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 I’ll 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 ‘right way’ are shrouded in memories of loss and most poignantly, feelings of guilt.
It’s so easy for his mind to run, to let the what ifs take control and plague him. It’s 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.
‘I do this for your sake, you’ll understand eventually’ truthfully, he doesn’t care if you never come to terms with his ways. It doesn’t change how eager he is to enforce them.
You’re his purpose, the one thing he counts on to instil hope; let him be selfish, just this once. Let him keep tabs on you. Let him show up at your front door every night until you’re so worn you let him in without question (at least, until you at last move in with him.) Let him choose what’s best for you before things get messy.
If you resist, he’s not above concocting scenarios where you’re shown just how dangerous the world is and how deeply you need him. That solo trip out you begged him for? Ends in tears when you encounter some less than savoury individuals that attempt to rob or harass you. You’re unharmed physically, and blissfully unaware said miscreants are working on his dime, paid actors of a sort to fulfil some script that affirms what once seemed like irrational concerns.
He’ll be there to dry your tears and take you in his arms, brandishing his presence as the solution to every problem and fear both real and seemingly imaginary.
He’s earnestly convinced he can atone for every loss or moment of pain he’s ever felt if he takes you wholly and completely as his. To the small select group of outsiders he trusts with knowing of your existence, it sounds and appears as though he’s happily married and living with his long term partner.
He paints a vague albeit organic picture of meeting you, of a romantic pursuit and quaint date nights, omitting the truth and garnishing the obsessiveness of his ways with a smokescreen of soft words.
He can’t be a hero everywhere, can’t save everyone. Alejandro can’t control many things, but he can, if only you’d let him, carve a future for you both. The colonel uses you to steal himself a small piece of paradise in a world that once had him feel as though such feelings were unattainable.
NSFW
Your needs take priority, and it’s guaranteed you’ll finish every time. He genuinely enjoys pleasing you, it feels like an extension of the duty he feels toward you; so much so, that you’re no stranger to overstimulation.
Alas, his motivations are not inherently selfless. He sees intimacy as a testing ground for how far he can push his control.
‘Easy… you know I’ve got you…’ with eerie satisfaction, he’ll take you further and further each time. Savouring your every expression and eventual reduction to an exhausted, flushed husk as a signal of acceptance.
He doesn’t like using anything sexual as punishment, but will be quick to use it as compensation. He dilutes any feelings of anger you have or disregards harsh or frustrated words you may toss at him with passionate touches and much much more.
Your pleas for freedom and claims of hatred of his ways loose all credibility when you’re 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.
Into The Breach (Dark! Simon Riley x Female Reader): Chapter I
Summary: “Into the breach” an idiom and combat operational term used in military engagements to describe the act of charging into a broken point in an enemies defence.
Or, the act of taking over a dangerous or difficult task from a comrade unable to continue it.
You husband and one of his most trusted soldiers had fallen, begging him through bloody, final words to keep you safe and protected. It was a promise he’d make good on no matter what, even if you were intent on pushing him and the past away. After all; you were a widow by his very own design and he was without a cause for far too long.
W/C: 5.5k
C/W: female reader, yandere, stalking, dark!Simon, possessive behaviour, dead dove, (eventual) nsfw, mentions of alcohol use, alluded poor mental health, violence, character death, reader has a past relationship with original character, grief, angst, MDNI
Chapters: WIP
A/N: ok so this was supposed to be a one shot….But I wanted to do a deep dive on a gloomy, stalker veteran ghost in a dinky little UK town. More soon.
AO3 | Original Concept
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‘This is…’ he had to consciously inhale, choosing to forgo light headedness at the expense of minimising the pain in his left side.
‘C2 this is Bravo-01, 2100, halted. Target is not on site. Repeat, target is not on site. Mission is NG. heading to FRV for exfil.’ A clammy hand clutched the throat mic, clenching it to release a bit of frustration until a small note of protesting static forced him to let go of it once more.
There was no doubt about it, this mission, much like his rib, was a complete and utter bust. He was injured, his men were tired and the snake they were hunting had slithered away- Ghost knew better than to extend this icy goose chase any longer for the shallow sake of pride or chance. Exfil was a necessity imposed rather than a choice made from sensibility or a longing to be anywhere but this frigid little compound. He continued forward, balancing swiftness with an attempt at preserving what little energy remained as much as possible. Every step across the metal catwalk echoed with a loud rattle that offered an already thudding head no platitudes. Moments later however, it seemed like a minuscule annoyance as a cacophony of gunfire and angered voices sounded from around the corner.
He pinned his body to the wall as close as possible, eyes scanning the small patch of light cast down the corridor. It reduced the two men to obscure shadowy shapes locked in a heaving struggle. Most of the ruckus was grunting and hissing though a few choice profanities immediately identified the one on the left as a member of his unit. Sergeant Jacob ‘Thames’ River; a man usually hailed for his prowess on the battlefield was pinned and quickly loosing his ability to fight back.
Ghost broke his cover, the sights of the gun in his hand riding the coattails of a glower that burnt into the steely goggles of his new target. There was no eyes visible in the line of sight returned but a moment passed between them that could only be compared to the sensation one felt when looking over the sheer, unforgiving edge of a cliff. His stomach dropped so deeply it felt like a hobble around his ankles whilst the fracture in his rib migrated to his chest in a vice like pressure as he watched one sided gunfire rain out. Straight into Thames’s neck, a horrid, gelatinous clap as the dark figure’s bullet lodged itself.
‘Fuck!’ he bolted forward, coming to dispatch the man behind the wound with equal expedience. He came to the sergeant’s side, the other’s body dropping almost in unison with the moment he came to face the wounded.
‘Cap…I…’ a nauseating choke that was comparable to a cauldron coming to a boil was all he managed.
‘Easy now easy hang tight, come on we’ll get you out of ‘ere…’ an unruly mix of ice, gunpowder and the raw, gritty smell of freshly spilled blood commandeered his senses. A process he’d practiced a thousand times in training until it was second nature became nerve wracking in real time. The trauma kit was tough to open, a finger rendered stiff from the cold struggling with the hook and loop denying entry.
A shaky hand lacking its usual colour softly came to guide his own away from the satchel of supplies, not even humouring a pointless attempt at aid. Ghost watched as Thames eyed his masked face, a look of exhaustion and completion that pleaded wordlessly for rest.
Such a look was seen on the faces of green recruits doing laps and those disdaining a call back to shop after hours. He’d seen it on the best of the best, grown men unafraid of danger but resentful of being held on deployment longer than anticipated.
Never before had he seen it on the man before him. It was not born of weakness, nor from a lack of fervour. The sergeant had not failed, he had not shied away from a task deemed too unforgiving. He simply had no fight left, his duty fulfilled with every last fibre of his being and he could give no more. To demand he keep going, to shove the reality of his situation aside would’ve been mockery.
‘Please… look after my wife… keep her safe…’ every last drop of life was delivered in a light squeeze to his forearm. A thousand words teeming behind that act alone, and his most treasured and essential verbalised with the final gargling stutter his throat would allow. Time seemed to stop for a moment, and Ghost could’ve sworn the world came to watch with him as he parted.
Silence. Bittersweet silence.
‘C2 this is…’ he swallowed, a hand coming to pry the steely dog tags from the fallen. ‘C2 this is bravo-01, bravo-02 is KIA. I repeat bravo-02 is KIA. We are down to four strong. Continuing to FRV’
He cast one final glance at the resting body of his ally and the one of his assailant. In the wake of battle, pity saw no lines. Death filled the room, and the smoky haze of the wind creeping into claim them both with a dusting of snow. It was far different to the steamy, almost suffocating confines of that fateful metro trip that had tore away someone he trusted once before.
Not again. First Johnny, now him.
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‘Leave chit got approved,’ one of his men shot him a look, a knowing shrug of resignation, ‘just two weeks.’
A fortnight devoid of a shaving routine he didn’t even have the agency to decide for himself. Unstructured runs and meals he could eat whenever he damn well felt like. Early mornings born from habit, not the banshee like beeps of an alarm.
He could get used to this.
Over the course of a few months, those two weeks morphed into a blur of paperwork and the burgeoning promise of an honourable discharge.
He’d made Captain. Led missions. Buried enemies. Buried twice as many friends. Buried the part of himself that roared with envy when more and more familiar faces hung up the beret. He was a soldier; not an actor nor a martyr. He’d given his pound of flesh, the skull insignia no longer a means of intimidation or compartmentalisation but emotional starvation. Whatever it was that had called him here was gone, digested by time and spat out by fruitless repetition.
Exhaustion would be the beast to end his career, not a bullet or bastard that goes bump in the night.
‘Best of luck…sir,’ said the youngest of his unit, not yet ready to abandon formal titles but evidently comfortable enough to jest, ‘does this mean you’ll not be ‘round to scold me for a half baked razor job tomorrow?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll never hear from me again.’ A joke delivered with a single huff, but a subtle beat of guilt in his chest as there lurked an undetected truth behind it. Simon stared down the younger male, placing a hand on his shoulder with a playful, uncharacteristic clap. A gesture speaking volumes he didn’t care to verbalise, a final order of returning to his post the last words truly shared between them as he departed. The only thing guiding his steps out the wrought iron gates of the sterling lines was an oppressive, unwavering desire to run. He didn’t dare to look back; the prison of familiarity perhaps turned favourable in the company of uncertain freedom.
He’d packed his car at the crack of dawn and cleared his apartment the night before, wanting only a swift clean exit like the ones suggested in every mission briefing. He’d never be reading one of those ever again- a thought that brought both drenching relief and scorching unnerve as he drove away one final time.
Four hours east of nowhere, and couple more south of everything he’d ever known was where he was headed. A little coastal town lay waiting, a place devoid of regiment and of anyone that could even come close to an acquaintance. It was a fresh start, a stark white future that burnt to look at but inspired a feeling of unmarked potential.
Ghost would not be accompanying him in this next chapter. Ghost had failed him, and failed others. It was easier to pin the past on something tangible; compartmentalisation the one souvenir of service life he’d hold onto. The hollow, ductile, blank slate of a man he’d neglected for many years was the only self he’d packed for the road. Simon Riley, whoever he was, craved life in a cheap brick rental far far away.
Hope took on the form of paddocks and pothole filled roads as he inched further and further away from everything he’d known.
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It was an old town. Bordered by a barren rocky bay, crowned by rolling sheep studded hills and garnished with townsfolk that kept to themselves.
He worked security at the main entry of the quarry a couple of nights a week. There was no pristine expectations involved, no uniform or guidance other than the assumed willingness to ward off anyone loitering. His stature alone fizzled out any inclination that bored, bike riding teenagers might’ve had to trespass and scoot along the ridges. This job didn’t call for an assigned firearm, allegedly anything beyond a few harsh words and incident report would be handled by the police. The emptiness of his pockets and the lack of a holster was at first comparable to the feeling of being naked. The first few shifts had him casting a glance to the place under his bed as he left out the door. It was there that a lockbox rested; inside it a 9mm pistol sat waiting for the day dire circumstances may have him pick it up again.
As time crept on however, as the days blurred and the nights standing and pacing by that boom gate became more and more mundane- he began to doubt he’d ever need to even think about brandishing such relics of the past. At first it was refreshing; a little routine of easy work and days between spent at the small but well enough equipped gym in town. He answered to no one but himself, the quiet of his little flat a continuous guarantee that had nothing to contest it. There was no contrast, no masked border between his emotions and the sanctuary of being a way from work.
Simon was experiencing a blank canvas of being that let him take on the greys of the rain drenched little world he’d stumbled into. It served as the anthesis to the existence he’d carved from the bloody, rotting remains of mere survival. He had time to ponder and eventually, for the first time ever, to feel the crushing blows of true solitude.
Perhaps Ghost was more a part of him than he cared to admit, a part of him he foolishly thought he could rid himself of.
His gongs mounted and collecting dust reminded him of simpler times. The enemies then had been absolute, picked off easily with gunfire and an equal adversary. His own mind? A foe unlike any other. Its threats were personal, hand tailored from the silk of his deepest fears and more. The only thing to comfort him was some semblance of a repetitive routine, but even that grew stale and left him feeling hollow after a while.
Work, gym, groceries, go back to that little apartment, repeat.
At least the pub wasn’t too expensive and the food wasn’t too shit. On days he didn’t work he sometimes chose to sit by the counter since Colin the bartender made easy conversation but knew to never prod too deep.
‘Been waiting for the day you bring your missus,’ a comment delivered with a soft, inquisitive smile but answered with a swaying of the head in place of an eye roll.
‘Don’t have one…’ he replied, taking a swig to play on old tactics learnt in interrogation training; keep yourself occupied, busy hands or a busy mind are less likely to say too much or too little.
‘Shame,’ came the response, ‘I guess ya’ didn’t have much time for that in… what was it you did?’ A series of melodic pangs sounding as the thick glasses were placed away one by one. ‘Firefighter?’ Clink, ‘no… copper?’ Clink, ‘wait a miner right?’
‘Private security,’ not an outright lie, but a greatly minimising label for his previous occupation. ‘Long hours, weird timing…’ he could be partially honest, ‘not the kind of lifestyle that’s compatible with building a life like that.’
‘Ah, you ever look after anyone famous?’ Colin tilted his head, ‘you know, celebrities, pollies… any terrorists or real edgy crooks?’
Simon said nothing, shifting in place at the latter. He appreciated the other’s willingness to divert from the topic almost immediately, taking it back to more casual avenues.
‘What you need is a dog,’ he remarked, a conclusive certainty in his tone. A gesture to one of the many faded pictures collaging the pine panelled wall behind him, retrieving a portrait of a large gold and black canine. ‘After my wife died, I couldn’t stand the quiet and having no one to come home to. Kids grown up an’ all, so I got old Athena there.’
Simon placed his glass down, taking the picture held before him. ‘Great Dane?’ He questioned, never having the luxury of spending much time with anything but working K-9 units.
‘Nope, called a Kangal, an old, rare Turkish breed,’ he smiled for a moment, ‘great dog, great company. But…bred to work, she’d protect her flock until her last breath. They’re only good if ya’ got something to guard. If you don’t give em’ a job they’ll find one themselves and well…’ he trailed off , ‘can’t say it ends well to let a creature like that have no place for its loyalty.’
‘Hmmm,’ he hummed, cautiously handing the picture back, ‘impressive but a dry argument, my yard is tiny.’
Simon had heard similar about the shepherds he crossed paths with and made coworker’s of on occasion. Dogs bred to work, fine tuned genetically and trained to be infallible in situations where humans were given the concession to be nervous or hesitant. They didn’t ask questions, didn’t get the luxury off of days or let self doubt cripple them. They just did as they were told, devoid of agency and therefore liberated from blame for any shortcomings. It was this hardline dedication and pedestal beyond a normal dog that made them completely unsuited to civilian life.
He had always admired them with a strange muddle of appreciation, envy and sympathy. Just creatures shaped and moulded for a role and when deprived of it, they became aggressive and restless. A prison of their own success, jilted by their circumstances even if they flourished in them. Not dissimilar to their human counterparts.
‘No time for’a girl, no room for’a dog… I don’t suppose there’s a reason why I can’t pour ya’ another pint?’
Simon gave a single nod, something equivalent to a smile and few words of grace from anyone else. The light squelching of the beer tap rose beyond the blurry hum of music and patches of noise from other patrons. He closed his eyes, letting a bit of fatigue take him as he lulled over what he’d do to pass time when he went back home.
Only one voice stuck out from it all, a less rough, more pleasant tone than the rest that forced them open once again.
‘Peroni please…’
Simon faced the woman taking a seat at the bar, his stomach dropping.
Hair kneaded into a simple, comfortable style. Eyes that seldom glinted when they once shone in Polaroids. A face that was pretty but crestfallen. Silent distaste curling in your features at an all too enthusiastic fellow patron who’d sauntered over. His manner was sloppy, fuelled by the false confidence of inebriation.
He couldn’t believe it- and rather, didn’t want to. But there was no denying it, the woman seated only half a counter away was you. The last time he’d seen you had been in the wake of tragedy. You’d existed only in his mind as some a sacred vessel of grief, as nothing more than an unfortunate side effect of that fateful mission where your husband had been taken.
‘Please… look after my wife… keep her safe…’ those words echoed in his mind as he stared, the past coming back to brief him once again.
The funeral was bolted together with the flimsy order of ceremony. Everything was formal, even sorrow had to be wrapped and pressed neatly in dress blues. When it concluded, guests dribbled away slowly with reddened eyes and and heavy hearts but had the luxury of separating grief into an uncomfortable little throb that prodded and poked . For you and everyone else that had known him, it was a vine that coiled and snared for the rest of their life. Simon’s squad remained for a while after the last mourner departed. They were standing sentry, protecting in a way they’d failed to before. Guilt kept them at parade rest, the occasional hand pressed against the casket breaking formation. It was a grounding act, a painful means of facing reality and the closest they’d get to saying a real goodbye.
He took only a brief break to eye down the woman he’d been charged with. He knew your name and your age. He knew more about you than he cared to admit. When the initial buzz and tempo of deployments whittled down to a tired, worn drag, it was then that late night conversation took to softer, familiar topics. The locker room talk watered itself down to longing for quiet Sunday dinners in front of the tv, grocery runs and domestic comforts. Your husband had spoken of you many times, shown pictures of you and gushed of the future he’d been so adamant you’d share.
By proxy, Simon knew how you liked your coffee. Knew the tv shows you watched, he knew what flowers you liked, knew you’d be waiting at home in this tacky cat print nightdress your best friend had given you for Christmas he hated to love.
It was all foreign to him, a concept so outlandish, so far from his reach it may as well have been fiction or a miracle.
Ghost had been at that funeral, Ghost was the one that offered you only a gruff note of sympathy and curt ‘call us if you need anythin’. His mask stayed fastened even when it was physically discarded for formality. The last he’d heard of you, you’d moved back in with family. Memories and a world of reminders all too much for you to bare. Occasionally when his own mind wandered to that dark day, he cast a lonely curiosity your way.
Where were you? Had you managed? What should he have said?
Behind any title, behind the moniker, lurked a coward. Ghost was a flimsy smokescreen, a false cadaver to pretend he didn’t hold a fear that was very much alive. But now? As Simon Riley, as this self he insisted was a second chance, he could do better.
He would do better.
‘Sorry to interrupt…’ he mumbled, casting a testing glance to the male inching ever so slightly closer to you. Simon’s gaze was pure, glacial precision; not bold enough to be burning but sharp enough to elicit a pause on the other’s advances. He pushed forward, one leg propped on the metal beam of his chair. An old tactic from interrogation- get in the subjects space, deny them breathing room to do anything but bend to your will.
You turned, initially disdainful at yet another figure crowding you before recollection came flooding across your features. Your brows knitted,eyes downcast with the same unspoken weight he bore. Your eyes narrowed, trying to squeeze familiarity from the presence before you.
‘Do… do I know you?’ An accusation more than an open question, recognition an unwelcome symptom of his greeting.
‘Malalcahuello, June 24th…’ your expression tightened and your lips parted, first in disdain before realisation settled in with a thud. This man was no stranger, those three words alone bounded him to you in a way only a select handful could.
‘How…how do you…’ a hand held to your jaw.
‘Captain Riley?’ You pondered, casting a glance up and down, saying his other name in an all too fitting whisper, ‘Ghost?’
‘Yes,’ guilt settled on him for a moment, an apology brimmed on his tongue. You rose suddenly, pulled him into a hug that left him stupefied for a moment. Before he could even lift a hand to cup your back you parted, face blank and a few words delivered. ‘Sorry I just.. it can’t believe it’s you.”
A mutual feeling. Remnants of your physical embrace stuck to his body in a strange warmth long after the gesture ceased.
When he opened his mouth, his subconscious clung to old pugnacious ways. ‘Hey chum,’ A generous $20 was shoved towards the miscreant leaning all too close. A head tilt signalled a very limited vat of patience within him, ‘take it, fuck off, buy a pint and leave us the ‘ell alone.’ The note was snapped up and crumpled into his dirty jeans as though he was stealing it.
You stared in satisfaction as the strange man departed, either the call of a free drink or the realisation that confrontation would do him no good powering his hasty steps. A thanks was given, your line of sight falling to the golden liquid you’d barely touched on the bar. Silence fell between you both, the murky sounds of other people living in the present like a fog; thin conversations that formed no solid sound, but all encompassing.
‘I…’ Simon exhaled, a hand cold and stiff as he pulled his mask down. A plain black one, the skull print long abandoned. You looked back, the gravity of the moment unknown to the waitstaff idly clearing glasses beside them. He tried to keep his pallid gaze trained on you and you alone. ‘Mind if I sit?’
You gestured to the unoccupied stool and he took his place.
Silence elapsed for a brief moment before what troubled him pushed forth. ‘I’m sorry we… well, I never reached out.’ A dozen other apologies lay buried inside him, but now was neither the time nor place for them.
‘What could you say?’ You shrugged, taking a single sip. ‘He’s dead,’ you hesitated, swapping your scalpel like tone for a softer one, ‘you got that bastard eventually. That’s justice, I guess.’ It was praise apparently, but he didn’t feel a surge of satisfaction or relief and your presence didn’t feel at all lighter.
‘So, how long have you lived here? Got a job in town?’ He tried to get a clearer picture, was trying to fill in the gaps between you getting into a car at the funeral and popping up again two years later half a country away.
‘Yeah I started a gig down at the harbour. Friend of a friend needed help running a little tourist shop. It’s…different,’ your fingers drummed against the bar, ‘aaaand I got the keys to my flat on Sunday but you know,’ you shrugged, ‘no furniture. Toll are just as lousy as they were when we used to post around…’ another sip, though it was not thirst you sought to satiate. ‘How about you? Working?’
‘It’s been…’ he calculated, finding slight shock upon reaching the answer, ‘eight months. I work nights at the quarry.’
‘Wow,’ you half raised your glass, ‘I’m gonna be honest, I never thought I’d find you here of all places.’
‘Yeah…’ he felt a pint slid toward him, Colin wordlessly encouraging his newfound company with an irritating eyebrow raise. ‘It’s a’right, not much happens here. Exactly what I needed.’ Or so he’d thought.
‘So what..’ you exercised caution, ‘what made you leave finally?’
He paused, something pushing him to let a more candid answer than his first instinct offered play out. ‘I got tired of it…’ he took a swig, ‘got tired of having to finish what others started. I got sick of getting dirt’y hands for a world that never got any bloody cleaner.’ Blue eyes latched into yours, ‘got tired of loosing friends, got tired of seeing good men trade it all for nothing in return.’
‘You know what?’ A weighted gap splitting your response, ‘that’s exactly what he said…’ you trailed off, ‘told me he was going to hand it in, that he was sick of cutting off heads just to have the hydra grow another one… said he had just one last easy assignment.’ You huffed, something between amusement and anger, ‘He told me it was a rescue mission.’
‘That was the brief…’ Simon murmured, ‘we were told we’d be in and out, fetching a trafficker MI5 were keen on that had gotten himself captured by the local crime syndicate.’ He exhaled, lowering his tone, ‘we ‘ad no idea we’d end up knee deep in a turf war between two groups. ‘
‘That’s a far cry from a rescue mission,’ you answered, sitting there before turning with a more earnest look. ‘But…he never wanted me to worry, would always make up some elaborate story about fighting sea monsters or aliens whenever he got stuck overseas or whenever he hadn’t been able to speak…’ a flicker of a smile curving your lips.
He mirrored such fondness, his own kind trailing back to the dependably plucky attitude of the man you both mourned.
‘It’s so bad I…’ you were evidently trying not to let the tears brimming on your lower lashes fall. ‘I have a box of his things still waiting for me at Hereford I never had the guts to pick up…’
‘I still have contacts,’ he said, ‘I can arrange for it to be sent here if-‘
‘No,’ resolute, a single syllable that left no room for argument. It seemed you’d practiced isolation well, two or so years spent fine tuning the art of rejecting any conversationc or companion that shifted the earth on thoughts best left buried. You slowly stood up, a tight smile matching your newfound, stiff posture.
‘I’m really glad I ran into you, but you don’t need to do that. I’m trying as best as I can to…’ you swallowed, ‘trying to start over. Trying to honour him but…’ your next words didn’t come easily, ‘trying to put it behind me. Trying to let him rest. Just like you are I’m sure.’
Simon felt himself mimicking your rise, his eyes stuck on you as this abrupt change to an icy, distanced persona took over. ‘What are the chances huh?’ You offered a parting nod, ‘take care.’ The two of you stared for a moment, knowing this town was hardly big enough to consider this another farewell.
As if acting on impulse his hand reached out, halting your departure with a cursory glance at both your unfinished beverages. That wouldn’t prolong this encounter, so he struggled with a bumpy, awkward promise.
‘You need anythin’, you come to me.’ This time, his pledge was made with a grasp and flutter of conviction he’d not felt in half a year. You looked back, something clouding your face as you tossed him a look that was cautious at best and incredulous at worst.
As you walked off he noted both the primitive, toothy pout of the man he’d pissed away earlier and the bartender coming to investigate his newfound company. Colin leant forward, eyeing the fading figure of the woman that had captured his customers attention in a previously unseen manner.
‘Not a fucken word,’ he said, finishing his pint quickly with the intention of getting away from public and far from prying, needling interjections.
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Simon volleyed between feeling overheated and rueing the ever present chill seemingly stitched into the bones of this town. One leg flung out of the sheets whilst the rest of him remained tucked underneath them- it seemed to soothe his temperature woes, but did little to cure his minds refusal to return to the peace of sleep. He picked up his phone, the usually serene graphic of a pine forest became a burning expanse of green in the darkness, the ‘3:38am’ at the header the cherry on top. Such curiosity did his eyes no favours; it was placed back down, that same hand coming to wipe his brow and rub his eyelids in frustration. There was little to be done but lay there, two preoccupations haunting him and acting as gatekeepers to a decent nights rest.
In the small window of sleep he’d managed -probably no more than a few minutes despite the imprint of sweat on his sheets- he’d ended up right back on that catwalk. The wind sneaking in from his creaky little window became an Andean gust in a vivid retelling of that fated evening.
In his dream, Jacob, ‘Thames’ River had been right there once again. Only, the black wrapped figure that would eventually take his life had stopped, making direct eye contact with the man who could be his saviour if he would only just fire the gun held perfectly aligned in front of him. He, Captain Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the man charged with leading them to victory and shepherding them to safety had remained still, the weapon that could save his life drawn with a clear shot but there was no intention of firing it. He watched, time at a crawling pace. He was allowing the events that followed to play out- acting only in false remorse as his teammate fell to his fate. He’d jolted awake, the visceral nature of the dream inducing a barrage of heat on his skin and shallow breaths. What troubled him most however, was the lack of embellishment. Dreams had a tendency to add false details, to create artificial, flowery or downright horrific version of events. He’d had many nightmares born from a heightened nervous system and a handful of visions so perfect and pleasant they couldn’t be anything but a figment of imagination.
The one presented to him just then felt more honest, more loyal to candour than the version of events he’d presented to his team, to command and to himself. Claims of it being too late to stop what had panned out no longer sandwiched between remorse and anger but laid bare in gritty verbatim from his subconscious. The raw emotions, the heavy, rich tang of making such a greedy decision did not muster any unfamiliarity.
Were you a widow by his own will?
All he could think of was the sensation of the poised pistol, and the few seconds shared between the three of them. He had been Ghost- judge jury and executioner in that moment, and made his choice. And still, the man he’d betrayed had in his final words, tasked him with the most paragon of commands he could think of.
Enter you. His hesitation to acknowledge you had been from a resistance to duty. A desire to create a divide between the world he’d been born into and the one he was trying to create. Alas, it seemed, there was little distinction between them at all.
Ghost and Simon were one and the same. Simon would now have to pick up the pieces of the mess Ghost had created, yet there was nothing odious about it. A quiet room forced him to reflect, forced him to think of all the times he’d sat through talk of your place in his soldiers life and the bitter, sour sensation that swelled on his tongue as he listened.
He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now. For all his transgressions, you’d been hand delivered to him on a silver platter. The few months spent running from his own fate were punishment, his inability to be without the familiarity of a purpose assigned to him a life sentence of its own.
He groaned, cutting off his own bolting thoughts as he rolled over to the other side. The distant lights of the bay twinkled out his window, and he tried to sleep once more.
Protect her, keep her safe. He’d figure out a way to do just that even if you weren’t particularly receptive to him yet.
An eerie, venomous thought surfaced just as he dozed off once more. In that moment, a sick resentment formed for a man who didn’t have a breath in his body for self defence. Whether he’d pried the baton from dying clutches or been handed it was irrelevant-
It was up to him now, and he would not fail like he had.
The brain worms won and I’m dropping everything to write a dark! Simon x reader where you’re the widowed wife of a soldier he failed to save.
Your husband’s dying words begging him to look out for you and ensure you’re safe no matter what, a promise he intends to keep no matter how difficult you make it for him.
Yandere/Dark! Vladimir Makarov x Reader Headcanons
CW: GN reader, dark content, dark romance, obsessive behaviour, nsfw, unhealthy relationship, minors DNI, mak is just evil by default and deserves his own tw, implied violence
A/N: I used reboot Makarov for the pic but you can apply this to whichever version you choose.
Vladimir can’t afford any inconveniences. So to ignore you and the way you’ve utterly captivated him beyond all reason or foresight, would be detrimental. The thought of being without you is incapacitating and akin to vulnerability. Dare he say it, he has a weakness and it’s one no amount of firepower or bloodshed can fix. He cannot live without you. So for a man of his calibre there’s only one conclusion- he won’t.
There’s no if or but about it, he has to have you for himself. Forever and wholly, no matter what. He’s a man of action, devoting himself of the ends no matter the means. It’s all too easy to have a group of his most trusted men pluck you away from whatever life you were foolishly content to live before he swept you away into the life you were destined for.
Money, threats or something even more dire… whatever it takes, he’s quick to make sure your past is silenced or, if needed, erased completely. He’s not satisfied until the version of you that lived without him is reduced to an almost alien, forgotten memory. He keeps trinkets from your past as a bargaining chip for good behaviour; comfort items to play into your misguided insistence that you were better off without him.
Despite his callous behaviour in all other areas, he is far from unkind to you once you’ve properly settled. He can keep you contained, strip you of all agency and torment and deprive of you of all that is familiar until you bend to him, but he knows he cannot win you over that way. He’s not so unwise to assume you’ll love him back through brute force.
‘You can choose to stand beside me, or I will make you kneel before me. Either way.. you’ll be mine’ Vladimir craves a compliant companion he can hold as a constant and measure of success. In truth, you’re more akin a pet than a partner. All your needs will be met, you’re spoilt and treated with caring but all encompassing control. You have little freedom in the real world, but you’re given an entirely new one at his behest.
You’ll be well groomed; designer clothes that flatter you to his taste and anything to ensure you always look the part even if you don’t feel it. Gourmet food to keep you healthy and satisfied and round the clock security to keep you safe and contained. You’ll have no contact with the outside unless he allows it.
If you don’t ever manage to return his twisted but earnest love, he’s disdainful but adamant you’ll eventually grant yourself acceptance. You’ll learn his power is all encompassing and stains everything it touches, so resistance does little but deprive you of your destiny.
NSFW
For him, sex is a means of de stressing and reminding himself (and you) of the power he holds. He’ll take you anywhere and everywhere he sees fit; in the back of a car after a mission, in the walls of one of his many safe houses, in a helicopter… perhaps one day he hopes, within the confines of the kremlin.
If you’re capable of bearing an heir, that’ll be your duty. Though the reasoning behind it is methodical and calculated, there’s something primal and indulgent about the way he brings it to fruition. He speaks of the future you’re carving between each thrust, and promises an even more gilded future when you’re raising his legacy.
Should you test his patience, you’re guaranteed to feel the might of those signature black gloves on your rear. Spread over his lap, your own hands by either his unoccupied palm or velveteen rope, each strike it’s a perfect representation of how quickly he sought to claim and mould you to submission.
@fagpupboy requested: ‘Headcanons for a reader that was abused being manipulated by Yandere/Dark! Valeria’
C/W: yandere, dark content, GN reader, mentions of past abuse, unhealthy relationship, manipulation
The world had never been kind or welcoming to you. You’d never known consistency or peace, never really felt as though you had anything close to a home or place you belonged. All you had ever truly longed for was someone or something you could depend on or someone that would embrace you wholly.
Wounds faded to scars and harsh words faded to unpleasant memories, but isolation lingered and sowed desperation in its wake. Trust did not come to you easily, it required a delicate but dedicated hand.
Ah yes, you were perfect for Valeria and her cause. She needed someone malleable. Someone adaptable that would say ‘how high’ when ordered to jump and someone could she could command and treasure with equal intensity. She needed both the flame that would warm her home and the blaze that would singe away anything she didn’t care to deal with herself.
You were a blank slate. A naive but capable husk of a human being free to take on the duties of a soldier and lover whenever she saw fit.
It was all too easy for her to scoop you up and bundle you with comforting words and promises of fiery, satisfying retribution.
‘You’re not alone anymore, and never will be again.’ A threat glazed in the sugary cloaking of a comforting promise.
At first she played the role of a doting partner and dedicated leader. Promising protection, showering you with luxuries beyond anything you’d seen before. You saw this as something far greater than the mere stability you dreamed of, saw her touches as a protective hold and not a vice like grip of control.
Gold, champagne, food better than you had ever tasted before… oddly, you were more vulnerable when you were no longer weak or struggling.
Between her deep, ravenous bouts of affection lay a regimental dedication to unlocking what she referred to as your full potential and happiness. You’re better off when you obey, a twisted part of her long to remind you that defiance had never served you in the past.
And you believed her. You treated every word that came from the same lips that kissed and marked you with bites as dogma.
It was a sick, codependent blur of something akin to love and domination binding you together. She’d never admit it, but she herself had fallen in too deep. You held more power than you could ever imagine; you alone capable of instilling a fear of loss inside her in ways nothing else had before.
Valeria couldn’t afford weakness, but she couldn’t be without you- a small peek into the plight you’d been grappling with yourself since meeting her.
Yandere/Dark! Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x Reader Headcanons
C/W: GN reader, dark content, dark romance, unhealthy relationship, nsfw, stalking, minors DNI, dead dove do not eat
A/N: For the anon that wanted more hcs for anyone from tf141, Gaz called to me.
Kyle, as he insists you call him to establish something deeper and more personal from the get go, is enthusiastic. It’s a convenient box to slip his behaviour into, a positive trait that paints his eerie insistence on being privy and partial to your every thought or whim as desirable.
He’s always held himself to a high standard. Always fought tooth and nail to get where he wants to go and achieve what he’s felt necessarily so you’ll be no different. Kyle is dependable, an expert at being exactly what you need when you need it. A trustworthy friend, a doting neighbour, your knight in shining armour at the bar to ward off a creep… whatever it is, he conveniently swoops in and snugly slides himself into your life.
Whatever role lets him get a foot in, he takes to it with an unwavering and all encompassing sense of duty. He’s an expert at winning over family, friends and everyone you meet. They all fall for it. Those honest brown eyes, soft smile and humble air a perfect cover for his true intensity.
The second you’re his romantically, you unknowingly agree to a set of conditions that he enforces with an iron fist. He’s deceptive, wearing a silk glove of affection and condescension. A soft smile and boyish quip in his every word make up for a tainting fear of loosing you before he even has you. You’re assured this is a consequence of love, that anything less would be inadequacy- he thinks you’re perfect, and can’t afford to be anything but.
You begin to wonder and forget how it was ever without him, without his guiding words and assurances that soon turn to demands and rigid rules. It’s simple apparently, you’re his whole world, can’t he be yours too? It’ll all be better this way, just trust him. Give him that he can keep you safe, give him just that or he may just fall apart.
A part of him know this is wrong, knows it’s born from fear and from trying to prove to himself that he can be what you deserve, even if it means being your undoing.
He’s a master of making it seem so natural too. It seems so loving and condescendingly kind despite the forceful edge to it. Should you dare question it, or raise what may seem like justified concern, he’s quick to brandish the side of him that paints such disdain as insanity.
‘I’m just tryna’ look out for you babe, does that make me a villain?’
It can’t be so. Your stomach knots at the very suggestion despite your life being pulled apart at the seams and restitched by his hands into something tight and restricting. Villains are the things that go bump in the night, the things he worked against both far away and at home. Your Kyle, your ‘Gaz’ or whatever other nickname you may have for him couldn’t possibly be what you fear.
And he isn’t. He’s your partner, your future husband. He’s set in stone, he’s gonna be there no matter what. You’d be wise to give in, to grant him that same security back. Lest you see just how far he’s willing to go to maintain that status quo.
NSFW
Kyle can give you whatever you need, he’s always told you that. It gives you a false sense of agency, a glass and ornamental feeling of control he can so easily shatter if needed.
Because of this, he finds it almost invigorating to see you nervously try to take over. He’ll lay back, a cocky expression on his face as you try your damned hardest for a lick of power in your most raw and desperate moments.
‘Make me work for it…’
He’s a tease at best and tormentor at worst. Not at all above denying you for his own enjoyment so that he can lap up your desperation and savour your choppy words and flushed face when you start to beg.
A/N: thanks for sending anon, sorry this took ages- I’ve become very unwell. I hope this is the vibe you were after!
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Your name cut through the air in an exasperated, shrill manner. With it your stomach dropped and the breath in your lungs expelled in near choke; a scratchy, dry sensation on the tongue all that remained of your resolve. The single call carried fear and anxiety in its curt tone. You knew the source, and knew well enough that with him such afflictions were more dangerous than anger or rage. Such feelings were brief, easily extinguished and contained in the throes of violence and disorder. Alejandro proved that love and a desire to protect could be far more malicious and terminal in the wrong hands. For months you’d been confined to the alleged sanctuary of his house in the range, denied any taste of the outside or any instance that may put you in harms way. Alas, your heart had always found a way past its wrought iron gates and security out beyond the valley it crested. Every night, when your captor slept peacefully at your side, your mind wandered back home.
Back to the simple joys of choice, of a life not lived to serve his worst, most timorous impulses.
Today was the first time you’d been foolish enough to try and follow it.
A strange, faint sensation bubbled to the surface of your consciousness and you’d have been certain you ceased to exist in that moment if it weren’t for the flushing of heat on your scalp. Running would do you no good but staying mentally felt like defeat. To do so may as well have been resignation which would sooner kill your soul and further hollow your eyes more than anything that rested before or behind you.
Your gaze remained forward, taking in the scene of the towering mountain range and trees that were finally close enough to smell. Pine needles, grass bitten by the early winter dew and a breeze you’d been given only teasing, tantalising tastes of back in Alejandro’s gilded cage. A thousand thoughts clouded you as you took in the scene, inhaling deeply as his footsteps padded along the dry grass as they advanced toward you.
You logged the many natural threats that lurked the range before you and concluded none were half as intimidating as what you’d fled from.
Criminals, foreign mercenaries, strange men, pimps, and scoundrels…
Not even the distant peppering of buildings that indicated civilisation and the darker sides of humanity he insisted lurked there swayed you from the path you’d longed to take.
‘Stay right there, don’t fucking move…’ rarely did Alejandro swear or use coarse language in your company. He has been hell bent on separating his work and the rougher, more callous demeanour it demanded and the version of self he presented to you. As you felt him pull you back into a sloppy, breathless kiss you realised you may have been dealing with an eerie combination of the two. You were his mission and this little ill fated stunt of yours meant the stakes had just got higher.
He’d be a dozen times worse after this.
When a disciplinary blow to your rear was felt you gasped, shock parting your lips as he embraced you so tightly you might burst. Hands roamed over your form, feeling and studying the thin jacket you’d grabbed in a hurry to make your escape. You could almost read his mind and sensed a dozen disdainful words about how ill suited it was to the impending cold.
He pulled back, both hands perching on your shoulders to keep you there. ‘Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?’ A dozen curses, both in his native tongue and English. A habit of his acquired from work with foreign officials and coalition forces; the worst, most pressing situations could not be contained to a single language.
‘Oh to hell with it, ¡Me lleva la tostada!’
You almost slipping through his fingers and exposing yourself to danger was deserving of both.
‘I just wanted to-‘ he cut you off in an all too fitting fashion, your own words and desires second to his peace. He shook his head, a hand coming to cup the curve of the ass cheek where he’d spanked you. Regret knitting his brows at the result of his more impulsive response. A circle was rubbed onto the surface, and a dull ache in its place meant a bruise was likely to form; something akin to an embarrassing little souvenir of your poorly executed escape plan.
‘You terrified me…’ a guilty verdict- to worry Alejandro, to take away any of the control he’d so perfectly manicured was to dance with a force like no other. ‘Did I not treat you well? Did I not love you enough?’
Projection, he longed for you to say yes so he could shoulder the blame and grow even more desperate in his ways; nothing would incite him more than an excuse to show just how much he loved you.
A lump worked its way into your throat, desperation quavering your lips as you tried to reason with him. ‘I just missed home…’ he remained silent. You wished you could chalk it up to contemplation, to a bout of realisation and a promise to change. But alas, the stony disposition that washed over his face vanquished any hope of such rationalities.
‘Give it to me,’ he commanded, confusing further weighing down your features.
‘W..what?’ Before you could even make sense of it his hand fished out the primitive phone in your back pocket. A flood of regret left you mentally soggy and weighed down in place. You’d worked so hard to be trusted with that phone and had come to revere it in the way one might a lifeline. Though supervised and restricted, it at least let you speak to family. How foolish you were to let your fondness for it override the basic knowledge that it provided a means of beaconing your exact location at all times. He dropped it to the earth, letting his boot divide it in three heavy footfalls.
You swallowed, letting only your lip wobble as the device crumbled before you into a small shatter of battery and bits. Alejandro’s eyes softened, the deep brown within them melting ever so slightly enough to produce a glint of sympathy but it did not bleed anywhere else into his disposition. His arm drew you close, and the icy touches of the outside world were singed away by his burning embrace. It was warm, and in that moment, familiar. You no longer entertained the idea of running, no longer humoured the foolish fantasy that freedom would serve you.
‘Let’s go home… and stay there,’ he said, turning you with a force that was not born from malice, but an even eerier determination.
Home. Hogar.
Two names for the same pristine prison that awaited you. You could see it clearly nestled in the ridge that wasn’t as far away as your exhausted legs would have you believe. A small gust of wind kicked up and you inhaled; knowing you’d come to miss the sensation of it grating your lungs. You found yourself holding your breath as the two of you trudged along, savouring the small taste of the outside for as long as possible.
