#my apologies for the missing read more

[nerdallwritey]

Just to Ruin Me

Summary: “You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.” “It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.” “If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.” Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.” “Doing what?” “Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.” OR The morning after you spend the night with Astarion, you learn another thing or two.

Pairing: Astarion x f!reader Rating: 18+ Word count: 12.5k CW: smut, reader is new to sex, piv sex, vaginal fingering, dry humping, mentions of Astarion's past trauma, blood drinking, mild angst, soft Astarion, porn with feelings, reader is an idiot (and a bard), so is Astarion (not a bard, just an idiot), the other companions are also idiots, but don't piss of Shadowheart Spoilers: Minor spoilers for Act 1 (in-game dialogue, plot points, etc.), as well as Astarion's plotline Also posted to: AO3 FAIR WARNING: This is PART 2 in my series, "Beauty and the Bard." Find Part 1 here. Find the masterlist here.

a/n: Thanks to everyone who read Part 1!!! Your kind comments and encouragement spurred me to write Part 2 and I hope it's a sequel that lives up to expectations!! I know the summary is a little angsty, but I promise there's more banter to be had. Everyone is still a goof, after all. Please enjoy :) (Thank you to @kermitwazowski for beta reading!) As a reminder, the last part ended with the following few lines: “For now, you were content to sleep under the stars in Astarion’s arms. It was the best sleep you’d ever had.”

Taglist: @a66-1 @khaleesiofthewolves @khywren @lollipopsandlandmines @minestrones

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best sleep you’d ever had.

Though you’d grown accustomed to roughing it in the last few weeks since the nautiloid crash, waking up in the forest was still a shock. It had its charms, sure, like the fresh air and the breeze blowing in off the mountains, but the appeal was starting to wane. Especially after one too many nights of having to take a dip in the frigid lake next to camp to rid yourself of gnoll blood. 

This morning however, you found yourself surrounded by blankets and pillows from your camp in the middle of a clearing surrounded by large pine trees, all of which had been thoughtfully arranged by the figure trancing beside you. Your own sleeping figure sighed comfortably, unbothered by the lack of a mattress or a hot bath, just a nice deep sleep-

Astarion whacked you in the face.

Your eyes shot open.

“OW?” You scrunched your nose and blinked a few times to get your bearings. 

It was still dark. The forest around you was painted a delicate shade of periwinkle. You’d hazard a guess that it was just a little before dawn. 

At some point in the night, you’d rolled onto your back, away from Astarion, who was now curled to your right, his back facing you. He must have just rolled over, explaining the harsh wake up from his forearm. You smiled softly and instinctively brought your hand to rub your forehead where he’d made the unfortunate contact. 

Blinking a little more, your eyes were beginning to adjust. From this angle, you had a clear line of sight to the large scar that overran a majority of his back. You squinted in the dark to try and get a clearer view of the terrible thing, but came up short due to the shadows of tree branches being cast from above. Still just a mandala of jagged lines and brutal curves. When you got your hands on Cazador, you’d…

No.

No, that wasn’t your fight. 

But you’d be gods damned if you wouldn’t be there for every bloody moment Astarion faced him, giving support however you could. Though you had to admit that it would be so gratifying to corner the bastard and cast a quick little Otto’s Irresistible Dance… Assuming you’d be strong enough to cast it by then… Gods, he’d look so fucking stupid just before Astarion plunged a knife through his heart-

Enough. Battle strategies and sick, twisted (but satisfying) revenge fantasies later. Right now you noticed that the shifting of the shadows on his back wasn’t from a breeze shaking the branches above you, but because Astarion himself was trembling. 

Your first instinct was to reach out and touch him, but you quickly retracted your hand. Based on the short whimpers he was letting out, it seemed like he was having a nightmare.

How was one supposed to wake someone from a nightmare again? With Astarion you’d have to be extra careful; you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stowed a knife somewhere within these blankets that he might reach for in a surge of waking fear. 

That… would not be pleasant. 

You shifted to sit up and look around.

Ow.

A dull throbbing made itself known between your legs.

No, that was great. Spectacular, in fact. You’d have to stop and assess later.

Gingerly, you got onto your knees and peered around at your surroundings. Astarion had done a decent job of cleaning up the clearing to make room for this blanket nest, so there wasn’t a poking stick to be seen within reaching distance.

Not that you were going to poke him with a stick… but the thought had crossed your mind. You were still tired! You’d been fucked for the first time last night! There was a lot going on! 

You shook your head to clear the stupid overlapping thoughts and set to looking around for a wayward pillow. You spotted one in the far corner and made your way over to it carefully but with some haste to end Astarion’s unconscious suffering. 

You crawled back over to him. And then backed up a little. Just in case.

“Astarion,” you sang quietly. 

Astarion continued trembling, but you heard him inhale sharply. A good sign?

You raised your voice a little, but kept the same musical cadence. “Astaaaarioooon.”

Nothing.

Okay fine. 

“Sorry,” you said quietly, then threw the pillow at Astarion, hitting him squarely on the back of the head. You leaned forward to grab your own pillow as a protective shield as he gasped and shot up.

“What the hells? What’s happening?” Astarion rolled onto his back and frantically looked around until his eyes landed on you. 

You smiled sheepishly and waved at him lamely from behind your pillow. “Hi.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, confused. He shook his head, then lifted a hand to the back of his head where the pillow had hit him. “What did you do?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh, I know what I was doing,” his tone was sarcastic. “What were you doing?”

You looked down at your lap, guilty. “I couldn’t remember how to wake someone up from a nightmare.”

“So you assaulted me?”

“I didn’t know if you had a knife!”

“Why would I have a knife? What is happening?!” He sat up fully and brought a hand to his forehead as if he were in pain. 

“Are you okay?”

“Thankfully, I’ll live,” he opened his eyes and looked at you, his hand still on his forehead. 

You huffed. “I meant with the nightmare.”

Astarion sighed and closed his eyes again. “It’s far too early to discuss this.” He tilted his head up towards the sky, which was getting brighter with every passing moment. A practiced smirk appeared on his face and he looked at you once more. “I’d much rather know if you’re okay, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“We had a lot of fun last night, didn’t we?”

“Seeing as how I’m always a lot of fun, I don’t understand why you’re posing this question.” You looked down your nose at him. 

He hung his head and sighed exasperatedly. “Will you simply allow me to work my charms on you?”

You tutted. “Is that what you were trying to do just now?”

“Attempting to, yes.” Astarion crossed his arms. “I’m usually irresistible.”

You snorted. “Okay,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face. “I’m going to ignore your lack of an answer about your nightmare and will elect to wait until you’re ready to tell me about it yourself.”

Astarion pursed his lips.

“But go ahead,” you rearranged your legs, wincing mildly as you moved to sit cross legged, “charm me.”

A look of worry flashed over Astarion’s face when he saw you wince, but the concern was quickly overtaken by an all too self-satisfied grin. “Feeling it this morning, are we?”

You rolled your eyes. “I knew you’d be happy about this.”

“Positively delighted, my sweet.” He leaned forward and kissed you gently, bringing a hand up to your cheek. You brought your own hand up to lay against his. He pulled away and appraised your face smugly. “I was completely enamored by your performance last night.” You were about to open your mouth to say something, but Astarion interrupted. “Don’t even think about mentioning that you’re a bard and that of course you’re good at performing, or something like that.”

You closed your mouth. You were going to say something like that. Instead you said, “You were pretty good yourself.”

He brought his hands up to make air quotes. “I’ve ‘ruined you,’ from what I recall.”

You groaned. “I just said that to make you cum.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, my dear.” His face was still smug, but he motioned for you to come closer. You scooted forward and he lifted you slightly to sit on his lap. 

He leaned up and kissed you deeply, his tongue swiping your bottom lip for entrance. You moaned in response and opened your mouth for him. Though the rest of his body was cold, his mouth was warm and inviting, and you leaned in further to try and get closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck and tilted your head slightly to get a better angle. You’d been mildly distracted last night; had he always smelled this good?

When Astarion pulled back suddenly, you couldn’t help the whine that escaped at the loss. He hummed in satisfaction, and his voice was low and seductive when he spoke.

“Every part of your perfect body whispers temptations-”

You giggled. “What?”

“Shush dear, I’m charming you.” He cleared his throat, “-it’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”

“So now I’ve ruined you?” You raised your eyebrows teasingly.

“Wait, no-”

You leaned your forehead onto his and laughed. “And that one usually works?”

He blew out a puff of air. “You’re an unusual one, I’ll give you that.” 

You shrugged, pleased with yourself.

“But yes,” Astarion continued, “I’ve made plenty of previous lovers swoon with that particular line.”

“Show me what else you’ve got, then,” you challenged.

Astarion tilted his head in thought. “Let’s see… I can’t use the ‘cried from your lips’ line because I used that one last night…” You scoffed joyfully, mockingly scandalized that he’d already used a line on you. He met your eye and smirked. “How about this one: When I’m with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again, with you.”

The sultry tone of his voice did send a pang of want through your body, reminding you that you were only wearing Astarion’s shirt and nothing else. You shifted uncomfortably. 

“How romantic,” you said, trying to keep your voice nonchalant. “I didn’t think you liked dying the first time.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, sensing your deflection and smirked, looking down at where you sat on his lap. He rolled his hips, which made you inhale sharply. “I see that one did do something for you,” he leaned forward and kissed your neck. 

You exhaled slowly, “I blame that stupid sexy voice of yours.”

Astarion growled against your throat and you shivered, bringing your hands up to his back. 

“Astarion,” you sighed and he hummed in response, licking over the twin wounds he’d left the night before. You sat up a little straighter. “Wait.”

He immediately pulled back and looked at you with concern. “What is it?”

“I just thought of something,” you said.

Astarion raised his eyebrows and nodded, wanting you to continue.

“Can I borrow your fangs?”

“My-?” His tongue instinctively flicked over his teeth.

“Because I want to leave a lasting impression on you,” you tilted your head at him to show off the marks he’d left on your throat. You shimmied your shoulders a little for good measure. 

“I’m leaving,” Astarion made to get up with you still on his lap and you laughed loudly.

“No! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I wanted to try a dumb line on you, too!” You threw your arms around his neck and hid your face in his shoulder. You felt him kiss your hair.

“You’re lucky I don’t travel with you for your personality,” he joked. 

“I’d say ‘I’m a lot of fun’ again but I think you’d actually stop talking to me.” You pulled back to look at him.

“And you’d be right.” He kissed you chastely and then adjusted you on his lap. You winced a little again and he looked genuinely sympathetic. “I might have a way to ease the pain from last night,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

You smiled at him. “Yes.”

He smiled back. “Good.” He positioned your arms over his shoulders. “Hang on, my love.” You crossed your arms where they hung behind him and waited to see what he would do. 

Without warning, you felt one of his cold fingers slide through your folds. You hissed at the sensation and looked at Astarion. 

“Supposedly, massaging the area can help,” he was trying to sound knowledgeable, but the look in his eyes was one full of lust. Then he tutted, looking down. “You could be wetter, darling.” His thumb began to circle your clit.

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation, and you leaned forward again to rest your forehead on his shoulder. 

“Do you want my cock again, love? You took me so well last night, I was so proud of you,” he’d moved his mouth next to your ear and was speaking with the same sultry tone that he had a minute ago. You whimpered at his praise and rolled your hips to get his thumb to press you harder. Astarion let out a low groan. “That’s it, you’re getting so wet for me, you’re so good.”

After a few more tight circles, you practically sobbed when you felt him take his thumb away from your clit.

“Shh, shh, I know,” he cooed, “but we want you to feel better, remember?”

You let out a frustrated sound. “I already was feeling better.”

Astarion chuckled. “Trust me, would you? Impatient.” His tone was nothing but fond.

His other fingers began massaging the area around your entrance. You winced and bit your lip. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you confirmed. “I assume this will get better?”

“That’s the idea,” he kissed your ear and you nodded against his shoulder. 

You rolled your hips, attempting to get friction where you needed it. 

“Just a little longer,” Astarion said, moving his fingers gently around your cunt.

You hummed an acknowledgement and kept rolling your hips, trying to combat this weird form of edging that was happening. 

Finally, Astarion ceased his massaging and brought his thumb back to your clit. You let out a long shuddering breath and squeezed your eyes tight, adjusting your hips to roll against his thigh. 

“There you go, my love,” Astarion said, voice still in your ear. “I’ll make you cum for behaving so well.”

You whined loudly as his thumb picked up the pace. You began rolling your hips at an equally fast pace. “More,” you whined, willing your climax to approach faster.

“Not right now, darling. Let’s give you a break there, shall we?” Astarion used his free hand to pet your hair. 

“But you asked if I wanted your cock again,” you whined.

“And while I’m pleased to hear that you’d like it again, let’s relax and get you off like this for now, okay?” 

You groaned but nodded, squeezing your eyes shut again and focusing on the pleasure Astarion was currently providing. “Harder,” you instructed.

Astarion pressed down harder on your clit with his thumb. He swept his index and middle finger through your folds, coating them in your slick. He quickly swapped those fingers with his thumb, changing the sensation by swapping one finger for two and adding more of your arousal to the mix. 

You keened and gripped his bicep. “Harder!” You instructed again, desperate and approaching the edge. You could feel the coil in your stomach preparing to let go.

Astarion pushed again and brought his lips to your ear once more. 

“I just thought of something, precious thing,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, your eyes unfocused and half lidded.

“More of a question, really,” he clarified.

You squeezed your eyes tight, nodding. You were on the precipice of your orgasm and could feel it fastly approaching. You slammed your hips against Astarion’s thigh as he continued to rub your clit brutally. 

“Do you believe in love at first bite?” He leaned forward and kissed your throat, then began to suck a new mark into the flesh there. Contrary to his pun, he wouldn’t drink from you without your expressed permission first.

It did, however, send you crashing over the edge. You moaned loudly, Astarion’s name tumbling repeatedly out of your mouth. The vision behind your eyelids was white and you reached out blindly to grip Astarion’s shoulders. His lips detached themselves from your throat and found your own. His tongue was immediately in your mouth, swallowing your moans and shouts of his name.

When you came down, you disconnected from the kiss and opened your eyes, a lopsided grin on your face. 

“Thank you,” you said. “I do feel better.”

Astarion smirked. “I knew you would.” He brought his fingers, still coated in your essence, up to his mouth and sucked them clean. You watched, mesmerized by the way his cheeks hollowed and his eyes fluttered shut. He pulled them out with a lewd pop. “Delicious.”

You felt your face flush, embarrassed by his display, despite just cumming in his lap. 

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about this,” Astarion said, reading your expression immediately. “What you should feel embarrassed about is the fact that you came because I told a joke.”

“I did not!” You protested.

“You absolutely did,” Astarion said. “And it was a particularly bad one, too.” He clicked his tongue. “You must feel so ashamed.”

You groaned. “I came because you started kissing my neck!”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing you. “It’s okay, darling, no one here was under the impression that you aren’t incredibly lame.” He gave you a pitying look, then kissed your nose and you laughed. He pulled back and looked at you fondly, a dopey half smile on his face. Then he looked up at the sky.

The periwinkle you’d awoken to was now vibrant shades of orange and pink. 

“Are you okay if I move you?” Astarion asked.

“Um… sure?” You weren’t sure why he was asking, and helped to move yourself off of him. You did feel a bit less sore thanks to his help. 

He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, then bent to pick up a rag to wipe off his pants. 

“Sorry,” you said.

Astarion shook his head. “Comes with the territory.” You were about to make a joke but he held up a finger and gave you a warning look. “Don’t.”

You held up your hands innocently. 

He tossed you the rag after and then your pants and underthings.

“Clean up,” he instructed, “then get dressed.”

You furrowed your brows, your stomach dropping suddenly. He didn’t expect you to leave right now, did he? He hadn’t fucked you last night, then brought you more pleasure this morning, only for him to send you back to camp like it hadn’t happened, right?

Astarion snorted. He was watching you as he slipped on his shoes. “Relax, darling, I see that face. I just want to show you something.” He held out a hand to help you up.

“Okay,” you smiled, soothed by the pleasant look on his face. “Do you want your shirt back?” You made to lift it over your head.

“Keep it for now, dear,” Astarion said. “I rather like that on you, truthfully.” The collar was slipping off your shoulder as you pulled on your pants, and you made no move to adjust it, opting not to put your bra back on yet.

“Do you want to wear my shirt?” you teased.

“Tempting, but I fear I’d look better in it than you do.”

“Excellent point, don’t do that.” You adjusted the ruffles on Astarion’s shirt and felt a light breeze on your cleavage through the lacey opening at the collar. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he said. You looked up and caught Astarion staring at your chest.

You laughed as he cleared his throat, then gestured deeper into the woods with his head. “This way.” He held out a tentative hand and you took it eagerly, bringing the back of his palm up to your face to leave a gentle kiss. Astarion squeezed your hand slightly at the contact, and began heading further into the forest, away from camp. A pleasant silence hung between the two of you and you rubbed your thumb absently along the back of his hand.

It wasn’t long before the trees started to thin and you heard the sound of rushing water somewhere close by. You emerged from the trees to find a cliff overlooking a ravine below. On the other side of the ravine was more forest, and beyond that, you could faintly see the Sea of Swords. The sun peeked out over the horizon, bright reddish orange in the distance. Its glow was a welcome sight and you found yourself in awe of the view.

Astarion let go of your hand and sat, dangling his feet over the edge of the cliff. You hesitantly stepped forward and sat beside him, opting instead to sit with one knee up, the other leg crossed beneath it. Astarion sat back on his arms. The sun reflected off his skin in the most beautiful golden and magenta hues. His hair, somehow still perfect despite your night together, was being jostled lightly by the breeze. He’d closed his eyes and tipped his head up, basking. You couldn’t help watching him as you rested your cheek on your bent knee. 

He didn’t open his eyes when he said, “I try to come out here every morning.” 

You sat in silence, continuing to watch him as you prepared to listen to whatever he’d say next. 

“After two hundred years in darkness, you forget how lovely the sunrise is,” he said. “I don’t ever want to miss another.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like,” you said softly. 

Astarion hummed in acknowledgment and opened his eyes. “I’d catch glimpses while lurking around the city for too long before dawn, hopping from shadow to shadow until I made it back to Cazador’s manor.” His eyes didn’t waver from the sun in the distance. “But there were moments where I’d catch a glimpse of it over the Chionthar.” His tone became sardonic. “The promise of a new day emerging! Something that I would never get to participate in.” He sighed. “I’d linger as long as I could in those moments.” 

You nodded, picturing a hopeful Astarion hiding behind buildings and in alleys, trying to get a fleeting look at a phenomenon that occurred every day, one that you took for granted. Your heart ached for him. 

He continued. “I never quite told you what Cazador made his spawn do for him.”

You tried to recall what Astarion had said to you before. Only that he’d been made to go out into the city and bring back “the most beautiful souls” he could find. Then Cazador would make him either drink from a disgusting dead rat, or abuse him for refusing. The thought made you visibly shudder. 

“I know that you had to bring people back to-” you lowered your voice, as if saying his name might summon him, “-Cazador, against your will. And that he’d kill them.” 

Astarion nodded his head once, remorsefully. “I never told you how we lured them.”

You could see pain etched into his features. You reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. He flinched a bit at the contact, but settled when he looked over at you.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.”

“It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.”

“If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.”

Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.” 

You cocked your head sympathetically. “And I take it two hundred years as a slave hasn’t really afforded you any choice.”

“Correct,” he sighed. “As a spawn, your vampiric master has complete control over your body and your actions. Even in moments where I wanted to defy or fight back, I was powerless to do anything.” 

Your heart jumped into your throat. You hadn’t realized that was how it worked. Having no control over yourself or your actions sounded like a complete nightmare and you were glad that you’d hopefully never have to experience it. Knowing that that had been Astarion’s entire existence for the past two centuries made you sick to your stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, just as you’d said the last few times he’d shared glimpses of his past.

Astarion’s eyes were closed once again as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He continued to bask in the rising sun for a few silent moments and you watched as it slowly rose higher into the sky. 

“That nightmare I had,” he said, his voice coming out quiet, “I’ve had it before.”

Again, you said nothing and waited for him to continue.

“I actually had the same one the night you let me drink your blood for the first time.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me that drinking my blood was some sort of revenge plot against me for haunting your nightmares.”

Astarion smiled a little. “No, it wasn’t about you. It was about Cazador.”

“You know, I’m really starting to dislike this guy,” you said, knowing how difficult this was for him and trying to keep his mood up with another little joke. 

“You and me both,” he sounded tired. “In the dream, I’m in the forest. Cazador appears and recites the rules of being his vampire spawn.” He held up his hand and recounted them on his fingers: “‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shall obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side, unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’” 

You listened patiently as Astarion recited each rule almost mechanically. You scrunched your nose with each passing instruction and rolled your eyes dramatically when Astarion finished.

“What a prick.”

He smiled again. “With an archaic speech pattern.”

“I was going to mention his archaic speech pattern.”

The smile faded slowly as Astarion returned to his thoughts. “The dream ends with Cazador telling me I’m his forever. That I can never escape.” 

You let the words hang in the air for a moment. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he said humorlessly. He laid down fully on his back, the sun high enough to bathe him completely in its glow. He rested his arms behind his head and angled himself to look at you. “I realized, if I could walk in the sun, what other vampiric laws could I break?”

You looked down at him, admiring the light glinting off his bare chest. “So you decided to test your theory on me? I’m touched.” You held a hand to your chest, pretending to be deeply moved.

“In all honesty, I thought you were the least likely to kill me if I got caught.” He smirked at you. “And it would seem I was right.”

“I wouldn’t have let any of the others kill you,” you said firmly.

Astarion chuckled. “How sweet. My brave little protector.” He reached over to pinch your cheek.

You swatted him away. “Hey, who saved your ass from a bugbear yesterday?”

He shrugged. “I would have been fine.”

You leaned forward and shoved him lightly, making him laugh and throw his arm forward as a shield. 

When his laughter died down, his face grew a touch more serious again. “When you so graciously assaulted me this morning, he’d just finished telling me rule number three; that I can’t leave him unless he tells me to.”

You thought for a moment. “Which begs the question,” Astarion looked over at you expectantly, “how did you end up out here? From what I recall, the sun was still out when the nautiloid reached the Gate. You didn’t have the tadpole yet, so how’d you escape?”

“I wouldn’t say it was much of an escape.” His eyes shifted up to the sky, his expression thoughtful. “I was looking for new victims for Cazador. It was dusk and I had just been given the order to go out and hunt. I was weaving through shadows, avoiding the setting sun, but there’s only so many places one can hide from a giant tentacle that won’t burn you to a crisp. One of the tentacles caught me when I attempted to flee down an alleyway. A complete accident.”

“If it helps, I tripped while running away.”

“Of course you did.” He sighed. “Figures it would take an alien invasion to finally free me from his clutches. Not some,” he waved his hands in the air, gesturing to nothing in particular, “heroic figure sent by the gods to save me and smite that horrible man down to somewhere further and more vile than the Nine Hells.” His hands fell ungracefully to his sides.

He wasn’t wrong. How could any god worth their salt claim to be holier than thou when such suffering was occuring right under their noses? And you were pretty sure, based on tales you’d heard of Mystra and Shar from Gale and Shadowheart, that the gods hadn’t planned for the nautiloids or the rise of the Absolute. Yet if it weren’t for any of that, Astarion would still be trapped in Baldur’s Gate and your adventure thus far would have looked very different.

“If I’d known, I would have done something,” you said, knowing it was more complicated than that, but still wanting to help somehow. 

“Darling, if I’d met you in Baldur’s Gate, I would not have hesitated to take you to Cazador.”

That hurt. 

You said as much. “Ouch.”

“Well,” he sounded angry, though he directed it up towards the sky and not at you, “I wouldn’t have had a choice! Sure, it would have been a little novel, given how inexperienced you are, but regardless, I would have handed you off to him as soon as I’d made you finish.”

Ah. So that was how he lured people. It made sense, now that you put the pieces together; Astarion was so experienced because he had to be. Of course unsuspecting victims would fall prey to the allure of an eternally beautiful vampire, especially the one laying next to you. Of course the promise of pleasure from someone that sexy would be the obvious thing to agree to. It was a wonder your paths had never crossed before the nautiloid. 

“Once,” Astarion broke the silence that had fallen between you, his tone distant, “in the first decade of my slavery, I found a darling boy who I couldn’t bear to bring back to him.” He finally looked over at you, his eyes full of sadness. “So I ran, instead of hurting that sweet man.”

You reached for his hand, then thought better of it. All his snide “don’t touch me’s” on the road now held a new, terrible weight.

“After Cazador caught me, the bastard sealed me, starving, inside a dusty tomb, all on my own, for an entire year. A year of silence”

A hand flew to your mouth. “Astarion…” you felt your eyes begin to prick with tears and did your best to will them away, fearing that they might make Astarion stop sharing.

He went on. “Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out, more months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death.” He took a deep breath, then blew it out shakily. “So no, I wouldn’t have hesitated, had we crossed paths.”

You opened and closed your mouth several times, attempting to find words that could possibly compose an appropriate response to the horrors you currently refused to picture. “I have no words,” is what you finally settled on, followed by an, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing can make up for that,” he said quietly. “Not even Cazador’s death.” He paused. “Well, it would help a little, but the coward deserves a fate worse than death.”

“Can I hug you?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself.

Astarion blinked a few times, then sat up. “What?”

“I just… you’ve been through such hell and I want to hug you, but I don’t want to touch you without your permission.”

He looked you up and down and saw the sincerity evident on your face. “I… suppose.” He pulled his legs up from where they were still dangling above the ravine and turned to face you head on. 

“Thank you,” you said, still attempting to keep your tears at bay.

You leaned forward and weaved your arms beneath Astarion’s, hooking your arms up and placing your hands on his shoulder blades. You settled your face between his neck and shoulder and could feel that his arms were frozen rigidly in place in front of him. You took a shaky breath and stayed still, allowing Astarion to move at his own pace. 

His arms finally settled around you and he bent his head so his cheek rested against your hair. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while, relishing in the other’s closeness. You moved your hands back and forth across his back absently. When you caught yourself, you pulled back to look at him and asked, “Is it okay that I’m touching your back?”

Astarion chuckled softly. “Yes, my dear. It’s rather nice, actually.”

You smiled and nuzzled your nose into the crook of his neck. Seriously, did he always smell this good?

Despite the pleasant distraction, something was nagging at your thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured into his skin.

Astarion sighed dramatically. “If it has anything to do with my fangs, I’ll rip your throat out.”

You snickered to yourself. “No, not another dumb joke, I promise.”

“Then by all means.”

You pulled back once more to look at him in the face. His eyes widened when he saw your nervous expression. You avoided holding his gaze, feeling a little small. 

“Do you… want to be with me?”

Astarion looked taken aback. “What?”

“I mean… well…” You were having trouble sorting through your thoughts. Who were you to make this moment about yourself when Astarion had just been so open with you? And why couldn’t you trust him in what he had told you last night? Still, you had to know. You’d made it clear how much you cared for him and how much sleeping with him had meant to you. 

Given his past experiences, it made sense why he’d sleep with you, but you wanted to hear him say it. If this was all some ploy to manipulate you into doing what he wanted, even without Cazador’s instruction, you needed to know now. 

“Was I… just another conquest?” you asked, your tears reemerging. “Because if that’s the case, then I think we should end whatever this is.”

Astarion’s face was now inches away from yours. He moved a hand from your back and shifted it up to wipe a wayward tear that had escaped. He said your name softly.

“No, my sweet,” his other hand started rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pulled back a little. “Well, yes.”

You scoffed, another tear rolling down your cheek. 

Astarion was quick to correct. “No, no! I mean, at first, yes, it was my plan to seduce you and sleep with you.”

You let out a small whimpering noise and he tried to catch your eye. You kept your gaze glued on something in the distance, unseeing.

Astarion cleared his throat. “You- You’re valuable; someone willing to feed me, someone who advocated for me to stay with you all, even though you knew vampires were dangerous, someone who would protect me in battle, even if it meant sacrificing something important to you.”

Try as he might to get your attention back on him, your face remained blank as you stared into the distance.

“I wanted your continued protection.” He shrugged. “Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in and I thought I could secure that with sex.”

That got you to look at him, a sour expression on your face. “Have you met me?”

Astarion chuckled. “Yes, I have. And that’s what threw me for such a loop.”

You humphed.

“When I realized you’d be more of a challenge, I modified my plan.”

“I don’t love the direction this is headed.”

“Stay with me, darling” he said, “I promise I’m going somewhere with this.”

You exhaled and nodded for him to continue. 

“I did want to give you a good first experience, that much was true, but I will admit that I was still planning on using you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You realize how bad this sounds, right?”

“Will you-” he sighed. “Let me finish, damn you,” he brought his forehead to yours briefly, then pulled back. “So imagine how stupid I felt when I realized I genuinely felt something for you.”

That made you smile softly. 

He groaned. “And yes, it is because I find you to be… a lot of fun.” The last phrase sounded like it hurt coming out. 

Your soft smile transformed into one of smug satisfaction. “And when did you come to this conclusion?”

“Well first of all, look at you.” He smiled slyly and you playfully pushed his face away from yours, just as you had last night. After a moment, Astarion looked up, as if searching through his thoughts. “I suppose I’ve always found you to be amusing. You were so easy to fool in the beginning. I mean, the very first day we met, you thought I had one of those brain things cornered.”

“I had no reason not to believe you! And then you held a knife to my throat!” “Ah, memories,” he sighed wistfully. “But then we started traveling together, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed more. Killing those goblins outside the Grove, fooling those trolls into working for us, taking out those Paladins of Tyr… you always had a sarcastic comment to contend with my sarcastic comments. Which is saying something.”

You snorted. “As if I wouldn’t have something to say.”

Astarion nodded. “You do talk a lot.” 

You chuckled softly, feeling better. Your arms were still wrapped around Astarion.

“It was when I kissed you.” His tone was thoughtful.

“Hmm?”

“When I really kissed you for the first time, there was something different about it.” His eyes flicked down to your lips momentarily. “Suddenly everything we’d been through came rushing back to my mind and there was this… pleasure I hadn’t felt. In an awfully long time.”

You smiled like a dope, bringing your forehead to his.

“I realized you weren’t going anywhere. And that you genuinely cared about what I thought and what I wanted.” He looked at you almost shyly. “No one in the past two hundred years has stayed.” Astarion pulled back and his inflection became flamboyant and playful: “Not that they had much of a choice, but it was a somewhat shocking revelation.” His tone then returned to one of sincerity: “And no one has cared for me as you have.”

You looked away, embarrassed by the kind words.“What can I say, I’m incredible.”

Astarion blew out a cool puff of air that tickled your face. “Annoyingly, you are.”

You looked back at him and smirked. “For me, it was when you asked me how I’d want to die.”

Astarion snorted. “Pardon?”

“When you asked me how I wanted to die on one of our first nights at camp. I genuinely had the thought, ‘Now here’s a guy who knows how to have a good time.’”

Astarion laughed brightly. You mirrored his grin.

“You said you wanted to be decapitated.” 

“How romantic of me,” he said, raising a seductive eyebrow. 

“Well it did spark the crush I’ve been harboring this whole time,” you felt your face heat up at the admission. “That, and your stupid beautiful face.”

Astarion sniffed mockingly. “Thank you, not enough people mention that.” Then he looked at you fondly. “But that long, eh? How adorable.” He rubbed his nose against yours teasingly. “And here you thought nothing would come of it.”

“Nothing usually does!” you exclaimed.

He laughed and leaned forward to kiss you once. “Not so loud.”

You lifted an eyebrow and gestured to the empty landscape around you. Astarion shrugged. You lowered your voice despite the lack of other people to bother.

“I am glad something came of it this time.” You settled your forehead onto his shoulder.

“As am I, my love,” he kissed your hair. “Though I have something else to admit.”

You pulled back and looked at him curiously.

Out of nowhere, he presented you with a knife.

“I did have a knife.”

You scoffed incredulously and whacked his arm. “I KNEW YOU HAD A KNIFE, YOU BASTARD!” You laughed loudly and pushed him backwards. 

He fell back onto his arms, laughing with you as you crawled on top and kissed him deeply. 

“Careful darling,” he murmured against your lips, “don’t move.”

You paused your movements, your lips still pressed firmly against his own. Astarion turned his head slightly to look over to his left at the treeline you’d emerged from not too long ago. You pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth and felt him grin. Then you felt his right arm come up and jerk slightly, followed by a “THUNK” sound off to your right. 

You waited a moment before you asked, “Can I move?” Your mouth was smushed against his face and your voice came out muffled.

He chuckled. “Yes, you can move now.” 

You sat up and looked to your right, the knife Astarion had pulled was now wedged deeply into the trunk of a nearby tree. You raised your eyebrows at him.

He stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, his voice straining as he went. “Impressed?”

“Honestly? Yes.” You leaned back down and kissed him again. 

He hummed and his mouth moved against yours at a leisurely pace, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. You kissed down his jaw and throat before coming to his collarbone and stopping.

“You’re sure you don’t want to fuck me again?” Your words came out a little shy and Astarion laughed. 

He twirled the ends of your hair around his finger. “Delicious as you were, my sweet, I think I’d prefer to take my time with you.” 

You pursed your lips, disappointed. 

“That’s not to say I don’t want to, darling, but…” His fingers stopped twirling your hair as he thought. “Like you said earlier, so much has changed in the last few hours. I’ve only just discovered that I can sleep with somebody because I actually want to.” His hand moved from your hair to your cheek. “I think I need some time to adjust to that.”

You nodded and bent to kiss him. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

He smiled up at you. “Thank you.”

You spent a few moments just looking at him, admiring how his eyes sparkled in the sun like rubies. You sighed noticeably. 

“What is it, love?”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Darling…” He raised his eyebrows at you. 

“No, it’s inappropriate right now.” You looked away.

You felt his hand in your hair, and his voice was conspiratory, “I love when you talk dirty.”

You sighed again and looked him in the eye. “One of these days, when you’re ready, I’m going to look into your gorgeous eyes as I make you come.”

Astarion sputtered out a surprised laugh. “Easy there, lover,” he gave you a sultry look, “I may just take you up on that.”

You sat up and spread your hands over his chest. “I want to make you feel good, too.”

He brought both hands up to his face and groaned loudly before dragging them back down his face and looking at you. “Come lay in the sun with me, will you?”

You pouted but rolled off of him and curled into his side. 

“There now,” he said, arching his chest upwards towards the sky where the sun had now risen for the day, “isn’t this nice?”

You inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the trees and the sounds of the ravine below. You exhaled and closed your eyes, warmed by the sun and comforted by the presence of Astarion beside you. He himself had his eyes closed and looked peacefully content. You nuzzled further into his side, enjoying how his cool skin contrasted with the warmth coming from above.

Before you could even register that you were still tired from your early wakeup call this morning, you’d drifted back into a comfortable sleep.

~~~~~

You were awoken some time later by a lick to the face. 

You shut your eyes tighter and groaned. “Gross, Astarion, I’m trying to sleep.” You threw an arm over your eyes, the sun now directly overhead. 

“Did you find them, boy?” A voice shouted from the distance.

Your eyes shot open and found Scratch panting above you, wagging his tail excitedly. 

You sat up quickly and immediately leaned over to shake Astarion who appeared to be trancing soundly. 

“Astarion,” you shook him anxiously. 

He scowled, his eyes still closed. He groaned lowly.

“Astarion, my dear, my sweet, my beloved,” you shook him harder and his eyes opened immediately. He sat up, fast as lightning.

“What’s happening? Where’s my knife?” He looked around frantically until his eyes landed on you. “Ah,” he said, calming, “déjà vu.” 

“They’re coming,” you hissed.

“Who?” Astarion narrowed his eyes, thoughts still foggy from his trance. 

“No FUCKING way!” Came Karlach’s voice from the treeline. 

You looked over and found her with an elated grin on her face and her hands on her knees. She started laughing loudly and you hid your face in your hands. 

“You guys did NOT,” she wheezed. 

“Hello Karlach,” Astarion’s voice sounded nonchalant beside you. “What brings you out to ruin our beauty sleep?” 

“Did you find them?” Shadowheart soon emerged from the forest and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the area and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Astarion, tell me you didn’t.”

“Did what, darling?” He sounded smug and you looked over at him. His expression matched his tone. “You’ll have to be more specific.” He rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I fucking knew this would happen,” Karlach said, coming down from her laughing fit. “Soldier’s had her eye on you for a while now, Fangs.”

“Karlach!” You whisper-shouted.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you felt Astarion turn his head to look at you. 

Suddenly Gale, Lae’zel, and Wyll joined the fray. Scratch ran to them and happily weaved between them as they emerged. 

“We heard a commotion, did you find them?” Gale halted when he saw you and Astarion sitting together on the ground, him shirtless, you wearing his shirt. “No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes,” Astarion said, tilting his head against yours. You gave him a dirty look. 

“Chk! Was that filthy nest of our blankets your doing?” Lae’zel asked, cradling her greatsword proudly. 

You groaned and hid your face in your hands again. 

“It would appear so,” Wyll confirmed awkwardly. 

“You vampires have a disgusting way of mating if that nest was any indication,” Lae’zel narrowed her eyes and lifted her nose in the air judgmentally. “Far too soft.”

Astarion scoffed and pulled back from you. “I’ll have you know that vampires mate in the most satisfying- well, we don’t mate, necessarily, we’re not dogs, but we, well at least I, am always an exemplary lover.”

Shadowheart ignored him and walked forward, crouching down and resting a hand on your shoulder. You looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“What?” you laughed in disbelief. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“He didn’t… coerce you into something, did he?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion sounded insulted. “I always ask permission first, darling.”

“Your charms can be quite overwhelming at times, Astarion,” Gale said. 

“And wouldn’t you like having my charms turned on you, wizard,” Astarion sneered. 

“Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Wyll held up his hands, gesturing for the others to relax.

“Everyone!” You raised your voice. All eyes settled on you. “Nothing happened between us that I didn’t expressly and happily agree to.”

Karlach started chuckling again. “Good for you, Soldier.”

“Thank you, Karlach,” said Astarion. 

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

He shrugged. “What?”

You groaned and stood up, wiping grass and forest debris off your clothes. You adjusted Astarion’s shirt on your shoulders, making sure you weren’t showing off too much to your companions. 

“Is there a reason you all came out here? Or was it just to mortify me? Because mission accomplished!”

“It’s midday,” informed Wyll. “We grew worried when the two of you seemingly vanished and didn’t return.”

“Halsin and the tieflings are coming to camp tonight to celebrate our victory against the goblins,” Shadowheart crossed her arms. 

“Yes, and it wouldn’t be a great look if our leader and the gangly one were missing,” Gale said.

“Gangly?!” Astarion exclaimed, very clearly not gangly. 

“You’re- okay, well, I hadn’t seen you shirtless before now,” Gale amended. 

“Like what you see?” Astarion teased. 

“Astarion,” you scolded. 

He sighed and got up, wrapping an arm around you and resting a hand on your hip. 

You went red as you watched your companions track his hand. 

“Listen, people,” Astarion said, sounding serious. 

You saw your companions’ eyes shift to the vampire. 

“Don’t give her a hard time. This was my doing.” Shadowheart was about to say something but Astarion raised his voice a bit. “While yes, she gave permission in everything that we did, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t suggested it in the first place.”

“I could have suggested something much better, surely,” Lae’zel huffed.

“I mean, did you-?” Karlach thrust her hips in the air with her fists at her sides.

“Oh my gods,” you groaned.

“I don’t kiss and tell, darling,” Astarion said, squeezing your hip slightly. 

Karlach smirked smugly and winked at you both. 

You shook your head and looked up, silently begging any god that was listening to kill you and to do it quickly. 

“We should get back to camp,” Wyll suggested diplomatically. “Let these two collect themselves.” 

“So what does this mean?” Shadowheart asked, ignoring Wyll. 

“Shadowheart,” Wyll warned but she waved him off.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Are you only going to sleep with the pathetic vampire moving forward?” Lae’zel stated bluntly.

You and Astarion looked at each other. You saw the slightest flash of uncertainty in his eyes and smiled. “If he’ll let me,” you said. 

A small smile appeared on his face in return.

Lae’zel groaned. “K'chakhi. Your loss.” She turned and walked back into the forest, slinging her greatsword over her back.

You bit your lip, feeling guilty about Lae’zel’s feelings, but Karlach soon slid into your vision. “Congrats, you crazy kids,” she laughed and pretended to punch your arm, then followed on Lae’zel’s heels, Scratch bounding close behind her.

Gale walked over, his face stoic. He stood in front of Astarion and held out his hand. 

Astarion scowled. “What is this, do you want some sort of handout?” 

“I want to shake your hand, you buffoon,” Gale sounded frustrated. 

“Gale…” you said sorrowfully. 

“No no, think nothing of it,” he waved you off. “The right man won out in the end.”

Astarion took his hand and shook it. “Better luck next time,” he jeered. 

“Astarion,” you scolded again. “You both know I’m not something to win, right?”

“Of course you’re not,” Gale nodded. “Apologies, I misspoke. I’ll see you both at camp. Lunch is bread and cheese to save room for tonight’s festivities.” He stiffly turned and walked back towards the trees. Wyll gave him a sympathetic look, then caught your eye. He nodded somewhat sadly and followed after Gale. 

“Well that certainly doesn’t feel good,” you said, holding a hand to your chest and breathing deeply.

“Not quite finished yet, love,” Astarion nodded over towards Shadowheart who lingered nearby. 

She approached slowly, holding her hands behind her back. Astarion released your hip and moved away, sensing what Shadowheart aimed to do. You looked at him curiously, but your attention was drawn back to Shadowheart as she threw her arms around your neck. 

“You’re happy?” She asked softly.

“Shadowheart…” you smiled into her hair. “Yes, I’m happy. Thank you.”

She pulled back to look at you in the eyes, double checking your expression. When she saw that you were genuine, she nodded. She cleared her throat and looked over at Astarion. 

She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hurt her, and you will never know a happy day again.”

Astarion held up his hands defensively. “I won’t-”

“You have never known the pain of Lady Shar’s wrath, and you’d be smart to keep it that way, so help me gods, Astarion.”

“I got it,” he said flatly. 

“Our Lady of Loss would not hesitate to strike you where you stand-”

“I think he gets it,” you said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes at Astarion before she looked back at you. “I’ll see you at camp. Don’t dally.” She looked pointedly at Astarion who shrugged helplessly. 

When she headed back into the forest, you and Astarion were finally alone. 

You let out a heavy sigh.

“That was a lot,” Astarion joined you at your side.

“Wait, did you know those people?” you smirked at him.

“Vaguely,” he smirked back and caught you in a kiss. “At least I don’t have to hold back from doing that at camp now.” He held you close in his arms.

You sighed again and laid your head on his shoulder. “You were right. I didn’t realize so many of them felt something for me.”

“That seems to be because you block out the advances of others.”

You shoved him playfully. “How dare you turn my pitiful backstory against me.”

He smiled and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go dismantle that ‘disgusting’ nest.” He did his best to impersonate Lae’zel on “disgusting.” 

It made you laugh. “Okay.”

You took his hand and let him lead you through the trees back to the blankets and pillows that you’d spent the night on. 

When you arrived, you picked up your shirt and bra, feeling mild embarrassment that the others had probably seen them and drawn (correct) conclusions. You removed Astarion’s shirt and threw it back at him, hitting him in the face and quickly covered your chest with your forearm. 

Astarion laughed as his shirt fell into his awaiting hands. “Darling, you don’t have to hide from me,” he narrowed his eyes seductively. “I’ve already seen it all.” He tossed the shirt aside and made his way over to you.

“Feels different in the light of day,” you admitted self-consciously. “Worse, I guess.”

“Now, now,” he said, gently pulling your arm away from your chest, “let me see you in the daylight.” You allowed him to move your arm but didn’t look at him. “Lovely,” he breathed, and kissed you hard. 

You inhaled in surprise, but immediately gave in and slipped your tongue into his mouth and your arms over his shoulders. His hand came up and began massaging your left breast, his icy touch sending a shock wave through you and making you moan. 

Instantly, you pulled away and took a step back. “Careful,” you said as Astarion stared at you wide-eyed, his hand frozen in the air where he’d been palming your breast, “I thought you wanted to take things slow?”

He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a dry heave. “Stop being so nice to me,” he avoided your gaze. “It makes me want to… be nice back.”

“Gods forbid,” you laughed, and bent to pick up your bra which had fallen back amongst the pillows. 

All of a sudden, you found yourself face down in the blankets, the wind knocked out of you and Astarion’s body weight pressed firmly on top of you.

“Astarion,” you wheezed, “what are you doing?”

His voice was sultry in your ear, “If you’ll remember, I said I wanted to take my time with you.”

Sexy as that was, you couldn’t breathe. You reached behind yourself and smacked Astarion’s back with your palm. “Living creatures need to breathe, idiot!”

“Oh,” he realized his error and rolled off of you. You had no time to adjust yourself before he flipped you over and hovered above you on his hands and knees. 

You blew some hair out of your face, irritated. “Did you just tackle me like I was some sort of prey?”

“My dear, I would never,” he bowed his head and kissed your neck.

“And yet I find myself on the ground, even though I didn’t put myself here,” you tangled your hands in his hair, your voice wobbly. 

“You’ve always been rather clumsy,” he murmured teasingly. 

You took a deep breath and pushed him away. His lips were still puckered, making you giggle. “Shadowheart told us not to dally,” you reminded him. “And she threatened to kill you, what? Three times?”

“You forget that I’m already dead,” he smiled. “What’s another little death?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

You snorted. “Bad.”

“I thought that was rather clever, actually.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “We should really head back.”

Astarion whined and hung his head. “Let me have you again, woman!”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said!” He lifted his head and looked you in the eye. “And while I appreciate your concern, right now, I very much want to be inside of you again.”

You smiled cautiously. “Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes and kissed you, lowering his body to roll his hips against yours and making his erection very obviously. You jolted at the unexpected sensation and he pulled back.

“Unless this is too much for you,” he searched your face for hesitancy. “You’re probably still sore and we don’t have to rush anything-”

You gripped the back of his head and tightened your fist into his curls. “Please,” you whispered, “fuck me again.”

A wicked grin bloomed on Astarion’s face and he kissed you passionately, rolling his hips against yours for friction. You moaned into his mouth, but he broke the kiss after only a few moments. “Like I said, love, I want to take my time with you.”

He rose up onto his knees and began untying the laces of your pants. You watched him intently and bit your lip as he removed them fully from your legs. He made quick work of his own and crawled back on top of you. His thumb hooked under your panties and his eyes met yours. You nodded and he pulled them down gently and discarded them close by. He then laid beside you, his eyes heavy with lust.

“Come here, precious thing,” he purred and you inched yourself closer to him. “Turn around,” he instructed. You gave him a confused half smile but did what he asked. He reached forward and pulled your hips back, causing you to feel his still-clothed cock against your ass.

“What are you doing?” you asked nervously. 

Astarion chuckled. “Not that, fear not.” He kissed your shoulder as he slid his left arm under you and settled his hand on your lower stomach. A chill ran through you as he nuzzled his head onto your shoulder. “Fair warning,” you could hear the mischief in his voice as his right hand made itself known in front of your face. He wiggled his fingers in a delicate wave, then brought it down between your thighs. 

A gasp escaped your throat when you felt his fingers swipe through your folds.

Astarion tilted his head and kissed your throat. “So wet already, darling.”

“You’re handsome,” you said by way of explanation.

He hummed against your shoulder and began to rub your clit. A shuddering breath left your mouth and your eyes fluttered shut. Astarion paused for a moment to lift your leg and hike it back over his. “This will feel good,” he said against your skin and dragged his fingers through your folds again before inserting a digit into your cunt. 

You threw your head back in surprised pleasure, which made Astarion turn and nip at your ear. He began pumping and curling his finger slowly inside of you. Your breath caught when his thumb resumed its spot on your clit and whined when his finger inside of you hit a particularly sensitive spot. He adjusted his angle to hit it repeatedly. 

“Astarion,” you moaned, your head clouded with nothing but ecstasy. 

“Yes, my sweet, you’re gripping me so tight,” his voice was sensual in your ear. “Do you think you can take a little more?”

You nodded, your eyes shut tight. 

“Words, darling.”

“Another…” you said breathily.

“Another what?”

Your voice was sing-songy. “Astarion, if you don’t put another finger in me right now, I’m leaving you.”

He laughed loudly before moving his mouth close to your ear again. “You like me too much.” Then he leaned up a little to catch your eye, his finger still pumping between your thighs. “Right?”

You smiled sympathetically, seeing your words had spooked him a little. You reached a hand up to cup his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” you clarified. “But I might kill you.”

“Got it,” Astarion dragged his index finger through your folds, then carefully added it to your cunt alongside his middle finger. 

You exhaled, moving your hand down from his cheek to his hand resting on your stomach. You laced your fingers together and squeezed when he hit a particularly good spot, getting you to moan out an, “Oh, gods.”

“Like that?” He asked cockily, reaching and curling to hit the spot again. 

“Yes, my love,” you sighed, grinning upwards with your eyes closed. 

Behind you, you felt Astarion’s cock twitch.

Your eyes opened and you looked back at him. 

He smiled back at you sheepishly. “It does that sometimes, darling. When something is particularly arousing.”

Your breaths were coming out short and keeping in time with the pumping of his fingers. “Was it… ‘my love?’”

Astarion let out a low moan and hid his face in your shoulder before reemerging and nodding. “Coming from you while you’re in the throes of passion with me is really… something.”

You laughed between whimpers. “My… loooooove,” you sang, squeezing his hand again. “Your fingers feel heavenly, my looooove.”

“Fuck this,” Astarion said, pulling his fingers out of you unceremoniously and curling you forward with his body so he could shimmy out of his underwear. 

“What are you doing,” you winced and whined childishly, “I was so close!”

“Unfortunately, darling, if I’m not inside you within a matter of seconds, I’m going to lose it completely.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” you said, half dazed and still coming down from your almost climax. 

You felt his hand bump your ass as he pumped his cock and you instantly went stiff. “You’re not going to…?”

Astarion let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, my sweet, you’re not nearly ready for something like that yet.”

A relieved sigh escaped you. 

“We could always work our way up-”

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with-”

“No, of course not-”

“But we can-”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” you patted Astarion’s cheek.

“Understood,” he nodded and resumed pumping his cock. “Hook your leg back over mine, darling.” When you followed his instruction, he kissed your shoulder once more. You felt the head of his cock glide through your folds until it prodded at your entrance and you let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t be scared,” he muttered, squeezing your hand. “Are you ready?”

You inhaled. “Yes.”

Just as he had last night, Astarion was slow to enter you. This time you heard him whimpering with his mouth so close to your ear. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, dragging his fangs from your shoulder to your neck, “still so tight.”

“Obviously,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut, but not feeling nearly as uncomfortable as you had the first time he’d entered you. You let out a satisfied exhale when his hips bumped your ass. 

“Let me know what I can move,” Astarion said against your skin, his words barely recognizable. 

“You can move,” you said almost immediately, reaching a hand up behind you and twisting it into Astarion’s hair. You moved it over a little to play with the tip of his ear.

He let out a loud groan and snapped his hips forward, probably with more force than he meant to. “Apologies,” he whispered, “that felt heavenly.”

“Keep going, my love,” you encouraged and he caught your eye with a seductive smile. 

He continued to pump his cock into your dripping hole and brought his right hand down to your clit. He licked a stripe from your neck up to your ear. “You know, I really did intend to take my time with you just now,” he spoke lowly from the back of his throat. As if to illustrate his point, he slowed his hips to take long, languid strokes out, and then moved back into you at an equally slow pace. His thumb on your clit slowed as he disconnected his left hand from yours and brought it up to fondle your breast. He kissed up your shoulder to your neck sloppily and sucked on the fading bite marks from last night. 

You moaned loudly, hooking your foot around his calf and tightening your fist in his hair. “We’d really be dallying, then,” you commented.

He made a frustrated noise. “Don’t even allude to the cleric right now,” he pulled away from your neck. “Unless it’s to tell me I’m a much better lover than her.” He snapped his hips into you, hard. 

“I don’t have much of a reference, genius,” you responded breathlessly. 

“Right,” he said, and picked up speed at your clit. His mouth returned to sucking on your throat. 

“Oohhh,” you sighed. You let out a gasp when Astarion’s left hand pinched your nipple.

“You feel wonderful, my darling,” spit connected him to your neck.

“So do you,” you brought your hand up to cover Astarion’s that was kneading your breast. “You can bite me, if you want.”

He groaned loudly and bumped his nose against your jaw. “Well,” he said between thrusts, “if you insist.” 

He kissed your throat before biting down, his hips instantly picking up speed. 

The ice that shot into your veins was a shock as always, but melted into a fuzzy pleasure that had your eyes drooping in ecstasy. 

Astarion took long pulls of your blood as he continued thrusting, circling your clit, and needing your breast. How he was keeping track of everything at once was beyond you in this pleasant, foggy state. 

“Darling,” he pulled away suddenly, swallowing loudly and seemingly out of breath. “May I taste you as you come?”

Your tongue lolled to the side, but his voice snapped you out of it. You nodded up at him. “Yes, please.”

“What do you need?” He licked the wounds on your neck. 

“As much as I’m enjoying you taking your time,” you said, “harder and faster.”

“Easy,” a cocky grin graced his face as a drop of your blood dripped down his chin. 

His hips picked up a brutal pace that nearly had you reaching your peak, and he pressed further onto your clit, his tight circles picking up speed as well. 

“Oh, Astarion,” you moaned loudly, reaching back again to grip his hair.

“Come for me, dearest,” he spoke softly against your throat, but loud enough that you could hear, “I want to hear you sing again. I want to taste how sweet your blood is when I make you cum on my cock.” He continued leaving sloppy kisses against your neck.

“I’m close,” you confirmed, your eyes shut tight and your body tensing. 

“Go ahead, love, I’ve got you,” his hard thrusts were becoming uneven, but ever the professional, his voice remained mostly even. “You’re so tight and warm, thank you for letting me taste you.” He kissed your mouth. “Darling.” Another kiss. “Beloved.” One more. “Mine.”

You cried out as you fell over the edge, your cunt squeezing his cock repeatedly, only to cry out again as you felt Astarion’s fangs enter your neck once more. 

“Astarion!” You shouted, squeezing his hand and pulling his hair and wrapping your shaking leg around his. Almost simultaneously, you felt Astarion spill inside you as he moaned your name loudly into your neck, his hips pulsing clumsily against you. 

The sensation of him drawing your blood was still pleasantly fuzzy, but you could feel yourself becoming light headed. You tapped his arm twice, your signal for him to stop, and he pulled away, leaning his forehead against your temple and breathing heavily. 

“Still cumming,” he groaned and clenched his teeth, his hips faltering in their rhythm. 

After another moment, his body finally relaxed and he pulled you closer into his chest, catching his breath. “That was… amazing,” he sighed happily, leaning forward to lick the remaining blood from your neck. “If I knew blood could taste that good-” His voice trailed off. “Well, I’m sure I’d do something about it if I could.” He seemed pleased with his own answer and hummed contentedly behind you.

“I’m glad it was to your liking,” you said, looking back at him with a smile. He bent forward and kissed you happily. “I’m like a fine vintage,” you teased.

Astarion pursed his lips. “You’re far from vintage, darling, you’ll have to work on your wine related japes.” 

You laughed and a comfortable silence fell between you. Astarion rested both of his hands on your stomach. Which growled suddenly.

“What’s that like?” He teased, licking a wayward drop of blood from the side of his mouth. 

Your body tensed. “Oh gods, bread and cheese!”

Astarion blinked at you. “Are those some sort of new deities I’m not aware of, or-?”

“No, that’s what Gale said we’re having for lunch.”

“And that’s important because-?”

“Because we DALLIED and there’s a PARTY tonight and now Shadowheart is going to KILL us.”

“I see.” Astarion remained still, fixed in place. Then suddenly he was pulling out of you at a breakneck speed and reaching for his clothes. 

You winced a little at the sensation but scrambled for your own clothes, wiping yourself down with the cloth Astarion provided again and got dressed in what was probably record time. 

Incredibly, you both looked presentable. 

“We do make a gorgeous pair,” Astarion cocked his hip and smirked at you, going in for a kiss.

You swatted him away. “Enough flirting, loverboy, we can talk about us later!” You started reaching for blankets and pillows. 

“Us,” Astarion stood on the sidelines, testing out the word on his tongue. “I do so like the sound of that.”

“Help me, would you?” You threw a pile of blankets at him, hitting him in the face and blowing his hair back. 

He groaned. “It should be a crime to rush after you’ve just made love to the most amazing woman.” He came up behind you and smacked your butt teasingly. 

You stood up straight and tried to look angry. “We are going to die if we don’t head back right now.” Astarion wasn’t buying your anger, so you turned bashful. “You made loooove to me?” You clasped your hands together by your face. “You think I’m amaaaazing?” You twirled some of your hair for good measure.

Astarion sighed. “Be serious, woman, we’re going to die!” His voice was exasperated but he smirked at you. He bent to pick up more blankets and pillows and you did the same until you both had piles you could barely see over and nothing was left behind.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to do so much laundry,” you muttered. “Seriously, how did you manage bringing all this out here?”

“Well first, everything was folded neatly.”

“We don’t have time.”

“And second, multiple trips, darling.”

“We can’t afford to leave camp EVER again.”

Try as you might to rush back to camp, you still had to maneuver through a forest and be careful where you stepped. The pair of you moved as quickly as you could, which wasn’t as fast as was probably necessary to avoid Shadowheart’s ire. 

“Soooo…” You broke the silence after a few moments. 

“Gods,” Astarion rolled his eyes, “what?”

“‘My love,’ huh?” You waggled your eyebrows at him.

“What about it?”

“You liiiiiiked it,” you teased. 

“I-” You could see that he thought about arguing but decided not to. “I’m not used to the pet names turned on me. It’s… nice.”

“You’re cute,” you said, looking over at him affectionately and nearly tripping over a tree root as a result.

Astarion snickered, then made his face serious. “I’m the furthest thing from cute. I’m a horrifying monster.” He lowered his voice as if that would back him up.

“Yeah, but you like being mushy.” 

“I do not.”

“You do!” You moved closer to him and bumped his hip with your own. “You were so sweet to me yesterday. And just now.” 

“It’s different with you,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s… um… This is stupid, I hate it.” He tried to walk ahead of you but you caught up easily.

“No, no! Please.” You gave him a reassuring look. “I, of all people, will not judge you.”

He sighed. “It’s just… nice to feel like something is mine.” He was quick to correct, “Not that I own you but… I don’t know. You’re not a victim. Not a target. Not just… one night it’s better to forget. You’re something entirely new.”

You smiled over at him. “I like you too, weirdo.”

Astarion humphed. “Whatever.” He moved closer and bumped your hip with his own. The two of you shared a fond look, then turned back to the path ahead.

If Shadowheart was going to kill you, at least you’d die together. 

You both quickened your pace to try and avoid that fate, but it was a lovely thought.

Soon, you began to make out the bright colors of your tents through the trees and the sound of your companions chatting by the fire. 

You turned to Astarion. “See you on the other side.”

He nodded, determined. “It’s been a pleasure servicing you, darling.”

“I hope she kills you first.”

You shared a laugh before you took a calming breath. 

And stepped into camp. 

[thepersonperson]

I can’t believe we got an infodump on simple domains AGAIN over a Sukuna backstory.

More complaining under the cut.

Usually I am one to give Gege the benefit of the doubt and will read heavily into what little information we are given. But I can't defend this chapter themes or character wise.

Even if this turns out to be a fakeout, going in painstaking detail over a show-not-tell battle in a way that lacks characterization and heartfelt emotion sucks to read. Even if the new shadow style and simple domain debacle goes somewhere, having it the main focus after an extremely traumatic battle instead of characters processing their emotions sucks to read. Even if Gojo is alive and that's why they're this chipper, everyone ignoring his sacrifice and efforts along with Choso's sucks to read.

I'm happy Yuta and Higuruma are alive but why was their revival off-screened? Yuta was so defensive over Gojo and everyone treating him like an object just 8 chapters ago. What happened to that? Why is everyone treating this battle like it was no big deal? (Also why the fudge did Kusakabe tell Yuji, a 15 year old, to his face he should've been killed while disparaging Gojo for protecting the life of a child???)

After the Shibuya Incident, there was a whole segment dedicated to how this affected the average person. The Culling Games ended and there are still bloodthirsty freaks running around. What happened to them? Is Angel hunting them down and that's why Hana is missing? Infodumping on anything except the battle would've been better.

I doubt we'll get any more info on Sukuna, Kenjaku, and Tengen at this point. We'll be lucky if there's a funeral for even Geto's body. Shoko was absent this entire chapter which makes me thing she's still trying to save Gojo or she's preparing their bodies for a funeral.

Anyways. This is the worst JJK chapter for me hands down. My hopes for the final 2 are mostly dashed. Crunch and poor working conditions really do ruin art my goodness.

[momentomori24]

Keiji is a character that I'm pretty sure every one of us can recognize is an absolute weirdo (ok maybe some are too hard on copium for the "weirdo" part) and sketchy as hell, but thinking about everything he's done it really feels like he's so much shady and ruthless than we give him credit for. So here's me bulletpointing some the moments that I haven't seen too many talk about, a little theory throwing his status into question and addressing the massive elephant in the room that almost everyone refuses to acknowledge. If there's something else you feel I missed or wanted to evaluate on, do leave it in the comments.

[Also, disclaimer: I will be discussing Keiji and Sara in a romantic light near the end of this post, so if that makes you uncomfortable please proceed with caution or skip entirely. This should go without saying but for my own sake I will say it anyway-- No, I do not condone their relationship in real life. No, this is not meant to be "shippy" or endorsement of any kind. This will simply be pointing out their dynamic as another example to prove the whole point of this rant. But if someone else does ship them that's totally fine. Fiction doesn't equal reality and if you harass a real person over fictional characters you will not see the light of heaven. Be civil, please and thank you. My block button is rated E for Everyone and if anyone decides to ignore the warnings and be an asshole I won't hesitate to use it. Thanks for listening. Disclaimer over.]

*Being a murderer.

I feel like I should start with the most obvious and undeniable. I don't think this is debatable to anyone here. Mr. Policeman may have been an accident and kinda confirmed by Midori to have been set up, but he still shot and killed an unarmed man in a moment of panic and recklessness. Even putting that aside, there's no denying that he killed Megumi in cold blood to get out of his debt to her and covered it up to the group to preserve his credibility. Regardless of what you think of Megumi, he has no excuse here. Not only is he one more kill away from being a serial killer, he's the only participant in our group that has actually killed people directly aside from Alice. Another reason why I bring this up is cuz something that completely flew over my head is this:

At the start of the game he had the audacity to complain about not having a partner or someone he knows with him like Sara does as if he didn't literally let Megumi get ripped apart by chains probably not even an hour ago Keiji what the hell--

*Throwing Kanna under the bus repeatedly.

Despite positioning himself as a protector and someone to rely on, he's far from above putting their youngest members in danger. Next to voting for the fourteen year old girl to die, he had the great idea of letting said fourteen year old be the one to babysit their biggest liability. Up to the point where they would stay in the same room both day and night. While I absolutely 100% trust that Sou would never EVER do anything to her, Keiji had no guarantee of that when he send her off. Hell, he literally just got done accusing Sou of setting Joe up to die (which I don't believe almost solely based on the fact that he said it, more on that another time maybe). He knew Sou was bad news, and openly acknowledges how adults can be terrifying, but he did it anyway. The dubiety of throwing the already traumatised little girl to keep watch on what they thought to be the most dangerous adult that had manipulated her once before is not lost on me, and that he didn't take any responsibility for her afterwards isn't lost on me either. To be fair, the Sou and Kanna thing doesn't just fall on him, it falls on everybody (Alice gets a pass because he actually swapped out with Kanna to watch Sou for her), but he was the one with the final say on the matter and who encouraged her to take the role despite Reko's rightful protests. The fact that he also voted for her to die in the Main Game, and is the only adult to do so, doesn’t help his case.

*Attempting to frame Sou knowing Reko was actually responsible.

While you could argue he was trying to cover for her since he knew why she did what she did, trying to pin this act on Sou to cast more doubt on his is extremely shitty. Never mind the blatant corruption and the irony of a supposed man of the law abusing his power to knowingly frame an innocent person (in this situation at least), and him sowing more seeds of confusion and resentment within an already rattled group, and giving Sou legitimate reason to be suspicious of him (and by extension Sara)-- this makes it so difficult to trust him after realising he's done this. Literally every time he accuses someone of being or doing something suspicious (mostly Sou), I always have to think in the back of my head if he’s telling the truth or just telling a blatant lie. He's shown that he's willing to not only lie to cover for himself, but to lie to delegitimize someone else. And Sara never caught onto it (Sou and maybe even Nao likely did tho). She never openly acknowledged it-- No one did. The complete lack of mention of what he did here makes this action quite missable. Hell, I didn't even catch it the first time. Has he done this before? Who else has he lied about? Who else would he lie about? Who else would he knowingly pit against the group? You don't have to wait for that answer, because I will provide an example later. And with "later", I mean now.

*Casting suspicion on Gin before the vote while hiding the fact that he killed Megumi.

While it's not as blatant as with Kanna, there are two instances where Keiji shows a readiness to either put or leave Gin in harm's way. The biggest one for me is in the Main Game. Like, how dare you. That is a furry child, sir. This kid’s like TWELVE. Even though he makes a valid point about calling out suspicious actions to clear them up so we can all trust each other, casting doubt on Gin of all people right there feels pretty screwed to me. This was before the preliminary vote. His words could’ve very well gotten Gin voted for if he couldn’t disclose why he did what he did for whatever reason and therefore being unable to clear himself from suspicion. It’s even more fucked when you realise that Keiji has literally murdered his partner and is currently planning to get Sou killed while giving this whole spiel about doubting others so that we can believe them and pointing the finger at a little kid to make an example to the group. But when Nao, Sou and Sara call him out on his suspicious actions that could rightfully damage his credibility, he tries to shut them down completely. My brother in Christ, you brought it on FIRST (don’t get me wrong I’m very much aware he didn’t really mean the whole “trusting each other” bit but come on dude)--

Speaking about not meaning what he says:

*Letting the group think he’s Ok to vote for knowing he’s the Keymaster.

This kinda got to me because I thought this was Keiji actually being… vulnerable? Accepting the consequences of his actions and allowing them to vote for him in their distrust without protest even tho it could cost him his life, maybe. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can’t remember a lot of times-- or any times, really-- where Keiji has willing put himself into the line of fire, at this point at least. He always finds a way to keep himself safe, give himself insurance, and I thought that this would be the one time he doesn’t do that. But this feels so ominous looking back knowing that he was the Keymaster the whole time. That our distrust and betrayal and his resignation to it all didn’t matter because he was going to be safe no matter what. That he knowingly allowed us to assume that he was a safe vote because he didn’t want his plan to kill Sou to be ruined, which narrowed down choice of people we can safely vote for even further. That this action is ultimately the reason why Sou and Kanna were our only options to kill off in the end. If he had admitted it there, we could’ve found someone else to vote for so our final options could consist of three people, not two. But he didn’t, and the rest is history. There’s a lot of things he’s done I can’t get over. This one ranks pretty high. The second Main Game is already a huge sore spot for me for obvious reasons; knowing that a lot of the things that happened were due to his inaction where it truly mattered and activity in all the wrong places doesn’t make me fee any better. He didn't say he was a safe vote-- he didn't lie-- but his words carefully omit that voting for him means a total party death, something he should've stated then (and before this, really).

*Leaving Sara with the sacrifice card.

Despite making a big show about “always being by her side” and being her “reliable policeman”, he chose to look away when she was in real danger. He attached himself to her as her right hand man, made her shoulder the responsibility of being the leader, constantly manipulated and flattered her to win her trust and gain her favour-- but when she needed him the most, he basically left her for dead because it was the most beneficial to him. Keep in mind that not only did he know about her getting the sacrifice (he was also the sage so he'd have seen the trade happen), but he had the tokens to help her get rid of it. But those tokens weren’t for her life. They were for his. He used them instead to give himself the Keymaster as insurance for the Main Game (the Keymaster he stole from Sou/Kanna most likely to buy Sara’s trust btw). His desperation for survival outweighed his sense of obligation to keep her safe, and that’s the most subtle yet transparent he’s been about his selfishness. What makes this so much worse is that Keiji is our support character. He’s an ally, and our closest one at that, to the point where Sara burned her hands in a futile attempt to rescue him and signed her life away to save his. And yet his loyalty and protectiveness pale in comparison to other characters. Compare his actions to Sou’s: one of their many parallels and similarities is that both their girls get hit with the sacrifice card. As we’ve established, Keiji was fully aware of Sara being send the sacrifice by Sou, had 50 tokens ready to go and chose to secure his own survival than save her life. Kanna ended up doing it instead, attempting to trade the card off Sara with Sou realising what happened immediately. And what does Sou do? Completely bend over backwards trying to keep her alive. He lied about being the Sacrifice so the others wouldn’t suspect Kanna of having that role, meaning he could try gathering vote for her without anyone seeing his true intentions. He tried to stop her about coming out with the truth of what she had done so she doesn’t sentence herself to death. After everything he did to survive-- after how much he lied, how much he schemed, how much he hurt, and how he had thrown himself away to replace everything that made him Shin with the man that had traumatised him years before the game began to scrape together even the tiniest chance to survive-- he threw it all to the wind and was willing to let it all be in vain if it meant she got to make it out of the Main Game alive. The worst part is that Sou had never intended to make it through that Main Game. He confessed to already knowing that Kanna would choose Sara over him if she truly had the Sacrifice card. Yet he still did what he did all in the hopes that she could win. Because it was all about her survival first, not about them surviving together.

It also gives a different context to Sou's panic and him stumbling over his words trying to come up with any argument to get them to stop. At first I thought that Sou was afraid for his life. Which would make sense-- Keiji and Q-taro set him up to die and seemed pretty adamant on having everyone voting for him to get it all over with. But he was already prepared to die the minute he realised Kanna traded with Sara. So it means it wasn’t his life he was fearing for here-- it was hers. To him, if they voted for him there, it wouldn’t have just been his end but hers too. But we know that Kanna isn’t the one who has the sacrifice. It’s Nao, and considering how the Main Game can end either or both of them dead, I wonder if he regrets not having given up there, not letting Keiji get away with that shitty stunt he pulled knowing it would’ve at least guaranteed her safety than leave her fate in hands of a girl with enough reason to kill her. Ignoring the sounds of my heart shattering into pieces for the 100th time thinking about the Greenblings, it’s so fascinating that our biggest rival and most distrusted member has a greater sense of loyalty and responsibility for his ally than Keiji has for his own. Sou can be a liar and manipulative and selfish, but for how unpredictable he is something I can always trust is his love for those he holds dear (Kanna) and general desire to protect our most vulnerable (Gin). Sou loves Kanna, and so he’s fine with protecting her even if it comes at a price he never wanted to pay. Keiji surely cares about Sara, but unfortunately that is something I can’t say about him-- at least at that time (also the fact that Sou ended up taking more care and responsibility for Kanna despite Keiji having been the one to throw her on him in the first is so ironic).

*Continuously pushing Sara to take on the role of leader.

I think one of Keiji's biggest failures in the game come from his treatment of Sara despite positioning himself as her most reliable ally and her partner. From the very get-go, he was very adamant of making Sara be the one to shoulder the responsibility of the group. He, along with Joe (he didn't do anything wrong here), pushed Sara to be the Challenger during the Russian Roulette, despite Q-taro and Kai being readily available. He made Sara be the one to interrogate the suspicious convict while distancing himself from the situation. And he encourages her to lead them through the Main Game, lets her make the choices that steer them all forward and as a consequence take the fall for them as well. Rather than take on the role himself, or let another adult take it, he places his full trust in her and makes her shoulder everyone's weight so he doesn't have to. And he can see the effect it has on her: having horrific hallucinations due to the immense guilt she feels. But having Sara as their leader gives him a greater shot at survival and helps his credibility, so even though he tries to provide her comfort he still continues to keep her in that role. Again, the high schooler taking responsibility for the adults falls on a lot of the older people here, but Keiji was the one who kickstarted it rather than just go along with it like everyone else had. Gin, Nao, Kanna, Reko and even fucking Sou to an extent all have moments where they take the burden off her and relieve her of that pain she shoulders all the time (or at least try to). I need Keiji to take more responsibility for both the group and for her.

*Pitting Sara and Joe against each other.

This is just another example of the previous point. This isn't as bad, and I could give him the benefit of the doubt that this might have not been intentional, but it's something I want to bring up regardless. I'll be the first to say that Keiji wasn't wrong here. Prying into everyone's votes is a very bad move, especially since no one knew that Mishima would actually die (it was introduced as a practice round, after all). I agree with him, Joe was being rash, but instead of leaving the conversation there, he decided to throw Sara into it to pick a side. Which is... not good. He already won the argument and already had Reko on his side. Bringing in Sara could not only make Joe feel worse and potentially strain their relationship (especially if she rightfully chooses Keiji's side like he was expecting and hoping for), but just puts Sara in the spotlight during something she doesn't want to be part of. While there's a chance he might've done this because he know Joe is more likely to listen to her than him, he should've known better than that. It again makes her take the responsibility of giving the final verdict that would've otherwise gone to him.

*Asking Sara to take responsibility for his life

I've got nothing other that the grown adult swearing his life to the grieving, unstable teenager to take responsibility for while asking her if she'd die along with him is weird as heck. Keiji's said weirder things prior to this, but this one is a different weird. I think Beanieman's post mostly echoes my thoughts on this on, so I'll link it here for this point. This part kinda bothers me:

He shouldn't be encouraging her taking on anymore responsibility than she already is. He knows that the deaths that happened under her leadership haunt her. He knows that she's very much unstable enough already, to the point where he takes baby-steps to avoid triggering her trauma over Joe. He positioned himself as her reliable partner, her rock to lean on (quite literally sometimes). We see first hand how emotionally dependent she is on him. If he died, it would destroy her-- she'd destroy herself over it. He knows this (or should) but he still does it. His disappointment and dismissiveness when she understandably rejects him makes it worse. The guilt of potentially not living up to his expectations is not what she needs.

*Potentially working for Asunaro

This is more ambiguous than everything else here and more a theory than anything but it's been on my mind for a long time that Ranmaru might actually be onto something here. We know that Asunaro has a strong hold on the police. Midori was able to infiltrate the force, and they were able to get rid of Mr. Policeman for looking into the corruption going on, first having Megumi fire him and secondly getting Keiji to kill him by planting false info about the suspect having a gun. Megumi was also able to get Keiji off the hook for murder, which I believe Asunaro had a hand in too (I theorize this might've been her wish). There's also Alice, who was arrested and sent to prison despite the fact that he (legally) didn't kill anyone since Midori was a doll. The police are connected to Asunaro-- by extension Megumi and extending further potentially Keiji.

Something I've seen someone rightfully point out is that neither of the options you're given to say in response to the accusation... actually deny it? Both choices dance around answering directly, which is suspect as fuck. If Keiji truly wasn't with Asunaro, why not shut that theory down immediately? There's no benefit to answering anything but "no" when he's innocent, and he's lied straight to people's faces for less. So why not just debunk it? I think it's cuz there might be some truth to what Ranmaru was saying here. The biggest reason I think this is because despite the fact that Keiji quit the force, he and Megumi were still associating with each other years later. They were kidnapped together and partnered up for their first trial. One missable piece of dialogue is Keiji admitting that he was with his partner-- or rather a "coworker"-- before getting knocked out.

That slip of the tongue and backtracking makes me believe this part to be true. Him switching from "my partner" to "a coworker", which is a lot more distant and impersonal, makes me think it's got to be Megumi. However, I don't believe that Keiji would wanna keep in touch with her after what happened willingly, so I can only imagine that it's due to that debt he has to her. My little game theory here is that after the shooting, the debt he owed her was a forced recruitment into Asunaro. It's the only thing I can imagine he meant by "the worst kind of debt", a debt he'd literally let her die for to get out of. And if this is true, then it could also explain away his instant attachment to Sara, since he'd know beforehand that she's someone he can depend on due to her having the highest chance at survival. Maybe he already knew about her beforehand, one way or the other. We know Hayasaka did (which I think we as a fandom moved on from way too fast btw). Kai and Sou did too. There's always a chance. And unlike Sou's victory rate and Midori's favourite number, it's not zero. One person made a comic about this idea I recommend checking it out, it's tastefully unsettling. But still very much unsetling and uncomfortale. Be warned that it's also Keisara-centred, so if that makes you even more uncomfortable they did the job right you can ignore it. Proceed with caution or don't read if you don't like.

*Being a predator

I have been waiting so long for this one XD For context: a while ago I made a longpost discussing the sanitisation of soushin and this kind of toxic attitudes in fandoms regarding "problematic content" (ships, characters, shows, you name it). In it, I mentioned that it's not only soushin that receives this treatment but a certain other dynamic too. It's not a rainy day, however this has been way overdue and if I don't get this done now I never will.

Something I've seen a lot, and I mean a LOT-LOT is this notion that Keiji acts "like a father" to Sara and that their relationship is a completely platonic father-daughter bond and that he's the resident dad of the group? Like, it's cute, but that's not at all what their relationship is. At all. Not even a little bit. We called Sou and Kanna siblings before the Greenblings reveal. The difference is that not only does half the fandom think this man is gay, but he's only ever been protective and caring and loving without any romantic intentions towards Kanna ever. His title as her brother was deserved, based on the genuine affection and platonic protectiveness similar to that of Alice's. Keiji has made advances tho, on many occasions, and his flirting is repeatedly acknowledged by other characters. Namely Sou and Reko.

(Sou grills him for being a creep every chance he gets I love him XD) But yeah, these are not the type of reactions and comments you receive when being a "father-figure" to the teenager. You get all this when you hit on the teenager. Which he does all the time by calling her "cute" every time she asks something and his "cute little detective", swearing himself to her by saying that "he's always on her side" or something like that, asking her if she'd die alongside him, repeatedly claiming or insinuating that they're on a date, or ""having a moment"" and going to ""take the next step"" when in private (*cough* groomer *cough*)-- you name it, he likely said it. He's a walking-talking ladykiller machine and teenage girls aren't safe, apparently.

(Quick note: The dialogue for the Russian Roulette one is a tad different now. In the new translation he says "cause you're so darn cute" now. I dunno if that makes it sound any less weird, but I felt like putting that out there. What I'm also putting out there is that according to the trivia he calls her cute 8 times throughout the game so. Yeah. *Cough* groomer *COUGH COUGH*)

Like, who tf says this?? Especially that last part 💀 Even if you wanna die on the hill that these are supposed to be "jokes" not to be taken seriously, we should all be able to agree that the (ex)police officer in his late 20s jokingly hitting on the high schooler he follows around is still weirdo behaviour at best and down right despicable at worst. The fandom seeing lowkey predatory/inappropriate behaviour from a figure of authority persistent for almost three entire chapters and dismissing it as "fatherly" and "platonic" is, well, concerning. It's very concerning. If your dad acts like Keiji, you should probably call the police. Unfortunately for Sara, Keiji is the police. And considering this guy got away with manslaughter, I don't think said police would do anything anywho. But yeah-- he uses flattery and flirting to distract her from prodding to much at him while simultaneously aiming to gain favour in her eyes. He showers her with reassurance of his loyalty and affirmation of his deeper attachment towards her and her alone every chance he gets to cement his position as her closest and most trustworthy ally. He insinuates a romantic partnership between them to others to mostly keep her to himself or the two of them alone (he always does that when they're investigating or going to investigate by themselves). There's such an obvious romantic undertone to their relationship and his actions that it going almost completely ignored in the fandom feels weird to me.

I want to make clear that there's nothing wrong with headcanoning Keiji as a father figure to Sara. It's cute. Keiji didn't have a dad himself, and the closest thing to a father figure he had was the man he shot dead. He's a damaged and hardened guy. But Sara's dad is involved with Asunaro and Gin's is an alcoholic, and in a situation where they both need guidence and protection he tries his best to grow and change, fumbling to become that decent father none of them got to have. It's nice, and a wholesome dynamic for our "characters with memorandum counterparts and only non-determined deaths" trio. But that's obviously not what their dynamic is. There's a difference between headcanoning something and erasing canon and the Yttd fandom leans heavily into the latter. Keiji's a creep, he always has been, yet 90% of people I see always portray him as a Mr. Dad Guy or completely sanitise him to hell when him being creepy and unnerving to be around is what made him such a fascinating character. Just like I said with Soushin, the sanitisation to make canon more digestible is one thing: harassing or insulting the people that explore canon is another. I'm gonna take a bullet, derail this rant and say it-- Keisara shippers get so much shit for literally being right it's so infuriating. Keiji does hit on Sara, a lot. He's creepy and weird like that. Him flirting with her isn't a "mistranslation" or a joke or anything like that; his dubious wording and antics are very much intentional. Yet the only people I see actually addressing and acknowledging that without adding fluff is keisara shippers and other ""proshippers"" only for them to get fucking sniped for it I cannot 💀💀 I have yet to meet a single eastern fan who calls this cop "fatherly". This really feels like such a western issue cuz the majority of the japanese fandom agrees that this man's a predator (correct me if i'm wrong but keisara is the most popular ship in the japanese side of the fandom, right?). Then again, eastern fandoms are more chill over there when it comes to separating fiction and reality in general anywho.

*Yeah, I think I'm done with the Keiji slander. Yay. Time to unceremoniously end this.

There's more to say about that, but this is a Keiji post, not another shipping discourse post (although it's hard discussing Keiji's predatory behaviour without bringing it up too). Before I do spiral from the original point, I'm going to try and reach some sort of conclusion here. While I did spent the majority of this post just reading Keiji to filth, and am very salty towards him in particular, this was not just to rake him through mud for my own sanity (tho it's part of it XD). Keiji's character is that he started off as someone who wanted to do the right thing, someone who wanted to be good and moral and protect others by joining the force only to kill all the progress he made along with the person who inspired him to become an officer in the first place. It heavily contrasts the Keiji we have now, a sleazy, unreliable and corrupt ex detective who flirts with underage girls and is willing to resort to the most bankrupt of decisions to save himself. A man that has long lost hope of his wounds healing that he lets them fester and his rot spread onto others. And while I headcanon Keiji to just inherently be a piece of shit, his former self tried his best to be genuinely good before he became so convinced he can never be better that he made peace with his shittiness in the end.

With all this I wanted to highlight some the shadier and bankrupt things he's done that I haven't seen much discussion around and refresh myself on them before the final part. Both so no matter how emotionally dependent and therefore rose-tinted Sara is about the man I don't forget what he's actually like and what he's done while also being able to appreciate how much he's changed for the better. Some of my favourite examples about how he's changed are these:

Before the second Main Game Keiji was willing to let Sara and Kanna die because it was the most beneficial option for him, but in Chapter 3 he takes the on the role of "it" from Kanna and refuses to tag Sara when he thought he was gonna die after failing to beat Midori.

Actually showing more sympathy towards Sou after the Main Game. He was very mean about dismantling his pretence of a cold front to Kanna's death, don't get me wrong, but he showed a lot more consideration and understanding for Sou's feelings and acknowledgement about his active role in it than he ever had beforehand.

He was genuinely fighting for everyone to survive the game, not just himself. While Keiji would prefer everyone making it out safely, he has a tendency to guarantee his own survival first through any means necessary. His plan to corner Midori in the banquet could've cost him his life if it weren't for Q-taro's final stunt, yet he still reassured Sara to save Gin even tho it could've resulted in his execution from Meister potentially finding him guilty of violating the rules.

Him hugging Mai and trying to be more cheerful was cute as heck. I'm sorry but him showing more vulnerability around his allies and being less closed off in a way he hasn't been before is something I'm very head empty about. That he was hugging and interacting with Mai without making any unwanted advances or ladykiller jokes and generally just having a more friendly vibe was nice. It makes his creeping on Sara more unfortunate, but I'll take what I can for now. The bar is in hell.

And that's it, I think. Overall, I hope they do address some of his actions here in the final part or make them have an impact on his and Sara's relationship. Especially that Asunaro part. The person who wished for Sara to join the death game is still unknown and so is Keiji's consent form wish (same goes for the Dummies, Hinako and Megumi), so I'm curious if they're related or not. If he's going to go down an even darker path or redeem himself as much as he can we'll see when the final part drops. He has the potential to go both ways. This is going to be kinda awkward if the next part reveals him to have been a decent guy all along, so hopefully that doesn't happen. Please be morally bankrupt, man. This post didn't end up the way I wanted it to, nor bring up as many points as I would've liked, but I know I won't finish it if I went full perfectionist on it (I already spent months on this writer's block do be a bitch) and it's looking kinda long already. Hopefully it's still decent enough as is right now. I'd like to say that this is my apology for the last longpost I made, but I brought up one of the most controversial and hated ships and traits of Keiji's character and defended them, so maybe I shouldn't 🙃 Anywho, hope you enjoyed and cheerio.

[harmonictechnicality]

Eddie's Memory Log: Day 59

part 1 here | part 2 here | part 3 here | part 4 here | part 6 here (ao3 link here)

Steve spends an obnoxious amount of time in front of the mirror. This isn’t breaking news. If he were in that fairytale with the evil witch and her Mirror Disciple, the mirror would be so sick of Steve’s vanity by now.

The surprising part is that Steve has been in front of the mirror since five in the morning. He couldn’t sleep, his mind is one channel full of reruns. And unfortunately, people don’t have a fucking remote control to turn off their brains, so he’s just stuck reliving Saturday morning over and over again.

Here he is. Just staring blankly at his reflection. Yawning. The reflection yawns back. Flipping his hair to one side, thinking about Eddie. Flipping his hair to the other side, thinking about Eddie. Spraying the flyaways down, thinking about Eddie. Steve has to splash his face with water so much that he’s going to show up to the hospital looking like a shriveled-up sponge.

He’s nearly satisfied with how it’s shaping up when Steve is smacked with a thought. A rewind in his rerun. A loop.

It’s Eddie’s voice, that scratchy morning one that made Steve’s toes curl up in his sneakers. All he can hear now is that voice repeating the same syrupy sentence:

‘Feels like cashmere now…’

Steve listens to the phrase till his knees start to wobble. He reaches up into his hair, just to experience what Eddie experienced that day. Instead, all Steve feels is hardened strands. All of it holding a sticky residue. Not soft at all. And definitely not cashmere. 

Before the loop can start over for the umpteenth time, Steve strips off his meticulously planned outfit and hops into the shower. The water bursts out, directly onto Steve’s nearly satisfactory styling job. It breaks his pride more than his heart, washing all his hard work away so easily.

Steve never really goes out in public with unstyled hair anymore. Not after the time in eighth grade when Hailey Barnes got gum stuck in his hair mid-make out. Steve had to cut it the shortest it had ever been in his whole life. Led to a full blown Samson storyline for the rest of the school year. He still dated, sure - but barely any second dates.

Steve shakes off his biblical trauma and blow-dries for a good fifteen minutes. Look, if he can’t style it, he can at least dry it out. He’s not a complete heathen for christ’s sake. 

It’s weird, staring back at an unstyled Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. But this might earn him more scalp massages. Potential kisses. Potential memories. So if Eddie wants cashmere, Steve’s gonna fucking give it to him.

He’s probably gonna be late for visiting hours, but he’s hopeful that Eddie will forgive him once he gets his vein-busted hands into Steve’s hair. Driving over the speed limit is not exactly necessary and certainly not legal, but fuck it all.

Fuck it all with the windows down.

It’s a gross habit, but Steve starts chewing on his nail as soon as he reaches the door to Eddie’s room. He’s gotta kick these nerves in the ass, pull his charisma out with a rope or some shit. 

There’s no reason to be nervous, not after Eddie verified that Steve was reading the situation correctly. That should be confirmation enough to make Steve stop his nasty nail-biting and boost his enthusiasm to max volume.

So that’s exactly what he does. Steve swings the door open, pointing directly towards Eddie upon arrival. “You have some serious explaining to do, Munson.”

“Quite the entrance you got there.” Okay. Less enthusiasm than Steve, for sure. Not even half-volume enthusiasm.

“I mean, just leaving me hanging like that?” Steve lightly smacks Eddie’s shoulder.  “You really are the worst eye candy employer of all time.”

Eddie’s eyes narrow as he nods along. “Sure…”

The enthusiasm is dialing down to fucking mute. At this rate, Steve will have to skip the sly banter, go straight for the obvious. His dignity would be damaged if he weren’t so wired.

“Oh come on!” Steve shoves Eddie’s shoulder a bit harder this time. “You’re not gonna say anything about my hair?” Steve runs his hands through it, movie slow-motion style. Then he shakes it out, flounces the ends. Anything for some sign of life at the moment.

“It’s… different.”

No shit, it’s different. It’s certifiable fluff right now. Sort of like angel food cake without the icing. 

Steve has to shift gears yet again. Maybe the straightforward path is too basic for Eddie’s liking. Maybe he prefers the smooth lines. Steve can do smooth. Smooth is his fucking specialty.

“Free cashmere doesn’t come around like this everyday.” Steve sits next to Eddie on the bed, messing around with his heart monitor cord. “So touch it all you want, Eds.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Eddie’s face goes siren red. He scoots away from where Steve is sitting and laughs somewhat nervously. “Was it drugs? Did you finally raid my lunchbox?” 

“No. No drugs. Just…” Happy to see you. A little wounded that you’re not as happy to see me. But still… happiness overall.  “A rare good mood, I guess.”

“I’ll say.” Eddie scoffs. "You are mighty chipper today.”

“Well, yeah.” Steve gets off the bed. He’s clearly making Eddie uncomfortable and he doesn’t know why. His energy is the same as it was Saturday morning. A little heightened, sure, but Eddie thrives off intense shit. Well, he usually does. “I mean, considering what almost happened Saturday.”

Eddie holds up both hands. “Wait. Time out. Saturday?” 

“Yeah.”

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

“You were here on the weekend?”

No. No, this can’t be happening. This is Eddie scribbling Steve-related notes on his arm all over again. The trap door in Steve’s stomach drops, all of his insides feel like they’re plunging down to his feet. The blush that had settled in Steve’s face, is now being whipped around, right up to his forehead. He feels sick. He feels a migraine forming. He feels fucking robbed.

“Please. Please tell you didn’t forget.” Steve’s voice is small.

Eddie doesn’t respond immediately, just studies the grim expression on Steve’s whole face. “I need you to be specific with what you’re talking about, Steve.”

“Do you remember Friday?”

Eddie looks up at the ceiling as if his memories are stored somewhere up high. “You came over. We talked about your mixtape. Bubblegum shit. See a dentist. No insurance, yada yada.”

So far, so good.

“We watched the Home Shopping Network for four hours.”

Three, but Steve lets that one slide. Probably felt like four hours.

“The doctors gave me new medicine for… something, I don’t know.”

“That part is important.”

“Yeah well, you try being on more medications than you can count on your hands.” Eddie barks back.  “See how many ridiculously long latin names you can remember.”

Look. Steve is a patient person - hasn’t always been that way, but the unexplainable circumstances over the last three years has Miyagi’d the shit out of his patience levels.

Five days a week, Steve sits here. Patiently dealing with whatever unpredictable mood Eddie is going through that day. Five days a week for almost three months. Steve doesn’t wanna sit here and do the math because he knows it’ll be depressing numbers. So many days, hours, minutes, that he spends being the Patient Guy.

But with Eddie snapping while Steve is trying to process how such an amazing moment can simply vanish like a demented magic trick? No. Steve is no longer proficient in the art of Patience.

“You know I didn’t mean that…” Eddie mumbles, fiddles with one of the wires attached to him. Not exactly an apology.

“No please, continue to use me as your emotional punching bag. It’s one of my life’s greatest joys.” Steve leans against the wall, all casual and relaxed. But his words bite just as hard as Eddie’s did. The way he looks and sounds are total contradictions to each other.

Eddie rubs hard over his eyes. “Shit, Steve. I’m being an asshole.”

Fucking christ, that’s still not an apology. “Whatever. Just tell me what you remember after the doctor gave you the medicine.”

Eddie sighs. Looks back up at the ceiling while he talks. “I got really sick…”

“Yeah.”

“You were here.”

“Per usual.”

“But I passed the fuck out once the fever went away.”

“And then…” Steve motions his hand for Eddie to keep going.

“And then?”

Goddamnit. “You don’t remember.”

Eddie stays silent. Searching the whole room now for memories that do not exist. Memories that have expired. Memories that are one-sided.

“You don’t remember any of it.” Steve whispers to himself. 

His impatience gets distorted with all of his feelings for Eddie. Everything is barbed-wire sharp, cutting up his throat. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, the answers are too unfair. The reality is too bleak. Steve doesn’t deal with his own mental hurdles most days - he can’t add new psychological pitfalls to his life.

Steve is holding his forehead, urging the headache to go away with fingertips and delusion. He opens his eyes momentarily to see Eddie staring back. He looks worried. Powerless.

That makes two of them.

“Steve.” Eddie is almost whispering. “Whatever it is… I’m so sorry that I don’t rem -”

“Don’t do that.” Steve interrupts. “Don’t apologize for having head trauma, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright. I won’t.”

Steve crawls through the barbed wire, gets muddy and messy with the truth. “Look, there’s a lot of other shit you should feel sorry for. Like lashing out at me all the time. And never asking how I’m doing with my… life and shit.”

“There’s a vending machine down the hall that you could fill with all the reasons you should feel sorry. Might as well make a fucking profit off of your remorse.” Steve tacks the dark joke on at the end because he can. Because it’s Eddie.

“But your recovery process is not one of things you should ever feel sorry for. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie gulps. Nods. “Okay.”

Steve is standing at the foot of Eddie’s bed, hands gripped around the plastic railings. His knuckles are the same sterile white as the rest of this god awful room. Steve has become a chameleon to this place that somehow manages to feel haunted by more than just lingering mortality.

“I think I’m gonna head out.” Steve says it without even trying really. The words just stumble out.

Eddie’s mouth opens, forming an ‘oh’ in reply, but no sound comes out with it. 

“Yeah this just isn’t… I don’t know.” It’s a lame thing to say but it’s true. Steve has no fucking clue what to do anymore. “I don’t think I can do this today.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him. “Got it.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Steve takes those few painful steps to the door. His limbs feel heavy. Like guilt and confusion are weighing him down.

No words fit this moment. This departure. So Steve throws a few out there in hopes that it’ll be enough:

“Just… hang in there.”

It’s not enough. Not even close. 

“Will do, Harrington.” Eddie still doesn’t look at him.

The door shuts, but Steve thinks he feels it slamming all the way down his spine.

Day 60: 

Steve doesn’t go to the hospital today. 

It’s Tuesday.

Day 61:

Day 62:

Day 63:

Day 64:

Day 65:

Steve hasn’t really talked to anyone since Monday, not even Robin. She called him once on Wednesday to see if he wanted to grab dinner with her and Vickie, but he politely declined. Didn’t even bother fabricating an excuse. Just stuck with good old-fashioned ‘no.’ Why reinvent the wheel with rejection?

He’s in dirty clothes and watching an Andy Griffith marathon, when the phone rings. He almost ignores it - except he needs to get more onion dip from the fridge anyways, and the phone is on the way there. Might as well pick it up.

“Harrington residence.” His voice drones. “Steve speaking.”

“Shit.”

Shit. “Eddie?”

“Yeah. Hey, man.”

“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you okay?” Apparently, Steve cannot switch off the caring portion of his heart.

“Everything is…” Eddie holds out the ‘s’ sound for a while. “I just needed to apologize.”

“Right.”

“And to thank you.”

Steve lowers his eyebrows. “For what?”

“Being here… when you were.” Eddie’s voice sounds dried up. Like he hasn't spoken much in days. “I know you haven’t been back for a few days, and that’s my own damn fault.”

Most of the behavioral stuff is his fault, yeah. But the icing out bullshit that Steve is pulling is cowardly. He’s not doing anything productive with his free time. He’s deadlocked. Stranded in uncertainty.

Eddie continues. “But for all the days you didn’t give up on me… I guess I didn’t know how much I needed that. So thank you.”

“That’s…” Steve is about to say ‘unnecessary,’ but decides against it. Dismissiveness solves nothing. “You’re welcome.”

“Even when I was being Kathy or Hyde or Grendel or whatever else you managed to come up with behind my back.”

Steve didn’t. He thought up a lot of spiteful shit, but he never said any of it out loud. Okay, maybe some it slipped along the way. He’s not perfect.

“I wouldn’t blame you for never coming back to visit me.” Eddie is talking faster now - which is basically normal Eddie speed. “But if you did… I have something I wanna to give you.”

Steve groans. “Not a mixtape, right?”

“Nah, I’ve tortured you enough with my own vocal ridicule.” Eddie snickers, Steve joins him. “It’s nothing much, but yeah. It’s here if you want it.”

“Okay… yeah. Thanks.”

Steve smiles, very briefly. His mind reminds him far too soon that nothing is fixed. Sure, he’s not pissed off at Eddie. The apology was genuine. Beside, it takes way too much brainpower to hold grudges. 

But Eddie doesn’t remember what Steve will never forget. That’s still very real.

“Hey, Eddie.” Steve checks again. Just to be certain. “You really don’t remember Saturday?”

There’s a pause. “I really am sorry, Steve.” 

Yeah. Sucks just as hard as it did on Monday.

“I know you said not to be sorry for my memory, but I am.”

Well… Eddie remembers their fight.

“Glad you remember that part.” Steve finds the positive. Even if it tastes bitter, it’s positive-ish. “Thanks for calling, Eds.”

“Thanks for not hanging up.”

“Oh, there was deep contemplation about hanging up.”

Eddie lets out a single snort. “Good. At least you’re consistent.”

“I figured there would be lots of bad karma for hanging up on a dude that’s bed-ridden in a hospital.”

“Undoubtedly bad karma. They’d put you in karma jail for such actions.”

“Glad I decided against it then. I’m way too pretty for karma jail.”

“You’re way too pretty for any iteration of jail, Steve Harrington.”

The conversation becomes a stream of easy jokes and harmless insults. Steve prefers it this way, feelings or no feelings. He likes the relaxed discussions that he can have with Eddie. He likes how Eddie will run wild with a topic, so that he can just listen. He likes that Eddie will gladly shut up if Steve wants to interject.

Steve just likes him. Likes Eddie.

They talk until Eddie takes his nighttime meds, promptly falling asleep. Snoring into the phone speaker. Steve stays on the line a little while longer. Waits until he hears the heart monitor beating out a steady rhythm. 

He hangs up and heads to bed himself. Forgets all about his onion dip and the Andy Griffith marathon.

Day 66:

It’s six in the morning. The sun is gradually hitting the horizon, but Steve is wide awake regardless. He’s a fairly competitive person, but Steve definitely shouldn’t be competing with things like nature, goddamnit.

He picks up the phone, the same one he used last night to talk to Eddie. Swears that it’s still warm from being pressed to his cheek for hours.

He calls Robin. It’s inconsiderate as hell to call this early, but she’s the only one of his friends that might answer at this hour.

Might being the key word. There’s no answer.

Steve sucks in a deep breath. Decides to be extra annoying and calls again.

“Hello?” Thank god it’s not her dad.

“Morning, Buckley.”

“Bye.”

“Wait!”

Robin swears under her breath a few times. “Why? Why must you insist on having the sleep schedule of a farm animal, Steve?”

“Trust me, it’s not by choice.”

“I don’t trust anyone that calls me before noon.” She yawns the last few words of her sentence. “Something must be wrong with you.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing you didn’t already know about anyway.” Steve does want to chat and get his mind off of things, but he also needed to hear his friend’s voice. “Just wanted to check in.”

This is what they do now. They have to. No one else is going to check on them because no one else even knows that they literally threw flames at a demonic entity. So they call or show up whenever they can.

They have to.

“I’m hanging in there.” Which is seemingly better than ‘I’m here.’ That phrase is an emotional grenade. “How about you?”

Steve laughs, then sighs. “Obviously sleep is a fuckshow. But yeah. Hanging in there too.”

They shift to lighter subjects. Movies they’re excited to see. Plans to try the new Italian restaurant on Main Street. All the petty town gossip they can think of.

Robin talks about Vickie too. Apparently, they have the same top four favorite novels. She mentions that three times in the same breath, so that must be a pretty big deal. Steve can hear her smiling through every ordinary detail she shares, which makes him happy. He’s glad his best friend has found someone that makes the ordinary shit seem like an adventure.

It selfishly makes him think of Eddie though. How badly he wants to bring him up after every other sentence. How random words remind him of something stupid Eddie said or did.

He’s doing so well with holding back, until Robin asks. She says his name, and Steve fucking shivers at hearing it. Eddie’s name, right in his ear.

“Haven’t seen him in a week…” Steve tries to toss it in there casually, despite how un-casual it is.

“Does that mean his memories are back?”

“Not exactly…”

Robin hums into the speaker, catching on quickly to Steve’s un-casualness. “Well, the coffee is already brewing. Might as well tell me what the fuck happened.”

He goes over everything in random order - whatever hits his mind first. The argument, the spending the night, the arm scribbles, the almost-kiss, the phone call. Steve sounds just like Robin talking about Vickie. Very little breaths and stupidly smiling over all the good parts. 

He doesn’t really elaborate on the fact Eddie is a guy and that he’s attracted to him anyways. There’s so many other complicated factors, that part has seemed secondary since the beginning. And honestly, he’s sort of grateful for that. Steve doesn’t want to overthink this. He just wants to see where this will go.

It’s painfully quiet for a while once he gets through everything, even the weirdly erotic hair-massage bit. He’s starting to think they’ve lost connection when he hears Robin crunch her breakfast. Loudly.

“So…” Steve urges. “What do you think?”

She’s chewing her toast even closer to the phone. “About you being in love with Eddie? It’s weird.”

“I’m not in love with Eddie.” 

“I’m sorry - you just told me that his heart monitor beats to the rhythm of a song while he’s sleeping.”

“Patiently.” It's Steve's favorite Journey song.

“Pop the champagne and prepare the gondola, my friend.” Robin exclaims. “Cause that is love.”

“Whatever.” Steve grumbles. Sort of despises how valid her point is. “Can’t believe he doesn’t remember.”

“It’s not like he’s cherry-picking his memories, dingus. This wasn’t on purpose.”

Steve clings to that fact. Robin is hardly ever wrong and he loves that about her. “Can’t believe he mentioned Scoops… that fucker.”

“Oh I can believe it.”

He holds his breath for a few seconds. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Eddie was there loitering samples as much as baby Sinclair.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Uh.” She sounds totally annoyed with him. “Yes. He was.”

“I think I’d remember seeing a frizzy-haired hyena at Scoops fucking Ahoy, Robin.”

“You’re so wrong about this, my friend.” Robin is giggling now. Steve never knew a giggle could sound so villainous. “Eddie only came to get samples while you were scooping at the back counter.”

“Okay…” Steve says.

“You know… to enjoy the show.”

“It’s too early for this.” He huffs. “Just spell it out for me, Buckley.”

The villainous giggle returns. Might be more evil this time. “Pretty sure the middle-aged divorcees nicknamed it the Below Deck Viewing Party.”

Steve finally gets it.

Oh fuck. “My ass had a fan club?”

“Afraid so.” Robin says. “And Eddie Munson was one of its most loyal admirers.”

Steve feels like running in circles. Doing burpees or jumping jacks. Maybe he’ll just start clapping over this brand new information that’s illuminating the horniest parts of his mind.

“How have you never told me this?” Steve questions, still sizzling with energy.

“And make your big head even more insufferable?” Robing drones. “Ugh. Gag me.”

That checks out. Steve is going to be so intolerable now, especially when he wears those laundry day khakis that Eddie pretends to hate. Maybe Steve should wear them today, just for the hell of it.

They chat until Robin has to head out to work. Neither of them call much attention to the fact that Steve is crushing on a guy, so Steve assumes his brain was right along.

It’s not a big deal. There’s so much more pressing matters at hand - like the fact that his crush doesn’t remember holding his hand all night long.

That’s way more pressing than crushing on dudes.

Eddie isn’t in his hospital bed.

Eddie isn’t in his room at all.

Those realizations clog Steve’s lungs until he feels them caving in. His mind is flooded with the time that Max wasn’t in her hospital room months ago. The time she coded and nobody fucking knew until they were all standing there in a Max-less room.

Steve slumps against the wall, the weight of his lungs and his premonitions are too heavy for him to stand straight. 

He’s about to crouch down, get his blood-flow to restart, when two nurses and Eddie walk through the door. They’re guiding him on either side, although he seems fairly stable on his own.

Steve is so relieved. Almost as relieved as the time Max came back after coding. Almost.

“You’re back.” It’s bordering on a question - the way Eddie says it.

“I got him,” Steve waves off the nurses. He takes Eddie’s left arm and holds it tight. Balancing both of them in entirely separate ways. The nurses thank him and he starts directing Eddie to the side of the bed. “Weird to see you standing again.”

He hasn’t seen Eddie upright since… 

Steve clears his throat. “You definitely look…” Hot. “Taller than I remember.”

While that’s vaguely true, it is definitely not at the forefront of Steve’s mind. He's touching Eddie again, not in a bed and not to detach all his hospital machinery. He’s just touching him, keeping him steady with his arms, and it’s so fucking nice.

They take a few more steps and the sleeves on Eddie’s hospital gown slips off his shoulder. Steve cannot look away. There’s a gray-ish bruise right on top, extending down to Eddie’s shoulder blade. It’s been healing for months and it’s still discolored. Steve is fixated on the shadowy hue, how Eddie’s pale skin almost glows underneath it. 

If Steve’s hands weren’t busy being helpful right now, he’d touch it. Watch the colors ripple under the pad of his finger.

“Well… glad to refresh your memories then.” Eddie tugs the sleeve back up, covering the patchwork skin that Steve couldn’t stop staring at. “But isn’t that your job? To refresh my impoverished frontal lobe?”

Steve redirects his focus. “Impoverished Frontal Lobe would make a good band name.”

“Shit, you’re so right. Dibs.”

“You already have a band, dumbass.”

“True - but every lead guitarist needs a backup band name. Everyone knows that. Fallouts are a disease to the music industry.”

Eddie remembers he plays guitar. Not accordion.

“You can have Impoverished Frontal Lobe if I can have Hometown Slut.” Steve shrugs to one side.

“Can’t have what’s already yours, Stevie.”

Steve finally releases Eddie’s arm, no reason to still be holding it. No medical reason anyways. He catches himself smiling at the natural return of their banter. Even though Steve left, his attraction to Eddie didn’t budge one goddamn inch.

Picking up the visitation routine is easy. Steve settles into the same well-worn chair, turns on the same daytime tv shows, chews the same minty gum that Sam leaves for him at the check-in desk. It’s all the same. As things should be.

Where Steve is supposed to be.

“It’s good to see you again.” The phrase - Eddie’s words - it all reminds Steve of holding shells up to his ears at the beach. “Sorta got used to you being here.” If Steve listens close enough, there’s an I missed you somewhere inside.

“Same.” There’s an I missed you too inside Steve’s words as well.

“And since your back…” Eddie does a drumroll over his thighs. “I can give you your gift.”

“You didn’t mention on the phone that this was a gift.”

“Thought it was implied.” Eddie bends down, drags a basket out from under his hospital bed. He pushes it over to Steve’s chair. “Here.”

Steve is beaming right away because it’s so tacky and gaudy, all synonyms that relate to Eddie. The basket is painted gold, sort of cracking around the splinters of wood. It’s oversized - much bigger than it needs to be for the items sitting inside of it. The clear plastic around it has a silvery glint and it’s so fucking noisy when he moves it around.

It’s not something Steve would’ve ever picked out to give as a gift. But the whole thing screams Eddie Munson, which makes it perfect.

“Yeah yeah, I know. It’s just one of the baskets from the hospital gift shop.” Eddie gestures broadly around the present, smacking the crinkly plastic a few times. “But I emptied out all of the lousy shit. Even replaced it with all of your vending machine preferences.”

It’s a gentle jab at Steve’s vending machine metaphor from last week. The basket is stacked with Steve’s favorite chips and candy - the ones he still chooses week after week.

Eddie remembers that Steve loves Utz potato chips and Junior Mints.

There’s a few sodas thrown in there too. The bottom layer is littered with the sugar packets that Steve hoards for his cafeteria coffee breaks.

But underneath all the snacks and sugar and sodas, there’s a card. It says ‘Feel Better Soon’ on the front.

“Oh yeah, that came with the basket.” Eddie flicks at the edge of the card. 

The greeting card hits Steve harder than it should. Eddie has no memory of all the monstrous fuckery Steve has witnessed. So, he can’t even begin to know how much Steve needed that silly little reminder. That Steve needs to get well soon, feel better, hang in there. All of those corny sayings, Steve needs all of them.

“I did write something in it though.”

Steve’s eyes shift up to Eddie. “You did?”

Eddie nods. “Didn’t know if you’d wanna talk to me again after last week.”

Eddie still remembers Steve storming out on Monday. (It’s the first time Steve wishes Eddie would forget something.)

Steve opens the card, but Eddie leans over to grab it out of his hands.

“Don’t read it here.” Eddie fans himself with the card. His hair wisps around, reminds Steve of a windstorm. “Even the freak is susceptible to the occasional embarrassment, okay?”

Steve gives Eddie a thumbs up and looks back over the items. None of them are expensive or luxurious or anything like. It’s all stuff Eddie could scavenge around for. But all of it is thoughtful. Significant. 

“So… how are the memories?” Steve asks.

Eddie fills him in while they munch on their mountain of goodies. Music is still the strongest remedy. He tells Steve that if finishes physical therapy, he’ll be approved to play his guitar. Both of them are hopeful that will help unlock his past even more.

Steve pokes fun that Eddie always skipped gym class. He bets Eddie twenty bucks that he’ll play hookie at least once.

Eddie says ‘make it fourty.’ They shake hands on it.

They catch up and get stomachaches from all of the artificially sweetened crap they just ingested. Or maybe they just feel sick from laughing at all the stupid infomercials on tv. Whatever it is, they’re both sore and smiling by the end of the day.

“Guess I should head out.” Steve can already see the gears turning in Eddie’s head, wondering if he’ll be back. “Cool if I return to my usual schedule?”

Eddie’s chest falls. His shoulders relax. “As long as it’s not out of pity.”

“I don’t pity you, Eds.” Steve says. “The nurses, however…”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point, dickwad.”

Steve can’t bring himself to hold Eddie’s hand, not really sure why. Things have been mended, but maybe not enough. Maybe it’s all still too fresh.

Instead, Steve rubs the material of Eddie’s blanket. He smooths it out between his fingers, imagining that it’s the material of Eddie’s hospital gown.

Steve’s eyes stay on the fabric in his hands. “If you remember anything after you took that new headache medicine… you’ll tell me, right?”

Eddie knocks his knuckles onto Steve’s hand. Steve lets the fabric go. He looks at Eddie, who is happier now. Warmer.

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

Steve doesn’t wait to read Eddie’s letter. He flips open the card as soon as he gets in his car.

The handwriting is pretty terrible, similar to all of Eddie’s arm scribbles. But Steve must’ve developed an overnight supernatural ability to decode Eddie Munson’s illegible penmanship because he can read every word perfectly:

Steve, The card says ‘Feel Better,’ but that seems insufficient. Just better? Nah. That doesn’t cover all the bases (look see? I threw in a sports term just for you, champ). A trust-fund catalog model that spends the majority of his week with a metalhead who has an affinity for nerd shit? No way. That kind of person deserves so much more than feeling better.  You deserve to feel worthwhile. Yours truly, Eddie/Kathy/Hyde/Grendel/HSN Conspiracy Theorist ps. Sorry I’m so bad at simple apologies. Everything has to be torturously difficult with me, which you already know. pps. Well shit. I never even said it properly.  I’m sorry.

Steve is overwhelmed by all of it. Even Eddie’s little doodles on the back cover are causing him shortness of breath.

It’s a sloppy skyline of mixtape-skyscrapers. The tallest one is directly in the middle. Sprawled across the bottom is the word ‘Munsonopolis,’and in quotations underneath it says, ‘featuring the Ed-pire State Building.’ There’s an exaggerated amount of arrows pointing at the one in the middle - just in case it wasn’t clear which one is the featured tower.

Not subtle, that one.

Steve is vibrating with energy the whole drive home. Eddie made so many references to past memories in that letter. Some were running jokes, sure. But others? The trust-fund dig? The sports joke? Steve has so many bullet points to add to the binder. So many things to notate. So much fucking progress.

But he doesn’t write down any of it. Instead, he staples the card to the notebook paper labeled ‘Day 66.’ Everything he’s ever needed to know is in that card. That ironically perfect card.

And it the faintest penciling, Steve writes one bullet for himself:

Robin was right. Definitely think I’m falling for him.

Day 67:

“Apology accepted, by the way.” Steve tosses a jello cup onto Eddie’s table. He snagged one at the cafeteria on his way in - just so Eddie doesn’t wrongfully assume he wanted pudding yet again. 

Is it cheating to give away the answers? Yeah. But Steve is falling for this guy, so he’d buy an entire fucking factory of gelatin if Eddie requested it.

“So you read the card?” Eddie viciously tears open the jello lid. Sniffs it. Weird.

Eddie remembers writing Steve the letter.

“Read it. Marinated on it. Read it again.” Steve automatically moves the chair close to the bed. Fuck distance. “Maybe I should make deep annotations on my upcoming reread.”

Eddie grumbles. “Is this how it feels when I tease you about jock shit all the time?”

Eddie remembers their banter. Huh.

“Sure does.” And I’m totally obsessed with it.

“Are you willing to change topics?”

Steve peers over to examine Eddie’s mixtape collection. A sideways grin takes over his face. “Wanna tell me why my mixtape is at the top of the pile over there?”

“Uh…” Eddie whips his head over to the tower. “You know what - the apology card mockery wasn’t so bad after all.”

“Oh really?”

“In fact, I enjoyed it.”

Steve teases Eddie for the rest of their visit, completely unforgiving about it. Payback for two months of this.

He’s pretty sure Eddie likes it more than he does.

Day 68:

Eddie is in and out of the room for physical therapy today. Steve is unfazed by the lack of quality time because any time Eddie does return, Steve gets to help him to his bed. Gets to touch Eddie’s arm, his back. Sometimes his shoulder. 

It’s becoming Steve’s hospital equivalent to the whole, ‘yawn and stretch’ move from all those movie theater dates.

“You don’t have to do this, Steve.” Eddie says it every time. “I can walk eight feet on my own.”

“Just in case…” which directly translates to, I want to do this.

Steve asks the same question at the end of every visit now:

“Call me if you remember.”

And Eddie always assures him that he will.

Day 69:

They are playing cards when Eddie brings it up. “What if I never remember?”

“Remember what?” Steve discards one of his cards to the pile. Grabs a new one from the deck. 

“The thing that makes you all twitchy at the end of every visit.” Eddie does his best twitchy-Steve impression. It’s insulting, at best. “What if it doesn’t come back?”

“It’ll come back.” Steve is so sure of it. Easygoing.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“How original.”

Steve flips his cards down on the table. He reaches down to the binder that’s an extension of his determination these days, flips through the pages. Pages full of breakthroughs. Even on the lousy days, even when Eddie occasionally backtracks. The pages are still full.

“This is how I know.” Steve holds Eddie’s eye contact after shutting the binder. “I see the progress. It’s not linear, not all the time… but I see it.”

Eddie reaches out. Runs his fingers across the binder, back and forth. Steve stops him the third time, places his hand over Eddie’s. There’s a hitch in Eddie’s breathing when he does it, so Steve slides away, doesn’t linger too long. He listens in to the heart monitor’s cadence for insight on the mood they’ve created.

Not the same as last Saturday. Not the tempo Steve is looking for to take initiative. Not yet.

“I win, by the way.” Eddie announces, flipping his cards over. Smiling that bonus type of smile.

“Damn right you do.”

Day 70:

Eddie is singing one of Steve’s mixtape songs, using his thermometer as a microphone. It’s purposely off-key and he’s implemented some exaggerated accent to it. 

This isn’t the first time he’s done this demented-karaoke routine. In fact, Steve has had to suffer through Eddie butchering pop classics since Day 26 of these hospital visits.

He always does it to get Steve to crack - lose his temper or threaten to leave. Steve usually humors Eddie with one of these reactions because it’s fun. It’s a lighthearted habit that they formed after hard days. Pain infested days.

But this week has been good. Surprisingly adequate. Steve is back and Eddie hasn’t thrown up, not once. He only complained about the flavorless cafeteria food on Tuesday, instead of every other day. That alone is an immediate call for celebration.

So today… Steve doesn’t stomp his foot or swear under his breath. Today Steve claps. Encourages the mediocrity of it all.

“Oh, so you like it when I vocally murder your precious pop tunes?” Eddie laughs. Constantly making himself laugh.

“No, I don’t like it.” Steve folds his arms into his chest. Eddie’s laughter is contagious, Steve catches it as he speaks again. “I like you.”

Eddie’s mouth clamps up. His expression drops. His heart monitor skips two beeps in its pattern.

“Can’t believe I finally found the off-button on you.” Steve glides over to the bed. The upperhand is making him fucking fearless. “Only took me seventy days to find it.”

Steve swipes his thumb under Eddie’s jaw, watching his throat muscles tense at the pressure. Eddie gulps, barely anything goes down. Steve can feel that.

“I…” 

“Don’t tell me what you think I wanna hear.” Steve checks the clock. Visiting hours ended four minutes ago, and he doesn’t need to get himself into another spending the night incident. As much as he enjoyed the wake-up call, Steve fucking despised the aftermath of reality.

“Steve…” The way he says Steve’s name - as if someone took his vocal cords and dipped them in sweetener.

“I gotta go.” Steve reaches down and squeezes Eddie’s hand one more time before releasing it. “Call me if you remember.”

He turns around to leave, but Eddie hooks his finger into Steve’s belt loop, tugs rapidly on it. Steve’s cheeks flush right away, he can’t even hide it.

“What if I call you anyway?” Eddie plays along. “Memory or no memory?”

Steve removes Eddie’s hand. He’s about to set it back down when the last bit of caution is finally thrown out the window. Steve lays a quick kiss on Eddie’s middle finger, the finger that’s most injured. He squeezes his palm once, then returns Eddie’s hand back to him.

“Maybe I’ll call you first, Munson.”

He leaves before getting a good look at Eddie’s reception to the hand kiss. Steve has never kissed another dude’s hand before, and there’s a good possibility that he might’ve been laying the charm on too thick. Smearing it all over the moment like goddamn jelly. 

But the whole thing was just too irresistible. And Fully Flustered Eddie is a rare sight to behold, so Steve had to do something charismatic. His self-discipline hasn’t improved that much since high school.

Eddie ends up calling first. He calls nine minutes after Steve gets home.

Clingy bastard.

“Beat you to it, Harrington.”

“Not everything is competition, you know.”

“Is that so?” Eddie’s sarcasm is heavy. “Huh. Guess you do learn something new every day.”

“Easy for you to say. Your mind still has the training wheels on it.”

“Touché.”

Day 71:

It’s Saturday morning. Steve sleeps in - well, Steve does his version of sleeping in. Which basically means, the sun is fully up by the time he wakes up. Small victories.

His phone and alarm clock go off almost simultaneously. Which one: freaky. And two: annoying.

He walks over to his desk, eyes half-open, and picks up the phone.

“Hello?” Steve’s voice croaks into the speaker.

There’s no response, just a few heavy breaths.

Steve is more alert now. “Who is this?”

“I remember.”

Oh fuck. “Eddie?”

“You told me to call when I remember.” Eddie repeats. “I remember, Steve.”

“Holy shit um… okay.” Steve rubs the last bit of sleep from his eyes. Searches around his room for his keys or clothes or fuck - he really doesn’t know what he’s searching for. 

“You coming to see me or what?”

“It’s Saturday. Henderson comes to see you on Saturdays.”

“Call and tell him to take a raincheck.” Eddie demands. Rightfully excited. “Cause I fucking remember.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I remember!”

Steve is cackling at the excitement. “I fucking heard you!”

“Get your ass over here before I say it again!”

“Alright alright!” Steve hangs up. Never gets ready so fast in his whole damn life. Almost forgets to put on underwear or style his hair.

This is what he’s been waiting for.

Eddie remembers.

It’s the first time Steve feels anxious walking into the room. He’s keenly aware that both of them are in on the secret. No more whispering around the unrequited attraction. Steve is entering a space that is laid bare. No curtains or subtle implications for either of them to hide behind.

As soon as he opens the door, that’s all in the past.

“Oh shit.” Steve isn’t expecting to see Eddie in the chair when he arrives. He’s wearing gray sweatpants under his hospital gown. Steve is pretty thankful for that - not sure the effect that Eddie’s exposed thighs would have on him in this detrimental state.

“Took your seat.” Eddie is all smug. Head to toe smugness.

“I see that.”

“You can take mine, if you want.”

“I’ll pass.”

Eddie winks. “Hope that’s the last time I hear you say that today.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

There’s a stool that the doctors use in the corner of the room. Steve takes a seat on it and rolls over towards Eddie. He stops right in front of Eddie's knees and leans his face in his hand. Tries to downplay his anticipation as much as possible.

“Wanna tell me what you remember?”

Eddie takes a deep breath. He swings his arms out to the side and lets all of his air out in one go. “My tattoos - I remember when I got them.”

Steve’s shoulders drop. Shrink.

The tattoo thing happened several days before the almost-kiss. Day 52.

“Am I wrong?” 

Steve doesn’t really say anything. That’s confirmation enough.

Eddie smacks the top of his head. “Shit, I’m wrong. Made you drive all the way out here to be wrong, jesus christ.”

“Hey, hey.” Steve murmurs, keeps his voice kind. “Not entirely wrong.”

His heart feels likes a crunched-up soda can, but whatever. Yeah, Steve’s hope were set way too high, but he can’t blame Eddie for that. Eddie regained some crucial memories - that should be a good thing. It is a good thing.

“Tell me about the tattoos.” Steve rests his hand over Eddie’s knee. It’s been bouncing incessantly, but stops the second Steve touches him. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and uncover all of it by talking through it.”

“Seems stupid now.”

“Hey.” Steve is stern. “Gaining bits of yourself back is never stupid. That’s your fucking history, goddamnit.”

Steve doesn’t mean to use his coaching voice, but he does. 

It works though. Eddie stares at him for a long time before admitting that Steve is right. He gives a long sigh before continuing. “I know where and when I got all of them.”

“Fantastic.” Steve gets as comfy as he can on this small, metal stool. He flips open the binder, clicks his pen. He flips it into the air - just cause.

“Tell me all about it,” He says, catching the pen with ease.

Eddie starts out pretty deflated. He starts off in chronological order, which Steve is impressed by. Steve even tries to cheer Eddie along any time he recalls specific details like locations and dates. 

The support seems useful. Eddie stops frowning long enough to retell the story about getting a fake ID, just for tattoos. Not for drinking or for getting into clubs. Eddie wanted to be the only sophomore with tattoos.

Steve has never been interested in getting tattoos, there’s nothing he’s ever liked enough to prick needles into his skin. However, he really likes seeing them all over Eddie. All the dark lines and the passionate stories that go with them. 

They take a lunch break and snack break, both of them equally improving Eddie’s crabby mood. Eddie gets sort of winded after talking for too long, so Steve helps him to the bed.

“You don’t have to do this.” Eddie says, sticking to his usual response.

“Thought it was obvious” Steve pulls the cover over Eddie’s arms, fluffs out the sides of his pillows. “I want to.”

“Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.” Eddie observes. “Courting the sickly is a weird move though.”

Steve takes his seat back, moving it next to Eddie’s bed. Always closing more distance than he did the last time. “Good thing you’re not sickly then.”

“Courting the freak is still a weird move.”

“Well, say the word and I’ll lay off.”

Eddie mimes zipping his mouth shut, tossing the invisible key into the trash bin.

“Looks like we’re all done with your tattoo summaries.” Steve glances over the bullet points, folds the binder shut. “Anything else you wanna do?”

He’s waiting for Eddie to take his turn. Steve has been leading the affection for days, so he’s cautious about any further touching. Needs physical permission to continue.

“Actually…” Eddie shakes his head. “We’re not done with my tattoo summaries.”

“We’re not?”

“I have six tattoos, Stevie. Not five.”

That can’t be right. Dustin told Steve all about Eddie’s tattoos weeks ago. This must be Eddie’s mind messing with him.

“My memory isn’t faulty, not this time.” Eddie taps over the binder before yanking it away. “I do have another tattoo, Stevie. You’ve just never seen it.”

This dirty chess game just got way more interesting. 

There’s no point in playing it safe now. Both of them are taking risks, playing offensively. All guards are down, miles away from Indiana.

“Prove it, then.” Steve’s cheeks warm up. He can feel the blood all over, in his ears, in the tip of his nose. “Show me.”

Eddie’s teeth look sharper when he smiles this time. Like Steve’s dare has turned his bones into blades.

“Are you gonna wig out if I lift this stupid gown up?”

Yes. Steve would never admit that, but yeah. Internally, he’s wigging out so fucking hard right now.

“You’ve puked all over me, dude. If I didn’t haul ass after that, I’m not gonna haul ass after seeing your skin.”

Eddie glares at him. “Could’ve just said no, but whatever. Be a smart ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Eddie twists onto his side, bunching up the material and settling it under his arms. Right over his rib cage, is the sixth tattoo.

It’s a birdcage, one that’s been mangled. The metal bars are all crooked and the cage door is wide open. One of Eddie’s demobat scars goes diagonally through the body art, like those creatures were the ones to slash it open. Destroying Eddie’s body in a multitude of ways.

Steve wants to touch it, feel the healing claw marks that look so much like his own, but deeper. He hides his own scars every day with sweaters and jackets, so it’s easy to forget how connected they are. How much pain they are forced to wear. Mutated skin and mutilated minds.

One battle with death and darkness has made them more alike than society ever would have.

“Where’s the bird?” Steve finally asks, mainly to stop his hand from reaching over, brushing the black lines and red scars.

“Didn’t have a chance to get it done.”

“No?”

Eddie contorts his face. “I got this part done back in January. And I was planning to get the bird inked up on the opposite side once I graduated…” 

The last word gets all strangled in Eddie’s throat. Steve barely hears it, doesn’t really need to hear it though. He figures it out by the way Eddie’s hands become fists. How he screws his eyes shut, refusing to let the anger fuel his tears.

Steve gets it. Most of his anger turns to sadness these days too. He knows he’s not a weak person, he knows that. But when those two emotions whisk themselves into a twister, Steve feels puny. Pathetic.

He lets his fingers circle the birdcage design on Eddie’s ribs. A cage on top of another cage. He’s pretty sure Eddie did that on purpose - the guy is obsessed with wordplay. Steve makes a spiral shaper over Eddie’s skin, letting the pattern get smaller and smaller as he reaches the center of the design.

Eddie just watches him do it, Steve can feel the stare, the attention. His breathing is shallow, almost stopped. Almost like he’s holding his breath until Steve finishes whatever he’s doing.

“It suits you.” Steve says, moving his palm over to the scar now. Letting the damaged parts of Eddie receive just as much recognition as the tattoo. Eddie didn’t choose to have these markings, but it doesn’t matter. They’re here now. May as well acknowledge them. Engrave them into his history.

“The tattoo?”

Steve looks up. “All of it.”

“Steve.” Eddie tugs on Steve's arm, nails digging in harder than they need to. He almost makes the gesture feel like a question.

Steve answers it. He sits on the edge of the bed and settles one arm over Eddie’s body for support.

This is exactly where they were one week ago. Sharing the same breath, sharing the same tension.

But the resemblance to their sleep-driven moment from last week stops there. They’ve constructed something new, better. There’s anguish from the past and there’s breakable desire for their present. Last week was surreal, dreamy. This week is unrefined.

Steve can’t comprehend why he likes the rawness of today so much more.

“Am I reading this wrong?” Eddie’s hand lifts up to Steve’s cheek, thumb stroking the corner of his lips.

Steve chuckles, whisper-level laughter. “You’re stealing all of my moves here, Munson.”

"What moves?"

"I said the same thing last week."

“Wait.” Eddie’s huge eyes somehow defy science. Get bigger. “That wasn’t a dream?”

“What wasn’t a dream?” 

“That really happened?”

Steve is only half listening. “What are you talking about?”

“Well.. almost happened, I guess I should say.” Eddie is starting to ramble. "The nurses told me that I was having batshit crazy dreams all weekend long. I just assumed there was no way that could've been real."

“Can you please tell me what we’re talking about?”

Eddie is grinning, bouncing in the bed like a spring-loaded toy. “I can’t believe I thought it was a dream this whole fucking week!”

“For the love of god, Munson. Just tell me what happened in this stupid dream!”

Eddie cups Steve’s face and pulls him into a kiss. Kisses the glower right off Steve’s mouth. It only takes a split-second for Steve to react, leaning into it. Steve controls the pace to keep everything soft for Eddie’s sake. Calm hands, smooth lips, slow movements.

There’s a small cut on Eddie’s upper lip, Steve can finally feel it now. He opens his mouth enough to lick over it. Pay extra care to the fragile parts.

Eddie whines a little, his hands dropping to Steve’s collar, dragging him into his chest. Steve lets him, lets the kiss get rougher. Sloppier.

It’s clear that Eddie does not share Steve’s careful approach. He’s so grabby, so possessive. His teeth mash into Steve’s bottom lip. He takes the opportunity to bite and tug, makes Steve yelp. Teeth and kissing is usually a turn off, but god, Steve is obsessed with how Eddie does it. How greedy he is.

Steve dips his mouth in, opens up enough to let Eddie bite and lick as much as he pleases. Be greedy. His free hand is planted on Eddie’s waist, just above his bird cage tattoo. 

“Come here.” Eddie’s breath is warm, tinged with the chocolate they had on their snack break. He’s pulling Steve harder now, never breaking the kiss for long.

Steve scoots another inch, slides his hand all the way up to Eddie’s neck. “If I get any closer, I’ll be on top of you.”

“I know how physics works, Harrington.” 

“Your super-senior status says otherwise.”

“Please, shut up.” Eddie kisses him harder. His skin is extra pink everywhere Steve has pressed against him. For someone that kisses so madly, he looks so soft. Fresh-laundry soft. “Closer, baby.”

Steve sucks all of the air out of the kiss, totally startled by the nickname. He makes a sound, hopefully nothing too whorish or breathy. But Eddie definitely heard it because he’s smiling against Steve’s lips. 

Getting closer isn’t really an option with all of the wires and the unlocked door. So Steve drags his lips under Eddie’s jaw, down his neck. Improvises a way to feel closer, explore deeper.

“Holy shit, you’re good at this.” Eddie hisses, tangling his hands into Steve’s hair. 

Getting compliments on his kissing technique makes Steve preen, has to fight the urge to mark up Eddie’s already bruised neck. Explaining fresh hickies to an army of doctors would not be a pleasant task. So Steve flattens his tongue, runs it diagonally across Eddie’s collarbone. Pecks kisses over all the wet spots.

Eddie’s hands drift down to Steve’s chin, lifting his focus back up. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re just…” Eddie’s eyes dart all over Steve’s face. He's breathing hard, his heart monitor and his pulse are at war right now. So many rhythms in their shared space. “You’re very pretty.”

“You think so?”

“The universe thinks so.” Eddie kisses Steve’s cheek - feels like tiny embers over his skin. “I’m just confirming it.”

Steve smiles, takes a minute to catch his breath. He’s finally realizing how little he’s been breathing for the last few minutes. His lungs ache the way they would after swim meets.  Rattled and burning.

"I like you too, by the way." Eddie kisses Steve’s other cheek, makes it even. “Just to clear things up.”

Eddie remembers Steve spilling his heart out yesterday.

“Consider things clear.” Steve laces their fingers together, under Eddie’s blanket. Each of them staring at the connection, both highly aware it means so much more than helpless support this time.

It means absolutely everything.

Steve’s back in the stupid chair that will never be close enough to Eddie. They lower Eddie’s bed so that Steve can rest his elbow on the side, play with Eddie’s hair just like he did with Steve last week.

He’s infatuated with how different their hair textures feel. Eddie’s hair is all frazzled and knotted. Still soft, but not like Steve’s hair. If Steve’s hair is cashmere, Eddie’s hair is woven wool.

“So you thought last Saturday was a dream, huh?” Steve questions.

“I have some crazy vivid dreams.”

Steve shakes his head. “But all that stuff I said to you. Why did you act so confused?”

“The headache medication knocked me out.” Eddie explains. “I thought you heard me talking in my sleep… saying embarrassing shit and you and your hair.”

“So you thought I was mocking you?”

Eddie hums. Very hushed.

Steve untangles his hand from Eddie’s head and sighs. “You should’ve just told me what you were thinking.”

“I know that now.”

“We could’ve been making out all week.”

“Guess we should make up for lost time then.” Eddie hooks his index finger into Steve’s sweater, tugging him closer. Always tugging.

Steve angles himself to meet Eddie in the middle, kissing him sweetly this time, less urgency. Eddie’s lips are still puffy from Steve sucking on them. He wants to do it all over again, keep them puffed-out and swollen.

The kiss is so slow and so good, that Steve only breaks away when his neck muscles start to tighten up. Too many awkward kissing positions in this hospital room - Steve wants to get Eddie into his car or his bed. The floor might be good too.

“So,” Steve threads their hands back together. “Care to fill me in on your little ‘later, sailor’ comment from last week?”

“You did work at the finest ice cream chain to ever grace Hawkins, did you not?” Eddie retorts.

“Yeah. But of all things, how did you remember that?”

Eddie pokes to the top of Steve’s head with his free hand.

“My hair?”

“Your hairspray or product or whatever you use.” Eddie ruffles it and Steve tries not to become liquid at the touch. “Apparently smells can trigger memories almost instantly.”

“Woah.” Steve makes a mental note on that.

“Very woah.”

“And what about… the club?”

“What club? Hellfire?”

“No, not Hellfire.” Steve playfully pinches the inside of Eddie's palm. “The Below Deck club.”

“Fucking hell, you know about that?” Eddie covers his face. “Somebody please, end my suffering. I can’t go on. Not like this.” 

Steve is cackling now, keeling over in his chair, almost tearing up from how much he’s laughing. And each time Eddie tells him to knock it off, he laughs harder. This is a better ab workout than he’s ever had at the gym, he should just cancel his fucking membership.

“All I’m hearing is that my ass is unforgettable.” Steve wipes a laughter-induced tear from his eye.

“Cruel.” Eddie mumbles into his hands. “This humiliation is cruel.”

Steve flips back onto the bed, yanking Eddie’s wrists away from his face. “It’s hot.”

“Drooling over an ice cream employee is hot?”

“You drooled?”

“Dear god, stop this madness.” Eddie grabs the tv remote and aims it at his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to rewind my mouth from saying stupid shit.”

“Eddie, chill out.” Steve takes the remote, hiding it behind his back. “I’m just glad you remember me. Even if my ass is the most memorable feature.”

“These are pretty memorable too.” Eddie smushes Steve’s cheeks, forces his lips to pucker out.

“Oh yeah?”

“And these.” Eddie squeezes Steve’s biceps. Steve rolls his eyes and wraps Eddie’s arms around him. 

They fall back into a long kiss. Visiting hours are about to end, and Sam is off on the weekends. No one is here to let Steve stay the night. So he kisses Eddie like time isn’t a factor. Steve kisses him slow and nice. Eats up any sugary sounds that leave Eddie’s mouth. Whispers how crazy he is about him any time they come up for air.

“I wish you could stay.”

Steve’s heart rips around the edges hearing Eddie say that. Christ, he wants to stay too. So fucking badly. Wants to stock up on chapstick and water so they can make out all night.

“Maybe I can come back tomorrow?” Steve suggests. “Give your bandmates the day off?”

Eddie nods, nuzzles into the crook of Steve’s neck. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I forget about this?”

Steve hugs Eddie tighter. “Don’t say that.”

“It could happen.” Eddie peers up at him. “Fuck, I don’t want it to happen, but it could.”

“Hey hey, stop it.” Steve clicks their foreheads together and closes his eyes.

He can’t lie. He can’t tell Eddie that forgetting is impossible. But Steve can keep his eyes closed and savor every minute of today. He can hold Eddie’s kiss-warm cheeks and just hope that everything will be okay tomorrow.

Steve opens his eyes. He sees the Hawkins senior-class ring on his hand, and it gives him an idea.

“Here.” Steve plucks the ring off of his left index finger. He leans over and places it in Eddie’s drawer, right next to his dice collection. “If you remember what happened tonight, you’ll know where that ring is. Put it on tomorrow, so I can visually know that you didn’t forget. So I know it’s okay to come in here and kiss you stupid some more.”

"Like this?" Eddie kisses Steve noisily and they laugh, ignoring the shitty alternative for just a minute longer.

“And if I come in and you don’t have it on… well, I’ll be on my best behavior.” Steve gets up from the bed, crosses his fingers over his heart. “No surprise make out sessions or lewd comments, I swear.”

“You’ll be okay with that?”

That’s a tricky question, Steve doesn’t have a ‘yes or no’ answer to it. He’ll be disappointed, that’s undeniable. But he’s so far into this with Eddie. The notes and the recovery and the feelings. Everything is netted together. Steve couldn’t separate it even if he tried.

“I meant what I said yesterday. I like you, Eds.” Steve puts on a brave smile. 

“So yeah. If you forget, then it’ll be a pleasure to restart with you.”

Steve swipes Eddie’s bangs to the side so that he can give him a kiss right in the center of his forehead. Kissing the place where all of Eddie’s memories are tucked away, even the lost ones. Wishing and aching for the memories of tonight to lock into that place, stay safe and secure. 

Just stay.

Don’t get lost in there.

Please.

[09lover]

my reaction after ()’s attempt to gaslight me for the uncountable time into trying to repair this broken relationship that they ruined

[brittlebutch]

the thing is, you’re absolutely right! because what neurotypical people sometimes don’t understand is the massive difference between the average level of social interaction that they themselves vs other people get outside of organized or scheduled events like work or school, and also don’t understand the massive difference between what failure looks like, and how those two things overlap. i’m told that among the average neurotypical person, they’ll make a point to talk to people in their lives or hang out with friends or go on dates or chat with other people in public spaces, al to have casual interactions, multiple times a day, multiple days a week. meaning, if they have a failed social interaction, it’s buffered by the many successful interactions they’ll go on to have. failure most likely won’t mean complete isolation, because they have multiple avenues of interaction to fall back on. and, moreover, a failure in a social interaction when you have (on average) fewer than most means that now rather than that person going “oh that was a weird interaction, i talk to them a lot and it’s not usually like that, maybe it was an off day” they go “huh i don’t know that person very well maybe they’re just like that?”, which means that the odds are way different on whether relationships stay good after mistakes.

social skills are not actually as inherent as neurotypical people like to think. it’s just that when you’re always in practice, always getting back on the proverbial horse, the advice “just get back out there!” does actually work very well. but if you’re not able to do that for any variety of reasons, you can’t play the game the same way. my advice is not “try harder”, it’s “lower your expectations for yourself on what a good interaction and a moment of connection might be”. just as it’s possible you’re somehow unintentionally upsetting people, it’s possible you’re unintentionally making them feel happy, or valued, or heard, even in small, passing interactions. remind yourself that you’re working with fewer resources and a much more limited data pool. a lot of the advice being given is coming from someone who assumes they understand what the math looks like for you, because it’s very difficult to imagine that other side. so instead of trying to overlay a system made for someone who has resources that you just don’t have, you need to figure out what a functional system of interaction looks like for you, and adapt the advice given to fit your situation. my advice, bearing that in mind, is that finding communities and groups can look like a lot of different things, and getting your social needs met can come from a lot of sources, and ideally should! you would understand best what your situation is, and there’s no shame in changing tact to accommodate for your own needs and boundaries.

forgot to answer this for a bit lol BUT yeah, the post was a little bit more about the Conceptual argument than it was about me specifically, so I'm definitely already with you re: 'finding out what your Individual social goals are and working based off of those instead having high expectations based off of other people's metric' stuff. You definitely have a huge point with the "social buffer disparity" between NT people and ND people, where failures are both less demoralizing internally and less impactful externally when you're able to have a greater average of interactions generally also

but I really appreciated the "just as it’s possible you’re somehow unintentionally upsetting people, it’s possible you’re unintentionally making them feel happy, or valued, or heard, even in small, passing interactions" aspect of this message. I do definitely have a recurring problem of like, labeling Myself as an Uncanny Valley Person and automatically assuming that every interaction I'm involved in must be some level of uncomfortable for the other person -- it actually was kind of a revolution moment reading this and realizing that OH it does make sense that if I can unintentionally make people uncomfortable, it's statistically just as likely that I can unintentionally lift people's spirits in one way or another! So thank you very much for that!!

[urlocallesbiab]

sorry to everyone who's been missing me/waiting for something from me, i've been slipping in and out of depressive fog for a week or two (and in general have experienced significantly worse depression than normal for a couple years, but that’s another story)

i long to get back, too; a lot of things to read and ideas to write and people to talk to. love y'all, take care

[gluion]

sounding like a broken record

[aubsforthewin]

[jacks-manidiary]

I& wanna meet more canonmates so badly except for I& really don't because um. The Darkness consumes me&

[gentil-minou]

You better cool it with the name insults. Don't insult others just because you went through something. I didn't put that on you, don't put that on me. TF is wrong with you?!

Well if you read the post I reblogged (heres a link for context in case you filtered that tag or something) and took a moment to understand why I said those things then maybe it would make sense.

I'm sorry for offending you. It must be soooo hard to hear someone mock your name or make jokes about it, for someone to sit there and take your culture and history and ignore it because they don't like the name you introduced yourself. It's horrible when someone takes the rich history behind your name and ignores it, or mocks it with stuff like "it sounds dumb" or "it's so weird". Must be soooooo awful to have your name insulted huh. Just the absolute worst. Gee wilikers I wonder what that's like.

[beatfreesmysoul]

❛ you look like you've got something to say. ❜

@xenjoyedthat pressed play!

In a flood of red and blue, with occasional black and white thrown in, green became even more vivid when it appeared in the corner of his vision. All it had taken was a drift of his gaze, the habit of a lifetime to assess and respond to potential trouble, and every other object blurred out of focus, every other sound dimmed except one from that singular view screen.

He heard Gamora's laugh again. That irreplaceable sound that had soared through his atmosphere, filled it with all the light and warmth that it could ever hold, the sound that had become the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Every hall he walked through, every room he sat in, every view he took in--all felt hollow, void without the potential of him saying some ludicrous thing (easy enough to do) in the hope to see that lift of silver brows, that fond eye roll and to hear that laugh echo in the space, in his heart.

"...She survives in every other universe, doesn't she."

If anyone would know that, it would be the person beside him, the one who held the threads of Fate in their hands as she parsed through them--well, the code strings of Fate, perhaps.

"Not surprisin', really. She's the most capable, fierce, intelligent, an' powerful woman in the galaxy. It'd take a real idiot to fail her so much that she'd die in the way she feared most." In the hands of the monster that had already taken so much from her, alone...not dying among her friends.

He tore his gaze from the view screen, sensing what might be a concern of the other, a placating hand lifted. "Don't worry, Lyla--even if I could, I'm not goin' anywhere that'd cause ya'll any more work. Every reality of her has better odds the further away I am."

He didn't have to be an AI or from the future to calculate that, just a man who consistently got close to people only to lose them.

A smile he didn't feel graced his features, a forced lightness in his step and tone as he began to walk away.

"But seriously, how can you have this nice a place with this many recruits an' not have a decent sound system for music, huh? I'm tellin' ya, I can rig somethin' up in less than a week an' it'll sound like you've got live concerts goin' on here!"

[wollfling]

4 am and I can't sleep bc my joints are in so much pain 😒

[theamazingannie]

I literally only have one ongoing snap streak and it’s with a friend I’ve had for five years and I keep breaking it because I don’t do snap streaks and I broke it again yesterday after almost a year and I’m so mad!!!!

[icantalk710]

📱😪

[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. 

----