Looking back on 2020, I think it's hilarious that Wellerman of all shanties is the one that blew up online. It's not a song about life on the high seas or adventuring
something something you call for your husband as you make tea in the kitchen and another man's voice answers. slowly you make your way to the living room, where a strange man is wearing your husband's clothes, reading your husband's book, sat in your husband's chair.
"somethin' wrong?" the stranger asks, peering over your husband's reading glasses. he has powder blue eyes, a dark, shaggy beard with flecks of silver glinting in the lamp light, and shoulders so broad they stretch the thin cotton of his everton fc shirt- and even sitting down, you can see that his joggers stop well above his ankles.
you don't think you've ever seen this man before in your life- but something about him is awfully familiar.
"where is my husband?" you ask quietly, voice shaking in obvious fear. the man's mild curiosity flips to deep concern as he puts the book down, not even bothering to mark his place.
"what are you- i'm right here." his brows furrow. "sweetheart? are you all right?"
"you're not my husband." on shaking legs you slowly back away towards the kitchen door. "you're not my david."
"of course i am, who else would i be?" he asks, sounding concerned- but not in the way david would be. david would be irritated, angry, annoyed with you for being 'hysterical'. this man isn't doing that- and what's more, he seems genuinely worried.
"i don't know you. get out of my house." it comes out barely above a whisper, terrified tears springing to your lashes. you can barely comprehend what's happening right now, but the way you see it, your options are one of two things:
one- there is a stranger in your home, pretending to be your (missing) husband and doing a rather poor job of it. your david is not near as gentle or sweet as this- if he was really your husband, he'dve told you to shut up by now. twice, probably.
two- you have suddenly undergone some sort of traumatic brain... thing... that you don't remember, and now your husband appears to you to be kinder, taller, wearing a different face, and speaking in a different voice. your brain is no longer to be trusted, and you're going to have to depend on david as reality's grip on you continues to loosen.
so you've either lost your mind, or you're in serious danger from an intruder. either way, your instinct is to get far away from the man whose presence is causing you so much confusion and distress.
"are you hurt, darling? did you hit your head? did you fall? do you remember?" he asks, brows creased in concern, arms out like he's trying to calm a nervous horse. he's fucking with you, he's got to be. david would've called you names by now- hurtful ones, cruel ones meant to belittle and break the spirit.
the worry in this stranger's voice and written on his face brings your tears spilling over your lashes and onto your cheek. fear and humiliation have you turning on your heel to run, but the stranger is on you faster than you'd expected, arms locking around your waist and reeling you in.
"it's all right. it's okay. just a bump to your head, sweetheart, we'll take you to see someone, get you fixed up. it's all right." he spins you in his arms, pulling you into a tight hug, one hand holding the back of your head as the other rubs up and down your spine. light kisses are peppered against your temple, and it brings another wave of tears to your eyes.
he's an imposter, you're certain of it- and it breaks your heart to realize that a stranger, someone who maybe even wishes to do you harm, is treating you with a gentleness and compassion that you actual husband hadn't shown you in years.
"what do you want?" you ask, voice croaking with emotion. the stranger coos sympathetically at you, petting at your back as he continues to nuzzle against the side of your face.
"i want my best girl t'be well. we'll get you well, love, don't worry. we'll see a doctor, and then maybe i'll take you up to scotland for a few days. i've heard of a place we can rent- out of the way, far from people, a quick walk to the sea. should do your nerves some good, i think." he murmurs softly, determination audible.
it's hard to think like this. you know he's lying, that you're not hallucinating, but parsing out what it is he's actually after seems to be nigh impossible without directly confronting him, and you're not sure that's the best idea. what if he drops the doting, attentive, and concerned charade that you can't help but relish in? on one hand, it would mean that he could decide to hurt you to get what he's after. on the other, well. with your cheek pressed against his shoulder and his broad, warm palm still rubbing comforting circles on your shoulders, it fills a need that your husband left unfulfilled for years.
the realization wrings a pained sob from you, and the man murmurs quiet assurances, sweet words to calm a hysterical woman, all with the patience and warmth you've been so severely lacking.
and you cry all the harder for it.
"i st-still don- don't know what you wa-want from me-hee-hee." the words rattle and shake their way from your mouth, uncertain and afraid- but they're met with more tenderness and gentle reassurance, which makes it all the worse. this is the most danger you've ever been in, and you've never felt more treasured in your life.
"i don't want you afraid, darling- especially not of me." he murmurs between gentle shushes, and god help you, but you really do believe him. you pull back a bit to look at him, and the soft way he looks at you is heartbreaking. when was the last time david looked at you like that? it's been years. you stare up at the stranger's face, still feeling that faint spark of recognition as you gaze up at his face. you remember those eyes and that little mole on the side of his nose- but not where you'd seen them before. it's infuriating, making you feel even crazier than his assertion that he's david.
"please don't hurt me." you plead, looking deep into those beautiful blue eyes. his visible shock almost makes you flinch, but his expression settles into a determined one as he gently cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping away your tears.
"listen t'me: whatever else you might believe about me, know that i will not hurt you." he tells you, solemn as a funeral, eyes locked onto yours. he tilts his chin to his chest. "i think we'd better get that fresh scottish air in your lungs sooner rather than later. lets pack your bag, darling. come on."
he leads you towards the bedroom, but as you pass the window you notice something- despite the fact that they won't be picked up for another three days, the bins are out, and judging by the way the lid is tilted, stuffed full to the brim.
'david' watches you like a hawk as the two of you pack your bags, telling you to bring as much as you like, that he'll figure out arrangements with your work until this 'mental health crisis' is over- and you wonder if he means to kill you.
"you don't have to be here. you don't have to do this." you plead with him, throwing every clean pair of underwear you have into the bag petulantly. "you can just leave me. just go. live your life, leave me here, it'll be okay. you don't need me."
"yes, i do." the stranger murmurs, pulling you in for another hug and kissing your temple. "i've needed you since i first saw you. it's why i'm here, why i have this ring, isn't it?"
david's ring sits on the man's finger, and in your heart, you know you should grieve- but there's a blockage inside of you preventing it. it could be that fear and confusion have overridden it, it could be that david's callous and cruel behavior eroded away any possibility of it, or it could be that you've actually, factually, broken your brain during the course of this mindfuck of an evening.
the stranger presses a gentle kiss to your lips- and while still fairly chaste, you can feel something in it, a passion that's barely being held back.
"i'm gonna take care of you. we're gonna take care of each other. in sickness and health," he kisses your forehead, "-til death do us part, yeah?"
"yeah." you reply, without knowing why. the way you see it, he's huge, in your space, and either crazy or dangerous or both. fighting isn't an option, and you're not fast or wiley enough to run. freezing didn't work, so fawn it is, you suppose.
"my good girl. lets finish packing and get on our way." he presses another kiss to your mouth, and reaches back to full-handed grope your ass, winking as he lets go to finish looting your husband's closet. it doesn't escape your notice that none of the blue everton shirts get packed into his bag, nor any of the trousers that you suspect also cut off above his ankles.
soon he's got you buckled into the passenger seat, your luggage packed in the boot, and the backseat crammed with a few days worth of food, toilet paper, and general supplies. he reaches over and squeezes your thigh, fingers flexing on the inseam of your trousers, and it sparks a memory.
merseyside derby, a few years ago. david got drunk and started shouting at some liverpool fan who'd done nothing more grievous than breathe the same air as him. he'd ignored your husband entirely, giving you a once-over with powder-blue eyes, smirking slightly when he'd remarked that he thought you'd look even prettier in red.
it had been so long ago, but now here you are, receiving that same look in the front seat of your husband's car, and the memory leaves you breathless.
"we're really doing this?" you ask warily, voice shaking with nerves. how long was he waiting? watching? planning?
"we're really doing this." the stranger confirms warmly, unaware of your recognition and subsequent mental spinout, putting the key in the ignition. the engine turns over, and it feels like a death knell.
"who are you, really?" you ask, voice barely audible over the radio that's just come to life, volume last set by david to mask any 'chatter' you might engage in. the man clicks it off entirely.
"i'm your david, sweetheart. remember?" he asks, but there's a tone to it. a mild warning, and therefore, an acknowledgement of the farce. your blood runs even colder, and your posture stiffens. he pulls the car out, driving you both through the neighborhood in the dead of night, making your way north towards god-knows-what.
Yongzheng's death is perfect because Zhenhuan and Lanyi would have never been able to kill him if it hadn't been for his arrogant confidence in his control over his consorts and lack of respect for their agency.
1. Yongzheng is a highly intelligent and paranoid man who survived an infamous battle for the throne and spent his life obsessively pruning his inner circle for any traitors.
2. Yongzheng has watched his consorts murder royals and get away with it. He knows what they're capable of. He just didn't think they'd turn the very same tactics on him.
3. Before they started collabing to murder him, both Zhenhuan and Lanyi had made it abundantly clear that they hated him. Zhenhuan despised him after Yunli's death and initially made no effort to hide it, Lanyi consistently acted proud and apathetic towards Yongzheng's interest towards her for her whole existence in his harem.
4. Lanyi's sudden change of attitude towards him should have raised especially giant red flags if Yongzheng didn't assume that she had just accepted her fate as being his consort forever.
Still thinking about [captive bred mer!reader and wild mer!ghost] and their first feeding time together....
You spend so long in that little cave, tucked into the shadowy corner whenever the big mer swam by. He was just so big! And spiky in places you aren't, and all the wrong colors!
After awhile he leaves you alone, instead swimming laps in the giant pool, chirping...something. you still don't understand him. It was easy to calm down in your cave, knowing he couldn't fit. It was harder to ignore your growing hunger.
You don't know how you'll get food, it's too scary to swim up and do the tricks! Just the thought of doing your usual splashing and flying from the water with the big mer around....no. best not to.
So you hunker down, tuck your tail over your arms and open you vents for the long night. It's not the first time you'll go without food but it never gets easier.
Something thunks outside your cave entrance, startling you out of your half-sleep.
A....crab? It's definitely a crab! Oh, wow! You didn't know there were any in the pool! Excited, you swim out to say hi. chest brushing the rock so you can be eye level, you chirp "hai!!! Helloooo!!! Hi!!"
The crab doesn't move. Hrm. Strange. You bat at it, churring in curiosity when it simply floats away a bit, still not moving. You paw at it, inspecting it, worried it might be sick and—
A loud rumble above you— the mer! You go to dart back into your cave only to realize it's so far away. He rumbles more, reaching a giant hand down to pluck the crab from its place, and instead place food down!
Ah. He must be helping the crab out.
You eat the food, making sure to save some for the big mer because even if he's scary he's helping the crab so you suppose he should eat too. He brings more and more, and you eat your fill for the first time in...a long time.
Above the surface, two workers talk to eachother about your feeding method. It seems whole foods don't work, but ghost is willing to tear them up for you. They will continue to monitor.
after watching Zhen Huan, Ruyi and Yanxi I get Ruyi's exhaustion on such a fundamental level because what the fuck is the point of protecting yourself from schemers and accusers? As soon as one of them loses influence/dies another crops up again. The emperor is guilt tripped into having basic trust in you for a blissful 1 month before he's back to his usual bullshit. Rinse and repeat until the dude kicks the bucket or get killed by one of you. You desperately wrangle you or your ally's kid onto the throne to make sure the new emperor isn't someone out to make your life hell as a result of generational grudges. You then watch the new emperor become a piece of shit reminiscent of your toxic husband as every human weakness gets exacerbated into a moral failing by his environment. You spend the rest of your days trapped in the forbidden city surveying the dozens of new gen harem women with a watchful eye while your relationship with your children potentially falls apart around you. you die of old age in a harem that's by this time became a train wreck, half a dozen grandkids prematurely in the grave, man on the throne completely unrecognisable to you
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?
The alpha at the counter doesn’t really speak to you.
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.Â
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.
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, you’re not sure what exactly it is you’re smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.
What is that?
You sniff the air. It’s barbaric, embarrassing, but you can’t 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 there’s 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 it’s 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 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.Â
“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.Â
“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.Â
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.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.
“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.
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.
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 ye’re no jealous. will introduce ye when ye’re back.'
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