A Nerds blog (Contains NSFW Sometimes)

It’s not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. It’s a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of stranger’s faces.

So, he doesn’t really say much, but it doesn’t really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, he’s quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesn’t care to share them, and you don’t care either way.

You’re here regardless. In this diner, waiting tables, gritting your teeth, faking smiles, just like you have been for the last six months.

Since them.

They haunt you like a phantom. A cold you can’t shake. Their proximity triggered your basal instincts, your buried need, and put you into heat. A miserable, painful one that you spent alone. One you almost died from, and once the smoke cleared, you were left with the sickness, the very kind you didn’t even believe existed.

Bond corrosion.

Poisoned.

Since then, it’s been non stop suppressants, scent blockers and whatever you can get your hands on for pain relief. Every day, for six months. Cleaning out your checking account, your savings account, everything just to buy medication. 

The over load of pills can’t be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.

But does it matter?

You’re nothing, after all.

The man clears his throat. You realize you’ve zoned out and he’s watching you, waiting.

“Can I get a refill?” He motions to his empty mug. There’s something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Of course, sorry.” You lean over with the pot, careful to pour slowly, and at the same time, he drifts forward, close enough you register his breathing.

His sniff.

He’s smelling you.

You pull back, startled. Alphas don’t smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.

“Thought you’d smell different.” He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. “Sweet, or somethin’.”

“I’m sorry?” What the fuck? He just shakes his head.

“Never mind,” he lifts his mug in a salute. “Thanks for the top off.”

“Uh, sure.” You try to calm the uneasy feeling that’s now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis you’ve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but he’s gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that you’re going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.

Gravel crunches under your feet.

Don’t think about it.

Your mates’ rejection has become a living, breathing thing inside of you. A tumor taken up residence in your brain, something that white and grey matter grows around, accommodates, changes shape for like it’s a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though it’s been almost seven months, but your designation, your biology, the crux of who you are, makes it impossible to move on. Time ticks forward, but you stay stuck, frozen in place with empty bonds that grow heavier and sicker inside your soul, poisoning you from the inside out. Trapped in a moment where your scent matches throw battered bills at your feet and turn their backs on you. Leave you.

Pathetic.

Desperate.

You didn’t think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, they’re like ghost stories told in the night to scare little children.

But here you are, alone with rot in your soul where two bonds should be.

Dogs bark in the distance. Somewhere past the parking lot, the trees, a trio of howls start up, loud enough that it startles you. They don’t stop, not after a few seconds, or a minute. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that unsettling feeling turning to wariness, discomfort.

It’s enough to force you back inside, locking door and double checking it.

When you make back into the dining room, intending to check on your sole customer, you discover he’s gone. Mug emptied, cash left next to the napkin, empty sugar packets wedged under the saucer.

His absence lightens a load, loosens your shoulders, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

He’s gone, and that’s one good thing at least.

You keep checking your rear view mirror on your drive home. The sky is starting to purple, bloom like a bruise, and while there are no other calls on the road, you can’t shake your discomfort, the unease that’s crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You can’t shake it.

And why does it feel like he was there for you?

The light in the hallway is out, naturally.

It never gets changed. Just another shitty part of this shithole building that houses your even shittier apartment. The one with uneven floors and drafty windows and water stains all over the ceiling, ones that gradually grow larger and larger, leaving you to wonder when it’s all going to come crashing down on your head.

Some place to call home, even though that’s what it is. Your home, the only place you have, in this backwoods town that caught you in its snare.

You rub your chest with your knuckles as you fiddle with the lock, jimmying the key just right, getting it to the point where it finally pops and lets you turn the handle.

The door swings open, to a dark apartment.

You frown.

You always keep the hallway light on. Always. You hate coming home to pitch black apartment, hate the way it makes you feel, like nothing is waiting for you, no one. You’ve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so there’s someone to welcome you home, snuggle with you at night.

For a brief second, a split moment in time, your brain breaks. It goes blank.

And then-

You smell it.

Cardamom.

Tobacco.

Sea salted leather.

Honey black tea.

It’s muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, it’s clear as day.

Your hand flies to the wall, slapping against plaster, looking for the light switch in a panic as your heart pounds in your ears, but as your fingers graze it, something moves in the dark. A mountain cuts through shadow, faster than you can even blink, and then your mouth is covered.

“Don’t scream.” The rough voice says in your ear. A voice you recognize. A voice who called you desperate and pathetic, a voice belonging to the man, the alpha, that left you behind in a gravel parking lot.

Your body knows him immediately. Instinctively. You hate yourself for it. Your omega hindbrain lights up like a jackpot has been won, trying to drag you under, soften you, turn you into some starved, pathetic thing, reduce you to nothing but everything they think you are.

Alpha.

Mate.

Safe.

No.

You bite. Hard. Jerk back and then unhinge your jaw, bringing your top teeth down onto what you’re assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.

He doesn’t even flinch.

So then you scream. You let your lungs loose behind his hand, thrashing in his hold at the same time, causing enough of a disturbance that he loses his grip for a nanosecond, enough time for you to pull far enough away, far enough to reach the light switch and flick it on.

He lets you go.

The living room light floods your surroundings, illuminating him in all his cruel glory.

Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Black hoodie pulled up over his head.

Skull mask covering his face. Skeleton gloves on his hands.

It’s terrifying. He’s terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.

He’s larger than life in your apartment, towering inside it like a monster in a doll house, dark eyes focused on you with such brutal intensity you have to look away.

“What… what are you doing in my apartment?” The words are rusted metal scraping up your throat and out of your mouth. Metal and bitter and painful. His jaw flexes under the mask.

“You need to come with us.” Us?

Johnny appears over his shoulder in the hallway at the exact right time, a zipped up black duffel in his hands.

He looks the same. Brilliant blue eyes, impossibly handsome face. Only the mohawk is different, longer.

He offers you a small smile. It shocks you. Getting hit by a truck would be less surprising.

“You can’t… You can’t be here. What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to take ye.” Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.

“Take me?”

“Aye. Take ye somewhere safe.” It’s at that moment you realize there’s something strapped to Johnny’s thigh.

“Is that a gun?” You squeak, the already loud pounding of your heart now vibrating in your ears, your blood turning to ice as fear churns in your belly. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. “Wh-why do you have a gun?” Johnny’s smile disappears, his face turning severe. Serious. His eyes flick to the window, then to Simon with a nod, a silent conversation unfolding in the room, one you’re not a part of.

You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simon’s body and make a break for the door. But you can’t, you’re stranded, a ship run aground, lost in the fog. Your body is already shutting down, at war with your instincts and your brain, an impossible fight unfolding inside your tissues, a battle all the way down to the molecular level.

“Get yer shoes.” Johnny motions to the pair of sneakers next to the door, the best pair of shoes you have, better than your worn out work non-slips. You shake your head.

“No, what? My shoes? I don’t… I don’t know what you’re d-doing here, or what’s going on, but-”

“What’s going on is you’re comin’ with us.” Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. “Got everything?” It’s your duffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.

Now, it’s stuffed full.

“Why do you have that?” Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.

“We had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.”

“Pack my stuff?” You ask weakly, because it’s all you can do. You’re a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.

“I got everything I think ye’ll need.” Johnny says gently, face soft. “Some clothes an’ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.” Your face heats with shame. Your meds. The suppressants, the blockers, the pain killers, all on display on your nightstand. You imagine them, in your room, in your space, going through your things, cataloging them, studying them. Seeing them. Seeing your pain, your destroyed nest, the one you built meticulously and then tore apart after they came and went. “Anythin’ else ye need we’ll-” he stops dead, face turning towards the living room window.

Simon kills the lights. You open your mouth to ask, again, what is going on, but words die on your lips when a small red dot appears in the room, it’s trajectory lined up right next to your head.

The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.

There’s a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. You’re suddenly in someone’s arms, Simon’s, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.

There’s more cracking, popping, Johnny and that gun, firing into the shattered glass, your frightened screams covered by the gloved hand on your mouth, and then you’re being pulled onto your feet.

“Move.” Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. He’s half dragging, half pushing you through your apartment’s front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you can’t process it, can’t even begin to put the pieces all together as the door opens and the three of you spill out into the night.

What is happening?

The alley behind your building is pitch black, and you stumble, tripping as Simon pulls you in tighter to his side, an impenetrable force, pinning your body against his.

Another crack splinters the air and you scream as Johnny swears, his gun coming up from his side.

“Keep your head down.” Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.

This can’t be happening.

Whatever this is, it can’t be real.

Johnny appears on your left. You get a whiff of him, honey black tea steeped in raw fury, the violent edge of it tainting that honey sweetness you smelled before, and he’s so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.

“Almost there,” he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.

There’s a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as you’re propelled forward, waiting for you.

You try to dig your heels in.

“I’m not going-” Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.

“You are.” There’s no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, you’re being tossed into the back seat, door slammed at your back before Johnny is climbing in up front and Simon is sliding behind the wheel.

The engine turns over.

The locks click.

The whine is loud.

They both turn when you get close, nostrils flaring, eyes widening with surprise, suspicion, and your focus splits right down the middle, the rational, logical part of you trying to stay in control, and the animal, omega part of you trying to bare your throat. Offer yourself up.

Now that you’re here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. It’s still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.

Safer.

It’s safe.

It’s more than safe, it’s like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.

It’s holy. The closest you’ll ever get.

Scent matches.

True mates.

It’s kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, they’re yours. They’re meant to be yours.

Not one, but two.

“Omega.” The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. He’s tall, muscled, brown hair cut into a mohawk, bright blue eyes like Caribbean waters. So handsome it hurts, his scent is the warm, honeyed tea, the cardamom in the fall.

You forget yourself. Forget this place, this dead end job, this backwoods town. Forget the little notepad in your hand, the old almost dried out ball point pen between your fingers.

“I…” Speak. Say something, say anything. Your gaze swings to the other alpha, the one who looks too large for the booth, the room even. Where the blue eyed one is handsome, this one is severe, beautiful like a sharp cliff that sheers off into the ocean. Focused brown eyes with a crooked nose, black hoodie pulled up over his head. There’s something dark about him, something dangerous, and it’s his scent that is the burnished leather, tobacco leaf, dried salt of the sea.

Your gaze drifts, and then snags on the sight of a bite. Just barely peeking over the outline of the hood, is a clear as day bite mark. A claiming mark.

A bond.

Your stomach drops.

This alpha is bonded. You glance at the other one, blue eyes, and immediately find his in the same spot, proudly displayed. These are not new, fresh bites. They’re faded, scarred over, commitments, and it all plays out in front of you like a horror movie. Two alphas with two marks, and one omega, standing in front of them, too late.

They are not for you.

The truth is crushing. All this time, all your life, you hoped, you dreamed, and now that dream is sitting in front of you, crumbling to ash.

“I’m…” You’re… what? You’re sorry, maybe. Sorry this happened. Sorry you’re here, sorry you’re their scent match, their true mate, when they obviously already have an omega.

You don’t know. You can’t think, can’t hear over the pounding of your heart, the tight draw of your lungs. The air in the room has gone thin, overhead pendant lights gone dark. You feel sick. Your knees feel weak. Everything is falling apart.

“Two black coffees.” The order snaps like a whip from the dangerous one, the one in the hoodie. So ordinary, so routine.

It’s like a slap to your face.

Blue eyes gives him a look, one you can’t place, while brown eyes keeps his gaze locked on yours.

“Did you hear me?”

“Simon.” Blue eyes says quietly, but it must fall on deaf ears because brown eyes, Simon, cocks his head.

“Two black coffees,” you whisper back to him, the three words scratching the back of your throat. Fated mates, and these are your first words to each other. Two black coffees.

“Make a fresh pot, if it’s not already.” He instructs, and the heat of humiliation rises in your cheeks.

“Simon.” Blue eyes says a little louder this time, a little harsher, and Simon finally drags his eyes away from yours.

“It’s her job Johnny.” He doesn’t spare you another glance as he looks down at his phone. “Isn’t it, omega?”

“Y-yes.” You whisper, knuckles aching from how tight you’re clinging to your pen. “Be right back.”

You get the coffee. Everything is on autopilot, and they barely even look at you. Simon, the mean one, turns his face towards the window as he hands his menu over, and Johnny, the blue eyed one, only glances at you briefly before looking away.

Your already broken heart cracks into a million pieces, shattering inside your chest so violently you swear you can feel it.

They don’t even leave you a tip.

And you should know to leave well enough alone, because you do. Because life has kicked you in your soft spots enough, you’ve been taught lessons a plenty.

But when you see them leave, when they turn their backs on you without so much as goodbye, you can’t stop yourself from running out the back door, gravel flying under your feet, trying to catch up with them as they’re about to get into a truck.

“Wait!” You can’t help it, you have to try, and they both go rigid at the sound of your voice. “Don’t you … don’t you smell it? Smell me?” Your hope is a reckless, desperate thing, a tenacious thing that refuses to die.

No matter how many times it’s been killed.

When they don’t respond, when they meet you head on with grey rocked expressions, you know you should stop.

But you can’t.

“I’m your scent match.” You try to explain. Maybe saying it out loud will make it make sense. “I’m your mate.” Something flickers in Simon’s eyes, something you can’t make sense of, and it’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced by ice. Winter coats his next words.

“You’re nothing to us.”

You’re nothing to us.

Your blood runs cold. The world spins around you.

“Oh.” Johnny moves, takes a small step forward. It’s barely there, more of a lurch than anything, and your eyes start to burn with tears as he looks at you, impossibly blank.

“Go back inside, omega.” You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to beg them to see it, see you.

“I don’t understand.” You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re lost now. Drowning. Rejected.

Scent spikes. Salted leather and honeyed cardamom, they mix together, the once intoxicating, drug like heady cocktail now turning acidic, sour on your tongue. The scent that felt safe, now poison. 

“There’s nothing to understand.” Simon says, sounding bored. Like he’s lecturing a child. “You’re confused, happens all the time.” What?

“It does?” Does it? You’ve never heard this, but then again, you’re not really on the cutting edge of… anything, really. You don't pay attention to the news, or science, or pop culture. You're too busy trying to keep your head above water. 

“Sure.” His mouth twists into a cruel smile. “You’re not the first desperate omega who’s tried to attach herself to us.”

It would have hurt less if he had struck you. 

Johnny sucks in a breath. It’s barely there, but you catch it, and your biology refuses to let go. Your hindbrain digs in its heels.

He’s wrong. He has to be. Maybe he just doesn’t know it.

“No," you protest. “No, I know what I smelled.”

“No ye didn’t.” Johnny says, shaking his head. He's pitying you, you realize in horror. “Ye’re just confused.” Your world is being torn in two. Violent sheared away at the seams, your instinct wails, screams in the back of your mind, your grip on reality slowly pulling away. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

“I’m n-not. Please.” You whimper, but you don’t know what you’re asking for at this point. All you know is it comes out reedy and broken. Simon’s jaw flexes, Johnny looks over your shoulder, a blank, glazed look in his eyes. Shut down.

Your knees hit the gravel. Rocks scrape at your skin, tear at your tights, dig and draw blood. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. You can’t feel anything except for this hole in your chest. This hole where your mates are supposed to be, where bonds are supposed to be.

“Pathetic.” Salt in the wound. Simon practically spits it at you, and your vision glosses over, tears now spilling down your cheeks. “Get up.” It’s not a request, it’s an alpha bark, something you’re biologically subservient to, something your body forces you to obey. You push yourself up, heels of your palms in the gravel, little rocks falling from where they’ve embedded themselves in your knees.

Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket. You wonder, for a split second, if he’s going to pull out a card, or a piece of paper, something, anything, that could connect you to them. A tether.

What’s left of your pride, the very small scrap, withers and dies when he produces two folded up bills, and bile rises in the back of your throat when he chucks them at your feet. 

"Almost forgot. Yer tip." It cuts so casually, like it means nothing, like you're nothing more than trash. A problem he has to throw a few bills at. Worthless.

“Don’t follow us, don’t try to find us, we’re nothing to you.” Simon warns over his shoulder, already walking away.

“An’ ye’re nothin’ to us.” Johnny echoes as you stand frozen in place, watching your alphas climb into the truck, watching as your mates prepare to drive away. The engine roars to life, the headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull out, leaving you behind. Leaving without another word, leaving destruction in their wake. Not even looking back.

Nothing.

You’re nothing.

Nothing to them.

Nothing to the world.

Krueger liked Nikto — as much as one could, anyway.

He wasn't the best conversationalist around, but they got on well enough and they trusted each other out on the field, which was important when your life depended on it. But Nikto wasn't friendly, and he didn't care to make others comfortable. He was who he was, and that was off-putting to most.

Somehow, that cold exterior didn't stop you from fluttering around the two of them, vying for even a crumb of Nikto's attention. You obviously didn't mind his lack of input in conversations since you talked enough for the both of you and then some.

What drew you to Nikto of all people, Krueger couldn't quite figure out.

Loneliness could not be the cause; you were constantly surrounded by chatter, often attracting the more extroverted mercs. Horangi was the first person that came to mind, the two of you almost always together. Anyone would probably say that they'd hear you both before they saw you, laughing or bickering about something.

Yet, like a moth to a flame, you sought out the one man who could snap your neck at any given moment.

Could, Krueger lingered on the word. Would he, though? Nikto continued to tolerate your antics, seeing as he hadn't yet told you off like he would some of the others on base.

Watching from the doorway, your back was to him as you went on about something he couldn't hear from his position. Beside you, Nikto sat, body rigid but angled slightly toward you in a subtle show of attention. A stark contrast from your boisterous movements. When you spoke, you did so with your entire body: hands constantly moving, head nodding, torso leaning back or forward depending on what you were trying to convey. You had a bit of a habit of shaking your left leg, too.

You were ridiculous in every way. And yet, you were a type of fun that he wasn't able to get from those he fought alongside, nor from the willing women he met during nights out in shady bars in cities he didn't care to remember.

Scanning the room, he noted how everyone kept their distance from the two of you. No doubt because of Nikto.

When it looked like you were finally finished with your latest spiel, Krueger strolled over and dropped a heavy hand on your shoulder. "I see I wasn't invited. I will try not to take it personally."

Startled, you looked up at him, your good mood evaporating the moment you registered who stood there. Ever the expressive one, your brows furrowed and the corner of your lips twitched down ever so slightly. But as soon as it appeared, you schooled your face back into a lighter expression and gave him an unenthusiastic greeting.

Krueger swung a leg over the bench and sat beside you. He gave Nikto a brief glance before slightly leaning into your space. "You did not come to join us yesterday. Breaking promises now, friend?"

There had been no real expectation that you would choose to hang around him after he so graciously brought up an uncomfortable memory. But as he predicted, you hadn't been able to stay away for long and sought Nikto out when Krueger wasn't around.

Though he was teasing, you clearly weren't in the mood.

"I didn't promise anything," you said as you tilted away, and into Nikto instead.

Barely concealed irritation simmered in your voice, but you kept it restrained. "Believe it or not, I have things to get done around here. Paperwork doesn't just magically disappear, y'know. Oh! That reminds me—" You turned to Nikto, giving Krueger your back. Iced out again. "There's some paperwork for you to sign off on at the main admin building. Dunno what it's for."

Nikto let out a small grunt of displeasure, "Fine."

"Well, if you stop by after lunch, I'll be there! Have some reports that I need to type up before tomorrow…" you trailed off, then picked back up with some more energy, "I'll have Lee bring whatever it is you need to sign to my office so it'll be ready for you!"

You nodded to yourself, clearly satisfied with your plan and though he couldn't see your face, Krueger was sure you wore a self-assured smile.

"Nothing for me?" he asked, holding back a teasing tone.

You stiffened before tossing a glance over your shoulder, as though you'd forgotten he was sitting there. "Not that I know of…"

"But you know of his paperwork? Why is that?"

That got your attention. You turned fully toward him, something sharp flickered across you face. Agitation, hopefully.

"I was just told on my way out earlier," you huffed. "I don't know why."

Krueger could imagine the why: your fondness for the man must have been made apparent to your even coworkers. He pictured you gushing about Nikto to others, not realizing how love-struck you came off as; he would've liked to hear first hand what sort of things you must have said. You really were like a silly schoolgirl with a crush on a big, bad man.

Reaching around to gently pat your back, his eyes lifted over your head and into the piercing blue ones now boring into his skull, "Ah, how lucky are you. I wish I had a pretty girl on base to keep track of my duties."

You recoiled from his touch immediately, standing up from the bench. Your face twisted up as though you'd eaten something sour. "I'm not keeping track of anyone else's stuff."

He smirked, "Of course not."

Leaning into your space once more, Krueger watched you open your mouth to retort before deciding against it. Your nostrils flared, eyes shifting away and into the distance before you looked to Nikto.

"I've gotta get back to work. I'll see you later, yeah?"

Nikto nodded while Krueger called after you with a lighthearted command to see if he's got anything to sign for, too — which you pointedly ignored as you hurried off.

Once you were gone, Krueger turned to face Nikto, placing a wide hand over the now empty spot between them, still warm from you. He let out a breathy chuckle, thinking about how irked you'd been when he interrupted. It seemed not even your adoration for Nikto could keep you around him for long.

"You are a bother."

"Oh?" Krueger raised a brow, feigning innocence. "Do you think so?"

Nikto cast him a knowing look, immediately catching on. They both knew it was you who thought the Austrian was an annoyance.

"She might hit you." The corners of Nikto's eyes crinkled slightly, amused by the thought.

Krueger laughed, the image delighting him: your soft, untrained hands connecting with his face out of anger. Maybe your nails would nick his cheeks, or you'd catch the bridge of his nose in just the right spot, making him bleed. Would you feel satisfied?

You'd likely never do such a thing, though, seemingly determined on being on your best behavior in front of Nikto.

"I have my doubts about that."

Nikto grunted in agreement, and they sat in silence for a while, watching the others in the room. Eventually, Krueger decided to push — just to see what would happen.

"Maybe I will tag along when you go look at that paperwork. I didn't get time to talk with our friend." He kept his face forward while talking, pretending he was still interested in people-watching, but he felt Nikto's gaze dart back to him.

"Just as I said, a bother," Nikto replied, tone harsher now. This time, it wasn't your opinion that he was voicing aloud, but his own. He stood up without another word, leaving Krueger alone on the bench, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

As expected, Nikto didn't invite him along to see you.

Night fell over the base, darkness settling in while mounted lights along buildings and posts cast beams across the pavement. Krueger leaned against a building adjacent to the administration offices, standing just beyond the reach of the glow as staff filtered out one by one. You weren't among any of them.

A faint trace of light still shined behind the frosted glass entrance doors.

Five… ten more minutes passed before he pushed off the wall and crossed over, catching the heavy door as another woman exited. He slipped inside and was greeted with silence. The receptionist area was dark, but a side hallway glowed with an sickly yellow hue.

He couldn't recall the last time he had stepped foot in the building. The interior was painfully bland, the white walls and charcoal carpet doing nothing to help jog his memory of the place.

He passed by offices — doors opened or closed, all of them dark. The end of the hall led into a larger room that was only partially lit overhead. There were cubicles and desks, all abandoned for the night.

Another corridor branched off, cast in shadow save for a single illuminated office.

The carpet muffled Krueger's steps as he approached it. Inside, you sat hunched over your wooden desk, palm pressed to your forehead as you chewed your lip in frustration at the documents in front of you.

"Hard at work still?"

You jumped in your chair, banging your knee against the underside of your workspace.

"Fuck!" You hissed, rubbing the spot. "Have you ever heard of knocking, Sebastian?" You grumbled some more to yourself, but Krueger found himself pleasantly surprised to hear his first name fall from your lips. "What are you even doing here?"

Making himself comfortable, he took some steps in, eyes sweeping over your office. You had really made an effort to add your own flare to it, compared to the blandness of the rest of the office. Photos, trinkets, and little figures that he didn't recognize were placed around, and there was decked-out bulletin board decorated in a very you-fashion.

A baby blue cardigan lay draped over a chair, its knitting standing out against the gray fabric underneath it. He recognized it as one you used to wear around often.

An almost sweet scent lingered in the air, more noticeable now that he no longer had to inhale the staleness of the the rest of the building, but he saw no candles or incense that could explain it.

"Just wanted to swing by and see—" Krueger picked up a small bear figurine from your desk"—if you found anything for me."

"Found what? Papers to sign?" You blinked at him in disbelief. "No, I didn't find anything for you. I didn't even look."

He held up one hand in mock defense, the other still clutching the little bear. "I told you to find out for me."

You snapped at him, "That's not my job, Krueger." Back to his last name.

Your aggravation with him was not hidden under your usual poor attempt at politeness. Whether that was because he caught you at a bad time or because Nikto was not around to witness this side of you, he wasn't entirely sure. But it was the most teeth you've bared at him; exactly the type of reaction he was eager to see.

He set the bear back down, knocking over another figure.

Whatever you snapped back went unheard as his attention caught on to a photo that sat on your desk. He lifted the blue frame to get a good look. You and Horangi were pressed together, large smiles for the camera. He wore his usual shades in the photo and you, an identical pair.

"Cute," he hummed.

You snatched it back, repositioning it on your desk. "Did you seriously come here just to be a pest?"

"I already told you why I came."

Clicking your tongue, you turned back to the papers. Without looking, you waved a dismissive hand at Krueger, shooing him. "Out. I have things to do."

"Ouch. Where is all of this bite coming from?" he teased. "Being mean to me because Nikto isn't here?"

"Nikto has nothing to do with—" you paused. "Look, I'm not being mean. I'm working." You gestured wildly to the mess in front of you. "Trying to, anyways." You showed him tight lipped smile that didn't meet your eyes, "I can figure out if there's anything for you tomorrow, since you're so concerned."

He's not, and he's sure you know that, but he gives you a stupidly smug grin of his own. "Promise?"

"Yeah." When he doesn't move, you sigh, "I promise."

He slapped a hand down on your desk, knocking over something else, but he pays it no mind. "Good. Then I will find you tomorrow." Since last time he said tomorrow, you didn't show.

Another grimace that you don't do well to hide, but that is what Krueger appreciates about you, watching all the ways your face can contort, no need to question how you truly feel about something.

"Right. Goodnight," you give him a look that certainly means get out of my office now and Krueger doesn't mind listening this time.

As he turned to leave, he noticed a stack of papers on a counter behind you, with a bright blue sticky note sat atop it.

NIKTO

So the man never showed up after all.

Krueger takes his spot against the same building again, staying in the darkness as he waited.

He lost track of time again, but eventually you emerge, exhaustion written into your posture.

He considered approaching you, insisting walking you back to where you stay on base. Would you show that same unguarded annoyance from earlier? Maybe more.

Nikto's words come to mind again.

She might hit you.

Enticing as that was, he chose instead to follow after you, trailing just far enough behind that you never noticed.

(reader internally: why is he all up in my business DAMN)

‘I do this for your sake, you’ll understand eventually’ truthfully, he doesn’t care if you never come to terms with his ways. It doesn’t change how eager he is to enforce them.

You’re his purpose, the one thing he counts on to instil hope; let him be selfish, just this once. Let him keep tabs on you. Let him show up at your front door every night until you’re so worn you let him in without question (at least, until you at last move in with him.) Let him choose what’s best for you before things get messy. 

If you resist, he’s not above concocting scenarios where you’re shown just how dangerous the world is and how deeply you need him. That solo trip out you begged him for? Ends in tears when you encounter some less than savoury individuals that attempt to rob or harass you. You’re unharmed physically, and blissfully unaware said miscreants are working on his dime, paid actors of a sort to fulfil some script that affirms what once seemed like irrational concerns. 

He’ll be there to dry your tears and take you in his arms, brandishing his presence as the solution to every problem and fear both real and seemingly imaginary. 

He’s earnestly convinced he can atone for every loss or moment of pain he’s ever felt if he takes you wholly and completely as his. To the small select group of outsiders he trusts with knowing of your existence, it sounds and appears as though he’s happily married and living with his long term partner. 

He paints a vague albeit organic picture of meeting you, of a romantic pursuit and quaint date nights, omitting the truth and garnishing the obsessiveness of his ways with a smokescreen of soft words. 

He can’t be a hero everywhere, can’t save everyone. Alejandro can’t control many things, but he can, if only you’d let him, carve a future for you both. The colonel uses you to steal himself a small piece of paradise in a world that once had him feel as though such feelings were unattainable. 

NSFW

Your needs take priority, and it’s guaranteed you’ll finish every time. He genuinely enjoys pleasing you, it feels like an extension of the duty he feels toward you; so much so, that you’re no stranger to overstimulation. 

Alas, his motivations are not inherently selfless. He sees intimacy as a testing ground for how far he can push his control. 

‘Easy… you know I’ve got you…’ with eerie satisfaction, he’ll take you further and further each time. Savouring your every expression and eventual reduction to an exhausted, flushed husk as a signal of acceptance.

He doesn’t like using anything sexual as punishment, but will be quick to use it as compensation. He dilutes any feelings of anger you have or disregards harsh or frustrated words you may toss at him with passionate touches and much much more.