Hunter is the oldest of his brothers by the manner of minutes, but that is a fact he cannot forget. He takes this arbitrary responsibility seriously, using his senses and street smarts to protect his family. His Whānau. Thus, the death of their parents weighed on his heart the heaviest. As the son of New Zealand immigrants but born and raised in the Bronx, he struggled to maintain his family’s identity as he took the role of their new leader.
Upon being drafted in 1942 (along with the rest of his brothers), he was forced to leave his baby sister, Omega, behind. She was the person he felt most obligated to protect, and now a forced duty came in between them. His loyalty to his family proved he was the natural fit for Sargent when Captain Rex pulled the four brothers into the 99th OSS, also known as The Bad Batch. They were a specialized team tasked with specialized missions, receiving orders directly from General Skywalker. Hunter lead the team to many successes, but his greatest accomplishment was bringing his brothers home safe when the war ended.
Civilian life was an adjustment after that. With Omega as his priority, he opted for a part time position as a cook at the Copacabana. This allowed him to spend time with his sister by day, and be surrounded by his brothers at night. A part of their team once again.
High quality art images, references, and taglist under the cut! ~
Series Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ due to language and mature themes, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), a lot of time travel talk, set partially in 1942 and the present (alternate S3 ending), PTSD, Soldier Boy before Soldier Boy (aka no powers yet, plus meet his childhood home and parents), slight Beauty/Beast vibes, enemies to lovers, slow burn, smut, fluff, humor, angst
A/N: Been wanting to write about time travel again since this fun one-shot. Got the idea while writing Bad Reputation years ago but never got to it. Felt challenged again after rewatching the Community episode where Dean Pelton whines, "Time travel is really hard to write about." Welp, challenge accepted 😂🤍
Main Masterlist || Soldier Boy Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 1: Of All the Gin Joints…
Chapter 2: Is This the 40s?
Chapter 3: I’m Going To Be a Lady If It Kills Me
Chapter 4: After All, Tomorrow Is Another Day
Chapter 5: We'll Always Have Paris
Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble
Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!
Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn
Chapter 9: As Time Goes By
Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid
Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It
Chapter 12: You’re Not Just a Man, You’re a Monument!
Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!
Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks
Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat
Chapter 16: I Don’t Care What the Papers Say!
Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of
Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
Chapter 19: You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
Chapter 20: What We’ve Got Here Is Failure to Communicate
Chapter 21: Round Up the Usual Suspects
Chapter 22: There’s No Place Like Home
Chapter 23: The World Is Not a Pleasant Place to Be…
Chapter 24 – …Without Someone to Love
Epilogue: Until It Ends, There Is No End
|| SERIES COMPLETE ||
One-Shots & Drabbles:
A Study in Emerald
Le Miracle de la Rue Grenelle
Headcanons, Imagines & Other:
💌 15 Questions about creating TAT
💌 Headcanon: Would Ben sacrifice himself for you in a worst case scenario?
Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.
AN: Here we go - my last short series for @jacklesversebingo, and my first time writing a 1940s AU! I've had a lot of fun on this one. 🥰
Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic
Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Angst, PSTD/trauma, WWII history, infidelity/cheating, eventual smut, lawyer!Sam, soldier!Dean, hurt/comfort, fluff, heavily inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker.
🎵 Listen While You Read:
Music Playlist: YouTube || Spotify
Playlist Poster || Moodboard
Chapters:
✦ Part 1: Legal Grounds
✦ Part 2: Devil May Care
✦ Part 3: A Moment
✦ Part 4: Complicit
✦ Part 5: Dried Ink
Series Complete!
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small things in my pjo au (1940s "what if the Di Angelo's never went to the LH&C")
demigod powers come from what epithet their godly parent was in. (think of the epithets as the sort of different personalities. like the roman-greek shift but less dramatic.) so a child of Apollo Epikourios would be a healer and a child of Apollo Loxias would specialise in prophecy. I like to think the mortal parent influences which epithet comes to front in the god. Like if one lover of Apollo was a doctor he would be in Apollo Epikourios form, but this isn't always. (Like Will and Naomi for example).
Most kids of Dionysus are also children of Ariadne (every kid they have together is a demigod in the myths) so those poor kids are at camp since like birth. Chiron enlists nurse nymphs because there is NO WAY he's babysitting teens AND infants😭
It's actually surprisingly common for Roman and Greek demigods to get mixed up, especially if the gods forget to tell their lovers to stay away from Manhattan/the bay area. I got the impression that Grover didn't know about the Romans so satyrs wouldn't pick up on the difference. Romans end up in chb more commonly because Lupa and her wolves can generally tell a Greek from a Roman. The Romans are often very. competitive? at chb. The Norse and minor pantheons also wind up in either of the camps, since the Norse don't get snatched up by their own until death. They'll have a power moment and satyrs will scoop them up and be like "I have no idea what that monster you just fought was but you need to come with me".
since my au is set in the 1940s there's no protective boundary around the camp (Thalia rlly took one for the team) so these kids are just constantly on the lookout for monsters 😭👍
Also saying that; Apollo is camp director (honestly I think Dionysus being punished isnt out of the ordinary and Zeus will find a way to send down his biggest opp at the time to "help Chiron out" at the smallest slight - Athena ran the camp like an army in the 1900s-1910s after Zeus asked why European politics were in shambles and they were infighting and she responded "the monarchies" after only recently getting back to Olympus when she got sent down for having the biggest crashout at Hermes during the Gilded Age) so while Apollo's in camp, the camps protected by his magic (since Apollo is a protector of the streets/civilisation) but on the limited time he's called away the monsters just charge in
Apollo makes the kids learn shit. I'm sorry, Percy having no idea what's going on for the first five books (and hoo let's be honest) is completely stupid so Apollo goes into teacher mode and makes these kids study.
Demigods not living to adulthood but ww2 being between kids of the big 3?? ricky sorry that don't make sense. a lot of the soldiers from America are actually demigods (commonly children of Athena, Ares, Aphrodite Areia, Apollo and Hermes)
WW2 is split into the mortal war, and the demigod war. the mortal war is the war we know from history, influenced by the chaos going on with the gods and demigods at the time but NOT fought by gods/demigods. Hitler is NOT a demigod, son of Hades, idc Rick lost the plot with that. The demigod war is influenced by the things happening in their world ( Mainly Olympic demigods vs. the Chthonic ones, with the pontic/rustic demigods kinda on both sides)
*sometimes* demigod events are written off as mortal ones; the Manhattan project was ran by Hephaestus/Athena kids, with Einstein's involvement being a sort of Athena kid defection moment, BUT the mortals misinterpreted what the demigods intended it for (defence) and took over and well. Yk what happens.
The war is an inter-pantheon MESS. It's a big event, EVERYONE knows about it, especially with the mortals making their mess on top. Mainly the different pantheons stick to their fronts. The Greeks/Romans mainly end up on the Pacific Front, teaming with Polynesian demigods.The Egyptian Magicians land majorly in the North African and Mediterranean fronts, but are joined by the Greeks/Romans too. The Norse concentrated in the Eastern front. The western front was such a mess from the mortals that the demigods typically avoided it, but events like the Atlantic war were definitely full of demigods
To clarify; the "good guys" and "bad guys" weren't divided by countries or race or anything like the mortal war was; it was divided by morals on demigod situations: the Greco-Romans were fighting against the Titan Army, the Egyptians had a kind of civil war going on inspired by inter-fighting with the Egyptian gods and them taking magicians as host, the Norse were once again (you guessed it) trying to prevent Ragnarok and handling a Aesir-Vanir crisis. Ect ect.
Also this is like only a few years after the big 3 took the oath so there is a LOT of big 3 kids running around.
Heroes usually have like sponsor gods. Like how Jason was a champion of Hera. Big 3 kids almost always get one god looking out for them, and if a demigod gets big enough another god will grab onto them. This sort of arose from the gods not being able to help their own children directly, so other gods help them out. The heroes sponsor can't be their parent. (sort of how Hecate took an interest to hazel, Hera to Jason, Aphrodite (sort of??) to percabeth, Athena to Reyna) (plus from the myths Apollo to Hector, Aphrodite to Paris, Athena to Odysseus, Hermes to Perseus). The most common sponsors are Athena and Hermes because they're always out there in the myths lol.
Especially during the war there's just a bunch of kids flowing through because their parents joined the army or got taken away or it's just really unsafe for their ethnicity to be seen. so camp is packed all year round.
Sammy Valdez is a demigod idec
The curse of Achilles isn't. Like. The curse of Achilles. It's just named after him. Because in the Iliad achilles wasn't invulnerable just like bad ass. Him being dipped in the Styx is a later addition. So it's kind of like a metaphor. The curse gives you a 'weak point'. Achilles weak point was patroclus, and Achilles losing patroclus was what led to his death. He lost his tether to mortality. So the curse of Achilles is literally "your tether to mortality is your weak point, so if you lose it you'll become inhuman (to the point where the gods will have to intervene)" in my mind at least (interesting how it would play out if Percy lost Annabeth in tlo and went completely mad 👀)
small little detail but Emmie and Jo are still hunters of Artemis 👀
Demigods come across different pantheons without even realising it. Like percabeth meeting Janus in btol.
Also I'm only half way through tkc but the first nome sort of sounds like how the labyrinth works? time and distance mean nothing. so the labyrinth splits into different pantheons lol. not a major detail but it's there in my mind.
there's obviously like a bunch of different gods across pantheons for the same things. (Apollo, Helios/Sol (rip), Ra for the sun - Gaia, Terra, Geb, Jord) so my mind has come up with the solution of this; in the ancient times, Greek, Roman, Egyptian gods etc kept to themselves. Zeus covered the sky over Greece and Nut covered the sky over Egypt. Helios drive the sun over Greece, Sol over Rome, Apollo being friendly and doing both. Hades guarded the dead Greeks, Osiris the Egyptians, Hel the Norse. As the flame of western civilization jumped around, they kinda got forced to put up with each other (primarily in Rome since they were all getting merged with each other) so now they kind of just exist with each other. America is obviously all split up for the different pantheons but they're Very Close Together in the East mainly. They had shifts, but obviously with Ra being MIA, Gaea.. sleeping, ect, things were complex.
The physical appearance of the gods take on whatever the mortals have envisioned their domains as in the recent decades. Hera takes on a Queen Elizabeth (The Queen Mother)-esque look in her queen aspect, and also sometimes a war widow. Aphrodite shares the war widow look, but also sometimes looks similar to famous American celebrities or fits the beauty standard of the time (Clara Bow, Jean Harlow). Ares takes on war generals mainly (MacArthur and Mitchell), and Athena American female politicians and advocates (Eleanor Roosevelt, Frances Perkins). Apollo and Artemis fit the youth standards (Artemis being a bit more modest, not exactly conservative but not as liberal as the flappers haha) and Apollo also being inspired by musicians and artists.
Since it's the 1940s, the jump to America hasn't fully solidified yet, and it won't until they pull out the atomic bombs in 1945 and cement themself as the "strongest" global power, since Europe is smashed by the war. It accelerated after the first world war, with America mainly prospering and Europe again being in shambles, and began with the American revolution. So the Gods are kind of stuck in the middle and not quite as powerful. The sea gods get dumped in the Atlantic and are like "oh my me there's so much space now". The Native American deities and spirits are NOT happy about these guys. They've already been dealing with Jesus (who is very apologetic and just wants to be friends) and his Saints. The Rustics jumped over early on for the wide open plains and have been getting increasingly more disappointed since the Westward Expansion. The more agricultural focused guys were in tears in the 1920s.
Summary : We're in the 1940s, time of glamour and escape, and there’s no better way to forgot your daily life than stepping into a Las Vegas casino. At "The Royale", owned by Dean Winchester, a charismatic mobster, who inspire both respect and fear by day. But at night, and from his corner seat, his green eyes keep finding you, the dealer at the VIP table. You catch his attention. He wants you, but nothing is that simple.
Cigarette smoke rose slowly in the casino heavy air, while jazz scratched faintly in the background, tangled with gamblers laughters and chips clatter. A tune far too soft compared to the astronomical sums played at every table, but Dean Winchester didn’t mind.
Owner of "The Royale". Always in a fitted three-piece black suit, hair slicked back, his whole presence reeking money and power. His hat lay carelessly on the table beside a half-burned cigar. A glass of whiskey in hand, he'd chosen a strategic corner, perfect to rule over the room with a single glance, like a chess player watching his pawns. His eyes, sharp like a dollar bill, swept over the hall. But always returned to you, the dealer at the VIP table.
Hired for your charm and your skill, you drew every gaze to you without even trying. And against his will, Dean found himself drawn to your polite smile and the smooth movement of your hands.
His face always stayed blank, but each time your fingers brushed across the cards, his own tightened slightly around his glass.
Showing nothing, that was his trademark. Unlike you. He had lost count of the times he’d caught you watching him, thinking he wasn’t looking. And every time, a faint, knowing smirk curved his lips.
_______________________________________
The game ended, and the clients drifted off, some grinning with their winnings, others sulking after heavy losses, already chasing luck at games less cruel than poker.
While waiting for new gamblers to arrive, you stayed behind to clean the table. Stacking the chips with care and shuffling cards slowly back into the deck.
You couldn’t resist a glance across the room. Dean was there, glass in hand, in easy conversation with a client. You saw him raise a toast, savor a sip of his whiskey, then burst into laughter at some shared joke.
Your fingers faltered on the cards for a brief second at the sight of him so relaxed. Quickly, you forced your gaze back to the table, afraid he might notice your stare.
_______________________________________
Cards snap between your hands in a steady rhythm that you lose yourself in, at least until a shadow falls across your vision. Dean is there, standing in front of the table. His gaze locks with yours. His voice, deep and warm, cuts through the casino’s noise.
- "Mind if I join the game?"
Your heart skips a beat, but you recover quickly. Your lips curl into a polite smile, burying the rest of your emotions deep down. With a small gesture, you invite him to sit. Dean smirk, and takes the chair across from you. He lights a cigar and blows the first cloud of smoke. His eyes linger on you, heavy, before speaking again
- "You know" he says, leaning back in his chair "poker is really just the art of bluffing"
- "Then I hope you’re not planning to test mine" you say, smiling
He takes another drag from his cigar, exhales slowly, and leans in closer "Oh, with you, miss y/n, I wouldn’t need cards to know when you’re lying" His eyes never leave yours, making your pulse quickens.
- "If you don’t need cards, then they’re not meant for you" you replay sharply
Dean taps his fingers on the table, smiling like you’ve just challenged him "Then show me your skill. One hand. No money, just the cards"
_______________________________________
You set down the deck you’d been toying with, a clear sign you accept, making him grinning "You sure you want to play against me?" he asks, confident, almost teasing
"You asked for a hand, Mr. Winchester. Don’t back down now" Your voice steady as you deal the cards, your heart pounds at the thought of palying against the boss, and maybe beating him at his own game.
- "Ladies first" he murmurs, tilting his chin slightly.
You glance at your cards, your face unreadable, then slide a few chips forward. Dean does the same, calm and steady.
The game begins. Your gaze flicks between him and your hand, looking for a sign, a slip, but nothing, only that mocking smile on his lips.
The tension grows. Your moves are quick and sharp, his slow and deliberate, like each gesture carries a code only he understands. Then he pushes all his chips forward, daring you, and you don’t hesitate, matching his bet with a confident smile. You know your hand might not stand up to his, but you don’t let it show. Dean leans back, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, clearly enjoying himself.
Finally, you lay your cards down, eyes bright, lips curling into a victorious smile. Dean flips his hand over, and silence hangs heavy between you. It’s almost a tie, almost, but just enough for you to win. Dean’s smile returns, amused, almost dangerous.
"Not bad, not bad at all" he drawls, stubbing out his cigar before pushing his chair back. He adjusts his hat, and jacket, then walks past you. His hand brushes lightly against your fingers, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. He leans close, just enough, so only you can hear him.
"You’re not much of a bluffer, Miss y/n but don’t worry. I like the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice" he say. Then leaves, without looking back, leaving you frozen in place, until your stunned expression melts into an amused smile.
Logan finds himself in upstate New York post WW2, and he is renting out a room from a sweet widow--you.
a/n: this is my incredibly late second contribution to @princessanglophile's 22nd birthday challenge--I'm so sorry it took me forever! The rest of the stories can be found here. I received 2013 Logan and 1940s as my time period.
tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader contemplates her dead husband, storms, fluff, comfort, kissing, interrupted just before smut, not proofread, first time writing for Logan, soft!Logan
word count: 4.3k
masterlist
MDNI
--
The kitchen smelled like bitter coffee as you let it brew, stirring the pot of oatmeal on the stove within an inch of its life. Sweat gathered at your brow, your jaw set with tension that you were starting to become used to in the early mornings.
Running a boarding house was far from what you had expected to be doing after the war.
But, you kept Henry’s wedding band on a chain around your neck, the weight of it reminding you that few things went according to plan. Your wedding ring was tucked away in your jewelry box upstairs, sparkling and painful to look at.
It didn’t actually matter these days. You were on your own all the same.
You looked up from the breakfast on the stove, the crack of an axe on wood drawing your attention to the window over the sink. The floral curtains were drawn aside just enough to give you a view of Logan–one of your quieter tenants–outside despite the threat of rain. He swung an axe down from over his head, splitting a log in two clean pieces. Then he adjusted, two pieces became four before they were tossed in an impressive pile he was amassing.
He’d forgone a shirt, you could see the flannel hung up on a branch near him. Steam rose from his tanned skin, the cool autumn breeze drying his sweat there. He must have felt you looking, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours.
It seemed that he always noticed when you were around, gaze lingering as he kept an eye on you. He wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, but he was the first to help you around the house when you asked. Sometimes you didn’t even have to ask him.
Logan showed up on your doorstep six months ago, dirty and disheveled. He seemed hunted and dangerous at the time—a wounded beast with dog tags around his neck that were similar to a pair in his pants pocket with a wedding band threaded on them. He knew your Henry, promised him that when he got back stateside from Japan he would keep an eye on you until you got back on your feet.
Either way, you watched him chop through a few more sections of wood. Your mouth was dry, lips parted slightly as you watched his muscles move beneath his skin like ropes. It was hard to pinpoint when you started feeling a pull toward him low in your gut. You tried to ignore it, treating him like the other people you rented rooms to, polite and distant. Attentive.
But it was becoming harder to pretend that your heart didn’t flutter or your cheeks didn’t warm when he entered the room.
The smell of the SPAM starting to burn brought you back to the present. You didn’t see the way Logan’s lip twitched when you spun back to the stove, looking flustered as you grabbed the pan off the heat.
—
Autumn brought evening storms with it.
It was raining something biblical outside that night, loud against the eaves and the shutters as you did the dishes after dinner. The boarders had returned to their respective rooms for the night, both of them laborers in the lumber yard that would need to be up early.
You preferred it that way. They left you to your solitude as long as breakfast was on the table in the morning, dinner was on the table at night, the laundry was done, and there was still electricity and running water. At first you had tried to befriend the occupants of your two extra bedrooms, inviting them to listen to the radio with you or play cards.
It fell flat, the men meeting you with little enthusiasm. You eventually left them alone.
But Logan helped you out around the house.
The first time was after you’d complained about your leaking sink out on the porch with Lucy, the woman who lived across the street. You were both sipping lemonade, her darling toddler playing with toys on the slightly overgrown lawn. The sink had been leaking for weeks, you resorted to just changing out the bucket beneath it every morning.
When you went inside to stave off the afternoon heat of July, Logan was already on his back beneath the sink. He had Henry’s old toolbox out, grunting as he grabbed blindly at the different wrenches before twisting the piping back into place.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t even ask for acknowledgement or a discount on the rent.
Soon enough he was doing all the odd jobs you had around the house, trimming tree branches and repairing holes in the walls and chopping wood. Logan eased some of the hardships that came from Henry’s absence.
You glanced outside, realizing he had stacked up all the wood on the porch where it wouldn’t be touched by the rain.
The kettle you put on whistled, startling you for a moment before you poured yourself a cup of tea. There was a glass tumbler of whiskey on the counter, you grabbed it before heading upstairs.
A sliver of light was visible beneath Logan’s door, the quiet murmur of a radio playing just beyond. You bumped your elbow against the door to knock.
“Logan?” you called softly, taking a step back when you heard rustling on the other side.
He pulled it open, still dressed in his work jeans and an undershirt. You felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you looked at him. His shoulders looked broad beneath his white tank top, the fabric sticking to him like a second skin and half tucked into his pants.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and rough. His hazel eyes ran over you once like he was checking to make sure you were still in one piece. One eyebrow arched like he was waiting.
You said nothing for a moment, just blinking at him before you came back to yourself. “Oh, um, I brought you this,” you said, holding out the rocks glass to him like an offering. Henry’s whiskey sloshed inside–you had poured a generous three fingers inside. Logan looked at it skeptically, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to poison him or come on to him. “Consider it a thanks for chopping all that wood.”
He let out a grunt, nodding once as he took the glass from you. His calloused fingertips brushed against yours.
You pulled your hand back like he was made of lightning, nodding once. “Well, have a good night, Logan,” you said, offering a tight-lipped smile.
If he answered, you didn’t hear it. You were already headed down the hall to your own bedroom before he said anything. Steam curled off the mug of tea you carried as you shut off the hall light and closed your door behind you.
The storm was fierce as you settled into bed with that day’s newspaper in your hands. It was a habit you picked up while Henry was deployed, wanting to keep up with the most up-to-date information about the war. Now it was just a habit, bringing the newspaper to bed with you became a ritual you fell in with ease.
Thunder rattled the shutters, rain pelting the windows in big, fat drops. The house creaked and groaned, wind buffeting on the outside walls. It sounded like the house was going to blow away at any moment.
You were trying to ignore it, reading about town gossip by lamplight when lightning cracked across the sky outside your window. It illuminated the sky and your room through the space in the curtains. You jolted, crinkling the newspaper in your hands for a moment.
Something close by popped, a boom that sounded far too close for comfort.
The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then they died completely with a soft, electric sigh.
You huffed, still holding the paper in your hands as the house fell into silence aside from the rain. It was hard to notice the hum of electricity until it was gone, just the rain drumming against the roof filling the empty space.
Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall between Logan’s bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. His steps were confident and certain, like the dark didn’t faze him at all.
You were suddenly restless in a way you weren’t before. The mug you brought with you sat empty on the nightstand–you needed more tea. Or water. Something to quench your suddenly parched throat.
It was easy to feel around for your floral-patterned robe. The rayon satin was soft against your skin, covering your baby blue nightgown. It was long, cotton floating around your ankles as you groped for the taper shoved into a brass candlestick holder on your vanity, a box of matches lingering nearby.
It took a few tries, but you managed to strike the match. The smell of burning sulfur filled your nose as you held the match to the wick, flicking orange light illuminating a portion of your bedroom.
It was easy to feel like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol as you picked up the candlestick, the brass cool beneath your fingers as you ventured out into the hall. The floorboards creaked beneath your bare feet, making you still for a moment before you took another careful step.
“Thought you turned in.” Logan’s voice carried from the stairwell. He had a glass of water in his hand, the amber light from your candle just barely reaching him. His eyes gleamed as they focused on you.
You shrugged. “I did,” you answered, a slight nod. You realized that you didn’t get up for water, you just didn’t want to be alone.
Henry used to sit with you through storms.
You bit your lip, uncertain. It wouldn’t be hard to turn back, to pretend like you had just come out to check on the noise and go back to bed. Or forge ahead to grab a glass of water like you had originally planned.
“I… I didn’t want to be alone,” you breathed. The candle flame guttered in the draft of your whisper. You were embarrassed as soon as you said it out loud, warming from your chest to your forehead as your gaze strayed from Logan’s perceptive stare. Some days it felt like he was seeing straight through you.
He paused for a moment, both of you staring at one another as you blinked.
Logan didn’t laugh at you, though. He could have. You were already imagining it, a huff of air through his nose that would substitute for a chuckle if he were anyone else.
But instead he nodded.
“You don’t have to be,” he said softly, that same gravel tone you had grown used to after months of him renting your room washing over you.
He walked to his bedroom door, leaving you space to decide if you wanted to follow. You did, scampering after him like an imprinted duckling as he held the door to his room open for you.
You lit the candle on his nightstand, setting the one you held on his dresser as you looked around. His living quarters were almost Spartan–any personal touch in the room was some decoration you had before he rented it out. Embroidery was framed on the walls, frilly and lacy in a way that didn’t suit him. But he didn’t seem to mind, his own sparse belongings neatly organized and tucked away.
He gave you little reason to enter his room, always piling his laundry outside his door before he left for work at the lumber yard in the mornings, expecting you to leave it folded in the same place in the evenings.
“So, how have you been liking the room?” you asked, struggling to think of something else to talk about. He pulled out the chair from the small desk, nodding for you to sit down as he sat on the edge of his bed. It was still made, the quilt crisply tucked in like a soldier’s.
Spending more time in his room made it obvious to you that Logan had served.
“Room’s fine,” he muttered, drinking more water before he fixed his hazel eyes on you. It seemed like he didn’t know what to say, his gaze cutting down to his hands. He flexed them.
“You know, I’m not very good company,” Logan said, softly, as though he didn’t want to let you down. His head turned, lifting just enough so he could see your face still. “I’ve got a lot of shit, y’know? I’m usually by myself.”
You nodded understandingly. Sitting across from Logan reminded you of caged lions at the travelling circus rather than a man. It was in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, his jaw tense and brows furrowed. Despite his haircut and trimmed beard, he didn’t quite seem like belonged between four walls and in a bed.
“I am, too,” you said, hands clasped together as you spoke. Loneliness became your constant companion. You thought the extra bedrooms in your home would be filled with children by now, but instead you rented them out. “But if you want me to leave, I’ll go.”
He grunted, shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I want,” he told you, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “But you probably should go.”
Your brow furrowed, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned back against the seat. The candlelight illuminated the curve of your cheek and the curious gleam in your eye. “Why?” you asked, guileless as you spoke. Logan had lived with you for over six months, he never seemed like anything other than helpful, maybe too introverted.
There was another huff of air out of his nose–an exasperated chuckle. “Because, I’m not the type of man you should get close to. I’m not someone you let in after the lights go out,” he explained, voice low as he spoke.
You rolled your eyes at the cliche. “You seem just fine to me, Logan,” you said, tapping your fingertips against the silky fabric that covered your arm. “If anything, your reputation precedes you in being too helpful in this town. You do things without people asking you to, you don’t ask for anything in return. Not really a monster.”
He let out a huff, one side of his mouth curling into an almost smile. It was the closest thing to a smile you had seen him make.
“Consider me a wolf in sheep’s clothing, bub,” Logan countered. There was a lift to his tone, an attempt at humor that wasn’t there before. It made you smile, still closed-lipped as your gaze drifted to your lap.
You snorted, a brighter smile on your face as you shook your head. “I’d hardly consider you a sheep, either.”
Logan looked at you for a long moment, mirth flickering in his eyes before he shifted back on the bed, pulling a pack of cards from his nightstand and nodding for you to sit down with him. “You know how to play poker?”
You eased yourself onto his mattress, legs half tucked beneath you as you watched him shuffle his army-issued playing cards. His motions were fluid, well-practiced like he had shuffled a million times before. “I have nothing to bet,” you murmured, hunching to rest your chin in the palm of your hand. You knew enough to be dangerous.
“Just for fun, for something to do,” he said, dealing out onto the quilt.
“Well don’t be upset if I win,” you murmured with a smirk, organizing the cards as you picked them up.
He chuckled, hazel eyes flicking up to meet your gaze. There was a moment where he sized you up, his half-smile turning into a smirk. “Alright, bub,” he murmured, adjusting how he sat to better face you, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
–
Logan obliterated you so efficiently it couldn’t even be called cruel. It was obvious you didn’t know what you were doing, missing a full house and a three-of-a-kind because you thought you needed all four cards. He caught onto your tells, on the way you got a gleam in your eye when you got cards you wanted, the slight slump of your shoulders when you didn’t have anything good.
“Let me teach ya,” he murmured, leaning in as he pressed the top of your cards down enough to see over them. His forehead was nearly touching yours as you looked at the cards clutched in your hand, his warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.
He tipped his own cards into view. “See, right here you’d beat me,” he tapped your cards with his fingertip, the noise satisfying, “You’ve gotta full house–three of one kind and two of another. I’ve only got a two pair–full house always beats a two pair.”
You nodded solemnly like you were in church, hanging on to Logan’s every word. He dealt out the next hand, still keeping his close proximity as he talked in hushed tones about what you would do next.
Despite nodding and humming in all the right places like you were taking it all in, you were distracted. The smell of cigar smoke and cologne and the laundry detergent you used filled your nose, a combination you found heady and enticing as you leaned in slightly to get a better smell of it.
Logan had leaned in too, chasing the view as the cards in your fingers tilted back toward your chest on instinct.
His hair brushed your forehead, your gazes lifting. Logan’s nose nudged the side of yours, his hazel eyes shining like pools you could stumble into.
It felt like gravity, both of you converging on a point. The progress was halting, breaths shared between you as you oscillated between hesitant and eager. Logan had always had a sort of weight to him, something that made him feel entirely inevitable. But he still moved like a man expecting to be turned away.
His mouth hovered over yours for a breath. For a second, all you felt was the heat rolling off him, taking in the way the flickering shadows of the candles moved over his face.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or hungry, not like you had expected it to be.
Logan’s lips were warm, if not a little chapped, melding with yours with a gentleness that you would think foreign for a man like him. He kissed you like it was his first and last time he’d get the chance to, slow and deliberate. If you had to guess, he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth by memory.
Your palm rose to his jaw, the scratch of his trimmed beard beneath your fingertips welcome as it cracked something wide open inside of you.
The last time you kissed a man was with Henry. You never realized how different it could be: Henry had always kissed you with purpose beyond just kissing. He was always clean shaven.
The press of your hand on his jaw unlocked something between you, Logan feeling for your waist over the silky fabric of your robe. The cards on the quilt were forgotten as he pulled you closer. Your knee pressed into his thigh, you could hear the stack of playing cards spill across the rug.
Logan cupped the nape of your neck, tilting you into him. You followed willingly, a lamb following a guardian dog’s steady guidance as you pressed yourself into the spaces he left for you.
You undid the tie of your robe with frantic fingers, the hand on your waist hesitant as it slipped beneath the open article to bunch in your soft nightgown.
“Do you want this?” he asked against your lips, voice little more than a grunt.
You nodded frantically, pulling your robe off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. That was enough to convince Logan, his big hand splaying wide over your ribs as he dragged you across his lap and pressed you into the mattress beneath him. Your nightgown twisted around you, the robin egg blue fabric riding up on your thighs and the strap falling off your shoulder.
He looked down at you like you were something marvelous. It had been years since someone looked at you like that.
“You ever let anyone touch you like they meant it?” he murmured, low and rough as his hands ran up the outsides of your thighs. It was like he was enchanted by each inch of skin he revealed, his eyes stuck at the lace-trimmed hem of your nightgown.
You didn’t know what to say, warmth blooming on cheeks as you resisted the urge to cover your face with your hands under his gaze.
He paused, like he wanted an answer from you before he was willing to continue. You let out a huff of air, a nervous smile twisting your lips. “Henry and I didn’t have a lot of time together to explore before…” You trailed off, not sure if bringing up your dead husband was the wrong thing to do.
It probably was–you couldn’t imagine how that would really be exciting bedroom talk.
Henry’s wedding band was warm against your sternum, the gold glinting in the candlelight. Your fingertips drifted to it, wondering if you should take it off.
Logan’s hands kept moving up, your nightgown bunching on his wrists. If he was bothered by you bringing up Henry he didn’t let it show. He bent, capturing you in a slow kiss as your thighs parted over his hips. His hand found the swell of your hip beneath your nightgown, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.
His forehead pressed against yours, your breaths slow and heavy.
There was weight behind his gaze, he was steady, strong above you. He was watching you–something cautious and unsure behind his eyes. Maybe protective, even.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his finger hooking over the waistband of your panties. Goosebumps ran down your arms.
“I don’t wanna…” he swallowed hard, “I don’t wanna take something you’re not ready to give.”
It was easy to see that he expected you to pull away. His shoulders were tense, bracing for your rejection. His free hand squeezed the sheets beside your head, like he already thought he took too much.
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, your fingers threading in his hair.
Surprisingly enough, you were comfortable. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, trying to pull him back in.
But Logan pulled away, trailing kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “Tell me. I need to hear it,” he said, his voice low and gravel-warm. You feel the blunt scrape of his teeth on your neck.
You whined, soft and a bit overwhelmed. It took a moment for you to find the words. “I want this,” you breathed into the quiet of his bedroom. “I want you.”
Logan nodded against your throat, hands moving again. “Okay,” he said, like a vow. “Then I got you.”
You sighed as your head tilted to give him more space. His palms slid beneath your nightgown, over the plane of your stomach. He felt you like a map beneath his touch, trying to memorize you without seeing. A hand dipped between your thighs, warm and sure as it pressed to the damp gusset of your panties.
Then–
CRACK.
The violent snap of wood echoed from outside Logan’s window. It was sharp and too close for comfort, followed by the wet thump of something falling to the dirt.
You both froze.
Logan lifted his head, eyes cutting to the window. The storm howled outside, rattling the glass. Wind buffeted against the outside wall.
“Tree came down,” he muttered as he pulled his hands away from you. They pressed into the mattress, his body tilting to get a better view of outside. “It was close.”
“Did it hit anything?” you asked, sitting up. Your heart was racing, but your lust was long forgotten.
He listened for a moment, head still cocked to one side. “No,” he said definitively, looking back down at you. “But even if it crushed the fence, or the shed, I’ll fix it in the morning. Promise.”
You nodded, successfully talked down from the spiral of anxiety. But everything felt different now. Your skin felt warm from where he touched you, nightgown still rucked up haphazardly. The storm pressed in once more, the rose-colored haze gone from the room in an instant.
Logan leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His hands smoothed your nightgown back over your thighs, curling around the backs of your knees.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he said softly, hazel eyes soft and sincere as he looked over your face.
You were touched by his sincerity, looking up at him through your lashes. He wasn’t trying to push through the pause, you would have let him if he asked.
“Can we just sleep?” you asked, sounding small. Logan nodded, shifting off the bed to take off his jeans. You looked away as he changed into blue, drawstring pajama pants and blew out the candle on the dresser. The one on his nightstand flickered as he lay down next to you, an arm open to invite you in without a word.
He blew out the other candle as you settled against him, cheek to his chest, heartbeat under your ear.
“Gotta warn you,” he murmured in the dark, arm curling around your back to hold you close, “I’m not very good at staying in one place.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you just placed your hand on his sternum. His dog tags made a metallic clinking sound beneath your fingertips. The rain was slowing outside, or at least you could convince yourself of it as your eyelids started to get heavy.
You were right on the edge of sleep when he spoke again, your lips parted, your breaths evening out and becoming soft sighs. It was so quiet you almost could convince yourself it was a dream.
