#and have wanted an apron for a long time but never found any I liked

[d1stalker]

This is Ours [Logan Howlett]

Summary: It's your first time back at your grandparents' farm in years, and while many things are the same, one thing is not: they've hired a new farmhand.

Warnings: fem!reader, SMUT, sexual tension, angst, fluff, lots of feelings WC: 18.8k - MASTERLIST

A/N: apologies for dropping another long fic but i literally could not stop writing the juices were flowing. i really hope you enjoy this! i think its my fave so far :)

----

For as long as you can remember, summers were synonymous with your grandparents' farm. It was a tradition, one you held close to your heart. To you, your time there embodied your entire childhood—days spent under the sun, where the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and the soothing chorus of cicadas filling the long, golden afternoons.

Mornings began early, with you bounding downstairs to join your grandparents for breakfast. The kitchen was always filled with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and pancakes. Your grandfather would be at the table, engrossed in his newspaper, while your grandmother hummed softly as she cooked, the sound of the morning radio playing faintly in the background. Your days were spent exploring the fields, helping with the chores and horses, or sitting on the porch with your grandmother, listening to stories from her youth.

It couldn’t get any more perfect than that. 

But as the years passed, things changed. After you graduated high school, the summer visits became less frequent. University took up more of your time, and you were always busy—first with classes, then with internships, and finally with starting your career. The farm, once the centre of your world, became a place you could only visit if you were lucky, and even then, it was never for long. 

You miss it.

This year, however, things were different. You found yourself in between jobs, with the first real break you’d had in what felt like forever. And when the moment the opportunity arose, you knew exactly where you wanted to go. 

—

The drive to your grandparents' farm is a journey into the past. The country road, lined with trees that stretched out like old friends, brings back a flood of memories from your childhood: where you’re sitting in the back of your parent’s car vibrating with excitement. You pass the same fields, still as vast and green as you remember, dotted with flowers swaying gently in the breeze, and the old oak tree where you used to swing as a child stands tall, its branches reaching up to the sky as if welcoming you back.

When you finally pull up to the farmhouse, the sight of it fills you with a deep sense of nostalgia. The white paint is more chipped than you remember, the porch sags a little more in the middle, and you can tell that it’s been a while since the grass was last trimmed. 

Stepping out of the car, the screen door squeaks open, and there’s your grandmother, standing on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s smaller than you remember, more fragile, but the smile on her face is the same—warm, welcoming, and full of love. “There’s my girl,” she calls out, rushing down the steps and into the driveway as fast as she can. 

“Grandma!” you exclaim, hurrying toward her to wrap her in a hug.

She pulls back to look at you, her eyes twinkling despite the lines of age etched on her face. “You’ve grown even more beautiful, but you look tired. We’ll fix that with some good meals, won’t we?”

You laugh, nodding. “I missed your cooking.”

“And I missed having someone to cook for,” she replies with a chuckle, patting your cheek. “Come inside. Your grandpa’s been counting down the days until you got here.”

You grab your suitcase from your car and follow her into the house, the familiar scents of fresh bread and old wood enveloping you the minute you step inside. It’s just as you remember—cozy, lived-in, filled with the glow of years worth of love and memories. Your grandfather sits at the kitchen table, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he reads a book. He looks up as you enter, and the moment he sees you, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“There’s my favourite farmhand,” he jokes, letting out a grunt as he places one hand on the table, slowly pushes out of his chair. 

“Grandpa,” you say, meeting him halfway for a hug. 

“Got here just in time,” he says with a wink. “Plenty of work to do, you know.”

“I figured,” you reply, playfully nudging him. “I’m ready to get my hands dirty.”

“Good to hear,” he says, leaning back against the table for support. “This old back of mine isn’t what it used to be.”

Your grandmother sets a glass of lemonade in front of you and sits down, her eyes flicking toward the window. “We’ve had to make some changes around here, sweetheart,” she begins gently. “Your grandpa and I… well, we can’t do as much as we used to.”

You hum, listening carefully. Seeing your grandparents grow older is difficult—it's a constant reminder that time is slipping away, and the moments you have together are becoming more precious with each passing day.

“We’ve hired some help,” she continues. “A man named Logan. He’s been a blessing, really, taking care of the heavier work. But he’s… well, he’s not much of a talker.”

“Logan?” you ask, glancing out the window. 

That’s when you see him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he is out by the barn, carrying some hay. He’s wearing a worn-down flannel with jeans, and his dark hair is slightly tousled. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s strong—he looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Yeah, Logan,” your grandfather confirms. “Keeps to himself mostly, but he’s get’s the job done. Don’t mind his gruffness; he’s just not used to people fussing over him.”

“He’s been here since last spring,” your grandmother adds. “We needed the help, and he needed the work. It’s been good for both sides. You should go and introduce yourself after you unpack, dear. Maybe get in some work before we sit for dinner later.”

Nodding, you walk up the stairs in the house and make your way to your room. It looks exactly the same as the last time you saw it. Your old stuffed animals are organized neatly on the shelf above the bed, and the quilt your grandmother made for you, with patches of faded fabric from old dresses and curtains, is spread across the bed the exact same way it’s always been. 

The posters on the walls, the little knickknacks on the dresser—everything is a snapshot of your younger self, preserved in this room like a time capsule. It’s comforting, but also a little bittersweet, a reminder of how much time has passed since you had last visited.

After a few moments of reminiscing, you stand up and begin unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the old wooden dresser. Each drawer creaks as you open it, the sound a part of this room’s charm. You smile as you come across some of the little treasures you left behind—a pressed flower between the pages of an old book, a seashell from a family trip to the coast, and last, a picture of you and your grandparents taken one summer when you were about ten.

You’re standing between them, beaming with a toothy grin, their arms wrapped around you in a warm embrace. The three of you are standing in front of the barn, with the sun setting behind you. You can almost hear your grandmother’s laugh as the camera clicked, your grandfather’s playful grumbling about having to pose for ‘just one more picture.’ The photo captures a moment of pure happiness, a snapshot of a simpler time.

Setting the photo down, you quickly begin to change into your designated farm clothes, and head out to meet the new face around here. 

The trek to the barn isn’t very long, just a few minutes away from the main house, and from the outside, you can hear the familiar sounds of work—footsteps crunching on the hay-strewn floor, the creak of wood as something heavy is moved. You pause at the doorway, taking a moment to observe him before stepping inside. He’s focused, his movements efficient as he lifts another bale of hay and stacks it with the others. 

You take a deep breath, and step into the barn. “Logan?” you call out softly.

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but with a slight pause and glance over his shoulder, his eyes, sharp and intense, meet yours, and there’s a moment where you’re not sure what to say. “I’m—”

“I already know who you are,” he grunts, cutting you off. 

His abruptness catches you off guard, but you quickly recover, nodding. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

“If you wanna help, there’s a broom in the back shed,” he continues, going back to his work as if the conversation is already over. “You could sweep up the hay.”

You bristle, a little surprised at how quickly he dismissed you, but you’re determined not to let it rattle you. After all, your grandparents did warn you that he wasn’t much of a talker.  “Sure,” you say. “I can do that.”

As you turn to head toward the back shed, you find yourself lightly imitating his gruff tone under your breath, a flicker of irritation running through you. “There’s a broom in the back shed. Yeah, obviously, I know where the broom would be,” you mutter.

In the shed, the broom is in fact, exactly where you expected it to be, and you huff, grabbing it and walking back to the barn. When you return, Logan is still hard at work, stacking the hay, and doesn’t bother to acknowledge you yet again. You set to work sweeping, the rhythmic motion of the broom soon lulling you into a steady state. The barn is quiet, save for the soft shuffling of hay under your broom and the occasional grunt from Logan as he moves the heavy bales.

Time seems to pass slowly, the light outside growing softer as the sun dips lower in the sky. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you barely notice when Logan’s footsteps stop. It’s only when his voice breaks the silence that you’re pulled back to the present.

“Your grandma called for dinner,” he says, causing you to jump a bit at the unexpectedness of his voice in the silence. Before you can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with the broom still in hand. You let out a small sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders. This is going to be a long few months, you think to yourself as you return the broom to its usual place and jog back to the farmhouse.

Inside, the kitchen smells like a warm hearty stew. The table is already set, the familiar blue-and-white checkered tablecloth in place, and your grandparents are seated, chatting quietly as they wait for you and Logan to join them.

You slide into the seat across from your grandmother just as Logan walks over from the sink, two glasses of water in his hands. He places one in front of you with a quick nod, and the other at his own seat, beside yours.

“So,” your grandmother says, her eyes shining with curiosity as she looks between the both of you. “I take it you’ve introduced yourselves to each other?”

You hesitate momentarily, your mind flashing back to your brief encounter in the barn. “Yeah, we have,” you reply, managing a smile, if you can call it that. 

Logan doesn’t say anything, his focus on the bowl of stew in front of him. He doesn’t seem interested in joining the conversation, which only adds to the growing sense of awkwardness you feel. You glance at him briefly, wondering if he’s always this closed off or if it’s just his way of dealing with new people.

“Well, that’s good,” your grandmother says, either oblivious to the tension or choosing to ignore it. “Logan’s been a big help around here. We’re so grateful to have him.”

Your grandfather hums in agreement, scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth before adding, “He’s got a strong work ethic. Doesn’t shy away from the tough jobs, that’s for sure.”

Nodding along, you feel the pressure to say something positive. “That’s great. It’s good to know the farm’s in good hands.” Even thought the words are definitely a bit forced, you mean it. 

As the conversation continues, your grandparents shift the focus to you, asking about your job search and what you’ve been up to since you last visited. You give them a brief rundown of the interviews you’ve had, the options you’re considering, and the challenges you’ve faced. You try to keep it light, not wanting to worry them with your uncertainty, but you can’t help but notice the man’s presence beside you, still silent. 

At one point, when you’re talking about finding a new apartment, you hear him let out a quiet scoff, and you cast a look over, catching the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but it’s enough to make you pause. You want to ask him what that was about, to challenge him on whatever it is he’s thinking, but you bite your tongue. This isn’t the time or place, not in front of your grandparents who are just happy to have everyone around the table.

They continue to chat with you, asking more about your plans and offering their usual words of encouragement. When dinner finally wraps up, your grandmother insists on cleaning up, waving you off when you offer to help. “You’ve had a long day, dear. Why don’t you go relax? Logan can help me with the dishes.”

You smile. “Thanks, Grandma.”

He’s already started collecting the dishes by the time you stand up, but it’s like he refuses to recognize your existence, and that pisses you off. 

—

The next morning, you wake before dawn, the world still wrapped in the gentle embrace of night, and for a moment, you lie still, listening to the deep, pulsing of the house—the way the wooden floors creak slightly as they settle, the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside. The comfort of knowing your grandparents are asleep down the hall brings a sense of calm that you haven’t felt in a long time.

Deciding to take advantage of the early hour, you slip out of bed, your feet brushing against the cool floor as you stretch, feeling the muscles in your body slowly wake. You dress quietly, pulling on a soft, worn sweater, and pad downstairs, careful to avoid the spots on the stairs that you know will creak.

You move through the kitchen as if on autopilot, your hands knowing exactly where everything is. You set the coffee to brew, and the rich aroma sills the room.

Reaching for the eggs, you crack a few of them into a bowl, and as you’re whisking, you let your mind wander, thinking about how to spend the day. The soft sizzle of butter in the pan gets your attention and you pour the eggs in, watching as they begin to set around the edges. 

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, the steam rising from the mug in delicate spirals, and you take a sip, savouring the warmth and flavour hitting your tongue, while your gaze drifts over to the window that faces the back of the farmhouse. 

Your grandparents’ own horses, and you recognize some of them from when you were younger. It makes you happy knowing that they’re still being well taken care of. The way the early light touches the land, and the morning dew covers the grass, you can’t help but smile into your mug. 

Slowly, you walk a bit closer to the window, eager to take in the view you had been missing all these years, when a figure standing over by the horses catches your eye. It’s Logan, a small surprise given the early hour—you didn’t hear him wake up—but he stands there, leaning casually against the fence, an apple in his hand. 

You watch as he holds out the apple to one of the horses, his rough hand moving gently over its neck as it eats. There’s something unexpectedly tender in the way he interacts with the animal, a patience and care that you didn’t expect to see from him, given how he acted yesterday. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another apple, offering it to the second horse, who hungrily accepts it. You continue to stare at the sight outside. This side of him—so different from the unapproachable exterior he’s shown so far—stirs something inside you, a desire to connect with him, to see if there’s more to him than meets the eye.

On impulse, you quickly turn off the stove, grab a second cup of coffee and some toast you’ve just buttered, and without overthinking it, you head outside. The morning air is cool against your skin as you make your way over to Logan. 

As you approach, he keeps his attention focused on the horses. You take a moment, then clear your throat lightly, holding out the coffee with a tentative smile. “Thought you might want some breakfast,” you offer, trying to keep your tone light and friendly.

He finally glances at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours. His expression is just as unreadable his had been in the last sixteen hours you’ve known him, and then he grunts, “Already ate,” and turns his attention back to the animals in front of him.

His curt, and honestly rude rebuffals really frustrate you. It’s not like you’re asking him to wipe your ass after you go to the washroom, so you have absolutely no idea why he’s like this. 

“Alright,” you mutter, lips pressed together in a thin line, and turn to head back into the kitchen. 

Once inside, you set the untouched coffee and toast back on the counter with a sigh. You feel a tad bit awkward. You’re going to be spending the next however-many-months with him, and you would love it if you could at the very least, get along. His rough-around-the-edges personality is not making this enjoyable for you, and you’re sure that he probably just see’s you as an annoying nuisance. 

And it’s not like you’re ever going to pull this card on him or anything, but you have been here longer than him, despite the fact that he’s acting like he owns the place. You get it, he’s been here for a for a while, and it’s only been him doing the work, blah blah. But you’ve been helping and doing the work your entire childhood—missing a few years doesn’t take away that fact. 

With a heavy sigh, you open a cupboard and pull out a plate, scraping the eggs off the pan and setting them on it. Because your grandparents’ are still asleep, all you can do is eat in silence.

—

You’ve decided that today you are going to trim the grass. There’s always something to do around here, and since the long grass was one of the first things you noticed upon arrival, you think it’s best to just get that chore over with, considering how long you know it will take. 

Once you’ve finished cleaning the dishes and pan, you go back upstairs into your room and get changed. Today, you put on a long sleeve, and a small vest over top. Your pants are some hand-me-down working pants from one of your older cousins, and you snatch a baseball cap from your closet for when it begins to get hotter out. 

Walking to the back shed, you grab some tools for trimming the lawn. A lawn mower, a string trimmer, and a rake for after everything’s been cut. Moving over to the back section of the lawn, you set the trimmer and rake against the barn and start using the mower. It’s the same one your grandparents have used since you were a child, so it’s a reel lawn mower instead of those newer, more electrical ones you’ve seen around the city. 

You can’t really complain about it, so you just begin, the steady repetitive action of moving the tool back and forth being somewhat therapeutic. The smell of freshly cut grass begins to hit your senses, and you truly feel at peace. 

As the minutes pass, the sun rises higher, its warmth spreading across the fields. You’re completely absorbed in your work, the rhythm of mowing and the occasional chirp of birds the only sounds around you. You’ve missed this. The sounds of cars honking and early morning city traffic has nothing on the serenity of country life. 

You’re just completing the first half when you sense movement nearby. Glancing up, you see Logan walking up to you, having grabbed the trimmer. He doesn’t say anything, just starts up the machine and heads over to the next patch of grass within the area.

There’s a brief moment of eye-contact, like a subtle unspoken recognition to the effort you seem to be putting in. He gives you a small nod, and turns to focus on his task. The two of you work side by side, the hum of the machines, the scent of fresh-cut grass, and the warm sun overhead creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. 

When you finally finish, few hours have passed, and you walk back over to the barn and grab a lawn bag and the rake. And because Logan’s machine was electric, he seems to have finished his section as well, so you begin raking up all the stray pieces of grass. 

You quick to find out how awkward it is to hold the lawn bag open with one hand while trying to rake with the other—the grass keeps slipping out of the bag, and you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous as you fumble with the task. You scan around, hoping Logan won’t notice, but of course, he’s right there, watching as you flail around.

You feel a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, but before you can say anything, he steps forward. Like usual it seems, he doesn’t say a word, just holds out his hand as if asking for the rake. You falter briefly, not wanting to seem like you need his help, but at the same time you understand how much more efficient it would be if he joined. 

Reluctantly, you hand it over, and he immediately starts working with the same steady efficiency he brought to trimming the grass. With both hands free, you manage the lawn bag more effectively, holding it open as Logan rakes the grass into neat piles.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable; instead, it feels like a natural extension of the morning’s work. The sound of the rake scraping against the ground, the rustle of grass being gathered, and the occasional whinny from a horse nearby. 

After the last of the grass is finally raked and bagged, you tie off the lawn bag and glance over at him. He leans the rake against the barn wall and meets your gaze. There’s something in the way he seems to stare at you head on this time, rather than just a quick look, that makes your chest fill with satisfaction. 

You nod. “Thanks.”

Logan dips his chin in return, then turns and heads back toward the barn. The heat of the sun really starts to hit you now, and you take a peak at your watch, noticing that it’s already lunch time. Knowing that even if you tried to invite him, he’s probably say no, you just walk back to the farmhouse alone. 

—

The next couple of weeks unfold in the same way, moving with an almost predictable rhythm. Each morning, you wake before the sun, quietly slipping out of bed while your grandparent’s are still asleep. As you prepare and eat breakfast, you take your usual place by the kitchen window, watching as Logan interacts with the horses. 

Then, as the sun rises higher, you head out to begin your chores around the farm. Sometimes, Logan joins you without a word—his presence now a familiar and abating part of your routine—or sometimes, you find yourself working alone, but even then, you know he’s never far away. 

You’ve learned to read his silences, to understand that his gruff demeanor isn’t necessarily unfriendliness, but rather his way of navigating the world. And though he doesn’t speak much, his actions have a way of communicating more than words ever could.

One morning, as you’re finishing up breakfast, your grandparents announce their plans to head into one of the nearby cities for the day. “We need to run some errands and pick up a few things,” your grandmother explains, her hands busy packing a small bag. “But we were thinking it might be nice for the horses to get out and see some different scenery too.”

“They haven’t been to the pond in a while. It’s good for them to stretch their legs and take in some new sights.” Your grandfather chimes in. 

You nod, smiling at the thought. The pond is a beautiful spot, a peaceful place where the water runs clear and cool, surrounded by tall trees and soft grass. It’s the perfect place to spend a day with the horses. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll take them out there for the day.”

Your grandmother’s eyes light up as she hands you a basket. “I packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are also a couple of towels in case you want to swim. It’ll be a lovely day for it.”

“Thank you,” you say, appreciating the thoughtfulness behind the preparations. You take the basket and head upstairs to get ready, the idea of spending the day by the pond filling you with excitement. It’s been a long time since you’ve been there last. 

In your room, you change into your bathing suit, a simple bikini that you’ve always loved for its comfort and ease. You slip on a loose shirt and shorts over it, then grab a few essentials before heading back downstairs. Your grandparents have already left, so you make your way out to the barn to prepare the horses.

As you start saddling them up, you notice Logan nearby, focused on his usual tasks. His presence has become so customary to you that you hardly think twice before calling out to him. “Hey, Logan,” you say, catching his attention.

“I’m heading to the pond with the horses,” you tell him, nodding toward the saddled horses. “Grandma’s packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are even towels if you want to swim. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the horses, then back to you. After a moment, he mutters, “I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

The admission takes you by surprise, and you raise an eyebrow. “Really? But you’ve been here for over a year. I just assumed—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off. “I’ve always just walked alongside them. Holdin’ onto the reins is one thing, but I’ve never actually been on top of one.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s okay,” you say gently. “You can still join us. You can walk alongside like you usually do, and tomorrow, if you’re up for it, I’ll teach you how to ride.”

Logan peers at you for a long moment, considering your words. Finally, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come with you.”

“Great,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

With that settled, you both finish preparing for the trip. Logan helps you load the picnic basket, blanket, and towels onto one of the horses. You mount your favourite horse, and gently click your heels into its side, starting the trip as he begins walking, horses in tow, beside you. 

The journey to the pond is beautiful. The green trees that frame the pathway, the soft buzzing of nature, the sound of the horses’ hooves. You and Logan exchange a few words, but for the most part, it’s silent. 

When you reach the pond, the sight is just as picturesque as you remembered. The water sparkles under the sunlight, the tall trees casting dappled shadows across the grassy bank. You untie the horses, giving them plenty of room to graze and explore, before you grab the picnic basket, while he grabs the towels and blankets. Making your way over to the other side of the creek, you find a nice open patch of grass to set up on.

“I’m going for a quick dip,” you say as you go about stepping out of your shorts. Logan, who is sitting down, looks up, but his eyes seem to stop dead in their tracks when they settle on your body. You swear you can physically see his gaze darken as he takes in the sight of you stripping off your shirt. It’s subtle, but a small shiver runs down your spine at the attention nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and and head toward the pond. The temperature is perfect: just cool enough to be refreshing without being cold.

You dive in, the reservoir embracing you as a much-needed relief from the heat. Everything feels perfect—the gentle current against your skin, the refreshing sensation of being submerged, and the weightlessness of floating just beneath the surface. 

But when you lift your head out of the water, you and Logan immediately lock eyes.

He’s lying back on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, and his focus is squarely on you. The intensity of his stare is like a physical force, pinning you in place. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in time. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can feel a heat build within you, starting in your chest and traveling down, deeper, and deeper…But then, just as suddenly as it began, he looks away, and if you were any closer, you may have been able to spot the red flush creeping up the back of his neck and to the tip of his ears.

The moment is over, but the enduring feeling of it stays with you as you swim back to the shore. Water drips from your body as you step out, and you reach for one of the towels your grandmother packed. Once you’ve dried off, you walk over to where Logan is sitting and drop down beside him on the blanket. 

You are aware of eyes on you again, though this time there’s a hesitation in the way they travel over your form, as if he’s trying to be discreet but can’t quite help himself. You pretend not to notice as you reach for the picnic basket.

“I’m starving,” you say, pulling out the sandwiches your grandmother packed. “Want one?”

He nods, sitting up a little straighter as you hand him a sandwich. After a few bites, curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to break the ice. “So,” you start, glancing over at him, “how did you end up here, working on my grandparents’ farm?”

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he answers, his eyes focused on the food in his hands. “I was passing through,” he says finally. “Didn’t plan on stayin’. But your grandparents… they’re good people. Needed help, so I stuck around.”

You nod, taking another bite. “They are good people,” you agree, thinking of how much they’ve done for you over the years. “But where were you headed before that? Where are you from?”

Logan pauses for a moment, then looks over at you. “Alberta,” he says. “Grew up there, mostly. Been a lot of places since, but Alberta’s home—or was.”

You smile, finding comfort in the fact that he’s sharing a bit more. “Alberta’s beautiful,” you say, remembering the few times you’d traveled through the province. “Why’d you leave?”

He shrugs, glancing out toward the creek. “Needed a change. Wanted to see what else was out there. Guess I got used to movin’ around, never really settlin’ anywhere.”

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. “Must have been hard, never really having a place to call home.”

His gaze meets yours, and there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter. “But your grandparents… they’ve made it easier. This farm… it’s good.”

You smile warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve been a huge help to them. And… well, I’ve liked having you around.”

He glances at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, it’s been alright,” he mutters, a small, imperceptible smirk on his lips. You smile bashfully.

The next couple of hours pass by in a blur. Not much conversation happens, but rather, these weird periods of time where you feel as though your eyes are glued to him, and he you. It’s different—unexpected—and to put it frankly, you feel a bit shy underneath his gaze. 

Logan is attractive, anyone with eyes could see that, but it really wasn’t just his face that pulled you in, it was him. The way he would silently help you with chores, his soft moments every morning with the horses, the way he subtly looks over your grandparents’ when he thinks they arent watching. All of it. You want to spend more time with him, learn more about who he is, what he likes… all of it.

Soon enough, you both begin to pack up the picnic supplies, load up the horses, and head back to the farm. The horses seem content, having had a fun day grazing and napping by the pond, and you ride beside him as he walks. Every now and then, you catch him peeking up at you from under his eyelashes, his eyes lingering just a bit longer each time. 

You can see your grandparent’s car in the driveway as you near the farm, meaning they’ve also returned from their day in the city. Leading the horses back into the barn, the two of you go through the motions of the familiar routine of unsaddling them, brushing them down, and making sure they’re comfortable for the night. 

Once they’re all settled for the night, Logan steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans as he looks at you. 

“So ‘bout tomorrow…” He begins, shifting slightly, as if unsure how to phrase what he wants to say. “You really think you can teach me to ride?”

You grin excitedly. “Of course. I’ll come out after I’ve eaten breakfast.”

“Alright then,” he says, pivoting toward the doors, his lips twitching just barely, but enough. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

Your fingers are twitching at your sides as you watch him leave. You wait a few moments, then head out as well, closing and locking up the barn for the night. When you step into the house, you find your grandparents in the living room, their faces lit by the soft glow of a lamp as they relax on the chesterfield. 

“How was your day?” your grandmother asks, looking up from her knitting with a bright smile.

“It was nice,” you reply. “The horses loved it, and the pond was as beautiful as ever. We had a picnic, and it was really peaceful.”

Your grandfather, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, sets down his cup and regards you with a knowing look. “And Logan? Did he go with you?”

You nod, feeling a bit of warmth rise to your cheeks at the mention of their helper. “Yeah, he came along. He’s never ridden a horse before, so he just walked with us. But I’m going to teach him tomorrow.”

Your grandparents exchange a look, and your grandmother’s eyes sparkle with amusement and something more tender as she smiles at you. “That’s good, dear. He’s a bit of a mystery, that one, but I can tell he’s got a good heart. Sometimes people just need a little time to open up.”

Chatting with your grandparent’s a bit longer, you listen intently as they fill you in on their activities. You can faintly hear the sound of Logan’s footsteps upstairs as he gets ready for bed. The memory of his gaze on you makes your heart beat a smidge faster. 

—

Logan is unsurprisingly already at the barn when you arrive the next morning. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Morning,” you greet. “You ready to get started?”

Logan glances at the horses, then back at you. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

You lead him over to the horses, choosing one of the gentler ones for him to work with, and begin by showing him how to properly saddle the horse, explaining each step as you go. Logan watches intently, though you can see the slight furrow in his brow as he takes in all the information.

As soon as the horse is all saddled up, you hand him the reins. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Go ahead and mount up.”

He wavers for just a moment, his eyes on the horse as if weighing his options. But then, with a deep breath, he grabs the saddle and swings himself up with ease. He sits stiffly at first, his hands gripping the reins a bit too tightly, but he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as you would have expected. Definitely better than your first attempt.

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, moving to stand beside the horse. “Just relax. The horse can sense if you’re tense, so try to loosen up a bit.”

He takes another breath, visibly trying to relax his posture. It’s clear that he’s out of his comfort zone, but he’s determined to push through. You walk him through the basics of steering and controlling the horse, keeping your tone calm and encouraging.

After a few minutes, you guide him around the paddock, walking alongside the horse to make sure he feels secure. Logan follows your instructions with serious concentration, his movements becoming more and more natural as he gets used to the rhythm of the horse’s steps.

“You’re doing really well,” you tell him, smiling up at him. “Want to try picking up the pace a little?”

He glances down at you warily at first, but then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s give it a shot.”

You guide him through a gentle trot, staying close enough to offer guidance but giving him enough space to figure things out on his own. The horse picks up speed, and you watch as he adjusts, his body moving in sync with the animal’s movements. There’s a moment when he looks down at you, a spark of surprise in his eyes as he realizes he’s actually getting the hang of it.

As the morning progresses, Logan becomes more comfortable in the saddle, his confidence growing with each passing minute. You spend the next hour practicing different techniques, guiding him through turns, stops, and even a slow canter. He’s a quick learner, and despite the initial awkwardness, you can tell he’s starting to enjoy himself.

Eventually, you lead him back to the paddock, bringing the horse to a stop. He dismounts, still a bit tense but clearly pleased with himself. He hands you the reins, his eyes meeting yours with a look that’s both grateful and slightly sheepish.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” you say with a grin, patting the horse’s neck.

He huffs a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… you’re a good teacher.”

The compliment, simple as it is, makes your heart skip a beat. There’s something about the way he says it, the sincerity in his tone, that makes you feel a warm glow inside. He begins to walk toward the back shed, undoubtedly going to start on his morning chores, but you find yourself wanting to hold onto this moment just a bit longer. 

“Logan,” you call out, stopping him in his tracks.

He turns back, his eyes questioning.

“Thanks for this morning. I really enjoyed it.”

Logan studies you for a second, then he gives you a small smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

—

The days come and go, blending into one another as your first month at the farm passes by in what feels like the blink of an eye. The sun seems to rise earlier and set later with each passing day, stretching the hours out in a way that makes everything feel both languid and endless, and the heat only intensifies, something you didn’t think was possible. 

Despite the longer days and rising temperatures, you and Logan’s daily routines have now intertwined in a way that feels as natural as breathing. The once solitary moments you spent watching him out with the horses have now become something shared. Every morning, without fail, the two of you meet by the barn, where the horses greet you with soft nickers and eager eyes, ready for their daily ride.

He’s improved a lot. He no longer looks uncomfortable or stiff, and he’s able to guide his horse with an ease that surprises even him. You can see the subtle shift in his posture, the way he holds the reins with a sureness that wasn’t there before. 

And just like when you work on the farm together, sometimes, the two of you ride in a comfortable silence—the only sounds being the soft snorts of the horses and the creak of leather saddles. But more often than not, you chat about everything and nothing, your conversations easy and unforced. 

Logan, who once spoke only in short, clipped sentences, has begun to open up more, sharing bits and pieces of his past, his thoughts, and his observations about life on the farm. You learn that he has a sarcastic, dry sense of humor, one that often catches you off guard and leaves you laughing in spite of yourself. He even joins you for your usual morning breakfast of eggs and toast, something that started only a few days into your new morning ritual. 

Yet throughout all of this, there’s a something growing between you and Logan, simmering just beneath the surface. 

It manifests in the little moments, the stolen glances, and the accidental touches that don’t really seem to be as accidental as you may think. It’s in the way his eyes follow you when he thinks you’re not looking, how they intensify when you laugh, or how he seems to fixate on your hands as you work, as if he’s memorizing every movement. 

You’re not immune to it either. You find yourself hyper-aware of his presence, the way his proximity seems to alter the air around you. In one afternoon, you’re in the barn, and sorting through a pile of hay bales. It’s hard, sweaty work, but the it’s kind that leaves you with a satisfying ache in your muscles by the end of the day. Logan is beside you, lifting the heavy bales with ease, his shirt sticking to his back, outlining the broad expanse of his shoulders. You catch yourself staring, and quickly look away, but not before he flicks his eyes over to yours.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can see it in his eyes. It’s like they’re telling you that he knows exactly what you were thinking, where you were staring. 

And when you’re both tending to the horses, something happens again. You’re brushing one down, your fingers working through its mane, when Logan comes to stand beside you, so close that you can smell his natural musk. 

“Here, let me help,” he says lowly, not waiting for a response as he reaches out, his hand covering yours. You glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at you. You’re acutely aware of the feel of his hand over yours, the callousness of his skin against your own, and the way his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles as if testing the waters.

Another time, while fixing the fence out in the field, you’re both working in tandem, passing tools back and forth. At one point, you reach for a hammer at the same time Logan does, and your fingers brush against his. It’s a fleeting touch, but it feels like a spark in the summer heat, and for a heartbeat, you both freeze, caught in that split second of contact.

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling your hand back, but the apology feels hollow in the face of what you’re actually feeling.

“No problem,” Logan replies, his voice gruffer than usual, as he hands you the tool. 

You can feel it. You’re not stupid. You know something is there, and you wonder how much longer you can resist it—how much longer you can pretend that everything is fine. But Logan is a hard man to read, and you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is reciprocated, or if it’s just wishful thinking on your part. So you stay silent, letting the tension simmer, hoping that one day, one of you will have the courage to break it.

—

You’re not the only who see’s it. 

“You know,” your grandmother says one afternoon, as you’re helping them with a puzzle. “Logan has really come out of his shell since you’ve been here.”

You blink, and glance over at her. “What do you mean?”

She looks up from the table, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” she says with a knowing smile. “He’s been here for over a year, and in all that time, we’ve never seen him quite like this. He’s always been polite, of course, but distant. Reserved. But now… well, it’s clear he’s become quite comfortable around you.”

Your grandfather places a piece in the board and nods in agreement. “She’s right, you know. Logan’s always been a bit of a mystery, keeps to himself mostly. But ever since you arrived, he’s been different. More… engaged, I suppose you could say.”

You feel a flush of heat rising to your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat at their words. “I-I don’t know about that,” you stammer, trying to brush it off. “We just… work together a lot. That’s all.”

Chuckling, your grandmother leans forward slightly. “Darling, don’t be modest. It’d be obvious to anyone that there’s something going on between the two of you. He’s practically a different man when he’s around you. Why, just the other day, I caught him actually smiling while you two were out riding. I nearly fainted!”

“You’ve managed to do in weeks what we couldn’t do in a year. Whatever it is, it’s good for him. And for you, too, I’d wager,” your grandfather pipes in, sending you a wink. 

Fidgeting with your hands, you feel like a deer caught in headlights, and you’re honestly not sure how to respond. “We’re… friends,” you say, though the words feel inadequate even as you say them. 

The woman across from you raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Hmm? Well, maybe so. But it seems to me that there’s potential for something more there, if you’re both willing to see it.”

“I… I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling flustered under their scrutiny. “He’s just… he’s a complicated person.”

“Everyone’s complicated, dear,” your grandfather says gently. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth the effort. Oftentimes, the best things in life are the ones that take the most time to understand.”

There’s a moment of silence as their words sink in, the weight of their observations leaving you feeling exposed and uncertain. You hadn’t fully allowed yourself to consider what you felt, let alone what Logan felt. But now, with your grandparents’ teasing remarks, it’s impossible to ignore the possibility that there might be something more between you and Logan than just a budding friendship.

Your grandmother reaches over and gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “Just take it one day at a time, sweetheart. Whatever happens, we’re here for you.”

—

The following week, you find yourself itching for something new—a change in scenery. While the farm has been everything you’ve wanted and more, you think it’d be nice to go on a drive, explore a small laketown you used to go to when you were younger. So, one morning, as you and Logan are unsaddling the horses, you muster the courage to extend an invitation that’s been on your mind for days.

“So…,” you begin, trying to keep your tone casual. “I was thinking… maybe we could take a break from the farm this weekend and go into town. You know, just to get out for a bit, see something different.”

He pauses in his work, his hand stilling on the brush as he peers over at you with a raised eyebrow. “The town?” he repeats, as if the idea is foreign to him.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to face him fully. “I need to pick up a few things, and I thought it might be nice to have some company. We could grab lunch, maybe do some exploring… It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a change of pace.”

There’s a beat of silence as he considers your offer. His expression is guarded, as always, but you can see the wheels turning in his mind. It’s clear that the idea of leaving the farm, even for a day, is something he hasn’t done in a long time—if ever.

“I don’t know,” he eventually gets out, his tone uncertain. “Busy places are not really my thing.”

You feel a pang of disappointment at his hesitation, but you’re not ready to give up just yet. “I get that,” you say. “But it’s not about how many people are there, really. It’s about taking a break. You’ve been working so hard, and I think you deserve a day to relax. Plus, I could use your help carrying a few things,” you tease, hoping to coax him into agreeing.

Logan’s lips twitch as if he’s suppressing a smile, and for a split second you think he’s going to turn you down. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, the word coming out almost reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

You beam, unable to hide your enthusiasm. “We’ll leave early on Saturday, okay?”

“Saturday it is,” he confirms.

—

The rest of the week passes quickly, your anticipation for the trip into town growing with each passing day. You find yourself planning out the day in your head, imagining the places you might visit, the food you might try, and most of all, the chance to see Logan in a different environment—away from the farm and the routine that has defined your relationship so far.

So, when Saturday morning arrives, you’re up before the sun, too excited to sleep in. You dress in your favourite casual clothes—something comfortable but a bit more put-together than your usual farm attire—and head downstairs, where you find your grandparents surprisingly already up and about.

“Off to the city today, are you?” your grandmother asks with a smile as she hands you a thermos of coffee for the road.

“Yep,” you reply, unable to keep the grin off your face. “and I’m dragging Logan along with me.”

Your grandfather chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, that should be interesting. Don’t think he’s much of a city slicker.”

“Be patient with him, dear,” your grandmother adds, laughing. “He’s stepping out of his comfort zone for you.”

“I will,” you promise, taking the coffee and heading out the door.

Logan’s already waiting by the truck, and when you see him, you can’t help but falter in your steps. The shirt he’s wearing clings to his muscular frame in a way that draws your eyes, accentuating the strength that’s always been evident. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s an almost shy quality to the way he stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

You try to hide the fact that you were just checking him out as you ask, “Ready?” 

“‘Course,” he replies, climbing into the passenger seat as you slide behind the wheel.

The highways are empty and the sky is clear. You chat easily about the things you need to pick up, the cute boutiques you want to visit, and even a few memories of the last time you visited the place. Logan listens more than he talks, but you can tell he’s starting to relax, the tightness in his shoulders easing as the distance passes by.

When you finally reach the town, the energy along the streets is a stark contrast to the quiet calm of the farm. The buildings tower above you, and the sidewalks are crowded with people going about their day. 

Stepping out of the truck, you glance over at Logan. It’s clear that he’s out of his element, but there’s something cute about the way he takes it all in. “Where to first?” He questions. 

“Well,” you say, smiling at him, “I was thinking we could grab some breakfast at this little café I know, then hit a few shops. There’s a bookstore I love that I think you’d like too.”

He nods, his expression softening slightly at the mention of a bookstore. “Lead the way.”

You spend the morning wandering around, exploring the shops, and enjoying a nice breakfast together. At the bookstore, you lose track of time, browsing through the shelves and picking out a few titles that catch your eye. Logan surprises you by finding a book on woodworking, something he’s always been interested in but never had much time for. You can see the way his eyes light up as he flips through the pages, and it makes you smile, happy to see him enjoying something for himself.

After spending a few more hours of exploring, you suggest one last stop before heading back—a lookout point that offers a stunning view of the lake and the surrounding landscape. Logan agrees, and you drive up to the spot, parking the truck and leading him to a bench that overlooks the water.

The view is breathtaking. You both sit in silence for a while, just taking in the scenery, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. He is staring out into the water with a thoughtful expression when you decide to interrupt his stupor.

“Logan,” you begin, the gentle breeze from the lake rustling through the trees, “what did you think of me when we first met?���

He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. Then he pauses for a moment, looking back out at the lake, as if gathering his thoughts.

“I thought you were different,” he says slowly, each word carefully chosen. “You didn’t act like you were above the work. You jumped right in, got your hands dirty. Most people wouldn’t do that.”

You smile at the memory, remembering how you started working together the moment you met. After all, you weren’t just a visitor—you were there to help, and you knew your way around the farm. “And now?” you ask, your heart beginning to beat just a little faster.

He remains quiet for a few moments, his focus still on the water. When he finally speaks, he’s timid, almost bashful, as if he’s revealing something he’s kept hidden for a long time. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” he admits, his eyes flickering back to yours. “I thought that the first time I saw you, too. It was one of the first things that hit me. But it’s more than that. Now… now I think you’re perfect.”

The sincerity in his words catches you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless. Your mouth parts in surprise, and all you can do is gawk, trying to process the depth of what he’s just said.

Logan shifts slightly, his gaze dropping to his hands as he continues. “I was… cold at first,” he murmurs, “Didn’t know how else to act. You weren’t like anyone I’d ever met. I didn’t know how to handle it. But what really got to me was how you didn’t shy away from that—you didn’t let my attitude push you away. That changed somethin’ in me.”

You want to say something—you should say something—to acknowledge what he just said, bearing in mind that was probably the most amount of words to come out of his mouth in one go, but for some reason, you can’t. The only thought running through your head is that you want to reach out and touch him, to close the small distance between you.

“What about you?” His voice is slightly more tentative now, and he definitely just asked that to fill the silence that you were ungraciously leaving. “What was your first impression of me?”

His question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you gulp, now knowing that your first impression of him was very different to his of you. 

“Honestly? I thought you were rude as hell,” you say a bit nervously, watching as his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. “You were so gruff, so serious… I didn’t know what to make of you at first. But then I saw the way you took care of the horses, the way you looked after the farm, and… it didn’t take long for my opinion to change.”

He shifts, clearly caught off guard. You can see the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck as he takes in what you said, and it makes your smile widen. 

“And…You’re kind,” you continue. “There’s this gentleness about you that I wasn’t expecting.” You suck in a shaky breath. “I think you’re pretty perfect now too, if I’m being honest.”

The tint on his cheeks only deepens, and he looks away, flustered. It’s a rare sight—seeing him like this—and it makes you swoon. 

“I don’t know about that…” He mutters, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“I do,” you reply firmly. “You’re more than you think you are, Logan.”

The genuineness in your words makes him look back at you, his eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or confirmation that what you’re saying is real. Slowly, almost unconsciously, you both lean in closer, locked in a stare, your breaths mingling as the space between you shrinks. You can see the way his eyes flicker down to your lips, and you feel the same pull, the undeniable urge to close the distance and see what it would feel like to kiss him overriding all your senses.

Your chest pounds as you inch closer, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. But just as your lips are about to meet, a loud, piercing scream shatters the moment.

You both jerk back, startled, and whip your heads around to see a kid nearby, his face scrunched up in disgust as he frantically wipes at his shoulder. “Ew! A seagull just pooped on me!”

The kid’s parents rush over, trying to console him as they pull out napkins, and you can’t help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of the interruption. The sound of your laughter is contagious, and soon Logan is chuckling a bit too.

“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” he mumbles under is breath.

You’re still laughing, the remnants of your almost-kiss still in the back of your mind, but you know the moment has passed. “Yeah,” you agree, trying to catch your breath. “Guess we should be thankful it wasn’t us.”

Logan grins, warm and wide. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

—

Driving back to the farm, neither of you say a word about what almost transpired at the lookout point, and you’re fine with that. There’s no need to fill the silence with words, no need to dissect the moment or what it could have led to. You don’t want there to be any sort of pressure between you, any expectations. Even if, deep down, all you want is to climb him like a tree, to feel the solid strength of him beneath your hands, and to finally give in to the attraction that’s been building throughout your time together. 

Pulling into the driveway and shutting of the engine, you turn to him, and turns to you, his eyes meeting yours. “Thanks for today,” he says sincerely “I… enjoyed it.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. “Me too,” you reply, your voice just as soft. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, his gaze holding yours a hint longer before he turns away, his hand reaching for the door handle. “We should.”

—

A few days later, as everyone sits around the kitchen table after dinner, the evening suddenly takes on a new tone when your grandmother clears her throat and shoots an exchanges a conspiratorial glance at your grandfather.

“We’ve got some news,” she begins, her eyes shining with excitement. “Your grandfather and I have been invited to spend a week at the Summers’ cottage by the lake.”

You smile, genuinely happy for them. The Summers are longtime friends of your grandparents, and the idea of them getting a little vacation away sounds perfect. “That sounds wonderful! You two deserve some time to relax.”

“Well, we thought so too,” your grandfather says. “But that means we’ll be leaving the farm in your capable hands.”

It takes a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink in. You and Logan… alone… for an entire week.

Your heart skips a beat and you glimpse over at Logan, who’s sitting across the table from you, his expression neutral as he listens to your grandparents. But there’s a quick flash of something that suggests he’s as aware of the situation as you are.

A voice brings you back to the moment. “Now, don’t worry,” she says with a reassuring smile. “There’s not much that needs doing, just the usual stuff. And we’ll be back before you know it.”

Your grandfather leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he scans between you and Logan. “We trust you both to keep everything running smoothly,” he says, before he drops his voice to an embarrassingly low tone. “And to keep an eye on each other.”

You can’t help but blush at his not-so-subtle innuendo, and you quickly drop your gaze to your hands, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. The thought of spending an entire week alone with Logan is both thrilling and nerve-wracking. The lack of a buffer—your grandparents—means that literally anything could happen. 

“Don’t worry,” you finally manage to say. “We’ve got this. You two just enjoy your time away.”

Logan, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during the conversation, finally speaks up. “Yeah,” he agrees, “We’ll take care of everything.”

—

Over the next couple of days, your grandparents pack their bags and make sure everything is in order before they leave. You help them with the small details, ensuring that the house is stocked with food and that all the usual chores are delegated properly.

Finally, the morning of their departure arrives. You stand by the front door, watching as your grandparents load their bags into the car. Your grandmother gives you a warm hug, “Take care, dear,” she says, kissing your cheek before hopping into the passenger’s seat. 

Your grandfather shakes Logan’s hand, giving him a firm nod. “Take care of things.”

He hums. “I will. Enjoy yourselves.”

With that, your grandparents climb into the car, and after a final wave, they drive down the long, dusty road that leads away from the farm. 

There’s a pause. 

Suddenly, you’ve become extremely aware of how close you two are standing. 

“So,” you start, hoping to ease a bit of the electricity beginning to spark. “I guess it’s just us now.”

Logan swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing up and down. “Yeah,” he replies a bit deeper than usual. “Just us.”

“What should we do first?” you ask as casually as possible. 

He shrugs slightly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Same old, I guess. Can’t let everythin’ fall apart right when they leave..”

“True. Let’s start with that.”

The two of you move into that familiar routine of farm work. Mucking out the stalls, hauling bags of feed from the shed to the barn, tending to the vegetable garden, you do it all. But even though you’re busy with work, there’s an underlying jitter to everything you do, a heightened awareness of each other’s presence that just wasn’t there before. And it’s impossible to ignore. Each time you make eyecontact it feels charged, almost like a promise of what’s to come, and it has your heart racing with exhilaration. 

That evening, after the chores are done and the sun has dropped below the horizon, you’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner while Logan finishes up outside. The quiet of the farmhouse feels different without your grandparents there—emptier, yet somehow more intimate. Domestic. You can hear the soft creak of the floorboards as he enters the house, the sound of him washing up in the sink.

And as the evening wears on, you find yourself drawing out cleaning the dishes, not wanting to end the day just yet. Logan stays close, drying the plates and placing them back in the cupboards.

“Long day,” he grunts.

“Yeah,” you agree, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “But it was nice. Peaceful.”

His eyes find yours. “Peaceful,” he echoes, though the word seems to hold a different meaning when he says it.

You both stay there, unmoving, until eventually, he takes a step back, as if sensing that the tension between you needs a moment to cool. “I’ll check on the barn,” he says gruffly. “Make sure everything’s locked up for the night.”

“Okay,” you reply, your voice softer than you intended.

Logan leaves to check on the barn, while he’s gone, your thoughts are a whirlwind of anticipation and nervous energy as you busy yourself with finishing up the remaining utensils. 

Finally, unable to stay inside any longer, you decide to step outside, hoping the cool evening air will help clear your mind. You sink down onto the old porch swing, and pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you observe the darkened landscape.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, and you glance over your shoulder to see Logan approaching the porch. He walks up the steps and pauses momentarily as if debating whether to join you. Then, with a soft sigh, he settles down beside you, his shoulder just barely brushing against yours.

It’s now or never, you think.  “We have the place to ourselves now,” you state. 

He turns his head slightly, giving you a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a small, knowing smirk. “Indeed we do,” he replies.

The simple acknowledgment—and the way he says it—makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t help the small huff of exasperation that escapes your lips. He’s always been so tame, so careful with his words, and while you appreciate the way he’s respected your space, you’re done with tiptoeing around.

“Do I need to spell it out for you, or—” But before you can finish the sentence, Logan moves. 

His hand reaches out, rough and warm, to cup the back of your head. Your eyes widen, and your heart thuds in your chest upon realizing what’s about to happen. And with a firm but gentle pull, he closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours.

You lose track of your surroundings—the night, the farm, everything—as you give yourself into feel of his lips against yours. It’s intense and claiming, a declaration of everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.

His hand tangles in your hair, holding you close as he deepens the kiss, his other hand coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to ground yourself in the moment, to make sure this is real, that he’s really here, kissing you.

Moving your lips against his with equal fervor, you pour the longing you’ve been feeling all this time into it. The taste of him is intoxicating. It’s something that’s so uniquely him—so uniquely Logan—and you can’t get enough. You’ve imagined this moment in the dead of night, but nothing compares to the reality of it—to the way he kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you finally pull back, out of breath and a little dazed, Logan’s forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants. His eyes are smoldering and intense and his smirk is gone, replaced by a deep look of yearning.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits huskily. The way his voice has dropped three octaves isn’t missed on you. You can practically feel it vibrate down in your pu—

“You’re not the only one,” You whisper, interrupting your own thoughts. The connection between you has finally been acknowledged, and you feel a huge sense of relief.

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding, and his hand slips from the back of your head to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t think I can hold back anymore.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his lips. “Then don’t,” you whisper against his mouth.

The spark that has been ignited between you flares up into a full blown fire, and the next kiss quickly becomes more heated. Without breaking it, Logan’s grip on your waist tightens and you let out a soft gasp as he effortlessly lifts you onto his lap. Your legs straddle his hips, and you can feel the beginning of something growing underneath you. 

The sensation is dizzying, and you instinctively press yourself closer, your fingers curling into his hair. The swing beneath you creaks softly with the movement, but neither of you pays it any mind, too lost in each other to care.

You shift slightly on his lap, grinding your hips against him, and the movement draws a deep, throaty groan from him. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, “God, you drive me crazy,” and then he’s on you again. 

It’s wild. Hot, and heavy, and utterly consuming. His hands move from your hips to grip your ass, guiding you to move against him. It feels so good, you release a relieved sigh into his mouth, before dropping your head onto his shoulder, too caught up in the pleasure. 

The sounds of your moans fill the air as he continues grinding you against him, his own hips bucking up into your core. 

Biting your lip, you lift your head slightly, a teasing smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as your eyes dart toward the open door of the farmhouse. “You know,” you begin tilting forward to bite his ear, your voice low and playful, “as much as I’m enjoying being out here, I think we should take this inside.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a sexy smirk. “As you wish,” he murmurs.

As you stand up, your legs a little shaky from what just occured, you peek back at him, and see that he’s already risen to his feet. Stepping closer, you slip your hand into his as you guide him toward the door. But just as you reach the threshold, a thought crosses your mind, and you pause, turning to look up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“We gotta go to your room,” you say, running your hands up and down his arms, feeling them flex underneath your touch.“I don’t think I’m ready to defile my childhood bedroom just yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face as he catches on to what you’re implying. “Oh, is that so?” he asks, his tone filled with mock seriousness. You wink in return. grabbing one of his hands and dragging him inside. 

By the time you reach his door, you’re practically vibrating with excitement, your breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. The room is simple, and the bed, neatly made, sits in the center of the room. You can’t help but laugh at the thought of how different it will look in just a few moments.

You turn to face Logan, but he doesn’t give you time to say anything, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that is both tender and possessive. His thumb traces the line of your jaw as he cups your face, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation.

But there’s none. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. The need for him, for this, is so overwhelming that it’s taking every ounce of strength in you to keep from throwing yourself onto him. 

His lips find yours once more, this time more urgent, more demanding than before. He pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours. “Are you sure about this?” he asks in between kisses.

“Absolutely,” you mumble breathlessly, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. The word barely leaves your lips before Logan reacts, a low hum rumbling in his chest as if your answer has unleashed something primal within him.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a force that makes the room tremble slightly, and in the same fluid motion, he pins you against the wall, lips never leaving yours as his body cages you in.

One of his thighs nudges its way between yours, the rough fabric of his jeans brushing against the sensitive spot between your legs. The friction is maddening, electric, and it hits just right, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine that rips a moan from your throat.

The sound only spurs Logan on, his own need evident in the way he moves against you. He moves his mouth to your neck, trailing up and down it with hungrily. The feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his teeth graze your pulse point, causes you to arch against him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

You can feel the warmth of his breath as he presses his lips to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, as his hands explore your body. They’re everywhere—one gripping your hip, holding you steady against the wall, the other sliding up your side to brush against the curve of your breast. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it up, and you lift your arms to help him, the fabric sliding up and over your head before it’s tossed carelessly to the floor.

Bringing his lips back to yours, the kiss is fiery, stealing all the oxygen from your lungs as he pushes you even harder into against the wall, his thigh still working its magic. You can’t help the way your hips rock against him, the need for more—more pressure, more friction, more him.

Logan seems to sense your desperation, moaning when his hand slips down from your breast to the waistband of your jeans. He fumbles with the button for only a moment before he gets it open, his fingers slipping inside to brush against the soft skin of your lower belly. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze tempting and filled with a desire that matches your own. 

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “No idea why I waited so long.”

You can barely think, let alone form words, but you manage to breathe out, “Don’t need to wait any longer.”

The words seem to be all the encouragement he needs. In one swift motion, he slides your pants and underwear down your legs, his hands careful as he helps you step out of them. You’re left standing before him, bare and vulnerable, but the way he’s staring at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—makes you feel powerful, desired in a way you’ve never felt before.

He pulls you back into him, and this time, you can feel the hardness of his own desire against yours—bare— and it drives you insane. His grip finds you thighs as he lifts you off the ground and carries you the short distance to the bed. He lays you down gently on his bed, and breaks away long enough to strip off his own clothes. The sight of him—strong, muscular, yours—makes your breath catch in your throat. 

There’s a moment where he’s standing above you, just staring, his chest rising and falling with the effort to control himself. But then he’s on you again in an instant, his body pressing yours into the mattress, his lips claiming yours and leaving you dizzy.

You lean up into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he moves against you. The need for more builds up to a breaking point, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as he grinds into you, hard and insistent against your core.

“Logan,” you breathe out. “Please.”

His name on your lips seems to break the last of his control, a desperate groan ripping out of him. He begins travelling down your body, taking his time, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path, each kiss leaving a burning trail in its wake. His hands follow the curve of your waist, your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. Your body is practically begging for him, and you know that you’re on the verge of begging too.

Once he makes it down to your thighs, he nudges them apart, giving him better access to you. He nips and bites at them, moaning along with you. And then, with a deep, almost possessive growl, he finally lowers his mouth to you, his tongue flicking out to taste you. You react immediately, a wave of pleasure coming over you, your hands fly into his hair, tugging at the strands as you try to pull him closer.

Logan’s hands tightening their grip on your thighs as he delves deeper. You’re lost in the sensations, the pleasure growing and growing until it’s all you can think about, all you can feel. Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alight with desire, and the only thing that matters is the way he is making you feel, the way he’s driving you toward a release that you know will be earth-shattering.

And then, just as you think you can’t take any more, he pulls back slightly, his lips still hovering over you as he looks up at you, eyes black. “Tell me what you want,” he commands.

You can barely think, let alone form coherent words, but you manage to breathe out, “You. I want–I need you.”

That seems to be wanted he wanted to hear, so with a final kiss to your inner thigh, he moves back up your body, connecting his lips to yours again. You can taste yourself on his tongue as his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you slightly to position himself at your entrance.

The anticipation is almost too much, the need for him so immense that you can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your lips as begins to push, the tip of him just barely inside you, teasing, testing your patience.

“Oh god,” you moan. “I need you. Please.”

And then, finally, Logan gives you what you’ve been wanting since that time at the pond. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushes inside you, filling you up completely. 

Everything seems to stop for a moment, the only sound the ragged gasps of breath between you, the only feeling the overwhelming pleasure of being joined together like this, of finally having what you’ve both wanted for so long.

He pauses, lowering his head in the crook of your neck as he lets you adjust to the feeling, his breath hot and heavy against your collarbone. And then he begins to move, slow and steady at first, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, the coil inside you tightening with every stroke. The feel of him inside you, the way he moves against you, is everything you’ve been dreaming of and more, and you can’t help the way your body responds to him, your hips lifting to meet his every movement.

The gentle, deliberate pace soon gives way to something more urgent, more desperate, as the need for release takes over. Each thrust drives you higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level, until teetering on the edge.

And then, he sends you over it. The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your entire body shuddering with the intensity of it, your voice lost in the cry of pure ecstasy that escapes your lips. Logan follows you a moment later, his own release crashing into him hard, his body trembling against yours as he buries himself deep inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as a loud, deep, groan reverberates in his throat. 

Neither of you can move, lost in the aftermath of your shared pleasure, your bodies still entwined, as you come down from the high. He tightens his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tries to catch his breath. And when he does, he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes.

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You nod, reaching up to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs gently brushing over the rough stubble on his cheeks. “I’m more than okay,” you whisper back, voice full of emotion. “That was… everything.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Logan’s lips, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms still wrapped securely around you. “Yeah, it was,” he agrees.

Eventually, he eases out of you with a tenderness that makes you sigh softly. He walks out into the washroom, and gets a warm towel, wiping you and himself down. After, he settles beside you on the bed, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. The two of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the exhaustion of the day begins to catch up with you, and you feel your eyes growing heavy.

“Get some rest,” you hear, “We’ve got plenty of time… no need to rush.”

You nod sleepily, snuggling closer to him as you let your eyes drift shut, the steady pulse of his heart lulling you into a peaceful sleep. 

—

You wake to the feeling of warmth and security, Logan’s breathing against your ear, his arm still clinging possessively over your waist. The events of the previous night come rushing back, and a satisfied smile curves your lips as you snuggle closer to him.

But it isn’t long before that peaceful contentment becomes something more. As you move around, the feel of his skin against yours, the warmth of his breath on your neck, and the memory of the passion ignites a familiar heat low in your belly

He stirs beside you, his hand tightening around your waist as if sensing your thoughts. Pulling you closer, his nose nuzzles against your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin there. 

His voice is rough with sleep as he murmurs against your skin, “Morning…”

The simple word, spoken in that deep, gravelly tone, is enough to make you ache for him all over again. You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze, and the look in his eyes—dark and hungry—tells you that he feels the same way. 

The morning starts in the best way possible, the both of you breathless, spent, and with the knowledge that this isn’t a one-time thing. The connection between you is too strong, too consuming to be satisfied with just one night or even one morning. And as the day stretches out before you, the realization hits that this hunger, this need, will follow you both everywhere you go.

Throughout the week, the two of you are completely insatiable for each other. It’s like the floodgates have opened and have no intention of closing. Every moment you’re together becomes an opportunity. 

It starts innocently enough—just a kiss in the barn when you’re supposed to be checking on the horses. But that kiss quickly spirals and before you know it, Logan has you pressed up against the wooden wall, his lips on your neck, his hands roaming your body. The scent of hay and leather mixes with the heady scent of him as he takes you right there, the barn filled with the sound of your moans and the creak of the old wooden beams.

Or when you’re in the back shed, ostensibly looking for some tools to finish up some chores, the moment the door closes behind you, and you both know there’s no point in pretending. Logan’s hands are on you before you can even say a word, lifting you onto the workbench with ease as he claims your lips in a searing kiss. 

At the pond too, the tranquil, secluded spot now holds an entirely different kind of allure to what it had before. One afternoon, you find yourselves there again, the cool water calling your name. But as you strip down to swim, the sight of him watching you is enough to make it seem less inviting than the feel of his hands on your skin. You pull him in with you, the rippling water doing nothing to muffle the sounds of your shared pleasure.

By the end of the week, you’re exhausted but in the best possible way, your body and soul both filled with the kind of satisfaction that comes from truly giving in to what you want, to who you are together. And as the sun sets on the final day of your week alone together, you find yourselves back in Logan’s room, the place where it all began. 

The bed, once neat and tidy, is now a tangle of sheets and pillows, the evidence of your shared moments of bliss scattered around the room. Logan lies beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair as you rest your head on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“This week… it’s been more than I ever expected,” he admits quietly, his fingers brushing gently over your skin. “I don’t want it to end.”

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the same emotion reflected there—the same desire to hold on to what you’ve found together. “It doesn’t have to,” you reply. “We don’t have to go back to the way things were before.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, a small, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips. “No, we don’t,” he concurs. 

—

The morning your grandparents arrive, you and Logan are in the kitchen, finishing up lunch. Your grandmother is the first to step through the door, her face lighting up as she sees the two of you. “We’re back!” she announces, her voice cheerful as she sets her bag down by the door.

You rise to greet her, giving her a warm hug. “How was the trip?”

“Oh, it was lovely,” she replies, her eyes twinkling as she pulls back to look at you. “The cottage was just as beautiful as ever. And the Summers send their love.”

Your grandfather enters next, a gleeful smile on his face as he takes in the sight of you and Logan in the kitchen, together. “Everything go smoothly while we were gone?” he asks.

You blush. “Yes, everything was fine.”

Then they do that thing they’ve been doing the whole time you’ve been with them, where they exchange a glance—and share a look that speaks volumes. It’s the kind of look that only comes from years of understanding each other without words, and you can tell they knew exactly what they were doing when they left you and Logan alone for the week. 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” your grandmother says with a mischievous smile, her eyes flicking between you two in a way that makes you wonder just how much they’ve guessed.

“Seems like you two managed just fine without us.” Your grandfather says, patting Logan on the shoulder. 

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you steal a look at Logan, who meets your eyes with a small smirk. It’s a way to tell you that he’s just as aware as you are of what your grandparents are thinking. But there’s no embarrassment on his face, only a quiet confidence, a certainty that whatever happened between you was exactly what was meant to be.

—

The next month flies by, the routine of everything staying largely the same except for one thing. You and Logan are inseparable, drawn to each other like magnets, and with each passing day, it seems like that attraction only grows stronger. 

It’s not just the passion that binds you, though that spark is always there, and most often times doesn’t go ignored. It’s the little moments that fill your days—the way his hand brushes yours as you walk side by side, the way he rests a gentle hand on the small of your back when you’re working together in the barn, or the way his fingers grip your waist as he helps you mount your horse (even though you don’t need it). 

The work on the farm continues to get done, but there’s a new layer to everything you do—a sense of shared purpose, of partnership. And even though the days are long and tiring, you find yourself looking forward to each task, knowing that Logan will be there beside you, sharing the load, offering his quiet support and his easy, comforting presence.

As the sun begins to rise one breakfast, you grandfather announces that he needs to run into town to pick up some tools for a repair project. He’s heading out the door, and as he grabs his keys from the hook, he turns to Logan with a nod.

“Logan, why don’t you come along? Could use an extra pair of hands,” he suggests, his tone casual.

Your man agrees without hesitation, always ready to lend a hand. But as he follows your grandfather out the door, he pauses for just a moment, whirling back to look at you, and what you see on his face is insane—there’s a deep yearning, a longing that tugs on your heartstrings. It’s almost as if to say that he wishes he could stay, he doesn’t want to be apart from you, even for the short trip into town. 

You have half a mind to join them. 

The intensity of that look lingers in the air long after he’s turned away and stepped out the door, and your grandmother doesn’t miss a thing. Once the men are in the truck and begin to drive off the property, she turns to you with a teasing smile, one eyebrow raised in amusment. 

“He’s really got it bad for you, doesn’t he?” she says affectionately. “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

Your heart blooms in your chest. “I guess he does,” you reply, your voice soft,  breathless as the weight of your feelings for him wash over you. 

Your grandmother chuckles, stepping closer to place her hand on your arm “And you’ve got it bad for him too, I’d say.”

You laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

—

Several weeks later, it’s raining. That should have been the first sign that this day wasn’t going to go to plan. You’re sitting inside, curled up next to Logan on the old chesterfield, his arm wrapped around you as you both enjoy the warmth and quiet of the afternoon. 

But then you decide to go through some emails—just a quick check, nothing more, to clear out any lingering notifications. You unlock your phone and start scrolling through your inbox, Logan’s fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder as you do. Most of the emails are routine—newsletters, updates, the usual clutter—but then you see it, nestled among the others like a tiny, unexpected bombshell.

It’s an email from the company you applied to months ago, the one you almost forgot about in the blissful haze of farm life. The subject line makes your heart skip a beat: Congratulations! Offer of Employment.

Your breath catches, and you sit up a little straighter, your heart pounding in your chest as you open the email. The words leap off the screen: We are pleased to offer you the position, starting in two months.

You stare at the email, a mixture of shock and elation washing over you. This is it—your dream job, the opportunity you’ve been working toward for years. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, the kind of position that could set the course for your entire career. But as the initial wave of excitement begins to ebb, a heavy weight settles in your chest, pulling you back down to earth.

You glance over at Logan, who’s still relaxed beside you. His eyes are closed, his head resting back against the couch. The sight of him, so content, makes your heart ache, because with this job offer comes a harsh reality: accepting it means leaving him, leaving this life you’ve built together, at least for a while. And you don’t know when—or even if—you’ll be back.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter open in response to your shifting, and he looks over at you, concern flickering across his features. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I… I just got an email,” you begin shakily as you turn the screen toward him so he can read it for himself.

He takes the phone from your hand, his eyes scanning the email. You watch his expression carefully, searching for any sign of what he’s feeling. At first, there’s no reaction, just the steady, focused way he reads the words. Yet as he reaches the end, you see it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the pinching together of his eyebrows. 

He hands the phone back to you wordlessly.

Then, “This is what you’ve been waiting for.” His voice is steady, but there’s a sadness there too, a heaviness that you can’t ignore.

You nod, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah… it is.”

There’s a long stretch of nothing, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence between you. Logan looks away, his gaze fixed on the fire as if trying to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, measured. “You have to take it.”

You swallow hard. “But what about us? I don’t know when I’ll be back… or if I’ll even be able to come back.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, his grip firm, grounding. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, though you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he’s trying to hold back his own emotions for your sake. “You’ve worked too hard for this to pass it up.”

His words are supportive, encouraging, but you can see the the way he’s starting to close in on himself, as if already bracing himself for your departure. The thought of being apart from him is unbearable.

You lean into his touch, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper as the tears finally spill over.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there as if trying to convey all the things he can’t bring himself to say. “I don’t want you to leave either,” he admits. “But I’ll be here when you get back. However long it takes.”

And so begins the countdown to your departure. You always knew it was going to come, always knew you were going to have to leave your grandparents again, but you didn’t expect to find the love of your life here, and that makes it so much harder.

—

The remaining two months become a bittersweet blend of cherished moments and a looming sense of inevitability. Each day feels both precious and fleeting, a constant reminder that your time together is running out, and it shapes every decision, every action, every word between you. 

In the past, your days had been filled with the rhythm of farm life—early mornings, long hours of work, and evenings spent in each other’s arms, exhausted but content. But now, there’s a conscious effort to carve out time just for you two, time that’s not dictated by chores or routine. You start taking more trips to the pond or into town, something you hadn’t quite as often before. 

These dates are different from the intense, passionate moments you’ve shared on the farm—they’re softer, more tender, as if you’re both trying to imprint each other’s presence into your memories. You hold hands as you walk on the streets, your fingers intertwined, and every now and then, Logan will pull you close, pressing a kiss to your temple or your lips, as if he needs to reassure himself that you’re still there with him.

Even the way you make love changes during these months. The hunger and desire that had once defined your physical relationship are still there, of course—Logan’s touch still ignites a fire in you, and the need for each other still burns as hot as ever—but now, there’s a new dimension to your intimacy, a slow, sensual depth that hadn’t been there before. 

Your grandparents, upon hearing the news, immediately noticed the change too. While they were so extremely happy for your new job opportunity, they also knew what it meant. They’ve seen the way you and Logan have grown closer, the way your connection has deepened, and there’s a quiet sadness in their eyes whenever they see you together. 

It’s not a sadness for themselves, but for the both of you. 

They don’t say much, but their understanding is palpable. They seem to give you more grace when it comes to doing work around the farm, trying to volunteer and do as much as they can so you two can spend time alone. No matter how much you refuse, they insist, pushing you two out the door with picnic basket and blankets. 

Sitting on the porch one evening after a long day, your grandmother comes out to join you. She sits beside you, Logan’s arm is draped around your shoulders, and for a brief second, the three of you just sit in silence, watching the sunset.

“You know,” your grandmother begins, her voice soft and filled with emotion, “I see the way you two look at each other. It reminds me of your grandfather and me when we were young.”

You smile, leaning into Logan’s side as you listen to her. “You two have always been such an inspiration,” you say, meaning every word.

She chuckles, a wistful sound. “It wasn’t always easy, you know. There were times when we had to be apart, times when I wasn’t sure if we’d make it through. But we did. And looking at you two now… I know you’ll find a way.”

Logan squeezes your shoulder gently.. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, echoing the promise he made when you first told him about the job.

Your grandmother nods, reaching out to pat your knee. “I believe you will. But just know… it’s okay to be sad, to be scared. That’s part of loving someone.”

The words resonate with you, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

She smiles, a small, sad smile that holds a lifetime of wisdom. “You’ll be alright, my dear. Both of you.”

The days continue to slip by, and as the final weeks approach, your chest constantly feels tight. You try to make yourself feel better by lying in each other’s arms at night, whispering about the future, about the dreams you have, and the plans you’ll make when you’re together again. But still, it’s sad. 

—

Your last day creeps up on you like a shadow at dusk—inevitable, inescapable, and suddenly there, looming over everything. You wake up with a rock on your heart, the realization that this is it—your final day on the farm, your last full day with Logan before everything changes.

He is still asleep beside you, holding you close, his face peaceful in the early morning quiet. For a moment, you just watch him, memorizing the lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his hair falls across his forehead. You want to remember everything, to carry this image of him with you when you leave.

With a soft sigh, you carefully slip out of his embrace, trying not to wake him. You pad quietly to the window, staring out at the familiar landscape that has become so dear to you. The fields, the barn, the trees swaying gently in the breeze—it’s all so beautiful, so full of memories.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the wetness on your cheeks, and you quickly wipe the tears away, not wanting to start the day with sadness. But as you turn back to the bed, you see that Logan is awake, his eyes open and watching you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says it all—he knows what today means, and he feels it just as deeply as you do.

Wordlessly, you crawl back into bed, curling up against him, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you whisper back, your voice trembling slightly as you press your face into his chest, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to fall..

You just lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the day pressing down on you both. Eventually, Logan pulls back slightly, his hand cupping your face as he looks into your eyes. “Let’s go to the pond,” he says delicately. “Just you and me.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. The pond has always been your special place, a sanctuary where you’ve shared so many intimate moments, where it feels like it all began, and so it’s only right that would spend your last day there, away from everything else, just the two of you.

You decide to walk to the pond. Logan’s hand is warm and solid in yours, and you hold on to it tightly, physically unable to tear yourself from his touch. And when you reach it, a fresh wave of emotion crashes over you. 

You and Logan stand at the water’s edge, just staring out into the pond. Then, you turn to him, your eyes filled with tears, and without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

The kiss that follows is desperate, full of the need to feel connected, to hold on to each other for as long as you can. It’s not like the slow, sensual lovemaking of the past weeks—this is something desperate. Stumbling back toward the soft grass by the water’s edge, Logan gently lays you down, his hands trembling slightly as he undresses you, tears stinging behind his eyelids. As he moves over you, his body pressing against yours, there’s only this moment. 

With his skin against yours, his breath on your neck, your bodies move together. Tears spill from your eyes as you hold him tight, your hands unable to stay still, running over every part of him you can touch, needing to feel him, to anchor yourself. His lips find yours again, and the kiss is deep, full of all the love, all the emotion that neither of you can put into words. 

It’s a kiss that says goodbye, that says I love you, that says I’ll wait for you.

After reaching the peak of pleasure, you cling to each other, the tears flowing freely now, a mix of sorrow and love and everything in between.

Logan holds you close, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his eyes wet with tears. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” you choke out. “More than anything.”

—

Driving away from the farm was probably the hardest thing you've ever had to do in your entire life. Harder than moving away for university, harder than securing your first full-time job, harder than living alone in a city where you knew no one. This was different—this was leaving behind a piece of your heart, a part of your soul that you knew would never be whole until you returned.

Your hands grip the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles white as you try to focus on the road ahead, but it’s impossible to shake the image that’s burned into your mind—the image of Logan and your grandparents standing on the porch as you drove away. The sight of them, standing there side by side, watching you leave, is something that will haunt you for a long time. 

Logan, his stoic expression barely masking the pain in his eyes, his hands clenched at his sides as if holding himself back from running after you. Your grandmother, her face a mixture of sadness and pride, eyes glistening with unshed tears. And your grandfather, standing tall and strong, but with a heaviness in his gaze that spoke of understanding, of experience, of knowing just how hard this had to be.

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally break free, streaming down your face as you drive, blurring your vision and making it hard to see the road ahead. You swipe at them angrily, frustrated with yourself for breaking down like this, but it’s no use. The emotions are too strong, too overwhelming, and soon you’re bawling your eyes out, the sound of your own crying filling the car. 

You can barely catch your breath, each sob wracking your body with a force that leaves you feeling drained, exhausted, and utterly broken.

—

The time apart is worse than you ever imagined it would be. In the beginning, you and Logan make every effort to stay in touch. The calls and texts are your lifeline, little threads that keep you connected to the farm, to him, to the life you left behind. 

At first, you talk every day. his voice a comfort, a reminder that you’re not alone, that he’s still there, waiting for you. He tells you about his days, about how he still rides the horses every morning, just like he used to when you were there. 

But as time goes on, the time between each call grows. Your demanding work schedule, and the unreliable service in the countryside, make it harder and harder to find moments when you’re both free to talk. The texts, once long and filled with details about your lives, become shorter, more practical. You try to stay connected, but the distance feels like a growing chasm between you, one that neither of you can quite figure out how to bridge.

Years pass by in a blur. You have no time to spend at the farm, with it being too far away for just a weekend trip, and other commitments seem to always get in the way. 

Then, one day, the call comes—the call you’ve dreaded but somehow always knew would happen. It’s your grandmother, her voice trembling as she tells you that your grandfather has passed away. 

You take leave from work immediately, making arrangements to drive back to the farm and spend a night. The funeral is simple, attended by a few close friends and neighbours, but the absence of your grandfather is felt deeply by everyone.

And he’s there too—Logan. He’s standing off to the side, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his face etched with grief. When your eyes meet, it’s as if no time has passed at all. You walk over to him, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid to let go. 

The few years apart, the pain of the distance, all of it melts away in that embrace. You bury your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you’ve missed so much, and the tears you thought you had run out of begin to fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, everything hitting you at once—the loss of your grandfather, the years you’ve spent apart, the life you could have had together.

He hugs you tighter, his hand gently stroking your hair. “I miss you,” he murmurs thickly. “Every damn day, I miss you.”

You spend the rest of the day together, holding each other, talking, catching up, and remembering your grandfather. Logan tells you about the farm, about how he’s kept things going, but you can hear the weariness in his voice, the toll that time and loneliness have taken on him. It’s clear that the farm hasn’t been the same without you, just as your life hasn’t been the same without him.

Later that evening, after the guests have left and the house has grown quiet, your grandmother pulls you aside. Her eyes are tired, full of sorrow, but there’s a calm acceptance in her expression. “I’ve made a decision,” she says softly, her voice steady. “I’m going to sell the farm.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but before you can protest, she continues. “Not to just anyone,” she adds quickly. “To Logan. He’s been more than just a farmhand, you know that. This place is as much his as it was ours. But… I need to move into permanent care. I can’t manage on my own anymore.”

You nod, understanding but feeling a deep sadness all the same. The farm has been a part of your life for so long, and the thought of it changing hands, even to Logan, feels like another loss. But there’s also a sense of relief, knowing that it will be in good hands, that it will stay in the family, in a way.

That night, you’re tangled in Logan’s arms. Leaving him the next morning is just as hard the second time as it was the first.

—

Five years since that fateful summer have passed, and in that time, your life changes in ways you never expected. You’ve built a successful career, made some amazing friends, travelled the world, but the hustle and bustle of city life has taken its toll. The stress, the strain, the dissatisfaction—it begins to weigh on you more and more. 

You make a decision.

You quit your job, find something remote, something that allows you to work from anywhere, as long as you can drive into the city every few weeks to drop off documents. It’s a drastic change, but it’s one you need. You realize that the life you want, the life you’ve been yearning for, isn’t in the city. 

It’s back at the farm.

And as you step out of your car, you see him. He’s by the paddock, feeding the horses apples, just like he used to. His back is to you at first, but then he turns, and his eyes meet yours, and time stops. 

There’s a lifetime of emotions in that look—love, longing, hope. Most of all, there’s recognition, as if both of you know that this is it, that this is the moment you’ve been waiting for all these years.

So, when you’re finally standing in front of him again, he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek the same way it did all those years ago. 

----

[bluemusickid]

Private Chef! Joel thots

ok so I've had this idea lingering for a while now, and the SAG outfit has just FUELLEDDD more of my thots!!!

Side note: (He has never looked sexier, how dare he age this well; how am I supposed to go on with my life; this is absolutely not fair)

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!plus size! reader

Warnings: smut, mentions of sex, oral (f receiving), Joel Miller, 18+ only, minors DNI

Sharing a smallish drabble/thotty abstract, if you will:

Ok, so maybe Joel has joined your family as your private chef. After all, your parents are SUPER rich, so they might as well look and feel the part.

You had to admit, he was worth every penny your mother was paying him. Not to mention he was easy going on the eyes, which made your mother glad; she would parade him around her lavish parties to the "cougars"/bored rich housewives, something which made your eyes roll.

Little did they know that the ever so charming Joel was a FREAK with a capital "F" in the sack.

You honestly don't even remember how it happened. A few conversations here and there, he had offered to teach you how to cook and bake; and those lessons were often plagued by thoughts of him bending you over and having his way with you, leaving you throbbing and wanting. If you didn't know any better, you could tell that it was affecting him too. His voice got huskier, eyes darkening every time he looked your way. It was a game of chicken, almost, how long either of you could keep the distance before the inevitable damn bursting.

You had once gone to "ask" him "a cooking doubt", and saw quite a sight indeed. Gone was the prim and proper Joel, with his neatly ironed and clean apron and immaculate dress shirts. His curly hair was mussed up, his shirt slightly untucked and his top buttons undone; he seemed to be engrossed in a video, hie eyebrows scrunched together as his fingers kneaded some dough, prepping for tomorrow's party. It was honestly like porn, the way his strong arms kneaded the dough, his thick fingers making you nearly drool. It took all your strength to walk away from there before you embarrassed yourself and begged him to throw you to the ground and pound you into the ground, no matter how desperate that sounded.

And it had happened finally. Another one of your parents' shindigs, and you found yourself bored out of your mind, only half listening to one of your mom's friend's son, whose one semester in London had "like, totally changed his life." Excusing yourself, you made your way to the kitchen, topping off your drink.

You saw him there, again, making small talk with Angela, one of your mom's friends who just wouldn't take a hint. You'd never seen Joel this tense and yet Angela seemed oblivious, throwing herself at him, her screeching laugh loud enough to wake the dead.

You took pity on the man and made up an excuse on his behalf, beckoning him to join you, picking up a few wedges of limes on the way, an idea forming in your mind. He bid Angela goodbye, hurriedly following you before she engaged any further.

"...Whyyy are we going to your room?" He asked bewildered, hesistant as he stood at the threshold.

You shrugged, "figured you could use a proper drink, not the shit downstairs." Taking out two shotglasses, you handed him a rather large shot of Hendricks, your drink of choice to get "classy-drunk".

You toast, downing the smooth liquid as it left a slight burn. Wincing, you pour another, his eyes widening at the pour.

"I'm technically on duty."

"And i'm technically meant to like all the guys my mom has shown me, but life doesn't work that way, does it?" You quipped, clearly goading him.

One shot turned to two. Two to four. The party was long forgotten, the both of you pleasantly tipsy and unguarded. For the first time, it felt like Joel was opening up to you.

"If I didn't know any better, i'd say you were planning on getting me drunk, sweetheart." He drawled.

You smirked. Making your way towards him, you poured another shot, promising him it that it was the last one, and that he could go back to his job. He chuckled, knowing that he would a tough time walking to the kitchen, let alone serving the guests. Lucky that the crew took over for the rest of the night, huh?

Wincing, Joel blindly searched for the wedge of lime to soothe the burn. Opening his eyes, he saw your cheeky grin as you held the lime between your lips, challenging him to take the next step.

He nearly growled as he shuffled closer, your faces mere inches from one another. His fingers ghosted over your lips as he inched closer, his lips tasting the juice of the lime. Plucking the wedge from your lips, his mouth was on yours, urging you to open up for him. You groaned, tasting the citrusy hints of the gin along with the slight tang of the lime, your tongues weaving an intricate dance.

While the party downstairs was loud and had taken a rather raucous turn, up in your room, the only noise you could hear was the sound of harsh grunts and panting breaths.

When your mom had first hired Joel, you didn't understand exactly why she did so, because the chef you'd had earlier was perfectly fine. Now, you couldn't thank her enough for hiring him.

Joel had you pinned to your bedroom door, as he ate you out enthusiastically. Pulling your thigh on his shoulder, he doubled down on his efforts to get you to come undone. Running your fingers through his beautiful curls, you tugged on them as his wonderful tongue worked its magic on your swollen nub. He hummed, circling his finger around your center, urging you on.

Pulling your other leg on his shoulder, he moved to pick you up. You were uncertain about this, but he was insistant, picking you up like you weighed nothing at all. He didn't stop his ministrations as he dropped you on her bed, continuing his amorous assault.

This display of strength had you clenching and reaching your end in no time, as you moaned loudly, yanking on his curls to ground yourself.

"Oh baby, keep doing that, don't stop." He moaned, as he made his way up your body, leaving small kisses and nips along your thighs, your belly. He reached your breasts, taking a swollen nub in his mouth and sucking enthusiastically.

Looking down, you saw one of the most erotic sights ever. Joel worshipping you, his curls a wild mess, his pristine white shirt damp with your release and with a few buttons undone, coming untucked out of his tight black pants.

You groaned. You needed him so badly it practically hurt. Reaching down, you palmed him through his pants, as he thrust himself into your wandering hands.

Pulling his erect length out of his pants, you panted as you worked him over, stroking him as he moved his hips in tandem with your hands. His harsh breaths as he groaned and grunted through gritted teeth turned you on like nothing else.

"I'm close, sweetheart." He managed to blurt out, as you increased the speed of your strokes, tongue moving along his already sensitive head. He pulled his length from your grasp as he worked himself to his climax, yelling out and cursing as he came all over your breasts.

You were mildly disappointed that he held back from fucking you; hell, you were sure he was going to finally take that step and put you through the mattress.

"Joel, I need you. Please." You begged, the need to feel him fill you up dangerously high. You sounded pathetic, sure, but you were beyond caring at this point.

Joel smirked, catching his breath.

"I have to get back sweetheart. Your mom would kill me if she didn't see me in the kitchen."

You couldn't hide your frown as you watched him neaten up, running a hair through his curls. Joel leaving you high and dry was not how you saw your plan panning out. He was about to leave as he turned back, made his way to you, holding your chin between his fingers.

"But I promise you, this isn't over. Not by a long shot." He breathed against your lips, leaving a small peck as he left, leaving you weak and wanting for more.

Silently seething, you began to plot your next steps. Joel Miller wouldn't know what hit him.

Oh no i don't like it i don't think this is my best work but omg it's out there *runs and hides in a corner*

Will there be a part 2?? That's a great question. Honestly i think i could've done better so maybe i have a redemption arc as well lolol, who knows atp

[norman-fucking-reedus]

Daryl Dixon, born to be a sweet mamas boy but forced into severe mommy issues. I will literally bury myself in this grave

Like okay sure the bad biker boy with a dominant streak is hot or whatever but realistically under all those layers of steel and dirt there’s nothing but a damaged boy.

I think about Daryl dating a woman of a motherly nature and how it would utterly fuck with his head. She’s more on the traditional side and usually expresses her love through cooking as well as baking.

At first, he doesn’t like any of it at all. The way you always want to cook for him when he literally didn’t ask you really bothers him, to the point he found himself not eating whatever you made out of sheer stubbornness, not knowing each plate was your indirect way of affection.

He doesn’t like the way you persistently try and get him to talk to you, because why do you even care? Sometimes the two of you will argue and Daryl will just storm away after a string of insults. He feels so gulity afterwards, especially when he knows that he really does need someone to talk to.

The hugs are the worst. The way you suddenly hug him makes his skin burn and he fucking hates it. Not physically, but he pushes you away. It’s what he wants of course, to not be around you and your forced niceness.

It’s what he wants of course, to be alone by himself. No background noises or smells. He can’t hear the way you passionately move around the kitchen or smell the mouthwatering smell of whatever you’re making. That’s what he wants.

When he comes back from a long run, so obviously shaken up and disturbed, there’s nobody to try and pry as to what happened even though he knows he needs to get it off his chest. That’s what he wants of course. He doesn’t need comfort, no. He never did. Never ever.

So why did he need it now?

Daryl thinks about you and how you did so much for him without him even lifting a finger, how you willingly put in the effort and he just threw it all back into your face without a second thought. He thinks about how hurt you he must’ve left you all the times he flat out refused even your prettiest dishes.

He thinks about the concern that etches your face when you practically beg him to talk to you, beg him to tell you what’s wrong so you can maybe help him. Daryl feels his chest tighten when he thinks of how he downright pushed you out his life, and feels a lump forming in his throat when he realizes that he needs you.

He was alone with only himself and his thoughts, ones that frightened him to his very core. He thinks about your hugs and how he yearns to feel the burn of his skin against yours.

Daryl wants to go to you, but he’s scared. He’s scared that you’ve already moved on and found someone better, someone worthy of a woman like you. He scared that you won’t want him anymore yet here he stands, nervously on your porch.

He’s not ready, no event in his life could have prepared him for this. He knocks with a shaky fist and can hear the sounds of his quick breathing.

The door opens just as widely as it always has, you standing there in your apron covered in flour. He thinks about turning around, you’re obviously busy with things much more important with him. As he opens his mouth to speak, you cup his face gently with soft floury hands as if insecpting it.

“Somethings bothering you”

Daryl nods, and he feels like he could melt into your hands.

You usher him inside, closing the front door and shuffling to the couch, dismissing his silent questions about his shoes. He joins you on the couch with a little space between you, he’s not sure how angry you are with him.

Daryl wants to apologize, he wants to beg for you to let him try again and let him do it right this time, but he just can’t find the words, twiddling nervously with his fingers in his lap. You watch him for a moment, reading his limited body movement before reaching up and brushing away a tear Daryl didn’t even know fell.

“Tell me what’s hurting you” You whispered, voice warm and comforting as your fingers danced across his cheek.

He found himself choking on the words, stuttering them out as he slightly flinched away from the contact although he desperately wanted it. “M-m’sorry. Fer being a dick to ya” Daryl mumbled, leaning back towards your hand. “I jus- I got scared”

You raised a brow. “You? Scared? Scared of me?”

He nodded. “I don’ understand wha’ ya want from me”

“I don’t want anything from you, Daryl… I just wanna take care of you and be there for you”

“Why? Why someone like me?” Daryl scoffed. “M’nobody”

“You’re somebody to me” You whispered.

“Wha’ did I do to deserve ya? Ya don’ even know me” He turned to you, the tip of his nose a light red and his eyes glassy.

You took his face between your hands once again, placing a soft kiss to his forehead. “But I do. I see it, Daryl. I can see all the hurt you’ve been through, everything you’ve pushed away, down, all of it. All you’ve ever known is pain and my sweet boy, I’m gonna take it all away for you” You smiled, pressing your forehead against his.

Daryl’s heart pounded so hard that he feared it would exploded, more full of love than its ever had the chance to be. You held him as if he was made of the most fragile glass, brushing your nose against his as he sniffled.

“I love you” Daryl suddenly blurted, because he had denied himself of the truth for so long. He wanted to be with you, wanted you to take care of him.

You gave him another smile, this time placing a gentle kiss to his chapped lips. “And I love you too. Say, I was in the middle of making a cobbler, but I just don’t have anyone to lick the spoon…”

Daryl raised a brow. “Is it peach?”

“Only cobbler I know how ta make” You tugged him off the couch, and he followed you into your beloved kitchen, stepping foot into it for the first time. He thinks about all the times he watched you twirl around, cooking something with love only for him to completely disregard it. The thought made him visibly upset. “Something wrong?”

“Jus’ wish I appreciated yer cookin’ more s’all” He mumbled, regret written on his face, even more when a twinge of hurt painted yours. It was clear as day his past actions really did hurt you.

There was an awkward moment of silence, before you handed Daryl a peach. “As long as you appreciate it now” He could almost cry from how many chances you willingly give you, chances he just didn’t deserve.

“Yeah. M’gon appreciate you too, how I should’ve from tha’ very start” Daryl whispered, biting into one of the sweetest peaches he’s ever had.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

oof I made myself cry and this isn’t even that good 😕😕

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

[artdcnaldson]

I. AM. IN. LOVE. WITH. YOU. CAT.

I desperately need, very VERY recently divorced!Art seeing college student!reader in a bar and hooking up, but the next day Art goes out to the store or something, (i.e McDonalds w Lily) and seeing you behind the counter. He asks you when your shift is over so he can pick you up and fuck you in the back of his jeep saying that he’ll sugar daddy you, and that you won’t ever have to work a shitty minimum wage job again, and that he can’t help wanting to help you because you’re so young and naive and pathetic. DROOLING!

Also can I be anon: 🐙

GOD !!!!! And yes 🐙 anon welcome!!!! I misread this ask and wrote something so off base so I had to start over!! Sorry for the delay!!

He never goes to the bar anymore, but he doesn’t have Lily for the night since she’s at a sleepover, and he hates being in the empty house, so he goes out. He doesn’t expect any attention at all— he’s barely even gotten laid since before the divorce— but there you are. Young, hot, doting, desperate for male attention.

You don’t know who he is, which is fine. He relishes in the anonymity. It’s sweet, how bad you want to fuck him just because he’s hot and nice and bought you a drink. Not because you want his money, or a brush with fame and influence.

He fucks you in the bathroom, with his fingers pushed between your lips to stifle your constant stream of whiny moans. God, you’re loud. You gasp and moan like you’ve never been fucked before. Or, at least, like you’ve never been fucked well. You drench his cock in arousal, leave a sticky ring of creamy release at his base that you clean off with your tongue as he comes down your throat.

He’ll never see you again. That’s fine. He’s divorced at 32, he’s young, he’s attractive, he’s rich— he needs to learn to have casual hookups.

But then you’re at the mall while he takes Lily out to buy a new Lego set (a reward for good grades). You’re behind a counter in a citrus colored apron blending smoothies. Lily wants pineapple mango. He orders strawberry banana. You write your number and a heart on his cup. He slides a fifty dollar bill across the counter as a tip and asks what time your shift ends.

He hires a sitter.

When he picks you up from the mall, you smell like fruit and faintly like the pretzel stand nearby. You’re mortified that the hot guy from the bar found you at your shitty minimum wage job.

“Art,” he corrects. Introduces. “And I’m glad I found you.”

You don’t even know who he is, still, even now. You’re bouncing on his cock in the backseat of his jeep, with sponsorship contracts crumpled on the floor, and magazine ad proofs with his face plastered across them on the floor, and you don’t even notice.

He could make all of your worries disappear. As easy as he makes you come around him, as easy as it is to make your eyes roll back and your jaw slacken. And it’s easy. You’re easy. He could make it so you never have to work again, as long as he wants you. Pay your tuition, pay your rent, pay whatever you want, to keep your sweet pussy in his life.

He might just offer it.

[connorsui]

▪︎▪︎ 𝓐 𝓓𝓪𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓓𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 ▪︎▪︎

Nanami Kento, known for his structured life and efficient routines, finds himself drawn to a quaint bakery he never used to frequent.

Nanami x baker! Reader

Contains: Love at First Sight, Fluff, Shy Nanami (nanami cute tho) , Awkward Confessions (he tryin let him be) Slow Burn, a taste of readers cake (not literally tho.....he wishes)

Warnings: nah suffer the taste of coffee down ur throat

A/N: I'll admit I wrote this at 5 a.m......it's more of an imagine than anything..

Nanami Kento wasn’t accustomed to deviating from his meticulously structured life. Every day unfolded with the same precision: he awoke at the same time, enjoyed the same brand of coffee, and fastened his tie with practiced efficiency. This routine wasn’t born out of necessity but from a preference for order and predictability.

However, his carefully crafted schedule was upended when he started walking down a narrow side street he’d never noticed before. The street housed a quaint bakery that had caught his attention a week ago.

The first time he entered the bakery, it was pouring rain. Not the gentle kind, but a relentless downpour that drenched him in seconds. Seeking refuge, he was welcomed by the warmth of the bakery and the enticing aroma of fresh bread. But it wasn’t just the atmosphere or the bread that compelled him to return. It was you.

You, with flour dusting your apron and a smile that could brighten the dreariest of days. You greeted him as if he were a regular, despite it being his first visit. You handed him a croissant and coffee with a care that made his heart skip a beat.

Becoming a regular wasn’t part of his plan, and neither was experiencing love at first sight.

The routine quickly established itself. After that, first encounter together. Some quick name exchanges and smiles of each morning at 7:30 a.m., Nanami would enter the bakery, greeted by the comforting aroma of baking bread. You’d be there, ready with a warm smile.

“mornin'!” you’d say cheerfully.

“Good morning,” he’d reply, receiving his usual order: one croissant and one black coffee, just as he liked it.

It was a simple exchange, but the warmth of your greeting became a highlight of his day. The predictability was comforting, and he convinced himself that was enough.

On the fourth day, Nanami noticed something different. A bit of flour had settled on your nose. It was a small detail, but it stood out to him. He found himself wondering how it had ended up there and if you were even aware of it.

He wanted to tell you, but the words caught in his throat. He was merely a customer, a stranger who visited daily. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to comment, so he accepted his croissant and coffee silently and left. The image of you with flour on your nose lingered in his mind all day.

By the seventh day, Nanami realized he wanted more than just the brief pleasantries exchanged each morning. He wanted to engage with you beyond the usual routine.

When he walked in that morning, you were behind the counter, arranging pastries with careful precision. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, and you looked up with your usual bright smile.

“Good morning!” you greeted him.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice tinged with nervousness. “Do you have any recommendations today?”

You looked pleasantly surprised. “Actually, yes! I’ve been working on a new recipe—a strawberry danish. It’s not on the menu yet, but if you’d like, I can give you a sneak preview.”

The prospect of trying something you’d personally crafted was too tempting to resist. “I’d love that,” he replied, trying to maintain composure.

You handed him the danish with a look of anticipation. “I hope you like it. It’s a bit different, but I think it turned out well.”

As he took the pastry, your fingers brushed against his briefly. The touch was fleeting but electrifying, lingering long after he left the bakery.

The danish was excellent, but what stood out was the way your eyes lit up when he complimented it the following day.

Nanami found himself concocting reasons to visit the bakery more frequently. He convinced himself it was for the variety of pastries, but he knew better. The real attraction was the moments shared with you—the easy conversations, the warmth of your presence.

One morning, as he prepared to leave, you called out to him.

He turned to see you hurrying over with a small brown paper bag. “I’ve got a special treat for you today.”

“Oh?” Nanami said, a touch of curiosity in his voice. He accepted the bag from you, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. “What’s the occasion?”

“Just a little something to brighten your day,” you said with a playful grin. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” he replied, trying to steady his suddenly quickened heartbeat. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Anytime!” you said with a smile that made his day feel a little bit better. “Enjoy!”

The pastry, as always, was perfect. But it wasn’t just the food that captivated him; it was the connection he found in those brief moments with you.

On the tenth day, Nanami arrived early and saw the bakery’s closed sign. He felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. The thought of missing even one day felt unsettling.

As he was about to leave, he heard your voice.

“Oh! You’re here early!”

You approached, apron tied around your waist, a smile on your lips.

“I didn’t want to miss you,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

You laughed, a sound that made his heart flutter. “You’d have to get up pretty early to miss me! I’ll be open soon. You can come in and wait if you’d like.”

He followed you inside, feeling unusually at ease in the quiet bakery. You hummed softly as you prepared for the day, and he watched, captivated by the grace of your movements.

“So,” you broke the silence, “how do you like the new pastries? Be honest!”

“They’re wonderful,” he replied. “You’re very talented.”

Your cheeks flushed at the compliment. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”

A moment of silence followed, one filled with unspoken thoughts. Nanami wanted to say more but found himself content just being in your presence.

By the twelfth day, Nanami knew he couldn’t continue his routine without expressing his feelings. His visits had become more than a habit; they were a necessity. He needed you to know how much you meant to him.

That morning, you greeted him as usual, handing over a new pastry you’d been experimenting with. “I hope you’re ready for something a little different today.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the pastry. Instead of leaving, he lingered by the counter, his heart racing. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Oh?” You looked up, curiosity evident in your eyes.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words. “Would you like to have coffee with me sometime? Outside of here.”

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, he feared he’d made a mistake. But then your expression softened, and you smiled. “I’d love to. How about tomorrow? After your usual visit?”

A wave of relief washed over him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”

I consider this an imagine now

[the-record]

COWBOYS LIKE YOU

SYNOPSIS: you should stop letting her through that door

PAIRING: cowboy!abby x reader

WARNINGS: a touch of homophobia

A/N: this isnt great, and makes me sad, but i like it!! trying to be a little less dialogue focused

my masterlist

“do you have to go?” your voice is soft as abby lets the question linger in the air. “i hate it when you leave. its lonely.”

her fingers slide carefully up and down your arm and she sighs. “im sorry angel.” abby wraps her arms around you and pulls tight, trying to get you as close as possible. “you know it ain’t safe for us out there though.”

you knew she was right, seen first hand just what people think about sappho and her friends. felt the rage and anger that came when two women who just loved each other.

these nights with her were nice. the sun still going down and the heat with it. crickets started their song and birds finishing theirs. you had pulled the sheets up halfway when it cooled, the sweat on yalls skin disappearing with the breeze.

abbys nails were kept short always, but theyd begin to grow out and were gently scratching at your skin. her hair had finally grown out again and you twisted it around your fingers.

when you’d found her that night, you had to bring her back. clean up her hair, her wounds, her clothes. you couldnt leave a sweet thing like her out in the cold to die. or the boy that was with her. you never did see him again, but it meant more time just you and her.

“i can stay one more day. but then i ought to get back on.” she pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead. “you get some rest now, let me make us somethin’ warm and good for dinner.” you whine as she untangles herself from you, but only laughs before leaving the room.

you don’t remember when you nodded off, but you do remember waking up to something smelling good. she stumbled in with a tray full of plates and cups. she smiled when she saw you sit up.

“well good mornin’ sunshine.” you rolled your eyes as abby settled in beside you. “now, no more of that attitude, not when i made you somethin’ nice.”

you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “now i know good and well that you, abby anderson, are not talking.” she returned the eye roll, albeit not very well. “now what is on my menu tonight mrs anderson?”

abby always left without warning, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. but you always managed to make a move on from her, prepared with the fact that she may never be back for you.

you tended to the farm, your cows. made breakfast and dinner each and every day, sweet tea and lemonade for the hot afternoons. you did afternoon tea in the ladies parlor on saturdays and church on sundays. you kept on the way you always did, never missing a beat.

until a fateful cool evening when someone came knocking on your screen, scaring you half to death as you stirred beside the stove. you sighed as you made your way to the door, wiping your hands on the apron you had on.

you nearly tripped over your own feet seeing abby at your door. took everything in you not to rush and pull her in.

she was different than when you last saw her. new clothes, hair in a loose braid, cuts and blood all over. but you didn’t yet even open the door, she had much to say first.

“before i even start, know how sorry i am. know i didnt mean for it to be this long.” she winced as she leaned on her other leg. “i wanted to come, truly i did, but ive been running all over hell’s half acre. i had business.”

you huffed, pulling the door open and taking her with you to the kitchen. “im so sorry angel, please talk to me.” you sat her down on a stool before heading back to your dinner. “what do i need to do to make it all better?”

she quieted down when you didnt respond, watching you cook. she always loved watching you do household things. made her feel right at home again.

she smiled when you sat her bowl down infront of her, stopping and staring with a frown. she wanted to tell you how pretty you were but held off, you scared her quiet a bit. her hands moved to your hips but you slapped them away and grabbed the wet rag she hadnt noticed.

“eat your damn food.” she slowly spooned the meal into her mouth as you wiped at the old cuts on her face. she winced and pulled away but you pulled back. “stop movin’ when im tryna fix you up.” she nodded as softly as possible.

when you finished, you took the rag and half finished plate with you, pulling the fork from abbys mouth. “go wash up, you will not be dirty in my house.” she nodded, though you weren’t looking, and left to the bathroom.

the plate sat on the counter as you heard her harsh steps up your stairs. you held your head in your hands and took a shaky breath.

you didnt expect her to come back. figured it was final this time. and you certainly didnt expect her at your door like that. you had to pull it together though, couldnt let her see you like this.

you washed up and wiped the kitched till it was spotless before heading upstairs to abby. she was still sitting tending to her wounds when you found her. “you’re doing it wrong.” she dropped what she was doing and slouched. “let me.”

you were gentle with your touch, knowing it was always what she needed. she lived such a hard life that sometimes she needed a gentle touch, some loving. “what in the god damn world did you get yourself into this time?” abby sniffed and you looked up for the first time.

“i hate going out there. i dont wanna anymore.” you hushed her, pulled her close. “can i stay?”

“you can do whatever you want.” you kissed her face, running your fingers through her hair. “im here no matter what you decide.” she nodded and squeezed your hand. “now let me fix up these stitches. you have no idea what your doing. bless your heart.” she laughed softly and you copied. “seriously though, sit still for me.”

“im sorry i always leave.”

it was a quiet night. crickets too tired to so much as hum, and the cow sleeping to forget the chill of the dark. the house had a chill but you and abby huddled to ignore it. it was peaceful. you missed this peace.

you hummed in response, leaning on her chest to see her face. “so don’t.” but she said nothing. did nothing. “abby…”

she shook her head. “im sorry.”

[angel-kyo]

Pay it no mind

Part V

In which reader confesses their feelings to Gojo, but it seems these are not returned (maybe?).

Warnings: reader is on the receiving end of rejection (kinda), and the fact that I'm obsessed with unrequited love is a warning itself.

Previous: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

----------------------

“Geto says they are on their way.” Shoko put away her phone and looked at the waiter you had been stealing glances at while he was taking the order at a nearby table.

You had found that coffee shop not long ago one day you had been out on your own, but you had dragged Ieiri there several times since then. It started as...

“I found this nice place near that store you liked the other day.”

“Oh, really?” Shoko had said.

“I think you would like it. We should go together next time.”

Once there, Shoko had realized rather quickly that the waiter was particularly friendly towards you. That is how you had to tell her he had noticed the anime keychain hanging from your bag the first time you stopped by (he was a fellow fan), and then small talk turned into a nice conversation, and next thing you knew was you were telling him you would see him next time. And you had, many times after that.

So, whether you were coming alone or with Ieiri, he always served your table and chatted a little with you. Had school been rough that day? Had you seen the last episode of that anime yet? He was reading something new, maybe you would like it too.

Shoko would participate in your conversation just enough not to make you feel like you were excluding her, but she was not really interested in all of that. Your likes differed. She did not want, however, to prevent you from making friends with people who shared your interests.

“I’ll admit that he is cute, but is he cuter than me?" Shoko sighed. "He must be if you are ignoring me for him.” She rested her face on her palm and looked at the table the guy in question was tending to.

You smiled at her fake jealousy. “Stop it...” you said shaking your head lightly and beaming at her. “No one is cuter than you.”

She gave you a side smile. Gojo would kill me if he heard you, you know?

Young as she was at that moment, Ieiri had never tried to analyze the depth of Gojo's feelings in any circumstances. She had always thought it pointless. So, when he had introduced you and said you were his close childhood friend, she had just accepted it. The possibility of him holding deeper feelings would only cross her mind later, but one thing had been evident to her since the beginning: Gojo liked your attention more than anyone else's.

“Are you going to ask him out or are we just going to keep coming here until I have tried everything there is in the menu?” Shoko's voice was soft, but a flushed color rose to your cheeks at the thought that Ikeda may have heard her.

“Well, is not like that…”

“Oh, good, you ordered something already,” Gojo said plopping down on the seat next to you while Suguru greeted both of you and sat next to Shoko.

Satoru then took a long sip of your iced tea.

“That’s mine! Get yours,” you complained but only received his silly smirk in return.

“Excuse him, [name], you know how he gets when he is outside,” Suguru defended calmly, looking at the menu Shoko had handed him.

“He is like this all the time.” You sighed, and Gojo nudged you. Shoko looked amused by your situation.

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Why did you invite me if you did not want me around?”

“You invited yourself,” you hissed. “I am glad you are here, though, Geto.” You smiled at the latter.

Gojo was going to claim he had been your friend for longer and it was unfair Geto always got better treatment, but then he saw Suguru and Shoko looking up to the figure that had materialized next to your table.

“Is everything okay around here?” a guy wearing a black apron who seemed to be around their age asked. “Looks like the rest of the party is here. Would you like to order anything else?”

Suguru ordered something and Satoru did too. Ieiri said she was okay, and then the waiter looked at you. “And you, [name]?”

Gojo looked at him. Had he addressed you by your name? That was a bit weird.

“I’m alright. Thanks, Ikeda.”

And it looked like you knew him as well? His focus shifted to you. Suguru had also picked up on it and, after that Ikeda guy had walked away, he was the one to ask. “You know each other?”

For some reason, the cunning smile that appeared on Ieiri’s lips made Gojo uncomfortable.

“Something like that...I have been coming here for a while now.” You scratched your wrist, and Gojo wondered if you were nervous. He knew all your quirks by heart now and you did that when you were, he was sure.

Suguru hummed and dismissed it, but Shoko saw an opportunity to tease you. “He certainly makes this place look brighter, doesn’t he, [name]?”

Gojo looked at you from the corner of his eye. Were you blushing?

“And I bet he thinks you are cute too. We should ask him, no?” Shoko pressed on.

You shook your head and laughed. Now you were really red, which made Shoko laugh too. It was usual for her to tease you like that when cute-coffee-shop-waiter-guy (as she had started referring to him) was around, but it was the first time Geto and Gojo had joined you there and witnessed it.

Geto did not fully understand what you two were all about, but he enjoyed seeing his friends having fun. Nevertheless, he did not miss the straight line that had replaced Satoru’s usual smile.

***

“You are supposed to go the other way.” Gojo kept furiously pressing the buttons of his controller.

“This is a shortcut.” You were sitting next to him on the floor of his room because he had invited you to play video games with him.

Since he had started high school, Gojo had been spending a lot of time with Geto. At first, you had felt displaced, but Geto was nice and, after having Satoru attached to your hip for so many years, maybe finding another kindred spirit would be good for him, and just maybe, it would be good for you to do the same.

That made you think of your new friend, the one Shoko insisted thought you were cute.

“Girls must like him. He is a pretty face,” Shoko had recognized the first time she saw Ikeda.

She had been right; you had noticed it from the start too. Ikeda’s eyes were pretty, and his smile was kind, plus, he was so friendly. When he told you his mother had named him Haruki just because he had been born in the spring, you thought it really suited him.

But that only meant you had a high opinion of him, right? It was not like you really liked him the way Shoko believed, was it?

“Satoru,” you made your character jump on the screen, “have you ever liked someone?”

Gojo’s sight remained on the game. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you know you like someone like… you know… romantically?”

Gojo’s fingers faltered over the buttons of his controller. “Hmm…” He saw your avatar getting hit by an enemy attack and dying in the game. If you could not back him up, that meant he would lose too, right? “I don’t know… I guess you just like them and...”

You had left your controller on the floor and were looking at him intently.

It was getting dark outside, but he could still see your features clearly.

“And?” you urged him.

He was not sure of what to say. What did it even mean to like someone that way? He thought Inoue Waka was attractive. Did that count?

He shrugged. “And... you just know.” He did not want to give you a dumb answer, but he was not great with this kind of questions either.

You averted your gaze. “But it is different than when you like a friend, isn’t it?”

Satoru pondered it for a bit.

Is it?

“I guess…” He pushed you gently and put on his best smile. “Why does it matter anyway? Are you interested in romance now?" He was being playful, but you felt like he had seen through you.

"You think I should?"

He smiled. "Nope. You have me, right? I’m a boy and your friend. What would you need a boyfriend for?”

You returned his smile. "You are right, I wouldn't have time for him. You are too high maintenance."

With the way you were smiling at him, Satoru thought you could easily find someone if you wanted to.

Maybe you are right. Maybe it feels different...

"Oh... We lost." You were looking at the screen showing the message 'game over'.

Satoru should have known that was foreshadowing.

----------------------

Note: And... Cut! I really wanted to write them in their high school years, so here's a peek.

Thank you for reading!

Next: Part VI

@mavs-stuff @witchbybirth @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @tqd4455

[motherofdogs1010]

Letters to Juliet & Romeo I (Thomas Shelby x Reader)

Summary: Heartbroken and in the midst of the Great War as a nurse, Y/N L/N writes to a person she never expected to write to before... her brother's friend, Thomas Shelby... But the war's over now and it is time to face the letters...

Warnings: wartime angst, talks of wartime violence, pre-Peaky Blinder Tommy, soldier Tommy

Italics: content of the letters

A/N: Inspired by the movie 'Letters to Juliet', also there is no real timeline of when Tommy goes into the tunnels in France

January 1916, 2 Years into the Great War (WW1)

"L/N, you got a letter."

Looking up from the book she was reading, Y/N set it to the side as one of the soldiers came in, handing her a envelope that was a little dirty, had seen a little wear and tear but she recognized the hand writing on it.

She recognized his handwriting after months of writing to Tommy, Y/N remembered the first time she had written Tommy; it came after months of not hearing from her brother when he had left to France with the rest of the men in Small Heath. Y/N had made the decision to join in as a nurse with the Red Cross and maybe it was foolish, but she remembered the night before leaving on the train, when her nursing uniform was on her bed as the nerves were coursing through her that she grabbed a piece a paper and began to write.

Dear Thomas that letter began, she poured out everything about how Small Heath was, how she had signed up as a nurse and how she prayed she wouldn't find any of them in the camp hospital she was going to be. She had written how she barely had made the qualifications of being a nurse for the Red Cross with her just having turned 25 and such.

"Who keeps writing you, F/N?" one of her fellow nurses teased.

"Don't you know that's her boyfriend?" another responded.

"He's not my boyfriend", she denied, feeling a heat go through her.

"Sure he isn't."

The letters have begun as something innocent when Tommy had responded back to her first letter, she could sense the shock in his letter about her writing him but as the letters progressed, so did their relationship through their letters.

Opening the newest letter, Y/N felt a sense of anxiety in her as she remembered having had the courage to send Tommy a picture of her in her uniform; she remembered taking the picture once her training had been done, having donned the periwinkle, long-sleeve floor-length dress with the white apron that wrapped around her and went down to the ground. She had to tightly wrapped her back back into the white cap like habit.

A big red cross over the chest of her apron, she had sent the photo off with her letter and prayed that he didn't dislike it.

Reading the letter, she traced over his handwriting, feeling where he pressed hard on the paper as he wrote as she read how he found her to be beautiful in her photo.

You look even more beautiful than when I last saw you...

It made her heart clench as she saw how he wrote how he hid the photo in his service jacket from the others, that he didn't want them to see the lovely girl that kept writing him letters because he felt possessive over this same piece of heaven that was keeping him sane.

Y/N could picture Tommy in the trenches, covered in grime and dirt as he had to listen to the horrors of the wartime. She read how he longed for the war to be over, how he was fortunate enough to be with people that he knew, but he was terrified.

They're sending me to the underground soon. They want me and the others to be sappers, dig in the tunnels under No Man's Land

Y/N felt her heart drop at the prospect of Tommy going into the tunnels, having to dig with shovels under the handles broke and he would be forced to dig with his hands. She had seen some soldiers came in, having treated their hands for digging under the trenches and dealing with the explosives.

My only comfort is you, being able to bring the picture you sent me down in the ground where death might be waiting for me... the only thing that has gotten me through this damned war is you...

"Ladies, we got mass casualties coming in!" their head nurse shouted into the tent. "Look alive, ladies!"

Y/N tucked the newest letter into her pillowcase, knowing she was once again about to face the horrors of the war as she reminisced on Tommy's smile, she knew he smiled a lot.

But now, she had a feeling he didn't smile as much.

Dear Thomas,

I'm sure you're curious as to why you received a letter from B/N's litter sister. Frankly, I'm a little shocked I'm writing to you, I've not heard from my brother no matter the amount of letters I've sent.

That was how the first letter started, Tommy sometimes would re-read the letter when he couldn't sleep amongst the noises of screaming soldiers and anxiety.

"Shelby, ya girl's sent another letter", one of his fellow soldiers said as he held out a envelope.

Tommy grabbed the envelope, none of his brothers were around as he opened the letter; he remembers the shy smiles Y/N would send him when he would see her as she visited her brother, the little nose wrinkle she got when she would laugh a loud, deep belly laugh (one that he knew others called unladylike, but that he remembered fondly).

He felt the smooth texture of a photo in the letter, pulling the picture to his eyes and he felt a sense of... love come over him as he saw the picture of her in her nursing ward uniform. A small smile on her full lips, the roundness of her cheeks that only made her look younger, he could see in her eyes the nerves of everything. The cap hid her hair from view and he wondered if she had cut it short like other nurses were forced to do because of sanitation and he was curious if she still smiled.

He hoped she did because the only time he smiled was when he got her letters...

[milfsloverblog]

Friday Nights (NSFW)

Miranda Hilmarson x fem!reader

A/N: Nobody requested this fic, I just woke up this morning with the visceral need to write it. And so I did. Enjoy this smutty domestic fluff <3

AO3 link in title

Miranda loved the routine that had set itself up between the two of you on Friday nights. 

She’d come home around 5 pm, 6 if Robin held her back a little longer, and you’d be in the kitchen busying yourself with making dinner. 

“It smells absolutely delicious in here.” Miranda wrapped her arms around your body from behind, placing a soft kiss on the crook of your neck. “Sorry I’m late, babe. Robin’s been stressing the whole station with this new case.” 

“You’re not late, you’re just in time.” You smiled and pecked her lips. “Have a quick shower, I’ll set the table and get everything ready.” 

“Mhm.” Miranda agreed and reluctantly let go of you to walk to the bathroom. 

You couldn’t help but steal a glimpse as she walked away, how you loved the way she looked in her uniform. You bit your lip and shook the dirty thoughts away. 

“You look good in that apron,” Miranda said when she walked out of the bathroom a moment later. She crossed the kitchen and pulled you in for a soft kiss. “Let me take it off of you later?” She purred against your lips, earning herself a gentle swat on the arm. 

“Sit down.” You said, nodding towards the table where dinner was waiting. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Miranda grinned and settled at her spot at the table. 

She watched as you moved around the kitchen, her eyes never leaving your back. You heard her breath hitch when you opened the fridge and bent down to grab a bottle of white wine, no doubt that her gaze had fallen on your ass. 

“How was work?” You asked, pouring two glasses before settling down in front of your lover. 

“You know I don’t like bringing work at home, even less over dinner. But if you really want to know-“ The blonde started. 

A woman, a magician’s assistant, had been found dead in her hotel room, tied to a chair and with a bullet in her skull. She was still wearing her sequinned costume when they found her, a deck of cards had been scattered on the floor around the chair and the ace of hearts had been shoved inside her mouth. 

Robin and Miranda had been working on the case for a few weeks but didn’t seem to make much progress which made Detective Griffin easily irritable. More than she usually was. 

You didn’t particularly enjoy hearing about the gory details of Miranda’s work, but you knew she needed to get it off her chest from time to time, no matter how much she tried to deny it. 

Your lover’s shoulders looked visibly more relaxed when she finished telling you about her day. She had finally told Robin to stop texting her about work when she was at home. 

“When I’m home, I’m with you. Not with Robin, not with any work matter.” Miranda had told you when her phone had buzzed for the third time in less than fifteen minutes the previous Friday. 

“Have you picked a movie for tonight?” Miranda snapped you out of your thoughts, taking a mouthful of salad and happily munching on it. 

“Mm? Oh, yes, yes I have.” You gave a nod and placed your cutlery down on your plate before pushing it away. “Since you picked Imagine Me & You last time, I thought we could watch Carol tonight?” 

“Yeah, sure!” Miranda said excitedly and you wondered how long it’d take until you’d both run out of sapphic movies to watch. 

When she was done eating, Miranda squeezed your hand and suggested you go change into your pyjamas while she cleared the table, which you happily agreed to. Filling the dishwasher was one of your least favourite thing to do, emptying it was a very close second. 

“Everything’s ready,” Miranda called from where she was sitting on the couch. “Just need you laying in my arms.” 

You chuckled softly and finished buttoning your silk pyjamas before joining your girlfriend in the living room. You made yourself comfortable, lying between Miranda’s legs with your back pressed to her chest. 

You pressed play on the movie and Miranda wrapped her arms around you, holding you close against her body. 

You’d seen the movie half a dozen times already, but it was Miranda’s first time and you loved listening to her commentary. 

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love at first sight?” She whispered in your ear when Therese and Carol locked eyes. 

“What? Are you saying you didn’t fall in love with me the very second we looked at each other?” You tutted, feigning to be offended. 

“I spilled my frappuccino on your shirt at Starbucks, falling in love was the last thing I had in mind, not when the look you gave me scared me shitless.” Miranda laughed and you joined her, loving the way you could feel her chest moving up and down as she giggled behind you. 

“Fair enough,” you admitted. “Fair enough.” 

The two of you fell quiet again, except for Miranda’s occasional comment on how good Cate Blanchett looked, and her excited shriek when Sarah Paulson appeared on your screen. 

You absentmindedly brushed your fingers on the expanse of Miranda’s leg, unaware of the fire it ignited in your lover’s belly. Miranda knew there was no ulterior motive to your fingertips drawing patterns on her skin but, no matter how hard she tried to focus on the movie, all she could think about were the shivers your touch sent down her spine. 

Your eyes were locked on the tv screen, knowing Carol and Therese would soon share their first kiss, when you suddenly felt Miranda’s hand moving down your front only to stop on the elastic band of your trousers. 

You looked from the corner of your eye as your girlfriend’s slender fingers played with the drawstring until she gave it a gentle tug, silently requesting permission. 

“Yes.” You breathed out, laying your head back on Miranda’s shoulder. 

Miranda didn’t waste any more time, immediately slipping her hand inside your pants between silk fabric and silkier skin. She skillfully parted your lower lips and sank two fingers inside you with no preamble, relishing in the gasp it pulled from your lips. 

“Mira-“ You whined when she dragged her fingers out of you only the push them back inside deeper, making you clench around her knuckles. 

“I know, babe.” She purred in your ear as she started pumping her fingers in and out of you, the soft, slick sounds of the movement echoing in your living room and drowning out the distant movie dialogue. 

Pressed into Miranda’s front, you blushed a deep red as your skin grew hot. You easily opened up for your lover, your hips rocking onto her hand to invite her always deeper. Miranda felt like she could do this forever, holding you close as you fell apart in her arms. 

Suddenly she shifted you, keeping her fingers buried inside you as she helped you lie down until she was on top of you. She leaned forward, smiling at how your lips immediately parted, and flicked her tongue over them. With her free hand, she lifted your silk shirt, her mouth watering at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re beautiful.” She whispered, keeping her eyes on you as she lowered herself to take one of your nipples in her mouth. She sucked for a moment before gently sinking her teeth in it and soothing the sting with her tongue, grinning when your hand flew into her hair to tug at it. 

Miranda trailed down your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on your chest and the skin of your stomach. Her free hand swiftly removed your trousers before she settled between your spread thighs and lightly blew on your clit, making your thighs shudder on either side of her head. 

You nearly saw stars when Miranda finally wrapped her lips around your clit and sucked harshly, her fingers curling deep inside you. She licked and sucked, teasing the nub with the tip of her tongue and relishing in the way you struggled to keep your legs open around her head. 

When she felt you clench dangerously around her fingers, Miranda doubled her efforts, picking up the pace and sucking hard at your clit, determined to bring you to an earth-shattering release. 

It only took a few more pumps for the coil behind your navel to snap, Miranda’s name coming out of your lips again and again as you pushed her face deeper into your cunt, refusing to let go of her short blonde hair. 

“I love you.” Miranda sighed happily as she pulled her fingers out and kissed your clit. 

She sat up, stretched her back, and pecked your lips before getting on her feet and disappearing into the bathroom, coming out a few seconds later with a wet cloth. 

“You simply couldn’t resist, mm?” You smiled lazily, looking down as Miranda cleaned you up. 

“Who could blame me?” Miranda chuckled softly, dropping the cloth on the coffee table and helping you put your trousers back on. 

You settled back down into your original position between your lover’s legs and rewound the movie up until Therese and Carol’s first kiss. You smirked as you thought of the upcoming sex scene, knowing Miranda wouldn’t get to the end of the movie without moaning your name out and coming on your tongue. 

Miranda loved the routine that had set itself up between the two of you on Friday nights. And so did you.

————————————————————————

tag list: @weemssapphic @larissaoftarthweems @principal-weems09 @pro-weems-places @readingtheentrails @catechristiesstuff @kimiinou

[melodygatesauthor]

Always Yours, Never Mine

Yandere Miguel O'Hara X f!Reader

Universe Two - The Barista

Series Masterlist - Beta Read by @campingwiththecharmings

Summary

I didn’t even test the DNA analysis module on the watch before I left my universe. Idiotic? Definitely, but I was so excited by the thought of seeing you again that I didn’t care. So I tested it when I got to the new universe, using the watch to scan one of your hairs and then using that data to track you down…I can't believe I found you again.

Tags/Warnings

NSFW, dub-con due to identity issues, non-con, rape, More tags on the masterlist.

Word Count: 5.4k

It was a morning like every other.

You opened your eyes to the sound of your alarm blaring next to you. You hit the snooze button, probably too harshly, before promptly burying your face in your palms. Sometimes you thought that if you just laid there long enough, all your responsibilities would disappear. A moment later, the alarm went off again, reminding you that it was time to get up, for real this time. After fantasizing about ripping it from the wall and breaking it into a thousand pieces, you turned it off and rolled out of bed.

You stepped out into the living room, smelling the coffee brewing in the pot already. Your step-sister, and roommate, Emily, was flipping through the channels on the tv in the living room.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled, grabbing the hot cup she’d left for you on the breakfast bar.

“Morning!” She turned around to face you while you sipped from your mug. “The ‘rents wanted to go out for dinner tonight, you in?”

You groaned, trudging over to the armchair in the living room and sitting down, taking another sip of your coffee. You stared at the television idly, not really taking any of it in. You thought about your impending workday. You sighed heavily, the idea of ending your long day by having dinner with your parents exhausting.

“I don’t really want to, I’m gonna be tired after work but…I guess I can pull myself together for a couple hours.”

“Thanks, I don’t really wanna go alone.” She sniffed out a laugh, “you should bring that guy you’ve been seeing, might be a good time for them to meet him.”

You gave her the look. The look that said, ‘no way in hell am I introducing him to our parents’.

“I’m not ready to subject him to that just yet.”

“Fair,” she said with a shrug, turning the volume up on the tv and thus ending the conversation.

You finished your coffee before getting yourself ready for the day. You looked in the mirror on your bedroom door, adjusting your nametag pinned through your apron next to the Moonbean Coffee logo. The company aprons felt so frumpy on your frame and you hated the shade of brown the owner had picked out, but you supposed it was better than not having a job to begin with.

“See ya later!” You said on your way out.

You arrived just before seven for your shift. Your co-workers, Stacy and Mira, were there already, baking sweets and brewing coffee for the morning rush. You flipped the “open” sign around and went behind the counter in preparation for the under-caffeinated stampede. Stacy always made some comment to you about ‘opening the floodgates’ whenever you came in, since that was always the moment customers started pouring in.

You were sweaty by the end of the rush. It felt to you like that was often the time that he seemed to make his appearance. You’d talked to him about it before, telling him to come in first thing with the other customers if he wanted you to look your best. ‘You always look your best, hermosa’, he’d say, suave as ever.

Miguel walked in. The smell of coffee hit him like a ton of bricks, but then so did your face. 

It had been a year and a half since he’d seen you. A fucking year and a half. His breath caught in his chest and his lips parted slightly. He felt like he was seeing you for the first time. In some weird way, he was seeing you for the first time. This version of you anyway.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you gonna come get your coffee?” You giggled and started making his usual cup.

There was that sound again.

He thought he’d never hear your laugh for the rest of his days. In his universe, he’d replayed videos of when you were alive over and over to take the edge off, but nothing compared to the real thing when it hit his ears. He watched you make his coffee. You’d made it wrong, but he’d expected that when traveling to another dimension things wouldn’t always be quite right. He didn’t care, as long as he found the universe where you lived; that’s all that mattered to him.

“Are you gonna say something or just stare at me?” You laughed at him nervously.

“I’m sorry I’m just…having a rough morning,” he held up his cup, “haven’t had my coffee yet,” he said jokingly.

You’d thought about Emily’s suggestion to have him join you and your parents for dinner, and figured she was right. You liked this guy. This impossibly tall, broad, and handsome physicist who seemed to be smitten with you no matter how gross you looked after a long shift at the coffee shop.

“I’ve been thinking, and no obligation if you don’t want to, I understand, but…my parents invited my step-sister and me out for dinner tonight and…” You trailed off, feeling nervous, “do you…would you wanna–”

“Yes, I’d love to,” he blurted out.

He felt like such an idiot. It wasn’t like him to get flustered like this, but something about you made him feel like the space between his ears was filled with nothing but hot air. He saw you press your lips together bashfully, and noticed the way your eyes seemed to sparkle when you looked at him. You’d always told him that he was special to you; that he was different from other guys you’d dated, he’d just never paid attention to the small details like this back then.

“Great, it’s at the new steak place up the road from here. Six pm, please don’t be late,” you said in a pleading tone.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, honey.”

There were customers coming in and he decided it was time for him to go. He had a dinner date to get ready for afterall. The fluttering in his stomach from seeing you wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, and he’d missed it. It was hard to break away, but he kissed the back of your hand and started to leave anyway.

“Hey!” You shouted.

He turned back around, “Hm?”

“No kiss?” You put your hands on your hips.

You…you wanted a…

He gulped. “S-sorry, thinking about work,” he lied.

He walked up to you and leaned over the counter and you took his face in your hands. 

You touched him. It had been so long since you’d touched him. 

You pressed your lips to his softly, and for a moment, he tensed. Once he relaxed, he leaned in, parting his lips and melting them against yours. He never thought he’d kiss you again. Miguel sighed with joyous relief when the kiss broke, choking back the tears that threatened to fall.

“See you later,” you said, patting his wide chest before watching him walk away.

As Miguel stepped outside and started down the sidewalk, he passed someone on his left. It didn’t hit him right away until he realized that the man was as unnaturally tall as himself. Miguel stopped dead in his tracks, looking back at the man as he headed toward the coffee shop he’d just walked out of. It was…oh no…

You looked up from the coffee cup you were putting someone’s name on to see Miguel come back inside. You smirked and let out a chuckle.

“Forget something?” You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure why he’d returned. He had a huge smile as he walked up to you and leaned against the counter.

“Hola, hermosa,” he said, “I’ll take my usual, if you don’t mind.”

“What…?” you felt uneasy.

Lots of people had memory problems right? You and Miguel had only been dating for a couple months, so you didn’t know all there was to know about him. Maybe he suffered from short term memory loss or something. Not to mention, you knew he was a scientist. It was possible he’d suffered some brain injury in the lab or something…right? You couldn’t be sure, but your intuition was telling you that something was off; stupidly, you ignored it.

“Are you feeling okay?” He asked, looking at you with concern.

You cleared your throat, “Yeah, yes I’m fine.”

You faked a smile and made his coffee…again. When you handed it to him he smiled and sipped it. That’s when you realized he wasn’t wearing the same outfit he was wearing when he’d walked out of there just a moment earlier. Something wasn’t right. Were you losing your mind? Maybe he wasn’t the one with memory issues.

Miguel was a genius on paper. He could make a device that allowed him to travel the multiverse with only one minor flaw, but that didn’t mean he was immune to idiocy. He’d just watched that universe’s version of himself walk by and go right into the coffee shop where you worked. How could he be so stupid? If there was a version of you in every universe, then it was reasonable to assume that there would be a version of himself in every universe as well.

He had to do something about the doppelganger. Miguel couldn’t let him get in the way. He couldn’t let someone else, even if it was just an alternate version of himself, take you from him.

Later that evening, you were dressed and ready for dinner. You’d managed to shrug off the weird encounter you’d had with Miguel earlier, and decided that you would wait to bring it up after dinner with your parents, if at all. You really liked him, and didn’t want to mess it up over something as silly as his, or your own, forgetfulness.

You shook your head free of the thoughts that plagued you. It was just Miguel. Normal, loving, caring Miguel that you’d known and enjoyed spending time with over the last couple of months. With a sigh, you left, heading to the restaurant where your parents were already sitting with your step-sister. You decided to wait outside for him to arrive, having texted Emily earlier to let her know that you’d changed your mind about inviting Miguel after all.

God you looked beautiful.

Miguel felt a swell in his chest as he walked toward you on the sidewalk. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were wearing a simple black dress that hugged your body nicely. You looked like you again. This was how you’d dressed in his universe when he would take you out somewhere nice. So fucking pretty.

When you finally noticed Miguel’s lingering gaze, you felt flustered. You tried to compose yourself as he approached, calming your fluttering stomach. You didn’t want to look like a bumbling idiot, not only in front of him, but in front of your parents too.

You cleared your throat when he got closer, “Ready?”

He nodded, looking down at you, “Oh you bet.”

“Oh! You’ve got something on your…” you furrowed your brow, eyes catching on a small red smear just below his ridiculously sharp cheek bone. “I’ll get it.”

You licked your thumb and wiped the mark off his face. He smirked until he saw your thumb covered in crimson. His mind flashed back to the events that had taken place over the last couple of hours…

Miguel was waiting silently behind a wall in the kitchen, having snuck into his alternate’s apartment, watching Miguel trying to decide what tie he was going to wear to dinner with your parents in a few hours. He felt bad for a second, knowing that if this man loved you even a fraction of the amount that he did, this would be disheartening when he realized he was going to die before he got to truly love you.

For someone normally so meticulous, Miguel hadn’t really thought this through. He’d rushed to follow the man home after his meeting with you at the coffee shop, and kept an eye on him throughout the day to get a feeling for his lifestyle so he could attempt to mimic it once he eliminated this universe’s version of himself.

The time had come for Miguel to kill his other self, and nothing could stop him now that he’d come this far. There was one perk to killing his alternate: even if someone discovered the body, or some poorly disposed of evidence, all the DNA would lead back to one person…himself. So it didn’t matter if he slit his own throat, snapped his own neck, or shot himself in the head. No one would ever know.

Miguel had never killed anyone before, but the more he thought about this other man - despite that ‘other man’ being himself - touching you, the angrier he got. He couldn’t bear the idea that you, his precious girl, might be giving someone else attention, and those thoughts alone were enough to fuel the fire that brought him to the brink of murder.

Miguel must’ve been so confused. For him it probably seemed like a normal evening at first. He probably had no idea he was about to die. He was going to shower, probably stress a little bit about how to impress your parents, and then start getting ready for the dinner date. It was all normal, until the shower curtain opened and he was greeted by his doppelganger who delivered several stab wounds to the man’s chest.

Miguel wondered what his other self was thinking in those last moments as the life faded from his eyes. 

Cleanup took a while, but not so long that he couldn’t make it in time for dinner. Now he was in a predicament. You were standing there with blood on your thumb and a curious look on your face.

“Must’ve nicked myself shaving,” he chucked, rubbing his hand over his jaw, “Thank you, mi vida.”

He leaned in and kissed you, and despite him calling you ‘mi vida’, something he’d never called you before, you kissed him back. Regardless of the red flags flying in your face, you took his hand, smiled and walked into the restaurant with him to meet your parents.

Charming as always, Miguel impressed them with ease. It was like he knew them. He acted as though he were meeting up with old friends rather than meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time. It was so hard to find someone they actually liked so you threw every red flag of the day out the window and decided to move on. It was that simple. 

When you asked Miguel to go back to his place that evening, instead of going to your own apartment, he was thrilled. He didn’t even wait for you to get your shoes off before he had you lifted off the ground, legs around his thick torso and pinned against the wall. He hadn’t felt the wet heat of your cunt in well over a year and he was desperate.

You’d never heard him like this, so primal and hungry. His heaving breathing was almost like a low growl. He lifted up the skirt of your dress, large hands grabbing onto your hips while his mouth left heavy kisses on your neck. You didn’t care if he was acting strangely, it felt so good that it didn’t matter.

He brought you to the bedroom and fell onto the mattress with you, hovering over your body while his hands continued their exploration. He was reveling in the delicious feeling of your soft skin; the skin he hadn’t touched in too long. He was loving the taste of you, it was almost the same…close enough anyway. He wanted to taste more of you.

He pulled down the strap of your dress and bra in one motion, exposing your breast. Miguel bit his lip and looked up at you, eyes full of a dark lust. You gasped when he brought his lips over the peak, rolling his tongue around the hardened, sensitive skin there. You brought both of your hands to his shoulders, squeezing them tightly, though you knew it probably felt like nothing to the overly muscular man. He flicked his tongue over you one more time before looking up again.

Miguel wanted to taste something else he hadn’t tasted in far too long, so he kept working his way down, lifting your skirt and hooking a finger under your delicate lace panties.

“You wore these just for me, didn’t you, hermosa?”

He used both hands to rip the thin fabric covering your already glistening, slick folds. He used one thick finger, sliding it through your slit and up, brushing over your clit gently. You gasped, throwing your head back. Miguel smirked, letting a dark chuckle escape. The other Miguel hadn’t been so giving with you, had he?

He hadn’t, and you noticed right away that Miguel was acting more focused on your body than before. But when you felt his mouth come down over your mound, warm and soft, you didn’t care. Whatever it was that made him act differently, you were living for it now. Red flags be damned.

“So sweet, mi vida,” he cooed, going back in for more like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

You were delicious, but wasn’t quite the same. There was something a little more sweet about this version of you, but it was alright. He could live with it. You still sounded the same, and you still looked the same, more or less. You grabbed onto the back of his head which made him smile against your folds. The feeling of you touching him made Miguel all the more eager to please you.

Miguel brought one of his thick fingers to your entrance, sliding it in with ease and feeling your cunt flutter around him in response. You whined, arching your hips to take him deeper. One perk to finding this new version of you, was showing himself up in the bedroom. He loved that you were coming undone under him like never before. The original you had been so used to his catering in the bedroom, but this one seemed impressed, and he liked that.

“Mm, hermosa, think you can take another one?” He asked, sliding in another finger to meet the first.

As he started pumping his fingers in and out of you, he noticed how much your body twitched and writhed. So sensitive, this one. He flicked his tongue rapidly over your swollen, needy clit. You were crying out words of affirmation repetitively, grabbing a fistful of his hair as you did. Your legs were shaking against his cheeks.

“Tres?”

He added another finger, and you were a gasping mess at his mercy. Your hole ached with the sweet stretch as he pumped his digits in and out faster. You’ve never known Miguel to do anything like this, but you weren’t complaining. This was the best sex of your life and he was still just playing with you. He curled his fingers, and you cried out, throwing your head back.

“F-fuck! Miguel…!”

He kept going, feeling the way your legs tensed and hearing the way your breathing got even heavier. His eyes trailed over your mound, up your beautiful torso to meet with your heartstopping eyes. You grabbed his hair so tight that he winced, but he didn’t stop lapping over your folds, knowing that you were about to come for him for the first time in a long time.

You’d never had an orgasm so intense it made you go cross-eyed before before, but there you were, shaking so hard you rattled the headboard. Your cunt was gushing and clenching around his fingers while he curled and dragged them over your walls through your climax. You fell back, breathing heavily, but Miguel wasn’t done with you yet.

“Come here honey,” he said in a husky tone, grabbing your hips and pulling you toward him.

Your body was still shaking from your release, and now he was running his length along your folds, collecting your arousal to make it slick. You looked up and saw him biting his lip through your tear blurred vision. You felt his tip prodding at your entrance. He so fucking big.

“Oh baby f-fuck—“

Miguel’s voice was like gravel as he pushed into you slowly, feeling your walls shift to accommodate his size. It had been so long - too long - since he’d felt the vice grip your soft pussy had around his throbbing cock, milking it for every drop you could. You cried out again, the sound hitting his ears like a symphony. He grabbed around your throat, fingers almost touching around the back, pulling you up to sit on him.

“Mm, mi vida,” he mumbled into your sternum.

He spread your ass cheeks, with both large hands, fucking you over his cock with ease. He could hardly get the whole thing inside. Your poor legs were still shaking, struggling to stay up, but he was happy to do the work. Miguel was satisfied enough to just have you in his arms again, in any way he could.

“T-too much Miguel I–”

“Shh honey, sh, I’ve got you,” he cooed, lifting and lowering you with the movement of his hips.

You grabbed onto his shoulders tightly. Miguel had never been so commanding and attentive to you before. He was sliding in so fucking deep that you felt your brain short circuit with every pass. He felt bigger than before, but you knew that was impossible. Your nails dug into the muscle of shoulders, he groaned, voice rough with arousal. He looked up at you.

“Kiss me hermosa.”

You complied, grabbing the back of his head and tangling your fingers in his hair while melting your mouth into his. You started to feel the strength come back to the muscles in your legs so you took over, riding his cock while continuing to kiss him deeply. This wasn’t the first time you and Miguel had been intimate, but you wondered why he’d held back this passion for lovemaking for so long. This was not the same sex you’d had with him just a few nights ago.

Now that his hands were free, he could feel over your entire body, letting the pads of his fingers take in every detail of your skin. It felt so soft, like it always had, smooth and warm. You started moving your hips faster, taking his cock deeper. He could feel your walls fluttering around him again.

“Gonna give me another one already, baby? Hm?” He started nipping at your neck, making you whimper and whine louder.

“Yes, oh yes Miguel!”

He wrapped his arms around you, leaning forward so that you were underneath him. He held you down with his weight, fucking you harder than you could possibly have done if you were still on top. His teeth still continued marking your neck, forcing sharp cries from your perfect lips.

“Yes, that’s my girl, oh god…honey-I-f-fuck…ah!”

Miguel’s hips came to a stuttering halt, cock pumping his hot spend into your tightly clenched cunt. Your walls were crashing over him, squeezing his cum out around the sides of his length and letting it spill onto the bedding. He didn’t want to let go of you just yet, so he held you there while you both lay in your blissed out high for a while.

It wasn’t the same…it would never be the same…but it was close enough.

That was how Miguel had managed to slide - almost seamlessly - into your life. He noticed that this version of you was more different than he’d originally thought, right down to the way you liked to do your makeup. Still, he felt that as long as he could keep you alive, and keep you safe, he could overlook some of those things. You were similar enough that he felt happy again.

He still missed you sometimes though; the real you that he’d lost, and he still mourned for that version of you. But when he looked at you now, a few months into dating this you, in your little brown barista apron with a big grin on your face, kissing him on the cheeks like he was the most precious thing in the world to you, he felt warm. It was like putting a bandaid on the wound. It would never fully heal, but this made it better.

Everything was as perfect as it could be, until one morning felt unfortunately familiar. He woke up fast, realizing he’d been sleeping with his mouth wide open on your chest.

“Good morning, handsome,” you said, laughing and wiping a bit of spit from his stubbled cheek, “You were out. Having a good dream?”

He hadn’t forgotten a single detail about that day.

He looked up at you, brow furrowed in confusion and concern. In the last couple of months he’d learned a few things about this universe. Time still worked the same as it did in his universe, but the year was 2016. It was possible that time wasn’t even a relevant factor concerning your death, but he thought that perhaps if it was relevant, he might have a chance to save you before this day would be upon him.

He had also considered that perhaps his universe had an anomaly that the others didn’t, and that was why you’d died and perhaps you’d live in this one. Maybe it wasn’t canon for you to die every time, and he’d just been extremely unlucky to be born in the one dimension that he would lose you.

But if this universe did work exactly the same, he thought he would get to prepare for this. He thought he’d get more than a couple months with you before he lost you again. He gave you a soft smile and brought the back of your hand to his lips.

“What do you say you skip work today and we stay in bed, hm?” He asked, calm on the surface but screaming on the inside for you to agree.

“Well I have to go in, my rent isn’t going to pay itself.” You slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom, leaving Miguel lying there, staring at you with desperation as you walked away into the bathroom.

“I have a good job, mi vida, I can pay your rent, you don’t need to go to work,” he insisted, getting out of bed and standing in front of the bathroom doorway.

“Not a chance,” you said, undressing and closing the door in his face.

Maybe this morning would be different. If he recalled correctly, and he did recall correctly, this wasn’t how that morning had started originally. The fact that you weren’t married was already so different, it was just that…something felt so uncanny, so similar but so…not at the same time. He opened the door.

“Have to pee,” he grumbled, walking over to the toilet.

“Oh! I almost forgot to tell you,” you said, turning knobs on the shower, “I know we said we would do dinner tonight but a couple girls from work wanted to go out for drinks tonight so I think I’ll join them, that okay?” You stepped into the warm water and closed the curtain.

Miguel pulled his pants back up and froze.

“W-Who’s going?” He couldn’t stop his shaking hands from clenching into fists.

“Stacy and Mira.” You peeked your head out of the shower curtain, “I’m really sorry, I forgot all about–”

“No,” he said coldly.

Your heart caught in your chest at his words. All this time, Miguel had surprised you by proving to be the best guy you’d ever been with and suddenly, his firm tone sent a chill down your spine. He’d never spoken so bluntly to you before, and he’d certainly never looked at you with such a dark glare as he was in that moment.

“Baby, we can go out another night, it’s not often that Stacy can find a sitter and–”

“I said no,” he repeated harshly, “I won’t say it again.”

You turned off the shower and got out, grabbing your towel and covering yourself. He was so much taller than you, but you weren’t going to let someone talk to you like that, especially someone who was supposed to be your partner. You held up a scolding finger.

“Miguel, why the hell are you acting like this? You’re not my fucking dad, you’re my boyfriend. You don’t get to–”

He pulled you in, pressing his lips to yours. He didn’t know what else to do. You were angry, and you had every right to be. For all you knew, your normally loving and considerate boyfriend had taken a controlling and dark turn, and you were upset. He thought if he could just shut you up then you might forget about it and agree. Instead, you slapped him, forcing him to step back in shock, holding his cheek where the sting remained.

“Out,” you said firmly, “you’ve been acting like a weirdo ever since the day you met my parents. I looked past it because you still seemed like a nice guy, and those are hard to find, but you freak me out.”

Miguel’s heart fell into a million pieces all around him. He held his breath, trying to keep himself from losing his temper. His chest was heaving.

“Mi vida, I–”

“Stop calling me that! I’m not your life. I’m just some girl you’ve been dating for a few months and sometimes things don’t work out. This…” you gestured between the two of you, “isn’t working out.”

Miguel would never hurt you. He would never hurt you, but in that moment he fantasized about breaking your fucking neck. It was delicate enough, he could hold it tight and make it snap with only one hand. He might even enjoy watching you writhe when he grabbed you. How dare you think you could just leave him like that.

But he didn’t have to do a thing, because he knew that you would die that day, and he wasn’t going to stop you. Not this time. Fuck this version of you.

“Fine,” he said with a malicious smirk.

After he left, you cried, but only for a short while as you finished getting ready for work. He wasn’t the first weirdo you’d dated, and you were certain he wouldn’t be the last. You were glad that Emily had stayed at her own boyfriend’s house the night before so she wouldn’t hear you and Miguel arguing that morning. The last thing you wanted to do was go to your older sibling with your tail between your legs in defeat over another loser.

Miguel watched you leave your apartment and start walking to work. He thought he might have to wait until 10:53pm to see you die, but it would seem his theory that time was completely irrelevant when it came to your canonical death was correct.

The car seemed to come out of nowhere, flying down the street without a care for who might be in its path. Some idiot was behind the wheel, texting and driving, not paying attention while you crossed. The interesting thing was, that the other two girls died too, like they had in the original universe. After hitting you, the car swerved into the storefront of the coffee shop, killing the two employees who were standing near the front door; looks like those stupid friends of yours were meant to die in every universe too.

Miguel shook his head in frustration. Of course a part of him felt sad seeing you choking on your own blood in the middle of the street while people surrounded you, as if there was anything they could do. He didn’t feel sad for you though, he felt sorrow only for himself, having wasted so much time trying to find out if you were the one he could replace you with. It would seem you were a faulty substitute, flawed in so many ways that he’d chosen to overlook, and it was time to find a new one, a better one.

And he wouldn’t stop looking until he found a sufficient replacement, the perfect one.

Thank you for reading! You can support your favorite writers by the simple act of reblogging and liking! Thank you again!

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Miguel O'Hara Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[bigmpregnm]

Becoming a Broodfather - Part 3

[Story Collection] | [Part 2] [●] [Part 4]

“Something smells delicious, and someone looks delicious,” Ashton said when he entered the kitchen and found Dalton, another of Tim’s husbands, cooking while only wearing an apron.

“Oh, thanks for both compliments, big daddy,” Dalton responded, calling Ashton by a playful and friendly name he had for him, referring to his future as a broodfather.

Dalton moved away from the stove, and Ashton had the chance to inspect his body in detail. Dalton was almost as tall as Ashton but much thinner; most people described him as a twink. Dalton’s arms weren’t muscular, and even though he had been pregnant several times, his legs hadn’t gotten much thicker. However, Dalton had a delicious-looking bubble butt, which he loved to show off by not wearing anything but the apron when he was in the father’s wing.

Since Dalton was a twink, his big belly and big pecs looked outstandingly large on his frame, even though they were small compared to other men in the house. Dalton carried triplets in his belly and one additional baby in each of his pecs, totaling five big babies that never stopped moving and kicking. He spent most of his time in the kitchen cooking, so he fed his babies constantly, making them grow huge.

“Well, your food is always great, and... you know, I like that cute ass of yours a lot,” Ashton said, approaching and winking at Dalton. Ashton was more forward than usual, but it wasn’t only because of his new thoughts but also due to the several times they had sex in that kitchen over the last five months.

“Someone is in a good mood today? Any special reason for it?” Dalton picked up two plates and served large portions of scrambled eggs with bacon for the two of them. “I know you like your protein, so here it is. A big meal for a big, sweet guy.” Dalton smiled and removed his apron, revealing his massive, half-hard dick.

“I’d add a sausage, but I don’t think it’ll fit on these plates,” Ashton responded, looking down at Dalton’s massive dick, which rose to full mast in an instant, smacking against his triplet-filled belly.

Dalton laughed and reached down to rub and stroke his almost 2-foot-long dick. “You’re definitely in a mood. What’s the occasion?” Dalton asked while both devoured their breakfast like vacuums in a few seconds.

“The occasion? I just realized I can have lots of fun with you, Aaron, Byron, and Carson.” Ashton waddled to stand behind Dalton, pushing his belly against the twink’s back and making the gasp.

“Wha-what do you mean?” Dalton asked with a grin while Ashton wrapped his powerful arms around the twink’s torso to hug him tight and push his bulge against the bubble butt. Ashton caressed the sides of Dalton’s belly and his pecs while the babies kicked up a storm. Dalton heavily panted as he tilted his head back to enjoy Ashton’s touch.

“I know you enjoy it when I touch you like this. I know you love when I whisper in your ear to tell you what I’m going to do with you,” Ashton said, reaching around Dalton’s body to grip his massive dick to firmly stoke it.

Ashton started passionately rubbing and stroking Dalton’s dick while also shoving his bulge between Dalton’s asscheeks. “You understand that I could take you right here if I wanted? And that you wouldn’t be able to do anything against it? You’d be begging me for more instead,” Ashton whispered in Dalton’s ears as he leaned forward.

“Yes, big daddy. You can do whatever you want,” Dalton responded, fully surrendering to Ashton’s demands. “I’m not going to stop you. I’m here for you.”

“That’s it. That’s all I needed to know, but not yet. You’ll have to wait like the others,” Ashton said, stroking Dalton’s massive dick some more and causing a river of pre to leak out of his slit.

Ashton kissed Dalton’s cheeks and moved away from the twink, leaving him breathless and hot. Dalton looked at Ashton with evident desperation, but Ashton only smiled and slapped Dalton’s bubble very hard.

“You can’t be serious,” Dalton said, chuckling as he tried to stop the leaking on his dick.

“I am. Keep your dick hard for me until I come back to you later,” Ashton commanded, making Dalton caress his dick as the leaking continued.

“Yes, big daddy. I’ll wait for you.” Dalton smiled and put on his apron again to start cooking some more.

Ashton grinned and caressed his own dick, which was oozing some pre, causing a large wet spot on his jockstrap’s pouch. After slapping Dalton’s ass again, he adjusted his jockstrap and headed for the family wing. Messing up with the husbands was fun, but Ashton’s love for his coming babies made him enjoy the time he could spend with all the children Tim had had with his husbands.

The father’s wing and the family wing were connected by a long hall. I was adorned with photos of Tim and his husbands through their pregnancies. Ashton stopped for a few seconds to check on them again, smiling at the magnificent sight of all those men during so many pregnancies. Ashton couldn’t help but sigh when he realized they all looked happy. He hadn’t felt alright about Tim’s ways when he first moved to the house, but he came to understand that it made them all happy.

“Ready to add many photos to our gallery?” Eaton, another of Tim’s husbands, asked as he approached Ashton on his way to the family wing.

“Oh, yeah, you know... I’m having 24 kids, so that’s a great addition to the brood,” Ashton responded, patting his belly and turning to face Eaton.

“You know that’s not what I mean. We all know you’re going to be an amazing broodfather.” Eaton winked at Ashton as he passed by, making him smile.

Eaton was even more muscular than Ashton. His muscles bulged in all directions, dwarfing Ashton’s imposing figure. Eaton’s torso was exposed because his huge pecs and belly made it hard for him to find comfortable clothes. His belly was pretty big, with large octuplets moving and kicking nonstop. Also, even among his muscular upper body, his pecs were enormous, not because he carried babies in them but due to his outstanding milk production, which worked great with Eaton’s love for kids. He was responsible for most of the feeding because nobody else produced as much milk in the house.

He wore baggy sweatpants to cover his lower half, but they left nothing to the imagination. The sweatpants couldn’t hide his thick, muscular thighs and massive butt; they accentuated them instead. Also, Eaton carried one baby in each of his balls, giving him a large bulge that strained the sweatpants’ fabric. Ashton had admired Eaton’s physique since the moment they met, but now he looked at the muscular man with different eyes.

As Eaton sat on a sofa to take a break before entering the family wing, Ashton approached with a mischievous grin. Ashton marveled at Eaton’s bulging body. Every inch of the big man’s body looked so full and strong that even muscular Ashton couldn’t help but be impressed.

“My pecs are so full. I hope these babies will help me with the pressure,” Eaton said, massaging his pecs as Ashton stood before him.

“I’m sure they’ll help, but I don’t think your pecs will change that much,” Ashton said as he pushed his hips forward to push his cum-stained jockstrap against the front of Eaton’s belly.

“What are you doing?” Eaton said, but Ashton swayed his hips, rhythmically rubbing his bulge against Eaton’s belly.

Ashton leaned forward and started rubbing Eaton’s belly in big circles, making the muscular man moan. “Your belly is so big, and look at those enormous pecs. Those babies can barely swallow fast enough. I could get you even bigger and fuller with babies, and your pecs will blow up to feed all those kids.” Ashton pushed his bulge harder against Eaton’s belly.

“Oh, it would be so nice,” Eaton said between moans as Ashton reached lower to also tease his bulge. “So many babies… so big.” Eaton closed his eyes as Ashton’s ministrations continued, making Eaton pant heavily.

“Yeah. I know you love kids, and I’m sure you’d carry so many of my kids so nicely in this muscular body.” Ashton moved his hands to Eaton’s pecs and started massaging his massive pecs, squeezing and kneading them. “My hands would be all over you, all the time.”

“Oh, yes, please.” Eaton moaned louder as Ashton teased his nipples. “I want it. I need it!”

“You’ll have it, but not now.” Ashton smiled and stepped backward.

Eaton was lost in pleasure already, but as Ashton moved away, he came out of his trance. “You are meant for this. Fuck! You’re meant to be a broodfather! Fuck, I want your kids! So badly,” Eaton said, his hard dick stretching his sweatpants to the limit.

Ashton winked at Eaton and helped him stand up to continue their walk to the family wing. As they walked, Eaton thought about random stuff to make his dick go soft to avoid being around the kids with a hard-on. Ashton picked up a massive robe from a closet near the family wing, available for the fathers to wear to interact with the kids without scaring them with their nakedness or skimpy outfits. The robes were massive, so Ashton had no problem covering his almost naked body entirely.

Once both were good to enter the family wing, they walked in, and a crowd of teens, kids, toddlers, and babies ran or crawled toward them. Both muscular men smiled and opened their arms to hug them, but Ashton couldn’t stop smiling when he saw Eaton with the kids. The big man was great with them, and the first thing he did in the mornings was sit on a rocking chair to breastfeed all the hungry babies. Since there were a lot of babies, the line was long, so he spent the entire morning feeding the babies.

Eaton picked up two of the youngest babies and sat on the rocking chair to feed them. Suddenly, the main door of the family wing burst open, and Fallon, Tim’s sixth husband, walked in with some papers in hand. Fallon could be described as a bear due to his burly build and hairy torso. He was thick all over, making him look huggable, but his anxious manners didn’t match with his huggable appearance. He was full of kids—two in each pec, six in his belly, and one in his left ball. His right ball had grown to match his pregnant one, but the sensation was very different, which had always caught Ashton’s attention.

Fallon waddled hypnotically, only wearing sweatpants just like Eaton, but they looked very different on Fallon’s fat thighs and ass. While Eaton was muscular, Fallon’s body was soft, but both loved the same thing about their family: spending time with the kids. While Eaton looked after the babies and toddlers, Fallon loved interacting with the older kids, often teaching them the basics of finances, which was his specialty.

Fallon waved his hand at Ashton and Eaton, briefly smiling at them as he talked to some older kids. Ashton marveled at the bear’s body and couldn’t help but notice that, even though Fallon was evidently anxious most of the time, he loved being pregnant and having kids. Fallon had a great relationship with all the kids in the house, which made Ashton think about getting Fallon even more pregnant, similar to what he told Eaton a few minutes ago.

Ashton sat on a nearby couch, rubbing his belly and enjoying the happiness of the kids surrounding them, while he observed Fallon interacting with the older children. Having Eaton and Fallon before him made Ashton think about the actual extent of becoming a broodfather; it wasn’t only about having all those men available for a fuck or having them serve him. He thought about his interactions with the other men in the house and realized he was only lustful about them initially, but came to understand that there was something else, something important.

Eaton continued breastfeeding the babies as Fallon allowed some teens to rub his belly. Something changed in Ashton’s mind as he watched the scene. He thought about fucking both men, but a deeper desire rose inside him—a desire to get them heavily knocked up with his many babies—even bigger and fuller than they were with Tim’s kids. It wasn’t only about lust anymore, but a desire to create a massive brood with all those men in the house.

Ashton thought about what Tim had been teaching him over the last five months, and he understood that even though he didn’t agree with some of his ways when it came to sex with his husbands, having many kids was a very important part of the role of a broodfather, and that required a lot of sex. Surrounded by kids and watching the two big men handle those kids, Ashton finally embraced his fate: He wanted to be the broodfather of the largest brood that had ever existed.

While Ashton observed, Fallon walked out of the family living room. Fallon went to a room between the two wings, which served as an office for Fallon’s financial responsibilities. Ashton slowly rose from his seat and smiled at Eaton, who only winked at him. Ashton rubbed his belly and waddled out of the family wing, following Fallon to his office. Ashton took his robe off since he wasn’t around the kids anymore, showcasing his strained and stained jockstrap that could barely handle his hard-on.

“Knock, knock,” Ashton said as he walked into Fallon’s office, finding him sitting behind a desk. “Good morning, big man.”

“Hello, come in,” Fallon said, briefly looking up at Ashton but going back to read the document he had in hand. “You seem to be more comfortable without the robe... I prefer it this way,” Fallon added, smiling at Ashton.

Ashton grinned as he approached, rubbing his belly and making his bulge bounce from one side to the other on purpose. Even though Fallon tried to focus on the charts he was reading, he couldn’t avoid looking up at Ashton, who rested his big bulge on the edge of the desk. Fallon blinked repeatedly, marveling at Ashton’s bulge and gasping as he saw the dick throbbing in the jockstrap’s pouch. 

“How are you?” Ashton asked, mischievously grinning because he knew Fallon couldn’t concentrate anymore.

“I-I’m great. I’m reviewing some payments we’ve made in the last few weeks. You know I like keeping this under control,” Fallon said, but he couldn’t concentrate on the sheets with Ashton’s imposing presence there.

“I know, and you do an amazing job,” Ashton said as he walked around the desk to get right beside Fallon. “I think you deserve a reward for your good job with the house’s finances,” Ashton added, moving some documents aside and sitting on the edge of the desk.

“Oh, thanks. I’m glad you think I do a good job, but you know I need to...” Fallon started talking, trying to focus on the sheets again but unable to break his gaze from Ashton’s muscular body.

“Hey, easy up. Relax. You deserve time to relax,” Ashton said, leaning forward to caress Fallon’s pecs. He knew the big bear would be different than the other men in the house because he was constantly anxious, but as Ashton continued caressing his pecs, Fallon couldn’t help but gasp in surprise and delight. “See, you really need to take a break.” Ashton pulled Fallon closer and kissed his lips very passionately.

Fallon was surprised by Ashton’s sudden kiss, but he couldn’t fight it because it felt too good. As they started making out, Ashton pulled Fallon’s hand to his bulge, making the bear feel the big, throbbing dick. Even though Ashton guided Fallon’s hand, Fallon couldn’t resist the urge to stroke Ashton’s dick.

Ashton smiled and reached below to take his dick out of the pouch for Fallon to have full access to it. The foot-long fuck tool shined brightly under the light, making the big head look deliciously inviting. Fallon broke the kiss and looked down at Ashton’s hard dick. Fallon was so entranced already that he couldn’t think of anything but Ashton’s dick. He didn’t need orders; he didn’t need Ashton to say anything; Fallon knew what he had to do.

Fallon leaned forward to fit the big head of Ashton’s dick into his mouth, making the big guy moan in pleasure. Fallon was an expert at giving head, so less than a minute later, Ashton was panting heavily as his dick leaked precum like an open faucet. Even though they had been together a few times before, Ashton was surprised by Fallon’s skilled mouth.

“You’re full of surprises and...” Ashton started saying as he pulled Fallon from his dick to kiss his lips again. “I want to fill you up with kids; I want to hear you begging to carry so many of my babies,” Ashton added as he kissed Fallon’s lips some more before moving away from him and from the desk, leaving Fallon panting and longing for more.

“Whatever you want to do! Please, fill me up,” Fallon said, sounding desperate and willing to carry Ashton’s dick. “I want to give you a large brood.” Fallon panted as Ashton waddled toward the door.

“We can have lots of fun, but not yet. Finish your work, and I’ll be waiting for you,” Ashton commanded as he left the room, leaving Fallon unable to think of anything else but Ashton’s body.

As Ashton walked down the hall and into the father’s wing, he found a naked Dalton waiting for him with his huge dick still fully hard. “I’m ready, big daddy. I waited for you,” Dalton said, sounding desperate.

“And I’m ready,” Ashton responded, firmly gripping Dalton’s hard dick to pull him to the living room. “Are you ready? I know we’ve done this before, but this time, I have a bigger goal.”

“What is it, big daddy?” Dalton said as he leaned forward against the couch to present his ass to horny Ashton.

Ashton leaned against Dalton’s back to whisper in his ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. I’ll pump you full with my kids. You’re going to carry my brood.” Ashton whispered as he rubbed his dick against Dalton’s hole, who responded with a moan of agreement, ready to be filled with Ashton’s seed.

...

[writingforatwistedworld]

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, murder, death, stalking, violence, obsessive behavior, obsessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, blood

Your totally normal isekaid househusband

Vil by himself is already... something?

But then imagine, someone that can use magic ending up in our world

Yeah, becoming more or less a househusband is not exactly high on the list of possibilities

Jokes on the list though, that is exactly what Vil did

One year later and he is standing in an apron in your kitchen whilst you are rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, him greeting you with a “Have you slept well? I made breakfast.”

He can barely suppress himself from hanging a “darling” at the end

Or from proposing to you but Vil wants to do that with style... and when he is finally able to calm down enough that the thought of marriage with you doesn't make him a flustered puddle

For anyone else he wouldn't even have lifted a finger but for you? He is the perfect stay at home partner

The Chronicles of neighbor gossip speaks of a legend that says that angels are weeping tears of joy and singing chorus whenever Vil wipes the house own for the last speck of dust

Despite being held in such high regard, Vil is not part of the tightly-knit neighborhood spy system

Aka hpstay at home partners gossiping with each other

Oh no, he has better things to do

Like making sure that one coworker of yours finally gets it and stays away

Doesn't matter if they are from the opposite or the same gender as you

Once you brought over a new coworker that was a bit too pushy and followed you all the way back home just for them to be found dead the next morning

You would believe that the model would return to modeling, needing that sweet sweet cash, but no, he doesn't

Why should he when he can also do your laundry and smell the sweet smell of your shampoo that has rubbed into the fabric... WHY ARE YOU SO EARLY HOME??!

And he totally does not want to speak into a pillow whenever you look at him with that cute, tired expression when you come home after a long day

The only time Vil cares to be social is when it could be for your benefit or he has to make sure that no one gets too close to you

Ok, yeah, you probably aren't a fan of that one noisy neighbor lady... Let him take care of her?

Oh you know, just let him bake some cakes...

“No da- *ahem* don't take a piece. I made them for her. It never hurts to be nice, right?”

HAS SO MANY PHOTOS

Pro tip, DO NOT open his closet

If you do, you might find yourself feeling a bit invaded when it comes to your privacy

But other than that, he is a perfect househusband!

Do me a favor though, ok? Don't let too many others into the house

One day you might hear something snap and then the kitchen needs a change of wallpaper

And maybe the police needs to be called but who am I to talk

It's not like the crime rate went up after he arrived, right?

[cordeliawhohung]

hello, how are you today? :D last time i checked i saw your requests were open so i wanted to ask if you could write a reader and cowboy!gaz piece?

i was watching western shows with my granny the other day (it's her pastime and honestly some of them are pretty interesting) and there was this part in an episode where a woman and her cowboy husband were doing the laundry together until someone came over to their house which was by the town and started to bother them and it escalated until the husband ended up fighting that person in the middle of the street... anyway, all the laundry that was up on the drying line was ripped and thrown to the ground in the tussle and the couple just look at each other after the whole ordeal and are just like...welp. more laundry again

but yeah that's sort of what happened, if it's possible, could you incorporate that plot with gaz and reader? it'd mean a lot to me and i think it'd be a little hectic but sometimes people find peace in all that chaos.

thank you!

oh my sweet sweet anon this idea rotted my brain and i wrote this in a day (: pardon any mistakes i wrote this half awake and sorry my brain was in the damn GUTTER the whole time but i hope you enjoy!!! thank you so much for this request it was so much fun and made me think about things i.... never have a;lskdjf

masterlist

You and your husband live a quiet life on the outskirts of town, that is until a misunderstanding ruins your calm day of doing laundry. At least your husband is there to help pick up the slack.

warnings: fluff! not much else!! core went overboard again! slight suggestive language. 2.6k words long.

Summers on the outskirts of the Rocky Mountains were always dry and warm. Blistering rays of sun soaked the fragrant sagebrush around you and you intermittently wiped sweat from your brow as you hung freshly washed laundry on the line to dry. The nice thing about the sweltering weather was that the unblocked sun and gentle breeze would make quick work of it. 

Once you were half way through your pile, the familiar sound of a horse clomping their feet on the dirt road past your home caught your attention. After you finished pinning up one of your blouses, you paused and turned your gaze towards the road. Your husband, Kyle, meandered along on his horse not too far off in the distance. Grinning, you wiped your damp hands off on your apron before skipping off towards him. You had sent him off not too long ago to head into town to purchase a few things for dinner that night; one of the nice things about living so close to town was that errands never took him too long. 

“You started the laundry without me!” he called out. 

His horse, who he had named Cisco but you called Spot due to its domino-like pattern, snorted as they approached the gate you found yourself leaning against. Kyle hopped off in one smooth and rehearsed motion before he worked on parking his horse on the post. You innocently tilted your head at him as you watched his fingers diligently tie the reins around the wood. You watched the tendons in his hands flex as he worked, and you found your own hands busying themselves by toying with the strings of your apron. 

“Figured I’d get a head start,” you explained.

“Head start?” he asked as he sauntered towards the gate. “Looks like you got half the load done already.” 

You loved listening to him talk, and could never get enough of his voice. Not only the dark timbre of it, or the way he always crooned at you, but his accent. His family had immigrated from England when he was a young boy, and despite the time he spent in the American West, he still held onto bits of his accent. When you had first heard him speak, you thought it was silly the way he pronounced certain words, but you found it awfully cute hearing American terms from him. 

“Sounds like you’ll have to make it up to me later,” you teased as he entered through the gate and closed it behind him. 

He held out a small leather pouch and gently shook it in his hands as he approached you with a boyish grin. “Oh, was getting ingredients for supper not enough?” he teased. 

You tilted your head again as you snatched the pouch out of his hands. You hummed as if considering his words. “I’ll have to think on it.” 

Without another word, you turned around and began to make your way back towards the clothes line as you threw a teasing glance over your shoulder. Kyle stood there with his thumbs shoved in his pockets and a cheeky smile on his lips, and you weren’t oblivious to the way his eyes roamed down your legs, hypnotized by the sway of your hips. 

You placed the pouch in the pocket of your apron as you approached the line again, and you felt the light weight of it swing around as you bent down to grab more clothes. Not far behind you, Kyle assisted in finishing the laundry, and the two of you worked quietly in finishing the mundane chore. 

As you worked, you couldn’t help but steal a glance or two at Kyle. Alright, more than a glance or two, but you couldn’t be blamed. Not when he was as fine of a specimen as he was. A proper cowboy, he sported a thick pair of jeans that hugged his thighs and a long sleeved maroon shirt. His attire was a bit more relaxed as he wasn’t working with the animals, yet he still wore his black cowboy hat to keep the shining sun off his face. Even through the fabric of his shirt you could see the way his muscles flexed as he shook out one of your dresses before reaching up to pin it on the line. The way his waist tapered at his hips should have been illegal.

When a quarter of the pile was left, the furious huffing sounds of a horse could be heard galloping down the road at full speed. At first you didn’t pay it much mind, as plenty of people used the road outside your house to get to other ranches, but when the horse started to slow, you knew you had a visitor. 

Mr. Davis was a kind enough man, albeit a bit thick skulled and old enough to watch the birth of the world. Kyle often said the man couldn’t tell a pig from his own mother, and though you chastised him and told him that was rude to say, you knew he was right. You had once gone into town to shop at the store he worked at and watched him struggle to figure out how much change he needed to give back to you. Instead of holding down the shop like he was supposed to, he was on his horse, very red in the face and speeding towards your home. 

“What else did you do while you were in town?” you questioned as you held a damp pair of jeans. 

Previously unbothered, Kyle stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to the road. The soft smile on his face vanished and was replaced with confusion. “Nothin’ that would warrant him showin’ up here.” 

Sighing, Kyle quickly dried his hands off on the thighs of his jeans before resting a hand on the small of your back. Even through the fabric of your blouse you could feel how the warmth of him bleed through into your skin. The two of you stood there absolutely dumbfounded as you watched Mr. Davis struggle to park his horse next to Spot. It was lazy and half-assed work and you watched the reins slowly begin to unknot, but he stormed up the path anyway, up through the gate, and started to shake his finger as he approached you and Kyle. 

“Mr. Davis!” Kyle greeted, a bit tense as he took a few steps towards the man. “What can I help you with?” 

“Help? You can help by returning my bell!” the man shouted, his hoarse voice hardly carrying over the distance. 

He stopped just short of the end of the clothes line and he crossed his arms over his chest. Sweat laid in heavy beads across his forehead, and his breathing was far more labored than it should have been. His lips sat in a thin line and you noticed how his eyebrow kept twitching as he stood there glaring at your husband. 

“I apologize, but I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talkin’ about,” Kyle admitted as his thumbs dipped back into his pockets. 

“Don’t play dumb,” Mr. Davis snapped as he pointed his finger. “You snuck it into that bag of yours, didn’t you?” 

Instinctively, your hand clutched at the pocket of your apron where you kept the pouch Kyle had used to store the items for dinner. It was mostly spices and small vegetables; certainly nothing that could have been confused with any bell. Mr. Davis must have caught sight of your reaction because he took another step forward in an attempt to walk around Kyle. 

“Yes! That one!” he exclaimed. He held his hand out with the intention of snatching it from you, and you found yourself stumbling backwards. “Hand it here, girl!” 

Before the man could get close to you, Kyle’s hand shot out and grabbed Mr. Davis by his wrist. The only other time you had seen Kyle that angry was when someone had spilled bourbon over his brand new chaps. It took ages for you to help him get the stench of alcohol out of them, and a rumor had started going around that he was a drunk because of the stench. But the fire in his eyes then was nothing but a small spark compared to the raging storm that ate up the sweet brown hue of his irises. 

“You best remember who you’re talkin’ to,” Kyle warned. “That’s my wife and you’d do well to treat her with respect.” 

As if the store clerk wasn’t riled up enough, being grabbed by Kyle certainly pushed him over the edge. He tried to wrestle his arm out of your husband’s grip, but Kyle was infinitely stronger than the rather fragile man. All he had managed to do was flail his arms until his hand caught on the collar of one of Kyle’s work shirts. Pins came flying loose as the clothing was tossed down into the dirt on the ground. 

“Respect?” Mr. Davis repeated incredulously. “Awfully interesting of you to request respect when you stole something right under my nose!” 

“Mr. Davis, please,” you tried to reason, “I’m not quite sure what it is you’re looking for.” 

“My bell!” he shouted in response, arms still flailing against Kyle’s grip. 

“Well, yes, but perhaps if you took a moment to breathe and explain-” 

“Or your lying husband could give back what’s mine!” he interrupted. 

“Alright,” Kyle warned, “that’s enough outta you.” 

What unfolded in front of you was so confusing you didn’t have the words to explain it. Mr. Davis wasn’t an insidious man, by any means, just extremely dense, so when Kyle tried to drag him off your property, he did his best not to hurt the man. Though the man had nothing on your husband's strength, he certainly knew how to flail. Shirts, dresses, jeans; several articles of clothing flew to the ground as Mr. Davis managed to tangle himself in the clothing line. If you hadn’t spent the better part of the last hour or so washing them by hand, you would have thought the sight was a bit comedic. Instead you found yourself cringing at the awkwardness of it all. 

Your only saving grace through it all was that another horse galloped at full speed towards your home. Clay Turner was the owner of the store Mr. Davis worked for, so it only made sense he was the one you saw racing towards your home. He was a fine and charismatic gentleman, but you had caught him sneaking fresh produce into his pockets on several occasions. You weren’t sure how a business could be as successful as his when he shoved his mouth full of his product any chance he could get, but you weren’t one to judge too harshly when the prices were so cheap. 

“Whole damn town coming to visit?” you mumbled to yourself. 

“Mr. Davis!” he called, nearly tossing himself onto the ground as he rushed through the gate. “Stop harassing these poor folks!” 

But the man was still too busy tussling with Kyle to pay much attention to his boss. Clay shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small metal item that he held lazily up in the air. Upon closer inspection, you realized it was a small bell; the type to put on a desk or counter in order to call someone over. Was this the item Mr. Davis came all that way to accost your husband over? 

It wasn’t until Clay started to ring the bell that the man stopped struggling, but even then his eyes found you as he pointed at you once more. “Ah, so you do have it! Give it here this instant!” 

“Oh, you senile old man,” Clay muttered. With more force than needed, he yanked Mr. Davis away from Kyle and shoved the bell into his hands. The man looked down, completely astounded. “Maggie’s boy snatched it off the counter, you idiot. Now get on your horse and get back to work.” 

Burning red shame on his face, Mr. Davis looked up from his bell, to Kyle, and then to you before watching his feet as he walked back towards the gate without so much as an apology. Sighing, Clay offered the two of you a short smile as he wiped his hands off on the front of his shirt. 

“I apologize for that delirious old man,” he said sincerely. “He bought a desk bell for the front counter and brought it into work today. Says it’s easier to keep track of customers while he’s doing inventory. As you can tell it’s… very important to him.”

“So I noticed,” Kyle deadpanned. 

Clay’s face tensed as he glanced at you and then to the ground. A myriad of clothing was scattered everywhere with heavy amounts of dirt smudged into the fabric. On the front of your favorite blush pink blouse was a large footprint. You’d be lying if you said that sight didn’t upset you a little bit. 

“I apologize for the mess, Mrs. Garrick,” Clay continued. “I’ll make sure to give you a mighty fine discount next time you visit the store.” 

One short and awkward farewell later, Clay and Mr. Davis slowly faded away down the road. Dumbfounded, Kyle turned to face you with a small shake of his head. His hat had been knocked off in the midst of their argument, but had been caught by his stampede strings and rested against his back. A few buttons had either been torn off or came loose because the top part of his shirt was open, exposing his sternum. Glistening skin laid underneath, and you found your eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

“Knew I should’ve gone to Clancy’s,” Kyle sighed. “Why don’t you head inside and start supper? I’ll clean up out here.” 

Humming, you reached for him and rested your hand on his chest. Sweat covered his skin in a thin sheen, and he felt warm to the touch. Whatever irritation that had been on his face melted away into a smirk as he rested his hand on top of yours. 

“What?” he teased, smirk morphing into a grin. “You asked me to make it up to you earlier, didn’t you?” 

“I had something a little more fun in mind than you doing chores,” you admitted. 

As he thought for a moment, your hand slowly trailed down his sternum, only stopping when you had been blocked by the closed buttons of his shirt. Kyle took the stampede strings from around his throat and grabbed a hold of his hat before quickly placing it on your head. It was a few sizes too big and fit oddly on your head, and you found your hands flying up to keep it on straight. 

“How about we wait to have fun until we’re sure we won’t get any more visitors?” he suggested. 

A part of you wanted to say you didn’t care, but you knew that if Mr. Davis came by again to pitch a fit while you were trying to spend quality time with Kyle, the sheriff would be investigating a murder. So you huffed in agreement before crossing your arms. 

“Alright,” you conceded. “Suppose I might as well put these ingredients to good use after all the trouble you went through to get it.” 

Kyle’s hand came up to your chin and tilted your head upwards. He placed a short, chaste kiss on your lips before diving back in for a deeper one. A part of you almost wished he hadn’t because that only made your desire for him grow stronger. It took everything within you to keep your hands to yourself, and you instead busied your fingers with the task of keeping his hat on your head. You still felt him lingering on your lips in a pleasant tingle even after he pulled away. 

“Atta girl.” 

cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Cater, Ruggie: The Secret in a Smile

Caycay, bestie… I am so sorry that SSR Crowley stole your spotlight 😭 (Is that why Cater looks so Mean Girls in his groovy... He's seeking petty revenge against Crowley/j)

Some cute stuff from the vignettes that I wasn't able to include in this fic: Cater makes a reference to TsumTsums! He mentions being into this mobile game with cute round creatures. Cater also tells a story about a 5-year old girl giving him a flower after his club's performance at a cultural festival (omg, do they mean the one in book 5?!). Ruggie teases him and says Cater must have been that little girl's first crush 😂

A Tale as Old as Time.

“Ne, ne, Ruggie-kun! Check this one out~ It's all the way from the Queendom of Roses!"

Cater jabbed a thumb at a painting of a young blonde girl dressed in a modest sky blue frock and apron, a small black bow in her hair. She couldn’t have been older than 10 years of age, still petite enough to squish inside a glass bottle with a narrow neck. The bottled child was adrift in a sudsy sea, her face frozen in an expression of slight worry.

Ruggie took one look at the artwork, then wrinkled his nose. “Sure sucks to be in her shoes. What’s this even supposed to show us, anyway? Doesn’t make a whole lotta sense to me.”

"Not a lot from the Queendom does if you aren't already familiar with its topsy-turvy stories~" Cater placed a hand on his hip and leaned forward, grinning. "This one is pretty popular! It's about a girl that wants an audience with the Queen of Hearts. She gets lost on the journey there, meets strange people and experiences even stranger things on the way. This is just one leg of that trip!"

"Wouldn’t the castle be further inland? How'd she end up in the middle of the ocean?"

“It’s about the perspective of the shot.” Cater formed a frame with his hands, catching his underclassman in it. He pulled back, creating the illusion of sizing Ruggie down. “She drank this bottled liquid she found and that shrank her down—so really, the ocean isn’t that big.”

A grimace.

“Man, talk about no sense of self preservation. She just chugged an unlabeled bottle without a second thought. Must’ve been real desperate.” Ruggie paused. “Weeeell, not like I’m one to talk about being desperate. You really can’t afford to be picky sometimes. If it fills your stomach, it fills your stomach.”

“You’d drink it too, huh… I don’t think I could do that. I’d at least want to see how the menu describes it before I order—though I guess it also depends on how ‘cammable the drink is! And hey, think about all the cool pics I could grab from a worm's eye point of view!”

"Heh, you don't seem too pressed about living life as an ant."

"Cay-kun likes to look on the bright side of things!" he declared with a wink and a peace sign. "The lost girl... she worried so much about finding her destination, she forgets to stop and smell the roses. She overlooks a lot of the fun people she could have spent time with."

Hopping from place to place, missed people—familiar elements, resurfacing a childhood of being uprooted and dragged about. Never to fully settle.

A tea party here, a brief convo there. Just enough to keep him placated, but not enough to see beyond the surface of the looking glass.

His curiosity still left wanting.

She got into so much trouble, but didn't have any real friends to come and help her.

Sadness tugged at his heartstrings, but Cater's smile didn’t waver.

"... I can’t help but kinda pity the poor thing," he said quietly. Then, brightening in the next moment, "All her issues could've been avoided if she just looked before she leapt and made some connections."

“Yeah, she definitely should’ve played smarter, not harder. Maybe if she kissed up to the locals, they’d have come to her rescue." Ruggie shrugged. "It works for me and Leona-san."

“Right? A smile goes a long way to getting what you want!” Cater poked the corners of his mouth. “You totes get me.”

“Cuz it takes a trickster to know another one on sight.”

"Wow, it sounds so mean when you put it like that. We're not tricksters, we just know how to use our smiles to problem-solve~"

"Giving a word a fresh coat of paint doesn't make it any less shady. At least be honest with yourself," the hyena smirked.

“Eeeh, I’m always honest!”

They shared a laugh—Ruggie, a snicker. Cater, lighter, more bubbly, like a carbonated mystery drink. When the effervescence died down, he cast another glance at the painting.

Too big for her small world of the sea, too small for the big world that loomed beyond it. Trapped within glass walls. Curled into herself in her delicate chambers.

Her perspective and his, one and the same.

Poor thing, poor thing, poor thing.

Cater summoned his strength and bore the full brunt of his smile.

“I’m sure she’ll find what she’s looking for… one day.”

[thewriterthatghostedyou]

The Butterfly Effect

Chapter 1

Ok so it’s been a whileeeeeee since I’ve written anything lol but I’ve been reading more House of the Dragon fanfics and got ✨inspired✨ by @sepherinaspoppies and @evagreen-stories so if this vibes with you check their stuff out! This will be a dark fic though just a warning for y’all.

Guess this was longer than I intended but I wanted all of the introductions and start of the story in one part. Any feedback or comments are appreciated but never expected! I hope you enjoy!

Trigger warnings: none yet but there will be more next chapter

The heat in the kitchens was more unbearable than usual. The air in the room was typically stuffy due to the large stone ovens the Westerosi people used, but you had forced yourself to become accustomed to the heat. It was worth the effort; however, as having a steady job as a woman was near impossible in this day and age.

You craned your neck down to look at the dough you were rolling and silently thanked your mother for forcing you to help in her bakery as a child. You grew to enjoy baking as you grew up, and luckily had many recipes memorized. You needed money and there were worse ways to get it.

Sweat rolled down your temple as you remembered running through the streets of silk in your jogging outfit, eyes darting fearfully around watching the prostitutes lure in new customers as you took in a new and scary world.

“What is it this time?” The head chef, Naerys, walked over to you, eyeing your work curiously.

You gave the older woman a smile as finished rolling out the dough. “It’s called a croissant. If done right it should be flakey on the outside and airy on the inside.”

Naerys nodded thoughtfully and motioned for you to continue.

“Now we need to let it sit for a while before we store it in a cool place.” You tried to pull your hands from the sticky dough and squeezed any remaining part of it off your fingers as you spoke.

“Impressive work as always.” Naerys gave you a motherly smile as she continued. “We should be prepared for tomorrow.”

“Should be?” You arched a brow at that. “I have prepared everything as much as I possibly can unless you want me to throw it all into the oven now.” As much as you enjoyed your job baking tarts and cakes, your bones creaked from carrying in heavy sacks of flour and longed for sleep.

“Now don’t give me that look, love,” Naerys sighed. “You do good work, and meal wise we are well prepared for tomorrow; however, Ursa fell ill today. We need you to attend to the feast.”

You sighed as you knew where she was going with this. Different worlds or not bosses always have the same look when asking you to go above and beyond your job. And of course the maidservant that tended to the royal family fell ill on the day that Princess Rhaenyra returned to the Red Keep.

“It’s not forever,” Naerys rushed to get out. “Just until Ursa is well again. We cannot afford to lose you here.” You and your recipes more likely. You knew that the nobles enjoyed your modern pastries and more than often found yourself making extra batches to fit the demand. “And if you do this we’ll have Alannys bring in the new bags of flour.” Now that was certainly tempting and your hands were already aching from the massive load you brought in today yourself. What harm could bringing a few plates out do?

You fidgeted with the strings of your apron, white flour clinging to the fabric. “Fine.” You begrudgingly gave in. “I’m not sure what exactly to do though. I’ve never tended to the tables, much less a royal one at that.”

Naerys gave a small exhale of relief and smiled at you brightly. “We’ll have someone else carry in the platters, all you need to do is fill their goblets with wine. Most of the time they will hold it out for you to fill.” Naerys grabbed a nearby clean apron and handed it to you while motioning at your dirtied one. “You must change that though and rebraid your hair my dear, you’ll need to look clean and presentable for the royal family.”

“Of course.” You nodded and quickly untied the old apron. “Is there anything else that I need to know? What will happen if the pitcher runs out of wine?” The dirty apron hit the ground with a light thud as you reached for the clean one. It smelled slightly of soap and was sharply pressed. Naerys was not joking about you looking presentable it seemed.

“Ah yes, the eldest prince, Aegon, will no doubt drink heavily.” She hummed, watching as you finished refastening the apron and removed your cap. At first you thought the big white hat that the servants wore was goofy, but now you appreciated how it would hide any loose curls or hairs as you redid your braids. “Once it is empty you can hand it to a nearby footman and he will fetch you another. Now, let me get a look at you.” Naerys eyed you carefully and pulled your cap back over your head. “Good. Now make haste to the dining room love, you must be there before anyone else.”

She smiled at you one more time as she shoved the pitcher into your hands. “Oh!” She exclaimed softly. “I almost forgot. Do not look them in the eyes, you are not to be seen or heard and try not to eavesdrop as hard as that may be. You will do wonderful.” With that the older woman turned and headed towards another cook toiling over a fire, only pausing to pick up your discarded apron.

You nodded your head quickly, perhaps trying to convince yourself of that very thought as you hurried out of the kitchens. You weren’t sure if the events of Fire and Blood will have changed since you were thrown into this tumultuous world, and you prayed to anyone that would listen that it hadn’t. As gruesome as the Dance of the Dragons was, it was better that you knew what was going to happen before it did.

The Red Keep was much larger than the shows and book made it seem and you still found yourself getting lost in the more obscure winding hallways. It was lucky that the royal dining room was near the library. Although you weren’t allowed entry to the room you still enjoyed walking past it and smelling the old books whenever you could. It reminded you of another time, another world. One that you wished you could go back to.

It was odd how one small choice had led to the upheaval of your entire life.

You needed to snap out of those thoughts. You needed to focus on the task at hand. The past was in the past. You watched as the doors that lined the halls grew more and more ornate as you walked the long trek from the kitchens to the part of the castle the royal family inhabited.

The usually quiet halls covered with plush rugs and richly colored tapestries were bustling as other servants ran around, trying to perfect every last detail before the royal family came for dinner.

You picked up on the smells of honey roasted ham and other various dishes that made your mouth water. Although you worked in the kitchens day in and day out, you never had a chance to sample the food you served to others. Usually it didn’t bother you, you would go back to your small hut near the castle entrance where you shared a home with three other servants and made your own meals. But that didn’t stop your stomach from grumbling slightly as you entered the large dining room. When was the last time you had something to eat?

“Ah there you are!” A footman who had a striking resemblance to a weasel came rushing over to you as your eyes darted around the room. There were a few musicians in the back of the room, testing and strumming their instruments softly and chattering about something you could not overhear. In the middle of the room was a large table filled to the brim with food that you had a part in cooking.

“The king is about to arrive. You may stand over there.” The man gently grabbed your arms and led you across the room into a small barely noticeable alcove next to great velvety curtains that framed windows larger than you.

You only nodded dumbly as he rushed away. You didn’t know what to respond with and even if you did you didn’t know how to phrase it. The people in Westeros spoke some type of Old English that you had trouble mimicking and even back home when there were no odd phrases you had trouble conversing with others. Perhaps if you were lucky everyone would think you were dumb and wouldn’t notice you. You knew of Prince Aegon’s habits with other maids and already regretted agreeing to serve the family.

You were snapped back to reality as cheerful chattering grew closer and the Velaryon boys strode into the room with Princess Rhaenyra and her husband Prince Daemon in tow.

“The Red Keep certainly looks different.” You overheard Jace say to Lady Baela.

“It looks more like the Sept of Baelor but greener.” Baela scoffed, earning a small chuckle from her father.

“It is rather garish is it not?” He responded, pulling out a chair near the middle of the table for his wife before seating himself next to her.

The Princess smiled at the sentiment while Jace and Baela sat across from the pair. “It seems like Alicent has had a hand in the decorations.”

It was as if her words had summoned the queen herself, as Alicent entered with her arm intertwined with the King’s keeping him steady as he struggled to shuffle over to his chair.

If this was following the show this would be his last night alive. You felt the hairs on your arms raise as he fell into his seat harshly but smiled at his daughter with a content expression.

“How good it is to see your face my dear.” He huffed out, ignoring his other children seating themselves on his other side. You noticed in particular as the One-eyed Prince started drinking as soon as he sat down.

Perhaps Aegon wouldn’t be the drunkest tonight after all. You walked on the edges of the room trying to remain unseen as the younger Prince raised his cup for more. You slowly obliged his silent request, focusing more on trying not to over fill the cup than the conversation at hand.

With that done, you stepped back silently and noticed that his brother had also finished. If the dinner had just started and the Princes kept up this pace it’d be a long meal.

The minutes passed slowly as you occasionally refilled cups, more on the green side than the blacks.

Everything seemed to have been going well. Both Rhaenyra and Alicent were talking and laughing with the king before he had to be taken to his chambers to rest. And even you smiled as Jace offered to dance with his aunt. Helaena always was your favorite out of the bunch. And she looked happy as the two of them spun around, something she must not have felt often being married to Aegon.

You flinched as you heard someone clearing their throat and remembered why you were there. Your smile fell quickly as your eyes met the younger Prince’s sneer.

“Oh. Sorry.” You whispered out softly, rushing over to his side. Your hands shook slightly as you watched the red wine pour into his cup. Unlike the other times you attended to the Prince, this time you felt his sharp gaze on you as you worked. Perhaps he just thought you were lazy. You didn’t dare look up though. While the older brother was more often than not blackout drunk, the younger prince was known for his short temper that seemed to be set off at anything and everything. You remembered watching as other maids cried from his stern words and begged for reassignment.

“At least someone is enjoying themselves tonight.” He scoffed, talking quietly so only you could hear. “I’m sure for someone of your…” He paused as his eyes roved your body. “…station, that this is quite the spectacle. You small folk are all so easily entertained.”

You felt your face light on fire at his smug smile. Fucking elitist prick. His words made you seethe for some reason. It wasn’t like you haven’t been called worse, working in the food service industry had given you thick skin, but his remark was the reason you preferred to remain in the kitchens unseen. The nobles were all the same, ungrateful and spoiled.

You were about to open your mouth, perhaps for a clap back that would have cost you your head, when someone did you the favor of bringing out a roasted pig and setting it in front of the one-eyed Prince.

You huffed out a laugh as his cheek twitched at the sight which earned you another searing glare.

“Perhaps you are right. Enjoy the pig, my prince, as I know it reminds you of your first dragon. I cooked it myself.” You tried to keep your voice down but apparently Lucerys Velaryon had overheard and released a small laugh.

Perhaps that is what set off Aemond as he stood up quickly and slammed his hand onto the table. You watched as his face morphed from his twisted sneer to something calmer. More collected.

“Final tribute.” He said with a smile as he raised his cup.

You took this moment to step back as he paused. “To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey.”

Alicent nervously began picking at her nails as her son spoke and the two Velaryon boys eyed Aemond cautiously. “Each of them handsome, wise…” He paused again and seemed to be debating something that he decided to ignore. “Strong.”

“Aemond.” Alicent hissed, eyes nervously darting across the room.

“Come let us drain our cups to these three,” He gave a shit eating grin to Jace as Aegon waved his cup in the air laughing. “Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace snapped, stomping towards his uncle.

“Why? ‘‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourselves strong?” As Jace got closer you watched as he punched Aemond across the face which only caused the One-eyed Prince to laugh as he kept hold of his wine. At the same time you heard Aegon slam Lucerys’ head into the table as he tried to get up.

“Jace!” Rhaenyra shouted, standing up quickly. “That’s enough!”

With a scoff, Aemond shoved Jace away from him and swirled his drink with a bored expression. He pretended not to see the two guards holding back the Velaryons. “It seems I’m in need of more wine.” He gave you a cold smile as he sauntered over.

“Perhaps you’ve had enough.” Alicent said, rushing over to her younger son. “You may leave.” She waved you away dismissively and for the first time that night you had not been happier until Aemond grabbed your arm harshly.

“Nonsense we’ve barely started eating mother.” He shoved his cup towards you again and waved it expectantly. “Well?”

You gave a questioning look to the queen who instead of answering turned her son towards her and waved you away. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?”

You didn’t wait to hear anything else, and instead scurried towards the doors as quickly as you could. You knew you shouldn’t look back at the train wreck behind you but part of you couldn’t help it.

As you closed the heavy door behind you, you noticed one violet eye piercing into you, instead of listening to his mother. It was then that you knew that the Prince would not forget your words.

[azsazz]

Dial Drunk

Small Town!Cassian x Archeron Sister!Reader

Summary: Cassian can't get you out of his head. The alcohol doesn't help, either.

Based on the song Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan

Warnings: Drinking, fist-fighting, police, mentions of cheating (not cassian), mentions of a boy dragging a girl upstairs (not cassian), angst, break-up.

Word Count: 4,070

_________________________________________

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Cassian grumbles, shoving some of the sopping wet hair out of his face. He doesn’t care that it’s raining, that droplets bead at the tip of his straight nose, that his clothes are soaked through and sticking to his skin or that he’s standing in front of the entrance to Ritas, he doesn’t care about any of it. 

The only thing he does care about is the fact that you’re not answering his calls.

He curses as your cheery voice chimes in his ear, tinny through the line. It’s your voicemail, telling him something about sticking around and about how you can’t get to the phone right now and that you’ll call him back. It’s utter fucking bullshit, is what it is. You’ve been dodging his calls for weeks now, ever since you’d told him you wanted to stop seeing him.

Cassian’s heart has been aching ever since.

He doesn’t leave a message this time—mostly because there’s no room in your inbox, filled with messages long left from him. He grunts and shoves his phone back into his pocket. The bitter taste of his drink is thrown back with a grimace. Rita would have his balls if she found out he took one of her glasses out here, and it’s all he can do not to chuck it into the street in frustration.

He just wants a chance to explain.

The door behind him shoves open and hits his back. Cassian spins, a remark on the tip of his tongue, fingers curled around the glass, ready to use it as a weapon if he needs to.

It’s Rita herself, bar owner and roughened with years of dealing with drunken regulars. The short, stocky woman glares up at him as if he’s not three times her size. She’s wiping her hands on the towel hanging from the pocket of her apron, then crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Knew I was missing a glass,” she comments, nodding to Cassian’s hand. He grimaces, shoulders falling and swallowing back the rude retort he had prepared if it were anyone other than her. Anger itches at his skin, his fists aching to smash through something as the alcohol burns through his veins.

“Sorry,” he grits, handing over the glass. Rita gives him a knowing look that he ignores and holds the door wider for him, inviting him back into the dank warmth of the bar.

He trudges inside. He doesn’t want people looking at him like that, with pity because he’d let the best thing he’d ever had go. Everyone in town knows by now how one of those sweet Archeron sisters broke his heart. 

Broke is a loose term. It feels like you’ve done much more than that. Ripped it out of his chest and doused it with your favorite alcohol, lighting it on fire in the streets for the whole town to see. It feels like you’d let it turn to ash and picked up the soot and threw it into the river, washing your hands of him. 

Fuck, did he mess up. Again and again and again. He can’t blame you though, you’d put up with enough for him and you never had to. Nesta nor Elain cared for him, he knew from the moment you’d first brought him home, when all they could do was share secretive looks with each other, uncaring if he caught them. It was almost as if they wanted him to see. Feyre and he got along, if only for the fact that she was nicer than the other two and actually gave him a chance.

Cassian’s sure the Archeron household was filled with cheers when you told them you’d left him.

He slumps back into the seat he’d been occupying since he’d gotten off of work. He didn’t want to go back to the meager apartment he calls home. It’s littered with dirty clothes and old pizza boxes, and there’s no food there anyway. He’s even drunk the last dregs of any of the alcohol he has, and he hasn’t been to the store yet to restock. He hasn’t had the energy to. At least Rita has a bowl of nuts sitting on the bar. Cassian takes a handful and shoves them into his mouth, but they sit uneasily in his alcohol filled stomach.

“Careful, the old men suck the chocolate off of those,” the bartender says, swiping at the bartop with her towel, sweeping away the drops of water dripping from his hair.

He gags and she laughs. “I’m only joking.” Cassian sizes her up. She’s pretty, he supposes, chestnut hair pulled high into a ponytail at the back of her head, tiny hairs framing her face in a way he’s not sure is intentional or not. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief and she’s wearing a cropped black t-shirt with the bar's logo on the front.

If he were more inebriated he’d probably let her take him home, let her ride him and forget your memory in her cunt.

He forces a laugh. “Another bourbon, please.” 

“You cutting that with anything?” She presses, raising a perfectly trimmed brow. “Water, perhaps?”

“The ice is enough, thanks,” he answers, polite as he can. He’s trying to be patient, but the longer he sits here with no drink in his hand the more sober he gets, and at least if he’s drunk he can blame it on that when someone finally reams him out about calling you nonstop. 

The bartender nods, and he can’t help himself, watching her as she works, eyes trailing down her body, over the curves of her plump ass as she bends over, probably for his benefit. 

Cassian averts his gaze before she turns around, taking in the room. 

Rita’s is packed with townies, as it always is on Friday nights. He prefers it over any of the other spots in town: the boujee new gastropub right up the street or the po-dunk watering hole with shitty pop-country music and a line dancing floor that he used to frequent with you and your friends. He’d adored watching you out there on the dancefloor, living it up with a beaming smile on your face. Everyone loved you over there, and a part of him wonders if you still frequent there, or if you’ve found somewhere else to be, all to be sure to avoid him.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the bartender winks, sliding the glass across the countertop. He catches it and lifts it in response, saluting her before bringing it to his lips, savoring the bite of the spicy liquor.

One more turns to two turns to three and a shot here or there. The bar fills steadily as the night grows later. His ass is numb in his chair, but so are his lips, and it must be the alcohol’s doing. His phone lies open on the counter, texts from his friends gone unanswered in favor of your smiling face staring back at him—his wallpaper from ages ago. It’s the most recent picture he has of you and he hasn’t had the guts to change it yet. 

He finds himself wondering if your hair still looks like that, if your smiles are still as bright or if your eyes still sparkle without him. If your laughter is the same or different now that you’re no longer hanging around him, Rhys, and Azriel. He wants to know if you still wear the sweatshirt you stole from him on your first date, or his shirts to bed, or his socks because they were much more comfortable and cozy than yours. He never believed that, but seeing you in them is one of his favorite things.

Was one of his favorite things.

Cassian puts his head in his hands, trying to shut out the memory of you. His head is spinning a little, but if he’s still thinking about you it means he hasn’t had enough. 

He’s about to order another when two men sidle up to his side. It takes him a moment to clear his vision, a harsh blink, then two, and it’s then that Cassian can focus on who stands before him.

Tomas and Grayson. 

Both victims of an Aercheron breakup.

Both fucking pricks. 

“Those Archeron sisters are fucking bitches, man,” Tomas claps him on the shoulder in greeting. Cassian’s fingers tighten around his glass and his jaw clenches tightly. He doesn’t want to be around these two. He’d seen Tomas and Nesta when they were together, how he’d been trying to drag her upstairs at a party after she’d had one too many. Gwyn and Emerie had come running up to you and Cassian, begging him for help. 

He can’t be surprised that Tomas doesn’t remember the incident, since he’d knocked him out cold. Nesta was furious with him either way, not because he’d stopped the man, but because she’d been clutching a vase in her hand and wanted the final hit.

The incident didn’t help Cassian get on her good side.

And Grayson, the boy who vowed to marry Elain one day, then cheated on her with some girl from the next town over. It was when they were freshman in high school, so no one really thought they would last forever anyway. Well, except for Elain, but the cheating had been messy, and she’d broken up with him only to find Lucien soon after, the both of them inseparable to this day.

“Especially that one you were with,” Grayson adds, and Cassian knows they know your name. “She doesn’t like anyone, dude, don’t take it to heart.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Cassian grits, shouldering Tomas’ hand away, “And get the fuck off of me.” 

“Woah, bro,” Tomas responds, holding his hands up in surrender. His drink sloshes over the edge of his glass a little, and it catches Cassian’s attention. He’s drinking a sex on the beach for fuck’s sake. He needs them to go away. Now. “Just stating the facts.”

Ire grinds his bones, streams through his body like snakes, coiling around him tighter and tighter until he’s so close to losing his grip on his anger that the glass cracks in his hand. It’s not shattered yet, but it just might, and he catches the spearing eyes of the bartender, flicking to Rita who’s working down the bar, before settling on his again, softly shaking her head.

He blows out a breath, letting the glass drop to the counter with a thud. Cassian shoves from his seat, stumbling a little, and he doesn’t like the way that both of the men flank him. He feels like a trapped dog, and he’s just waiting to snap.

“S’not facts,” Cassian slurs. The room spins, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s had to drink until this very moment, because the two men in front of them become four and then two and then four again, exchanging smirks with each other, ready to poke the beast. “She’s the best.”

“Not from what I’ve seen,” Grayson says, and Cassian never liked this kid. His voice is fucking gating, grinding on his brain in the worst way. “You should hear the shit she does for Eris now that she’s dropped your dumbass.” 

Grayson doesn’t see Cassian’s fist coming, but he sure as fuck feels it, even if it only clips his jaw because Cassian’s swaying backwards, the alcohol skewing his momentum. It makes the drink in his hand spill, glass shattering on the floor, and the next thing Cassian knows, Tomas’s fist is coming straight for his face.

He hardly feels the punch land, either because the prick is weak as fuck of because he’s had one too many. Cassian doesn’t feel his lip splitting open, catching on his teeth, nor does he taste the blood bursting into his mouth. He grins like a feral dog as he rights his balance, more than ready for a fight.

The bartender and Rita are yelling, and she’s whipping her towel across the bar in their direction, threatening something about calling the police but none of the three young men listen. Cassian’s already tucking in, a shot aimed straight for Grayson’s stomach. A cheap one, but it makes the little bitch bend over, groaning in agony, and Cassian feels triumphant for a moment before someone’s trying to pull him away.

Cassian’s nowhere near ready to stop, though, shoving the man behind him off. When he turns back to the two assholes making his shitty night worse, Tomas tosses Grayson’s drink in his face. The fruity alcohol burns slightly, stinging the split of his lip, but Cassian only raises a brow.

“That all you got, you fucking pussy?”

He catches the way their wide gazes go from his pulled back fist to over his shoulder as the door bangs open, then to each other, before they cower away from him, smirks hidden as they duck their chins.

“Cassian,” a deep voice calls over his shoulder. It’s one he’s too familiar with. One that he hates more than this gods damned break-up. 

Slowly, he lowers his fist, teetering around on his heel. Devlin stands behind him, decked out in his pristine police uniform. He has one hand on his hip. The butt of his gun glints in the lowlights of the bar. The other is on his walkie, speaking softly into it and Cassian’s stomach drops. He knows those words cutting through his drunken haze. 

Devlin’s going to take him in. 

Fuck his fucking life.

“Turn around, and put your hands behind your back,” Devlin says, dropping his hand from his walkie-talkie to the cuffs at his belt. His face is hard but Cassian can see the mirth swimming in his eyes clear as day. “I’m sure you know the drill by now.”

He does. It’s not the first time he’s been taken down to the station for fighting. Rhys, Az, and he have gotten caught for spray painting city buildings, underage drinking, fist-fights after school—normal small town shenanigans that almost everyone’s participated in once or twice.

He turns around, doesn’t resist as Devlin clips the metal around his wrists unnecessarily tight. Tomas and Gayson share matching smiles, and the younger asshole has his phone out, recording the events. Cassian bares his teeth, knowing that they’re going to blast it on social media for everyone in town to see. 

If you catch a look at it, it will only solidify your decision to break up with him.

He curses at them, but it does nothing. Devlin drags him from the bar by the scruff of his neck and shoves him outside. He’s met with a facefull of rain and the flashing red and blue of the police car sitting out front. They’re so bright they’re blinding, and he stumbles when Devlin pushes him forward, opening the door for him so he can slide into the familiar backseat. 

The ride down to the station is silent, except for the soft sounds of the transmitter radio. The town is pretty quiet tonight, so far, so the night must still be young. The streetlights glow red and green as they pass, and Cassian thinks that he should’ve just gone home and gone to bed, wallowing in his sad life. If he’d done so he wouldn’t be in handcuffs, on his way to the police station, still thinking about you. Always thinking about you. 

Devlin puts the car in park and leads him into the station. Balthazar is sitting at his desk, feet propped on top as he pushes off his paperwork a little longer in favor of snacking on a pack of powdered donuts from the vending machine. 

“Cass?” he questions, boots thudding loudly on the linoleum as he stands from his chair. He licks the white around his mouth, and normally, it might make Cassian smile, seeing his old campmate looking like a deer caught in headlights, but he’s in no mood to laugh right now. “What happened now?”

“Bar fight,” Devlin grunts, searching him for his things. He pulls out his wallet, flat and sad, and a hard candy he stole from Helion’s desk on his way out of work. “Where’s your phone, kid?”

Cassian’s heart swoops and he’s twisting around so frantically that Devlin takes a step back, hand going straight to the weapon holstered at his hip. “What do you mean? It’s not in my pocket?” 

“Son, if it’s not anywhere I can feel it, it’s not here. Unless you’ve shoved it up your ass,” Devlin grinds out, mouth flat.

Cassian rolls his eyes. He should be telling Devlin to stick his head up there to find it, but he’s too worried about his phone. What if you call him back? He bites back, “You left it at the fucking bar, then.”

“I didn’t leave shit,” the officer responds, his voice grating on Cassian’s nerves. It makes his fingers curl into fists, his hazel eyes glaring daggers at the stupid cop in front of him. “I’m not the one who didn’t make sure I had all my shit with me before starting a brawl.”

He tugs him roughly by the arms to one of the cells. Cassian’s shoulders pinch and his hands are going numb from how tightly the handcuffs are around his wrists. He growls, letting the police officer corral him through the door, pretending he’s broken the wild beast for the night.

“I didn’t start it. It was those fucking pricks in front of me.”

Devlin hums, unlocking the cuffs through the bars. “And how many times have I heard that one before?” 

Too many. Always too many.  

Cassian huffs, choosing not to respond. Devlin won’t believe him anyway, and he’ll be stuck here for hours in his wet clothes in this freezing jail cell until he’s sobered up or someone comes to get him. 

He wonders if Tomas and Gayson have stolen his phone.

“You may as well make yourself comfortable,” Devlin snaps, and the click of the door locking rings in his head. “Think over what you’ve done.” 

Cassian wants to spit at him, but he keeps his jaw locked tightly, glaring instead. The look rolls off of Devlin’s shoulders with ease, used to the looks the townies give him for protecting their citizens, and the officer leaves him without a second glance. 

Balthazar steps up to the bars, a concerned look on his face. Cassian doesn’t want pity right now, he wants to be left the fuck alone. He turns away, all but collapsing on the metal bench, leaning against the wall and tipping his head back with a long sigh.

“Who can we call, Cass?”

“You mean while Devlin writes up his report?” He laughs but there’s no humor in it. “I’ll be here for hours, B, you know how he is.”

Balthazar gives him a look that tells him to cut the shit, and Cassian sighs.

“Call (Y/N).”

The rookie's brows shoot straight into his hairline. “You sure about that?” 

Cassian peeks open an eye to glare. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked it.” 

Balthazar nods, leaving him alone to make the call. If you won’t answer his messages, maybe you’ll answer the stations. He’s not in his right mind, of this he knows, but he misses you so deeply he’s desperate to hear your voice. 

Cassian doesn’t know how long he sits there. The bench is uncomfortable and cold underneath his soaked pants. It helps to sober him a little, but his limbs are trembling with the iciness running through them. The tips of his fingers are white, and his jaw aches from keeping clenched so tightly shut so his teeth don’t shatter.

Eventually, Devlin returns with his clipboard, leaning against the wall and watching him like he’s a fucking zoo animal that had to be tranquilized and brought in. The officer looks like he’s actually filling out the paperwork in his hands, but Cassian knows the fucker isn’t. He fucking hates him, so he glares through the bars and crosses his arms over his chest.

Balthazar’s presence breaks the glaring contest. His cheeks are pink, and he looks between them both, uneasily shifting on his feet.

“Spit it out, B,” Cassian sighs, because his night can’t possibly get any worse than this.

Balthazar wrings his fingers together. “(Y/N)...she didn’t answer.”

Okay, maybe it can get worse.

“What?” he asks, voice flat. Of course there was a chance that you wouldn’t pick up the phone call, but from the police? Cassian is thoroughly surprised. “She didn’t answer?”

“Well, she did,” Balthazar corrects, looking anywhere but at him. He checks out the wet spot in the ceiling tiles, the chipping paint on the wall. Someone should really fix that. Devlin watches his partner, brows furrowed. He looks just as confused as Cassian feels. “But she, uh, hung up when I mentioned your name.” 

Cassian blinks, registering his friends' words. You answered, and you hung up. On the police. He feels like he’s been slapped in the face or shot in the chest or something equally as painful. Like his heart has been torn out of his body all over again. Even more so when Devlin throws his head back, wolf-whistling.

“Now that is fucked up,” he comments, turning to Cassian who sits frozen, staring at Balthazar. “You must’ve fucked up good, huh, kid?”

Cassian doesn’t even have it in him to growl at the prick cop who shakes his head, stalking away. 

“Cass?” Balth asks, timidly stepping up to the bars of his cell. “Do you want me to call Mr. Cunningham? Or perhaps Ms. Teller?” 

“No,” he answers gruffly, finally snapping from his stupor. He doesn’t want him calling Rhysand’s father or Azriel’s mother. He’d run rampant between their houses when he was younger, but he’d never really belonged with either family. Rhysand’s father was too strict, and he couldn’t get into any trouble there. Dolian had never liked him and most likely never will, which is fine, because Cassian feels the exact same way. And he wouldn’t dare allow Balthazar to call Pax Teller. She’s probably in bed right now anyway, the sweet woman. Cassian definitely doesn’t want to see the look in her pitying gaze, matching her sons. He doesn’t want the lecture, the parental support he’s never wanted and never had.

“Helion?” the police officer presses, worriedly. At least if Cassian is here, under their watch, he won’t get himself into more trouble. 

But still, Cassian’s mind whirls. He doesn’t want Balth to call a fucking soul. Not Rhysand, not Azriel, especially not his boss. He doesn’t want him calling anyone. He wants to be left alone to wallow in the swirling of his alcohol riddled mind, the thoughts of you picking up the phone, finding out what the call was about, and then hanging up on repeat in his head. 

“Maybe I can talk to her,” he says gruffly, grasping onto the tiny shred of hope he hasn’t lost yet. 

Someday, when you are back in his arms, he will remember how strong he was in this moment, not willing to give you up. Maybe you’ve hung up because you thought it was a prank call. “Let’s wait, she’ll call back.”

“Cass, are you a danger to yourself?” Balth asks like he hates to do it, but he’s worried about the man sitting in his jailhouse. Ever since he’s known Cassian, he’s never seen him act like this. He was always bubbly, a permanent smile on his face, laughter in his eyes. This Cassian…he doesn’t even recognize. 

“Fuck that, B. Let me call.” 

“I can’t let you do that,” Balthazar shakes his head.

“I swear she’ll call me back,” he presses, hopeful. His head is thudding dully and the bright lights are making his head pound a little. They can wait for your call in the dark, right?

“Cassian,” the way Balthazar says his name, dripping with pity, it shakes him to his core. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

It hits him like a fucking semi-truck. He lets his body slump. He can hardly feel it now, numb with the thought of you totally abandoning him. You aren’t together, you don’t have to come swooping in, saving him. You’re not his job anymore.

Yet another reason why you were right to leave him. 

Will he ever learn?