#but it’s a story I feel I don’t have the tools to tell just yet and idt I can do a better job than the work i drew inspo from

[irondeficienttav]

The Taste of You: Chapter Three

The aftermath of their encounter has left a strange tension between Astarion and Myrkiira.

Chapter One is here.

Chapter Two is here.

Warning: blood and violence, but this is a vampire fic so you're probably expecting that, also some mentions of sensuality (but no smut this time)

As always, I'd appreciate any feedback on this story. I may put it on Ao3 soon, so stay tuned for that maybe.

Astarion didn’t need sleep, but even the shallow reprieve of his elven trance was broken—again and again—by visions of their tryst in the woods. He couldn’t shake the feeling of her quickened pulse beneath his lips, her warm breath against his shoulder, her wide eyes as she reached her peak, her blind trust in him as he ravaged her.

I’ve been known to be generous. Her words haunted him. A sacrificial lamb to his bloodlust.

Restless, he rose, pacing the length of his tent. His plan had been simple. Seduce her, earn her trust, secure his place at her side. And in a way, he had succeeded. He had gained Myrkiira’s trust, her protection, and perhaps even her affection. She had offered herself to him—her body, her blood. He had taken both. He mindlessly grazed a finger against his lips, remembering the taste.

The pit in his stomach coiled tighter with every passing thought.

He could have killed her. The realization made his throat dry. He pictured her now, pale and weak, barely able to stand after what he had taken from her.

He had bedded thousands, but this felt different. Lust had always been a tool, a means to an end. But last night, he had been reckless, ravenous, desperate in a way he didn’t understand. He had taken more than he should have, let himself drown in the pleasure of it, let the hunger consume him.

Surely, she would keep her distance now. He had ruined whatever goodwill he had managed to build, whatever fragile thing that had begun to form between them.

Dawn arrived before he could gather his thoughts. The first light of morning stretched over camp, too bright, too unforgiving. He stepped out of his tent, still adjusting to the strange sensation of sunlight against his skin.

Myrkiira was nowhere in sight.

Of course she wasn’t.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He thought about going to her—just to see if she was well, just to confirm that he hadn’t— but no. That would be foolish. He turned, ready to retreat back into the safety of his tent when—

"Hey, soldier!"

Her voice rang clear across the camp.

He turned, quickly fixing his expression into something charming, something easy. His best smile, as if he weren’t unravelling inside.

"Good morning, darling."

She stood a few paces away, looking him over with a bemused expression, noticing a single drop of dried blood on his collar. "Care for some coffee?" She paused, head tilting slightly. "You look like you need it. I didn’t realize vampires could get tired."

He let out a soft chuckle, shifting his weight onto one leg. "Vampires can do plenty of things, my dear."

He hesitated, tension in his words. “Have you seen Myrkiira yet?”

Karlach’s grin was immediate. “No, but I’d have thought you had. You two looked very close last night.” She tilted her head, playful and prying. “Something happen?”

His jaw tensed before he forced a laugh, light, dismissive. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure you don’t.” Her smirk lingered, but her voice softened. “Well, whatever you two are up to—kissing or otherwise—enjoy it, huh?” She exhaled, gaze flickering elsewhere. “I’d do anything to be able to touch someone like that.”

“It’s…” He hesitated, rolling his shoulders. “Not always that simple, you know?”

Karlach scoffed. “Of course it is! She likes you, you like her. Why not enjoy it?”

His smile faltered, just for a moment, before he twirled his dagger between his fingers, “I’d best get ready for the day. Can’t have my hair looking anything less than perfect when we’re knee-deep in blood again.”

Without waiting for a reply, he slipped back into his tent, relieved—if only briefly—to have avoided Myrkiira.

But his moment of peace was short-lived. A flurry of footsteps outside, quick and heavy, shattered the quiet. Before he could react, the tent flap was thrown open.

Shadowheart stormed in, eyes blazing.

“Oh, what now?” He rolled his eyes, dragging out the words with theatrical exasperation.

“Don’t act so innocent.” She snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Myrkiira can hardly stand. What the hells were you thinking?”

“Well, clearly, I wasn’t,” he snapped, folding his arms. “But you can give it a rest. I won’t bite her anymore, alright?”

Shadowheart’s gaze was razor-sharp. “You won’t?”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “No,” he said, more tired than annoyed now. “I get it, okay? It was fun while it lasted, but believe it or not, I’d prefer it if she didn’t die.”

A long pause.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoed, drawing out the word and waving a hand dismissively. “You can leave now.”

Shadowheart hesitated, eyes lingering on him as if she wanted to say more. But after a tense moment passed, she huffed and stormed out.

...

Myrkiira flushed as she fastened the last strap of her armour, the heat of shame creeping up her neck. Shadowheart had been less than pleased to find her this morning—pale, unsteady, barely able to stand. And it was her fault, her lust had clouded all rational thought.

A warmth curled low in her belly, arousal that bordered on ruinous, from the memory. Had it always felt that good? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t compare. But before she had even had a chance to recover from their passions, he had disappeared. She recalled the last look he gave her, lust turned to fear in an instant. Regret.

Steeling herself, she stepped out into camp, eyes fixed anywhere but him. She needed to focus, to push past the lingering haze of the night before.

And yet, the moment she heard his voice—smooth, teasing, so unbearably Astarion—she knew.

Knew that if he so much as smiled at her she would bare her throat again like the fool she was.He wasn’t even talking to her. Gale was rambling about his latest literary obsession, and Astarion was teasing him mercilessly. Myrkiira forced herself to look away. Watch yourself, her mind warned.

…

Myrkiira, Wyll, Astarion, and Shadowheart pressed forward through the mountain pass, each lost in their own thoughts—the road ahead, the cursed tadpole, the weight of unspoken tensions. The silence between Myrkiira and Astarion hung heavy, noticed by all but addressed by none.

His eyes met hers—briefly, fleetingly—but she found no clarity there. Only a hunger laced with something bitter, something that felt like hate.

Then, a snarl shattered the quiet.

A gnoll lunged from the tall grass, teeth bared, saliva dripping from its maw. Myrkiira’s eyes flicked around—there were more. At least six.

Without hesitation, she shifted, her body contorting into the sleek form of a dire raven. Wings spread wide, she shot forward, talons outstretched, striking at the gnoll’s face—tearing, blinding, relentless.

Astarion melted into the shadows, slipping into a crouch behind a bush, arrow drawn and waiting. Wyll charged ahead, sword raised, meeting the onslaught head-on.

But Myrkiira pushed too far. She was ahead of the others now, lost in the rush of battle.

“Watch out!” Shadowheart’s warning came a second too late.

A second gnoll flanked her, claws raking through feathers and flesh. She tumbled from the sky, slamming into the dirt with a sharp crack, shifting back into her elven form as she hit the ground.

Astarion’s arrow flew in an instant, sinking deep into the gnoll’s skull before it could land another strike. But the damage was done.

Myrkiira coughed, blinking up at the sky, pain radiating through her ribs. She wasn’t finished yet.

She surged to her feet, fists crackling with energy. She shot a bolt of thunder from her palms, sending two gnolls sprawling backward. Wyll unleashed an Eldritch Blast into the charging gnoll behind her.

Spells flew from her hands—fire, ice, and light—until a gnoll’s claws sank deep into her chest, sending her crashing to the ground. The air left her lungs with a gasp.

Astarion’s fingers curled around his dagger, knuckles white as he lunged. His footsteps fell heavier than usual, his strike swift and merciless, blade slipping between the gnoll’s ribs with deadly ease.

The rest of the group fought fiercely, each blow and strike decisive, until the last gnoll fell to the dirt, its blood staining the earth.

Astarion stormed over, fury flashing in his eyes. “What in the hells were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice sharp, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

The fire that had fueled her attacks had burned out, leaving only frailty in its wake. She lay crumpled on the ground, her breath shallow, blood spilling in dark rivulets across her chest. Astarion despised the way the sight made saliva pool at the back of his throat, the hunger curling tight in his stomach. But even more, he hated the sharp sting of something closer to concern.

Before Myrkiira could respond, Shadowheart’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension. “Rich, coming from you.” Frustration shrouded her eyes as she prepared a healing spell.

Myrkiira sighed, feeling the warmth of Shadowheart’s magic flow through her, the healing energy bringing her back from the brink. She winced but managed to stand, her chest still burning from the wound.

Wyll’s steady hand gripped her arm, his voice calm but firm. “What our friends mean to say is... be more careful next time. We alreaady know of your prowess in battle, but you’re not invincible.”

Myrkiira nodded slowly, feeling a strange comfort in Wyll’s kindness, his quiet understanding. “I think I’ll head back to camp for now,” she murmured, her body sore but grateful for the respite.

Wyll’s smile was warm, a small but genuine thing. “Let me join you. You’re in no condition to go back alone.”

Astarion’s jaw clenched at the exchange, his eyes narrowing. Of course, Prince Charming had to save the day. He watched as Wyll’s arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her as they walked. There was a familiarity between them that cut sharper than Astarion cared to admit, a quiet intimacy he had never witnessed before.

[heartepub]

opened the app to the sweetest bunch of feedback on to be your eyes……

@ylangelegy kae you have my whole heart your tags are the gift that keeps on giving (is it changing svtblr? i could not say, but i think u/xinganhao who pushes the possibilities of the smau form is an inspiration actually!!) (i promise to address your and others' tags under something in the orange soon but i am still so very tender after writing that fic lol)

@shinwonderful it's nice to meet u jinx—not-hero seokmin is my roman empire too sadly (lol)

@rainysundaysonthecouch — I'm so so happy you liked it and !!! the sacrifice!!!! yeah!!! oh to offer your eyes, etc

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 5)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 7.3k

Previous Chapter

The next day, she messaged Sam, asking if he could stop by her house before the briefing. His reply came quickly, surprised but agreeable, suggesting a time two hours before the meeting. When the knock finally came, she took a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever reaction he might have.

She opened the door to his familiar, easy smile, but the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. “Hey,” he greeted casually, stepping inside when she gestured for him to come in. “This feels serious. What’s up?”

She led him to the couch, motioning for him to sit. Her palms were clammy, and her fingers twitched slightly as she sat across from him. “It is,” she admitted, “And... I need you to hear me out before you say anything.”

That wiped the smile from his face. Sam leaned forward and clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “Okay. I’m listening.”

She inhaled deeply, and then, she started. From her life before Hydra -her simple, ordinary life in the 60s- to the day everything changed. The kidnapping. The endless, suffocating years as a prisoner, a tool. Her voice faltered as she described the barest surface of what she’d endured and what she’d been forced to do regarding the Winter Soldier. She tried to keep the focus on herself, omitting the details that might betray Bucky’s privacy, but it was impossible to completely separate their pasts.

Sam listened without interrupting, his expression shifted with every new revelation: concern, disbelief, pity, before being replaced with something softer. Compassion.

When she finished, she let out a shuddering breath, slumping her shoulders. “I’m sorry I never told you anything about... this. For giving you my manufactured past. For lying to you about who I am.”

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s your story, and it’s yours to share whenever you’re ready. Or not at all. I get why you didn’t say anything. Hell, I can even understand why the government kept it locked up.” His gaze softened, leaning back slightly. “But it doesn’t change a damn thing. I never doubted our friendship. Not for a second.”

Relief bloomed in her chest at his words. She managed a small smile, twisting her fingers nervously in her lap. “Thank you, Sammy”.

Sam nodded, and then his expression grew thoughtful. “So... that’s why Bucky knew you couldn’t heal yourself?”

“Yeah.” She gave a short, almost bitter laugh. “The information was never given by Hydra to him, but there were... moments. Times when he saw me.” Her eyes drifted downward. “And I guess he connected the dots. If I could heal myself, why would I walk around for days with a bruised lip, or limping?”

Sam exhaled slowly, his brow furrowing. “Damn.”

She nodded, tightening her hands together. “Yeah.”

“And... I didn’t tell you this either,” she hesitated, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Bucky and I... we’ve been seeing each other. After Poland.”

Sam’s brow quirked, a small, curious smile tugging at his lips. “Oh?”

She exhaled, searching for the right words. “Just... reconnecting. Or connecting. I don’t know exactly what to call it yet. Our relationship -if you can even call it that- back then didn’t precisely involve normal conversation over coffee.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “So, the Winter Sulkier talks to you over coffee?”

That drew a chuckle from her lips, lightening the tension in the air. “Yeah. I mean, he’s more of a listener most of the time, but yeah, he talks.”

Sam’s smile softened as he observed her, but she dropped her gaze to her hands again, and her expression turned more serious. “Thing is... he was here yesterday when you called me about the mission. And when I mentioned Argentina and a large crew heading there...” She paused, tightening her fingers together. “He got all worked up. I think he intuits there’s something to do with them.”

Sam’s expression darkened, and his easy demeanor faded. He shook his head slowly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “He isn’t wrong.”

Her chest tightened at the confirmation, but she continued. “He left immediately after that. Told me to talk to you about... us.” She hesitated, then added, “And, that he’s coming.”

Sam let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “Of course he did.”

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t his decision to make,” she said quickly, “But…”

“-there’s no stopping him,” Sam finished with a faint shake of his head, a flicker of exasperation in his tone. “Yeah, I know.”

----

Sam drove them to the briefing at the DHS Strategic Operations Center, a heavily-secured government facility that handled covert international assignments. The building loomed large, with its sleek gray façade and high-security checkpoints manned by armed guards.

To her surprise -or not-, when they entered the briefing room, Bucky was already there, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He looked calm, but the tension in his posture told her otherwise.

Sam quirked a brow at him, gesturing vaguely toward the entrance. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Bucky just stared at him in response, with an unreadable expression.

“Seriously, man,” Sam pressed, muttering something under his breath, shaking his head as he took a seat. She, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smile faintly at him, though the knot of worry in her stomach hadn’t eased.

The room began to fill with agents and operatives, and a few heads turned toward Bucky, with flashing recognition across their faces. It was clear that having both the Winter Soldier and the Falcon in the operation was a major bonus for the mission and a point of fascination for everyone in the room.

She slid into a chair beside Sam, sneaking a glance at Bucky, who had claimed a spot near the corner of the table. He caught her eye briefly, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.

“Looks like the government’s thrilled to have their star players,” she murmured under her breath to Sam.

----

The room fell silent as the operation leader stood at the head of the table, pointing to a digital map of Ushuaia Province projected on the wall. “As suspected, there’s an active Hydra facility in the region. Thanks to intel provided by Argentina’s military forces, we’ve identified its exact location. It’s heavily fortified, with multiple levels of security and a significant number of personnel. Resistance is expected to be strong, and casualties are a possibility.”

The words hung heavy and foreboding between the crew.

“As we continue,” the leader said, turning toward her, “your role is crucial. Due to the expected resistance, we need you on the field, embedded with a group of agents. Your abilities may be needed in the heat of the fight. Even some casualties won’t be avoidable, your presence could make the difference between life and death for many of our operatives.”

Bucky’s body tensed immediately, snapping his sharp gaze to the leader. He didn’t wait to be addressed, didn’t wait for permission to speak. “No,” he said firmly, his voice cut through the room like a blade. “I don’t agree.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Excuse me?”

Bucky straightened from his spot, squaring his broad shoulders. “Sending her into a live combat zone? With Hydra? It’s a mistake. She doesn’t belong on the front lines, she belongs somewhere safe. She can work from a plane or a secure location if you need her. Putting her directly in danger is reckless.”

She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her like a physical force, but her focus was on the leader, not him.

“Barnes,” the leader started, “with all due respect, this isn’t your call-”

“No, but it’s common sense,” Bucky cut in, hardening his voice. “If things go south, she’s the one they’ll target first. Do you really think they wouldn’t recognize her? That they wouldn’t know what she can do and what she’s worth to them?”

Her heart clenched at the words, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stood, scraping her chair softly against the floor as she rose to her feet.

“Enough,” she said sharply, interrupting him.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and his gaze snapped to her, but she didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the operation leader, unwavering and resolute.

“I’m in,” she said firmly.

“You don’t-” Bucky’s voice carried a mix of frustration and concern, but she turned to him before he could say more.

“I said I’m in, Bucky,” she repeated, in a softer tone this time but no less determined. “This is my choice.”

The room was silent again, the tension thick in the air as the leader gave her a small nod. “Good. Then we’ll move forward as planned.”

Bucky’s hands flexed into fists at his sides, but he said nothing more. She could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his disapproval and concern, but she didn’t falter.

This was her fight too. And she wouldn’t let anyone -not even him- take that from her.

The operation leader continued detailing the roles while pointing to the screen. “Barnes, your job is to breach and clear one of the facility’s entrances. You’ll be working with a tactical unit to infiltrate and eliminate the immediate threats on the perimeter.”

Bucky crossed his arms, flexing a muscle in his jaw. “I’ll go with her team.”

The room collectively turned to look at him, as the team leader narrowed his eyes in displeasure. “That’s not your assignment.”

“Well, I’m making it mine,” Bucky said, sharp and unwavering.

Sam let out a low scoff, raising a brow at his partner. “You’re just great at following orders.”

Bucky shot him a sidelong glare but ignored the jab, turning back his attention to the leader. “Let’s be honest,” he said, his tone bordering on cocky. “I’m the best asset you’ve got going in there. If she’s on the field, it makes sense for me to stay close. She makes sure I keep going, and I’m the one who can get her out in one piece.”

The leader leaned forward slightly, clearly distressed by the audacity. His hands fell flat on the table. “You’re overestimating your authority here, Barnes. This isn’t a solo mission.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Bucky replied “But if something goes wrong, I’d rather she have me at her back than anyone else.”

Another agent, seated further down the table, cleared their throat. “With all due respect, Sergeant Barnes, you’re probably not the one who’d need her help. You’re a super soldier. You’ve got advanced healing, stamina, and the works. If she’s in the field, she’ll be more useful to the non-enhanced units who’ll be taking the brunt of the fight.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue but stopped short. He knew she was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He didn’t need her assistance. He wanted her nearby for reasons that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the protectiveness that burned in his chest.

His jaw tightened again, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, forcing himself to back down. “Fine,” he muttered, though the word sounded like it was dragged out of him.

The operation leader’s gaze lingered on Bucky for a moment longer before he turned back to the room. “Then it’s settled. Everyone knows their roles. We leave in three days. Dismissed.”

As chairs scraped and the room began to clear, Sam caught up to Bucky near the door. “So, what’s the plan now, guard dog? Gonna give her a tracking device or a leash?”

Bucky shot him a look that could kill. “Not now.”

Sam grinned, unbothered. “Just saying, man. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Bucky ignored him, drifting his gaze to where she stood by the table, gathering her things. She glanced up, catching his eye, and offered a small, reassuring smile.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He might not be able to stay by her side during the mission, but one way or another, he’d make sure she came out of it safe. Even if it killed him.

----

They didn’t see each other again until they boarded the plane. She spotted him immediately, seated at the far side of the hold, inspecting one of his many weapons with mechanical precision.

Bucky was fully geared up, every inch of him screaming Winter Soldier in a way that made her chest tighten uncomfortably. His tactical suit, dark and imposing, seemed like it was made to swallow him whole, to erase every ounce of humanity she knew was there. Knives, pistols, ammo, -there were more weapons strapped to him than she thought possible-, and Sam, seated nearby, muttered under his breath as he caught sight of him.

“Jesus, Buck,” he quipped, leaning back in his seat with an incredulous look. “Where do you keep all that? Got a secret pocket dimension you haven’t told us about?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance up, focused on the rifle in his hands as he loaded it with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession.

She hesitated before sitting down, diagonal to his, close enough to see the taut lines of his jaw and the cold set of his features. He was somewhere else entirely, locked inside his head in a way that made her stomach twist.

Her fingers tapped lightly on her knee as she debated. Eventually, she mustered the courage to try and break through the wall he had so obviously put up. “Bucky,” she started softly, testing the waters.

He didn’t look at her. “What?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said curtly and dismissive.

She tried again, leaning forward slightly, lacing her tone with a touch of warmth this time. “You’ve been quiet since the briefing. I just... wanted to check in.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said flatly. He finally looked up, but it was brief, just a glance before he turned back to the rifle.

She bit the inside of her cheek, and the pang of melancholy deepened. He was shutting her out, retreating into himself in a way that felt impenetrable. She wanted to say something more, to push through the wall he’d built around himself, but every clipped answer was like a door slammed in her face.

Eventually, she leaned back in her seat, slumping her shoulders slightly. Sam, catching the shift in her demeanor, leaned over and nudged her gently. “You good?”

She gave him a tight smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Sam didn’t press further, but his gaze flicked between her and Bucky, knitting his brows together in thought.

The hours of the flight passed in uncomfortable silence. She stopped trying to talk to Bucky, resigning herself to the fact that he wasn’t in a place to let her in. Instead, she found herself leaning on Sam, who kept the mood light with his casual banter and stories, though she knew he could see the strain on her face.

----

After 22 long hours of flight, the group finally arrived at Ushuaia, skipping any rest stops and heading straight to the location marked on the map as the Hydra facility. The biting -7°C temperature hit them the moment they stepped off the plane, but no one said a word. Adrenaline and focus were locked firmly on the upcoming assault.

As the team deployed, spreading out to take their positions, she adjusted the straps of her gear, ready to follow her assigned group, when she felt a hand wrap around her forearm, halting her steps.

It was Bucky.

Before she could say a word, he gently tugged her closer, his steel-blue eyes piercing through the dim light of the icy morning. Without hesitation, he dipped his head, resting his forehead lightly against hers. The gesture was intimate in a way that caught her completely off guard.

“Stay safe, doll,” he murmured, barely audible over the wind. His other hand slid to her lower back, a solid and steadying touch that sent warmth spreading through her chest despite the freezing air. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt like time had paused around them.

Before she could respond, he pulled back, slipping his hand from her back as he released her. The touch lingered like an imprint on her skin, a phantom sensation she couldn’t shake.

He gave her a small, firm nod, and then turned, walking away to take his position. She stood frozen for a moment, her heart racing and her thoughts spinning in a blur. She didn’t notice the tiny tracker he’d deftly pressed onto the back of her jacket, concealed in one of the seams.

She exhaled deeply, shaking her head as she regrouped with her team. It was only after they began their cautious advance toward the Hydra’s den that she realized she hadn’t said anything back.

----

Bucky's moves were methodical and relentless, bordering on terrifying. His rifle barked sharp bursts of gunfire as his entry key. The initial resistance barely had time to register what hit them before he had breached their defenses with precise and purposeful shots, clearing the way with deadly efficiency. Once inside, the rifle was slung across his back, and he transitioned to pistols, twin bursts of fire that cut through the dimly lit hallways.

When a close-range ambush came at them, he didn’t falter. A knife was in his hand before the first attacker could barely move, and the blade moved in a blur as he parried, slashed, and dropped him in seconds. His other hand went for another approaching assailant, and the dull thud of his fist meeting flesh sickly reverberated down the hallway. The third guy went down with a savage elbow strike to the jaw, that sent the man crumpling against the wall.

The facility was a maze, and he navigated it with an almost preternatural awareness, dispatching any Hydra remnants that dared to cross his path.

Behind him, his team could barely keep up. “Does he even need us?” one of them muttered under their breath, clutching their assault gun tightly as they followed, watching Bucky tear through Hydra’s defenses like a one-man wrecking crew. They focused on providing cover and securing the areas he left in his wake, though it felt almost redundant.

He wasn’t reckless, he was purposeful. Every move was efficient, calculated like a finely tuned machine operating at full capacity. And beneath that precision, was a driving force, a singular thought that fueled him: finish this, finish it fast, get to her.

He turned a corner into a wider room where a group of agents had set up a defensive line. Their gunfire erupted the moment they saw him, but he was already moving. His body twisted as he sprinted toward them, weaving through the barrage with inhuman speed. A flash grenade from his belt bought him the split second he needed to close the distance. When the deafening pop and blinding light cleared, he was in the middle of their formation.

One went down with a knife to the gut, another with a pistol shot to the temple. The third tried to grapple him, only to be met with a swift blow from his vibranium arm that sent him sprawling. Bucky didn’t stop. His fists drove into ribs and jaws, his knives carving through the last line of resistance like it was nothing. Blood splattered onto the cold floors, and the once-deafening room fell silent except for his steady breathing.

The radio on his team leader crackled. “Barnes, status?”

“Clear,” he grunted, wiping the blade of his knife on his sleeve and sheathing it in one fluid motion. His team moved in behind him, sweeping the room as they murmured amongst themselves about the inhuman force of his assault.

He barely heard them. His mind was already elsewhere. His heart was pounding, not from exertion, but from the worry that ate away at him. The sooner his end of the mission was done, the sooner he could ensure she was safe.

----

As Bucky cleared the last room in his assigned sector, he took a final sweep, ensuring no hidden threats remained. The bodies left in his wake weren’t his concern, only the safety of his team, and more importantly, her. So he turned around and started walking away.

He moved like a shadow through the corridors, silent and methodical, operating on pure instinct. The tracker he’d slipped into her clothes pulsed steadily on his HUD, leading him through the labyrinth of sterile hallways and flickering overhead lights. Hydra never changed, their bases were practically carbon copies, and he used that to his advantage, cutting through shortcuts only an old ghost like him would know.

Gunfire crackled in the distance, shouts echoing through the steel walls, but none of it mattered to him.

He picked up the pace as he neared her location, tightening his grip around the pistol in his flesh hand, his vibranium fingers twitching in anticipation. Then, finally, he reached her sector.

The sight before him sent a cold fury ripping through his chest.

The fight was still ongoing and it was clear her team was barely holding on. Some were down, some wounded, and the rest were outnumbered. But Bucky’s eyes only locked onto one thing: the asset trying to restrain her.

She was struggling. He could see the way her limbs lagged just a second too slow, the way her stance wavered ever so slightly, she was exhausted. She’d burned herself out healing the others, and now they were trying to take her.

The bastard restraining her was big, armored, and clearly enhanced. Bucky already knew the type, one of Hydra’s modern knockoff attempts at recreating him. The man had his arm locked around her middle, wrestling to subdue her, while his other hand reached for a syringe strapped to his vest.

Bucky didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

His pistol fired once. Clean, direct. The bullet punched through the asset’s wrist, making him snarl and drop the syringe before he could use it.

Before the man could react, Bucky was already on him.

The Winter Soldier resurfaced with brutal efficiency. He grabbed the man by the vest and threw him off her like a ragdoll, sending him crashing into a nearby crate. The asset barely had time to groan before Bucky was on him again, landing a punishing strike to the ribs, then another to the jaw.

The bastard recovered quickly, swinging at Bucky’s head, but he dodged with ease, catching the incoming arm and twisting sharply. The asset howled, but Bucky silenced him with a savage punch that sent him sprawling.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

He didn’t stop until the man stopped moving.

When he finally turned, he found her staring at him, breathing hard. Her hair was disheveled, her face marked with sweat and dirt, but she was alive.

Still his.

High on adrenaline, Bucky turned toward the dantesque scene unfolding around him. Her team was struggling, pinned down by the remaining opposition, outnumbered and exhausted.

So he moved.

The first man barely had time to register his presence before Bucky’s knife found his ribs, twisting with brutal precision. The second one lunged at him, and Bucky let him, sidestepping at the last second and slamming his elbow into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. They kept coming but the room was cleared in minutes. Efficient. Lethal. Over.

His feet carried him forward before his brain even fully registered it, his hands reaching for her the second he was close enough. He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her tightly, his chest rising and falling against hers as he tried to steady himself.

His face found the crook of her neck, and he inhaled deeply, calming himself with her scent. She was real, she was safe.

She was trembling, whether from exhaustion or leftover adrenaline, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just held her tighter, curling his fingers into the fabric of her tactical gear, pressing her against him like he could shield her from everything.

He didn’t speak. He just held on, waiting for his heart to stop hammering, for the instinct to fight, to kill, to protect, to settle into something quieter.

He didn’t let go. Not yet. Not for a long while.

----

She let him hold on, basking in his unrelenting grip. But as the minutes stretched, something felt wrong in her chest, a creeping worry she couldn’t shake.

“Bucky,” she breathed against his ear, trying to pull back just enough to see his face.

He didn’t answer.

Her hands skimmed over his back, searching for wounds, for anything out of place. “Bucky, are you hurt? Let me see you.”

Nothing. No response. If anything, his arms locked tighter around her.

She leaned back slightly, shifting her hands to his face, ready to insist -look at me, talk to me- but then she saw it.

The empty stare. The idle, blank eyes she knew too well.

Her stomach dropped.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, gentle but firm. She inhaled deeply before trying. “Soldat?”

A barely-there shudder ran through his body. His grip twitched, tightening before loosening just the slightest bit.

She swallowed hard. She knew exactly where he was, adrift in the space between past and present, somewhere dark, somewhere cold. She cupped his face,  sweeping her thumbs over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “Listen, everything is fine now. We are safe, you did good. You can rest.”

Her breath hitched as his grip slipped down and tightened around her thighs, and the world tilted violently as he hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Soldat-” she started, but he moved with single-minded purpose, boots echoing heavily against the bloodstained floor as he strode down the corridor.

The others tried to move after them, with evident concern. “Stand down,” she called over her shoulder, her voice firmer than she felt. “Don’t- don’t interfere.” Because if they do…

They hesitated, but obeyed, exchanging wary glances as the two disappeared around a corner.

“Soldat,” she tried again. “Put me down. I’m fine. Where are we going?”

No answer. Not even a flicker of recognition. His grip remained firm, arms locked around her legs, his vibranium hand pressing against the small of her back to keep her steady.

The hallways blurred past in a dizzying, all-too-familiar pattern. He knew where he was going. Of course he did. Hydra never changed their layouts, never altered their twisted efficiency.

And then he stopped. A metal door loomed ahead, slightly ajar, the faded remnants of a red cross still painted on its surface.

The infirmary.

Before she could speak, he shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside. She staggered slightly as he set her down “What are you-“

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He pressed his back against the door, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor with one bent knee and the other stretched out. His head tilted back against the cold metal with a dull thud, and his eyes flicked shut for just a second before snapping open again. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths. His gaze landed unfocused somewhere in the distance.

She took a cautious step forward, lowering her voice. “Soldat?”

His fingers twitched.

The only thing she could think to do was play along. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. First, she pressed a hand to her comm, switching to Sam’s channel. Keeping a steady voice, she whispered, “Sammy, I’m fine. My side of the facility is clear, but there’s… a complication with Bucky. My teammates will fill you in. Just don’t come looking for us. Please. I need you to make them understand.”

There was a long pause, before Sam’s voice finally came through the crackle of static, lower, graver than usual. “…You sure about this?”

Her gaze flicked back to Soldat, watching the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, coiled like a spring. She swallowed hard. “Yes. Let me handle it.”

Another pause. Then, a resigned sigh. “Alright. But if you need backup-”

“I’ll let you know.” She shut off the comm before he could argue, pushing the outside world aside.

----

She clasped her hands in front of her, standing straighter, adopting the crisp authority she’d seen Hydra’s handlers use a thousand times before.

“I need a mission report.”

His fingers twitched again. His gaze flickered -just slightly- but it stayed distant, unfocused, locked somewhere behind her rather than on her.

A long beat of silence.

Her stomach clenched.

She took another step closer. “Soldat,” she repeated, keeping her tone firm but even. “Mission report. Now.”

His jaw worked, and a slow inhale expanded his chest.

“…Facility neutralized.” The words came rough and automatic, like a reflex. His voice was lower than usual, mechanical, like the syllables were pulled from his throat against his will. “Threats eliminated.”

She swallowed. “And my status?”

His breath stuttered slightly. His fingers flexed, curling into loose fists before releasing.

“Secure,” he said after a pause.

She exhaled quietly, steadying herself.

Her mind raced for the next step. She couldn’t just order him out of this. She needed to guide him back. She took a slow breath, crouching down to his level, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Good,” she murmured. “So… mission’s over now, right?”

Another twitch. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

She hesitated, then reached forward, brushing featherily his vibranium knuckles. No sudden moves. No pressure. “Remember what happens when a mission is over? You let me check on you and I get you all better.”

He hesitated. His brows knitted together as though sifting through fragmented, conflicting commands buried deep in his mind. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a single, curt nod.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding slipped from her lips.

“You did good,” she said again, keeping a reassuring voice. “Go sit on the stretcher and let me see you.”

He stood immediately at her command, a well-oiled machine running on deeply ingrained instinct. With precise, practiced movements, he removed his rifle, his sidearm, and every knife tucked into his gear. Each weapon clattered softly onto the nearby tray, in a quiet, chilling symphony of steel.

Then, without hesitation, he stripped away his tactical vest, shrugging out of it like armor no longer needed. His Henley followed, baring his torso under the harsh, sterile light of the infirmary. His skin was streaked with sweat and blood. The deep, ugly wounds carved into him were the only indication that he wasn’t invincible.

He sat on the stretcher with squared shoulders and rested his hands on his thighs as he stared ahead. Silent. Waiting.

Her breath hitched when she saw the extent of the damage. Two large-caliber bullet wounds, one grazing his ribs, the other embedded deeper near his shoulder. A deep stab wound on his side, red and angry. The blood had slowed to a sluggish trickle, but the damage was undeniable.

She inhaled heavily, steeling herself, knowing she was running on fumes. She had drained so much of herself in the fight, trying to keep others alive, trying to be useful. But she couldn't stop now. Not when he was in front of her, hurt because of her.

Her hands hovered over the worst wound, shaking slightly before she forced them to steady. Focus. Do what you have to.

But as she pressed her glowing fingers to his skin, and the warmth of her power seeped into his body, another weight settled over her. Guilt.

He came here because of her.

He got hurt because of her.

And worst of all… his mind was slipping, because of her. Regressing into something she wasn’t sure she could pull him back from. She choked on a sob, and her vision blurred as she fought to keep her hands steady, mending his torn flesh.

The sound made his jaw tick, and something shifted in his expression. Slowly, he turned his head to her, knitting his brows together as he took in the sight of her tear-streaked face. His gaze flickered toward the door -searching, assessing-before settling back on her.

The hesitation flickered in his usually unwavering demeanor. Then, with a slow movement, he lifted his flesh hand and cupped her cheek.

“Why?” he rasped, his voice was rough, uncertain.

That made her sob harder, but she didn’t stop mending him. She leaned into his palm, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his hand as she sniffled, trying to regain control of herself.

“S-sorry,” she managed, her voice unsteady.

“You are always sorry,” he countered, in a neutral, almost observational tone.

Something about the way he said it made her pause. It rang a bell. The Soldat never spoke to her before. Not when they dragged him into the med bay, not when she pleaded with him to respond in those stolen moments of quiet, not when she whispered apologies he couldn’t acknowledge.

But this wasn’t Bucky either, not completely. This was a fractured version of him, a Soldat pulled from the depths of his mind, not the same hollow shell she remembered. He was speaking to her, processing things in a way he never had before. How much of him was in there? How much did he understand?

“It seems so,” she conceded, in barely above a whisper, more to herself than to him.

He studied her, tilting his head slightly, the way he used to when something puzzled him. “You should stop before the handlers come in here,” he said, not harshly, but matter-of-factly, as though it was the most natural conclusion.

Her heart clenched. His mind was caught in the past, in a time when her presence at his side had always been followed by pain, by orders, by unseen eyes watching their every move.

She forced a small, steady breath, keeping her hands moving as she knitted his skin back together. “There are no… handlers here,” she said softly, keeping her tone careful, controlled.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. His thumb brushed absently over her cheek, like he was still trying to place her, to make sense of the moment.

She swallowed hard. “Do you know where you are?”

He blinked, and his eyes flickered toward the corners of the room as if searching for cameras, for listening ears. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, like he was telling her a secret.

“I know I was sent to retrieve you,” he admitted. “You are the one who fixes me. Always do.” A pause. “You shouldn’t be talking to me. I know what happens to you every time you talk."

Her throat closed, and suddenly, it felt impossible to breathe. A sharp twist of nausea coiled in her stomach, memories slamming with brutal force. Her hands trembled slightly where they pressed against his wound. “No one is going to come,” she whispered.

His brow twitched. His head tilted slightly, and his eyes scanned hers, as if searching for something, truth, deception, an explanation that made sense in the fractured landscape of his mind.

“They always do,” he said again, quieter.

She swallowed hard and lifted a trembling hand, resting it lightly against his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. “Not this time, radnój,” she murmured.

His breath stilled.

His flesh hand, still cradling her cheek, stiffened slightly before his grip loosened as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold on or let go.

The endearment shocked him. That word had never been meant for him. He had heard it before but never directed it at him. His fingers flexed uncertainly against her cheek. She always had spoken to him before -soothing words in hushed tones, quiet reassurances when no one was listening- but never this.

His brow creased, and his gaze searched hers as though trying to make sense of it. “You don’t-” The words caught on his lips, and he shook his head slightly. “You shouldn’t.”

She exhaled shakily, brushing her thumb over his jaw in soft defiance. “I do.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his features. Soldat did not hesitate. But something about her -about this- was pulling him somewhere he didn’t understand.

“…Why?” he finally rasped, in a quiet, rougher tone.

His eyes searched hers, as a storm of confusion and something else swirled in them. His hand still hovered near her face, as if caught between instinct and reason.

“Did I overstep?” she deflected softly.

His gaze dropped, and the furrow between his brows deepened. “No,” he mumbled after a long pause, almost contemplative. “I just don’t… understand.” His brows drew together further, and his expression was caught somewhere between confusion and something deeper, something close to longing, buried under years of conditioning.

She took a slow breath, before carefully asking, "Is it okay to hug you?"

She and Bucky hugged a lot, usually with him being the one to start the embrace. But this man in front of her was not entirely him, not yet. And she wasn’t sure if Soldat would welcome such physical contact.

He blinked at her, and the hand in his thigh tightened briefly before loosening again. His brow creased in thought, like he was trying to decipher a foreign language. Hugging. That wasn’t something that belonged in his world. Contact had always been a means to an end: restraint, punishment, control. Not this.

She waited, patient and open, making no move to force it. Just offering.

Finally, after a long beat of silence, he gave the smallest nod.

Carefully, she leaned in, moving slowly, telegraphing every motion as she wrapped her arms around him. He tensed at first, but she didn’t pull away. She just held on, warm and calm, resting her cheek lightly in the top of his head.

His breath shuddered out of him, and after another beat of hesitation, his metal arm came up around her. Not crushing, not desperate, just holding her.

It was different from Bucky’s embraces. Bucky clung, seeking comfort he didn’t know how to ask for. But Soldat? This was uncharted ground. He wasn’t seeking, he was discovering. Testing the weight of the contact. Trying to understand why something so simple could feel so foreign.

She squeezed him just a little, in silent reassurance. “See?” she murmured. “Safe.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go either.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in silence. She felt his chest rise and fall in measured breaths, as if he was trying to calibrate the sensation of being held. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against her back, flexing as if testing their own freedom to move.

She exhaled softly, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, so much of it, always there, always braced for the next order. But no command came this time. No mission awaited.

“You can let go if you want,” she whispered, though she made no move to pull away. “But you don’t have to.”

His grip tightened, just barely. A silent answer.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, just enough for his forehead to ghost against her temple. The breath he released was deep and measured, like he was recalibrating himself against her presence.

She closed her eyes. This was Bucky, somewhere underneath, even if his mind was still tangled in old wires. And if she had to be his tether back to himself, she would be.

“I’m here,” she murmured, not expecting a response.

But after a moment, barely audible, he rasped, “…I know.”

She leaned in just a fraction more, tilting her head so their foreheads pressed together, brushing her nose against his. A barely-there touch, light as a whisper. He was so still, caught somewhere between the past and the present, between instinct and something softer. His vibranium hand flexed at her waist. She whispered his name. Not Soldat, not a title, just his name. A soft reminder. His grip on her tightened, slightly curling his fingers into the fabric of her clothes. His breath became uneven and shallow. “I know,” he murmured again, in a rough, almost pained tone. He didn’t let go. And neither did she.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, wide and uncertain. The flickering light overhead cast shadows over his face, deepening the exhaustion etched into his features.

“I need to keep taking care of those wounds, hm?” she murmured softly, gentle as the touch she brushed along his back.

“Later,” he rasped, slightly tightening his grip at her waist.

She sighed softly, ghosting her fingers over his temple, pushing back a stray strand of hair. “I know you’re in pain, just-“

“And you’re drained,” he cut her off, tightening his jaw. His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Always… drained. Always crying. Always good. Even if I don’t deserve it.”

There he was again, stuck in the past, tangled in guilt and old wounds that refused to close.

Her heart clenched, but she didn’t let go. Didn’t move away. Instead, she cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb just beneath his eye.

“You deserve kindness,” she said firmly. “You always have.”

He turned his face slightly into her palm, as if hiding from the weight of her words. “…I don’t believe that,” he admitted.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, tightening her fingers against his skin. “Then let me believe it for you.”

Slowly, cautiously, she leaned in.

His breath hitched and his fingers flexed against her back, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t stop her.

She hesitated just before closing the distance, stopping her lips a whisper away from his. A silent offering, not a demand. He could pull back. He could reject it.

But he didn’t.

His grip on her tightened ever so slightly, barely perceptible, but she felt it, the smallest tug, a subconscious need.

So she closed the gap.

The first touch of her lips against his was featherlight, hesitant. The kind of kiss given when neither person was sure if they were allowed to have it. When the past weighed too heavy, when the present was too fragile.

He stiffened at first, as if his body didn’t know what to do with the warmth, real warmth. The softness of her lips against his, the tentative press of her fingers against his cheek, all of it felt foreign, too delicate for someone like him. But then, something in him cracked. His fingers curled against the fabric at her back, then tightening his grip and for a second -just one second- he leaned into it.

Then a sharp inhale. A shudder. His grip twitched, his body went rigid again, and she felt it, felt the exact moment the weight of too much history, too much instinct, too much them came crashing down.

She pulled back immediately, searching his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, his breath shallow. His lips parted, as if trying to form words but finding none.

She gently stroke her thumb along his cheekbone. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”

His throat bobbed, and his fingers ghosted at her waist, barely touching, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His gaze flicked down, lingering on her lips for the briefest moment before darting back up to her eyes.

Then, barely above a whisper, rough and unsure-

“…Again?”

A request. A plea. A fractured man grasping at something good, something warm, something he never thought he could have.

She smiled softly, before leaning in once more, giving him exactly what he asked for.

Next Chapter

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Dividers by @/strangergraphics

[ozzgin]

The Mean Girl Bully Reader x Nerd Loser Yandere story sparked another red flag reader idea I had 😈

Imagine a Bratty Female Reader x Well Mannered Wealthy Male Yandere. Unlike our favorite monster whore gal, and two-faced bully, this new reader insert is super vocal about her distaste in just about everything. Hardly anything is up to her “standards.” She not only complains, but whines too! 🥳

Then her poor beau weirdly loves her despite her horrid personality. I don’t know how, I’ll leave that part of imagining up to you, but there’s my request 🥺

I just like morally grey or blatant antagonistic readers. A lot of times, it’s more fun if the reader is attractive this way to a yandere, than having stereotypical good traits, like being compassionate or respectful 😔

So please, a Bratty Female Reader x Well Mannered Wealthy Male Yandere?

-👘

I was wondering if I should just incorporate this into the Yandere CEO draft I have, but I had this sudden idea for a downright shameless relationship between a beloved, well-respected politician and a perverted, needy brat of a Darling. (I don't like politicians but alas, I needed a high-stakes public profession for this)

Yandere! Politician x Bratty! Reader

Mr. Politician is a true rarity in his field of work: well-mannered, articulate, and most importantly, genuine in his dedication. He works tirelessly for change and improvement, earning the adoration of the people. There's only one exception to his loyalty: no country ever comes before his Darling. And what a demanding Darling you are...

Content: female reader, older yandere, NSFW, some exhibitionism

Many would describe their interactions with Mr. Politician as follows: he's disciplined, confident and resourceful. A natural born leader, you can tell within seconds of meeting him that he is a man to rely on. He's spent many years in the game, and nothing can shake him out of his signature calmness. He keeps everything in pristine order, and nothing escapes his scrutiny.

There is, however, one quirk only few select people know about. A detail no one dares to discuss. It is common knowledge that Mr. Politician has a partner, yet the particularities of it are kept private. His beloved is a much younger girl, rotten to the core. It is unclear how this pairing came to be; the day Mr. Politician won his place in his prestigious office, he showed up with the mysterious feminine figure at his side.

What's certain and obvious to all witnesses is that his vocabulary quickly discards any meaning of refusal whenever he's dealing with you. It almost feels like the man worships you. He's never alluded to being religious, most likely because that role's been taken already. His eyes soften whenever directed at you, gleaming with raw adoration.

Splurging on expensive things is a given. Money has never been an issue for someone of his status. In fact, it's a handy and convenient tool he frequently uses to dampen the damage of your tantrums.

"Disgusting", you spit between your teeth, pushing the plate away and crossing your arms. The renowned chef of the Michelin star restaurant can only stare in horror before Mr. Politician intervenes with a chuckle. "Not feeling it today, huh?", he coos at you with loving strokes. "May I ask that you bring everything else from the menu?" he says in a sterner voice to the employee. "E-everything, Sir?" the waitstaff questions. "Well, naturally. I can't let my Darling starve."

"I'm bored. Let's leave now", you mention bluntly, standing in front of the heavily ornate table with a huff. "Are you sure, Darling? It's an important meeting for the country", Mr. Politician tries to plead. Around him, the other men sit baffled, observing the outrageous exchange. "Now!" you conclude louder. Before anyone can protest, your boyfriend stands up obediently and reaches out for your hand. "Then allow me to guide you, love."

A paradox. His earnest work is put to a halt if you require anything from him. Somehow, he has until now managed to juggle the two with little effort, and to his credit, there have been many instances requiring nerves of steel. Such as you paying him an unannounced visit to the office, and disliking the fact he was unavailable due to a meeting. So, you marched over to the window and promptly flashed your chest against the glass. Everyone else was focused on the opposing whiteboard; he was the only one who immediately noticed your arrival. "As you can see, the expected result is irresistible", he continued with a professional smile, tapping the graph with a marker.

Everyone knows Mr. Politician is fervently devoted to his principles. Take his last public speech, for example. Knuckles white from gripping the podium, he'd nearly choked during an eloquent -but passionate - conclusion. His face was red, his jaw tightened. He needed a moment to recollect himself, and the public waited with bated breaths, visibly emotional. Of course, they couldn't tell the outrageous truth: that you were shamelessly kneeling at his feet, pumping and teasing his erection until, at last, he let go all over your face.

"I wanted to see if you'd stumble on your words", you explain afterwards, wiping the sticky liquid off with a damp cloth. "That would've been unpleasant", he responds with a shiver. "It was live on national television."

He does not seem too bothered by the potential risk of being caught. Truly, his nonchalance knows no bounds when it comes to you. Or perhaps it is part of the charm. There's something quite depraved yet tempting about this perpetual contrast.

To return your daring favor, he gently places you onto his desk and spreads your legs, leaving trails of kisses along the inner surface of your thigh. A quick glance down confirms his suspicions: your bare bottom lays on top of confidential, rather important documents he dutifully signed hours ago. How thrilling of a feeling! He already smiles in anticipation, picturing himself as he hands over the folder to the oblivious party. He's not breaking any rules, now, is he? Nowhere in the book of etiquette does it state you mustn't fuck your beloved on top of official papers.

You gaze at the disheveled face underneath you. "One day I'll get you in trouble", you blurt out between whines. "Me? Oh, Darling. You know I always have everything under control." He lifts himself up and gives you a quick, desperate kiss. "Including you."

[writingwithfolklore]

Relationships and Closeness

              There’s two kinds of relationships in a story—the bond your characters have with each other, and the bond the reader has with your characters. Try to push the relationship to levels of vulnerability too fast, too soon and both types will come off as forced or stiff.

              Luckily, there’s a helpful tool for categorizing what ‘stage’ of closeness people have with each other from communications theory, but I think could also be used for writing. It’s called (and stick with me here), the social penetration theory. (Cue that Pitch Perfect gif)

              The stages (generally) go as follows:

1. Orientation

This stage is basic, safe information you might initially share with a stranger. Name, age, maybe pronouns, where you’re from, where you go to school or work, etc.

2. Exploratory affective

This is likes and dislikes, some preferences, and other safe opinions. You’re probably not getting into politics too much yet, but you might share which class is your favourite, what you think about where you live, etc. Typically opinions you’d think are unlikely to offend the other person.

3. Affective

This stage sounds like it is—an increase in affection! This can look like making jokes or goofing around together, sharing goals and aspirations, and generally being a bit more familiar. Typically your work friends or peers get to this stage, and unless you hang out with them outside of work/school, (in my experience) they stay at this stage too.

4. Stable

You start to get more comfortable and share more personal details. Religious/political affiliation, sexuality, sometimes family details and other things about your inner life are shared here.

5. Depenetration (ew)

This stage is the last and the most vulnerable. This is where you share deeply held fears, fantasies, traumas, mental health, and other deeply personal details. Can include your own concept of self, or conversations that go into that depth of individual humanity—what makes you, you on a fundamental level?

              Some relationships stop at an earlier level than others, but that doesn’t make them less strong. Have you ever met someone where you don’t really know all that much about them, but you’d still stick up for them against anything? Versus someone you’ve known forever and you’ve shared all your insecurities with, but you still might prefer to hang out with someone else on your birthday.

              These stages are a guideline, not a rule, to how people tend to interact and the order of which they tend to share with each other. That doesn’t mean that people won’t jump to one stage before another—just that it can sometimes be unreciprocated, or feel a bit uncomfortable. It all depends on the situation and the people within it.

              However, it can be helpful to use these guidelines as a guide to what to share and when in your writing. Right away, you’d probably tell readers your main character’s name before their deepest trauma—or maybe not, maybe you’d establish your character with that openness to the reader right off the bat. What’s important is that you determine what level your character is at with others, and with the reader, and move through them with intention.

              I hope this makes sense!

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 1: Unspoken Goodbyes

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Fiancé (past/present) / Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan (future)

Word count: 2.3k

The morning of her wedding should’ve been a dream—a culmination of love and promises. Instead, she stood before the mirror in silence, the soft rustle of her wedding dress the only sound in the room. The knot in her stomach tightened, its weight dragging her heart down with it.

Memories of their last argument played on a loop in her mind, the words sharp and unresolved. Had she missed something? Ignored the signs? The questions clawed at her, each one pulling the knot tighter, as if her body already knew what her heart refused to admit.

She glanced at the clock—ten minutes, then fifteen—still no sign of him.

The bridal suite grew quieter with each passing minute, the hum of voices from outside the door fading into a distant murmur. Her mother had checked on her earlier, fussing over her veil and assuring her everything was perfect. But now, as she sat alone in the priest's private room, the knot in her stomach tightened.

Her bouquet lay on the table next to her, the vibrant blooms a vivid testament to what the day should have been—a celebration of love and unity. Yet, their liveliness seemed to mock the pallor of her trembling hands, a cruel juxtaposition to the ache that tightened her chest. They reminded her of the promises they had made, the plans they had woven together, and now, the sharp sting of those fractured dreams. She tried to breathe, to steady herself, but her thoughts raced, louder than the silence around her. Where is he?

He wasn’t one to be late. He had always been the responsible one, the steady rock in their relationship. If anyone had doubts, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

The door creaked open slightly, its groan breaking the oppressive silence of the room. She looked up sharply, her breath catching in her throat as her heart skipped. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the faint scent of the wooden frame mixed with the distant murmur of voices outside, amplifying the moment's tension. For a moment, she thought it was him. Relief bubbled up, but it quickly evaporated as she saw who it was.

It wasn’t her fiancé. It was his best man.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He looked uncomfortable, almost pained, his hand fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice strained as she stood, her heart pounding harder. “Where is he?”

The best man hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the floor. “He wanted me to give you this,” he said quietly, holding out the folded letter.

She stared at it, her stomach twisting into knots. Her hands shook as she reached out to take it, her mind racing with every possible explanation except the one she feared the most.

The paper was light in her hand, but the weight of it pressed down on her chest, as though the words scrawled within it carried a gravity she wasn’t prepared to face. Her breath hitched, the air feeling heavy in her lungs. Slowly, she unfolded it, her breath catching as she read the words written in his familiar, careful handwriting:

"I can’t do this. I’m sorry."

The world seemed to tilt. Her vision blurred as the words echoed in her mind.

She looked up at the best man, her voice shaking. “What’s this?”

His shoulders slumped, his guilt palpable. “He left the letter this morning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t tell me anything. Just... left this for you.”

Her legs felt weak, and she sank into the nearest chair, the letter crumpling in her hands. 

The best man nodded, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I tried to stop him, tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. He just...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

The air felt suffocating, the walls of the small room closing in around her. The sound of muffled laughter and conversation from the guests waiting outside was like a cruel reminder of what was supposed to happen today.

Her mother burst into the room moments later, her expression shifting from excitement to worry the instant she saw her daughter’s face. “What’s going on? Where is he?”

Evelyn didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words to explain. Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, who still stood there, looking like he wanted to disappear.

Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, her expression sharp and demanding. “Where is he?”

The best man shifted uncomfortably, his hand running over the back of his neck. He glanced toward Evelyn, hesitant, before finally saying, “He’s not coming.”

Her mother froze, her brows furrowing as the words sank in. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Her voice rose, each word more incredulous than the last. “This is his wedding day! What the hell does that mean?”

The best man’s jaw tightened, his guilt and discomfort clear as he said, “He couldn’t go through with it. He’s gone.”

Her mother’s face turned red, a mix of disbelief and fury twisting her features. “Gone where? How could he just leave? What kind of man does that?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said weakly, her voice barely audible, the letter crumpled in her hands.

“No,” her mother snapped, rounding on her daughter now, her anger spilling over. “He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to just walk away! There are people waiting out there. He owes you—he owes all of us—an explanation!”

Her voice cracked, and for a moment, her anger seemed to falter, replaced by the raw pain of watching her daughter’s heart shatter.

The murmurs outside the door grew louder, the guests undoubtedly beginning to wonder what was causing the delay. She could already imagine the questions, the judgment, the whispers.

“What do we tell everyone?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.

Evelyn stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her hands trembled as she clenched the crumpled letter, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Anger. Pain. Humiliation.

“I don’t know, Mom!” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her hurt. “Just... get me out of here.”

Her mother froze, her expression shifting between shock and heartbreak, but Evelyn didn’t wait for her to respond. She grabbed her bouquet off the table, not because she needed it, but because her hands needed something to do—anything to stop them from shaking.

She turned back to the best man. “Did he say anything else?”

“No…” he replied. 

Her heart broke all over again at those words. She pushed past them both, leaving the room and making her way to the car waiting outside. She ignored the stares, the questions, the looks of pity. She needed to get out, to get away from all of it.

That night, while the wedding venue emptied and the guests went home with their unanswered questions, she packed her belongings in silence. The apartment she and her fiancé had shared during their engagement felt suffocating, every corner filled with traces of a life they would never have. Her wedding dress hung limp over the back of a chair, mocking her with its unfinished story.The bouquet sat on the kitchen counter, its once-vibrant blooms already wilting.

Her parents arrived just as she was throwing the last of her clothes into a battered suitcase. Her mother, still in her formal gown, clutched her pearls with trembling fingers, while her father’s tie hung loose around his neck, his face etched with exhaustion and worry.

“Sweetheart,” her mother began carefully, stepping into the room.“You can’t just leave,” her mother insisted, her voice sharp yet quivering with emotion. “You’re upset, and I understand that, but running off won’t fix this. It won’t undo what he did to you.”

Her father stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Selling the house? Taking off? You don’t even know where you’re going.You need to take a breath, let us help you figure this out. This isn’t the answer, kid.”

She froze for a moment, then turned to face them, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with defiance. “And what is the answer, Dad? Stay here and keep pretending everything’s fine? Wake up every day in a place that reminds me of him? Of what I wasn’t good enough to hold on to?” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care.

“Sweetheart, no one’s saying that,” her mother began, but she didn’t let her finish.

“Yes, you are!” she snapped. “You want me to stay here, smile through the pain, act like nothing happened. Well, I can’t. I won’t. I need to go. I need to get out of this town, out of this house.” She gestured around her, her hands trembling. “It’s like he’s everywhere. I’ll never get away from it.”

“Please,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes. “At least sleep on it. You’re not thinking straight.”

She let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve never been thinking clearer in my life, Mom. Staying here will kill me. I need to leave.”

Her bestfriend, Martha, showed up later that evening, carrying a bottle of cheap wine and wearing the dress she’d worn to the ceremony that never happened.

“I get it,” her friend said, breaking the silence. “I’d want to burn the whole damn world down if I were you. But you can’t just pack up your life and disappear. What about work? Your family? What about us?”

Evelyn shook her head, her fingers gripping the rim of her coffee mug so tightly she thought it might shatter. “I’m not running. I just…” She shook her head, biting her lip to keep her voice steady.“I can’t be here anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing at the altar. Except he’s not. He never was.”A tear rolled down her face, she sniffed and whipped her cheek“I just know I can’t be here anymore. It’s like... everything about this place is choking me. I need space to figure out who I am without him.”

Her friend sighed, but there was no point arguing. The decision had already been made.

Her friend hesitated, her expression softening. “What if you regret it? What if you run, and it just... follows you?”

“Maybe it will,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But I’ll take that chance over staying here and pretending like everything’s fine.”

The house sold faster than she expected. Within days, strangers had walked through it, commenting on the potential it had—the very same potential she and her fiancé had dreamed of building on together. 

Walking through it one last time, she couldn’t stop the memories from flashing before her eyes—the corner where they’d put up the Christmas tree, the creak in the floorboard he always promised to fix, the way the light filtered into the bedroom where they’d planned to start their mornings together.

By the time she handed the keys to the new owners, her chest felt hollow, but it was a relief to walk away.

She packed her things into her old Chevy, a mix of essentials and sentimental items—though not much of the latter remained. The radio became her only companion on the road, playing Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, and Pink Floyd as she drove for hours aimlessly through towns that all blurred into one.

There was no plan, just the old creased map folded on the passenger seat and the faint hope that somewhere out there, she’d find a place that didn’t remind her of everything she’d just lost.

The miles rolled by in a haze of faded road signs and forgotten gas stations. The highways blurred into narrow backroads, lined with towering trees that seemed to close in around her. A week passed before she saw it—the sign, small and weathered, half-hidden by overgrown brush: Welcome to Clearwater.

The sign was small and unassuming, barely visible through the overgrowth vegetation.

The town looked like it belonged in another decade—or maybe another century. Small shops lined the main street, their faded signs creaking in the wind. A church with a tall steeple stood proudly against the skyline.

 It was the kind of place that seemed untouched by time.

She parked outside the church, stepping out of the car and stretching her legs. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and for the first time in days, her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Pinned to the bulletin board by the church steps was a weathered “For Sale” flyer. The edges were curling, and the ink was faint, but the words were clear:

Small cottage for sale. Fully furnished. Need’s lots of love. Located near the river. Please Contact Pastor Edwards.

She tore the flyer from the board and dialed the number from the payphone outside the general store, fishing a few coins from her pocket. Each turn of the rotary dial echoed loudly, and she tapped her fingers nervously as the line clicked and rang.

“Pastor Edwards speaking,” came a warm, steady voice.

“Hi, Pastor Edwards my name is Evelyn” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m calling about the cottage. Is it... still available?”

“It is,” he replied. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s got good bones. Peaceful, too. Folks around here say it’s the kind of place where you can hear yourself think.”

She arranged to see it that afternoon, and when she did, it took her breath away.

_____________________________________________________________

The cottage sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its shutters faded and crooked, the porch sagging with age. Ivy climbed the stone walls, and the river just beyond the trees glimmered faintly in the sunlight. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a sanctuary.

Pastor Edwards smiled kindly as he handed her the keys. “It just needs someone to put in a little love.”

The transaction was quick—cash exchanged for a set of old, rusted keys—that night, as she stood in the center of the dusty living room, surrounded by creaking floorboards and chipped paint, she felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks: hope.

The house wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. But maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild each other.

Chapter 2

______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know): taglist

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© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[simp-ly-writes]

The Master

─────── · ·  For All Time: The Series (pt.2)

─ · · PAIRING: 10th Doctor x F!Time Lord!Reader, 10th Doctor x Rose Tyler

─ · · SUMMARY: You are experiencing Heartbreak, a medical term for Time Lords and other long-living beings after a Soul Bond has been broken. So lost in your wallowing and left stranded in a sea of memories you become startled when a face from your past comes to the present.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, second person perspective, canon divergence, soulmate au, emotional angst, depictions of anxiety attacks, coarse language, eventual happy ending (but not yet), not beta read.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 3,004 | PART ONE | PART THREE | PART FOUR

─ · · A/N: 🗣️ LORE!- in today's chapter

─────── · · 

You sat in your TARDIS somewhere on the edge of the universe, where you observed a supernova spreading its way across the abyss of space. A thousand coloured gases blurred and blended into a forbidden palette in which you feasted your eyes upon, temporarily distracting you from the dull ache still rumbling in your chest. 

The TARDIS hummed a sad, soft tune, rumbling gently at your feet as you paced up and down the halls, kicking at invisible stones before glaring at a speck on the wall. You were upset that you waited this long for him only to be paid back with what could be considered a slap to the face in the form of Rose Tyler. Younger, prettier, more charming… Sure, you considered her a lovely girl and it was silly of you to wait centuries for a man but the Doctor was no ordinary person, no, he was something extraordinary that made you feel more alive… and yet you felt dead as ever when a mere moments ago you could’ve seen him. 

A part of you wondered what would have happened if you stayed… if he would greet you friend or foe, with a hug or a kiss to the temple like he used to, but that was something you’d never know for the rest of your long existence. If he’s happy with her then I won’t come in between the two of them, you remind yourself with a heavy sigh, If he’s happier with her… 

You shouldn’t feel so bitter but how could you not? How could I not… you shake your head of these thoughts, trying to find your inner resolve once again as you make your way to the console room and check your flight data before tinkering and performing some general maintenance that soon turns into deep cleaning as you tunnel vision on the task, removing anything and everything that reminded you of the Doctor and placing the boxes into deep storage. 

You don’t know if it had been hours, days, or years once you stopped, hair pointing in all directions atop your head, brow covered in a line of sweat that you try to wipe off while catching your breath. You think back to the Doctor whilst leaning against a railing, how good he would look maintaining his TARDIS, smirking up at you with every tool you passed him, a single strand of hair dipping across his forehead that your fingers ached to brush away- stop it! You commanded your brain, hitting your palm against your forehead repeatedly. 

You cannot be some desperate ex, (name), you are not some desperate ex, you tell yourself like a mantra before heading to the showers and allowing the warm water to cover your skin as you hold yourself underneath the showerhead. Just because you bonded your souls together does not mean what you had was forever.

Lathering yourself in your favourite soap and moisturizing afterwards you take off to the library in a simple bathrobe and slippers in search of a story to distance yourself with but before you can even make it halfway, the Tardis suddenly rumbled before you heard a loud BANG! And you were falling against a wall clenching on a door frame to keep yourself somewhat upright. I just can’t catch a break now, can I? You thought to yourself, waiting an additional moment after the TARDIS stills again before standing straight and heading back towards the console room. 

THE DOOR, THE DOOR! The TARDIS screams in your head as you quicken your pace, turning another corner to find the door wide open, space and stars clearly in view before becoming overshadowed by a TARDIS and a… dress shoe? What? You blink and rub your eyes, thinking yourself to either be going mad or tired in your current state. A voice calls down from the stairs that you can’t recognize but it must have been serious to find and catch me way out here. 

“Is there a little lady in there?” you freeze, and they know my name atop of all that. You slowly peer up the steps, eyes trailing from a black leather shoe up to a matching black suit, white shirt and the smiling face of a man that you don’t recognize. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember who I am. You mustn’t insult me that much when welcoming me into your home,” their smile does not falter, only growing as you grow more concerned by their forwardness and by how they tower over you once descending the stairs, standing above you on the last step. 

You flinch at their sudden touch, their hand grips your jaw, caressing your cheek as you shiver and groan in pain, the aftermath of your soul-bond heartbreak still lingering in your system. You blink up at them, not wanting to seemingly offend the intruder anymore but silently demand for their name. 

“It's me, the Master,” they deadpan, dropping your face and shoving you aside, the contrast of emotions has your head spinning as you race to close the door before carrying on after them. 

“It cannot be… how’re you alive?” you gasp trying to solve the riddle in your head before suddenly remembering all those times you fell asleep on this very man’s shoulder while back at the Time Lord Academy or how he would always sweep you away to distant planets when you were in a mood. You remember how he sat at the front of your and the Doctors wedding, felt his stare throughout the entire night, and then… nothing well, nothing until now. 

You stare at him more closely, walking up with caution as you raise your hand, tracing over his shoulder before gesturing to him to lean down further, you bite your lip to hide the bittersweet remembrance of the mischief that never seemed to leave his eyes since you were both young. 

“I have my ways,” the Master laughs, nose scrunched at you in a teasing motion as you roll your eyes in reply, “of course, I should have known better than to ask.” 

“That you should, know better,” he replies, you sense that even in the humor-cladded tone there is a degree of underlying seriousness to his words that have you looking down at your feet, wincing slightly at your appearance once seeing you only had one slipper on and were in fact, still in just your bathrobe. 

“I heard you and the Doctor had a run-in, so-to-speak,” the Master continues talking as he taps his shoe near your feet, “don’t be embarrassed by your appearance, you still look as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You take a step back, once again confused by the duality of the Time Lord before you seemingly having two different conversations at once. “I don’t think I’m following… and how did you know about that?”

“What do you think my answers going to be?” the Master tuts, “we did just go over that material and I’ve seen you covered in mud during the ancient olympic games back in our 100s, or did you forget that too?” 

“You have your ways?” you scoff, trying to use attitude to cover your blush of the memory of your more… wild days, “and to think I missed you and this ego and attitude of yours.”

“You missed me?” the Master coos, “I missed you too oddly enough. You should be honoured I temporarily stopped all my scheming at the mention of your name.” 

“Consider me flattered then,” your tone flat yet eyes sparkling with humour that the Master does not miss instead lacing his arm around your own and leading you towards the library where you take seats across from one another. 

“Now you didn’t answer my earlier question, how did your meeting with the Doctor go?” the Master asks again, taking a long drink of the tea you prepared for yourself earlier. You watch as he downs the cup fully before pouring himself another, casting you a wink partway and humming at the taste, awaiting your answer while leaning back. 

“I ran away before I could meet him, I…” you pause, looking down at your hands, “...I thought I was the only one, that I was losing my mind still feeling him after all these regenerations since the Time Wars and yet,” you grit your teeth, “I- nevermind.” You reach across the table to fill your cup, grabbing a digestive along the way to dip in your tea. 

“And yet he moved on, right? Got with that Rose girl, killed a few thousand species in order to ‘save others’ and forgot all about you… know that I never did, not for a moment. Trust me, I looked everywhere for you for at least a century,” the Master stares at you, every word spoken earnestly, not a spec of mischief to be seen within his irises. 

Your lip quivers as you wrap your arms around yourself, nodding slowly. You both sit there for a moment and you are thankful that the Master is giving you time to process his words before you whisper, “Thank you for missing me… I’ve missed you too, old friend. It’s nice knowing someone else is out there in the abyss.” Your cold skin warms slightly upon seeing the first truthful smile from him of the night, it’s small and toothless, eyes squinted gently as he breathes softly through his nose. 

“Space has been boring without you somewhere in it,” he murmurs, reaching over to refill your cup with what was left of the kettle. He sits forward, elbows resting on knees, head in hands as he simply observes you. “What?” you move your head from side to side watching as his gaze follows. 

He shrugs, keeping his position and lingering stare, “just reminiscing.”

“About what?” you press, taking a sip from your cup. 

“About all that was, about what could have been and what’s happened,” he lets out a long sigh, eyes cast aside and over your shoulder before continuing, “do you plan on ever talking to the Doctor?” 

You pause mid-sip, slowly setting your cup down in your lap, “not for awhile at least. I think I need to do some work on myself before I try to speak with him.” 

The Master nods, that small smile spreading yet eyes remaining distant, a cold draft suddenly surrounds the space making you shiver in your seat. “Good, you were always the wise one.”

You both sit in silence after his comment as you start picking at the fluffs on your bathrobe and counting the books across the shelves before the Master speaks up once more, “may I offer some parting words” You raise a brow, staying silent allowing him to continue, watching as he stands, stretching before adjusting his coat and tie- walking towards the door. 

“I’m not a good man, I never plan on being one, but I am an honest one in admitting this to you, that is what makes the Doctor and I different from one another. He will always promise to do better, he’ll fix one thing and ruin ten others…he will ruin others while claiming good intentions. But you already know that… don’t you?” 

The Master does not wait for your response as you hear the door closing behind himself, his footsteps trailing away and down before silence greets you like another old friend, sitting with you, sipping tea until it goes cold with time. 

You wanted nothing more than to stand, run after and defend the Doctor, the man that you knew to be outspoken in the face of injustice and serve kindness, but this was the same man that broke your heart- almost killing you in the process. You did not know who the Doctor was anymore, you shouldn’t claim to know after centuries of separation. For the person you knew yourself to be then, happiest in the presence of the Doctor, was long gone and it only took until now to realize that you had to be a new Lady without their Doctor. 

─────── · ·  

“But you failed to listen here, didn’t you?” Rose stated, poking at the Doctor's chest. In her own pain she was feeling she failed to realize just how deeply the Doctor was hurting as he shoved her away, clutching at his shirt while heaving, coughing and choking on air. 

Rose started back and into the console, he’s having the same reaction as her… why… how? Rose thought to herself. “Don’t touch me, please, it-” a sharp intake of air, his knuckles white as he grips a rail, “-it hurts. Feels like an ice-cold burn,” the Doctor explains his actions while hunched over himself. 

Rose can hear the unshed tears in his vocals, he appears raw- feral even in pain, twitching at the lightest brush of air. Rose opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words in having never seen her Doctor this way. “Is there anything I can do to help? What’s going on Doctor, I’m scared for you,” Rose whispers, taking a half-step forwards. 

The Doctor does not respond. “I could get you some water? How about a snack? Blanket?” Rose rattles off a list of answers for him to nod to yet receives no answer again. She sees how tightly his jaw is clenched and swears to hear a tooth crack at the force. “Doctor?” she calls out again, taking another half-step forward before the Doctor quickly extends his arms forwards, keeping her at a distance. “Don’t. I’m fine. Just need a moment-”

“You said that ten minutes ago and you’re still like this! Just tell me what's wrong, let me help you, please!” Rose begs, her own eyes starting to burn. 

“I’m going through a heartbreak,” the Doctor whispers before choking back a sob that lets way to the floodgates from speaking the words into a reality he thought he’d never have to face. 

“I’ve gone through many of those, I know they hurt but pain is only temporary, I’m sure that-” Rose starts trying to console the Time Lord, crouching down further to make herself appear even smaller and sitting on the floor, back against a panel of the console before getting cut off, “no, this is not what you humans have, it's a medical condition, a state for us when we,” the Doctor hesitates to continue, he does not want to admit the truth, “...when we break a Soul Bond. Potentially deadly but mine was already weak- hurts like hell nevertheless.” 

“A Soul Bond?” Rose tests the term on her tongue, “what's that?” 

The Doctor manages to chuckle at her genuine curiosity breaking through the tension of this moment. He opens his eyes, blinking quickly to readjust to the lighting as the wave of pain has lessened. “For us Time Lords and other long-living beings it's like a more official marriage.” 

“Oh, so… is there like some spell you recite or…?” Rose presses, catching the Doctor's eye as a weak smile spreads across his face. “Not entirely but you can say vows during it… It's a rather…” Rose blinks, eyes in disbelief at the fiery blush that starts appearing on the Doctor's ears before trailing down his neck, “...intimate ceremony where you bond your essences together.” The Doctor coughs before loosening his tie. 

“Oh…” Rose starts to blush as well, lips pushed inwards and eyebrows raised. “Yeah,” the Doctor murmurs before sniffling. “So you and Lady…” Rose trails off hoping that the Doctor would pick up and clarify her words. 

The Doctor stares at Rose, holding her stare for a moment, “yes, she was my partner for over 50 years before we committed to the bond. Before that we grew up together and attended the same Time Lord Academy. She focused her studies on other-planetary relations and texts throughout time while I studied stellar engineering and general history.”

Rose laughs, “general history? For an alien I thought your subjects would be more, well, alien, you know?” The Doctor joins her laughter while also taking a seat on the TARDIS’s metal floors within the console room. 

“I’ll have you know that history is something all should learn no matter species or age, it's valuable to any and all,” The Doctor explains while pointing a finger forwards, wiggling it around in Rose’s face. Rose smiles widely while shaking her head at his actions, “but 50 years… wow.”

“That was just before we completed our bond, before the Time Wars sparked again we were together for almost one hundred years,” The Doctor's smile slowly slides off his face again, fingers tapping against the metal plates of the floor. 

Rose takes a large gulp, she would never live long enough to ever experience something like that and in some way, it made her feel inferior to you even when she was the one currently sitting in front of the Doctor just within reach.

“Soul Bonds are meant to be a for-life thing, it's a reason why not many in my kind completed theirs. You give something a piece of your soul, never to return but trust in the other to keep it safe.”

“So you’re now missing a part of your existence… forever?” Rose asks. 

The Doctor nods, head hung low, “forever and then some if we don’t reform the bond.” 

“So if your bond was still fresh or strong, what would happen then?” Rose bites her lip, knowing that she shouldn’t have asked such a question but her interest in the subject matter grows with each silver of information the Doctor feeds her. 

“I’d be dead,” the Doctor’s tone cold, “it’d be like I never existed in the first place.” He suddenly stands before flicking a switch and inputting a time and place, “How about a visit to your mum? I’m sure she’s missing you.” Rose looks up at the Doctor, watching as he focuses on his calculations, hands working subconsciously and at a rapid pace across the work surface. 

─────── · · 

PART T ONE | PART THREE | PART FOUR

─ · · A/N: apologies for the lore dump but its what had to be done!

─ · · FOR ALL TIME TAGLIST: @posionapple24 @azriel64290 @smallerontheoutside @soniiyi @spirit-of-the-hollow @f0x33

[futterurl]

Hello! I absolutely love the future man writings you’ve done and wanted to request smut for josh futturman. I can just imagine for his first time getting intimate with a partner he just gets so overly eager that he ends up overstimulating himself and his partner hehe

sry ive been gone for a bit schools been kicking my ass ! anyways yeah i got a little carried away sry if this isnt what u rlly had in mind

WARNINGS: fem!reader, titplay, oral(f!receiving), virgin!josh, p in v, creampie, super soft

- - - - - - - - -

it had been a nice day, going out and spending the day with your boyfriend, josh. you two were sat in your apartment, watching a movie, him holding you in his arms while a bowl of popcorn sat in your lap. his hand held onto your forearm, rubbing back and forth lightly with his thumb.

you loved days like this. you loved your boyfriend. he was the sweetest guy you had ever met, and boy were you glad he was yours. he would constantly try to spend time with you, and would try to teach you about the video games that he played. you always looked up to him.

and to him? lord, you were a goddess. you were this kickass woman who was one of his well respected co-workers, you had such a beautiful personality, and you were drop dead gorgeous to him. he fell in love with you all over again whenever he looked at you.

you both tool each other in with your worries and guilts. he knew that you were more shy, and he did a majority of the talking in public, and wouldn’t try to pressure you with anything. he was so kind to you, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

while you guys were snuggled up, you started to talk over the movie, not paying it much attention. just talking about funny stories that happened in the past.

“…and she caught me. jacking off. in my room. it was the worst thing ever.” josh was telling the unfortunate story of his poor mother just trying to bring him something, but seeing that mess instead. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“god, if that kinda stuff happened to me, i swear, i’d never look anyone in the eyes again.” you laughed.

“this is a random question, and sorry if it’s intrusive, but…have you ever had…like, sex before?” he asked you, sitting up on the couch so he could look you in your eyes.

you shifted, not used to being asked this question. “i…i have. once. it was a mistake. i don’t know why i did it.”

he started to look a little worried. “did he make you do that?” hoping it wasn’t that.

“oh, no! no! don’t worry, i was fine with it.” you reassured him. “i just…regret it, was all. it wasn’t all that good, just a heat of the moment thing, wanting to do it. we fucked, he came, and that was that. nothing special.”

“did he uh…did he make you…y’know…” he tried to ask in the most not awkward way possible, which was still very awkward.

“make me cum? uh, no. it wasn’t…wasn’t really a priority, i guess. just the experience.” you started to fidget with your hands.

“that’s…yeesh, that’s kinda fucked.” he was a little irritated. was it that difficult to focus on a girl for a few minutes to make her feel good? he didn’t understand it. “i’m sorry it wasn’t good. i just don’t get how he could finish and not care that you didn’t.”

“it’s fine. i don’t really care that much.” you were still a tad bit upset over it, but he was out of your life now. you didn’t have to worry shout him, only being in your happiest relationship yet with josh.

“what about you?” you asked him, curious.

“me? oh, uh, this is kinda sad, but i…haven’t done that kinda stuff.” he started. “it just never kinda…happened. moment was never really right. but now i’m here, with you. i couldn’t be happier.” he hugged you, kissing your jaw.

you rubbed the back of his head. you loved this man more than words could describe.

“i don’t know how to ask this in a way that isn’t awkward, but i’m just gonna go ahead…would you mind if i…if i, uh, made you…you cum?” he asked, looking at you.

you looked at him. “a-are you sure? you don’t have to if you feel bad or anything like that, it’s not your obligation to-”

he cut you off, holding your hands in his. “i…i want to do this. it’s not out of sadness or anger for you…”

you gave him an inquisitive stare.

“okay, maybe it is a little bit.” he admitted. “but i really do wanna do this. i’ve wanted to do this with you…for a little bit now, but i didn’t know how to ask, or bring it up. you feeling good makes me happy.”

it was like he was trying to make you fall in love again and again.

“josh, that’s really sweet…i…i do think i may be ready to try this stuff out with you.” you started to get a little shy.

“okay…okay…great.” he tried to hype himself up, telling himself that it’s real and this was happening. “just, uh, tell me if you’re uncomfortable or anything like that, and we can stop, go back to watching the movie, no questions asked, okay?”

you smiled, knowing he was your safe place. “thank you so much.” you gave him a kiss on his lips. he went and deepened the kiss, holding your frame in his arms.

you made out, him slowly getting on top of you, laying you in the couch. his hands went from holding your body to feeling around: touching your hips, your waist, your breasts, everything. he gently caressed one of your breasts, to which you let a moan out at.

“did you like that?” he asked.

you nodded, pulling your shirt up. “please.” you yanked it off your body. he stared at you with awe, your breasts clad with a bra. you looked so beautiful to him.

“can i…can i take this off?” he asked, fingers playing with your bra. you nodded, reaching back and unclasping it.

“how the hell do you unclasp that so easily?” he discarded your bra, asking while staring at your bare breasts.

“lots of practice, i guess. you get used to it after wearing these since the ripe age of 13.” you giggled.

his hand moved towards your breasts, but hesitated. he didn’t want to squeeze them too tight, or hurt you.

“you can touch then, josh. it’s okay. please. i want you to.” you reassured him, guiding his hand to gently caress your left tit. he played with it, new to the sense of it.

“it’s so soft…” his thumb ran over your nipple, causing you to shudder. he could tell you liked that.

“do you think i could…suck on them?” he asked, testing the waters. you nodded your head slowly.

“yes, please. whatever you like.”

“this is about you, though, not me. i want this to feel good for you.” he looked at you with concern in his eyes. sure, he was getting very caught up in the moment, but he knew he ultimately wanted you to have a good takeaway from this: you were someone he loved so much, he wanted to watch and make you feel good.

“josh, i want you to do this, don’t worry.” you smiled at him. he was so careful with you, it made you feel so delicate. so special.

he leaned his head down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. his lips wrapped around it while his tongue ran over it.

you ran your fingers through his hair. you had thought he’d be a boob guy, and this for sure proved it. he loved feeling them, the texture so foreign to him.

he moved on to the other breast, suckling onto your other nipple, to which you let out a gasp at. it felt…good.

he played with your other breast in his hand, giving it gentle squeezes. you let out a hushed moan. you didn’t think it’d feel good.

his head lifted up, kissing you again. it was a deep kiss, his hand digging to play with the hem of your pants.

“please, wanna make you feel good down there.” he pleaded, looking at you for permission.

you had never been like this before. someone focusing on you felt…unbelievable. it really did.

you nodded, unzipping your pants. “please, josh, want this so bad. want you so bad.”

he lifted your hips up, helping you shimmy out of your pants and panties. you were there, completely bare in front of him. he took his shirt off, trying to make you feel more comfortable. he stared at you with awe.

he couldn’t believe you were with him. you were so beautiful, and had an even better personality. he couldn’t believe that you loved him, and that you were willing to do this with him. he felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

“is this okay?” he asked, lowering himself, his head in between your legs. he rubbed your thighs, trying to help you stay comfortable. he could see your slick. he wanted to get a taste so badly.

“yes, please josh. please.” you wailed.

he obliged, taking a long lick up your slit.

“oh, fuck…” you moaned. loud. you hadn’t ever felt that good before.

“you okay?” he asked, making sure he didn’t do something wrong.

“i’m great, just felt really fucking good…holy shit.” you looked down at the sight of him, in between your thighs.

he dipped in again, this time bringing his tongue to lay flat on your clit. you shuddered, feeling all sorts of sensations. he held your hips steady, running his tongue in tight circles around your clit.

you swore to god, you could hear him groaning into your cunt. he was letting out little noises in exasperation as he pleasured you, rubbing your clit with his tongue, getting into a rhythm.

“jesus christ, josh, i’ve never felt so good, fuck…” you could barely get the words out in between moans.

he licked another stripe down your slit and ran his tongue on your entrance. you tugged at his hair a big, cautious yet excited to see where this was gonna go.

his tongue slowly crept inside of you, feeling around as you scratched at his scalp, letting little whimpers out. he held tightly onto your thigh as he started to tongue fuck you.

you threw your head back in pure ecstasy. you were starting to get close.

“josh…g’na come soon…fuck…” you panted out.

“please.” he said, moving his mouth up and tasting you all over. “do it f’ me. come on my face. please. you’re so hot. fuck. come all over me.”

he moved his mouth and latched onto your clit again. from there, he just sucked. your orgasm approached.

you let out a cry as your hips started to spasm ever so slightly, your body contorting. josh continued to suckle on your clit while you rode out your orgasm.

“oh my god…” you breathed. “how are you so fucking good at that?”

he lifted his head up, mouth coated in your cum. “don’t know. just pure talent i guess.”

you lightly pushed him. “fuck you.”

“i mean, if you’d be ever so kind.”

you looked at him, starting to laugh, but understanding what he wanted: you.

you moved yourself closer to him, closing the space in between you two.

“please.” you said, planting a kiss on his cheek. “i..i think i’m ready for this. fuck me, josh. please.”

“fuck, i’m so fucking hard for you right now, holy shit.” he kissed you, lying you back down on the couch. he pulled his pants down, huge erection standing up in his underwear.

“do you see how crazy you make me? you’re so perfect.” he looked down as he slowly started to take off his underwear, cock standing out.

you blushed. even in situations like this, he still made you feel so special.

he got on top of you, cock springing out, almost touching your delicate folds. you shuddered.

“a-are you sure you wanna do this, josh?” you asked him. doing something like this for the first time was really important to you, so you hoped you could make it important to him.

“yes, there’s no one i’d rather do this with than you.” he kissed you softly, sliding his cock through your slit, bumping his tip to your clit. you both groaned lightly.

“i…i’m gonna put it in now…okay?” he asked for permission.

you smiled. “yes. please.”

he used one of his hands to steady himself and his other one to hold yours as he slowly pushed inside of you. he was feeling all sorts of new sensations, all good like he’d never felt before. your walls clenched around him. he let out a moan as he slowly inched himself inside you.

you held his hand, gripping it tight. it had been awhile since you’d done this. it was a big stretch, but it felt so damn good to have him inside of you.

he finally bottomed out, cupping your cheek. “you’re so tight…oh my god…i knew it’d feel good but…didn’t expect this…” he was breathing heavily, catching up with his senses. he felt like he was going to cum just from being in you.

“josh, want you t’ start moving.” you pleaded, feeling so full but desperate for friction.

he obliged, giving experimental thrusts and letting out low groans in the process. your tight walls kept sucking him in, as if they didn’t want him to pull out.

“fuck, you feel so good. i love you so much.” he started to thrust a bit faster now, hands on your hips, holding you steady. every time his hips met yours you could feel yourself groan with delight. even though this was his first time, he wanted to take care of you.

he started to thrust hard, moaning sweet nothings into the room. every word he said professed his love for you and your body.

one thrust in particular hit a certain part inside you that made you let out a really high-pitched moan. he stopped, looking at you.

“shit, you okay?” he asked.

“yeah, m’ fine, that just felt really good.” you gave him a smile.

he tried to angle his hips to hit that sensitive spot again, which he was successful with after a few harsh thrusts. he abused that sweet spot with every thrust, leaving you a moaning mess. he took your lips into his, kissing you like your lives depended on it.

“josh, close, shit.” you could barely form words with how good you felt.

“me too, gonna cum, fuck.” he started to move incredibly fast, moving like there was no tomorrow. “please, cum on my cock.”

you could feel the knot on your stomach start to snap, riding out your orgasm. you were letting out these pornographic moans that were driving him insane, leading him to cum right after you did.

but he didn’t stop.

“feel too damn good. can’t stop. shit.” he continued his quick and deep thrusts, leaving you screaming.

“josh, can’t. already came. oh my god.” you were a moaning mess, feeling his cock penetrating your tight walls right after having an earth shattering orgasm.

“please, need you to cum again. wanna make you feel better than you’ve ever felt.” he moaned, trying to hit that spot inside you with every single thrust, making himself feel overstimulated in the process.

you felt another orgasm start to bubble up inside you as he kept going. the knot snapped yet again when he led his hand to your clit, rubbing it in circles with his thumb.

“cum for me, please. cum. wanna make you feel good. please. need you to cum on my cock again. i’ll do anything.” he begged and pleaded, bot stopping his aggression to your cunt.

you were practically screaming, head thrown back and breathing like a madman. he helped you ride through your orgasm, him taking a few extra seconds to reach his own again, as well.

he eventually stopped, laying on you carefully as to not hurt you.

“sorry, got…got a little carried away.” he said in between breaths. he felt so woozy.

“no, it felt really good josh. thank you.” you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as he lay on top of you.

“was it that good?” he asked, making sure you got as much satisfaction as he did.

“i’ve never felt that good in my life. serious.” you replied. he knew how to make you feel special and really good. “you’re amazing.”

he held you, planting a kiss on your cheek. “i hope you know how much you mean to me. i love you so much, and i wanna be with you forever.”

you were practically gushing. he was so darn cute. “i love you more.”

[rootedinrevisions]

In the Wings: Part 5

SUMMARY: A casual day on set takes an unexpected turn when Glen brings his parents to the hair and makeup trailer. As you bond with them over shared interests and playful conversation, Glen watches with a fond smile, clearly pleased with how well you're getting along. Later, when Glen invites you to join them for lunch, the conversation flows easily, but Glen can’t escape a few embarrassing childhood stories his parents share.

OTHER PARTS: PART 1 I PART 2 I PART 3 I PART 4

WARNINGS: None. Just Fluff in this one!

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell (himself and the characters he's played)

Top Gun: Maverick (Hangman, Rooster, possibly others soon)

Marvel / MCU (Bucky Barnes as of now, but possibly others soon)

WWE / Wrestling

You step into the hair and makeup trailer, the familiar scent of hairspray and cosmetic products already filling the air. It’s early, but the trailer is quiet, the rest of the team having not arrived yet for the day. You move about the space, setting out your tools and products in preparation for Glen’s arrival. He’s due any minute, and though it’s become routine by now, there’s always a flutter of anticipation when you know he’s on his way. 

You glance in the mirror, making sure everything is in place, when you hear the door open behind you. But as you turn, ready to greet Glen, you notice he’s not alone. His warm smile spreads as he steps inside, flanked by two familiar faces—his parents, Cyndy and Glen Sr., visiting him on set.

"Hey, hope you don’t mind," Glen says with a grin, motioning toward them. "Thought I’d bring some backup today."

“Not at all,” you smile as you look past him to see where his parents are. Their presence catches you slightly off guard, though not necessarily in a bad way.

He introduces you with a smile. "Mom, Dad, this is the makeup artist I’ve been telling you about," Glen says, gesturing to you.

His mom, Cyndy, smiles warmly as she steps forward. "It’s so nice to finally meet you. Glen has mentioned how great you are."

You exchange greetings, shaking her hand. Glen Sr. gives you a polite nod and a friendly, "Nice to meet you," before sitting on the nearby couch.

As you start prepping Glen's hair, Cyndy sits down nearby and strikes up a conversation. "So, how do you keep up with all these actors? I imagine you’re running around all day trying to keep them camera-ready," she says, laughing lightly.

You smile, nodding as you work through Glen's hair. "Yeah, it can get a little crazy, especially when the weather isn’t cooperating. But, I’ve been doing this long enough that I can manage a few stubborn heads of hair."

Cyndy chuckles and nods. "You sound just like me trying to wrangle Glen’s hair when he was younger. He had the curliest hair when he was younger. Honestly, his curls were a challenge. I learned so much about products just trying to keep it from looking like a bird’s nest!"

You can’t help but laugh, glancing at Glen through the mirror as you apply a little styling cream to his hair. 

"I can imagine. He does have a head of hair that keeps me busy," you say, playfully teasing.

Glen raises an eyebrow in mock offense. "Hey, I thought we were on the same team here," he says with a grin.

His mom rolls her eyes affectionately, clearly used to this kind of banter. "He’s always been fussy about his hair," she says, leaning closer to you. "You know, he used to let his sisters test makeup and skincare products on him.”

Glen Sr., who has been quietly observing, throws in a comment. "Yeah, Glen's always been particular about how he looks—don’t let him fool you. I’ve never seen anyone take so long to get ready for prom. He was taking this really cute girl he liked and he must have fixed his hair twenty times before she showed up."

Glen groans in mock embarrassment while you laugh with Cyndy and Glen Sr. It’s so easy and natural, and you start to feel completely at ease around his parents. The friendly dynamic between them makes it feel as though you’ve known them much longer than a few minutes. As you finish up Glen’s hair and makeup, you catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, watching the exchange with a soft smile.

"Alright, I think you’re good to go," you say, stepping back to inspect your work.

Glen stands and turns to his mom. "What do you think?" he asks, gesturing to his styled hair.

Cyndy nods approvingly. "I think you’re in good hands."

He meets your eyes for a moment, and there’s something unspoken but meaningful in the look he gives you. 

"I think so too," he says softly.

As Glen and his parents make their way out, Cyndy pauses by the door, turning back to you. "It was really nice talking to you. Hopefully, we’ll see you again before we leave."

You smile, feeling something like a mix of warmth and nervousness swirl in your chest. "It was great meeting you both."

As they head out and the door closes behind them, you feel the weight of what just happened start to sink in. Glen’s parents. Not just a casual meeting—but a glimpse into the world of someone who’s beginning to feel a lot more significant to you.

A few hours pass, and you move through the rest of the morning on set with a steady pace, trying not to think too much about your earlier interaction with Glen and his parents. 

By the time lunch rolls around, you’re back in the trailer, scrolling through the DoorDash app, absentmindedly debating between a sandwich or sushi when your phone buzzes with a text.

Glen: "Hey, do you want to join me and my parents for lunch? We’re heading to this restaurant a few minutes away."

You stare at the message for a moment, feeling a slight flutter in your stomach. Lunch with Glen and his parents? It seems casual enough, but something about the invitation feels… different. After a brief pause, you type back a reply.

You: "Sure, sounds fun. Where should I meet you?"

A few minutes later, you're on your way to the restaurant, mentally preparing yourself to be around Glen’s parents again. 

When you walk into the restaurant, you’re met with warm smiles from both Cyndy and Glen Sr. as you approach the table. Glen stands and gives you a small, friendly hug before he pulls out a chair for you, the gesture making you feel even more welcome.

The restaurant itself is laid-back, the kind of place that feels homey and easy, with rustic wood tables and simple decor. As you sit down, the conversation picks up naturally. Glen’s parents are charming, easy to talk to, and it quickly feels less like a formal lunch and more like spending time with friends you’ve known for years.

The conversation is peppered with casual jokes and stories, and soon enough, Glen becomes the focus of a few playful teases.

"So," his dad starts with a knowing grin, "did Glen ever tell you about the time he got stuck trying to climb out of his bedroom window?"

You turn to Glen, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, but he groans, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Dad. Please don't," he says, though you can tell he’s being a good sport about it.

His mom, clearly delighted, jumps in. "He thought it’d be a good idea to sneak out to see a girl when he was sixteen. Climbed out the window but got his foot caught in the gutter. I’ve never heard someone yell 'Mom!' so loud in my life!"

You can’t help but burst into laughter, and Glen, though slightly embarrassed, can’t help but laugh along with everyone else. 

"I was young and stupid," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, but there’s a good-natured smile on his face.

Throughout the lunch, you notice little things—how Glen keeps glancing your way when his parents speak to you, as if trying to gauge how you're feeling, or how his hand brushes yours briefly as he passes you the salt. The atmosphere is light and comfortable, yet there's something deeper simmering beneath the surface. It’s the way Glen is with you—always aware of your presence, always making sure you're included.

At one point, his mom turns the conversation toward you. "So, how are you liking it on set? It must be exciting, working on a film like this."

You smile, taking a sip of your water before responding. "It’s been a lot of fun. There’s definitely a lot of running around, but the whole cast and crew have been really great. It doesn’t really feel like work most days."

"I’m glad to hear that," Cyndy says warmly, then leans in slightly, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Glen’s been talking about you a lot, you know. Telling us all about how talented you are."

You glance at Glen, who immediately groans and rubs a hand over his face. "Mom, seriously?" he mutters, clearly embarrassed.

But you find it kind of adorable, the idea that Glen has been talking about you to his parents. You meet his eyes, and there’s a shared moment of understanding—something unspoken yet clear in the way his gaze softens when he looks at you.

You smile, giving Cyndy a grateful look. "Well, I’m flattered."

As lunch wraps up and the four of you head back to set, the dynamic between you and Glen seems to have subtly shifted. There’s more ease, more awareness of each other. Glen walks beside you, his arm brushing against yours as you both chat quietly about the upcoming scenes for the day.

While Glen’s parents walk ahead, you catch him glancing over at you a few times, something tender in his expression, as if he’s just starting to realize something. Maybe it’s the way you got along so well with his mom, or how effortlessly you fit into this part of his life that he usually keeps separate from work. Whatever it is, the thought lingers in his mind, settling deep as he realizes that this—whatever it is between you two—is becoming more important to him.

The conversation between you and Glen is light, but the feeling of something growing between you is undeniable. And as you part ways to get back to work, there’s a weight to the goodbye—a lingering thought that perhaps this connection is becoming more than just casual, more than just friendly. Glen’s smile lingers a little longer, his gaze a little softer, as he watches you walk away.

[glamourscat]

Hiii the fandom is well alive!! I would love to hear your headcanons on midorima! <333

i hope you like this! :)

Midorimais such a tsundere, so relationship with him would be so interesting! I can imagine him being more on the reserved side, even a little bit closed off at the beginning.

A relationship with him is bound to be as straightforward and honest as it could be. From him, but he also expects it back. He is mature enough to known what and how to say something-- withouth sugar coating it.

This guy is obsessed with astrology, you cannot tell me he won’t be obsessed with any other divination tool. Especially if his s/o reads tarot cards or is into witchcraft, he would be a bit conscious at first- but would immediately immerse into this world too. Asking for a tarot reading on the game/ himself. Or a good luck charm he can carry with himself.

Definitely the type to check his and your horoscope compatibility. If there’s anything to compare, he will. Blood type? Done. Whole astrology chart? Done. Life path number? Done. He doesn’t necessarily follow it to a T, meaning that he might consults the results, but ultimately he will make the choice by what feels right. But the results will heavily taken into consideration.

On the note of astrology/divination, if his s/o doesn’t believe in it, that’s fine. I think he could get past it. But if his s/o is purposely rude about it, he won’t be able to be around you, much less date you. To have a partner who bluntly hates it or pulls the “science card” out 24/7 will be such a turn off for him.

He would pay attention to the little things. Your little habits. The brand of tea you prefer, the type of fabric material you prefer for your clothing. In case you have a period, he would be able to tell if your period is around the corner by picking up your body language— just like he can pick up if you’re sad or happy.

Now, does that mean he would be the best at comforting? Not necessarily. Emotionally wise, words wise, he is a bit stiff. He would assess the situation, create a A to Z plan in his head but ultimately he would end up just sitting close to you, maybe give some light caresses on your back. Silently singling you “I’m here, talk to me if you want. I’m listening.”

He might not be a great talker, but *he cares*. And he tries to show that by actions and gestures mostly. And quality time too for sure.

His type is older women. I don’t think it’s much about appearance, it’s more about mental attraction. He is undoubtedly one of the most “grown up” character of the show. He acts and talk extremely maturely for someone of his age. However, he still has a lot of growth to do emotionally wise.

An older partner will offer him that stability, mental and emotional stability, he is looking for.

He wants someone independent like he is. Yet someone that’s comfortable enough in their skin to know when it’s time to drop the wall and be close.

If there’s one thing he loves is learning. Not necessarily in the traditional sense, but learning also through actions and experiences in order to level himself up. So, like I said, a partner who’s 1/2 years older already, and has a different perspective on life than him, would be a great match. Someone that’s comfortable enough travel a lot even, maybe even a foreigner I’m thinking (?). Offering him a complete different approach to life.

He is not into PDA, but at home it’s a different story. His love is subtle but loud enough that if anyone is paying attention they will notice. From the stolen glances in public, to his pupils slightly enlarging when he sees you, his cheeks dusting lightly with pink when you caught him staring or you two exchanged a quick peck or cheek kiss before you leave.

Or it’s the way he is so attentive to your needs. It’s the way he knows your favourite colour, your favourite season, food and anything there’s to know. The way he would pay attention when you go on a walk and you stop in front of a window browsing.

The way he sees more relax around you, less stressed in a way, and more in the moment. It’s the way, he subconsciously, reaches out to you interlocking your pinkies together. Or the way his body moves closer when in a crowded room/space.

The way he seeks contact without realising. It’s the way his whole face lights up when you enter the room, because you’re the light and he is the shadow (pun intended). Guiding each other through the uncertainty of life.

[rowena-rain]

Sooo in your fic is it canon that Voldemort is completely and utterly oblivious to how relationships/attraction works while Harry is objectively the more 'experienced' person? Cuz that's what it seems like tbh. Vee is SUCH an idiot sometimes. He wants to fuck Harry so bad it makes him look (and think) stupid.

Great question! I apologize in advance—I can already tell this is gonna be a long Voldemort meta post lol.

My head canon for Voldemort more generally—but particularly in the Heir de la Mort—is that he falls somewhere on the Asexual Spectrum (I don’t consider Cursed Child canon, btw). Specifically, I think of him as basically aroace with a big exception for Harry.

He may have had sex in his younger years as Tom Riddle, but if he did, it was purely transactional. Just another tool to manipulate people or get something he wanted.

A big part of his becoming “Lord Voldemort” is that he tries very hard to shed any semblance of humanity because for him, it represents vulnerability and his humble origins as the poor, unwanted kid who grew up in a muggle orphanage. Part of that shedding of humanity is (at least outwardly) rejecting things like relationships and sex because he believes those are weak things that mere mortals do. So, once he fully adopts the persona of Voldemort, I don’t think he even has transactional sex anymore.

I do see him as having a general desire for human connection (though this gets more and more repressed the older he gets). But he’s never actually felt sexual passion or desire, let alone romantic love, for another person.

That is, until Harry comes along.

I think Voldemort initially feels pulled to Harry because of the horcrux, even before he knows about its existence. The fact that Harry literally contains a piece of his own SOUL makes him grow to understand Harry in a way he’s never understood anyone before, and that opens the door for him to start feeling emotions he’s never felt.

So, long-story short, I guess, Voldemort is oblivious here because he’s experiencing actual attraction to another person for the very first time in 70+ years! Up until now, he’s been too single-mindedly focused on killing Harry to really notice anything unusual going on, or if he did, he probably just chalked it up to really, really, REALLY hating him and wanting him dead. But now that he isn’t actively trying to kill him, he has the opportunity to feel new things. At first through the horcrux connection, but as time goes on, that line will become more and more blurred.

It also doesn’t help that he’s severely lacking in self-awareness more generally. Like, he’s magically brilliant, no doubt. He’s very book smart, very clever, cunning, etc. And he’s exceptionally good at manipulating others, which means he has to have some level of emotional intelligence… He just reaaaallly doesn’t have the self-awareness part. Or the empathy part (yet).

But Harry is a mirror—not just because he contains part of Voldemort’s soul, but also because he’s the only one bold enough to stand up to him. Basically, through Harry, Voldemort is slowly being forced into a situation where he has to confront his own humanity and start actually learning empathy. But I don’t wanna say too much, so I’ll stop now :)

[yourneighborlyweirdo]

A Message For Those Struggling With Shifting

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.

A Message:

I know it feels demotivating. I know when you open a social media app and see everyone’s success, story times, and etc, the only thing you can think is:

“Why can’t this be me? What am I doing wrong? Why haven’t I done it yet? Why is it taking so long? Can I just not do it? Is it impossible?”

The longer you keep thinking things like that, the more you will spiral downward into that hole that consumes you, thinking you’re not good enough.

And I know that’s what it feels like—that it consumes you completely, and you feel as though your trapped in a place you don’t want to be in, and the only option for escape you can’t even do.

But this simply isn’t true.

Think of all the times you’ve opened your phone to see everyone talking about shifting. And instead of spiraling downward, go upward.

If everyone has posted this much content about the same thing, and not even online…people have made literal books about this topic called “shifting realities.”

And for the sake of argument, literally the tag “ #shifting ” on Tumblr has over 16k members in it.

If that many people believe in it, a lot of which have actually done it, why do you think you can’t either?

Let me put it this way…

You aren’t special.

I’m sorry, I know that sounds bad, but let me explain: You are not special. Everyone on this planet has the ability to shift, and millions have—as a matter of fact, EVERYONE has, unknowingly. You shift when you decide to wear a red shirt instead of a blue one, and etc etc.

If so many can shift, so can you. You have the same tools and abilities as the next person.

You can. And you will.

You just have to believe it. Believe it in a way where you don’t even question it—believe it so much that when you suddenly do get the thought, “Why haven’t I done it yet?” Your next thought is, “That’s silly. I can do it whenever I want to.”

You can do anything you set your mind to. You just have to believe you can.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.

Why I Made This Post:

I made this post mainly for myself. I made it so I can look back on it and remember what I should be thinking instead of what I am thinking.

It’s hard to know that I hold the same abilities as everyone else, and I’ve shifted countless times without knowing and on accident, and I’m amazing at manifesting so much so that whatever I want can come into the 3D instantly.

But when it comes to Shifting, every thing I try doesn’t work. I know I can do it and I 100% believe it’s real, and every time I do try, I feel like I’ve shifted but when I wake up and I’m still in my CR, I just feel…I don’t even know how to explain it.

It’s like you’ve scheduled a vacation and you’re looking forward to it for months, and the night before you think, “Omg, I can’t wait! Tomorrow’s the day I go on the vacation I’ve been waiting for!” And then you wake up the next day and see that a reason you don’t even know, your vacation is canceled and your money you spent on it got sent back to you. It feels like that.

And I know I just need to assume I can do it, and that I shouldn’t think of it as “trying” to shift but instead as “deciding” to shift, and I do do all of those things. But for some reason I’m still here, and it makes me feel things I can’t even explain.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up. I know I can do it, and I believe that it’s real and I can do it so I know I will.

I just wish it will happen sooner rather than later.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.

Last Thoughts:

Sorry if this post is weird or like, I don’t know, hard to read. And I didn’t mean to dump all my personal struggles into this, but that’s why I started posting on this app in the first place. I want to help others by telling what I’ve learned, and I want learn things from other people.

If you’ve read this far, thanks. And I hope you know that you can do it. If you don’t believe it, know that I believe you can.

Have a good rest of your day.

Sincerely,

Your Neighborly Weirdo

[kendrysaneela]

Ohmygod that was wild. First of all wow we were right that was Helena after all. I did get pretty sure when the lighting was red during the sex scene.

Okay thoughts.

Didn’t Helena basically just assault Mark S.? He didn’t know he was having sex with Helena he thought he was having sex with Helly oof that’s dark

It’s also kinda sad because I think Helena did it because she was trying to experience love? She was jealous Helly her innie who she sees as subhuman got to experience something she never has. So she wanted to experience love with Mark wanted to see what it was like to be Helly and be loved. Obviously that doesn’t excuse that doing that without Mark’s consent was messed up but Helena doesn’t view Mark S. As human so I don’t think she viewed it as assault she viewed it as using a tool to get what she needed. She wanted love and he was a tool she could use to get it. (Not an excuse yet again just a thought)

Helena being the one to laugh at the story was interesting. Like Kier is HER ancestor who she was raised her entire life to revere as the leader of her bloodline and raised to worship him. And yet she sat there and she laughed at him and laughed about the story. Made fun of it. It seemed so surprising for Helena to do that I wondered if we were wrong and if that was actually Helly or if it was a brand new person where Helly and Helena had reintegrated. I wonder why she did that? I feel like that shows she doesn’t believe her family’s hype. She’s not as brainwashed as I thought. Which is also kinda sad because that means she’s caged. If she doesn’t really believe in her family line in that way and doesn’t take her bloodline seriously but yet still goes along with whatever her family tells her to do, that shows she’s not brainwashed, she’s caged. She’s Helly but in the outside world. Maybe even worse because Helly has free will as an Innie she gets punished but she has free will and she has multiple people in her life who love her. Helena, seemingly has no one, and no real free will. I think she decided to take that opportunity to make fun of her ancestor cause she could. There were no cameras in the wilderness, none of her family was there, her father would never know, so she took her freedom and she ran with it. Even if Milchick told someone who would believe him over her? She outranks him. That’s probably why he threw the marshmallows away. He knew that was the only punishment he could give her. But yeah at the end of the day, Helena is in a gilded cage. And being an Innie was probably the only time she ever felt free. And I don’t think Helena was lying. I think she really is ashamed at who she is on the outside. I think she was telling the truth. You could tell from the way she looked at Irving when he asked who she really was, what she really saw on the outside. She stared at him, and she genuinely teared up. She looked genuinely sad. And like she felt sympathy for him. And then you watch her put her walls back up. And she walks away. And finds comfort in Mark S. I think she does feel guilty for what she’s done. Now does she feel guilty enough to do anything about it? I don’t know. Her father seems to have her locked up pretty tight.

I wonder what’s gonna happen now that everyone knows who Helly really is. And now that Helly knows who she is. And now that they know that Helena was occupying her body. Now that they know it’s possible for that long of a time. The implications of that are kinda insane.

And what’s gonna happen to Irving? Will his outie wake up in the woods? Will he wake up at home? Is Irving B gone forever?? The questions I have.

[604to647]

Safest with You (Ch. 9 - The Dam Breaks)

6K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Din finally comes upstairs and <see above gif>.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please; for serious, this is the first chapter in the "main" series that is explicit.) Porn with feelings, but it’s still 93.2% porn: unprotected PiV sex (discussed), multiple orgasms, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, they sort of... "make love"? Sorry for the ick but let's call a spade a spade, kissing, dirty talk, a wee bit of daddy kink, dipping their toes into a light degradation kink, tons of petnames as usual (baby, pretty bird, sweet girl, sweetheart, etc.)

A/N: I'm sorry for this gif. I'm sorry for all of it.

Two other thoughts: First, I said somewhere else that I think writing smut takes practice, and I still consider myself to be in the practice stage - I hope it's enjoyable, but I feel like I have room for improvement. Second, totally understand if you've been reading this series for the fluff and maybe this isn't your bag (thus far, the smut has been contained to the separate one-shots and drabbles); that's okay, feel free to skip this one! I concede this is a lot of boinking, but that’s sort of what the story, and specifically this chapter, has been building to. In future chapters, there will probably be more of a mix (plot, fluff, angst, smut) 👍🏻

Series Masterlist

It’s the hottest elevator ride of your life.  The second the doors start to close, shielding you from your lobby guard’s view, you and Din move towards each other.  Din reaches you first and crashes his mouth to yours with a force that pushes you against the moving elevator’s walls, knocking the air out of your lungs.  Barely allowing you the moment you need to breathe properly, Din continues his invasion of your mouth, tongue massaging yours in hard, long strokes; his hands moving with similar urgency, moving up and down your sides.  When his thumbs flick over your nipples, you let out a catastrophic groan and your legs give out a little; lucky for you, Din has no problem holding you up.  Mouth never leaving yours, Din crosses your wrists over your head, holding them with one hand while sliding his free hand down to your ass.  Already arching into him from this new position, you buck into Din’s thigh when you feel him grab a fistful of one ass cheek and squeeze.

Chuckling, Din gives you a little lick on the neck beneath your ear, “Eager, aren’t we?  Don’t worry, pretty bird, I’ll give you what you need.”

Before you can respond, the elevator doors open with a ding, and you’ve never been more relieved to see the empty hallway of your floor and not the scandalized face of some poor unsuspecting neighbour.  Pausing only to pick up the dog leash that you dropped when Din had you pinned, you practically drag him by the hand to your door.

Once inside, you busy yourself with Al’s nighttime ritual (fresh bowl of water, dental chew), leaving Din free to take in your apartment.  The front foyer opens immediately to an open concept space so he can see clear across a living room area that’s adorn with perfectly complimentary furniture, all the way to the floor to ceiling windows lining a balcony that runs across the length of the unit.  To the right is a spacious kitchen, with a generous island littered with cooking tools and appliances.  Dog accessories make an appearance in every free nook and cranny, leaving no doubt who rules the roost here.  Just from this cursory look, Din can tell that you personally picked every piece of furniture, décor and small touch in your apartment; everything has a clean, calm aesthetic, and yet, is brimming with a welcoming energy.  From the overflowing bookshelf, to the cozy blanket thrown over the arm chair, to the vases of fresh flowers, it’s all so you.  It doesn’t surprise him that you have a keen eye for decoration and aesthetics; to him, everything you touch is made better.  You watch Din’s eyes sweep over your home; you’re immensely proud of this space and the home you’ve made for yourself and Al, and it brings you joy to share your happy place, your safe space with those you care about.  Looking at this hulk of a man standing in your front entrance, you feel a warmth in your heart at how much he already looks like he belongs here; and you’re suddenly very aware of how much space there is between the two of you.  Din catches your eye and taking in your pensive look, gives you a little smirk with a tilt of his head, “Don’t go shy on me now, sweetheart.”

Crossing the room with embarrassing speed, you nearly leap into his waiting arms; Din catches you with ease and cups his hands under your ass, lifting you so you can cross your legs behind his back and resume kissing him eagerly.  God he is so big, and so… strong, you internally swoon as he easily walks the both of you over to the couch.  He sits himself down gently, and you unwrap your legs so you’re now straddling Din’s lap, staying on your knees so that you have a height advantage for once.  Threading your fingers through his hair, you can feel the tension that has been building up since your first coffeeshop meeting ready to snap; peppering Din’s jaw with light kisses, you hum in his ear, “Want you to ruin me, Din.”

With a growl, Din helps you pull your sweatshirt over your head, “Let’s get you out of these clothes, pretty bird.”  Leaning back to admire you in your lace bra, sitting so pretty on top of him, he murmurs, “Even better than my dreams.”

“You dream about me, Djarin?”

Din starts to kiss down the column of your neck, making his way to your chest, “Every night, pretty bird.”

You sigh as he reaches the top of your breasts, his hands cupping them from underneath to push the supple flesh up into his mouth.  As Din devours everywhere you’re exposed with an open mouth, his hands greedily grope your tits, and you throw you head back in pleasure unable to hold back your moans, “Oh, oh, Din.  Din.  That feels so good. Right there, baby.”

Hands moving to roll your nipples between his fingers over the lace fabric, Din murmurs between mouthfuls, “Right here, sweetheart?  You like it when I touch you through this pretty lace?  Don’t think I didn’t recognize this bra, baby girl.  This little triangle right here,” he bites down on the left cup of your bra where the lace fabric meets the strap and tugs with his teeth so that your strap slides down your shoulder and the lace cup falls away from your chest, “has been torturing me for the last month.”  Just like the night he saw his first peek of this lingerie set, Din is finding its teasing effect on him to be irresistible as he moves his mouth to cover what the fallen lace reveals.

With Din’s face fully buried in your chest, you run your fingers through his hair and hold him close while arching your self into him, needing to get impossibly close to this man; his mouth is setting you on fire and his hands are roaming over your body, caressing and electrifying you with every touch.  And yet, you need more.  More of his tongue, his hands, his words, more, more, more.

Din momentarily pulls you out of your daze, “You wear this just for me, pretty bird?”

You look down at Din and see he already looks as desperate as you feel.  You nod and add hesitantly, “Just for you… daddy,” deciding in the moment to try out the petname.  It’s not something you’ve used a lot with past partners, but for some reason, maybe it’s his size, his protective nature, or just the way you want to give yourself over to Din to let him handle you, the moniker fits; even when you would touch yourself to the thought of him, you would always come to the thought of daddy.

Din grins as he takes your now wet nipple back into his mouth, “Is that what you did, baby?  Wrap yourself up like a present for daddy?”

“Mmmhhh god yes,” you whimper; hearing him call himself daddy and pick up on the way you like dirty talk is causing a fresh wave of arousal to seep out of you, “Do you want to unwrap me, Din?”

Before Din even starts to nod, you climb off of his lap and stand right between his spread legs, shimmying down your pants to reveal the matching black panties. 

Din thinks he might pass out.  He has no idea what he’s done to deserve you serving yourself up to him like a perfectly wrapped gift; the coy and almost shy look you’re giving him right now as he takes in your pretty form is tapping into something wild and feral inside of him.  Reaching for you, he hooks two fingers into the band of your underwear as soon as you’re close enough and yanks you into him.  You laugh as you fall onto Din, his strong arms catching and pulling you on top of him so his lips can return to your chest again.  Your laughter quickly turns into needy whimpers as Din mouths and paws at you and you hear his filthy words vibrating against your skin, “Gonna take you apart, pretty girl.  Gonna have you screaming my name when you come on my mouth, my fingers, my cock.  You’re not going to remember your own name, baby – you’ll only know mine.”

You whine as Din growls again, “Mine,” and presses you down to grind on his lap.  You can feel his hardness straining against his pants as you chase after the delicious friction it provides, face warm with embarrassment at the mess your soaked panties must be making of his pants.

“Din, please…”

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“…more.  I need more, daddy,” you plead.

Din leaves a hand gripping your hip to help you build a grinding rhythm while his other hand moves between your bodies and trails down to your underwear.  Rubbing his fingers over the fabric, he finds you drenched, “So fucking wet, pretty bird.  You soak through these pretty panties just for me?”

By now, you’re panting into Din’s neck, so worked up you think you might scream if he doesn’t touch you soon, “Yes, oh yes, Din… all for you.  Pussy is dripping for you.  Need you to touch me, please, please.”

“So beautiful and sexy, and now polite, too.  Such good manners, saying please so pretty like that.  Don’t worry, baby doll, daddy will give you what you need,” pushing aside the lace to reveal your slick covered cunt, Din slides his fingers through your slit with purposeful strokes; repeatedly dipping his fingers in to explore your hole before spreading your wetness all over, leaving you flushed and squirming in his lap – somehow getting what you wanted has left you even needier than ever.

Gathering what small amount of self agency you have left, you force yourself to shift away from Din’s hand and straighten up to start unbuttoning Din’s shirt; with each undone button, you spread open the fabric and kiss the newly exposed part of his chest, taking in Din’s low moans as you explore his body with your hands and mouth.  When the expanse of his hard chest is before you, you step off of his lap and lean over Din to admire his impressive physique.  He’s unfathomably large, somehow even more so underneath his clothes, a solid wall of muscles no doubt well developed during his days as a boxer; running your hands over his build and trailing light kisses down his chest, you think that perhaps he’s a little softer now (especially around his tummy area), and you much prefer it that way.  In your explorations of Din’s body, you discover several scars of varying size and shapes, no doubt from long by-gone fights.  While you don’t linger, you run your tongue over the smooth, puckered skin, kissing each scar before moving on, as if to make better the injury that has long healed; Din looks down to watch you leave your loving touch on all the parts of his body where violence has marked him and feels his chest tighten at your tenderness.  In this moment he thinks that maybe, maybe, you’re the grace that’s meant to right all his wrong doings; his very own goddamn angel.

By the time you reach the last shirt button, your mouth is watering and you’ve successfully worked yourself up to stratospheric levels, actually feeling your slick dripping down to your inner thighs.  Along with the button, you also undo Din’s belt and pants then slowly sink down to your knees in front of his spread legs, before looking up at him with want.

Holy shit. Din thinks he could come just from the sight of you kneeling before him, lips swollen, lace bra half off with pretty tits on display for him, pupils blown wide with a mix of lust and playfulness.  He lifts himself slightly so you can pull down his boxers and pants, and when his hard cock springs out with a bounce, he sees your eyes widen and you bite your bottom lip while sharply inhaling.  With amusement, he lets you busy yourself with taking off his pants fully and watches as your brow furrows with a tinge of worry.  He wants to soothe away your concern and tell you how bad he wants you in this moment, but the ability to form words seems to have escaped him.

When you come face to face with his impressive length again, you lock eyes with Din before breathing his name, breath fanning his dick and drawing a low groan from his throat; encouraged, you cup his balls with one hand, gently grasp his base with your other, and ready by pointing his tip towards your mouth.

Gingerly kissing the swollen head and kitten licking away the bead of precum seeping out of his slit, you coo, “Daddy it’s too big,” giving him a doe-eyed look of apprehension.  As good as you look and feel, floating your soft breath over his leaking cock, Din’s impatience and hunger override all his other sense and he has to have you now.  Leaning down to kiss you, open mouthed and hungry, he directs you off your knees with his strong arms, murmuring, “Don’t worry, pretty bird.  You can take it; I have to taste you now to make it fit, okay?”  You start to whine in protest, but as Din maneuvers you so that you’ve switched positions, you forget about the injustice of having being denied taking his cock in your mouth when you see Din’s eyes darken at the sticky mess between your legs.  Kissing your inner thighs as he peels off your lace panties, Din chuckles, “Did the idea of sucking daddy’s cock get you all worked up, sweetheart? You’ll have plenty of chances to take me in that sweet mouth of yours.  Not right now though, I need to get you ready for me.  Need to fuck you.” You at moan at his words, then gasp his name when he dives into you without warning like a man starved.

The obscene noises that Din makes as he licks your pussy and slurps your wetness fill the room and accompany the melody of your cries above him.  Grabbing his hair for purchase, your legs shake from pleasure so much that Din hooks an arm under your thigh to open you up even more and uses that hand to press you down so you can’t move.  “Taste so good, so sweet,” Din mutters and the vibrations of his baritone voice course all the way to your chest and you let out a wail, “Daddy, daddy, daddy.. oh fuc-!” Releasing one of your hands from Din’s curls to cover your mouth, Din reaches up with breathtaking speed and pulls your hand down.  With his mouth still pressed against your folds and nose nudging your clit, he purrs, “Want to hear you, baby.  Wanna hear what I do to you.”  Again, his words reverberate through you and electrify every pleasure point in your body so that you have no choice but to mindlessly grope your breasts and arch you back; if he wants to hear you, he’ll hear you:

“Fuck, daddy, that feels so good. Love your mouth on me.”

“Don’t stop, Din.  Need you, been waiting for you to tear me apart for so long.”

“Din. Din. Din… please, fuck, you’re so good at this… so good to me.”

“Please, oh god, please.  Daddy, I want to come all over your face, please daddy, daddy please let me come. Ahhhhhhh…”

Spurned on by your praise, Din bares down on you to lick one last hard stripe against your seam before taking your clit in his mouth and sucking.  Not giving you anytime to recover from the change in pressure, he presses in a thick finger all the way into your cunt, before quickly adding a second.  It’s too much, too much, you practically sob, as Din stretches you out and pushes you closer and closer to the brink.  “Baby, you can take it, gotta stretch this pussy out so my cock can wreck it,” he growls as his fingers pump into you with a quickening pace.  Your heartbeat starts to race as you feel your orgasm building in your lower belly; you’re writhing in Din’s hold, chanting non-stop incoherent ramblings of pleasure when he adds a third finger without warning – the added pressure brings a bite of pain that hurtles you over the edge, coming with a scream of Din’s name.

Din slows down his fingers, but keeps in all three, continuing to finger fuck you and lap at your sensitive clit until your whole body stops buzzing.

“Daddy…” you sigh, opening your eyes as Din rises, mouth and chin still shiny with your slick, and closes in for a kiss.  Cupping his face to help wipe away the evidence of your arousal, you sigh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as a fresh wave of warmth washes over you.  Still pliant and fuzzy from your orgasm, you let Din lay you down on the couch before he straightens himself up to remove his shirt and jacket; after folding them over neatly at the other end of the couch, Din turns back and braces his arm on the back of the couch to tower his naked form over you.  Fuck.  He belongs in a museum.  Mouth agape at the breathtaking sight above you, your legs part of their own accord, beckoning him. 

Planting himself between your open legs, Din pulls the cups of your lacy bra down with his fingers and your breasts fall into his hands; leaning in close, he whispers, “Wanna see these gorgeous tits bounce when I fuck you, pretty bird,” and as if on autopilot, you prop yourself up on your elbows, giving Din access to the clasp.  After sliding your bra down your arms and tossing it away, Din marvels at your naked body before him; he needs to fuck you like he needs air.  In a moment of miraculous clarity, he whispers, “Baby, do you have a condom?”

Suddenly shy, despite the ache of your cunt, you let Din know, “I’m clean… if you want, Din, you can fuck me bare?”

“Shit, pretty bird.  I’m clean, too. You sure?”

“Wanna feel you, daddy.”

“I swear you’ll be the death of me, baby,” he reveres, leaning down to capture your mouth in a breathtaking kiss. 

“Din,” you whimper, “please… need you… please, fuck me.”

“I’m here, I’m here… such a needy slut.”

You gasp, and for a second, Din wonders if maybe he’s taken the dirty talk too far; leaning away to check on you, he’s pulled back in when you throw an arm around his neck and crush your lips to his, kissing him with explosive want. “Your needy slut,” you murmur against his mouth, his filthy words having you clenching and feeling much too empty, “come claim your pussy.  It’s all yours, daddy.”

“Fuck,” grits Din, “the mouth on you, baby,” as he pulls back to line himself up with your entrance; he notches your opening and pauses for a moment, “Ready, pretty bird?” You appreciate this moment of tenderness, because you’re sure it’s coming right before Din absolutely wrecks you; you positively beam, “Give it to me, daddy.”

Din smirks at your enthusiasm and watches as your confident expression changes to one of being shell-shocked as he pushes in slowly; inch by inch, Din presses into you as you spread your legs further, one leg dropping off the couch and back arching to accommodate him, “Fuck, Din.  So… big,” you whine, hands gripping his shoulders, fingernails marking him to distract from the stretch.

“You’re taking me so well, baby girl,” Din coos, leaning in and wrapping his arms around you in encouragement, kissing your neck and nipping at your earlobes as he continues to sheath himself deep within you.  Finally, finally he bottoms out; you’re so, so full and you think you may have to relearn how to breathe.

Din rests his forehead against yours, panting and holding himself back until you let him know you’re ready;  he’d wager this is no less than a Herculean feat, with your tight warm cunt practically choking him, it’s a wonder to him he hasn’t come already.  Peppering your throat with light kisses and he croaks out words of praise in a husky, strained voice right into your ear, “Look at my good girl, taking me so deep,” “Feel so good and tight on my dick. So, so perfect for me,” “Never want to leave this cunt.  Could stay buried here forever.”

Your breathing, though shallow, finally steadies, “Din?”

“Yes, pretty bird,” he practically chokes.

“Please move,” you plead, “… and Din?”

He looks at your blissed out face as he pulls away from your neck, “Yes?”

“Don’t hold back, baby,” your smile playful.

Din returns your grin, “Any thing my pretty little slut wants,” and he pulls back nearly all the way, before pushing back in with restrained force.  He fucks into you with a few long, gentle strokes, waiting to make sure your moans are ones of pleasure before he lets go and slams into you, burying into you to the hilt before pulling back and driving into you over and over.  You feel the air punch out of your lungs with each of Din’s powerful thrusts; your combined cries and grunts of ecstasy mix with the sounds of skin slapping, filling the room and has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.  You grab at Din’s arms and babble nonsensically, “Din, Din.. Imma… feels so good… baby, baby, please… fuck, fuck...”

The build up to this, to tonight really, has been too much and Din know he won’t last.  Mesmerized by the vision of you writhing beneath him, your gorgeous tits bouncing as you cry out, he vows to make you come one more time before he explodes.  The hand not gripping your hip reaches up to palm both of your breasts and pull at your peaks; Din stutters when you clench down and cry out a symphony of his name in repetition.  As you’re quaking at the pleasurable sting still vibrating in your nipples, Din snakes a hand down to where you’re joined together and starts rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb.  A fresh wave of slick coats his pistoning cock as you mewl beneath him at the added sensation; you’re fucked dumb and hardly able to think let along string together the words to let Din know how close you are.

“I’m close, baby.  You feel… too good… can’t last.  Need you to come one more time for me.  Can you do that for me? Can you… be my good girl?”  Din grunts hotly in your ear, each question punctuated by a hard thrust.

“Yes, daddy, daddy… fuck oh, yes… can… be… good… Oh, Din, Din, don’t stop, don’t stop, Din, DIN! Nghhhhhhhh!”

“That’s it.  Give it to me, let go, baby. Give daddy one more,” Din is barely able to keep up a steady pace as he presses down on your swollen nub.

Crying out, you shudder and shake as Din pulls another orgasm from you; eyes unfocused and mouth open in a soundless scream, you tense around Din’s length so tightly that his own fall isn’t far behind.  As your breathing starts to even, Din pulls out and strokes himself furiously with his fist before shooting rope after rope of cum over your stomach as you watch, awestruck.  So much.  Pulling you up and into his lap with a strong hand to your back, Din kisses you tenderly as you come down from what has probably been the best fuck of your life.

Settled contently in the afterglow, you run your fingers gently up and down Din’s warm back as he continues to kiss you softly; stroking your hair lovingly, he whispers, “Sorry, pretty bird.  Didn’t have time to ask you where you wanted me to come.”

Gosh, you adore him.  Giggling, you kiss that sweet mouth of his, “It’s okay, baby.  I like that you marked me.  I told you, I’m yours.”

“Mine,” Din murmurs between gentle pecks to your lips, cradling your head gently while holding you close with his other arm, “Was that okay, sweetheart?”

You tuck yourself into your favourite nook under his chin and nod into his neck, “Perfect, Din. Knew you would be.”

“You’re my dream girl, pretty bird.”

You close your eyes and sigh happily, fucked out and pulled apart.

“Want to get cleaned up a bit?” Din suggests after a while.

When you nod into his neck, Din stands, still holding you close; softening against you, he effortlessly carries you in the direction of the bathroom that you point him in.  After setting you down softly on your feet, Din helps steady you as you reach for tissues and a hand towel and patiently waits for the water to warm before he gently cleans off his spend from your stomach and his own.  Giving you a little privacy to finish up, Din exits the bathroom first; when you come out, you see he’s gathered both of your clothes from the various places in the living room they were discarded, and is holding them with both hands in a neat pile in front of his nakedness like a sitcom character caught in a compromising position.   Cheekily letting out a low wolf whistle, tell Din how cute he is, then hold your hand out for his which he manages to take without dropping the clothes.

Leading him by the hand to your bedroom, you wordlessly take the clothes from him and put them on top of your hamper before throwing your arms around Din’s neck and kissing him with abandon.  The depth of your passionate for this man, and your gratefulness for intimacy that now exists between the two of you is overflowing.  You want him to know how good he made you feel, that he’s left you changed, filled with a need that you don’t think anyone other than him will ever be able to fill. 

“Do you want to stay over, Din?” you whisper into his lips; as amazing as this night has been so far, it somehow feels like not enough and you don’t want it to end just yet.

Din’s response is to pick you up and throw you, shrieking with laughter, onto your bed and dive bomb after you; giving you just enough time to roll away at the last minute so he doesn’t smoosh you.  Throwing his long arm over your middle, he rolls you back into him before pressing his mouth against yours, “I would love to stay over, pretty bird.  You think Al would be good with me joining you on mornings walks too?” 

Nodding, you smile and card your hands through Din’s curls, still slightly damp from your escapades in the living room, and pull him impossibly closer so there’s more of you touching than not.  The two of you stay like this for who knows how long; naked bodies entangled, strong arms encircling, never-ending soft touches from lips, fingers, hands, lazily mapping each other’s bodies.  Floating over the gentle grazes are whispered pleas for forgiveness once again, reminders that forgiveness was already granted, renewed vows of devotion, and declarations of adoration.  Every caress a promise for the future and an expression of your quiet joy.

With one hand running long, lazy strokes over your back like steady current and the other gently cradling your head, Din’s tongue parts your lips, “Can I have you again, sweetheart?”

Pulling back and looking at Din directly in the eyes, you find a sweet longing that makes more than your heart ache, so you nod while exhaling a satisfied breath.

“Wanna take it slow this time, okay pretty bird?”

Giving a low chuckle, “You always want to take things slow,” you grin, before kissing him earnestly, “I’m yours, Din, however you want me.”

Despite having just told you his intention to go slowly, your words have Din hardening fast as he licks into your mouth and deepens his kisses.

But he’s committed to taking his time and does indeed go slow. 

Slowly, he makes his way down your body, memorizing every curve of your neck and your breasts, every dip and valley of your hips and stomach with his mouth and hands.  Taking a pause at every soft peak of your body to impart loving caresses and murmur sweet words of praise and praising words of filth about what you do to him and what he wants to do to you.

Slowly, you fall apart when his tongue laps at you with the intent to explore and claim, gradually building you up with each lick.  With the patience of a saint, he repeatedly guides your thighs to stay open with firm, but gentle massages from his hands while he lazily sucks on your clit and you cry out long, drawn out whines above him.  He reveres each and every line and crest of your folds with his mouth, as you chant his name and grab at his curls to press him deeper into you for more, more.  Nothing can hurry him – not your soft cries of pleasure, not the strained hard on he ruts into your mattress, nor your dripping arousal running down your centre and soaking your sheets – he deliberately applies the sweet pressure you need to send you tumbling into oblivion when he’s good and ready, then draws out your pleasure even longer by continuing to devour you through your high.

He has to force himself to breathe slowly when you take him in your mouth, and following his cue, set a sweet and slow pace, licking and stroking his shaft lazily before swallowing him deep and working his length in an unhurried, steady rhythm.  Your small, soft hands cup him from below, and your fingers ghost a tickling trail over his balls, humming appreciatively to the sounds of Din’s haggard breathing and the small gasps that escape his throat.  He gently runs his fingers through your hair, brushing loose strands off your face as you suck his shaft and wrap your tongue around his swollen head; massaging your scalp soothingly as you take your time pulling all of him down your tight throat.  It’s almost unfair to call this a blow job when it’s really more of an appreciation of his glorious cock conducted at your leisure, the pleasure you’re receiving equaling Din’s.

Not without regret, Din coaxes you off of him, promising you he’ll come in your mouth another time as he lovingly kisses your messy mouth.  Even his vow of taking it slow has limits, and he openly admits he’s ready to concede, “Need to be inside of you, pretty bird.”

Din’s mouth never leaves yours as he lines himself up between your legs and almost agonizingly slowly, pushes in.  You’re so wet and open that he meets little resistance, but with his unrushed pace, you feel every ridge as he fills you.  There’s none of the urgency and impatience of your earlier dalliance; Din sets a relaxed pace, and braces his forearms on either side of your head, hands tenderly stroking your hair and face as he kisses you over and over.  As he thrusts in and out of you with long, deliberate strokes, Din drinks in your whimpers and soft cries of heady bliss, coming up only for air to whisper sweet praise in your ear about how good you feel around him, how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, made for him.  You don’t hold back any of your own ramblings, murmuring back how incredible he feels inside you, how well he fills you, how happy he makes you, how you want the weight of him on you at all times.  You feel so full, so beautiful, so safe and free, and so loved.  Din had promised to take you apart and put you back together when he finally took you to bed, and you had assumed he meant physically, but you’re sure now that he’s reshaped your heart as well.  With the way he’s looking at you while he fucks you deep and slow, adoring you, you can’t help as your eyes water slightly and tears escape from the corner of your eyes.  “I know, baby, I know,” whispers Din as he soothes away your tears.  Eventually, both your breathing turns shallow, your kisses sloppier, and your moans indecent.  With broken words, you gasp, “I’m so close.  Oh, god, Din.  Please.  Inside.  Please, Din, come inside me.  It’s safe, I-” and before you can finish your sentence, he kisses you to convey his trust, and reaches down to draw figure eights on your clit as he suddenly picks up the pace, giving himself the permission to release what he’s been holding back.  The sudden change in speed coupled with the delicious strokes from Din’s thumb has you coming for your personal record breaking fourth time tonight, clenching down so hard on Din that he fists the sheets next to your head tight enough to turn his knuckles white.  Somehow mustering enough focus to slam into you even harder for three, four, five more strokes, Din comes mightily with a low, prolonged grunt, collapsing on top of you while panting into your neck.

A minute passes and Din rolls off of you and pulls you close; as he slips out of you, you whine a little from the loss and look at him almost shy, to which he kisses your forehead tenderly.  No words needed, he gets up, walks around to your side of the bed to lift you bridal style, keeping your legs closed to minimize the mess on your bed sheets before carrying you to your bedroom ensuite.  After cleaning up, you put on a fresh pair of underwear and a silky camisole for sleep while Din dons his boxers before the two of you slip comfortably under the covers, grinning like tired idiots the whole time.

Pressing you to his chest, Din nuzzles the back of your neck and peppers the nape with light kisses, “Remember when I told you I didn’t plan on getting much sleep around you, pretty bird?”

You hum in assent, remember his teasing from your second date.

“If you keep wearing things like this to bed,” his big hand moves to brush deliberately over your nipples and then trail down your side to lightly spank your ass, “then I’m going to have to start calling in to work.”

You giggle and buck back into him, teasingly, “It’s okay, you’re the boss.”

“Nah, you’re the boss, pretty bird.  From this night on, I’m at your beck and call.  Fall to my knees and worship you, servant to your every whim, ready to topple kingdoms should that be your wish,” you can feel his goofy, lopsided smile against your ear.

“A boxer and a poet?  A lover and a fighter? Who knew you contained such multitudes, Djarin,” you quip, but secretly melting at his romantic words.

“Such a perfect night, baby.  You’re so perfect.”  He kisses your shoulder, then nips it lightly with his teeth for good measure, causing you to yelp in surprise.

Turning over, you snuggle in under his chin, “You were pretty good tonight too, old man.”

“Just want to be good for you, pretty bird.  Want to always make you feel good.”

“You do, Din.  You make me feel so cherished, and wanted, and sexy, and safe.  Really,” and you pull back to look him deep in his eyes, “I meant everything I said tonight, baby.  It’s okay to share your world with me; I won’t judge.  Please don’t ever feel like there’s no place for me by your side; it’s where I want to be.”

“It’s where you belong,” he counters, sealing this declaration with a sweet kiss.

Turning back over, you hold on to Din’s forearms and nest back into his protective embrace; smiling to yourself as the sounds of Din’s gentle breathing lull you into a peaceful sleep.

[dastardly-imbecile]

Ad Infinitum

He should ask you. Ask you what this is, what he feels, ask you what you did to him—because it has to be you, it all traces back to you—and how to fix it. But if he does that, maybe you will deny. Or, worse, you will confirm, and you will patch him up, and then he will forget you once again. Because that’s what happened before: he’s sure of it, some reiteration of this cycle, falling down, rising up, just as his life has always been, some microcosm of the destiny of Shane, star Gridball player to alcoholic to whatever this is. --- Shane knows you. Yet, he can't remember you. You've done this all before, haven't you? OR You wipe Shane's memory and then romance him again and he's sad and confused.

---

Wordcount: ~8.7k

Shane meets you at the saloon on a rainy Wednesday night, early spring, him alone in a near-empty room. The usual suspects are there, of course, Gus and Emily and Pam, but everyone is ensconced in their own bubble of silence, nothing but the low croon of the jukebox and the occasional crack of thunder to break it. He nurses a glass of Joja Cola, half-empty, half-full. 

So when the door opens, it’s a shock—all eyes in the room turn to it, turn to the sopping figure standing under the doorway. Emily swings away from the shelves, rushing to the counter, face lighting up, and Gus asks something about a hot meal, and Pam is silent because she probably lost cognitive ability two drinks ago—a feeling not unrecognizable to Shane—but now, now he’s something akin to sober, so he’s able to gauge your presence as well. Hair plastered to your cheeks, clothes similarly clinging to your body, wearing a jangling belt filled with many tools. Unfamiliar face. He frowns. 

Surely, he’d have heard if someone new was moving in?

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Emily says, leaning over the bartop, “it’s soaking. But hey, want a drink?”

“Just a beer,” you say, and Emily obliges quickly, pouring you a full-brimmed mug. Before it’s even fully in your hands, you’re turning, turning and looking, looking straight at him. 

And, worse, taking a step forward. Another. Beer held loosely in your hands, straight beeline. The old him would’ve shuttered. Would’ve ran, maybe. 

Or, who is he kidding? The old him would be too out of order to even notice you. 

“Hi, Shane,” you say, once you’re close enough. His frown deepens. 

“How’d you know my name? Who are you?”

Something inscrutable flickers across your face, passing over those fine features as quick as a gust of wind. 

“Heard it around. I’m the farmer.”

“The… the new farmer?” He reaches back into the depths of his mind, trying to dredge up something, and eventually, there is a small pearl of memory. Yes, new farmer, he remembers something… something of the sort. Lewis, maybe? 

Probably one of those things told to him in a stupor, in one addled ear and out the other. 

“Oh,”you say, looking down at the drink in her hands, “Sorry, I know you don’t… don’t, uh, drink.” With a deft movement, you set it down upon the counter, slide it away. His grip tightens around the glass of cola. 

“What? You know I don’t drink?”

“I mean,” you gesture to his drink, “That’s nonalcoholic, right? And you know, I’ve heard…”

“You’re sure hearing a lot.”

“Yup,” you agree blithely, rocking back on your heels, then forwards again. Your eyes meet his—the yellowish light of the saloon reflects from them, lighting them up with some sort of internal glow, and the moment of eye contact triggers some bright flare of emotion in him, something he can’t name. 

Strangely off-kilter, he swallows, unsure what to do next. Tell you to go away? But no, that’s not polite, and he’s trying not to be that sort of person anymore. Had a bit of a reality check, after Jas compared him to one of the villains in her little stories. That, coupled with an attempt at sobriety, of course, with not letting the dullness of alcohol taint his every interaction.

“Hey,” you continue after a moment, “I have-” you reach down, dig around in one of the pouches strapped to her belt, pull out a large, glossy pepper, perfectly coiffed step and smooth skin. Hand it to him. He takes it automatically. 

“I love these,” he says. 

“I know,” you reply, and then say something else, something that he thinks might be your name, but he’s still staring at the pepper. Still trying not to meet your eyes. Everything feels wrong. A cottony sort of weight in his head, stomach swirling, a bit like a hangover, but worse, somehow. 

When you leave, it’s with a cheery goodbye from Emily, a call to stay safe! From Gus. He doesn’t contribute to the well-wishes. 

New farmer. 

New farmer?

“Marnie,” he starts, when gets home. She looks up from the magazine she’s reading upon the couch. 

“Hm?”

“When do hot peppers grow?”

She wrinkles her nose in thought. “I’m not a farmer, Shane.”

“But you know something, right?”

“Don’t take my word for it,” she says after a moment, “but in summer, I think.”

Summer. It’s spring. Just a glance out the window is enough to prove that: new, sparse trees, large patches of dirt where young buds have yet to push their way to the surface, petals floating freely through the air—at least on days that aren’t as torrential as this one. 

So where did you get that pepper, if you’re new?

“Why?” She asks, when he doesn’t answer. “Thinking of growing something?”

“There’s a farm. A new farm.”

“...I suppose.” The words are reluctant. He rubs at his forehead, then his eyes, trying to get past whatever it is that’s clouding up his thoughts. It’s been months since he’s drunk a drop, so why is everything so fuzzy, so odd?

“Up north, right?” He asks. Marnie stands, tossing her magazine down onto the couch. 

“Shane, maybe you should get to bed. If-”

“I haven’t been drinking,” he snaps, already aware of what she’s getting onto. It’s infuriating, all these soft looks, all this coddling, like he’s not a grown man, like he can’t be trusted to stay away from the drink one damn day. 

“I never said-”

“The farm,” he interrupts, “there’s a farmer.”

Her mouth draws tight into a long, thin line. 

“It’s late. I’m going to sleep. You should do the same.”

With no further fanfare, she turns, moves into her room and closes the door with a solid click. Alone in the living room—but, for a solid few moments, he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but try and capture his breath, try to reorient himself in this suddenly unfamiliar world. 

—

When he does sleep, that night, he dreams. 

Of what, he doesn’t remember, but it feels like feathers. 

—-

A week later, he gets over himself, decides to do the simple thing and make a trek up to the farm himself. Not like he has much else to do—since Jojamart shut down, he’s been out of a job. Sam found one at the museum, but he’s got even less inclination to spend his days there. At least Jojamart had AC. 

In any case, Shane does well enough, supporting himself on eggs from the chickens. It makes Marnie happy to see him continue the so-called ‘family tradition’, for another plus. 

The farm is far from the dilapidated wreck that he’d been expecting, that’d been pulled from some subterranean memory. Instead, it practically gleams in the sunlight, all smoothly-paneled slats of wood and crops in neat rows, strawberries and cauliflower and trellises of fat beans.

And, to the side, is a fenced-off area of chicken coops. He gravitates towards them almost instinctually, drawn to the sound of happy clucking and many small feet pattering on the hard-packed earth. Beyond them are pens full of floppy-eared goats and speckled cows, but his focus is all on the avian. 

They look plump, feathered, well-cared for. Can’t deny that it raises his estimation of the farmer by a bit. A white one emerges from the coop, and then a sleek duck, and then, behind that…

Another chicken. 

A blue one. 

His heart seizes in his chest, a hammer of something beating him soundly across the head, something familiar, something that looms above him and he just needs to think-

“Shane?” Someone asks from behind him, and he startles, all thought flying from his head. He whirls around, stumbling. “What’re you doing here?” You add a moment later. Before he can stop himself, he meets your eyes, and they are as bright as the sun overhead. 

“I don’t… how did you get those?” He points at the azure chicken, currently pecking happily at the ground. 

“I bought them,” you reply blankly. Slung over your arm is a basket full of crops, still stained with crumbs of dirt, a veritable cornucopia in weaving, green leaves spilling over the sides. You slowly set it down, pick up another basket that’s nestled against the wooden fence, no doubt for the eggs and milk. 

“No, but…” but how does he explain this? That those are his chickens, his breed, the one that he doesn’t sell, wouldn’t sell to anyone but his closest friends and Yoba knows there’s nobody that matches that qualification in the valley. “That’s impossible. You can’t have them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying I stole them?”

Immediately, he walks his accusation back. “No, I mean… it’s just that those are special. I breed those.”

Something darkens your eyes, clouds drifting in front of the sun. He doesn’t like that—doesn’t like when they dull, when that spark is muted by something that almost looks like begrudging familiarity. 

“Bought ‘em from Marnie. Maybe… maybe, uh, a few eggs got mixed in?”

“Maybe,” he echoes. The word is bitter. Shouldn’t be possible, when they’re kept in different coops, and he picks them up himself every morning, but maybe, maybe, maybe. Not like there’s a better explanation. 

“So? Why’re you here?” You repeat. Nothing necessarily accusatory in your tone, no threat of calling trespass, but the named curiosity still stings, somehow. The idea that he doesn’t belong here. 

He doesn’t, does he? He’s never once stepped foot in this place. 

So why does it feel like..? 

“It’s more… more developed than I expected,” he blurts, then winces upon realization of how that could be taken as an insult. Might as well sew his shoe to his mouth if he’s gonna keep jamming his foot up there. 

“I had time.” You place a hand upon his shoulder, shifting him to the side. He’s so shocked that he allows it—lets himself be moved ungainly away from the gate, which you then unlatch, open. 

“How long, exactly, have you been here?”

Hand upon the fencepost, you half-turn towards him, brow slightly furrowed. 

“A while.”

“You told me you were the new farmer.”

“I didn’t. You must’ve assumed.” You tip a shoulder in a shrug. “New to you, probably.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does everyone know you? How… how do I not?” How do you make his head pound when near, what’s happening to him?

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re lying. He can tell. Not nearly so obvious as Jas is, but there are tells, the slight clench of your upon the rough wood, those eyes darting up and then back, a moment of frailty. He should push. Dig an answer out of you. 

…But the sun is beating into his head, and the chickens are clucking, and some strange instinct is telling him not to dig any further. Not to care. 

Maybe some gaps aren’t meant to be filled. 

“Sorry,” he says, an apology for all the misstepped statements, “I’ll be… I’ll be going. See you around.”

You give him a peculiar look, accompanied with the tilt of her head, strangely owlish, some bird of prey looking down upon a shivering rabbit, eyes glinting in the moonlight. Just for a second. And then, and then you smile, and the illusion snaps. 

“Hopefully. Don’t be a stranger, Shane.”

Part of him wants to say we are strangers, but are you really?

—

The weeks buzz by, all under a haze of heady spring wind and the new gleam that life tends to acquire when you’re not blackout drunk for half of it. He goes on long walks around town with Jas, watches her run about with Vincent at the playground, actually socializes at the saloon, begins to sit with Willy and Clint, though he still has not built up the fortitude to actually contribute to their conversation yet. His birthday comes and goes. Marnie bakes him a cake, Jas tugs him around town, and that night at the saloon, someone orders him his favorite type of pizza: all meat. 

Gus tells him that it’s from an anonymous source, but he sees you slide him a few coins. Strange interaction, stranger still that you know his favored order, but it’s only a blip in many monotonous days. 

Mostly, though, he is the same presence as he’s always been: that being, under-the-radar, a man not quite worth paying attention to. Still hasn’t managed to shake that reputation. For good reason, too: he supposes that half a year of sobriety does not a town drunkard unmake. 

Some days are harder than others. Those in which Jas is at school, and Marnie is running errands, and he is alone at home with nothing to do except twiddle his thumbs and try desperately not to feel parched. He takes up walking, long strolls through the forest, following game trails and hoofprints, cursing at his jacket gets snagged in the brambles, running his hand along large, waxy leaves that smell faintly of mint and honey.

One such time, he encounters the Wizard alone in a clearing, eyes closed, hat hung neatly on a nearby tree. Seems to be in the middle of whatever arcane muddle that only he can do, and Shane doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of that and get turned into a butterfly, or whatever might happen when unwitting idiots come into contact with the ethereal, but just as he’s backing into the bushes, the Wizard’s eyes open. 

“Hello?” He asks, zeroing in on Shane—which isn’t a surprise, he doesn’t exactly fit in with the foliage, blue jacket and neon jersey—“who is it?”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to, ah, intrude-”

“No, no,” he assures, shaking his head. He points to the hat-holding tree and mutters some quiet phrase, and the hat pops into existence on his head. “Shane, was it?”

“Yes,” he replies, trying to still his stomach at the sight of magic. They all know the Wizard, of course, recluse at the edge of town. See some of his little tricks on Spirit’s Eve and the like, those shadow-people in cages and the maze that moves on its own, but all that’s very different from this. One under the thick cloak of night, on an accursed day, dark enough that magic seems to be within touch even without his tricks, but this—this is bright spring and a movement so casual that it’s clearly habit, magic born of a man who can’t bother to walk ten paces to grab his belongings. 

“You-” the Wizard starts, then stops abruptly, cocking his head. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak at all, eyes flicking up-and-down Shane’s form. “What is…?”

He takes a halting step closer, tilts his chin up. 

“Are you sleeping with my ex-wife?”

“What?” Shane splutters, taking a large step back, “no, I- what?”

His brow furrows, then smoothens. “My apologies. It’s just that you have… hm. A trace.”

“A trace of what?” 

“Her mana signature. I cannot isolate…” He points at him, closing his eyes, and for a moment Shane is afraid that he’s going to pop him in and out of existence, but all that happens is the faint gust of the breeze across his face, so mundane that it’s probably coincidental. They’re outside, after all. Wind happens. 

“...Don’t heed me,” he says after a long moment, “you may leave, Shane.���

He does so readily, as quickly as he can. Feels a bit like a student fleeing a teacher’s classroom, shamefully dismissed. 

Accusations of sleeping around aside, by the time summer comes into full, he’s stopped taking walks in the woods. Not only for fear of encountering errant magicmen, but for the fact that these past few walks, he’s been seeing doves. Flickers of white through the leafy canopy, small pale birds settled upon the branches. They never do anything, but he doesn’t like their eyes. The way they watch him. 

Accusatory. Too intelligent for a bird, if he’s being paranoid. 

Though the eyes are large and dark and liquid, undeniably animal, somehow, they remind him of yours. 

—

He’s sitting on the docks, feet dangling inches above the water, on a night somewhere on the hotter end of spring. Crickets in the brush, chirping up a song, the breeze balmy even under the cover of nightfall. Thinking. 

Life’s not half-bad, really. He’s still the same Shane as always, underachiever, a couple dozen pounds over what would make it comfortable to go shirtless at the beach, but at least he’s not passing out every night, at least he knows that Marnie doesn’t see him as a total disgrace anymore. Really, that former part is a shame, because this night would be perfect with a cold one, but he can’t trust himself to only have a cold one and not a cold all. 

Behind, interrupting the drone of the crickets, there’s the sound of clopping hooves. They slow, then trot to a stop, and a thud as someone drops off the saddle. He doesn’t turn around. It’s obvious who it is. Only one person in the valley owns a horse. Marnie used to, but she sold them off one of those years when times were a bit harder than usual. Never really found the value in buying more of them once coffers were filled again. Shame. Jas would’ve loved them. 

“Shane?” You ask, walking onto the dock. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“What’re you doing here?” 

“Going back home. Straight shot north to my farm.”

“Huh,” he murmurs, unsure what else to say to that. 

Far from hopping back onto her horse and returning, you continue padding forwards, eventually crouching beside him. From his peripherals, he sees your silhouette in the dark, the fine details only barely visible at his distance, the light from Leah’s cottage giving you an outline of dull yellow light. 

“Isn’t this nostalgic?” You ask. 

“What?”

You blink, as if surprised, then screw your eyes closed, opening them a second later. Banishing a thought that he is not privy to. 

“Sorry. Only for me. I’ve had a lot of… a lot of good conversations, on this dock.”

“I’ve never seen you.”

You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. “Have you been looking?”

He flushes, though there was nothing particularly embarrassing about either the comment or the response. 

“Guess not. I’m usually…” here, he trails off, suddenly struck by the fact that the end of that sentence is not something he should say in polite company, let alone polite company of someone he barely knows—and who he’s transgressed quite enough around, already. Strange to think that he cares about this stuff now, things are nebulous as his reputation. He almost wishes he could go back to that old him, that of barbed words and who found a perverse sort of delight in being an outcast, a pariah. There’s freedom in being outside of the box. 

Oh, well. Now, now, he’s fit himself quite neatly back into the borders of acceptable, enough that the idea of being once again an outcast is almost frightening. Sometimes, in those thirsty moments, it’s less the pragmatic that stills his hand, Harvey’s chiding words about liver damage and too young for this, but instead a strange source of emotion, of fear.

There’s someone he doesn’t want to disappoint. Jas, obviously. Marnie. The town as a whole. 

And…

And someone else. He can’t… can’t remember who. 

Someone else?

He looks up, meeting your eyes accidentally, wrenches his gaze away almost as quickly, flushing deeper. 

Something’s wrong with him. 

“...What kind of conversations?” He asks, after a moment, more to break the silence than anything. You hesitate, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, caught in thought. 

“Just, about life.”

It’s a nonspecific answer, enough that he has the social wherewithal to know here’s where to stop pressing. Even though you’re the one who pulled up and sat next to him, even though he was here first, he feels somehow off-kilter, an intruder, unwanted. Awkward. 

“...It’s getting late,” you say, “sorry, I don’t know why I… it was nice to talk to you, Shane. Again.”

What do you mean by again? You’ve talked to him before, of course, but that doesn’t seem an adequate enough foundation to tack again onto the phrase, and he’s overthinking this, overthinking enough that his response comes stuttered out a long moment later. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Uh, goodnight.”

“Night,” you reply, standing smoothly, walking back to your horse. A moment later, there is once again the pounding of hooves, and he’s alone in the night, fireflies drifting lazily over the waters, pond reflecting the pale, speckled moon overhead. A nice night. Peaceful. 

Somehow, that craving for a beer has faded. 

He’s not sure why. 

—

The only reason Shane does go the Flower Dance is for Jas: she wakes him at an ungodly six AM in the morning, though the damn thing doesn’t start until nine, and then bounces off the walls for the next three hours. Marnie rouses a bit later, at eight, and with bleary eyes, braids flowers into her hair and helps her get situated into a frilly white dress. Shane pulls on a considerably more rumpled suit, endures Jas’s attempts to braid his hair, and then, they’re setting out into the cool air. 

There’s that undercurrent of heat that hints at summer’s imminent arrival, the promise of a blazing afternoon, but for now, early morning, it’s pleasantly cool. Enough that even in all three layers of his suit, he’s not yet overheating. Jas bounds ahead, and Marnie warns her not to stray too far, but of course she doesn’t listen, all the way to the enclosed area in the southern edge of the forest where all manner of things are set up. Triangular parade flags fluttering in the wind, Pierre’s booth loaded with flowers, and most dreadingly, the cleared-out dance floor. 

His usual partner is Emily, who dances like nobody is watching, which he does not mean as a compliment—but she’s probably take it as one. Swaying like tall grasses in heavy winds, all a jumble of limbs and movements that somehow manage to coalesce into something halfway-graceful. Just his luck that he, the man with two left feet, is habitually paired with the best dancer of the group. Makes him feel like even more of a schlub than usual.

Always, he wishes he could just skip the whole thing—but Emily is one of the only people in this town that he might hesitantly be able to call his friend, so sadly, the tethers of social politeness pull him back into the fray every year. His sole comfort is that Harvey always stumbles at least once per year, so he can have a partner in incompetence, but it’s not much. 

He’s hanging by the food tables as per usual, counting down the dreadful minutes to Lewis’s announcement, when you approach him. Dressed in white as per tradition, the skirt brushing your ankles, the top cut low above your chest, strapless, lacy. There’s no standardized dress code for this thing, just ‘wear white’, and all the girls take their own little liberties with that idea, but there’s something even more different about your dress. He can’t place it. 

He’s been staring. 

“...What?” He asks, after swallowing the mouthful you caught him with. You dip your head, the image of bashfulness, but your eyes remain on him—it’s a contrast against the rest of your body language. Hands tucked together before you, head tilted down, shoulders low and relaxed, but still, you make eye contact. 

“Be my partner today?”

“What?” He asks. Or, maybe not so much that full word, but instead an inarticulate exclamation of surprise that he manages to twist into something of the common lexicon. 

“My partner,” you repeat, “for the dance?”

“Why?”

You look up, dropping that timid sort of pose—didn’t fit you much, anyways—and cross your arms. “Because I need a partner and I like you, Shane.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, somewhere on the spectrum between speechless and stupefied. You take a step back, dress swishing violently at your feet. 

“Look, it’s fine if you don’t want to. I can-”

“No,” he interrupts, “no, no, I can dance. With you.”

All that tautness drops from your face, and you smile brightly at him before whisking away with a final, “see you then.”

A wave of something washes over him, so overwhelming that he must steady himself against the table. This will be the first year that he’s danced with anyone but Emily, right? 

Then why does he feel such deja vu?

He seeks her out a moment later, to tell her that he will unfortunately not be able to partner with her, but she simply laughs, patting him once on the shoulder. “So it’s becoming a pattern, Shane? Don’t worry. I prefer to dance by myself, anyways.”

“A pattern?” He asks. She cocks her head. 

“Don’t you remember?”

“No,” he says, “no, I don’t.”

She says something else, but he doesn’t hear it. From what he knows about Emily, he can approximate it to be something like, oh, let me meditate over a diamond about this, but it’s drowned out again by that wave of familiarity, of memory-not-memory. 

Eventually, when they line up for the dance, he looks at you from across the line. You smile. He doesn’t return the motion. A step forwards, a step back, raise the arms and lower. Approach you, take hands, your palms warm against his, and twirl you once. From his side, Harvey mutters a curse, almost drops Maru. He’s too concentrated on his footwork to really notice. 

It feels like muscle memory, which is surprising in and of itself. He doesn’t really have the muscle nor the memory capacity to store an entire dance, yet here it is, watching your skirt flare out, reflecting the sun. 

It feels practiced. 

It feels natural. 

—

Since the dance, he finds himself watching you. Not in a strange way, obviously, no peeping through the windows or stalking you about town, but when he sees you, he lingers. The fact that you danced with him has to mean something, the fact that you say hi, the fact that you give him a plump pepper twice a week, religiously. 

Still, he doesn’t approach. There is some strange, animal fear in the back of his mind, beyond those pedestrian things like fear of rejection or even the ropes of blindingly low self-esteem. He can’t explain it. He can’t try to explain it. Somehow, it’s a relative to familiarity, to nostalgia. 

At the saloon, you stand with Abigail and Sebastian and Sam, that group of young twenty-somethings that’s accepted you into the fold because you’re just like them, of course. And he’s past the border of thirty, washed up, not so far into sobriety that he can honestly say he’s not an alcoholic, and here is that aforementioned self-esteem. At least he’s self-aware of it now, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. 

Sometimes, when you laugh uproariously at one of Sam’s jokes, or when Sebastian leans up behind you in pretense of teaching you how to play pool, or hell, even when Abigail lays her head on your lap and you braid her violet hair, something low and angry stirs in his gut. Which, you are not even together, so he knows that this too is something irrational, but there’s more to that. 

In those brief moments before his common sense regains control of the meat-sack, he feels as if you are together. 

Which is nonsense. 

Of course. 

Summer is a blur of such moments, you at the saloon, all such nights passing by. Clint works up the nerve to ask Emily out four times and chickens out without fail. Lewis bans sports in the center of town after Sam rips up a few flowerboxes and Alex throws a football through a window in the same day. Jas refuses to talk to Vincent for six days after he puts a snail in her hair. 

The day after the snail event, Shane is in her room, reading her a bedtime story. She conked out after the first place, so he takes a few moments to examine the room, making sure that she’s actually asleep. If she wakes up and he’s not there as promised via spoken contract, then she will sue him—by which he means throw a tantrum—so he remains, listening to her faint breaths and finding any entertainment that he can. 

Her dollhouse is always in some new, unique variation, so he leaves the bed, crouches to watch their little lives. There is an old man’s doll stuffed under the bed, which is probably concerning, but he’s sure that he’s built up enough goodwill to be spared if this hints towards her serial killer inclinations. Otherwise, all is as he remembers: a doll with choppy brown hair, Marnie, standing in the kitchen. Himself, a frumpy, over-stuffed one, wrapped in tattered blue fabric, sitting on the couch. And…

And another. With the same ragged, hand-cut haircut as Marnie, hair colored like… like yours. And overalls like your usual farming uniform too, he notices, sitting beside him on the couch, close together. It sends a buzz of fear up his spine, unexplainable. He leaves the room before he strictly should, confused and creeped out in equal measure. 

The next morning, before Penny arrives to pick Jas up for school, he asks her, “who’s the other doll?”

“What doll?” she asks, more preoccupied in stirring the milk of her cereal. 

“The one on the couch. Next to me.”

She blinks slowly at him, eyes large and confused. “That’s the farmer.”

“Why- why do you have a doll of her?”

“She’s nice,” she replies, “and you talk to her a lot.” 

“Do I?”

Jas wrinkles her nose at him, the ultimate form of judgement being delivered from the eyes of a child. “Yeah, Uncle Shane.”

He must sit back and digest that. Perhaps she saw them talking at the flower dance? Sees when you stop him in the middle of town, occasionally?

That doesn’t explain…

Too much to think about. He shuts the line of inquiry down. 

“...And who’s the one under the bed?”

She frowns. “Ugly and mean.”

Before he can ask more about that, Penny’s knocking on the door, and she leaps out of her seat, flying off without a word. 

Days later—she’s reestablished tentative contact with Vincent, by now—Marnie sends him on an errand to your house, delivering some gold in exchange for amaranth or whatever it was. 

The farm is in full summer flourish, round melons still glistening from the morning sprinklers, corn tall and shyly yellow, and what seems to be an inordinate amount of space dedicated to chili peppers��rows upon rows, all speckled red with the blooming vegetables. Technically fruits, as Demetrius takes great joy in informing, but whatever. 

And you, you are holding the body of a dead dove, white and round and pale. He stops in his tracks, letting out a low sound. Draws your attention, turning to regard him. 

“Oh,” you say, “hey, Shane. What is it?”

“What- what happened to… that?” He jerks his chin at the bird. You look down, as if you’d forgotten you were holding it, and then back up at him. 

“Oh. Cat got it. They come down to the farm.”

He swallows. That makes sense, right, dead bird, cat, all lines up to a neat little equation. They were always in the woods, as well, splotches of white against the trees, soft coos, fluttering to follow him as he walked.

“What’re you gonna do with it?”

You shrug. “Toss it, probably. Not much else to do? What else would I do? Bury it?” You smile wryly. It doesn’t reach your eyes. He knows your genuine grins, has experienced them more times than he can count, and this that is not. “Anyways, what’s up?”

Right. The errand. He digs the pouch of gold from his pocket, holds it out to you. Realizes only a second later, when you don’t reach for it, that your hands are full and you probably don’t want bird-germs on your coin. 

“Hey, how about you set it inside?” You ask, “stay a bit. I made pepper poppers last night, was gonna bring them to you anyways. You like those, right?”

“Love them,” he replies, throat dry. A mix of anxiety, of lingering disgust from the bird, if something else he cannot name, that nebulous feeling that always clouds his mind when he’s in your presence. Like there is something more to you, not only in the metaphysical sense, but the idea that you are a thin human puppet over the hands of something infinitely larger, and that’s a ridiculous thought. 

“Be back soon,” you reply, sidestepping him neatly to continue off to the corner of your farm. After a moment, he pushes himself forwards, climbing the stairs to the shaded porch of your farm. Though he means to enter, instead, his footsteps veer towards the right, the fenced-in side. He can’t say why—but he allows his body to take the reins, settling against the rail. It feels like the flower dance. It feels like looking into your eyes. 

Familiar. 

Like this is how it always was. 

Only when you return does he realize that he’s been here, outside, absorbing the ambiance of the farm instead of inside. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Could’ve entered. It’s hot out here.”

He tucks his chin into his chest, a faint blush already creeping into his cheeks. “Sorry. Just… it’s nice out here.”

“It is,” you agree, swinging open the door, “but come on in.”

He follows.

Inside, there is the blessed caress of AC. Something small rubs against his leg, and he looks down to see the apparent aforementioned bird-hunting cat, purring. 

“Hey, Miso,” he says, the words spilling out before he registers. Miso? It’s a small, black animal, bright eyes and twitching whiskers and, and is that its name?

When he glances at you, you look unfazed. He has to ask. 

“Is that..? Miso?”

You nod, the corner of your mouth twitching up into a smile. “Yeah. You… you remembered.”

He doesn’t, really, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to argue. The easy explanation is that he heard the name in a drunken stupor, stowed it away but never truly categorized the memory, and though that doesn’t exactly make sense, he’s never been one to take the hard path. 

You turn to the fridge, pull from it a full plate of pepper poppers and proffer it to him. “I made them how you like them. All the works.”

He takes the plate. “How’d you know…?” At this point, he feels like a broken record. Something in your expression shutters, and you smile more. It’s a bit more genuine than that expression you gave him over the bird, but only marginally so. 

“Lucky guess.”

He drops the money on a side table, unceremonious. The jingle doesn’t even make you turn your head—you do not usher him out, he doesn’t get quite the feeling that he’s overstaying his welcome, but you’re waiting, you want him to say something. 

He wants to say something too. Maybe that’s why he obliges. 

“It’s been weeks since the dance,” he starts, “but what… did you mean what you said, then?”

Again, your face breaks into a grin, and this one, finally, is fully realized, fully present, crinkling your eyes and showing a sliver of teeth. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“What’s the answer, then?” He feels as awkward as he was when he was sixteen, asking some cheerleader to the school dance, and those were the days when he was in shape and confident and full of that brimming energy of youth. He can be said to be the opposite of all of that, now, and yet, something about this feels inevitable. Feels like you are destined to say-

“I like you, Shane. A lot.” You step forwards, close enough that he can smell you. Not so flowery as could be expected—you smell like work, like the sun and loam and greenery, but there is still some hint of sweetness there, something that calls to him like a memory. “And I want to be more. Yoba, that’s an awkward way to phrase it. But you get what I mean?”

“Yes,” he breathes, yes, he gets what you mean, yes, this is how it’s meant to be. 

—

Two days later, you chase him down in town and present him with a bright, jewel-toned bouquet, flowers he cannot name all crowding for space. He returns home with the intention to ask Marnie for a vase, but when he enters his room, he sees there is already one upon his windowsill, with a few inches of water still at the bottom. He cannot remember how it got there. He cannot remember what it used to hold. 

When he drops the bouquet in, though, it is perfect. It is as if he has done this whole dance before. 

—-

It is an edge on an edge on an edge. Dusk, that border between day and night, Sunday, the tipping point to another week, and the 28th, Summer sputtering out and Fall swinging by, present in the biting wind, in the leaves that crunch under your footsteps. You’re chattering about your latest adventure in the Skull Caverns, showing him a long scar that cuts across your forearm under the rolled-up sleeve of his blue jacket. 

Shane is doing the whole ritual of macho masculinity, which is to say giving you his coat and pretending he is not cold. Came naturally to him, despite the fact that he has not done anything approaching dating for a decade and change. 

Has he?

The wizard tower looms overhead. Your story reaches his end, and looking up, grasping for another topic, he says, “the Wizard asked me if I was sleeping with his ex-wife, once.”

You raise an eyebrow. Not nearly so flabbergasted by that sentence as anyone normal would be. “Well? Were you?”

He chuckles. “What do you think?”

You nudge an elbow into his side, matching his laugh, “she’s a pretty fierce woman.”

“Someone we know?”

Abruptly, your laugh sputters out. Replaced by a thoughtful, contemplative sort of expression, a shadow over your eyes, those clouds that come and go without seeming rhyme or reason. 

“...Not you, no. Not really.”

“Not really? Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, cutting him off, suddenly sharp and snappish. He slows, kicking up flurries of leaves and small twigs. Curiosity piqued and anxiety harried up in equal measure. You have the unique ability to do this to him, to awaken a fear that’s lain dormant all his life. It’s frightening, to know that you can freeze his heart with a single glance, despite the fact that he cannot exactly imagine what you’d do to him. 

Arousing, too, but those are thoughts saved only for the darkest nights. 

The conversation stills for a brief second, before you jump back into action. “Speaking of the Wizard, did you hear that Caroline…” and it is lighthearted again. 

It remains that way through the rest of the walk, dipping briefly into the forest, along the well-trodden trails that he used to wander through. You’re just exiting the shade of the canopy, and he’s telling some story about that time there was a rat infestation in Elliot’s cabin, and then there is a cooing, the rustle of wings. 

Both of you freeze. 

There, on the last tree in the woods, another border, another edge, is a dove, white even in the darkness. Your hand tightens in his, fingernails digging into the side of his palm. After a moment, he tries to take a step forwards, tug you along, but you’re rooted to the ground, all those muscles built up over years of farming—and all his lack of muscles from years of abandoning Gridball—allowing you to overpower his urge. 

“What?” He asks. You don’t answer. Eyes wide, fixed on the bird, and this is the most unsettling thing of all, the fact that you aren’t constantly seeking to make contact with him, that you’re so utterly concentrated on something else. 

“What?” He repeats. Finally, you move, but not to walk forwards. Instead, you reach for your belt, pull out a dagger, hold it tight in your hands. “Woah-”

“Go away,” you say, voice high and clear, speaking not to him but to the bird, absurd as that is. Worse, it seems to listen—cocking its head, shuffling a few steps sideways upon the branch. 

“I know,” you continue, “I can’t- I’ve tried, I went back and- and all my shards, none of them did anything, I swear.” On those last words, your voice breaks a bit, shattering. Water in your eyes. Shane hovers, unsure what to do—as has been demonstrated, he can’t exactly snap you out of this, but what else do you do when your girlfriend is talking to a bird with a knife in her hand. 

It coos, a soft, mournful sort of noise. You drop the dagger. 

“I found her, I tried- but she only laughed, you know? And he won’t help either, he can’t undo what she does, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorryimsorryimsorry-” the last parts all blur into an incomprehensible mess of words, and you fall, knees hitting the ground, bringin him down with you. In the commotion, the dove flutters off, quiet and gone into the night. He pays it hardly a mind, kneeling beside you. 

“What is it?” He asks, “What was- why were you… talking?”

You do not respond, instead swallowing down the sobs. By the time you look back up at him, there’s hardly anything but a hitch in your chest, eyes still rimmed red. He opens his mouth to ask, again, what, but you lunge forwards, grabbing his face with both hands, pressing your mouth to his. Tastes like salt, from the tears, and a hint of alcohol from the saloon, and then that same ephemeral feeling that he now learns has a taste, but all that flees his brain in the ensuing seconds. 

It is nowhere near gentle. Your hands press against his face like you are trying to hold him still, trying to keep him there, teeth cutting into his bottom lip, tongue against his and all the hard parts of your belt pressing into the soft parts of his belly. Slowly, you run a hand down his cheek to cup the back of his neck, pull him closer and press yourself against him in turn. 

The intellectual part of his mind knows concern—he can still taste your tears, for Yoba’s sake—but that animal intelligence that you’re so good at coaxing out only knows the feeling of you, the warmth of your hands and your lips, the heat pooling in his stomach. The other hand, still on your face, runs into his hair, tugs with an exact, measured amount of force. Automatically, his own snap to your waist, muscle memory. Both of you know how you fit together. You have done this a thousand times before. 

He knows it. 

—-

Soon, Shane is practically a resident at your house. By winter, he is a resident, shielded from the bitterness of the outer world by your house, by you. It’s a quick transition, for hardly more than a month of dating, but it feels right. Why delay the inevitable? 

Marnie’s ranch no longer feels quite like home, anyways—nowhere does, not even you. He is floating, he is unknown, he is half a memory, the other bits of him flaking off into some nebulous Nowhere. Being with you is like a hammer with the chisel, like a river with the sun, and it is good, but there is always something strange, something that he knows he should know. 

The first time he fucks you, it is just like that frantic kiss in the forest: natural, familiar, two puzzle pieces slotting into place. He knows the draw of his thrusts, how to hold you, and you know to run your hands through his hair. You know where best to touch him, where to poke and prod and pull to elicit sounds that he’s never made before in living memory, but perhaps has in some dead recollection that’s floating out there. 

When he gets on his knees for you, you taste just like your mouth did—less of the saline of the tears, but there lingers that bitter sort of nostalgia, coating his tongue, his nose, behind his eyes when he sleeps. When you do the same for him, he wonders if you taste the same. 

He should ask you. Ask you what this is, what he feels, ask you what you did to him—because it has to be you, it all traces back to you—and how to fix it. But if he does that, maybe you will deny. Or, worse, you will confirm, and you will patch him up, and then he will forget you once again. Because that’s what happened before: he’s sure of it, some reiteration of this cycle, falling down, rising up, just as his life has always been, some microcosm of the destiny of Shane, star Gridball player to alcoholic to whatever this is. 

So, instead, he keeps silent and it is normal, somewhat, except when it’s not. On days out with Jas, when he leans against the worn playground benches and lets the wind cool that internal fever that’s always running through him, it’s good, it’s normal. The saloon, too—though you’re frequently right in the next room over, he can tear his attention away and devote himself to things so mundane as friendship and cold drinks. 

It breaks, however, on a day wherein you are not home at all, strangely enough. You’d left for Ginger Island the day before, told him you would not be back until nightfall today, given him a list of tasks like feed the animals and water Miso.

It is good, at first. Dawn is spent with the chickens, watching them cluck around his feet, leaning down to stroke over their plump, round backs. The cows nuzzle against his hands with their soft, warm noses, and the goats try to pull bites from his jacket. It is not until he’s latching the animal pens behind him that he sees it. 

There, sitting primly upon one of the arms of the scarecrows, out in the middle of the barren, frost-kissed field, is a white dove. He stops in his tracks. 

It coos at him. Beckons, nodding its beak down. He is not so fool as to consider it his imagination—so, instead, he takes a step forward. Reaches out his hand. 

In a flash, it takes to the air, but it doesn’t flutter away—instead, it lands neatly upon his hand, bowing down his arm with unexpected weight. This close, he can make out every detail in its near feathers, the glimmer of light in its round black eye, and it is on him, he knows this weight, he has felt it before. 

He has been in this farm, he has been holding- holding something, some wriggling ball of blankets, that cries and laughs and babbles, and there have been feathers, there has been the sudden hardness of a beak against his skin and the panicked flutter of wings as it tears from his arms. 

The world flickers and pops before his eyes. He shakes his arm, more violently than intended, anything to dislodge this- this thing, not a bird and not a man and something that he can’t bear to name. 

By the time he stumbles back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, his mind is no less fogged. He doesn’t want to think of this. He wants… he wants something to cloud it all. 

Slowly, he stumbles to the kitchen, pulls from a cabinet a long bottle of home-brewed wine. Does not bother to even find a glass and instead simply tilts it back and drinks. It is the first drink that he has had in months. He finishes the bottle as the world darkens outside. The world is sufficiently blurred, but that desire for the fade of drunkenness has been replaced by the burn of shame, the need to retch. 

Your arrival is signaled by the click of the door, stepping into the room. He hardly registers it—does not react when you happen upon him, slumped over the table in the kitchen, only cooperates enough to stand and stumble when you urge him to the bed. 

“What happened?” You ask. 

“I remembered,” he replies, and you still, a peculiar expression coming over your face, deer caught in the hunter’s barrel, rabbit before the wolf. 

“Did you?”

“I knew you,” he replies, “in a past life.”

You pull the blanket over him, sitting besides him, your warmth leeching into his side. 

“Not exactly. Kinda, though.”

“Why?” He asks, words slurred, but at least he still has the mental facilities to edit the question to, “what happened? Why can’t I remember?”

“Because of me,” you reply, stroking a hand over his forehead. You let out a hollow laugh. “It’s all because of me.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, before he can even take a moment to digest that, “for drinking. You helped, didn’t you? You helped me get sober?”

You nod. It’s not a very visible movement, what with him laying down, but he sees it. “Don’t be. It’s not… I didn’t get that, you know?”

When he doesn’t respond, you continue. 

“It’s not a straight path. I thought you’d be done, healed. So when it all…” you make some sort of hand gesture, one that ventures out of his field of view. He gets the gist. “It… wasn’t good. But now, now, I’ve… learned a lot.”

“Do you love me?” He asks, the question falling as easily as water down slick rocks. 

“I don’t think I did before,” you say, “but now, now, I know what it is. I do.”

“And the doves?”

“They’ll linger,” you reply, “can’t do anything about them. I’ve tried.”

He remembers your monologue in the forest. Remembers the dead bird, held tightly in your hands. Seems ‘anything’ goes in many different directions. 

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“No,” you agree, “no, it’s not.”

That weight upon him, that press of a thousand years of memories is finally abating, finally lifting. He still doesn’t remember, but he knows he doesn’t remember, and he knows what he doesn’t remember, and he is with you in the end, so does it really matter?

—

Spring is coming, and with it the thaw, finally clearing away the last crusted bits of winter upon the land. Shane is standing upon the porch, Jas perched on a rocking chair beside him, tossing out hands of birdfeed to the ground. A single white dove picks at it, cooing softly in what appears to be joy. It’s taken a liking to Jas—now, it flutters up and lands upon her shoulder, picking gently at her hair while she giggles. 

Behind him, the door opens, and you step out, coming easily around to rest your chin upon his shoulder. Jas immediately begins to babble your name, asking if she can see the goats today, and you smile, nod yes. 

“Plans for today?” He asks. 

“Goats first,” you reply, “And then Pierre’s, buy some new seeds. You?”

“Maybe I’ll take a walk,” he replies. Hasn’t done that in a while. It’s a good time to start again, especially now that he will not let the presence of half-remembered doves stop him. 

You plant a kiss upon his stubbled cheek, drawing back, and he turns to meet your eyes. Bright, warm, familiar as they always have been and always will be. 

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 6: Pieces falling into place

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan Warning: None. A/N: So this is sorta of a filler chapter, just laying the ground and taking a look at Evelyn and Logan's growing relationship, enjoy the fluff while it lasts cause the in the next chapters there will be a turn. Also, sorry for the delay, I haven't felt very inspired lately because of the response to the last couple of chapters, but don't worry, I'm here to stay, and so is this fic, enjoy!

Word count: 5.7k

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The crisp air of the morning had given way to a chilly but clear evening, the kind that made the warmth of the cottage feel even more comforting. Evelyn stood by the window, gazing out at the faint glow of the setting sun as her thoughts lingered on the past few weeks. Logan had been a steady presence, easing his way into her life in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Their relationship—if she could call it that—was unspoken, undefined, yet it had become an anchor in the stillness of her days.

When Logan arrived that evening, she greeted him with a quiet smile, their easy familiarity setting the tone for the night. After dinner, they found themselves working together on the small, creaky cabinet she’d salvaged from the corner of the cottage. It wasn’t much, but there was a strange satisfaction in repairing it—a metaphor, perhaps, for the pieces of her life she was trying to put back together.

“Hand me the screwdriver,” Logan said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Evelyn passed it to him, watching as he tightened the hinge with practiced precision.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know,” Logan said, glancing at her with a faint smirk. “Could’ve just tossed this thing.”

She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I like the idea of giving it a second chance.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Fair enough.”

The evening drifted on, the two of them moving from task to task with an ease that felt natural, almost domestic. Later, as they settled at the kitchen table, the remains of their meal still scattered between them, the mood shifted. The soft crackle of the fire in the next room filled the space, blending with the distant howl of the wind outside.

Evelyn traced the rim of her mug with her finger, her thoughts swirling as she glanced up at Logan. His steady presence had a way of grounding her, making her feel safe enough to confront the things she usually kept buried.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” she began, her voice softer than usual.

Logan straightened slightly, his full attention falling on her. “I’m listening.”

Her fingers tightened around the mug as she searched for the right words. “Before I came here, I was... engaged. We were together for eight years. I thought we had everything figured out. But then, on the morning of our wedding, he left. A letter was all I got.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hand curling against the table. But he didn’t interrupt, his silence urging her to continue.

“I felt like my whole world shattered in that moment,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “Not just because of the humiliation, but because I didn’t see it coming. I trusted him. I built my life around him. And in one morning, it all fell apart.”

The weight of her confession hung in the air, but Logan didn’t look away. His steady gaze made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t expected.

“That’s why you left?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, blinking back the sting of tears. “I couldn’t stay. Everywhere I went, there were reminders of him, of what I thought I’d had. Coming here was the only way I could breathe again.”

Logan leaned back slightly, his expression softening. “You rebuilt yourself. Took your life back. That takes strength.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel strong,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still running, like I’ll never stop looking over my shoulder.”

“You don’t have to run anymore,” he said simply, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. “Not here. Not with me.”

The certainty in his words struck something deep within her, a mixture of relief and fear that made her chest tighten. “What if I mess this up?” she asked, her voice breaking. “What if I’m not enough?”

Logan’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, his hand reaching across the table to cover hers. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Evelyn. I’m here because I want to be. Not because I expect anything from you.”

Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile, her fingers relaxing beneath his. “I don’t know if I’m ready for something serious,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to push you away, either. I don’t want to push us away.”

Logan’s grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, his voice low but steady. “We’ll take it slow. Just us figuring it out.”

She nodded, her chest feeling lighter. “Thank you. For being patient with me.”

“You’re worth the wait,” he said, his voice resolute.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth spreading through the room as Evelyn and Logan sat in the stillness of the evening. The weight of her confession lingered in the air, settling into the cracks of the cottage like something fragile yet unyielding.

Logan hadn’t let go of her hand, his thumb tracing absent patterns against her knuckles. It was a small gesture, but it grounded her, pulling her back from the jagged edges of her memories.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. “For listening. For... not trying to fix it.”

His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Sometimes listening’s the only thing that matters.”

She studied him for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly around his. “What about you? You don’t talk about your past much.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to the fire, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. For a long moment, she thought he might brush off the question, deflect with one of his usual dry remarks. But then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as though he were letting go of something unseen.

“It’s not easy to talk about,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “There’s parts of it I’d rather forget.”

She stayed quiet, sensing the weight of what he was about to share.

“I was in the military,” he began, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. “A long time ago. Seen things most people wouldn’t believe, done things I’m not proud of.” He paused, his fingers curling against the edge of the table. “The war... it changes you. Strips you down to the bare bones of who you are. And sometimes, when it’s over, you don’t even recognize what’s left.”

Evelyn felt her chest tighten, her heart aching for the man sitting across from her. She could see the lines of pain etched into his face, the weight of memories that clung to him like shadows.

“I’ve lost people,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Friends. Brothers-in-arms. Some of them because of choices I made.” His jaw tightened again, the flicker of guilt crossing his features like a ghost. “You tell yourself you did the best you could. That it wasn’t your fault. But deep down, you always wonder if you could’ve done more.”

Her hand moved instinctively, covering his. “Logan,” she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. “You can’t carry that alone. No one can.”

He met her gaze, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, filled with a rawness that made her chest ache. “It’s not about carrying it,” he said quietly. “It’s about living with it. And not letting it destroy the good things you still have left.”

Her breath hitched, the quiet strength in his words cutting through the haze of her own fears.

“That’s why I don’t let people in,” he admitted after a moment, his voice rough but steady. “Because when you care about someone... when you let them close... you’re opening the door to losing them. And I’ve lost enough.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unflinching. Evelyn didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the pain he’d just laid bare. But she didn’t need to. She reached across the table, her other hand joining his as she held onto him tightly.

“You’ve carried a lot,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “I can see it in the way you hold yourself, the way you don’t talk about the past unless someone pulls it out of you. But you don’t have to keep carrying it alone, Logan.”

He huffed a soft laugh, though it lacked humor. “Not sure I know how to let it go.”

Her thumb brushed against the edge of his knuckle. “Maybe you don’t have to let it go completely. Maybe just... sharing it is enough. Like you just did.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, he looked as though he might argue. But then, his shoulders dropped, the tension easing from his frame. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” she admitted, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But I think we’re both learning that together.”

Logan leaned back slightly, his hand still lingering on hers. “You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for. Most people wouldn’t have come back from what you’ve been through.”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I still feel like I’m figuring it out, one step at a time. And that’s why this... whatever this is between us... scares me.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting into something gentler, something she hadn’t often seen. “It scares me too,” he admitted. “But not because I don’t want it. Because I do. More than I’ve let myself want anything in a long time.”

Her breath caught, the honesty in his words stirring something deep in her chest.

“Logan,” she began, her voice trembling, “if we do this... I need you to know that I’m still… a little broken, still figuring out how to trust myself, let alone someone else. But I’m trying.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I know.”

The weight of his words settled between them, a quiet reassurance that felt like a balm to her still-healing heart.

“I want to take this slow,” she said, her voice steadier now. “But I also don’t want to keep pretending this isn’t real. Because it is. And it’s starting to feel like the best thing I’ve found in a long time.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried a weight of its own. “Then let’s stop pretending,” he said. “I don’t need promises or guarantees. I just need to know we’re in this together.”

Her chest tightened, the simplicity of his words hitting harder than any grand declaration ever could. “Together,” she echoed, a small, tentative smile breaking through.

Logan leaned forward, his hand brushing against hers again as his voice dropped to a low murmur. “Would you let me take you out? A real date. Just the two of us. No chores, no firewood deliveries. Something... normal.”

Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound lightening the air between them. “Normal might be a stretch for us,” she teased, her smile widening. “But I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said simply, though the faintest hint of relief flickered across his features.

The following days passed in a haze of quiet anticipation. Every stolen glance and lingering touch between them carried an unspoken promise, building up to the night Logan had planned. Evelyn found herself worrying over details she hadn’t given much thought to in years—what to wear, how to fix her hair, whether she should wear lipstick or keep it natural.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, she was standing in front of her mirror, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just something simple that made her feel a little more like herself.

The soft rumble of Logan’s truck outside snapped her out of her thoughts. Peeking through the curtain, she caught sight of him stepping out, a small bouquet of wildflowers clutched awkwardly in his hand. Her chest tightened at the sight—a quiet, thoughtful gesture that felt entirely him.

By the time she opened the door, her smile was already wide, though the sight of him standing on her porch, looking both rugged and nervous, made her heart skip. His usual flannel shirt had been swapped for a clean button-down, and though he still wore his work boots, there was an effort in his appearance that made her heart flutter.

“These are for you,” he said, holding out the flowers. His tone was gruff, but the faint dusting of color on his cheeks betrayed him.

Evelyn smiled, taking the bouquet with gentle hands. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Logan gave a small nod, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks warmed under his gaze. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping aside to let her lock up the cottage. “Ready?”

She nodded, locking the door behind her before following him to the truck.

The drive into town was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. The low hum of the engine filled the space between them, punctuated by the occasional comment about the scenery or the faint tunes playing from the radio.

He pulled into the lot of a cozy little diner on the edge of town, its soft neon sign casting a warm glow across the gravel. Evelyn glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Didn’t want to go too far,” Logan said, turning off the engine. “Figured we’d keep it simple.”

Inside, the atmosphere was exactly what she’d hoped for—quiet, intimate, with just a handful of locals scattered at the booths. A few familiar faces turned their way, offering polite nods and smiles, but no one approached. The quiet approval in their expressions warmed her.

Logan led her to a booth near the window, the small vase of flowers at the center of the table adding to the charm of the place. As they settled in, the waitress—a cheerful woman named Rose—greeted them with a knowing smile but kept her comments to herself.

“Evening, Logan. Evelyn,” Rose said, her tone warm but professional. “What can I get you two tonight?”

Logan glanced at her. “Ladies first.”

Evelyn scanned the menu quickly before ordering something light, and Logan followed suit. As Rose walked away, Logan leaned back slightly, his gaze softening as it settled on her. “You’ve been quiet.”

She met his eyes, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Just... taking it all in. It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this.”

Logan nodded, his thumb idly tracing the edge of the table. “Same here.”

The simplicity of his response made her chest tighten. It wasn’t just the date—it was the way he made her feel seen without trying too hard, the way his presence felt grounding in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

As the night went on, the conversation flowed easily. They talked about everything and nothing—their favorite books, small-town quirks, and plans for the cottage renovations. When the food arrived, they ate slowly, savoring both the meal and the company. 

There was something intimate about the way Logan watched her, his gaze steady and unguarded, as though he were memorizing every detail of the moment.

By the time they finished their meal, Evelyn couldn’t stop smiling. Logan had a dry wit she hadn’t expected, and she found herself laughing more often than she had in months.

After dinner, Logan suggested taking a walk. The cool night air nipped at their skin as they strolled along the quiet street, the faint glow of the diner’s sign fading into the distance.

“Thank you,” Evelyn said softly, breaking the silence.

Logan glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

“This,” she replied, gesturing to the flowers tucked under her arm and the night around them. 

Logan stopped, his hand brushing against hers as he turned to face her fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said, his voice low. “But I’ll keep doing it, if it means seeing you smile like that.”

Her breath caught at the sincerity in his tone, her chest tightening with emotion. Without thinking, she stepped closer, her hand reaching for his.

Logan’s fingers closed around hers, warm and steady. “You sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Evelyn nodded, her lips curving into a soft, trembling smile. “I’m sure.”

The kiss was slow, unhurried—a quiet promise exchanged under the soft glow of the streetlights. When they finally pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, her heart racing in her chest.

Logan smirked faintly, his hand lingering at her waist. “That felt pretty normal.”

She laughed, the sound light and free. “Maybe normal’s not so bad after all.”

The night ended with Logan walking her to the truck, his hand resting lightly on her back. As they drove home, the silence between them was filled with a warmth that needed no words.

She met his gaze, her smile widening slightly as a playful glint sparkled in her eyes. “Actually...” she began, her tone teasing, “do you want to come in for a bit? I baked a pie.”

Logan raised a brow, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Pie, huh?”

She nodded, opening the door and stepping inside.

The scent of cinnamon and apples lingered in the warm air of the cottage, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Logan leaned against the counter, watching as Evelyn cut two generous slices of pie. She worked with practiced ease, her movements confident but relaxed, and he couldn’t help the way his gaze lingered on her.

“Alright,” she said, turning with two plates in hand. “Moment of truth.”

He accepted the plate, settling onto the couch as she joined him. The first bite was warm and perfectly spiced, and Logan huffed a quiet laugh as he set his fork down. “I’m starting to think you undersold it.”

“See?” she said, her smile triumphant. “I told you it was the best.”

The easy banter filled the room as they finished their dessert, the warmth between them growing as the evening stretched on. When the plates were set aside, they moved to the living room, the firelight casting soft, flickering shadows around them.

Logan leaned back in his chair, watching her as she adjusted the throw pillows on the couch. “You always this competitive about pie?”

“Only when it’s deserved,” she shot back, her grin widening as she sank onto the cushions.

His gaze softened, the humor in his expression giving way to something quieter, something that made her chest tighten. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way it seemed to ground her even as it sent her heart racing.

“You’re staring,” she said, her voice light but slightly breathless.

“You make it hard to look elsewhere,”he replied, his voice low. 

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken. For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension crackling like the fire behind them.

Then, almost as if drawn by the same invisible force, they leaned in. Her hand found its way to his chest, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt, while his hands settled on her waist, pulling her just slightly closer.

The kiss began slow, tentative, but quickly deepened, fueled by a growing need neither of them could deny. Logan's hands tightened at her sides as her fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him closer, deeper, until the space between them all but vanished.

The world outside blurred into insignificance—the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his touch and the way his lips moved against hers, each kiss igniting a fire that burned hotter with every second.

When she shifted, pressing closer, Logan responded instinctively, his arms circling her waist as she climbed into his lap. Her thighs framed him, and for a brief moment, his hands hovered at her sides, a flicker of hesitation in the way he held her. But the tension melted as her lips found his again, her kiss pulling him under like a tide he had no desire to fight.

Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven, as the kiss grew more intense, her fingers gripping his shoulders for balance. But then, as though tethered by some unspoken understanding, they pulled apart, both struggling to catch their breath.

Foreheads resting together, Logan's low chuckle broke the charged silence. “This taking it slow thing... it’s not going to be easy.”

Her lips curved into a teasing smile, her voice warm and soft. “Nobody said it would be.”

Logan brushed his thumb along her side, his gaze steady but laced with something deeper, something that made her stomach flutter. “You’re testing my limits, you know.”

Her laughter softened the air between them, light and teasing. “You’re the one who said patience was important, remember?”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, his hand sliding from her side to rest against her back. “I’m starting to think I overestimated my resolve.”

She leaned into him slightly, her hands still resting on his chest. “Well, I’m not exactly making it easy for myself either.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room. Logan’s gaze remained fixed on hers, the intensity in his eyes enough to make her breath hitch.

“Just say the word,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “If you want me to stop, if this is too much, I will.”

Her fingers tightened against his chest as she shook her head. “I don’t want you to stop,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just... don’t want to rush this.”

Logan nodded, his thumb brushing against her back in a slow, soothing motion. “Then we won’t.”

The weight of his words settled between them, grounding her in a way that eased the swirling doubts in her mind. She let herself relax, her forehead brushing against his as she closed her eyes.

“You make me feel safe,” she murmured, the admission surprising even herself.

Logan’s arms tightened around her, his voice a quiet rumble against her ear. “That’s all I want for you.”

They stayed like that for a while, the intensity of the earlier moment giving way to a quiet intimacy that felt just as profound. The fire crackled softly, its warm glow casting a gentle light over their intertwined hands. Logan's thumb brushed lazily against hers, a silent rhythm that lulled them both into a state of contentment.

Eventually, Evelyn shifted, sliding off his lap but staying tucked close against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. His arm draped around her, holding her there as the quiet of the room settled over them like a blanket.

Minutes stretched into an hour, and before long, the warmth of the fire and the comfort of his presence pulled them into a light doze.

The sharp ring of the landline shattered the stillness, jolting Evelyn awake. She blinked groggily, her head lifting from Logan’s shoulder as the sound persisted.

“You should get that,” Logan murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

She glanced at him, her brow furrowing. “It’s probably nothing important.”

Logan smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Might be worth checking. I’ll start the fire again while you’re on the phone.”

Reluctantly, she slipped from the couch, rubbing her eyes as she crossed the room to answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Evelyn!” Martha’s familiar voice burst through the receiver, warm and full of energy. “I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth. How are you?”

A sleepy smile tugged at Evelyn’s lips. “Hi, Martha. I’m fine, just... caught off guard by the timing.”

“Well, excuse me for being an early riser,” Martha teased, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “So, are you going to tell me what’s new, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

Before Evelyn could respond, Logan appeared in the doorway, his boots on and his jacket slung over one arm. He nodded toward the phone, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Take your time,” he mouthed.

She covered the receiver with her hand. “You’re leaving?”

“Work won’t wait,” he said softly, stepping closer. He bent down, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple before straightening. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” she whispered, her heart fluttering as she watched him leave. The sound of the door closing behind him was followed by the rumble of his truck starting up in the driveway.

“Hello? Evelyn? You still there?” Martha’s voice snapped her back to the conversation.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she said, sinking onto the edge of the couch.

“And who was that?” Martha asked, her tone playful and suspicious.

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, her lips curving into a sheepish smile. “Logan.”

“Logan,” Martha repeated slowly, dragging out the name. “Care to elaborate?”

Taking a deep breath, Evelyn launched into the story. She told Martha about the date, the way Logan had shown up with flowers, and the quiet sweetness of the evening. Her cheeks flushed as she recounted the makeout session, her voice dropping as she admitted how intense and vulnerable the moment had been.

“So let me get this straight,” Martha said after a pause. “You had an amazing date, made out like teenagers, and then cuddled by the fire until the phone woke you up?”

“Pretty much,” Evelyn admitted, laughing softly.

“That’s not just romance. That’s the start of a love story.”

Evelyn shook her head, though her smile lingered. “We’re still figuring things out. Taking it slow.”

“Slow or not, he sounds like a keeper,” Martha said firmly. “And you deserve that, Evelyn. You deserve someone who makes you feel safe and loved. Don’t overthink it—just let it happen.”

Her chest tightened at her friend’s words, the quiet weight of her fears loosening just slightly. “Thanks, Martha. I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” Martha replied warmly. “Now, promise me you’ll call and update me after your next date. I want every detail.”

Evelyn laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been in a long time. “I promise.”

As the call ended, she set the receiver down and leaned back against the couch, her mind drifting to Logan. The warmth he brought into her life wasn’t something she’d expected, but it was something she was slowly learning to embrace.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something she could finally believe in.

At the logging site, the crisp morning air carried the faint tang of pine and freshly cut wood. Logan worked steadily, his ax swinging with precise, deliberate movements as the rhythm of chopping logs drowned out the hum of his thoughts. His muscles strained against the familiar weight, but it wasn’t the work keeping him on edge. His mind was still back at Evelyn’s cottage, replaying the softness of her lips and the way she’d leaned against him before they both drifted to sleep.

The peaceful monotony of his morning was short-lived.

“Morning, Howlett!” Rick’s voice rang out, cutting through the sounds of work. He strolled over with an exaggerated grin, clearly on a mission.“How’s the love life, huh?”

Logan shot him a warning glance but kept working, driving his ax into the log in front of him with a sharp thwack.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” Rick continued, undeterred. “You gotta give us something here. Nancy’s been running her mouth all morning about how she spotted you and Evelyn at the diner last night. Real cozy, she said. Practically glowing, the both of you.”

Logan set the ax down and leaned on the handle, his brow furrowing as he glanced at Rick. “You talk to Nancy too much.”

“And you talk to Nancy too little,” Rick shot back, crossing his arms. “She’s got all the juicy details. Says you even brought flowers. Flowers, Logan. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” muttered Pete, an older logger who had wandered over, clearly intrigued by the commotion. He wiped his hands on a rag and gave Logan a knowing grin. “So, what’s the story? You finally settle down, or are we gonna have to wait another decade for you to bring her to the Christmas party?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the nearby workers who had paused to eavesdrop. Logan straightened, his expression unreadable, though there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You lot don’t have enough to do?” he asked dryly, his gaze sweeping over the group.

“Plenty to do,” Rick said, leaning casually on a stack of logs. “But none of it’s half as entertaining as you going soft on us.”

Logan exhaled sharply, turning back to the pile of wood. “I’m not going soft.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Pete said with a chuckle. “Flowers, a nice dinner, walking her to the door. Real tough stuff, Howlett.”

There was another round of laughter, but this time Logan smirked faintly as he picked up another log. “You’re all idiots.”

“Idiots who care,” Rick quipped, his grin widening. “Seriously though, Logan. She seems good for you. And Lord knows you’ve been less of a grump lately.”

Logan hesitated, his hands tightening around the ax handle. He didn’t look up, but his voice was quieter when he finally spoke. “She is good for me.”

The sudden sincerity in his tone caught the others off guard, silencing their teasing. Even Rick, who thrived on poking fun, softened slightly.

“Well, damn,” Pete said, scratching the back of his head. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though his eyes remained focused on the task in front of him. “Guess miracles happen.”

Rick nudged Pete with his elbow, his grin returning. “Alright, boys. Let Romeo here finish chopping wood in peace.”

Logan shook his head, swinging the ax with a precision that sent the log splitting cleanly in two. The others drifted back to their tasks, though not without the occasional sly glance in his direction.

As the chatter faded, Logan allowed himself a moment to pause. The teasing didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected. If anything, it felt... good. Like he was part of something bigger again, not just a lone wolf wandering through the shadows.

He picked up the next log, his thoughts drifting back to Evelyn. The way her laughter had filled the diner, the warmth of her hand in his, the feeling of her curled against him on the couch—all of it had settled into him like a quiet revelation.

“Hey, Howlett,” Rick called out as he passed by, his tone lighter now. “So, you bringing her to the town fair next month?” Rick pressed, his grin practically audible. “Could be a real romantic date, you know.”

Logan didn’t even pause this time, his ax slicing cleanly through the log with a sharp crack. “Might,” he said, his tone calm but carrying a hint of something wry. He glanced up briefly, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips. “If the missus wants to.”

The sudden quiet that followed was almost comical. Rick’s mouth opened slightly, a mixture of surprise and delight lighting up his face.

“Well, hell,” Rick finally managed, breaking into a laugh. “The missus, huh? You’re really in it now, Howlett.”

Pete, who had been stacking logs nearby, barked out a laugh. “Didn’t think I’d hear that from you, Logan. Town fair’s gonna be real interesting this year.”

Logan shook his head, turning back to his work as if the conversation didn’t faze him. “You gonna keep talking, or actually get something done today?”

“Talking’s more fun,” Rick shot back, leaning on his ax. “But seriously, Logan—if you show up at that fair with her, you better believe you’ll be the talk of the town.”

Logan chuckled softly, his tone low and amused as he reached for another log. “Guess I’ll have to give ’em something to talk about, then.”

The teasing carried on a bit longer, but Logan barely noticed, his focus already drifting elsewhere. The thought of taking Evelyn to the fair, of walking with her through the bustling stalls and hearing her laughter as she teased him about some silly game or trinket, settled into his chest with surprising ease.

For a man who had spent so long avoiding entanglements, the idea didn’t scare him as much as he thought it might. Instead, it felt... right.

As the day wore on, the teasing eventually died down, replaced by the rhythmic sounds of axes splitting wood and logs being stacked. Logan kept working, his movements steady and deliberate, but his thoughts drifted back to Evelyn.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting the forest in hues of gold and amber, Logan’s truck rumbled back into the driveway of the cottage. He parked and stepped out, catching sight of Evelyn on the porch with a cup of tea in her hands. She smiled when she saw him, and that simple expression—warm and unguarded—was enough to ease the tension of the day.

“Busy day?” she called out as he approached.

“Could say that,” he replied, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Might’ve heard some rumors about us, though.”

“Oh?” she said, tilting her head, her tone teasing. “Anything interesting?”

Logan stopped in front of her, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet intensity that made her breath catch. “Nothing you don’t already know,” he said simply, his voice low and steady.

Evelyn felt her cheeks flush, but she held his gaze, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I hope you defended my honor,” she teased lightly.

“Did my best,” Logan replied, stepping onto the porch and reaching for her hand. His rough fingers brushed hers, a small but grounding touch that felt more natural with each passing day.

The two of them settled into the evening with the ease of a couple finding their rhythm, the unspoken understanding between them deepening with every glance, every small gesture.

For Logan, it wasn’t just about the companionship or the warmth of her presence. It was the way she let him in, piece by piece, and how it made him want to do the same.

For Evelyn, it was the steady reassurance he brought, a quiet promise that she wasn’t alone in this anymore.

And as they sat together on the porch, watching the last light of the day fade into dusk, they both knew that whatever came next, they’d face it together.

Chapter 5

______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

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