Mads Mikkelsen Characters x Reader OneShots

Blacked out (Martin x Reader)

Word count: 2493 words

No smut YET

Potential triggers: Alcohol abuse, small injuries, disordered eating habits

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When y/n woke up her head was pounding like crazy.
She slowly reached up to her face to rub her eyes and groaned - every part of her body was aching. She opened her eyes and was immediately blinded by the harsh sunlight coming in through the windows. The wooden floor beneath her cheek was hard and sticky from the spilled liquor.
Her phone lay inches away from her facedown. Y/n picked it up and noticed an additional crack in the screen.
She turned it on the screen lit up. 1:36pm.
At least it's still working.

She cautiously sat up and looked around her.
Empty bottles of beer and gin stood on the coffee table, surrounding her abandoned laptop, a couple of them toppled over on the floor.
She had a disgusting bitter taste in her mouth which made her stomach churn.

Y/n eventually managed to get up and stumbled through the small apartment, into the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time before throwing up whatever it was that she indigested the night before.
Once she was done and her stomach was completely empty, she shakily pushed herself upright and turned around. The mirror above the sink caught her reflection and she froze.

The first thing she noticed was the dried blood on her temple. So that's why her head hurt more than usual.
She lifted up her fingers to brush the hair out of the way to inspect the wound and hissed when she came into contact with it. Even though it didn't look too bad it stung like a bitch.
The rest of her appearance wasn't exactly any better.
Her face was swollen, her lips dried out and her makeup was smudged around her bloodshot eyes. Her cheek felt sticky from the night-long drooling and her long, black hair was a wild, tangled mess.
Her clothes from the night before were still clinging onto her body and she reeked of sweat and alcohol.

"You're a wreck."
She muttered to herself.

With a heavy sigh she stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the shower. The spray hit her like needles at first, making her gasp. Then slowly, the hot water loosened her stiff muscles, washing away the smell and stale alcohol clinging to her. She pressed her hands against the cold tiles, steadying herself, letting the water sluice over her bruised temple where a patch of dried blood still clung stubbornly. For a few minutes, she just let herself melt under the water, letting her breath come in shaky, uneven pulls.

She lathered soap over her arms, scrubbing at her skin almost violently, as if the friction could wash away the hangover. Finally, she shut off the water and let the last drops slide off her skin. The heat faded quickly, leaving a shiver in its place.

Y/n wrapped herself in a towel, still feeling slightly cold, and stared at the clock. 2:15 PM. Her stomach lurched at the thought of food, but the fridge was empty except for a partially rotten apple and half a bottle of wine. Maybe it was time to go to the store again.
After pulling on some loose jeans and a faded band T-shirt, she brushed her tangled hair roughly, swallowing her self-disgust before she slung her bag over her shoulder and left.

The supermarket was quieter than she expected. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant beep of a scanner were the only sounds. She wandered aimlessly down the aisles, scanning for anything edible, her fingers brushing against canned soups and packs of instant noodles.

Then she saw him.

He was reaching for a bottle of whiskey, tall and composed as ever, the way she remembered him from years ago. Her heart hit her chest with a sudden, painful pang.

Martin Hansen. Her old history teacher.

The man who had made her stomach flutter in ways no class ever could, the man she had spent countless nights quietly crushing on while struggling through essays and late-night study sessions.
The sight of him sent her back four years in an instant - to the back row of his classroom, where she used to pretend to take notes while secretly watching the way he'd lean against his desk when he got caught up in explaining a story. His sleeves always rolled up, chalk smudges on his fingers, voice low and steady as he spoke about wars and revolutions as if he'd lived through them himself.