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stargirlsmooch · 2 years

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Naughty Boy

bucky barnes x fem!reader

the good boy trilogy - part 2

after bucky angers you for not following your orders, he knows he has to receive his punishment. but when he misbehaves again, it gets so much worse. very smutty! 18+ 2.1k words

The book covers were soft in your hands, rhythmically thumping on the shelves as you put them away. You had started your shift ten minutes ago, Bucky knew you always worked a Sunday, so it was only a matter of time until that front door opened and your sweet man came in.

As the little bell above the door jingled, warning you that someone had entered the store, you turned around to face him- stood there with his muscled shoulders encased in an adorable white sweater and blue jeans wrapping around his strong thighs. So pretty.

You still couldn’t believe he was your soldier.

“Hi.” He said, to which you raised an eyebrow and turned back around to continue your work.

Last night, after Bucky had orgasmed (without permission) so hard that he almost passed out, you made him stay on the phone with you until he got cleaned up and into bed. He followed all your instructions accordingly, acting like such a good boy and hoping that you would forget about his punishment- you never did. And it started now.

The silent treatment.

Bucky hated anything to do with you ignoring him, so you couldn’t resist using that to your advantage. Almost immediately after your back was facing him, you felt his front pressed against you.

“Y/n, please.” He said, placing his strong hands on your hips. Y/n? Who the fuck does this boy think he is?

Without realising it, Bucky had just made his punishment twice as bad as you had originally planned. What you had in mind before he had the nerve to refer to you by your name, and not your title, could be described as “mild”. Now, you had the incentive to make it downright painful.

Before: maybe an hour or two of no talking from you, and then when he really couldn’t take it, you would've kissed him, told him that everything was okay and then taken him home and let him put his cock in his Mommy’s ass just like he was so desperate to do the night before.

Now? There was no way his dick was coming anywhere near you. He would be lucky if he even got to touch it today.

The anger was very clearly simmering just below your surface, Bucky could see the beginnings of fury breaking out across your beautiful face- your pink-painted lips were pressed into a harsh line and your eyes had darkened dangerously.

“No. No, Mommy. I’m sorry, Mommy.” He whimpered, digging his fingers into the supple skin of your hips in hopes of keeping you there, but instead, you wandered off to the back of the store to grab more stock, leaving him to trail after you like a lost puppy.

The steps of his leather boots didn’t stop until you had reached the storage room, where no customers were allowed, so you promptly turned and placed your hand on his broad chest and gently shoved him so he kept out. Speaking of puppies, the pout on his face was so laughable, he looked like you’d just kicked his (or in his case, his kitten).

But you would never do that because Alpine was adorable and you were basically her mother.

Little tears of frustration pricked at the corners of Bucky’s eyes and his bottom lip quivered, your baby Bucky had always been a little crybaby, sniffling whenever his Mommy told him to stop stroking his cock.

He couldn’t handle punishment very well, you were just realising- this was the first time he was in trouble, so of course, he wasn’t used to facing his consequences. In the midst of finally getting his girl, he’d totally forgotten about his place in the pecking order- Mommy was on top, you do what she says.

Being a soft domme meant you didn’t dole out punishment whenever you felt like it, but when your baby deserved it, he was going to suffer. You loved putting naughty boys in their place- watching them slowly go dumb as they lost control and succumbed to you.

If it was any other man, you might’ve enjoyed the tears, but this was your sweet boy- Bucky. Your love. You couldn’t just stand there and do nothing whilst he worried himself up into a frenzy.

So, stepping out of the store room, you walked right up to your gorgeous man and gently used your thumbs to wash away the tears that were running down his cheeks.

“Sweet boy, there’s no need to cry.”

Bucky shook his head and the tears fell even harder, “So sorry, Mommy. Please don’t ignore me.”

“Mommy’s sorry too, baby. I shouldn’t have ignored you, should I?” You whispered to him, pressing your lips to his tenderly- your first kiss.

Wrapping your hands around his neck, Bucky wrapped his around your back, pulling you close until your entire body was flat against his chest. Your mouths moved perfectly in sync like you had kissed a million times before.

His lips were soft against yours, and he tasted so sweet that you just couldn’t get enough. You broke away briefly, tipping your head back and sticking your tongue out. He understood what you wanted, and with no hesitation spat right into your mouth before diving back in for another kiss.

You swallowed hastily, moaning at the taste as Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, where you sucked on it feverishly- you just couldn’t get enough of him.

Just as the makeout got sloppier and sexier and mindnumbing, you pulled away, leaving Bucky with another adorable pout on his handsome face. He tried to resume it, wanting his Mommy’s kisses back so badly, but you put your hands on his pics to keep him at bay.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Do you wanna know what me and you are gonna do today?”

He nodded his head, which received another stern eyebrow raise from you- Mommy deserved the utmost respect, and that meant Bucky gave you his words.

“Sorry. Yes, Mommy.”

“Good boy,” You said, lovingly wiping at his tear-stained cheeks again. “I’m gonna close up the shop early, and then we are gonna head back to Mommy’s house where we’re gonna talk about your punishment. Understand?”

His head dropped at the mention of his punishment. For a second there, caught up in your kisses, he himself had completely forgotten about his misbehaviour- thinking that the both of you just had a night of love-making ahead. But, no.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Good. Let me grab my keys and we can head home.”

By the time the front door had slammed behind you, Bucky was practically shaking with fear. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t like you were going to hurt him- it was just the fact that he didn’t want to be reminded of your disappointment. That’s what scared him.

“Come with me, baby.” You said as you grabbed his hand and let him to your bedroom. Bucky’s voice and moans had echoed off these walls a thousand times through the safety of your laptop’s speaker, and yet he had never stepped foot inside it.

Your bed was against the opposite wall, a white wooden headboard overlooking your soft pink duvet, pillows piled up in an organised heap on the mattress. It looks so cute, Bucky thought as he sat down on the edge.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him stroking the floral covers around him and flopping back onto the soft bed. “Sit against the headboard for me, baby.”

Bucky shuffled back obediently, sitting back with his legs parted and his hands in his lap. His jumper bunched up around his tummy and you were so desperate for him to take it off, so desperate to see those tattoos in 3D. I wanna lick them.

Opening the trunk at the foot of your bed, you pulled out the essentials: handcuffs, a vibrator and your favourite dildo. Your sweet boy’s eyes subsequently widened when he saw all the objects hit the bed in their delightful glittery glory.

“Naked for me please, sweetheart.” You asked, standing up to your full height and facing him. He was bare within seconds, and when he was ready, that glorious cock standing ready for you, you started to strip as well.

With your focus on undressing, you didn’t have time to view his spectacular body in the depth you dreamed of, just a quick glance at those luscious muscles and those dark tattoos before you met his eyes again.

Bucky gulped as he watched your coat fall to the floor, and then your shirt, and then your jeans, and then your bra and your panties and then suddenly you were completely undressed. Nothing but a simple gold chain around your neck and a few rings on your fingers.

“Do you remember what Mommy asked you last night, my baby?” You asked, picking up the dildo and placing the tip into your mouth as you waited for him to work up the brains to reply.

“Yes. Mommy asked if I wanted to… If I wanted to fuck her pussy or her ass.” He replied, pausing in the middle out of embarrassment, not wanting to say the dirty words. You giggled at his innocence.

Even though he was a cam boy (and 40 years old), you knew Winter hadn’t been with many women. He was quiet and subdued and really only conversed with those that he really needed to. Safe to say that the sex he had had so far in his life was vanilla. And although there was nothing wrong with that, you know he craved more.

“That’s right, honey. Which hole is it gonna be?” The tip of your dildo was now resting on your soft lips- the truth was, he wasn’t going to be fucking any holes tonight, but he would surely get to watch as you fucked yourself.

“Your ass, please.” He whispered, his eyes fixated on the way your lips kissed the dildo.

As you climbed onto the bed, sitting opposite Bucky, you could feel your cream leaking out of you and coating your inner thighs. You had never been so excited about sex before. Sure, you’d been with your fair share of guys during college but this was different- feelings were involved with Bucky. And although he wasn’t going to be inside of you today, it still felt special that you were showing him all of yourself.

Your thighs were closed as you took your seat between his, you turned and grabbed the handcuffs, swiftly locking them around his wrists and attaching them to the headboard. He whined when he realised what was about to happen, and the fact that he could do nothing about it.

When you sat back, the thick dildo sitting on your tummy and your hands behind you, holding your weight, you started to slowly open your legs. Bucky’s eyes were immediately drawn to the movement, watching your thighs break apart until all he could see was your perfect pussy on display for him.

You could feel your wetness pooling under you, your puffy clit throbbing with every second that Bucky stared. The cream leaking from your hole looked so delicious, all he wanted to do was lean forward and take it all up on his tongue, but the restraints stopped him.

Grabbing the dildo, you slid the tip through your folds, whining at the feeling of the tip bumping against your clit on its journey to your asshole. Bucky was hungry for your pussy, but when he saw your other hole, so tight and inviting- he became starving.

He whimpered when he saw you suck on your fingers, readying them. You slipped them inside your ass slowly, moaning at the sensation. You were so desperate to be filled up that you spat on the dildo too- you couldn’t wait any longer.

The moans you made drove Bucky insane, he whimpered and whined and begged to be the one to fuck you. But you just kept going, kept pumping your tight hole full of cock over and over again until you came, more cream gushing out of your pussy.

Those adorable tears streamed down Bucky’s face once you stopped.

“No, Mommy. I wanted to make you cum.” He sobbed, pulling harshly against the cuffs as you recovered from your orgasm.

As you got up onto wobbly knees, Bucky gave a sigh of relief. You uncuffed him as fast as you could and slumped into his lap, letting him take your weight. He shifted you around until you were both in a comfortable position and proceeded to bury his crying face in your neck.

Giving him an endearing kiss on the cheek, you said…

“Naughty boys don’t deserve their Mommy’s cum.”

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader

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a-lost-crow · 2 years

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heya there, same anon asker as last time. can i ask about in more depth about episode 7 in ur aus went? lov ur infodumps.

( if i get the energy, might i also draw about ur au?) (also ur welcome about last post :))

Like I said about episode 7, it was a pain in the ass for everyone. When PAMA chipped Lukas it was like "mmm yummy information" along with getting Petra’s info. So it looks like this:

From a post that is similar to this it says,

NOW, going to the PAMA episode. PAMA has gotten information from Lukas that Jesse can rewind. The only thing stopping that stoopid AI is that PAMA doesn’t have the ability to do commands. Though from getting information from Lukas, it manages to make some obstacles for Jesse in case he goes in a different route by rewinding.

Jesse rewinded only twice which is minutes after Petra and Lukas got chipped. In the AU, there will be a limit on when you can rewind, and at that case the farthest it could go is minutes before Petra and Lukas got chipped. When Jesse rewinded, Lukas just stares at him, not even resisting at the moment. At the top left corner, there’s a grey rectangle that reads.

“Lukas will remember that.”

PAMA gets the information that Jesse rewinds from Lukas’ info.

Good news is that PAMA can’t get access to commands because it’s a robot and it doesn’t know how to actually get access to it

So it happen to use other citizens to make the obstacles. During the time Lukas was walking around in random places.

Because, ahahahaha, he has to stay still to give himself access to commands (or limited movement as possible). Or an alternate solution is that he has to stay focused to use commands.

During the time he is moving around he tries to space out and do commands, but fails since PAMA knows that he need to stay still or get concentrated, and controls his movement to hit himself to a mountain or wall.

Jesse doesn’t know that PAMA has been building obstacles with Lukas’ knowledges until the fifth time he had to rewind

The first time was a minor mistake, but after PAMA notices the sudden rewind it then starts building the obstacles

Jesse fakes a couple of rewinds he knows he doesn’t need to do, to trick PAMA to making fake obstacles

And here are some notes on what happens if you keep Lukas chipped or unchipped him with the water:

Unchipped him:

Lukas could’ve never been more relieved

Fuckin asks Jesse to carry him because he does not want to move for a while.

It’s like that European plague where people kept dancing until they die

Yeah but with Lukas

Before Jesse goes to save Petra, Lukas gives Jesse those “___ will remember that” thingies

But instead it says “Good luck, you need that :)”

When Jesse tries to deactivate PAMA, there come Petra

It turns out that PAMA tries to make her get access to commands

Petra knew that Lukas has them, and what it meant about the commands that she resisted the attempt very well

But that meant she has to stay still during the time she was chipped

So when Petra attacks Jesse, she has limited movement as PAMA’s attempt to still get access to it

After PAMA is defeated, Petra, as she is unchipped, tells Lukas that she will never want to be in his position of commands

Before PAMA Petra is curious of wanting to get access, but now she doesn’t want to.

If she can she’d actually be pretty sane with the new addition and not power hungry

Oh yeah, the end of the episode Harper shows them the final portal with a lot of stairs

Lukas does not want to walk at all

Petra now loves walking

Kept him chipped:

Lukas does not know how to react with that information

He felt betrayed but then again what was there to be upset about?

He trusts that Jesse knows what to do

Petra will get the same treatment as the one if she’s still chipped. So she just really likes to move a lot

She became really helpful killing off mobs because of her need to move a lot.

Around the battle scene before PAMA’s death Lukas managed to get focused to give Jesse those “___ will remember that” things

Except PAMA saw him doing it and managed to control him to tell Jesse “You will be useful later”, “You are going to resist my temptations”, “Your information will be more useful than Harper’s”, “Come here, Jesse”,

After Lukas gets unchipped, Jesse insists on carrying him because mans legs are just very tired

So at the stairs scene, Lukas just says “you better be fucking kidding me”

So yeah, big pain in the ass for everyone.

Thank you for the ask anon :D

#Minecraft Story Mode #mcsm #Choose Story AU #Storymode!Jesse #Commands!Lukas #Mmm I love improv #Poor Lukas and Petra #I mean I wrote it but still #mcsm jesse

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flynncantrell95 · 1 month

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hyperfashionist · 2 months

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A Spoiltastic Journey

through the Entire Space: 1999 Canon

up to “Odysseus Wept”

Story 1: Eternity Unleashed

Chapter 7 of 12

It's time for some spoily commentary on Chapter 7 of Eternity Unleashed!

Spoilers under the cut. You have been warned.

Back to Chapter 6 of this story

Forth to Chapter 8 of this story

Back to original post on this story

Return to Series Preface

Forth to Story 2: The Touch of Venus

Chapter Seven of Eternity Unleashed: A Spoiler-Filled Commentary

Previously it was mentioned that all societal institutions had fallen unnoticed into attrition. In Chapter 7 we learn that basic yet not-strictly-essential infrastructure such as street cleaning is a thing of the past, and the only currency is stories.

---

Observation: Stories are, of course, simulations, with all risk removed; narratives of a time when something was at stake. Notably, what stories are explicitly mentioned seem to be historical re-enactments rather than intentionally fictional narratives.

Essentially, Progrons are a society of WoW addicts. It's rather difficult to argue that they shouldn't be, since no physical harm can come to them, and they have no apparent spirituality or aspiration to anything higher than the immediate experience of embodiment.

This seems pitiable to us, but why should we assume that Progrons have what we might loosely describe as souls, just because they're intelligent bipeds? Or perhaps there was a time when they thought they did, and that was what Xmonolor's principles were trying to stamp out. Or not, but Progron society threw the baby out with the bathwater.

---

There are teams of state agents being sent out into the provinces to impose immortality treatment on noncompliant citizens, and it turns out that the pushback on this enforcement has brought some provincial towns to a state of "near civil war".

---

Observation: We weren’t hearing about this dissent until now, but it makes sense that, if the desert is where counterculture is located (after all, that's why Bexan raised his invalid daughter in the desert), all the resistance would also come from the desert.

Observation: News is apparently being communicated by word of mouth (we have seen messages delivered in person, never over any kind of network channel); the knowledge state of every character throughout the story so far supports the idea that Progron doesn’t have the communications systems you’d expect. One wonders how they have the informational infrastructure to carry out research if that's the case.

---

Talian doesn’t know what Balor’s plan is, he just follows him around, not getting it. Balor explains that everyone’s got to Learn and they are gonna Learn good and hard tonight.

The latest hit show is basically a torture porn in which the actor always reconstitutes at the end, because immortality/invulnerability.

---

Observation: Again, you’d think the popularity of shows like these would contradict Balor’s conclusions, otherwise what actor from this allegedly hedonistic and pain-averse society would have the endurance to go through that process for eight shows a week?

---

Anyway, there follows a farcical scene in which the audience of this show get sliced up by ��telves” - bladed weapons - wielded by “black-garbed followers of Balor”, of whom there seems to be no shortage.

Pause for Reflection

The world of Progron has adequately suspended my disbelief until now, but it’s started to lose me here.

To be fair, the slice'n'dice scene is not any sillier - maybe less silly - than a lot of scenes of its ilk, which are very difficult to write well.

However, this is also the point at which I started actively disliking, rather than just tolerating, the experience of reading this story. I'm simply not finding anything to engage me. The narrative is written with a cold detachment which probably represents Balor's haughty worldview, so it makes sense on paper, but is not actually interesting. I'm not rooting for Balor; Talian is nothing more than a gormless henchman; the people of Progron must be well past their natural lifespan by now so I don’t care what happens to them. I *guess* the worst that could happen is an eternity of being continuously attacked by Balor's followers and regenerating only to experience it again. But that's the Progrons' problem, not mine.

Don't misunderstand me: I’m only about halfway through this story, so I’m not giving it a thumbs down or anything before I even finish it. I’m just reporting my emotional response at what is supposed to be the/a climax of the story.

But Anyway

But anyway, Balor’s mega violence That’ll Teach You program gets rolled out throughout the capital city and outwards through the wider inhabited areas. He starts with the capital, Mente, and is following that with thirty more cities.

In the next scene, a group of friends are LARPing in the desert (so I infer the rollout in the cities is completed and the program is reaching the more remote areas). These LARPers marvel in admiration of the approaching army, which they mistake for a group of performers. This provides one of perhaps two brief expressions of positive emotion in the story so far (the previous one being Milsa's glowing response to Balor's conversation). We actually read some dialogue spoken by them, rather than just having their reactions reported to us. The effect is to make it mildly regrettable when the LARPers get sliced and diced too.

Apparently the trick, with an invulnerable population, is to keep doing it repeatedly and often enough that people don’t have time to recover. The actor in the show where the first attack took place would end in a “nearly liquid” state and recover before the audience’s eyes as part of the performance, so recovery is very quick.

---

Observation: If people are being attacked with hand-held bladed weapons, Balor must have a hell of a lot of followers with almost tireless strength to keep attacking quickly and repeatedly enough to overpower this many victims.

Observation: A number of things that seemed contradictory are starting to make sense now. It makes sense that Balor's followers would be recruited from the performers: they have the discipline to endure pain eight shows a week, and are probably very physically fit. They also probably have built up considerable resentment against the audiences that objectify and exploit them in this way. Since there are no consumer or luxury goods being produced, these actors’ fame isn’t going to be rewarded with money, as there's nothing special to buy with it. They’re considered more sexually desirable, but that’s just more objectification. The performers probably lack any theoretical framework, or even much self-awareness, about their own resentment; but they are clearly mad as hell and unwilling to take it any more.

---

Back on the state immortality rollout: a mob of townsfolk, led by the "town leader" plus deputy, show up in the desert and corner a couple who are snuggling in the evening after a hard day’s work.

This couple's snuggling provides the third brief expression of positive emotion in the story so far; and with it, a moment of mild suspense.

The couple have refused the immortality treatment, the mob wants to impose it. The woman pleads to be allowed to wait til after her baby is born. The response is “we don’t need no stinkin’ babies” and the agents kill the guy and forcibly administer the treatment, which has the effect of expelling the fetus.

The rationale for imposing the immortality treatment - which imposition Balor wouldn't, apparently, personally have endorsed - is that if there are any mortals, nobody can tell who’s immortal.

---

Observation: I assume they’re just being totalitarian: by definition, they don’t care if the mortals come to harm given that they're killing them for noncompliance, and there presumably is no healthcare or education sector left for the state to care about. Yeah, Progron seems to be institutionally cool with mindless violence.

---

Anyway, the woman awakens to find her husband dismembered and her fetus placed on top of his remains, still in its birth sac. She starts a huge fire and immolates herself, but she can’t die.

Quelle surprise, big reveal, amazement shock horror: the woman is Milsa.

I saw that one coming (am I a genius or what); but I do slightly care what happens to Milsa, at least compared to any of the other characters. So, though I wouldn't exactly say things are looking up, I will at least live to read another day.

Questions

Q: So Milsa’s moved in with a bunch of hippies while she was off in Nepal finding herself; and Talian doesn’t (I assume) know about it. No communication *at all*. For how long? People have been immortal for yonks by now, yet Milsa can't be one of them, because she was able to conceive. Whereas Balor says the people of Progron have been immortal for too long to give them the benefit of the doubt that the obsession with hedonism is just a phase - Milsa is still in her childbearing years. So it can't have been that long after all.

Q: If force *is* still psychologically threatening, as we’re shown in Balor’s decisive initial experiment, how is Balor the first person to discover this and act on it? Wouldn’t the state be way ahead of him, considering how controlling they are?

Q: How, furthermore, is the state able to motivate a bunch of agents to get up in the morning and police the population, if, before this point, nobody has thought to ask whether force still has meaningful effects on either the agents or the population? As far as anybody knew until then, force didn't do anything. So policing must be entirely by consent. The town leaders who attack Milsa’s family seem to be craven rule-followers, so maybe it just doesn't occur to them to do anything else.

Gender Balance

Not Specified

The "most popular entertainers", whom Balor "disappeared" without anybody noticing

Balor's scouts, out checking on the state of the planet

Cast of Gash, the stage show attacked by Balor's followers

Mengas, the town leader who attacks Milsa and Calad

Mob of 40 townspeople in the attack led by Mengas and Jeffa

Milsa and Calad's child-to-be

NB running total = 20

Female

Gelta, a stripper, one of Balor's followers, who enables an attack on her audience

F running total = 13

Male

Premer of Gruyorg, a historical martyr

Benemat, who plays Premer on stage

Audience member whose arm is severed by one of Balor's gang

Yetcha, Lumat, and an unnamed third LARPer in the desert

Balor's black-garbed followers who carry out his attacks, referred to as "men" by Lumat

Calad, mortal husband of Milsa

Jeffa, the assistant town leader

M running total = 26

Back to Chapter 6 of this story

Forth to Chapter 8 of this story

Back to original post on this story

Return to Series Preface

Forth to Story 2: The Touch of Venus

#Space: 1999 #william latham #Eternity Unleashed #Powys Media #Space: 1999 Y1 #meta #Space: 1999 meta #original novel

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cinebration · 3 years

Text

What I Mean (Sherlock Holmes x Reader) [Request]

Hi lovely! Love love LOVE your work! You’ve got some truly amazing stories 💝 would I be able to request a Henry!Sherlock Holmes x reader one shot where the reader has feelings for Sherlock but thinks that he doesn’t like her at all? — Requested by anon

Warnings: none

Gif Source: acecroft

The first time you saw Sherlock, you fell in love. It wasn’t because of how he looked or how he carried himself. It was how he brushed past that insufferable Constable Lowell, ignoring the man’s protests with a wave of his hand. The way Lowell became flustered and upset and the way DI Lestrade laughed at him made your heart swell in your chest. After the last five months of verbal bullying from the constable, you were supremely satisfied to see him humiliated.

Sherlock frequently appeared unexpectedly at Scotland Yard. You learned to recognize his presence in the building before you ever saw him. There was something about the way he moved through the place, like it was of little consequence, that you could feel. It reminded you of being caught out in a storm with lightning striking nearby, the hair on your arms rising as static built up in the air.

You didn’t meet Sherlock until your fourth month of employment. What had started as a typing job had turned into secretarial work—with no increase in pay to account for your extra duties. You strode into Lestrade’s office with a thin smile and said, “If I’m going to be mitigating your literacy blunders, I expect to be compensated.”

“That’s out of the question. You are a typist and are paid accordingly.”

“Well, then, in that case…” You dumped a huge stack of folders in front of him. “I don’t need to inventory these.”

Lestrade stared at the stack in displeasure.

“Oh, and they haven’t been properly sorted. I’m only meant to type, not to organize your chaos.”

“Now wait.”

“I expect a ten-percent increase. That’s what a proper secretary gets paid. Oh, and the title. I want everyone to know I am not a mere typist.”

The muscle in his jaw jumping, Lestrade reluctantly agreed. Sweeping the files up in your arms, you strode out of the room, light on your heels.

Sherlock leaned beside the door, a faint smirk playing on his lips. You stumbled, surprised by his appearance.

“I thought I was the only one who could so easily maneuver Lestrade,” he said.

“He makes it too easy,” you managed to say.

Sherlock’s eyes skimmed the files. “They’re already organized, I see.”

“The trick is making him think only I can do this job.”

“Clever.” Then he was in Lestrade’s office discussing a case, leaving you standing there flushed.

Sherlock took to greeting you cordially each time he passed by your desk after the incident with Lestrade. Sometimes he didn’t meet with Lestrade at all, instead opting to leave you with a message for the detective inspector. Sherlock never spent long at your desk, much to your disappointment, but the few minutes he spared you each time were enough to make you float the rest of the day.

You had taken it upon yourself to have all the necessary information on all of Lestrade’s cases close at hand. Sherlock often appeared to ask Lestrade for information regarding something he had read in the paper or heard from others. The first time you furnished him with a small envelope of the relevant information, you had been pleased to see genuine surprise in the consulting detective’s face.

“You are quite indispensable,” he remarked. “I don’t know how Lestrade managed anything before you.”

“Poorly, I would imagine.”

“I heard that!”

Smothering a laugh with your hand, you settled back at your desk and tried to think of something else to say to make Sherlock linger for a few moments. Before you could, he dipped his head and left.

You didn’t know why you kept entertaining the idea of interacting properly with Sherlock. The society rumor mill claimed the man was impossible to nail down and seemed uninterested in any of the ladies. It was supposed he, being an eccentric, was possibly too obsessed with his sleuthing hobby and therefore poor marriage material anyway.

Still, you flirted with the idea until you saw him interact with his sister, Enola. He smiled at her and praised her for a particularly thorny case she had unraveled.

Oh, you thought with dismay, feeling all hope leave you. He treats me like his sister.

The realization settled deep in your bones. It had been fruitless all along, the special treatment you had accorded him, the way he seemed pleased with you.

Of course he was pleased with you, you snarled inwardly. You helped him with his work. Even he suffers Lestrade in order to do that. You are nothing but a convenient secretary he doesn’t need to pay.

You couldn’t bear the thought of making things difficult for him, however, so you continued to keep the case information neatly organized and accessible. While everything in you had changed, the only outward sign of it was a sudden coolness toward him. You no longer smiled easily when he arrived, and you spent most of your time avoiding his gaze, busying yourself with tasks at your desk.

If he noticed, he gave no sign. It was as you had thought. You were of little consequence to him.

A year after being hired, you considered quitting. There was a small detective agency in need of female detectives to uncover unfaithful wives and husbands for divorce proceedings. It would get you away from the stifling atmosphere of Scotland Yard, where the likes of Lowell and his ilk still roamed unchecked. You could do with a change.

You could do with an escape from a certain debonair consultant.

“You can’t leave,” Lestrade declared. “I won’t allow it.”

“Did I sign a contract, sir?”

“No, but why would that—”

“Then I am under no obligation to continue working for you.”

Lestrade sputtered, trying to refute you. “You’re needed here.”

“I know a woman who is as adept as I am at this work.”

“But—”

“I’ve made my decision, detective. Please leave me to it.”

You remained only to show your replacement the way of things and to warn her about Lowell and the others. Only then did you leave and seek a posting in the detective agency.

A day after you had applied and been accepted, you arrived to work in your work clothes, fully expecting to be sent somewhere to survey a cheating spouse. As you walked through the door, you heard exclamations from within.

“Mr. Holmes! What an honor it is to have you grace our establishment.”

You froze in the doorway, heart hammering in your chest. Sherlock’s broad back was turned to you, his face in three-quarter profile. You wanted to flee, to escape the magnetic pull you felt in your presence.

Your new employer saw you past Sherlock’s shoulder. “Ah, here she is.” Waving you over, he watched you walk stiffly down the hallway, your hands clenched into nervous fists by your sides.

Sherlock turned to you, fixing you with those striking blue eyes. You felt trapped beneath them, sucked in their magnetism once more. Swallowing thickly, you nodded. “Mr. Holmes.”

He smiled tentatively at you, revealing the point of a canine.

“Mr. Holmes has requested you for an investigation,” you employer said. “I offered him Miss Hemmings, of course, she being our finest, but he insisted on you.”

The hair on the back of your neck rose. Resisting the urge to scratch, you asked, “Did he?”

“I did. Now, if we could go? We are wasting time.”

Fighting the disappointment rising in you, you followed Sherlock out the door and into a transom. Enclosed in the small space, you couldn’t avoid his scent, a pleasing mix of tobacco smoke and something else. You avoided his gaze, folding and refolding your hands in your lap.

“You left Scotland Yard.”

A statement. You nodded but didn’t offer anything more. “Where are we going?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

You frowned, lifted your head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did I do something incorrect?” A crease appeared between the man’s eyebrows. “Your demeanor toward me changed in the two months leading up to your resignation.”

Toying with the fingers of your gloves, you felt panic clawing up your throat. He had noticed. What did that mean?

“I can only conclude that something occurred, but I can’t determine what.”

You met his concerned eyes. “I…it doesn’t matter, Mr. Holmes. I can do whatever job you need me to with as much professional courtesy as it requires.”

His lips pulled into a thin frown. “That isn’t what I’m asking.”

“I don’t know what you mean, then.”

“Please, you are smarter than that. Or was my regard for you misplaced?”

You blinked in surprise, unsure you had heard correctly. “It…isn’t my place to tell you where to place your regard.”

He laughed then, a sudden HA that made you jump. “You are making this difficult, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I am not given over to emotionalism, but I won’t deny that your treatment of me in those last months affected me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“What I mean to say is that I had hoped we were developing a familiarity.” His hand went to his collar, adjusting it. “I had hoped to…call on you.”

Your head snapped up in surprise. “To call on me?”

“I had thought my feeling for you was returned, but if I am mistaken, please inform me now to save us both further embarrassment.”

You could hardly speak around the tightness in your throat. “It is returned.”

The smile on Sherlock’s face made your heart ache. “Good. I’m glad we have remedied that. Now, if we’re both to be detectives, then I suppose we had best collaborate. I need you to spy on Richard Haskell. It seems…”

#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock Holmes imagine #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #Henry!Holmes #Henry!Sherlock #Enola Holmes #requests

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randomshyperson · 3 years

Text

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Sorry for your lost - Part I “I will grieve”.

Serie Masterlist here || Part II|| Read on AO3

Summary: When your wife Natasha passes away in a car accident, a part of you dies with her. It takes a few months of mourning for your psychiatrist thinks the best alternative is for you to join a grief group. And there you meet Wanda Maximoff, and learn to live again.

Warnings: (+16) mentions of death, panic attacks and anxiety, grief, self sabotage, mentions of abusive family background, mutual attraction, explicit consent, therapeutic conversations about death, self-deprecation, healthy methods of coping with grief, possible triggers about anxiety, hurtful behaviors, domestic wanda.

Chapter warnings: Heavy angst, death.

Author’s notes: Hello readers! I'm finally back to posting something, but I disappeared for a good reason, I was writing three new series. And here is the first of them. I really enjoyed this work and it's something I've been trying to write since I watched WandaVision, and only now I've managed to put it into words. I am not finished yet, but there is only one chapter left, so your reading will not be affected. Pay attention to the warnings, and good reading!

Tag list (let me know if you wanna be tagged)

@mionemymind / @abimess / @stephanieromanoff / @yourtaletotell / @tomy5girls / @justagaypanicking / @thegayw1tch

//-//

Chapter One - I’ll grieve.

You wished you could go back to sleep as soon as you opened your eyes. The sound of your alarm buzzed loudly throughout the room, and after putting it on snooze mode at least four times, you finally got annoyed enough to grab it and throw it across the room. But the sound continued.

Letting out a grumble of dissatisfaction, you pushed the comforter off you, and sat up in your bed. Your room was a mess, but you just skipped through the clothes on the floor to reach the phone, turning off the alarm through the new crack you made in the screen.

"Honey, are you up?" you heard your mother's distant voice calling you through the door, probably from the living room or the kitchen. "Don't forget your therapy today."

You sighed impatiently, running your hands through your hair. The damn group therapy.

Grumbling lightly, you forced yourself to take a shower, not wanting "poor hygiene" to end up on your progress report card.

A while later, when you were finished, you went into the kitchen. Your mother was using her laptop on the counter, and just waved at you.

"Are you going to take me?" You asked her with your hands in your pockets. Your mother took her eyes off the screen to evaluate the sweatshirt you were wearing, and you rolled your eyes at her disapproving expression.

"You know, you could try driv-"

"Mom" You cut her off in earnest, your heart racing momentarily. You don't drive. An she knows. Your mother sighs, putting her hands up in a sign of surrender.

"It was just a suggestion dear." She retorts as she stands up, reaching for her car key on the key rack exiting the kitchen. "But I'm busy with the store, you'll need to take the subway next time."

"Thanks for the support." You grumble as you step out in front and your mother lets out a wry chuckle.

You frown and let out a dissatisfied exclamation as you step outside feeling the sun's rays on your face.

"You're not a vampire, cut the drama." Mocks your mother by pushing you lightly to get you out of the way.

You grumble as you walk to the car. And when you are sitting on the seat, your mother is starting the vehicle and she asks:

"Are you sure you're not going to eat anything?"

Looking out the window, you just mumble that you're not hungry, and she shakes her head in disapproval before you back the car up. You don't speak any more on the way.

//-//

Your mother dropped you off in the parking lot of a gymnasium where the therapy group would be meeting. You sighed as you got out, and thanked her for the ride and the money she gave you to eat, even though you probably weren't going to use.

Resisting the urge to run away, you forced your feet to walk toward the place.

There were a few people at the door, but you didn't smile at any of them, entering the place with your head down and your hands in your pockets.

And then a woman greeted you, and put a little sticker with your name on your shirt when you gave her your papers.

Then she signaled the way you should go, and you ended up on the gymnasium court, where there was a wheel of chairs, and a table with food and drink, and several people scattered around, who you thought were part of your therapy group.

Sighing impatiently you made your way to the bleachers of the venue, hoping to be alone until the session started and you could leave.

Fortunately it wasn't long before the leader signaled for everyone to sit in the circle, and you sighed as you stood up. You ended up with one of the chairs on the far left opposite the therapist, which could be bad since he would see you clearly.

"Thank you very much for coming." Said the therapist smiling gently as his gaze roved over everyone in the circle. You kept your gaze on your shoes. He made a noise with his throat. "Who would like to start today?"

The silence lasted for a few seconds, but then someone was speaking. You forced yourself to come back to reality and pay attention.

"[...] and this is my fourth week around here." Said a woman in a leather jacket. You noticed the army lanyard around her neck. She was talking about an accident when you got distracted again. Lightly poking your eye with your finger, you tried to focus again, letting out a low sigh. And then the therapist was talking again.

"We have new faces today." He said and you felt your heart speed up. You absolutely did not want to talk in front of strangers. "Why don't you share with us, miss?"

You raised your gaze to meet that of the therapist, smiling gently at you. The rest of the group looked at you as well. Taking a deep breath, you began to wiggle your fingers on your leg.

"I don't... I've never been in a group." You say clumsily. "What should I say?"

"Whatever you wish to say." He answers with a smile. You swallow the urge to tell him you didn't want to talk at all. Realizing your lack of response, he is quick to add. "Why don't you tell us why you are here?."

You let out a dry laugh.

"I really didn't have much choice." You retort wryly. The therapist looks slightly surprised, but makes no mention of interrupting you. You let out a sigh before clarifying. "My psychiatrist, she...she didn't approve of my social ratings. She wanted me to talk to other people. People who... went through the same things I did." You count staring at the floor. When you look up again, the group still waits for you to continue, and you sigh, running your hands through your hair. "I haven't... I... I haven't talked to other people outside of my family in six months. Not since..."

You move your head, sniffling slightly as you straighten your posture. The therapist clears his throat.

"You just need to share whatever you are ready to tell us." He says gently, you nod slightly feeling extremely vulnerable. "But remember that this is a safe space. There is nothing to fear here."

And then he is talking about methods of easing the guilt, and dealing with the pain and you were distracted again. You would like to go back to bed. It must have taken a while, but the session is finally over.

The group dispersed around the room, and you went toward the therapist's desk to have him sign your schedule. He smiled as you approached.

"Miss Y/N/L, I was happy to hear that you would be joining us today." He said greeting you with a handshake. You nodded, taking the paper from your pocket. He chuckled, but accepted it. "You know, I'd like you to try to have a partner in the group, it's recommended for cases like yours."

"What do you mean cases like me?" You ask snidely, but he doesn't care.

"Doctor Harkness gave me your chart." He explained as he signed the paper you gave him while you frowned. "Extreme Social Anxiety in the first few months of treatment. Tendency to complete isolation, introverted..."

"Yeah I know my problems, buddy." You interrupt him with irritation. "You don't have to list them for me."

The therapist gives a lopsided chuckle, and holds out the signed paper to you. But he adds with a serious look:

"I'm here to help you, Y/N." He says. "Don't forget that."

You don't respond and take the paper, turning toward the exit.

//-//

Your week passes slowly and tortuously. Which is surprising because you barely get out of bed. And then it is group therapy day again, and you are making a new crack at your cell phone screen.

Your mother greets you with a pat on the back as you enter the kitchen, and she is walking past you toward her own room.

You know you have to take the subway today, and you are trying not to think about it too much. As you are walking out the door, your eyes pass quickly over your car key, and you think you have a flash of memory, but you shake your head quickly, pushing the thought away. And then you walk forward.

And you are late for the session, because you can't take the bus to the station, since your feet simply didn't obey you. But that's okay, you don't really care.

You weren't the only one who was late. When you went to enter the door, a red-haired woman bumped into you, also running to get in. She smiled slightly as she apologized, and you just made room for her to enter first.

"Sorry Stephen." She said to the therapist as soon as you two entered the gymnasium, "I had an emergency with the kids."

The man just shook his head with a smile, and waved for you both to sit down.

"And why were you late today, miss Y/L/N?" He asked you. You shrugged your shoulders.

"I didn't wanna come." You retorted and the group giggled, and the sudden sound startled you slightly, but you just sat with your arms crossed.

"Do you want to try again?" He retorted with light humor in his voice. And you bit the inside of your cheeks. And then you looked down at the floor.

"I couldn't get on the bus." You confessed next. Stephen looked at you tenderly, though, and you didn't like the feeling of your chest heaving slightly.

"And why do you think that happened?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable.

"I don't know. I... There were too many people." You said embarrassed. And then you started twiddling your fingers, feeling all eyes on you. "I just... I knew I'd have to say hello to the driver, and the conductor. And then I would pass strangers in the hallway, and one of them would sit next to me. And I just... I couldn't."

Stephen nodded slightly in agreement.

"It's okay, Y/N. " He stated. "No one is judging you here."

You let out a dry laugh, and Stephen blinks in surprise, which spurs you to explode.

"Everyone is judging me, Doc." You say through gritted teeth, swinging your leg. "It's as if I can hear the gears in people's brains forming opinions about me." You state with a sigh. "Like my mother for example. She...she...acts like I'm past the time of mourning." You explain with tears in your eyes. "Like there's a limit, and I'm extending her goodwill. Because it's been six months, and she doesn't want me to be sad anymore. But guess what? I don't know how to move on!" You state angrily. "I can't! If I don't miss her, what's left for me? If I don't... God, I can't do this."

And you stand up, wiping your tears away, and walk out of the gymnasium, heading for the restrooms. You feel your heart racing, and it's hard to breathe.

As you rest your hands on the sink, your brain starts to wander back to the day of the accident again. You choke, because it feels like you're sinking again. You see the water rising through the metal of the car. Your hands on the steering wheel, and then on the seat belt. You shake your head, pushing the images away, and rush to turn on the faucet in front of you and pour the water on your face.

You take a deep breath, trying to stop the tears. And then there is someone entering.

"Are you okay?" Stephen asks and you nod lightly, ignoring the trembling in your hands as you stare at him through the reflection of the mirror. "I gave a break to the group, wouldn't you like to walk with me?"

"I'm not good company right now." You grumble but he smiles, nodding slightly as if to repeat the invitation. You take a deep breath before turning around.

You walk silently and slowly to the outside of the gymnasium, and then he is speaking again.

"You were very brave today." He comments, and you let out a dry laugh. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I panicked today." You say. " It doesn't sound very brave to me."

Stephen smiles guiding you through the gymnasium entrance toward the parking lot.

"You talked about a trauma to a group of people." He says. "That takes a lot of courage, even if you don't believe it."

"I don't believe in anything." You grumble, but Stephen doesn't mind your hostility. He stays with his friendly posture.

"I would like you to accept my request from before." He said after a moment. "About a group partner."

You let out a sigh.

"I don't even know what that means." You retort with slight impatience as you reach the edge of the parking lot. You notice the garden a few feet ahead of you.

"It's like a therapy buddy." He explains with a smile. "We encourage socializing here. That's why Agatha recommended this group to you."

"Oh, of course you do. Agatha is a bitch." You wryly wipe your hands across your face. Stephen laughs lightly. "How does that work anyway? Do I have to hold someone's hand? Exchange friendship bracelets?"

"No, it's much better." He says with a chuckle. "You talk to that person. You exchange experiences with them. You learn to trust somebody else again."

"My god, it looks like a fucking Disney movie." You retort with irritation and Stephen lets out a laugh. And then you let out a sigh, shrugging your shoulders. "Okay, I'll do it. I have nothing to lose, and it seems that neither you nor Agatha will leave me alone if I don't agree."

"We want you to feel better. Don't take this as a punishment." He says, guiding you back to the gym. You nod slightly, thinking that it really does feel like punishment anyway.

//-//

You see Agatha the same week. Your appointments have been switched to monthly meetings instead of weeks as they were at the beginning of treatment, and while you appreciate the familiarity of seeing her, you can't help but feel irritated with her.

"Someone's grumpy." She comments as soon as you sit down on the couch in the room, to which you roll your eyes.

"You are always so very tender, Agatha." You mock as you cross your legs, hoping the time will pass soon.

Agatha laughs lightly, finishing tidying up a few things on her desk. And then she gets up and sits down in the armchair a few feet in front of the sofa where you are, carrying a small notebook in her hands.

"So, why don't you tell me how your your first two sessions in group therapy went?"

You let out a dry laugh.

"Like Stephen didn't tell you everything." You sneer and Agatha just smiles, waiting for you to speak. You let out an impatient sigh, before stating wryly. "It was amazing, doc. It only took two sessions for me to have a panic attack, so thank you for that."

"Why do you think that happened?"

You squeezed your eyes.

"I have no idea." You retorted. "I'm not the doctor here." Agatha laughs lightly, and then opens her notebook and starts writing something. You sigh impatiently. “Really, you're going to start that again?”

"If you don't talk, I write." She states simply, and you roll your eyes, shifting on the couch uncomfortably.

"Agatha, I just... I couldn't get on a bus, okay?" you tell her, and she closes her notebook to look at you attentively. You take a deep breath. "There were a lot of people. I don't mind walking anyway. It helps me think."

"You don't mind walking eight blocks?" She asks with a slight irony. "That's pretty athletic of you."

"It's weird that you know my address off the top of your head." You play lightly, and she just laughs, straightening her posture.

"Why don't you just tell me what you want to tell me?"

"Why don't you ask me what you want to ask?"

Agatha blinks slightly in surprise, and then she shakes her head slightly, opening her notebook again. You sigh.

"Okay, sorry." You say, and she looks at you for a moment before closing the object again. I... I thought I was drowning again.”

"Are your nightmares back?" She asks seriously, and you deny it with your head.

"I feel too anxious to sleep." You tell. "And then I black out from exhaustion in the night or in the morning. I don't dream anymore."

"Have you been taking your medication?"

You sigh.

"Of course I have." You say. "I don't... I'm having trouble keeping my mind still. Like the first few months, you know. Everything seems so noisy now."

Agatha nods slightly, becoming thoughtful for a few moments.

"I know it may sound strange to hear that, but that means you're getting better." She declares and you frown in surprise, then let out a dry laugh.

"How is my peak anxiety a good thing?"

She opens the book again, but before you can ask what you said wrong, she is reading.

"The first day you were here, you said you felt like you were empty." She narrated and you swallowed dryly. "During your first two months, you continued to describe that you felt like an empty shell. And that you no longer had any dreams, thoughts, or opinions. Without your wife, you said you were no longer here."

You felt your eyes fill with water at the mention of her. But you swallowed your emotions. Agatha turned a page, and read for a few seconds, and then looked at you.

"With your history of anxiety, your mind was remarkably quiet after the passing of your wife." She says. "But now that you're on medication, and therapeutic treatment, plus you're socializing even superficially with the world again, you're starting to feel things again. That's progress."

You look away from her, nodding slightly, trying to believe her words, and trying not to be so terrified at the thought of learning to live again. Without Nat.

You choke slightly, holding back a sob, and then Agatha hands you a box of tissues, but you refuse with a nod, wiping away the tears that have slightly escaped.

"What do you want to talk about now?" She asks after a moment. You take a deep breath, still trying to calm yourself.

"Last week I took a cold bath." You count. "It was snowing."

Agatha blinks in surprise at the information and then lets out a giggle.

"You want me to write it in the book don't you?"

You laugh, wiping away the last of the insistent tears. You just hope Agatha could help you.

//-//

You hate coffee. But you barely slept last night, and now you need to stay awake during the group meeting, so instead of walking to the chair in the corner like you used to, you detour your way to the food and beverage table as soon as you arrive at the gym.

There are a few members around, but you don't look at them, just sidestepping as you extend your arm to the coffee bottle. You pour some, and as you touch the cup, you notice. It's cold.

"Hey sorry about that." Said a girl you thought was named Val or something, as soon as she saw you touching the cup. "We mixed up the shifts yesterday and nobody made new coffee."

You rolled your eyes, picking up the cup and throwing it in the trash. Then you forced a wry smile on the girl and walked outside.

It was cold, but you are boiling with rage. It was just a damn cup of coffee, you thought as you closed your eyes and tried to reduce your anger. Just coffee.

You stumbled with fright when Stephen called out to you.

"We'll get started in a minute." He said looking at you curiously. You just nodded, following him after a few seconds.

You bit the inside of your cheek when you noticed the same coffee girl as before, now sitting where you usually sat. The universe was testing you today.

You just sighed, twiddling your fingers inside your pocket, and walked over to one of the free chairs.

After Stephen gave the briefing, he asked if everyone was all right, and the group lied in unison. You were almost asleep when he called your name.

"I would like to choose your partner today." He says and you feel your heart racing as you straighten your posture. "But I want to know if you have any preferences."

You blink in confusion, and roll your eyes.

"I don't know anyone here, but I'm sure they will all hate me equally, doc." You tried to joke, but Stephen only looked at you with concern.

"No one does or will hate you." He says and you swallow dryly, looking away as you mumble that it was just a joke. Stephen pauses momentarily before continuing. "You know that everyone here has their own experiences of loss and they are unique in their own way, even if they have similarities." He begins and you just wish he would speak soon who your partner is at once. "Usually we don't put new members together, but with the release of one of our members, the number ended up getting odd." He explains. "Anyway, I'm sure you and Mrs. Maximoff will get along very well together."

You frowned slightly at the whole explanation. Then you looked around the group, and realized that this Maximoff woman was the late redhead from the previous session who looked at you curiously. You looked away from her to Stephen.

"Thank you, doc." You said with a slight irony and Stephen just nodded smiling.

"Partners are grieving companions ladies." He says. "We will assess your progress at each session, and then switch partners once the necessary improvement has been achieved."

You grumbled in understanding, and looked away to your lap. When Stephen began to ask about the stories, your mind wandered to the departure time.

And when the session was over you wished you could go to sleep. But Stephen made a slight movement of his head in Maximoff's direction, and you understood that you should talk to her.

Ignoring the urge to show Stephen the middle finger, you just sighed as you got up from your chair and lazily walked over to the woman at the exit. She was talking to a man, and you were even more anxious to address not one, but two strangers.

"Hi." You greeted awkwardly, and both of them turned to you with mild curiosity.

"Hey, you're Y/N, right?" Said the man with a smile as he held out his hand to you. "I'm Bucky. James Barnes actually, but everyone calls me Bucky." He said and you shook his hand, smiling awkwardly. Then he quickly pointed at the woman. "And this is Wanda Maximoff, your grief partner."

"Hi." Wanda said shyly as she offered her hand to greet you. You accepted as clumsily as she did.

"Sorry, I don't know how this works." You say. "Should we exchange numbers or something? Or is that just a therapy thing?"

Bucky gives a little chuckle.

"Oh believe me, they'll know if you're not making it work." He counters. "My first partner was Sam Wilson and we wanted to jump on each other's necks whenever we saw each other. And then Stephen asked us to move in together." He says and you blink in surprise. "We're married now, but that's not the point. I guess I'm getting off topic..."

"Bucky." Wanda interrupts with a smile, and he smiles half-heartedly as well. You frown, annoyed by Bucky's story. You didn't want to marry anyone. "I guess we'll make it work, I hope you don't mind having the company of two tiny restless creatures on our walks."

You look at her with confusion and then you understand, smiling shyly.

"No, it's okay." You say. "I like children."

"Really?" She asks in surprise.

You nod slightly. "Unlike adults, they tell the truth."

Wanda seemed to be thoughtful, but then Bucky lets out an exclamation.

"As group guide, I have to pass the to-do list to you ladies." He says pulling a small notebook from the back pocket of his pants. He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to Wanda. "Partners need to develop these habits of socializing and coping with grief together. And yes, there is a test."

You sigh impatiently, tucking a loose string behind your ear.

"That sounds fun." You mock lightly making them smile.

"Anyway, good luck to you two." He says tenderly. "And Wanda, call me if you need help with Tommy. I know a good therapist."

You frown slightly, not understanding what he is referring to, but you prefer to stay out of matters that are none of your business. And then Bucky kisses Wanda on the cheek in farewell and waves to you smiling before leaving. You switch foot weights when you are alone with Wanda. Talking to other people is not exactly your strong suit these past few months.

"So..." You start clumsily when she turns to you.

"So." She repeats equally embarrassed. You then clear your throat and rush to pull your cell phone out of your pocket and hand it to her.

"Give me your number." You say. "That way we can arrange...whatever this is."

Wanda smiles weakly as she accepts the device, and you ignore the curious look when she notices the cracks in the screen. A moment later she hands the cell phone back to you.

"I gotta go." She says. "I need to pick up my kids from school."

You nod slightly and force a smile to say goodbye, and Wanda copies your movement before leaving.

You stare at your cell phone next, noticing the slight anxiety in your stomach as you read the contact "Wanda Maximoff" on the screen.

//-//

By the weekend, you are miserable. Just like the first few months.

You spilled some tea under your bed, and when you went to clean it up, you ended up taking the objects that were lying there. And then you found a crumpled piece of paper.

It was your farewell speech. The words you wrote down to speak on the day of the funeral. The paper you pulled out of your pocket when you got home from the ceremony and probably fell under the bed when you collapsed on the floor from crying so hard.

Suddenly your chest tightened and you couldn't breathe. But you didn't want your mother to worry, so you concentrated on remembering the exercises your therapist had taught you.

And when the room started to get too small, you left.

But because it was cold and rainy, you had just taken a hot shower and had decided to brew tea before you finished putting on a sweater, you had bent down to pick up your socks, and the liquid fell on the floor.

You went outside without your shoes, and your mother let out a worried exclamation when she saw you standing outside, staring at nothing.

"Honey?" She asked walking out the door after seeing you through the kitchen window. "Honey, what is it?"

You didn't answer. Your face was wet. Your mother's hands wrapped around your shoulders, and she gently pushed you inside, worried that you would end up getting hypothermia.

"I'm fine." You gasped as she led you inside, but she just shook her head. "I'm fine."

"No, honey." She retorted making you frown. "You're not."

"Mom."

"Sit down."

And then there were blankets around you, and socks on your feet. And your mother was in the kitchen, on the phone, but everything seemed stuffy. You began to be absent again. Thousands of memories flashing through your eyes.

An image of yourself on that living room floor, laughing while your girlfriend had her arms wrapped around you. Your mother was pouring a glass of wine for each of you, and you were happy to tell her about your engagement.

Then an image of you running across the room, trying to dodge the tickles your father tickled you while you laughed.

Then a puppy in your hands on the floor. You looked at it fondly, laughing at how cute it looked.

Looking down, you saw a hand on your thigh. It was your wife's, the ring on her finger. She smiled at you. You were happy because that was the day you told your mother about the house purchase.

You gasped slightly when you felt someone's hand on your shoulder suddenly.

"I need you to tell me three things you can see." It was Agatha. God, you should have been out of reaction long enough for her to get here. Wiping away your tears, you took a deep breath, trying to reason straight.

"I... I..." You started, but your brain didn't seem to obey you. You took another deep breath. You could see the carpet, so you told her so.

"Two more." Agatha asked tenderly, her hand caressing your back from top to bottom.

"The... table." You replied crying. "I can see the table."

"That's right, honey." She said. "Just one more now. Tell me what else?"

"My feet." You add breathlessly. "I can see my feet."

"Now breathe with me, okay?" She asks. "Like I taught you."

The exercises help you to calm down again. You apologize for scaring your mother, and for making Agatha drive to your house, but neither of them is upset with you. You feel exhausted, but the doctor wants to talk to you after she accepts the cup of coffee your mother offers her.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" She asks as you sit on the covered porch, fluffy pillows around you.

You lower your gaze to the floor, sniffling lightly.

"I found my grief speech." You count. "Under my bed. The next minute I was outside."

Agatha sighs.

"You ready to talk about the accident."

You raise your eyes quickly, frowning, because it wasn't a question.

"W-what?"

She takes a deep breath, crossing her legs.

"It's suffocating you." She clarifies. "You need to talk or these attacks will happen again."

"I-I don't..."

"It won't be today." She interrupts with a tender smile. "Tonight you need to sleep. But we won't prolong this any longer. You need to talk about it, even if it’s only to scream."

Clenching your jaw, you hold back your tears as Agatha takes one last look at you before getting up. She murmurs that she will see you on Monday, but you don't look at her.

//-//

You don't sleep well on Sunday. And it's definitely because you can't stop thinking about your appointment.

And it goes well for the first twenty minutes. Agatha doesn't pressure you, and agrees to hear about your week, without mentioning the incident on Thursday.

There is a pause after you have told her about the dog barking noise in the early morning and then you know it is time to speak up.

"I was driving." You say softly suddenly, ignoring the feeling that your throat wants to close up. Agatha has her hands folded in her lap as she listens to you. "She...she was sleeping in the passenger seat." You swallow dryly, trying to count and not get caught up in the memory again, your heart racing. Talking is almost like going back there. "I looked at her for a moment and I got distracted... and then... we just..."

You only realize that you are crying because tears fall on your hand. You blink, sniffling. Taking a deep breath, you continue.

"We fell into the water, and Nat...she just...I couldn't get her belt off." You gasp breathlessly. "The water just...kept coming up around us. And she looked at me, and... she just shook her head like she knew what was going to happen." You tell between sobs. Agatha's eyes water, but she doesn't interrupt. "I just...she pushed me. She pushed my hands away and she told me she would follow me. And god... my dumb brain believed her!" You confess angrily. "She told me she was right behind me! And I swam out and when I came up she wasn't with me."

You shut up, not being able to tell anymore through the sobs. You can't even see the office clearly because of the tears.

It takes a moment for you to speak again, your head down.

"When I swam back, the car was completely covered with water everywhere" You recount. "I...I was going to dive again.... I wanted to get her out of there. But the people who saw the accident jumped in after us. And they pulled me out of the water. And I kept thinking that if I hadn't been distracted, she...she would be...."

"No." Agatha interrupts by offering you a tissue. "Natasha had a stomach injury, don't you remember?" She counters and you gasp, the words echoing in your brain. "That's why you couldn't remove the belt."

And then you were remembering clearly now.

Soft music echoed in the car as you hummed the tune and drove to your friends' house. Your wife mumbled softly beside you, making you smile as you watched the sleeping figure. The red hair in front of her face.

"Hey sleepyhead." You called softly, looking away from the track for a moment. "We're almost there."

Nat muttered in agreement. You bit your lip, thinking she looked beautiful. And then you heard a noise, and a white light in the window. You barely had time to frown when the impact threw your car off the road.

Your body tensed immediately as you sat up, looking around with desperation. The car was sinking fast and you turned to Nat.

A wound on her forehead was bleeding, and she was clearly disoriented as you touched her hands. You hurried to unbuckle her belt, but it was jammed tightly in her waist, and you gasped in shock at the wound.

"N-no." You grumbled, trying to move the metal, but Nat gasped in pain, pushing your hands away. You could barely breathe in desperation. Your feet were freezing, because the water was already at your ankles. "Babe, move please. We have to get out."

Nat advanced toward you, taking off your belt. You tried to touch her, but she pushed your hands away again, intending to guide you out.

" Sweetheart, go! Open the door! " she commanded and you shook your head, the water on your knees. Nat forced a smile, the tears in her eyes made your stomach turn. "Don't worry love. I'm right behind you."

As you opened the door, the water moved all the way into the car, and you held your breath Nat repeated the words "I'm right behind you" one more time. And then you swam out.

When you reached the surface, you were alone.

Sobbing, you couldn't say anything else to Agatha, and she proceeded to stroke your back, trying to soothe you with words of affirmation.

"I need you to remember some things honey." She says tenderly. "You couldn't have helped Natasha. She got stuck. You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened." Agatha whispers to you, and you sob. "Remember the investigation, okay? The police said that the driver of the truck was drunk and hit your car after he fell asleep. It wasn't your fault." Agatha says trying to remind you. You gasp, countless memories flooding your head at once. "Say that for me, will you?" She asks and you gasp. "Tell me it wasn't your fault."

You sob, burying your face in your hands. It takes a moment, but you repeat the words.

"It wasn't my fault." You whisper breathlessly. "It...it wasn't my fault."

When you leave therapy that day, you feel different.

You think that it is the healing process that is beginning to work. You still have a long way to go, but you have the feeling that a weight has been lifted off your back, because you have started to believe your own words. You could not have saved Natasha.

There is still a deep sadness in you, but you still buy your favorite drink on the way home, and try to stay in the living room for a few hours before going to your room when you are inside.

#wanda maximoff #wandaxreader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda imagine #wanda imagines #sorry for your lost #wandaxyou

411 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 3 years

Note

FINALLY SOMEONE SAID THE TRUTH.

I admit that i enjoyed act 3 but it feels like really rushed i have so much complain with that.

The build up until act 2 was so good it give us so much premise but the final blow si meh. Sorry that i want to share thing long rant with you

1. Why the final talk is with yae, no offense to her but we need ei to explain not to mention she witness khaenriah downfall so she can give us more information, i feel like they do it for the plot armor so they can just keep dragging this

2. So many things that quite inconsistant, the shogun is show no mercy to anyone that even did a little thing outside what she think its right, how come she can still have a talk with signora, when sara is falling like that, and also there is no clarification about sara right now.

The traveler was so done at first they refuse to help thoma and ayaka at the beginning. But they seem so happy and forget everything how come they are not RAGE ( okay maybe this is to bias and personal) when this nation provide nothing about our siblings information and also why they are not mention anything about their problem in ei stroy quest. Its nonsense! She is right in front of youu, ask about your siblings, ask about khaenriah, ask about ukmown god!!. How come they can just forget like that. Also mihoyo really waste the potential about twin things i thing ei will give us so much help bcs of the sympathy that we both rn lost our twin but noooo.

3. Kokomi seem lost some brain cell, she make a very succesfull grand intro but she become meh in act 3, how come a great strategist like her let the sus sponsorship slip just bcs they are desperate, not to mention her screen time is really small and her role seem so unsignificant and it feels lile she is a plain npc.

4. The awesome world quest that we have done doesnt get any mention at all! Inazuma owe us so much with cleansing sakura, thunder sakura, tatarigami, obarashi quest. It has so much potential that yae or ei or anyone else aknowledge what traveler has been done but nooo.

cracks knuckles... i suppose it's time for my promised dissertation. interestingly enough, you touched on a lot of the main issues i had with chapter III.

i think that if i had to pin the main issue, it's a lack of overall cohesiveness? we were jumping all over the place without the chance to ever flesh things out. inazuma is a smaller cast, but i feel like we didn't get to see any of them shine. since i'm most interested in the genshin characters, i'll break down my problems by going over everyone and their (lack) of impact on the story.

was ayaka not questioned or placed under suspicion for being close to thoma before his escape? i wanted to see her broken up over her duties as they relate to the yashiro commission, paired with having someone she genuinely cares about in danger. it would've been an interesting struggle if she was forced to choose one or the other. instead she just kinda took a back seat.

speaking of thoma, i don't even have anything to say, because he just... was there? for .0001 seconds. said "lol this sucks ig" and that's about it. i know we're going to get a story for him in the future since he's a 5* but i'm not getting my hopes up 😭 then in the raiden shogun's character story, man is peachy keen! be upset with the raiden shogun! have some inner conflict! even if it's just using loaded language because he's under surveillance for going against the raiden shogun, that'd be so cool. saying something like,

"Traveler, what's with that expression? Oh please, there's nothing to worry about. We're under the Statue of the Omnipresent God's protection. Nothing bad has ever happened here." *wink*

i also don't know what to say about gorou. he was... there....... i think. what is he fighting for? what are the stakes for him? what makes him place so much trust into kokomi? i'm out of things to say about him because i don't remember anything he did or said.

kokomi... oh kokomi... i was so hyped. so excited. i thought that maybe we could see a foil to the raiden shogun. that she'd have a moment where she's forced to realize, just like her opponent, sacrifices must be made that will hurt people who will never understand why she made them. or maybe something to show her military prowess. but instead she just accepts a mysterious patron's help (?), sees her people aging like the grateful dead from JJBA, and goes oh well. that sucks. what can ya do. oh bye traveler i guess, good luck with that. ????????????? HUH... similar case to thoma where she's gonna get a character story but like. she won't be the leader of the resistance anymore. that was her whole shtick. they took her shtick away. also she forced me to interact with more NPCs whose names i've already forgotten so i'm tilted about that still.

KUJOU SARA... AN INJUSTICE. A DISGRACE. a slap to my woman loving face. the build up was there. yae miko's comments about sara probably knowing the tenryou commission is involved in shady dealings, but is choosing not to think about it. sara being forced to confront reality and challenge her adopted father with the truth. being able to blaze a new path for herself in the process. when she started running to the raiden shogun i was ultra hyped up. sara, a devotee to the shogun for so long, was about to see her god interacting with the same people who led inazuma to this awful state. how would she react? would she stay ignorant, like yae miko so coyly said, choosing to look away in favor of following her god's footsteps? or would she be forced to recognize the raiden shogun isn't as divine as she once thought, and challenge her belief system?

we open the door to see the raiden shogun. the loading screen ensues. the camera pans to the ominous room, clouded in darkness, hinting at the ominous confrontation that is to come. the music takes a serious timbre. and then...

well fuck that potential character arc i guess. (we still don't know what sara made of any of this since she poofed out of existence from the story at this point)

kazuha also was handed a similar treatment. we've been with him for a while longer now. he is our introduction into inazuma, the one who first gets us emotionally involved by regaling us with the bittersweet tale of friendship that led him to becoming a wanted criminal. a kind soul who loves nature yet was dealt a cruel hand by fate, forced to watch his home nation turn into a hostile place, where his dear friend ultimately perished as a result. we get the scene with his friend's vision lighting back up. he parries a block from the raiden shogun, in the same area where his friend was killed by her. the parallels. the drama. except this time, he wasn't too late. he protected the traveler where he "failed" to protect his friend in the past. did he feel redemption at this? or was it a bittersweet reminder of what could've been?

WELL i guess we'll never know because we didn't get to talk to him again 😭 idk who got a bait and switch worse, him or sara. jesus christ mihoyo.

then we have signora. why is the raiden shogun talking to her? does she know about the gnosis being taken, and if she doesn't, what was her plan to get it from the archon? what does she think about scaramouche? and oh, okay, we're fighting here now. good fight + god tier music. pog pog. okay, now we've beaten her up, and raiden shogun wyd— wait no not signora her lore is still on CUPS not YET raiden shogun and— ah she's dead. okay. non nerds who didn't read artifact lore are going to know nothing about her. signora has such an interesting story, and yet... well. ok.

then we get raiden shogun redemption (?) arc. i was hype for this as well, though at that point, idk why i bothered being hype. i knew they were gonna do a cute power of friendship something or another, and i'm good with that, so long as it's executed well. what i was envisioning was like seven different buffs to correspond with the seven different visions, the dreams of those whose ambitions were stolen serving as the spear to penetrate the raiden shogun's heart of stone. maybe a hydro vision giving us extra healing for a time, with the voice acting over it being like,

"Even if the rest of the world forgets us, let our will carry you through this one final time. Succeed where we couldn't, Traveler."

so on and so forth.

but instead we got— you get the idea at this point. why bother spelling it out anymore.

at that point i was surprised the raiden shogun didn't go "oopsie woopsie!! we made a fucky wucky!!!" because that was the vibe i was getting. i love ei, don't get me wrong, but i wanted to see her challenged with what she had done to inazuma in the past year. maybe meeting NPC #2345259 who lost her sister to the vision decree or something, reminding ei of the love she held for her sister... being forced to come to terms with the extent of what she's done in pursuit of eternity.

anyway. please for the love of god mihoyo hire better writers for the main story. that is all i ask. thank you.

#genshin impact spoilers #answered #Anonymous

154 notes · View notes

confinesofmy · 2 years

Text

a few days ago i asked “hey does anyone want to read the semi-organised scraps of my abandoned wip where kendall overdosed in early season two, had a really bad series of seizures, and basically got thrown into a new york penthouse “for his own good” to “heal” “away from public scrutiny” but then just stayed there, trapped, until his dad died and his siblings discovered that he wasn’t in a catatonic state in some facility upstate like they thought but instead, like, in solitary confinement on the upper west side in a stripped out apartment with no way of contacting the outside world?”

well, here it is. 🙈

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there are content warnings sprinkled here and there but for the most part this is exactly what it says on the tin. i thought it was too bleak to continue writing or put on ao3 but however bleak you’re imagining it from the description is probably just about right. it’s not that bad.

thanks everyone who said they were interested in reading, btw! i hope you enjoy.

okay, so, i waffled on... pretty much every facet of this, all the time. almost everything i publish contains 200 secret AUs that no one ever sees but me, so this is going to read like a fever dream, maybe? there will be endless contradictions.

i've actually never shown anyone an unpolished piece of fiction writing outside of creative writing "drafts" in school that i reverse-engineered from finished works to make it look like i was doing drafts the way my teachers wanted me to. so in lieu of any known standard of formatting for this, it'll be notes first, then fic fragments, but feel free to skip around obviously. including the notes is probably a completely unnecessary intimacy on my part but they inform the writing immensely so i don't feel like this sprawl is complete without them.

notes wordcount: 1,628 fic fragments wordcount: 6,482

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NOTES

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disclaimer for the viewers at home: any medical stuff about status epilepticus and the treatment plans is heavily researched but that does not mean it's accurate, both bc i'm no expert and bc kendall's care is open to manipulation. by that i mean that if logan wants him to stay on benzos forever then that's something he can make happen and something that would be communicated to kendall as necessary, even if it isn't. but i feel obligated to say some quick (ish? not really, sorry) things about status epilepticus just so you have a frame of reference for it outside of the context of fiction.

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so, status epilepticus is a seizure lasting longer than 5 minutes or a series of seizures that occur too close together to allow adequate recovery between. it is most common in children and elderly populations and has a vast variety of causes. in kendall's case, his generalised tonic-clonic SE is caused by snorting too much park coke (cocaine insufflation specifically is actually v unlikely to cause SE but oh well) and i think it probably lasted less than an hour total, which sounds long but for SE it really isn't.

the main factor in recovery from SE is etiology. if SE is a symptom of something more serious, like a brain tumour or an infection or drug-resistant epilepsy, you're obviously more likely to have a worse time recovering. in kendall's case, his GTCSE is coke-induced, and he's 39 and in good health, so realistically, 6 months down the line he probably wouldn't have the lingering symptoms he's implied to have in this narrative premise, from what i understand.

something that i waffled on was making his GTCSE refractory (drug-resistant). this complicates treatment during the continuing seizure/s, which in turn complicates outcome and recovery, and could explain kendall experiencing lingering neurological symptoms like speech apraxia, chronic headaches, personality changes, etc. it was at about this point in my research that i realised i was getting a little too bogged down in neurology and decided to leave it up in the air, which is very annoying after that much research. but regardless, i settled on: maybe kendall's lingering symptoms are neurological, maybe they're psychological, who knows.

another specific point of contention was kendall's speech patterns, during and after recovery. i did a bit of research into acquired apraxia of speech to help me write accurate speech patterns but the whole topic became this kind of no man's land. if his GTCSE, refractory or otherwise, caused a traumatic brain injury, that could manifest as, like, anything. if i could only research one more topic for the rest of my life, it would probably be TBIs simply because the sky's the limit on how their symptoms can manifest. so once again, psycho, neuro, it's both, it's neither, who knows. i hesitantly decided his speech difficulties would be one (or two or three) of like ten categories of speech dysfunction but honestly never did quite settle it.

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for point of reference, i think this might be the penthouse apartment that i reference in this fic except in my fic it has balconies. trying to find the perfect apartment in new york w a budget of 100 gazillion dollars is like, weirdly difficult. strange city.

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also the short conservatorship comments in the notes are only somewhat researched but if there's one thing we learned from the free br*tney situation it's that conservatorships' rules are often open to wild interpretation in reality, as well. :(

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all! that! aside! here's the original notes.

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content warnings for abuse, isolation, substance abuse, basically everything you'd expect but also some descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

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Okay so Kendall is basically abducted and imprisoned by his dad who takes advantage of Kendall's isolation to enact cruelties upon him. Things are very bad for Kendall.

Eventually the family finds out where he's been the whole time. This coincides with his father's... Death, probably?

Someone new takes over his conservatorship. Kendall has to relearn how to be a person.

He's okay. Presumably his conservatorship ends but then again maybe not.

⠀

48 hours in Icelandic rehab. A few days of helping out daddy. He gets fucked up before an event and winds up experiencing a series of seizures in public.

He wakes up in the hospital in bad shape, experiencing coke withdrawal and neurologically out of sorts. A doctor tells him his dad's setting something up and he'll be able to leave soon.

He's transferred to the apartment. Insert bad times here. His dad occasionally visits and is sometimes physically abusive. He mostly recovers from the seizures but thinks some things will never be the same.

Maybe his dad dies? His siblings find him. They tell him they had been told he was in a coma or that he was in some facility unsuccessfully relearning how to, like, breathe and blink.

His guardianship and conservatorship are either A.) nullified now that Logan is dead because he refused to name a beneficiary to it and had Kendall's doctor doing assessments every 90 days with instructions to stop approving the guardianship if Logan were to ever lose control.

B.) He is inherited by a family member who claims to want him emancipated but sabotages the court case so they can keep him under their thumb. Or maybe they do emancipate him. Or maybe they don't, but it's not a control thing, it's a genuine act of caring.

C.) He gets a public guardian who encourages him to seek emancipation or, alternatively, is just a neutral public servant who truly wants to accommodate his needs.

D.) Nullified bc Logan paid lawyers in advance to bail Kendall out ASAP if Logan isn't the conservator anymore.

Whatever the case, Logan's dead. Kendall's not going to be getting any more visits from him. Kendall's allowed to go outside when he wants. He's allowed to buy things from stores. He can go out to eat. He can talk with people he knows on the phone or in person.

Recovering from his seizures was a long and difficult process but recovering from his year/s? in the apartment isn't going to be much easier.

⠀

The day of the party it's probably been about 10 days since Kendall did the manslaughter.

The partygoers who witness/record Kendall's seizures don't actually know who he is, so most of the original videos hit the web as like "guy has seizure at nyc houseparty" and like a snapchat of Kendall seizing and then the phone slowly panning to a guy making kind of the 😳 face or maybe like a tiktok of Kendall seizing with the "he need some milk" audio

The videos go kind of viral, at least viral enough that there are hundreds of permutations of them out there. A caramelldansen remix, memes galore. Kendall's identity is leaked in the early stages of it going viral, before the PR teams had identified the videos, so the main spike comes from Kendall-specific memes like a remix of the Iceland interview: "I saw their plan, dad's plan was better b-b-better dad's plan was better" interspersed with clips of him convulsing at the party.

Meanwhile, Kendall's drifting in and out of consciousness, completely out of it when he is awake, his level of possible neurological damage completely up in the air.

⠀

Oh btw Greg puts him in the recovery position against his kitchen bar while he's convulsing and he 100% dislocates his fucking shoulder because of that.

⠀

New York Presbyterian

Neurological screening exam, blood tests, toxicology screening, an EEG, lorazepam 4mg 2 or 3 times, then levetiracetam after the seizures cease. Continuing levetiracetam prescription after, but probably not as a medical necessity.

40 minute long seizure, continuous video EEG for 24 hours, first MRI after the seizure stopped, a second (third?) three days after

Speech language pathologist, maybe assistive tech like a pecs board. Neurologist. Physical therapist?

Immediate after-effects exhaustion, headaches, vomiting, light and noise sensitivity, memory loss short term and long term, difficulty reading and thinking and speaking, confusion, mystery bruises, achiness, personality changes,

⠀

It's honestly easier to list Kendall's privileges than to list all his limitations of freedom.

He's allowed to go to the bathroom by himself, usually.

He's allowed to bathe by himself, usually, but if he takes too long someone's coming in to fetch him. He's no longer allowed to sit in the shower for hours like he sometimes had at first.

He's allowed to feed himself and is allowed to use a spoon and fork with supervision.

He's allowed to sleep with no direct supervision for the most part. Random check-ins happen but they're sporadic.

He's more or less allowed to choose a room to be in during waking hours.

He's allowed to read the books that are in the apartment.

He's allowed to get food out of the fridge so long as it's not an unhealthy interest. He can get a snack but he's not allowed to binge.

He's allowed to request groceries and he's allowed to request meals. Doesn't mean he'll get them.

He's allowed to ask for non-food items but it's a rare thing to actually get approval on those. Books are the most likely to get approved.

He's allowed to ask permission to make supervised phone calls to certain people and private calls to Logan.

He's allowed to wear a watch that he asked for early on, the only signifier of the passage of time aside from the location of the sun and the staff changing.

He's allowed to choose his own clothes. This list is short enough that I guess that bears mention.

He's allowed to work out in the at-home gym after he finds out that it exists but his handler can make him stop if it seems inappropriate.

⠀

FIC FRAGMENTS

⠀

In his new apartment, Kendall is closer to the household staff than he's ever been before.

It's not real closeness. He's not friends with them, he doesn't really talk with them, not like friends talk. But they're the only human faces that he sees, other than his father's. They come and go on their own schedules, something he's not yet allowed to do, and they bring him things from the outside world.

For the first time since childhood, Kendall really takes a moment to consider himself from the help's perspective. His forced house arrest, his quiet despondency, his one and only visitor.

These people, some of whom live with him in the apartment, some of whom he's never quite learned the names of, know things about him and his father that would make headlines for weeks. They have to, as close to it all as they are.

⠀

After a couple of days of doing his little song and dance to support daddy and prevent a hostile takeover, Kendall, seeing no end in sight, descends into a huge bender.

He killed a guy, he relapsed, his ex-wife doesn't want him around his kids for a while, he lost all leverage he had against his dad, he let Stewy down. He feels hollowed out and empty, a puppet with his dad's hand up his ass. So why not do all the drugs he can get his hands on? What's it matter at this point?

He winds up experiencing a major medical event in front of a bunch of people and needing to be hospitalised both to recover and to detox. After that, instead of going back to lifelessly working for daddy while trying to find his way into a medical coma, it is determined it would be for the best if Kendall just disappeared for a little while, just so he won't embarrass the family any further.

The place he's sent isn't rehab. And it's not really an institution either. He does not have the words to describe it.

He's not allowed to choose anything. He's not allowed to be completely alone in the kitchen. It's rare to be left alone in the den. If he spends too much time in the shower, first someone knocks and then, if he doesn't come out, they unlock the door and pull him out. Not unkindly. It's all very clinical, routine. Like he's a child who can't be unsupervised or he'll get into trouble.

⠀

He thinks there might be cameras.

He sneaks into the kitchen one day to make a fruit plate, managing to avoid the attention of that day's minder. After he's done slicing some strawberries he finds himself looking at the knife, the little flecks of flesh and the red stains lingering behind. He's not sure how long he looks at it before quietly washing it and returning it to its place.

The next day, it's gone, along with the entire knife block. The next time he opens the cutlery drawer, he discovers the butter knives have also disappeared. The man who was watching him that day is also gone and Kendall never sees him again.

⠀

He has to ask permission to use the phone. Then usually the person he's asking has to ask someone higher up, maybe then they also have to ask someone higher up. Kendall is beneath them. Kendall is beneath everyone.

When he gets permission, maybe half the time (and he starts asking less and less), the number is dialled for him. The first time he had been knocked so off-kilter by having to wait for permission that when the other person picked up he didn't know what to say and ended the call.

⠀

He gets visits from a lifestyle coach and a masseuse every week. He thinks they might think he's people, at first.

Their first visits were both a surprise, a simple, "Kendall, the lifestyle coach is here," was his first awareness. He'd spent the morning in a dull haze sitting silently on the couch after he'd finished the breakfast he'd been given.

The lifestyle coach, Pete, knew his name already and seemed to be under the impression that Kendall was looking to fulfill a fitness goal after a health scare. He asked Kendall questions about his diet and exercise levels, Kendall half-heartedly answering that he's been having difficulty eating and that he used to exercise more.

From there, they move on to abstract questions that Kendall doesn't know how to answer. "What are you looking to get out of this experience?" is the first.

"Uh. H-has anyone talked to you? Any of my, the team?"

"I got your intake form so I know you're interested in maintaining a healthy diet and exercise level and I know we'll be doing some physical therapy with your shoulder but I was wondering if you had any other specifics in mind? Anything you'd like to prioritise?"

Kendall blinks slowly. He thinks this might be the first real human conversation he's had in weeks. The first conversation where the other person doesn't know that he's broken. He barely knows how to navigate it.

"N-no, just that... Will be fine."

Pete looks him over, takes in his hunched shoulders, his downcast eyes, his hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him.

"Okay. So Kendall, tell me a bit about yourself. What are you into?"

Kendall thinks about making some shit up but he's too tired to lie directly. He barely has the energy to speak at all. His mind slips around, trying to find something, anything.

"I used to like listening to m-music. Hip-hop. Uh, and rap," he says. He had kind of hoped more words would come after that but he couldn't think of any so he just closed his mouth.

"Oh cool, that'll be good for workouts," Pete says and smiles encouragingly in a way that Kendall would've found condescending before but now finds genuinely comforting.

"Yeah, I guess," Kendall mumbles, averting his gaze to the carpet. He hasn't had his phone since he was at the hospital and doesn't think he'll ever see it again. There aren't any TVs or computers in the apartment either. He's not really allowed to listen to music.

Pete must get that Kendall's not going to do any better with more questions because he stands up and says, "Alright, great. So do you wanna show me your gym?"

Kendall didn't know there was a gym. He looks to the guard posted by the door, trying to communicate that, and is thankful when the guard turns, purposefully walking down the hall. If Pete notices, he doesn't comment.

When they reach the gym, Pete requests that Kendall do some range of motion exercises so he can take a look at what he's working with. The first one is just standing.

"So does your back hurt?" Pete asks casually.

"Sometimes." Kendall answers. He hasn't really thought about it.

Pete steps forward and asks, "Can I touch you?" clearly expecting a quick answer right before he does. He freezes awkwardly when he doesn't get it.

"Oh. Uh, yeah." Kendall answers after a couple of beats.

"So, it was your right shoulder, yeah?" Pete places one hand on Kendall's right scapula and the other on his right delt, cupping the muscles carefully. Kendall sucks in a sharp breath, feeling unpleasant sparks of sensation where Pete's hands rest.

After a short pause, Pete continues. "So aside from a little bit of remaining joint instability, you're also keeping your shoulders rounded and what this is doing is putting a lot of stress on your joints and muscles and in the short term that causes shoulder and back pain, which leads to the muscles tightening up further. It's kind of a self-perpetuating problem. Today's bad posture becomes tomorrow's injury. Add in that a dislocation makes you vulnerable to more dislocations and you've got a real problem here." As he speaks his hand dances up and down Kendall's back, tracing muscles from the small of his back to his shoulder and above. Kendall feels like he's going to jump out of his skin but tries not to show it.

"This is where your shoulder should be," Pete says, gently manipulating Kendall's arm up and back, then adjusting his elbow to line up with his shoulder. "Does that feel better or worse?"

It feels like Kendall's at a meeting. Or at a gala. It feels like he's showing off for his dad, trying to be as tall as he can make himself but it's not tall enough. His eyes sting with tears and he tries to blink them away before Pete can notice.

"It feels fine," he croaks.

"That's good. That's a really good sign," Pete pats his shoulder lightly and then thankfully backs off.

From there they do more range of motion exercises, Pete occasionally correcting Kendall's form and pointing out areas they can work on. It's been years since Kendall's had a trainer and he finds the whole thing unexpectedly overwhelming. No one's paid this much direct attention to him in... Maybe months, actually.

Pete guides him through a few strength reps, taking note of his strengths and weaknesses and then hands him a bottle of water and tells him he can stop for the day. Kendall starts drinking just to have something to do.

"Alright so I think weekly appointments are going to work out perfect with your current fitness level. I'll email you some exercises I want you to do before our next appointment and in the meantime I want you to keep me up to date on how you're feeling, we don't wanna move too fast, okay?"

Kendall nods, unsure how much any of that is going to apply to him when he's not allowed to call people on the phone without permission.

Pete also gives him a food guide printout to follow, telling him to modify it however he needs so long as he eats.

"You're going to be building some muscle so your eating needs to reflect that. You said earlier that you've been having some trouble with eating so really I'd say just try your best to eat whatever you feel like you can. If it's healthy that's a bonus, if it's not that's okay."

Kendall nods again and murmurs his agreement but is once again thinking about the contrast between the level of control over his own life that Pete thinks he has versus the amount he really has. He guesses he could tell him, surely Pete's going to have to sign an NDA anyway. But then wouldn't he be just another person who treats Kendall like a zoo animal? Maybe it would be easier that way.

"You did good today," Pete's voice breaks through his thoughts. "We're gonna have you back in shape in no time."

The compliment hits way too hard, sending a thrill through him that he ignores entirely. "Thank you," he says gruffly.

"Anytime. See you next week, dude."

And with that, Pete's gone, and Kendall's back to finding a nice spot to look at on the wall until someone makes him stop.

⠀

content warnings: suicidal ideation, and like. light incest. (kendall gets an inappropriate erection. :/ )

⠀

Here's a thought. Maybe Kendall thinks it's for his own good. Maybe he's grateful that even now, when he's tried to kill his dad and ruin everything, when he's fucked himself up so bad that he can barely even string words together, that his dad is still willing to take care of him.

He's placed in the apartment and notices that he's never left completely alone and he thinks that it's probably safer, that there's someone watching him to keep him from hurting himself any further. He notices the lack of sharp objects and that no one ever gives him his phone back so he can't call anyone to get him drugs, notices that there isn't any alcohol in the apartment. The doors to the balconies and the elevators are locked at all times and he isn't given keys. He thinks about the care in such gestures, that his dad's going to help keep him in line no matter what.

He can't leave and maybe that should frighten him but he imagines what leaving would look like. His shaky hands and his stuttering speech, embarrassing his family by simply existing where people can see him. There's no real reason for him to leave anyway, he's burned bridges with everyone at this point and he's afraid of what he might try if he did get loose. Best case scenario he'd go to Waystar but it's not like he can work, not like this.

He's been wanting to die since the moment he pulled himself out of the water and clawed his way up the riverbank but now when he's come closer to death than ever before his dad has rescued him and told him to live. This is probably the kindest thing his father's ever done for him.

Every morning when he's gently awakened to be brought to the kitchen island to sit until he finishes eating, he thinks of it as his father encouraging him. During his physical therapy sessions when he's sweating and panting and nearly crying from pain. During his speech pathology appointments when his stutter is unignorable he clings to the fact that his dad thinks he's worth the trouble of fixing.

When his dad finally comes to visit for the first time he finds it all boiling over and he almost runs to his dad to hug him, murmuring "thank you, dad" again and again with barely any mistakes because he's put so much preparation into finally having this moment. He feels arms wrapping around his back and he starts crying, sobbing, and his dad holds him through it and presses a kiss to his temple and he thinks he's never felt so loved.

His dad's visits are infrequent but treasured. Kendall doesn't really know why he visits at all but he always tries to tell his dad about all his recent progress, words sometimes muddled or halting. Unlike when he was little, his dad doesn't get mad at him for his stutter now, he just listens and occasionally murmurs encouragements. Before he leaves they always hug and after the first time Kendall doesn't cry anymore he just relaxes into it like a warm bath.

One day he does the most humiliating thing he's ever done in his entire life. He can't help it, he doesn't know why it happens, but it does. His dad is hugging him goodbye, rubbing his back through his thin t-shirt. It had been a great visit, he'd made his dad laugh and aside from his stutter he'd only mixed up his words a few times throughout the visit. But something goes wrong as he feels his dad's fingers firmly tracing the outline of his shoulder blade, there's some kind of misfire in his stupid, broken brain, and he feels himself start to harden in his sweatpants.

He rips his hips back and pulls out of his dad's arms stuttering out apologies as he turns away and tries to hide his shame. His face feels like it's on fire.

After a long pause, he hears his dad say, "It's okay, son. I'll see you next time." and the shame slips away like sand. He's forgiven, even for this. The promise that his dad will return feels like absolution.

⠀

Here's another thought, Logan moves Kendall into his penthouse duplex and whenever anyone visits he arranges for Kendall to be on thrice the benzos he's prescribed. Anyone who visits think he's turned into a drooling incoherent vegetable and feel uncomfortable looking at him.

Maybe even after he's out and Logan's dead, that idea still slips out sometimes bc the siblings prefer it to the truth, that Logan abducted him, drugged him, and abused him, while they watched.

⠀

content warnings: substance abuse, smth like an overdose, seizure pov, more descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

⠀

s02e02 Kendall does too much park coke at the party and has a prolonged series of seizures. His dad makes sure he's "taken care of."

⠀

It's been ten days since he crawled his way back to Shiv's wedding for an alibi that didn't matter.

Kendall's walking out of Greg's bathroom for the third time that night, coke still dripping down his numb throat. A bad feeling hits him, inexplicable but so intense he can't ignore it. The polar opposite of the high he's expecting.

He looks around the room like he can find the source. Takes an inventory of his body. There's nothing. Just a disconnected sense of impending doom that he can't shake.

He grabs another beer, starts scouting the crowd. Maybe someone here can fuck the feeling out of him.

Greg sneaks up on him, his freakishly huge hands on Kendall's shoulders, pulling him back down to earth. Starts talking about his back pain. Within a minute, Kendall's drifted back into the welcoming embrace of the party.

He drifts aimlessly, coke making the bass in the techno music feel like it's thrumming in his bones. He's becoming less sure that a fuck would even fix him, the feeling of dread still at full intensity.

He's walking to the open plan kitchen to sit down on one of Greg's few pieces of furniture when a spike of pain splits his head in two and he feels every muscle in his entire body lock up. The last thing he sees is dozens of pairs of ankles, sideways from where he is on the floor.

⠀

[ID: A 15 second LiveLeak video entitled, "Guy Having Seizure At Nyc Houseparty." A group of people in an apartment surround an unconscious man on the floor who is convulsing. A voice from off-camera shouts, "Should we call 911?" End ID.]

[ID: A 6 second Snapchat video. Caption reads "this party craaaaaazy 😳😳😳" Loud techno music is playing and a lot of people are talking. A man is lying on the floor having a convulsive seizure while people nearby dance. The phone's camera switches to the front lens and we see the blond young man taking the video widen his eyes apprehensively as he takes a drink. End ID.]

[ID: A looping TikTok video of a man having a seizure at a party with the "he need some milk" sound. End ID.]

⠀

Kendall wakes up on the floor, Greg crouching over him, his head throbbing with pain and his mouth full of blood. He tries to speak and discovers that he can't.

⠀

Kendall wakes up and holds onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth. Everyone is yelling. The lights are so bright and he realises he's looking at a ceiling. Someone's putting glue in his hair and his head feels like it's going to burst.

⠀

Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room and feels like if he could just reach up and press his hands against his head maybe the pain would stop but his arms are too heavy and he's worried if he moves them they might shatter.

⠀

Kendall wakes up in a hospital room and there's a woman standing beside him. He tries to ask what's happening, where he is but all that comes out is "What?"

She looks at him and smiles like she understands what he meant.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Lisa. You're in the hospital because you had a series of seizures but you're going to be alright now. Your cousin is here and the rest of the family is on the way and we're gonna do everything we can to help you, okay?" she says. His attention waxes and wanes as she speaks and he thinks he catches about half of it.

"My head...?" he asks, running out of words before he's finished.

"Your head hurts? That's common for the type of seizures you had and it looks like you bumped it when you fell. We're gonna get you an MRI later just to take a look at things." She smiles reassuringly at him.

"Right," he says, without really meaning to. He feels like he's in a dream.

The woman starts saying something, voice soft, but he can already tell he's passing out and he doesn't understand any of it.

⠀

Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room. He feels like he's been hit by a bus and his mouth tastes like copper. He's also doped to the gills, he can tell.

He runs his hands carefully over his body, looking for an injury to explain this. He finds more spots that feel bruised than he can count but nothing else. Eventually he notices there's wires stuck to his head. As he investigates them with his fingers, one of them pops off. It's an electrode. He wonders if they've given him electroshock therapy.

He's still examining the electrode when the door opens and a man in scrubs walks in.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Charlie, you're at the hospital. How are you feeling?"

Kendall tries to shift focus so he can understand. Eventually he manages to croak out, "Gad."

His brow furrows. That wasn't right. Why did he say that? He tries again. "Bad."

"Can you tell me more?" Charlie asks.

After an uncomfortably long pause as he tries to find the words, Kendall says, "Hurts. What happened?"

"You had a series of convulsive seizures that we think were drug-induced and we had a tough time getting you stable. Now we're just monitoring you to be sure you don't have any more seizures. You've been here for about 15 hours."

"Where's my dad?" Kendall asks, these words coming easier than the others.

"He came earlier but he had to leave. Do you want to see if we can call him?" Charlie asks.

Kendall thinks about how fucked up and weak he feels and how hard it is to talk. Thinks about how his dad must have responded to learning that this happened because of Kendall's addiction.

"N-no."

"Alright, that's fine. I'm just gonna get that back in place, okay?" he says, gesturing to the electrode that Kendall forgot he was holding. "We need to get a good look at your brain waves so we don't miss anything important."

Kendall falls back asleep as the nurse is reattaching the electrode.

⠀

When he next awakens, Greg is there, sitting next to his bed and seemingly texting. Kendall's head hurts less, or maybe it just hurts different.

"What pay is it?" he asks, nearly startling Greg out of his chair.

"What?" Greg asks.

"What pay- What..." Kendall trails off. Why can't he fucking talk? "What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday, technically. Are you okay? I thought you were gonna die, they kept asking me how much coke you did and I didn't even know. Do you think everybody's gonna be mad at me for buying it for you? I didn't know you were gonna do that much."

Greg keeps going but Kendall doesn't really hear him. His mind's caught on Wednesday. Wasn't it Monday? How long was he asleep?

"Greg." Kendall interrupts.

Greg's mouth claps shut. After a short pause he says "They told me to call Karolina if you ever woke up. Are you good, should I go do that?"

Kendall opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. Nods instead.

While Greg is gone, Kendall takes stock of himself. He's sore, all over. His muscles feel wrung out. His head is killing him and when he finally gets his aching arm up far enough to feel around, he finds a lump on the back of his head and nearly screams with how much it hurts to even touch it.

He zones out for a while, mind slipping around as he tries to process what's happened. Was this an OD? He can't remember how much coke he did. It was probably a couple grams. But he's done more before and he'd been working his tolerance up since before the wedding. It doesn't make sense.

Karolina walks in, high heels clacking against the tiles. She sits down where Greg had been.

"So, Kendall. How are you feeling? Do you think we can talk?"

Kendall moves his tongue around for a moment, trying to speak. As Karolina opens her mouth to say something, he finally manages.

"Is dad m- m-" he swallows, tries again. "Is... dad... angry?"

Karolina's lips purse.

"Well, he was worried about you. Did Greg tell you about the videos?"

Kendall shakes his head.

"Well, apparently some of your guests decided to film you during your episode. They didn't actually know who you were but, unfortunately, Twitter put it together pretty quick and you were trending for a few hours. Now we're trying to spin it as you having epilepsy, see if we can win some public sympathy."

"Do...?" he interrupts.

"No. The doctors did some tests and they're pretty sure it was just the cocaine. They have warned us that you might develop epilepsy as a result of this event though." Karolina pauses, straightening her skirt. "Your father's arranging a place for you to stay while you recover. He doesn't want you in the public eye until you're well."

"When?" Kendall asks.

"We don't actually know. Could be weeks, could be months, or..." Karolina shifts minutely in her chair. "The doctors are going to want more tests so we can get a better idea but we've been told to be prepared for anything."

Kendall's eyes start burning before she's finished and by the end he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks. His face crumples and he lifts his hand up to cover his mouth. Karolina stands up and awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"There's no reason to assume the worst yet. You're going to have around the clock care for as long as you need it and you've got one of the best medical teams in the world. You'll be taken care of, Ken."

She stands there for a moment longer before she realises he's going to keep crying and leaves.

⠀

After she's left, he tries talking more. Speaking takes a long time because it's hard to think of words and how they fit together but it's also hard to make his mouth move properly. There are some words he can't say right, no matter how much he tries.

He assumes the headache and the muscle soreness will fade with time but what if he can never talk normally again?

Roman had told him he'd be fucked as soon as he wasn't any use to dad. Kendall had believed him. Now he literally can't say the word "business." That's how useless he is. He looks down at the open weave hospital blanket in his lap and suddenly he's tearing it apart, forcing his fingers between threads and pulling, yanking until the tear becomes too wide for his wingspan and then starting again on a new section.

When he's done the blanket is a complex tangle of string and his arms feel like the muscles are falling off the bones. He does not feel any better.

⠀

When Kendall gets out of the hospital he's still dealing with his new meds' side effects, constantly doped on the benzos and still fucked up from the seizure, the hospital stay, the disjointed things he's heard from Gerri, Karolina, Jess, his siblings. He's in shit shape and when he's summarily shuffled into a Hell's Kitchen penthouse he's really too stoned to argue.

His health aide tucks him into bed and that's the last he knows until he wakes up the next morning and his dad is sitting in the den reading paperwork.

His dad explains that Kendall is single-handedly destroying the family's reputation. The bear hug and now this? People can smell blood in the water and they're paying a lot of attention to the family at large and it's only so long before they do the math on Kendall's relapse and that K-holed moron's demise.

Ken needs to keep his head down, for the family's reputation but also for his own health. He could have died. Watching that video of him, writhing around, blood frothing out of his mouth, surrounded by disaffected druggies debating whether they should even call a fucking ambulance? It had made Logan sick, to see his son, who he had always loved so dearly and had such high hopes for, brought down so low.

Kendall's made it very clear he can't be trusted to stay off drugs and Logan is furious that Greg sourced for him. But if even that hapless little fuckstick could be swayed to give Kendall enough coke to kill himself, the solution is obvious.

Kendall needs to sit tight, no outside contact, until the whole thing blows over.

He'll have a physical therapist, a doctor to fix his voice, and a shrink to fix whatever the hell is wrong with his fucking head. They'll all be carefully vetted, so there's no use asking any of them for anything.

Kendall's also going to lose some privileges. He needs to keep things clean while he recovers. No leaving the apartment while he's like this. No need to look at the news or call anyone to bring him drugs, so no phone, no TV, and all of his financial accounts frozen. Logan will take care of anything he needs.

Kendall breaks down. Not because he feels trapped or like he's being treated unfairly. What breaks him is that he's been such an embarrassment to his dad and put his dad through so much worry, done so many unforgivable things, but Logan is still looking out for him. Still willing to see to it that he's taken care of.

He clings to his dad, shaking and sobbing, until Logan has to leave and carefully peels him off. He leaves him with the simple statement, "I love you, son. I'm gonna take care of you."

Kendall tries to return the I love you, words halting and slurred, but his dad stops him with a squeeze on his shoulder and a shake of his head, and then he's gone.

⠀

When his dad finally dies he expects to be inherited, not as a ward, but as an object. He doesn't know who it will be or what will happen to him. It scares him.

⠀

When their dad does die it's revealed that Kendall is inheriting the most shares or whatever. No one quite knows where he is other than a facility somewhere. When they find him, they're shocked.

He's skinnier. But softer. He looks healthier. But there's something deeply wrong. He's skittish, he seems slower mentally, much more sweet and shy like he was when he was really young. He cries more and not just because he's grieving. His hair is longer than it's ever been before, framing his face and long enough he has to tuck it behind his ears to keep it out of the way.

It seems like he's been holed up in this apartment, with no TV, no phone, and a bunch of other shit missing, since he was first hospitalised. There was never a facility. He thinks the raisin is still president and he doesn't know that he's 40, almost 41.

They send him for health check-ups. Find out that he's been seeing several specialists on a weekly to monthly basis the entire time, even a psychologist who refuses to communicate with them. He's in perfect health. No brain damage, no lingering physical effects aside from his stutter but it sounds like the stutter he had when they were kids so it's hard to tell if it's from the seizures or if it's just regression.

But he can't function if there's a TV on nearby. He frequently needs to be reminded to get out of the bath otherwise he'll just stay. If meals aren't scheduled he doesn't eat. He panics when he has to leave the house and doesn't try very hard to hide it. Or maybe he's just bad at hiding it now.

He's scared of crowds, startles easy. Frequently anxious in general. After two weeks he works up the nerve to ask if he can move back into the apartment. It's the biggest request he's made yet so they say yes after consulting with his new psychologist.

He moves back. Doesn't request any changes to be made to the apartment. He wants his Walkman and headphones but no phone. They get him set up with a landline phone but even then he eventually asks that the ringer be turned off and they usually have to call Jess to get in touch with him.

Rava visits frequently. She had wondered if he was dead and they'd just covered it up. Apparently at some point their divorce had gone through with all her concessions met which while at first it had relieved her eventually when no contact had been made had become a source of worry.

She tells him the kids have missed him and he's inconsolable. She holds him until he's asleep on the couch and tries not to descend into despair herself. She tries not to think about how she's going to explain this to the kids, knows that that's a question for their psychologist. Maybe his, too.

The next time she visits she's told them that their dad is feeling better but he's still sick and Sophie and Iverson have made him a get well soon card. He cries for a little while after she gives it to him but not as bad as before. She broaches the idea of bringing them next time and he panics and says no.

"I-I don't think that, that they sh-should see me. L-like this."

"Like what?"

He opens his mouth but no words escape. Fresh tears spill over his cheeks as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites, viciously.

She pulls him close, runs a soothing hand down his back, and tells him that they love him and miss him and they'll understand if he's different now, whatever that means.

"They want to see their dad, Kendall. Nothing else matters."

"Y-y-you wouldn't say th-that. If you knew w-what. What I've done."

She asks him to tell her and he breaks down. She's persistent, knows that he wants to see the kids, she asks if he's told his therapist. He nods and she suggests they book an appointment together to discuss his hang-ups, because, as she tells him, seeing the kids would be good, for him and for Sophie and Iverson.

He wants to discuss it with his therapist first, so they agree to wait until he has. His new therapist, who he's been seeing for two months at this point, thinks that if he wants to tell Rava about the car accident and about his father's abuse then he should, and so she agrees to mediate.

He decides to tell her about his dad first, selfishly. He doesn't think she'll want to talk to him ever again after she learns about the waiter and he doesn't think he's ever going to tell anyone else about what his dad did so she's his only chance to ever tell someone who will really understand.

He also, and his therapist doesn't necessarily agree with him, thinks that if Rava does allow him to have a relationship with the kids in the future, she should probably know, that-- That he spent over a year waiting by the elevator for his father to visit and hopefully not hit him. But if he did hit him, that was fine too, because Kendall was that desperate for attention. That desperate to feel useful, needed in some way.

She should know that, sometimes between visits, he would grab at himself, his chin or his shoulder, and grip to the point of bruising just to feel an echo of his father's love. She needs to know about the times his dad had been irritable and Kendall had intentionally frustrated him so they would have more time together, after his dad took out the day's stress on him. He doesn't think it would be right, for him to see her kids, their kids, without her knowing how sick he had become.

Between his stutter and his occasional meltdowns he doesn't think he can tell her with words even if his therapist helps, so he painstakingly writes two confessions, one about his dad, one about the waiter.

After his therapist explains, he hands her the one about his dad, ashen-faced.

She starts crying early, a hand over her mouth. He joins her, stressed and scared and wishing he was braver. He turns away to try and compose himself, not wanting to seem like he's looking for pity, but he can still hear as she gets progressively more upset.

When she's done she blows her nose and starts delicately drying her face of still-dripping tears. His therapist asks if she'd like to share how she's feeling and she lets out a hysterical mix between a sob and a giggle that makes Kendall duck his head in anxiety.

"Can I touch you?" she asks and he nods. She puts her hand on his shoulder, putting slight pressure until he's facing her, eyes still averted.

"I'm so sorry that happened, Ken. I'm so sorry it took so long for us to find you. That you had to suffer like that, all by yourself." Rava delicately reaches for his hand, interlocking their fingers together loosely and placing her other hand on top. She continues, "But I'm really glad that we found you because now we can help you recover from what happened. Whatever that recovery looks like. We all just want you to feel safe and comfortable."

She pauses, controlled breaths the only noise she makes for a moment.

"I don't think the things that happened with your dad were your fault, or that you did anything wrong. You were put in a terrible position that most people couldn't imagine in their worst nightmares and you did your best to get through it in one piece. None of what I just read makes me think you shouldn't be around the kids. It did help me understand how desperate you must be to see them and I can tell how much you don't want to do anything to hurt them. But you're not disgusting, Ken, you're not going to hurt them by being near them. They've missed you so much, the whole time. All they want is their dad back."

Kendall lets her words wash over him, pretends the second letter isn't burning through the couch cushion beside him. She doesn't blame him. She doesn't think he's disgusting. She still thinks he should see the kids. She wants him to feel safe.

⠀

#adam talks too much

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auroralightsthesky · 3 years

Note

Hey hope you're doing well, Can you maybe do 8. “This might help with the sores” with doc Roe🥺

Aw yiiiiiiiiiiiis honey I'd be glad to!!!! 😄😄😄😄

You had no idea why, but Grant's sores weren't getting any better. Days and days of treatment with the same medicine and nothing had improved. Even Frau Hesselberg, who owned the huge manor house couldn't figure out what was going on.

"I don't understand it," the heavy set little woman of forty said. "My son Augustus had the same thing when he was little, but it was never this bad. We've been moving him every so often to prevent this sort of thing."

"I don't understand it either Frau Hesselberg," you replied. "There's no signs of immediate infection and yet he's got this stuff crawling all over him like chicken pox."

"Maybe there's something we've missed," she concluded. "You know, before the war broke out I was studying medicine in Ireland and we studied cases like this. Yet this one still perturbs me."

"Should I call Gene in?" you asked.

"I would, just to be safe," answered Frau Hesselberg. "I'll keep watch over this one."

You went straight down the grand staircase of the house and into the kitchens where Gene was helping two other Resistance officers with a boiling pot over the stove. "Hey (y/n)," he greeted. "How's Grant?"

"Not too great," you told him. "He's got sores all over him that don't seem to be bedsores or any kind of infection. I wonder if it's an allergic reaction to the medicine that the brain surgeon has him on."

"Here, I'll have a look at him," Gene told you.

He said something in German to the two officers before following you up the staircase to the east wing of the huge manor house. You entered Grant's room a minute later, finding him still comfortably holed up in the old medieval tester bed. "Has he slept most of the day?" Gene enquired.

"On and off," Frau Hesselberg answered. "He's been in and out of it much of the morning and into early afternoon, but we've been keeping an eye out for seizures just in case."

Gene carefully inspected Grant's arms and legs and to his shock, there were nasty, scabby, reddish pink, rashlike marks all over. An odd, sticky, amber colored liquid oozed from the sores along with tiny red pinpricks of blood. "Definitely an allergic reaction," Gene said. "Probably from prolonged use of that medicine. Frau Hesselberg, do ya'll have a garden on the property?"

"Mein herb garden is out back and around the corner," Frau Hesselberg answered. "What do you need?"

"Yarrow, goldenrod and calendula if ya'll have it."

"That we do," Frau Hesselberg said. "I'll be right back."

She disappeared out the door, leaving you and Gene to tend to Grant's sores. Gene pulled a small vial from his medic's bag, putting a few drops of the earthy smelling liquid into the warm water. "Now that smells really good," you remarked.

"Tea tree oil," Gene said. "It'll disinfect the sores and the rest of it will heal it up."

You soaked a hot washcloth in the liquid, gently running it along the nasty looking sores that had popped up all over Grant. You helped him strip off his uniform, putting it to the side so that it could go into the laundry along with the uniforms of other soldiers who convalesced under the Hesselberg roof.

In no time at all, Frau Hesselberg came back with the herbs and the two of you followed Gene down to the kitchens. You both watched with awed fascination as Gene tossed the herbs into the boiling pot, extracting the oils until he was able to strain the remaining solids from the freshly boiled concoction.

"Alright, let's get to it," Gene said as you and him brought up the metal bowl containing the warm liquid.

Gene dug a few cotton balls out of the bag and began rubbing the mixture right in. "This oughtta help with the sores," he said. "Rub it in three times a day and it'll do what it's supposed to do."

It was times like these that you were most grateful to have Gene in your life. After all the shit you had gone through in getting here, you were glad that the respite had brought you two closer together.

#band of brothers #eugene roe #eugene roe x reader #hbo war #hbo war imagines #easy company

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

Text

Escape: Part 2

This is a bit different from what I usually do. @equestrianwritingsstuff recently posted a one-off piece, and I got a little bit obsessed with it. So, with her permission, this is a continuation! The original post can be found here.

Summary: After being captured and forced into a torturous reform program, Villain attempts escape-- but throws it all away to save the life of his foe.

CW//Attempted conditioning, denial of food, denial of water, intentional self injury, broken glass, blood, mentions of car crashes, collars, chains, firearms, attempted murder

“Okay.” The sigh was sharp, enough so to make Villain bite their own tongue in apprehension. “Let’s try another one.”

Nosey shuffled through the stack of papers piled before them on the desk. Villain glanced down at the pile-- noting its sheer height. He wasn’t expected to go through all those, right? No, that would certainly take all night.

“Here.” The hero before him settled on one of the pages, picking it up. “This one should be easy.”

Villain muttered something under his breath, laden with swears and insults.

��What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.” A haughty exhale. “Here. If you get this one on the first try, you can go back to your cell and... I don’t know, do whatever it is you do. I’m tired of looking at your face.”

Back to his cell. That made Villain perk up, nearly straining against the cuffs holding him firmly to the table.

“Okay, let’s just get this over with. Here’s the scenario. You’re walking along the street, and you see someone hit by a car. The car does not stop, and the victim is thrown onto the sidewalk in front of you. They are clearly alive, but severely injured. Do you:

A: Use your healing powers to treat their injuries.

B: Search the surrounding area for a civilian with medical training

C: Contact the Heroic Civilian Treatment Team to take the victim to hospital.”

“Um...”

Villain felt the hairs on the back of his neck stick up, despite being half wetted down with sweat.

If someone had been struck by a vehicle, the obvious answer would be to help them as quickly as possible. As soon as injuries like that were inflicted, the clock was already ticking.

The heroes were terribly resistant to him using his powers in any situation-- that was somewhat the whole point of the Villain Containment Practices. But in this case, it would certainly be an exception, right? Their whole job was supposed to be protecting life.

“Uh- I- I think A.” He at last croaked out. “Use my healing powers to stabilize them, then find a civilian doctor to get them to the hospital.”

Nosey sighed.

“A situation like this should always be deferred to us. Using your powers is never the answer.”

They placed down the paper, hastily rearranging the messy stack of them.

“Let’s go back to the gym. I’ll let you off with ten laps, this time.”

Villain gulped, phlegm sliding down a dry throat, as a pair of guards advanced to untie him from the table.

“C- Can I have some water? Please?”

“You’ve already lost your food privileges for the day. Do you really want to lose your water, too? You get water once you’ve earned it. For now, we’re going to the gym.

At this rate, maybe you should just become a permanent resident in our program.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The glass was mocking them.

Villain was certain of that, even as he kneeled on his cot of a bed, half delirious, half exhausted.

The glass of water sat on a small table at the bed’s end. Just a glass, hardly even filled halfway. Haphazardly placed under a faucet for a few moments without thought.

He knew he had to drink it. He didn’t have much of a choice. Tomorrow would only bring more questions, more laps, more push-ups, more lectures. It would be terrible, certainly, but the small amount of liquid would make it at least the tiniest bit more bearable. Give him the tiniest bit more strength.

It was all he had. He’d spent the day watching his classmates-- that’s what the heroes called them, they were fellow prisoners, at best-- eating their meals, while he sat at an empty table.

Just because he had started a fight didn’t mean he should have to starve. Besides, they had it coming. Stuck up ass.

Villain frowned, cracked and dry lips sticking together, and reached forth to pick up the glass.

He needed to drink it, but as soon as he did, it would be gone. He would have to earn the next few drops through countless tears and buckets of sweat. At the very least, right now, he had control. He had a choice.

Not a very good one, but...

When had he gotten to this point? Having a crisis in a barren room over a half-glass of water? He was supposed to be a villain. Others were supposed to fear him.

Besides...

Villain’s hand shook, water sloshing, even as he was careful not to lose a single, precious drop.

He didn’t know how much longer he could survive like this. Endless exercise, endless questions. Maybe they would never let him out. Maybe they wanted him to die here. Hell, they probably wanted him to die here. One less problem, drained of strength until they no longer had enough to breathe.

This was one long, drawn out execution. Even if it wasn’t, he could hardly imagine a situation in which they allowed his parting. In which they considered him at long last “reformed.”

Villain had to leave. He had to. He was leaving here either in a glorious escape, or in a body bag. Or, worse: In a hero’s uniform.

He downed the water, feeling the heavenly moisture fill his throat. It was the best thing he had ever tasted, despite the fact that water had no taste to it.

It was far less pleasant than what would come next. He knew from unfortunate experience that there were only two things that could get him out of this cell: Going to ‘class,’ or having an emergency.

The first wouldn’t work.

There was no camera in the room, he had searched long and hard to confirm that fact. At the very least, he didn’t have to do much in the way of acting. Not yet.

He swung his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed, standing, stumbling halfway to the end table.

Before throwing the glass to the floor.

It was a miracle, that the heroes allowed him glass dishware. The cup exploded, a thousand shining pieces scattering about the floor.

Now, for the unpleasant part.

Villain gritted his teeth, throwing himself onto the broken glass, ensuring that it dug into his flesh, his legs and his palms. At the very least, his screams were genuine.

“Help! Help!” He wailed. “I’m hurt! Help, please help! Oh god, that’s my blood, oh god oh god...”

There was no camera in the room, but the door was plenty thin, and in this facility, screams carried far. To ensure this, he let out a few more cries, carrying them on until the door lock was frantically turned, the door thrown open on its hinges.

Hero’s inhale was quick enough that she nearly started choking on her own breath.

“V-Villain, oh god, that’s- That’s your blood?”

Of course it was, dimwit. It was flooding from his skin, wasn’t it?

“Y- Yes. I tripped, um, oh god, oh...”

The swaying and slurring of his words were not pretend, either. Dehydration and hunger made sure of that.

“Can you walk?” How was there so much concern in her tone?

“Don’t know.”

“We need to try. I can carry you, but- We need to get to the infirmary.”

The hero hurried to their foe’s side, arms under his shoulders helping him to his feet. He could walk on his own, not well, but he could-- though Hero had no need to know that.

“Okay.”

“It’s a pretty long walk. We can take it slow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

That was exactly what they did. Their movements were so painfully slow that at times Villain wondered whether or not they were moving at all, but, after some time, they did cover some distance. The few people awake at such an hour steered clear, seeing a villain covered in blood and wanting nothing to do with it in the slightest.

The infirmary was on the bottom floor, Villain had seen it on his way in, making note of its placement. Of course, Hero wasn’t about to make him struggle down all those stairs. No. She went straight for the elevator, stepping into the isolated box with her foe and letting the doors closed.

This was it. The elevator ride would only last a few moments-- it was now or never.

As subtly as he possibly could, Villain placed his hand upon his injured leg, the minty thrum of healing powers knitting together the slices. Though, it did nothing to dry the blood that had already seeped out.

He was healed, and Hero was alone. Trapped.

By all accounts, it was a fight that Villain should have lost. He was exhausted, stomach left empty for far too long, and veins severely lacking in blood. Hero had the benefit of being well-fed, well-rested, all of it.

But that explanation left out one thing.

Villain was desperate.

He watched the small, digital screen count down the floors.

4...

3...

2...

Now!

The strike may not have been powerful, but it was aided by the sheer speed at what it was launched. Villain’s fist collided with Hero’s temple, knocking her sideways, stumbling. He wasted not a millisecond in preparing his next strike, hearing the crack of a cheekbone beneath his knuckles.

Hero let out a cry, holding her face where a bruise would certainly bloom in the hour. Limbs still soaked in scarlet, Villain swung out with his leg, catching Hero in the knee, sending her to the elevator floor with a hollow crash.

The elevator doors opened.

It was the fastest Villain had ever run in his life, he was certain of that. His legs were little more than blurs of red as he sprinted forth, tearing through a lobby that was nearly barren. An infinitesimal distance between him and freedom.

“Oh no you don’t!”

His legs came out from under him, his face striking the tile floor, almost certainly giving him an identical blessure to Hero.

The voice-- it was Nosey’s stupid, avian squawk. And, too, their polished boot struck Villain’s back.

“You really thought it’d be that easy?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The metal chafed horribly against Villain’s neck, somehow making his throat’s desiccation more acute. He laid his head against the thin carpet, spine aching terribly. The movement shifted the chain latched onto his collar, the slight clinking noise making his heartbeat stutter.

Tied up like a dog.

“Is this really necessary?” He grumbled, shifting himself to a sitting position, gazing upwards.

To Hero’s bed. Her legs dangled off the side of the mattress, hands gripped into fists around gathered bedsheets.

“We’ve been over this. That cell was a privilege, and you’ve lost it.”

“And so you chain me to the wall like a dog.”

“Exactly. You need to be under my direct supervision.”

“Yeah, whatever. Did you really have to stick this stupid collar on me?”

“I’m no happier about this than you are. But I’m not giving you free reign of my bedroom. You already tried to kill me once tonight.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Whatever. Unlike you, I actually have things to do in the morning. So, if you would please let me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“If you do something for me first.”

“You are in the worst possible position to make demands, right now.”

Villain’s sigh tore at his throat.

“I just want some water.”

“Just that? Wait. You’re not going to smash the glass again, are you? I’m way too tired for that nonsense a second time tonight.”

“Just don’t put the water in a glass, then.”

“You actually just want water?”

“Yes.” He added rather pathetically. “Please?”

“I... Fine. Then you’ll let me sleep?”

“Mhm.”

“Fine.”

Hero stood, glancing suspiciously at her captive as she made her way across the room. As if he could do anything-- the chain was maybe three feet in length. He could barely lay his head down.

She maneuvered to her kitchenette, returning with a plastic cup-- filled to the brim with that precious liquid. She placed it before him. He was already drooling.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Villain.”

“Goodnight.”

Was that really all it took to domesticate him? A glass of water? It hardly mattered. As soon as Hero turned off the light, bathing the room in shadow, Villain downed the liquid as though his life depended on it.

Perhaps, it did.

It wasn’t long before Hero’s steady breathing had turned to soft snoring. Villain shifted himself into the most comfortable position he could manage. Even that, however, was far from being pleasant, with the chain threatening to strangle him at any moment.

That wasn’t what kept him from sleeping, however. He needed to sleep. He knew that, he wasn’t stupid. He would need his energy for the next day of lessons, of shouted orders and lectures.

That was all his life would be from now on, wouldn’t it? Orders and exhaustion and being forced to earn the most basic of needs by answering moral quandaries incorrectly.

Villain wanted, longed, to cry. To let out all the horrible emotions that had stuck in his chest cavity, threatening to drown his lungs in sorrow. But that would break the conditions of the deal.

He had to be quiet, or else he might never again be allowed water.

It was that dread in his chest, that hopelessness, that forced him awake.

So, he laid, still, listening to Hero’s snores as his own body refused to allow him unconsciousness.

Snores, and...

Footsteps.

Footsteps? Villain tensed, holding stock still, pricking his ears for the noise. They drew louder, louder, before stopping. Stopping outside the dorm room door.

He held his breath.

The door opened gently enough that the hinges made only the slightest noise. Then, the footsteps were inside.

Villain shrunk down in the corner, making himself far smaller and quieter than anyone of his status should ever have had to be.

Two sets of footsteps. Growing louder, coming towards the bedroom. The bed.

Hero.

“Are you sure we need to do this?” An unknown voice, whispering.

“If you want this plan to work, we don’t have a choice.”

That voice, that voice was not unknown. It was loud, terribly high pitched, terribly-

Nosey.

“We really have to kill them?”

“We won’t get the chance if you keep talking. Just do it, don’t chicken out on me, now.”

“Okay, okay.”

Villain’s heartbeat shivered.

The cocking of a gun. That horrible sound, that precursor of bloodshed.

Then, the shot. Two pairs of footsteps, fleeing, slamming the door behind themselves.

Villain gulped.

It was no doubt what had happened-- if he had had any doubts, they were quickly drowned out as Hero’s breathing hitched, then quieted to an almost imperceptible level. Growing slower, weaker by the second.

They are clearly alive, but severely injured.

In the scenario, he had had three choices. But this wasn’t a training scenario.

Now, he only had two.

A: Praise his lucky stars and use the opportunity to escape. There was a fire escape, just outside the window. He would be gone into the night before anyone knew any different.

Or...

B: Do the right thing.

Villain threw himself against the chain about his neck, collar threatening to cut off his airways. He spun about, gripping the chain in clammy fingers, pulling and tugging and-

Her breathing was getting quieter, weaker.

He pulled harder, muscles straining with the effort. The chain was anchored to the wall with a spike, drilled in. There was no way he could break the chain, no way he could break the spike, but-

Villain’s heel slammed through the plaster and drywall, chain flying backwards at his face. He hardly made note of it. Spike and chain and all dragging behind him, he tore to Hero’s bedside.

It was almost fortunate, that the lights were off. He couldn’t see the extent of the wounds.

He placed his hands upon her head, that minty feeling rushing to his fingers, his palms, her skin.

Using your powers is never the answer.

No. No, that wasn’t true.

Rules didn’t matter. Training didn’t matter. All that mattered was doing the right thing.

#villain whumpee #hero villain whump #conditioned whumpee #whump community #whump

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specialagentsergio · 3 years

Text

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter one

summary: He’s out of prison now, but your boyfriend is very much not okay. When he isn’t reinstated, he spirals down quickly, and you don’t know how to help him out of it. (or, spencer relapses post-prison and goes to rehab)

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, an overdose, substance use disorder, ptsd, mentions of suicide, mentions of/implied sex, references to sexual assault, description of a panic attack/ptsd episode. please read with caution; this content can be triggering.

a/n: honestly, i just wrote this for myself. but it was partially inspired by @zhuzhubii ‘s brilliant and heart wrenching fic i know what’s best for me (but i want you instead). mine takes a different turn, but theirs is amazing as well.

a/n 2: disclaimer that while i have both been a patient at a residential treatment center and currently work at one, i don’t have substance use disorder and we don’t treat it specifically at my current workplace. my experience is also all in adolescent centers rather than adult ones, so this won’t be entirely accurate.

word count: 8k

song: paralyzed by nf

fic masterlist || masterlist

Nothing’s been the same since Mexico.

You weren’t naïve. You hadn’t been expecting things to go right back to normal when he got home from prison. You were prepared for Spencer to struggle. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him recover from this trauma.

But you had never expected that that dedication would lead you to here—sitting on the couch at 11 o’clock at night, tired but wide awake, waiting for him to return from god knows where. A few cardboard boxes filed with the last of his things are stacked neatly beside you.

Spencer’s six-year sobriety coin sits in your hand. You’d found it in the trash a few days after he got home. You had tried to talk him into keeping it—"you were drugged; it’s not your fault”—but he had refused, leading you to believe there was something he wasn’t telling you. But you hadn’t pushed him on it, as that would just be a surefire way to make him double down on keeping it to himself.

He didn’t want the coin, but you kept it, hidden from his sight, hoping he’d want it back someday.

Now, three months later, you weren’t sure that day was going to come.

He had managed to get by for six weeks. He’d been plagued by nightmares and suffered multiple panic attacks, but he’d pushed through the cravings, gone to all his mandated therapy appointments, and attended refresher courses on procedures and firearms. He did everything the bureau required to consider reinstating him.

The day of the meeting, Spencer had seemed a little nervous, but stable. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, free of bad dreams, and he had given you a kiss goodbye that felt just like the ones he’d always given you before. Then he walked out the door, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

You got the news from Emily. The bureau had decided not to reinstate him “at this time”. They recommended that he reapply in six months, but for now, he wouldn’t be getting his badge and gun back.

Your initial reaction had been relief. Although you had shown Spencer nothing but encouragement, you weren’t sure he would ever be ready to go back, let alone so soon. You didn’t even know why he was reapplying. He’d worked for them for over a decade and become a well-respected agent, but when he needed help, the bureau had abandoned him and refused to help him prove his innocence. You had been so furious you could barely speak when JJ told you their decision.

Spencer didn’t share your sentiment—or if he did, he didn’t want to face it. On some level, you understood. The BAU was his home before you were, and you could imagine that after the chaos of the last three months, he desperately wanted his life to just go back to normal. So even though you weren’t sure that this was the best decision for him to make—especially since he seemed to have barely thought about it at all—you’d supported him. Whatever he needed, right?

You tried calling him after talking to Emily, but he didn’t answer. It didn’t worry you too much at first—Spencer often needed space to process things on his own before talking about it. You wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation until you were off work anyways.

It was around six when the anxiety kicked in. You’d tried calling him a few more times throughout the day to no avail. You hadn’t even gotten a text back. Then you started getting messages from his team, asking how he was doing and if he was okay. They hadn’t heard from him either.

When you’d gotten home, you had immediately looked to the chair Spencer always left his bag on. It was empty. You’d looked through all the rooms anyways, trying to ignore what your gut was telling you he was off doing.

It was a few more hours before he stumbled through the front door, his eyes glassy and footing unstable. You stood in front of him, putting your hands on his upper arms to keep him steady. When he had caught your eyes, he had started to cry.

He’d been more or less inconsolable for the rest of the night, blubbering out apologies as you guided him through the motions of getting into bed. He’d clung to you and you’d murmured reassurances against his skin and into his hair that you still loved him, that you didn’t think any less of him, that he would be okay. You had truly thought he would be at the time.

But he wasn’t okay, not at all. He quickly became stuck in a cycle of using, promising it was the last time, staying clean for a little while, then relapsing. You had pleaded with him to get help, but he’d become... aggressive when you suggested inpatient treatment.

“Don’t ever say that,” he’d snarled. “I’m not my mother.”

Then later that same night, he had crawled into bed next to you at 2 AM, curled up against your side, and begged in a trembling voice, “please don’t send me away.”

You haven’t had the courage to bring it up again until now.

Four days ago, you hit your breaking point. You’d come home from work and found him limp on the couch, barely breathing, a syringe and little glass vial next to him. You’d dialed 911 as you ran into the bedroom, yanked open your bedside table, and pulled out the auto injectable dose of Narcan you’d acquired a few weeks ago just in case. Thanks to that, Spencer was conscious again by the time the EMTs arrived. He resisted being taken to the ER, alternating between scowling at them and looking at you with pleading eyes.

But you didn’t give in. When he had checked himself out of the hospital an hour later (you had refused to do it for him), you had driven him home, but the entire time you were formulating a plan. You’d realized that you were padding his rock bottom, and you couldn’t do it anymore.

So now here you are, waiting on the couch. You hope it will work this time. About a month ago you had tried staging an intervention with his team, but as soon as he saw them, he’d walked right back out of the room and you hadn’t seen him again for nearly two days.

It’s another hour before he arrives home, and it takes his drug-fogged mind a full minute to process what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “You’re leaving?”

“No,” you reply. “You are.”

Spencer sways slightly on his feet as he thinks. “You’re kicking me out,” he realizes.

You try to ignore the prick of tears in your eyes and focus on keeping your voice steady. “Yes. I am.”

His bottom lip starts to tremble. “You... you can’t do this,” he whispers.

“No, I can,” you say. You take a deep breath before you continue. “But more than that, I have to.”

For the first time in months, Spencer doesn’t try and hide his tears from you. He cries openly. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s unbelievably hard to watch.

You stand and approach him cautiously, almost as if he’s an animal that you don’t want to spook, reaching into your back pocket and holding out a keycard. “I booked you a room for the night at that motel a few streets over, so you can... sleep it off. But after that, you’re on your own.”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you love so much, but they don’t look like they used to. Now they’re bloodshot and his pupils are pinpricks. “(Y/N), please, please don’t do this,” he whimpers. “Please, this is the last time. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

You just shake your head. His words are nothing new. “Your car is already in the parking lot there with the rest of your things.”

It’s like a switch flips, his broken expression contorting into a glare. “Fine,” he practically growls. He pushes your hand away and staggers to his feet. “I don’t want that shitty motel room. I’ll just go stay with JJ. She actually cares about me.”

You expected him to lash out like this, but the words still sting. “You really think JJ’s going to let you be around her boys like this?” you ask quietly.

The anger on his face is offset some by the tears and snot still running down it.. And you know he knows that you’re right. “So this is it, huh?” he says coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Six years together, all we’ve been through. It’s just over now.”

You retreat back to the couch, placing the keycard on top of the boxes. “That’s actually up to you.”

His laugh is derisive. “You could have fooled me!”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this to be permanent. You can stay now, or come back, on one condition.”

Spencer folds his arms over his chest defensively. “Which is?”

“You have to agree to check into a treatment center.”

The look of betrayal on his face breaks your heart. Tears spill out of your eyes before you can stop them; you swipe them away and take a deep breath to try and hold the rest of them off.

It’s a while before he speaks again, and his voice is quiet when he does. “How can you say that.” It’s not a question.

“It’s what you need, Spencer,” you answer. “You’re not coping with what happened to you. Not just prison, everything that’s happening to your mom, too—”

“Don’t talk about my mother!”

You flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you before. It’s the drugs, you try to remind yourself. It’s just the drugs, he doesn’t really mean it.

He storms forward and you scurry out of the way on instinct. He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You’re scaring me right now,” you admit quietly.

Spencer tries to cover up the hurt with a scowl, but you can still see it in his eyes. “You really think that little of me?”

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. You don’t know what to say. Spencer would never hurt you, you know that without a doubt. But the Spencer you know, the man you fell in love with... he’s not the same person when he’s using. And with how high and emotional he is right now, you don’t know what to expect. “I... I don’t know anymore, Spencer,” you answer honestly.

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right to think that. I did some awful things in there, you know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but you recognize it as a glimpse of one of the things he’s using the drugs to escape from, one of the things he won’t talk about.

He gathers up the boxes in his arms; you pretend not to notice him pocketing the keycard. You’re worried about him carrying them safely in his current state and almost reach out to steady him before recognizing from the tension in his shoulders that touching him right now will only make things worse.

He stops at the door and you hurry to open it for him. “I really believed you loved me, you know,” he whispers, the anger falling off of his face.

The words are like a blow to the stomach; it knocks the breath out of your lungs. “I do,” you choke out. “I do love you.”

Spencer doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and walks out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

---

It’s been the longest two weeks of your life.

You haven’t heard from Spencer since the night he left. You weren’t expecting him to come around to the idea of rehab quickly, but you thought he might try and call you within a few days and try to talk his way out of the hole he’d found himself in.

He didn’t.

All you could do was wait, and hope that that night wasn’t going to end up being the last time you saw him alive. In a way, it was worse than it had been when he was in prison, because this time, you were the reason he was gone.

His team has mixed feelings on what you’ve done.

JJ is mad. She asks, “how could you?”, and, “you really think this will work?” You try to be patient with her—you know she’s so upset because she loves him. She already lost her older sister and now she’s scared of losing the man who’s practically her brother. But when she (perhaps unintentionally) insinuates that you did this because you’d just had enough of him, you snap, telling her she has no right to say that when you know she wouldn’t let him stay at her house while he’s using. She keeps her thoughts to herself after that.

Emily is sympathetic. She was there the first time he started using and had subsequently gotten her head bitten off when she tried to reach out and help him. “I know how hard it is to get through to him when he’s... like this. You just let me know if I can help at all.”

Luke is much the same. He’s had his own struggles with PTSD and understands the toll it takes on everyone, not just the one with it. He’s always happy to offer you some time with Roxy, because he’s right—things really do feel better when you’re petting her.

Rossi isn’t... indifferent, exactly. He just doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other. You think it’s because he doesn’t know what an alternative would be. For all his experience in psychology, he’s unsure of how to help Spencer.

You don’t know Matt very well yet, but he’s kind to you, even going so far as to bring you a dish of his wife’s lasagna.

Penelope is an absolute angel with her warm hugs and baked goods. She keeps an eye on Spencer’s cell phone location for you, in the event that he ends up at a police precinct or hospital.

Out of everyone, you like talking to Tara the most. She’s so supportive and understanding. You feel like she’s the only one who truly knows what the past few months have been like for you. She just gets it, having lived with a partner with substance use disorder before. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that matters,” she tells you. She even goes to a Narcotics Anonymous family meeting with you.

It’s day fourteen without Spencer, and it doesn’t feel much different. It feels bleak. You go to work and run errands, but you only manage it because it’s habit.

You’re rinsing off your plate from dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Your heart leaps into your throat. You aren’t expecting anyone. You try—in vain—not to hope too hard as you go to answer it. It could just be someone dropping by on a whim, or, god forbid, a police officer with bad news.

Please, Spencer. Please let it be you.

When you look through the peephole, you’re unable to hold back a sob of relief. His eyes are fixed on the doormat so you can’t quite see his face, but you’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, even in its current unwashed and disheveled state. You take a few deep breaths before opening the door, for his sake. You crying all over him is likely the last thing he wants or needs.

He doesn’t look up when you open the door, and you realize he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“Spencer,” you say softly.

It’s a few more moments before he responds. “I’ll do it,” he finally mutters; you can just barely hear him.

Your breath catches in your chest. “You’ll do what?” you ask.

He glances up then, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say, voice shaky from the effort of holding back tears. “I just... I need to hear you say it.”

He sighs and looks back down, tugging on the ends of his sleeves. “I’ll... I’ll go to... to re—rehab.”

Tension you didn’t even know you were holding in your body melts away. You step to the side. “Come in,” you whisper.

He shuffles inside. When you turn back from closing the door, he’s just standing still in the middle of the room. You get a better look at him now. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is an absolute mess, tangled and dirty. It doesn’t look like he’s had a shower or shave for at least a week—you figure he’s probably been sleeping in his car. His face is pale and his hands are trembling; as you move closer, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his face, leading you to believe that he’s currently sober and starting to experience withdrawal symptoms.

You touch his arm gently and he makes a distressed whining sound. You guide him to sit on the couch. When you sit next to him, he looks at you with teary eyes. You open your arms in an invitation and he collapses into you, bursting into tears. “’m sorry,” he stutters out between sobs. “I—I didn’ mean it. I... ‘m so s—sorry, (Y/N).”

You cry too, holding him tight against you. “I know, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I know.”

---

Spencer’s mostly nonverbal for his intake process. Whether it’s by choice or not is something you’re unsure of. In a private room a few hallways away from the main ward, you’re introduced to the admissions supervisor, Susan, whose voice you recognize from the phone calls you’d made to get him into one of the beds here. You also meet Spencer’s new therapist, Lara. She has a kind face and seems to have a good sense of humor. You just hope Spencer will like her.

You’re both given paperwork to read through and sign, as he’s on your health insurance now. Naturally, he’s done with them before you’ve finished the first page. Susan is taken aback. “Oh. Um, sir, we do need you to actually read this paperwork,” she says.

Spencer folds his arms and stares down at the carpet. “I did.”

“He, uh, he can speed read,” you explain. She still looks skeptical, so you add, “I’m serious. He reread War and Peace on the drive here.”

He doesn’t talk again until everything’s in order and you’re given five minutes alone to say goodbye. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” you ask. When he nods, you pull at his arms gently until they relax and fall open, then take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I don’t want to, either. I’m so tired of being away from you. But...” You take a deep breath. “But I also don’t want to bury you. You know this is what you need, right?”

He shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You can’t quite tell what that means—whether he agrees but wishes that wasn’t the case, or if he’s only doing this to appease you. You hope it’s the former. While it’s a possibility that this might not work either way, you feel like that’s more likely to happen if he isn’t doing this for himself as well, if he doesn’t want to get better.

But it’s out of your hands now. All you can do is trust in the people here to take care of him and that they want what’s best for him.

You put your hand on his cheek and turn his head towards you, trying to get him to look at you. His words from that night run through your head—I really believed you loved me. When he glances up, you seize the moment.

“I love you, Spencer. So much. If there’s just one thing you can trust in right now, please let it be that,” you plead.

He sniffles and you think you see a nod from him, but you can’t be sure. And it hurts a bit—you’re not used to him not saying “I love you” back. You can’t dwell on that now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes left before you have to leave him.

You stand, pulling him up with you. “Can I hu—” you start, but you’re cut off by him lunging forward and clinging to you. You comfort him as best as you can, running one hand up and down his back and using the other to cradle the back of his head as he cries into your neck, muttering incomprehensible words against your skin.

When the door opens, his entire body tenses against you. “Spencer,” you say gently, trying to stop your voice from wavering too much. “You have to let go now.”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, he holds onto you tighter. “Baby—“ you start.

“No,” he says suddenly, his voice louder than you’ve heard it in days. “No, I can’t—I won’t—”

Before you know it, he’s twisted around to stand behind you. You open and close your mouth a few times, startled and unsure what to say. “Spencer, what—what’s wrong?”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t do it again. I—I won’t.” Then he starts to rub at one of his eyes in the way you’ve seen so many times since he came home from prison and it hits you—he feels like he’s getting locked up again.

A glance at the door shows expressions of sympathy on Susan and Lara’s faces. What with the “war on drugs” sending addicts to prison, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve seen a reaction like this.

You doubt any of their previous patients were framed for murder and had their mother kidnapped by a vengeful psychopath, though.

Spencer’s entire body is trembling when you look back at him, and it’s not from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. It’s heartbreaking, but it only affirms your belief that he needs to be here. It’s clear that he can’t tolerate what he feels and what he knows without turning to self-destructive coping mechanisms.

“Take me home,” he whimpers. “Take me home, please. I want to go home.”

You swallow hard. “I can’t.”

“But they’re gonna hurt me,” he cries. “They’re gonna hurt me because I hurt them; don’t you care if I get hurt?”

You think you know what he’s talking about. You don’t know the details—Spencer wouldn’t let Emily or JJ tell you—but you do know he was hurt in prison by the other inmates. You had seen the bruises yourself. And then you’d heard that some of the inmates were poisoned. He’s a graduate chemist—you’d put it together. You don’t know why he did it, but you assume that he hadn’t had much of a choice.

“They’re not here, Spencer.” You try to stop him from scratching so hard at his eyes, but he flinches at your touch. “They’re not here; they can’t hurt you anymore,” you repeat instead.

Lara comes up to your side. “Let us take care of him, okay?”

Oh, but you don’t want to. Spencer’s so upset and you can’t bear the thought of leaving him like this, not when all you want to do is hold him and never let go. It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment he stepped out of Millburn. But isn’t this the whole point of bringing him here? You can’t help him on your own. You have to let him go.

When Lara coaxes you to take a step back, Spencer makes the most awful, wounded noise. “Don’t leave me, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave me again.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” you manage to say. “And I’ll visit you as soon as I can.”

“No, it’s not o—okay,” he protests, his voice breaking. “It’s not—I—” He presses his hands into his eyes and backs up until he’s in the corner. He drops to the floor and curls up, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.

Susan is able to get you to take a few more steps back; Lara takes a step forward, in Spencer’s direction.

“Um, don’t—don’t touch him,” you stutter out, desperate to help somehow. “It’ll—it’ll just make it worse.”

“I won’t,” she assures you. And she doesn’t—instead she sits on the floor several feet away from him; not close enough to be threatening but not far enough that he’d be completely unaware of her presence. It makes you feel a little better, because that’s what you do for him at home.

You let Susan guide you out of the room and to the entrance. “He’ll be okay,” she tells you as you walk. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Lara’s fantastic. It’s actually a good opportunity to start building therapeutic rapport.”

You just nod as she talks, not quite listening to what she’s saying. You just keep thinking of his face when you took a step away from him, and how small his voice sounded. It’s a storm of emotions inside of you, but among them is... relief. You don’t have to worry about keeping him safe anymore.

Leaving him in that room, terrified, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You just hope it will be worth it.

---

It’s Spencer’s thirty-sixth birthday. You have the day off, but the alarm still sounds early in the morning. You rub your eyes and stretch, trying to shake off the sleepiness. You were up late last night, looking through the entire apartment just one more time for anything you could have missed.

It’s something you’ve done half a dozen times since he was admitted. You haven’t found any needles or Dilaudid since the first time, but you keep doing it anyways. For some reason, when you were feeling anxious about... well, everything, it would calm you down.

You can’t stop yourself from checking once more before you leave to pick him up—though not as thoroughly since you don’t have the time. You just check his hiding places—the desk drawer with the false bottom, the pair of socks he hates that stay in the back of his sock drawer, the gun safe (he’d told you the code years ago just in case and hasn’t changed it since, more worried about you being in danger and needing it than you finding things he doesn’t want you to), and the two hollowed out books at the back of two different bookshelves.

You want to believe that even if there were anything there, he wouldn’t go looking for it anymore, but you aren’t there yet. He’s been in treatment just shy of six weeks, and it’s been up and down. Two steps forward has always seemed to be accompanied by one step back.

While he usually thrived on routine, the enforced structure of the treatment facility would remind him of Millburn multiple times a day. It took the better part of two weeks for him to adjust to it. The first time you visited him, he had curled up in your arms and cried about it, saying that he was barely sleeping because he didn’t feel safe and that he just wanted to go home.

It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with his roommate. Spencer found him to be too loud, complaining to you multiple times that he always wanted to talk during quiet time. Apparently he was also working on his GED, and would constantly ask him for answers to his homework. “I wouldn’t mind helping him, but he just wants me to give him the answers instead,” he’d told you. So Spencer had just tried to ignore him.

But his patience had finally snapped a few weeks ago when his roommate drank both his own and Spencer’s shampoo in a suicide attempt, because he’d “read somewhere that shampoo was toxic.” Spencer had yelled at him, calling him a “fucking idiot”, among other things (they were promptly separated). His roommate was fine in the end—he just threw up a lot. But he was permanently moved to a different room, to both you and Spencer’s relief.

Spencer had a meltdown the next night, though, when it was time to shower. He had been given replacement shampoo from the treatment center’s supplies, but he didn’t like the smell and couldn’t stand the texture, so he’d refused to take a shower. That then resulted in him losing points for not following the structure. (Points were given for good behavior and meeting goals, and were mainly how privileges were earned.)

Naturally, Spencer had protested that this wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have shampoo that he could use. He’d been told that these were the rules, and he wouldn’t be given an exception. In response, Spencer had thrown the shampoo across the room, thrown himself onto his bed, buried his head under his pillow, and refused to talk to anyone.

But that night ended up marking a turn for the better in his treatment. He hadn’t responded when shift change happened and one of the night staff, Matt, checked in on him—in fact, he hadn’t moved at all. When he’d said, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better”, Spencer had had no intention of taking him up on it.

A couple of hours later, though, when everything was quiet and he couldn’t sleep because he felt sticky and dirty from not showering, he wandered out into the commons area, holding his favorite blanket from home around himself. When asked what he needed, he’d shrugged, because he didn’t know what he needed, besides his old shampoo, and there wasn’t much to be done about that at midnight.

“I heard you had a rough time this evening,” Matt had said.

Spencer nodded absently, looking at everything but the two of them sitting on the couches.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay,” Matt had replied. “Well, you can sit out here with us for a little while if you want. How’s ten minutes sound?”

Spencer had shrugged again, but sat down on the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up against his chest. He pressed his nose into the fabric of the blanket and breathed in deeply. He’d held off on washing it since got here because it smelled like you. It was comforting, and he felt himself relax some. Then, without thinking about it consciously, he opened his mouth... and talked.

He started with the shampoo incident. His voice had raised an octave and hot tears stung his eyes as he talked about how much he hated the replacement shampoo and how he felt that he was being treated unfairly by people who didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. And then he had just... kept going. He didn’t talk about specifics—he said he was framed and wrongly incarcerated, then went straight to everything that had happened since he got home. He talked about losing his job and his first relapse because of that. He talked about how he couldn’t seem to stop going back. He talked about your ultimatum and his two weeks living out of his car.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily and exhausted, but he felt... lighter. It was like the dam burst. The next morning, he started talking, really talking, to his therapist. When you came by that evening to bring him new shampoo, he’d told you all about what had happened, sparing no detail. To say it shocked you was an understatement—he hadn’t been so open with you since Mexico.

The two weeks since had gone well. There were a few bumps, but otherwise he was improving, and he’d been able to earn a day visit for his birthday.

Spencer looks... good when you see him. He’s fully dressed, wearing the cardigan he knows you like the best, and it no longer looks baggy on him. He’d come back from prison a little underweight, and it had only gotten worse since. But he’s been steadily gaining it back here thanks to sobriety and regular meals. He’s got his satchel across his shoulder but he isn’t clinging to it protectively and the way he rocks up on the balls of his feet appears to be excited rather than nervous. It looks like he may have even run a brush through his hair for once.

Then he sees you, and the smile that spreads across his face... he looks like himself again. Your smile back is so big that it probably looks goofy, but you don’t care.

He hugs you as soon as you’re close enough. It’s tight, but he’s not clinging to you like you’ve grown accustomed to over the past six weeks, which you think can only be a good thing—he’s not feeling insecure or unsafe anymore.

“Happy birthday,” you say. “You look really nice.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because I got up a little early to get ready, but I didn’t shave since I’d have to check out my razor and that’s a hassle, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not really sure myself—”

“Spencer, I don’t mind the facial hair at all,” you interrupt. “You look great. I mean it.”

He glances away shyly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

You both sign the checkout paperwork and head out. Spencer insists on holding your hand the entire time. When you get to the car and start to let go, he tightens his grip instead and pulls you closer to him. “(Y/N).”

“Yes?”

He hesitates just slightly before placing his other hand on your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

You blink, realizing that it’s been a long while since you’ve kissed. And just like that, you’re aching for his lips on yours. “Please do.”

Spencer lets your hand go then. Cradling your head in both of his hands now, he leans in and kisses you so gently. You soak it in, feeling warm inside as something you didn’t realize you were missing returns to you. When he pulls back, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in months.

You just look at each other for a bit. Eventually, you place a kiss on his cheek and say, “We should go before we get in trouble for loitering.”

He wants to hold your hand whenever he can on the drive home, and you let him. He tells you how his week has been going—someone in his group therapy is graduating the program in a few days, and they’ve started a new project in art therapy. You knew about the art project already, since he’d spent half of his phone time on Monday telling you how much he didn’t want to make a pottery project because he can’t stand how the clay feels on his hands when it dries. But you’ve always loved to listen to him talk, so you don’t remind him of this.

As you’re getting off the freeway fifteen minutes later, you tap the back of his hand twice to signal that you have something to say. He pauses in his infodump about the history of pottery so you can speak. “I’ve got a few presents for you at home, but I was thinking we could go to the bookstore and you can pick out some more things?”

He makes a happy humming noise. “That sounds great! There’s something I want to read up on.”

He veers off to the nonfiction section when you enter his favorite bookstore; you idly browse your favorite section as you wait. When he returns to your side, he’s holding a stack of five books, all on the same subject.

“Horses,” you say.

He nods enthusiastically, his hair bouncing. “I’m starting an equine therapy program next week.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I hope it goes well.” You don’t know much about horse therapy—seems like that’s going to be what you read about on your phone in bed tonight while you wait for sleep to come.

Spencer’s quiet on the car ride home, content to flip through his new books. He doesn’t notice when you park the car; you have to touch his arm to get his attention.

“What?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the full color spread of a mustang in his lap.

“We’re home,” you point out. With how many times he’s told you he wants to go home in the past weeks, you expect him to be excited, but he’s not. He tenses when he looks up and sees the building in front of you. “What’s wrong, Spencer?”

“Um...” He fiddles with the book’s dust jacket. “There’s... there’s not a surprise party waiting for me inside, is there?”

“Oh. No, there’s not. Just a few balloons and little banner. You, uh...” you wince a little as something occurs to you. “You weren’t wanting one, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” he immediately replies.

You chuckle a little at his certainty. “Well, good. Because I had a hell of a time convincing Penelope not to throw you a birthday party, and I don’t know if she’d ever forgive me if it turned out I was wrong and you did, in fact, want a party.”

That gets a small laugh out of him; your heart leaps at the sound. It’s been far too long since you’ve heard that.

He seems a little apprehensive as you unlock the front door, and when he walks in, he stays standing on the living room rug for a while, his eyes traveling from one side of the room to another, looking over everything. “It looks the same,” he says eventually.

“Were you expecting it not to be?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, running his fingers across one of the seams of his satchel. “It’s not that I thought you would change anything, it’s more like... I feel so much different than I did the last time I was here that it’s kind of strange to see that everything’s just like I remember it.”

You’re reminded of the last time he was standing still in the living room like this, stick-thin, dirty, and trembling from withdrawals. “Different in a good way, I hope,” you say, nervously fussing with the pile of presents on the coffee table.

He gives you a small smile. “Yes, in a good way,” he affirms softly. He notices the presents and scrunches his eyebrows. “I thought you said you only had a few presents here.”

“Most of these are from the team,” you explain. “Emily brought them by last night. They had to fly out this morning, but she wanted you to have them on your birthday.”

“Oh.” He raises his hand and it looks like he might rub at his eye but he presses his knuckles to his mouth instead. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his mind. You figure his feelings towards his team are complicated. On the one hand, they got him out of the prison, and he’s known some of them for over a decade. On the other, he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the BAU and the whole experience had made him feel humiliated. You think he wants to see them, but he also doesn’t; he’s stuck in the middle and can’t decide.

Either way, it doesn’t matter today. It’s his birthday and you want him to have a good one, so you redirect his attention. You sit on the couch and pat the spot next to you. “Will you show me your new books?”

The corners of his mouth turn up and he pads across the floor towards you. “Yeah. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far....”

The day continues in much the same fashion—quiet and laidback as you simply enjoy each other’s company. Once he shows you all of the books, you move on to the TV, catching up on the episodes of Doctor Who you’ve both missed (you didn’t want to watch it without him). You order his favorite takeout for dinner, after which you bring out his dessert—half a dozen chocolate frosting and sprinkles donuts arranged in a circle around two candles displaying 36.

“You know, it’s not really sanitary to blow all over food before sharing it,” he says.

You roll your eyes fondly. “We go over this every year. We kiss; I’m not worried about your mouth germs.”

“But it’s not just my “mouth germs”,” he corrects, making air quotes with his fingers. “It involves the entire respiratory track, so—”

“Spencer, as always, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you interrupt. You’ve heard this explanation before. “Now make a wish.”

He takes a moment to ponder it, then blows the candles out. You put the plate down and hand him a napkin. “We’re not going to be able to eat all of these before I have to go back,” he says, but the way he bites eagerly into the first one nearly makes you question that.

He gets through two; you only eat one, mostly full from dinner. He wants to go lay down on the bed after, “so we have more room to cuddle”. And cuddle he does, pressing as much of his body to yours as he can. One of your hands settles in his hair automatically. “Did you have a good day?” you ask, running your fingers through it.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Obviously this situation is not ideal,” you start carefully. “But I’m just so happy that you’re still... well, around for your birthday.”

Spencer turns his head into the fabric of your shirt and breathes in deeply. “Me, too,” he says quietly on the exhale.

You lay together in silence for a while, and you savor the feeling of having him in bed next to you again. Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new in your relationship, as his job took him around the country. You’d gotten used to it for the most part, but every night he wasn’t with you because he was in prison was just plain awful. After, you had him back for six weeks, then it became sporadic again as he started using. It’s been so much easier to sleep since he went into treatment, but you still miss sharing the bed with him terribly.

You look at your phone briefly to check the time. “We’ve got about three hours until we have to start heading back. I’m happy to stay like this, but we still have time to do something else if you want to.”

All he says verbally is, “okay”, but the way he squirms against you tells you that he does have something on his mind.

“Just let me know if you do,” you say gently; you don’t want him to feel pressured into speaking. Plus you’re content to lay here playing with his hair and listening to his breathing.

“Well, there is something,” he admits after a few minutes.

He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Okay. What is it?”

He sighs and sits up. “It’s... it’s nothing bad, or—or even that big of a deal, really. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

You push yourself up into a sitting position next to him. “Well, why don’t you tell me so I can help?” you ask. “I can tell that it’s bothering you.”

“That’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t be bothering me,” Spencer complains. “Because I really want to do it. It’s just...”

You put your hand on his back and run it up and down to try and comfort him. You don’t say anything; you just give him time to get the words out.

He takes a deep breath. “I want to have sex,” he says. “I really do, I’m just... not entirely sure I’m... ready yet.”

“Oh.”

It’s not where you expected the conversation to go, because it’s something that hasn’t really been in your life at all since Mexico. He’d... taken care of you a few times during those first six weeks, but hadn’t let you return the favor. Each time he had scurried off to the bathroom and run a cold shower before you could even touch the waistband of his pants. Then on the night he came back to you, you had been helping him undress since his hands were trembling so much. When you unbuttoned his pants, he had breathed in sharply and frantically pushed your hands away.

Clearly something had happened to him, but he’d never even alluded to anything of the sort. And that was okay—you didn’t need to know. You just wished you knew how to help.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” he says, running his hands down his face.

“Oh, baby, no,” you soothe. “It’s not stupid at all.”

He just shakes his head. “You deserve more than this.”

“I don’t know about that. But,” you continue, pushing his hair back so you can see his face better, “I do know what I want, and what I want is you.”

Spencer chews on his bottom lip, doubt clouding his eyes. “Look at me,” you implore. He meets your gaze hesitantly and you take his face in your hands.

“I love you, Spencer Reid. And nothing is going to change that.”

His eyes grow wet. He sniffles once, then lunges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You kiss him back just as passionately, holding onto him as tight as he is to you. It may have been a long time since you kissed at all until this morning, but it’s been even longer since he’s kissed you like this.

“Love you, too, (Y/N),” he mumbles against your lips when he pulls back to take a breath.

You press your forehead to his with a happy sigh. But he’s only content to stay like that for a few moments. He bumps your nose with his and tugs slightly on your shirt, requesting permission to kiss you again. You’d love to do that, and you’d love to do more than that, too, but you don’t want him to rush into something he’s not truly ready for.

“You know what we could do?” you ask, running your hand through the curls on the back of his neck.

Spencer’s eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips. “What?”

“A good old-fashioned high school make out,” you say, smiling at him softly. “And I’ll keep my hands above your waist.”

When he visibly relaxes, you know it’s the right decision. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “I mean, I never kissed anyone when I was in high school, but I get the idea.”

The shy look he gives you before climbing onto your lap reminds you so much of how he was when you first started dating. He’s still there, your Spencer, the Spencer you fell in love with. You never truly thought he was gone, but there were plenty of moments of doubt, moments when you wondered if he’d ever be able to pull himself out of the wreckage, out of the grip of trauma. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t do it for him.

As it turns out, he could. He can.

It’s far from over. He still has a long way to go. You both do. But for the first time since the day he came home from prison, a return to normal seems possible.

It won’t be the same as it was before. He’s always going to be a little different. But... that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.

He kisses you, and it feels like it used to, full of respect, adoration, trust, and love. It feels like Spencer.

Despite everything, it’s still him.

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

tell me what you thought here!

if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. this was very much a personal work but i decided to share it anyways because why the hell not, i'm proud of it. the next chapter will explore horse therapy, a treatment i did and loved, among other things.

i'd like to encourage you please seek this kind of help if you think need it. i see how it changes lives every day at work and it changed my own as well. there's no shame in getting the treatment you need, whatever that may be. recovery is worth it.

if you’re interested in learning more about trauma and the treatment of it, i cannot recommend the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., enough. it was my favorite book i read last year and i referred back to it several times while writing this.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #the shampoo incident is something that actually happened on one of my shifts last august #and yet that's not the craziest thing that's happened while i've been at work lol #don't drink shampoo kids #tw substances #tw suicide

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random-mha-thoughts · 4 years

Text

Don’t Ignore Me! (Bakugou x Reader)

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Requested from my Wattpad: "Can you please do a fluffy Bakugo x reader chapter where the reader was dared by her friends to try to do 'ignore your boyfriend for 24 hours' challenge? If you don't know, this challenge makes it so that the reader would have to pretend that Bakugo does not exist and they can't respond to any of Bakugo's questions or anything. Look up videos of the challenge if you want to get a better grasp of what the challenge is."

Genre: Fluff (and slight crack?)

Word count: 1,891

Tags: @yuki-osaki @liviitehe @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog @bunnythepipsqueak

a/n: This ended up being longer than I anticipated... And was a bit difficult to start, but the more I wrote, the more I wanted to write, so I guess it worked out! I kind of imagined at least 3 different ways this could’ve turned nsfw, but THIS ISN’T THAT KIND OF ONE SHOT SHAME ON ME!

The next post will also be a slightly crack/fluff Baku request from my Wattpad then a Kiri angst, but I miiight not be able to post until Friday or Saturday. I’m taking a mini road trip down to Florida and it’ll take almost 14 hours, so hopefully I can get some writing done on the drive or once I get there.

Why did I let Mina convince me to do this?

I wanted to text Katsuki earlier and tell him not to come home just so I won't have to ignore him, but that wouldn't be ignoring him! She told me it would be fun just to see his reaction, and while I initially agreed, it didn't sound as appealing the more I thought about it. This will probably end in screaming or tears rather than laughs.

The door opens and keys rattle. "I'm home!" his voice booms out.

I keep my back turned to him as I stir the curry on the stove. You can do this, it's just a prank, it's only temporary. You got this, just pretend he's not there.

His heavy footsteps approach me, the hairs on my back tingling as I anticipate him coming up behind me as he usually does. His puffy hair brushes the side of my head as he peers over my shoulder. "Sweet, curry! Wait for me, we can eat together." Without hesitating, he kisses my cheek and leaves.

I have to resist the urge to answer him back. Since part of the challenge is to ignore him, I decide to eat without him. I spoon out some curry on rice and sit at the table by myself. I don't know how exactly he's going to react, but I know he won't be happy. We always have our meals together and we talk about our day. This is gonna be such a jarring break from routine; it'll be difficult for both of us.

He comes back into the room and I don't even look up at him, just scrolling through my phone as I eat. His footsteps stop short of the table. "What the- I thought I told you to wait for me!"

I focus on chewing my food so I don't say anything back to him and try to keep a straight face.

"And you didn't even leave a plate for me, what the heck," he grumbles to himself, swaggering into the kitchen to grab one from the cabinet. He finally sat down with his plate of rice, his pepper paste concoction, and curry. "So, how was your day-?"

I'd already finished my dinner, so I stand up, cutting him off. I feel his eyes on me as I casually put my plate in the sink and start cleaning up.

"What the hell?" I catch him mumbling to himself. "Babe? What's up?" He sounds genuinely confused at my behavior.

I don't answer him, continuing to just do my dishes and put away the leftovers into the fridge. I debated whether or not I should prepare Katuski's lunch for work tomorrow as I usually do. I mean, I'm just supposed to be ignoring him, not pretending he doesn't exist. I start taking some of dinner out into one of his containers wordlessly.

As I do that, Katsuki slowly stands up with his finished plate and places them into the sink. Even as he washes his own dishes, I feel him eye me with his crimson orbs, raking my entire figure over. When he's about to say something, I put his food container into the fridge and leave the kitchen, strolling into our shared bedroom and settling on our bed. There's a twinge of guilt as I lay around without him. Usually, we'd be attached at the hip from the time he gets home to when he leaves in the morning. He's so perplexed over the whole ordeal.

As I'm scrolling on my laptop, I notice him tentatively tiptoe into the room. He hesitates every step of the way as if he's testing the waters. Maybe he's thinking I'm angry at him? It's almost cute the way he slowly gauges my reaction to every move he makes like he's expected me to explode. I've never given him the silent treatment; when we argue, we just yell at each other one minute and the next minute we're fine. This is brand new territory for him.

The bed sinks in next to me as Katsuki rolls in. At first, he's just staring at me, scanning for any trace of anger. "Why are you so quiet today?" When I don't answer, he frowns. "Hello? What's going on?" He half jokingly pokes the side of my head.

I have to furrow my brows and bite my bottom lip to pretend like I'm too invested in what's on my screen so I won't laugh.

"Are you ignoring me?" I hear the annoyance growing in his voice. "Did I do something?" At my continued silence he throws himself onto his back and groans. "I don't get it! I don't know what I did!"

Aw, he's blaming himself. I feel kinda bad. I know he's beating himself up for a stupid prank I'm trying to pull on him, but I wanna see this all the way through, or at least as long as I can hold out.

His hand suddenly slams my laptop screen closed. It takes my entire being to keep a blank face and not glare at him. "Are you gonna talk to me now?" There's a hint of a smirk in his voice. I bite my tongue and open the screen again, but he pushes it back down. "Wonder what you're so engrossed in to talk to me."

I don't even huff as I pull out my phone and start scrolling through it instead. He groans out again and snatches my phone away from me. Hoe-

"I thought we solved our problems by talking about it? Why are you ignoring me?"

I turn over onto my side and show him my back.

"What the f-" The weight releases from the side of the bed and I shut my eyes just in case he wants to show up in front of me. He's getting angry now.

He paces around the room for a while, and the soft rustling tells me he's threading his hands messily through his hair. I feel proud that I know him so well, I can read him like the back of my hand. Katsuki's stomps finally approach me. "(Y/n)." His voice is close to me, so he's kneeling down, but his tone is more somber. "Talk to me, please? If it was something I did, I need to know, I really can't think of anything. I'm going crazy here, just say something for me?"

My heart sinks. This isn't something I was expecting from him. I thought he'd be louder about it.

"Seriously, I don't want to go to sleep while you're angry at me, that's not right. How do I know something didn't happen to you? Talk to me!"

His desperate pleads almost weaken me completely, and I want to break down and put a stop to this, but I'm gonna be strong. I keep my eyes closed even in the face of all this and swallow my emotions down.

He sighs and his footsteps retreat. Then they stop. Wait, what's he-

Suddenly the bed sinks at the foot and the weight travels up to my back. "Fine. Try to keep ignoring me, we'll see what happens."

Crap, what have I gotten myself into?

Katsuki first drops his heavily muscular arm over me, looping it around my shoulders so his thumb brushes the top of my collarbone buried into the mattress. My fingers itch trying to ignore my reflex of placing my hand on top of his. "Anyway, my day was okay. I really missed you though. Shitty Hair was there, annoying the hell out of me as usual. Phone battery was even there too. By the way, leftovers from last night still tasted really good a day later..."

I want to laugh. So hard. But if I even so much as shake from laughter, the jig is up. Every time I feel like laughing, I hold my breath. He's too funny, going on about his day as if I was actually talking to him. It's killing me!

Breaking off his monologue for a brief second, he throws a leg over my hip. "Where was I? Oh right-"

My eyes shoot open. WHAT THE HELL KATSUKI!?

I want to yell at him for being such a child, but I can't help thinking it's kind of adorable. He's hogging his favorite toy in the world, clinging to it like a lifeline. At this point, the laughter is just sitting in the back of my throat ready to explode at the drop of a hat.

Katsuki breaks off again and sucks his teeth.

Damn it, what's he planning now?

My body is rolled over onto my back and his full body weight suddenly crushes all the breath out of me. This idiot only smirks down at me. "You can't ignore a crushing weight on your chest, can you?"

"Fuck's sake! I can't do this anymore!" I finally break down and scream. "Get off me!"

He clings his arms around me again so neither of us can move. "Oh, look at that, you can talk!"

"Katsuki, your giant tits are suffocating me, get off!"

"Not until you tell me why you're ignoring me!"

I groan, utterly defeated anyway. "Fine! It was a prank! Mina dared me to do it!"

His eyebrows furrow. "Pinky put you up to this?!" He rolls off so I can breathe properly and sit up. "Why would you even follow through with that?"

"I don't know, I thought it would be fun?" I recognize the genuine anger and hurt in his eyes and reach for his hand. "It was stupid, I know, I'm sorry."

He turns around and gives me his back like a pouting child. "I really thought I did something, dumbass! Do you know how confused I was? That wasn't cool."

I crawl up behind him and slither my arms around his neck. "I know, it was hard for me to stay quiet knowing how upset you sounded."

Katsuki's voice gets softer. "I thought you were gonna break up with me."

My entire body gets cold at his somberness. Considering our track record, this is a strange occurrence for us. I can't imagine the thoughts going through his head, especially knowing how insecure he can feel. I bury my head in his neck. "I knew this would probably happen." I kiss the taut skin. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I love you, Katsuki."

He turns around in my arms and stares me down, his lip still slightly jutting out. "You have to make it up to me with cuddles for the rest of the night."

A relaxed smile spreads across my face, relieved that he's more or less recovered from it. "Deal."

We lay back onto the bed again, his head pressed into my chest and his arms constricting around me so I can't move away. Fingers brush against the side of his head, in his hair, and on the exposed skin at the hem of my shirt. "Don't do that to me again, dumbass."

"I won't, promise."

A light groan vibrates from his chest. "Tell me you love me again," he mumbles out the order.

I tilt my head down and press a kiss to his forehead before placing my lips near his ear. "I love you, dork."

"...Again."

"I love you, big baby."

"Again."

"I love you, Katsuki."

#Bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #bakugou imagine #bakugou scenario #gender neutral reader #request #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

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cheeriecherry · 4 years

Note

Ty for answering that -w- I wanted to make sure of your comfort zones before I asked this. What are your HC for when some of our favorite UA teachers realize they have a thing for a student (who they may or may not have realized have a crush on them back)

Ofc! I should make an official list of thing I’m comfy writing/uncomfy writing <:3c

Anyhoo! I’m assuming our fav teachers are the same, but in case not, this post includes Aizawa, Yamada, and Yagi!

Warnings: Depictions of student x teacher! This is a work of fiction, and in no way represents how I feel about the matter irl. Please read at your own discretion.

AIZAWA SHOUTA|ERASERHEAD

-He has an ‘oh fuck’ moment XD

-At first you were just one of his most tolerable students; kind, hardworking, level headed. He sees a lot of potential in you, so he does his best to train you well.

-You have a habit of always wishing him a good afternoon when class is over and you’re headed out the door. He keeps a straight face, but deep down he finds it charming that you always take the time to say goodbye.

-Probably doesn’t realize how deep his feelings for you actually run until you’re older, maybe a second or third year. You come back to his classroom after summer break, and the moment you walk in the door, laughing with a few friends, his heart clenches in his chest. It fucks him up for the rest of the lesson.

-I think he’d let it stew for a while, anger and shame pressing at the back of his mind. Every day he sees you he falls deeper, whether you’re laughing and smiling with friends, or concentrating hard while studying, or even just meandering around the campus. Everything about you draws him in.

-He’d never act on his feelings, not while you’re a student. Besides the fact that he could lose his job if you got caught, he wouldn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize your future. He cares about you too much, and you’ve worked too hard to have it ruined.

-Until he notices you staring at him in class. The moment he catches your eye, you look away and pretend to be interested in something else, but that specific moment sticks out in his mind. It’s the first of many.

-Sometimes you fluster when you get caught looking at him, other times you’re so lost in thought that you don’t even realize he figured you out. It’s usually when you’re daydreaming that Aizawa gets a good look at you; pretty features, soft skin, cute lips wrapped around the end of your pencil as you think about him-

-The moment the bell sings and everyone starts leaving for the day, he beckons you over. Probably sprouts some kind of nonsense about how you’re distracted in class, and how you need to pay more attention or your grades will start to suffer. It’s complete bullshit, but coming from him it sounds serious.

-At least, it would to anyone else but you.

-You sit on the edge of his desk, leaning back casually and swinging your legs, and you look at him in a way that almost makes him feel like prey.

- “If my grades suffer, you could always give me some extra credit~” you say with a coy smile.

He’s deadpan as always when he replies, “Your grades haven’t dipped. Not yet, at least. This is a warning, Y/N.”

You pout a little, and sigh. You’re obviously dejected about something, but he’s got no idea why you’d be sad about having good grades...

“Pity,” you mumble, “a private tutoring session could have been fun.”

-You slide off his desk and make your way towards the door, and only then does it click for him. You like him, the same way he likes you.

-He calls out to you right before you slide the door open, and motions you back over. You huff and do as he says, and move to sit back on his desk, but just as you’re getting settled, he reaches forward and pulls you into his lap. It feels a little awkward at first, while you squirm and get comfortable, but once you find a good seat it’s actually pretty comfortable.

-You’ve got an arm tossed over his shoulders, and you’re leaning against his chest with your face tucked up by his neck. He resists a shudder at the feeling of your warm breath against his skin, instead looping an arm around your waist to keep you steady.

- “You’ve been flirting with me,” he says, and it’s not a question.

He can feel a smile break out across your face, before your lips press tenderly against his throat. “I have been for the past eight months, but thanks for noticing.”

He deadpans and pinches your thigh gently, earning a muffled squeak from you, a noise he decides he likes very much.

-But the overall question looms over him. What to do now? He didn’t want to put your future at risk, not to simply sate his own desires. He loved you too much to do that to you.

- “We can’t do this,” he says, and he feels you freeze against him. “Not yet, at least.” He feels you relax.

“I figured as much,” you grumble, but there’s no malice in your tone. “I’m gonna wait for you, you know that, right? The moment I graduate, I’m jumping you. I see the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching; you want me just as much as I want you.”

-He doesn’t deny it, simply holds you tighter.

-You smile softly and take his face in your hands. “If it’s gonna be a while until we can do this again, then...a kiss for the road?”

-It’s sweet, and warm, and a little bit desperate. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone with him like this, and you’re spectacularly warm and pliant. It’s not a kiss he’ll soon forget, and will only serve to make you both yearn for more, but it’s worth it to feel your lips against his.

-You keep things on the down low after that, sneaking conversations here and there and whenever you can. He gives you his phone number in case you ever need anything, but you mostly use it to send him cat memes and suggestive texts.

-He scolds you every single time, but you both know his heart isn’t in it.

-He takes you out on an official date not three days after your graduate.

YAMADA HIZASHI|PRESENT MIC

-Unlike Aizawa, he does not have an ‘oh fuck’ moment. His feelings for you culminate slowly, and he’s quite aware of them, just the same as he’s aware of your feelings.

-He notices your lingering glances, small smiles, and cheerful greetings whenever he’s around. You’re not obvious about it, not being more than friendly from everyone else’s point of view, but he’s perceptive, especially when it comes to people.

-A little piece of him hopes you get over your crush on him, so that he in turn could get over you too, but the big emotions part of his heart wants you to keep loving him in hopes that he might have you some day.

-He tries rationalizing it when he’s on his own, telling himself that he’s really not that much older than you, and that he’s seen larger age gaps, and that after you graduate you’ll just be another hero. He knows he shouldn’t be harboring such strong feelings for one of his students, which is why he doesn’t tell anyone, but he figures that as long as he doesn’t act on it then no one will get hurt.

-But it’s very hard. By the time you’re in your third year, you’re openly flirting with him. He doesn’t necessarily encourage it, but he doesn’t dissuade it either. If anyone ever questions him on the matter, he’ll say that he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings or embarrass you so it’s best to let you work through your feelings on your own.

-He absolutely plays favourites, though. He only calls on you in class when he knows you know the answer to something, and always offers helpful advice about your classes when he’s able to. Some of your classmates grumble about ‘special treatment’ but none of them take it any further than that.

-It all comes to a head one rainy afternoon when he finds you curled up under a tree, looking very, very sad. He hasn’t got anywhere to be, but even if he did, he’d still come over. You’re still his student, even on weekends, and he cares about you a lot.

-You’re surprised when the rain suddenly stops dripping on you, and you look up to find Yamada holding an umbrella over your head, while the rain starts to soak him. You scold him lightly, complaining that you’re already wet so it doesn’t matter if you don’t have an umbrella. He has none of it though, and offers a hand to you.

-He pulls you to your feet and carefully arranges the umbrella so you’re both under it, and after a couple beats of silence, he finally asks what’s got you looking so down.

-You fidget a little, chewing your lip in consideration and wringing your hands. But you’re almost a graduate, you tell yourself, so it shouldn’t matter now if he knows. You’re pretty certain he likes you back, anyways, but on the off chance he doesn’t, you can cope with a month or so of awkwardness.

-You sigh deeply, and explain to him that your classmates were teasing the shit out of your earlier, on a subject that is very near and dear to your heart. You’d had enough of their antics, so you’d left to dorms to get some fresh air, and it had started raining. You’d hoped to get some respite beneath a tree, to no avail.

-He looks you up and down quickly, just now fully realizing how soaked you were. Your clothes cling to your skin in a way he never sees you dress, and it’s a little unsettling how something so mundane gets his heart racing.

-But he pushes through, and rests a hand on your shoulder, going on about how other people’s opinions can hurt but ultimately don’t matter, and that it’s most important how you feel about yourself. He tells you that you’re deserving of kindness and respect, and praises you lightly for being his favourite student and a bright young hero.

-Less than two seconds after he finishes speaking, your lips are on his. Soft and damp, and your fingertips are cool against his jaw where you’re holding him, but he doesn’t mind. Not in the slightest. He drops the umbrella in lieu of gripping at your hips, pulling you flush against him so he can kiss you back.

-You stay there for a few moments, rain soaking further and further into your clothes as your lips mold and slide against each other. He has half a mind to push you back against the nearest surface and deepen the kiss, but he remember that you’re still in public, and you’re still his student.

-He pulls away slowly, grinning inwardly when he sees how breathless and hazy you are. He presses one last kiss against your nose, before he’s grabbing the umbrella off the ground and tugging you along.

- “That can’t happen again,” he tells you, “Not while you’re still a student here. Okay?”

You begrudgingly agree, even though you know it’s for the best. you really do love him, and you don’t want him to lose his job -or worse- over something like this.

“Understood,” you mumble sadly. “I’ll try to get over it, and I’ll stop flirting with you in class.”

-He tilts his head slightly, a questioning gesture, and gently laces his fingers with yours. Just once, out here in the rain, where no one can see.

“I said ‘while you’re a student’,” his tone is playful. “Sweetheart, the moment you graduate, I’m wining and dining you like it’s nobody’s business.”

-Your heart soars after that, and your anticipation for what’s to come makes your last month of school -and your friends’ teasing- more bearable. That, and the fact that you get to text him whenever you feel like, and how your sweet private conversations. He chides you when you get too lewd about something, either in your words or in photos you send him, and tells you to be patient.

-By the time you graduate, you’re just about ready to say fuck it and dive on him, but he beats you to the punch. After the official ceremony, he scoops you up and spins you around a couple times, asking you how it feels to be an official hero.

-You simply kiss him.

YAGI TOSHINORI|ALL MIGHT

-Most concerned out of the bunch. He’s got one hell of an image to uphold, and he never wants to put any of his students in harms way. He probably notices really early on the way his heart flutters around you, the way his stomach twists up in knots when he hears you laugh, the way it’s hard to breathe when he watches you train. Ngl, it scares him a bit.

-Having feelings like that is one thing, but having feelings like that for a student? That’s got bad news written all over it. And it’s especially bad when he realizes you don’t treat him like you do your other teachers; you’re kinder, softer, more interested in lessons.

-Sure, you could just think he was a good teacher, but he’s had many a people crushing on him over the years, so he knows the signs. You like him.

-He hides himself away from you at first, keeping you at an arms length, a curt distance, a professional ways away. He realizes that he may be coming off a little harshly towards you, often keeping any one on one time to a minimum and overlooking you in class.

-You thought he felt bad for liking you? Look how shitty he feels when he realizes he’s made you sad. The day you seek him out after class and ask him why he dislikes you so much, it feels like someone has stepped on his heart and ground it into the pavement with their heel.

-The way you hold yourself to appear smaller and less threatening, the way you avoid his gaze like you’re afraid of his judgement. He decides then and there to be honest with you. You’re almost done your second year in school, so you’re a little more mature, a little more capable of handling what he has to tell you.

-And tell you he does. He explains the way you make him happy, how he enjoys your company, how your smile warms his heart. He also tells you about the guilt he feels for looking at a student in such a way, and how he wouldn’t be offended if you never wanted to speak with him again.

-You, of course, have not been subtle about your feelings towards him. Strange as the situation is, it’s comforting to know he thinks of you the same way. You take his hand gently, marveling a little at how it dwarfs yours, and assure him that you don’t think less of him, even if he thinks you should.

-You can tell that he’s genuine and serious about having feelings for you. You’d never want to put him at risk for anything, so you quietly ask him if he’d be willing to wait for you, until you graduate. After that, you’ll no longer be his student, there’ll no longer be any risk associated with your relationship, and you can be together.

-He’s got his reservations still, but you talk about it more throughout the months, convincing him by the beginning of your third year to pursue something more after you finish school. Once that’s decided, he finds it difficult to keep you at an appropriate distance, but he does his best. From time to time he’ll keep you after class to ask how things are going, how you’re doing, etc. almost always ending with a gentle kiss on the forehead.

-From the outside, it looks like you’ve patched up whatever hole was formed between you, with only the two of you sharing knowing and longing glances across the room. He tutors you and gives you extra lessons when he’s able to, wanting to make sure you come out of this with as much skill as possible.

-The year is long and every day is more difficult that the last, but the weekend after you graduate, the two of you are curled up on his couch watching a movie after eating dinner, sharing sweet kisses and basking in each other’s presence.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #eraserhead x reader #yamada hizashi x reader #present mic x reader #yagi toshinori x reader #all might x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #Anonymous

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moonlightchild-otome · 3 years

Text

the real story of amélie from arthur’s route

hey hey! it’s been a long time! i have been quite busy these past weeks with finals and the summer break.

i also want to start writing hcs, so if you have any requests don’t hesitate to send them to me!

today i wanted to write about a story that i read not too long ago that really coincides with the evil character of amelie in arthur’s route.

a lot of people might have actually already heard of it, she is known as history’s most cruel murderer.

the person we are going to talk about lived in the period of victorian england and was sometimes suspected to have a link with jack the ripper, the serial killer who terrorized the inhabitants of whitechapel.

in other words, she is called the ogress of reading or the victorian ogress and the trial of these murders has been the subject of much attention, especially because she preyed on very young children. Let me tell you the terrifying story of a monster who disguised herself as a warm and loving mother figure

the story of the infamous amelia elisabeth dyer

an ordinary family

our story begins in 1836 in the port city of bristol in england. the hobley family welcomes the arrival of a fifth child, a lovely little girl called amelia elisabeth. the little amelia is very lucky, in a time when poverty reigns in the united kingdom she knows a respectable education, learns to read and to love poetry. however the luck ends quickly as amelia’ mother caught typhus, an illness that showed her a lot of psychological problems. amelia had to take care of her mother until she passes away from her illness. after her mother’s death, the girl loses contact with most of her family members. meanwhile, amelia starts seeing george thomas, a 59 year old man, much older than her, who was only 25 at the time (long live the sugar daddies!). they planned to get married and to avoid gossip, they both lied about their date of birth on the day of the ceremony. (amelia pretended that she was 32 and george 48)

during her marriage, amelia learned to be a nurse but she doesn't have time to forge a real career as her husband dies leaving her alone with their children who are still very young. it's already not easy to raise a child alone nowadays but imagine what it was like at that time when england was in the middle of the victorian period, the industrial revolution changed the shape of the cities and saw the emergence of new social classes. in london and other major british cities, poverty has invaded the neighborhoods and the poor have few options to get by. some live in workhouses which reduce them more or less in slavery for a mouthful of bread while others choose criminality to support themselves.

however, amelia remembers ellen dane, a midwife in her building with whom she got along quite. she had told her that to earn more money she had become a baby farmer.

it is a profession which does not exist any more today but was rather widespread in the 19th century. now, it should not be forgotten that this england inherited puritanism and considered that to have a child out of marriage was a horrible sin. if that came to be known, the young women concerned risked big and could lose their reputation and their work. especially that, at that time, one did not consider that the father had a role to play in the event of unwanted pregnancy. also, it was obviously out of question to abort except clandestinely which was at the same time illegal and very dangerous. all that to say that when an unwanted child came to the world most women preferred to give it up rather than risk public humiliation. but abandonment was also illegal, and none of them wanted to risk the death penalty if their actions came public. this is precisely where the baby farmers intervene. when a woman fell pregnant and did not want to keep the child, she had to put an ad in the newspapers and leave her child to a farmer.the baby would be taken care of and fed until the farm finds a new family. it was a sort of clandestine human trafficking, and sometimes the farmers even housed the mothers in their homes during their pregnancy in order to hide their big bellies.

the birth of the monster

soon, the ogress settles in reading close to london and publishes advertisements where she presents herself as a respectable woman to marry, capable of providing a healthy environment and filled with affection to the children that she intends to collect like the other farmers. she asks for money to be able to look after them. amelia quickly realizes that it is much more profitable to keep the money rather than to use it for feeding and educating the children. and so little by little the treatments that she inflicts on the children become more and more dire (spoiler: she doesn’t take care of them anymore). and even worse, she even drugs the children to prevent them from crying because of hunger. the kids often die of malnutrition and infantile diseases. it is absolutely terrible and yet it is far from being unusual, in fact orphans were very often victims of abuse and many of the baby farmers were far from being trustworthy people. a lot took advantage of the distress of the mothers ready to do anything to keep their secret and these so-called “baby farmers” would leave the children to die in order to pocket the money without any effort. when the mothers asked for news of their children, they often got no answer and when a family wanted to get a child back, the farmer gave them another one instead.

amelia very quickly became addicted to the drugs she used on the children as she couldn’t stand the crying and the presence of the orphans anymore. she decides to move on to a more radical option: directly eliminating the children she is entrusted with.

at first, she will choose to poison them and claim an infantile disease, but the doctor who came to attest the death of the infants shows himself a little suspicious (at the same time, she gives him a case every week or so :/). in short, the guy warned the authorities so that they could investigate on amelia. but no luck, she manages to get away with negligence with a simple sentence of forced labor. and moreover, she decided to opt for a more brutal method for her future murders. that is to say, she was going to strangle them as soon as she was allowed to keep them, pocket the money and look for a new child to start all over again. and this will go on for years, sometimes at the rate of six babies a day, no need to declare the deaths, she got rid of them herself, wrapping them in cloth or old clothes, and then she left to burn them in an isolated place to hide them or throw them in the thames. and when she felt that the authorities could trace the dead children back to her, she simulates a nervous breakdown and suicidal desires and runs off to a psychiatric hospital. she even tried to kill herself once by overdosing to escape an overly suspicious mother who was asking for her child. except that by consuming opiates she had become hyper resistant and the dose that she took was not enough to kill her. she then moved often and took on different identities to prevent the police from finding her and understanding who she really was and this little merry-go-round worked for a long time, a very long time, even, but not indefinitely...

ambush and arrest

in january 1896, a waitress named evelyna marmon gave birth to an illegitimate daughter named doris. she was looking for someone to take care of her and very soon she came across the ad of a certain mrs. harding who wrote "married couple, without children, want to adopt a child in good health in a beautiful country house, price: 10£”. necessarily for this young mother, it is a godsend and the two women contact each other. and here is what mrs. harding replied, "I would be happy to have a dear little girl, one that I will be able to raise like my own. we are a united couple of fairly good conditions. I do not want a child for the lure of gain but to accompany the comfort of the house. my husband and I love children but we do not have any. with me, this child will have a good house as well as all the love of a mother". at this stage you can guess that mrs. harding is in fact amelia dyer who took a false name and who continued with her macabre activities. doris gets taken from the waitress by “mrs. harding” who confirms by letter that the child is doing well, after that she doesn’t give any more news. spoiler: the child did not have more than a few hours to live. once the crime is committed, because yes, it’s done already. amelia covers the body of doris with another child in fabric and travels to the edge of the thames to throw them under the eyes of a man who seemed to observe her but who didn’t address a word to her.

in this kind of case, one wonders “where tf is the police??” well they were on the point of starting a very interesting investigation... on march 30th 1896, the police force finds the lifeless body of helena fry, a baby of hardly 15 months who floated on the waters of the river wrapped in a brown cloth. for the authorities, it is obviously a murder since the child was strangled. they later found on the cloth, a half erased writing which resembles an address. this address is amélia’s, who is now 58 years old; the police then trace her and set up a trap.

basically what they did was to use a young woman as a cover, she pretended to need a farmer to look after her child and as expected it was amelia who answered her directly. so that's how the police organized an ambush at the murderer's house. what first shocked the policemen was especially the unbearable smell which reigned in the house because of the decomposition of certain corpses, they also found meters of edging tape which she used to strangle her victims, and also telegrams testifying of all the adoptions made as well as letters of mothers who asked for news of their children. so yes, there is a lot of evidence to charge her for, especially as they found at least seven more bodies by dredging the thames after her arrest. the bodies clearly had a white mark around their neck probably because of the tape she used to kill the children with. we also know that about twenty children under her care at that time were missing but for the rest it's impossible to know the exact number of amelia's victims. in fact, it is estimated that in 20 years she would have killed between 200 and 400 newborn babies, that's why she is said to be the most prolific serial killer in history.

her sentence and death

in spite of this very important number of victims amelia will be accused for only one crime, the one of the little doris. except that she very quickly confessed a quantity of other murders and tried to commit suicide twice while she was incarcerated. the defense pleaded madness and because she had spent time in asylum the doctors that she had managed to manipulate were able to confirm that was unstable. she herself said that the children she had killed died peacefully; that they were called back by God who was someone who could love them more than anyone on this earth, she said that she had simply made angels and that one day she would sit beside the Lord Almighty. her breakdowns of madness always coincided strangely with the moment when the police approached, so we can think that it was more of simulation and calculation than true dementia. the jury took hardly five minutes to return its verdict, the crimes were so horrible that her mental state could not do much anyways.

amelia was thus condemned to the death penalty. on june 10th 1896, amelia dyer walks towards the scaffold, she decided not to appeal by hearing her verdict and wrote herself five notebooks of confession before her execution that she entrusted to a priest. she tells inside them to have taken pleasure in seeing her victims dying. before her execution, one asked her if she had any last words to pronounce but she answered that she did not have anything to add. at 9 o’clock sharp, the woman who was called the ogresse of reading was hanged. following these tragic events the controls of the adoptions and the activities of the baby farmers were reinforced, new laws were also put in place to protect the children and the mothers and the advertisements in the newspapers were supervised. that said, it still took a certain number of years before child trafficking was seriously supervised…

that’s all for the story! it is a very horrific case and i can’t even imagine what the children must have gone through. i also think we can all agree with the similarities with the character of amélie in arthur’s route.

#ikemen #Ikemen Vampire #ikemen games #ikemen series #ikemen arthur #arthur route #ikemen vampire arthur #IkeVamp #amelia dyer #serial killer #victorian england #victorian #victorian era #ikevamp arthur #ikevam #ikevam arthur

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

Text

Hopelessness of Wanting [Part 4]

<- Part 3

Frederick Chilton x Reader

Warnings: NSFW. 18+ only! Suicidal thoughts. Nonconsensual blowjob, dubcon smut with reader (gender-neutral). None of the smut in this chapter is healthy! Two messed up people falling in love, only one is a lot more abusive than the other (Chilton. It’s Chilton). Reader is not in the healthiest of mind states to interpret their relationship. Everyone more or less gets what they deserve by the end.

6,400 words

Red morning light flooded into the bedroom through expansive panoramic windows that gave a spectacular view over the bay. Dr. Chilton—no, Frederick—was still beside you, rolled onto his back, snoring lightly. The bed was warm and smelled like him. A spicy, timeless fragrance. Expensive and a little off-putting at first whiff, until it melted into something complex and beautiful.

You felt hollow. Numb. Like you could float away or sink to the bottom of the ocean and never claw your way back out again. But calmer, at least. The impulse to hurt yourself was gone.

The negativity that had been devouring you from within had been washed away by a flood of tears and joy—crying until your eyes burned and your throat was hoarse, fucking your boss, going home with him, and then falling asleep crying again while he held you.

This morning, you had nothing left except static.

And there was Frederick Chilton, asleep beside you like a dreaming titan—the silhouette of his body beautiful and ominous. You resisted the urge to cuddle up next to him. He reacted badly to being touched without warning, and besides, you dreaded waking him up. What if he wasn’t happy? What if everything from last night was a mistake?

It all seemed surreal. That he had wanted you all along was too good to be true. Now that he had you, you were certain to be a disappointment. Your chest heaved unexpectedly, and you bit back a fresh sob. Suddenly your face was wet again.

Your nerves were so raw.

The peaceful static buzzing through your mind was fragile. Any sudden movement or loud thought might set you spiraling back down that hole again. You’re just going to screw this up, just like you screw everything up. Maybe it would have been better if you’d just gone through with it—saved everyone the inevitable heartache.

But if you had gone through with it, you never would have found out that Frederick returned your feelings. That knowledge—that something wonderful happened after your planned date of expiration—was reason enough not to try again. Sometimes good things happened. Things could change. Things could get better, and you could be happy again. You had to believe that.

So you moved slowly, and thought quietly. You listened to Frederick’s breathing in and out, and remained wrapped in the warm cocoon of blankets.

***

On the spectrum of touch aversion, Frederick Chilton was hardly a dramatic case. There was a Mr. Walton in his custody at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane who was imprisoned for murdering his four-year-old daughter because she would not stop hugging his calves as he walked by. Restraining the man for treatment required four muscular orderlies prepared for him to kick and bite at the slightest grazing of his skin.

That was touch aversion. Dr. Chilton considered himself perfectly normal by comparison.

He was able to shake hands with an acquaintance, hug a close friend or relative when social normalcy dictated he offer one, and even engage in sexual intercourse when his libido overrode his discomfort. As a man with a very high libido and next to no dating life, sex won out at every opportunity.

Yesterday, the hasty, frantic encounter with you in the medicine storage closet had been almost fully clothed. His hands explored your body as he rutted into you, but yours were braced against the tile wall, passive.

It was impersonal, and he was in control.

This morning, he awoke wrapped in the warmth of your body heat after you spent the night in his bed. In his home. He fell asleep watching you and awoke to you watching him thrashing out of a nightmare, your eyes full of so much emasculating pity that he lunged forward at once to kiss the look off your face.

Fuck—he did not know what he was thinking. A muffled noise of surprise escaped your crushed lips and then melted into a moan as you reciprocated. You opened compliantly to allow his tongue entrance. He meant to bully away your perception of his weakness with the aggressive kiss—he had not expected you to coil your fingers deep into his hair and pull him closer. Your leg pushed between his, and as he pulled back, panting, you quickly closed the gap and kissed him again.

Your bright floral scent was everywhere, surrounding him, invading the familiarity of his sheets. Your hands were pulling at him, softly caressing up and down his back.

It was intimate.

And he was terrified.

You saw him freezing up, and your hands stopped grabbing at him. Some of his tension evaporated as soon as you gave him space. A worried smile thinned your lips.

“Sorry. I forgot,” you murmured. “Is this better?”

You remembered. This was usually where his bedmate would call him too cold, or roll their eyes in annoyance. There was the usual guilt trip: if he was attracted to them, he would want to be crowded with physical affection. But you asked if he wanted to stop—asked him what he needed. No one had ever done that for him before.

“I am fine,” he swore to your skeptical frown, and it almost wasn’t a lie.

Knowing that you would stop put him at ease. The sunny persona you used at work may have been a forgery, but your gentle kindness was not. With you, he almost was fine.

He kissed you again, this time as tenderly as he had while you were sleeping. Felt you breathe in as his lips met yours, and then melt into him as you breathed out. He caressed your hair, and when your eyes opened again, taking him in, his heart felt full.

***

As a general rule of thumb, it is not a good idea to fuck your boss. This rule goes double when you are in the middle of a mental health crisis, and increases geometrically when said crisis was precipitated by your boss’s callous, condescending, cruel behavior in the first place. Or—that is to say—when your boss is Dr. Frederick Chilton.

But when you wake up in your boss’s bed having already fucked him, he pushes his tongue into your mouth, and the twitching of his erection against your thigh makes you feel alive again, you might as well accept you’re in too deep and go for it.

Dr. Chilton’s cock was already slipping through the open fly of his pajamas, and your hand helped it the rest of the way out. You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him on your tongue, his salty taste filling your mouth. Bracing a hand on one of his thighs, you lowered yourself to the pink dome.

“N-no,” Frederick stammered. “You do not have to do that.”

“I want to,” you hummed, a seductive rumble to your voice.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward once in appreciation for your willingness, but his eyes kept a haunted dullness that told you there was more behind his refusal than politeness. There was a story there, and you knew better than to push it.

You couldn’t have known it was his conscience intruding.

Taking control, he pushed you back down onto the mattress. The sound of lube squeezing from a bottle shortly preceded a cold slickness spread between your legs. You reached for him instinctively, trying to make it romantic, but he pinned your hands down by your side. The crown of his cock pushed against your tight entrance, which burned at the penetration it was unprepared for. It was cold, rushed—but as he canted his hips forward, his fingers laced through yours.

“Oh god,” he moaned as if he were kneeling in prayer, whispering his sins in confession—guttural, yet barely a breath.

You grit your teeth to cage the pained cry that leaped in your throat, stifling it into what passed for a whimper of pleasure. The stretch of his unceremonious insertion was the punishment you deserved for being so dramatic and causing so much trouble yesterday. For making him bring you home, worry about you, feel like he had to take care of you. For being weak. For all the incompetent mistakes. You didn’t complain that your body screamed in protest at being forced open too fast by such a large implement. It wasn’t that bad, and the sensation was mixed with pleasure. Satisfaction of seeing the handsome doctor’s face contorting with lust warmed your stomach, and soon your body relaxed around his cock, warmth pooling and coiling in your lower back.

Chilton’s first thrusts were controlled, experimental, rocking forward by slow inches and then retreating until the crest of his cockhead was barely hanging on to the tight rim of your opening. Then he rocked forward again while his analytical green eyes studied your reaction.

After a few of these slow strokes, the pain was gone. Perhaps he had been cognizant of it, waiting until you were letting out soft moans, your pelvis tilting to meet his, before continuing. Then his leg muscles tightened, and his next thrust slammed his hips into yours, filling you completely. You cried out in unison—his a satisfied growl, and yours a wail like you’d been punched in the gut but got off on it.

He lost his thin facade of control after that, rutting into you with force, pressing sloppy wet kisses over your mouth, down your neck. Your fingers clenched his tightly, your knuckles turning white, and he gripped back just as hard. He only slowed to arch his back so he could tease your nipples into hardened peaks with his tongue, releasing new yelps and whimpers from your throat. A possessive bite drew a more resounding cry of pleasure and a dark bruise.

The only thing restrained about his performance was his voice. After his first shout of pleasure, he grew silent except for a few strained noises that told you how hard he was working to strangle back the others. You wondered what wild howls Dr. Chilton hid within him.

“I want to hear you,” you panted.

His face was a mask of effort, already covered in a sheen of sweat that betrayed his poor physical shape. He stared down at you like an enemy soldier in a trench—a spy picking at his weaknesses—and gave no reply.

A strange sort of bravery born of lust came over you. “I want to hear it when you come inside me,” you challenged.

The rhythmic motion of his hips stuttered, and a moan slipped past his defenses as if by your command.

“That’s good,” you purred. “That’s a good boy.”

Something shifted in his suspicious eyes at your praise. A wall came down. “Yes,” he rasped. “You want to hear it—” his voice was punctuated by a powerful snap of his hips and a wet sound of flesh “—when I fill you with my seed.”

“Fuck—yes. Please. Fill me, come inside me!” your voice shook as you moaned your assent. You were so hollow. You needed him—needed him to fill that emptiness inside. Needed his thick cock splitting you open, punishing you, claiming you.

“When I make you mine.” His eyes were wild, almost frightening in their focus upon you—perfect green tunnels into a soul as volatile as yours. He pounded into you deeper.

And he was loud. He had been loud yesterday when he took you fast and hard against the wall, but that encounter was a blur in your memory. Now his voice was the only music filling your head, replacing the static. He spoke continually in filthy promises and eloquent details of what he wanted to do to you, but his words were punctuated by inarticulate grunts and moans. An aching need built with each primal noise that was so unlike the repressed, cynical Dr. Chilton you knew at work.

Every trembling declaration of your name, every prayer to god that passed his lips sent a shock of arousal to your core, and when he half-begged, half-demanded, “Mine… you are mine,” you couldn’t help but agree.

“Yours!”

You were close, all of your senses lost to an overwhelming need. Chilton released one of your hands and slipped between your legs. Every nerve in your body came alive as he stroked you. Your back arched as you went rigid beneath him, crying out.

His head fell against your shoulder, hips bucking wildly, and he sobbed, “Oh god… yes… yes. Mine… mine… mmm—!”

He shuddered as his warmth flooded you. Though his hand became lazy as his own climax overtook him, you eked out an orgasm from the friction between your bodies. It was enough. Enough to leave a slippery mess on his bedsheets, and enough for the resulting crash.

Your emotional high popped like a soap bubble and left you just as hollow—somehow emptier than before—even with Dr. Chilton’s cock still inside you and his seed filling you. You felt wrong. Guilt churned in the place arousal had been occupying. You almost started to weep as he pulled out of you.

Chilton didn’t seem to notice, glowing with the opposite effect of his completion. He ducked between your legs, grabbed your thighs, and began sucking your overstimulated flesh with renewed enthusiasm.

“Ah! W-wait,” you squirmed in his grasp, but it was firm. “What are you doing? I-I already came!”

The sloppy wet noises paused. His chin was soaked and he took sadistic delight in your distraught whimpers. “Therapy,” he smirked. “I have a theory you have another one in you, and that it will benefit your health.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Be a good little subject for me and try,” he answered, “or we shall be here a long time.” Then he buried his face between your thighs.

It felt sickening at first, like swallowing a cup of sugar—too much of something good that becomes painful. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as his tongue worked mercilessly. Then his fingers pumped inside you, his slick cum serving as a lubricant, and that aching need began to return. Choked cries of misery dissolved into ones of pleasure. He didn’t stop until you came again in his mouth, legs quivering and bruised under his grip. This one was more powerful than the first—you could feel it through your entire body, in every limb, and when it finally passed and his mouth popped wetly off of you, your body was too leaden to move.

Chilton smiled, quite satisfied with himself, licking your release off his lips.

***

Work was less stressful when you returned to it on Monday. Dr. Chilton was suddenly understanding of your mistakes. Though you were terrified he would decide he was wrong about you—you were too much of an idiot and failure for a relationship—things at least improved to the point that you could pretend to be cheerful again. Fake it until you make it was your mantra.

Everyone could tell something had changed.

Shifts were rationed out fairly without the express aim of frustrating employees. Patients received actual treatment. Dr. Chilton’s mood was so much less spiteful that a new hire unironically called him nice.

“He must be getting laid,” was the rumor around the hospital, though no one could decide who in their right mind would sleep with him. Your grin dropped at an orderly’s suggestion it was a prostitute.

You were gathering up your keys and jacket from your personal locker in the staff room when the sound of expensive leather shoes clicking on the stone floor signaled the doctor’s approach. It no longer made you flinch.

Chilton glanced in from the hallway and, seeing you were not alone, politely said, “Good work today,” and continued on, his step lighter than usual.

“You didn’t,” Nurse Clerval said flatly.

“What?”

“You didn’t,” they repeated. A raised eyebrow caused worry wrinkles to erupt beneath a hairline steadily turning grey.

“Of course not!”

“Then what is all this about?”

Your entire body was shifted in the direction Dr. Chilton had gone as if straining to follow, and a tell-tale smile shaped your lips into a fawning curve. Oh, you were so busted.

“We happened to talk the other day, that’s all. In private.”

“How private?” Another brow raise.

Your cheeks burned. “It’s not like that! He’s shy. When we talked one-on-one, it turns out we get along. He apologized for always singling me out, and he’s just trying to be more supportive. As a management style.”

Clerval stared at you hard. Your chest puffed out, really proud of that lie. The older nurse had seen enough within the hospital walls to know the administrator suddenly adopting a kinder, gentler management style was horseshit. But their jaded heart had not lost all compassion. A young nurse caught fucking the boss would get ripped to pieces by the gossip mill in this vicious place.

“OK. Fine,” they surrendered. “Just don’t go around making googly eyes, or people will get the wrong idea.”

***

A timid knock sounded on Dr. Chilton’s door, although it was still open from his last meeting—a junior psychiatrist who hurried out fuming and near tears. Perhaps that was why the next appointment was hesitant to come in.

He looked up from his computer, and the crankiness entrenched in his bones shook off at the sight of your face. You were his eighth performance evaluation that day, somewhere in the middle of the pack, and he’d lost track. Now his demeanor shifted, and he did something he hadn’t done for the others by rising from his desk to greet you.

“Close the door, if you would,” he said before you got too far into the room.

The latch clicked shut.

You were nervous. Though you had been dating for months, you remained distant during the workweek to avoid scandal—if news of a relationship got back to the board, you might be transferred to another hospital. Alone in his office, it was unclear whether Dr. Chilton was your boss or your boyfriend. Letting you dangle in suspense sent a thrill of excitement up his spine.

“Take a seat. Let’s get started, shall we?” he said, sitting back down behind his computer.

His massive desk was known as “the moat” by his staff, and it created an impersonal distance between you. He eyeballed you from across the moat, tapping his fingers together as he sank into his tall-backed leather chair. You sat on a small wooden chair, feeling very much like a specimen, and focused on the space between his eyes.

“You have been late five times this year and had to have an ID card replaced,” he said in clipped syllables, launching right into the review with one “needs improvement” after another.

Your stomach twisted into a familiar knot, but you managed not to spiral into an attack of self-loathing and anxiety. If you were going to cry, you could hold it until later.

Talking to someone helped.

Even Chilton admitted it was unethical for your boyfriend to be your therapist, and recommended you to someone with more expertise. You had been seeing Dr. Bloom for three months, and the dark fog was slowly receding. She taught you how to beat it back. Finding another job, for example, was not an outrageous, impossible idea if your current one was making you miserable. And most of your mistakes were no worse than the mistakes of your coworkers whom you very much wanted to keep living. She started you on a bupropion prescription that helped stabilize your moods, and you found yourself able to focus better because of it, too.

It also helped not being bullied at work every day.

The more your self-esteem improved over the months, the more you came to resent the shameful way Frederick used to treat you. Yet, as those same months went by, his actions drifted further into the territory of Past Frederick. That man was a stranger now—you could hardly hold Present Frederick accountable for his actions. Present Frederick was attentive and warm, always surprising you with lavish meals from Baltimore’s finest restaurants, spa days, and quiet nights at home. And as your boss, he was aloof but polite whenever he had cause to speak with you.

Why was he acting so cold now?

Dr. Chilton’s green eyes bore into you over the top his computer screen. “Tsk tsk… I am afraid your performance has not been exceptional, nurse. Perhaps there is something you can do to improve what goes into my report…” A thin lecherous smile spread over his lips.

You weren’t sure what he meant until he beckoned you to his side of the moat, and his hand slid under your shirt.

“What are you willing to do for a better evaluation, my little pet?” He winked mischievously, a hint of playfulness lighting his eyes, though his desire was deadly serious.

“We said never at work.”

“Yes, but now we have reason to be locked in my office, alone. Nothing that would raise suspicion. You are all mine for the next twenty minutes.”

A gasp rushed from your lips as his fingers expertly found a nipple and pinched. Your skin prickled with need.

“In that case, doctor… what will it take? I’ll do anything!” You added a desperate tremble to your voice as you got into the role he wanted you to play.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to bend you over this desk?” Frederick growled with lust, his breath hot in your ear as he grabbed your arms and spun you to face it. It had been a fantasy for far longer than you had been dating. His erection pressed against your ass.

You twisted your neck to catch the side of his mouth in a sloppy kiss. He smirked against your tongue before shoving you down.

The flat of his hand trailed up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades to push your cheek into the polished mahogany.

“Good… very good,” he said. His breath shook with excitement.

Pulling your scrubs down, he rubbed the thickness of his cock over your opening. You shuddered at the cold sensation of lubricant and moaned as he reached between your thighs to stroke you.

“You are always ready for me to take you whenever I want it. To do anything I ask. It is my favorite thing about you—did you know that, my needy little pet?”

His hips rocked, the blunt head of his cock circling, pushing at your tightness. You let out a strangled whimper that almost sounded like a, “Yes, Doctor Chilton.”

“Be quiet now, remember,” he chided as his strong fingers dug into your hips and drew them against his in one fluid motion.

A gasp erupted from your throat—you fought to comply as he stretched you open, biting down on your fist. You were so tight around his cock, but it was the rush of power that drove him into a frenzy. He felt so in control, gripping your hips as he pounded you against his large desk. The desk was his own furnishing, and he was proud of how substantial it was—too heavy to scrape across the floor even as he fucked you. No creaking to indicate cheap construction. The height of refinement. Silent. No one would know what was happening just behind the closed door of his office—his domain. He had control here. It was something he was desperate for after two near-fatal attacks left him weakened and helpless, and his office was one of the few places he could exert his will absolutely. His office was his safety. And you. You completed it.

“You’re mine,” he grunted. “So submissive for me, bent over… God, yes—”

The one thing Dr. Chilton desired in life more than control was to be adored, and you adored him. The most pleasant ray of sunshine to grace the BSHCI was secretly broken like him. Was secretly his. All his. He had everything he wanted—your obedience, your affection, your strangled cries as you fought to stay quiet, your body writhing in pleasure beneath him—

He shuddered and came.

He finished sooner than he intended, and awareness of being old and weak came flooding back as his release dripped out around his cock and dribbled down your thighs. Fuck. He fucked it all up. But you turned and wrapped your arms around him anyway, kissed him like you weren’t even disappointed, and made him forget he wasn’t good enough. God, he could get lost in you.

Every day, he was a little less self-conscious. More comfortable having you close. He learned to trust you.

After a life of suffering, you were his happy ending.

***

“I love you.”

You hadn’t said it yet, but you were going to today.

Frederick Chilton’s hand was always in yours wherever you went—under the dinner table, on your thigh in the car, on the couch while the other hand typed away on a laptop. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hide his affection at work. You already caught him nearly slipping up and calling you “pet” in front of another nurse. It wouldn’t be long before it all came out. And it would be alright.

You were already looking at jobs at other hospitals in Baltimore. Most even came with a pay increase. Then when your relationship went public, there would be no scandal, no dating your boss, just the two of you together. A real couple. He was going to invite you to move in with him so you could still see each other every day—you were sure of it. The thought sent thrills of goosebumps tingling up your arms.

For once, when you looked to the future, you saw something bright.

“Hey Clerval, have you seen Dr. Chilton? I tried his office, but…”

The old nurse sighed heavily. Swinging their feet off the breakroom table, they set aside the yogurt cup they were halfway through and gave you a tired look. You hadn’t exactly told Clerval about your secret relationship, but they knew, and so far, no one else did. Not that they approved. In fact, you had never seen Clerval so worn down as when the topic of you and Dr. Chilton came up.

“His schedule says he’s in his office, which means he’s probably in one of his ‘unorthodox therapy’ sessions.”

Your head cocked. “His what?”

Clerval pinched the bridge of their nose, giving yet another sigh at your naivety. (At this rate, they were going to run out of air.) “Experimental procedures. Things the good doctor doesn’t want on record.”

There was a bitter bite to their words, yet at the same time, resignation. This hospital sucked the soul out of everyone who entered it, and Henry Clerval had been a nurse here longer than anyone. Longer than Frederick Chilton had been a doctor.

“Oh,” you said. “Well,” you scuffed the white rubber sole of your sneaker on the stone floor. “I’m sure he has a good reason.”

“I always see those hypnotherapy lights flashing around Ward A when no one is scheduled for therapy. Try there,” Clerval suggested with defeat.

“Thank you!” you called, sneakers already running down the hall in the direction of the women’s ward.

“Are you sure you want to interrupt his session?”

“I want to surprise him! I’ve got something important to say!”

***

If anyone had been outside women’s wing cell 4B on any Wednesday around noon, they would have heard a wet choking sound, but the staff was too jaded to care. If the guards had any idea what was happening, they got off on it, and didn’t try to stop it.

“Am I good girl, daddy?”

“Yes… yes,” Dr. Chilton hissed between his teeth, biting his lower lip to keep his breath from exploding out in a tortured moan. “A good girl.”

It was an accident the first time a hypnotherapy session regressed Julianne back to a sexually abusive childhood. She grabbed for his belt, and he froze. He almost yelped out in terror and called for a guard, but then she had his cock in her warm, wet mouth, sucking it to fullness, and moaning for him (or rather, for the memory of the father and brother she eventually murdered).

This wasn’t therapy.

When you became a soft part of his life, he stopped trying to justify his actions as anything other than more exploitation in her long life of being exploited. He let it happen because he was lonely, and he continued doing it because he did not care who else got hurt. There were no possible therapeutic benefits for the patient. He himself noted an exacerbation of dissociative symptoms, if there was ever any doubt that he was not thinking of her care. He only wanted a warm mouth to service him, even if it was not the one he longed for.

Then you became more than a daydream, and he recognized how deeply he hated himself. Because he had you—not only your body, but your heart.

But he never stopped.

Every week, like clockwork, he continued the hypnotherapy sessions and left Julianne confused with the bitter taste of his ejaculation in her throat.

You could have been his happy ending.

It wasn’t too late. You filled his lonesome days with affection and understanding he never thought possible. You taught him that he wasn’t too old and broken to love. In forty-five miserable years, he hadn’t ruined things so badly he could never find happiness.

You could have been his epilogue if he only loved you as well as you loved him.

It was not your fault what happened next.

But of course, of all the nurses and orderlies, doctors and guards in the BSHCI, you were the only one kind enough to want to surprise him with lunch. The only one who would have a sinking feeling about the rhythmic squelching coming from cell 4B. Anyone else would have said it was someone else’s business and walked away before seeing something that might obligate them to fill out paperwork.

You were too kind for this place. Too kind for the scarred doctor whose heart died a long time ago.

He watched your eyes widen from the other side of the bars. Saw your face turn from confused to nauseous, then crumple into tears as an involuntary groan escaped his lips—Julianne kept sucking at an unwelcome, now painful pace.

Then you turned and ran.

Julianne never stopped until he finished, though he was no longer in the mood. He never touched her, but he tried to back up, wanted to run after you. She stayed with him. This time he broke his rule and placed a hand to her forehead to push her away. Grasping his thighs, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder. Blood hammered in his ears. If he ripped her away, she could become violent or wake from the hypnosis, and he did not know how much was she aware was real. What her reaction might be. She was surprisingly strong as she held on, teeth grazing threateningly along his shaft the more he struggled.

She never stopped until he finished.

He was trapped.

He whimpered, cock going soft even as she bobbed faster. He tried to close his eyes and think about you, but that was ruined. You were gone forever. There was nothing he could say to explain himself, unless he drugged you with the right cocktail of psychotropics to make you suggestible, your memory malleable…

Solutions he knew would never work raced through his mind as the throbbing between his legs became an agonizing burn devoid of pleasure.

Panic rose and tightened his chest.

***

An anonymous call was made to the board of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The subsequent investigation found “no conclusive evidence” of Dr. Chilton’s alleged breach of ethics, owing not to the lack of such evidence existing, but the board’s desire to sweep the incident under the rug. He was, however, summarily fired and replaced by Dr. Alana Bloom. A forward-thinking move—if the truth ever came out, the hospital would have a friendly feminist face for public relations.

He never went to jail. Never got what he deserved.

Within a month, his book Hannibal the Cannibal became a national best-seller, and he was on tour, raking in wealth and acclaim. He probably would have left his position at the hospital anyway.

There was only one thing he lost, and he used much of the book’s royalties hiring a private investigator to keep tabs on you. It was the only way he could be sure you were safe when you would not return any of his calls.

As much as he was terrified of you becoming suicidal again, the truth hurt more.

You were doing well.

You resigned from BSHCI. Within a month, you had a new job as a graphic designer of all things. He never knew you were an artist. There were so many things about you he never asked, and now he never would.

Every so often, he would drive by your house and slow down, trying to catch a glimpse of you. He imagined seeing you hanging a rope, and rescuing you just in time. A thousand versions of the confrontation played in his mind—you screaming, “Stay away from me!” with disgust. Tears streaming from your puffy red eyes. Him pleading, “Do not hurt yourself because of my mistake.” The bark of your sardonic laugh at the realization that he cared.

In a few, precious few, of these fantasies, you would throw yourself into his arms and forgive him.

But he never saw you in danger, and he rarely indulged dreams as unlikely as reconciliation.

Eventually, he didn’t even get to hear your voice directing him to leave a message—only an automated recording that the number has been disconnected. Sometimes, however, you were sitting on the couch in your living room near the window, and it was enough to justify the forty-minute detour through your neighborhood.

One day, your silhouette was not alone.

***

Nurse Clerval quit two days after you left.

They couldn’t forget the shock on your face when you burst into the breakroom and nearly collapsed. It was the most heartbreaking thing to see someone so innocent crushed.

“Ch-Chilton… he—”

Sobbing and stuttering, you told them what happened, and Clerval took care of it. You were in no state to get on the phone, be put on hold, and fill out the miles of paperwork that went with everything in a government-funded hospital. It was a pain in the ass, and nothing would get done anyway, which was why no one ever bothered… but they couldn’t ignore the look on your face.

“You’re going to get through this,” the nurse said when you hadn’t moved for a long time. “Just breathe. It’s going to be bad for awhile, but you just keep breathing, keep surviving, and one day you’ll wake up, and… you’ll be through it.”

You rubbed the tears from your eyes to look up at Clerval with new appreciation. The jaded nurse had been haunting these halls for too long and it hardened them, but they were always watching out for you.

When you tried to throw yourself at them, desperate for stability, they turned you down, patting your head like a child. “You’re not in a clear mental state.”

***

A brown paper takeout bag sat on your kitchen counter. You’d missed your own “congratulations on the new job” party, and Clerval got worried, hiding their relief when you answered the door. Your eyes were lifeless.

“I couldn’t face everyone. If any of them knew I was… seeing him”—you shuddered and avoided saying his name—“they wouldn’t be caught dead with me. How could I be so stupid?”

A calloused thumb wiped a tear from your cheek. “I miss your smile.”

They gave you a small, sad smile of their own. It was the first time you’d seen Clerval smile. Their face looked like it was made to smile, you decided—like it used to a long time ago, but forgot how.

“When you were dating Dr. Chilton... fuck that bastard, but you were happy. I loved coming to work and seeing you smile like that. It brightened up the gloom. I’d like to see you smile like that again someday.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I don’t know if I can anymore.”

Suddenly you were wrapped in a hug, with a comforting voice in your ear. “You can. You will.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Shut up, I’m clair-fucking-voyant, and I goddamned know you will. Now go on and live your life like you believe it too. Don’t you dare turn into an old cynic like me.”

***

Frederick Chilton thought his lungs would burn through his ribcage—that his throat would close up, and he would die. Seeing you with someone else was more than he could stand, and he drove home with a death wish, gas pedal to the floor. He would rather be wrapped around a telephone pole than make it back to his empty, too-large house.

But the universe does not dole out fair consequences.

He deserved to die in a jealous rage. To be arrested. You should have thrown wine in his face in a dramatic public confrontation. Screamed at him. But you never did.

There was no satisfying comeuppance or divine punishment.

There was only the memory of your heart breaking, and knowing three things in that moment: You loved him. It was over. And it was his fault. There was a time in his life when he was happy. When he had you to hold in his arms, kiss away his nightmares, and fill his days with love.

And then he didn’t.

All he had left was the smell of you on his sheets and a hoodie you had forgotten. He laid it out on a pillow beside him and inhaled until even your scent was gone.

Years later, lying in his own charred remains inside an oxygen chamber, he wondered if you would visit and start to cry at the sight of him. Forgive him.

He never saw you again.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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#Frederick Chilton x reader #darkfic #angst #gender-neutral reader

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