Okay, I know everyone in the anti Rhysand crowd loves to dump on Rhys about how he assaulted Feyre, how he never did anything to stop the wing clipping, etc... but those problems are already mentioned in the narrative(albeit portrayed in a very different light).
You know what ISN'T talked about? Illyrian child soldiers. Illyrian kids are forced to go into war camps at eight years old, they get whipped as encouragement, they have to participate in a bloody death tournament. All of this is only to give the bat boys sob backstories. And yet somehow, the fandom never talks about them half as much as the wing clippings. Like, we all know that Illyrian girls have no choice but to become housewives, and that it's terrible, but hey, at least Rhys acknowledges it's wrong, and is trying, ....well....sort of....(with dubious effectiveness...and effort...) to stop it. Let's talk about how Illyrian boys have no choice but to go into war camps, to become warriors even if they don't want to, and nobody ever acknowledges how fucked up this is in-universe.
Also, I admit I'm not an expert in human psychology, never mind fae psychology, but maybe, just maybe,... boys getting regularly whipped from age 8, being raised to value physical strength and only that... might not be an environment where healthy, open-minded men emerge? Maybe statistically, boys who grow up in a healthy, non-violent environment where they are allowed to become what they want may have a higher chance of having a healthy, non-violent attitude towards women and believe women should be allowed to be what they want? Like how does nobody in-universe even acknowledge how fucked up this shit is?
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The alpha at the counter doesnât really speak to you.
Itâs not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. Itâs a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of strangerâs faces.
So, he doesnât really say much, but it doesnât really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, heâs quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesnât care to share them, and you donât care either way.
Youâre 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 canât 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 didnât even believe existed.
Bond corrosion.
Poisoned.
Since then, itâs 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.Â
The over load of pills canât be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.
But does it matter?
Youâre nothing, after all.
The man clears his throat. You realize youâve zoned out and heâs watching you, waiting.
âCan I get a refill?â He motions to his empty mug. Thereâs something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine.
âOf course, sorry.â 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.
Heâs smelling you.
You pull back, startled. Alphas donât smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.
âThought youâd smell different.â He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. âSweet, or somethinâ.â
âIâm sorry?â What the fuck? He just shakes his head.
âNever mind,â he lifts his mug in a salute. âThanks for the top off.â
âUh, sure.â You try to calm the uneasy feeling thatâs now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis youâve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but heâs gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that youâre going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.
Gravel crunches under your feet.
Donât think about it.
Your matesâ 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 itâs a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though itâs 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 didnât think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, theyâre 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 donât 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.
Itâs 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 heâs 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.
Heâs gone, and thatâs 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 canât shake your discomfort, the unease thatâs crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You canât 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 itâs all going to come crashing down on your head.
Some place to call home, even though thatâs 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. Youâve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so thereâs 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.
Itâs muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, itâs 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.
âDonât scream.â 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 youâre assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.
He doesnât 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.
Itâs terrifying. Heâs terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.
Heâs 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.
âWhat⌠what are you doing in my apartment?â 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.
âYou need to come with us.â 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.
âYou canât⌠You canât be here. What are you doing here?â
âWeâre here to take ye.â Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.
âTake me?â
âAye. Take ye somewhere safe.â Itâs at that moment you realize thereâs something strapped to Johnnyâs thigh.
âIs that a gun?â 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. Youâre not sure youâve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. âWh-why do you have a gun?â Johnnyâs 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 youâre not a part of.
You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simonâs body and make a break for the door. But you canât, youâre 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.
âGet yer shoes.â 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.
âNo, what? My shoes? I donât⌠I donât know what youâre d-doing here, or whatâs going on, but-â
âWhatâs going on is youâre cominâ with us.â Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. âGot everything?â Itâs your duffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.
Now, itâs stuffed full.
âWhy do you have that?â Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.
âWe had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.â
âPack my stuff?â You ask weakly, because itâs all you can do. Youâre a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.
âI got everything I think yeâll need.â Johnny says gently, face soft. âSome clothes anâ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.â 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. âAnythinâ else ye need weâll-â 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, itâs trajectory lined up right next to your head.
The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.
Thereâs a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. Youâre suddenly in someoneâs arms, Simonâs, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.
Thereâs 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 youâre being pulled onto your feet.
âMove.â Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. Heâs half dragging, half pushing you through your apartmentâs front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you canât process it, canât 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.
âKeep your head down.â Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.
This canât be happening.
Whatever this is, it canât 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 heâs so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.
âAlmost there,â he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.
Thereâs a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as youâre propelled forward, waiting for you.
You try to dig your heels in.
âIâm not going-â Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.
âYou are.â Thereâs no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, youâre 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.
And then you watch as your apartment building fades into the distance, your life and everything you ever knew slowly disappearing from view.
I already put the first half of this up but there is more now so
It happens at work.
You get a whiff.
At first, youâre not sure what exactly it is youâre smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.
What is that?
You sniff the air. Itâs barbaric, embarrassing, but you canât fight the instinct that has your nose lifting, nor can you stop your feet from automatically moving, following the trail.
Your skin prickles as it grows stronger, and thereâs a pinch in your stomach, a light twinge that yanks you forward, propels you out of the kitchen and into the dining room, hot on the heels of whoever it is that smells like this.
An unbidden, fully uninhibited omega whine crawls up the back of your throat as the scent rises to itâs full strength and leads you down a row of red pleather booths, to where two alphas sit across from one another.
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 youâre here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. Itâs still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.
Safer.
Itâs safe.
Itâs more than safe, itâs like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.
Itâs holy. The closest youâll ever get.
Scent matches.
True mates.
Itâs kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, theyâre yours. Theyâre meant to be yours.
Not one, but two.
âOmega.â The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. Heâs 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.
âIâŚâ 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. Thereâs something dark about him, something dangerous, and itâs 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. Theyâre 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.
âIâmâŚâ Youâre⌠what? Youâre sorry, maybe. Sorry this happened. Sorry youâre here, sorry youâre their scent match, their true mate, when they obviously already have an omega.
You donât know. You canât think, canât 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.
âTwo black coffees.â The order snaps like a whip from the dangerous one, the one in the hoodie. So ordinary, so routine.
Itâs like a slap to your face.
Blue eyes gives him a look, one you canât place, while brown eyes keeps his gaze locked on yours.
âDid you hear me?â
âSimon.â Blue eyes says quietly, but it must fall on deaf ears because brown eyes, Simon, cocks his head.
âTwo black coffees,â 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.
âMake a fresh pot, if itâs not already.â He instructs, and the heat of humiliation rises in your cheeks.
âSimon.â Blue eyes says a little louder this time, a little harsher, and Simon finally drags his eyes away from yours.
âItâs her job Johnny.â He doesnât spare you another glance as he looks down at his phone. âIsnât it, omega?â
âY-yes.â You whisper, knuckles aching from how tight youâre clinging to your pen. âBe right back.â
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 donât 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, youâve been taught lessons a plenty.
But when you see them leave, when they turn their backs on you without so much as goodbye, you canât stop yourself from running out the back door, gravel flying under your feet, trying to catch up with them as theyâre about to get into a truck.
âWait!â You canât help it, you have to try, and they both go rigid at the sound of your voice. âDonât you ⌠donât you smell it? Smell me?â Your hope is a reckless, desperate thing, a tenacious thing that refuses to die.
No matter how many times itâs been killed.
When they donât respond, when they meet you head on with grey rocked expressions, you know you should stop.
But you canât.
âIâm your scent match.â You try to explain. Maybe saying it out loud will make it make sense. âIâm your mate.â Something flickers in Simonâs eyes, something you canât make sense of, and itâs gone as soon as it comes, replaced by ice. Winter coats his next words.
âYouâre nothing to us.â
Youâre nothing to us.
Your blood runs cold. The world spins around you.
âOh.â Johnny moves, takes a small step forward. Itâs barely there, more of a lurch than anything, and your eyes start to burn with tears as he looks at you, impossibly blank.
âGo back inside, omega.â You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to beg them to see it, see you.
âI donât understand.â You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. Youâre 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.Â
âThereâs nothing to understand.â Simon says, sounding bored. Like heâs lecturing a child. âYouâre confused, happens all the time.â What?
âIt does?â Does it? Youâve never heard this, but then again, youâre 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.Â
âSure.â His mouth twists into a cruel smile. âYouâre not the first desperate omega whoâs tried to attach herself to us.â
It would have hurt less if he had struck you.Â
Johnny sucks in a breath. Itâs barely there, but you catch it, and your biology refuses to let go. Your hindbrain digs in its heels.
Heâs wrong. He has to be. Maybe he just doesnât know it.
âNo," you protest. âNo, I know what I smelled.â
âNo ye didnât.â Johnny says, shaking his head. He's pitying you, you realize in horror. âYeâre just confused.â 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.
âIâm n-not. Please.â You whimper, but you donât know what youâre asking for at this point. All you know is it comes out reedy and broken. Simonâs 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 doesnât. You canât feel anything except for this hole in your chest. This hole where your mates are supposed to be, where bonds are supposed to be.
âPathetic.â Salt in the wound. Simon practically spits it at you, and your vision glosses over, tears now spilling down your cheeks. âGet up.â Itâs not a request, itâs an alpha bark, something youâre 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 theyâve embedded themselves in your knees.
Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket. You wonder, for a split second, if heâs going to pull out a card, or a piece of paper, something, anything, that could connect you to them. A tether.
Whatâs 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.Â
"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.
âDonât follow us, donât try to find us, weâre nothing to you.â Simon warns over his shoulder, already walking away.
âAnâ yeâre nothinâ to us.â 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.
Nesta's experience in ACOFAS is an introvert's nightmare. You get coerced by a person you rely on financially into going to a party filled with extroverts you know who hate you. You get insulted the minute you arrive. The person who insisted on you coming blanks you. You have to sit there as everyone else exchanges gifts. The same person who coerced you into coming gives everyone a gift except you and you can't show any emotion about this. You keep to yourself all evening, hanging near the one person you're on decent terms with. You don't say much. You wait until somebody else has already gone before leaving yourself, so you're not even the first person to leave. The person who invited decides then to give you the rent money she was holding above your head to get you to come to the party, instead of doing so discretely. You take the money and go. You get screamed at in the streets about this for some reason.
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Something I haven't seen discussed is how duh, Zhen Huan gets the Emperor's favour for looking like Chunyuan, but to Yixiu, Zhen Huan looks like her sister back from the dead. Her sister, who stole the role of primary wife from her. Her sister, who robbed her son of his rightful inheritance. Her sister, who she killed. Yixiu was unsettled enough to talk the Emperor into assigning Zhen Huan as attendant and not noble lady as she entered the palace and arranging her to live in a remote palace. How much more unsettled do you think Yixiu got after she saw history repeating before her very eyes? How much do you think Yixiu was acting in outright hatred of Zhen Huan, versus terror of Chunyuan? Do you think she felt haunted? Do you think that when Zhen Huan met her for the last time as Empress Dowager, to Yixiu it must have felt like Chunyuan claiming her revenge?
DO NOT PIRATE ANYTHING. NOT SHOWS/MOVIES. NOT GAMES OR SAFER GAMES. AND CERTAINLY NOT BOOKS. AND DO NOT DOWNLOAD YOUTUBE VIDEOS. AND NEVER EVER EVER WATCH MUSICALS WITHOUT GOING TO THEM AND DONT USE ADBLOCKERS/OTHER ADBLOCKER TO AVOID ADS AND VIRUSES PIRATING IS VERY HARMFUL TO THE CORPORATIONS WHO WORKS VERY HARD TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF PEOPLE AND THEIR MONEY. ANYONE WHO PIRATES IS BAD. BAD PIRATING. EVIL. OH AND THIS
A severely depressed, post tbi Johnny who works up the courage to call someone--Simon--fully preparing to just let his word vomit go to voicemail, but accidentally calls you instead.
He hasn't been able to share his real thoughts and feelings with anyone in so long, about how he's been spiraling ever since his unceremonious discharge from the military after taking a bullet to the head, and the listless grey days he's been spending attending weekly physical therapy sessions, and spending more time at the gym than at the drab little flat he's got with barely any furnishings, social life down in the dumps with his former coworkers being continents away on missions he can no longer be a part of. Can't work up the courage to open up to his maw, would break her heart to see her boy struggling like this. Would break something in him too.
But he's been having these thoughts. Thoughts that make the smog-filled skies of the city look even greyer. And the only person he can think of calling in the hour of his need is the Lt. Who's definitely not going to pick up. Old bastard's probably out there somewhere in a desert in a completely different timezone fighting whoever the captain sets him out on.
But Johnny's never been one to let that stop him, so he dials. Fully expects it to go to voicemail so when he hears the beep he's already started his monologue, rambling away his half-formed thoughts into electrical ether. Says what he decides might be his final goodbyes to the Lt.
And once he's done he's ready to hang up, is about to, when he gets a response out of nowhere.
"What would your childhood imaginary friend think of this?"
Johnny's brows quirk up in utter confusion.
It's not his Lt's voice, the guy who looks like death personified most certainly doesn't have a sweet voice like this. He looks down at the numbers he's punched into his banged up screen. A digit's off, his stupid shaky fingers must've slipped. He swallows. Raises his phone back up. Says to the lass on the other end: ah don't have one.
That's too bad, you sweetly reply, Maybe you should imagine one right now.
The absurdity of the situation gets him laughing for the first time since his discharge. A full stomach clenching guffaw. Tears up his eyes.
What follows is a full-on conversation with a complete stranger, lasting more than 2 hours. It gets him all light-headed. Giddy. Dopamine injected straight into his veins from simply hearing you speak. The off yellow walls of his ratty little flat's looking just a bit more bright as he learns more about you.
A school teacher--thinks later it makes sense why you asked him the question you did. Explains your patience with him too. Angelic. You share stories of the goofy pranks your pupils try to set up. He talks about his maw and late granny, of pudding recipes and the big mean dog his neighbour kept.
You off-handedly mention you live somewhere nearby. He latches onto it, asks if you two could meet up. Just to have coffee and chat, that's all. There's a slight hesitation on your end and he grips his phone tighter.
Okay, sure, Johnny.
He wishes he'd been recording the call because hearing you say his name sends him spiraling in a good way. Exchange both good nights and good mornings because it's near dawn when the call finally ends. Saves your number as swiftly as his shaky fingers allow, his nerves alight with a force of life he hasn't felt in so very long.
Such a lovely lass. Very pretty too. He's already scrolling through your Instagram posts from years back. Saves his favourites in a folder. Easy to track down your location too. Poor hen, needs to teach you not to make it so easy for creeps to stalk you. Either way, you'll be in good hands soon.
Thumbs through unsaved contacts and finally finds the right one. Texts him:
'ah got myself a sweet wee doe, Lt. hope yeâre no jealous. will introduce ye when yeâre back.'
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I think what makes Daenerys so incredibly special to me despite George's orientalism marring her chapters, is that she was also deliberately written as a subversion of gender roles and the tropes that were mostly reserved for male characters in traditional fantasy were being embodied by a female character for one of the first times. Like people who roll their eyes at her now keep forgetting he came up with her back in the 90s. Nobody was writing women as Messiah like figure main character in their fantasy worlds. It's also just very satisfying to see how within the universe, Daenerys's entire existence is a sweet sweet revenge for every Targaryen women who was usurped and forced aside.
krueger is getting increasingly interested in bothering you.
wc: 2.3k
cw: fem!reader. stalking. it will eventually get worse!
note: this has turned into some sort of slow burn between you and nikto that really focuses on krueger and how he's a thorn in your side. also reader is working some admin job idk how pmcs work. and for the sake of plot, krueger is in kortac <3
part 1
Krueger liked Nikto â 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 meâ" 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 tomorrowâŚ" 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 ofâŚ"
"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 â 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 â 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 â 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 seeâ" Krueger picked up a small bear figurine from your desk"âif 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 withâ" 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)
Yandere/Dark Col. Alejandro Vargas x Reader Headcanons
CW: GN reader, dark content, dark romance, obsessive behaviour, nsfw, unhealthy relationship, minors DNI
A/n: I spy a lack of dark Alejandro content, so Iâll be the change I want to see in the world.
Somewhere along the way, he became jaded. No good deed goes unpunished, and perpetual exposure to the darker, grittier sides of humanity had whittled away any feeling of satisfaction he got from holding back. The rewards for patience, for doing things the âright wayâ are shrouded in memories of loss and most poignantly, feelings of guilt.Â
Itâs so easy for his mind to run, to let the what ifs take control and plague him. Itâs made him proactive; when it comes to having you, he knew he had to move quickly and with purpose. No one would stop him, no exterior force could sway him, not even you. Every protest, every plea for freedom is treated with naivety.
âI do this for your sake, youâll understand eventuallyâ truthfully, he doesnât care if you never come to terms with his ways. It doesnât change how eager he is to enforce them.
Youâre 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 youâre so worn you let him in without question (at least, until you at last move in with him.) Let him choose whatâs best for you before things get messy.Â
If you resist, heâs not above concocting scenarios where youâre 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. Youâre 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.Â
Heâll 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.Â
Heâs earnestly convinced he can atone for every loss or moment of pain heâs 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 heâs happily married and living with his long term partner.Â
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.Â
He canât be a hero everywhere, canât save everyone. Alejandro canât control many things, but he can, if only youâd 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.Â
NSFW
Your needs take priority, and itâs guaranteed youâll finish every time. He genuinely enjoys pleasing you, it feels like an extension of the duty he feels toward you; so much so, that youâre no stranger to overstimulation.Â
Alas, his motivations are not inherently selfless. He sees intimacy as a testing ground for how far he can push his control.Â
âEasy⌠you know Iâve got youâŚâ with eerie satisfaction, heâll 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 doesnât 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.
Your pleas for freedom and claims of hatred of his ways loose all credibility when youâre shown just how good he can make you feel, when you moan for him. If he has to record such incidences to remind you in future, then so be it.Â
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CW: gn!reader, no use of 'sn', fluff, slight mention of scent fetish, chubby reader? I am using a translator, sorry for any mistakes.
It's a strange feeling, like when you watch cat videos and feel like jumping into the screen to pet them. And that's how Johnny feels, only towards you.
It's no secret that Soap just can't resist you and needs to be touching you all the time. Seriously, when he finds you after a long mission, he almost suffocates you with his tight hugs (and this guy gives the best hugs). Honey, you have to understand that he just missed you so much, let him squeeze you just a little longer, please?
And when you're eating? Wow, the way your cheeks get chubbier and how you look like a cute squirrel drives him crazy. He'll even squeeze your cheeks hard enough to make them hurt (and he does it with a huge smile), but trust me, he wants to squeeze you harder, but he really doesn't want to hurt you. So he'll try to settle for just telling you how adorable you look right now, how he could watch you eat forever (okay, Johnny, honey, you're being a little too weird right now).
He also loves your smell and sniffs you aggressively at any time of the day. Like, you could be all sweaty, finishing putting clothes in the washing machine, and then this guy comes up behind you and sniffs you like a dog. He also tells you that he loves your ânatural scentâ (whatever that means) and gets very sad when you use soap because he says it takes away your natural scent (scent fetish maybe?).