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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year ago

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Rigor Mortis (part 10)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 9, Part 11

summary: In the morning, Miguel reminisces.

warnings: smut! grinding, humping, alcohol, PIV, switch-y behaviour (what's new), aftercare, mentions of depression. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: soft melty mig >>>

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.5k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

between your bodies;

You wake up with a headache and a lump in your throat.

Bleary eyes; and you rub away sleep, rosy and warm around the edges. Everything smells like him, is your very first thought. It's the kind of thing that has you reeling, tossing and turning in unfamiliar sheets before looking up at a mottled ceiling. Light creeps in from curtains cracked open, rays spreading like wildfire on everything it touches. Miguel's bed is by the window, and you can't help but curl up what little light spills in with your hands; palm upwards, slowly balled into fists. It's warm, and your hand feels a little different.

Oh.

Like a bolt of lightning, memories of the night before run up your spine; dancing up and down between the sheets. Miguel's hand in yours, his skin pressed up against you, a room spinning in the kind of way that seems romantic. Seems romantic; you note. It could've been the alcohol, but you had felt something between you two, yesterday. Something… different . Your cheeks grow warm at the thought of last night; drunken revelations and so much light, it burns.

I like the way your eyes scrunch up when you smile. I like the way you look in the morning, squinting at labels and cereal packets. You've got the prettiest lips I've ever seen, Miguel.

You burrow under the covers as you recall it; the memory of Miguel between your thighs, his head in the crook of your shoulder. The way he had half-laughed, heady and heavy and thick with want, low groans pooling by the shell of your ear. You're not too sure if you meant it; really, really meant it; and you're scared of what that means. Casual sex was the agreement, and you didn't think you had the capacity for much else.

Sighing, you stretch your leg out from under the covers, dipping a tentative toe on the rug. Bare, except for a T-shirt whose hem kisses your thighs. Mig's t-shirt, of course, and you tug it down as you slip out of his bed. The aftermath, things tossed off shelves and awards that had clattered to the ground, lies in last night's wake. Guiltily, you root around to pick up his things.

They're more personal than the things around the house. You notice a plaque or two from undergrad, his diploma - biomechanics and chemical engineering with honours - and even a certificate from a middle school science fair. The image makes you smile: little Mig with braces and a distinct frown, handed a plastic trophy in front of a spotty crowd. 'First Place' it says, and knowing him his entry was less baking soda volcano and more miniature Hadron Collider . If he's anything like he is now; he was probably a mouthy little pain-in-the-ass, too.

You take a watch off of the floor, half hidden under his bed. A knee brushes past a clear box; that jostles and rattles around like nails in a metal can. From vague outlines, you can see a box of junk , in every sense of the word: scrap metal, wires, plastic tubing. A whole scrapyard under his bed, and you reach for it, curious. Something knicks at your hand in the process. Glass, from a broken pane of a frame slipped under the bed. Softly, you hiss, sucking at the cut that draws blood.

More careful, now, you push the frame towards you, sweeping up the glass as best you can. In the lowlight, you can't make out much. Carefully, you hold it by a corner - an intricate thing, all twisted metal and brushed bronze. From out under the bed, you see it, or rather, him: Miguel, a little younger, surrounded by a couple of unfamiliar faces. A taller man, a much older woman - and they both smile in the way he does, crows feet and with the kind of warmth that reaches their eyes. In his arms (Miguel's, but not your Miguel) is a little girl. She is small; wide-eyed, gap-toothed; looking up at him, as if the camera wasn't there. The adoration in her face makes you smile. His sister, maybe? His brother, Gabi, and his dear mama ?

Gently, you place it on the side table. You sweep up the glass into your hand, ignoring the sting that spreads to your palms. It's not a deep cut, but you head to the kitchen anyway, in search of warm soapy water and something to mop it up.

Slipping past the doorway, it is deathly quiet. Morning spills in through a window, illuminating a lone figure - broad shoulders, tan and bare save for pyjama pants, hunched over the dining table.

Miguel doesn't seem to notice as you get closer, finally able to hear slight noise and chatter from a tinny phone. Cup of coffee in hand, you watch as he scrolls, replaying the same video over and over. From over his shoulder, you can just about make it out: music that had deafened you at the time, loops with a pathetic whine. A video from last night, it seems, and you recognise the icon of Lyla's story. Bright lights, your dress sparkling and a pretty little laugh drowned out by Lyla's - he seems to replay the same couple of seconds over, and over, and–

“Mig?” He jumps, leaping almost 3 feet into the air, it seems. His phone shuts off with a clatter, slammed onto the table. Turning, he seems guilty, before flattening his face into something more socially acceptable.

“H-Hi. Morning.” He clears his throat, giving you an awkward nod.

“Morning,” Softening, you slink down to take a seat. He knows, of course: he knows that you know, that you saw exactly what he's been doing. But you're both going to ignore it, let it settle in the gaps between you - a gap that quickly shrinks, he notes.

The chair drags across the floor, almost catching at a rug on the wooden slats. When you seat yourself by him; closer, closer, oh-so close; you can't help but brush your legs to his, addicted to the way it makes him shiver. Payback, you think, grabbing at his mug and stealing a sip before he can say anything. For all the times he's fucked with your head.

Miguel knows better than to protest, crossing his arms resolutely. He sighs - not maliciously, but with a tinge of defeat. You're too pretty, and too close for him to think properly; to even muster up the energy to argue. And so he doesn't, opting to chew at the inside of his cheek.

“ Hey .” You say, hand coming up to cheekbone, stroking at it with your thumb. Miguel tries not to lean into it, to melt into the touch. “ Careful. Where'd you go?”

It makes him laugh, bitterly, ruefully - whatever you want to call it. Where'd you go? And you say it like you've got an inkling of all the shit that goes on in his head. He goes to the same place he always seems to be, these days. Somewhere that reminds him of you , of your nights together, of your nights apart–

“Did you sleep well?” You're asking, and it takes him a second to process it.

“Sure.” Shrugging, he lies, and you pretend to believe him. “Long night, I suppose.”

When he picks that moment to look at you, to bore into your soul, you take your hand away; feeling naked , feeling bare .

“What about you? Did you sleep well?”

And you hum, non-committal, in response.

“Can’t remember much.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and he knows it.

He chews at his lips, eyes dragged down to your figure. He’s shameless, lashes fluttering before he sighs - with the kind of tiredness that rattles at his chest - scratching at a 5 o’clock shadow.

He’s pinching at the bridge of his nose like he’s battling a headache - and losing miserably. Miguel; your Miguel, this time; looks so pathetic, with the countenance of a wet mop. It’s not a grimace, nor a frown, like always. It looks like melancholy - thinly veiled, bone-deep - and it makes your heart splinter.

You just… you just want to comfort him. To hold him in your arms and stroke his hair, to press kisses into the crinkles at the side of his mouth, his forehead: to be warm and soft and somewhere safe , for him.

It’s a compulsion you can’t fight, clambering over him to sit on his lap. His gaze flickers, pointedly trying to ignore you, but his hand rests comfortably on plush thigh. It sends a shiver down your spine; how tender his touch is, even when like this.

“I…” You start, tracing a hand to his scratchy jaw and gently tilting him towards you. “I remember enough.”

He can’t help it, hand travelling a little further up and eyes flitting to your lips.

“... Yeah ?” And it comes with an unceremonious squeeze at your ass, wetting his lips with pink tongue.

That gap between you shrinks even more as you press your chest to his, with a hand at his shoulder. God, his skin is hot to the touch; lean muscle that tenses under your palm. He gets closer.

“What are you doing today?” He’s trying so hard, forcing himself to look you in the eye - betrayed only by a pounding heart and a lingering look to your lips.

Coupled with the way he looks at you; kneading at your thighs, leaning into your gentle palm; it makes your throat close up.

“...U-Umm, I think–”

“It’s Friday, right?” He hums, head cocked as if deep in thought. “You’ve got… stats and lab prep, today.”

You frown. “Yeah, actually. How did you–”

“You’re always complaining about Fridays.”

“I didn’t yesterday.”

“I’ve barely seen you all week, sweetheart.”

“ And who’s fault is that? ” Muttering, you roll your eyes, trying not to show him the way it makes you melt.

“I listen.” He says, soft.

“...sometimes.” You finish, but it’s half-hearted. You know, he knows; he listens . He always has.

“I think…” You clear your throat. “T-Think m’gonna take the day off. I’m pretty–”

Tired. Exhausted. Ready to kiss your roommate if it meant he would look at you like that for a little longer.

“ – hungover .” He whispers, thumb stroking your hip as you snort; ready to bat him away.

Wriggling, his grip tightens, slotting you closer as if in a trance. You’re laughing, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue, but his wry smile seems tinged with something else. It’s a something that makes your heart skip a beat – but it’s his next words that have you reeling.

“I’ve got the day off, too.”

You’re taken aback. “Don’t you…? I-I mean I thought you’re taking extra hours at Alchemax…”

“Nope.” Resolute, he shakes his head. “We’ve got appraisals or something, today. Upper management only. I thought I told you.”

Brows kneaded, you give him a look he’s well accustomed to. And Miguel; because he’s Miguel, of course; counters it almost immediately.

“Don't give me that … You didn’t even know I wore glasses until yesterday.”

“That’s not fair , Mig.”

“You don’t want to spend the day with me? Dios mio, hermosa.”

“Mig–”

Dramatic, he tips his head back, clutching at his chest. “Am I that bad? You can’t spend a couple hours with me–”

“Mig –”

“Just a couple, sweetheart, and then I’m out of your hair, and you can complain about me to–”

“ Mig! ” You exclaim, giggling whilst you nudge his head forward to meet your gaze.

“You called?” He flutters his eyelashes playfully, with a hint of a smile.

It looks good on him, you think; glad that he feels comfortable enough to finally let go.

There’s a gentle lull and he places hot palms at your thighs to hike you up even closer. You adjust yourself on his lap, watching the way he groans with his head in your hands. It makes you bold: the way he moves to clutch at your hand and dart under the lip of your shirt to press you closer.

A roll of your hips makes him purr , eyes fluttering as he rocks up in thin pants. Quickly hardening, he’s wearing a dopey smile - one you return as you press your forehead to his. He angles his hips just right, causing little moans to spill out from pretty lips. The hand at his jaw travels to the nape of his neck, tugging in that way you know that he likes. You know him, and that makes your chest warm: the way he purrs and rumbles as you touch him in a way only you can.

Roughly, he swallows, head tilted up to catch at your cheek.

“Do you remember what you said last night?” It’s whispered into skin, soft and barely-there. “What you asked me to do?”

Kiss me. Why won’t you kiss me?

Like something sharp and intense through your veins, the memory makes you shiver, leaning into Miguel so his clothed cock catches at your clit. Like this , you don’t want to look at him - you can’t.

Ask me tomorrow.

And so you shake your head, nuzzling into his side with a weak whimper.

There’s a pause so imperceptible you might have imagined it. If Miguel is disappointed - or relieved, or frustrated - you can’t quite tell. Unceremoniously, he latches on, taking large handfuls of your ass and sucking ugly hickies into pretty skin.

“You asked me–” He says it between wet kisses, sloppy and hungry and quickly deepening. “You asked me to fuck you .”

You gulp, hips rolling as you close your eyes.

“ Just the tip, you said.” He lifts you up slightly, rolling back plaid pants. He nips at your neck, all tongue and teeth and claws. “Do you remember now?”

He’s not even inside, teasing your bare folds with the wide head of his cock. Your head tilts to give him more access to that juncture of your jaw. A dry chuckle leaves your lips at his tone and countenance; asking if you remember as he does his best to make you forget even the simplest of things. And that’s the thing about Miguel O’Hara, saccharine-sweet, gorgeous -in-the-low-light O’Hara: he makes you feel so good, everything else falls away.

“ Fuck.” He heaves. “”J-Just the–”

Impatient, you shift your hips, slipping him inside with one delicious movement. You can taste it: pleasure , white-hot and building up just below your gut. Miguel separates with a wet pop, hands trailing up to rid you of your shirt – his shirt, you realise with a moan. Exposed, he eyes your pretty stomach and then the peak of your breast. He keeps you flush to his hips, right at the sharp cut of his v-line, tufts of hair leading to where you both meet. With the way his eyes flutter, you can tell: he wants to kiss you, slathering up your chest to collarbone, and then from collarbone to jaw. He gets close, pressing shaky kisses to the corner of your lips – threatening to break the promise you made to each other long ago. And God , with the way he pistons up into your cunt, you… you just might let him.

Then his hips shift, pubic bone at your clit in a way that brings pleasure to the burn. You’re stretched out, filled to the brim and then leaning back to press your forearms onto the grain of the dining table. Like this, his hands stay squeezing the flesh at the tops of your thighs; only able to watch as you take over. You use a bit of leverage to tilt your hips this way and that - eyes low, not leaving his.

“Feels good , Mig.” You’re whining, eyes locked onto his because you want to watch him fall apart - to watch as all his troubles melt away. “So good. Uhh –Always does. I remember… shit … remember this. ”

And you take his hand, wrapping your lips around his index and middle finger - thick and large - with the memories of how they felt inside you only making you wetter. Gushing praise as best you can, you slobber and slather over his fingers, studying every twitch and gorgeous groan that he gives. He pulls his hand away from you; gentle, but cursing nevertheless; alternating from slapping your ass to tugging at the stiff peak of your nipple. It’s your turn to stutter, hips jumping as you cum - an orgasm so hard he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from spilling into you. There’s blood in his mouth, he notes as he studies the way you look: beautiful, always beautiful; framed in the gentle pink and purple from a rising sun.

Miguel slips out of you, painfully hard. Still heaving from your orgasm, you lean forward to press his cock between your bodies: bare and gorgeously framed in morning sun. Writhing, you kiss his neck, trailing up to the shell of his ear, whispering sweet nothings.

“Want you to cum, Mig.” And you do… oh God , you do. “You close?”

All he does is groan, nodding fervently into the crook of your neck. Diligently, you wrap him up in your arms, crooning and sweet, carefully rocking into him so his cock slides up and down your soft skin. For once, he doesn’t complain, holding you just as tight.

“M’gonna… o–ohh ffuck …”

“Cum, Mig. For me.”

You’re firm but gentle, pressing your tits up against him and making sure his cock gets that well needed friction. As such, you can feel it almost immediately; hot cum slathered over your tits and body - leaving so much glistening on your skin.

With a rough gulp, he heaves, eyes screwed tightly shut. You can’t help it, brushing away stray hairs from his face, leaving soft kisses in your wake. And maybe, just maybe, you hear him sob - muffled whimpering and whining with every slight shift of your body against his. And oh . It makes your heart melt when you realise, still carding your fingers through the nape of his neck.

He’s overstimulated. It’s too much.

Limp, he stays wrapped around you for a while, muttering nonsense into your skin.

“ Sorry. ” Shakily, he says – like he even has anything to be sorry about. “M’really— fuck. I just need a moment.”

You hum. It makes your heart heavy that he thinks he needs to be ready now , that he thinks he doesn’t deserve more than a moment to process his pleasure. You want Miguel to feel good, you always have. But with the realisation that you want him to be happy ; to feel safe, to feel loved; well…

…it scares you more than anything.

~~~

Aftercare .

Miguel admits, he’s not too familiar with the term.

It’s not something he’s proud of. With many a one night stand under his belt - even, occasionally seeing a girl more than once - he’s never been too good at it. He’s tried, definitely. Tried so very hard to stick around a little longer, to stay curled up in bed and guide his partner through their comedown. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite come naturally to him - oft susceptible to a glass of water by the bedside and a gentle nudge to an Uber. That physicality: the cuddling , and kissing, the sappy, wholesome, relationship-adjacent thing? He’s never had that desire after sex, much too stuck in his own head for that.

So why does this feel… so good?

You’re taking care of him. He’s not stupid; knowing that your bedside manner is much better than his. You’re merely doing the right thing and helping him past such an intense orgasm: and that seems to come in the form of his head on your chest, limbs tangled up together on your beat up old couch. This doesn’t count , he’s convinced himself: all those rules and boundaries you’ve both come so close to breaking - a little cuddling doesn't even scratch that surface. And if it feels so good to have your hand playing with his hair, to ground himself with the steady thump-thump of your heart, then who is he to complain?

He’s just a man, he decides. A mere mortal, unable to resist that taste of heaven he’s been given - unable to say no . Absentmindedly, you’re humming some stupid song you’ve had stuck in your head for at least a week, now, eyes trained towards a cheesy soap on the TV. There’s a mug of coffee on the table - it tastes like shit, but Miguel is more than happy to gulp it down if it makes you feel better - hot and steaming as you tug the blanket so it covers him a little better.

Unknowingly, you’re lulling him to sleep - the very same sleep he’s been chasing for the past couple of hours. Tossing and turning at night, but barely 10 minutes in your arms and his body only seems to listen to you , for some reason. Traitorous bastard, he thinks, fighting to keep his eyes open.

You’ve cleaned the both of you up - even though he had insisted otherwise. Let me take care of you , he had slurred, and you just laughed ; that pretty, infuriating laugh, with that pretty, infuriating smile – the very same one he’s wanted to kiss off of you since the beginning. Weakly, he protested, following you into the kitchen only to make a nuisance of himself.

It’s like you're drunk, Mig.

In some ways, maybe he is. You had steered him away, and onto couch cushions. Which must have been quite the feat, he notes, able to control all 6”5 of his sleep-deprived, hefty limbs. But he supposes, yet again, his body doesn’t quite listen to him anymore. Only you.

Was it that good? Did I fuck the fine motor skills out of you?

He remembers groaning. He remembers trying not to be drawn in by that lilting giggle, covering his ears with a rough blanket. Most of all, though, he remembers the feeling of your body on his, slipping on top of him to dig him out of that heap.

Miguel? Baby, it’s a joke! I’m kidding, I promise.

He had poked his head out. Baby. He likes that, likes the way his name sounds out of your mouth. It anchors him to this mortal plane like a sharp hook, cutting through the brain fog and burying itself into his chest. You had clasped your hands around his face, steadfast despite his wriggling.

…Oh God, even worse. I think I fucked the common sense out of you instead.

He remembers wanting to kiss you. Your lips curled up into that stupid smile, clearly so pleased at a shitty joke. It makes him warm, thinking about it now. Or maybe, it’s just the blanket you’ve tried to suffocate him in.

“When did you sleep?” You ask, and he has to blink up at you to collect his thoughts.

“Late.” He says it simply.

That answer doesn’t satisfy you, and you’re poking and prodding at his face, gently pulling at slowly deepening eyebags.

“ No fucking wonder .” You mutter. “You’re turning into me. No more late nights, Mig.”

When he frowns, you stick your tongue out, gleefully watching as his grimace deepens.

“Or what?”

“Or we stop having sex.”

That makes him rocket u pwards, indignant. “ You can’t just– ”

“I can do what I want.” Slowly, your face morphs into what must be worry. At least, he thinks it does, not too familiar with someone worrying about him like this. “No more late nights, please”

You say it so softly his heart might break. He clears his throat of its cobwebs.

“That's not really up to me, sweetheart.” Thesis deadlines. Tutoring. Taking on more hours at Alchemax in preparation for a big event. Slowly, his plate mounts, and it takes everything in him to keep going.

“I know,” You settle his head onto your lap, now. Absent-mindedly, you wrap one of his curls around your finger, hand in his hair in a way that feels more intimate than the past hour, days, weeks spent together. “I just wish you'd take care of yourself better.”

It's not said to chastise him, and you don't sound disappointed ; not tinged with the same flavour of guilt that his mama has over the phone, or that Gabi has when he hits him with that deep sigh. It's pure, selfless, plain-and-simple worry. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks.

He looks up at you. Beautifully oblivious, your gaze is still pinned to the TV. It’s domestic, comfortable in the afterglow of sex. That’s what it must be: contentment and bliss settling over him like a warm blanket. The aftermath of being in your arms, of your body on his; purely physical , that follows the kind of euphoria that he imagines can only be found in a needle. Honestly, he’s still expecting a sharp decline, a rough comedown that tastes like regret, or despair, or deep, deep empty. It doesn’t come.

Always the pessimist, but Miguel can’t help it, really; he’s been chasing something just out of reach for too long.

“You’re gone again.” You say it so quietly he almost misses it. You give him a weary smile, hand clutching at the fabric that pools around him. He watches as you rearrange it by his shoulders, pinching the folds with a kneaded brow. Finally satisfied, you look him in the eye. “Like Ophelia. ”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or any of the half dozen ways he’s learnt to repress difficult emotions. Slipping under the water - the makeshift waves made of a ratty blanket - passive to his own suffering. You don’t say it, and he hasn’t even told you the half of it; but somehow, you see it . You see him.

He remembers the first time he met you. Thundering and clattering through his space; bulldozing every carefully placed wall he’s spent years putting up. And then he remembers the first time he actually met you; behind the sharp tongue and quick retorts, finding you watery and forlorn on the floor of your shared apartment. Beautiful, of course – always, always beautiful. But that time, the kind of beauty only found in a painting: tragedy captured in oils, careful brushstrokes muddied by time, by loss, by hurt. You’ve been hurting for a while, he thinks, well before any mention of shitty ex-boyfriends and missed lectures.

Miguel recalls late nights spent trying to still his heart, fixated on a sudden, betraying question that rattles around in his head. Are you like him? Do you understand ? Born with something missing, a tick-tick-tick of the count, radioactive and broken and–

Your hand drapes lazily across his chest, tapping and pointing at something on the screen. He hums, non-committal, the words out of your mouth barely registering. It feels familiar. It feels warm. It feels like nights spent on the couch trying not to laugh at your frustratingly witty remarks. He remembers holding his breath when your leg brushed against his; stealing careful glances to his side; trying not to stare at the way the gloom of the TV looks ethereal against you, snug to the slope of your features, cut this way and that.

But more than anything, he remembers wanting to kiss you. God. Maybe he always has.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

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simdertalia · 2 years ago

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📌 ACNH Office Set 🧾

53 items | Sims 4, Base game compatible

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

Type “animal crossing office” into the search query in build mode to find quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing the title and it will appear.

As always, please let me know if you have any issues! Happy Simming! 💗

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): HERE

📁 DL on Patreon

Will be public on August 1st, 2023

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my sets will be early access from now on. If you like my work, please consider supporting me:

★ Patreon 🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi ☕️ ❤️ ★ Instagram 📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️❤️❤️

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This set is brought to fruition by my lovely Patrons who voted in the poll 💗

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magnoliasandarson · 9 months ago

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april 27th

In Wayne Manor there is a room unlike any of the other. It is not the Batcave, with all of its wonderful and physics-defying technology. It is not the study with its auspicious clock. It is not the library with its hundreds of rare and mysterious tomes. It is a room in the family wing, two doors down from the master bedroom.

This room is so special because it exists outside of time. In that room, it is always the morning of April 27th, just before dawn.

A small pile of dirty clothes is haphazardly tossed in a hamper next to the armoire. Drafts of half-written essays are scattered over the desk. A long-dead iPod is tucked between the pages of a lovingly annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice. A red hoodie is draped over the back of the desk chair, its pocket still holding a Batarang, a learner's permit, and a pencil.

In the center of the room, on the dusty floor, is a shattered picture frame.

If you were to look past the broken glass and the smallest blood stain, you would see a torn picture of a teenage boy standing between two men in suits. The boy was grinning like he'd won the lottery- crooked teeth on full display and blue eyes sparkling. The man on the right looks proud, also beaming at the camera with his hand clasping the boy's shoulder. The man on the left has his hands behind his back, the smallest smile pulling wrinkles into life on his face. The three looked like their lives had never been better; stood on the steps in front of a courthouse with the boy holding a freshly notarized certificate.

Perhaps that is why the frame was shattered.

Perhaps, on April 27th, in the early hours of the morning, Bruce Wayne knocked on the heavy mahogany door, regretful and wanting to make amends. But when he heard no response, he pushed the door open. Maybe when he saw the picture tossed to the ground, he panicked and dropped to his knees, slicing his fingers open on the glass in his haste to read the note that had been tossed onto the wreckage. The note crumbled in his hands as he raced out, slamming the door behind him.

The room remains untouched from that moment on, except on the 27th of April. Every year, a nightmare will rip Bruce Wayne from his fragile slumber, and he will tear through the manor in a blind panic, throwing the door open with the name Jason on his tongue.

Every year, he is greeted with the room that time forgot, and he falls apart.

#dc comics #dc universe #jason todd #robin #batman #batfam #bruce wayne #april 27 #the death of jason todd #jason peter todd #jason todd wayne #rare good dad bruce wayne post #alfred pennyworth #wayne manor #batfamily

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periprose · 2 years ago

Text

Therapy

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes is your newest patient at your clinic. As a therapist, you know all about having to maintain decency and professional respect with your patients, even when they seem unruly. But Bucky isn't just any ordinary man– he's the top earner of the Russian mafia down in Brighton Beach, and he's temperamental and not really down with therapy. He's only seeing you out of necessity, and the last thing you're expecting is other strange developments in your relationship.

Genre: Deeply inspired by Tony Soprano and Melfi's relationship on the Sopranos, Mafia!Bucky Barnes, not really pro mafia, doctor-patient to friends to lovers, lots of psychology and therapy talk throughout, fluff

Word Count: 8.5k

Bucky waits as the secretary informs him that his therapist will be ready for him soon, and he’s sweating bullets, feeling like a child who’s been told to wait for a punishment from the school principal.

He has absolutely no idea what you’ll be like– he was just recommended a therapist by his physician, because apparently his blood pressure is unfortunately incredibly high for someone his age, and it’s going to become an issue later on if he doesn’t fix it now.

Of course, Bucky knows that stress comes with the job, so no wonder his blood pressure is so high. He can’t exactly be his gang’s boss if he’s having heart palpitations and needing to sit down every few moments when he should be intimidating his enemies and rivals. The Russian mafia requires him to be almost perfect at every instance, so they can keep their riches and luxuries growing. He’s one of their top earners, but this goddamn stress is starting to ruin things for him.

He’s come here under the guise that he’s out repairing his car, even telling his mother and his sister that, and his underlings aren’t going to argue with him regardless of what he says. It’s a good thing this office is in New York, so he didn’t have to travel to anywhere particularly suspicious.

But Bucky still feels so strange, so unlike himself, feeling both wary and somewhat angry by this situation that he’s in, where the grey carpet and the equally dull pink-grey of the walls makes him feel like he’s trapped. Trapped in this skyscraper, when really he should be down at Sam’s bar, clinking his drink next to Steve’s and watching the sun set on Brighton Beach.

And he would be, if it wasn’t for the constant, clenched fear in his heart, the pit in his stomach that never seems to go away despite his attempts to fill it with drinks and the women and other vices, and he feels a chill– he wonders if he will ever successfully remove himself from this lifestyle, or if he even wants to. Bucky sometimes believes that it’s more likely he’ll die here.

Bucky thinks for a moment that he should leave. Now, while he still can, because he thinks this appointment is probably pointless.

“Mr. Barnes?” You open your office door, and Bucky sighs and stands up. “Right this way.”

He notices you don’t exactly look how he envisioned. You have a no-nonsense appearance– none of that frilly new age bullshit he was expecting, no crystal bracelets or spiritual tattoos or extra piercings– you have a khaki blazer on and tidy slacks. Your hair is coiffed in a way that says respectable, but you also don’t have the time to try too hard with your looks. Your glasses make you look intelligent, but also scary in how you peer at him.

He follows you into your office– everything is in a cushy shade of brown, from the carpets to the sofa chairs, way up to the wood paneling and shelves surrounding your desk, and the framed certificates displaying your knowledge, and it's immediately more comforting than the outside room. Bucky wonders if that's by design.

He sits down on an armchair, and his fingers, out of their own accord, grip the armrests as if he’s dying. Hell, maybe he is.

"I've done a little bit of reading on why you're here." You start murmuring over your patient files on your desk as you look for his particular one. "Matt Murdock, Jessica Jones… ah, there it is. James Buchanan Barnes."

"...Bucky is fine." He clenches his jaw– no one has called him James in literal decades, and he's not going to let some fancy doctor like you start. Bucky barely wants to be here as it is.

"In this office, we have a level of professional respect that needs to be maintained." You correct him gently, not because he did anything wrong, but just as a careful reminder. "I will address you as Mr. Barnes. Is that okay?"

"Sure." Bucky feels tense, waiting for the hour to go by any faster than it currently is. You look at him– not in a way that makes him feel as if he's being sized up, because he'd definitely make a backhanded comment about that– but in a way that articulates some form of curiosity.

It's to Bucky's displeasure that he can't tell whether or not it's just simply the look of a therapist, or if you’re really, truly interested in him. He nods at you– you understand he wants you to get on with it.

“Okay. So you’re here because you’ve been having high blood pressure, and heart palpitations.” You scan over the note written by his physician– scrawled in a hasty cursive– and look back up at him. “You’re in good shape, and you’re a bit too young to be having age-related heart problems.”

“Nice observation, doc.” Bucky retorts, and you half-smile at that– your best patients have always been the snarky ones, and you figure it’s because they have that sense of humour that is sometimes needed for therapy. “Obviously I’m stressed the fuck out.”

“Stressed, Mr. Barnes?” You cross your arms, and sit down in front of him in your own armchair, starting the session legitimately. “And why do you think that it is?”

“I said it was obvious. Aren’t you a doctor? Shouldn’t you be smarter than this?” Bucky shakes his head, wondering why he has to delve into something so clear. “My jobs, doc. They take too much out of me these days– it’s a wonder I don’t just end it.”

You ignore the perceived slight against your intelligence. “Why can’t you end it, Mr. Barnes?”

“...There’s too many people counting on me.” Bucky sighs in exasperation. “My mother, she’s not gonna be able to fend for herself if I’m not bringing in the income– I’ve considered putting her in a home, but she thinks I’m trying to get rid of her– and my baby sister, Rebecca, she’s used to a certain, uh, lifestyle now. It’s not very fair of me to take that away from her.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “That’s not even counting the rest of my family.”

“Your family, or your ‘family?’” You mimic quotation marks, meaning his crime family, and Bucky swallows. “Mr. Barnes, I’d like to remind you. Don’t say anything that would require me to break the patient-doctor confidentiality agreement.”

Bucky takes this to mean that you know what he does for a living, and he’s not stupid– he was never going to get really into that, say anything that would really, truly implicate him, he knows all about the laws around snitching– he just thought to the rest of the world, his reputation wouldn't precede him quite as much.

“Okay. Should I start with where it all began, or just what’s on my mind?” Bucky wrinkles his forehead as he thinks, and you leave the floor open for him to begin wherever he likes.

Bucky starts with how his latest “room cleaning” (you assume he’s putting up a front as a janitor) went south, because there are certain stains that you can never get rid of.

“Usually, I’m quick on my feet– I know the rules and laws around disposing of “stains,” and I only have a limited amount of time before the smell starts getting worse and neighbours start asking questions.” Bucky illuminates for you, and you get the feeling stains don’t exactly just mean blood, maybe body disposal or something like that.

“This time, though?” Bucky continues, and his voice gets raspy, as patients’ often do, when they start elaborating and getting to the difficult parts of their experiences. “Steve asked me what was wrong, why was I frozen in place, and I leaned against the wall, couldn’t say anything.”

“I was feeling that… y’know, that loud sort of thumping–” Bucky suddenly motions to his head, unable to look quite at you, instead feeling the sensation he was describing. “Like a heartbeat, but in my head?”

“Yes. I know what you mean.” You write this down as well. “Those are signs of your heart palpitations– most likely the pressure in your head was induced from a panic attack.”

“Right.” Bucky swallows the lump in his throat. “It was too loud to even keep my eyes open, Jesus– it was scary, I started yelling at Steve and then I… I turned over to the side, and puked.”

“So you’re struggling with maintaining your composure. Letting loose with anger, panic, other aggressive emotions.” You note, and Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, but it’s worse than that. That stuff can be… useful, in my line of work.” Bucky cracks a few of his knuckles. “I can’t exactly do my fucking work if I’m puking up shit, right?”

“Sure. But we’re here to focus on why. On what’s going on with your mental health.” You gently prod him to keep going.

“My sister, Rebecca, she’s saying she’s gonna go audition for movies.” Bucky explains, with a sideways, sarcastic smirk that has you thinking this guy doesn’t look half bad. “Not adult movies, mind you, doc– I immediately thought that and tried to talk her out of– but real Hollywood productions, something that a New Money socialite like her could potentially get into, for real.”

“Tell me what the conversation was like.”

“Well, Rebecca’s been going to acting classes, and she told me that it was just a hobby. Just something all the other girls in Brighton were doing.” Bucky nonchalantly scratches his cheek, but his jaw clenches as he continues. “But she sat me down, and said ‘Buck, my teacher says I have a real good shot at making it. I know how you feel about this, but I can’t just sit and spend the rest of my life doing nothing.’ Listen, doc, she has a point– I’ve always felt a little bad that Rebecca just sits there, looking pretty. But I didn’t want her to go and do this, and–”

Bucky inhales. “I couldn’t speak to her. I felt dizzy, and I sat down, and I felt like I had to… I had to either run or fight this thing before it got too far.”

“Fight-or-flight.” You affirm, and you point at him with a well-groomed fingernail. “Hm. That sounds like the real issue.”

Bucky frowns at that.

“Huh?”

“You’re not just afraid of losing your sister– you clearly have a fear of what the future entails. You’re exhibiting symptoms of PTSD.” You clarify, and Bucky shifts around in his seat, wanting more of an explanation. “You’re in a constant state of panic because you don’t know what life will bring you.”

That explanation rings through him, and he’s drawn to a silence.

“But why now?” Bucky eventually mutters, staring down at the carpet again, this time focusing on a piece of lint that hadn’t been vacuumed. “Isn’t life always uncertain?”

“Well, PTSD is built up because of past trauma. Anything can really induce it again– something that’s triggered you appropriately, whether it be through similar emotions or similar events.” You think that over, and then nod. “It sounds as if you are experiencing a relapse in trauma… perhaps due to the nature of your work, or because the lack of control with Rebecca– possibly leading to a blown cover or her newfound independence– and most likely of all, it could be because you have not let go of those feelings and use them in response to many different situations. It’s not uncommon, Mr. Barnes, to become used to traumatic responses as ‘how it’s supposed to be.’ If it’s all you know, you won’t expect any different until it’s too late.”

Bucky realizes that that’s exactly how he felt when he was sitting in the waiting room. Like all of this was useless, an attempt to fix something that he felt was totally ordinary. If it wasn’t for the extremity of his recent reactions, he would’ve just kept going on like this.

Something about this revelation pisses him off.

“I believe we should try to focus on this and work through it.” You check the clock, and then smile professionally at him. “That’s all the time we have for today. Any parting questions, thoughts, ideas?”

Bucky is still silent. He is mulling over the fact that you’ve already seemed to figure him out, at least partially– he wanted more of a challenge, more of something to use against you so he could successfully call therapy a bunch of bullshit. He feels a sense of relief that the hour is over, but also annoyance over the fact that he wants to keep going.

“...Thanks, doc.” Bucky bids you goodbye, and you nod and walk him to the door.

You feel the animosity in the air, but you know that’s not rare, especially considering who your patient is.

Mr. Barnes is terrifying when he glares at you.

His third session had started off with a story about a “coworker” he had to have a talking to, and when you pried just a bit deeper, wanting to know what exactly the coworker had done, he inhaled sharply, and stared you down with those blue-grey eyes.

You don’t know how to respond to his silence, to his mob boss intimidation tactics. Bucky might be the most difficult patient you’ve had so far, and you do not want to push too far and hurt yourself in the process.

You maintain your poker face, needing to do so to maintain the safe space you have made not just for Bucky, but for yourself. If he ever came forward too quickly, attacked you– it would be the end of your relationship with him.

“Why did you stop speaking, Mr. Barnes?” You break the silence, and Bucky continues to stare you down. “I thought we were getting towards a–”

"You think I'm stupid, huh?" Bucky scoffs at you. "You want me to reveal everything about myself, right? This isn't enough to make me make a fool of myself. Doesn't matter if you keep offering me little platitudes, or if your office is nice and warm, or if you happen to be a very pretty, smart doctor lady. It's not gonna fucking work on me."

You look taken aback for just a moment, and then smile neatly at him. "Wonderful, Mr. Barnes. I think you're making significant progress."

"Really?" Bucky furrows his brows. "You're not gonna tell me I'm rejecting change, or some shit like that?"

"Funny you should mention one of the main pillars of therapy." You bite your lip as you think. “No, this is actually a part of it, is it not? You are formulating a response to the change, which means you are getting results, somewhere inside you. You don’t have to tell me what exactly it is, Mr. Barnes, it’s evident in the way you reject it.”

“God, how do I get you off my back then?” Bucky sighs and then laughs a little. “Okay, fine, doc. I’m only trying this shit so I can do my work, get it? Don’t try to rehabilitate me.”

“Noted.” You pretend to write that down, but actually write three times three equals nine. Just a random sentence that looks like something important.

You won’t be upfront about this, because you don’t want to scare him away– but therapy is not some sort of quick fix. Rehabilitation will have to be apart of Bucky Barnes’ regime someday, at least as the end result of his therapy, or he’ll never have the mental strength he needs to move on.

Several of your clients have had to build up the right state of mind in order to then remove themselves from the situation. Bucky can’t be any different.

“Alright. Sorry.” Bucky doesn’t usually apologize, ever, but something about how your eyes– normally so reserved in their emotions– became wide-eyed, slightly fearful of him, made him want to take a step back and stop. “Should I keep going?”

You’re taking a moment, because you want to know why he snapped like that. What exactly did you say? Should you avoid the phrase next time? How do you help Bucky and protect yourself? Is it worth delving deeply into his past, when you risk getting hurt by his tendencies?

Every therapist has this moment, you know that. Some of your colleagues have passed on patients to you when they felt that it was too much for them. And you have an inkling that Bucky is going to be the one to watch for you.

You think that Bucky doesn’t like when you ask for specifics. Or that he’s getting frustrated that you’re getting to him, so he pushes back– but really, just like you said, if Bucky was truly not being changed by any of this, he wouldn’t be responding at all. You decide to be patient.

“You can keep going if you would like to.” You respond quietly, carefully, and Bucky nods and continues on with his story.

“So the guy– the coworker– he’s been harassing one of my other coworkers, right. And that little guy is pretty wet behind the ears, too young to really stand up for himself.” Bucky is shaking his head in quiet disappointment. “So the second he came too close– did too much that he shouldn’t have done– I ended it.”

“I see.”

“And it’s not that I didn’t want to do it– I did wanna end that particular situation, doc. It was just that the kid wasn’t doing enough to fight back, but after I did it, everything felt…” Bucky trails off, staring at the floor, his eyes beginning to water. “Different. Bad. All this shit I do is for a reason, and I usually… I like it. But the kid started wailing, crying, and for a second, I felt really shit about the whole thing. Like I shouldn’t have gone that far.”

You take a moment to write that down, that Bucky is beginning to feel some semblance of regret.

“But you know what’s crazy, doc? Even though I feel bad about it, I still want to do it. Doesn’t that sound insane?” Bucky swallows, and he looks at you, maybe for comfort, maybe for an explanation. “I can’t stop– I won’t stop. I just need to keep going and stop being such a pussy about it.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong aspect, Mr. Barnes.” You chime in, and he shakes his head, tapping at his arm rest. “Why did you feel bad? What about this younger man had you feeling, well, out of sorts?”

“I told you already, doc, he was screaming and crying and it was just– it was too much.” Bucky repeats, but he feels himself growing smaller, suddenly feeling tiny, just like when he was a young man starting out in this world. “I guess… maybe, just maybe it brought up some bad stuff inside me.”

“Yes, this is the problem. Being in these situations will take a toll on you– even if you still need to do them, Mr. Barnes– and so you’re beginning to feel the memories roll back in. It’s all a part of how you’ve been unintentionally triggering yourself the last few years, I’m guessing, because you can’t simply forget the bad times forever.” You point out to him, and he shuts his eyes.

“Yeah, so I’m a fucking psycho? There’s a whole bunch of things about myself that I don’t even know?” Bucky scoffs at himself, feeling very unmasculine and more like a baby.

“Don’t tear yourself down that much.” You remark, not unkindly. “I myself have had many bad, sad, unspeakable times– people are more broken than you realize.”

“Yeah, really?” Bucky looks mystified. “What kinda trouble could a lady like you get into? You’re very clever, and you’re probably well-off… I’d figure you’d keep your nose outta bad shit.”

“It’s not that simple, is it?” You lean back in your chair, pick a loose thread off your blazer. “Sometimes bad shit picks you, Mr. Barnes. That’s why we should not blame ourselves for things outside of our control.”

“Hey, don’t leave me hanging.” Bucky shoots back suddenly, sitting more present and aware of you than he had before. “What happened to you, doc?”

“That’s not why we’re here, Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Bucky is half smiling, looking more roguish and understandably a little intrigued. “You’ve been hearing all about me, the least I deserve is some reciprocation.”

You blink. “Mr. Barnes, you’re paying me to be here for you. My advice is–”

“Alright, alright. Letting it go now.” Bucky raises his hands in a gesture meant to stop you from continuing. “Keep your secrets, it makes you more mysterious. More hot.”

You raise your eyebrows and then laugh. Just a little snort– and Bucky smiles.

“Okay, Mr. Barnes. We’ve got about seven minutes left, so I’ll tell you a little about myself.” You start, and Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“You’re that desperate to keep me from finding you attractive? What is this, patients and doctors aren’t allowed to–”

“They’re definitely not.” You silence him, but you can tell from his expression he likes the challenge. “Anyways. I’m thirty-three years old, I have two degrees, a PhD in psychology and a bachelor’s in social work– I did both at the same time– I’ve lived in New York my whole life, and my mother still believes that I haven’t done enough. Always going on about how I’m wasting my potential.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky pinches his forehead. “It’s always the smart girls like you who get way too much hate thrown at them. Even with two degrees, she’s like that? Want me to talk to her? Have a little one-on-one?”

“No, no.” You start laughing for real and then have to compose yourself, but Bucky has a different expression now, a sort of soft look in his eyes, and you find yourself turning a little warm. “I appreciate that, Mr. Barnes, but there’s no way I could let you do that.”

“Well, at least you considered it.” Bucky smiles and you feel a strange fit of passion inside you, that this guy who hardly knows you is willing to go that far.

That perhaps, even as a shadowy, veiled observer, meant to impart advice and be relatively untouchable… you could be touched, too.

You swallow, ignoring the thought that he’s rather handsome.

You’re out shopping for a new dress. It’s your sister-in-law’s birthday, and you know she wanted a bit of a fancy dinner for whatever reason. She’s turning 31, so there’s nothing special about it, but your brother, Viz, insisted that you go along with it.

“Wanda, Wanda, Wanda…” You mumble under your breath. She loves red, so you know you have to stay away from that colour. You’re leaning towards a navy-blue, simple dress with no details, just to be hidden in the background with.

“Hey, doc. Didn’t think I’d see you here.” Bucky suddenly ambushes you from the aisle, and you blink before refusing to make eye contact with him.

It’s fine that you’re his therapist, but in public? You worry about the perception on your work. Bucky is kind of infamous– sometimes your secretary will ask for gory details on what he does. You’ve never shared anything, but you also know that Bucky himself is relatively confidential about the whole thing.

“Hello, Mr. Barnes.” You utter quietly, and he tuts and grins at your expression.

“Why do you look so scared?” He snorts, and with an overly familiar touch, his hand is on your shoulder.

You know you should be pushing him aside, so not to ruin the careful, purposefully respectful relationship between you two, but it’s also in public– Bucky has no reason to follow your rules here– and he’s not one to be trifled with.

“Not scared, just, uh, taken off guard.” You admit, and he laughs a little. “I’m just dress shopping.”

“I can see that.” Bucky gently pulls the dress you’re holding so he can look at it carefully. “That’s not you, I don’t think. The style is too frumpy– you look better in what you wear in the office.”

“Oh, really? So what is ‘me’, Mr. Barnes?” You wonder how long Bucky has been checking you out, supposedly enough that he knows your style.

“Mmm… something like this?” He holds up a dress that just barely can be called one, black rhinestone straps being held together with skinny strips of fabric that would barely cover your breasts or ass, and you roll your eyes and put it back on the rack. “I’m kidding, just kidding. That’s more the local strippers’ vibe, I know.”

“You’re revealing a bit about your habits, huh.” You look at him pointedly.

“Hey, blame the job. That’s where most dudes want to meet up.” Bucky scans through the rack and then picks up a much more you dress, something maroon, little embroidered flowers and filigree in the threadwork, and fitted enough that it would show off your body. Shorter than you would’ve liked, but you figure that’s Bucky’s gaze coming in.

“Wow.” You reach out for it, and Bucky gives you a smile that you’re sure has dazzled many, many women.

“I’ll, uh, let you try that on. I’m heading to work, but I’ll see ya around, doc.” Bucky flashes a quick wave at you and heads on out, and you’re left feeling like you wanted more out of him.

The next session with Bucky, probably the ninth or tenth, he’s a lot more agreeable. A lot more open about what’s going on.

“My ma, you know, she’s getting into a bit of a hostile nature. I don’t know what spurred it on.” Bucky shakes his head and looks towards the ceiling. “She never used to get so upset over some of these things– last week she got upset because the wallpaper of her new sitting room was too dark or something– and I think she’s losing it. She’s losing control and doesn’t know what to do.”

“You’re right, Mr. Barnes. How does that affect you?” You lean in as you write this down. “How will you respond to that?”

“I think I get it, you know, doc? I feel like I can’t control everything all the time either.” Bucky begins a rhythm, showing his understanding of the situation. “She’s not wrong that it’s annoying when the little things don’t work out… sometimes it’s like all the small things are building up and then everything feels shit and you have to start screaming.”

“Good. Yes, exactly.” You nod your agreement, and Bucky nods and keeps going.

“I don’t know what I can do. Sometimes it feels like she’s got something, some undiagnosed illness, because even if I support her, she’s not always listening.” Bucky sounds despondent. “I say that she’s not at fault for what happens to her. That she’s not crazy, just in a bad place. But she tells me to fuck off, too, and I don’t… I can’t say I don’t deserve that, because I know I haven’t been the best son. I am the one of the things she can’t control, and even if there’s been some good, some helpful stuff… I still know she loathes me.”

“It’s difficult to come to terms with some of the negative things you may have done to her.” You feel more invested in Bucky’s story than you thought you would– you can see tears building up in his eyes. “But I commend you for doing your best, Mr. Barnes. I hope you can recognize this is a big milestone in your own personal development– even if it is difficult to rebuild your relationship with your mother, you are still there for her, and you can see what she needs. You must understand that your mother’s reaction to you is outside of your control. You can simply try your best to continue on with this knowledge and her, or move on past it– I believe you will make the right decision, though.”

Bucky sniffs a little, and wipes his eyes. “Thanks, doc. I’m glad we have these talks– you make me feel smarter.”

You half-smile at that. “I’m only showing you what you are already capable of, Mr. Barnes.”

He snickers a little. “My ma would like you.”

You feel a swell of pride and fondness that Bucky would say such a thing, even if you have no idea how true that it is, and you do your best to just keep that repressed. You can’t go on as his therapist if you’re starting to get too involved.

Bucky asks if he can pay you double for your services and you insist that he doesn’t need to do that. You feel as if you’ve gained more than just a well-paying client– you enjoy your sessions with him now.

Wanda’s birthday dinner is swanky, at some upper-class Italian place down by Brighton. Wanda is half-amused, half-irritated that you’re wearing such a lovely red-toned dress, but she says nothing of it.

Viz, your brother, is kind of weird around you. He seems to notice something about you.

“Anything different at work? Maybe a pay raise, something like that?” He asks out of curiosity at the dinner table, and you shake your head. “Ah, well. You just seem so smiley, sis.”

“Yeah. Just glowing, and at my birthday, too.” Wanda jokes, and you don’t have any answers.

You feel as if you know the reason why– and he shows up just as you’re thinking it.

Bucky is dressed in a nice blazer, dress pants, looking much more slick than he often does at your office. He comes in with most likely another member of his gang, and together they go sit in a corner booth.

You feel your face flush a deep red– he looks gorgeous, almost as if he could ditch being a mob boss and become an actor or a model instead. You can’t help but glance at him, hoping he’ll catch your eyes.

Eventually, you get up to use the restroom. You stumble a little on your heels– and it’s that motion that causes Bucky to look up again.

He’s taken aback– it’s you, but you look stunning, far more beautiful than he had ever seen you look during your sessions together, and that’s saying a lot because you were already incredibly distracting before, and a part of him is jealous and wonders why you’ve held yourself away from him like that. But Bucky is more rational now, and he knows that you haven’t done anything to make him attracted to you. He’s just like that.

He notices, with a bit of a possessive, satisfied flair, that you’re wearing the dress he picked. Bucky was right, it does suit you a lot, and he enjoys being able to make out your figure while having a bit of it left to his imagination. He sees the dip of your collar, where your cleavage is just beginning to come out, and bites his lip, hoping that he’d get to see more soon if he was so lucky.

You pass by his table, pulling your shawl a little tighter around you, and Bucky waves at you. You seem to blush– and he likes it a lot, likes being able to make the smart, always-one-step-ahead doctor flustered– and it’s like your roles have been switched, that you are now looking for his approval.

He gives it you readily. “You look great, doc. Love the hair– and the dress.”

“Ah… thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You beam warmly at him, and continue on your way to the washroom.

“Who the hell was that?” Steve asks, scratching his beard.

“Uh, right. That was my therapist.”

“That was your therapist?” Steve splutters, and Bucky shoves him a little. “Jesus, man. I need to get me one of those. She was hot.”

Bucky agrees with him, but still tells him to fuck off. He doesn’t want to share you.

He motions to one of the waitresses, and tells her he��d like to pay for your table anonymously. When the bill arrives, many hours later, Wanda is incredibly confused on who would pay for her birthday dinner– she’s convinced it must be a secret birthday gift, and you only take credit for it because you don’t want to be found out like this.

You had no idea Bucky would do that for you.

A few weeks later, at another session, Bucky seems easily drawn to you. More than before.

“Rebecca’s getting ready. She gets a little too dolled up nowadays– but she knows no guy is going to talk shit with her now.” Bucky admits, and you wonder where this story is going. “She can tell I’m different, she keeps asking me what’s going on.”

“You’re very free to tell her what’s going on, Mr. Barnes.”

“Yes… but…” Bucky omits the fact that Rebecca seems certain he’s into a girl. She’s always had this weird uncanny ability to tell when Bucky’s got his eyes set on someone, whether it be some random girl at the bar, or someone like you– you’re one in a million for Bucky.

Someone he really, truly likes.

He clears his throat– he knows it’s inappropriate, it’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. You are too sweet, too lovable and kind and intelligent in ways that he’s not entirely familiar with, so it’s entirely too easy for him to simply give in and fall for you.

He knows the boundaries you set. Respect, professional respect for the space that you’re in. It would be especially bad because of the nature of his work– he knows that even if he could protect you, you probably don’t want to be involved in that lifestyle.

“I don’t want to break your cover, doc. It’s best if I just tell her nothing about it for now.” Bucky concludes, and you shrug at that. “Anyways– I found out that she was going to go out with Steve, that ugly ass motherfucker that I still keep around for some reason, and I just yelled at her. I thought I was over it, but I’m not.”

“Have you considered that your sister is an adult who knows what she’s getting into?” You suggest. “She might not be the one to get hurt. Perhaps she wants the same thing he does– as you’ve said before, Steve is rather good at hooking up with women and running away afterwards.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s terrible– he loves girls and doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he’s full of commitment issues.” Bucky waves Steve’s issues aside while you are impressed at how quickly he was able to suss that out. “Rebecca is gonna be the death of me. She can live her own life, I’m not concerned about that– it’s that I know she’s doing this shit to rile me up.”

“Ah, I see.” You hum over that. “You could simply pretend not to care– many people stop those kind of actions when they see it’s not having an effect.”

“That’s true.” Bucky still shudders. “Still, if they fuck up– both of them– I will spend the rest of my life hearing their arguments.”

“Why not try to find an alternative person for Rebecca to date, then?” You think for a moment. “Or maybe she could find an actor of some sort. I don’t believe she means for this to last in a long term way.”

“Okay, that could also be true.” Bucky admits, and his eyes find yours. “Maybe I’m just looking for the worst outcome.”

Bucky seems better and better with every session– in this case it seems like his personal problems have been rectified just halfway into it– and he still spends the rest of the hour talking to you.

“You still worried about your brother’s new kid?” Bucky asks, remembering how last time he left the session he heard you yelling into your cellphone about it.

“That was a private conversation, but, uh, yes.” You decide to answer him honestly. “Yes, I am worried. My brother can sometimes be very– unemotional, detached, and it’s bad for his first child to grow up in that environment.”

“Hey, at least the kid has you. Therapist aunt– I bet you’ll help out in some ways.” Bucky points at you, and you agree with that. “Talk to your brother more. He’ll listen if he sees that you’re serious.”

You know Bucky’s right, but you have to wonder when you started taking advice from him– it’s almost as if he’s giving you little mafia tidbits, like intimidating your brother by persisting at the conversation– and you actually don’t mind it.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You get up to bid him goodbye.

Bucky has an unreadable expression as he leaves, and he gently, but firmly, grasps your hand before going out the door, a grip that feels strangely intimate, and you’re left standing there with an urge for more, your mouth agape in a bit of shock.

Bucky calls a week later sounding incredibly apologetic.

“I’m sorry, doc. I can’t make today’s session.” He sounds strangely heartbroken.

“Hey, that’s alright, Mr. Barnes. I’ll see what I can do in terms of refunding you.” You hope that’s all he called for. Recently there was something in the news about the Russian gangs of Brighton Beach having a kerfuffle with the cops– you can only assume that’s what Bucky’s gotten into, and you feel kind of guilty that you let yourself get so close to him.

“No, that’s alright. Keep the cash, I don’t mind that.” Bucky yells something incoherent, there are alarming gun-shot like sounds in the background, and then he comes back to the phone. “Listen, doc– I’m sorry, you can do without me as a patient. I don’t wanna risk anything with you, and if that means you gotta let me go, then do it.”

You are silent for a moment.

You’re hopeless, and you know it.

All it took was for Bucky to be the one who was genuinely concerned for you– for him to put you first when he’s surely in a dangerous situation right now– and you’re smiling like a damn fool, wishing that you could just let him go. You don’t want to.

You know you’re appealing to a dangerous man, but you don’t care.

“It’s okay, Mr. Barnes. Our sessions can continue.” You murmur, and Bucky laughs on the other side of the phone.

“Alright, doc. I had a feeling you didn’t want to let go of our progress.” He states, and you wonder if he knows about your feelings for him.

He might just be thinking that you are entirely sophisticated about this whole thing. He doesn’t know that you’ve dreamed of him, silly domestic dreams where Bucky is the husband to your doting self, or ones where you tell him your fears and he listens, and vows to protect you, or extremely explicit dreams where he simply shuts you up with a kiss and spreads your legs. You do not know how to stop these– you feel that you have gained too much by liking him. It’s been a while since you’ve crushed on someone and felt that it could go somewhere.

At the very least, you do want to at least ensure his success as a patient of yours. You will get over this, it’s just that… you still have a sheepish smile even after Bucky has hung up the phone, and that’s not good.

You make a note not to go any further than this.

At your next session, Bucky is despondent, clearly not telling you something that bothers him. He spends most of the session rather upset and quiet.

“Doc, do you think I’m a good man?” He says it with not a hint of irony.

You fall quiet. You don’t know if a murderer will ever be considered a good man, and you don’t want to make that moral conclusion. You’re not a god.

“I don’t think that’s up to me, Mr. Barnes.” You start, and Bucky immediately pelts you with more questions.

“But you think I’m morally repugnant, right? That’s something I read on the news the other day.” Bucky scoffs at himself. “I can’t believe I thought I was better than that.”

“You can be, if you want to be. I’m not saying it forgives your past transgressions, but–” You fix your vision on him. “You have to make the choice to be a good man before you can ask others if you are.”

“And you think I have that potential?”

“...Yes. I’m not just saying this as your therapist, Mr. Barnes.” You swallow and then answer him honestly. “I believe if you want to be a better man, you have it in you to do so. You want the truth, right?”

Bucky nods, and leans closer in.

“Being a good man, a good person, can not be synonymous with being apart of the mafia. I’m somewhat apologetic about this, but–” You wince at your own fears at his reaction. “Eventually you would have to leave, not just to be a better man, but to be a healed person, both mentally and physically.”

“...” Bucky stares you down for a bit.

“Okay, doc. I hear you.” He leans back in his seat, and you let go of a breath you had no idea you were holding. “I’ll try to take your advice.”

You’re not sure how much faith you can have in him. Something about the way Bucky stares at you and leaves this time, it screams control issues again– perhaps this is the last time you’d ever see him. You brace yourself for a no-show next week, and a phone call cancelling his appointments.

It saddens you– you’ll miss him.

Unfortunately for you, Bucky shows up at your next session with a bouquet of flowers. Chrysanthemums- you’re very sure Bucky has done this because of the framed photo in your office of them. He’s being a little too thoughtful, and you’re worried.

“Mr. Barnes. You’re a little early.” You start off, and sit at your chair.

“I’ve paid for the hour, don’t worry.” He grins and then approaches you, looking at the floor, your face, and then back at your desk again. He’s clearly nervous.

“Go out with me, doc.” Bucky offers, and you shake your head, just out of principle.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I just feel that you’re desperately searching for a way to fulfill–”

“Enough of the shrink talk! Jesus Christ.” Bucky scowls, and then fixes himself, standing upright as you back up a little. “Do you have any idea how I feel? How I think about you at every second? You’re fucking up my work, too–”

“That’s not really my fault–” You try, but Bucky shushes you, walking towards you and grasping your hands so quickly that you cannot help but look up at him again. His blue eyes are squinting, peering so desperately into your own, turning grey with how serious he is.

You’re mildly frightened, but you would be lying if you said you never saw the signs of his attraction before. How his gaze lingered on you for far too long, how he would occasionally comment on your beauty, how he would constantly compliment your intelligence… you at first thought that perhaps Mr. Barnes was bad at recognizing the difference between a woman who was into him, and a woman who simply had emotional intelligence. You could blame the way that society expects women to mother their partners for that.

But lately you had been feeling something new, something you didn’t suspect would happen. And there wasn’t anything wrong with that– therapy is a personal practice after all, you can’t blame yourself for your own feelings– but you never thought he would reciprocate so clearly, holding your hand like this. He always seemed enigmatic until now, and you wish you could change things.

Even worse, you could tell he was making progress– he was really trying to be more than what he thought of himself. He could be kind, sweet even, and it’s with some embarrassment and fondness that you find yourself looking forward to his appointments. Lately you’ve caught yourself smiling about him for no reason, even though you feel this relationship– a budding one between the two of you– could change things for the worse, and you don’t want that for him.

Bucky traces your knuckles with his thumb, and he leans in towards you, whispering very, very carefully.

“I like you. I think you’re very special in a way that cannot be found in other people. I don’t want you to be scared of me… I just want you to know that I’m interested in you.” Bucky kisses your hand, and you are drawn to a silence, unable to figure out what to say.

“Mr. Barnes–” You start, and then stop yourself. “Bucky… I don’t want to be the reason why you didn’t get better.”

“But I am better, don’t you get it? God, for a doctor, you can really be dense.” Bucky snickers and then holds your hands closer. “I like you. I think you’re wonderful. Smart, beautiful, a real challenge. I think you’re why I’m better, and not just because of therapy– Jesus, that’s fucking cheesy but it’s true– sometimes I know I can’t keep being the White Wolf, the boss of this gang, because you make me think it over, and I want to do right by you and what you’ve taught me.”

“So you’re going to remove yourself from your gang?” You ask honestly, peering up into Bucky’s eyes to see if he’s telling the truth. He looks so solemn– so sure of himself.

“I already knew that I needed to, doc. I knew it when you said that I was hurting myself by being there. Of course there are some things that I like about it–” He cuts himself off, and presses his forehead to yours, grasping your cheeks. “The gang isn’t going to survive very long, anyways. Everyone knows it can only last so long, and a lot of them are moving on into the show business.”

“I didn’t think Hollywood was so transparent on their mafia connections.” You whisper, and Bucky snickers at your response. “But what about your heart palpitations?”

“They’ve been reduced by a lot. I used your trauma response workshopping thing and it helped me.” Bucky takes on a funny little smile. “And I think the only thing fucking up my heart now is you. I used to have it figured out, you know? But I can’t continue another day being that guy. Let me take you out, please.”

Bucky’s final plea rings through you, and you can’t find it in you to reject him this time. He’s got you wrapped around his finger– and being so candid, so honest about how he felt, really every therapist’s dream– you search his eyes and it’s no surprise when Bucky leans in to kiss you.

Your eyes are wide open as he does, in shock, because you’re not expecting him to do this, and he moves– his hands wrap around your waist and he inhales as his tongue sweeps against your own, and you kiss back before you can tell yourself not to.

Bucky pulls back, breathing hard, and you feel yourself turn warm at his reaction. You watch as his face comes towards yours again– you have to pull away, too.

“What is it?” Bucky sounds a little wary.

“If we continue like this– I can’t be your therapist anymore. I can’t do both things, it would unethical and hard to separate.” You swallow, and then nod. “Promise me you won’t use me for therapy anymore, Bucky.”

“I… of course, doc. I would never expect both from you.” He sounds sorry about it, at least. “I’m not trying to use you– I really, really like you.”

He hums as he leans in for another kiss and this time you let yourself have at him– why not let yourself have a little fun, right, even if it’s in your place of work– and Bucky lifts you up easily, his mouth connecting to your jaw, and then neck, before setting you down at your desk.

“I think I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.” He shares, and you look affronted.

“Are you telling me you weren’t focused?” You push his chest, but Bucky holds your hands back.

“Of course I was focused, I just had a different subject in mind.” Bucky brushes aside a piece of your hair. “You can’t tell me I’m the first man to have fallen for you like this– I have to think that in an enclosed space like this, most guys are checking out the pretty doctor.”

“Uh… well maybe there’s been others, but–” As you say this, Bucky’s eyes narrow a little and you remember that he is kind of the jealous type. “None of them have been as forward as you. None of them asked me out.”

“Good.” Bucky leans in and kisses you again, and you’re very glad your office door is shut and locked.

Bucky lifts you again, easily, his mouth connecting with yours and then to where your collarbone just peeks out of your top, and he sits you down on his lap on the armchair where he often states his opinions and thoughts on his life. Bucky seems to be admiring you– you can’t escape his gaze as he looks at you from side to side.

“If you’re not a mob boss anymore… all I ask is if you’re serious about this. About me?” You ask, so earnestly, that Bucky has to feel some crushing regret about how he never quite told you the truth.

“I never… I never did all that stuff with girls. It was a front, you know, it is a front for a lot of gang members. They gotta show that they’re desirable.” Bucky shakes his head. “But I was more focused on, uh… cleaning up ‘stains’, talking to ‘coworkers’, you feel me? I was addicted to that violent, electric feeling. Never again, though.”

“Okay. I trust you.” You’re not sure why you believe him so strongly, but you do, and even if every red flag in your therapist knowledge is currently being raised right now (trauma bonding, love bombing, manipulation, the list goes on and on)– you think he’s being honest. You do believe based on everything Bucky has told you previously, that he doesn’t mess around with girls, and he is trying to leave behind his lifestyle. You can even see it in his latest heart analysis results, as his physician showed you recently.

You’re so grateful that you helped him in this way. That you got him to reach his fullest potential. And a little evil, selfish part of you likes that he chose you, too, as he leans in and kisses you again.

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere Living Spaces

(Hawks and Erasermic )

Keigo Takami:

Much smaller than one might think. Being the second/third highest rated hero (who’s also a model, it seems) would definitely bring it a lot of money, but I’ll argue- what does he have to spend it on? No family, seemingly no friends, no hobbies that we know of. Not to mention that he’s always out on the job or doing something, so he doesn’t have anything to fill a house up with. He doesn’t need a huge house to lounge in. He’d have a smaller and cozier house instead, tucked away somewhere quiet and safe. He keeps the place clean, even if no one ever comes around to see it. Plenty of space for his wings, even if he has nothing to worry about knocking over.

Basically, he has a house, but not a home.

He fully intends to change that, though.

Before he‘s even managed to take you from the League of Villains, he’s already furnished one of his empty guest rooms with you in mind. He walks by that room everyday when he wakes up, thinking of the day that you’ll be waking up with him, adding a little bit of life and warmth to this lonely house of his.

That day won’t be far off. He’ll save you, like you should’ve been saved so long ago, and bring you to a place where you can properly heal and move on from the influence the League has left on you.

Whether you want to or not.

———————————————————————

Shota Aizawa and Hizashi Yamada:

A totally normal house, if you ignore the soundproofed walls. And the hero costumes lying around.

The small shrine to their fallen friend, with a pair of broken goggles, a busted gourd speaker and a shattered ‘Loud Cloud’ pin. The leather jacket and martial arts gi framed in glass and hung on the wall behind the little shelf full of personal effects.

If you can ignore all of that, it’d feel like a normal house.

There are things that make it feel normal. The vitamin packets lining the fridge and the bags of chamomile tea. The little notes on the fridge, reminders to smile and have a good day or to pick up groceries. The amount of cat-themed merchandise, in spite of not having any cats. Old photos here and there, with them and Miss Midnight and some white-haired boy you don’t recognize or know the name of. In some of them, Mr. Aizawa even looks close to happy.

It feels normal for just a moment, and then you see your freshly printed adoption certificate framed and hung up next to all their other precious moments, reminding you of all you’ve been taken away from.

You have a lot of things you’ll have to get used to. Maybe if you do, it’ll start to feel like home.

#platonic yandere #Yandere My Hero Academia #Yandere Erasermic #yandere mha #yandere shota aizawa #Yandere Hizashi Yamada

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irondadfics · 8 months ago

Note

Hi! Could you recommend some post-Infinity War fics where Avengers think Tony didn't lose anyone in the snap, but then he shows them who Peter was?

here you go! Happy reading!

Exposed by Multi_Fandom_Feels

"You lost nothing. I lost everything, everyone. You have no reason to be moping around like you’ve lived through tragedy.” Clint said, anger and envy dripping from his every word. Tony looked up, pain and anger burning in his eyes. “You have no idea what I lost.” - When Clint returns to the compound after the Snap, tensions are high. Tony is grieving, and no one knows why. No one knows what Tony lost that day, and Clint takes an issue with Tony.

You Didn't Lose Anything by lightningbugqueen

“I lost my son and I waited and wished for that snap to get me too, but it didn’t. And now I have to live in a world without my baby in it, and apparently I didn’t lose anyone! Apparently I am one of the lucky souls in the godforsaken world who didn’t lose his reason for living and you know what? That’s bullshit!” ********************** Or when the Avengers don't understand that Tony lost someone too. Tw: death, grieving, etc.

Bring Him Back by fictionart

When Tony comes back from Titan, he doesn't say a word. This makes Clint really mad.

Hell on Earth by madasthesea

Prompt: please do post!IW where everyone lost someone in the snap, but on paper it looks like Tony didn't lose anyone (Rhodey is alive, I'm pretty sure Pepper and Happy are too), so Hawkeye or someone is pissed until they see Tony and realize he's lost just as much as them

too-bright-eyes and too-dark-eye-bags by Speeps

He’d tried to act as if nothing had changed. As if all he had to do was crank up his speakers, power up his workshop and haul his armour onto his workbench, and then everything would go back to normal. A sixteen year old with too-bright-eyes and too-dark-eye-bags would come bounding in, smile wide as he slung his backpack somewhere on the floor where he’d inevitably trip over it later on. He eyed the faded backpack that sat lonely on its owner's bright blue chair. Dust clung to its seams.

every promise don't work out that way by LethalBookshelves

"His son." Everyone turns to look at the blue girl. She doesn’t flinch at the new attention, staring right at Clint. Then she turns her dark eyes to Tony’s. “He lost his son.” — Tony’s back on Earth, but not really. He left something—someone—back there on Titan. In his hands he holds the picture frame of him and Peter—young, happy, alive Peter—posing stupidly with cheesy bunny ears at the camera and holding Peter’s Stark Industries certificate upside-down, and he knows exactly what he’s lost. And as he watches his tears fall onto the glass, he knows that he will stop at nothing to bring Peter Parker back. This is the story that shows what happens when he succeeds.

i will restore all that was broken by killerqueenwrites

“He took my kids!” Clint shouts. “And he took mine!” Tony roars back. After watching Peter disappear, Tony is lost. People keep finding him.

#fic rec #fic rec list #Post infinity war #grief/mourning #the avengers

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mschievousx · 6 months ago

Text

i wish you love | a.h.

pairing: aaron hotchner x ofc

summary: francesca sainz knows her interests. she likes the dark, crime, profiling, medicine, military, guns, and suits. imagine her surprise when these things come as a person... granted, a "fourty-something unit chief" person, but a person nonetheless.

series masterlist

ii. two: give your heart

visiting the victims' houses, jj conversed with the family as the two opted to observe the area. ridiculously to franz, she did not expect for the first victim to have an unholy amount of frames. photos like hers and/or the whole family's littered their home.

beyond that, there were also framed certificates, movie posters, letters, decors, and... paintings. the young trainee neared the monotoned painting. at first, it was out of the beauty of the art. however, as she stepped closer and closer, the painting had a handprint—one that most would miss since it was placed in the far end of the scene.

sainz walked to morgan, her steps hiding the urgency so as to not cause alarm. once beside him, she divulgrded her findings, prompting the man to call for garcia.

"pen, check the purchases of the victims. did they all buy paintings?"

the rapid typing of the tech analyst can be heard over the call, "yeps, all from magnum art gallery. location sent, my beloveds."

they uttered their thanks, now signaling for jj to wrap it up. in a single blink of an eye, they are already inside the car, derek stirring the wheel. he called for the team from his phone, passing it to jj after informing the team of their destination.

"we're going to the magnum art gallery. all the victims bought paintings there."

"coincidence?" rossi's voice resounded in the car. the team now listening attentively at their breakthrough.

francesca sat at the back, leaning forwards and placing her arms at both seats in front—which was probably not safe but that's not the point right now. she puckered her lips in thinking, staring ahead on the road.

"i don't think so. genius, please mark the gallery in the map for me."

in the station, reid placed a pin, moving backwards to observe the map in the glass board.

jj's voice came through their phone, "i think she's on to something. the profile says white male in his late 20s, average, introverted, not muscular but not necessarily weak, and in art-related work."

"he does not care about us. he acts as if we're not in the picture. he's solely focused on the girl these victims are posing as surrogates." hotch spoke his observations aloud, eyes on the glass board as well as he try to figure out the significance of the locations. the rest of the team in the station went over the profile.

sensing the thoughtfulness from the other line as their chief continued to discuss elements of the case before pausing once again, francesca grinned mischievously.

"what do i get if i'm right?"

derek scoffed after hearing that while jj offered a small smile as she held the phone in the middle to the girl.

"an apprehended suspect and a saved victim." hotch humorlessly answered, facing the glass board in analysis.

"so serious," she replied with a grin in her voice and a slight hum, "how about a kiss?"

before she could even say she was joking, the phone sounded, signaling that the call has been ended. the car filled with chuckles despite the case, the girl looking at the bright side and morgan giving her a reality check.

"well, that was not a no."

"yeah, that was a fuck off."

sooner, they finally arrived at the gallery, conversing to the manager immediately. the gallery was already closing, and sainz never would have guessed she would be thankful for derek's looks ever until that very moment.

the manager was swept off her feet, easily revealing information and anything they asked, almost never batting an eye to the two girls. from her, they learned that the victims indeed bought the paintings from the gallery. she remembers because they all coincidentally bought the artworks of someone she was previously doubting, even rejecting the paintings numerous times before.

the trio gave her the profile, asking if she knows anyone that would fit it but to no avail. she did let it slip that there was one who fits it the closest, yet suddenly shrugged the thought because of one problem—she was a woman.

they glanced at each other, beckoning the manager to continue. she revealed that the artist, clara, was not one to stay in the gallery for long up until she met a friend. it was tracy—trix—trisha... she could not remember her name. luckily, it did not slip her mind that the friend bought a painting a week ago, and checked the records.

the manager pouted at the thought of a fallout, mentioning that the two haven't been in the gallery for days when they were always seen together every other day.

with that, it was clear as water. they bolted to the car, ringing the team with serious urgency now. morgan slammed his foot on the pedal as franz held the phone, speaking with intensity at once when the call went through.

"the unsub is a woman, have garcia pull up records of clara hayes and trisha matten."

after being patched to garcia, she worked her magic and pulled out all information. jj nodded in confirmation, catching the team up, "clara hayes is the unsub."

"we're now going to her place." derek informed, stirring from corners to corners. hotch's ears perked up at that, turning to the phone immediately in firmness.

"morgan, wait for backup."

he did not reply, knowing that he will comoletely do the opposite of what his chief instructed. franz clutched the phone, "mark their addresses on the map. am i right in assuming it's the law's scales of justice?"

reid pinned them all on the map, the team gathering in the front in realization. emily placed their thoughts in reality, "trisha is a lawyer."

they all turned for the doors, instructing the station chief along the way for backup. hotch took a hold of the phone and ordered strictly as he opens the car door.

"jj, we are coming. do not engage."

he closed his eyes in frustration as the three refused to affirm his commands, clicking his tongue with unease. he addressed the young lady, coming to terms with what they're doing, ending the call immediately.

"sainz, stay in the car."

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

clara's house was organized with not a single object out of order aside from a single quirky stuffed toy in the living room—that and the two women bound to a chair.

she turned to the one without a tape on her mouth and spoke in a whining tone, "trish, you need to choose. you're a lawyer. you'd know if she deserves it or not."

trisha leaned forwards against the bind as she sobbed, taking breaths in between, "no, claire, please stop this."

"look at her!" clara exclaimed with a slamming gesture to jana, the missing woman, "she's.... ugh! why are you all so blinded by men? they're good for nothing!"

after her outburst, she neared the latter, crouching down as she placed her hands on her waist before turning to the lawyer, "you know, the waist is an art, intimately accentuating the curves."

"should i kill her and relieve her of the pain?" she wondered aloud. trisha refused to answer, closing her eyes intensely as she continued to sob. she stood back up at that, irritation starting to kick in, "but i need her to finish the art. look at the map, trish! it shows passion and commitment, doesn't it?"

she pointed towards the map on the wall, trisha completely not caring about it. the suspect raised her handgun to jana, pressing the muzzle against her forehead, "just finishing touches, love."

"drop the gun, clara."

morgan's voice resounded in the room, prompting the woman mentioned to clutch the girl, holding her as hostage, "don't come closer or i will shoot her!"

"put down your gun." derek tried once again, muscles tensed as he waits for any sudden movement.

"release jana. she has nothing to do with this. you wanted trisha to see your artwork, right? the scale symbol in the map." jj appealed, aiming to diffuse the tension and tame the suspect, "it must not have been easy to do. right, trisha?"

the woman got what she was trying to do, sobbing her words out, "yes... it—it's wonderful."

"see? it's already amazing in trisha's eyes. you don't need to do this now, clara." she turned back to her, tone pleading for a bloodless night.

"put down the—"

the man's words were cut off when clara suddenly pushed the woman in her grasp to them in desperate attempt to get away.

outside the house, the trainee called garcia, clearly bothered as to what could have possibly triggered the suspect, her first step being the fight the two had.

"pen, did the victims have criminal records?"

garcia's fingers flew from one key to another, replying almost immediately, "my sweet munchkin, no, they don't. however, they all filed complaints against their partners."

the bouncing of the trainee's foot from the backseat of the car stopped abruptly, "surely trisha's not the lawyer of the four? we wouldn't miss something as obvious as that."

"correctamundo. they're all under different law firms, but that's our girl's specialization."

franz's mouth formed an 'o' in realization. clara was not looking for friendship and this completely went over trisha's head ,"so this is about sexual orientation then."

"she wants trisha to see how awful men are." penelope agreed, nodding from quantico.

"no, she already knows that. that's what her cases are." sainz narrowed her eyes, a realization coming to her, "clara's no longer trying to open trisha's eyes. she's now furious that she still goes for men despite knowing it so well."

before the team's tech genius could reply, two gunshots rang in the middle of the night. the girl sat up straight at that, peering through the window to the house.

"franz... what was that?"

adrenaline began to kick in her body, her mind running miles over what to do. she reached in the compartment, taking the extra gun they always leave inside the car for precautions and checked the magazine, grateful it is loaded.

"i gotta go."

"no, no, stay there! they're near! hotch and the team is—"

francesca stepped out of the car, gun in hand. garcia's pleas went to deaf ears as she turned the phone off and pocketed it, nearing the house with haste at the gravity of the situation.

seeing from the outside that jj was okay and was helping the two other women, the trainee turned to where the suspect and morgan's figures disappeared to. she bit her lips in contemplation before ultimately groaning, chasing after the two. hotch can scold her after, derek might not be safe.

and, rightly so. because as she rounded the corner, morgan was on the floor with a gun aimed to his head.

franz took slow steps, gun trailed to the back of clara's head as she instructed in a leveled tone, "drop the gun."

the girl moved around derek, facing the two with the gun still to the man. sainz narrowed her eyes, as if analyzing the situation and the best course of action, "there's nothing else you can do. this is the end."

"come close and i'll shoot him."

"do not tempt me. i hate that fucker." her eyes relaxed, settling on a risky strategy, "men are always stupid, both emotionally and intellectually incompetent."

she scoffed at the trainee's attempt while morgan's starting to get alarmed on what she was doing, "did you think i'll fall for whatever you're doing?"

"not at all, but i still believe spilling blood is unnecessary here."

that irked the suspect. she was like the others— saving men even though they are good for nothing aggressors.

clara squinted her eyes, clutching her head for a bit, "this then that then this then that. shut up!"

franz made it a point to make her voice sound passive-aggressively mocking, "something against men?"

she refused to answer. her hands clutched the handgun harder, glaring intensely to the man.

"oh, you're..." the trainee trailed off, taunting the girl.

"i'm what?" she called out, eyes never leaving the man on the floor.

derek crossed his brows on whatever she was doing, his words pointed, "franz, stop."

"a lesbian," she ignored the man, going with her way, "you know that would incur the wrath of god, right? a woman is made for a man."

"shut up." clara muttered lowly, her hand pushing the gun forward.

"you're a lesbian and a moron. it's not in the bible. it's explicably said in john 3:27-34, thou my child—"

"shut up!"

clara turned to francesca, the gun aimed to the agent on the floor now trailed to the young lady. morgan reacted right away, yet it was clear he cannot push the suspect before she shoots.

her finger pulled on the trigger, but before the gun's mechanism could work, the trainee fired her shot, the sound filling the otherwise peaceful street.

she dropped on the floor, gun clattering with her. sainz neared them as she gestured to her teammate, inquiring about his state, "you good?"

the agent nodded, the other crouching down to feel for a pulse. franz looked at derek, her head shaking to confirm the suspect's status.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

"i am not in shock."

the youngest grumbled at the shock blanket draped over her shoulders as she sat behind the ambulance.

derek tried to be comforting, but he was just... derek, "you just killed a person."

"she was aiming a gun at you." francesca argued, glaring to the very man she saved just moments ago.

jj and emily walked to the two with spencer asking, "how are you feeling?"

"i'm starting to feel tired. i did not expect that much adrenaline." she leaned her head sidewards against the vehicle.

"where did you whip up the bible verse from? i thought you're a... what do you call it... an agnostic?"

franz looked at the man, trying to hide the smirk in her face, "it's not real. i don't even know what's written in the verses i said."

emily crossed her arms at that, tone going pitchy than usual, "you lied?"

"i had to aggravate her," she sighed heavily before laughing at the thought that entered her mind, "a lesbian and a moron... i don't know where i got that from."

they all chuckled at that, the line sounding like somebody they used to know. jj smiled warmly at her safety, "we've talked about it before. gideon would love you."

"the previous unit chief?"

"you'd bond over insulting unsubs." the liaison turned profiler continued with a laugh. she grinned at that. it wouldn't be so bad to be acknowledged by him.

and just as how fast they shared their laughter, it was as fast when they quieted down, noticing hotch approaching them with rather determined steps.

the team already knows what this is about as they all stepped back slowly, franz sitting up from her leaning and taking a grasp of morgan's shirt as he was the closest. her wide eyes were gesturing at him as she mouthed dont go in repeat, even using the i saved you card humorly.

however, no amount of begging would make them stay with her, especially with the stern look that's sporting his features.

with no one nearby, her chief's eyes pierced through her, a series of scolding waiting to happen. he looks hot though. she'll give him that.

"that was purely reckless. how hard is it to follow my orders?" his voice was firm, yet it was calm and contained as usual, also considering that they're in public.

she looked at him directly, explaining her case, "hotch, there were gunshots. i had to do something."

"i explicitly told you to stay in the car," he crossed his arms, reminding her that he can fire her anytime, "just tell me if you're not ready to follow my lead and you can stop all these nonsense at once."

"i did stay!" she opened her mouth to defend her actions further but ultimately settled with a sigh, "i'm sorry."

"by putting yourself in danger, you're putting the whole team in danger," he continued to chide, now focusing on the team's welfare beyond his authority, "sainz, we do not move alone. this is a team."

"i know. it was a circumstantial decision." she looked away from him, watching the busy officers walking back-and-forth around the scene.

"you could have went to assist the women and let jj chase them."

"it would take time—time we did not have seeing as i arrived with clara aiming to derek already." franz tiredly made her point. this was almost similar to those ethical dilemmas people ask each other for fun. hotch sighed, acknowledging that the girl is exhausted after all that transpired.

"do not do this again." he waited for her affirmation, a response at the very least. of course, she gave none. aaron closed his eyes, trying to contain his irritation as he called for her attention pointedly, "sainz."

knowing that the girl is unlikely to reply and acknowledge what he said, he took a step back, turning away for a moment as if to gather his thoughts.

he looked at her appearance and observed her state more closely now, him speaking in a softer voice, yet still with gruffness, "how are you?"

"not fine." franz returned to her leaning, staring blankly ahead.

"how do you feel?"

"i don't know." she just wanted to sleep. it was a very confusing night. how does one react after killing a person? how should one feel?

hotch noticed her inner turmoil, the shock is possibly adding too, "wanna talk about it?"

"sir, you just scolded me." she narrowed her eyes at his offer, wondering how this man can turn from the unit chief to a friend in an instant. were they even friends? she doesn't know.

he deadpanned at her, "you disobeyed my orders."

"a necessary insubordination." she replied in a beat, her eyes still on him. there was no way she would win though.

as francesca had told him plenty of times before, she likes his eyes best. of course, he only looked at her blankly every time before turning back to his case files, but she does like them sincerely and she will not get tired of telling him about it.

her fondness probably comes from the fact that she knows what his eyes are trying to say—an intimate form of communication, per se.

and so, that is precisely why she could do nothing but shrug and smile tirely at him. although his brows were creased, his eyes were offering comfort. that or she's so in her head she's starting to hallucinate and overthink.

the girl shook her head with a warm smile at the thought, "how about tomorrow?" she beamed at him, referring to his offer to talk. the man nodded once and she grinned teasingly, exhaustion seemingly forgotten, "it's a date."

hotch rolled his eyes at her antics, gracefully pocketing his hands, "do you need anything?"

francesca grinned from ear to ear in mischief, "can i get a hug?"

"you—"

"what? i'm in shock!"

he let a small smile grace his features as she exaggeratedly pulled the shock blanket to herself. he simply looked at her, as if figuring out how she really was. hotch patted her head softly before finally walking away to where the rest of the team was.

the action most certainly did not go unnoticed by her. needless to say, her mind was a mess.

if someone would have told her in the past that there comes a time she would give her heart and swoon by everything a man two decades older does, she would have went on an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

yet, here she was—just killed a woman and all she can think about was how the smallest gesture of affection from him brought a lump to her throat.

#criminal minds #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #derek is the older brother i never had #aaron hotchner #this is a reminder to exasperate your boss

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alizha · 2 months ago

Text

𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 | 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣

—Zeke Yeager x Reader | NSFW

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Now - Zeke is your new patient. What strings did he pull to make this happen? Then - twelve-year-old Zeke meets you for the first time.

❖ click table of contents for full list of tags, CWs, and chapters. 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗋: 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖽𝗇𝗂 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐/𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆��𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾.

table of contents | masterlist | cross posted to ao3 next chapter →

Chapter 1: Zeke

Now

The clinic had seen better days.

Zeke runs a finger along the edge of the leather chair, worn to a muted gray and faintly sticky from polish. At the edge of the desk in front of him sits a brass nameplate reading Dr. Stella Faust , its corners rubbed dull, matching the desk’s simple finish. Behind that, a scattering of papers held in place by a glass paperweight shaped like a globe. A half-finished cup of coffee, rim stained with a reddish-brown shade of lipstick, still releasing thin tendrils of steam from the dark liquid inside.

A modest room by any standard, this office has none of the sterility or gleaming cleanliness of the infirmary at the Warrior training facilities. Instead, the faint smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, mingling with a hint of old wood and what Zeke thinks might be lavender.

Certificates line the walls behind the desk, framed simply in dark wood. He notes them with a mix of curiosity and ambivalence. ‘Psychiatry Residency, Graduate School of Medical Sciences’ , read one—stamped with the requisite seal of approval and signed by an Eldian doctor. Despite the titles, the certifications seem out of place in the drab room, like they were striving to belong to a more prestigious setting.

As his eyes wander, he catches a few personal touches. A fountain pen with an intricately carved handle. A small porcelain vase holding dried lavender springs—ah, that’s where the scent was coming from. A leather-bound notebook cracked open and filled with neat, looping handwriting.

Zeke finds himself staring at the handwriting a little longer than he meant to, tracing the careful lines and loops in his mind. His pulse thrums steadily as he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and the clock on the wall ticks louder than it had a right to.

“—Captain Yeager?”

Jogged from his thoughts, he meets the gaze of the woman sitting across the desk from him. You had noticed him staring at your notebook, and you reach out to close the cover.

“Did you hear what I said?” you ask, arching one brow at him expectantly.

He conjures an easy smile. “How have you been, Stella?”

“That’s Dr. Faust , if you please,” you correct, your voice perfectly even. “I worked hard for that title.”

Zeke’s smile barely falters as you tucked the notebook into a drawer and fold your hands neatly on the desk. “Dr. Faust, then. How have you been?”

You ignore the question, opting instead for a clinical tone. “I’m evaluating your mental readiness before your mission to Paradis Island. I don’t really feel any sort of way toward it. I’ll ask again—how have you been sleeping, Captain?”

Affecting a casual posture, Zeke crosses his arms and leaned back. “Well enough.”

Nodding, you reached for your fountain pen and angle your body forward to start scratching notes onto the paper in front of you. Zeke had been prepared to leave it at that, but he's curious. He can’t help it. There's a shared familiarity between the two of you, even if it's buried under layers of protocol now.

“I’m more interested in why you agreed to take my case.”

For the briefest moment, your pen hesitates. Then, it resumes its steady path across the paper. You draw in a slow breath, visibly forcing yourself to relax your shoulders.

“It’s complicated,” you say. With a practiced calm, you tap your pen gently against the evaluation form. “I’ll put you down as ‘having difficulty concentrating’, then.”

Zeke lets out a soft chuckle and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s fair.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Let’s stay on topic, Captain. And answer honestly. Have you experienced any difficulty focusing during recent training exercises?”

He glances at the lavender, the gray-purple buds scattered around the vase, lingering there as he considers his response. “No. My focus is steady during training.”

You jot another note. “Any issues concentrating when you’re not on duty? Trouble keeping your thoughts organized?”

“None that affect my performance. I find myself just… thinking through strategy. Keeping mentally prepared.”

You barely glance up, though he can tell you're paying attention to his phrasing. “And how would you describe your motivation for combat readiness? Has it changed at all since receiving your assignment?”

“I’d say my motivation is as strong as it’s ever been. I understand what’s at stake.”

“Good,” you reply crisply. You pause, tapping the pen lightly on your thumb, then look up at him impassively. “What does loyalty to Marley mean to you personally?”

This one makes him pause. Zeke knows the importance of answering carefully. The Marleyan brass had only recently started taking psych evals of their Warriors seriously, but he understands the scrutiny he's under. If you want to keep your life, you would think twice about not reporting everything you found.

Question was, how far could he push you before your reports turned unfavorable?

“Loyalty is my duty, both as an Eldian and as a Warrior. Whatever is required of me for Marley, I’m meant to see it through.”

You hold his gaze, as if waiting for more. Zeke watches you back and muses silently. Your shared history must have been something the brass overlooked. Surely, someone would’ve flagged it as a conflict of interest if they’d known. Or perhaps, they thought you could remain unbiased—which, for some reason, is worse to imagine.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re staring, Dr. Faust. Didn’t realize your evaluation required so much observation.”

If you're rattled by the hint of a taunt in his tone, you hide it well. You simply set your pen down, eyes not leaving his.

“Funny, you’re staring right back, Captain.”

It's true. Not bothering to hide, Zeke lets his gaze rake down the top half of your form, visible from behind your desk. You’d been eighteen, last he properly saw you—already a woman. And yet, your features seem to fit you even better now, at twenty-seven. You scowl at him now, like you had divined his thoughts.

“Observing,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You tilt your head. “So, I’m observing you, then. You’ve changed quite a bit.”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Is that a compliment, Doctor?”

“Hardly. This whole…,” you gesture one hand vaguely toward his face, “scruffy look you’ve got going on isn’t quite as charming as I imagine you think it is.”

Zeke brushes his fingers over his beard with a look of mock offense. “I’ll have you know this beard is very well-received. By women lacking your clinical eye.”

You huff and roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m sure it’s all the rage. Still, it’s a far cry from the Zeke Yeager I remember—polished, reserved, and almost painfully well-behaved.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Painfully, huh? Guess you didn’t appreciate the golden boy routine?”

“Let’s just say it was predictable.”

“You’d prefer me predictable, then?” Zeke says with a small smirk.

You glance out the window, at the gold-lined puffs of cloud in the sky. “I’d prefer you honest. Predictable or not.”

You’d always been good at implicitly drawing the line between the two of you. You didn’t need words to do it—you could accomplish it with a single look or gesture, even through the easy back-and-forth you've both seemed to have temporarily fallen into. With impressive ease, you pull herself back.

“Right,” you say briskly. “Back on track, Captain.”

Zeke nods once. “By all means, Doctor.”

You flip the page in front of you. “Would you consider it more important to complete a mission objective than to safeguard a fellow Warrior?”

His answer is immediate, cool and direct. “The mission always comes first.”

“And how do you view the possibility of your family being rewarded or… punished based on your actions in the field?”

He takes a moment to let the question hang, and you lift your gaze to his. You know, of course, about his parents. About who informed on them as Eldian Restorationists.

“My family understands the price of honor,” Zeke says at length. “Their reward or punishment will be a reflection of my loyalty to Marley.”

Your face is a careful mask as you look back down to jot down his response. But he can tell you're reading between every line. Good—he wants you to. He wants you to see the carefully constructed answers, the meticulous deference to Marley’s expectations. He's feeding you what the brass wants, exactly as they want it, and you both knew it.

There was a time when your opinions would have made him stumble, back when you seemed worlds more experienced in his young eyes. You had been the untouchable one then. The one with all the knowledge, whose approval he quietly pined for. But now, with the honorary Marleyan title wrapped around his shoulders and the weight of his military status anchoring him, Zeke is the one with the upper hand.

Pressing your lips together briefly, you glance down at your notes. “How would you describe your sense of duty to Marley, beyond the mission itself?”

Zeke leans back, aping a thoughtful expression. “My sense of duty? Well, I’d say it’s unwavering. Marley’s given me everything.”

He smiles, a bit too wide, knowing exactly how hollow his words must sound to you. You jot down his response without reaction.

“And what about maintaining discipline under stress? How do you handle moments when orders seem contradictory or difficult to follow?”

“It’s been so long. Nearly a decade since we talked this much,” Zeke says, casually inspecting his fingertips, flicking his thumb across the surface of one nail. “I had to get all my news secondhand. Didn’t you have a boyfriend back in med school? Some surgeon. What was his name…?”

You give him a dry look. “That’s irrelevant.”

He lets a smile tug at his lips. “So, it didn’t last?”

“Residency was a little too demanding on my time, I’m sure you can imagine,” you say icily. “Now, answer the question, please. How do you handle contradictory or difficult to follow orders?”

“Easy,” he replies. “I follow the chain of command without question. Discipline’s the foundation of a good soldier, isn’t it?”

You straighten, sitting a little taller. Zeke lets his gaze track the movement, the way it makes your chest push out just a bit more. You're wearing something so modest and unassuming, a plain button down with a cardigan over top, but he likes the way the fabric just barely clings to your form.

“Have you given any thought to the consequences of your actions, should you fail?”

Zeke smirks as your gaze snaps up to his. “I don’t plan to fail. But hey, life’s full of surprises, right? So, where’re you living these days, anyway?”

You stare at him, unblinking, waiting for a real answer.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If I were to fail—which, as I said, I don’t plan on—I know what’s at risk. I’m aware of the stakes.”

“Good,” she says, tone softening just slightly as you write. “I’m still living with my parents.”

There it is. Zeke spots his opening, the chink in your armor. All he has to do is needle in.

“And how do you handle frustration with authority? Anger when things don’t go the way you planned?” you ask after clearing your throat.

He shrugs. “Honestly, it’s hard to get frustrated with authority when you know you’re on a timer.” He lets the words hang, just for a moment, then continues, “Eight years, you know? That’s how long I’ve had the Beast. Just five more to go, give or take.”

Your pen pauses mid-note, your face betraying the smallest flicker of something. Regret, Zeke thinks. Or recognition, perhaps, of the cruel arithmetic every Titan shifter faces. Your guard slips even further, and he seizes the opportunity, burrowing his way in.

“Five years,” he repeats, lowering his voice. “You start to see things differently. Priorities shift. Why waste energy on anger?”

The slight narrowing of your eyes betrays your struggle to hide the way his words have affected you. There's a sharp understanding there, as palpable as his own, of what it means to be a Marleyan Warrior. To be cut down in one’s prime for the sake of power he would never truly own.

“Not quite the answer I was looking for,” you say, a slight croak to your voice.

“Oh?” Zeke cocks his head. “What was the prescribed response, then? Or better yet, how would you have answered it, Doctor? Surely you have some insight on coping with mortality.”

“Mortality?” you repeat, realigning your notes. “Is that really how you see it?”

He lets a small smile touch his lips. “Do you see it differently?”

“We’re here to discuss you, Captain. Not me,” you say, though the professional distance between you wavers like a fraying thread ready to snap. “Would you say, then, that loyalty to Marley and your mission transcends personal frustrations and doubts?”

“Loyalty?” Zeke echoes. “Five years from now, I’ll be gone, and someone else’ll be sitting in this chair, taking their turn and getting their brain probed by you, Stella. So, yes, I’ll do what’s needed for Marley, and I won’t waste time on emotions that won’t make a difference.”

You hold his gaze, silence drawing out. And though he keeps his own expression light, he can see your mind wrestling with his words, the small measure of pity in your eyes.

“Anyway,” he continues with a disarming smile, “how’s your mom? She still bake? Used to bring all kinds of things to the clinic, didn’t she?”

You bite your lips together, tucking a stray hair behind your ear before closing your expression like a book. “I think I’ve got everything I need. You’re dismissed, Captain Yeager.”

“Dismissed, huh?” he says, rising to his feet. “So… did I pass?”

You gather your notes and fix him with a resigned look. “Don’t worry. You’ll go to Paradis.”

An uncharacteristic flush blooms at the tops of your cheeks as you glanced away. For a second, Zeke just stands there, lingering by the desk, openly admiring it.

“Noted, Doctor. Must be all those years in medical school that let you see right through me, huh?”

You shoot him a withering look, but the hint of a blush remains. “I don’t think I needed medical school for that. I’d suggest you focus on your assignment, Captain, rather than your charm.”

“Oh, it’s all one and the same,” he says lightly, pivoting toward the door. But he turns back once more in the entryway, hands in his pockets. “See you around, Stella.”

Zeke steps into the hall with a strange sense of satisfaction curling through his chest. There's something thrilling about the dynamic between you now. It's a tug-of-war, not unlike the one the two of you had once, though this one is laced with sharper edges and hidden barbs.

He lets his mind wander, considering the possibilities. If he can engineer just one more chance meeting before he leaves, maybe he’d get to see that blush again. More than that, maybe he’d press you a little harder, see just how far he can push your resolve to stay distant. Because if there's one thing he was sure of, it's that your guard was never as impenetrable as you thought it was.

Then

The waiting room is quieter than usual in the early evening, with just a few straggles left. A couple of older men murmur in the corner, and a girl sits alone with her head bent over a table. She's maybe Zeke’s age, or a little older, and he almost doesn’t notice her at first. But as he passes, he catches sight of her spread of books and messy notes.

He pauses on his way, the scent of ink and paper a balm to the sharp antiseptic smell of the clinic. The girl doesn’t look up, too absorbed in whatever she's studying, and he shrugs, slipping the baseball mitt from his left hand to his right as he continues down the hall.

Reaching his grandfather’s office, he knocks and pushes the door open, expecting the usual sight of his grandfather sitting behind the desk. Instead, he's standing, shaking hands with another man who's holding a plate of what looked like plain, ugly cookies.

“Ah, Zeke,” his grandfather says warmly as his gaze slides to the door. “Come in, come in. just finishing up here. Meet Dr. Faust. He’s a colleague of mine.”

The other man turns around, smiling. He has a kind face and wears glasses, larger and more thick-rimmed than the ones Dr. Xaver sports.

“This is my grandson, Zeke.”

Dr. Faust extends a hand, and Zeke shakes it politely. “Pleasure to meet you, Zeke. Your grandfather tells me you’re a Warrior in training.”

Zeke nods. “Yes, sir.”

His grandfather clears his throat with a proud glint in his eye. “Yes, he’s becoming quite the athlete, this one. Usually stays behind to toss around that baseball, don’t you, Zeke?”

Dr. Faust chuckles, and without a moment’s pause, he holds out the plate toward Zeke. “Well, a Warrior candidate could use some sustenance after a long day, couldn’t he? Go on, have one. My wife baked these this morning.”

Zeke accepts a misshapen cookie, eyeing it with mild suspicion. Shortbread is a rare treat in the internment zone, and he can’t remember the last time he’d tasted it. But when he bites into it, he's surprised at the buttery crumble, the hint of sweetness. It's… good.

“Not bad, right?” Dr. Faust says, smiling as he takes one for himself. “My wife is talented. Finds ways to make do even when, well, there’s not a lot to work with.”

“Thank you,” Zeke says, glancing down at the half-eaten piece in his hand, surprised at how much he wants to savor it. “It’s really good.”

Dr. Faust beams. “Glad you think so. If you don’t mind doing me a favor, Zeke, would you take these to my daughter? She’s in the waiting area.”

Zeke nods, a bit distracted as he finishes the cookie. He glances up to see his grandfather giving him an approving look.

“Go on, Zeke. It’ll give me a few minutes to wrap things up here, and we can head home after that.”

Dr. Faust hands him the plate, with the cookies carefully balanced on it. “Her name’s Stella. She’s probably a year or two ahead of you in school.”

With the plate in hand, Zeke makes his way back down the hall toward the waiting area. His stomach twists slightly with a feeling he can’t quite place as the girl—you—in the waiting room comes into view. There's no reason to feel nervous, he tells himself. He speaks to plenty of people older than himself on a regular basis—commanders, trainers, the other candidates. But there's something different about approaching you.

You're still hunched over your books, lost in your notes. For a moment, he hesitates, watching you work. You're so absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed him. Gathering himself, Zeke clears his throat quietly and takes a step closer.

“Uh, Stella?” he ventures.

You look up, eyes bright and curious as they focus on him. “Yeah?”

He extends the plate in his hands toward you a little too stiffly. “Your dad thought you might like a cookie.”

You blink, a hint of surprise passing over your face before you smile softly. “Oh, thanks.”

Reaching out, you hover your hand a moment, apparently deciding. Finally, you select one of the cookies and take a small bite. With your you other hand, she sweep aside your papers and pat the empty spot on the table.

“You can put those down, if you like.”

“O-oh, right.”

Zeke carefully places the plate on the table and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Now, he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He settles on wringing his baseball mitt as he glances down at your open books and notes, noticing the carefully penned words and diagrams scattered across the pages.

“What’re you studying?”

“Biology. I have a test tomorrow.” You scrutinize him, taking in the distinctive yellow armband on his sleeve. “You’re in the Warrior program. Do they give you much time for schoolwork?”

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Not really,” he admits. “They don’t make it easy, balancing academics with training.”

You nod, a thoughtful look in your gaze. “How long have you been in?”

“Since the program started.”

Your eyes widen a touch. They seem to sparkle in the cold light of the waiting room. For some reason, Zeke feels like his breath has been stolen from his lungs.

“You must have been young,” you say.

He stiffens, subtly straightening his posture as if to add to his height. “Not that young.”

Your lips twitch with a faint smile. “Well, you’re still pretty young to be taking on all that responsibility.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says, fighting to keep his tone from edging too close to defensiveness. “I’ve got a pretty good shot at passing.”

“You sound confident,” you note. There's no mockery in the way you said it. “I mean, lots of kids signed up, didn’t they? Shot at becoming honorary Marleyans, along with their families? That’s huge.”

Zeke can feel his heartbeat steadying with conviction, the familiar confidence he’d worked so hard to build over the past two years returning. “I’ll pass. I’ll become a Warrior.”

You tilt your head, studying him with that same bemused look. As though he were a puzzle she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “Is that what you want? To be an honorary Marleyan?”

It's a simple question, but it echoes in his head like his skull is nothing but an empty cavern. He hesitates. “Well… it’s an honor to serve our motherland.” He shifts under your gaze. “Why didn’t you sign up?”

You look down, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Vaguely, Zeke registers the color of it, the pleasing way it looks, even in the dim light. His heart flutters.

“I guess I didn’t think about it much,” you say finally. “My parents might have let me, if I asked.”

Something twists painfully in his chest at that. Zeke grips his mitt tighter, the leather cool and worn under his fingers. His parents hadn’t left it up to him. They’d signed him up without any discussion, pushing him toward it with all the intensity they could muster—his mother’s pleading looks and his father’s frantic determination.

“Oh,” is all he can manage for you, this girl who's so far removed from the reality he understands.

“Well, it sounds like you’re handling it well,” you offer kindly. You must have picked up on the change in his expression because your gaze had softened. “I mean, if you’re confident you’ll pass, that says a lot.”

Zeke forces himself to smile, shrugging a little to seem as if he was unaffected. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The sound of footsteps in the hall draws both your attention. Zeke’s grandfather and Dr. Faust come into view a second later. They're already wearing their jackets and hats, briefcases in hand.

“Stella, ready to go?” Dr. Faust asks with a gentle smile, lifting the plate of remaining cookies on the table.

Papers rustle as you immediately began gathering your things. “Just a second, Dad.”

Zeke watches as you stack your books and notes with practiced efficiency, the flutter kicking up that crisp, woody scent again. You slip your things into a worn leather satchel, the dark ink staining your fingers smudging the straps. Just as you turn to follow your father, you look back over your shoulder, your gaze lingering on Zeke and your eyebrows lifting slightly, like you’d just remembered something.

“What’s your name?”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen briefly. “It’s Zeke. Zeke Yeager.”

“Nice to meet you, Zeke.” You give him a polite nod before falling into step behind your father.

As you walk away, Zeke can’t help but watch the gentle sway of your hair at your back, something warm and strange pulsing in his chest. He's still standing there, lost in thought, when his grandfather claps him softly on the shoulder.

“Well now, Zeke,” he says. “You’re red as a tomato. Did you get along with Dr. Faust’s daughter?”

Zeke immediately feels a fresh wave of heat rise to his face. “Yes. She was nice.”

“I suppose you’re getting to that age,” his grandfather sighs, amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. “The age when you start noticing girls, hm?”

“Girls?” Zeke scoffs, feigning disbelief. “I don’t have time for any of that. Not if I’m going to be a Warrior.”

His grandfather gives a nod, a look of sympathy crossing his expression. “True enough.”

Zeke manages a smile, and they head out the door together. He hadn’t even turned twelve yet, and he already understands the price of glory as one of Marley’s Warriors. After he had decided once and for all that he was going to inherit a Titan, nothing had ever given him pause, not even the consequence on his lifespan.

Yet, as they walk out into the dimly-lit streets of the internment zone, Zeke finds himself drifting. The small rush of feeling he’d experienced while he was with you was like nothing he’d ever felt. There was a naturalness to it, a warmth he wants to capture and keep for himself, even when you aren't around.

He glances down at the mitt in his hand, hoping he’d see you again at the clinic. Maybe next time, he’d have a better idea of how to talk to you, to impress you, even. The thought is strange, almost surreal, given the clear path he’d laid out for himself as a Warrior candidate.

It's foolish, he knows. Unrealistic, even. Still, the memory of your meeting lingers, and for once, he lets himself cling to it.

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