#insidious truths about me

[lntrusiveknock]

when what hides behind this angel face (Jk) is the most demonic soul

[iwieldthesword]

I need to talk about this because it's making me feel insane.

Last week, my white leftist goyisch friends sat me, a wholeass antizionist Jew, down for a "talk" because they "needed to check in about Palestine" and make sure "our values aligned before we hung out again". They apparently needed to "suss out" where I stood on Palestinian rights, despite having had several conversations about Palestine and them being some of my closest friends. They needed to check, to search for and uncover my true values, because I had said some "disturbing things" that had made them "suspicious".

Disturbing things included:

Supporting IfNotNow which is a "liberal zionist organization" because it normalizes Jewish heritage in the Levant

Not bringing Palestine up enough, despite them also not bringing it up (this was apparently a test)

Mentioning that the Houthi's flag talks about cursing all Jews

Saying Stalin was antisemitic because of the "all the paw-grihms"

...and apparently other things they wouldn't specify, but had been tracking for months.

To clarify, I am an antizionist Jew from three generations of antizionist Jews. I have been vocal in my support of Palestinian liberation and in my condemnation both of Israel's actions and its violent founding as a state, and of zionism in many of its forms. I am a regular donor to Palestinian and Jewish NGOs and advocate for Jewish antizionism in person, at temple, and online. I have been talking about Palestinian liberation before they could point to Gaza on a map. But they needed to make sure, they needed to "suss out", they needed to check. And it's notable that the majority of moments that made them suspicious of me were times where I talked about antisemitism: not about Palestinian liberation, not about Israeli decolonization, not about anything actually relevant to Palestine. It was talking about antisemitism that made them check to see if I was a cryptozionist.

One of the most pervasive and insidious forms of antisemitism is the idea that Jews are inherently untrustworthy and suspicious. You have to constantly be on guard, track what they say and do, "suss out" the real truth. You have to keep them in line and and watch them carefully because they're liars and sneaks, and if you're not looking closely they'll return to their real values (and drag you down with them). This is where the idea of "cryptozionist" comes from and what it's directly building off of: the inherent untrustworthiness of Jews and the need to check. Because no matter how close you become you can't actually trust them, and any upstanding gentile should make sure to avoid associating with Jews before "sussing out" their real allegiances and intentions. You have to make them turn out their pockets, just in case.

I'm the first and only Jew they actually were friends with; I know because they've told me (strangely proud of it in the way white Americans are proud of that kind of thing). They've asked me questions about Judaism and fawned over how beautiful and unique it was for me to be connected to my community and culture. Pre-October 7th, one of them had even mentioned being interested in coming to services at my temple. She still has my copy of our siddur. But now she needed to "check" before she could be seen with me in public. Which is what it was: it wasn't a "you're my friend and I need to give you some feedback because you're fucking up" kind of intervention (which is normal and important to have), it was a trial. It was a last chance for me to prove to them that I'm clean-enough that they could afford to risk being seen with me in public, just in case someone noticed them fraternizing with a hypothetical Enemy and their leftism was compromised. It was a test to make sure that I behave properly when required to, that I'd play along and do what I'm told and turn out my pockets if asked (because any refusal would validate the notion of having something to hide). And above all it was an opportunity for them to reaffirm their own cleanliness by putting my imagined immorality in its place.

I did what I needed to do: I smiled. I apologized. I "didn't know that". I "appreciated the feedback". I turned out my pockets because what else could I do? They'd decided who I was and what I believed, regardless of what I said or did, so there was no point in explaining that they were wrong about me. If I had told them they were being antisemitic, it would just have been proof that they were right. Caring about antisemitism is a dogwhistle in the spaces they've chosen: it's not a real form of oppression, it's a tactic for sneaky, lying Jews to weasel out of admitting their true alliances. There was nothing I could say.

Nothing's really changed for me. I'm going to continue my activism for Palestinian liberation rooted in my culture and my faith. Antizionism is still not antisemitism. But I got a reminder that many white goyisch leftists fundamentally just don't trust Jews, and that the activist spaces they're in not only exacerbate their antisemitism in an increasingly insular echo chamber, but also allow them to finally vent their internalized bigotry in a socially-acceptable way. In my former friends' eyes, what they did was activism—disavowing a Jew (and making me feel humiliated, scared, and unclean in the process) as a cathartic stand-in for doing fucking anything for actual Palestinian liberation—but for me it was a grief that I'll be feeling for a long time: not only over losing friends I loved and trusted, but also over my sense of belonging and security in leftist spaces.

[tittyinfinity]

it's rude as fuck to hop on a stranger's post to "correct them" about their own personal life experiences, but many people on this website seem to see this as totally normal behavior

[drchucktingle]

more on the hugos (not just 2023)

i am sorry buds but it has to be said: lots of talk about the 2023 hugo awards being fraudulent because of actions of leader dave mccarty. this is true. but if we are going to be REALLY honest there is a difficult truth to accept, ANY past hugos dave ran are likely fraudulent

i do not want to have to say this as it casts a lot of doubt and i honestly do not think there is any action that needs to be taken, we should keep trotting along and give credit to winners, but it should at least be addressed. THIS DOES NOT JUST HAPPEN ONCE, IT GETS NOTICED ONCE

just went back into old emails and dave was IN FACT in charge of both the years i was nominated. will i ever know if there is any legitimacy to those results? was it politically best for me to be nominated but MAKE SURE i dont win? who the heck knows.

of course i am not saying my trot is MORE DESERVING or BETTER than the winners these year (and like i said we should respect these results), but acting as though actions of dave and the committee only effect 2023 seems a little short sighted i am sorry to say. it is much much worse

heres the thing that really bothers me when scoundrels treat outsiders and marginalized buds like this (same feeling i got from texas library banning) CHUCK is suddenly the one who has to wrestle with 'should i speak on this? will i ever be nominated again for ANY award now?' THAT is insidious part

[diamondcitydarlin]

Just fair warning- I said on my personal post about this that I wasn't going to talk about Neil Gaiman anymore, but as it's becoming clear that him and his publishers and anyone else who makes money off of him is circling the wagons and trying to bury these allegations, as well as some fans still defending and trying to 'rationalize' this information, I feel like, actually, we need to keep talking about him (as much as I cannot stand him and feel physically disgusted now when I so much as see his face somewhere). Specifically, the fact that he's a liar, master manipulator and should not, under any circumstances, be given access to his fans like he has in the past. At the very least. (And if you need to blacklist his name or even unfollow me so as to not be triggered, I completely understand, but I will always try to tag these posts accordingly and I think it's crucial right now that the truth be put where people can see)

This post specifically is in response to those 'rationalizations' I've seen, some that have gone as far as to blame the young fans/groupies that hooked up with him for being 'golddiggers' or just making a mountain out of a molehill for something they now regret. It's not that simple, yall. (And, again, this requires some amount of completely ignoring the story about him extorting his tenant for sex under threat of eviction of her and her three young children, I'm not sure how you 'rationalize' that under the best of circumstances)

So let's be clear here. What we know is that NG has routinely, for possibly an upwards of 30 years, pulled sexual 'partners' from his fan groups, most of whom are 18-22 year old young women (though possibly younger, accounts are coming forward of 16 year olds having allegedly been inappropriately touched/flirted/propositioned by him, which ig is the age of consent in the UK but still?? 16 year olds!!). This wasn't one or two times in the course of three decades, this was a constant pattern of behavior for him and for a very insidious reason.

This isn't to try to infantilize those fans or young women/young people in general or try to suggest that they couldn't have consented to sex with an older person or famous person. In fact, the onus isn't on them at all. This is about an older guy with a lot of fame, power and wealth choosing to sleep with people that he had already conditioned to idolize him and using that power imbalance to coerce them into doing things they didn't want to.

Regardless of one's age or gender identity, it can be difficult to impossible to say 'no' to someone like that. After all, you've been 'chosen' by the chosen one, you're special and not like everyone else, and if you don't do what the popular person everyone trusts is telling you to do you could end up ostracized. Alienated. Or worse. And you know what? Gaiman knew that! He knew it when he was crafting his 'approachable dad' persona on tumblr. He knew it when he was cultivating a fandom of personality. He knew it when he was having huge meetups to try to ensnare more victims. I hate to even think it, but I'm starting to believe he knew it when he was writing children's books too.

It's been talked about again and again in separate issues, but needless to say something not being strictly illegal does not make it inherently, morally okay. It does not erase the fact that this man has been essentially grooming his fandom to feel safe meeting/speaking with him so he can coerce those he can snare into sexual acts they're not comfortable with. That is predator behavior, whether strictly 'illegal' in the eyes of a court or not (but ofc I think he should be criminally punished even if I'm not naive enough to think he actually will be, because this IS rape and rape should be criminally punished)

I'm not personally advocating for anyone to give up being in his related fandoms, but what I am personally advocating for is that people don't forget who he is and what he's capable of, especially when he tries to crawl back to where he was (I'm almost certain he will eventually, as I've said).

Again, at the very least, we need to use what little influence we do have to keep him from infiltrating fan spaces again. He should not be on tumblr yukking it up with young people, he should not be at public appearances hitting on teenagers, he should not be given the unrestricted access to fans that he's 'enjoyed' for the past 30+ years because he is not a safe person. While I wish there was more in the way of restorative justice that could be done, I think at very, very least we should do what we can to limit his proximity to people he could hurt in the future. Make sure no one forgets, because sweeping this under the rug means Gaiman gets to hurt more people.

Lastly, no one is the wrong for having been manipulated by him. Let's make that very clear. What we're NOT gonna do is blame ourselves, each other, the victims, etc, for evil acts that Gaiman chose to do himself, time and time and time again. It doesn't help the situation and it certainly doesn't protect future potential victims. We were all duped because we're human and we attach and a lot of us want to believe there are good people out there, particularly those who make art that means so much to us.

And there are. But let's also use this a teaching/learning tool about how much faith we place in famous people in the future, regardless of how 'approachable' and 'safe' they might seem. Let's remember to have a healthy suspicion of creators/famous people that are oddly immersed in fandom spaces- yes, even the ones you still currently like that seem fine, as difficult as that may seem.

At the end of the day, we don't know them or what they're capable of doing or what they might be plotting to do to us. Support victims. Amplify their voices. Don't forget.

[supernova2205]

The Silence Of The Mole

Poly 141 x Medic Reader

Summary: A field medic and lover to the 141 is caught in a web of suspicion and betrayal after a mission goes wrong. Accused of being a mole, the reader faces harsh interrogations from the squad, leading to deep emotional scars. As the truth comes out, trust is shattered, and the reader must decide whether they can ever forgive the team, especially those they were closest to.

Warning: ⚠️ Ghost being extra mean ⚠️

The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.

You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.

When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.

“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”

It wasn’t long before the rumors started.

It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.

“She always knows where everyone is.”

“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”

“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”

At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.

You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.

The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.

The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Take a seat,” Price said.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.

“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”

Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”

“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.

“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”

“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”

Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”

No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.

The interrogation started that night.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.

“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.

“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.

You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”

“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.

Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”

“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.

Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.

The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.

“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.

“I didn’t,” you said firmly.

“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”

Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”

Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.

The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.

But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.

Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.

It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.

One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Lies,” he said simply.

Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.

“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”

“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.

It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.

Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.

A week later, the truth finally came out.

You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.

You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.

Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.

“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.

Your heart stopped.

“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”

You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”

“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.

You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”

No one answered.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”

“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”

They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.

You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.

The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.

Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.

“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.

“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.

“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”

You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.

Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.

Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.

You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.

But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.

One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”

Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”

Ghost came to you a few days later.

You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”

There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.

“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally—you broke me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”

Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.

Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this week’s fic! It was definitely a rollercoaster for me to write my heart was all over the place! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, so please let me know what you liked and if there’s anything else you’d like me to explore. Looking forward to your feedback and what you’d like to see next 🫶🏼

[fangdokja]

Some truths are better left buried.

❤︎ Synopsis. A charming façade hides a mind unraveling, as jealousy sinks its claws into a man obsessed with the untouchable "Ice Queen," her mysterious past igniting a sinister need to claim what was never his to own.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Ex-Boyfriend x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Friction & Fire - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 8,000

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, general non-con + manipulation, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances

♡ A/N. Not me only realizing recently that this was a FINISHED work that I never posted. My drafts in Tumblr are a mess I tell you. It's like the various requests, fandoms, and works in general are mixing wahaha. YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE???? It's like I'm universe hopping in the multiverse, going to different fandoms and worlds to bring the content you all want. And, just like someone with multiple jobs and side hustles; if it's not recorded or arranged right, it gets lost to the void I tell you. wahhhhh

The office was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of your keyboard and the faint hum of the air conditioning. The morning sun bled through the blinds in fractured slivers, painting your desk in a dull, sterile glow. You sat across from him, your shoulders squared, your focus unyielding as you combed through line after line of data.

And yet, despite the quiet, he could feel the tension lingering between you like a living thing.

It was still on his mind.

He wasn’t the type to fixate—hell, he prided himself on letting things roll off his back—but this? The thought of your first kiss, of the strange, detached way you spoke about it last night, had lodged itself in his brain like a splinter.

He leaned back in his chair, one leg lazily draped over the other as he watched you with sharp, predatory focus. On the surface, he looked relaxed, his usual cocky nonchalance on full display. But beneath it, his mind was a storm.

“You know,” he began, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife, “last night got me thinking.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Your fingers danced across the keys, swift and precise, as though you hadn’t heard him at all.

He smiled, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on the table. “For someone who’s so good at everything, you sure don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

Still, you gave him nothing. Not a word. Not a glance.

He didn’t let it deter him. If anything, your silence only spurred him on.

“So, first kiss,” he said, his tone as light as a feather, casual enough to sound innocent. “When was it? And don’t give me that ‘transaction’ excuse. I want details.”

Your fingers paused for half a second—so brief it was barely noticeable—but it was enough to make his grin widen.

“I’m working,” you said flatly, your voice like steel.

“And I’m curious,” he shot back smoothly, his grin taking on a sharper edge. “Come on, indulge me a little. Was it some rich heir your parents set you up with? Or…” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Was it someone you actually liked?”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on your screen. “Drop it.”

“Oh, I would,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more insidious tone. “But it’s kind of hard to stop wondering when you’re so damn mysterious about everything. I mean, it’s not like I’m asking for state secrets here. Just a name. Or a story. Something.”

Your fingers hit the keys a little harder now, your movements growing sharper, but you still refused to look at him.

He leaned back again, tapping his pen idly against the table, his expression deceptively calm. “Okay, fine. Let’s broaden the topic. Ever had any other boyfriends? Or am I the only one lucky enough to deal with your charming personality?”

The sarcasm in his tone was sharp, but it wasn’t enough to mask the strange, simmering edge beneath it.

“Work,” you said simply, not bothering to look at him.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” He leaned forward again, his voice growing louder, though his grin remained firmly in place. “You’re like a damn iron wall. It’s impressive, really. But also kind of annoying.”

You finally paused, your hands hovering above the keyboard as you turned to meet his gaze. Your expression was calm, cold, and utterly unreadable. “If I don’t answer,” you said, your voice low and measured, “will you stop asking?”

“Not a chance,” he said, his grin widening into something wolfish.

You sighed, turning back to your screen. “Then keep asking. It won’t change anything.”

He let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something else there now, something darker and more insistent, coiling tightly in his chest.

He didn’t know why this mattered so much. Why the thought of someone else—someone before him—made his jaw clench and his stomach churn. But the idea wouldn’t let him go.

“Fair enough,” he said finally, his voice dropping into a softer, almost dangerous tone. “But don’t think I’m letting this go. Sooner or later, princess, I’ll get you to crack.”

Your silence was answer enough. But the faint flicker of annoyance in your eyes as you typed? That was all the encouragement he needed.

———

The late afternoon sun filtered through the office windows, casting long, golden streaks across the sterile desks. Papers and coffee cups littered the space, evidence of a day stretched too long. You sat at your desk, immersed in another report, your brow furrowed in concentration. The tension that had gripped you for days had finally loosened, and though your posture remained rigid, there was an air of calm about you now.

It was a calm he intended to disrupt.

He stretched lazily from his chair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips as he sauntered over to your side. His steps were slow, deliberate, the kind of gait that was both casual and predatory. Leaning down just slightly, he peered over your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

"Still working, huh? You're really setting a new standard for the term 'workaholic.' Should I be worried you're cheating on me with a spreadsheet?" His voice was light, teasing, but there was a flicker of something sharper beneath it.

You didn’t even glance his way. "Your jokes are terrible."

"Terrible? Wow, you wound me," he said, clutching at his chest as if your words had pierced his heart. But his grin didn’t waver. Instead, he slid closer, resting a hand casually on the back of your chair. "Seriously, though. You’re in a much better mood now. My charm’s working, isn’t it?"

"Or maybe I’m just ignoring you," you replied dryly, typing without pause.

He chuckled, his laughter rich and low. "Ignoring me? Oh, sweetheart, if you were ignoring me, you wouldn’t have responded at all."

You sighed, still refusing to meet his gaze. He watched you intently, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the subtle movements of your lips as you murmured something under your breath. For a moment, he was silent, caught in the strange, unfamiliar pull of wanting to touch you—not for show, not as part of this ridiculous transactional arrangement, but because he wanted to feel the solidity of you beneath his hands.

So, he acted.

Before you could react, his arms were around you, pulling you into a firm, almost possessive embrace. He buried his face against your hair, his lips brushing against your temple in a gesture that was disarmingly tender.

You stiffened but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

"Not in public," you said flatly, your tone devoid of emotion.

He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "We’re in an office. No one’s here but us. Doesn’t count."

You sighed, finally turning your head just enough to give him a withering look. "Still. Stop."

"Stop what?" he teased, his grin widening. He tilted his head, pressing his lips to your cheek in a playful kiss, lingering just enough to make your expression harden. "I’m just fulfilling my boyfriend duties. What, you don’t want me to be affectionate?"

"This isn’t affection. It’s a distraction," you retorted, your voice sharp but your body strangely still in his hold.

"Oh, so you do know what affection is. I was beginning to think you were allergic to it," he quipped, his arms tightening slightly as if daring you to push him away.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

His gaze drifted down to your lips again, unbidden memories of last night creeping into his mind. The way you’d slapped him, the way you’d rubbed at your mouth as if scrubbing him off—it had stung. More than he wanted to admit. And then you’d dropped that bomb about it not being your first kiss. That knowledge sat heavy in his chest now, simmering with something dark and ugly.

Jealousy.

He hated the word, hated the feeling even more. But there it was, coiled tight around his thoughts, tainting everything.

"Hey," he said suddenly, his voice softer, almost coaxing. "You never did tell me about your first kiss."

"Drop it," you said firmly, shifting in his hold.

"Come on," he pressed, his tone still light but his grip on you unyielding. "It’s not like I’m going to judge. I’m just… curious."

"I said drop it." This time, your voice had an edge to it, and you finally moved to shrug him off.

But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression carefully masked with that infuriating grin. "Alright, alright. I’ll drop it. For now."

You narrowed your eyes at him but said nothing, turning back to your work.

Still, his hands lingered, his fingers brushing over your arm in a way that felt deliberate. He smiled to himself, his mind churning with thoughts he didn’t want to dissect too closely.

Transactional or not, he was still your boyfriend. Your first boyfriend. The only one you had now.

And that? That was enough. For now.

────────────

The garage hummed with a low din: the scrape of pool cues against felt, the occasional clink of beer bottles, and the raucous laughter of his friends echoing off the cement walls. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and cheap cologne, a heady cocktail that somehow felt like home. He leaned against the pool table, a cue stick balanced lazily in one hand as his gaze drifted—unfocused, distant, and entirely unlike him.

“You good, man?” One of the guys leaned in, squinting at him. “You’ve been off all night. Usually, you’re the one running your mouth the loudest. What gives?”

He blinked, snapping out of his trance, and a lazy grin slid across his face. “What? I’m just letting you losers have your moment. Can’t have me wiping the floor with you every game.”

The group laughed, though the scrutiny didn’t ease. Someone else chimed in, gesturing toward him with a beer bottle. “Nah, nah, there’s something going on. You’ve been staring off into space like you’re in some indie movie montage. What’s eating you?”

He rolled his eyes, straightening up and spinning the cue stick in his hand. “Nothing’s eating me. You guys are just too boring to hold my attention.”

The teasing jabs came quick after that, each more ridiculous than the last. “Oh, I know what it is,” one of the guys said, smirking. “It’s that ice queen of his. What’s her name again? Miss ‘I’m too good for this world’?”

A chorus of laughter erupted, and he smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mean my girlfriend?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you wish you could land someone like her. Don’t be jealous just ’cause I’ve got taste.”

“Girlfriend, huh?” Another guy leaned in, grinning. “Man, you’ve never been serious about anyone in your life. What’s the deal? She finally melt that big ‘I don’t care about anything’ heart of yours?”

He snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. “As if. It’s a transactional thing, remember? Don’t go reading any Nicholas Sparks nonsense into it.” He paused, spinning the cue stick once more before adding, almost offhandedly, “Though she did mention something interesting.”

That got their attention. “Oh?” one of them said, his tone dripping with curiosity. “What’s that?”

“She’s got a past,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Romantic history or whatever.”

There was a beat of stunned silence before the room erupted into laughter again.

“Her? No way!” one of them wheezed, slapping his knee. “You’re telling me the Ice Queen actually let someone get close to her? Hell, I thought she’d freeze anyone who tried.”

“Right? She barely tolerates him,” another joked, pointing at him with a pool cue. “And he’s the boyfriend! Can you imagine anyone else even standing a chance?”

He shrugged, the grin on his face sharp and self-assured, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “Hey, I’m just as shocked as you guys. But yeah, apparently she’s kissed someone before. Wild, right?”

“Pfft, no way,” someone scoffed. “She’s probably messing with you. Bet she said it just to get under your skin.”

“Yeah, no offense, but she doesn’t exactly scream ‘romantic whirlwind.’ What, did she date a robot?”

The laughter rolled on, but he didn’t join in. Instead, he leaned back against the pool table, his grip tightening on the cue stick. He kept his expression light, easygoing, but inside, something coiled tighter and tighter, a venomous knot of jealousy and something he couldn’t quite name.

“Maybe she did,” he said finally, his voice smooth but edged with something razor-thin. “Or maybe she just has good taste and doesn’t fall for losers like you.”

The guys hooted and hollered, taking his words as another well-timed joke, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, his mind lingered on the thought of her—her cool, distant demeanor, the way she brushed him off like he was nothing. And yet… someone else had touched her first.

The idea churned in his gut, hot and nauseating.

Transactional or not, she was his now. Wasn’t she?

———

The laughter around him ebbed and flowed, but it barely registered. He leaned against the edge of the pool table, staring blankly at the neon beer sign on the wall. The buzz of their voices blurred into a distant hum, and his mind gnawed at the frayed edges of the conversation like a dog with a bone.

“Yo, you’re spacing out again,” one of the guys said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “What’s the deal, man? You look like someone ran over your dog.”

He smirked, forcing himself back into the moment. “Please, like I’d ever let that happen. You guys know me—cool as a cucumber.”

“Cucumber, my ass,” someone quipped. “You’ve been weird ever since you brought up her romantic history. What’s the matter, hotshot? Jealous someone else got to her first?”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jealous? Him? Of course not. He was the picture of casual detachment, the poster boy for not giving a damn. It wasn’t like they were in love. The relationship was an agreement, a mutually beneficial arrangement. It wasn’t supposed to be messy. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did.

“Jealous? Me?” He barked out a laugh, the sound a little too sharp. “C’mon, you think I care about some guy who’s probably ancient history? If anything, I’m curious. What kind of guy would even catch her eye? She’s not exactly handing out free passes.”

“Curious, huh?” One of the guys grinned, leaning against his pool cue. “Sure, let’s call it that. I mean, it’s not like you’ve ever been the possessive type.”

The comment was met with a wave of snickers, and he rolled his eyes, his grin widening. “Exactly. I’m chill. Relaxed. Totally unbothered.” He emphasized the last word, slapping the pool table for effect, but the laughter around him only grew louder.

“Yeah, sure you are,” another guy chimed in, taking a swig from his beer. “That’s why you’ve been stewing over this for, what, ten minutes now?”

He forced another laugh, but inside, the knot in his chest tightened. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t like him. He’d had plenty of relationships—flings, hookups, even a couple that could loosely be called serious—and he’d never felt like this. Never felt this gnawing, restless ache that made him want to punch a wall and pull her closer at the same time.

It wasn’t even logical. So what if she’d had someone before him? It wasn’t like he owned her. She was her own person, icy and untouchable as she was. And yet…

And yet.

The image of her brushing off his kiss the night before crept into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. The way she’d wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the way her voice had been sharp, cutting, when she’d told him it wasn’t her first kiss.

The thought burned.

He clenched his jaw, spinning his pool cue in his hands like a restless fidget. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He wasn’t the jealous type. He wasn’t the possessive type. He was laid-back, easygoing, always ready with a joke or a grin. That was who he was. That was what made him so good at this kind of thing.

So why did the thought of her with someone else make him feel like he was coming apart at the seams?

“Alright, spill it,” one of the guys said, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. “Who was it, huh? Some prince charming? Some straight-laced business major who knows how to schmooze parents?”

He scoffed, the sound automatic. “Please. Like I’d even know. She didn’t exactly give me a play-by-play.”

“Bet it was some boring, pencil-pushing nerd,” another guy chimed in. “She seems like the type to go for someone... predictable.”

Predictable. The word grated against his nerves. Predictable wasn’t him. It wasn’t them. Their relationship, transactional as it was, wasn’t supposed to fit into neat little boxes. It was supposed to be different.

He was supposed to be different.

But here he was, sitting in a dingy garage with his friends, trying to rationalize the irrational. Trying to figure out why he cared so much about a past that wasn’t supposed to matter.

“You guys are way off,” he said finally, his tone light but his grip on the cue stick betraying him. “If she did have someone before me, they weren’t memorable. She’s with me now, isn’t she? That’s all that counts.”

“Spoken like a true charmer,” one of them teased, and he smirked, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

Yeah, she was with him now. That was all that mattered.

So why didn’t it feel like enough?

———

The ribbing didn’t stop. If anything, it picked up speed like a train without brakes, and he was tied to the tracks.

“You’re really off your game tonight, man,” one of them said, chalking the tip of his cue stick. “You keep spacing out, missing shots, and letting us win? That’s not you. You’re usually the one handing us our asses.”

Another chimed in, leaning against the edge of the table with a sly grin. “Seriously, you’ve got this whole garage thinking. Is the great charmer finally losing his touch? That what’s bugging you?”

He twirled his cue with exaggerated nonchalance, plastering a smirk across his face even as his grip tightened enough to whiten his knuckles. “Please. Like I’d ever lose my touch. I could charm the rust off a bolt if I wanted to. I’m just... keeping things interesting. Letting you guys feel like you’ve got a shot for once.”

The laughter was immediate, loud, and thoroughly unconvinced. One of them even doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“Yeah, right. You’ve been distracted all night. And don’t think we didn’t catch the little bombshell you dropped earlier. The Ice Queen has a romantic history?”

“Shocking, right?” another piped up, voice dripping with mock astonishment. “I mean, no offense, but she doesn’t seem like the type to go for you. Or anyone, really.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t interrupt, knowing that trying to stop them would only make it worse. He’d been here before—well, not exactly here, but close enough to know the best way out was to wait until they got bored.

Too bad that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

“I mean, think about it,” one of them continued, his tone growing more amused by the second. “She’s this cold, untouchable, straight-laced type. Always looks like she’s got a stick up her—”

“Careful,” he interrupted, his tone light but the edge unmistakable. The shift in the air was subtle but palpable, like the faint scent of ozone before a storm.

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. My bad. I was just saying—she’s not exactly your usual type. And you’re definitely not hers.”

“Yeah,” another added with a smirk. “She probably goes for, like, bookworm types. You know, the quiet, nerdy guys who read poetry and bring her tea while she’s working. The ones who wouldn’t dare try anything until they’ve written a formal letter asking for permission.”

That earned a round of chuckles, and his smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Not that anyone else noticed—they were too busy piling on.

“Yeah, man, face it. You’re too loud, too flashy. She probably thinks you’re just a walking ego trip. All charm, no substance.”

“Exactly,” someone else added. “It’s probably why your charm doesn’t work on her. She’s immune. Bet she’s only with you because it’s convenient or something.”

The words hit harder than they should have, slipping under his skin and sticking there like splinters. He forced out a laugh, sharp and just a little too loud. “Convenient? Yeah, right. She’s lucky to have me. I’m the full package: brains, brawn, and a personality that makes life interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” another guy said, raising an eyebrow. “Or annoying? Pretty sure those are interchangeable in your case.”

“Hey, she hasn’t dumped me yet,” he shot back, deflecting with practiced ease. “That’s gotta count for something.”

But even as he spoke, the words rang hollow. His usual bravado felt like a thin shell, barely holding together under the weight of something he didn’t want to name. Something ugly, and burning, and clawing at the edges of his chest.

Jealousy.

He hated admitting it, even to himself. But the idea of her with some quiet, bookish type—the kind of guy who might actually understand her silences and match her calm, reclusive nature—was like sandpaper against his nerves.

And worse, the idea that she might prefer someone like that...

He clenched his jaw, his smirk freezing into something sharper.

“You know,” one of them said, breaking into his thoughts, “it’s kinda funny. For all your talk, you’re acting a lot like a guy who’s got something to prove. Like you actually care what she thinks.”

“I don’t,” he lied smoothly, his voice as light as air. “Why would I? It’s not like this is anything serious.”

The words tasted bitter, but he swallowed them down, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Whatever you say, man,” someone said, shaking their head. “But you might want to figure it out before she realizes you’re not as cool as you think you are.”

The garage erupted into laughter again, and he joined in, the sound loud and hollow.

But later, when he was alone, the laughter would fade, leaving only the burning question that wouldn’t let him rest:

Why did it matter so damn much?

────────────

The stars above the city burned cold, distant, and sharp as needles. The private balcony was far enough from the glittering chaos of the gala to offer a semblance of quiet, though the muffled hum of music and laughter still seeped through the glass doors. The cold air bit at your skin, but it was a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the crowd.

He leaned against the balustrade, a champagne flute dangling from his fingers, the liquid untouched and shimmering like pale gold in the faint light. His tailored suit clung to his frame, the picture of nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him—glinting with something predatory, something calculating.

“So,” he began, his voice smooth and edged with a teasing lilt. “I was thinking.”

You didn’t bother to turn from the view of the sprawling city below. “That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, soft and low, but there was a weight to it that made your spine stiffen. He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk sizing up its prey. “Funny. No, really, I’ve been thinking about us.”

“Us,” you echoed flatly. “The contract is clear. There’s nothing to think about.”

“Sure,” he said, pushing off the railing and stepping closer. His presence was like a shadow swallowing light, oppressive and impossible to ignore. “But I’ve been reviewing it, and I think we’ve overlooked some... fine print.”

“Fine print,” you repeated, finally turning to face him, your expression impassive. “There is no fine print. You drafted it yourself, remember?”

“Exactly,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which means I have the right to amend it if I see fit. And I’ve noticed a few areas that could use... adjustment.”

You crossed your arms, your gaze narrowing. “Such as?”

He stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne mingled with the crisp night air. His tone was light, almost playful, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something that coiled around his words like smoke.

“For one,” he began, “I think we need to establish clearer boundaries about third-party interactions. You know, to avoid misunderstandings.”

Your brow twitched. “There haven’t been any misunderstandings.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, his voice soft and coaxing, like a blade hidden in velvet. “But let’s be proactive. For instance, we should clarify what kind of behavior is acceptable when interacting with... other men.”

You stared at him, your expression as unyielding as stone. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Is it?” he countered, his grin sharpening. “You don’t think it’s wise to define expectations? After all, appearances are everything. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about us.”

“People already know what this is,” you said coolly. “A performance. There’s no need to complicate it.”

“But isn’t the whole point of a performance to make it convincing?” he asked, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “And for that, we need consistency. Unity. Which is why I propose we add a clause about exclusive proximity.”

“Exclusive proximity,” you echoed, your voice flat. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” he asked, tilting his head. “Think about it. If we’re seen with too many... distractions, it undermines the whole charade. It’s just common sense.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already pressing on, his words smooth and relentless.

———

The air seemed to thin as his words settled between you, the kind of silence that carried a weight far heavier than sound. He leaned closer, bracing himself against the railing with the kind of ease that betrayed the sharpness lurking beneath his carefully curated mask of charm. The city glittered below, but its brilliance felt muted compared to the fire smoldering in his gaze.

“Let me break it down,” he said, his voice silken, the edges just sharp enough to catch. “Exclusivity isn’t just about proximity. It’s about cohesion. A story without holes. Every moment you’re with someone else—a colleague, a stranger, hell, even a waiter—it opens a crack in the facade.”

Your eyes flicked to him, narrowing. “You’re reaching.”

He smiled—a wolfish, predatory thing. “Am I? Think about it. Someone catches sight of you laughing with some random nobody, and suddenly, the gossip mill is running wild. The illusion cracks. We lose credibility. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s losing.”

The venomous certainty in his tone made your stomach twist, though your face remained unreadable. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

He straightened, his shadow looming over you as if it carried a weight beyond the physical. “Ground rules. For both of us. Simple ones. For example…” He tapped a finger against the champagne flute, the ring of the glass echoing faintly. “No private conversations with anyone of interest. No one-on-one meetings without prior notice. And no touching—intentional or otherwise—unless absolutely necessary.”

Your brow arched, your lips tightening. “No touching. That’s… excessive.”

“Is it?” he shot back smoothly, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “Think about it. Even the smallest gesture—a hand on the shoulder, a brush of fingers—can be misconstrued. Especially when it’s you.” His gaze flickered, a flash of something unspoken. “People notice you. They watch. And they talk.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back slightly against the balcony rail. “Fine. But if we’re establishing rules, they go both ways. You don’t exactly have a reputation for restraint.”

His grin widened, amusement flickering in the depths of his eyes. “Touché. Consider it mutual, then. No unnecessary interaction, no inappropriate proximity. Strictly business.”

“And why now?” you asked, your voice measured, almost detached. “Why bring this up tonight?”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—an almost imperceptible crack in the facade. But he recovered quickly, his grin sharpening. “Call it foresight. With the families involved, things get messier. More eyes, more pressure. We can’t afford to slip.”

You studied him, your silence stretching just long enough to make his fingers twitch against the railing. Finally, you inclined your head. “Fine. If that’s what it takes to keep this convincing, I’ll play along.”

He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but carried none of the humor. “Good. I knew you’d see reason.” He lifted his champagne glass in a mock toast, the liquid catching the starlight like liquid fire. “To flawless performances.”

You didn’t respond, turning back to the city below. The cold bit deeper now, but you didn’t shiver. Behind you, his gaze lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

The ground rules were set, the game clearly defined. But as the night pressed on, the sense of control he so carefully clung to felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

And it wasn’t the rules that haunted him—it was why he felt the need to create them in the first place.

———

He leaned casually against the railing, but his posture was deceptively loose, the sharp intelligence in his eyes betraying his calculated intent. The champagne glass in his hand caught the faint glow of the city below, though he hadn’t touched a drop.

“So,” he began, his tone laced with a playful edge, “while we’re ironing out the details, there’s another area I think we should revisit. Physical affection.”

Your eyes snapped to his, cold and narrowed. “What about it?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly as though considering his words carefully. “Let’s be honest. Right now, the way things are? We’re convincing, sure—but just barely. The hand-holding, the occasional arm around the waist? It’s surface-level. Anyone with half a brain can see through it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “It’s enough to maintain appearances without crossing unnecessary lines.”

His grin widened, but there was an almost imperceptible edge to it, a flicker of something darker in his expression. “Enough for who? The nosy old ladies at brunch? Sure. But for the vultures at this level? Not a chance. They smell weakness. And right now, what they see screams ‘contractual convenience,’ not passion. We need to up our game.”

You folded your arms across your chest, your stance unmoving. “Define ‘up our game.’”

“Well,” he said smoothly, setting the untouched glass on the railing, “kisses, for one. Not just the casual kind. Something real. Convincing. Hell, even a few heated moments in public wouldn’t hurt. And behind closed doors?” He gave a mock shrug, his grin turning teasing. “Who knows? Maybe even a little noise for the sake of appearances.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall from your skull. “You’re joking.”

“Am I?” he replied, his tone maddeningly reasonable. “Think about it. The way things are now, people will start talking. Rumors of a weak marriage. Arranged out of convenience, not love. And with you being... well, you—” his gaze flicked over you, deliberate and lingering— “it won’t take long for people to start circling. People like to test boundaries when they think they can get away with it.”

“People already talk,” you shot back. “That’s inevitable. But none of this changes the fact that this is fake. I’m not pretending that far.”

“Why not?” he countered, his grin sharpening. “You’ve already agreed to exclusivity. This is just the logical next step.”

“It’s unnecessary,” you said flatly. “The exclusivity rules make sense. This? This is overreach.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost coaxing tone. “Is it, though? Think about it. If we don’t convince them, it undermines everything we’ve built. You don’t want to spend the rest of this arrangement fending off speculation and propositions, do you?”

“Speculation is manageable,” you said, your voice cool and steady. “And propositions are irrelevant. I can handle myself.”

“Of course you can,” he said, his tone light but his gaze intense. “But why should you have to? Why not just nip it in the bud? Make it clear to everyone that you’re untouchable.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your patience fraying. “I already am untouchable.”

His grin didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—jealousy, sharp and bitter. “Sure. But people don’t see that. What they see is opportunity. The kind that comes from a woman who’s too beautiful, too brilliant, and too unattainable for her own good.”

The words were teasing, but the way he said them made your skin prickle. There was something possessive lurking beneath the surface, something he tried to bury beneath layers of logic and charm but couldn’t entirely hide.

“This isn’t about logic,” you said, your voice steady but edged with steel. “It’s about control. And I’m not giving you that.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin turning mischievous. “Touché. But hey, I’m just saying—when the rumors start flying and the vultures start circling, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You turned back to the city, dismissing him with a sharp glance. “Noted. But the answer is still no.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “Fair enough. For now.”

———

The cold of the night pressed against your skin, biting and relentless, but his body, wrapped tightly around yours, was an oppressive heat you couldn’t shake. The weight of his arms on your shoulders felt heavier than it should, his fingers grazing your arms with a possessive slowness. He leaned into you, his chest firm against your back, his breath warm and invasive against your ear.

“You know,” he murmured, his tone as smooth as the glassy city lights below, “this hesitation of yours—it’s fascinating. Almost charming, in its own way. But... I can’t help but wonder.” His voice dipped lower, a silken purr laced with something darker. “What’s got you so hesitant? People do this all the time, don’t they? Even when it doesn’t mean anything.”

You stiffened, your gaze locked on the sprawling cityscape, refusing to turn. Your neutrality was a fortress, built brick by brick to withstand his probing. But his persistence was a battering ram. Slowly, deliberately, he dipped his head closer, inhaling deeply near the curve of your neck, the action intimate enough to send a shiver rippling through your body.

“Unless,” he mused, his lips curving into a smirk you couldn’t see but could feel like a knife at your throat, “it’s because of them. You know, the one who got that first kiss of yours. Was it them?”

The question hung in the air, venomous and cutting. For a fraction of a second, the apathy on your face cracked—a millisecond’s slip in the armor you wore so flawlessly. Your hand twitched, and your lips parted as though to respond, but no words came. Instead, your expression hardened once more, a glacial mask snapping back into place. Silent. Untouchable.

But he had seen it.

That brief, fleeting moment of vulnerability had told him more than you ever could. And though his smile remained, it was stretched too tight, his teeth bared in something that wasn’t amusement. His fingers dug into your shoulders, just a little too hard, before softening as if to mask the momentary lapse in control.

“Ah,” he said, the word slipping out in a low exhale, almost inaudible. He pressed closer, the air between you suffocating. “So it was them. That explains so much.”

His tone was still light, teasing, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable, coiling tighter and tighter beneath his practiced facade. His lips ghosted near your temple, the proximity a calculated weapon, and his fingers trailed down your arms, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

“You know,” he continued, his voice honeyed but sickly sweet, “whoever they were... they must have left quite the impression to make you this way. But I’m curious—did it mean anything to you? Or was it just... a moment?”

Your silence was deafening, a dagger plunged into the space between you.

He chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. “Not that it matters, of course. You’re here now, with me. That’s all that really counts, isn’t it?”

But his grip tightened imperceptibly, his smile curving into something dangerous, something that betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface. He didn’t let go. If anything, his hold on you became stronger, his presence more invasive.

And though he kept his composure, the truth was a venomous whisper in his mind, sinking its fangs deep and twisting.

Not fucking happy at all.

────────────

He didn't bring it up again. Any of it, anymore.

But, the room still felt colder than it should have. The air conditioning hummed low, but the chill that seeped into your skin wasn’t mechanical. It was the kind of cold that came from within, from the way your fingers gripped the edge of the desk too tightly, from the rigidity in your spine as you pretended not to notice the man leaning against the corner with the practiced ease of someone who could read you too well.

He’d been watching you for too long now, his gaze like a scalpel, peeling away layers you’d tried so hard to keep intact. He shifted, breaking the stillness with a deliberate, exaggerated sigh.

“You know,” he began, his voice carrying that maddeningly playful lilt, “if looks could kill, that desk would be in pieces by now. What’d it ever do to you, baby?”

You didn’t answer. Of course, you didn’t.

He moved closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile air. The sound of his footsteps was soft but deliberate, a hunter’s tread. “Still giving me the silent treatment? Harsh. I’m starting to think you don’t appreciate my charming company.”

“Go away,” you said, your voice clipped, devoid of emotion. Your fingers tightened on the desk, a small tell he didn’t miss.

“Aw, come on,” he said, his grin audible in his voice. “Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to help. You know, as your incredibly dedicated, selfless boyfriend.” He leaned closer, his hand resting on the back of your chair. “And let’s face it, I’m the only person who’d put up with you when you’re like this.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t look at him. It was exactly the reaction he wanted.

“Seriously,” he continued, his tone shifting to something softer but no less teasing. “What’s going on? You’re more wound up than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“I’m fine,” you said, the words flat, a wall slamming down between you.

“Sure you are,” he said, circling around to lean on the desk beside you. He crossed his arms, his smirk unwavering. “You know, for someone so icy, you’re terrible at hiding when something’s bothering you.”

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, your tone sharper now.

“And I said I don’t believe you,” he shot back, his voice light but with an edge of persistence. “C’mon, Ice Queen. What’s eating at you? Work? Family? Or did someone finally dare to make eye contact for more than three seconds?”

You ignored him, your focus locked on the papers in front of you, but he wasn’t deterred. He crouched slightly, putting himself in your line of sight.

“Look, I get it,” he said, his tone almost mockingly serious. “You’re all about the whole ‘strong, independent, untouchable’ thing. Very admirable. But newsflash, sweetheart: nobody’s that stoic all the time. Except maybe statues. And even they crack eventually.”

You pushed back from the desk abruptly, rising to your feet, but he didn’t give you space. Instead, he moved closer, his hand brushing your arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re really not gonna tell me, huh?” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “Not even a hint? A clue? C’mon, I’m dying here.”

You stiffened, stepping away, but he followed, his persistence like a shadow clinging to your every move. His hand caught yours this time, his grip firm but not forceful.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head with a smirk that was all sharp edges, “this whole ‘bottling it up’ thing you do? It’s kinda cute. Annoying, but cute. But it’s also not healthy. So spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” you snapped, finally turning to face him. Your eyes were cold, your voice even colder, but he wasn’t fazed.

“Liar,” he said simply, his grin widening. “You’re terrible at it, by the way. And you know I’m not going anywhere until you give me something.”

You glared at him, your jaw tightening, but he just leaned closer, his fingers brushing against your arm. “Is it work? Someone bothering you? Or—” His tone shifted, sly and teasing now. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is it me? Did I finally get under your skin?”

“Always,” you muttered, pulling your hand free and turning away.

He laughed, the sound warm but with a sharpness that didn’t quite match. “Good. Means I’m doing my job right. But seriously, baby girl, if someone’s bothering you—besides me, obviously—you’d tell me, right?”

You didn’t answer, and for a moment, the teasing dropped from his voice entirely. He straightened, his gaze darkening as he watched you retreat to the far side of the room.

“You don’t tell anyone anything, do you?” he said softly, almost to himself. The words weren’t a question; they were a statement, heavy with an emotion he refused to name.

You paused, your back to him, but didn’t turn.

“Fine,” he said after a moment, his usual bravado snapping back into place like armor. He grinned, stepping toward you again. “Keep your secrets. But just so you know, sweetheart, I’m very good at getting what I want. And you? You’re not as unreadable as you think.”

The way he said it—soft, teasing, but with an undercurrent of something darker—sent a shiver down your spine. But you didn’t respond, and he didn’t push further. Not yet.

────────────

The glow of his laptop bathed the dim room in cold, blue light. The muffled sounds of the city filtered through the cracked window—a distant hum of engines, the occasional wail of a siren. But none of it reached him. His focus was absolute, his fingers ghosting over the keyboard with a precision that bordered on surgical.

Lines of text blurred and refreshed, tabs multiplied, searches refined. It was nothing. It was nothing. Just... research. A precaution, really. Something any diligent professional would do in his field.

"Due diligence." The phrase rolled through his mind like a soothing mantra as he adjusted his search parameters. Business students did this all the time, didn’t they? Gathering information on potential clients, tracking leads. It wasn’t unethical—it was smart. Practical. Just like he was.

His brow furrowed as the screen refreshed again, yielding nothing new. No personal social media accounts. No tagged photos. Everything you had out there was airtight—pristine. Your LinkedIn was polished to perfection, clinical and devoid of any personal flair. Your work email was meticulously professional. No footprints, no cracks.

You were a fortress, an enigma wrapped in ice, and it was maddening.

"Not even a stupid Instagram," he muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand through his hair. His other hand hovered over the touchpad, fingers twitching with a restless energy he couldn’t quite contain. He hated how good you were at this, at keeping the world at arm's length. It was infuriating.

And yet, it only made him more determined.

Because how else was he supposed to help you? Protect you? It wasn’t like you’d talk to him, let alone open up. You were a steel door slammed shut, your apathy the lock, and your sharp, biting tongue the key he could never quite reach.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t stalking,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud could make it true. “This is... protecting my investment.”

He winced at the word. It felt wrong somehow, but logical. The contract between you two was the foundation of your relationship, after all. If you didn’t want to share your problems with him, fine—but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. That wasn’t who he was.

“People research celebrities all the time,” he reasoned, his voice low and even, the rhythm of his own words calming. “Background checks, public records... It’s normal. It’s not like I’m invading her privacy. This is just... strategy.”

But even as he said it, a part of him bristled.

It wasn’t just strategy. And he knew it.

The truth was, it gnawed at him—the not knowing. The mystery of you was a drug he couldn’t quit, the unanswered questions keeping him awake at night. Who was the person who kissed you first? Why did your walls feel so much higher, so much thicker, lately? What the hell was going on in that brilliant, maddening head of yours?

He leaned forward again, fingers flying across the keyboard with renewed purpose. If he couldn’t ask you, he’d find out on his own. He told himself it wasn’t because he needed to know, wasn’t because the thought of anyone else touching you—or knowing you—made his stomach twist with something cold and acidic.

No, it wasn’t jealousy again. It was logic. Rationality.

But as the hours ticked by and the search grew colder, that logic began to crack.

His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen—one of the boys from the garage had sent a message, probably another joke about his “domestication.” He ignored it, returning his gaze to the screen.

Nothing. Again.

“Damn it,” he hissed, slamming the laptop shut with more force than necessary. He sat back, running both hands through his hair, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

You were impossible. And that impossibility—it thrilled him. Infuriated him. Tore at him like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

But he wouldn’t stop. Not until he had answers.

Because protecting you wasn’t just part of the job anymore.

It was everything.

────────────

♡ Masterlist. If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

♡ Tag List. “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring , @lilyalone , @theogborjie , @ne7zach , @songbirdgardensworld

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[rose24207]

Just a salesman pt.2

Summary: Your perfect world shatters when a furious stranger bursts into your home, accusing your loving, devoted husband of being a monster responsible for countless deaths.

Genre: angst, dark

TW: mention of death, little gaslighting, reader is a little twisted about the situation, the games in general

A/N: Wow I didn’t expect for pt. 1 to blow up like that and for so many requests about a second part. But here we go! I take requests about squid game btw. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Pt.1

Masterlist

The room fell into an unbearable silence as you stood there, trembling, your tears streaking your face. Gi-hun’s words echoed in your ears like a bell you couldn’t unring. Your husband, your safe harbor, was a killer. A manipulative, calculating man who had built a world of lies around you.

And yet...

As much as your heart screamed in betrayal, it also whispered something darker. A small, insidious part of you—a part you didn’t even recognize—wanted to protect him. Wanted to believe that somehow, some way, this could still make sense.

“Leave,” your husband said, his voice low and commanding. It wasn’t directed at you, but at Gi-hun.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gi-hun spat. “She deserves to know the full truth.”

“I said, leave.” Your husband’s tone grew colder, sharper. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed at his side as though itching to act.

Gi-hun took a step forward, his jaw set. “You think you can scare me? After everything I’ve been through because of you? I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m not—”

“Stop,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Both men turned to look at you, surprised. You wiped your face, straightened your back, and forced yourself to meet Gi-hun’s eyes. “Please. Just… go.”

“What?” he said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I need to talk to him,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “Alone.”

“You can’t trust him,” Gi-hun argued, gesturing toward your husband. “He’s a monster. He’ll manipulate you, just like he’s done to everyone else.”

You shook your head. “I don’t care what you think. This is my marriage. My life. And right now, you’re not helping.”

Your words were harsh, but your heart felt like it was being ripped apart. Gi-hun looked at you, his face contorted with disbelief, before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shot your husband one last glare before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence settled over the room once more. Your husband stood there, watching you cautiously, as though waiting for you to lash out or collapse. But you did neither. Instead, you walked to the table, picking up the strange card Gi-hun had left. You turned it over in your hands, the cryptic design doing little to ease your growing unease.

“Is it true?” you asked finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “What he said about the games? About you?”

Your husband hesitated, his jaw tightening. Then, to your surprise, he nodded. “Yes.”

The word hit you like a physical blow, but you didn’t falter. You set the card down and looked at him, your tears drying as a strange calm settled over you. “Why?”

“For you,” he said simply, stepping closer. “For us.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice cold. “Why would you do something so… horrific? Why would you—”

“Because it’s the only world I know,” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “And it’s the only way I could give you the life you deserve. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something darker. “You think I wanted this? That I’d ever want you to hurt people—kill people—for me?”

He stepped closer still, his eyes locking onto yours. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “The world isn’t kind to people like us. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t take control, who don’t make the hard choices. I made those choices so you wouldn’t have to.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. Every instinct told you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand there and listen to him. And yet… you didn’t move.

“Do you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice raw.

His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with. “More than anything,” he said. “You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Something inside you twisted at his words, at the sincerity in his voice. He was a monster, yes—but he was your monster. The thought made your stomach churn, but it also filled you with a strange, horrifying sense of power. He had done terrible things, but he had done them for you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can ever look at you the same way.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said quietly. “But I need you to understand that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To keep you with me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you took a shaky breath. “You’re going to tell me everything,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “No more lies. No more secrets. If you want me to stay, I need to know exactly who you are.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by something darker. He nodded. “I’ll tell you everything.”

As he began to speak, unraveling the web of lies and horrors he’d kept hidden, you felt yourself sinking deeper into a world you didn’t understand—a world you weren’t sure you wanted to understand. But one thing was certain: you weren’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @blueyesuguru, @annimoony, @jasmineee05, @astrophe0, @riri53, @putrescentpoet

[icaruspendragon]

was telling my therapist about how i've always used books, fanfic, and storytelling as escapism but now instead of me consuming stories, stories consume me. dalton gave me The Look (the one that means he's gonna say something i need to hear but don't want to) before asking, "you know that snake that eats itself?" to which i said, "yeah, ouroboros." and he replied, "i didn't know he had a name, that's cool. anyway, you're the snake. i know you've convinced yourself the consumption is filling, but it's not. when it's you you’re eating, it's destruction."

like yeah i know that’s not what the snake represents and ex-cowboy-turned-combat-vet-turned-trauma specialist dalton probably does not know the exact symbolism behind it but like. jesus christ man did that to lay me to waste at 10:30 on a wednesday morning.

and even though he hurt my feelings with the truth, it did put it into perspective for me.

it’s not levity’s lighthouse guiding me to port when depression’s darkness and anxiety’s turbulent waves make it difficult for me to sail smoothly on my voyage.

it’s not a way to alleviate my symptoms, it’s a manifestation of them.

it’s a compulsion, deceptively insidious when cloaked in distraction’s pseudo-warmth. when easily covered by procrastination’s much easier to swallow explanation.

and i’m sure you want to say “but reading is a healthy coping mechanism!”

and it is. when done in moderation.

it’s no longer coping when your screen time is 16 hours a day. when 12 of those hours a day are spent scuttling about ao3 on all fours. when you sit in the same spot on the couch for hours on end with your head buried in the sand. when it’s literally all you can think about.

the consumption isn’t coping. isn’t creation. isn’t reconstruction or rebirth or reformation. it’s chaos. it’s compulsion.

it’s cannibalism.

[undiscovered-horizon]

[Old love never rusts. Shanks has to face that truth when he meets again the husband of the girl he almost had.]

Shanks's version | Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

Shanks knows he has no right to ask this question. Not when he's the one that up and left in the middle of the night, without even a word of warning that could soothe your aching heart. Nevertheless, he can't help but indulge his yearning:

"How is she?"

Mihawk raises his eyebrows barely noticeably. He seems surprised that after Shanks's disappearing act and a decade of dead silence, he's still interested in you, even if motivated by pure courtesy. But before Mihawk answers the question, he notices something strange in the red-haired captain's eyes, a sensation he's rarely seen in them before - sadness.

Interesting, how some things never quite change.

"Well," Mihawk answers laconically. Instead of indulging Shanks's lovesick longing, he wishes the man would finally accept his utter failure and move on. You're married to Dracule and this isn't going to change anytime soon. If ever.

"Wells tend to be cold and musty," Shanks jokes but his tone is far from lighthearted. In fact, his voice sounds strained like he's holding back tears. "I hope she fared better with you."

The Red-Hair pirates laugh at their captain's joke but quickly turn quiet again. Something about the tense confrontation makes their good humour virtually nonexistent. Especially when Mihawk gives them a curt, cold glare. He doesn't find his past rivalry with Shank to be funny in any way.

"She has everything she could ask for," he says with a sense of finality to his words. Mihawk feels himself growing irritated.

"Good, good..." Shanks nods, lost in thought for a moment. He clenches his hand, giving away the unpleasant tension inside his chest. The captain has promised himself to let go of you. Alas, here we are. "Is she happy?" he suddenly asks.

Mihawk furrows his thick eyebrows in an angry frown. It's almost insulting for Shanks to have any doubts regarding your well-being under the Warlord's care. "What sort of question is this?"

"A 'yes or no' sort."

"Then yes," he drones his words.

Shanks forces a wide, playful smile. There's agony hiding in his eyes and as though Mihawk is a blind man, he's trying to play it cool and appear unaffected. The truth is, the red-haired man is holding on by a thread.

"I bet she talks about me all the time," Shanks says in faux amusement. His voice almost doesn't shake. "We both know I've always been her favourite."

"And you'd lose." Mihawk begins to feel an insidious satisfaction from the distress of the other man. "In fact, I doubt she thinks about you at all."

"You keep telling yourself that, hawk-eyes."

"This misguided flattery is much unwarranted," Mihawk warns him. "No one bets on losing dogs."

But she would, Shanks thinks to himself. She always did.

Short fingernails leave bruising marks on the inside of Shanks's palm as he's clenching his fist. Once again he's reminded that when it mattered, he was a coward and fled from the overwhelming, crippling love he feels for you. Only know there's no hope, there's no ifs - you belong to another man.

Afternoon sunlight reflects off of Mihawk's gold ring. Shanks glares at it for a moment too long to pass off his intense stare as circumstantial. He can almost hear the mocking laughter of the universe as the consequence of the amalgamation of his bad choices is merely two meters away from him. There is nothing he wouldn't give up to turn back the time and make sure that things go differently, that he never became afraid of being too deep in love.

But time, like the seas, has no master.

_____

I was so torn about this one, I couldn't decide until the very end, so if you want to read a version where the scenario is flipped and Shanks is the 'lucky guy', just hit me up.

[theriverbeyond]

how exactly is John lying (/about what) and is that the worst part of him and how explicit is it in the books? i often dont understand general/fandom characterizations of fictional characters and HtN is definitely not the book I paid the most attention in, so I just wanna see if I missed something wholly obvious

So John is a Lying Liar Who Lies, and I think the most damming evidence for the sheer enormity of it all is this bit in HtN, page 482:

Many of the things John says are like, him reflecting or discussing things only he has memory of, with no one left to dispute his version of events, and it's clear that he has long ago lost the "objective truth" of his own history--some of this is likely the side effect of being alive for ten thousand years, but a lot of it is probably due to the fact that he doesn't want anyone to know what actually happened. HtN p. 158:

John is talking to Harrow here, but to Me, he is also reassuring himself. He KNOWS that people would judge him for his actions, and alters the stories he tells accordingly. Nobody has to know. It happened, and he can't undo it, and they wouldn't understand. He's motivated to lie, he's capable of lying, and he himself has stated that he believes that there is no difference between the truth, and the truth he tells himself. Because he's God.

Anyway. re: "how explicit is it", a lot of the times where we know for sure John is telling an untruth, he isn't directly lying per say, but rather misrepresenting events to such an insidious extent that it is functionally the same as lying. Here is a short and incomplete list:

All the times Harrow begged him to protect her from G1deon the First, and John was like sorry I can't do that, when in fact JOHN was the one who ordered G1deon to attack Harrow

Changing the names of all his friends and not telling them what their previous names or personalities were (and if he didn't tell them that, it's very reasonable he may have kept other things from them as well)

Saying that the House of the First was killed by "rising sea levels" and a "massive nuclear fission chain reaction" when the Earth actually died because John initiated a nuclear standoff, and then set off a nuke. like yeah what he said was technically the truth, but it also served to paint an extremely different picture when compared to what we learn in NtN

In NtN, in the dream, John tells Harrow about the time he killed all those cops, and he mentions that when it happened he was like "I swear to God, I didn't know what I was doing" "I freaked out, it was an accident", "I made a mistake". and then like half a page later he tells Harrow "Come on love. Guys like me don't have accidents"

Saying he ate peanuts "discreetly", and "the once"

"is this the worst part of him" I think that is up to you, I really like the layers this adds to the story. So much of NtN is literally just John telling Harrow/the reader a story, and we know he misrepresents events and tells untruths and is motivated to protect his own image and no longer sees a difference between the truth and the truth he tells himself. So it's like... we are getting all this info about what happened pre-appocalypse/resurrection, but how much of it is REAL? How much of it is reliable? How much of it would match the story if anyone else was alive to tell their side? It is so interesting to me. It's like a hefty peanut butter filled kong, to me.

[clairewritesandrambles]

'Tis the Damn Season - Scott Miller

Summary: After the dissolution of your long-term relationship, you find yourself starting over in your hometown. When you see your childhood best friend, Scott, for the first time in years, how will things change between the two of you?

Pairing: Scott Miller x F!Reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY), cheating (not involving the main pairing), anxiety, negative self-talk about the reader's body, nosy small town people, rough-ish sex (nothing crazy), choking, talk about deepthroating, Scott is 31 years old

A/N: Only a month late lol, sorry everybody. I really hope it's worth the wait. Thank you to @hederasgarden for beta-ing!

Music flowed softly through your room as you completed the finishing touches of your outfit. You had spent years dreading your mother's Christmas parties with her friends, having been forced to spend too many with her as a teenager instead of hanging out with your friends. This was the first year in a long time that you were truly looking forward to spending time with your mother, though you knew this would be the worst year for the looks and comments from her friends curious about your return to her house.

The faint sound of a knock at the door sounded through the house, followed quickly by the low rumble of voices as your mother greeted whoever it was. Probably just one of her friends from work, who would smile when they saw you and make dull small talk before getting that sickly curious look in their eye as they ask what you were doing back. It never took long for people in your town to dig for gossip.

You took a step back to look at yourself in the reflection of the mirror, mentally steeling yourself for the prying questions that would be coming, just the idea of the attention being enough to churn your stomach with anxiety. With one last deep breath you headed down the stairs, your mind already drifting to the bottle of wine in the fridge that awaited.

You jumped back in surprise when you turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, very nearly running into the back of someone from how distracted you had been. You let out a soft apology, making a move to go around the woman before you realized who it was.

"Mrs. Miller!" You exclaimed as she smiled back at you, clearly as surprised to see you as you were to see her. "Mom didn't tell me that you were coming."

"Oh, hello, dear!" She squealed. "I heard you were home, but I had to come and see for myself." She pulled you in for a tight hug, her hands comfortingly rubbing your back as she continued. "How have things been?"

Tears stung your eyes at her question, your stomach tightening in response. The sincerity in her voice had become so foreign in the last couple of months, with most people more concerned with the drama than the emotions of your involvement. If this had been anyone else, you were sure that it would have been void of emotion.

Whether they asked or not, Mrs. Miller was the only one of your mother's friends who could coax this response from you. She and her house had become a second home during your childhood, as familiar as your own from years of going over to hang out with Scott. When you had been too nervous to tell your mother about your first date in high school, it was Mrs. Miller that you went to for help. You knew that in this moment she was not seeing an example of the insidious gossip that your town loved, but instead, her unofficial daughter trying to come to terms with the recent events.

"I'm getting through it." You assured her, voice shaking even as you tried to put on a brave face. The truth was that you were over what had happened, but were still struggling with the loss of the life you had been steadily building for years. The recovery period had been a deeper trench than you anticipated, the steep edges covering your mind in shadow despite the presence of light in the distance.

Her eyes crinkled as she offered you a soft smile. "You will. You've always been resilient." She slipped her arm into yours as she continued, directing you towards the kitchen while she spoke. "I still remember the time Scott accidentally flipped you off that glider swing in my backyard. I was having a heart attack thinking you broke your face from the blood coming out of your lip, meanwhile, you were chasing him down to shove his face in the dirt as revenge."

"Well, someone had to do it. He was always a bit of an-" You were caught by surprise as you turned the corner into the kitchen, the rest of your words catching in your throat.

Scott was leaning against your mother's cupboards, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he made small talk with another of your mother's friends. His hair had grown since the last time you saw him, the tips of his dark waves brushing the nape of his neck. The black sweater he had on gave him a more polished look than you were used to. Scott had always been an outfit repeater, most of his casual sweaters worn to the point of holes. But this one looked almost brand new, closer to the perfect preparation of his work clothes.

It was like he was simultaneously identical to your memory and the polar opposite.

He seemed to be having a similar train of thought as his eyes flicked to you, his hand unconsciously tightening on his glass. His eyes roamed over you before his lips thinned into a straight line, the closest to a friendly smile he could muster on most days. A stranger may have taken his expression as one of apathy, but your years of experience told you that he was feeling the same mix of excitement and anxiety that had overtaken your stomach.

"Hey, you," he said, his chest rising and falling in a nervous breath as he straightened his posture.

You glanced at his mother quickly, noting her small smirk as her eyes flicked between you too, before you stepped closer to him. "Hey. I didn't realize that you were coming."

"I didn't realize you were either. Probably should've caught on when that one," he explained, pointing over your shoulder to his mother's retreating form, "insisted that I make an appearance."

Despite the ball of anxiety keeping every part of you on edge, you couldn't help but laugh at the story. Of course, she had made him come. Mrs. Miller had made it her life's mission to keep you two as close as possible. Maybe if both of you hadn't left your hometown, things wouldn't be as awkward as they currently were.

Scott's eyes roved around the room, before landing on the open space next to you as he furrowed his brows. He was clearly noticing the lack of your usual shadow at these events, your solitary form contrasting with his usual view.

Thankfully, before he could open his mouth to point out the absence, your mother's friend interjected. "Oh! So this is the Scott your mom says you were always running around with."

Scott gave a sarcastic smile in return, one of the ones that never met his eyes. "The one and only."

You offered a small smile to her, an apologetic look on your face. "I'm sorry about him. We only let him out of his cage once a year, so he's bad at the whole 'socializing' thing."

The soft smirk on Scott's face weakened the grip of anxiety on your body, a small reminder that the decay of time was not as fast as you had thought.

The moment of relief was short-lived though, as your mother's friend immediately turned to you after a short laugh and sobered her expression. "I was so surprised to hear that you were back home. None of us ever imagined you'd end up back here, given how good things seemed to be going."

Neither had you. This was the moment you had been so worried about; when people would go out of their way to remind you of your fall from grace. You were no longer the girl who had escaped your small town; instead, you were only another one who had failed.

"Yeah, well, I guess everything happens for a reason!" You replied, trying desperately to ignore Scott's confused look in your periphery. While it was difficult, you could handle the comments and judgment from near strangers. You wouldn't be able to handle it from him. Knowing that he was doing exactly what he had always set out to do, simultaneously running a business in Oklahoma while living in Massachusetts for the other part of the year. Meanwhile, you had none of the things you had set out with: no partner, no job, no house.

"Still, it must be hard. All those years..." Your chest shuddered at her words, Scott's presence slowly suffocating you. You desperately needed a reason to rid yourself of both of them.

Per usual, it was your mother who rescued you. She shouted your name from somewhere outside of the kitchen, giving you the perfect opportunity to excuse yourself and run before either of them could continue the conversation.

You made a quick appearance at your mother's side, greeting one of her old friends who hadn't seen you in years. Then you claimed that you were going to get some food out of the basement freezer for her.

In the cool air of the basement, you could finally feel the claustrophobic hold on your lungs finally release. Your throat felt raw from withholding your emotions, eyes stinging once again with the threat of tears. You sucked in short, shaky breaths against your body's will, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of red eyes on your return.

You may have cracked in front of them, but you'd be damned if you were to let anyone from this town see you break.

Holy shit. You could not wait to leave this town. Again.

After you had finally walked yourself back from the brink of panic, you went upstairs with the intention of enjoying yourself for the rest of the party. Maybe if you put on a happy front, the questions would quiet.

But, if anything, that change seemed to have the opposite effect. It was like your mother's friends could see the cracks in your performance and were determined to shatter it.

After someone had finally truly breached the topic, commenting on how nice your ex had seemed, you finally reached your breaking point. You excused yourself without decorum, trudging your way to the covered porch at the back of the house.

The cool air settled the fire heating your skin as soon as you pushed the door open, a frustrated sound escaping your throat as it slammed behind you. Was it really that hard for people to have some empathy?

"Uh," Scott cleared his throat from the corner. You whipped around to face him, not even noticing that he had disappeared from the central group of people. You stepped back, acting like you had been trapped with a stranger rather than your lifelong best friend.

"What's wrong?"

You thought briefly of deflecting his question and running to your room for the rest of the holidays to avoid him. That was a terrible idea though, your mothers loved to spend most of their work break together and you would inevitably have to see him again.

"I just can't," you offered, gesturing wildly in the general direction of the party, "with them. I forgot how this town is."

Scott let out a sharp laugh. "Tell me about it."

The silence lulled between you two for a second, neither of you making a move towards actual conversation. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were out here, I can go if you want me to."

You had started moving towards the door in the middle of your sentence, but the tone of his words stopped you dead in your tracks. "No. I mean, uh, you can stay. If you want."

When you stayed stuck in place like a deer caught in headlights, he continued. "I'd like you to stay."

You shuffled towards him, your heart pounding in nervousness when he moved his now empty whiskey glass. He clearly expected you to sit next to him, and yet you reacted like he was a stranger performing the gesture instead of Scott.

"So, where's Kevin?" He asked, barely giving you a second to settle. "Didn't he used to always come to these things?"

You stared down at your hands in your lap, knowing that your slight deception had come back to bite you at last. "Oh, uh," you stuttered, "we broke up."

"What?" He asked, surging forward in his seat. "Since when?"

"October."

"And you didn't tell me?" Your eyes flitted to him briefly, returning back to their place of shame in your lap when you saw his expression. The corners of his lips were turned down in a frown, eyebrows furrowed at the fact you had kept this from him. "Is that why you're back here?"

You nodded solemnly, swallowing the lump in your throat at the memory of your breakup. "I meant to tell you. We just hadn't talked in so long, and I know you were busy... I just didn't know what to say."

When he didn't reply right away you looked back at him, noticing he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. It was his tell-tale bad habit that he was feeling as guilty as you about the lack of communication between you two for the past few years.

"What happened?" He asked, avoiding the tension between you for a bit longer.

You sighed at the question, your shoulders relaxing slightly as you focused more on the emotions associated with Kevin than the ones with Scott. You explained that a few years ago, when you stopped coming home as often and the beginning of the downfall of your friendship with Scott, was when it had begun.

Kevin and you had been together since sophomore year and it was only recently that you seemed to both realize the incompatibilities you had ignored for years. The fights had started small, arguments over dirty dishes and clothes. But soon they had begun to take over your relationship, both of you walking on eggshells around each other. Home became a prison of cold shoulders and snide comments, contrasted by your public image of being the high school sweethearts who had "made it."

As your relationship devolved, so did the worst qualities of Kevin that you had overlooked and excused for years. His jealousy and possessiveness became more noticeable, his actions becoming less about him wanting to be with you and more about not allowing you to exist without him. That was where the joke of him being your shadow at family events had come from. Eventually, he became paranoid enough that he didn't want to leave you alone with any men - including Scott. Slowly, the smile you had fallen in love with became a sinister smirk.

You had been so determined that you could fix things, not wanting to face the reality of starting over at your age, that you had gone along with it. Slowly, but surely, your actions became complementary to his desires. You stopped visiting home as often, calling and texting less with Scott to avoid Kevin's moods. You had even picked out a cheap engagement ring, giving in to the belief that it might fix things.

This performance went on for almost a year before you realized that you had simply been delaying the inevitable. You were trapped in your isolated life, hours from your family, and your last message to Scott buried months into your messages. You had even thought things were getting better, the arguments becoming less common.

Then you started finding her things around the house. You had noticed the longer work hours, but it wasn't until you found the out-of-place hairs in your bed after a weekend away that you had to face the truth. Every trip brought a new discovery: a false eyelash, a mismatched hair tie, an unfamiliar toothbrush. But it wasn't until you had seen the necklace box, one you had mentioned wanting for years, marked with a name that wasn't yours that you finally had enough.

That was the weekend you left your ring on his coffee table and moved home. You had let him keep the lease, just wanting to rid yourself of all ties to him as quickly as you could. Now, you wished you had fought for it a bit more. At least you wouldn't have started completely back at square one.

You left out any mentions of his role in your relationship as you recalled the breakdown to Scott, not wanting to expose the full depths of your weakness just yet. You knew that he didn’t struggle with the constant self-doubt that you did, but you still worried about the implications of the statement. After such a rocky recent past, you didn’t want to risk it.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Scott spat, his face curdled into a look of disgust. "I always thought he wasn't good enough for you, but I did not realize he was that much of a piece of shit."

You laughed humourlessly at his words, nodding slightly. "Neither did I."

"I can hit him with my car if you want." He offered, shrugging casually. "Off the record, of course."

You choked on laughter at his joke, seeing a small smile on his face at the success. There was a stark difference between his earlier smile towards your mother's friend, the one he always offered strangers, and the one currently breaking through. This smile was almost always only reserved for you and his mother, actually allowing it to soften his eyes at the same time instead of staying apathetic.

"You really do deserve better, though." He said, pausing to make eye contact. "You're too great to be wasting time with losers like Kevin."

You thought of putting on the usual brave face you made when people fed you these lines but decided to stick with the open nature of your conversation instead. It had been too long since you'd talked to Scott like this. You had missed his honesty.

"Scott, I need you to be real right now. No one wants someone who looks like me and I am completely starting over right now. No one even wants me, much less wants me enough to treat me better." You cringed slightly even as you spoke the words, that inner voice warning you about appearing as a burden. He was no stranger to your insecurities about your body, yet you couldn't help but feel like you still had to hide your feelings.

Scott rolled his eyes slightly at you, more out of disbelief than actual annoyance. "Well, anyone who lets a bit of softness get to them probably doesn't know how to treat you well anyway. Someone wants you."

"Oh yeah?" You prodded. "Like who?"

Scott's eyes snapped to yours at your question, charged tension quickly crackling through the air. Neither of you moved or spoke, an unspoken suggestion hanging thickly in the middle.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Your mother asked, throwing open the door just as Scott had opened his mouth to speak. "Stop being shy and get back in here!"

You sighed deeply as you rolled over in bed once again, a listless glance at the clock telling you it had only been five minutes since the last time you checked. Normally, your room felt like a sanctuary from the realities of life, but now it felt more like a cage.

The party had finally died down around 11pm, but given the amount of drinking that both Millers had partaken in, your mother insisted that they stayed the night. So instead of having the distance to come to your own conclusions about the meaning behind Scott's glances after your conversation, you had to lay in bed with the thoughts while he was on the couch one floor below you.

Had you imagined the longing in his gaze throughout the rest of the night? The usual insecurities crawled into your mind, running over any optimism that bubbled to the surface. Sure, Scott had put up with you all these years but there was a difference between the platonic nature of your relationship and the romantic look you had clearly hallucinated. Maybe the loneliness of the past few years had finally broken you; the fragments of your mind clinging onto any semblance of affection to try and glue themselves back together.

Even if you had seen the truth, did it even matter? Your friendship with Scott had been one of the greatest constants of your life and after such a shaky time, did you think either of you would be willing to take that risk? You had ignored your feelings for him in your teenage years for the same reason, not wanting to wager his friendship on the chance of love, instead running to the safer option of Kevin.

Would it be worth it for the stares, even if something did happen? The empathetic hunger of your town could run for months, but would they turn on you if they thought you moved on too quickly? You had seen the insidious nature of the gossip surrounding women who moved on in your town, their names inevitably always coming into questions of character. It had been months since you had his ring on your finger, and years since either of you had been truly happy, but no one else knew that. To them, you'd be the girl who had broken the heart of the golden boy and moved on with the man who had always been there. You had never been in love with Scott while you were with Kevin, but if you acted on these resurrected feelings you knew how it would appear. Kevin would gloat to everyone that he knew and you would see the worst of small towns.

But it was also too hard to ignore his presence after his earlier implications, knowing that you could have answers if you just went down the stairs.

You threw your blankets off with a grunt, ignoring the voice in the back of your mind as you grabbed an old pair of sweatpants from your dresser and headed down the stairs. The house had been quiet for an hour, so you didn't feel too worried about being interrupted by either of your mothers.

You faltered briefly at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly considering that he may have already fallen asleep. But then you saw the faint glow of the television and knew that meant he was still awake. You moved towards it cautiously, hands fumbling with the waistband of the sweats.

Scott was reclined on the couch when you turned the corner, scrolling aimlessly on his phone as he readjusted the waistband of his jeans. He looked up at you in surprise when he noticed your movement, an eyebrow arching wordlessly at you.

"Umm," you paused, mentally smacking yourself for acting like you had been caught with drugs rather than having deliberately walked down here to talk to him. "Here." You stuck the pants out at him before continuing, still not seeming able to form full sentences. "I thought your jeans might be uncomfortable for a full night."

You could see the moment a sarcastic comment about your stunted words came to his mind, his eyes lighting up at the same time his lips curved upwards in a playful smirk. Mercifully, however, he settled for placing his hand over his heart in fake admiration.

"My hero!" He exclaimed, taking the pants from your outstretched hand. He had probably forgotten you even had an old pair of his, most likely a relic of a party where you had crashed at his place and, like usual, always forgot something to sleep in. You had even forgotten you still had some of his clothes until you had packed your life into boxes.

You continued your awkward streak by lingering, trying to think of how to broach the subject of interest. Scott raised his eyebrows at you expectedly, pursing his lips slightly at your behaviour. "Did you change your mind about the car or something? Why are you acting so nervous?"

You chewed on your lip for a second, looking for a lie that would allow you to escape back to your room, but deciding to sit on the couch and speak before you could change your mind again.

"What did you mean earlier?" You asked, continuing when he furrowed his brows. "When you said that someone wants me?"

"Oh," he said, chewing the inside of his cheek again, "that."

He offered no further explanation, looking anywhere that wasn't your face as he stalled for time.

"Scott," you prodded when the silence had lingered for too long.

"I just don't want to ruin anything," he said, bringing his gaze to meet yours. "I didn't even expect to see you while I was here, much less almost spilling my guts about everything."

When you didn't respond he groaned and pouted slightly. "Are you really gonna make me say it?"

"Listen, Scott, I didn't expect anything like this to happen now either. But I'm finally single for the first time in years, so yes. I'd like to know why you said that to me after all this time." Your chest shuddered slightly in the tension of the moment, feeling like someone was pulling your lungs closed. "It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to, but I want to know."

"Maybe I want it to mean something," he countered, "I haven't spent my entire life loving you just for it to mean nothing to either of us. I know that someone wants you because I’m that person."

He continued when you didn't respond, too shocked even despite the clues from earlier. "I have been hopelessly in love with you for as long as I can remember. That's why I didn't text you when I noticed you were pulling away. I spent years watching you love someone else from the sidelines because I had been too scared to tell you the truth in our teens, so when you stopped calling as often... I thought maybe it would be easier for me."

"Wait," you interjected, "it's been that long?" How had you missed all the signs for so many years? You thought you knew all of Scott's hidden tells, the smallest changes in his body language and tone of voice always betraying the emotions he often tried to hide. Yet, you had been blind to this emotion for so many years.

"Yes, that long." He replied, holding an accusative finger up when you opened your mouth to speak again. "If you even think about giving me some made-up reasons about why you think I shouldn't love you, I swear."

You clamped your mouth shut in response, a small part of you reveling in the knowledge that he knew you just as well as you knew him.

"I was terrified of ruining our friendship, so I never told you. I guess I thought it was better to have you as a friend than not have you at all, but watching you love him was agony." He continued, leaning ever closer to you. "Not just because I didn't have you, but because I could see that he never loved you back the way you deserved. He never appreciated the parts of you that needed it most, the ones that I know you were thinking about earlier."

"Like what?" Your breathing was coming out in small bursts now, the strength of his words stealing it from your chest.

"All of them. I loved hanging out alone with you because you didn't hide your body the same way you do in public. I loved getting to hear you laugh without thinking about its volume, I just loved all the parts you felt like you had to hide."

"Fuck, I even loved when you'd get nervous about something and pick the skin around your thumbs. I knew it was a bad habit that you hated about yourself, but I couldn't take my eyes off of you when you did it."

You looked down at your hands, the picked skin around your nails glaring back at you. It had always been a habit you hated about yourself, but you never realized someone else noticed you doing it. Any time you had brought it up to Kevin over the years, he always seemed surprised that you did it.

When you turned your head back to Scott, you became suddenly aware of how much space had disappeared between the two of you over the course of your conversation. Scott's thigh was pressed against yours, your noses brushing together when you looked up at him.

His eye contact was unblinking as his chest rose and fell deeply while he gazed at you. "If you don't feel the same, that's fine. But I've got to be honest, I don't know if I can go back to acting like this never happened." He licked his bottom lip slightly as his eyes fell to yours. "I haven't thought of a future without you in years, you've always been it for me. So if you don't want this-"

Additional words died in his throat when you moved your head to connect your lips to his, a desperate sound escaping his mouth instead. It was a quick moment of passion, your head pulling back almost as suddenly as it had moved forward.

Scott's lips followed yours needily, only reluctantly breaking the kiss when he could no longer hold it. His forehead rested on yours while you both breathed deeply, neither of you opening your eyes. You rested like this for a brief, charged moment, your mind racing to catch up with the actions of the body.

Fuck it. You had spent too long being a slave to your own expectations and playing it safe to let this moment pass you.

You pulled Scott's mouth back into yours, the long-dead butterflies in your stomach stirring in response. Kissing him was like slotting the final piece into a puzzle that had been plaguing you for years: a mix of excitement and confusion about how it took you so long to find it. Now that you had tasted him, you would have starved if you couldn't have him again.

Scott kissed you passionately, his strong arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into him like he wanted the feeling of your skin tattooed on him for the rest of his life. His calloused hands ran trails of shivers over your skin as they caressed the skin below your top, moving slowly like he intended to commit every part of you to memory tonight.

"You are so fucking beautiful, baby." He whispered when you pulled back for a short breath, a shaky laugh of disbelief escaping his lips. "I think I could die happy right now."

You giggled at him, the euphoria of the night making your head spin. Every action and word from him felt like it was setting you aglow and making every fibre of your being yearn for more. Scott wasn't the first man to call you beautiful or touch your body, but it had been so long since you had felt passion behind them that they struck even deeper.

He smiled softly at your laugh, leaning in for another taste of your lips. You pushed him back in a small surge of confidence, straddling his lap. You usually avoided any position that put you at a higher angle, but the look of awe on Scott's face erased any lingering worries about unflattering angles.

Every graze of his body against yours stoked the fire building within, making you push even closer to him to try and quell the increasing desire. His hands continued to leave featherlight touches on your back, pebbling your skin with goosebumps. You hadn't felt this in years; the feeling of desire and being desired was so distant in your memory that it made your chest burn with emotion.

Scott peppered kisses down your throat, pausing to focus on a spot when a needy noise escaped your mouth. The attention in his touch made your body flutter in response, an uncontrollable roll of your hips brushing your thighs against the hardness of his lap.

"Did I make you hard?" You asked, pulling back to look down at the tent in his pants.

Scott flashed you an unapologetic smile. "I've been dreaming of this for thirty-one years, I'm excited." You couldn’t help the giddy laugh from your chest at his words. A part of you was still amazed at the idea that someone like him could actually be this attracted to you.

"There's no expectations though," he continued, pulling you back down to kiss him. "I'll wait as long as you want me to."

Your heart skipped a beat in response, affection for him warming your body. You bit your lip in slight anticipation as you let one of your hands trail down his chest to softly palm him through his pants.

"Oh," he breathed, head dropping against the back of the couch. "Fuck."

Spurred by his reaction, you applied a bit more pressure with your hand, your lips beginning to explore his jawline and neck. Every sigh and shift of his hips felt like a symphony, the blissed-out look on his face as he reveled in your touch striking down to your core.

As if he could sense the joy you were getting out of seeing him in this position, Scott's eyes opened slightly. You gave him a teasing smile in response, a small noise escaping your lips when he grabbed your jaw to pull you in for a bruising kiss. Your groans deepened when his hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer to him. He held you like a drowning man on his last breath, like you might disappear if he loosened his grip too much.

You rolled your hips against his desperately, needily gasping when the tip of his cock rubbed your clit through your clothes. Suddenly, Scott gripped you tightly and threw you to your back on the couch. His body moved effortlessly with yours, an inhuman growl clawing its way out of his throat.

"I am going to lose my mind if you keep touching me like that," he panted, pulling back to look in your eyes. "If you don't want this, I want you to tell me right now, okay, baby? We can stop and just cuddle if that's what you want, but otherwise, I need to make sure the only name you remember is mine."

The way his blue eyes stared into your eyes as he checked on you, ensuring he wasn't overstepping your boundaries, might've just been one of the hottest things you had ever seen in your life.

"I really, really want this, Scott." You told him, guiding his hand to the soaked fabric of your bottoms. A low groan rumbled through him at the feeling, his fingers teasing your folds as he waited for those magic words. "Please, please touch me."

He lowered himself again to kiss you, a large hand groping at your breasts as you both, finally, gave in. Years of pent-up emotion and lust burst from your body, both of you a blur of searching hands and wandering lips as you rid yourselves of your tops.

"Fuck, wait." He sighed, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead on yours. "I don't have a condom."

"I'm on birth control and got a negative test after Kevin. I'm good if you are."

"Fuck," Scott moaned, lips wrapping your nipple as his fingers teased the other. "You're so fucking gorgeous. I could look at you all day."

You felt your face heat at his words, a denial on the tip of your tongue when he interrupted you.

"Do not even think about denying it." He grunted, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your body: the valley of your breasts, your stomach, your waist. "This is, quite literally, what my dreams are made of: your eyes, your smile, your tits, your tummy."

Scott continued his way down your body, stopping to punctuate every body part with a kiss. "And these thighs?" He continued, teeth sinking possessively into the flesh as you gasped and bucked your hips towards him in response. "I think they're my favourite."

Ragged breathes escaped at this point, his fingers teasing you relentlessly. He bit more marks into the insides of your thighs as he moved his fingers with purpose around your cunt, always coming close to giving you that touch you desired but darting away at the last second.

"Scott," you whined, a hand tugging impatiently at his hair.

"Hmm, what is it, baby?" The bastard had the audacity to smirk up at you from between your thighs, a smug glint reflecting in his eyes.

"I need you to touch me."

Scott hummed in response, the featherlight brush of his thumb against your clit enough to have you throwing your head back in pleasure. "I don't know if that was good enough..."

You huffed in annoyance, rolling your hips only to have him stop you with the grip of his hands on your thigh.

"C'mon, baby," he slurred, a cheek resting on your thigh as he looked at you. "Be a good girl and beg for what you want."

Normally, you'd probably have given him more pushback - but right now you felt like you might explode if you didn't get him soon. "Please touch me."

"Say my name."

"Please, Scott. I need your mouth, I need your tongue on my cunt right now. Please."

You could have cried in relief when you felt his fingers finally pull down your bottoms, a satisfied hum reverberating through your body as he kissed your clit quickly over the material.

"I always thought my name would sound prettier coming off those lips than 'Kevin,'" he said, wasting no time in licking a stripe through your folds that made you whimper his name again. "Now I know it's true."

You didn't even have time to open your mouth with a possible retort, all sensible thoughts freezing in their tracks as he wrapped his lips around your clit. You don't even want to think about how he got so good at oral, every movement stoking the flame in your lower belly like he had made you cum a thousand times. His lips and tongue worked in perfect tandem with each other, your face pressed into his pillow as he made you orgasm on two, and then three, fingers.

The hand not trying to stifle your noises with the pillow was threaded through his hair, teetering constantly between pulling his head closer to your core and pushing him away as he sent you hurtling towards a third orgasm. He hadn't even gotten his pants off yet, and you felt like your body was short-circuiting in pleasure.

Scott's tongue pushed into you, along with the three fingers he had already fit, another orgasm stealing the air from your lungs. You bit down on the pillow, wiggling helplessly against the grip around your thigh. You snuck a look at him between your legs, the sight enough to knock the little wind from you again

His dark hair was curling with sweat, the veins on his arm popping from the thrusting of his finger that hadn't ceased in minutes. His eyebrows furrowed together in focus on your pleasure, his groans sending aftershocks through your body as it vibrated your clit.

God, he was gorgeous.

Undoubtedly sensing your shameless staring, Scott's eyes opened to look at yours. His eyes were glazed over in pleasure, clearing having lost himself completely in the feeling of you. That shy voice inside of you whispered about the angle, but, for once, you couldn't hear it over the look of adoration in his eyes. Scott looked at you like he had a one-of-a-kind piece of art in front of him, not the face he had grown up with and, as you had always assumed, he would have grown bored of.

You smiled down at him, fingers threading through his hair to scratch at his scalp. If you had to, you think you could stay this entwined with him forever and be happy.

"Fuck, I can't stand it anymore. I need to fuck you, right now." Scott growled, finally pulling away from you to push his pants down his legs. You whimpered at the emptiness in their wake, clenching around nothing.

Not that you had to wait for long. Your mouth watered as you moved to your knees, watching as Scott’s cock was freed from his briefs and slapped against his stomach. The thick head was freely leaking pre-cum and all you wanted to do was wrap your lips around him and taste it.

"Take a picture; it'll last longer, " he teased, his hand resting on the back of your neck as he kissed you before pushing your face into the couch.

You pouted at him as he stood behind you, the tip of his cock pushing through the wetness coating your cunt. "You're not even going to give me a taste?"

"Mm, you want it that bad?" He asked, lightly slapping his head on your clit and making you jump.

"Please?" You begged, doing your best face for him.

He smiled at you, wrapping a hand around your throat to pull your back to his chest. "I promise next time I'll let you choke on my cock as much as you want, but right now I am barely holding on and I am not even inside of you yet."

You hummed in response, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I guess you just owe me then."

Scott smirked at you, his eyes telling you that he was already planning everything he'd do to you the next time he had you alone. "Now, are you going to be a good girl and be quiet for me or do I need to cover that pretty mouth with my hand?"

"I'd really like to say I'd be good, but I've got to be honest: I don't know if I can do that right now." Scott smiled at your confession, pressing one last sweet kiss to your lips before covering your mouth and pushing on your shoulder blades until your face was back on the cushions.

It only took a few thrusts for you to realize that you had made an excellent choice. Scott's half-bent-over angle to keep his hand around your mouth put him in the perfect spot to hit that mind-numbing spot inside of you. His other hand had a vice grip on the armrest, the shaky breaths behind you telling you that he was trying desperately to keep himself from losing it early.

You beckoned him closer to you, melting into his warmth as he pressed a kiss to your temple. The new angle had him moving in you in short, hard thrusts, bringing you to the precipice of another orgasm.

"Scott," you gasped, pulling his hand away from your mouth. "Please choke me."

He cursed under his breath, resting his body weight on his elbow as he gripped your throat and slipped his tongue into your mouth. His hips moved impossibly faster, combining with the pressure of his fingers on your clit to send your body into a frenzied orgasm, whimpering as your entire body shook with pleasure.

"Turn over for me, baby," Scott panted from behind you, hands already grasping at your hips. "I need to look at you while I fill you." Despite the hurried insistence of his words, Scott continued to take his time in his movements. His hand was gripping the base of his dripping cock to prevent himself from finishing, yet he couldn't stop himself from taking the extra seconds to slowly run his gaze over your body.

He finally leaned back down to kiss you, teasing your clit with the tip of his cock. A low chuckle rumbled through him at your frustrated grunts before taking mercy on you and pushing into you.

"Oh my god," you gasped, the stretch of him returning setting your entire body on fire. You had fully crossed into overstimulation by now, your senses completely enveloped by Scott's presence. The rest of the world had melted away, the only existence being the two of you on the couch.

"I know, baby," he said, kissing your throat. "You can take more though, right?" When you nodded in approval, he continued. "That's what I thought. Be a good girl for me and let me fill you up, okay, baby?"

Your sanity didn't stand a chance after that, everything blurring together as he kissed you. Your hands were all over each other, pulling each other as close as you could while his pelvis ground into your clit and wiped away the last of your coherent thoughts with near-constant orgasms.

It could have been seconds or hours before Scott grabbed your jaw, telling you to look him in the eyes while he came in you. His teeth were pulling at his bottom lip as he tried to quiet the moans making their way out of his throat as he reached his peak.

You were determined to commit the sight before you to memory: his head tipped back in ecstasy, mouth open as he tried to strangle the loud moan slipping through, thighs shaking with pleasure while he gripped yours so tightly you knew there would be finger-shaped bruises tomorrow. He dropped down into you too quickly, biting into your shoulder to quiet the noises he had now completely lost control over. His thrusts quickened, fucking himself through his orgasm, finally collapsing against you with a flurry of praises.

Neither of you moved after, content to just stay wrapped in each other's limbs for the moment. Scott's hand brushed lightly at your hip, settling himself on top of you.

"I promise I'll clean you up in a few minutes, I'm just-" He cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. "I'm dead. You killed me."

You giggled at his comments, kissing his cheekbone softly as you settled into him. The world slowed around you again, this time the focus staying on the feeling of his heartbeat and the slow, steady breaths as he continued to caress your body. Where Scott's touch during sex had been rough and passionate, his desire for you showing through his body, now he seemed to be taking his time in running his hands over you. It was like he was determined to commit every bump and divot to memory, becoming familiar enough that he'd still know their location after decades had passed.

He continued the slow movements even after grabbing a cloth from the bathroom to clean you up, soft kisses leading up the bruises on your thighs to your throat before giving you a chaste kiss.

You watched as he grabbed the sweatpants you had brought down earlier, readjusting the blanket and pillows that had been knocked to the side during the frenzy. As much as you tried to ignore it, those anxious thoughts crept back in. Not enough to fill you with doubt, but still leaving you feeling awkward as you watched him.

What were you supposed to do now?

You started mumbling something about getting back to bed, starting to pick up your discarded clothing but were stopped by his hand closing around your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked. When you pointed upstairs, like it was obvious that you were going to go back to your own bed now, he raised his eyebrow at you. "Do you think I'm some kind of asshole who would make you go sleep by yourself after all that?"

"I mean... It is more comfortable than the couch." You quipped back, some of the tension leaving your shoulders at the reassurance that his actions hadn't been a moment of poor judgment.

"Well, you haven't offered me your bed. Really, it's poor hosting on your part."

You paused in the midst of getting re-dressed, mouth gaping at him. "You know what? Fine. Stay on the couch, but I'm laying on top of you just to really maximize your uncomfortableness."

"Sounds good to me," he replied, opening the blanket and motioning for you to join him. "You're comfy enough to counteract the springs."

You smiled to yourself as you laid your head on his chest, melting into his embrace. "I really should go back to my room at some point though, in case one of our  moms decides to wake up."

"I am pretty sure if they found us like this they'd throw another party to celebrate. I'm not entirely convinced that they haven't been secretly planning this for our entire lives."

"Do you really love all those things about me?" You asked, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. "Or did your mom put you up to all of this?"

"You caught me." He deadpanned. When you giggled at him, he tipped your chin up to look at him. "You could live a thousand lives and I would find and love you in every single one of them."

You were sure you could actually feel your heart bursting at his words, the warmth of adoration spreading through your whole body.

"I like the sound of that." You whispered, kissing him again.

[ceilidho]

prompt: im also thinking of a very bad fic where ghost is taken pow for awhile and it fucks him up and he’s forced to see a therapist when he’s rescued but he’d rather use her p[] as therapy instead. tags: nsfw, implied/not described violence, slight dubcon, unprofessional relationship lol

-

It isn’t serendipitous that you meet; it comes because of a lot of bad luck and malevolence. 

He’s captured during a routine surveillance mission and spends three months as a POW in some shed in the Ural mountains. He comes back different. That’s to be expected. Trauma is an insidious thing that takes root under the skin, that twists and turns even in the dead of night. It’s a tunnel that gets tighter as you walk through it. It would be concerning if he didn’t come back that way. 

You know far too many gory details to ever feel truly comfortable around him. Not because of anything he’s done but because you can’t help the way the narrative builds in your mind when you look across the room at him. Even sitting on the prim and proper little sectional in your office, his body too big for the cozy little couch you picked up from some upscale boutique with your government paycheck, you can’t help but mythologize him. 

The official story is that four men were found dead when Simon Riley was finally extracted from the shed-turned-torture-room six months ago due to a bacterial infection that, luckily, Simon was not exposed to. The story’s flimsy even to your untrained ears; you may not have gone to medical school, but it just seems too perfect, too impeccable. When you push your superior for the truth, the look you get and the quiet “leave it alone” tells you far more than your paygrade deserves. 

Even knowing what you know, he shows up day one with the skull balaclava like some bone fortress that tells you before you even try, I am unknowable. You can try to cut me up and look inside, but this is all you’ll find—bone and bone and more bone.

He’s remarkably resistant to therapy, which is also to be expected; you aren’t at the stage in your career where you’re surprised that a man entrenched in the machinery of militarism won’t acquiesce to talk therapy. 

There’s a point where you want to try a new tactic, something to get to the root of what he’s hiding from you. So, you poke at it. You ask him to give you a five-minute account of the traumatic event, something that took place in the shed. 

“Which of those events do you dislike thinking about the most?” Your pen is poised over the pad in your lap. 

He raises a brow so high up that it disappears behind the mask. “How could I pick just one?”

His voice rumbles like tires over gravel. Sometimes your leg jitters when he speaks and it’s not your fault. You shut it down though because this is not a legend in front of you but a man, and you are in this room with him for a very specific purpose that does not include finding the sound of his voice attractive. 

You ask him again: “Which comes to mind first?”

Simon doesn’t answer you, but there’s a flash like quicksilver across his eyes and you catch it not because you’re looking but because he lets you. 

He shifts forward in his chair so that his elbows are propped on his knees and he’s leaning forward, closer to you than you’re comfortable with. You didn’t think to put a coffee table between the two of you. With other vets and active personnel, it’s easier without the sense of distance; makes them feel closer to you, vulnerable because it’s just skin, oxygen, and skin. 

With Simon, you get the sense that distance might be better. 

“What comes to mind first is that it was dark and I could smell the blood. I could taste it. But I couldn’t see it.” He doesn’t blink for as long as he speaks. You try not to let your breath shorten; you feel hungry for his truth the way a wolf hungers for the moon. “And it was dark and I could smell it; it was in my throat because I knew it was the only way out of there. I realized in that room that there is no righteous path but the one you take.”

Simon leans so far forward that his body glides up to stand and the pencil trembles in your hand when he takes a step close. He’s bigger looming over you, all brawn in the way military men often are, but sleek in his movements. You think of snakes or panthers. 

He breathes in. “You smell good though, love. Do you think we could start there instead?”

You open your mouth to reply, maybe even tell him to sit down so you can approach the question from a different angle, but then he’s on you, quick as he must have been that night. One big callused hand over your mouth and one knee on the couch, his other hand reaching up to pull the mask below his nose. You feel the warm press of it into the side of your neck and try not to struggle.

His breath shudders across your skin. You shake because you feel all the bone hidden beneath his frame now.

Simon’s hand is rough when it slides up your shirt. Pretty pearl buttons go flying; one rolls under the prim and proper couch. You only struggle for the first couple of seconds before professionalism melts away like a fine mist. Like you can do anything but look at him like a revelation. You stare at the pearl beneath the couch when he fucks you, legs split around his waist and you know it’s going to hurt in the morning. 

“If I’d known that you were waiting for me while I was in there,” he breathes, sonorous and rich, mask rolled up over lips bisected by a puckered scar, “I would have torn out their throats much more eagerly.”

[wayfayrr]

Love like you ✧*.⚝⋆

Here's the 400 follower raffle grand prize for @wailing-whaler!! Got Sky and reader collecting rocks <3 This went a little off of the initial base, but they do definitely collect rocks together (what a geologist not going utterly obsessed with rocks? it's a miracle) But this was very fun to write!! just soft soft fluff with the soft sleepy boy himself.

[masterlist]

“I’m still sorry for dragging you into this by the way.”

“You aren’t, and you don’t need to keep apologising for something you would happily do again in a heartbeat.”

“I am - I really am, I didn’t mean to drag you here.”

“You are an awful liar.”

He drooped like a puppet cut from its strings at that, offended I bet for calling him out. Despite it being the truth, he knows as well as I do that he was bouncing from the walls when I was brought into the game, happier than I’ve ever seen anyone before in my life. And emotions are new for him, kinda. 

“No- I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Hmph.” 

“Come on, I’ve already said that I really don’t mind it, why are you still so pouty?”

“Cause I wanted to get out rather than trapping you here with me.”

Oh, that admission is new. He’s dodged the reason why he brought me here since it happened, so that makes sense more than anything… The way that he’s leaning on me is also new though, and nice despite his grumbles, which come to a halt as he snakes his arms around me and buries his head into my neck from behind with a soft sigh. 

“Look it doesn’t really matter right now, you’ve got to save zelda right? So we should really get going, gaepora asked me to help you and I really don’t want to make a bad impression.”

That got me a squeeze and a little whine, does - does he not want to save her?

“But no matter how fast I am impa is going to tell me I’m late anyway, so why does it matter… I just wanna spend time with you.”

…

How does he know that..?How does he know what will happen??? He - this is his first time going through this journey… right? But it isn’t is it, even though he’s been trying to act like it is it’s not. I’ve played through this game once already, and he can remember that. The acceptance of it is like a cold chill down my spine, Link already knows me and has been pretending that he doesn’t, half-heartedly but still pretending. Or has he? Just because he hasn’t said it outright doesn’t mean that he’s trying to hide it, maybe he just assumed I knew already. Either way, would I be bothered by him hiding it? It’s not insidious or anything, he’s just like a lovesick puppy. 

“...Love? You - are you alright? I didn’t say something wrong did I?”  

“I was just thinking… link did you know about before?”

“Before? You mean your other playthrough right?”

Well that settles that, he wasn’t trying to hide it. It was just never mentioned, no reason for it to be honest. No one on skyloft needs to know their entire life is a game which could be very easily overheard on the tiny island and sky thought that I knew he knew so why reiterate the obvious already. 

“Sure I didn’t remember completely right away but going through Faron with you here- here brought everything crashing back so quickly.”

His grip on my waist tightened for a split second before loosening, like he’s not sure if I’ll want to be held close now that he’s sharing this. It’s only made clearer by the sigh he lets out as he takes a step away from me.

“I mean I remember remembering you when I tried to get out now, it was like… like when you fell here, on skyloft that is, everything got locked away but since we met the elder kikwi, everything has come back including how felt about it all and how I fell in l-!”

“How you ‘fell in l-’, why’d you cut yourself off there link, I’d love to know what you were going to say.” 

Almost by instinct, my head turns to follow him as he’s fumbling about in his own flustered embarrassment, having said just a tiny bit more than he’d probably meant. Stopping himself mid-word so sharply you’d think he’d bit his tongue to force himself to stop, but not soon enough that I didn’t know what he meant anyway.  

I won’t lie to myself. It’s something strange to know, and honestly all of this is making way more questions than it answers. Questions that it will be pretty hard to get answers too really, for one he and I both know this is a game and yet I’m here - he’s practically a person and… and he’s said it himself. He fell in love with me. But, I don’t dislike that. I really don’t dislike that. 

“I - I fell in love with you, and how you act and all the little things you do and how you make even the smallest things seem exciting, and it’s why I wanted out so badly so that I could hold you close and tell you how much I love every part of you, from the way your hair falls, to the way you smile, how you collect things that others wouldn’t see worth in but you give them so much worth. I can’t even tell you just how much I’ve wanted to get out even if just for a second to hand you a crystal or even a cute pebble I think would bring a smile to your face - even if it meant I’d go back to being trapped in this hell afterwards.”

My face feels like it’s about to set alight, and not from being on an active volcano. He’s still rambling about what made him fall for me, and it’s only getting more and more natural, he’s getting more and more human over time. More real. As with all good things though, it has to come to an end with him looking up only to realise that he’s been going on for a good few minutes now. Ceasing up like a deer in headlights as he struggles to move his mouth again, almost reflexively licking his lips before glancing down confusedly. Better to break through the awkwardness now so that it won’t get any worse. 

“You know, I wouldn’t be against having a relationship with you…”

“- You wouldn’t - I thought that you… you’d… you’d-”

“But.”

“...b-but?”

“I think I’d like to get to know you first link.”

“Wh - What..?”

“Well, right now I haven’t spent much time with ‘you’ you, and I don’t think it’s fair for you if I’m dating you expecting to you to be exactly like the character the game had you as.”

It’s easy to tell he’s thinking about it, with the hurt but pensive look on his face from being denied something he so clearly wanted a yes to. 

“But, I think I’ve been starting to fall for you too, for who you are link. I’d like to spend some more time with you before we have anything romantic.”

He perked up at that, a lot. Which I don’t blame him for. 

“There’s plenty of time for that then, we aren’t in any rush are we?”

“But zelda-?”

“Even if we were to teleport to the end of the dungeon we’d still be too late. Why not take it slow?”

Despite his leather gauntlets his hands are still nice to hold with how he’s intertwined ours, sneaking his fingers so that they snake between mine. Pulling my hand up to rest up on his cheek, leaning into it with a gentle sigh. 

“You’ve talked about wanting rocks from Eldin to study before, how it looked like a different volcano to anything you’ve ever seen. What if we just I don't know, went off and got you as many as you could ever want of them?”

His eyes look almost pleading, begging for me just to say yes, to give him this precious time so that he can win me over to being with him romantically. And really, how could I dream of saying no? Since ending up in skyloft those few weeks ago he’s been nothing but kind, patient and caring towards me and plus even though I said I wouldn’t compare him to the character he’s come to life around, he’s still link. Still the kind-hearted hero that I fell in love with when playing the game for the very first time, who i grew to wish was real when reading comics about his journey, why shouldn’t I be a little selfish when he cares for me as much as I do for him?

“I-”

Biting down hard on his lip now, the pleading look in his eyes switching to something more akin to outright begging. Just for me to say yes. As if there were any other options available to me. 

“I think I’d love to do that with you sky, as long as you’re certain we have the time.”

No words needed to be said after that, his face lighting up like the sky at a new years celebration. I swear if you looked closely you’d be able to see the very fireworks he was initiating in his own eyes. All the while his face was graced with the softest grin I could have hoped to see. It was definitely the right thing to say. 

“So, do you have anywhere that you think would be good places to collect some?”

“You really think after all this I wouldn’t have somewhere nearby in mind?”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask though, does it?”

“Well my pride might have gotten a little bruised, but that’ll heal in time.”

“...Do you reckon a kiss could help speed up that healing?”

“...”

“Link? Are you alright?”

“Are- would you do that for me?”

“If it’ll help fix your pride then, of course… wouldn’t want an injured hero would we?”

That shut him up well and truly, not even his usual confused soft stutters could be hurt as it seemed his code bluescreened at that idea. A full reboot happening in the time it took his face to go through a multitude of different emotions, settling on a gentle, yet mildly confused, look of contentment. Kinda spelling out his answer for me, but still, I’ll wait for clear consent before doing anything more forward than a suggestion. 

“...”

“Take your time, there’s no rush on an answer.”

A nod. Clearly he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking right now, but that's more than fine. It’s not exactly like I’m not used to him being mute again, if anything it’s not an awkward silence as he leads me over to the spot he was thinking of. A small patch to the south of Eldin, littered with just so many different stones. A dream spot for any collector, so close to an active volcano to get fresh samples well as fresh as you can get without quenching the lava. 

Will they even be able to come back out with me? Link seems to think he would have been able to come out of the game, but that only dragged me in here instead. Can I even get - don't ruin this moment with that line of thinking. We can figure that out later. 

“Hey [name], mind coming over here for a moment?” 

“Hmm? Sure, it isn't an issue.”

Speaking again now is a good sign, clearly his brain - does he have one? - has finished dealing with the bombshell I dropped on it earlier. Moving over to him isn’t a bad thing to do though, with whatever he’s holding seemingly a pleasant surprise. As soon as I’m back in front of him, he takes my chin in his hand delicately tilting it upright as he stares into my eyes. Biting down on his lips as he thinks of what to say, lifting up his other hand to my eye level, like he’s comparing whatever he’s holding to them. 

“...It really is the same colour.”

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me we were doing that, I would have been looking as well.”

“No, no collect whatever you’d like for your own collection, I just… wanted to do something where I could still just um… admire your beauty really. If you don’t want this one then, I- I can just keep it instead.”

“I’ll keep it. Thank you link, but really now we've got to get you one too.”

[fatcatlittlebox]

I had an ask about my analysis of Galadriel’s mindset during the season finale and I’ve been avoiding it because I f*cking hated the dialogue they gave her. The more I thought about it though, the more it made sense to me. Galadriel doesn’t want to believe that any of what she shared with Halbrand was real. She doesn’t want to allow that possibility. As others have said, she didn’t just want what he offered. She wanted him. If “he” doesn’t exist, it makes it easier to “shut the door.” She may go her whole life convincing herself that it was a farce to him. Even if that’s how she comes to terms with it, is that really being healed?

From the beginning of their reunion, you could see Galadriel avoids facing Sauron. She doesn’t turn around when he approaches her from behind. She’s frozen. It’s because she doesn’t trust how she will react when she sees his face. Especially if he has the form of Halbrand. She’s terrified of him and she’s terrified of herself. Her mistrust is well placed as we see later. Then, it is only when Sauron faces away from her that she tries to strike him down. Because in confronting him this way, she won’t actually have to face him.

But of course, it doesn’t work. They both knew it wouldn’t. She won’t get off that easily. It’s also an attempt on her part to keep him at a distance. It’s her way of telling him, she’s not here to talk. Sauron flips it on her though. Because Galadriel isn’t a talker anyways. She’s a fighter and violence is a language he is fluent in. He turns their duel into a physical and symbolic conversation. And Galadriel hates it. She hates that he can singularly access her this way and the way no one else can. So she keeps pushing him back and shutting him down. The rest of their confrontation Galadriel volleys a series of sarcastic replies whenever Sauron tries to be sincere with her. She sneeringly asks if he wants to heal her. He says he wants “to heal…” and pauses.

The truth is in that silence. He wishes to heal. Sadly, now it’s established that they’re both going to be lying to themselves so why be honest and open with each other going forward? I think that’s for a multitude of reasons. One, if she deflects his entreaties with sarcasm, she’s not letting his words hit their mark. He can’t worm his way into her mind again. And after having heard Adar describe his own relationship and feelings with Sauron, then watching him get brutally murdured, she feels entirely justified in cosigning that Sauron is an insidious manipulator. That she is no different and would end up exactly as the fallen elf.

Sauron, she tells herself, is the embodiment of evil. She’s not wrong. However, evil can love. It can be twisted and fucked up but no less real. However, that kind of gray area would spell the collapse of her defenses. So she makes him to be this generic evil and responds to him with generic platitudes. It’s impersonal, detached. Business as usual. It’s survival. She has declared in her mind that Sauron is not Halbrand. Ignoring the fact that her mind is not where he slithered his way in. He found his way through her heart.

And Sauron, for his part does a shitty job of convincing her otherwise. There are moments of earnest vulnerability sprinkled in there but in the heat of her anger and outrage, she cannot see it. Their fight tells a story in itself and he toys with her. She knows it too. What’s more, the fight becomes a microcosm of their relationship. She pursues him and he bats her away. He nicks her in precise places on her body - her shoulder, where he saw Valandil pierce her with his sword and then her left flank, where Halbrand was injured - like he means to recall their shared history. But instead of a caress, it’s a cut.

Then he morphs into Halbrand, then Galadriel, then Celebrimbor. He’s telling her that he sees and remembers everything. What she feels is ridiculed and used like a puppet. Finally, the last place he cuts her is over her heart. An unhealing scar will be left. Still he sees and remembers everything. That wound is for the both of them.

By the end of their fight, Sauron has unintentionally reinforced what Galadriel had set out to prove in her mind, if not in her heart. Halbrand never existed. She feels triumphant over Sauron and over the darkness that haunts her. She believes she is “healed.” It’s a parallel of her leap from the ship bound for the Undying Lands. Instead of turning it away, she’s embracing her death and her closure. At the same time, Sauron reaches an epiphany that is similar to her own but fundamentally different: Halbrand is no more. As I had stated before, Sauron likely associates Halbrand as the most vulnerable version of himself even if it is the closest to the truth. It is the version of himself he saw ruling with Galadriel. But he sees this as a failed effort, so it wouldn’t serve a practical purpose to be Halbrand anymore. It was a risk he would rather avoid and he probably wants him gone as badly as she does.

However both of those premises are faulty. Because we, the viewers know what they deny: Halbrand is Sauron. He always will be. They are both lying to themselves. Which begs the question: Was Galadriel healed and reborn in light? Or was she rejected by death because her sacrifice was built on a half-truth? Had she been sent back because she had not completed her mission? She had said her task was to remove the stain of his evil from Middle Earth. Halbrand is Sauron. Even though the door to her mind is shut, the door to her heart is a different story. And his stain is still there.

[ficnation]

Chapter 8: Devour

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,3k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence A/n: Here we go! A part of Su-zakana and we're slowly diving into our connection with Hannibal (unedited)

Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

You return home with Will that night after a long day of investigating the crime scene, only to find the house empty and the shadows of night already filling the rooms. The air carries a stillness, as if the house is holding its breath in anticipation of something—perhaps in preparation for what comes next.

The dogs are sleeping peacefully by the fire, their heads lifting with perked-up ears as they sense an intruder. But once they notice their owners, they just wag their tails and shortly after, return to sleep, reassured by your presence.

“Let’s talk then,” Will says, his voice quiet yet determined as he breaks the silence that hangs heavy in the air.

Your heart skips a beat at his words, a flutter of anticipation mingled with apprehension. This is the moment you’ve both been avoiding yet yearning for—the inevitable confrontation. With a steadying breath, you gather your courage, readying yourself.

You step further into the house, shedding your coat and snowy boots, feeling the weight of the day lift as you leave the wintry chill behind.

“I thought the only thing that could haunt my dreams is my sister’s death,” you admit, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability as you confront the unsettling thoughts that have been plaguing you.

“Is it your father?” Will asks, his tone gentle yet probing.

“He was an asshole,” you reply bluntly, a trace of bitterness creeping into your voice as you recall the painful memories associated with that poor excuse of a man.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be in my nightmares. I don’t even think about him, Will,” you insist, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, knowing all too well that it’s a lie. The weight of unspoken truths hangs heavy in the air between you both. You can’t ever tell him the truth.

A flash of understanding crosses Will’s face as he takes in your words. Unlike most people, he can see through your denial, knowing that there’s more to your feelings than you’re letting on.

He studies your expression for a moment in consideration before speaking again, his tone laced with tenderness. “You do think about him, don’t you?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

You turn around instantly to avoid his gaze, walking over to the bed and plopping down on it with a heavy sigh, the weight of those words bearing down on you like a crushing burden. You change the course of the conversation. “It’s… It’s Hannibal.”

“He’s in your nightmares?”

“He never leaves them,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, the truth hanging heavy in the air between you and Will. The mere thought of Hannibal’s presence infiltrating your dreams sends a shiver down your spine, reminding you of the insidious grip he still holds on your psyche. “He appears as this black creature, its eyes so black they resemble holes, a giant set of antlers growing out of its skull. In one of them, it impaled my hands on them.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Will’s eyes. He used to have them too, but they subsided once you came back. He knows this monster very well; it’s engraved in his memory. The shadow of Hannibal Lecter looms large over both of your lives, leaving an indelible mark that cannot be easily erased.

“Left me hanging there, face to face with this thing. Blood running down my arms...” You let out a trembly sigh. “The worst part is, there’s no pain. No distraction. It’s just me and him.”

He knows full well what it’s like to have Hannibal’s monstrous presence seep its way into your nightmares, haunting your sleep with his malevolent presence.

“You’re trapped,” he observes softly, his tone touched with empathy, “with him.”

Will joins you on the bed with a heavy sigh. He reaches out to offer you his hand, the gesture filled with an underlying sentiment of comfort and reassurance. His hands are cold—a grounding kind of chilliness.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything, Will. We’re in this together,” you assure him, your voice steady despite the lingering unease in your heart. “And we’ll find a way to face it together.”

“It’s not good for you. I see it so clearly.”

You see it too, more than clearly. Hannibal Lecter should never have entered your life, and you should never have entered his.

You’re not sure if it’s something particular he did, but it’s not just your nightmares he occupies—it’s your thoughts and fantasies. It fills your mind with immeasurable guilt because how could you do that to Will? How could you think about someone other than him like that?

From the moment you met Will Graham, you knew he was your everything. No man has ever come close to filling the void in your soul that he filled. No man has ever engraved himself in your memory like Will did. He was truly your everything. And now? Hannibal Lecter occupies your thoughts just as much as Will does—it’s unnerving.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, head bowed in defeat, so you reach out and raise it with your fingers gently gripping his chin.

“We keep moving forward, Will,” you say softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as light as a butterfly’s touch. “If you want to help all those people then let him devour us. Let him pray we’re not poisonous.”

“Literally?”

“Not literally, you fool.”

A few days later, you find yourself in front of Hannibal Lecter’s office, patiently waiting for his patient to emerge. You hadn’t expected to end up here at all, nor did you anticipate being the one to seek him out. How the tables have turned...

The young woman exits the room just twenty minutes later. She doesn’t rush, taking her sweet time to put her coat on and greet you with a “good evening” that sounds just a tiny bit snobbish. You wish you had you had the same luxury of time to savor such small moments.

The sound of your knuckles rapping against the wooden door echoes through the corridor. You wait patiently, anticipation stirring within you as you wonder how Hannibal will receive your unexpected visit.

A faint “come in” follows from within.

You push open the door, stepping into Hannibal Lecter’s office with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The room is bathed in soft lamplight, casting long shadows across the elegant furnishings. Hannibal sits behind his desk, his posture relaxed yet attentive as he regards you with a curious gaze.

“Mrs. Graham, I didn’t expect you,” Hannibal’s voice is smooth and composed, betraying little of his inner thoughts. You offer a polite smile, though inside, your nerves are coiled tight.

“I didn’t expect to end up here today either,” you admit. It’s the truth. You don’t have any idea why you’re here.

“Perhaps you’re here to talk about Will?” Hannibal suggests, his tone measured and probing, yet not demanding. He appears content merely with your presence.

“I’m really not sure,” you confess with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely audible in the air between you.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

“I’d like that,” you respond a bit too quickly, mentally cursing yourself for the slight hint of eagerness in your voice. “If you don’t have another patient waiting, of course.”

“I’m done for the day,” he says with a smile that tells you he definitely noticed your tone. That’s not good. Or maybe it is?

You take a seat in one of the armchairs, crossing your legs and looking at him expectantly. With a deep breath, you let your shoulders relax slightly. Hannibal takes the other armchair and mirrors your posture, crossing his legs and folding his hands atop them in a manner that echoes your own.

“Something tells me you’re not here because of Will.”

“You might be right about that.”

“Then why are you here, Mrs. Graham?” Hannibal inquires, his tone soft but curious, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes you feel like he’s peeling back layers of your psyche yet again. “Because of our unfinished conversation, perhaps?”

“Do you consider it unfinished?” You tilt your head slightly, a ghost of a smile playing over your lips.

“Indeed,” Hannibal responds, his own lips curving into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Our last discussion left many avenues unexplored, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I believe the last thing I asked about was the purpose of your previous visit,” you say, your tone measured and composed.

“I recall that,” Hannibal acknowledges with a nod. “A valid inquiry, indeed.”

You nod your head and look at him expectantly, feeling a quiet buzzing in the back of your head. The black creature stands behind Hannibal, expressionless and looming like a silent sentinel. You discreetly rub your eyes with your fingers, not expecting it to help, but to your surprise, it does. The monster is gone, leaving not even a shadow after its disappearance.

“Would you like me to be perfectly honest with you?” 

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, weighing your words carefully before responding. “Yes, please,” you reply, meeting Hannibal’s gaze with unwavering determination. You brace yourself for whatever truth he’s about to reveal.

“I’ve been Will’s therapist for a while,” he begins, his hands finding their rightful place on the armrests. You can’t help but notice how majestic he looks in his domain. “You seem to be a person of significant importance in his life. Yet, I haven’t heard much about you. Not until recently, and even now, Will seems to be avoiding discussing your role in his life.”

Hannibal meets your gaze head-on, boring into your soul. His stare alone makes you want to tell him everything—things he’s not supposed to know and things he has no right to know.

You remember the words you said to Will. They echo in your head, bouncing off the walls of your skull. Let him devour us. Let him pray we’re not poisonous. They dissipate as you draw in a deep breath and release it slowly.

“Our paths to this moment haven’t exactly been peaceful,” you admit, idly playing with the edge of your skirt—not out of nerves, but to subtly direct Hannibal’s attention there.

The tactic proves effective as his gaze follows the movement, tracing down the length of your crossed legs to the black heels you wore during the dinner at his place. You’re almost certain it triggers memories of that day—the elegant green dress, the atmosphere thick with tension and intrigue.

You hold his gaze steadily, letting the silence stretch between you as you wait for him to respond. There’s a tension in the air, a palpable energy that crackles with anticipation.

Hannibal’s lips curve into a faint smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he meets your gaze once more. “Ah, the witness protection program,” he muses, his tone laced with intrigue. “It certainly has a way of reshaping one’s path, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” you agree, a hint of mystery in your tone. “You might be surprised to find out just how much.”

Hannibal’s smile widens slightly. “Not a lot of things surprise me anymore, Mrs. Graham.”

You lean just a little bit closer in the armchair, your eyes narrowing slightly as you focus on Hannibal. There’s a sense of anticipation in the air, as if you’re both teetering on the edge of a revelation.

“I see what Will sees in you,” he says, his tone soft yet filled with depth, as if acknowledging a truth that transcends mere observation. 

Hannibal’s gaze holds yours, his expression unreadable yet strangely intense. It’s as if he’s peering into the depths of your soul, searching for something that even you might not fully understand.

“Do you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Graham,” he replies, unwavering.

The air between you crackles with tension, igniting sparks that dance between the two of you. Despite being different people, there’s an undeniable similarity that hangs between you, palpable even without knowing him intimately.

“Would you like to tell me more about your time in witness protection?”

Hannibal’s question catches you off guard. You blink rapidly, surprised by his inquiry. You had hoped he would honor the unspoken promise he made to Will, naively believing he wouldn’t pry into the matter. Wrong. 

“It’s been peaceful. Tough to leave everything and everyone behind, but not working in the FBI has been a blessing,” you respond, offering a brief summary of your experience.

“But now you’re back in the field, why?”

“Curiosity, perhaps. A desire to be part of something meaningful again,” you reply, keeping your answer vague yet suggestive.

Hannibal shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. “You’re quite good at deception, aren’t you?”

Your mouth quirks up in amusement that he figured you out so easily. For some reason, it doesn’t make you sweat as it should. If he could uncover your lie that quickly, it meant he could unearth much more with just as much ease. It definitely should make you nervous.

“That’s what working in the BAU does to you,” you reply with a wry smile, hoping to brush off any further questions. “Makes lying your second nature.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, my dear.”

My dear—the nickname reverbarates in your mind, melting your brain with it’s sweet tone. I shouldn’t be here. Your cheeks flush with warmth, a sensation you’re not particularly fond of. You’re no longer a young schoolgirl harboring a crush on her professor. You shouldn’t feel like this.

Hannibal lets his eyes stray toward the elegant watch on his wrist, his lips pressing into a thin line. Hannibal sighs deeply, his gaze filled with longing as it returns to your face. Such a beautiful creature, he muses silently.

“I’m afraid our meeting must come to an end sooner than I’d like,” Hannibal explains, a regretful tone in his voice. “Time seems to slip away all too quickly in our conversations.”

Thank heavens.

“I understand,” you reply, masking a pinch of disappointment that creeps into your heart. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter.”

“It’s Hannibal,” he reminds you with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Hannibal,” you murmur his name, tasting it on your tongue yet again as you stand up, smoothing out your skirt. “We’ll meet again very soon.”

Knocking on the door of the stranger’s shed elicits a cacophony of barks and screeches from the animals inside, their alarm evident. You lock eyes with Will inquisitively. You were well-acquainted with the case of Sarah Craber’s murder and the circumstances surrounding the discovery of her body. It was poetic. Not beautiful, but undeniably poetic.

When no one appears in the doorway, you let yourself in reluctantly. You follow Jack and Will inside, making a point to be the last one to enter. It generally makes you appear less threatening.

“Scare them when ya knock like that,” the manly voice is uninvating, perhaps carrying a hint of shyness.

“Apologies for the disturbance,” you offer with a polite nod, acknowledging the man’s comment and the subtle hint of shyness in his voice.

Jack simply shakes his head, still not accustomed to your courteous approach with suspects and witnesses. He’s always leaned towards a more direct method, but he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of your approach, which often yielded the best results.

“Peter Bernardone?” Jack questions.

The man in question reacts suspiciously, awkwardly turning his back toward your little group, trying to avoid your eyes.

“Sir?” Jack tries again, while you and Will exchange uncertain glances, unsure of how to react. “You don’t seem to be curious about who we are.”

“Who are you?” he mutters, barely audible. It’s evident that the question is forced out of him—an awkward effort not to appear suspicious.

“I’m Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI. This is Will Graham and Agent Avant,” he introduces you to the man. You walk around the small building, observing the various animals in cages. The place feels familiar, although you’re certain you’ve never been here before. Perhaps it’s these creatures that remind you of Will’s habit of collecting stray dogs.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about someone you may have had contact with when you worked at the Blackbriar Stables. A woman named Sarah Craber. Her body was recently found… in unusual circumstances.”

“I know,” Peter Bernardone interjects, sounding just a little guilty. “I know. I heard.”

You lean over one of the cages, locking eyes with a white rabbit. Its red eye resembles a small bead, peering straight at you yet seeming to look right through you at the same time. It’s beautiful yet unsettling. You’re glad Will takes in dogs and not bunnies.

“There was a bird in her chest. Did you hear about that?” Will looks around the shed before his gaze finds you, a small quirk of his mouth appearing when he notices you leaning over one of the cages, observing the little creature.

“Was the bird alive?” the man questions, more concerned about the animal than about the dead woman.

This question seems to catch all of your attention, as you look at Bernardone, surprised and intrigued, as do Jack and Will. Crawford wears a smugness in his expression that seems to say, “I told you so.”

“Yes.”

The man staggers, “Who— who— who taking care of the bird?”

You feel a pang of sympathy for him, for reasons you can’t quite articulate. You probably shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. You can’t fathom him strangling an innocent girl to death. Yet, the world is cruel and deceptive, and even the most innocent-looking people can be capable of terrible things. People are flawed, and God knows that His creations can act worse than animals at times.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Bernardone. We wouldn’t leave it to die,” you reassure him, gently inserting your finger between the metal rods of the cage to stroke the soft, white fur of the animal. You smile when it doesn’t shy away.

The man’s shoulders drop a little in relief. A good sign.

“How well did you know Sarah Craber?” Jack questions.

“I didn’t know her,” Peter shakes his head, still avoiding eye contact with any of you.

Jack takes a step closer, and Peter freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights, unsure where to direct his gaze or where to move. 

“Would you mind looking at a photograph?” your boss persists.

“I—” Peter stammers once more, his voice barely above a mumble. “I know who she is. I didn’t— I didn’t know her.”

Will and Jack exchange a silent glance, piquing your interest more than the rabbit, so you decide to leave it alone. You step a little closer, joining Will by his side. His hand reaches for yours, clad in warm gloves. 

“Just… take a look to be sure.” Jack reaches out his hand, holding the photograph out toward Peter.

It takes a moment before he finally extends his hand for the photo, his head turned in the other direction.

“I feel bad for him,” you whisper to Will, low enough not to be heard by the two other men.

“I do too,” Will responds softly, his voice carrying a hint of empathy as he grips your fingers just a little tighter.

Peter glances at the picture of Sarah Craber for a fleeting moment, his brain seemingly struggling to process the image before he returns it with an outstretched hand, his head once again turned away, eyes closed shut. 

Will’s eyes dart between Jack and Peter, his gaze shifting rapidly as he processes the interaction, piecing together the puzzle before him. “Did you get your head injury when you were working at the stables, Peter?”

The man in question point his finger at his head. “Yeah, okay. Kicked by a horse. Boom.”

“That’s an atypical motor response,” Will concludes, taking a step closer. “Peter’s abilities to look and touch can only happen as separate events.”

It all makes sense now.

“It’s aggravated by stress, right?”

“Are you feeling stressed, Mr. Bernardone?” you inquire in a gentle tone.

“Yeah, I’m worried about the bird.”

“Would you like us to bring it to you?”

The man doesn’t meet your gaze, his head bowed and his eyes blinking rapidly. He’s clearly overwhelmed by the situation, with too many questions and unfamiliar faces and voices.

“Yes. Worried about the bird. I’m sad for her death, sad for the horse, but I…” He looks at Will then at you. “I can only help the bird.”

As you exit the building, you can’t help but hope for the chance to visit again, under much kinder circumstances. You’re sure Peter Bernardone isn’t the killer, and Will seems to share your conclusion.

“I don’t know if he’s the killer, Jack,” he says, uncertainty shading his tone. He exhales, the breath visible in the cold air as a puff of fog. “If he is, he never meant to be. And if he isn’t, he knows who is.”

“He’s not the killer,” you affirm, your voice carrying a tone of conviction stronger than Will’s.

You don’t say anything else, tucking your hands into the pockets of your black coat as you stride toward Jack’s car, a quiet whistle escaping your lips. The icy air nips at your cheeks and nose. God, I wish I were sunbathing in the Bahamas.

The Chinese food lacks its usual flavor, failing to satisfy your appetite as it typically does. Seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, you absentmindedly poke at your pasta with chopsticks, lacking the usual enthusiasm for your meal.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks, his posture relaxed as he sits slouched in the armchair nearby, clearly not sharing your lack of enthusiasm.

You sigh deeply, punctuating your discontent with the last stab of the chopsticks into the takeout box before rising to your feet. With a resigned shrug, you leave it perched on the windowsill behind Will’s armchair, a silent testament to your waning appetite. You return to your previously occupied spot on the carpet, folding your legs beneath you as you settle back down, the fire casting a warm glow over the room.

“Jack’s got me looking at dead bodies again. Makes me wanna throw up,” you admit, the words carrying a hint of frustration and discomfort.

Will stops his movements, chopsticks halfway in the air, his gaze shifting from the food to you.

“You were supposed to work with the witnesses and suspects only,” he says, his tone tinged with more than annoyance as he lets the food fall back into the small box and leaves it on the windowsill next to yours.

“I thought so too. Turns out Jack doesn’t really keep his promises.”

“That’s not okay.”

“It’s not,” you agree, glancing at him in your peripheral vision.

The silence stretches between the two of you as you both gaze into the dancing flames of the fire. The crackling of the fire fills the room, punctuating the quiet tension that hangs in the air. Each flicker of the flames casts fleeting shadows across the walls, adding to the somber atmosphere. Despite the warmth emanating from the hearth, a chill seems to settle in the room, matching the unease that lingers between you and Will.

“I went to see Hannibal,” you confess, your voice breaking the silence with an impulsive urgency.

Will’s expression shifts subtly, a mix of surprise and curiosity flashing across his features before he masks it with a neutral facade. “Why?” he asks, his tone carefully measured.

“I don’t know.”

“Curiosity?”

“Might be.”

Will nods slowly, his eyes studying you intently. “What did you two talk about?”

As you sit in the flickering glow of the fire, contemplating your words, Will’s attention shifts fully to you, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He leans forward slightly, waiting for you to continue, his eyes searching your face for even a little hint.

“You and me, our paths.”

Will nods slowly, his gaze still fixed on you, waiting for you to elaborate. The weight of his silent anticipation hangs heavy in the air, urging you to delve deeper into your thoughts.

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “Our paths, they seem to keep intersecting, don’t they? Whether by fate or some other force, we’re constantly drawn together, tangled in each other’s lives.” You pause, searching for the right words to convey the complexity of your connection with Will. “It’s like we’re two parallel lines that can never quite stay apart, no matter how much we try.”

“We’re intertwined in ways that neither of us fully understands,” you continue, your voice carrying a mixture of resignation and longing. “And sometimes, I wonder if that’s a good thing or a curse. But regardless, here we are, facing whatever comes our way together.”

The man nods silently, his expression reflecting surprise at your mention of fate. It’s been some time since you broached the topic, and he had assumed you no longer believed in its influence. Yet, as he considers your words, he realizes he’s pondered the same question himself on numerous occasions.

A blessing or a curse. Will is not offended in the slightest. You clashed on more than one occasion, burning down anything that crossed you paths at the wrong time. Yet, you always end up together, as if some unseen force continually draws you back into each other’s orbit.

You offer a small smile in response to his silent acknowledgment, realizing that perhaps there’s more to your connection than mere coincidence or happenstance. Despite the uncertainties and complexities of your relationship, there’s a shared understanding that binds you together, transcending the barriers of logic and reason.

“I love you, Will. With all my heart.”

“Well… I’m sure you can’t love me more than I love you. I’ve waited for you my whole life.”

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