x reader she's like Barbie. she can be anything. she can be everything. she can do whatever I'm not dare to do in rl and she can choose her man. *sigh* Life've never been better.
I'm not sure if you're still doing requests but I just discovered your account. I really enjoy your writing, I was wondering if you'd write fem!personal physical therapist reader being assigned to help Wemby with his recovery after maybe an arm injury. She's very professional but kind, and as she helps Wemby get better, they become good friends. One day they share an intimate moment (not sexual but intimate in terms of proximity and vulnerability) when Wemby needs help undressing his shirt after a late night session. Wemby develops a crush on her after this and becomes more shy during sessions.
❝ merci. ❞
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summary: being victor’s physical therapist is as rewarding as all your other patients, until the air is thicker than you expected around him.
warnings; none!
an: hi everyone :,) thank you all for being so patient w me while i’ve been gone for so long. i lowkey just couldn’t find any motivation to write no matter what. but im trying to get back to it, slowly but surely !!!
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the first time you meet him, he’s sitting stiffly on the exam table, shoulders tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. he looks too tall for the room, knees bent awkwardly, hands folded like he’s trying to make himself smaller. it’s his first time being an injured player in the nba, his first time being in your office, and the first time he’s ever been treated with care.
you looked at your clipboard of patient documents. his name was in big, bold print. victor wembanyama. even if you weren’t a basketball fan, you’d know his name. his reputation fills spaces long before him and his height do. but here, in this quiet room with the antiseptic smell and soft hum of the air vent, he looks less like the player splashed across headlines and more like a twenty something nursing an arm that doesn’t want to cooperate.
you offer your hand and your name, voice steady, professional. “i’ll be working with you through your recovery. we’ll go at your pace.”
he nods, gaze warm but cautious. “merci.”
the first sessions are all business. you guide him through mobility stretches, careful not to push too far. his arm resists, muscles straining, and sometimes you catch the flicker of frustration across his face. you remind him gently, healing isn’t linear. he listens, always polite, never arguing, though you can see in his eyes the fire of someone used to pushing himself past limits.
still, a rhythm begins to form. your hands steady his movements, adjusting the angle of his elbow, correcting his posture. his trust builds slowly, like a bridge under careful construction.
by the third week, you catch the smallest shift. he lets out a soft laugh when you tease him about being too stubborn for his own good. it surprises you. it’s deep, quiet, a sound that lingers.
“i’m used to.. doing more,” he admits once, between reps, sweat beading along his brow. “it’s hard to stop myself.”
you hand him a towel. “that’s why i’m here. i’ll stop you before you break yourself.”
his mouth quirks upward. “i believe you.”
the sessions stretch into familiarity. you learn his silences purposefully cold, they’re thoughtful. he listens intently, storing away every word, every instruction. and when he does speak, it’s careful, deliberate, like he doesn’t want to waste what he’s given.
sometimes you linger after exercises are done, sitting nearby as he packs his things. the conversation drifts from just his injury. it turns into what books he’s been reading, the food he misses from home, little details of his day. always simple, never crossing that invisible line you keep firmly in place.
yet it feels different. warmer.
one evening, the facility is nearly empty. the fluorescent lights hum low, shadows stretching across the floor. he finishes his last set, movements slower than usual, exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders. you jot notes into his file, looking up when you hear a quiet sigh.
he’s tugging at the hem of his shirt, trying to peel it off, but his arm catches halfway. the injured muscles seize, refusing to cooperate. frustration knots his brow.
“wait,” you say gently, stepping closer. “don’t strain it.”
his eyes flicker to yours. he’s hesitant, almost embarrassed. “it’s fine, i can just-”
“let me.”
you move carefully, fingers brushing the fabric, guiding it upward. the shirt resists, clinging to the breadth of his chest, and he exhales sharply as you ease it over his head. your knuckles graze warm skin, the line of his collarbone, the rise of his ribs. it’s purely clinical, or at least you tell yourself that, but the air feels charged, your pulse a little too loud in your ears.
when the shirt finally slips free, you’re close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with restrained breath. his eyes find yours, steady and unreadable, and for a heartbeat the room feels suspended.
no words. no movement. just the quiet weight of proximity.
you step back first, folding the shirt with a sense of urgency, like if you didn’t get it next to him then you’d want to take it home with you as a souvenir. “you should ice that shoulder when you get home,” you say, voice soft and steady.
“oui,” he murmurs. his gaze lingers a second longer, finally taking you in for once. he gazes over your hair, the color, the length, the texture. then, your face, its features, your complexion, the way your cheeks are turning into a red-ish color. he realized he’s never truly looked at you for what you were, and maybe he should catch up now.
after that night, something changes. not in the structure of your sessions, you’re still professional, still careful, but in the atmosphere.
he grows softer around you. when you correct his posture, adjusting his arm, you notice the faint flush that creeps up his neck. when you encourage him, his smile lingers longer than it should, warm and a little tentative.
he doesn’t say anything outright, never crosses the boundary. but you feel it in the way he looks at you, not with the routine politeness of other patients, but with something quieter, more vulnerable.
sometimes, when you brush past him to grab a weight or steady his movement, his breath hitches like he’s remembering the ghost of your hands from that late night.
on your end, you don’t call it out. you stay steady, the grounding presence he needs. but in the quiet moments, when his gaze catches yours and holds, you let yourself feel the warmth that blooms there. unspoken, fragile, but undeniably real.
went to a new optometrist today wearing my squid facts ‘save our freaks’ shirt from @sarahmackattack that has a strawberry squid on it. and i wasn’t even thinking about it but the optometrist walked in and he was like ‘oh what does your shirt say’ so i showed him and he was like ‘oh that’s neat!’ and then i thought he might like to know about strawberry squid eyes since they have weird eyes and he is an optometrist and all. so i was like ‘yeah it’s actually a real kind of squid called a strawberry squid, their eyes are really cool because they have one big yellow-green one and one small blue one’ and he kind of gasped and went ‘oh my god that’s so interesting i wonder why they have that. do you know what their retina composition is like?’ and i watched as he minimized my chart on the computer and started looking up images of strawberry squid and then he googled ‘strawberry squid retina composition’ and he was like ‘sorry we’ll get to your eye exam in a moment i just really want to find out’ LMAO 10/10 optometrist experience will be returning
“I want to write a fic about this but I don’t think anybody will be interested in it” ummm hello excuse me ma’am what do you mean you don’t think anybody will be interested in it??? YOU. YOU ARE INTERESTED IN IT???? write it because YOU are interested in it and YOU want to write about it. fanfic writing should always be first and foremost about YOUR enjoyment, not other people’s.
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