Warning: Dubcon, medical kink
"Where are you right now, Sephiroth?"
Sephiroth's attention drifted into the safe space Helena carefully constructed. Helena's face contorted and then eased; just as quick as she realized her client was dissociating (and that greatly displeased her), she became aware of her consistency to the point of a fault.
Sephiroth smiled a gentle pull of his lips, quickly dashed. "I'm in a therapy session. With you."
Helena sighed inwardly with relief, her nervous system following suit. "If we are ever going too deep, too fast-."
"I'm honestly fine. Please don't write on this in your notes."
Helena shrugged, "write what?"
Sephiroth adjusted his pants, the pleats insinuating. He wondered if she was thinking the same things he was. Was she reading his mind? Do therapists possess the ability? He wondered if he could read her mind in the moment. I want you. I want you so badly.
Sephiroth chuckled, inadvertently bringing Helena's gaze upon his tightened frame. "Is everything okay?" Helena seemed puzzled, her nose wrinkling at the thought that she seemed like a joke to her client.
Sephiroth nodded, lips taunt. Helena had been taking her medication. But if she weren't, she would be thinking about how those thin lips tasted. Did they taste like blood and ash? Did they taste like whiskey; he was drinking whiskey the night of the housewarming. But Helena was sobered to the thoughts. Helena knew better than to jump on a train that would lead her back to her psychiatrist's office, her license in hand.
"That may be it for today's session."
Sephiroth placed his notebook back into his briefcase and snapped it shut. "Thank you, Helena. It's been very helpful."
Helena's chest curled inward. Are you being helpful? Today was the day that her helpfulness would be put to the test. She was meeting with Mauve… and Hojo. She was tempted to tell Sephiroth that she appreciated his words and wanted nothing more than to hang onto them, but she followed him to the door, wished him a good week, and slumped to the ground as the door closed. She knew she would be raked over the coals. She knew this would be entirely hostile.
She picked herself up before Mauve knocked at her door, leading her into the boardroom. "Just trust me to protect you, us. I've worked with Hojo before." Yes, but never when Sephiroth was at stake.
Helena looked at the clock on the wall; time seemed to draw on, thinly slicing at her warm skin. With each beating of the second hand, Helena felt it, nails dragging on open wounds. Hojo entered, fashionably late. Refusing to pay attention to the Master's therapist. Helena thought she would feel his rejection more but now that she was, well… that was a lifetime away.
"I don't have much time to waste here. You know my stance on this."
"Pure Chocobo shit? I think that was the words you used," Mauve was on the attack. Not even Hojo could put into question her department. "I don't want to waste your time as much as we don't want you to waste ours. Professor, I read your complaint. Even Lazard thinks it's ridiculous."
"Does it look like that is of any concern of mine? First Classes don't belong in pseudoscience."
"As much as you refuse to think so, the entire scientific community reveres psychotherapy and psychology. Sephiroth was appointed to our department because you failed at keeping him on a tighter leash." Helena cringed at Mauve's words. The thought of Sephiroth being on a leash, Hojo's leash no doubt, was a terrible sight for her.
"And what is this? Twenty sessions? Who approved this?" Hojo slapped down the report given to the SOLDIER department – he obviously got a hold of it.
"I did. Helena has created a treatment plan-."
"That she doesn't follow. I read the notes. She seems to think, with all of her knowledge, that his company-mandated Mako therapy has contributed to this fluke behaviour."
Fluke? You put a port-a-cath in the man!
"Helena only reports what her client reports. She has twenty sessions with him. And he has agency here. Or does that not how it goes in your department?"
Hojo measuredly stood from his seat. "And it seems like we are at an impasse. I would just be careful with her. She might be hiding in your shadow, Dr. Rogue, saying nothing in this sham of a meeting. But I see her. Sephiroth is just running circles around her."
Hojo leaned in as he passed Helena whispering, "And I would be more careful if I were you."
Helena waited until the door slammed shut before hanging her head in her open palms, jagged pieces of plaster digging into her eyelids. He had just tied her hands with the work she was doing. Mauve would be more tempted to read over her notes, ensuring that they were sticking to the agreed-upon treatment plan, something Helena was aware of but approached therapy as a bit of a dance of consent. Sephiroth seems to like the pace of treatment.
"Do you think Sephiroth is running you in circles?"
"If he were, we wouldn't be talking about Genesis," Helena retorted. Helena was so sure her time spent was moving somewhere; whether that was in a mud-filled ditch or… well, she hadn't thought that far ahead. He's got you around his finger. Just admit it. Get her to refer him elsewhere.
"I just hope you don't have him running in circles." Mauve crossed her arms.
Helena lifted her head out of her hands. "I've got this under control, Mauve."
"Do you have this under control, Sephiroth?" Angeal's hip was resting on Lazard's desk, absentmindedly looking through documents. His attention was on the war hero, sitting in Lazard's seat.
"Genesis and I are not on speaking terms as much these days."
"I noticed. We are heading into Wutai again; you both know that, right?"
Sephiroth stood up from his seat, brushing Angeal off by adjusting his gloves. Angeal knew that meant that the conversation was ending.
"How's therapy?" Angeal tossed the documents to the First Class, dictating the flow of the conversation. Sephiroth hated how the man knew how to push his buttons. Was he that transparent to his friends?
"Please. Don't meddle."
"I don't think I am if my commander is running around with… What was her name?"
"Helena Menninger." Sephiroth adjusted himself in Lazard's seat. Much more comfortable and had much more utility than his own stiff-backed chair in his office. He imagined what would it be like to have Angeal kneeling before him in such a comfortable, useful chair.
"Ah. And?"
"She's… good at what she does. She must be if all I can hear is Hojo bemoan her existence."
Angeal laughed, fingers stroking his chin. "She has no idea what she's gotten herself into."
Sephiroth bit his tongue. She didn't know what she was getting herself into.
"Well if she's anything like her sister, I don't think she's totally a wet dog."
"Sister?"
"Kathelyn Menninger. She used to work for Gast. I remember her from Hollander's office. She helped treat Genesis."
"Oh?" Helena. Menninger. Brief flashes of a kind smile behind glass. Sideways glances. A syringe, gentle inside burning veins. Yes, I know you. You… fucking hypocrite.
Helena stared at the empty field on her computer. The note felt like it should write itself under the sheer weight of the meeting she had earlier that morning. Was it that morning or earlier this week? Helena's head swirled as she tried to grasp at any semblance of reality; she needed to get home, she needed her meds. But it was three-fifty-three, and she was in no position to do the trek home. She decided to close her eyes, just for a minute. She would find her medication as soon as she got home – either in the form of a yellow-tinted pill bottle or a clear one, one that she removed the label out of shame.
Her eyes languidly shut and she was walking down an unmarked hall, white tiles slushing under her non-skid loafers. Helena wore the perfect shoes for the job; bodily fluids often caked the floor. Whereas some people wore heels, she knew better. The hall seemed to go on for some time, dimly lit, the only light being the occasional emergency light. Helena swallowed when she saw him, lying down on a specimen chair. He was focusing on the light above him, wondering what death would look like: was it the never-ending warmth of light, accepting him in its folds? Or was he paying for his crimes now?
"Get me that scalpel," Hojo's shrill voice cut through, Helena's heart skipping a beat.
She handed him the shiny object, seemingly distorting in her hand. She wanted to slice the flesh of the great war hero. She wanted to be the one to understand the mechanisms that lay underneath. As soon as the thought crept into her mind, she found herself on the floor.
"Take it off," he commanded, Masamune in hand, blade poised for her throbbing neck. Helena did as she was told and removed her lab coat; as much as she tried to bleach it, some stains never came out. It was then she realized that she was bearing herself, completely naked. Her hands instinctively drew across her stomach. Sephiroth expertly moved the blade from her neck, down her chest, and to her hands, moving them to her sides – she was now fully exposed.
Helena was strapped down in the examination chair, skin raw against the leather straps. There was something incredibly tempting – she felt at home. Sephiroth's weight jostled the chair, his knee inching forward. Helena swallowed bile.
"Please… don't…" Helena struggled to keep her legs closed but felt that magnetic pull she imagined Genesis would feel.
"Tell me. What do you want?" He slipped closer – he was wearing that black silk shirt. He must think highly of you.
"I just… want to be forgiven," Helena's words soured on her tongue, Sephiroth's tongue searching for a pulse.
"What do you want?" Sephiroth said rhythmically, the tip of his cock prodding through his pants, rubbing against Helena's loins. Helena moved against the feeling, shrinking away, unsure and suddenly fearful of her own desires.
"I want to know what… what's under your skin." Helena's breath was shallow, quickening as he reached for an ample amount of flesh attached to her chest. It felt foreign but desired. His thumb tenderly, attentively caressing her nipple, taunt and cold.
Sephiroth laughed as Helena shivered, a hollow example of distaste.
"I know what you want," he hissed as his cock was unleashed, Helena struggling against the tether she had to him. He knows you. He knows everything about you. You… fucking hypocrite.
Just breathe, "I want to be desired."
Helena mewled as his member slipped inside her, methodically and patiently, as she adjusted to the hefty girth. I want you, I want you, I want you… It sent her into thralls she never felt before. Hands, free, but grasping so tightly, pulling to meld two separate entities into one. JENOVA Theory. His hips dipped at her hips, the tip of his cock moving back and forth against a sweet spot no other had found.
"What do you want?" Helena huffed; breath fucked out of her. Sephiroth paused his movements, teasing her. Silver strands poured from his shoulder and graced her wet face. From tears or sweat, she knew not.
"I want…"
Helena eyes shot open. She was snoring; a small string of saliva outlining her arm acting as a pillow. It's just a dream. Just breath. It was just a dream. Helena rubbed at her face, her eyesight clearing and the time on her clock coming into focus: eight-twenty-six. Helena yawned, tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth.
She powered down her computer, put away her notes into their respective cabinets, and took her bag. She locked the door behind her, hip slamming at the door to ensure it was closed, and moved down the dark hallway; a sense of safety had completely gone out the window. Only the waiting area had one light open, right by the emergency exit.
"Hello, Helena," Sephiroth said, the emergency light illuminating his outline – perfectly coiffed and maintained, undisturbed. He was wearing his SOLDIER uniform. She once read a commentary on the thick, layered, leather uniform. Helena investigated the glint of polished leather in the tungsten light – was he ever bloodied?
"Sephiroth? What…? Is everything okay?" Helena's finger had not left the elevator button as she spun around. You have mace in your bag, you know?
Sephiroth's hands felt their way across the armrest of the chair, unwaveringly studying the therapist. "I know who you are."
"I… I don't understand," You understand. You understand very well.
"Does Dr. Rogue know about you?"
Helena's cheeks felt hot. "I told her, yes. You must understand you chose me to be your therapist."
"Really?" Sephiroth's single eyebrow shot up, skillfully.
Helena swallowed against the feeling in her chest, warm but familiar. What is this? "We never worked together. You've never met me," She tried to explain.
"You're right," he stood from his stoop, flowing silver tendrils shimmering in the meagre light, falling to attention at his sides. "Don't worry. I don't think my revelation will affect our work together."
Helena knew full well it would. "I'm not the same person anymore," she reassured.
"Oh, I believe you," Sephiroth said with a tender smirk which threw Helena into a spiral. He knows. He can see you. He'll always see you as… a monster.
"I'll see you next Tuesday, then?" Helena clutched her bag, making certain her client never perceived her fear.
"Yes."
The elevator dinged. "I'll let you go first," Sephiroth gestured.
Helena watched as the doors slid close, tears welling up. "Have a good night," she called after him but he refused to respond. The words echoed in the elevator's closed walls – fearful.
"Fuck!" Helena screamed after the elevator reached a few floors lower. He probably heard that; you know what his hearing is like.
Helena mulled over the interaction, piecing apart every minute detail. Was she measured? Was she calm and supportive? Was she a good therapist? Helena's teeth sunk into her lip, tearing at the rough flesh. Who's in control here? Helena laughed hysterically. She needed a fucking drink.
Client ID: S-01-01
Therapist: Helena Menninger
Client Summary:
Therapist observed:
Next Session?:
Supervisor note: Helena, please complete this note as soon as possible. Preferably before your session with the client. Client reached out to the department and requested a review of his notes. Thanks, Mauve Rogue, PhD.
A/N: And Helena starts to lose it... Starts to.
Song of the Morning: Space Dementia, Muse