Polaris
Rating: Mature/18+ Fandom: My Time at Sandrock Relationship: Builder/Logan Word Count: 3084 Tags: NSFW. Established relationship. Romance. Action. Fluff/Angst. Hurt/comfort. POV Second Person. PTSD. Explicit language. DubCon. Eventual Happy Ending. No Beta, We die like Yan’s schemes.
Summary:
The monster hunter comes home…
A love that does not scream but threads lightly in and around the edges of our everyday... not loud, rather whispers... not imposing, but requesting... offers safety and comfort, a respite, a soft place to rest between the chaos of the lives led.
For @ficwip
Polaris
The door slams as you enter, and the distinct sound of water running in the shower echoes throughout the empty workshop.
Earlier that morning, while fulfilling commissions, you came across the sheriff's horse, happily grazing while hitched at the Civil Corps Office. The realization hit you; the sand and gravel broke underfoot, rolling off your boots as you sprinted home. It has been five days since you last saw him; he's been on an expedition through the Eufaula desert, hunting…
***
A week ago…
"We need to go!"
The stern, commanding, thick drawl echoes through the halls, not commanding, more decisive.
The rainstorms in the Eufaula are rare but offer a precious respite from the punishing, harsh conditions of the desert. A blessing to all the inhabitants who call their little piece of paradise home. As with everything in this unforgiving environment, it is a double-edged sword, and the last brutal one brought the new guests from the peripheries.
The occurrence is by no means an anomaly; the expanse, large, almost immeasurable by any scale, and everyone is welcome to partake in the beauty and the resources that the Eufaula offers for those who yearn, deciding to call the place their hearth.
The problem lay in the numerous reports that have been pouring in, that a flock of them has been attacking the travelers and smaller villages. The fact that little is known about their kind, even Howlett had no entry in his journals, making them very dangerous. The priority has always been the citizens who live and flourish under the Eufaula.
The information has been sparse, and the description varies with every account. A snake with long fangs, colors red… green… blues… bright as the sun… hisses… screams… fires arrows… spits venom… attacks from the ground, no during flight… flies… with a wingspan of 10, no 20 meters… feathers causes dust devils to giant tornadoes… One piece of information they did agree upon is the fact that the new monsters are vicious and attack without provocation.
He thought about giving up and going in blind; it is a sacrifice he was willing to make, and it would not have been the first time, given his line of work.
You protest and call upon all your old contacts, demanding that he give you time.
"One day."
The tone offers no repute, and you agree.
The intel arrived from an unlikely source, Commander Avery, giving an account of one of the governors from one of the neighboring settlements. He proceeds and gathers as much information as possible before setting off with the Sheriff, and Coco, an owl, the strongest among your pets.
Sleep elusive, worry and woe are your constant companions.
The magnificence of the Eufaula is a mixed blessing; the unimaginable beauty adorned with a crown of thorns, the dangers that lurk and exist under the shadows of the grandeur are something you have learned to respect and accept… on occasions such as these, fear.
***
The sound of the swinging gate brings you back, as you arrive at the workshop, to the sight of Rambo, his majestic goat, quietly resting in the stable; you approach and fish out a rutabaga, offering him his favorite treat, which he gladly gobbles up. A healthy appetite is a good sign; the tears gather as you nuzzle the precious beast, muttering grateful thanks for bringing him home safe and into your arms. The goat leans in and welcomes your appreciation; the warm breath and calm heartbeat settle your own.
On his perch, Coco quietly sleeps; you sigh and leave her alone for now. The golden scorpion will be ready once he wakes.
You visibly tremble with tears brimming as you notice the smeared blood evidence on the saddle and the droplets that glare at you from his boots, left at the doorstep.
The pounding of your heart makes it hard to take a breath; the mere fact that he hurried to take a shower first before seeing you meant he did not want you to witness the carnage. An icy-cold hand drags down and takes hold of your spine and wickedly cradles you in its embrace… the feeling makes itself at home all too familiar… exacting a toll… a price for love… for loving him…
He is home.
He is safe.
Your mind whispers, repeats in fervent prayer in an effort to calm yourself.
"The kitchen," you quietly instruct yourself; you need to keep your hands busy as you wait, or else you might explode. The suds and the warm water soothe your fraying nerves, and they settle.
You didn’t even notice the sound of the water stop running, the door opening, or the silent footsteps across the hardwood floor. The large arms slowly wrap around you, the dampness and droplets of water cold, making your skin prickle, but his skin underneath is feverish. The crisp scent of vanilla and spice surrounds you as his body envelops you from behind. You close your eyes, feeling the familiar and the presence comforting—Logan.
You know this… You know him… Your body relaxes in his embrace, and yet you feel the tension that has not left his body. His arms tighten, not harsh, more grounding. You reach and tussle his damp hair and breathe, "You're home."
You feel his shoulder drop, but his hold keeps anchoring himself, as if the storm brewing refuses to break. He rests his head on the crook of your neck, breathing in the shape of you as if you were to disappear; his hand reaches for the waistbands of your trousers, undoing your belt in one movement as if he had done it a million times. The buttons unfasten as his leg expertly maneuvers and parts your thighs.in
The moves are measured and calculated, performed from practice and muscle memory.
Your pulse quickens as your breath hitches, but remain quiet.
A finger traces your wet folds as he releases a heavy sigh in the shell of your ear. The touch is not harsh but deliberate. A moan escapes you, and your heart beats thudding in your ears.
He growls as his finger enters you; you gasp and tighten around him. Like a whisper, his other hand slips under your top and cups your breast as his thumb draws tiny circles around your nipple, making them peak. Your knees shake, you cup the back of his head and grip the counter with the other like a lifeline as he begins to move at a glacial pace in and out; your arousal soaking his hand… another growl now more guttural and deep… he places another finger in as his thumb draws around your engorged, sensitive clit devastatingly slow and deliberate, a stream of needy pleas falls from your lips, as he grunts your name on your skin.
He offers you no reprieve as he continues reaching where he knew you teetered at the edge.
The moans that escape your lips are lost between your ragged breaths.
The familiar coil tightens as the heat builds inside you, and your hips move to his rhythm; he grunts in approval and bites your soft skin, leaving his mark.
A smug smile laces his lips as his thumb draws a long, brutal outline on your clit, and you mewl. You bite your lips and stifle a scream as your hips stutter, the coils snap, and your orgasm tears through you, soaking his fingers and hand.
A deep sigh leaves him, satisfied and yet aching for more.
Slowly, he pulls his hand; your body clenches hard at the void he has left you, and he licks his fingers beside your ear, not hungry but addicted.
He turns you to face him, his chalk-white hair still damp, pupils impossibly blown, and he allows his towel to fall, revealing his own arousal; your breath hitches. The massive figure towering over you, he leans in, his lips engulf yours, his tongue grazing your bottom lip, famished, demanding entry. You open, he explores, and you taste your own arousal inside him; it was enough to make you almost come again.
His fingers made good work of your top; it slips off, and he moves to your trousers, all your clothes splay on the floor.
He pauses long enough for you to catch your breath and for him to gaze at your nakedness. The lustfulness makes you ashamed, but before you can react, he grabs you, settling you onto the counter.
The move more desperate.
He thrusts into you as if he owns you; the stretch burns as he buries himself in like penance to the hilt. A groan is released, vibrating and traveling to your core. The heat builds, and your walls pulsate around him; you tremble as he continues to pound into you. The movement intentional, not punishing, but grounding.
The sensation slowly turns into a delicious ache, being replaced by pleasure—a need. His breath ragged, every inch, every vein, every twitch of him inside you. Helpless, your thighs tensing, as your legs anchored around his waist, you beg, "Please, Logan."
Slowly, he withdraws almost the whole length, and he thrusts to the hilt, and you lose your breath; his thumb sneaks and massages your clit as he pounces on you, as his other hand holds to your hips hard enough to bruise—moving, claiming. A stream of wrecked, needy pleas escapes you, and your nails dig in, creating crescent shapes on his skin. Drunk with desire, he continues to grind into you with heat and purpose driven by unbridled lust sharpened to a point. He murmurs long and dark in your ear; you're lost, drowning in the sheer force of him.
The pleasure crushes over you, and he follows. You clench and pulse around him, dragging every last wave, making his orgasm last longer, and his body collapses over you…
You hold him grounded as your body anchors him to you… a safe place for his desires and needs… his pain and fears… for his happiness and joy… a sanctuary solely for him—only him
His heart settles and beats in rhythm with yours… You feel his entirety melt into you…
He is home…
In an almost inaudible tone, he whispers, "I love you."
He is drunk and delirious with pleasure; he kisses you tender and soft, like the storm had passed and the need satiated.
The silence stretches not oppressive but calm and serene, offering comfort.
He slips out and groans as you feel the warmth drip down your leg.
Like a whisper, his arms slip under you, and he carries you to the bedroom. You lie intertwined in his arms with his head resting on your chest, mindful not to crush you with his weight. Your heartbeat calms his own.
“Did I hurt yer?”
You trail your fingers through his hair and answer, “No.”
“I love you… I’m sorry I missed you… I needed you…I-I…”
Softly, you ask, "Will you tell me what happened?"
The muscles tense for but a breath, but you caught it, and you decide not to push. Well aware that he will tell you when he's ready.
You whisper, “I love you.”
He is home. Safe. It is enough.
He takes in a labored breath and buries his head on your chest, and begins."There were three of them, fast and stron'; emitting a piercing sound before attackin', which was debilitatin'. We needed a workaround, and figured out that stuffin' the cotton backin' from our armors in our ears enabled us to withstand the sound and fight."
Silence.
The beads of sweat forming at the tips of his skin as his heart races, and you card your fingers through his hair to calm him.
You hold him until slumber comes to claim him.
His breathing settles into an even rhythm, and you slowly free yourself.
The mudroom welcomes you, and the armor is sitting neatly folded in his laundry basket. Slowly, you pick it up; your breath hitches as you examine the blood and guts and the toxic material that marred every inch of the fabric. The scent of burned leather and ash, laced with a hint of iron and rotten fish, permeates the tiny room, making you gag and wrench, tasting the bitterness of the bile coating your tongue and lingering in your mouth. The tears stream down your cheeks; in your hands, you behold the evidence, imagining the brutal fight that must have taken place.
The room spins and…
Thud!
The floor cradles you as you crumble into its cold clutches at the thought you could have lost him—your love—your sweetheart.
The tears stain your cheeks, and you weep until there are no more.
The storm over, you gather yourself, load the laundry, and go about the chores as if it were any other day.
The kitchen needs tidying, aware that school will be let out soon and Andy will come home.
The evening arrives without fanfare, and at dinner, Andy asks, "How's the big lug?"
You swallow hard, "He needs to sleep it off.
"That bad, huh?"
The silence stretches between the knowing glances and deliberate movements as if the space needs to restore balance. You both settle in quiet contemplation, taking comfort in the knowledge of having him home safe.
Andy is well aware… too aware, in your opinion, of the perils of the desert and the life of a monster hunter.
You work as a team and go about clearing the dinner table, and homework is next on the schedule. The mundane routine grounds and settles both of you.
The warmth engulfs you as the tiny body hugs you goodnight. He tells you he is too old for stories, but you read him one anyway, insisting on your need to find out what happens in the next chapter. It is a tradition you intend to keep until he is indeed truly too old for one—not tonight, not yet. Sleep claims him even before you utter the last word, and a smile laces your lips.
The innocent slumbers, and all is as it should be.
You brush a kiss on his forehead and whisper, "Good night, my sweet boy. I'll see you in the morning."
The door closes.
Your bedroom welcomes you, bathed in moonlight, beautiful, serene, and quiet. The mattress dips slightly as you settle in to join him, holding his tired body; he gravitates deeper into you, and you tuck him in as if he belongs there—because he does.
You tremble as your eyes trace the bruises and large welts that are now more visible on his body. A testament to the brutal encounter with the monster… You do not dare mention its namesake and shudder at the thought as if naming it might speak it into existence, bestowing more power upon it.
The movement precise and gentle; your delicate fingers roam his body and apply the salve on each stain, marring his alabaster skin. You catch the sob in your throat, you refuse its existence—you will not fracture.
Sleep finally comes for you, granting respite from the horrors of the day past.
The morning after, you find yourself in City Hall attending the debriefing with the Mayor, the Monster Hunter, and the Civil Corps.
You are cognizant that he did not want you to hear what happened; he could not keep you away. This is part of your duties as an Honorary member of Civil Corps, a title you earned during the Geegler attack, which you faithfully uphold together as a builder in the City of Sandrock. A position he respects and supports, but not today.
The Sheriff is taking the lead, and he is quietly sitting, scribbling in his journal, occasionally chiming in when an important point needs emphasis.
A calm envelops you as you watch him listening to all the information. The pounding in your chest echoes in your ears, and yet you stay silent and in control. The composure and poised demeanor are a stark contrast to the trepidation gripping your spine. You remind yourself repeatedly,
He is back. He is safe…
…until next time.
The intrusive thoughts persist, and you silently push them away. It is of no benefit.
The walk home a reiteration of the mundane, with your fingers interlaced with his, as he watches you in silent approbation. Your stalwartness amidst the overwhelming details of the carnage is more than he could ever ask for.
You know better; he could not see you break, nor will he ever see you shatter.
You are his anchor. He needs to know you are fine—You are.
The sound of the gates swinging heralds that you are home. The silence breaks. He asks, the concern dripping from his voice, "Are yer okay?" The blue sea-glass eyes, grounded by salt and history, stare into yours, which flickers between blue and green, never one, always both; soft and searching. "It ain't easy being a monster hunter's wife…havin' to hear all those things…"
The words hang…
You erase the space between you and caress his cheek, with such gentleness, he loses his breath, "You're home, safe. That's all that matters."
He envelopes you in an all-encompassing embrace, and you anchor him… his north star.
That evening, the scent of a promising, delicious meal wafts from the kitchen as you enter after a long day of fulfilling commissions.
The thick drawl echoes from the galley and vibrates throughout the walls. "Hey, sweetheart, dinner will be in an hour."
You smile and proceed to have a bath.
The warm water calms you.
In your hand, you grip the monster hunting journal, you flip to the page of the latest entry, and your breath dissipates as you weep. The hand-drawn picture of the monster stares back at you, and the words of that morning's briefings resonate and scream inside your head. The notebook slips from your grasp and lands on the tile floor, and your body trembles uncontrollably.
A silent whisper falls from your lips, the monster's name, "Bellwing Sirens."
The quiet susurrations creep in from the shadows, innocent at first, and gather strength, metastasize into something ominous and potent, threatening… your control fracturing…
You plunge your body inside the tub, the water overflows, and you hold yourself under… the deafening silence surrounds you as the thoughts run rampant… your lungs begin to ache… susurations of what could have been continue… You hold submerge… your lungs ache, begging… you refuse, stillness… the whispers begin to quiet and settle… silence…
The water splashes and overflows as you emerge, taking in lungfuls…
A short while later, you silently watch Logan and Andy, in matching father-and-son aprons, busy setting the table and plating the food.
It does not take long before the familiar scent of lavender and jasmine beckons, and he notices your presence. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips; his sea-glass eyes dance, the blues deepening; he offers you his hand; taking it, you find yourself enveloped in the warmth of his embrace, with his lips touching yours, lighter than a breath, yet passionate and grounding.
"Ew, you guys get a room." A tiny voice, adamant, protests loudly from the background.
He releases your lips, and you take in a breath, and he presses his forehead onto yours. Tenderly seats you onto one of the chairs, his eyes never leaving yours, breathing in the shape of you as if you were to disappear.
"Perfect timing, dinner is served."
On the table, a beautifully arranged bouquet of wild flowers with a card…
Sweetheart, I love you. Logan
Author's Notes:
This fanfic is part of the following challenges: FanfictionExchange_LoveFest2026, sweetheart2026, International Fanworks Day 2
Prompts: #Hey sweetheart #a bouquet of wild flowers
Happy Valentine's Day💖… Let's be honest, for a hopeless romantic like me, every day is heart's day🥰💖
I hope you enjoyed this little respite from Iris. Thank you😊.
The fate of Ophelia YT
