice now lol. He still says I’m his favorite tho 😂”

Paige smiled. It wasn’t long before their messages turned into conversations – real ones. Long, meandering, sometimes vulnerable, sometimes simply stupid. They talked about knee braces and scar cream, about which podcasts made rehab tolerable, about their least favorite exercises (Azzi hated wall sits while Paige hated – well, apparently everything).

But it didn’t stop there. They talked about everything.

Sleep. Or lack thereof. Paige confessed that she hadn’t had a full night of rest in over a year. Azzi admitted she sometimes stared at the ceiling for hours, her mind replaying every play, every jump, every pivot – trying to find the moment it all slipped. She would take melatonin just to quiet her own thoughts.

They talked about pressure. How the second you were “the next big thing,” everyone stopped treating you like a kid. Paige told her about the time a scout cornered her after a game and asked if she was “finally ready to stop being cute and disrespectful to opponents and start being a leader.” Azzi said someone once told her her smile would “only get her so far” in the sport.

“Do you ever feel like people are waiting for you to mess up?” Azzi wrote one night.

“yeah. like they want you to fail. just so they can say they were right about you.”

There was a pause. “Same.”

The texts became a lifeline. Whenever the world felt heavy, they reached for each other. And slowly, something shifted. Paige noticed herself waiting for Azzi’s messages. Checking her phone more. Feeling lighter every time her name lit up the screen. She hadn’t meant for it to happen – whatever this was. But she also wasn’t fighting it.

Two weeks after their first message, Paige hesitantly sent her number.

“texts are easier than dms. unless you’re one of those people who still uses android 😬”

Azzi grinned at her screen. “1. I’ve never been more offended in my life and 2. What took you so long?”

Their texts naturally became imminent parts to their daily routines. Sometimes Paige would wake up to a two-paragraph rant from Azzi at 3am and respond hours later with a photo of her breakfast and a caption like, “you’re insane. also you’d think i would have mastered smoothie-making by now. this tastes disgusting.”

They talked about everything vulnerable to do with rehab. Azzi confessed she was scared to push herself too hard. That every time she landed from a jump, she couldn’t help but hold her breath and brace for the worst.

“What if I just… never feel like myself again?” she asked once.

Paige sat with that message for ten minutes before responding. “then we find a new version of you. an even better version than you already are. one who doesn’t have to be fearless all the time.”

Another night, Paige admitted something she’d never said aloud. “i think i used to judge my own worth by how many points or assists i put up in a game. like if i didn’t hit 20, i wasn’t enough. that no school would want me and nobody would take me seriously. i hated that.”

Azzi responded almost instantly. “I think I still think that.” There was a long pause. Then: “Or at least… I did. Until you started texting me.”

The vulnerability hung between them like it was the first time the had ever admitted these things aloud, and it was.

For months, while texts and phone calls came often yet, they hadn't yet FaceTimed. Not until one night – three months after their first exchange. Azzi called. No warning, just a ring.

Paige answered, expecting a joke, a meme, something stupid. Instead, she saw Azzi’s face on the screen, eyes wet, lips quivering. Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. “I can’t find my rhythm,” she whispered. “It’s like I’ve lost everything. I shoot and it doesn’t feel right. Like my body’s betraying me. I can’t even pivot without overthinking it.”

Paige blinked, sitting up straight in bed. “Azzi-”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” she choked out, wiping her face furiously. “I go to the gym, I do all the right things, and it’s like… nothing clicks. Like I’m going through the motions just to prove to everyone else that I’m trying. My parents think I’m improving… And maybe I am. But it never feels like it.”

She stopped. Lowered her eyes. “But I’m not okay, Paige. I’m really not okay.”

Paige didn’t speak right away. She just watched Azzi cry – like really cry – for the first time. Unfiltered. Vulnerable. Completely lost in who she was meant to be.

Paige comforted Azzi for the rest of the night. Knew exactly what to say every time Azzi countered with another cloud of doubt. Talked her down until her breathing steadied again. Whispered, “We’ll get through this, I promise” until Azzi eventually fell asleep.

And as she watched her friend through the screen, something inside her moved. Without thinking, she whispered, “Good night, Azzi" and ended the call.

Thirty seconds later, she was texting Katie Fudd.

“hi Mrs. Fudd. i hope this isn’t weird that i’m texting you. i know we’ve talked on the phone a bit before, but this is a first. i don’t want to overstep, but i don’t think azzi’s doing okay and i know what that looks like because i’ve been there. i wanted to ask if you would would be open to me visiting? just to stay with her for a few days or a bit longer to be there for her. i really think i can help and that she just needs someone who understands. if not, i completely understand. we haven’t even met in person before so it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Katie responded five minutes later.

“Paige, if your parents are okay with it, we would absolutely love to have you here any time. You’re a good kid and I know how good of a friend you’ve been to Azzi. Let me know when you book your flight and I’ll be sure that Tim or I can free up our schedules to pick you up from the airport.”

“will do. thank you so much, i’ll see you soon. also, could you maybe not tell azzi? kind of want it to be a surprise.”

“Of course, Paige. See you soon.”

------

Three days later, Paige landed at Ronald Reagan National Airport with a backpack, duffel bag, and a stuffed unicorn that she picked up from the gift shop.

Katie and Azzi was waiting for her at baggage claim. Azzi was about to start complaining about why she had to come with her mom to the airport (she was told they were just picking up her grandparents) when she and Paige locked eyes. Smiles bloomed on both of their faces. There were no cameras. No fanfare. Just two teenagers who had grown impossibly close without ever really sharing the same space.

They didn’t hug right away. They just stood there, staring, both of them a little awkward and breathless.

“Hey,” Paige said, adjusting her backpack and handing over the unicorn. "I saw this at the gift shop and thought you'd like it."

“Hey,” Azzi replied, looking at the stuffed toy. "I love it, thank you."

Paige laughed softly. “Yeah, whatever. You’re shorter than I remember.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “And you’re exactly as annoying as I expected.”

Then they hugged. And something settled. That week changed everything.

They trained every morning. Paige designed mini workouts tailored to Azzi’s comfortability – closeouts, spot-up drills, form shooting, balance exercises. They watched film together, breaking down footwork frame by frame. They talked late into the night. About fear. About the mental part of recovery. About the anger of being forgotten, the resentment toward teammates, coaches, and schools who moved on too fast and too easily.

Paige didn’t try to fix Azzi. She just listened. And in turn, Azzi stopped pretending.

Slowly, the rhythm returned. Not perfectly. Not every day. But in moments. A clean crossover. A fluid step-back. A jumper that didn’t just swish, but sang for the entire world to hear. The two learned everything about one another on the court. Began to notice each other's tells, knew exactly where the other wanted the ball to end up. Paige made perfect passes to spots on the floor before Azzi even got there. Azzi screened for Paige as she curled around perfectly for a midrange. It was as though they had studied playbooks of each other beforehand for an exam and had passed with flying colors.

By the second week, Katie and Tim found them on the driveway, playing one-on-one at sunset, both of them laughing so loud it echoed across the yard.

“First to eleven,” Paige said, spinning the ball on her finger.

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “Loser has to do dishes for a week.”

“Neither of you ever does the dishes,” Katie chimes.

“Fine. Loser starts doing the dishes.”

“You’re on.”

They were tied 10-10 when Paige hit Azzi with a hesitation step, then drove left. Azzi cut her off perfectly and stripped the ball away. Paige didn’t care, because in that moment, she saw a glimpse of the same Azzi she was mesmerized by all those months ago at North Tartan. Not just in the way she moved, but in the way her eyes lit up from making a good play.

“God,” Paige gasped, shaking her head in awe. “You’re back.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just smiled, raised an eyebrow, and nailed the game-winner right in Paige’s face.

Paige threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay, Fudd. I see you.”

Tim and Katie watched with soft smiles from the porch as they saw their daughter’s love for basketball creep back in.

Later that night, Azzi sat on the couch with her knees folded under her, head resting on her arms. Paige sat across from her. “I was really gonna quit,” she said softly, tracing circles with her finger on the carpet. “Like… I meant it. I was done.”

Paige didn’t say anything.

Azzi looked up to meet Paige's eyes. “But then you messaged me... You saved me, Paige. Probably more than you’ll ever realize. And I'm gonna sound so stupid for saying this because I wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for my injury, but I keep thanking God that it happened to me because it brought you into my life.”

Paige’s eyes were glassy, but her voice was steady. “You saved yourself, Azzi. I just reminded you who you were. Plus, I was just being selfish. You really think I was about to let the best shooter in the country go out like that? When I hadn’t even gotten the chance to play with her yet?”

The silence settled between them, a thousand words unspoken between them and yet, an understanding of one another deeper than they ever thought possible.

—---

A week later, an envelope arrived at the Fudd house. Azzi read the first line and screamed: “USA Basketball invites you to try out for the 2017 U16 Women’s National Team.”

The whole house seemed to shift as they jumped in celebration. Her parents, brothers, and Paige celebrated as though it were their own major accomplishment. It was a letter that nobody had expected in the mail. It wasn’t that Azzi wasn’t good enough, but given her recent absence from competition, it had kind of become the safe assumption that she’d have to wait another year for her opportunity to prove herself again.

Azzi barely had time to process it before Paige’s phone buzzed. A text from her dad, sent with a photo of the same invitation she had just received back in Minnesota. The house shook again – and it was funny really. The Fudds, who had really just met Paige a couple weeks ago, celebrated her news like she was one of their own.

Paige and Azzi looked at each other, stunned.

Azzi spoke first. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Paige smiled slowly. “That the universe might want us on the same team?”

Azzi’s eyes sparkled. “No,” she whispered. “That it already put us there.”

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi #uconn #wlw #everywhere everything

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superbat-lmao · 6 months ago

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A Jayroy fic where Jade drops off baby Lian and they just.. retire.

There’s a really difficult conversation they have about dating and raising a kid and vigilante work and they decide screw it. It’s not safe to raise a kid around.

And by retire, I mean they disappear. Go to ground.

(Talia knows what it is to want the best for your child even if they have different opinions on what best is. She gets them off the grid and funded in some sort of suburban hellscape that takes the both of them a while to adjust to. They say they have a deep space mission and just, don’t come back.)

Roy works in a rehab clinic and Jason gets a degree in Literature. He becomes a professor at a small college, taking on graduate students and falling into academia.

They go to therapy, the make friends with other parents, they become normal people. And they have an insane security system for their house, and AI that scrapes cameras of their faces, and a modified basement that Roy compares to the Batcave exactly once that has a gym and space to work on equipment and a method of escape should it be necessary to uproot their lives again.

Because they want to be civilians, but that doesn’t mean that if their past lives come knocking, they’ll be caught unaware and too out of the game to defend themselves. In fact, because they don’t go on patrol, they’re at peak performance at all times and rarely injured more than a sprained wrist or paper cut. Gone are the days of concussions, GSWs, and stab wounds.

The superhero community doesn’t know what to do, what to think. Because all of their resources are expended elsewhere. And because space is a big place, and trying to find two humans in its vastness is an exercise in futility.

So Lian grows up normally. She’s a girl whose parents love her. And her problems are ordinary, like homework and sleepovers and playing soccer.

And when she’s in middle school, the same age as Roy and Jason were when they started superhero training, they tell her about their past lives. About the danger it will bring if they’re found. Because they promised never to lie to her, and to never let her get wrapped up in the vigilante scene.

They’re well adjusted people raising a normal daughter.

And they explain to Lian that they came from very large and complicated families. Families that did dangerous work, work that put anyone who knew about it at risk. And that Lian was a baby, and that all of that risk of their jobs, was not worth her life. That they loved her more than their families, their jobs, their previous lives. But that it meant they could be discovered, and that those old lives would be dragged back up again and she could get hurt.

Lian thinks of it like witness protection.

So Lian memorizes code names and pictures of people that may try and approach her. She learns the differences between friendlies and uglies. Between ex-family, and rogues. And she doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look into things when her parents ask her not to. Because she trusts them to protect her. She trusts them like a well adjusted young girl who could very well ask her parents for more information, but doesn’t care about the answers because she trusts they’re not important. That it doesn’t change how much they love her or what their lives are.

There are a couple of versions of this:

1. Jason, Roy and Lian live out their lives happily and away from their families. They are never again vigilantes or found out by them.

A) Alfred dies and that is the only thing that almost breaks Jason, that he didn’t get to see the man again before he died.

2. The Bats track them down, ask them what they hell they were thinking, that they thought they were dead. To come home, be part of the family again. They’re told no - and the three of them disappear again to somewhere they’ll never be found.

3. Alfred finds them, says nothing to anyone and once a year, on Lian’s birthday, goes to visit. None of the Bats ever figure it out.

4. Alfred knows where they’re going from the beginning, he keeps them updated on their families and helps hide them from everyone. He never once tells a soul that Jason and Roy are alive. He is allowed to visit Lian sometimes and they are all happier for it.

A) When Alfred gets old enough, he tells Bruce he will be retiring. He asks that he is not followed, that no one from the super hero community is allowed to keep tabs on him. He tells him he’s sorry, but that it has to be this way. Alfred goes and lives the end of his life with Jason, they speak about literature every day, about Alfred’s parents about anything he wants to. Jason buries Alfred in England and Bruce Wayne gets an unmarked alert to its location.

5. The Bats find them, and never approach them. Each Bat basically figures out that Jason is alive, doesn’t say anything to the rest of the family, and keeps tabs on him and Roy. Once they realize that Lian exists, none of them ever breach that level of trust, even as they all grow into old age and move on with their lives.

6. Bruce finds them.

A) He waits for Jason in a cafe, watches him realize who he is and turn to look at the Roy Harper, who nods once and walks away. Jason approaches him and sits down. He asks how he found them. Bruce doesn’t say anything, just looks at his son, alive, seemingly happy. Tells him it was an accident, he had genuinely still thought they were in space, maybe dead, until someone plagiarized Jason’s work, submitted it through a Wayne Enterprises competition of some sort, and it flagged the system. It had been entirely work related, pure coincidence. No capes.

B) And Jason laughs and it’s lighter than Bruce has heard it in years. Jason asks how much Bruce knows about him now, how much intel he gathered before approaching him. Bruce says he knows about their marriage, their daughter, their jobs and habits. Jason nods and he’s smiling. Bruce doesn’t know what to do. He had checked the area, and there were no reports of anything approaching vigilantism, no anonymous casework, no decrease in crime, nothing to suggest the presence of the Red Hood and Arsenal. He hasn’t spoken to Jason outside of business in years, isn’t sure he knows how to anymore. And he looks happy, he’s alive, he’s a civilian.

C) He wants to ask him everything, ask him to come home, wants to know the man his son became. He asks Jason why. Why they disappeared. And Jason is still smiling and it’s honest and Bruce can’t stand to look at him and can’t help it either. So Jason tells him that they will never let their daughter into vigilantism. That they quit, and needed it to be absolute. That he and Roy couldn’t do this halfway, that if they loved their daughter they had to do only what was best for her, and that meant burning their old lives entirely, becoming civilians.

D) Their lives had been too complicated, too many people, too much history. So many ways for things to go badly, to leave Lian without parents or get her killed as leverage against them. And for as much as he and Roy had cared about the people in their lives, couldn’t stop caring about them, they knew that they would just drag Lian into all of the emotional problems that come with being a vigilante. That it wasn’t healthy, for any of them. That trying to do so would kill them. So they disappeared. And Bruce thinks of the pain he and his family had gone through over Jason, wondering how he was doing, if he was dead, hearing nothing and trying not to let it eat at them. But right now, his son is in front of him smiling, something he can’t seem to stop doing. Something Bruce never thought he’d see again.

E) And he has a son in law, a granddaughter. His son has a family, one he built himself. He looks healthy, he’s not closed off, he’s more open than Bruce thinks he’s ever seen him. It’s jarring, like Bruce is wrong footed. He doesn’t know what to say. Wants to tell him about everything that’s happened, to his brothers to their family, to Gotham and old contacts. Wants him back in the loop. Wants to ask about their lives, and college, and his wedding and his daughter. Bruce wants to know all of it. And he wants to know how he did it, how he hid himself so well in plain view.

F) And the detective in him will always prioritize the how over everything else. He wouldn’t be Bruce if he didn’t. So Bruce asks how. And Jason laughs, says he’s not going to tell him.

G) You know I can’t tell you that, old man.

H) He can’t let it go, Bruce can never let anything go, that’s his burden to bear. He tries to push old buttons, doesn’t notice he’s doing it. But Jason won’t stop smiling, won’t switch from civilian to vigilante. There is no trace of anger, of the Red Hood. He doesn’t look surprised and Bruce’s arguments, about flaws in his code, software, he’s just smiling. Won’t rise to the bait. And for once, Bruce has a feeling he’s only felt around Clark. A feeling of being outmatched. Jason knows all of his buttons, isn’t pushing a damn one. Isn’t letting Bruce push his either. It’s not even a stalemate. Bruce has no openings.

I) He starts telling him about his brothers, about missions and life developments. He tries to tell Jason everything. And Jason listens, hears everything he has to say. And Bruce asks him about himself, his life, his husband, his daughter. And he hears about NA and AA meetings, about therapy and raising an infant, and being a professor and his students about their friends and neighbors, about Lian’s friends at school. All of it. Except the how. And at some point, it’s been a couple of hours, but not very long at all, Jason gets a text. He doesn’t look at his phone. And Bruce knows that whatever spell had been cast over the cafe, whatever bubble of another universe he had crossed into, he was about to watch it close. Implode on itself with only him inside. Because Jason was about to leave. All of it, the cafe, the conversation, the smiling and the laughter, it was the one distraction that Bruce was liable to. And Jason has him right where he wanted him. It was something that wouldn’t work twice, and they both knew it.

J) And Jason says, I can’t stop you from telling anyone. I can’t stop any of you from looking for us, but this was the third life of mine that you ended. Of the two of us, I would go to greater lengths to protect my daughter. I am asking you not to make me do something you’ll regret. I am asking you not to look for us, not to tell anyone, not to put it in a report. I did not want to hurt you, any of you. And you have made that unavoidable. I know you, Bruce, and I have spent time healing from everything I’ve been through. I cannot allow you to pull me back into it, to pull the three of us back into your world. I know that this conversation won’t stop you, now that you know. So I’m sorry, I didn’t want to have to say this. I know who you are, who all of you are. It was never a question before, that I would keep your secrets. If you look for us, I will go public. It’s not just your life I’ll be placing at risk, it will be the entire league. I will burn every bridge, every alias. I have redundancies in place, you send a super my way you better be sure to send them all. You better be sure you’ve caught all my backups, all of Roy’s backups, everything. We have avoided you for years without triggering any of your, or the league’s, systems. I can’t predict another accident, but if you know what is best for you and everything you’ve built, you will prevent even that from happening. Do not force my hand.

K) Bruce stands, trying to memorize his son’s face. And then Jason is gone. Disappearing down a street and out of sight. And Roy is waiting for him, their house had been cleared of all traces, Talia has new lives set up for them and Lian is asleep in the backseat.

L) Their lives are busy for the next few weeks, traveling and covering their tracks and looking for new methods of being traced. And they change their names, change their lives, are prepared for the upheaval of being new people again. This time, it sticks. They watch Lian graduate school, college, get married, have children of her own. And the media is inescapable - they learn very little about their old families lives, but not nothing. There are funerals and weddings and probably so much more in private, things they will never know, never be part of again. And then they’re just old and together. Their grandkids visit, Lian visits, life is good and long and they are happy.

• Or, it sticks until one day, a spell is cast in Gotham and he’s standing on a rooftop, no mask, identity on full display, surrounded by other vigilantes in mixed states of gear and civilian status. Some being or other from another universe required all hands on deck in this universe and had used a spell to summon them all here.

• Jason spotted Roy appearing near him on the rooftop, both of them stunned. No one had noticed them yet, but their moment of indecisiveness and a moment of pure awareness on the Batfam’s part, meant there would be an inescapable confrontation. Batman seemed to notice them first and looked to Jason, who shook his head. It appeared Batman was trying to talk to the person who had summoned them all here, to argue they should be sent back or ask if it was possible.

• Jason moved himself and Roy towards Batman, doing their best to avoid looking at any of the other vigilantes at all, including but especially family. They walked into a tense conversation.

• You must send them back, they are civilians.

• Batman, you of all people understand the threat we are up against, if the spell believes they are necessary to combat X then they were brought here.

• I understand perfectly well, I am telling you to send them back. Having them here is a security risk, not during the fight, but after. This is not your universe, things are different in ways you can’t know of, this is one of those circumstances.

• Jason and Roy approach, Roy tapping his shoulder in a way that means he’ll follow his lead.

• He announces, You are in violation of the Hempstead agreement. You have one hour to return us to our previous location before we are a security risk.

• They can hear intakes of breath around them, some of the arrow clan and bat clan have approached, uncertain of what exactly is happening, but not comforted by the fact that Batman seems to understand the situation without telling any of them. The argument continues, Jason standing just behind Roy, separating him from the group slowly forming around them, people pushing their way to the center to see their son or brother again. Their friends.

• A decision is reached, It will take me 10 minutes to establish a connection strong enough to send them both through. Do not interrupt me while I prepare, follow me.

• And Jason and Roy are walking away, backs turned to their families. To their friends. There are shouts behind them, their names, other things they choose not to hear. It is all held at bay by Batman.

• They are speaking with the universe hopper, giving him a location to send them while clearly stating that he is not to give out that location to any of the vigilantes here, that violation of these terms will risk the hero community at large. The closer it gets to the ten minute mark, the more the riot behind them frays between silent understanding and desperation. Neither of them turns around, they can’t allow themselves to look. It is excruciating.

• Roy looks Jason in the eye and neither of them are fully able to stand it, but the fact that they’re not alone has to be enough. Jason can see the itch start, the overwhelming feeling that can’t be tolerated, the one that motivates people to seek out something that will just stop. He reaches out his hand, taps it against Roy’s and is met with one of the worst smiles he’s ever seen. It threatens to bring Jason to his knees, but Roy threads their hands together. The portal opens before them and without turning around, they step through.

• There is a shared panic attack, a moment of grief and regret where both of them realize just how greatly they hurt all of the people they used to care about. They break apart together and rebuild each other enough to pick up Lian from school and begin the process of torching their home. Whatever fight they had been summoned for had not happened yet, so they had a larger lead time than they had when Bruce had stumbled across them. But now, the entire hero community, many more points of being able to be convinced, was now aware they were both alive and on Earth.

#jason todd #batman #bruce wayne #redhood #roy harper #jayroy #royjay #arsenal #alfred pennyworth #retirement!au #i really think that the best way jason and roy could heal is to stop being vigilantes #that’s probably true for most of the heroes and vigilantes honestly if looking at a personal scale and not global #jason specifically is stuck in some toxic web of family and vigilantes where he can’t separate them #and he never got the time other kid heros did where they figured out who they were as they grew up jason got it dumped on him #and the distinct brand of hero judgement that comes from people trying to uphold morality being leveled at you when trying to stay sober #isn’t healthy for roy so honestly both of them need new support systems and time to learn how to cope away from life threatening traumas #i don’t know how to work in jade so either she’s exempt and can see lian or she makes talia promise she’ll be safe #i think talia would absolutely go to bat for jason against bruce in this and if bruce finds out he’s alive and they’re okay she’s in for #a worse screaming match then when he figured out she put his kid in the pit i can’t imagine his rage over her stepping in twice #but jason would absolutely appreciate it and roy would be nervous as hell meeting The Talia al Ghul

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labsportstherapy · 5 months ago

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Conquer Lateral Ankle Sprains

Don’t let a lateral ankle sprain hold you back any longer. Take the first step towards swift recovery and lasting resilience with LAB Sports Therapy.

#lateral ankle sprain #ankle sprain rehab #ankle sprain treatment #ankle sprain physical therapy #ankle sprain exercises #ligament injury recovery #rehabilitation for ankle sprains #balance training for ankle injuries #preventing ankle sprains

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noemilivv · 1 year ago

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HIYA HIYA!!! this is the super energetic bro that u matched with velvette, qnd I was curioussss to requesttttt smthhh (also maybe if u want to easier identify me I could be ✨️anon??)

Ok! SO! ~Imagine~ maybeee that angel has a person he is romantically interested in (reader)

And so reader is ~severely introverted~ and thus, not much is know about them. But! Charlie is leading a art group one day, for like, rehab bc art therapy is super big, and reader is really good at it, and basically drops lore that they where in college to be an art therapist‼️

And so‼️

Maybe angel, seeing this opportunity to get closer, and was like- "ayo want me to model 4 u??👀👀" and reader is like " pls wear clothes this isn't gunna be nude modeling bc I will get super embarrassed" and so basically soft fluff of reader painting angel and getting to know each other and confession

Mayybbee a oneshot?? If ur willing! Nor pressure

Also make sure to take time to urself and rest and eat water and drink food!!!

Lots of love from a silly Lil fan!! :))

hello dear!! ofc you can be ✨ anon, you’re already on my list haha, as i’ve stated in the past, im not amazing at oneshots, but here’s my take on this !

Warnings: Mentions of Nudity, Lazily written (sorryyyy), Pretty short

“Smooth Talker”

Angel Dust x Artist!Reader

After one of Charlie’s…interesting exercises, Vaggie suggests that the group should do therapy art, since y’know, it calms the soul. And Charlie couldn’t be more eager to do so!

The lobby was set up with canvases, paints, brushes, everything you could need!

Unlike most of Charlie’s previous activities, almost everyone was willing to participate, although Husk and Alastor kinda stood off to the side and watched.

Charlie was painting a cartoon version of Razzle and Dazzle, Vaggie was painting a sunset based off of the lesbian flag, Pentious was painting him in his war machine taking over Hell, and Niffty? Eh.. You don’t wanna know..

You on the other hand? Stood in front of your canvas, clueless, “Y’know, I could model for you..” Angel says into your ear.

Your head turned to face him “Sure.” You say nonchalantly before turning back to your canvas.

“Wait really?-”

“Just please keep your clothes on.”

Eventually you had moved your stuff over to the other side of the lobby so Angel could pose on the couch.

He had a soft smirk, as he layed on the couch, his arm propping up his face. Although, he began to get fidgety, messing with his fluff.

“Stop moving.” You said with a soft smile.

Angel kept messing his fluff. “Ange!”

“Gee, sorry!” He said, chuckling, moving his arm back to its original position.

“So uh, how’d you get into all this?” Angel asked as the sketching of your pencil went to a stop and you began actually painting it. “College, back when I was alive I wanted to be an art therapist.” You explained.

“Fitting.” He murmured. For the most part, it was silent, a comforting silence though, the presence of each other was oddly soothing.

“Okay.” You muttered, squiggling your signature down at the bottom of the canvas quickly, “I’m done.” You announce to him, turning the canvas around to show him.

Angel perks up immediately, amazed by your skill, he slowly gets up off the couch to get a closer look. “Damn…” He said, his voice above a whisper, “Can I… Can I keep it?” He asked, hopeful that you might say yes, “Duh.” You giggled.

“For once the smooth talker is shocked, that’s new.” You say with a smirk. “And for once the introvert is talking back, that’s new.” Angel replies, but the usual attitude in his voice isn’t there, his voice is barely above a whisper as his eyes are still entranced with the painting.

You take the painting off the stand and hand it to Angel. You look over to a nearby window notice the sun is setting, despite the red sky still being as clear as day, “It’s getting late, I’m gonna head up to my room.” You say. “Yeah… Me too.”

As you and Angel are both walking to your rooms, you don’t say much, until a voice pipes up, “Y’know, I really owe ya for the painting.” Angel says, still looking at it, “Owe me what?” You ask, as you both arrive at your door.

“A date, maybe.” Angel says, pecking your forehead, “Stop by my room at eight tomorrow, if your interested~”

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