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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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touch starved ꔛ hange zoe x reader (pt 2)

a/n: part two to yearning !

words: 5.8k

cw: fwb kinda, kinda jealous! hange, they/them pronouns for hange, hange has fem anatomy, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy for reader, fingering, cunnilingus, MDNI !!

ꔛ

Your heart raced as you made your way to Commander Erwin's office, the clicking of your boots on the hardwood floor and your heart pounding in your chest deafening as you made the short journey there. After returning from the scouting expedition, things got busy. The thing with Hange was... complicated. Not really, though, if you thought about it more thoroughly. Everyone was busy, everyone was drained, and everyone was going through the motions until the next expedition.

Hange and you rarely saw each other, mostly because they were still recovering from the injury on their leg and spent most of the days in their office working or in the tiny research facility—both places not being areas you frequented. Especially when you were temporarily assigned to a totally different post now that you'd gotten back.

It had been a week, but the encounter you and Hange shared never stopped running through your mind once.

That's when one of your fellow scouts came and told you Commander Erwin wanted to see you in his office, and you almost passed out from anxiety. A bunch of unwarranted and unrealistic scenarios presented themselves in your brain, like what if the Commander could read minds? Did he see you were distracted?

You wanted to throw up when you knocked on the door, and shook when his distinct voice told you to come in.

You pushed open the heavy wooden door, your palm damp with sweat against the handle. Commander Erwin sat at his desk, posture impeccable, his attention focused on a report. Without looking up, he gestured toward the chair across from him.

"Take a seat."

You complied, back straight and hands folded in your lap, trying to maintain composure despite your racing pulse. The Commander finished reading whatever document had captured his attention, signed the bottom with a practiced flourish, and finally lifted his gaze to meet yours.

"I appreciate your promptness," he said, his voice measured and even. His expression revealed nothing—the same calm, calculating look he wore during strategy meetings.

"Sir," you responded with a crisp nod, not trusting yourself to say more.

Commander Erwin folded his fingers and regarded you steadily. "I've received some concerns about efficiency within our ranks since returning from the expedition."

Your mouth went dry. This was it.

"Section Commander Hange's productivity has been compromised as of late," he continued, his tone factual rather than accusatory. "Captain Levi has brought this to my attention multiple times in the past week."

You remained silent, unsure if you were expected to respond. Despite that, a million thoughts ran in your head. Hange was distracted and it was because of you? And Captain Levi of all people was the the one to complain?

"I don't usually involve myself in matters outside direct military operations," Erwin said, "but when the functionality of our command structure is affected, it becomes my concern."

"I understand, Commander," you managed to say, your voice steadier than you expected.

Erwin's piercing blue eyes studied you carefully. "The Survey Corps operates under unique circumstances. Every soldier must prioritize the mission above all else, without exception."

You nodded stiffly, bracing for the reprimand.

"That said," he continued, "I've always maintained that a soldier's personal conduct is their own affair, provided it doesn't interfere with their duties or the chain of command."

A slight frown crossed his features—not of disapproval, but of consideration. "I trust my officers to exercise sound judgment in all matters. Section Commander Hange is a valuable asset to humanity's cause. As are you, in your position."

His emphasis on rank wasn't lost on you. A subtle reminder of the hierarchy that existed between you and Hange.

"Yes, sir," you replied.

Erwin reached into a drawer and extracted a stack of papers bound with twine. "These are the topographical surveys from our last expedition. Section Commander Hange has requested them three times today."

He placed the papers on the desk between you. "They're currently in the research facility, likely disrupting everyone else's work schedule with their impatience."

Was that the faintest hint of knowing in his voice? You couldn't be sure. His expression remained professionally neutral.

"I'd like you to deliver these immediately," he said, pushing the papers toward you. "And remind Section Commander Hange that their analysis report is due on my desk by tomorrow evening."

You stood, taking the papers with a salute. "Yes, Commander."

As you turned to leave, Erwin spoke again, his tone unchanged. "One moment."

You paused, facing him once more.

"The Survey Corps functions best when every member operates at optimal capacity," he said. "Whatever arrangements ensure that outcome are acceptable, provided they do not compromise our organizational structure or mission objectives."

His words were clinical, detached, yet you sensed the meaning behind them. This was Erwin's way—speaking in strategic terms while conveying something more.

"Understood, sir."

"Good," he said with a curt nod. "That will be all."

You saluted again and exited his office, the door clicking shut behind you. In the empty hallway, you exhaled slowly, clutching the papers to your chest.

Had the commander just given his tacit approval? Or merely established boundaries? With Erwin Smith, it was often difficult to tell. His words could be interpreted multiple ways—perhaps intentionally so. It was up to the Commander to be able to deny involvement if needed. And honestly, sometimes you felt too dumb to speak with him because of his big words and serious way of speaking.

What was clear, however, was that you hadn't been reassigned or separated from Hange's command. And now you had a legitimate reason to seek them out after a week apart.

The research facility wasn't far from headquarters—a converted storehouse with reinforced walls where Hange conducted their more questionable experiments. As you approached, the familiar sound of their enthusiastic voice carried through the air, punctuated by what sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor.

You took a deep breath, straightened your uniform jacket, and knocked on the door, the stack of papers clutched tightly in your hands.

"Come in!" Hange's voice called out, bright and energetic.

You pushed open the door to find the research facility in its usual state of organized chaos. Books and papers were scattered across multiple tables, specimen jars lined the shelves, and various contraptions that you couldn't begin to identify occupied every available surface. The familiar scent of chemicals and parchment filled your nostrils.

"Ah, finally!" Hange exclaimed, looking up from where they were hunched over a microscope. Their hair was more disheveled than usual, falling loose from their ponytail, and their glasses sat slightly askew on their nose. But what caught your attention immediately was how they moved—no longer favoring their injured leg as heavily as they had been.

Moblit stood nearby, arms crossed and looking exasperated. "Section Commander, you've been asking about those surveys every hour. Perhaps if you'd waited patiently—"

"Patience is for people who aren't on the verge of a breakthrough!" Hange interrupted, practically bouncing on their feet as they spotted the papers in your hands. The sight made your heart skip—they seemed so much more like their usual animated self.

"The topographical surveys," you said, extending the bound papers toward them.

Hange's eyes lit up as they reached for the papers, their fingers briefly brushing against yours in the exchange. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a familiar warmth up your arm that you tried to suppress under Moblit's watchful gaze.

"Perfect timing!" Hange said, immediately untying the twine and spreading the papers across the nearest cleared surface. "Moblit, look at this—if we cross-reference these elevation markers with the titan movement patterns we documented..."

You found yourself watching them work, noting how their leg seemed to support their weight without the visible discomfort from the previous week. The way they moved with renewed energy, the familiar gesture of pushing their glasses up their nose when concentrating, the animated way they gestured while explaining their theories to Moblit—it all stirred something deep in your chest.

The memory of that night in the tent seemed to hang in the air between you, unspoken but present. Was Hange thinking about it, too? The way you touched each other, the way you spoke like it was the beginning of something new... were they as affected as you?

"This could change everything about how we approach formation strategies," Hange continued, tracing routes on the survey maps with their finger. "If titans are actually avoiding certain geological features..."

Moblit sighed, shooting you a look that seemed to say 'here we go again.' "Section Commander, you've been working for seven hours straight. Perhaps you should take a break?"

"Break?" Hange looked up, blinking owlishly. "But we're so close to—" Their gaze met yours across the table, and for a moment, the excited chatter died in their throat. Something shifted in their expression, becoming softer, more aware.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, and you became acutely conscious of Moblit's presence, of the way he was looking between you and Hange with growing suspicion.

"I should go," you said quickly, taking a step toward the door. "Let you get back to your work."

"Wait," Hange said, straightening up. They glanced at Moblit, then back at you. "Actually, Moblit, didn't you mention needing to check on the supply requisitions?"

Moblit's brow furrowed. "I can do that later, Section Commander. You shouldn't be alone when you're working with these chemical compounds—"

"I'll be fine," Hange insisted, waving a hand dismissively. "Besides, I might need someone to help me carry these reference books back to my office later." They gestured vaguely toward you, the request casual but loaded with implication.

You felt your pulse quicken. After a week of careful avoidance, of stolen glances across the mess hall and brief, professional exchanges in passing, the prospect of being alone with Hange again made your mouth go dry.

Moblit looked between you both again, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed and removed his apron. "Very well. But please don't stay too late, Section Commander. And don't attempt to move any heavy equipment while I'm gone."

"Of course not," Hange said, though their tone suggested they were barely listening.

You turned your head to watch Moblit as he left, opening the door and shutting it behind him.

That was all it took before Hange was on you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Hange breathed, their voice rough with need as they crowded into your space, their hands immediately finding your waist, tugging you hard against them. Their body was warm, solid—so much more alive than you remembered, their heartbeat thundering against your chest as they pressed flush against you.

You gasped, startled by the suddenness of it, your hands instinctively flying up to brace against their shoulders. “Hange—wait, what if Moblit comes back? Or—or someone else—?”

Hange didn’t let you finish. Their mouth crashed into yours, hot and insistent, swallowing your protests with a desperate, messy kiss that left your head spinning. Their lips were soft but demanding, their tongue sliding against yours with a possessive urgency that made your knees tremble. You could feel how much they’d missed you—how starved they were for this—and it sent a sharp, dizzying thrill straight to your core.

“Moblit won’t be back for at least twenty minutes,” Hange murmured between feverish kisses, their fingers tightening possessively on your hips. “And I need you. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you—about how you tasted, how you sounded when I had you—”

A whimper tore from your throat at their words, your face burning as your body reacted instantly, heat pooling low in your stomach. You wanted this—God, you’d been aching for it all week—but the fear of getting caught, of someone walking in and seeing you like this, made your pulse spike with nervous excitement.

Hange didn’t seem to care. They were already dragging you backward, their lips never leaving yours, until your back hit the nearest wall with a quiet thud. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but Hange didn’t give you time to recover—their hands sliding underneath your shirt to paw at your breasts.

“Hange—!” you gasped, your voice trembling as their palms skimmed over your skin, their touch searing.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” they murmured, their voice low and honey-sweet despite the rough way they were handling you.

Then you heard the unmistakeable sound you were so nervous you'd hear.

Footsteps. Outside the door.

You froze, panic flooding your veins.

“Hange—someone’s coming—”

Hange groaned in frustration, their grip on you tightening for a second before they reluctantly pulled away. Their lips were kiss-swollen, their hair even messier than before, their glasses slightly askew. They looked ravished.

The door swung open without warning, the hinges creaking in the sudden silence.

"Four-eyes, Moblit says you've been—" Captain Levi stopped mid-sentence, his steel-gray eyes taking in the scene with the sharp assessment of someone who'd seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"Captain Levi!" Hange's voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "What brings you to—"

"You," Levi's gaze shifted to you, flat and unimpressed, "are supposed to be on perimeter duty. Third shift reported you missing twenty minutes ago."

Your stomach dropped. "Sir, I was delivering—"

"The surveys. I know." His attention moved back to Hange, who was now frantically shuffling papers on the table as if that would somehow restore order to the chaos. "And you've apparently been working for eight hours straight without food or water. Again."

Hange waved dismissively. "I'm fine, Levi. Just had a breakthrough with the formation data and—"

"You look like shit." Levi's voice was deadpan. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness. "When's the last time you bathed? Or slept in an actual bed instead of face-down on your research notes?"

"I slept... yesterday. Or was it the day before?" Hange's hand went to their hair self-consciously.

Levi's expression remained unchanged, but something in his posture suggested he was fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. His gaze flicked between you both once more, lingering on your still-flushed face and Hange's wrinkled shirt.

"Right." He crossed his arms. "You're going to eat something that isn't stale bread and whatever expired shit you keep in here. And you're going to sleep. Tonight. In your actual quarters."

"But the analysis report—"

"Will be shit if you write it while half-dead from exhaustion." Levi's tone brooked no argument. He looked at you again. "And you're going to report to your assigned post. Now."

"Yes, sir," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart raced as you hurried past him, catching Hange's usual expression in your peripheral vision. Behind you, you could already hear Levi beginning his lecture about proper nutrition and hygiene habits, his voice carrying its usual note of long-suffering irritation.

The hallway felt impossibly long as you made your way back to your duties, your heart still hammering against your ribs.

ꔛ

After the tense encounter with Captain Levi in the research facility, you had spent the rest of the evening on edge, your stomach twisting with a mix of embarrassment and lingering arousal. The memory of Hange’s hands on you, the way their lips had claimed yours with such desperate hunger—it had left you restless, unable to focus on anything else. The fear of being caught had only amplified the thrill of it, and now, hours later, you still felt the ghost of their touch on your skin.

You had retreated to your quarters as soon as your shift ended, desperate for the comfort of solitude. The warm water of the shower had done little to ease the tension coiled in your muscles, but it had at least washed away the day’s exhaustion, leaving your skin flushed and tingling. Now, dressed in soft cotton pajamas—a loose shirt and shorts that barely brushed your thighs—you sat on the edge of your bed, running a towel through your damp hair.

The barracks were quiet at this hour, most of the scouts already asleep or lost in their own private routines. The flickering candle on your nightstand cast long shadows across the room, the only sound the occasional creak of the old wooden building settling into the night.

And then—knock knock knock.

A rapid, almost giddy series of taps against your door.

You froze, the towel still tangled in your fingers.

Then it came again—knock knock knock—more insistent this time, accompanied by an impatient little shuffle of feet outside.

Hange Zoe.

Their face was pressed way too close to the door, their single visible eye magnified comically through the tiny lens, their grin wide enough that you could see the flash of their teeth even in the dim hallway torchlight. Their hair was even messier than usual, strands sticking out at odd angles like they’d been running their hands through it repeatedly. Their glasses were slightly askew, and—were they blushing?

Hange practically vibrated on the spot, their hands fidgeting at their sides, their weight shifting from foot to foot like they were barely containing their energy. They were still in their uniform, though their jacket was half-unbuttoned, the cuffs rolled up haphazardly, and their boots untied?

“Hi,” they breathed, their voice a little too loud for the quiet of the hallway, their grin widening impossibly further.

You bit your lip, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure no one else was around before stepping back to let them in. “Hange, what are you—?”

They didn’t let you finish.

The moment you shut the door behind them, Hange practically lunged at you, their hands immediately finding your waist as they backed you up against the wall with a soft thud. Their lips crashed into yours, messy and desperate, their breath hot against your skin as they kissed you like they’d been starving for it.

“Missed you—fuck—missed you so much,” Hange gasped between feverish kisses, their fingers digging into your hips like they were afraid you’d disappear. Their glasses bumped awkwardly against your nose, but they didn’t care, their mouth moving against yours with an almost frantic urgency.

You whimpered, your hands flying up to tangle in their wild brown hair, tugging slightly just to hear the way they groaned into your mouth. Their tongue swiped against your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you let them in with a shudder, melting against them as they deepened the kiss, their hands roaming over your body like they were trying to memorize every curve.

“You taste so good,” Hange mumbled against your lips, their voice rough with want. “Been thinking about this all damn week—about how you sound when you come, how your body shakes—”

A whimper tore from your throat, your face burning at their words, but Hange just grinned, nipping at your lower lip before diving back in, their kisses growing sloppier, hungrier. Their hands slipped under your shirt, warm palms skimming up your sides, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin just beneath your breasts.

“Hange—” you gasped, arching into their touch, your heart hammering so hard you were sure they could feel it.

“Mmm, say it again,” they murmured, their lips trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point. “Love the way you say my name—like I’m all you think about.”

You did think about them. All the time. And the way they were touching you now, kissing you like they couldn’t get enough, only made it worse—your head spun, your body aching with need.

Hange pulled back just enough to look at you, their eyes dark behind their glasses, their lips kiss-swollen and glistening. They were grinning, that same wild, excited grin they got when they were on the verge of a scientific breakthrough—except now, you were the discovery they couldn’t get enough of.

“You’re adorable when you’re all shy,” they teased, their thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Bet you’d be even cuter if I—”

You didn’t let them finish. You yanked them back into another kiss, your fingers tightening in their hair, and Hange laughed against your mouth, delighted, before surrendering completely, their body pressing yours harder into the wall as their hands roamed lower, hungrier.

And you? You were theirs. Completely.

The frantic energy between you shifted as Hange backed you toward the bed, their hands never leaving your body. When your knees hit the edge, you tumbled backward with a soft gasp, and Hange followed eagerly, crawling over you with that same wild grin on their face.

"Your hair's all damp," they murmured, fingers threading through the still-wet strands. Their weight settled half on top of you, one leg slotted between yours, their glasses sliding down their nose as they gazed down at you with hungry eyes. "Were you in the shower thinking about me?"

You turned away, unable to deny it, which only made Hange's grin widen, a look of pure delight crossing their features. Before you could stammer out a response, their mouth was on yours again, softer this time but no less demanding. Their tongue traced the seam of your lips before slipping inside, exploring your mouth with enthusiastic curiosity.

Their hand wandered beneath your loose sleep shirt, fingers tracing patterns on your bare skin that made you shiver. You sighed into their mouth, one hand coming up to tangle in their wild hair while the other gripped their shoulder, anchoring yourself against the wave of sensation.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you—" you started, then whimpered when Hange's thumb brushed the underside of your breast, "Commander Erwin said—said your report is due tomorrow evening."

Hange froze for a heartbeat, pulling back just enough to look at you with narrowed eyes. "You're thinking about Erwin right now? While I'm touching you?" Their voice held a playful edge, but something possessive flashed in their gaze.

"No! I just remembered—"

"Hmm," they hummed skeptically, a teasing smile tugging at their lips. They dipped down to kiss you again, more deliberately this time, their tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl. When they pulled back, you were panting. "Should I be worried about you and our handsome commander?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure despite your racing heart. "Don't be ridiculous—"

Hange cut you off with another kiss, deeper this time, their hand sliding up to fully cup your breast through your shirt. You arched into their touch with a gasp, coherent thought rapidly deserting you.

"Because if Erwin thinks he can steal my favorite research assistant," they continued, voice dropping to a husky murmur as they pinched your nipple lightly, making you squirm beneath them, "I'll have to remind him that I have exclusive access to this particular specimen."

Their hands were everywhere at once—sliding under your sleep shirt, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, tangling in your damp hair. You arched into their touch, desperate for more, whimpering when they suddenly pulled back.

"Take these off," Hange commanded, tugging at your clothes with impatient hands. "I want to see all of you."

You complied eagerly, lifting your hips so they could slide your shorts down your legs, then raising your arms as they pulled your shirt over your head. The cool air of the room made your nipples harden, and Hange's eyes darkened behind their glasses as they took in the sight of you, completely bare beneath them.

"Beautiful," they murmured, their gaze roaming hungrily over your exposed body.

Their fingers trailed up your inner thigh, so close to where you needed them but not quite there. You squirmed, trying to guide their hand where you wanted it, but Hange just chuckled, clearly enjoying your desperation.

"Patience," they teased, their thumb brushing tantalizingly close to your center. "I'm conducting very important research here."

"Hange, please—" you gasped, your hips lifting involuntarily.

"Please what?" Their eyes glinted mischievously. "Tell me what you want. Be specific—you know how I love detailed observations."

Your face burned with embarrassment, but the ache between your legs overrode your shyness. "Touch me," you whispered. "Inside me."

Hange's grin widened, triumphant. "Good girl," they praised, the words sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Now turn over for me. On your stomach."

You hesitated for just a moment before rolling onto your front, face half-buried in the pillow. Hange's hands immediately went to your hips, lifting them slightly.

"Arch your back," they instructed, their voice husky with desire. "Yes, just like that. Perfect."

You felt terribly exposed in this position, your ass raised, face down in the bedding, but the way Hange's breath hitched told you they were enjoying the view immensely. Their hands caressed the curve of your ass reverently, squeezing the soft flesh with appreciative murmurs.

"I've been thinking about this all week," they confessed, their voice rough with need. "About having you just like this—spread open for me, so I can see every perfect inch of you."

Their fingers trailed your ass, dipping lower to slide through your already-slick folds. You gasped at the contact, burying your face deeper into the pillow to muffle the sound.

"Oh," Hange breathed, sounding delighted. "You're so wet already. Is that all for me?"

You nodded frantically into the pillow, unable to form words as their fingers explored your sensitive flesh, gathering your arousal and spreading it with teasing strokes.

"I can't hear you," Hange said, their tone light but demanding. "Tell me who makes you this wet."

"You," you managed, voice muffled by the pillow. "Only you, Hange."

"That's right," they hummed, satisfied. "Not Erwin, not anyone else. Just me."

Without warning, they slipped a finger inside you, making you cry out at the sudden intrusion. Your walls clenched around them, hungry for more, and Hange groaned behind you.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," they breathed, slowly working their finger in and out of you. "So tight, so eager for me."

They added a second finger, stretching you deliciously, their other hand stroking soothingly down your spine as they began to establish a rhythm. The angle was different like this—deeper, more intense—and you couldn't help the broken moans that escaped you with each thrust of their fingers.

"I need to see better," Hange murmured, more to themselves than to you. You felt the bed shift as they repositioned, kneeling between your spread legs to get a closer view. "God, look at the way you take my fingers—the way your pretty little cunt just swallows them up."

Their clinical observation, delivered in that passionate, wonder-filled tone they usually reserved for titan research, should have embarrassed you. Instead, it sent a fresh flood of arousal coating their fingers, your body responding to being the focus of their fascination.

Hange grinned, curling their fingers to stroke that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "So responsive to stimuli. Let me try something..."

They withdrew their fingers slightly, only to add a third, the stretch making you gasp and clutch at the sheets. Hange paused, letting you adjust, their free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back.

"Too much?" they asked, a rare note of concern breaking through their scientific enthusiasm.

"No," you panted, pushing back against their hand. "More, please—"

Hange chuckled, the sound warm and pleased. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?" They resumed their movements, fucking you steadily with three fingers now, the obscene wet sounds filling the quiet room. "I love how desperate you get for me. How your body just opens up, like it was made to take me inside."

Your thighs began to quiver with the effort of maintaining your position, pleasure building relentlessly as Hange worked their fingers in and out of you. They seemed entranced by the sight, occasionally murmuring praise or filthy observations that made your face burn and your pussy clench around them.

"Look how wet you're getting," they marveled, their free hand sliding up to grasp your hip, holding you steady as their pace increased. "Dripping down your thighs—fuck, that's hot."

The combination of their words and the rhythmic pressure of their fingers against that perfect spot inside you had you racing toward the edge. Your back arched deeper, pressing your chest into the mattress as you rocked back against their hand, desperate for more.

"Hange," you whimpered, the familiar tension coiling tighter in your belly. "I'm close."

"I know," they said, voice tight with their own arousal. "I can feel it—the way you're squeezing my fingers, getting even wetter. Are you going to come for me? Let me see it happen, let me feel you fall apart."

You came with a strangled cry, your inner walls pulsing around their fingers, your whole body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Hange worked you through it, murmuring praise and encouragement as you rode out your orgasm on their hand.

"Beautiful," they breathed as your tremors subsided, slowly withdrawing their fingers. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You collapsed onto the bed, boneless and panting, only to feel Hange's weight shift behind you. You turned your head just in time to see them bring their glistening fingers to their mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of pure pleasure.

"Delicious," they declared, eyes locking with yours as their tongue swirled around their fingers. "Better than any experiment."

Despite your exhaustion, you felt a fresh pulse of desire at the sight. Hange noticed, their lips curving into a knowing smile as they released their fingers with an obscene pop.

"Don't think we're done yet," they warned, eyes gleaming. "I still need my turn, and you look like you've got plenty more to give me."

They flopped onto their back beside you, still fully clothed, though their shirt was rumpled and half-unbuttoned. They beckoned you with a crook of their finger, that familiar manic grin spreading across their face.

"Come here," they said, patting their thighs. "I want that pretty mouth of yours."

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, crawling over to them with renewed purpose. Your fingers worked at the buttons of their shirt, revealing more of their lean, scarred torso with each one that came undone. Hange watched you with hooded eyes, their breath quickening as you pushed the fabric aside to expose their chest.

"These too," you murmured, tugging at their pants. Hange lifted their hips, allowing you to pull the garment down their legs, leaving them in just their underwear.

You traced the outline of their arousal through the thin fabric, delighting in their sharp intake of breath. "Can I?" you asked, fingers hooking under the waistband.

"Yes," Hange hissed, lifting their hips again. "God, yes."

You pulled the underwear down slowly, teasingly, until Hange was completely bare before you. Your mouth watered at the sight of them, slick and swollen with need.

"You're so wet," you whispered, echoing their earlier words as you settled between their spread legs.

"Your fault," they groaned, propping themselves up on their elbows to watch you. "Been thinking about your mouth on me all week—dreaming about it, practically."

You didn't make them wait any longer. Lowering your head, you dragged your tongue through their folds in one long, slow lick, moaning at the taste that flooded your mouth. Hange's head fell back with a strangled curse, their hips jerking up against your face.

"Fuck—yes—just like that," they gasped, one hand coming down to tangle in your still-damp hair.

You settled into a rhythm, alternating between broad strokes of your tongue and focused attention on the bundle of nerves that made Hange's thighs shake on either side of your head. Their fingers tightened in your hair, not quite painful but definitely controlling, guiding you where they needed you most.

"Right there," they directed, voice strained. "Harder—fuck—"

You obeyed eagerly, increasing the pressure of your tongue as you slid two fingers inside them, curling upward to stroke against their inner walls. Hange let out a broken moan, their grip on your hair tightening as their hips rocked against your face.

"Such a good girl," they praised breathlessly, the words sending a thrill through you. "So perfect."

Their praise spurred you on, making you redouble your efforts. You worked your fingers inside them, matching the rhythm of your tongue, determined to make them feel as good as they'd made you feel.

Hange's other hand joined the first in your hair, both now guiding your movements more forcefully, tugging you exactly where they wanted you. The slight sting of your scalp only heightened your arousal, making you press your thighs together as you pleasured them.

"Look at me," Hange commanded, voice rough. "Want to see your eyes while you fuck me with that pretty mouth."

You glanced up, meeting their intense gaze over the plane of their stomach. The sight of them—flushed and disheveled, glasses askew, watching you with such raw hunger—nearly undid you. You moaned against them, the vibration making their hips buck harder against your face.

"God, the way you look right now," they groaned, one hand loosening its grip to stroke your cheek almost tenderly. "My beautiful, filthy girl, face all wet with me—"

Their words dissolved into incoherent sounds as you sucked harder on their clit, curling your fingers more firmly inside them. You could feel them getting close—the way their inner walls clenched around your fingers, the increasing desperation in their movements.

"Don't stop," they gasped, fingers tightening painfully in your hair now, holding you firmly in place. "Fuck—I'm so close—don't you dare fucking stop—"

You had no intention of stopping. You worked your tongue over them relentlessly, your fingers fucking into them harder, faster, chasing their pleasure with single-minded determination. Hange's body went taut, their thighs clamping around your head, their back arching off the bed as they came with a hoarse cry of your name.

You gentled your movements but didn't stop, working them through the aftershocks, only pulling away when they tugged weakly at your hair in silent signal that it was too much.

"Holy shit," Hange breathed, collapsing back onto the bed, their chest heaving. "That was—fuck—get up here."

You crawled up their body, settling against their side. Hange immediately pulled you into a messy kiss, groaning at the taste of themselves on your lips and tongue. When they finally broke away, they were grinning again, that wild, excited expression that never failed to make your heart skip.

"You know," they mused, fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare hip, "I think I'm going to need more of these private research sessions. For science, of course."

You laughed, burying your face against their neck. "Of course. For science."

Hange's arms tightened around you, their voice dropping to something softer, more serious. "And just so we're clear—about Erwin, about anyone—you're mine. My assistant, my research partner, my—" They paused, seemingly searching for the right word.

"Yours," you supplied simply, pressing a kiss to their collarbone. "Just yours."

The tension you hadn't even realized was in their body melted away at your words. Their fingers threaded through your hair, gentler now, as they pulled you in for another kiss.

"Good," they murmured against your lips. "Because I'm not very good at sharing my favorite discoveries."

#hange zoe x reader #hange x reader

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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i know i said id work on my newest request however… i got hit with the creativity stick for an academic rivals college au with hange…………. i know the troupe is overdone but you gotta walk with me here….

#hange x reader #hange zoe x reader #talkin

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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of blood and love — h. zoë

PAIRING: Hange Zoë x fem!reader SUMMARY: You came home drenched in blood and forgetful, but Hange is there for you. CONTENT: blood, murder, yandere!reader, reader is described as eccentric WORD COUNT: 1.0k A/N: I survived the first year of college and came out unhinged. It will happen again

“Honey, you need to tell me whose blood this is,” Hange spoke slowly, gently plucking the knife from your hand as one would with a flower. Hange dropped it, kicked it on the other side of the room as they closed the door behind you.

It was almost a year ago since you've come to their doorstep drenched in blood and forgetful. Hange's head thrummed from the smell of blood, wondering why it was happening again.

Your blank, dazed eyes followed them as blood trickled from your brow to your lip.

“You're not hurt, are you?” Hange wrapped an arm to your waist, mindful of the carpet as they guide you to the bathroom.

“Not hurt,” your short response followed as Hange began to fill the tub. They met your gaze at the bathroom mirror as you observed your reflection. You had a cut or two perhaps, but nothing more. Hange lifted your soaked shirt, tracing a finger in search of any wound or bruises. They sighed in relief as they found none, kissing above your bloody brow and thanking the gods it wasn't as worse as the last time.

Hange held you as you stepped into the warm bath, what remained of the fresh blood latching into the water in crimson and pinkish swirls before dissipating. You traced them with your finger as Hange dutifully scrubbed the rest of the blood off.

They would ask a few questions, answerable by yes or no as it was all that you could manage at such an unstable state.

“Y/N?” Hange needed to approach with the following questions carefully.

“Hm?” You were looking at their face now.

“Do you think you killed someone earlier?” they asked with a voice as light as day, as if asking if you've taken your breakfast.

“I think so… must be a bad person.” You blinked slowly. “You think so?”

“Hm, yes.”

“Why is that, my love? Do you know who this person is?”

You shook your head, resting your forehead on their shoulder as if the question made your head hurt.

“I don't know… But it feels nice.”

Hange washed the blood off your hair and spoke again, “What feels nice?”

“Killing him.”

Hange learned to wash the blood off of you, even removing the stains from the floor or the tub. All they have left to learn is resisting the chill creeping through their veins at your confessions after. They're afraid it was as difficult as removing the blood off the carpet.

“You're all done, sweetheart,” Hange smiled, scrubbing the last speck of blood clinging to your thigh. “Let's dry you up so we can hit the bed early.”

Whatever they said floated around your ears, never quite reaching their destination. You kept staring at their brow.

“That will scar…” You traced a finger around the flesh off their wounded brow. It was a short, deep cut with a purplish green bruise adorning the wound like a petal.

“It was nasty, yeah,” Hange tried to laugh it off as they dried your hair on a towel. “Happens sometimes.”

The attacks did not happen until recently. Being the commander, Hange was the face of the decisions, the leader, the one people like to blame when circumstances don't favor them. The Yeagerists weren't too happy with Hange's stand and some lunatics even resorted to attacking. Hange unconsciously brushed the ache in their brow, the scab itched but they resisted. Hours ago, you've been by their side, nursing that very wound.

You wrapped your arms around them, your head on their chest as you spoke, “No one would hurt you like that anymore.”

It felt strange now that the worried, weeping face they remembered of you was replaced by one they couldn't decipher.

Hange worried themself for half an hour, wondering if it was safe to leave you alone again. Their duty followed their every move as the clock ticked audibly above the dresser. You were still rested and fast asleep on the bed, thick blankets pulled up to your chin. Hange drew the curtains slightly, reminding themself of the specific centimeters it should be drawn according to you. Hange had gotten used to your strange rituals, no longer finding a sensible reason for them as long as it would make you happy. They've heard people whisper about your eccentricity, the commander's wife never quite fitting in with the crowd, try as you might. But Hange loved you deeply, and your love runs even deeper. You don’t need to be anyone else in their eyes.

“You’re going?” you asked in a small, sleepy voice, barely opening your eyes. Hange was half-glad you woke up before they could leave.

“Had to, sweetheart,” their lips lifted into a smile before sitting next to you. They took your hand between theirs and continued, “You should stay in for the day, love. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded. They kissed your knuckles and hoped that you'll keep your word.

For the next few days, Hange traced back to where you could have possibly been, or if anyone had seen you that unfortunate night. Strangely, no reports of violence or any possible crime came for almost a week. Hange did not mind, burying the memory of the past few days the way they've always done for the past years. You came to your senses again, returned to the wife Hange knew and loved. Your sweet hugs whenever they come home, the perfect pancakes you make in the morning, the fresh flowers on their home office table, your beaming face with a smile as radiant as morning sunlight all come back and Hange would not trade them for anything.

A week later, the newspaper came at their doorstep on a Sunday morning. Typical news articles, advertisements, editorials and such. Hange was about to fold it back and return to the kitchen with you when their eyes landed on a missing person report. If it wasn’t for the certain emphasis of the facial features on the sketch, Hange wouldn't be able to recognize him. Hange doesn't have his name but they remembered the man well enough from the healing bruise above their brow. They could not be mistaken.

They decided to leave the newspaper folded next to the kindling pile, knowing that your eyes were upon them. You have a habit of watching, after all.

#hange zoe x reader #hange x reader

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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the perils of a hot lab partner

꩜ pairing: chemistry lab partner!hange zoe x gender neutral reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content

꩜ word count: 759

꩜ synopsis: where a chaotic lab partnership turns into an electrifying romance. chemistry isn't just confined to test tubes, you know?

Lab partner!Hange who bursts through the door twenty minutes late and looks like they've been struck by lightning, goggles askew and lab coat half-buttoned, apologising clumsily while somehow already knowing exactly what compound you're supposed to be synthesising.

Lab partner!Hange who gets genuinely ecstatic by successful experiments. Their eyes light up with an intensity that makes your stomach flip as they lean over your shoulder, their breath hot against your ear while explaining molecular structures.

Lab partner!Hange who has ink-stained fingers from frantically scribbling notes, and you find yourself staring at their hands more often than you should, wondering what those fingers would feel like trailing across your skin.

Lab partner!Hange who pushes their glasses up their nose with the back of their hand, leaving smudges that you have an inexplicable urge to clean off with your thumb, your faces inches apart.

Lab partner!Hange who always smells like pine and something vaguely, uniquely them, a scent that becomes intoxicating when they crowd into your personal space to check your measurements. The way their body seems to naturally radiate warmth doesn’t help. At all.

Lab partner!Hange who gets so adorably excited about breakthrough moments that they grab your hands without thinking, their touch electric as they bounce on their toes, eyes sparkling with manic joy.

Lab partner!Hange who stays late in the lab with you, the room growing dim as they lean against your workbench, watching you with an unreadable expression that makes heat pool in your stomach.

Lab partner!Hange who absent-mindedly chews on their pen while thinking, drawing your attention to their lips in a way that makes you lose focus while balancing equations.

Lab partner!Hange who has a habit of rolling up their sleeves when concentrating, revealing surprisingly toned forearms that distract you more than any difficult formula ever could.

Lab partner!Hange who notices when you're struggling and moves behind you to guide your hands, their chest pressed against your back as they murmur instructions, their voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Lab partner!Hange who starts bringing you coffee in the mornings, skin lingering against yours during the handoff, their gaze drinking you in with an eagerness that makes you forget how to breathe.

Lab partner!Hange who gets protective when other students boisterously interrupt your work, stepping closer until you can feel the possessiveness of their presence, both comforting and dangerous.

Lab partner!Hange who catches you staring at their mouth while they explain complex theories and pauses mid-sentence, their eyes darkening as tension crackles between you like static electricity.

Lab partner!Hange who starts finding excuses to touch you—steadying your hand while pipetting, brushing past you in the narrow lab aisles, their touch lingering just long enough to make your pulse skyrocket.

Lab partner!Hange who begins texting you late at night during the mid-semester break about "lab questions" that somehow turn into long conversations that leave you lying in bed, wondering if they miss you too.

Lab partner!Hange who wears their hair in a messy bun that makes you want to pull it loose, especially when they tilt their head and expose the elegant line of their neck while concentrating.

Lab partner!Hange who starts unconsciously mirroring your movements, both of you reaching for the same equipment and freezing when your bodies brush, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Lab partner!Hange who looks at you over their glasses with an expression that's equal parts scientific curiosity and something much more tantalising, making you feel like their most fascinating experiment.

Lab partner!Hange who gets flustered when you compliment their intelligence, cheeks flushing as they fidget with their lab coat, suddenly unable to look at you.

Lab partner!Hange who finally snaps during a late evening lab session, grabbing your wrist when you reach for a beaker and pulling you against them, their other hand tangling in your hair as they kiss you desperately against the bench, months of yearning finally exploding between you.

Lab partner!Hange who breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, "I've been wanting to do that since our first titration," before claiming your mouth again, their hands roaming as you forget everything except the way they say your name like a prayer.

Lab partner!Hange who shows up the next day with a lopsided grin, acting like they didn't just have you screaming against their dorm room wall the previous night, casually asking, "So, want to grab dinner? Like, an actual date?" with mischievous eyes and the burning memory of exactly how you taste.

#hange zoe x reader #hange x reader

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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if u see this reblog read this NOW !!! that’s an ORDER!!!!!

hieee it’s your number one fan ^_-

one idea i’ve had rattling around in my mind is reader/mc seeing hange through a shared college class and since hange stood out to them, they end up seeing them like EVERYWHERE on campus and then mc/reader is bored in class and doodles hange, giving it to them with a note that’s like “you’re cute, so i drew you”

and you can do whatever you wish after that, i hope this is enough to go off of and isn’t boring as a request :P #need that pining and yearning

❝ANTHROPOLOGY❞ ✧ ೃ༄

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ hange x gn!reader college au one shot - in which you become infatuated over a stranger in your class . . . wc 3.7k *ੈ✩‧₊˚so much yearning, may your heart swell <3

That goddamn metronome clicks, back and forth, and back and forth, just how it always does, but today is different. There’s a pebble in your shoe and it’s been there since the first day of the semester; but it isn’t just any pebble. The pebble is quiet, articulate, and stupidly tall. It wears masculinity like a dying leaf, in all browns and murky warm-toned clothing which caught your eye. Of course, this pebble isn’t a rock, it’s the person sitting two rows and five seats to your left during the two hour lecture of your anthropology class.

You feel like a mad-man for the way you stare at them - but hey, as long as they can’t feel your eyes boring into the back of their head, it’s fine. The pen in your hand softly taps in between each methodic click of that metronome. Your head rests in the nested cup of your palm as you try your best to focus, but your professor is a bore and he’s been explaining the same chapters you’ve read twice now in goring detail. So, you decide.

Maybe you’re psychotic. Ymir certainly thinks so, and she isn’t shy about letting you know that either.

“Have you talked to them?” she asked as the two of you shared an after work froyo, four days after the first encounter.

“Absolutely not,” you replied so quickly she had to laugh.

“Well, one may think that’s the first step, unless you plan on stalking them the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know, you’re kinda onto something with the stalking…”

Maybe it is psychosis. Because as of late, they’ve been everywhere. At the library, in line at the campus cafe, your trek through the food court, and you swear on a rainy night you saw them in the parking lot of your college apartments; but as the person with the same shaggy bun on their head walked under a street lamp, you realized it was only your hopeful wishing. Months into the semester, it’s only seemed to worsen. At times it even pisses you off.

There isn’t a valid reason to be upset at them, you don’t even know their name yet you sit here, staring and fuming as that metronome clicks. That anger isn’t their fault, you know this. The anger is yours and yours only, because, with these months having gone by, you still haven’t spoken a single word to them. If it weren’t for their own bold curiosity, you very well wouldn’t have even heard their voice.

To this day, you remember it: you say gender has no spiritual significance, then how do you define gender through the eyes of indigenous groups?

Their voice was as broad as it was sure of itself - all mumbled and slightly intoxicating. Normally, you roll your eyes at unnecessary inquisitions - this day in particular, class was already five minutes over time and by the stunned look on your professors face you knew the old man was about to blab for another ten - but you watched from a distance as your pebble bit the tip of their pen and intently listened to his stumbling response.

Your anger is directed at yourself, because who the hell would let themself become so entwined in someone whose name is still a mystery? Who the hell wouldn’t just bark up the courage to ask. You know the answer - it just had to be you.

Your tapping pen stops as your eyes drop to the blank page of your notes. The ball point tip grates down against paper and you begin to scribble. From two rows and five seats to your left, the bridge of their nose is prominent and it’s the first thing you begin to sketch down.

As your professor blabs on, you recall how it wasn’t their appearance that first seemed to entrance you - but obviously, it surely doesn’t help. It was their demeanor which hooked you. The way their head hangs low and how fast they walk and how much their fingers twitch and the way they nearly trip every time they dash up the stairs of the lecture hall to leave. They’re awkward and bulky, like they don’t even know how to use their body and god it drives you fucking mad.

One time in particular, the time you nearly died, the two of you unknowingly clashed at the exit doors. They were the first to grab the handle, and it was in a mix of a flustered chest and headphones blaring in your ears which made your mouth part. For the first time, they looked at you. They actually fucking looked at you before their cheeks wrinkled with a smile, something awkward and societally forced.

“Sorry, go ahead,” they told you, and in your bashfulness all you did was nod, return a societally forced grin, and flee. Later that night you nearly damned yourself to hell for being so stupid.

Thank you!

What are you doing after this?

Please just fucking notice me.

Would that have been so hard to say? Your head shakes as you think of it now, as your pen faintly maps out the structured shape of their profile. Drawing is a nasty habit and not one you spend much time on, but you know if it paid the bills you’d get a useless art degree rather than being a useless anthrope.

There’s a break in the scene; it comes as your eyes dart to movement as your pebble slouches in their seat, spreading their lanky legs and you shift in your seat you can’t seem to stand yourself. You have to be god damn crazy to react this way to someone you’ve never met. But maybe, that’s just it.

This infatuation, this near obsession which brings your eyes back down to your page, maybe it’s all a dream. A fantasy where you imagine who this person is, who they could be, and it’s everything you want. God knows if even half of it is true, but that doesn’t matter. You debate tearing the page out and crumbling it into nothing, but your pen has a mind of its own. Your obsession seems to have a mind of its own, as without much thought you work out the intricacies of their hair.

Today, they wear it like usual. It’s dark brown and messy and the strands which frame their face look like they could use a wash; how endearing. It looks like they just run a hand through in the morning and clip it up the back of their head. The ends fray like unfurled hay and a few straggling pieces fall down their neck, all pooling together in the back of their flannel.

As they go to scratch the side of their head, you take note of every ring on their finger. There’s only two silver ones, the other hand has none. At the very least you know they’re not married.

You draw them just as such. By each chunk, by each imperfection. Then it comes to their glasses.

They're oval lenses with thin metal frames. They catch the hook of their nose perfectly and rest just at the sacred bump jutting out by their eyes. You only need to make a few, quick scratches to imply it, and the second you do your heart thumps by how they’re coming to life on your page.

You’ve always been an imaginative child, so it came as no shock to you when you found yourself imagining them by your side the other day. In line at the cafe, you thought freely of the conversations you’d have with them accompanying you. You’d want to have their order memorized, you’d have to and it’d be no burden on your brain because all of them is everything you want to know…how fucking pathetic. But your patheticness reached a whole new level when, like some sick manifestation, they appeared behind you.

Some asshole rode a skateboard directly through the center of the court, its wheels made a horrible noise against the polished floors, and you looked. For one second, you saw the guy zooming out the other side, but in the next second your eyes flicked up and found the stare of the pebble digging your foot.

Maybe it was rude, how quickly you looked away and turned back around. But what the fuck else was there to say?

Oh hey! You actually made it to my dreams last night, bit of an upgrade from just watching you all the time, might as well be going steady now!

You looked ahead, straight. Back straight. Breath hitched. And like a zombie you placed your order and entered purgatory as you were forced to stand and wait. You watched the entire time as they ordered after you. They smiled wide at the barista and it rubbed you so wrongly you had to look away. Your arms crossed as you turned the volume up, blasting your music instead of simply listening with the wired headphones you fiddled with. It rubbed you so wrongly that you didn’t notice they moved to wait next to you until it was too late. Like a fish out of water, you began to struggle.

Everything began to feel automated and held under the microscope; as if they’d be paying as much attention to you as you were to them. They weren’t on their phone, they weren’t even plugged in like you. They were there, present and quiet and tall and just as the barista called your name, they opened their mouth and closed it all the same as you pushed yourself from the wall and made an escape. It didn’t hit you until you were out in the open sun that if you had stayed you certainly would have at least learned their name.

They stick to the same type of clothes: what you’d imagine is in the men's section at a thrift store. The first time you saw them they had dark brown trousers, an off white shirt, and a brown jacket on. The second time was the same, but under their jacket they had an extra flannel. The third, they opted out of the jacket all together, leaving them in just a flannel that’s haphazardly cut at their hip. And yes, you remember it all.

Today, you draw their flannel in a mess of criss-crossed lines. It’s nothing fancy, nothing intricate or accurate, but you’d know exactly who it is by now. You start with their hands and this, you get excited for. Their hands are long and their fingers are thin, bony things with flat nail beds and bitten up cuticles. You know because the day they reached for the door first you quickly noted every single detail as if you’d never have the opportunity to again. You sketch each hand out, one keeping a pen to their lip - the exact way they’ve proven to be a habit as they sit doing just that now - and the other is marked in wide spread over the chairs folding desk.

You draw each and every finger exactly, with small scratches marking veins, as if you were put on earth just to do so.

With that, you finish, and sit back to admire your work. Fuck this class, but if it means you get to do this for hours, maybe you don’t mind it. But your professor announces the end and as people begin to pack and make way to leave, your heart patters.

Your pebble moves. They close their notes and slide their book into a book bag at their feet, and you panic.

“Well, would you actually want to date them?” Ymir pried that day, over froyo, regarding your confession of a secret obsession.

With a spoonful of goodness in your mouth, you mumble, “I mean, yeah. Eventually, maybe. But I just want to know them, it’s literally killing me that I don’t even know their name.”

“Dude, just ask?” she laughed, and so did you. But it wasn’t truly funny, because you know yourself. It isn’t that simple for you.

You fell for them from afar and who’s to say you’d still feel the same if you knew them truly. But the thing is, you know you would. As sure as you are of the sun, you’re sure you’d still want the pebble no matter what.

So, as you quickly shove everything into your bag, you neatly tear the page from your notes and scribble down you’re cute, so i drew you right under your sketch. You feel possessed as you stand up and without hesitation skip down two rows just as they approach the aisle.

They stop, whether by want or because you quite literally block off the exit. And with a slightly shaken hand, you fold the paper and hand it out to them.

“Here,” is all you say. Your eyes can’t bring themself to their stare, you can’t risk embarrassing yourself like that if they choose to reject you. Instead your gaze bores into the collar of their shirt. Their flannel is held together right at their neck by one button. But the second they touch the note, slipping it between two long fingers, you decide to look.

Standing before you, with a bag slumped over their shoulder, they take the note with a light hearted expression. They’re not exactly smiling, but they’re certainly not upset either.

In another world, you’d like to think you’re the brave one. You’d like to think you were the one boasting armor and swords, fearless on the battlefield. But in this life, you drop your hand, give them one firm grin, and just as they say a hesitant thanks, you turn the other way and leave.

They don’t follow you out. You even wait a few extra seconds to see if they’d try, but as someone else pushes the door open, you catch them inside. Standing there, head down as they stare at the note they unfolded. This is enough to twist your stomach and send you flying towards Ymir.

“Oh my fucking god, did you write your number?!” Ymir exclaims, stopping in her steps as the two of you walk the quad.

You turn, looking around before shushing her, “No, I didn’t write my number, I was too busy on not letting my heart fucking combust.”

“You pussy!” she shoved a handful of chips in her mouth, chewing in between words.

Rolling your eyes, you continue your stride. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just see them next week, where they can tell me how much of a weirdo creep I am directly to my face.”

She chuckles before she joins your side again. “You amaze me. You won’t ask for their name, won’t talk to them like a normal person, but what you will do is sit there for two hours drawing them and handing it to them like a-”

“You don’t have to remind me! Trust me! I know.”

“Good. At least you know. And I can’t wait to see how the hell you handle this week after that.”

“Like a goddamn chump, Ymir, I screwed myself,” your hands shove their way inside your jacket pockets like a true loser.

“You know what, no,” she counters though, placing her crumb covered hand on your shoulder, “Anyone who’d receive a note like that from you is the luckiest son of a bitch alive, and if this asshole doesn’t love it then they don’t deserve it.”

You look over at her, your eye gleaming for a moment before you flash a witty smile. “Wow, Ymir. I’d think you were the one secretly in love here if I didn’t know any better.”

She scoffs before pulling away. “I take offense, I thought I was the only butch in your life.”

“Such a travesty,” you sigh dramatically, and after a few smiling seconds the two of you laugh before making it to your car.

The next week is grueling. Work feels like torture, but being home is worse. Here, you spend your hours thinking and thinking and venting to Ymir on the couch. God bless her, because she hasn’t once told you to shut up about it.

That is until the day of your next anthropology class.

“What if they show up and walk directly up to me and shoot me with a gun,” you spit it all out with feigning seriousness, just as Ymir points a finger at you from the couch.

“Shut the fuck up. What did we talk about? What’s the plan?” she sternly scolds you as you sway in the doorway.

Your head falls back with a sigh, “‘Hi, I’m sorry for running off so quickly, my name is y/n, what’s yours?’ like that?” your voice drops as you look at her, “Is that how you want me to say it?”

“Fantastic.” she claims, and with that and a roll of your eyes, you’re off to lecture.

When you enter the lecture hall, they’re not here. You take a few reluctant steps down the aisle as your eyes patiently skim every seat and every head. They’re nowhere. You swallow so dryly that when you finally do take your seat you have to wash your worries down with water.

It isn’t until ten minutes into class that the door opens from behind. You don’t look, and that’s your mistake. The pebble bouncing around in your shoe for months decides to take a seat, not just near you, but right next to you amongst a slew of empty chairs.

Your eyes widen when you notice, when their long hand reaches for the fold out desk and pulls it down over their lap with a sigh. They smell like fresh rain and mint and it’s devastating as you shift in your seat, pretending not to care. But under the current of your professor's voice, they speak directly into your ear.

“You know, I had to wait outside for a bit to make sure you’d have a seat already,” they keep themself low and throaty and for a moment you swear to god you feel their lips against the shell of your ear.

You continue staring straight. You refuse to look at them. It’s the only way you can keep yourself composed. “Why would you do that?” you ask, afraid.

They sniffle, they clearly have a runny nose with this weather, and you watch in peripheral view how their knees spread wide just to mock you. “Because I needed to make sure I could sit next to you.”

“Why?” you whisper. Luckily, you're far enough back that your quiet voices are lost towards the front.

“So you could draw me again,” they say without fear. Like this isn’t the end of your world.

Your head snaps to them out of instinct and you’re forced to admire the way they only watch you. They don’t mind the lecture, they haven’t even pulled out their notes like you have. It’s like the only thing keeping them tied to this room is you and the pen in your hand.

Your eyes skim down their face for the first time with such detail. Their skin is patchy with a small resemblance of a tan, littered with tender moles that sink into their cheek, their chin, down their neck even and as you notice the few that peek out from their shirt, you snap back up to the small smile poking at their lip.

Those eyes drop again, not out of observation but with a flush of anxiety as your mouth parts. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” that smile worsens, “you already have.”

“Yeah, but that was different,” your voice is too quiet for them to hear the way it trembles.

“How was it different?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Your mouth mimics theirs as it twitches into a dumbfounded grin. “Because you weren’t right in front of my face looking at me.”

Their brow makes a move down their face before their eyes do the same. Through their oval lenses they scan you over, “Would you rather me not look at you?”

Your lips open and close as you piece something together. “I would just, not…” but you lose it. Your face turns hot and you can’t for the life of you get it together. “I don’t know.”

But the pebble smiles. You’re sure they’d chuckle if it weren’t for your precarious situation of trying to keep quiet. “If it helps, I think you’re cute too.”

Your lips pull into your mouth as you nod slowly, even slower you look away, damning yourself down to your open notebook and pen. “Cool.”

“So…can you draw me again?” they lean in at that, whispering again, “Detailed though. I want a full portrait. I’ll commission you with lunch after this, if you want?”

You don’t look at them, you can’t. Your mouth presses into a tight-line smile unavailable to them as you click your pen and silently nod your head. And for the rest of the two hour lecture, you use up all the artistic skills you’ve earned to draw them. This time, you’re precise. You don’t chicken scratch, you paint them in with faint layers of blue ink until their likeness becomes uncanny on your page for the second time. All the while, your pebble watches as you bring them to life, in between your studying glances where you focus on one feature at a time; their eyes, their nose, the sunken bags under their lashes, and their lips - thin and beautiful and perfectly pink.

Every time you look their way, they pull from your work in progress and meet you. They don’t care that you’re not paying attention to them, just their face. By the time class ends, you’ve filled the page with an exact replica of this stranger who’s successfully infatuated you. And by the look on their face when you offer it to them, they’re more than satisfied.

Their smile halves as they sink into their chair, holding the page with worrying hands of messing it up. “Damn,” they mumble.

You feel yourself swell, like there’s something horrible growing inside your chest until you spit it out, “Yeah, I accept tips too.”

Still examining your work, they ask, “What do you have in mind?”

Ymir would be proud as you face them, “What’s your name?”

At this, they look at you with the same expression you’d give a struggling toddler. “Hange,” they say so simply, as if this question hasn’t burned a hole straight through you.

Hange.

You smile, and as people begin to leave they close your notebook for you. “Let’s get going then, huh.”

first request team...im so happy to be doing this, thank you for the request :,)

#hange zoe x reader #hange x reader

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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forensic scientist hange teams up with you, a young new detective to solve a ten-year-old cold case. who knew a crazy preacher, cult activities, and missing children could lead to such a beautiful thing blossoming

#hange zoe x reader #hange x reader

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hangesfavles · 2 months ago

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Beneath the Bruise

4.3k words! Yelena x GN reader. (i think i made the reader fully gn sorry if i slipped up) i fully prepared to end this at 3k words but was told to write more because it felt unfinished. >_<

Warnings: mentions of blood, brusing and a dead worm LMFAO

Summary: You’re a humble medic tending to Yelena after she gets into a fight with another soldier, but you’re a bit of a mess under her scrutiny.

A/N: WOWEE another request yayayyayay this idea is so silly cute. i havent written yet for yelena so i really hope i do her character justice because i love her and i honestly havent dipped my toes into writing this type of character yet (like a character that isn’t upfront with their emotions and all that, but im happy to try) i read the request and knew immediately how i wanted the story to be laid out so i’m really excited to get this out there (im writing this before even starting the fanfiction lmaoaoa)

also stream gnarly by KATSEYE & enjoy

To you, you’ve always seen Marley as a machine: a machine that you always knew your place in. You’re just one small part of a larger whole, like a single screw that helps keep things in place. The role you play in Marley’s grand scheme is typically done on the sidelines, often overshadowed by civilians, yet appreciated by soldiers that play a greater, more dangerous role than you.

You’ve known that you were going to be a medic from a young age. People have always commended you for your unwavering care and kindness, even to the littlest of things.

Your parents never let you forget about how you cried and cried at the ripe age of 7 over stepping on a worm, accidentally killing it. You held it in your hands, with no regard for the slime and dirt that transferred to your hands as a result, blubbering out quiet apologies as if it could still hear you.

That softness, that instinct to help and heal stayed with you, even as the world around you became increasingly more rigid and hard. In a country where compassion was often mistaken for weakness, you learned to focus your tenderness into your steady hand to practice unrivaled precision.

Even now, as you’ve seen soldiers return in puddles of their own blood, the strongest of men and women groveling in front of you, you weren’t deterred. The little child that once shed tears over a dead worm is still inside your heart and mind, wanting to help more than ever.

It wasn’t often that you would remember a particular soldier. Oftentimes, if one was to frequent enough times for you to remember their name, they would be discharged from training due to incompetence, or you would alternatively find their remains scouring the battlefield.

However, you happen to know the name of one particular soldier from not only a personal interest, but also the whisperings of your coworkers and soldiers alike that trail her wherever she roams. Yelena. An unnervingly tall woman, both enigmatic and dangerous in all the ways you were taught to fear.

Maybe that was what drew you in about her, the way she was so unlike anything you’re used to. You don’t know much about her, hell- you don’t even know her last name, but you know just enough to grasp the fact you were hooked.

She was a book you felt that you couldn’t put down. She effortlessly commands attention wherever she goes, and not just yours. You’re unsure if it’s willing or not, or if she’s even aware of it.

She’s cold, unsettling and often blunt or rude. She’s strong, a natural leader, someone everyone noticed, and you’re the complete opposite.

Some soldiers come into the infirmary from injuries gained from training, some tumble in drunk, scraped or bruised from a fall, some are rolled in after getting shot, sliced, or stabbed during a battle. The least often kind of injuries that people come in for are from fights amongst each other.

So here you are, ushering the tall blonde woman into one of your cots as blood dramatically flows from her nose. She takes a seat with little urgency, holding her nose with her head tilted backward to avoid dripping blood on the floor or her uniform.

You gently graze the back of her head with your hand, feeling the sharp prickles of hair from her undercut, guiding her head forward instead.

Unbeknownst to you, she tenses at how quick you are to touch her, rather than just telling her with your words. “Don’t tilt backwards, the blood could go down your throat, and it’s not in my itinerary to clean up blood-vomit today.” You tell her.

Now that you’ve tilted her head the correct way, you turn around sharply to find a cloth or napkin she can properly bleed into. You’re so preoccupied with tending to Yelena, the current fuel of your curiosity, that you almost miss the man being carried in by two other soldiers, his arms slung over the shoulders of his friends.

You notice the crowd enough to shout for another medic to attend to him, quickly at that, since he is in a noticeably worse condition than the woman seated behind you.

You grab a small hand towel from a nearby drawer to hand to Yelena. When you transfer the towel to her, her fingers graze yours. Normally, you might feel a fluttering in your stomach, though this time you can’t help but cringe as you notice her blood has transferred to your bare hands.

You turn on your heel once more, washing off the blood from your hands and adorning proper gloves that you had forgotten in the flustering moment of seeing her bleeding in front of you, in need of your care.

She doesn’t thank you, nor does she outwardly react at all. She silently tilts her head into the towel, awkwardly glancing at your shoes, which she notices are carefully treading closer to her.

She’s once again shocked by your hands-on mindset as you use your first finger and middle finger to pinch the bottom of her nose, where the bridge flares out to turn into her nostrils.

“Squeeze here, it will stop the blood flow quicker.” You say, holding on to her nose for a second longer than what might be considered socially acceptable. She responds to you with a simple hum, replacing your fingers with her own.

Immediately, you’ve struck her as somewhat odd. She’s heard of you, as many in the military have. You’re regarded as one of the best medics they have on call, if not for how well you handle your patients, it’s for your genuine care and softness for people.

You’ve always been described as level-headed, soft spoken, focused. But as she gazes up at you, you seem frantic and fidgety, maybe even uncomfortable. She’s trying to chalk your demeanor up to you being scared of her. She’s more than aware of her reputation she’s gained in the military.

You decide to make use of the time you have until her nose stops bleeding, as shifting on your feet and staring at her is starting to make you sweat from the awkward tension.

You grab her hand that isn’t on her nose, flipping it over to glance at her knuckles. You can already see some swelling paired with the blood-filled cracks in her skin. You grab some gauze and wet it, carefully dabbing at the dry skin of her hand to clean the blood.

Yelena is trying to sort through her thoughts silently. Are you always this touchy? If you were, why hadn’t she heard about it? With the way some soldiers speak about you, of your beauty, kindness, and technique, surely someone would’ve mentioned that with drool dripping from their lips.

She’s brought out of her thoughts as a piece of the gauze gets hooked on her dry skin, pulling it up slightly as you lift the cloth. It doesn’t hurt that bad, but she hisses. She wasn’t prepared to be dragged out of her mind so soon.

You let out a soft, sad noise as you hear her wince. “Sorry.” You whisper, changing the gauze out once the blood is cleaned up. You put some ointment on it, allowing it to be transferred onto her skin.

While doing this, you notice just how large her hands are. You suppose it makes sense in relation to her size, and how she is still towering over you as she sits on the cot in front of you. You absentmindedly continue to dab her with ointment past the necessary amount.

By the time you come to your senses, she’s removed her nose from the cloth, noticing how the bleeding has stopped. She sniffs, now looking down at your smaller and thinner hand tending to her knuckles. You grab a light wrapping, holding her hand as you work the bandage around her palm and fingers.

When you dare to take a peek at her, she returns the gesture, looking back at you with an unreadable expression. There isn’t much conversation between you two, as you’re both lost in your own respective thoughts. It’s a little tense.

You move on to her other hand now that she’s done with the washcloth, tossing the bloody towel into the trash. Once again, without asking, you pick up her hand and get to work. Uncharacteristically, she decides to inquire. “Are you always this handsy? Aren’t you supposed to ask for permission before touching me?”

Her words sound teasing, but her tone indicates nothing of sarcasm, interest, playfulness, anything, really. Since it’s hard to tell what her tone is, it’s hard to form a proper reply.

Your first thought was that this was some sort of attempt at teasing, so you respond as such. “I mean, you kinda knew what you were getting into since you came into the infirmary. Did you want me to stare at you while you bled on the floor?”

She lets out a soft huff through her nose. You can’t tell if it’s a huff of annoyance or if it’s the closest thing you’d get to a laugh out of her. She lets the silence hang between you for a few prolonged seconds.

“No.” She said plainly. “But it’s not like it was life or death. You could’ve asked. I would’ve been fine if I bled there for a few minutes.” You give a soft, amused chuckle “Yes, I’m sure you would have survived. But if everyone had that mindset of standing around instead of getting care, I’d be out of a job.”

Once again, silence settles in the air. You’re keenly aware of every sound, now that there’s nothing else to focus on. The steady intake and releasing of her breath, the slightest shuffle that comes from the gauze against her hand, the quiet noises of the other nurses in distant rooms.

“I don’t mind it.” she says finally. Her voice is level, not exactly warm, but not biting either. She can read the stiffness of your shoulders and the way you avoid looking at her for more than 2 seconds at a time, and she assumes that her presence is stressing you out. And in a way, it is.

But that doesn’t really explain everything, does it? If you were so scared of her, wouldn’t you avoid touching her at all costs?

She can see the confusion that seeps into your expression due to her minimal words, so she continues. “Being touched.” Her words are unexpected and unprovoked. You try your hardest not to let her words get to you, because she doesn’t mean them in the way your mind secretly and silently hopes that she does. Touching her was sort of part of your job, in this case.

“Oh,” is all you manage at first. Then, fumbling for something better, comes “That’s good. Makes my job easier.”

Yelena’s gaze drops back to your hands, still halfway through applying ointment. “You’re nervous.” she states.

A beat passes.

You stiffen, heart picking up. “I’m not.” You’re not sure what inspired her to call you out, but you’re wishing she had ignored the urge.

“You are,” she insists, tilting her head slightly, her voice smooth and calm. “You’re different from the stories.”

“Stories?” you ask, tying her hand with the bandages just a little too tight. “I didn’t know I had stories.”

She shrugs. “People worth knowing tend to have some.” You wonder if that’s supposed to be a compliment, but coming from her, it sounds more like an assessment. The silence that follows now becomes less tense, but it isn’t yet comfortable either.

Once you drop her hand, you take a glance at her face and notice the dried blood remaining on her lips and nose. You have half the mind to just tell her, and give her another towel to wash it off. But she gave you indirect permission to invade her personal space, didn’t she?

You were always meant to be a medic. Maybe you were never meant to have power, knowing that having it would make you mad.

Within the same hour of having power, you’re already deciding to abuse it. You grab another hand towel, dampening it with water. She watches you, her eyes giving away the slightest hint of confusion.

You grab her jaw carefully, gently, as if a sudden move could cost you your fingers. Your grip steadies her head, your other hand shaking as you carefully wipe the dried blood from her nose and mouth.

You dare not look at her eyes now. But the curiosity in you gnaws at you more than you can stand. Her eyes are locked onto your face like a hawk. The power you thought you had slips through your fingers as quickly as you felt it, almost as if it was never there to begin with.

Her stare is intense, like a predator hunting their prey. You definitely feel like her prey with the way she looks at you as if ready to devour at any moment. Despite that, you still have trouble understanding what she could be thinking and feeling.

Is she staring at you that way because she plans to kill you? Or is it possible that you’re intriguing her? Is she loving your closeness or loathing it?

Your hand slowly releases her chin, falling to your side. The hand clutching the towel also drops to your side. Your body language screams your disbelief at your own actions.

“Well, you’re fixed up.” You say with faux confidence, gesturing toward the bandages and taking a step back to regain personal space. “Try not to punch anyone else for the next 24 hours.”

She doesn’t move to stand. Instead, she stays seated with one elbow resting on her knee, chin propped in her bandaged hand. “Do you always act so stern when you’re nervous?”

You narrow your eyes at her, still unsure if she’s joking or serious. Probably both. You cross your arms, partially to put on a more confident stance, partially to keep your hands from fidgeting in front of her sharp gaze. “Stern? More like professional.”

Yelena hums again, that low sound from deep in her chest sending a wave of electricity down your spine. “Hm, no. You’re backing away from me like I’m going to eat you alive.” She comments.

“Well,” you say, offering a soft smile, with barely concealed nervousness “You did come in due to a fight: moments before a man was dragged in, barely recognizable. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘approachable.’”

When you take another glance at her, you see that her expression is neutral, but no longer blank. You can catch a small glint of amusement in her words, actions and tone. “Maybe I’m not. Approachable, I mean. Maybe you shouldn’t be so curious about people like me.”

You’re caught between wanting to deny her read entirely and admit to her that maybe she’s right. You’d been hyper-aware of every movement around her, unsure if touching her was like handling a wild animal that might suddenly bite. “Is it so wrong to be curious?”

Another bout of silence. This one is heavier.

Her gaze drops to your chest, then back up to your face, slowly, deliberately, without shame. “You should be careful,” she says at last. “Curiosity doesn’t always end well. Not for people like you.”

You don’t know what to make of that. Is she looking down on you? “People like me?” You inquire, your brows furrowing defensively. She leans forward a little, enough that your breath catches from the proximity, though she still doesn’t stand. “Soft people.” she says plainly.

The words could be cruel. They might be cruel. But her voice doesn’t carry malice. Nothing about her is easy to understand, seemingly.

And then, finally, she stands. “That’s not something that’s found much around here.”

She’s tall. You knew that, and it’s never changed, but somehow it feels different when she rises to full height right in front of you. She’s still, her arms loose at her sides, one hand gently flexing inside its new wrapping. You have to crane your neck slightly to meet her eyes.

Your lips part, then press together again. You let the silence hold between you as you try to decipher if she’s being kind or cruel. “Right. I don’t really know if you mean that in a respectful way, but I’ll accept it as a compliment.”

“Hm.” She hums, looking down at you to meet your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

You’re amused now, the nerves slowly settling, even fading away slightly. You’re still unsure of her, but the more you banter, the less scared you are.

“I think I’ll be seeing you again,” she murmurs, just quiet enough for only you to hear. Your eyes follow her as she strides past you, without pride or dramatics. Only the same calm and controlled footsteps you’re used to watching from a distance.

She grabs a stray pen from the counter, writing something on the clipboard you had discarded after bringing her in.

She pauses right before the doorway. “Try not to worry too much about it, your hands need to be as steady as everyone says.” Right. So, she’s definitely teasing you.

“My hands are steady.” You try to confirm as confidently as possible. But it’s hard to say seriously when your hands are still warm where hers had been. “That remains to be seen by me.” She says before heading out, the door shutting with a soft click.

The feeling she left you with had you confirmed in the fact that you definitely want to see her again. For that brief interaction, you don’t only feel like just a screw in a machine. You feel human: thrilled, overwhelmed with different emotions.

You walk over to the clipboard, using all the restraint in your body to not skip or jump over to it. It reads: “Yelena- Hall G Room 12.”

You spent an abnormal amount of time staring at her handwriting on your clipboard.

Yelena- Hall G Room 12.

You tell yourself it's just a follow-up. It’s the responsible thing to do, to make sure she’s okay after having her nose busted and knuckles torn up. You’d check on any patient like this. Probably.

Maybe.

You can’t help but wonder if it’s too soon. It’s only been a day since she’s come into the infirmary. But she was plaguing your mind and barely leaving, tall, sarcastic, unnerving Yelena. It was almost maddening, the way just thinking about her had you tossing and turning in your bed.

Your heart pounds against your chest as you stand outside her door. It’s surprising that she hasn’t heard it through the wall that separates you. You try to shove your thoughts aside and gently thump against the wooden door.

There’s a slight pause that stresses your nerves so badly that your toes curl inside your shoes. But then you hear her impassive voice.

“Come in. It’s open.” With her approval, you step inside warily, as if you were a small, scared animal. You don’t feel much different from one.

Her room is small and impersonal. The room’s furniture only consists of a wardrobe, desk, a chair with wheels, and a small bed. You’re not even sure that she fits in the bed provided to her given her unorthodox height.

When you walk in, Yelena is sitting up in her bed, with her legs criss crossed. She’s holding a book that she makes look tiny in comparison to her hands, though she doesn’t seem to be that interested in it.

You doubt that she’s changed the wraps that you put on her hand, as they seem to have dried blood seeping through slightly. You hold up the items held in your hands for her to see.

“I brought some more ointment and bandages.” You say simply, trying not to give away the fact you couldn’t care less if she replaced her bandages. In reality, you just wanted to see her again and you knew it, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise.

She lets out a barely noticeable chuckle. “Do you always hand deliver extra supplies?” She tilts her head at you in a way that makes you feel like a puppet under her control. She has to know that she has you wrapped around her finger.

You don’t answer right away, because you’re not sure how you should respond. “No. Most come back when they need supplies, but you haven’t.” She gestures lazily to the space on the bed in front of her, placing her book aside. “Go on then, doc.”

You’re melting over her words, truly. You would melt just standing next to her, her impact on you is just that strong.

You steady your legs, walking towards her bed carefully as if you’re heading straight into a lion’s den. You take a seat in front of her, placing the supplies on the blanket.

You reach for her hand tentatively, unwrapping the bandages as if she was fragile and delicate, like porcelain. When you take a glance at her knuckles, you glance at the swelling and bruising; it was nothing unexpected, and definitely not infected.

Yelena watches with a sharp gaze, studying your actions as well as your body language. She’s starting to become familiar with your mannerisms despite only being formally acquainted for a day.

You can feel the weight of her gaze pressing into you. “You really came just to check on my hand?” she asks you, her voice low. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but she might sound softer than usual.

You let out a soft sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you reapply the cream to her hands. “I don’t know what I came for.” And then, after another second of thinking, “But you wrote your room number down. It didn’t seem like you wanted me to ignore it.”

Yelena leans the tiniest bit closer. The light from the ceiling casts shadows across her features, making her look even more statuesque. “Maybe I didn’t.” Your hands freeze for a split second as you unwrap her other hand. “You’re not easy to read.”

She watches you a little differently now. Less like prey, more like an anomaly. “You’re not what I expected,” she says, voice almost a murmur. “Neither are you, I think.” You tell her. “I don’t really know what I expected.” Your words were stated honestly, and she softly hummed in response.

As you finish rewrapping her other hand, you feel an overwhelming urge to make some sort of move. Surely you’re not the only one feeling the tension that settled over the both of you from the mix of banter and subtle flirting.

Fuck it, you think. With faux confidence, you bring one of her hands up to your lips, gently pressing a kiss on her bandages.

She pauses, staring at you with a look you can only describe as incredulous. You don’t move, neither does she. Your pulse is so loud in your ears it’s a shock that you can still hear what she says next.

“That wasn’t very professional.” She says, though you can hear the playful lilt laced carefully into her tone. But before you can send yourself into a panicked spiral, she continues “But not unwanted.”

You’re not sure how to respond, like, you’re drawing an absolute blank, as if your brain finally caught up to your actions after already performing them. You drop her hand shyly, placing them on your knees instead with your elbows locked.

She smirks, barely. But it’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen from her. “Don’t act so nervous,” she says. “You’re the one who kissed me, remember?”

God, this game of cat and mouse is going to be the death of you. Your breath is unsteady from nerves. “It was just your hand.” you say, half-defensive, half-embarrassed.

“I don’t believe for a second that you did that as a friendly gesture. I doubt you kiss all of your patients better, just like you don’t hand deliver extra bandages to them either.” She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “It’s not smart to get involved with me, for more reasons than one.”

You know her words are probably correct, despite you being oblivious to the full connotation of what she means. “But,” she adds “you should come back again anyway. Without the excuse of a follow up appointment.”

Once again, you’re fully speechless. I mean, what are you supposed to respond with after being read as easily as a children's book? You guess the best thing to do is make sure she’s not on the edge of her seat.

“Yeah, I’ll drop by again sometime.” You say in a breathy tone. “There’s nothing left for me to do, so I’ll head out for the night.” You really don’t want to leave, but you know you shouldn’t keep her up late at night, and you shouldn’t keep yourself up late either.

“Right.” She says in a simple and neutral tone, in true Yelena fashion. She stands up to open the door for you. “Before you go, I have something to return to you, though.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You hadn’t given her anything other than bandages, and she wasn’t going to remove them after you spent the time changing them out for her.

You stand up and walk closer to her, but not past her and the threshold of her room just yet. She leans down to your height, her hand resting under your chin to lift it up before she seals her lips with your own.

You wouldn’t have expected to kiss Yelena, but in a world where you did expect it, you didn’t think it would be as soft and careful as it was in actuality. It was short and sweet, not lasting more than a few seconds.

“Goodnight, doc. I’ll be seeing you soon.” She says with certainty, though it doesn’t sound cocky.

If you hadn’t gotten good sleep last night, you would be surprised if you slept at all tonight.

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